Absolute Pleasure (3 page)

"Sorry."

Elizabeth was so disconcerted that, in an attempt to cover up her surprise, she intentionally dropped her purse onto the carpeting. Pretending to search the floor, she bent over, steadying herself and regrouping, her thoughts tumultuously jumbled.

Who was he, this Italian lothario? He was brash enough to prey on one unsuspecting woman in a bustling theater lobby, then mere minutes later, make passionate love to another nearly in plain view of an entire audience!

She returned to an upright position, centering herself on her chair, while checking to see if anyone else had yet discovered the torrid duo, but they were concealed from all but herself. Like the worst voyeur, she raised her glass to her eye.

Mr. Cristofore was kissing the woman once again. Elizabeth scrutinized angle and intensity, intrigued as he relinquished the woman's mouth to blaze a trail down her chin, her neck, her bust, coming to nestle betwixt her breasts. The bodice of her gown was nipped extremely low, much of her breasts protruding, and he nuzzled across the creamy swell of skin.

The woman gripped the back of his head, urging him on. He acquiesced, tugging at the rim of her dress and pushing at the fabric. Before Elizabeth had any notion of what to expect, the woman's breast was bared.

Mesmerized, Elizabeth evaluated every detail of the mound of flesh, its rounded profile, its jutting nipple. Mr. Cristofore gazed adoringly at the naked orb, kneading, pinching, and tweaking the nipple then—shocking Elizabeth to her very core—he leaned down and licked across it.

In visible ecstasy, the woman shoved her chest forward, offering more of herself for his spirited application, and he readily submitted, flicking at the peak, men sucking it into his mouth.

"Oh, my Lord!"

The immoderately loud remark garnered another frown from Charlotte. "Be silent!"

"Yes... yes..."

Elizabeth rammed a knuckle between her teeth and bit down hard, effectively averting another verbal blunder.

For an untold interval, she contemplated them. Mr. Cristofore suckled against his lover, much as a hungry babe might; he yanked and tugged, teased and toyed. Unable to restrain herself, Elizabeth dissected every aspect of the lurid scene. When Mr. Cristofore broke the contact, she was so distraught that she wasn't sure how she could remain in her seat, yet the performance wasn't even half finished.

Amazed, undone, she could have observed them all night.

Mr. Cristofore murmured a farewell to the woman, stole a fleeting kiss, then exited the box. The woman waited a few minutes, then she departed, too.

Long after they'd gone, Elizabeth was glued to her spot, staring across at where they'd been.

Chapter Two

Gabriel Cristofore Preston slipped into the town house he shared with his father, John. Due to the lateness of the hour, the servants were abed, but he wasn't perturbed by their absence. With the schedule he kept, one that entailed chasing after the lonesome women of the aristocracy, he never had the slightest idea when he'd be home, so he could hardly expect his retainers to tarry, waiting for the moment he deigned to return.

Sometimes, when the right opportunity presented itself, he disappeared for days.

He lit the candle that had been conveniently left for him next to the door, hung his cloak, then climbed the stairs to the library where he could enjoy a libation before retiring.

The February night was chilly; he shivered in the dark hallway, and as he stepped into the comfortable room, he was glad to see that the remnants of an earlier fire glowed in the grate. He closed the door to hold in the warmth, added a scoop of coals, then went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of his favorite Scotch whisky.

When he turned toward the hearth, the ring Helen had slipped on his finger at the theater shimmered in the firelight.

Always remember me,
she'd begged.

I will,
he'd lied.

The ring was a glaring reminder of how he'd spent the evening—of how he spent many of his evenings. Refusing to let his conscience tug too long or too forcefully at his better sense, he grabbed for a chair and tried to relax, but neither the chafing presence of the glimmering gold band nor its red gemstone bestowed any peace.

He toyed with the ornate clump of jewelry, rolling it around, then removing it and holding it up to the candle, visually appraising it with the flame as a backdrop. Assessing its authenticity, its purity, he tossed it up and caught it in his palm, judging its weight, wondering whether he should extract the stone from its setting, if the ruby would fetch a greater sum individually, or if he should sell the bauble as a whole.

Unconcerned, and not yet ready to seriously reflect on the matter, he flipped it into a bowl on a nearby table, just as the floor in the corridor creaked, and his father entered. His graying hair was askew, his robe crookedly tied. Floppy woolen socks covered his feet.

"I'd given up on you and went to bed," he mentioned gruffly as he strode in, his voice husky from sleep, his eyes drooping.

As he scratched his chest, and made for the sideboard and his own drink, Gabriel stifled a chuckle. During the day, his father was the ultimate fop, never a hair out of place, never a wrinkle in his clothing or a thread hanging loose. Though he'd been estranged from his family for nearly three decades, he'd been born the fourth son of an earl, and he'd never shed the foundations that were the bedrock of his intrepid, dashing temperament. He was a man of refined, expensive tastes and extravagant, cultivated predilections.

Fastidious, in his carriage, in his behavior, those with whom he regularly interacted would be shocked to view this homey, familiar side of him, the one he reserved solely for his cherished and only son.

"Sorry for the delay."

He pulled up a second chair. "Why aren't you smuggled between a pair of silk sheets with your delightful countess?"

"She had to break it off." Gabriel pressed the back of his hand to his brow in a mimicking imitation of the woman's earlier upset. "She couldn't bear to say adieu, but there was no other course of action she could realistically take."

"Well, you saw that coming."

"No surprise at all," Gabriel concurred.

"When is her husband due in London?"

"Tomorrow," he replied with no small measure of relief.

"Excellent timing."

"Si."

As his father contemplated his glass, Gabriel surreptitiously spied on him. Presumably he was mentally scrolling through the list of reasons he was mollified that Gabriel's most recent intrigue had been ended so painlessly, but blessedly, John would keep his thoughts to himself. Considering John's amorous past, and his diverse romantic foibles, he was hardly in any position to lecture Gabriel, and they both knew it

Besides, their disagreement over Gabriel's earning of their living had been settled long ago. John had no penchant for work, and even if he'd possessed a recognizable calling, he'd never lower himself to engage in commerce. Amazingly, he'd stooped to acting as Gabriel's secretary, but he didn't view his post as a
job;
he saw himself as supporting an artist, which he considered a valid hobby for a man oft his status.

He was an elegant, courtly soul who relished the finer things in life, but who had no notion of how one located the funds to pay for them. John had been in his twenties when he'd been disinherited, and he'd gotten by on his looks and charm, borrowing from friends, or freeloading off paramours, who couldn't bear to refuse him any request.

As a youngster, Gabriel had deduced that John would never be capable of providing them with any stability—-he didn't have the slightest idea how to go about it other than the acceptable gentlemanly pursuits of turning cards or tossing dice—so they would never have any money but what Gabriel generated. Gabriel loved his flamboyant, extravagant father and was willing to employ any method necessary to support him.

After years of honing his talents, he excelled at painting and at seduction, and he used his combined abilities for financial gain—much to John's unceasing chagrin.

His expertise as an artist helped him to initially entice his female clients into an innocuous business relationship, and their patronage supplied the meager remuneration be procured through portraiture. But it was what transpired after the painting sessions commenced that brought in the true bulk of his income. He painted women who were lonely, who were searching for love and respect, and they just happened to be the sort who were generous not only with their affection but also with the contents of their pocketbooks.

For Gabriel, seducement was a game that offered substantial prospects for fiscal enrichment, as well as copious interludes of passionate trysting.

John could scarcely condemn Gabriel for his libidinous proclivities when, as a younger man, John had been a philandering bounder. Age and wisdom had calmed much of his carnal disposition, but Gabriel had grown up observing and learning from the master.

Like father, like son.

John had provided Gabriel with his first lover. His second. His third. John was the one who'd continually extolled the joys of women, the mysteries to be unraveled, the bliss to be had in their arms. Using his own paramours, father had initiated son in the benefits of erotic rapture and, being a dutiful child, Gabriel had toiled strenuously to acquire the skills his father had sought to teach. In the process, he'd developed an affinity for the fairer sex that matched—and perhaps surpassed—his father's.

Following directly in John's footsteps, he loved women. AH types, styles, and kinds. He loved them tall or short, thin or rounded, comely or plain, rich or poor—although in his weaker moments, he could be forced to admit that he definitely preferred them beautiful and wealthy.

Early on, he'd been smitten, mesmerized by their personalities, their quirks, their constitutions. Women were an enigma, a perpetual fascination. His infatuation nearly an obsession, he observed them, he sketched, he painted. Easily, he was charmed by an expanse of soft skin, or the waft of an enchanting perfume, the turn of a head, the lilt of a voice, the sway in a walk. He treasured the lure and the chase, the temptation and the capitulation, the catch and the final fall from grace.

There was nothing quite so rewarding as stumbling upon an affluent, attractive, forlorn female who desperately needed a boost in her self-esteem, or an energizing shot to her flagging pride. Naught restored a woman's confidence and dignity more rapidly than a brief, profound
amore
from which she could walk away at the conclusion having felt valued and cherished.

The women with whom he dallied were miserable, forsaken, badly used by their husbands or others. Victims of their arranged marriages and suffocating environments, they'd never understood or tapped into their base appetites, so they were effortlessly led astray. For years, they suffered silently, dutiful matrons, as their spouses trifled and played with one mistress after the next. They were disgruntled, confused, and discontented with life and their general place in it.

Sadly, they were all seeking reciprocated ardor, tenderness and devotion, that was never received. In their bleak circumstances, they slowly deteriorated, pining away for some scant display of attention and approval, but also for validation that they were mature women with wants, needs, and unfulfilled desires.

With great relish, Gabriel showered them with what they longed for and so much more. He bent over backward to make them feel special, revered, feminine, and rare, and his fondness was never feigned. He thrived on teaching them to trust their sensual inclinations, to revel in their repressed, wanton natures, to indulge their lustful impulses.

In exchange, he gained ample gratification, and not just physically. The monetary rewards could be significant, the dividends of which he was explicitly reminded when John reached over and picked up the ring Gabriel had previously discarded.

"What a gaudy eyesore," he submitted as his opinion. "Her parting
gift?'

"She insisted that I have something to remember her by." Magnanimously, sarcastically, he queried, "Who am I to deprive her when the gesture obviously conferred such immense joy?"

" 'Joy,' indeed!" John huffed, clearly put out by Gabriel's attitude. He examined the ring by the light, much as Gabriel had done when he'd first arrived. "Superb quality," he grumbled. "It will fetch a pretty penny."

"That it will."

John pitched it to Gabriel, and he snared it and stuck it in his pocket, out of sight. Shortly, he'd peddle it, but not before having a duplicate created with an imitation stone and
falso
gold, so that if he ever crossed paths with the exalted Helen again, she would see the piece of jewelry firmly planted on his hand.

"I can't believe you spent so much time with her, and she'd assume that you'd wear such an ostentatious trinket."

"But she didn't really
know
me, now did she?"

He was proficient at inferring what his paramours yearned for in a man, and he could transform himself into whoever they needed him to be. Kind, compassionate, altruistic, firm, fierce, hot-blooded, potent, his ability to adopt different mannerisms was so effective that he might have had a career on the stage if he hadn't been so adept at dabbling with oils.

The effect was that the women grew attached to the man they supposed him to be, rather than the man he actually was. When their liaisons terminated—which he carefully strove to ensure from the inception—they went on their way, presuming him to have been a dream come true when, in reality, he was usually vastly distinct from the person they'd built him up to be in their minds.

But he had no complaints. He brought them gaiety and excitement. In return, they generously gave him things with which they could readily afford to part. Valuables,
oggetti d'arte,
cash, gems, he never refused any of it, because he deemed their largesse as the completion of a simple business transaction: goods tendered for services rendered.

"Is she still interested in having you complete the portrait you started?" John inquired, always the pragmatist.

"Absolutely."

Gabriel didn't add that she'd vowed to hang it where she could constantly gaze upon it, where it would always provoke memories of him. If informed of the depth of the countess's misplaced fondness, his father would fume and fret but, at the same juncture, he would be elated by the news that she was ecstatic over the final product. John was faithfully hoping to augment Gabriel's customer base through referrals by prosperous patrons such as Helen.

On the few occasions when they'd had a capital row on the subject, John contended that Gabriel's compensation should derive exclusively from the paltry amounts produced by the portraiture contracts John negotiated. But what fun would that be?

Gabriel quickly tired of painting the ill-behaved sons and spoiled daughters of the nobility. It was so much more appealing to paint the wives. He became intimately involved with a woman, discovering her fears and inhibitions, the pressures and burdens that ruled her. Long before brush was ever touched to canvas, he passed innumerable hours talking and sketching, establishing an acquaintanceship, and thus attempting to capture the woman's essence.

Meticulously, he peeled away the layers, searching for the person who was hiding beneath the fancy gown, the expensive cologne, and elaborate coiffure. And of course, as he rolled back the emotional mantle, he also stripped away the clothes.

How could he be expected to resist? He was only a mortal man, after all, and he was invariably eager to accept that which was freely and willingly offered.

He adored naked women, how their hips curved, their thighs molded, their breasts shifted. His notion of heaven would be to sit throughout eternity, a sketch pad in hand, a nude model posed before him, as he struggled to exactly record a fleeting look, a subtle glance, a sudden mood.

Ever the realist, John yanked him out of his reverie, "So, you're ready to begin again. Did you have a chance to review the list of names I prepared?"