Absolute Pleasure (13 page)

What ailed her these days? The most insignificant event pitched her into a sea of unconstrained turmoil'.

"Please ..." she implored, not sure what she was asking from him.

"I hurt you. I'm sorry."

She couldn't remember when a man had ever apologized to her about anything. There was such remorse in his voice that she was totally undone. A few embarrassing tears surged to the fore, and she blinked them away.

Both his hands were now on her waist, and he easily shifted her toward him, and she spun willingly. If she'd had the courage, she could have buried herself against that broad chest Her current troubles would have balanced perfectly on those sturdy shoulders.

Without warning, she was swept away by the whimsy that she craved a solid familiarity with him, which was craziness. After all she'd suffered in her dealings with Findley, perhaps she'd finally been driven mad!

"The other day," he said, chastened, "I had no right to make insinuations about you."

"No, you didn't. You don't know me."

"But I'd like to."

He gripped her more firmly, easing her forward so that the toes of his shoes slipped under the hem of her dress. She could feel his warmth and substance and physical form. His legs tangled with her own, and her body leapt in response as though she'd been poked with a sharp suck.

"You're spewing nonsense."

"I behaved like an ass. Let me make it up to you."

"You couldn't possibly."

"May I call on you?"

"No, you may not"

It wasn't fair that a mortal man be so ideally put together, and she twisted away, refusing to hungrily gaze at him. He was already too full of himself by half!

"There's an affinity between us, Mary Smith."

"No, there isn't."

"You sense it, too. Don't deny it."

She was delivered from participating in the unpalatable argument by Elizabeth's footsteps hastening down the hall. Relieved, Mary strode away, hoping her cheeks weren't as red as they felt, praying that there was no visible evidence of the tumult he'd generated.

"Mary"—Elizabeth hurried toward them—"I'm late again."

"I've only just arrived myself," she lied politely.

Mary made a rapid appraisal of her employer and friend. With hair coifed and clothing on, she seemed to be fine, yet something dramatic had occurred. Elizabeth's joy was tangible, rolling off her in waves. She looked vibrant, contented, and alive, as she never had before; she was bursting with bliss, and Mary shook her head in dismay.

Nothing good would come of this, but it wasn't Mary's place to speak out, or to stop what was happening.

"I had such a fascinating appointment,'' Elizabeth was merrily saying, "that I completely lost track of the time." She smiled at John Preston. "Mr. Cristofore—"

"My son," Preston corrected her.

"Yes, that's what Mary informed me! How fantastic! Well, your
son
is a genius." Elizabeth was so ecstatic from her afternoon of passion—or whatever it had been—that the undercurrents escaped her.

John Preston stared fervidly at Mary, apparently trusting that his admission of a paternal link with Mr. Cristofore would buy him absolution. His eyes were hot and pleading, begging for a forgiveness she wouldn't bestow.

"I love watching him work," Elizabeth said.

"I understand why you would. It's quite a sight to behold." Preston didn't bother to glance in Elizabeth's direction.

"He's miraculous, really."

The butler surfaced, holding out Elizabeth's cloak, and she donned it, but she was geared to launch into a lengthy diatribe about Gabriel Cristofore and his astounding attributes, and Mary couldn't stand to listen.

"Shall we go, milady?" she asked, preempting potential conversation. "I'm afraid I'm needed at the house."

"Oh, certainly, Mary," Elizabeth agreed obligingly. "I've been having so much fun that I'd forgotten about all else."

The butler opened the door, and Elizabeth waltzed out, so distracted that she forgot to make her good-byes to Mr. Preston. Dangerously entranced, she seemed to float on the air, and Mary followed after her, but not before meeting Mr. Preston's gaze once more. He stoically matched her accusing expression, and what she saw reflected back was potent desire, and a sexual hunger for her that was so tenacious it was frightening.

"Good day, Mr. Preston."

"John," he entreated, but she departed, and the door closed behind her.

Chapter Eight

Gabriel stood in front of the mirror, checking the intricate knotting of his cravat. He was embarking on an evening of entertainment, and what he hoped would become a successful enticement of a new client. It had become patently obvious that he couldn't continue with Elizabeth Harcourt.
 
In light of what they'd instigated, and considering what he'd learned in the process, prolongation of their relationship was not an option.

So he would make the social rounds again, would set his sights on someone else, although he wouldn't view the evening a failure if all he accomplished was to cross paths with a previous paramour who might be interested in a sexual dalliance.

If he didn't chance upon a prior lover, he would have to visit one of the brothels he sporadically frequented. While he generally hated the type of meaningless sex to be found in a whore's arms, his corporeal state had been reduced to a desperate point, and his masculine drives had to be assuaged. At the moment, numerous episodes of impersonal, detached sexual intercourse sounded like a remarkable idea.

After the hours he'd spent with Elizabeth, he was in dire straits. His body was on fire, his balls ached, and his cock was hard as a poker, painfully erect, and irritatingly protesting his failure to advance to the logical conclusion.

Needing alleviation, he pushed at his trousers where the rude bulge was embarrassingly apparent. Disgusted, he stared at his groin, studying the prominent ridge, and wondering how he'd go about town in such a condition.

How had she incited him to such heights of libidinous lusting? He'd done nothing but kiss her, yet he was completely distracted, walking around with an erection in his pants as though he was a randy boy of thirteen.

Kissing Elizabeth had been arousing, stimulating, and the most pleasant interlude in which he'd engaged in a very, very long time. The funny part was that he hadn't really wanted to do more. He could have pressed, could have spurred her to a deeper lesson in the carnal arts, but he hadn't fancied traveling any farther down that road.

In the past, he'd rushed toward the main event, where fornication was not only the goal, but the sole objective for participation. With Elizabeth, it was remarkably sweet merely to hold her, to tarry, to treasure every nuance that made her so unique.

When she'd been in the room, their limited interaction had seemed sufficient, but once she'd walked out the door, his body had revolted, loudly and clearly reminding him that he was burning for her and what should have transpired.

He'd tried to distract himself, but nothing had worked. As a rule, he could lose himself in his art so that he'd forget what was plaguing him, yet he couldn't draw, couldn't paint. The only topic upon which he could concentrate was her, so he'd changed tactics, forcing himself to review the sketches he'd executed. But observing her, with her hair down and her dress unbuttoned, had fueled the fire raging in his loins.

How he wanted her! He craved the opportunity to make her his own, to cherish and take, to debauch and deflower. Fast, then slow. Raucous, crude, tender, gentle, he'd guide her into the physical realm where he thrived.

Before venturing out into the night, he should tarry, unfasten his trousers and relieve his carnal predicament with a few deft strokes of his hand, but he wasn't about to slake his appetites so simply. It was important that he remain on edge, that he remember why he'd altered his plans, why he couldn't meet with her again.

Elizabeth Harcourt was dangerous. To his fiscal security. To his peace of mind. To his way of life. She made him foolishly covet things he'd never known he fancied, things he couldn't have. Like a wife, a family, a stable home life.

She made him want—dare he admit it?—to love and be loved.

Long after her departure, he'd sat in his prized studio, ruminating and stewing. Frustrated, uneasy, sexually testy, he'd dawdled in the quiet, peering at the spot where she'd been. The sun had set and the fire had died down, the room had grown dark and cold, but he hadn't moved.

In that defining instant, it had occurred to him that he was lonely. That he was weary of the dissolute existence he pretended to adore, tired of scrounging and scams, of seduction and immorality. He pined for balance and constancy. Most terrifying was his discovery that he liked Elizabeth very much. As a woman. As a person, and he didn't want to see her hurt, didn't want to maltreat her.

He loved his father, and though he'd never known his mother, he desperately loved her, too, and honored her memory. He'd been raised on tales of their doomed
amore,
of their cursed destiny. In his own fashion, he emulated them: a man who existed for the moment, who would commit any outrageous act, who would bask in any sort of appealing, corrupt indulgence.

His conduct was also fueled by revenge, at both the noble houses from which he'd been barred due to his illegitimacy. He wasn't fooling himself; many of his antics amounted to no more than his trivial attempts to retaliate against the kinds of horrid people who had shunned his father and killed his mother.

Since meeting Elizabeth, it all seemed petty. She didn't fit with his perception of the detestable aristocrats who inhabited that despicable group. The rancor, the retribution, was a waste. She had him doubting his motives, disputing his ideas, and questioning his convictions. Most of all, she had him wishing he could change his life.

Apparently, there was a secret, unacknowledged element of his character that sought normalcy and tranquility, which was frightening. His world of superficiality and capriciousness had been just fine until she'd entered the picture. Why was he suddenly dwelling on principles and integrity? Why was he letting the infuriating woman intrude where she didn't belong?

Though she hadn't done anything to directly cause his upset, he wasn't about to persist with his confidence game. He needed to put an end to the painting contract, and Lady Elizabeth, herself, had given him the perfect excuse for termination: She possessed no money or other valuables.

On the table next to his bed was a page listing the other women John had recently heard about who might ultimately be induced into an affair.

Venality was what Gabriel understood. Vice and profiteering were the only processes by which he cared to support himself. Taking a final glance at the names, ones that he'd reviewed many times before selecting Lady Elizabeth, he strode into the hall and down the stairs just as John exited the parlor.

"Going out?" John asked, surprised that Gabriel was dressed at such a late hour. When Gabriel was involved in a swindle, there wasn't any reason for him to plod through the available amusements that constituted London's pretentious, expensive nightlife.

"Lady Carrington is hosting a soiree."

John raised a brow. "My, my!"

The lady was notorious for her decadent, ribald parties where licentious behavior was not only allowed but downright encouraged.

"I haven't been in a while," he said, feigning indifference. "I thought I'd attend."

"I told you she'd be a good contact."

"She has been." He assessed his father, who'd once been a diligent womanizer, but who now rarely met a female who could turn his head. "You haven't had a woman in ages. Would you like to join me?"

"At Lady Carrington's?" Melodramatically, he gripped the center of his chest "I don't mink my heart could stand the stimulation."

Gabriel chuckled. "You're only fifty. I doubt that a bout of excessive fucking would toss you over the precipice."

"All that nude flesh, all those unrestrained, wanton females!" John shuddered dramatically. "I believe I'll stay at home, finish the book I'm reading, then retire."

"You're becoming a virtual stick-in-the-mud."

"An absolute puritan," he agreed.

"Right!" Gabriel scoffed. His father was many things, but a moral, virtuous prude he was not. "Don't forget that I'm the man who shared a flat with you in Paris."

"How could I? You never let me."

They smiled at recalling their wilder days, and their exotic experiences on the Continent before the familiarity of England had lured John back to where it had all started.

Gabriel turned toward the foyer, his father dogging his heels, and they chatted until Gabriel was ready to depart

"By the way," he said, affecting nonchalance, "I've decided that Lady Elizabeth won't work out."

"What?"

"I'd invited her to sit again on Monday, but I'm going to cancel. Send her a note on the morrow, would you? Advise her not to return." He donned his hat "Gently, of course."

"But why? I... I... thought it was proceeding so well."

"I'm sure she'd be amenable to temptation, but I find that I'm not inclined."

"But what pretext should I use?"

'Tell her whatever you suppose might suffice. How about that you just realized I'm overbooked? Scheduling conflicts and all that." He stepped to the threshold, hoping to leave quickly in order to evade John's in-depth quizzing. "And refund any retainer we've received."

“I just sent the bill to her father yesterday."

"Then it should be easily voided." John glared at him with the aggravated glower that had regularly had him squirming when he'd been just a lad, and he could barely resist fidgeting.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, why?"

"You've never backed out before. Not with any of them."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

"This doesn't make any sense."

“It does to me."

John was upset, much more than he should have been. His father worried too much about their finances. He felt guilty, and blamed himself, for the earlier choices that had created the economic predicament in which they'd been perpetually mired, but Gabriel ceaselessly told him not to fret It wasn't as though they were starving and about to be thrown into the streets.

"Look,
papa"
—he reverted to the affectionate term he'd used as a child—"Lady Elizabeth hardly has any funds of her own. I found out this afternoon. There's no incentive to carry on." At learning this disturbing shred of information, John was totally unmoved. "You knew!" Gabriel accused.

"I considered it a distinct possibility. Findley Harcourt was the worst penny-pincher I ever encountered."

John didn't exhibit an ounce of remorse and, exasperated, Gabriel inquired, "Then why did you encourage me to pursue his daughter?"

"Old habits." He shrugged, unrepentant. "I wanted to rub his nose in it once more."

"What happened between you two anyway?"

John, ever the gentleman, was impassively, noncommittally silent

"Let me guess: It had to do with a woman."

He shrugged again.

"Well, I'm not playing a role in some twenty-year-old feud. Contact the lady in the morning. We're through with her."

"But don't you—"

Gabriel held up a hand, halting his objection. 'The matter isn't open to discussion."

John scowled at him then, looking much older than his years, he sank into a nearby chair. "But if you recant with Lady Elizabeth, Mary won't ever..." He trailed off.

"Mary who?"

Fleetingly, John appeared as though he had a confession to make, then he shook his head. “It's not important."

"You'll send the cancellation, then?”

"Aye," he conceded dejectedly, “I will."

"Grazie."

Gabriel strolled out, jumped into the coach, and signaled the driver. The carriage rumbled away, and he shifted against the squab, striving to alleviate the fullness in his trousers. Hopefully soon, his sexual hunger would be eased. If he was lucky, perhaps through multiple episodes of copulation, he'd achieve a dual benefit: satiation
and
relief from his asinine, sentimental yearnings. His musings were intolerable, and he couldn't permit himself to be encumbered by such ridiculous introspection.

Yet even as he approached Lady Carrington's residence, even as his cock stirred and his body sizzled at pondering who and what he might confront inside, the only subject upon which he could focus was Elizabeth.

How will she take the news?

Findley Harcourt, Earl of Norwich, crept up the staircase at the rear of his mansion. Without warning, he tripped,
stubbing his toe and causing his candle to flicker and almost extinguish. He shielded it with his palm until it flamed strong once again.

"Like a burglar," he groused, "sneaking through my own damned house."

For many years of his life, brimming over with anticipation and expectation, he'd made the furtive trip up the back stairs.

As a much younger man, he'd enjoyed the stealth and naughtiness. His raging masculine drives had constantly pushed him to make the climb, even though he knew what he was doing was wrong for all concerned, but despite his misgivings, he'd never quit making the trek. Too much pleasure had awaited at the end of the journey. He'd kept on—with joy in his heart, as well as a bounteous, sweltering phallus in his trousers—and oh, what heaven he'd discovered, right under his very own roof!

The thrill of the chase, the wearing down, the final capitulation, followed by the covert appointments, the forbidden try sting! Each assignation had been more erotic and fulfilling than the last! Then, after the inaugural desire had waned—it had taken years—he'd settled into the routine, delighting in the gratification to be gained from long-term commitment. Familiarity and acquaintance, he'd ascertained, brought their own rewards.