Promise of Pleasure Page 5

  She was wearing a new negligee her seamstress had brought over from Paris. It was made of red silk, cut low in the bodice to bare most of her breasts, yet she couldn’t get him to turn around. He was lost in thought, perched by the window and staring out across the park.

  “Jordan!” she grumbled, exasperated and trying not to snap at him.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “You’re being positively boring.” She affected a credible pout.

  “Yes, I am. Sorry.”

  He gazed out the window again, not the least bit repentant, and she couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him.

  Ever since that frumpy spinster, Mary Barnes, had caused her scene in the parlor, he’d been very glum, which was so unlike him. Usually, he couldn’t care less about what other people said or did, but for some reason, Miss Barnes had left him in a state.

  Well, Lauretta wasn’t about to have her evening spoiled by the likes of Mary Barnes.

  She sauntered over and snuggled herself to him, her front to his back, but he didn’t react. He was completely impassive, and his behavior was frightening.

  Was he growing weary of her? The notion made her ill.

  They were a perfect pair. He was so dissolute, and she was so greedy, eager to give him what he wanted so she could get what she wanted. They’d both been happy with their arrangement. She still was, and though Lord Sunderland had cut off Jordan’s allowance, the funds would flow soon—either from his father or from Felicity.

  For five long years, Lauretta had stood with him through thick and thin, through poverty and plenty, and she’d never once failed to satisfy his every whim. So what the bloody hell was his problem?

  She reached around and caressed his stomach, but he stepped away, his arms crossed over his chest as a barrier to her snuggling herself to him again.

  “Now that you’ve met Felicity,” he absurdly asked, “do you still believe I should marry her?”

  “Absolutely, darling. Why wouldn’t you?”

  “She’s so young, and she’s so ... so ... stupid. She annoys me with her chatter.”

  “So? We discussed this. You wed her, you receive her money, you dump her in a house far out in the country, and you never have to see her again.”

  “It’s so calculated.”

  “Of course it is. It’s marriage. It’s always premeditated for personal gain.”

  “I’m just . . . just . . .”

  He paused, having the strangest look on his face, and his vacillation alarmed her.

  Though he had to pick a bride, Lauretta was determined that it be a match without affection or even cordiality so that there would be no threat to Lauretta’s position as his mistress. She’d chosen Felicity, had promoted her to him, and she couldn’t have him getting cold feet.

  “Think how much fun your wedding night will be,” she counseled. “Think how much fun you’ll have screwing your rich virgin. I’ll even help you if you’d like.” She neared and hugged him. “Does the idea excite you? Would you like to see Felicity and me together? I’d do it for you; you know I would.”

  “The thought of fornicating with her is revolting to me, and should the moment ever come to pass, I would never allow you to participate.”

  Lauretta sighed. He would have sex with anyone, in any configuration, so his ill humor was very dangerous, indeed.

  “You seem terribly fatigued, Jordan. Why don’t you lie down and let me relax you?”

  She stroked his phallus, stroked it again, then stopped.

  The bastard wasn’t even hard!

  She clutched at his trousers, anxious to slip a hand inside and provide a bit of encouragement, but he grabbed her wrist.

  “Not tonight,” he said for the first time ever. “I’m not in the mood.”

  The peculiar phrase raced around the room like the kiss of death. What was bothering him? Was he sick? Exhausted? Insane?

  Something had disturbed him, but what was it? He was a disgusting, immoral libertine and always had been. He couldn’t go changing on her. She wouldn’t permit it, and the sooner she ascertained the cause of his sulk, the better for all concerned.

  “HE’LL propose, won’t he, Mother?”

  “Yes, he will.”

  Victoria rested against her pillows, watching Felicity braid her hair as they prepared for bed. She’d spent much of the past decade in the same spot, parlaying over marriage with her daughters, and it had become an evening ritual.

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if you’re mistaken?”

  “I’m not.”

  “All the other girls will be so jealous.”

  “Yes, they will,” Victoria smugly agreed.

  “In the end, if he cries off, I’ll die. I’ll just die!”

  “Don’t worry so much,” Victoria advised. “He’s desperate. He needs your dowry so badly that I wouldn’t be surprised if he got down on his hands and knees and begged me to give it to him.”

  Felicity had had her debut the previous year, and they’d dawdled through two Seasons, hoping for an aristocrat to come sniffing after her money. She’d had many, many offers—from merchants, from destitute gentlemen, from clergy and soldiers—but she’d refused them all.

  With the arrival of Jordan Winthrop, Victoria’s prayers had been answered. She, herself, had once dreamed of a noble match, but she’d been sold by her father to a lower societal rung, and she’d never recovered from the shame of it.

  As a result, she was determined that her own daughters would never suffer the same fate. She was using the fortune of her loathed, dead, common husband to see them married as they deserved.

  After Cassandra’s nuptial debacle, Victoria felt driven to ensure that Felicity’s union was the ultimate success. With poverty-stricken Jordan Winthrop in her home, her task was incredibly easy.

  “How will you make him propose?” Felicity asked.

  “I won’t have to make him do anything. He’ll be eager to have you.”

  “I want to be wed a month from today.”

  “I’m certain it can be arranged.”

  “WHAT is the matter with him?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You’re his best friend. You’re supposed to know.”

  Paxton Adair reclined on his bed, staring at Lauretta as she paced across his bedchamber.

  “I’ve been acquainted with Jordan since we were boys, but that doesn’t mean we chew over our troubles like a pair of females over tea.”

  “He’s ailing, I tell you.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “He wouldn’t fornicate with me. Me!”

  She tossed open her robe, displaying her negligee. With that auburn hair and curvaceous figure, she was sinfully beautiful, every man’s sexual fantasy come to life.

  If Jordan had declined to frolic with her, he had to be going mad.

  “Yes, he must be terribly ill,” Paxton concurred. “Perhaps he’s dying. Should we summon a doctor?”

  “You’re making jokes while my world is collapsing around me. Be helpful, or be silent.”

  “What would you have me say, Lauretta?”

  “Is there something wrong with me?” She flung her arms to the sides, like a woman being crucified. “Am I getting fat? Am I looking old? Are my breasts starting to sag? What?”

  To his delight, she yanked on the straps of her negligee so that her bosom was bared. He’d seen her naked before, when she’d been in bed with Jordan and too brazen to cover herself, so the sight was nothing new, but it was late, they were alone, and he was still rock hard from his encounter with Cassandra Stewart.

  If he wasn’t careful, he might wind up copulating with Jordan’s mistress.

  “You’re fine,” he claimed. “As always. Jordan is just tired. He’s had a few bad days.”

  “He’s about to wed an heiress, for pity’s sake. How could his days possibly be bad?”

  “Yes, but the heiress is Felicity
, Lauretta. You’ve met her. The poor fellow needs our support—and our eternal sympathy.”

  “You men!” she fumed. “It’s all about you! You never consider anyone else.”

  She was mistaken. He actually thought about others—those others being women. His ruminations centered on how quickly he could either get one into his bed or get her to give him some money. He wasn’t fussy; he would accept sex or cash.

  In his many peccadilloes, he took after his father, who had impregnated Paxton’s mother without benefit of marriage. Since the man had already been married, matrimony hadn’t been an option, so Paxton tried not to be critical.

  His father had been generous, though, had paid for their housing and sent Paxton to school, which was where he’d befriended Jordan. There was even a small trust fund, but it was never enough. Paxton’s tastes were too extravagant, his expenses too high.

  He was too lazy to work at a job, so he’d perfected the only two means by which he could supplement his income: gambling and womanizing.

  He enjoyed both and indulged constantly, and he didn’t regret his choices. He simply wished that the endeavors were a tad more lucrative—and his father a tad less miserly.

  Lauretta sashayed over and perched a hip on the mattress. She leaned in, her breasts taunting him to misbehave.

  “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Do you see any flaws?”

  He pretended to ponder, his eyes roaming down her body.

  “No, I don’t see anything, but I should probably assess the condition of your legs. Would you remove your negligee?”

  Without hesitation, she stood and let it slither to the floor, and in a thrice, she was naked.

  He frowned. She was a mercenary, and she didn’t proceed with any venture unless she’d fully calculated the payoff at the end, so he didn’t understand her game. Obviously, she was hoping to seduce him. But why?

  She didn’t dally for pleasure. With her, it was all business. So if she was offering, she’d expect something in return. He didn’t have any funds, so what was she after?

  “You’re magnificent,” he said, recognizing it was the comment she’d sought.

  “I am,” she agreed.

  She came back to the bed, and this time, she crawled over his lap so that her thighs were spread, her breasts in his face. His cock pounded with anticipation.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked.

  “I want to know what’s going on with Jordan.”

  “I told you: I don’t know.”

  “Then find out for me.”

  “He and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”

  Their association was forged on vice and carnality. They wagered, they drank, they chased women, but they never discussed their personal lives, and Paxton wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to probe for intimate details.

  “You could find out if you wanted to,” she insisted.

  “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  She laid down and stretched out, her lush torso crushed to his all the way down.

  “I could make it worth your while,” she coaxed.

  “I bet you could.”

  “Haven’t you ever wondered what it might be like between us?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  He couldn’t deny it. He was a mortal man, not a saint.

  He clasped her nipple, squeezing it with light pressure, and she arched her back and moaned in ecstasy, but he was sure the reaction was faked.

  She could be fucking him or anybody.

  Still, he reveled in licentious play, so he treated himself to a few naughty touches. To his surprise, he caught himself wishing he was with Cassandra Stewart instead of Lauretta. For some reason, Cassandra fascinated him, and before he quitted the estate, he intended to have her as a lover.

  She just didn’t know it yet.

  In an instant, his ardor fled, his erection vanishing.

  Lauretta noticed immediately, and she scowled and sat on her haunches.

  “What is it?” she snapped.

  “I have no desire to spy on Jordan for you, and I’m not too keen on copulating with you, either.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Not in the mood? Not in the mood?”

  “No,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “You are the second man tonight who’s told me the same.”

  “Then perhaps you should give up and head to your own bed.”

  “And perhaps you should choke on a crow.”

  She scooted away, furious, as she yanked on her negligee.

  “If I change my mind,” he informed her, “about tattling on Jordan, I’ll let you know.”

  “You do that.”

  She whirled away and left, and he snuggled under the blankets, suddenly overcome by visions of Cassandra losing her clothes to him in a fixed card game where he’d cheat at every hand.

  At the prospect, he was thrilled to note that his erection hadn’t waned after all. He couldn’t wait till she would be the one to tend it for him—and if he had his way, the event would occur very, very soon.

  “Do you think I made a mistake?”

  “At what?”

  “By moving home—after my husband died.”

  Mary frowned at Cassandra.

  “Absolutely not. Why would you even ask such a ridiculous question?”

  Cassandra shrugged. “It’s merely something someone said to me. It had me wondering.”

  Mary straightened and dropped her scissors into her basket. They were in the rose garden, cutting flowers for the supper table.

  The gardener usually saw to it, but he was elderly, and with the recent rainy weather, his arthritis was painful. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to complete his chores, and Mary was terrified that he would neglect an important task and Victoria would fire him.

  It didn’t matter that he’d worked on the estate for seven decades, that his father had been head gardener before him. Victoria had no loyalty to those who served the Barnes family, and her attitude was troubling to Mary.

  She couldn’t bear to imagine the dear old fellow losing his job and being tossed out of his cottage, so she assisted him whenever she could.

  “Who suggested,” she asked, “that you shouldn’t have moved home?”

  “Mr. Adair.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “You listened to him?”

  “Not really. I just ... felt he might have had a point.”

  “Why on earth would you heed his opinion on any topic? He’s an ass.”

  “Mary!”

  “Well, he is.”

  “Such language!” Cassandra sarcastically scolded. “I’m shocked. Shocked, I tell you!”

  They both chuckled, and Cassandra slipped a hand into Mary’s arm as Mary grabbed her filled basket and they started toward the manor.

  “You were destitute and alone,” Mary said. “What else should you have done?”

  “That’s what I told him, but anymore, I’m so ... so ...” Her voice trailed off, and she gazed to the horizon, as if seeing a road through her past. “Don’t mind me. I have no idea why I’m being so maudlin.”

  “It was hard for you to return,” Mary empathized. “Of course you’d occasionally have doubts. It’s only natural.”

  “Yes, it is,” Cassandra concurred, “but I didn’t bother to explain as much to Mr. Adair. If I’d stayed in Town, what would have happened to me?”

  “I suppose you could have found employment as a tavern wench.”

  “Or a doxy.”

  “You could have trolled for customers in the shadows at Vauxhall Gardens.”

  “Mary!” Cassandra gasped. “Stop it! You’re making me blush.”

  “You need to remember that Mr. Adair is an idiot. He doesn’t know anything about you, yet he has the gall to lecture you over your choices.”

  “He certainly does.”

  “You were in a horrendous situation, and you arrived at the only decision you could.�
��

  Mary didn’t add that, in many ways, Cassandra’s matrimonial debacle had been good for her, had rendered constructive changes.

  While growing up, Cassandra had never been cruel like Felicity, but she’d definitely been conceited and spoiled, and positive she was exceptional.

  Now, she was wiser, shrewder, more willing to question her mother. The vain edges had been softened. She was self-deprecating, not afraid to scoff at her foibles and accept her failings.

  Most of all, she was kind to Mary, and in a life where Mary had had few kindnesses bestowed, it was a marvelous development.

  “I still wish,” Cassandra said, “that I hadn’t had to come back, though. I just hate that Adair noticed.”

  Mary laughed. “Maybe someday, when we’re digging in the flower beds, we’ll stumble on a buried treasure and you’ll have the funds to leave again.”

  “You can join me. We’ll retire to Town and scandalize everyone by living alone and together.”

  “We’ll be society matrons, and we’ll surround ourselves with artists and actors. We’ll have risque romances and cultivate disreputable companions.”

  Cassandra snorted. “You’ve been out in the sun too long.”

  They strolled on in a companionable silence, when suddenly, Cassandra halted.

  “What is it?” Mary asked.

  “Lord Redvers is on the terrace. He’s watching us.”

  Mary glanced up to see him leaned on the balustrade, his pompous smirk clearly visible. She wouldn’t be able to get in the house without walking right by him.

  “Oh, joy,” Mary grumbled.

  “He’s smug as a king, surveying his minions.”

  Cassandra drew away and went in the opposite direction.

  “Where are you going?” Mary inquired.

  “My mood is already extremely foul. I’d rather not exacerbate it by speaking with him. I’ll go around to the front.”

  She hurried away; Mary would have to run to catch up with her. She peered over at Redvers, who continued to watch her.

  He raised an imperious brow, indicating that he was aware of why Cassandra had fled. He seemed humored by her dislike and was daring Mary to react in the same rude fashion, but she wasn’t scared of him. And she wasn’t about to flit off like a coward.

  She braced and proceeded toward him, determined to pass by without incident.