Absolute Pleasure (12 page)

Hadn't she proposed just such a drastic solution to the earl? Though many would deem such an arrangement to be scandalous, it wasn't unheard of for an unmarried female to live by herself. And it wasn't as if she'd be alone; she'd be surrounded by dozens of servants, with Mary to act as chaperone.

But in his customary, tyrannical manner, the earl had summarily dismissed her overture with a wave of his hand.

"If I had a pound to my name," she said, "I would do just that."

Gabriel froze. "You don't have any funds of your own?"

"Oh, I've a bit of pin money for incidentals, but nothing substantial. Not even my jewelry is mine; it's part of the family collection. I'm completely at my father's mercy."

He grumbled something she couldn't decipher. Was it sympathy? Commiseration? Incredulity?

"Is there any way I could help you?"

"Not unless you have a fortune you'd like to share with me." She shrugged away her disappointment

"That, my dear, is the one thing I'm afraid I don't have." He sighed, the dire shape of her financial affairs seeming to have a greater impact on him than it was having on her. "Find an excuse for Monday," he finally entreated. "Pass the day with me."

"I don't know how I could."

"Say yes, Elizabeth."

On hearing her name roll off his tongue, she was putty in his hands, eager to throw caution to the wind.

"I'll try." Even now, she was recklessly running through a list of the feasible alibis she might employ to warrant an extended visit.

"Next time"—he leaned in, whispering naughtily— "the pictures I draw will be even more familiar."

A secret, feminine excitement vibrated through her, registering in the vicinity of her nipples, and she knew— without a doubt—that she would willingly participate in whatever indecency he requested.

"You are such a rake."

"I thrive on wicked behavior."

"I agree."

"Wear this dress again ... just for me."

Playfully, he grabbed her hands and twirled her around, and he was smiling, his jovial, gay demeanor wiping away the dejection and doom that had momentarily engulfed her. They were grinning like a pair of enamored half-wits, and if the quarter hour hadn't chimed on the clock, she might have dawdled there forever.

"I'm glad you came." Scooping up her hat, he centered it on her head, then tied the bow with a flourish. "I'm glad we did this."

"So am I."

"Now, go." He was ablaze with a fire and intensity that had to do with desire, carnal cravings, and appetites she was just beginning to heed. He was burning for her, and she was giddy at the realization.

Intrepidly, she tossed out, "I'll miss you every second until Monday."

"Go," he repeated, laughing, "Before I lock the door and keep you here."

Elated, delighted, she turned and briskly strolled out without glancing back lest she shamelessly take him up on his offer to remain.

Mary Smith stood in the foyer of John Preston's home, impatiently tapping her toe against the tiled flooring. The butler had volunteered to show her into the parlor so she could wait in more comfortable environs, but she'd refused. After her initial visit, she wasn't about to relax as though she was happy to be a guest. She wasn't.

She wanted to retrieve Elizabeth and be on her way— without crossing paths with either of the Preston men.

Bored, irritated, and for lack of anything better to do, she studied her surroundings. Houses and their furnishings were her specialty. She knew more about decor and residential chattels than any person properly ought. It was her domain, her forte, so she couldn't help but scrutinize the table in the corner, the rug on the floor, the painting on the wall.

The fixtures and adornments were pleasing to view, well arranged and inviting, but the pieces were older and, if one looked closely—as she had a habit of doing—a tad threadbare. There was a dust ball under a chair, making her speculate as to just who, in this male den of iniquity, supervised and allowed such sloppy work by the maids.

How do those two knaves earn their money?
she pondered.

They put on a grand display, pretending wealth and breeding, dressing and acting the part of cultured gentlemen. Their domicile was in a fashionable neighborhood, they had an acceptable number of staff, they kept a carriage, but she presumed it was all for show.

After furiously cogitating on the subject, she realized that she recollected John Preston from many years earlier. The dashing, dapper scoundrel had visited Norwich occasionally when they were both in their twenties. He'd regularly overstayed his welcome, ingratiating himself with Elizabeth's mother, exploiting her loneliness and country isolation.

He'd been an imprudent, obsequious lady's man, the talk of London, who had brought trouble and calamity wherever he went, and Mary suspected that he'd gotten his just deserts when his peccadilloes had eventually caught up with him. She'd never been apprised of the details—just a handful of bandied rumors—but whatever his sins, they'd been grave enough to see him disinherited by his family. Then he'd disappeared.

She was frankly curious as to what he'd been doing all that time. How was it that he'd returned to England, with a grown, incredibly gifted, half-Italian son in tow, who didn't even take his last name?

The image he and his son presented to the world was an expensive one to maintain, and obviously—from the condition of their belongings—it was costing more than they could afford to pay. She was quite confident that John Preston hadn’t received a penny from his eldest brother in years, so how did they carry on?

While she was interested in the answers to her questions, she'd never pose them, for she truly didn't care enough about the contemptible gentleman to learn more. In her opinion, the too-handsome, overly sophisticated John Preston could go hang. If his treacherous son hadn't been working his wiles on Lady Elizabeth, Mary would never again have to tolerate the offensive cad.

The clock down the hall chimed the hour, and she stiffened with indignation.

Where was Elizabeth?

She had half a notion to march out to the backyard, to recover the girl, and save her from her folly, but it had been a long while since Mary had been responsible for watching over Elizabeth. Elizabeth was a capable adult who was assuredly able to make her own decisions, yet in this instance, Mary was torn.

For all Elizabeth's intelligence and maturity, she'd been sheltered and had had very little contact with men. Especially someone as elegant and dynamic as Mr. Cristofore. She was easy prey, and Mary couldn't discern what her role should be in the escalating situation.

Should she burst into the cottage, like some moral arbiter, intent on freeing Elizabeth from the man's lascivious machinations? If she stormed in and they were merely painting, as Elizabeth insisted, Mary would make a fool of herself. Yet if she caught them kissing, or worse, what would she do? Wrap Elizabeth in a blanket, fling her into the coach, and whisk her home? Then what?

At a previous juncture in her life, she'd have gone to Elizabeth's father, and would have taken action according to his instructions. Not now, however. For too long, she and Findley had been closer than two people ought to be.

In his domineering fashion, he'd set his sights on her when she was too young to make wiser choices. As a result, he'd been the obstinate force that had shaped her world, and she hadn't been strong enough to escape his subtle control. She'd spent the last twenty years in Findley's shadow, powerless to pull away. But no more.

Perhaps it was her advanced age of forty-five, or maybe it was the bodily changes she was undergoing, that had ultimately given her imperative strength. What had seemed a grand idea at twenty had evolved into a disaster two decades later, and she had finally faced the discouraging fact that she would be alone in her elder years.

With Findley's engagement to Charlotte, she'd severed their abiding relationship, kicking him out of her life and her bed, and doing what she could to restore their detached positions of employer and employee, but the rearrangement of status had proved impossible to attain.

His blasted pride and pomposity had perpetuated so much misery for her that she would never go to him with her concerns about his daughter. Elizabeth could be in grave danger, could be dying on the street, and Mary wouldn't utter a word. If the girl was bent on catastrophe, Findley would never hear of it from Mary. She'd choke first.

She had no idea how Elizabeth had fallen into Mr. Cristofore's clutches, but she conjectured that their meeting hadn't been an accident. Not on Mr. Cristofore's part, anyway. He was an unrepentant roué who, most likely, repeatedly charmed women out of their clothes and who could guess what else. Mary had never stumbled across a man who was quite so attractive, so smooth- and polished, so suave in his demeanor and approach.

Except for his loathsome father,
she thought crossly. She was still seething over his snide reference to her liaison with Findley. Though it had ensued clandestinely for many a year, it was hardly common knowledge, and regardless, she was acutely embarrassed that it had transpired.

How dare he have the gall to mention it! She was enraged enough to spit nails, profusely weary of all men and the havoc they wreaked in women's lives. She wished them all to perdition! Each and every one!

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and she turned, thinking it would be the butler with another lame evasion as to why Elizabeth hadn't appeared. She whipped around, only to find herself face-to-face with John Preston.

Ok, and isn’t
he just too handsome for his own good!
she fumed.

With that thick, dark hair—a hint of enticing silver winding through the strands—those remarkable brown eyes, that toned body, and aristocratic face, he was one of those men who looked more distinguished with age. Dressed as he was in his flawlessly tailored suit, he was a cultivated, debonair gentleman who exuded charm and flair.

When they'd previously, disastrously, chanced upon one another, she'd been shocked to perceive a physical attraction. Though she was a spinster, she was no blushing miss. Her relationship with Findley had ensured that she was well versed in the sexual propensities of men and women. She enjoyed and craved what happened in the night, and it had been over a year—the evening he'd announced his betrothal, informing her after it was an accomplished fact—since she'd permitted Findley to slip into her bedchamber.

The blistering desire she'd felt for John Preston had disturbed and flabbergasted her. He'd felt it, too, and she'd been thrilled, ecstatic to comprehend that she still had the power to entice such a gallant, vital man.

But then, he'd recognized her through her position in the Harcourt household, and his rude comments had revealed his genuine character. His refinement and
savoir-faire
only underscored the dissimilarity between them. He might have traveled far, and experienced much, from the era when he'd been the lauded fourth son of an earl, but he was no different from Findley or any of the rest of their kind.

He seriously believed he could say or do anything, that her modest station meant he could insult, affront, or otherwise offend without repercussion.

The stunning magnetism that had briefly flared between them made her view herself as wanton and dissolute, rekindling her worries about her depraved nature, and further quashing the image she had of herself as a gentile, upstanding lady.

"Mary ..." He seemed honestly delighted to see her,
and he hurried toward her, extending both hands in welcome.

"Miss Smith to you," she barked nastily, and his smile faltered.

"I wasn't expecting you today"—he looked chagrined. Good!—"and I'm delighted you're here so that I might apologize for—"

She cut him off. "Is Lady Elizabeth ready?"

At the vehemence in her tone, he halted in mid-step. "I was just out in the cottage. Gabriel spent the afternoon sketching her."

Mary gave an impolite snort and rolled her eyes. "So they call it
sketching
these days, do they?"

He had the grace to blush. "They're finishing up."

"You should be ashamed, raising such a bounder, then allowing him to prey on innocent women. Under your very own roof!"

"He really is drawing her. And making her happy." Virtuous as a choirboy, he shrugged. "What's wrong with that?"

Slowly, he sidled nearer as though fearing she might bite like a rabid dog. Very brave, considering her careening emotions! "You're telling me that your son is thoroughly harmless? That his motives are completely legitimate?" Her glare could have melted lead; she let it connect with his own, then she dropped her eyes and tugged at her gloves. "I'll give her five more minutes, then I'm going out to fetch her."

"Don't be angry with me, Mary."

Her name was murmured intimately and low, an entreaty that rang through her, striking at her isolation and despair, pricking at the center of her broken heart. He inappropriately rested a hand against her waist, the heat of his palm singeing her through the fabric of her dress. She tried to step away, to remove her person from his allure, but her body wouldn't heed her mental command. Rooted to the floor, she was spellbound by the notion that his hand
felt exactly right just where it was, and there was a small, insane part of her that yearned to relax, to confess her woes and unburden her regrets.