Absolute Pleasure (10 page)

Stealthily, she shut the door, and leaned against the wall, finding the vantage point that rendered maximum eavesdropping. Voices rose from below.

"... I don't know how much more I can take, Father." Elizabeth was jabbering, and Charlotte squeezed her hands into tight fists. "Her behavior is becoming more outrageous with each passing day."

"She's just a child," the earl rebutted, his tone irritated and put-upon, and Charlotte cringed. She detested how he derided her! "It's a mystery to me why you can't be more tolerant of her fickleness and volatility. Learn to get along with her."

"It's not just me. It's everyone in the house."

There was a prolonged silence, then the earl scolded, "I've told you before that I won't listen to these recurrent lamentations. Domestic concerns are none of my affair. You women must come to terms with one another, and I—"

"She tried to fire Mary again today."

"She what?" The air fairly crackled with his ire, and the terse mode of his question had Charlotte straightening.

"I intervened and wouldn't let her."

"What was the reason?"

"She didn't like how her breakfast eggs had been cooked."

"Is Mary ... is she all right?"

"Yes, but she can't take much more, either. She advises that she's going to start searching for another post."

Charlotte couldn't stifle her glee. The earl was adamant that Mary stay on, in spite of her slovenly conduct and defective management. If she'd just withdraw on her own! Her departure would solve so many of Charlotte's problems!

"You dissuaded her, of course."

"For now"—
Witch,
Charlotte mouthed—"but I don't know that I would a second time. She's been with us her whole life. She shouldn't have to abide such disrespect. Not from anyone."

Charlotte's rage spiraled to a new height. How could Elizabeth be permitted to make such impertinent comments! The earl should have her whipped for disparaging his countess! How could he not! Yet he totally disregarded Elizabeth's audacity, focusing instead on placating Charlotte's adversary, Mary Smith.

"I've warned Charlotte to desist," he said, "and I've made it clear to Mary that I won't accept a resignation from her."

"If this nonsense persists," Elizabeth interjected, "I doubt your opinion will matter to Mary in the least."

"We'll see about that!" the earl blustered.

"Let her go, Father," Elizabeth chided. "Let me go, too. Buy me a small house—I don't need anything fancy—and I'll take Mary with me. Charlotte can arrange the house as she sees fit, and we'll be out of your hair."

"You've never been a bother, and I couldn't get along without Mary. You know that."

"Please, Father. Something's got to give."

"It's not as bad as you make it out to be."

"How can you say that? You're never here to witness how she acts!"

"I weary of this discussion," the earl barked. "I'll not have you living by yourself, like some notorious member of the demimonde. We'd be the talk of London. The scandal would never die down."

"But I don't belong here!" his darling Elizabeth sniveled.

"If you're so intent on a home of your own, perhaps I should select a husband for you."

"Why? So I can live in misery as you are?"

Well! The presumption of the harridan!
Charlotte simmered with resentment. Her marriage to the earl was her foremost accomplishment! How dare Elizabeth deprecate it!

"That was uncalled for," the earl angrily rejoined.

There was a lengthy interlude where it was evident he was braced for an apology, but it wasn't extended. Charlotte could just picture them, toe-to-toe, furious, headstrong.

"This debate is over," the earl inevitably pronounced, "and I won't listen to your complaint again. Don't raise it with me. Now"—mere was rustling as chairs were pushed back—"you've wasted enough of my time. It's been a trying day, and I would have my evening meal. Which I plan to enjoy in blessed silence. I'll not tolerate any feminine sniping."

For many minutes after the noises of their egress had faded, Charlotte huddled, brooding upon what had been revealed.

So... Elizabeth and the housekeeper were disgruntled, were they? They were bent on undermining Charlotte's dominion, on weakening her sovereignty by tattling their accusations to the earl. Well, Charlotte would not yield to their bewailing or criticism. She was the countess, and they both needed a reminder of her supremacy over them.

She wanted them gone. Immediately. Mary Smith, first. Elizabeth, second. She wouldn't have either on the premises, and she would take whatever steps were necessary to ensure their hasty egress. Apparently, they were both eager to leave, so with some provident plotting, she could shove them out the door with scant trouble. But what was the best way to commence?

Chapter Six

"Take down your hair."

Lady Elizabeth stared at him as if he'd just grown a second head. "What?"

"You heard me."

How comely she was! The pink gown, with matching parasol, slippers, and gloves, that she'd selected for their afternoon session was the exact shade and style he'd have picked himself, if he'd been offered the chance. The bright color highlighted her dark hair, her ruby lips. The fashionable tailoring bared her shoulders and arms, .stretching tight across the bodice to emphasize her full bosom, then billowing out in the skirt to stress her rounded hips, her long legs. She looked as though she'd just returned from a fancy garden party at which the members of the
ton
whiled away their summer days.

Her straw hat sported a wide brim and a green band that tied under her chin. A corresponding band circled her slender waist, and it was knotted into a large bow that swept down her back, further accentuating her lush curves. The emerald yards of ribbon intensified the green in her eyes, making them appear as verdant as mowed grass in a country meadow.

When he'd advised her to don something
summery
for their subsequent appointment, he hadn't really believed she would. She seemed so steeped in convention and ritual that he'd imagined it might take weeks to overcome her inhibitions so that she'd begin to accouter herself with more flair.

The brown, drab, functional attire in which she'd formerly garbed herself was gone. Young, fair, and alluring, she'd become a different woman entirely. Amazing what a new outfit could do.

"Take down your hair," he reiterated.

"I'm not sure if it would be appropriate to—"

"Do it for me."

With an impulse that bordered on desperation, he was avid to behold her hair flowing free and unencumbered. During the past few nights, he'd dreamt about her hair, had visualized how velvety it would be, how far it would hang. He'd pictured himself running his fingers through it, sinking his nose in it, burrowing his cheeks in the soft strands.

"All right," she ultimately acceded, "I will."

He breathed a sigh of relief as her graceful, manicured fingers rose and languidly unraveled the bow under her chin. She grabbed for the hat's brim and yanked it off, tossing it away so that it fluttered to the floor, then she plucked out the combs. As she worked, her corset pushed at and reshaped her breasts so that he was tantalized by the creamy swell of her bosom.

Vividly, he could conceive of her nipples. They would be elongated and erect, the areola rosy and contrasted with the white of the shapely mounds. The image was so stirring that his manly blood surged to his groin, filling his cock, and he inflated to an obscene length. Uncomfortable, aroused, distressed by how promptly her presence excited him, he moved out of her line of sight, over to one of the shelves that housed his sketching papers and chalks.

At the counter, he pretended to rifle through his supplies, and he used the interlude to calm his cravings. He was so hard for her!

She had an unusual power to inflame, and he wasn't accustomed to it. If mere thoughts of her could cause such anatomical upheaval, what would happen when their relationship progressed to the physical? How would he withstand the bodily stimulation she so readily induced?

Disturbed by his ruminations—disturbed by her!—he whirled around, forcing down the wave of longing that washed over him on seeing how winsome she looked. How trusting! She regarded him so innocently that it seemed she'd do whatever he asked.

If he was astute in his responses, he could eventually persuade her to commit many lewd acts. Clearly, she was ready. The restraint she'd possessed before they'd met had vanished. He could convince her to do anything and ... for once, he didn't want to. He was a heel and a cad to be deceiving her for his nefarious purposes.

The notion of taking advantage of her was distasteful and wrong; he could feel it deep in his bones. His habitual urges—to dalliance, then larceny—had been quashed.

There was something about her, a patience or composure mayhap, that intrigued and called to him. On an intuitive level, he recognized that she was unique from any woman he'd previously encountered. Being involved with her was a circumstance to be treasured, corning to know her a boon, and she deserved better than to be duped by a bounder such as himself.

Yet as he watched her, as her incredible breasts molded against the front of her gown, as the hint of her nipples poked at the fabric, he conceded that he was smitten. That he lusted after her merely because she would render all of herself to a relationship, and the giving and sharing would be divine. He was attracted to her as he'd been to no other, and whatever obscure fiscal benefit he might receive from her in the future had ceased to matter.

She was proceeding too slowly, and he couldn't tolerate the suspense, so he hastened over and stepped behind her, shoving her hands away.

"Let me assist you."

She glared at him over her shoulder. "You're too impatient."

"Where you're concerned, I can't help myself."

For this rendezvous, he'd situated a stool in the middle of the floor, and she balanced upon it, the slight turn shifting her weight precariously. He leaned in, steadying her, and the more intimate position pressed her to him, and he could barely keep from pulling her closer, from flexing against her in an effort to allay the tension in his loins.

To his delight, she didn't flinch away, though worry furrowed her brow. She studied him, cognizant of the sizzling sensation betwixt their joined torsos. He hardly understood the novel stimulation himself, so she had to be utterly perplexed.

"How is it that you so freely undermine my sense of propriety?" She relaxed so that their bodies settled together more completely. "Why does it feel so right when you touch me?"

"We enjoy a peculiar affinity, you and I."

"Aye, we do. But why?" She spun on the stool, a leg now propped against his own, a hand at his waist. "You could suggest any deed to me, and I'd agree without hesitation. If you knew the kind of person I am ... if you understood my background and upbringing—"

"Oh, but I do."

"Then you must realize how abnormal it is for me to be here. I'm behaving so strangely, so out of character."

She was begging him for an explanation, when he comprehended little himself about the secret chemistries that drew one particular individual to another.

"There's nothing
strange
about what's transpiring." He traced across her cheekbone, the fleshy section of her cheek. Her skin was smooth as silk, and she purred and stretched, much like a lazy cat seeking a caress. "Magnetism simply develops, sometimes, between a man and a woman. The first time I saw you—that night at the theater—I felt that there was a special connection between us."

"So did I."

"It seemed as if you were luring me to your side. I shocked you when I spoke with you, but I could no more have avoided approaching you than I could have stopped breathing."

"After you departed, I felt so alone, as if the world was less bright"

"Precisely."

"And since then, I haven't been able to concentrate on any topic but you."

He smiled ruefully; he should have been celebrating the facility with which their association was progressing, but in all actuality, he was baffled. He'd never had a conquest commence so fleetly, or the woman primed to advance to the next stage with scant endeavor on his part She was poised, enthusiastic.

"Will we always feel this way?"

“I suspect we will."

His irksome admission gave him pause. Never before had he come across desire and affection that refused to diminish, and the awareness that he might be at the beginning of more than a meaningless fling made him cautious.

How would he—the consummate scoundrel-—deal with such an impossible consequence?

He wasn't interested in a lasting relationship. Intense devotion and commitment were absurd.

If he had any qualms about the folly of unchecked emotional involvement he need only consider his own parents. Everlasting love was a fantasy, an excuse one used to justify passion run amok, and in his experience, passion waned. Promptly and unequivocally.

His father dubbed him a ruthless, unromantic pessimist Gabriel labeled himself a realist who assessed the facts, who never lost sight of his objectives by allowing himself to be overwhelmed by ardor or fondness.

Elizabeth Harcourt was compelling him to reevaluate his established beliefs. Would they engage in a liaison that evolved far beyond his ability to control it? Was such an affair even feasible for a jaded man such as himself? Would he finally undergo the sort of soul-shattering attachment that had driven his parents to madness in their frantic compulsion to be together?

The concept was frightening, and he shook it away, declining to give it credence. Lady Elizabeth was a mark, a conquest, no different from the scores of other women who had passed through his studio over the years. She had a remarkable effect on his corporeal cravings, but it was no more than that and, as he'd learned through extensive practice, sexual appetites could be managed.

Still, he hated how she had him ruminating over irrational ideas and questioning the very tenets by which he lived. Weary of his tedious speculation, he decided to return to the realm where he excelled—seduction.

Stepping behind her, once more, he jerked at another comb, and her heavy mass of hair swished down. It shimmered and swirled, in varying shades of chestnut, auburn, and gold; the lengthy ends framed her figure, plunging past her buttocks.

"Your hair is magnificent"

"No man has ever seen it down but you."

"I'm glad."

There was a second stool a few feet away, and he grabbed for it and centered it behind her, then he sat, too, scooting it and spreading his legs, so that his body partially surrounded her own. His thighs cradled hers, and their positioning placed her shapely ass just inches from his incited loins, their indecent proximity stimulating and thrilling.

He bent nearer, his chest in contact with her posterior. At the unfamiliar melding of their torsos, her spine stiffened, and he circled his arms around her waist, resting his palms on her thighs, massaging, encouraging her to recline.

"I'm going to touch your hair," he clarified. "I want to discover its texture. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not."

"Good."

"I just wasn't ready for... so much, so soon."

"I know. This is very new to you."

She turned slightly. "Don't hold back on my account."

"I won't."

There it was again, that distinct perception that she grasped what he was up to, that she'd deduced that their meetings were about much more than painting and always would be.

He focused on her mouth, on those moist lips that beckoned and beguiled. Her breath was warm and soft against his cheek, her green eyes penetrating and full of wonder. A world of expectation hovered in the moment.

Were he brave enough, he could kiss her. She was blatantly anxious, yet he did nothing to initiate an embrace, for it unexpectedly occurred to him that he wasn't inclined to ascertain what
kissing
her would truly be like.

Without a doubt, it would be marvelous. He'd yearn to do it over and over, to persist until there was no stopping, and the prospect was terrifying. Such monumental insatiability led a man to ruin, made him vacillate and careen from one passion-induced, reckless decision to the next.

With a finger to her chin, he rotated her forward so that she couldn't entice him with that luscious mouth, those clever eyes, and he set himself to the more mundane task of exploring her hair. Sifting through it, he separated the strands, lifted it and let it drop like a mahogany waterfall. He nestled it in his hands, gauging its weight, its pliancy. Nuzzling in it, he inhaled the soap with which she washed, the smell of her skin.

She stoically submitted to his investigation, tipping her head or neck to give him a plentiful view and easier access.

"I'm going to sketch you from the back." A shiver jarred her, whisking down her spine, into her hips. She prickled with goose bumps. Disconcerted, he inanely mentioned, "I love this dress. It's exactly the type I was hoping you'd wear."

"It was difficult to conclude what you'd like best."

"You seemed to know." The insight was disquieting.

How could she so readily discern his tastes and preferences? He didn't want her to understand him so well! "The color and style are impeccable. They ideally emphasize your attributes."

As he talked, he laid his palms on her shoulders, rubbing the soft tissue, spurring her to release her pent-up tensions and accept his caress.

Once he could sense her muscles loosening, he massaged her until he grazed the rim of her bodice, then he urged the fabric down the slightest bit, exposing more of her stunning bosom. With his unconstrained handling, her breathing had elevated, each inhalation raising those two flawless mounds so that they prodded precariously against the edge of her corset

Gad, but her breasts were so splendid! He couldn't wait to behold them in all their spectacular, naked glory. To have those hard, erect nipples in his hands, at the mercy of his tongue.