Absolute Pleasure (14 page)

A mistress, without the bother of one! Every man's dream! A ravishing, uninhibited paramour, who willingly engaged in any dissipation, who saw to his needs and whims, but who was in no position to mewl or complain about having too little or wanting more than she'd been offered.

For two decades, he'd been fortunate to have stumbled into such a facile arrangement, often preening over having gotten so lucky, and never taking for granted his fortuitous circumstances.

Nowadays, though, he just felt drained. And grouchy. And put-upon.

He was an earl, for pity's sake. A peer of the realm. A leader in Parliament. A luminary whose every word was law. His favor was curried by friend and foe alike. Yet, in his own abode, he groveled and beseeched like a pauper outside a wedding feast. Like a starving dog, he whined and begged, supplicating for a few scraps of feminine attention.

And would she provide him with any? No, she would not! The blasted woman had been an absolute boor since the day he'd announced his plans to marry Charlotte. In no uncertain terms, she'd let him know what he could do with his youthful bride, and just where he could put his rowdy, undisciplined fifty-year-old cock.

Why, she'd gone so far as to say that his decision was an insult! To her personally! After all she'd
endured!
Just what specifically was it that she'd deemed so insufferable? A roof over her head! All the food she could ever eat! An elegant room and an admirable salary. A job managing one of the grandest houses in all of England. The continuing respect of a wealthy, revered nobleman.

He'd always presumed that he'd never understood women, and her ungrateful attitude had slapped him in the face with the evidence that he didn't.

She had banned him from her bed, then she'd moved on, excluding him as thoroughly as if they were two strangers. If he heard her coldly address him as
Lord Norwich
one more time, he couldn't predict what violence he might commit.

So, he'd married Charlotte. What had that to do with anything?

He
had
to have an heir. Siring a son was a responsibility he'd evaded for far too long. Mary grasped his obligations to the earldom. She'd habitually advised and counseled, consoled and comforted, when the intermittent stresses of his exalted position had become difficult to tolerate. Her ability to extend succor was what he liked most about her.

The abominable woman knew him better than anyone ever had. How could she discount their past?

The temperature in the stairwell was brisk, and he tugged at the belt of his robe, covering too much of his pants. Out of deference to Mary, he went to her sufficiently clothed, just in case he encountered a sleepy servant out wandering the halls, but amazingly, he'd never stumbled upon one of his retainers. Either they were excessively heavy sleepers, or they didn't want to be up and about where they might accidentally unearth the actual goings-on of the large household.

No one had ever detected him on his nocturnal forays, or guessed where his true passions lay.

Except Pamela.

His first wife had never challenged him as to his sly philandering or his abundant infidelities, but he was positive that she'd uncovered his eternal, unrelenting ardor for Mary Smith.

Early on in their marriage, she'd somehow learned of his penchant, for his housekeeper. She would never have demeaned herself by interrogating him, or verbally accosting him as to his proclivities and peccadilloes, but she'd known, and in a myriad of petty, shallow ways, she'd made his life intolerable because of it.

Born and bred to be a gentlewoman, Pamela had loathed her marital duties but had complied nightly. Bedding her had been a chore he'd stoically tolerated, but he'd needed more than she could ever have rendered. He'd supplemented her meager attempts by treating himself to a hot-blooded, eager partner, a commoner who wasn't afraid to bare herself, to let her prurient nature show through.

Who could have blamed him for choosing pretty, amenable Mary?

As with his prior marriage, he was compelled to bed Charlotte nightly. While assuredly, her nubile, juvenile body was arousing, and he effortlessly generated a cock-stand at the thought of visiting her bed, he'd promptly wearied of her passive, meek behavior when it came to their marital relations. No matter what he told her to do, how he threatened or cajoled, she declined to participate as he commanded.

If only she'd conceive! If she'd just begin increasing, he could desist with the unpalatable ritual, but the wretched girl was proving to be as infertile as Pamela had been.

What he needed—besides to dip his wick in a welcoming haven without having to degrade himself by coaxing and wheedling to get it there—was a bit of sympathy, of commiseration and condolence.

He needed Mary, but she was proving obstinate as hell. Who did she think she was? Daring to defy him! Denying him his lordly rights!

He was enraged by her rejection, and now, with the most recent information from Elizabeth that she was considering leaving his employ, that she would rather be out on the streets than in his home where he'd always watched over her, he was in a state. He wouldn't allow her to embarrass him with departure.

It was time she be reminded of her place. He was her friend, but more importantly, he was her master—-by God!—and she wouldn't rebuff him again. He wouldn't permit it.

Still, as he raised his hand to knock, it trembled, indication of how vastly troubled he was about his reception. She was headstrong, no longer the biddable innocent she'd been when he'd initially seduced her. He had to handle her carefully, prudently, but after their last, bitter disagreement, he wasn't confident of how to gain lost ground. Her oft-voiced ultimatums seemed as foreign to him as those of an African savage might have been.

Well, temper or no, tears or no, she was about to learn how relentless he could be. Because of his fondness for her, he rarely showed her this side of his personality, but she was about to witness it, in all its insolent, shameless glory.

There was no answer to iris knock, so he tried again
and was rewarded by her footsteps crossing the floor. The door opened, and there she was, her magnificent silver hair hanging down, her curvaceous body flawlessly outlined by the torso-hugging robe she'd cinched about her tiny waist.

"What do you want, Findley?" she asked, annoyed. There was no sparkle in her eye, not the slightest sign of hospitality, or any hint that she was glad he'd arrived.

He floundered, his bluster and bravado dwindling. "May I come in?"

"No."

"Mary—"

"We've been through this a hundred times."

"Well, we'll go through it a hundred and one, then." He straight-armed the door and sauntered inside. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't ever been in her boudoir. He was hardly an intruder. "I won't dawdle in the hall like some underpaid footman."

Rankled, she acquiesced to his entrance with a resigned shrug and a sigh, and she shut the door behind him.

"There's nothing to discuss," she maintained.

"Yes, there is."

"What's left?"

"How long will you keep this up?"

"Keep what ‘up'?"

"This insistence that we've separated! It won't do, I tell you. I've had enough."

"You have, have you?" She chuckled strangely, and foreboding tingled down his spine. "Well, perhaps I've had enough, too."

"Enough of what?" He jammed his hands on his hips, all six feet of him towering over her, but she wasn't cowed. Not even his superior size had an undue impact on her. "What is so terrible about your life? Everything was going so well! Then, poof! You stubbornly call off our affair, then you act as if none of it ever transpired." His voice was rising, and he reined himself in, appreciating from boundless experience that he never prevailed with her by yelling.

"Let's forget our differences," he said evenly. "Don't you remember how things were before all this ... this ..." What word should he use to finish the sentence?
Chaos? Discord? Pandemonium? Matrimony?

She and Elizabeth firmly contended that the disruption was his fault, when his marriage was naught more than one—in a lengthy line—of the proscribed duties that came with his rank.

What would Mary and Elizabeth have suggested? That he not wed? Not endeavor to father an heir? Not secure the title?

Women!
he grumbled peevishly. Nary a one of them fathomed the pressures and obligations a man faced. Better than anyone, he realized how horrid marriage was, so he hadn't made his determination lightly, and he was bloody sick and tired of shouldering the burden of their joint disapproval.

"Mary"—he switched tactics*, focusing on her, rather than Charlotte and the friction the girl's presence had wrought—"I've missed you."

"I haven't missed you, Fin," she said hostilely. "Not for a second."

He took some comfort from the fact that she'd used his pet name. "You don't mean that."

"I really do."

He struggled not to sound as if he was sniveling and, striding nearer, he enfolded her in his arms, but she was so unaffected that it was like hugging a stick of wood. "I can't live without you, Mary."

"Yes you can," she said harshly. "You're like a child, Fin. You're angry that I keep saying no and, for once, you can't get your way."

"I have needs, Mary"—he leaned in, inhaling her familiar scent and kissing her cheek, but she flinched at the contact—"manly needs."

"Go to your wife, Fin. Let her slake them."

"But she can't furnish what I require. Having sex with her is like fucking a stone; you know that."

"I
know
nothing of the sort"—she jerked away, stomped to the door, and grabbed the knob—"and I refuse to lend a compassionate ear to any drivel about the sexual problems the two of you are having. How dare you expect me to listen!"

She was irate enough to cast him out yet again, and he rushed to her, resting his hand atop hers, quelling her effort at eviction. When he was by himself, it was simple to enumerate what he wanted to tell her, but when they were together, their association was on such a slippery slope that he couldn't explicate his intent; he came away from every meeting having bumbled like an idiot.

"Doesn't our history mean anything to you?"

"To which period would you be referring?" She impaled him with her steady blue gaze. "When we committed adultery against Pamela? When we broke her heart? When we clandestinely sneaked about, year after year after accursed year? Never affirming our acquaintance in public? Never acknowledging one another in the light of day?" Her vehemence made him lurch away. "Which part was so bloody excellent for me that I'd do it all over?"

"You can't be sure that Pamela was aware of our liaison," he lied, the only lame retort he could utter. "Even if she did suspect, what does it signify? It has nothing to do with Charlotte. Nothing to do with us."

"What an ass you are! To imagine that I'd suffer through such an unsavory episode ever again!"

"And just what was—"

She cut him off. "I was a girl when we started in. I didn't have any better sense. I was so flattered by you; the grand
earl!"
She spat his tide as if it was an epithet "By the fact that you'd deigned to shift your exalted attention in my direction. I had stars in my eyes, so I didn't comprehend how inappropriate my conduct was. But I'm a grown-up now."

She was advancing on him, her wrath driving her on, and with each forward step, he took one back.

"My
attention,
as you so baldly put it, has been real. My affection for you is sincere. You were always there for me; you stood as my lover and my friend. You've been my true wife, in every way that counts."

The sentiment rolled smoothly off his tongue, and he believed that he'd adequately conveyed his feelings, but from the fervent rage that overtook her, it was clear that he'd misread the entire situation, once more.

"I've been your
true
wife, Fin? Oh, Lord, how clueless you are!" She stalked to the door, yanking it wide so that any fool walking by might hear the hideous conclusion of their quarrel. "Is that why you wouldn't let me bear any of your children? Why I’m now forty-five, and so alone? I could have waited a hundred years, and you'd never have stooped so low as to ask me to marry you."

"Of course not," he scoffed. "How could you conceive that I would?"

"Precisely." Disgusted by his obtuseness, she motioned toward the hall. "Go away, before I call on one of the male servants to assist me in throwing you out."

"See here"—he was confounded as to how he'd lost control of the argument, and he blustered to re-establish dominion—"this is my home, and I won't be ordered about. I'll withdraw when I'm damned good and ready."

"Go!" she shouted, making him jump, and she pushed him over the threshold. "You're not wanted here!"

In a blink, he'd been tossed out! Just like that! Behind him, a lock—that he wasn't notified had been added— clicked portentously.

A new lock! To which he didn't have the key! In his own house! What next! How had their dealings fallen to this insupportable level!

Totally confused by her rejection, by her impassioned reaction, he stewed, about to bang on the door, to create a commotion and demand reentrance, but he declined to engage in the sort of emotional spectacle that he abhorred. Besides, he was done imploring. When she came to her senses,
she
would have to come supplicating to him.