Cheryl Holt (13 page)

Perchance he was odd, but when he had sex with a woman, he liked to assume he’d been her only lover in the previous twenty-four hours or so. John wasn’t nearly as discriminating, so his feminine associates weren’t usually the sort Ian would solicit when he wanted carnal companionship.

As the intruder stealthily prowled across the floor, he evaluated her, searching for her identity, but it was her beguiling perfume that gave her away.

“Shit,” he muttered, upon recognizing that his brother’s mistress was slinking toward him on silent feet.

What the bloody hell could she want? He loathed her, his aversion plainly apparent and repeatedly displayed.

She approached the bed, and he could see that she was wearing a transparent robe and naught else. It was slack and flowing behind her, the belt untied to reveal the middle of her torso.

Evidently, she was bent on seduction, though he couldn’t figure out why. He hadn’t given her the slightest indication that he might be interested. She was a shrew, a classic manipulator who wangled people and events so that she always got what she wanted, a dragon-lady who ate men alive.

Even had she been unattached, he wouldn’t have been attracted to her and, as it was, she had been his brother’s paramour for over two years.

Ian had few scruples where John was concerned, and had committed many unforgivable sins against him, but he drew the line at cuckolding. In his own distorted fashion, John had been a trusted friend, and a fine sibling, so cohabiting with his mistress seemed beyond the pale.

Besides, though John denied any fondness, it was possible that he harbored some affection for the sly vixen. He’d kept on with her much longer than he should have, despite Ian’s urging for caution, so he must feel some affinity—though with John, one never knew for sure what he was thinking.

Perhaps he’d continued to provide for her solely because few ladies could match her in beauty or poise. Or perhaps it was her purported skill in the bedchamber, where she was reputed to be amenable to performing any obscene act. There was something to be said for a woman who had no qualms about what she did with her body. Gazing upon her brought on dozens of libidinous
notions and, although he couldn’t stand her, his cock stirred.

“Ian,” she crooned enticingly, sounding exactly like the expensive whore she was, “are you awake?”

“Yes, Georgina, I’m awake.”

She advanced on the bed and had the audacity to perch her shapely hip on the mattress. “I must speak with you.”

Well, well, wasn’t this intriguing? What could the curvaceous wench be up to? Her hand crept out to rest on his thigh, and involuntarily, his randy anatomy responded. He raised his knee, not wanting her to detect how his phallus had swelled and tented the bedclothes.

“About what?”

“I need your help with John.”

She hadn’t asked for it before—she wouldn’t have dared—and he masked a smile. She was the most mercenary witch he’d ever encountered, and if John was plaguing her, it had to do with money. Or her sudden fear that he might quit giving it to her. It was the only incentive that would cause her to debase herself by seeking him out.

What had happened? Had she finally pushed John too far? Demanded too much? Bitched too loudly?

“How could I
help
you with John?” He didn’t give a hoot as to how John might have vexed her, but he was curious as to where her supplication would lead.

“He’s told me that . . . that I must return to London.” She leaned in, her bounteous breasts swinging out so that her nipples were bared and, as she’d unmistakably intended for him to do, he looked his fill.

Ooh, what a delight it would be to suckle one of those elongated tips!

“Everyone’s going.”

“But he can’t mean to include me.”

“His instructions were very explicit.”

Actually, John had been royally pissed that Ian had told the entire, sordid crew to withdraw in the morning, but Ian had discounted his diatribe. Ian liked how Emma Fitzgerald had John running around in circles and jumping to attention, and it humored him to see the two of them sparring. Plus, the frisky Miss Fitzgerald suited Ian’s purposes.

When she’d insisted the slackers be expelled, he’d agreed without hesitating, knowing John would be irked, but not giving a rat’s ass.

From the day they’d begun making travel plans, Ian had adjudged it a bad idea for John to bring his cadre of hangers-on, but he hadn’t been able to dissuade John. The rowdy crowd was a distraction that kept John from getting down to business so that they could finish and leave with all due haste. Ian detested the estate, having to witness firsthand and up close what could have been his had his parents wed, and he had no predilection to remain a minute longer than necessary.

If he had other—more dubious—reasons for wanting a speedy exit, he tried not to reflect on his personal motives.

Though John valiantly struggled to hide his abilities, he had a shrewd head for financial dealings, and it simply wouldn’t do to have him delving into the ledgers too deeply. There was no telling what he might determine if he sobered up and accomplished more than a cursory mathematical analysis.

A rapid departure was best for all parties.

“But I had thought”—her hand slid up, loitering over the spot where he’d love to have it arrive, and mesmerized, he watched it slither on—“you could talk to him for me.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Because you care for him, and so do I.” In a practiced move, she wet her bottom lip. “I’m willing to stay.”

How ludicrous for her to claim that she
cared
for John! For his fortune, maybe. And his position and the status it gave her in the demimonde. “You hate it here.”

“I’ll make the sacrifice. For him.”

She didn’t have a benevolent bone in her body, so what was really going on? “John doesn’t need you.”

“But what of his manly . . .
drives
? He requires regular entertainment.”

“He’ll fuck anybody, Georgie,” he crudely pointed out. “If that’s why you want me to believe you should tarry, you’re not making a very good case of it.”

“But who could satisfy him as I can?” To demonstrate how consequential she could be, she brushed his erection then moved on, up his stomach, to his chest, where she brazenly toyed with his nipple.

“He’ll snare himself a country lass. There are plenty about who’ll tumble a viscount.” His comments were deliberately goading, and she could hardly refrain from reverting to form with a caustic reply, but she reined in her temper, keeping herself in check until she could coerce him into an alliance.

“He’s already found one! As if he should lower himself to copulating with some vicar’s
daughter
.”

Ian grinned. She was jealous! Of Emma Fitzgerald! How absolutely hilarious!

When he’d viewed John in the library with Miss Fitzgerald, he’d perceived a strong connection between them, and obviously Georgina had, too. John was infatuated, but then, he was enchanted by anything with breasts and legs. John had many faults, but in spite of his notorious reputation and behavior, he wasn’t so idiotic that he would compromise the perspicacious female. He knew better; he understood his place and hers.

Still, to ascertain that Georgie felt threatened by the rural virago was a marvelous discovery. How could he use the information to her detriment?

“She is exceptionally pretty,” he needled. “I noticed that John seemed smitten.”

“We can’t let her work her wiles on him. We’ll both lose out if he falls victim to her charms.”

Ian chafed at the insinuation. Georgina was laboring under the common misconception about his relationship with John: that Ian maintained his elevated circumstance through John’s beneficence.

No one stopped to ponder whether Ian might have his own funds, and that he resided with John because he chose to. The arrangement was extremely lucrative, but he wouldn’t explain himself to the likes of Georgina Howard.

Clearly, she assumed he was an ally. “What would you have me do?”

“Prevail on him to let me stay. I know you can. He respects you; he’ll do what you say.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“You’d be surprised.” A suggestive brow rose in invitation.

How desperate was she? How far would she progress in her attempts to secure herself with John? “I suppose you could try to convince me.”

Arrogantly, she smirked, confident she could subordinate him with her sexual prowess, but she didn’t realize he could see her facial expressions in the shadows.

What a witch!

She bent over, licked and sucked his nipple, then she kissed a hot trail down his abdomen, dallying at his navel, sequentially prodding the blankets away until his cockstand surged up to greet her waiting lips. With a
salient detachment, he observed as one might a sporting contest between two unfamiliar players, and he had to concede that she was fantastic at her trade, utilizing her tongue and teeth in myriad ways that incited him to recklessness.

No wonder John kept her around. She was exhaustingly adept.

As she opened wide and took him far inside, her silky auburn hair swished across his stomach and thighs, her fingers deftly massaged his balls, his ass, and he luxuriated in the sensations that shot through his loins. His hips began to flex, and he thrust into her with great relish.

Cuckoldry wasn’t so bad after all! Surely, John would absolve him if he learned of the indiscretion. It had been a while since he’d philandered, so the release would be welcome, and it would take scant effort to spew himself in her throat.

For a few minutes, he exercised his excessive control while he seriously debated the pros and cons of letting go, then he came to his senses. He abhorred Georgina, and he could definitely find better locations to deposit his seed than in her lying, crafty, treacherous mouth.

Immediately, he calmed, shielding his emotions—an artificiality at which he was notably proficient—then he pulled her away as though she’d had no effect on him.

Baffled by his disinclination, she sat up, frowning.

“What is it, darling?” she cooed.

“I’m not in the mood.”

Her lovers never spurned her, and she wasn’t certain how to react. Glowering, she reached for his cock again, ready to commence anew. “Let me try to—”

“Georgie”—he chuckled meanly—“you could go
down on me for the rest of my life, and you’d never persuade me to betray John.” On his own, he was perfectly capable of duplicitous conduct toward his brother. He didn’t need her assistance.

She studied his cool demeanor, his apathetic mien, and it dawned on her that she’d been duped. “You hadn’t contemplated helping me.”

“No.”

“You were using me!”

“You’re such a whore.”

“You bastard!”

“Now, now,” he flippantly admonished, “be careful what you imply about my mother.”

She lashed out and tried to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist to forestall the blow. His own temper raging, he yanked her close so she could get an undiminished glimpse of how much he despised her.

“I’m not John,” he warned. “If you hit me, I’ll hit you back.” He shoved her so that she skidded off the bed and stumbled to her feet. “Get out of my room, and don’t bother me again with your shenanigans.”

Furious, she sputtered and stammered, finally blustering, “I’ll tell John what we did. I’ll say you instigated it.”

“Have at it,” he countered casually. “He’ll be thrilled to know how disposed you are to sleep around—while he’s paying through the nose for your exclusive company.”

She paled, her magnificent bosom heaving, not having considered that Ian might have no qualms about confessing the incident to John.

“I hate you.” Seething, she stormed out, her ire so vicious that he could only speculate as to how and when she’d retaliate.

With the door shut, he snuggled under the covers,
and his unsated cockstand demanded alleviation. He took himself in hand, positive that he’d achieve more pleasure on his own than he could with any of the women of his acquaintance.

John dawdled by the window, gazing across the rear lawn to the break in the trees where Emma, bearing down on him much like the wrath of God, had come marching out of the woods the previous day. After her arrival, he wasn’t exactly sure what had happened between them. He couldn’t describe or characterize events, or the lingering sense of expectation he’d enjoyed in planning for their next rendezvous.

When she’d charged into his library, he’d been hungover and miserable, and she’d scraped raw his flaws by scolding and chastising him in a fashion that no one ever had. She’d made him feel terrible, like the rogue he usually was, and he’d really and truly wanted to make it up to her.

There was something about her that urged him to decent comportment. Perhaps it was her refusal to accept his penchant for indolence and vice, or the temerity she possessed to inform him when he was behaving boorishly. It was fun to watch and listen to her, to witness so much passion bubbling out.

She was a veritable volcano of potent sentiment. On every topic.

And she was so damned sexy. Which was craziness. What man in his right mind would be titillated by such impudence and sass?

They’d almost made love in the library, but before they could, she’d dragged him upstairs for breakfast and a bath. Then, he’d nearly had her again, but she’d had
an attack of panic that had prevented them from proceeding to the logical conclusion.

As a result, he was testy, cranky, irritable. He was stunningly popular with the ladies, and he couldn’t remember when he’d had one rebuff his advances, yet Emma had. Twice!

He’d overwhelmed her and needed to slow down, to woo her so that she was comfortable with the notion of their becoming lovers. If he pressed, she would honor their signed agreement, but he didn’t want her to acquiesce merely because she felt compelled by their asinine contract.

He’d had enough of paid paramours and disinterested partners.

For once, he wanted to join with a woman simply for the joy of it, for the jollity and delight it would render to his sorry condition. It had been a long while since he’d encountered someone who cared for him. Emma did. She was cognizant of his defects and failings, but she liked him anyway, and her esteem was like a breath of fresh air.