For a moment he seemed startled. His eyes skimmed over her front, lingering momentarily on her breasts, and back up to her face. Now you notice. With a scandalous smile on her lips she stepped into Henry’s arms, moving a bit closer than was truly respectable.
Henry hid his shock well. He merely placed her hand in his, slid his other hand to her waist and moved her slightly backward before sweeping her into the dance.
“I had forgotten that incident. It was a few years ago now. I assume the arm healed properly.”
“All my limbs are in working order, my lord.”
“I’m very pleased to hear that, given Marcus tells me Sabine is playing the matchmaker. You’re husband hunting? It pays to have a full set of limbs when courting.”
She nodded. “I value Lady Wolverstone’s input. Rather her than my father’s choice.” Her smile died. “My father wishes to see me wed and is more concerned with haste than the fiancé. I'd rather the choice was mine.”
“Yet you don’t appear to be enjoying yourself tonight. Has Lord Chesterton anything to do with that?”
“He is rather persistent, regardless of my feelings.”
“Would you like me to tell him to bugger off?”
“Henry!” She couldn’t help the shocked cry. She gathered herself together and tried to remain composed. “I’m perfectly capable of handling Creeperton”-
Henry burst into laughter and every head in the room turned their way. “Never have I heard a more apt name.”
Heat flooded Amy’s face. She hadn’t meant to say the name out loud. “My apologies. That was inexcusable.”
“No need. The name fits the man perfectly. In fact, I may well steal the name for my own use.”
Amy watched the earl roll the name over his tongue and his face lit with general amusement at her faux pas. It was humiliating. Here she was trying to get him to see her as a sophisticated woman, and she was behaving like a gauche school girl.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“That would not be very gentlemanly.”
Amy noted that was not an answer, merely an observation. She saw Henry’s gaze fixated on Creeperton. “You don’t like the Viscount?”
Henry looked into her eyes but he remained tight-lipped. Finally he said, “Let’s just say he took something from me, and I’m concerned at how he is treating his new possession.”
“I hope it’s nothing too valuable.”
He did not answer her, merely twirled her around the floor, a look of consternation flashing across his face. “It is of no concern. Let’s not talk about Creeperton, but instead enjoy the dance.”
“You dance very well, my lord. Who taught you?”
“My sisters. They needed someone to practize with. I was more than happy to oblige as it got me out of Latin.”
“My brother would not be seen dead dancing with me.”
“He’s older than you. I was younger than them and had little choice in the matter.”
“But at least once you grew up you had choices. I seem to have fewer choices as I grow older,” she muttered more to herself.
Something over her shoulder had garnered his attention and he did not reply. So much for demonstrating her maturity and womanhood. He even found her conversation lacking. Anger sizzled and she couldn’t help herself. “At least Chesterton gives me his undivided attention.”
“I do beg your pardon. I was watching Chesterton take his leave. He won’t bother you again this evening,” he said, slowing as the music floated to a halt.
“Oh,” Amy replied, reluctantly retrieving her hand from his. She was pleased to note that his other hand lingered on her waist. “Thank you for the dance, my lord.”
Henry released her and escorted her back to Sabine. Marcus smiled at the pair as if husband and wife had just exchanged a private secret.
Henry bowed over her hand and said, “If you excuse me, ladies. Cards beckon. Wolverstone.”
Before anyone could reply, Henry pivoted and made his way back across the crowded ballroom. It took him longer to reach the card room because, without Marcus by his side, every mama with a marriageable daughter stopped him and tried to draw him into conversation.
Amy’s only consolation was that he didn’t appear to be enamored of any woman here. He seemed desperate to seek the safety of the card room.
Sabine tapped her arm, “Amy, Lord Henley was asking after your father.”
She forced her eyes away from Henry’s departing figure, fine figure, and resolved that soon, very soon, she would make him see what was before his eyes–her.
And only her.
Chapter Two
Henry was completely sloshed. Drunk to be precise. An inebriated state he sought far too often of late. He should have gone directly home after Lady Skye’s ball, but watching his best friend Marcus leave with his beautiful wife on his arm made him long for company. He did not wish to go home to an empty house and a lonely bed.
He blinked, trying to focus on the activities going on around him. The room at Mrs. Whites was stifling. He bloody well shouldn’t have let George Ashford talk him into accompanying him to the high-class brothel, and he definitely shouldn’t have drunk half a bottle of brandy on top of the alcohol he’d already consumed this evening.
He gripped the arms of his chair, rested his head on the back, and closed his eyes, fighting the rising nausea. He didn’t miss the irony that bile was the only thing rising. Not even the brief sight of voluptuous beauties cavorting naked on the stage in front of him could make his flaccid member twitch.
He didn’t understand this sexual lethargy. Up until eighteen months ago, just before Millicent left, he’d had a ferocious appetite. Yet it seemed losing Millicent had destroyed his enjoyment for sins of the flesh as surely as she’d bruised his heart and his ego. His father had warned him that men should never fall in love with their mistresses. It never ended well.
His arrangement with Millie ended very well. For her. She simply left him a note telling him she’d found someone else.
Henry St. Giles clenched his stomach to hold off the rollicking nausea. He should be over her by now. He was an earl, for goodness sake, and Millie a mere courtesan. If anyone did the leaving, it should have been him.
Anger at himself burned bright, making him struggle to sit up. He should leave the establishment now. He had to admire Mrs. White’s cleverness, for her pleasure house was a mockery of the oldest gentlemen’s club in England. Now men didn’t have to lie to their wives when they left for a night of sin; they simply said they were going to White’s.
Therein lay the problem. He didn’t have a wife, or family, or a proper home. If he did, he’d certainly not leave them for this establishment.
True, he owned houses, but an empty house was not a home. He’d not had a home growing up. He’d had a house full of people he was related to, yet even with siblings and parents and servants, he’d still felt alone.
Bloody hell, he was in a sorry state. His chest clenched in what he knew was dark-green and vicious envy. Harlow and Marcus. He wondered if he’d ever find the joy, happiness, and love they had found with their soul mates.
If he were honest with himself, Millie was not his soul mate. She had left him for another and it had hurt at first, but looking back it was merely his pride that had been wounded. It was not Millie he craved, but rather the thought of love, the idea of finding his soul mate drove him.
What he felt for Millie was gratitude. She’d been there for him when his brother died, and he was thrown into the role as head of the Cravenswood family. A role he had never expected or wanted.
He was grateful for her support. He’d needed someone and she had stayed long enough to help ease him into the earldom.
Now he had no one. No close family, siblings or wife. Loneliness seeped into his bones like a smothering cold fog. Loneliness which would not be appeased by marrying his brother’s fiancé. Hilda was most definitely not his soul mate.
Tonight he’d hoped the ball, an
d then the brothel would banish his troubles with mindless, meaningless pleasure. But even that had been denied him. So he’d drunk himself into oblivion. Again.
A body, warm, soft, and virtually naked, slid onto his lap. A feminine hand trailed down his chest, caressing its way to his groin, while the other lifted his hand and placed it on her naked breast.
“Perhaps a private show of our own would keep you awake, my lord?”
Her hand found his member and with expert fingers she coaxed a response. Finally, a twitch of life.
She slid off him to her knees and he felt her unbutton the placket of his trousers. Henry closed his mind to everything but what the woman was doing to him. He let his lids close and in the darkness he pictured Millicent, her dark curls cascading over her creamy bare shoulders, her hands caressing up his thighs, her tongue running up the length of him before her hot, talented mouth enveloped his straining member...
His body tensed as forgotten, yet glorious sensations grew within him, then he made the mistake of opening his eyes and he glimpsed the blonde head bobbing between his thighs.
His erection withered and died. The blonde’s head rose. He looked into her face and she met his eyes, confusion scored her pretty features.
“Too much drink, my love. Perhaps another night.” He buttoned his trousers.
This wasn’t Millie.
Millie was now under the protection of Jeremy Montague, Viscount Chesterton. Nausea threatened once more. He’d had a slight victory tonight. He’d annoyed Chesterton. He’d interrupted his pursuit of Amy Shipton.
The memory of soft curves under his hand. Of eager eyes as warm as honey. They spoke of sweetness. Yet deep within burned sparks of passion as yet unrealized. Amy had tried to flirt with him.
Amy Shipton—she’d grown up.
He frowned and tried to remember the feel of her in his arms. She felt...comfortable in his embrace. He shook his head. He was drunker than he’d imagined. She was his neighbor, that’s why she felt comfortable. He’d known her since she could leave the nursery. He should not be having salacious thoughts about a debutante. Not unless marriage was involved. Now that was a thought...
She reminded him of Millie. That was it. She had dark hair and a creamy complexion that begged for a man’s lips to taste, just like Millicent.
Hell, she was nothing like Millicent. She wasn’t a courtesan for one thing. She was a young debutante whose father was a duke. Best he remember that.
His body sharpened with anger. Millie belonged to another. God damn the devil to hell, he’d heard rumors about how Chesterton treated his women. He’d tried to see Millie, to ascertain that she was well, but she refused to see him.
He briefly closed his eyes and made himself a promise. Tomorrow he would make a decision about Hilda, and his cousin Charles. Perhaps Hilda would be happier with Charles? Or was he clutching at straws, trying to find any excuse not to do the honorable thing.
Only once the situation with Hilda was settled would he start looking for a suitable wife. He was a man in his prime, an earl, and extremely rich. How hard could it be to find his soul mate? If both Harlow and Marcus, two of England’s most prolific rakes, could find their better halves, surely he could too.
He gave himself a proverbial kick in the arse.
Definitely time to leave.
He rose on unsteady legs and staggered out into the humid night. He refused the doorman’s suggestion of a hackney. It was too hot. Besides, he wanted to clear his head on the walk home.
The moon was out, lighting the pavement, the stars above sparkling like dancing lights. Around him London lay sleeping. As he passed each house on his way through Mayfair, he pictured the types of families that lived behind the closed doors. Were they happy? Or was their marriage a cold, calculating business arrangement, as his parents’ marriage had been? At thirty-two he should already be married. He’d known for the past twenty years that he would not let his children, or himself, endure such a marriage. He would only marry for love. A possibility for a second son.
Grinning to himself he laughed out loud thinking of Harlow and Marcus’s foolish battle against love. Why did men of his ilk fear it so? Yet, ironically, they’d found love before him.
No doubt Harlow and Marcus were right now enjoying themselves at their homes, soaking up the benefits accruing to happily married men. Six months ago Caitlin had gifted Harlow his heir. A healthy baby boy they’d named Cameron. He’d never seen his friend so happy and content. The way Sabine had been glowing recently, he was sure Marcus too would soon make an announcement.
He reached Hanover Square and stood looking up at his Townhouse. The dark, empty house did not entice him. Besides, it was too hot to sleep.
Instead, he turned and made his way through the gate opposite, and into the square’s private garden. He would often sit in the garden staring at the stars. He felt closer to Richard. They had played in this garden as children.
Lately he’d taken to visiting the garden. He would sit and tell Richard all about the estate and his plans. It helped him make decisions, and he felt less alone.
Henry found the bench near the Aphrodite fountain and took out his hip flask. Not that he really needed any more brandy.
He sat looking at Cravenswood Court across the road. The imposing building held no appeal. It offered him no happy memories. He shrugged. He had no unpleasant memories either. Just weary indifference.
Tonight Henry felt the weight of duty. It was his role to protect and raise the Cravenswood name to prominence. His duty to marry and produce his heirs—with Hilda. Life didn’t always allow you the opportunity to live your dreams.
He tipped the flask to his mouth, but it was empty. “Perfect. Bloody perfect.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Suck it up, man. Most men would sell their souls to become the Earl of Cravenswood”-
The squeak of the gate behind him stopped his tirade. Someone was entering his garden. He stood up to see who had invaded his private space at this hour of the morning, but in his drunken condition he tripped over the leg of the bench, and pitched headfirst against the base of the statue. His last thought before the blackness struck was that Aphrodite had an exquisite bottom.
The squeak from the closing gate didn’t muffle the sound of flesh hitting something solid and unforgiving. The silence that followed the distinct sound of a body falling to the ground saw Amy hurrying towards her favorite fountain. Her heart leapt into her throat. She knew the only other person likely to be here this late, or early in the morning as the case may be, was Henry.
During her own unhappy wonderings late at night when sleep eluded her, she’d ascertained that Henry often came to converse with his dead brother, hence her detour into his garden after Lady Skye’s ball, rather than going to her own bed.
The only pleasure in her life at present seemed to be offering silent, distant, unknown and unwanted comfort to a man who didn’t know she existed.
Amy dropped to her knees next to Henry’s prone body. The sounds of his groans of pain were sweet music; it meant he was at least alive.
She smelled the brandy fumes and noted his hip flask lying discarded nearby. Henry had often seemed worse for drink on his late night ramblings, but when she lift his head to cradle it on her knees she saw the ugly gash on his head. He must have hit the side of the fountain.
She dipped her handkerchief in the water and bathed the gash, wiping the small specks of gravel out of the wound. “Henry,” she scolded softly, tenderly wiping a stray golden lock away from his wound. “What am I to do with you? You can’t let your brother’s death destroy you with sorrow and guilt. Richard would have wanted better for you.”
She gazed spellbound at the beauty of the man she tended. His long lashes were dark crescents smudged over his pale cheeks. His brows, the planes of his face, looked oddly relaxed; his lips, full and beckoning, were gently curved in a child like smile. Her heart expended under an emotion she didn’t wish to face.
She pressed the c
loth to his head until the wound stopped bleeding, all the while gently singing to him.
Amy didn’t know how long they’d sat there, but now that the blood no longer flowed, she decided to move and find help. She tried to lever him off of her but Henry groaned deeply and snuggled deeper into her lap, wrapping his arms around her hips, anchoring her to him.
Despite her precarious situation, Amy’s lips lifted at the corner. He was so atrociously handsome, the silky locks of his gold-kissed hair feathered his chiselled cheeks, his long-fingered hands gripped her hips as if he didn’t ever wish to let her go, his long body lay boneless across her lap. She resisted the urge to kiss his wound-just.
What now? Amy looked toward Cravenswood Court. She’d have to summon help to move him. She couldn’t leave him out here with a head injury. She bit her lip and considered the trouble she was in. How would she explain being alone with Henry in his garden—Henry had no idea she often kept him company. All right, she growled under her breath, he had no idea she spied on him. Besides, her reputation would be tarnished and her father might insist on Henry doing the honorable thing. A shudder of delight raced along her nerve endings. That didn’t sound too terrible a fate.
Her smile died as a very large hand suddenly molded her breast and a thumb and finger tweaked her nipple through her clothing. She gasped. Fire danced low in her belly. She should stop him. She closed her eyes and let his hand roam her breasts. His touch was like fire—hot and dangerous. Better than she’d dreamed.
No, it would not be terrible to become his wife.
She heard him mumble and she bent lower to hear his words. His face lifted from her lap and his lips brushed her mouth. He moaned again, the sound was not of a man in pain, more in pleasure. His hand cupped the back of her neck and pulled her closer. His lips teased hers and encouraged her to allow him access. She didn’t even hesitate, but opened for him. He swept into her mouth as if he’d been there before. He tasted of brandy and cheroots, a masculine combination that saw her surrender to the passion his clever tongue provoked.
To Challenge the Earl of Cravenswood (Wicked Wagers 3) Page 2
