PLAYED BY THE EARL

by Alyson Chase

Sweat beaded on his brow. He had one thing to offer women, and he was going to give Netta his best. She might be a brazen, devious, adorable wench, but not even that could entice him into something more lasting.

  The nerve endings along his cock screamed for relief. A tickle bloomed low on his spine and his whole body tensed.

  “Are you close, poppet?” He scored her calf with his teeth. “Tell me that you’re close.”

  “Mmm.” She bit her lower lip. “Almost.” Much too slowly for John’s liking, she trailed her finger tips over her abdomen and into her nest of curls. With one finger, she circled her clit, her body shuddering.

  He joined her finger with his own. There was a time for leisure, but this wasn’t it. He rubbed her pouting nub, holding back his own pleasure with all of his might. He almost wept when her inner walls pulsed around him.

  “John!” She threw her head back, her face a mask of agonized pleasure.

  He fell forwards, planting his hands on either side of her head and hammered into her as his balls drew up tight and ecstasy exploded out of him.

  He groaned, the sound torn from deep within. His hips kept rocking into her on their own volition, eking out every ounce of pleasure they could.

  The heat of her body was an invitation. He wanted to sink into her, wrap his arms around her, and not let go until sleep took them both.

  Instead, he pulled out and flopped to his back, trying to catch his breath.

  She patted his chest. “That was fun,” she said. Her breath was as short as his at the exertion. “I should bring out the feather more often.”

  He swiveled his head to look at her. “I’m burning that feather.”

  She laughed, turning on her side. She rested her head on her hands and rubbed her toe against his calf. “You play with me; I play with you.” She yawned. “Why do you add games to your bed sport?”

  “Don’t you enjoy them?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Obviously I do. Especially tonight’s. But it is a little unusual. When you made me believe we were about to be caught, I found it…” She chewed her lip.

  “Thrilling? Arousing?”

  “I was going to say panic-inducing, but I’ll accept your characterization.”

  He bent his arm, bringing his hand beneath his head. “It’s called predicament play. I enjoy putting women in situations that confuse the mind. That push her boundaries, or where she feels like there is no way to win.”

  “Why?”

  “I find the thrill can act on a woman as a drug.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t your crisis more fulfilling when you felt close to being caught in the gazebo?”

  “All my climaxes are fulfilling.” She tangled her foot in his own. “But why do you do it? It can’t purely be for the woman’s benefit.”

  “Does everything need a reason?” he asked. “It’s fun. I enjoy controlling a woman’s responses.” When he directed a woman’s emotions, her passions, it was easier to keep their relationship casual. To keep her from becoming too attached.

  To keep her from looking too deeply at the man in her bed.

  “Well, I thank you for introducing me to it.” She nudged his leg. “You’ve certainly put the sport in bed sport.”

  He hated himself for saying it, but it was best to put her on notice. “Perhaps you can train your future husband. Make sure he keeps you entertained in the same manner.”

  She huffed out a laugh. “You needn’t worry, John. I am harboring no illusions about our affair developing into something more.”

  His chest burned. Damn, but she saw right through him.

  “Besides, I have no intention of marrying.” She rolled onto her back and stretched. “I enjoy my liberty too much to ever subjugate myself to a husband. England’s laws are not in a woman’s favor when it comes to the institution. Once I have my four thousand pounds, I’d be an absolute fool to hand it over to a husband.”

  He stared at the delicate gold tester of his bed. “Indeed.” He didn’t have to worry about Netta trying to entrap him. He should be happy. She was only here for her fee, enjoying a bit of sport on the side. She was his ideal bed mate.

  He turned on his side, away from Netta. Her breathing evened out, easing into slumber, while his shoulders remained hard blocks. Sleep was a long time coming. And when it did, it was disturbed by a dream he hadn’t suffered in years.

  His grandmother sat on a throne above him. Saying nothing. Barely looking at him. And when she did, all the loathing and shame in the world was encompassed in her expression.

  John fell to his hands and knees, her disgusted gaze landing like a blow. And when he managed to lift his head, the woman sitting in judgment above him was no longer his grandmother.

  Netta appeared as regal as a queen, her face hard as ice. When she opened her mouth to condemn him, he jerked awake, his body covered in sweat.

  He rolled up to sitting, his head falling forwards.

  Netta puffed out small breaths behind him, enjoying the sleep of the innocent.

  And why shouldn’t she? Netta wasn’t the one who allowed a shrew to define her self-worth.

  He climbed out of bed, gathered his clothes, and quietly left the room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Netta poked through the offerings on the tray on the side table. Ever since the first day she’d been in residence, the platters had stopped being removed after breakfast, allowing her to nibble on the breads and cakes all day. A glass jar in John’s study was now always filled with her favorite Pomfret cakes. If she stayed much longer, she wouldn’t be able to fit into her lovely new dresses.

  She picked up a puffy roll and had just taken a bite when loud voices sounded down the hall, growing in intensity.

  The door to the breakfast room crashed open, bouncing off the wall. A head crowned in rich auburn hair pulled back into a low queue popped in through the open door. “Oy, he’s not in here.” His eyes lit on her and he stepped into the room more fully. “Mmm. Breakfast.”

  Netta’s eyes widened. The man was immense, as broad across as an ox, and he was headed straight for her.

  She swallowed her bite and side-stepped out of his path.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said, a hint of a Scottish burr warming his words. He nodded and plucked up his own roll. “I’ve been riding all night and with naught but a wee bite when I changed horses.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t be in the breakfast room at this hour.” The Baron of Sutton clomped into the room after him. “You just wanted to look for crumbs.”

  “And I found a big one.” The russet-headed fellow lifted his snack. “But who is this wee morsel?” He cocked his head, examining her from her walking boots to the roots of her hair as he took a large bite.

  “I’m Miss Antoinette LeBlanc.” A man who appreciated a good breakfast roll as well as she did was no one to be intimidated by. “And you are?”

  “An utter boor,” came another voice. Two more men entered the room. The parlor was large but these four men seemed to fill it to capacity. One of the newcomers had close-cropped blond hair a couple shades darker than John’s, and Hessian boots buffed to such a shine Netta swore she could see her reflection. The other was just as handsome, his bronzed skin and nutmeg hair making him look as warm as an evening fire. He slapped his glove against his thigh and continued, “You left mud all over my carriage, Dunkeld.”

  The huge man swallowed the last bite of his roll and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Boots get muddy riding down from Scotland.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t explain how the mud came to be on the wall of the carriage, up near the ceiling.”

  Sutton stepped into the middle of the fray. “Gentleman. Perhaps instead of skirmishing in front of Summerset’s friend, you should introduce yourselves and act like we have some manners.”

  The blond man stepped a shiny boot forward and opened his mouth.

  Sutton cut him off. “This,” he said, pointing at the man with the muddy carria
ge, “is Julius Blackwell, Earl of Rothchild. Julius, meet Miss Antoinette LeBlanc.”

  The man nodded and Netta sketched a hasty curtsy.

  “And the one glowering at me,” Sutton said, pointing at the blond man, “is Marcus Hawkridge, Duke of Montague.”

  Netta’s pulse bounded through her veins like a hare. A duke. She made her curtsy a bit deeper this time.

  Sutton rubbed his chin, his fingers disappearing into his bushy, black beard. “They managed to marry sisters, Elizabeth and Amanda, who I’m certain you’ll meet if you remain under this roof too much longer. And lastly, the one with dirty boots and country manners is, unbelievably, a marquess. Sinclair Archer, Marquess of Dunkeld to be exact. His wife came down from Scotland with him but was sensible enough to want to rest at Rothchild’s after the journey.”

  Sutton glanced over at the breakfast tray and picked out a lemon tart. “And you met me and Colleen, of course.”

  “Of course.” Her thighs burned from all the curtsies. John was an earl. Of course he’d have high-ranking friends. She should have expected it. Thankfully not one was a name she recognized as being among her father’s intimates.

  But seeing John’s friends all standing in a loose row sent a decided shiver down her spine, and it wasn’t from fear of being recognized. These men were formidable enough to constitute a small army and each handsome enough to make a woman’s head go soft. All grouped together as they were…well, Netta could forgive herself the tiny flutters in her stomach.

  “Not five minutes arrived and eating me out of house and home already.” John strode into the room, and her flutters multiplied into a thousand butterfly wings flapping in tandem. The room brightened just with his presence, as though he were the sun bringing life and energy to everyone around him.

  Heat kindled low in her belly. She wasn’t sure how she felt about losing her role as the star in the room, but she couldn’t deny any longer the power he held over her.

  He nodded to Netta, as though she were nothing more than a casual acquaintance, before greeting each of his friends with hearty backslaps and rude jests.

  She turned, hoping to hide her hurt. She’d thought he’d felt free to show her affection in front of his friends. Nothing amiss had occurred between them since the time he’d slipped from his bed that morn to break his fast at parts unknown and now. No disputes that could have turned his feelings from fondness to disfavor.

  She didn’t demand a declaration of love before allowing men into her bed, but she did need mutual respect and affection. Had she been fooling herself believing the Earl of Summerset held her in the same esteem she did him? Was he embarrassed to acknowledge to his friends that his dalliance was with a woman not of their station?

  She turned back around, lifting her chin. Or perhaps she was reading too much into a cool greeting. First and foremost, they had a business arrangement. She needed to remember that.

  John strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver urn. “Now, to what do I owe this invasion?” He took a sip, peering at his friends over the rim.

  “You know why.” The Duke of Montague widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Rothchild bobbed his head in her direction. “Perhaps we should move our discussion to your library. We’ve already incommoded Miss LeBlanc long enough.”

  John chuckled and came to stand beside her. He stood beside her, but still the few inches between them remained cold. “Netta is quite familiar with the particulars of what you’ve come to discuss. In fact, she is integral to my plan’s implementation.”

  A wedge of the Scotsman’s second roll broke off and tumbled to the floor. “You’ve made that wee lass a part of your plan?”

  John stiffened. “Her size is not an indication of her talents.”

  Netta rested one hand on her hip. Indeed it was not. And if any of these gentlemen thought to cut her out of the plot, and her four thousand pounds, they had another think coming.

  “Not all talents are useful for what you have in mind.” Dunkeld kicked the bit of bread towards the fireplace. “I’m sure she’s…charming, but I could knock her over with a heavy breath.”

  Netta clenched her hands. She might be short, but she was sturdy enough. And she’d been in enough scraps to know the best way to win a fight was to avoid it altogether.

  That money was so close she could almost taste it. “You don’t need to concern yourself with my safety. I can assure you that I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  The look the large Scotsman gave her bordered on pity, raising her hackles even farther.

  John, however, found fault with his friend’s words for a different reason. “Apologize to Netta this instant,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

  The energy in the room shifted. The remaining men stepped closer, legs tense, as though preparing to separate the two. Dunkeld merely looked up from the crumbs he was brushing from his cravat and blinked. “What?”

  John prowled forwards, looking as deadly as a large cat stalking its prey. He must have practiced walking with a book on his head for hours as a child. Except for his legs drawing him inexorably forward, the rest of his body remained still as the grave.

  The effect was frightening.

  She leapt forwards and grabbed his arm. “John, he didn’t mean it in that manner.”

  “Mean what?” Dunkeld swung his head from John to Montague, Rothchild, and Sutton. “What did I say?”

  “You intimated that Netta was a whore. Insulted a friend of mine. A woman under my protection.” John shook himself free from her grip.

  It wasn’t difficult. Her hands had gone lax. “Under your protection?” she asked, outraged. “Are we back to that again?”

  John ignored her and took another step forward.

  Sutton stepped between the men and held up his hand. He nodded to Netta. “Please excuse Dunkeld, Miss LeBlanc. He never was taught how to speak properly. Scottish, you know.”

  Dunkeld scowled.

  “And you”—Sutton flipped his hand down to point at John—"should know better than to allow emotions to get the better of you when there is a job to be done. Nor should you doubt the good intentions of a friend.”

  The moment stretched until John’s shoulders lowered and he nodded.

  Dunkeld turned to Rothchild and Montague. “I didnae mean to insult her,” he said, his accent thickening with his indignation.

  “We know.” The duke patted the Scotsman on the back. “It was just your usual charm with women.”

  Netta planted her hands on her hips. “I have not been under any man’s protection since I ran— since I left my father’s house. Such nonsense wasn’t a part of our deal.” John couldn’t think of her as an obligation. He mustn’t. She’d worked hard to make an independent woman of herself. She paid her own rent, purchased her own treats, and bestowed her charms willingly on those she deemed worthy.

  She did so for pleasure, for a sense of connection. Not to incur obligations.

  John brushed his hand over her shoulder and came up with a stray hair. He blew it away. “In point of fact, everyone who stays under my roof is under my protection. Don’t worry, poppet.” He inhaled sharply. “Any such constraint you feel imposed by my duty will end when you leave. Your job will be finished, and so will any obligations.”

  She poked him in the chest. “I am not a duty. Nor is my companionship an act of commerce.” Her father had only seen her as a commodity. Something to be traded. Sold. “I agreed to this job and will earn my wages, but everything else I give freely.”

  He captured her finger. With a glance over his shoulder, he raised her hand and kissed it, his back blocking the action from his friends. “Perhaps what I give, I give freely, too.”

  Netta’s breathing slowed. If he didn’t see her as an obligation, or her favors as a commodity, well, then, his streak of protectiveness might not be all to the bad. She bit the inside of her cheek. Pe
rhaps it was even sweet.

  He also wasn’t giving her a cool reception any longer. Whatever indifference he had affected upon entering the room hadn’t survived the appearance of an insult against her. She very much wanted to thank Dunkeld for his clumsy words.

  “Now, no more arguments,” John said. “I believe you are expected at The Minerva Club.”

  Montague swiveled his head. “My aunt’s club? Has it opened?”

  “Last month.” John sauntered to the wall and pulled the bell ring. “I’m surprised you didn’t know. After all, Elizabeth and Amanda were founding members.”

  Rothchild gripped the back of his neck. “I miss the time when my wife was too afraid to leave the house. I always knew where she was.”

  “No, you don’t,” John said, his tone unusually serious.

  Rothchild nodded, the edges of his lips tipping upwards. “No. I don’t.”

  A footman stepped through, and John nodded to him. “Have a carriage brought around for Miss LeBlanc.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The man bowed and disappeared.

  Netta shifted her weight. She did want to see the women’s club, but hated missing the action here. John’s friends hadn’t come for a boring cup of tea. Discussions would be had. Plots hatched.

  She adored a good plot-hatching.

  But she’d promised Lady Mary and didn’t want to disappoint that woman.

  “I’ll be on my way then.” She took one last glance at her appearance in the mirror beside the door, running her finger over her right eyebrow.

  “Tell my aunt I expect to see her while I’m in town,” Montague said.

  “And us.” Sutton took the last of the tarts from the tray. “We all want to see Lady Mary.”

  “I’ll tell her.” With one last wistful gaze at the men, Netta turned and made for the carriage with a sigh.

  Nothing The Minerva had to offer could compare to the thrill that group of men instilled. Of that she was certain.

  ***

  She was certain of nothing. Not even of which direction was up.

  The mirrors at the far end of the room distorted the reflection of the black-and-white striped walls into eye-straining waves. Netta’s reflection, and those of every other woman in The Minerva Club’s ballroom, were distorted and reverse, making it appear as though they walked on the ceiling.