by Isobel Carr
“No.” Lord Leonidas smiled and abandoned his post by the cold grate to claim the chair across from her. His long legs stretched across the small space between them, boots nearly tangling in her skirts. Viola drew her feet back and tucked them under her chair. He grinned, clearly aware of her withdrawal.
“A lover, Mrs. Whedon, puts his partner’s pleasure first. Or rather, her pleasure is his pleasure.” He leaned forward, close enough for the scent of Bay Rum, warm skin, and sun-dried linen to wash over her. Her mouth watered, forcing her to swallow. One corner of his mouth kicked up as though he knew. “Just as his is hers.”
Viola settled back into the embrace of her chair, moving away from the dizzying scent of him. She traced the bargello work with a nail, eyes on the intricate needlework that covered the chair rather than on Vaughn. “Her protector’s pleasure is always a mistress’s—”
“Exactly my point, ma’am. When has your pleasure ever been the first and most important concern of either person in your bed?”
Her eyes snapped up, riveted to him.
Never. At least not since Stephen died. Perhaps not even then. They’d both been so damn young… She pushed the memory away. Men paid for their pleasure to be the only concern. That was the whole point. Whether wife or mistress, a woman’s pleasure was of little import.
A bubble of panic clawed its way up her chest and lodged beneath her heart, making it nearly impossible to breathe. To suggest that there was some mythical third option of lover made her want to slap him, but it also sparked a wild desire for him to prove what he said. Her lamentable curiosity was going to get her into trouble yet again. At least this time she had no reputation to lose. No family to embarrass or disappoint.
“So, in exchange for being allowed to put my pleasure first, you’ll slay all my dragons.” She did her best to be dismissive, to make his proposal sound as ridiculous as it was.
Lord Leonidas chuckled, a low, throaty sound that curled around her. “In exchange for being allowed to attempt to pleasure you, I’ll slay any damn thing you like.”
Viola sucked in a breath. His blue eye was steady, sincere, but the green one held a hint of mischief. That was the eye to watch, the one that gave away his secrets. It wasn’t as simple as he made it out to be, but she’d be damned if she could fathom what his real motivation was. A bet perhaps? The challenge of climbing into bed with the most infamous whore in England without so much as tuppence changing hands?
“In fact, I propose to seduce you in stages, my dear. To make you beg for each and every intimacy.”
“Beg?” A thrill coursed through her as her last shred of dignity evaporated. Her hands and feet began to tingle as heat pooled in her belly. The air between them crackled with tension, lust recognizing lust. What sort of man bothered to seduce a woman whose bed others had merely paid to enter? How badly did she really want to find out?
“Beg,” he echoed with a conviction that unnerved her.
The muscles in his thighs bunched as he rose, straining the seams of his breeches. His large, square hands smoothed his coat into place, the subtle, striped silk sliding across his chest to mask the magnificent waistcoat beneath. Viola sucked in her bottom lip and caught it between her teeth. It was impossible not to imagine those hands touching her.
If she clung to that almost gaudy waistcoat, crushed the embroidered panels with both hands, would he carry her to the chaise? Or would he simply sink with her to the silk carpet beneath their feet?
How long had it been now since a man had touched her? Could it really be months? And how much longer than that had it been since she’d had a man with any real skill in her bed? Years? Forever? Never? The ones worth bedding were never the ones who could afford to keep her.
It simply didn’t bear thinking about. A sudden wave of regret flooded through her. This wasn’t the life she was supposed to be living… not the one she’d been raised to expect nor the one she’d dreamt of as a girl. Not even close.
Lord Leonidas circled around the back of her chair and leaned over her. “But for now, Mrs. Whedon”—his breath washed over her ear, and she shivered—“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to your afternoon.” He inched closer, until she could feel the slight abrasion of his cheek against hers, until the scent of Bay Rum flooded every pore. “You might indulge me and spend it imagining just what I might do, if allowed to touch you only below the knee, to induce you to beg me to touch your thigh.”
And then he was gone, leaving her alone in her boudoir, flushed with anger and quaking with need. All she could think about were those long-fingered hands sliding up her calf… The bastard.
CHAPTER 4
Viola handed her hat and gloves to Mrs. Pendergast’s doorman and hurried to the parlor. It was evident, even through the closed door, that a lively discussion was already under way. As she pushed into the plush inner sanctum of London’s most elite brothel, she heard Lady Grosvenor’s laughter cut through the air like a soprano climbing to the top of her range.
Beside Lady Grosvenor were the other members of the New Female Coterie, demi-reps all. Lady Ligonier, Lady Worsley, Mrs. Newton, and the grandame of them all, the Countess of Harrington. Most of the members of their society were the fallen wives and daughters of nobility. Lady Harrington, on the other hand, was merely infamous, her husband having been more democratic in his views of wifely fidelity than most of his fellows. Of course, he was probably upstairs with one of Mrs. Pendergast’s girls at this very moment…
Lady Grosvenor gathered her ever-present pug into her lap and patted the settee beside her, her eyes crinkling with mirth. “Mrs. Whedon, I hear such tales of you that I burn for corroboration. You were attacked? In your own home? And saved by Lord Leonidas Vaughn?”
“Yes,” Lady Worsley said, leaning forward, anticipation writ plainly on her face. “Please do tell us that the rumors are true. That Lord Leonidas has fallen at last?”
“I’m afraid I’m the one who’s meant to fall.” Viola fingered the trailing ribbon of her sash. “And yes, I awoke to find housebreakers in my bedroom. They were after the manuscript for the next volume of my memoir.” She shuddered at the memory. “Lord Leonidas was walking home from a late night of cards when I burst onto the walk.”
“Thank heavens,” Mrs. Newton said.
“Lucky girl, more belike,” Lady Grosvenor replied with a hint of a smile. “What a savior to find at hand.”
“Yes,” Viola conceded, ignoring the flustered pulse beating its way through her veins. “He took care of everything, from searching the house to meeting with the runners.” Her footman’s lifeless body flashed behind her eyes. “The runner doesn’t hold out much hope for catching them, though. He promised they’d do their best, but without more to go on, they can hardly accuse Sir Hugo publicly—though I know they must have been in the baronet’s employ—and without Sir Hugo, the runners are unlikely to be able to trace my assailants.”
“But Lord Leonidas has everything in hand?” Lady Harrington asked with a somewhat surprised expression.
Viola nodded. “He’s taken the reins quite handily. I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to. He’s outrageous.”
“But handsome.”
“And rich.”
“Not to mention, just think of the size of him.” Lady Ligonier looked rapturous. “There must be only a handful of men among the ton who are anywhere near his height.”
The first hint of a blush burned Viola’s cheeks. She’d been thinking of very little else for days. “And entirely sure of himself,” she added to their list. “You won’t believe the proposal he’s made me.”
“Stingy, is he? I wouldn’t have thought it of him. The Vaughns tend more toward grand gestures.” Lady Harrington selected a small cake from the tray and ate it in one bite.
“I can still remember the wild, romantic tale of his parents’ elopement,” Lady Grosvenor said with a sigh. “I think it made far too large an impression on me as a girl.”
Viola broke into a smile. “He’
s not offered to become my protector. Or rather, he has offered help with Sir Hugo, to quite literally protect me, but only if given the chance to seduce his way into my bed.”
“Let him.” Lady Ligonier fanned herself, batting her eyes playfully. “Lord knows I would.”
Everyone broke out in laughter. Viola eyed her disarmingly frank friend. Lady Penelope Ligonier was well known for the fact that she thought infidelity the best thing she’d ever done, the freedom she found there beyond price. Yes, Penelope would have dragged Lord Leonidas down onto the carpet and had her way with him with nary a qualm or a thought.
“I haven’t said no.” Viola wasn’t at all sure she could. “I haven’t made any reply at all. And he’s so confoundedly arrogant that I don’t think he’d accept my refusal if I dared.”
“Well, he is a Vaughn.” Lady Grosvenor scratched her pug, sending the creature into a shivering state of delight.
“He sent a note yesterday inviting me to the theatre. I’ve half a mind to leave him kicking his heels on my doorstep—”
“And an entire body telling you not to,” Mrs. Newton interjected. “Don’t be a fool, Vi, really. Just think of it: Lord Leonidas. You’d be a legend. The only Cyprian to ever lay claim to a Vaughn, younger son or no. And think of the teeth gnashing among the widows of the ton? Their consternation alone would make it all worth it.”
“And you’d have Vaughn in your bed in the interim,” Lady Worsley said with a suggestive waggle of her brows. “I can’t think of a more delightful way to spend the Season.”
“Perhaps you’re right…”
“If you let Vaughn slip through your fingers”—Lady Harrington eyed her indignantly—“I wash my hands of you.”
Laughter bubbled out of Viola. The countess was every bit as decisive as Lord Leonidas. There was no questioning where you stood with her, and she never quibbled when it came to telling them all exactly how they should go on, almost as though they were her daughters.
“Yes, my lady. I shall do just as you say.”
“Good girl. Now push that plate of macaroons closer to me, my dear. Thank you.”
Leo leaned back against the squabs and studied Mrs. Whedon in the light thrown by the small lantern affixed to the carriage wall. With every bounce and jolt, brilliant motes slid across her, drawing his attention from the sweep of her clavicle to the swell of her breasts to the hollow of her throat… each beautifully sculptured spot calling out for a long, open-mouthed kiss. To be worshipped as it deserved.
Whore or not, she was magnificent. It was simply a fact.
Leo shifted in his seat, resisting the urge to climb across the small space and pull her onto his lap. To unhook her bodice and lift her breasts from their confinement behind layers of silk and whalebone. But that wasn’t the bargain they’d made, and he had every intention of making her seduction a triumph. Tumbling her in the coach, delightful as it might be in the moment, wouldn’t serve his purpose.
Mrs. Whedon sighed and sank a little farther into her seat, long, fine hands quiet in her lap; restive, as she had been that first morning in her boudoir. He moved one foot, slipping it beneath her petticoats, careful not to so much as brush her ankle. Her eyes widened, a pale blue sea a man could drown in. The black silk beauty mark on her cheek appeared to quiver. She was perfectly still, save for the steady rise and fall of her breasts. One hand clenched around her fan, the small sound of the ivory sticks grating against one another was clearly audible in the confined space.
Leo held back a grin and set his foot against the seat, bracing himself, waiting for her to relax. The last thing he wanted was for her to look like a frightened mare when they arrived at the theatre. That wouldn’t do at all. But somehow he couldn’t resist teasing her with small threats of intimacy. Her shiver of anticipation was irresistible.
The hubbub of their fellow attendees washed over the carriage: shouts, laughter, the clang of steel-shod hooves and iron-rimmed coach wheels becoming a din of near epic proportions. Mrs. Whedon straightened, breasts swelling, threatening to spill from the absurdly low neckline of her gown. The tall feathers in her hair brushed the roof of the carriage, the longest curling down as if bowing.
Leo allowed himself a smile, picturing the looks on people’s faces when they entered together. He was about to cause an unholy amount of gossip. But this very public display was necessary for Mrs. Whedon to continue in the belief that it was Sir Hugo she needed protection from, and that Leo had taken on the challenge. And when the lady did finally take him to her bed, that alone might make it worth the trouble. “Ready to face the lions?”
Mrs. Whedon smiled back, just a slight upswing of her lips, gone almost before it started, not even a crease in her powdered cheek to mark its passing. She ran her hands over her petticoats, smoothing them over her knees, then dipped her head and fiddled with one of the pins that secured her gown to its stomacher. “It’s only the ton. I’ve faced worse.”
Leo caught the tight expression on her face and was unsure whether to attribute it to the strain of their approaching debut or to give her words more weight than he normally would, considering her flippant tone. Before he could undertake any further interrogation, the carriage lurched to a halt and the door swung open, the steps falling with a soft thunk at the footman’s instigation.
Mrs. Whedon met his gaze steadily, then rose and allowed the footman to hand her out. Leo jumped down after her and watched with amusement as she shook out her skirts, haughty as any of the grand dames of the ton. She had presence, and she clearly knew she drew the eye. She expected to do so.
Mrs. Whedon tipped her head and held out her hand. He took it, settled it on his arm, and led her toward the theatre’s entrance, pushing past the gaping throng without so much as a nod. Let them wonder. Let them marvel. So long as they took note—so long as word got back to Sir Hugo, and whatever game he’d been playing with Mrs. Whedon ended before it interfered with Leo’s own—he didn’t care what they thought or said.
This was a grand performance. The protector claiming his mistress. The dog warning off the rest of the pack. This is mine. Don’t touch. The point wouldn’t be lost on Sir Hugo or Mrs. Whedon.
If it wouldn’t have resulted in a screaming match with his mother—and one he was destined to lose—he’d have fastened the family rubies around Mrs. Whedon’s throat as an unmistakable declaration of ownership. As it was, she was wearing a shocking collar of topazes, given to her by Lord only knew who.
The desire to rip them off nearly stole his breath. There was something deeply unsettling about having her parading about in another man’s gift. The fact that it bothered him was more unsettling still. The performance was leaching into reality.
If she’d been truly his, an awe-inspiring parure would have been in order. Something to send those damn topazes to the bottom of her jewelry case for good. Peridots, or perhaps coral. Coral would be amazing with her hair.
But she wasn’t. His. Not now, not ever. And even if she were, such a gift was well beyond his purse. Mrs. Whedon was a means to an end. A delightful means, but nothing more. Though it was all too easy to forget such quibbles when he looked at her, when he was plotting out how—where—to touch her.
Viola curled her hand more securely around Lord Leonidas’s arm as they pushed through the crowd. His arm was hard under the silk, the veiled strength comforting in the crowd. For the first time in days, she felt utterly secure. Sir Hugo wouldn’t dare bother her, under the circumstances.
After ascending several flights of crowded stairs, they arrived at the Vaughn family box. It was blissfully empty, a softly lit corner of the world where they were both entirely alone and dramatically on display, like a magnificent curio in a glass display case.
Viola took several deep, calming breaths and raised her chin a hair as Vaughn seated her on one of the dainty gilded chairs at the front. He sent his footman running for refreshments and claimed the seat beside her.
His shoulder crowded her, hip and thigh pressed agai
nst her, crushing her gown. He overwhelmed his seat as thoroughly as he overwhelmed her. It was unnerving.
Regardless of size, Viola simply wasn’t used to being intimidated. Wasn’t used to the anticipatory flush of excitement beating its way through her veins to lodge like a second heartbeat between her thighs.
Viola reached for the serenity at her core and found… nothing. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she let her breath out with a hiss to cover the surge of uncertainty.
He hadn’t so much as touched her yet, nothing but gloved hand to gloved hand, an act so proper, so staid, it wouldn’t inflame a virgin. But here she sat, the subject of a thousand prying eyes, nervous as a girl on her wedding night.
So much for Mrs. Whedon, famed courtesan. Right now, she might as well be Miss Perry, fifteen and green as grass, all over again. She certainly felt it at this exact moment, and the sensation wasn’t at all welcome. It had been a decade since she’d been that girl, and she’d spent the intervening years in the arms of decadence and debauchery. And though she knew it was damning to admit it, she’d enjoyed nearly every minute of it. It had certainly been better than the alternatives.
She flicked her gaze over Lord Leonidas. He was magnificent. A dangerous creature masquerading as a gentleman, powdered hair and glossy black shoes a patent falsehood. The Duke of Richmond’s tiger escaped to sun with the barn cats, tail flicking with lazy anticipation…
He’d planted the seed of her seduction so carefully, so perfectly, that she’d been undone before she’d known how to stop herself. The simple challenge of resistance inflamed her. The urge to beat him at his own game, to make him crawl and beg, was irresistible.
A week ago, Viola wouldn’t have doubted her ability to bring a man to his knees. Tonight, she wasn’t at all sure, especially when the subject of her experiment was Lord Leonidas.
The challenge was intoxicating.
He’d taken silence on her part for agreement. A sign of arrogance that had not been lost on her, and a trick of his nature that might prove useful at a later date. He simply couldn’t imagine her saying no.
