Her Prodigal Passion

by Grace Callaway

  "You were splendid," a female voice breathed in his ear.

  His attention returned to Lady Augusta Beaumont, who lay naked next to him in bed. From her profusion of red curls to her bountiful curves, everything about her was excessive. Subtlety had never been his strong point.

  "I must return the compliment," he said.

  She traced a coy circle on his chest. "I daresay your prowess in bed exceeds even your abilities in the boxing ring."

  Last month, Paul had participated in a series of exhibition matches sponsored by Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Academy. The tournament had paired students with seasoned prizefighters to show how gentlemen could benefit physically and mentally from training in the "sweet science." Despite his status as a gentleman student, Paul had won all five of his bouts. The papers had capitalized on the crowd-pleasing outcome, hailing him as a symbol of The Fighting British Male (clearly, they knew nothing about him). Overnight, he'd become a sensation and all the rage amongst the ton.

  And, in particular, amongst the upper class ladies. Although he'd never lacked for female companionship, Paul now found himself plagued by fashionable females. Not that he was complaining. He never looked a gift horse in the mouth or an attractive bed partner in the ... well, no need to extend that particular analogy. The point was that sex provided only a temporary remedy; already he could feel the restlessness creeping back.

  As if she sensed his withdrawal, Augusta rubbed her cherry-tipped breasts against his arm. "Ready for another round, lover?"

  "You wore me out, pet." His hand squeezed her plush bottom; his mind worked on a polite exit strategy.

  "Well, it was a challenge." She fluttered her lashes. "I don't believe I've ever sported with such a well-endowed partner before."

  Though the jaded part of him doubted the flummery—she hadn't had the least bit of trouble handling him, no matter his size—he gave her an easy smile. "You flatter me."

  "And you were well worth the wait," she purred. "With so many ladies vying for a fuck, I despaired of ever having my turn."

  "You've never been good at sharing, sister dear," another voice chimed in.

  His head turning on the pillow, Paul met the limpid gaze of Lady Louisa Parkington, who lay on his other side. The wife of a conveniently absent earl, she was Augusta's twin sister, and, arguably, the more voracious of the two. Which was saying something.

  "That is untrue," Augusta protested. "You had your turn."

  Louisa's plump lips formed a pout. "But you received his prime attentions. As usual, I received an inferior seat at the table."

  Inferior? Paul's brows inched upward. Being a gentleman, he always saw to his partners' satisfaction before his own. Pleasuring two ladies simultaneously had been no simple business: he'd expended more effort than usual. And unless he'd been mistaken—which he doubted, given his level of expertise in the matter—the sounds that Louisa had made as she'd perched over him had hardly been complaints.

  "There's no need to be a spoil sport. Look at him." Augusta's gaze roved downward over his person, and she licked her lips. He had the unsettling sensation of being eyed like a meaty bone by a ravenous mongrel. "Clearly there's plenty to go around."

  "I don't care. I'm getting first dibs," Louisa said, "for I deserve to make the most of my lord's absence. I mean to have my fun whilst Parkington is off dallying with his string of whores."

  "At least your lord can cock up something other than his toes," Augusta shot back. "The only stick that old Beaumont is capable of using is the one that helps him walk. I definitely deserve first choice next time."

  As the sisters bickered, Paul felt faint stirrings of alarm. Next time? Devil and damn, he'd already gone several rounds with the insatiable wenches. In truth, he was beginning to regret choosing bed sport over the honest trading of blows. His host and close friend, Nicholas Morgan, the Marquess of Harteford, had an excellent sparring chamber next to the study, and a few rounds would have battled monotony just as well as sex.

  Being a man of sizeable appetites, some means, and no purpose whatsoever, Paul found that his greatest enemy in life was restlessness. Fending off boredom was like fighting the Hydra of legend: each time he managed to lop off one head, two sprung back in its place. It seemed that nothing could defeat that monstrous sense of ... emptiness.

  Although his papa Jeremiah had resided with the angels for some years, Paul could still see the look of befuddled disappointment on the old man's face. He could hear his sire's lecturing refrain as well.

  What is the matter with you, Apollo? No Fines has ever lacked in fortitude and purpose. If you fail, you must buck up and try again.

  Without a doubt, Jeremiah, esteemed founder of Fines & Company Shipping, had been the most industrious and determined fellow who'd ever lived. He'd built an empire from nothing but blood, sweat, and ambition. Yet the poor sod had somehow managed to produce the ultimate prodigal offspring.

  Shame clamped Paul's insides. He thanked the Gods that his father had not been around to witness his ultimate disgrace. A year ago, he'd taken leave of his senses or, more accurately, pickled them in spirits. His drinking and gambling had spiraled out of control, and at his lowest point, he'd wagered his shares of Fines & Company—his papa's legacy—on a round of hazard.

  That wasn't even the worst part. Drunk and desperate, he'd resorted to hiding like the veriest coward from the cutthroat who'd held his vowels. Only the intervention of his sister Percy and Nicholas had saved him from the abyss of ignominy.

  When it came to personal virtues, Paul could claim only one: he had the ability to see his own faults clearly. Like Cassandra, he could forecast his own doom, and his biggest flaw lay in his neck-or-nothing personality. He was incapable of doing anything in half-measure. Either he couldn't lift a finger toward it—as in the case of his father's company—or he threw himself into the endeavor with such abandon that he lost himself entirely.

  As had been the case with Rosalind Drummond.

  Heartbreak had been the beginning of the end for him; even now, two years after losing Rosalind to another man, he tasted the bitterness of regret. The pain had dulled, however, to the point where he no longer had to mask it with spirits or gaming, vices that had turned his situation from bad to worse. A lack of self-discipline was a despicable weakness, but it was his. To retain what remained of his self-respect—and it wasn't much—his only choice was to avoid temptations of the heart, bottle, and wallet entirely.

  This, unfortunately, left few options with which to slay time. Thus, he'd turned to pugilism, spending his days training at Gentleman Jackson's Saloon. And since his unexpected triumph at the exhibition, an opportunity had recently presented itself. For the first time in a long time, anticipation stirred in him as he contemplated the future.

  If properly executed, his new plan could provide a means to rebuild his fortune. For though he'd recovered his shares of Fines & Co., he'd gambled away what savings he'd had. Now he would have a shot at redemption. Not only at getting his money back, but at proving, for once, that he could get things right. That he was a winner.

  But first, he wanted to discuss this new development with Nicholas. Perhaps he should go now to hunt the other down for conversation and a few rounds. But now that Nick was a husband and father—and amusingly devoted to the roles—the old chap probably had better things to do than to talk and spar into the wee hours of the morning.

  "We are agreed then, Augusta?" Louisa was saying. "We'll toss to see who rides where."

  Paul stifled a sigh. Like cheap gilt, the novelty of the twins had worn off. Besides, he had a suspicion that if he didn't make his exit soon, he might not make it out alive.

  Thus, he said in an appropriately regretful tone, "Ladies, as lovely as you both are, I must admit that you have humbled me. How can a mere mortal keep up with goddesses … and a pair of them at that?" Patting the voluptuous hips on either side of him, he sat up. "It has been a true pleasure, but now I must bid adieu."

  He blinked as two p
airs of hands pushed him back against the pillows.

  "We are not yet finished with you, sir," Louisa said.

  Good God. "But I'm afraid I am finished. Done in. Tapped out."

  "I doubt it. Your stamina is legendary," Augusta said. "Lady Eugenie claimed that at the Yardleys' hunting party you did not leave her bedchamber for the entire weekend."

  Damn his own libidinous ways. The trouble was that he liked women, their perfumed company and plush embraces. He'd learned to choose lovers who sought the same things as he did: pleasure, a few moments of forgetfulness.

  Love was a vice he couldn't afford.

  "There was only one of Lady Eugenie,"—he pried Augusta's fingers off of his chest—"and I was a younger man back then, pet."

  "But the Yardleys' party was only two weeks ago," Louisa said, frowning.

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Nevertheless, a man needs time to recover. Along with my sex's other failings," he said, "we haven't the endurance of ladies—"

  Determined hands clamped onto his shoulders and yanked him backward onto the bed. His back met the mattress, and, giggling, the wenches pinned him, each sitting atop one of his arms. Mildly entertained by their antics, he allowed it.

  "Nonsense. All you need is a restorative." So saying, Augusta applied her mouth to his torso. Despite his mind's flagging interest, her practiced licks caused the bands of his abdomen to tauten. "And I do so enjoy a challenge."

  "Me, too," Louisa said.

  Her breasts brushed against his thigh as her explorations took her southward. Egad, she had an adept mouth. Paul exhaled slowly.

  "Oh, goody. You're rising to the occasion already." With a cat-got-into-the-cream smile, Augusta nudged her sister. "Make room for me as well, Louisa. Let's see if our combined efforts can hasten the process."

  Louisa made a noise which seemed to indicate agreement—he couldn't be sure as her mouth was rather occupied. Augusta joined the fray, and his thoughts began to blur. Mindlessness beckoned … and he had nothing better to do at present anyway.

  Staring up at the ceiling, he lay back and endeavored to think of England.

  THREE

  Sometime later, Paul left the satiated pair. At one in the morning, the darkened hallway had as much traffic as Rotten Row on a weekday afternoon. He exchanged nods with gentlemen returning from a night of frolicking and avoided the frankly inviting gazes of several ladies draped in the latest boudoir fashions. Devil and damn, what he wouldn't do for a brandy. But he'd sworn off liquor and getting cup-shot would do nothing to improve his disposition on the morrow.

  He heaved a sigh. Might as well get a book and try to bore himself to sleep.

  Too lazy to trek to the library downstairs, he stopped by the parlor on the present floor. His hostess was a bit of a bluestocking, so books could be found in most public areas. Wandering in, he saw that a fire lit the large stone hearth at the center of the room, and a few lamps burned at a low flicker. Wingchairs and couches were scattered throughout in cozy configurations.

  Ah, excellent: bookshelves claimed the entire back wall.

  Paul browsed indifferently through the shelves. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle ... all the old boys from his Cambridge days were present and accounted for and no livelier a bunch now than they'd been back then. He stifled a yawn. Ye Gods, his plan was working already.

  A quiet rustle made him spin around. He blinked: a female had materialized, seemingly out of nowhere. A second passed before he recognized her. Charity Sparkler, his sister's bosom chum from finishing school.

  He bent at the waist. "Beg pardon. I didn't notice you, Miss Sparkler."

  "I know," she said.

  He must have imagined the wry edge to her reply. From their past interactions, he knew her to be a retiring little mouse. A marked contrast to his hoyden of a sister, yet the two were as thick as thieves. Indeed, a few Seasons ago Percy had begged him to dance attendance upon Miss Sparkler during the latter's unfortunate episode of spots. Feeling sorry for the chit, he'd done his part and squired her through a few ballrooms. In truth, he had only a hazy memory of those instances: his mind had been engaged elsewhere.

  Back then, all his thoughts had centered on Rosalind. An image of shining midnight hair and violet eyes crowded him even now. Beautiful, passionate Rosalind. He could still picture that vivacious smile she'd worn for all her suitors even as her gaze smoldered only for him. His throat tightened as he remembered their trysts and stolen moments—if only he'd acted on his heart's desires rather than made a game of them. By the time he'd discovered his courage, it had been too late.

  He'd lost the love of his life. Worse yet, he knew that she had chosen the better man. 'Twas another failure to add to all the rest.

  He pushed aside the bitter regret and watched as Miss Sparkler returned his courtesy. With some surprise, he saw that she had ... changed. The past year had been good to her. Free of blemishes, her skin glowed like porcelain in the lamplight, and she'd subtly blossomed. Though she'd never be a classical beauty, her small, neat features and uncommonly large eyes possessed a delicate charm. She put him in mind of a wood nymph, actually—though a rather stern and Quakerish one.

  If Miss Sparkler wanted for admirers now, it was not because of looks but style. Specifically, the lack thereof. Her scraped-back coiffure would pass muster in a convent; her dull brown topknot was so tightly wound that his temples throbbed just looking at it. Her ill-fitting gown dwarfed her waifish figure and, for the daughter of a jeweler, she had precious little to show for it. A plain silver locket appeared to be her sole bauble.

  The most peculiar thing about her, however, wasn't her appearance but her manner. Her stillness and the perspicacity in her gaze would discomfit any man. He had the disconcerting thought that although Miss Sparkler might escape the observation of others, she did plenty of observing of her own.

  He became acutely aware that he was standing there in a state of undress; after leaving the twins' company, he hadn't bothered tying on a cravat or throwing on his jacket. His throat was bare above his shirt laces, his hair mussed, and the faint musk of sex clung to his skin. In Miss Sparkler's quiet presence, he suddenly felt ... dirty. Embarrassed, though as a hot-blooded and unattached male he had no reason to be. Besides, it wasn't as if the prim miss would pick up on the post-coital clues. She probably didn't even know what fornication was.

  Hell, she'd probably never even been kissed.

  Which brought to the forefront of his mind that she was an innocent girl—precisely the kind he avoided—and here they were standing unchaperoned in the parlor past midnight. He'd best exchange a few niceties and beg off for propriety's sake.

  For lack of anything better, he asked, "Did you arrive after supper?" Then he had the alarming thought that perhaps she had been there—and he'd overlooked her yet again.

  "My journey was delayed. I arrived just an hour ago," she said.

  Thank God.

  "I'm sure you must be peaked." He hoped she'd get the hint.

  "I sent my maid to bed," she replied. "But then I couldn't sleep so I thought to find something to read."

  "Find anything good?" He glanced politely at the volume in her hands.

  She blinked … and then she did the oddest thing. She shoved the book behind her back.

  "No," she said. "Not really."

  Oh ho. Why was the chit prevaricating?

  Surprised and a bit intrigued, he studied her more closely, trying to discern the reason for her little covert action. She returned his stare, her long, curly eyelashes fanning rapidly. Her irises were a shade of jade and shale that ought to have been dull ... and yet he saw now that they produced a rare, subtly opalescent gaze. As the lamplight flickered, shards of amber and emerald flashed with sudden fire.

  With a jolt, he wondered why he'd never noticed Charity Sparkler's exceptional eyes before. Probably because in the past she'd kept them fixed in the vicinity of his chest or upon her tiny slippers. And he, himself, had admittedly been preoccupie
d by other matters. But now she had his attention because nothing piqued his curiosity more than a secret.

  "If I promise not to make a grab for your evening's pleasure," he said in genial tones, "will you tell me what you've got there?"

  "It's nothing, really I ..." Her throat worked. "It wouldn't interest you."

  He was startled to discover that it did.

  "We'll only know if you show it to me," he coaxed.

  Her straight, fine brows drew together. "I'd rather not."

  She had more gumption than he'd expected. Another tactic was called for. "If you won't tell me," he said, raising his brows, "I'll have to assume it's because you've got your hands on something improper. Material a young miss has no business reading."

  "Such as what ... exactly?" Her grey-green gaze gave nothing away.

  Devil and damn, she'd outmaneuvered him. Had she done so intentionally or was she so innocent that she didn't understand he was teasing her? At any rate, he couldn't very well accuse her outright of filching a naughty book.

  Raking a hand through his hair, he gave her an amused glance. "You win, Miss Sparkler. I have no argument left except a claim to friendship. We are old friends, are we not? As such, surely you would not leave a man dying of curiosity?"

  "I do not think it possible to expire from curiosity, Mr. Fines."

  "I could be the first," he said, "and then you would have to live with the guilt."

  "I'll manage to survive."

  Hearing the dry edge to her tone, he realized that Charity Sparkler was not as placid as she first appeared. Beneath that calm surface, an agile mind shimmered. If there was anything he enjoyed, it was a duel of wits.

  "As a personal favor to me,"—he gave her his best cajoling look, one that had reaped countless female favors (and all of them a great deal more intimate than the current request)—"will you please tell me what you have behind your back?"

  'Twas overkill, and he knew it. But now he was burning to know.

  Her lips pursed, and then he was struck by the comeliness of her mouth. The top lip had a pretty bow shape that made him think of hearts and angels, the bottom a pouty fullness that made him think of the exact opposite. As if that heady balance of innocence and sin weren't tempting enough, it seemed nature wanted to tip the scales: a tiny beauty mark floated just beneath her lower lip, the most wanton little speck …