Absolute Pleasure (17 page)

"No, I can't." She smiled tremulously, relishing his adjacency, his body's heat and smell. "I'm nervous."

"You should be." He stepped away, intentionally creating distance. "On Monday, I plan to strip you to the waist. To draw your naked breasts."

"I don't know if I'm ready to—"

"It's what I want; what I'll expect. You have to decide if you're mentally prepared."

"As you wish." Her rational self derided the impudent suggestion, but her more wanton self—the woman into whom she seemed to be turning—was secretly titillated. "I don't want to go."

"You have to. Right now, or there's a fair chance I'll keep you here all night."

"Ask me to stay."

For many long seconds, he assessed her, and she could almost see the thoughts spinning through his head. Emotions warred; he was conflicted, vexed, aroused, and she braced herself, certain that he'd invite her to tarry.

Then, the moment passed.

He pulled the door wide. Cold air surged in.

"Go," he said quietly.

"I'll be here Monday."

He raised a brow, questioning her resolve. Obviously, he didn't anticipate that he'd entertain her again. Well, he didn't know her very well, but he was about to become much better acquainted.

Exhilarated, on fire, she strode past him, but not without pausing to plant a hasty farewell kiss on his mouth. Then, she strolled out, eager and ecstatic, but also despondent over how tediously the hours would pass.

Monday seemed an eternity away.

Chapter Ten

As John passed an upstairs window, he happened to notice a carriage parked on the street. He halted, peered closer, and could make out the Norwich crest. It wasn't the earl's grand coach-and-four, but a smaller vehicle, used by his daughter.

John hadn't heard the butler announce callers, and no servant had advised him that Lady Elizabeth was in the parlor, having arrived unexpectedly and unannounced.

"What is she doing here?" he grouched.

He'd sent the note Gabriel had impelled him to write, politely but succinctly informing her as to the cessation of the painting contract, but when he'd dispatched a footman to deliver it, he'd never thought to be on guard against a potential visit. Such a gently bred woman wouldn't dare drop by without an invitation.

The realization of how attached she'd grown to his wayward son was disturbing and irksome. Gabriel had a knack for selecting the appropriate type of paramour—one who wouldn't ask for more than he could ever give. His amorous affairs didn't spill over into his life outside his studio, so John never had to be drawn in to any emotional conflict, and he assuredly hoped that this would not be the first time.

Lady Elizabeth was amiable and beautiful, but the concept of having to soothe and cosset Findley's daughter was distasteful. Not because he didn't like Elizabeth, but because he couldn't abide her father.

Her indecorous level of fondness may have been the reason Gabriel was so adamant about terminating their relationship. Perhaps Gabriel had noted a partiality in her that was bothersome and that he couldn't foster.

Well, there was trouble to be dealt with now.

He sighed, starting down the stairs, praying that he wouldn't stumble upon a weeping, morose Lady Elizabeth, who would be begging for news of Gabriel, pleading for help or an intervention that John would never supply. Gabriel was eminently capable of beginning and ending his own liaisons without assistance. John was proficient at many things, but having to explain his son's incomprehensible conduct, calm ruffled feathers, or ease a broken heart, seemed far beyond the pale.

On the landing, he paused, listening for voices, or servants scurrying about, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. He leaned against the rail, an ear straining toward the parlor, when it dawned on him that he was trying to decipher if Mary was also present

Had Mary accompanied the lady? The likelihood had his male senses soaring with anticipation.

His musings often strayed in her direction, and he rushed down, anxious to learn if he would have an opportunity to converse with her.

He hadn't yet figured out exactly what it was about the bristly, cantankerous housekeeper that had him so intrigued, but he couldn't quit thinking about her.

She was pretty, smart, mature. Rounded where a woman should be, and thin where she should be, too, and he couldn't get her out of his head, which was absurd. Despite the reduced financial circumstances with which
 
he'd persistently struggled, he was still an earl's son, and his standards were particularly high. She was a commoner with an abrupt, no-nonsense personality, and she was diametrically opposite the sort of soft, gracious, accommodating noblewomen he was wont to choose.

Raw lust was driving him—a mystifying attraction— and he knew from experience how rapidly and readily carnality could overwhelm a man's saner impulses, so there was scant reason to fight it. Lust always won out, and he'd lain awake the past several nights, contemplating the ramifications of progressing, and pondering as to where he might end up if he did.

The pathetic fact of the matter was that he was lonely.

After his doomed
amour
with Gabriel's mother, he'd assuaged his guilt and despair by engaging in numerous wild flings—some more protracted than others—but he'd never generated much enthusiasm for any of the women with whom he'd dallied. He'd never been much of a one for permanency, but he'd just turned fifty, and besides his magnificent son, sired so long ago, what did he have to show for all that wasted time?

He'd fucked a libidinous trail through the majestic courts of Europe, so he could properly boast that he'd had his share of ravishing, refined woman, but after Selena's murder, he'd sworn off monogamy, never hoping for more than the fleeting connection obtained through passionate sex. With his advancing age, he'd started to pine for more than pointless, sporadic couplings with aloof, reserved women.

That's why he'd stopped accompanying Gabriel on his nocturnal rounds of philandering. John wanted companionship, trust, joy, the emotions to be encountered in a true romance, but he was never lucky enough to cross paths with a female who raised his pulse rate, let alone his cock.

Yet, Mary Smith did.

He couldn't recall when a woman had tickled his fancy so thoroughly, and the enchantment ran deeper than his usual quest for sexual alleviation. She perplexed and delighted him, made him fuss and stew over who and what she was, over who
he
was and what he was searching for in his life.

Her, perhaps?

Yes, he desired her as a lover—if he could ever lure her anywhere close to a bed, they'd have fabulous, outrageous sex—but surprisingly, he also wanted merely to talk with her. He yearned to hold her hand during a walk in the park, to spend a quiet evening reading to one another in front of the fire, to probe and investigate until he'd unearthed every minor detail: her favorite color, her favorite food, what leisure pursuits she enjoyed, what she wore to bed for her nightclothes.

Her lack of regard for him, and her feigned disinterest in him as a man, played a key role in his fascination. Her vocal disdain jabbed at his vanity, making him impatient to chase after her just to see if she could be caught With her prickly, cool nature, that hint of temper buried underneath, her surrender would be sweet, indeed.

Outside the parlor door, he slowed, intent on being calm and collected when he entered. Once he'd gained sufficient control, he stepped inside, only to find that no one awaited him, and his disappointment was enormous.

A maid was down the hall, and he quizzed her. "Has Lady Elizabeth arrived?"

"No, sir," she said. "The knocker hasn't sounded all afternoon. I'm quite sure of it"

He went to the window and peeked out. The Norwich driver and a coachman were down the street, balanced against a stoop where they had a clear view of the house and the carriage, and where they could be shielded from the frigid drizzle by the branched of a large tree.
 

Was Elizabeth sitting in the chilly, dank carriage, mustering the courage to come inside? Or had she gone to the cottage by herself? She must have.

Fortunately, there wasn't another
client
scheduled— what an unqualified disaster that would have been!—so there was naught to worry about on that score, though if she'd interrupted Gabriel when he was immersed in his work, she'd probably wish she hadn't.
 
His son focused more intensely than anyone John had ever met and heaven help the person who disturbed him.

Feeling put-upon, John decided to check her whereabouts. After all, he couldn't have the foolish noblewoman loitering in front of the house, moping and languishing for hours on end. Imagine the neighbors' gossip!

He grabbed for a coat and exited into the brisk weather. Though it was just before two, the dreary sky cast winter shadows that made it look as though dusk would fall shortly. Icy drops of rain spattered his head as he proceeded to the vehicle. The step was down, indication that Lady E. had alighted, but he opened the door just to be certain.

To his astonishment, Mary Smith was huddled under a pile of blankets, and resting so peacefully that he suspected she might be sleeping.

"Elizabeth ... finally!" she said, blinking and snapping upright. "I'd about given up on you."

Plainly, she'd mistaken the identity of her visitor, deeming him to be her employer. She straightened away from the squab, and she appeared to be discreetly drying her eyes. Had she been crying?

His heart lurched at the notion. Had someone hurt her? Who? And why?

"Mary," he murmured, loving the chance to speak her name, "it's me, John Preston."

"Mr. Preston?" She jumped, whirling so that her back was to him. "What are you doing out here?”

"I could ask you the same," he replied more testily than he'd intended.

"I'm waiting for Lady Elizabeth," she responded stiffly. "We'll be out of your hair straightaway."

Was that a hitch in her voice? A sniffle?

He peered into the confines of the conveyance, only to observe her stuffing a white kerchief—one she clearly hoped he wouldn't notice—up the cuff of her sleeve.

"You've been awaiting Lady Elizabeth for some time."

"What if I have been?" she queried irascibly. "I have duties where she's concerned, and I don't see how they could possibly be any business of yours."

Composed enough to face him, she turned around, pretending that all was well when it was so bloody apparent that she was excessively distraught. Gad, but he could read her so easily, and the idea that he was attuned to her mental state was exciting.

Their gazes locked, and the air seemed to sizzle. Sparks were crackling between them, and the erotic sensation jolted him to the tips of his toes.

"I want you to come inside," he said gently.

He extended his hand, but she glared at it as though it was a venomous snake. "Thank you kindly, but no."

Her rebuff rankled and annoyed him. "You're still angry with me."

"Don't flatter yourself. I haven't spared you a thought."

"I apologized for my gaffe." The accursed woman! Didn't she grasp the rules of civilized behavior? "Aren't you ever going to forgive me?"

"I can't fathom why garnering my pardon would be important to you—or to me."

Well, she'd told him, hadn't she? "Mary," he admonished, "you're being ridiculous. I demand- that you come into the house. Right now."

"Don't order me about, Mr. Preston. I've been ill-treated by loftier men than you, and I won't have it."

She grabbed for the door to yank it shut but, riling her immensely, he kept it just out of reach. Oh, but he loved to see her in a temper! She was teeming with suppressed bad humor. What would happen if all that pent-up emotion was rattled loose and permitted to tumble out?

"Fine then," he agreeably rejoined, "I'll stay out here with you."

She gulped with alarm. "Mr. Preston, you absolutely will not!"

Ignoring her wishes, he climbed in, tugging at the door and setting the lock, sheltering them in a dark, muffled cocoon. With great relish, he slid onto the seat and scooted across until he had her wedged into the corner, then he
lifted the blankets in which she was swaddled, and snuggled under.

Warily, she scowled at him. "What are you doing?"

"Keeping you company."

"I don't require your
company."

"I don't care." Proximity revealed her eyes to be reddened and puffy, evidence of a prolonged bout of weeping, and ere he could restrain himself, he inquired, "Have you been crying?'

"Honestly! You are the most rude, insensitive beast! Is there no comment too discourteous for you to utter?"

"When the reply pertains to you, no there's not" He reached out and stroked her rosy cheek. It was very cold. "You madwoman! You're freezing! You'll catch your death."

"I'm perfectly all right," she contended, but a shiver moved across her shoulders, so he slipped an arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and allowing no protest, hoisted her onto his lap, then hastily adjusted the blankets to preserve their combined bodily heat. Underneath the covers, it was warm and snug, her pleasant ass directly over his loins, and his cock hardened-Scandalized, she shifted around, her hip digging into his groin, and her eyes widened in surprise. Praise God, the rumors he'd heard about her were true: She was no virginal miss! She knew exactly what was pressed so intimately against her thigh.

He urged her forward so that she was off balance, having to prop herself against him. One of her breasts was flattened to his chest, the nipple erect and poking at him through her corset and dress.

Unashamed of his animated predicament, he flexed against her, letting her feel the full extent of his situation. She inhaled sharply, her lush, succulent mourn only an inch away, and he ventured all and closed the distance between them.

His lips touched hers, and she gasped in dismay and jerked away, exposing her cheek, and he nuzzled and kissed it.

"Please, John, don't," but she'd completely relaxed against him, her face buried at his nape.

"Shush, Mary." He kissed her hair, her ear, her neck. "It's meant to be."

"We can't do this."

"We
can."
He dipped lower until he located her mouth, once more.

Totally compliant, she attempted no evasion. With a sound that was near to a sob of joy—or was it a wail of resignation!—she opened herself to him, and they joined together in a bliss-filled, staggering embrace, the likes of which he hadn't luxuriated in since his first tryst with Selena,

Would he be twice blessed in his sorry life? Would he be lucky enough to find the same sort of encompassing, exhaustive passion a second time?