Ravishing Ruby

by Lavinia Kent

  Ravishing Ruby is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Lavinia Kent

  Excerpt from Angel in Scarlet by Lavinia Kent copyright © 2016 by Lavinia Kent

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 9781101965009

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Angel in Scarlet by Lavinia Kent. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Cover photograph: © Piotr Marcinski/Shutterstock

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  By Lavinia Kent

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Angel in Scarlet

  Chapter 1

  Ruby could only hope that her pleasant smile was firmly plastered upon her lips, that there was no slip revealing how she truly felt. Her head ached and weariness filled her. It had been a long day and promised to be an even longer night. And tomorrow meant Sunday services and dinner with her grandparents. It would be time once again for her to switch who she was, time for sweet, timid Emma to appear.

  Ruby shifted in her chair, leaning forward in a most becoming manner, not that it mattered to Lord Milson. The lurking viscount stared across at her impatiently, his balding head catching the light of the candles.

  “What are you looking for in a marriage?” she asked after a moment. God, when had she become a matchmaker? Well, not quite a matchmaker, but a source of advice, a font of wisdom. Now, that thought almost brought a genuine smile. Madame Rouge, Font of Wisdom.

  She was one of the most famous madams in London, not a society matron. Men, and women, came to her for bedroom help, not marital guidance—at least until recently.

  “A son. An heir,” Lord Milson responded.

  She should have just skipped the question. If only she could go upstairs and rest, or even take off the heavy wig of crimson curls. The act was difficult tonight. Most nights she did not mind appearing as the world expected, did not mind acting the part she had chosen, but tonight it all felt an effort, an extreme and heavy effort. “I do understand that, Lord Milson. Just as, having watched the guests you have entertained, I have some idea why you might be resistant to the idea of matrimony.”

  “I am not resistant.”

  No, of course he was not. He simply had been too busy to find a wife before he turned forty. It had nothing to do with his marked preference for slim young gentlemen.

  “I am sure you are most eager. I will try to be more precise in my questions. What do you wish in a wife beyond fertility? Do you seek a title? Funds? What of appearance? Accomplishments? Should she have musical talent? Do you mind if she’s a bit of a bluestocking?”

  “I…”

  “Let me add a few more questions and then you can consider them all together. What do you imagine your marriage will be like two years after the ceremony? I know that you would like a child, a son, but will you live with your wife? Will she be in London? In the country? And forgive my bluntness, but will you expect her to be faithful once the heir and perhaps a spare are procured?”

  “I don’t see…”

  “I believe that is why you are here, because you don’t see. And I will continue to be blunt. I know that you have visited my girls upon occasion, mostly the young, but not too young, with dark hair and rather, rather straight figures.”

  The viscount’s lips pressed tight, and Ruby could sense he wished he had never started the conversation. She was tempted to give him an excuse to leave, but the thought of his future wife held her back. “Let me call for some brandy while you think—and consider me like a clergyman. I am well known for my confidences and I am not judgmental.”

  In one fluid movement Ruby rose and went to the door. Should she have a glass as well? The thought was tempting, but she might very well fall asleep on her feet if she did. It had been weeks—no, months—since she’d slept through the night. Not since—no, she was not going to think about that, about him. Opening the door slightly, she gestured for Simms, her porter. “Please bring some brandy for the gentleman and tea for myself.”

  And then she was back at the settee, arranging herself with long-practiced grace, ever careful of the image she presented. Spreading her gown, she arranged the claret silk over the bench of the couch, being sure that each fold lay as it should. She lifted her gaze and met Milson’s. “So do you wish a happy marriage?”

  “I certainly do not wish an unhappy one.” He straightened in his chair.

  “That is actually progress. It is far better that you care at least to that degree. Do you wish your wife to be happy?” She stretched up an arm, aware of the silk growing tight across her bosom, of the black lace pulling flat against pale skin. Some habits were hard to break.

  Milson didn’t even glance. “I suppose I would like her to be. Although I haven’t given the matter much consideration.”

  Of course he had not. “And do you have an image of this woman in your mind?”

  “I’ve three girls under consideration. Miss Julie Timms, Miss Henrietta Wilson, and Lady Isabelle Blake.”

  “I am aware of Miss Timms and Lady Isabelle, but I am not quite sure of Miss Wilson. Is she one of Mr. Henry Wilson’s daughters?”

  “No, one of Baron Meister’s granddaughters.”

  “Ahh, yes. Young, pretty, and dark—and rich.” Milson’s list would not do at all, but how to explain that to the gentleman?

  “Yes, you have already remarked on my preference.”

  Ruby leaned back, letting her head rest upon the settee. “When you decide to spend time with a male companion, you do not choose them as young as your female ones.”

  “I don’t see what…No, I prefer a man I can talk with. It is true that I often choose to spend time with those younger than myself, and yet I have no interest in schoolboys.”

  “That is what I thought. Do you wish a wife you can talk with beyond what is for dinner, how the children are growing, and what invitations she is accepting?”

  The viscount’s brow furrowed.

  So the man had not even thought of this. It was difficult to hold back her long sigh. Men could consider the merits of six generations of mares when they chose to breed their racers, but never seemed to look beyond a woman’s bosom—or in Lord Milson’s case, lack thereof.

  “I can enjoy female conversation. I have an aunt whom I quite enjoy conversing with—along with several friends. And I am always happy to spend time with my sister. I thought that women needed age to learn
these skills. I will admit that the young girls I dance with seem singularly unable to speak beyond discussing bonnets and the weather.”

  She bit down on her lip. “And does this include your list of possible wives?”

  “Well, yes.” He sat back in his chair.

  “Then why are you looking at them so young and frivolous?”

  “Well…” The man had the grace to blush.

  “Well…they best suit your physical desires and needs?” Only frankness would do.

  “Yes.” He looked away.

  Ah, this was the moment. The heart of the matter. “And have you considered what she will look like at the end of those two years after giving you that son that you wish?”

  “Ahh, no…”

  “I will once again be blunt. A woman’s body can change and does change, both with age and childbirth. I am sure you are aware of this even if you have not considered it. If you wish a wife you will find pleasing in two years, you do not want one who is under twenty. You want to find a woman of twenty-five whom you find pleasing, ideally a widow with children.”

  “I have never—”

  “Considered such a thing. I know. But let me explain. A widow with children knows about the world. She will understand what you offer—even if not all the specifics. She will appreciate what you offer her and will not have silly fantasies about a dream life. And if you find one who is short of funds, she will almost certainly be grateful. And—and this is important—if you find this woman, she is unlikely to change upon you. In five years she is quite likely to be the same as she is today, at least in most regards. I know that she may not be quite as much to your tastes physically as one who is not as developed, but if you can find someone whom you find attractive at twenty-five, you will still find her attractive at thirty-five.”

  “I will give what you say some consideration.” The viscount leaned forward again.

  “Please do.” A sudden image came to Ruby: a pale, tired face. A lady in need of support who had come to Ruby seeking employment, of any type. “Do you need her to be wealthy? The three girls you mentioned all have sizable portions.”

  “No. I am more than capable of caring for my family. Good birth is important, however. I do care about my son’s pedigree.”

  She would hold her tongue on that matter. “Then go and think. If after time has passed you think there may be merit to my advice, I would appreciate an update.” She held out her hand. “I have always heard only the best of you, Lord Milson—and I do hear everything. It is why I was willing to listen and try to help.” Again the image of the pale widow came to mind. It was too soon to take action, but perhaps…

  Lord Milson reached out and grasped her hand between two great, beefy palms. “I will think—”

  There was a light tap on the door, and then it slipped open. Ruby turned her head, expecting Simms and the refreshments.

  Massive hard thighs in tight breeches.

  Her mouth grew dry.

  Flat stomach in crisp white linen.

  She pressed her thighs tight.

  Broad shoulders and biceps that strained against a dark wool coat.

  It was hard to breathe.

  Strong neck and sharp jaw.

  A tingle moved through her.

  Even before her eyes moved higher, she knew what she would see, whom she would see.

  He could not be here.

  He should not be here.

  His thin lips pulled tight.

  Dark, stormy eyes focused on her hands, clasped tight with Lord Milson’s.

  “Tell me, my dear Madame Rouge,” his deep voice rang cool and clear, “have you changed your policy about fucking your patrons?”

  Captain Derek Price had returned.

  And he was not happy.

  —

  What was Ruby doing letting another man stroke her hand in such a manner? Derek strode into the room, letting the door slam shut behind, scarcely noticing that it must have closed on Simms. His mind focused on Ruby’s small, pale hand moving over the other man’s rough skin.

  Ruby turned her head to him and looked up, her deep blue eyes placid. “You’ve returned. And you seem to have forgotten your manners.”

  “Yes.” His tone was clipped and sharp, his gaze still fastened on the pair of mingled hands. His comment had been harsher than he’d meant, but he would not regret it.

  Ruby glanced from him down to her hand and back. She did not move. “I was not sure you were returning. You should have sent a note.”

  “I am here now.” It was impossible to miss the tension vibrating between them.

  “Perhaps I should go,” the gentleman said, trying to pull his hand away from Ruby’s.

  Pursing her lips, Ruby turned to him. “I would never hurry you out, Lord Milson, but I think perhaps our conversation is finished. You will think about what I’ve said and let me know what you decide. I am sure that Simms has that brandy waiting for you if you still wish to partake before you leave—he can also supply anything else you might want or need.” She patted his hand one last time, her slender fingers caressing the older flesh, and then released him. Without looking at Derek, she rose, stretching like a cat rising from a long nap, elongating each limb and curve.

  God, her tits were as unbelievable as he’d remembered, full and plump and waiting for his hands—and mouth—and teeth. He could eat her whole. He’d thought of nothing else the whole way here. It had made his saddle most uncomfortable.

  Against his will his eyes followed her silk-covered ass as she walked Lord Milson to the door. That was something else he’d like to sink his teeth—and other things—into. Did she always walk with such a sway? And was it for him or Milson?

  How did she do this to him, make him act so far from himself?

  He did not like the swirl of uncontrolled desire curling in his belly. He knew he could be hot-tempered, but never about women. Women were there for a quick fuck and perhaps a soft place to lay his head. He certainly never got worked up over them.

  Except for this one. From the very start, there’d been something about her that was different than all others.

  Hell, he’d been worked up since he’d first seen her nearly three months before, and no amount of distance had cooled his thoughts.

  They’d only been together for one night—one night and a thousand fantasies. He should not be reacting this strongly. His mind flew back to that single night with her. He’d come upon her in the parlor with a gentleman, Lord Thorton, and he had not liked it any more than he did now. And that had been before she’d sent him upstairs and then come to his bed, or rather to his bath, breaking her precious rule of never indulging with patrons. Did he think that because she had broken the rule with him, she would break it again? No. He knew better. He was just so unsure of his footing. Their one night had involved passion and secrets, things he had never told another. How was he supposed to react now? He knew he wanted another fuck, but beyond that?

  He turned from her and strode to glare out the window at the quiet street. He had definitely not ridden here at a breakneck speed to argue with her. No, he’d had a far different plan for how to spend their time together, for how he’d spend these last days before the rest of his life followed him from Manchester. But then he’d never expected to find her stroking another man, even if it was only his hand.

  “Are you ready to greet me in a more civil fashion?” Her deep, feminine voice surrounded him, its low, husky tones sending prickles of sensation coursing through him.

  “I am not sure. What were you doing touching him?”

  Laughter filled the room, lush and deep. “Were you really so rude because I dared to pat a man’s hand?”

  “I did not like it—and I do apologize.”

  “It is Lord Milson you owe an apology to, but at least you are honest. And do you think I liked your being gone for months with only one brief note? I know you never said when you would return, but you implied it would be long before this. A little warning would have been ni
ce. Could you not have managed a second note?”

  “I made no promises.” And he hadn’t, blast it. It wasn’t like he was courting her—or that she would ever imagine he would. He pulled in a slow breath, trying to rein in his emotions, to gain full control. “And I did not know what to say. I was never sure how much longer I would be.”

  “And yet you feel entitled to be rude because I touch another man, a patron. You made poor Milson most uncomfortable. He is not used to wondering if he is going to be challenged to a duel because he touches some whore’s hand.” She was very close now. He could feel her breath on the back of his neck.

  “You are not a whore,” he said. “I thought you had expressed a dislike for the term in the past.”

  “Ahh, you remember that. I was expressing what Milson thinks. I am quite sure the word whore comes to his mind even as he asks my advice.” She let out a long sigh, tickling the back of his neck. “But perhaps that is why he will take it—my advice.”

  “I do not like that men think of you in such a fashion.”

  Another laugh, the sound curling around him, sending shivers running deep in his gut. “Ah, my dear captain, you do not know what to think, do you? You can become irritable at the touch of a hand and accuse me of fucking my clients, but let another man even think the thought…”

  “Do you need me to apologize again?” He did not turn to face her. He still was not sure what had come over him. Perhaps it was merely that he was weary, tired from the long journey.

  “I am not sure. I will admit this is not how I pictured our next meeting occurring.”

  It was his turn to sigh, to admit his own uncertainty. “No, and I suppose that is the problem. I am afraid I rather expected you to run into my arms in joy—not to find you stroking another man.”

  “You make it sound as if he were naked and I was licking him like an ice melting in the sun.”