Her Prodigal Passion

by Grace Callaway

  "Well?" Dr. Frankel's voice jolted her.

  To her mortification, she realized her nipples were puckered and stiff beneath her bodice. Gulping, she slanted a glance downward: thank goodness nothing showed through the layers of her unmentionables! But she'd been so distracted that once again she'd lost track of what the doctor was asking.

  Mr. Fines spoke up. "Can't feel a thing, I'm afraid. Too much hair. Beg pardon, Miss Sparkler," he said, "but know that your sacrifice is in the interest of science."

  Before she could register the meaning of his words, a brown lock fell into her eyes. Then another. Mr. Fines was plucking out her pins! Her hands flew to her head in panic, but it was too late: her topknot toppled, waves tumbling madly over her shoulders.

  She heard a collective titter rise from the crowd and wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment … and anger. How could the bounder humiliate her so? What had she ever done to him? As heat prickled her eyes, she aimed her gaze at the ground.

  Hold it together. Don't let him see you cry.

  "So that's what you've been hiding. But … why?"

  The note of wonder in his voice permeated her disgrace. She peered up through her lashes. What she saw lodged her breath in her throat. His vivid gaze was admiring, his expression impossibly sincere.

  Dazed, she heard him murmur, "How fetching you are, sweeting. Quite the prettiest little thing I've ever laid eyes on. That disguise of yours is criminal."

  Disguise? Criminal? Her head spun at the implication of his words—Thwack. She jerked as Dr. Frankel's pointer connected with the podium.

  "Proceed," the doctor said sternly. "No time for shilly-shallying."

  "Right-o." Mr. Fines gave her a tender—tender!—smile. "Shall we, Miss Sparkler?"

  Before she could reply, his hands slid into the loose mass of her hair. His touch sent shocks over her scalp, down her neck and arms. She pressed her lips together for fear that she might moan aloud with pleasure. With each fettered breath, the taut tips of her breasts chafed against her corset; petals of heat unfurled in her belly. All too aware of observing eyes, she squirmed, praying her stimulated state did not show.

  "Describe for us the general landscape of her skull," Dr. Frankel instructed. "Note any asymmetry or imbalances between the left and right sides."

  Mr. Fines brushed the curve of her ear, and that sensation amplified the illicit tingling at her breasts, the dampening between her legs. Shivering, she restrained herself from nudging against his hand like an eager kitten.

  "I can detect no imbalances. Her head is exceptionally smooth … and lovely," he said in a husky tone, eliciting a ripple of laughter from the audience.

  "Lovely is not a term employed in craniology, sir. Focus." The doctor aimed an austere gaze over his spectacles. "How would you describe the subject's orbital-parietal region?"

  "Perfectly formed."

  Pleasure suffused her as Mr. Fines gently massaged her scalp. Her neck muscles grew so warm and lax that she could scarcely keep her head up.

  "And the shape of the protuberances? Rounded or flat?" Dr. Frankel inquired.

  "Rounded."

  "Size—full or scant?"

  "Somewhere in between, I'd say." Mr. Fines' gaze dipped to her bodice, wicked heat flaring in those blue depths. "The perfect size."

  "With that information, I shall now interpret the subject's profile," Dr. Frankel announced to the audience in peremptory tones. "Taken together, this is the profile of a cautious individual. The lady is apt to think before she acts and is given more to reason than impulse."

  Charity blinked at the accuracy of his assessment.

  "In addition, she forms lasting attachments and shows unwavering loyalty to her loved ones."

  Right again, Charity mused. What a fascinating science.

  "And last, but not least, the prominence of the anterior skull demonstrates a prideful bent. Despite her modest demeanor, this is a lady of strong will. I would think twice before crossing swords with her," Dr. Frankel concluded.

  Charity's cheeks heated as laughter erupted.

  "I take back what I said earlier," Mr. Fines said in an undertone. "There may be more to this craniology business than I believed."

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  "Time to switch roles," Dr. Frankel said.

  With no means of escape, Charity reached reluctantly for Mr. Fines' head. His hair had a naturally windswept quality, springing up between her fingers like gilded wheat. The thick, silky friction sent a sensual hum through her. Trying to ignore it, she explored his scalp with tentative strokes. He watched her all the while, the rim of his pupils darkening. His neck arched slightly to her touch, and an answering tremor travelled up her arms.

  "Describe what you feel," Dr. Frankel said.

  She wet her dry lips. "The front of the skull seems, um, prominent and equally developed on both sides. And the section above the ears is, perhaps, more pronounced than the surrounding areas?"

  She had no idea was she was saying, but the doctor gave a vigorous nod. "And the posterior of the skull?"

  She could not reach the back of Mr. Fines' head whilst sitting. Rising, she leaned over him, running her fingers behind his ears, then sweeping them up and down the back of his head. She became aware of the hot, quick beat of his breath against her bosom, and her own blood seemed to pulse in rhythm.

  "The area behind the ears," she said in a husky voice she hardly recognized, "is, um, well developed." She tried to remember the terminology used earlier. "His protuberance is large and rather hard."

  For some reason, her observation led to tittering and muffled laughter from the crowd. Mr. Fines tilted his head back, and she lost track of the world around her, his blazing eyes engulfing her entirely. Her heartbeat skittered; her blood turned to honey. In that liquid moment, no others existed but the two of them. Her lips parted, and she swayed closer—

  "Based on that reading, I will now decipher the gentleman's character." The doctor's words brought Charity back to reality. She yanked her hands from Mr. Fines' hair and stumbled back into her seat. "His center of mirthfulness is well developed. He has a propensity toward wit and irreverence: style over substance, as you English say."

  Charity frowned at that conclusion. To her mind, Mr. Fines possessed both style and substance, but he looked amused by the doctor's interpretation.

  "Touché, Dr. Frankel," he said. "Do tell me more about myself."

  The doctor obliged. "The pronounced areas above the ears indicate that ideality—the love of beauty—is also a significant aspect of the subject's personality."

  "On that we agree. I am drawn to beauty,"—Mr. Fines' gaze locked on her face—"particularly when it is rare and unaffected."

  Charity's lungs pulled for air. Surely, he couldn't be referring to her. Couldn't mean that he found her beautiful ...

  "Finally, there is the protuberance at the back of the skull." Dr. Frankel straightened his cravat before saying, "The quality of amativeness appears to be prominent. Exceedingly so."

  To Charity's amazement, raucous cheers and whistles exploded in the room. Looking at Mr. Fines, she saw that ruddy color stained his high cheekbones. He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture one of embarrassment. What was this amativeness the doctor spoke of?

  Lady Helena came to the rescue. "Thank you, my dears. You are hereby relieved of your duties." To the audience, she said, "Now the rest of you will have the opportunity to practice what you just saw. Please raise your hands if you wish to participate."

  Every hand in the room shot up.

  As Lady Helena and Dr. Frankel went to organize the guests into pairs, Percy and Mr. Hunt came up to the stage.

  "Well, that was quite the performance," Percy said brightly. "You two were brilliant!"

  "Stuff it, sis," Mr. Fines muttered. Inclining his head to Charity, he said, "If you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to. We'll talk again soon, I hope. Your servant, etcetera."
<
br />   Bemused, Charity watched his retreating back. "Percy?" she said.

  "Yes, dear?"

  "Why was everyone laughing near the end?"

  A muffled sound came from Mr. Hunt; Percy nudged him with her elbow.

  "Do you know what amativeness is?" Charity persisted.

  "It's the organ that supposedly governs physical appetite." Her cheeks pink, Percy said, "For, er, amorous pursuits and the like."

  It took a second for the information to sink in. "Then I just said in front of everyone that ... that …"—blood pounded in Charity's ears—"that your brother has excessive ...?"

  "I wouldn't worry, Miss Sparkler," Mr. Hunt said with a grin. "You just called a rake a rake."

  TWELVE

  Paul worked out his frustrations in the sparring room. Practicing his combinations, he pounded a punching bag until sand leaked from its seams. By midnight, he was soaked with sweat, his muscles aching and knuckles smarting. The physical exhaustion, however, did little to alleviate the desire clawing at his belly.

  Devil take it, whose idea had it been to instigate a night of public groping? Craniology? Another name for foreplay as far as he was concerned. His blood stirred at the memory of Charity's touch. The way her fingers had tunneled through his hair, caressing him ... it had taken all his willpower not to drag her onto his lap and take up where they'd left off at the gazebo.

  Apparently, he had a sensitive head—make that two of them. If he hadn't left, he might have tossed Miss Sparkler onto the nearest surface and had his way with her. As it was, his jacket had barely hidden the fact that he'd been sporting a huge, pulsing cockstand.

  A large and hard protuberance, indeed.

  But what hot-blooded man wouldn't be drawn to Charity Sparkler? With her hair free, her eyes vibrant, and her mouth ripe and trembling, she'd been enticing beyond words. And his instincts told him he'd only scratched the surface. She was like a rare opal: her milk-smooth surface hid fiery depths, facets of untold brilliance—

  Snap out of it, man. Finally, his voice of reason took up the fight. That's your bollocks doing the thinking, and you know they aren't the brightest of fellows. Consider the matter carefully: are you really ready to go down this path again?

  Scowling, he shrugged into his jacket and headed back toward his chambers. Was this yet another instance of rash judgment? If he actually used the organ between his ears for once, he had to admit that he and Charity were as mismatched as two left shoes. They had little in common: she was responsible, sensible, and self-disciplined whereas he was … not. Though he couldn't quite put his finger on the source of it, some ineffable tension seemed to charge their interactions.

  He wasn't even certain that Charity liked him.

  A memory hit him: back at the gazebo, hadn't she mentioned some vague attachment? Did she have some fellow waiting for her in London? Was that the bounder whose kiss had made Paul's a molehill in comparison?

  Paul stalked down the hallway, wanting to plant a facer on the sod. He didn't like the way he was feeling, on edge and ... jealous? Had he ever felt this possessive before? Probably not. Not even over Rosalind, oddly enough. She'd been surrounded by a constant throng of admirers, so perhaps he'd gotten used to all the competition.

  But Charity was different. Her beauty didn't hit a man with the force of a tempest; no, her attractions unfolded gently, softly, like the blossoming after a spring rain. In fact, it took an observant man to notice the extent and depth of her loveliness, but once he did, he wanted it all to himself ...

  Paul frowned at the direction of his thoughts. Charity confused the hell out of him, and he wasn't a man who needed more confusion in his life. He told himself not to rush his fences. He ought to calm down, think things through.

  What he needed was a cold bath. A calming cup of tea.

  Or ... he could frig himself to high heaven, fantasizing about all the ways he wished to debauch the delicious Miss Sparkler.

  The notion sent a sizzle up his spine. He hadn't had to resort to self-pleasure since he was a greenling with an overabundance of animal energy and no skill to put it to better use. Since becoming a man, he'd been too lazy to do for himself what others would willingly do for him. Tonight, however, he would have to make an exception. Because he was randier than a sailor on leave and the fantasy of Charity Sparkler was far safer than the reality. Better to let off steam than get burned by it.

  Frig first, think later—definitely the way to go.

  Breathing heavily, he entered his room. He was surprised by the darkness that greeted him—his valet usually left the lamps lit—but at present moment obscurity suited his purposes just fine. He stripped off his clothes and boots and made his way over to the bed. He tossed aside the covers, got in, and—

  "What the bloody hell?"

  A giggle greeted his startled exclamation. "Surprise," a sultry female voice said. "I thought you might like some company."

  Devil take it.

  He fumbled to light the bedside lamp. Seeing the familiar face, he bit back an oath. Hell's teeth, what would it take for the doxy to get the message?

  "I told you, Augusta. I'm not in the mood tonight," he said shortly.

  "It's Louisa." The woman in his bed pouted, tossing red curls over her bare shoulder. "And you're always in the mood."

  Goddamnit, he wasn't some bloody stud to be ridden at any female's whim.

  "Not tonight," he repeated.

  She switched tactics. "But you seem so happy to see me," she said coyly.

  He pried her questing fingers off his erection and got out of bed. He was sorely tempted to tell her his aroused state had nothing to do with her. Ye Gods, he was tired of the man he'd become. The sort who fell into bed with any available trollop—simply because he had nothing better to do. It struck him that he wanted more. He wanted ... Charity. To explore what could happen between them.

  Mad as the notion might be, it was also true.

  "I'm not interested, Louisa," he said. "Please leave."

  Her eyes squinted, her mouth turning hard and petulant. "But I just got here."

  "Get out of my bed," he said grimly. "Now."

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. "Make me."

  Before he could contemplate his next move, a male voice sounded in the distance, the rage behind the words unmistakable. "I know you're with that bastard, Louisa—your maid has confessed everything. I'll not be cuckolded! Show your face, sirrah—or I'll knock down every bloody door until I find you!"

  Blood pounding in his veins, Paul shot a look at Louisa. She didn't seem worried, and, in fact, appeared rather ... smug. The realization pelted him like a cascade of bricks.

  "You want your husband to find you in my bed?" he bit out.

  Her smile could have sliced diamonds. "Why shouldn't Parkington have a taste of his own medicine? He keeps a string of whores, so why shouldn't I have my fun?"

  With an oath, Paul dragged on his robe and shoved his feet into slippers. No way in hell would he be a pawn in her manipulative games. If Louisa wanted her lord's attention, she could damn well get it another way.

  He threw her dressing gown at her. "You're getting out of here."

  "If I step foot in the hallway, Parkington will see me." Her eyes glinted with twisted delight. "I can hear him tromping down the hallway now."

  Deuce take it, she was right. Paul's eyes circled the room in panic, latching onto the armoire. Given her abundant figure, there wasn't a chance of Louisa fitting inside ... or beneath the bed. That left only … He raced over to the balcony doors. Throwing them open, he stepped onto the small ledge. Identical stone balconies stood in a row like stepping stones across the velvet night. The balustrades were close together, separated by mere centimeters; one could cross from ledge to ledge without fear of tumbling to the ground below.

  He counted three balconies between his and the largest one, that of the first floor parlor. An easy enough escape route—and from the increasingly loud bellows in the hallway, one that would ha
ve to be embarked upon immediately.

  He strode back to the bed and grabbed Louisa's arm. "You're getting out of here. You can take the balconies to the parlor."

  "A countess scrambling away like a thief in the night?" She stuck her nose in the air. "I will do no such thing. 'Tis ungentlemanly for you to even suggest it."

  "I wouldn't have to suggest it if you hadn't shown up uninvited to my room," he bit out, yanking her out of the bed. "Now get going."

  She grabbed onto one of the bed posts and gave him a triumphant look. "I'll scream if you make me."

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  "Louisa!" Parkington's voice boomed—he was nearly at the door. "Where the hell are you?"

  Desperation clawed Paul's insides. Any minute now the enraged earl would barge into the room, and Paul would have no way to prove his innocence. He'd be forced to fight a duel; he'd be damned if he had to shed another man's blood over a scheming wench.

  She wouldn't leave? Fine.

  He would.

  He sprinted out onto the balcony, ignoring Louisa's protest. With a smooth motion, he leapt over the first set of balustrades onto the neighboring balcony. One down. As he ran toward the next set of railings, he heard a door slam and Parkington shouting Louisa's name. Breath burning in his lungs, Paul kept going, his slippered feet skidding as he landed on the second terrace. Almost there. If he could get to the parlor without Parkington seeing him, nothing could be proven. He'd say that he'd never been in his room; if Louisa had wandered in ... it was her mistake and not his problem. Worse come to worse, it'd be her word against his.

  He jumped over the last balustrade, his feet touching safety at last. He grasped the door knob to the parlor ... and it was locked. Goddamnit.

  "Fines! Is that you?" Parkington's voice pierced the night like a shot.

  On instinct, Paul dropped to his knees behind the balcony railing. Bloody hell, had the earl spotted him? It was dark and unless the man had the eyes of an eagle—