A Wild Pursuit (16 page)

“It always surprises me that the most flamboyant hussies are the most missish at the core,” Lady Bonnington observed. The whole encounter didn't seem to have ruffled her sensibilities at all. “Mind you, your own mother is one of the most punctilious women in the
ton.
” She stood up, leaning heavily on her stick. “But it's all well and good that you refuse to marry him, no matter your reasons. My only remaining concern is the parentage of that child. Don't underestimate my son, Lady Rawlings. If he feels the child is his, he'll likely take you to Gretna Green without permission or delay. It's my father's blood coming out.”

“I won't marry him,” Esme said. “Neither in Gretna Green nor in St. Paul's Cathedral. And may I point out again: he
did
leave my estate, Lady Bonnington. He shows rather less resolution than you give him credit for.”

“Miss him, do you?” Lady Bonnington asked.

Esme colored. She was hideously observant, this awful old woman. “Not at all!”

“In his absence, I shall remain until the birth and ascertain whether the child is indeed a member of my family,” the marchioness said. “If the child is Rawlings's, this whole debacle will be quickly forgotten by all of us.”

“How on earth are you going to know that? Newborn children look remarkably similar, you know,” Esme said, nettled beyond all patience. “From what I've been told, they're all equally red and wrinkled.”

“If he's a Bonnington, he'll have a spangled mark at the base of his spine.”

“No!” Esme gasped. Sebastian did have a small brown mark at the base of his spine.

Lady Bonnington gave a little cackle of laughter. “Don't be a fool! My son has a blemish, but it's his alone. What do you think this is, a fairy story? I'll look at the child and see whether it resembles our side of the family or your huband's. And then I will inform my son of my observations. Since you do not wish to marry him, you might hope for red hair. We have
no
redheads in our family.”

She stumped to the door and then turned. “You're not the daughter-in-law I would have chosen, as I think I've made clear.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Esme said with scathing precision. “I would prefer that you put the notion from your mind immediately.”

“But you're surprisingly acceptable,” the marchioness said, not heeding Esme at all. “Mind you, you're related to Arabella Withers, and she and I have been at loggerheads since we were at school together. And that
was
a donkey's age ago, for all she tries to act as if she's got no more than thirty years to her. You may have the reputation of a coal scuttle, but you seem to have some backbone too.”

Esme literally saw red. She dropped into a faint excuse for a curtsy. “If you'll forgive me, I shall retire to my room in order to recover from that compliment. I can occupy myself by praying for red hair.”

The corners of Lady Bonnington's mouth curled upwards. “I am rather reminded of myself, as a matter of fact.”

And that comment, as Esme later thought to herself, was the cruelest stroke of all.

T
here are certain times in a man's life when the only thing he wants is the company of other men. After a dinner marked by an incomprehensible female subtext and a ballet of barbed comments, Stephen wanted nothing more than an evening of hard drinking, cards, and bawdy jokes. Alas, the sole male in the household other than himself, Winnamore, rambled off to his bed directly after the meal. Still, there were two places in the house likely free from women: Stephen's own bedroom and the billiards room.

But when he pulled open the door to the billiards room, he saw a trim little bottom lean over the woolen cloth covering the table as Beatrix Lennox stretched to make a shot. Stephen decided on the spot that perhaps
one
female was acceptable company.

“Good evening, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as the shot caromed one of the red balls off two walls and directly into a pocket.

He paused as if transfixed. The oil lamps suspended above the table turned her hair into a flaming gold. She straightened with exquisite grace and deliberation, as if she were conscious of precisely what that little movement had done to his loins.

“Do you play billiards?” she asked, pulling balls from the corner pockets.

Stephen nodded. Blood seemed to be thundering through his body, every beat speaking to the sultry rhythm of her body.

She pulled the fifteen balls together. “Pyramids?”

He nodded. “Where did you learn to play?” Stephen said, walking over to pick up a cue stick and trying to appear utterly natural.

Bea shrugged. “I found one of the footmen secretly playing on our billiards table when I was no more than twelve. He would have been instantly dismissed had anyone found out. I'm afraid that I coerced him into giving me lessons.”

“Do take the first turn,” Stephen said, wanting her to bend over again.

She looked at him, and there was a little smile playing around her mouth that made his face burn. Then she slowly, slowly bent over the table. She was wearing an evening dress so slim that it reminded him of a chemise. It was a faint pink that should have looked awful with her hair but didn't. Around it billowed an overdress of transparent washed silk, embroidered with fleur-de-lis. All that transparent cloth emphasized the trim curves of her body every time she moved.

She broke the triangle, and balls scattered in all directions like drops of water falling on a plate. Three caromed into corner pockets.

Stephen looked at the table. “That footman must have been a remarkable player.”

“Why do you say so?” she asked.

“Because you are obviously an excellent player,” he said, trying to decide which ball to take down.

“The implication is that a woman can only reflect the skill of her teacher. As it happens, Ned was a mediocre player. I could beat him within four months.”

“There,” Stephen said, indicating the far right pocket.

He bent down and chose a ball. With casual precision he sent the ball on a voyage from one side to the other, into a collision with another ball, and finally into the pocket he designated.

“You would seem to be a much more formidable opponent than my footman,” Bea observed.

He straightened. “I apologize for the inference regarding female skill. You are, as a matter of fact, the first female player I have encountered.”

She shrugged, and a few of the loose red curls that tumbled down her back fell forward onto her creamy shoulder. “I might point out that it is difficult for women to demonstrate a skill that no one offers to teach them. I'll take that ball.” She whipped the ball off another ball and into a corner, sending it directly into its pocket.

“Le coup sec,”
Stephen said, admiration leaking into his tone. He walked over to stand just next to her. Her French perfume reached him, a promise, a smoky promise of reckless sensuality.

Bea smiled at him over her shoulder, and he wanted to bend her backwards on the table. Push the balls to the side and take her there. Anywhere.

“I thought I'd take that ball,” he said, pointing. His voice was a husky question.

She moved slightly to the side and then peered down at the ball. “Were you planning a low stroke?”

He nodded. He had just noticed that for all her calm, there was a pulse beating madly in her throat. In her beautiful creamy throat that he longed to lap, to kiss, to taste. “If I may,” he said, and even to his ears, his voice was deeper, slower, lazy. He put a hand to her back and moved her oh so slightly to the side. Then he bent over, just as slowly and deliberately as she had. He could feel her eyes on his body, on his legs.

He straightened. “This is a difficult shot,” he said, looking down at her. There was a faint, faint crimson stain in her cheeks that didn't owe its color to art. “I'll remove my jacket, if it wouldn't offend you, Lady Beatrix.”

“Bea,” she said. “Please call me Bea.”

She watched as he wrenched the jacket from his shoulders and rolled up his sleeves. He knew he had a muscled body, a body a woman would admire, even a woman who had presumably enjoyed more than a few male bodies. The only way he could dispel the tension of hours spent in Parliament was to visit Gentleman Jackson's boxing salon. He'd never resorted to deliberately exhibiting it before, but for Bea—

He bent over again, lining up the shot with elaborate care, his hip nearly touching hers. By some miracle his fingers were steady. The shot went into a gentle reverse spin, glanced at another ball, danced by a third, spun sedately into the designated pocket.

“Your turn,” he said, straightening.

“Hmmm. You do have skill.”

He threw caution to the winds and let a reckless grin spread across his face. “In many areas, Lady Bea.”

“Just Bea,” she said. But there was a sparkle to her eyes.

She walked away from him, and it took all his strength not to pull her back to his side. “I believe that I shall take…that ball.” Her lips pursed. It was torture. Would she—How experienced was she? Would she do things that ladies never did? Already she had kissed him like a wanton. Would she—Images danced through his mind, tormenting him.

She was on the opposite side of the table now. She bent down, focusing on her stick, and Stephen could see directly inside her bodice. Her gown was low, and her breasts were cradled against the hard pad lining the table, resting as they might in the palm of his hand.

Stephen made a hoarse sound in his throat, and she glanced up for a moment. Her cheeks were flaming now. But, “I shall try a jenny in the middle pocket,” she said.

“You could better your grip,” Stephen said, just as she was lengthening her arm to take a shot.

She straightened, and he saw amusement in her eyes. “And I gather you know a better posture?”

“A better grip,” he corrected.

She looked at him through her lashes, a smile playing on her lips. “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, naturally I would be quite pleased to learn a new
grip.
I'm not a woman who chooses ignorance over knowledge. But I must point out to you that you presumably have a busy night before you.”

He raised his eyebrows. Something about her, about the way she looked at him, made him feel recklessly gorgeous, decadent, lustful, wild—all the things that a thoughtful man of words never felt. “I would never be too busy for you,” he said. “And my name is Stephen.”

She perched a rounded hip on the edge of the table. Stephen watched her, feeling another surge of animal lust. He felt
in
his skin,
in
his body, in a way he hadn't since he was a restless, lustful adolescent. He put down his stick deliberately, and then stretched, letting his chest draw the fine linen of his shirt tight against his chest muscles.

Her eyes darkened. “Alas, I would guess that the duties of a man with a brand-new mistress leave no time for lessons.”

“I can be the judge of that,” he said easily, coming around the table to her. He felt like a tiger, stalking his prey. She stood absolutely still and let him come up to her. So he moved to stand behind her, just as if they were about to make love, as if he were going to bend her over the billiards table. Then he brought her body into the curve of his, tucking her sweet little bottom against his groin, and leaned down.

“If you straightened your right shoulder, your aim would improve.” It was quite a triumph that his voice sounded much as usual. He tucked her fingers back against her stick.

But Bea was no tender lamb, to be driven by a tiger. She slowly straightened, and his body moved with her. Then she turned within the circle of his arms, reaching back and bracing herself on the table.

“Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” she said softly, “I assume that's not your pool cue at my backside? What precisely are you playing?”

He didn't look a proper Englishman now. There was an open male swagger about him, a masculine vigor that she had never seen before.

“Seducing you.”

“And if I don't choose to be seduced?”

“Don't you?” He bent his head and brushed her lips. “Don't you, Bea? Because I thought you told me that you were—seduceable.”

“I don't invite married men into my bed,” Bea said gently, but there was steel in her voice.

“But I'm not married!”

She shrugged. “You are Helene's. I do not betray other women.”

Stephen picked her up and seated her on the horsehair pad lining the pool table. Her lips were pale cherry again. The color had worn off. As soon as she allowed him, he would run his tongue along her mouth, bite her round lower lip. “As of yet, I belong to no woman,” he drawled. Then he lowered his head, finally, finally, burying his mouth against her, raking his lips against her rosy mouth.

For a second she relaxed against him and her mouth opened slightly, just barely yielding to his hunger. And then she pushed him away with all the determination of a pure-as-the-driven-snow duke's daughter.

“Behave yourself!”

“Bea,” he said, and the word had all the hunger he felt in it. “Loyalty in matters of marriage is an entirely commendable emotion. But Helene and I have taken no vows. We are merely
friends
.” He looked directly at her. Her eyes were a warm brown, with just the faintest tinge of exotic green, just enough to make them tempting beyond all resistance.

“Friends?” There was an edge to her voice. “You offer euphemisms with practiced ease, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy.”

“I am a politician,” he said with a sardonic grin.

“I thought you didn't care to take mistresses from women with experience. Too much experience,” she clarified.

He looked at her, cursing his own stupidity. “That was cruel, and rather shabby,” he said, echoing her own comment. “My excuse is that I want you so much that I—”

“I'll take it into consideration,” she said, standing up.

Longing spread through him, coursed down his legs and made him tremble from head to foot. Dimly, he wondered what in the hell was happening to him. Why would this woman—this small, impudent, less-than-chaste woman—drive him into a fever of lust?

“We haven't finished our game,” he said hoarsely.

She grinned at that, and the way her rosy lips curled sent his heart dancing. She had a way of smiling that made it look as if her whole body was dancing with joy. “There's no need to finish.” She nodded toward the table. “You cannot win after my last shot.”

He jerked her against his chest and swallowed her laughter, taking her mouth again and again, driving his tongue in a rhythm his whole body longed to repeat. “You,” he said hoarsely, “I want you, Bea.”

Her eyes slowly opened, and now they had that slumbrous interest he remembered. She melted against him and silenced him with her mouth, with a trembling sweetness, a speaking silence.

“Might I seduce you with poetry? I gather it is a method that you recommend.” His voice was dark and slow, and his hands ran down her back with unsteady promise. She looked at him, and her eyes seemed more green than brown now, all exotic beauty and one dimple. But there was something in her face…. She had
expected
him to react this way. What he glimpsed now was not an aching lust akin to his but the faintest hint of satisfaction.

Men no doubt wooed Lady Beatrix all the time. Her beauty and her reputation would bring them like moths to a flame. She dressed to please, to attract; she made up her face so that she looked even more exotic—and approachable. She dared them all to come to her, and Stephen had no doubt but that they came.

Yet he sensed that Bea didn't succumb herself. She found pleasure, but not delirium. He wanted to bring her delirium, or nothing. “On second thought, perhaps I won't seduce you after all,” he said, dropping his arms from about her and rolling down one sleeve. He watched her through her lashes.

She looked surprised but not particularly heartbroken.

“I shall wait for you to woo
me.
After all, I shall be quite busy in the next few days, as you kindly pointed out.”

“I don't woo,” Bea said, her small nose in the air.

He leaned back against the billiard table and looked at her. He had never, ever, felt as if his body were so valuable. Deliberately he spread his legs and watched her glance catch for a second and then fly away. “Did you
never
see a man whom you wanted rather desperately?”

“I have been fortunate in that—” and she stopped. Clearly something—or someone—had occurred to her.

He let his eyes glide over her breasts, linger where she was most sensitive. “It will depend, of course, on whether you think that I am worth competing for.”

A corner of her mouth turned up wryly. She was no green girl to be brought directly to heel, that was clear. “I shall have to consider the matter,” she said gravely. “You see, I am not altogether certain why Helene desired to summon you to her side. You, a sober party official, seem an unusual choice.”