Princes of Charming (5 page)

The dratted matchmaker, hired to shackle his son with a nightmare society bride, was not supposed to look like this. She was meant to be as wide as she was tall, possibly as old as Eve, and to smell like a Lancashire hotpot. He had it all prepared in his imagination when he set out to confront her.

Then
she
came and set everything arse over heel.

An affair was the last thing in his plans, but he had a feeling that if he let her leave the Dalton that afternoon without trying to seduce her, he'd regret it for the rest of his no-good, rotten life. He watched her drink tea with her little finger arched, her lashes demurely lowered. She could be sipping tea in a vicarage parlor, not sharing her table with a notorious rebel, putting herself in scandal's way.

Mrs. Kent, to put it mildly, was a complication. She was going to cause him problems, because he couldn't stop looking at her, he was already aroused and she was stubbornly pretending not to notice. But he didn't have time for this. His trip to London was to be brief, all business. Family business.

It was only a fortnight since he received the letter from Nicky's grandmother, telling him of a marriage being arranged for his son. Why the old lady communicated with him after more than twenty years of silence he had no idea. Her letter came out of the blue and he'd had to rush to catch the boat from Argentina, so that put him in a bad mood from the beginning. The moment he disembarked, he raced to London. He'd had no time since arriving in London to visit a barber, get a shave, get properly dressed.

Of course, he hadn't expected a woman like this one to sit down at his table and jerk her gloves off so hard it made his eyes water.

Damn! His cock would not lie down.

"I have no intention of causing your son harm, Mr. Wilder. I only want to find him the perfect wife, as I was tasked by your father."

He curled her notebook away into the palm of his hand—it fit there nicely. "What does my father know about wives?" He leaned toward her over the tea-cups and the shattered poinsettia plant. "My father, Mrs. Kent, was born with ambition, but no balls. I'm sure you figured that out already and you're laughing behind his back, taking his money and walking all over him, just like everyone else does."

"Just like you did?"

The damn woman looked smug now, stirring lavish amounts of sugar into her tea, long lashes lowered again, casting shadows on her cheeks. He cleared his throat and said sharply, "Captain Wilder thinks a man can be happy only if he's rich. He married my mother purely in hopes of getting his hands on the Charming fortune. His second wife was also from wealth and, from what I remember, never gave him a moment's joy. They practically lived separate lives, because he had no idea how to fulfill her needs and she had no desire to fulfill his. I understand he's spent most of the money now anyway on foolish attempts to fit in where he is not wanted, only tolerated. Even that tolerance must be on borrowed time."

He wondered why he bothered trying to explain, but before this woman his thoughts tumbled out like coins from a hole in his pocket.

"Perhaps, if your father is such a bad judge of women, that's why he's concerned for Nicholas."

"His
concern
is for the Charming fortune and his own status."

"There could be many motives, Mr. Wilder, for your father to want his grandson well married. Why you immediately assume his intentions are bad, is much to do with your character and his, but I am not here to mend family feuds. I am only here for your son's contentment."

"And the money. What's my father paying you for your services?"

"That is a matter between he and I."

Would she ever give a straight-forward answer to a question, he wondered.

Why not find out? What did he have to lose?

He leaned across the teacups again, almost knocking over the two-tiered cake platter. "Come upstairs to my room and we'll do a deal, you and I."

"A deal?"

"Enjoy the afternoon with me and I'll give your notebook back. I don't care for cake, but I'd very much like to eat your sweet pussy until you scream these elegant walls down."

She spooned even more sugar into her milky tea, but that was the only sign of anything amiss. Most women would pale or blush scarlet at his brazen suggestion. She did neither. "I thought Nicholas was upstairs in your room."

It took him a moment. He'd expected a slapped face at the very least, but she sipped her tea, her expression unchanged.

"I lied," he admitted finally with a quick shrug. "I sent him a message to meet you at Claridges instead. I suppose that's where he is now, waiting for his matchmaker."

She set her cup in the saucer with a crisp chink and gathered up the contents of her reticule. "I'm going now. Good afternoon Mr.—"

"Drink your tea. It's getting cold." He smirked. "People are looking."

"As if you care. You clearly enjoy making a scene."

"But you don't."

Her shoulder relaxed an inch and she picked up her teacup again, apparently forgetting she was ready to leave.

"Have a cake," he urged, sliding one of the pretty fondant mouthfuls onto her plate. "I know you want one. I see you have a sweet-tooth. Go ahead." He smiled. "Since I'll be loosening your corset in a few minutes, you can manage one little cake."

"You're very self-assured, Mr. Wilder."

"I've wanted to taste you since you walked into the room," he added softly, tapping her little notebook on the tablecloth and then sliding it away inside his jacket. "I have the most intense desire to feel my cock all the way inside you and I'm going to have it there, one way or the other." He paused, grinned. "Perhaps both ways."

"I told you there is nothing important in that book." She lifted her little cake fork, her gaze sweeping guiltily to the side, probably to check whether anyone still watched. "I don't care if you keep it. You will learn nothing."

Another fib, he mused, watching her little pearl earrings tremble as she took her first dainty bite from the fork. Her movements were very precise. Like those of someone who'd studied, practiced, perfected. As if her mannerisms were all acquired, none of them bred in her or coming naturally. She took one more bite, swallowed and then set her fork down.

"Look inside the notebook then," she challenged boldly. "See for yourself."

But he'd seen the flutter of anxiety deep in her eyes the moment he picked the book up. She'd been quicker at reaching for it than at doing anything else and when he beat her to it, he heard the angry inhale between her teeth before she composed herself again. He knew she wouldn't carry that book around with her unless she had somewhere more secure to leave it. Evidently she felt safer with it on her person, and she carried very few things—only necessities.

"Mrs. Kent," he said softly. "Do come upstairs and enjoy an afternoon's recreation with me."

"What recreation could you have in mind?"

"Fucking."

"How very....straightforward and Anglo-Saxon."

He watched her lips as she licked them. "You won't be sorry."

"Since we're being very forthright, I can tell you this—I don't fuck."

"You mean, not currently? For how long?"

"My dear, departed husband," she replied curtly, "passed away six years ago."

"Really? Then you must be in need. Spend the afternoon with me and then you can have your notebook back."

She blinked, rolled her lips together, sucked in her cheeks.

"Just one afternoon," he coaxed gently, "and you and I never have to meet again. In fact, nobody need know we ever met."

"Forgive me, I have a skeptical soul."

"Does anyone here know you?" he demanded.

The woman glanced around the dining room and then shook her head.

"See? We can have a perfectly carefree few hours in my suite. Then you get your book back."

"What about Nicholas?"

"At Claridges, probably flirting with someone he met there, while waiting for you." He smiled. "Like father, like son."

Perhaps he ought to tell her he wasn't really that boy's father, but he and Nick's mother were the only souls who knew the truth and he'd promised to keep the secret. Now, after twenty one years of pretending, he often forgot Nick wasn't really his son. He had no plans to marry and sire legitimate offspring of his own, so why shouldn't the abandoned boy be his heir? Despite the scandal, the Charming family had embraced the child whole-heartedly. Thanks to Nick's existence, Brandon's duty for the future generation was done, leaving him free and unfettered to enjoy his life without a nagging, sulking wife anywhere near it.

This strange creature - this
Mrs. Kent
— was anxious to keep her secrets, so he'd keep his.

Watching her face, he reached inside his jacket for the little notebook. "I could just take a look at this...." He flipped it open. In a split second her hand reached across and came down on his, flattening the book before he could read it.

"Very well," she whispered tautly. "We'll discuss this in private."

"Excellent idea, Mrs. Kent." He smiled broadly. "But do please finish your cake. Plenty of time."

At the thought of the afternoon ahead of them a jolt of desire teased his cock. Did she have some sort of magic in her possession? With one cool glance she'd teased his serpent into life like an Indian snake charmer. He was going to enjoy this very much. So was she. 

Five in the Afternoon

November 22nd

"Mr. Wilder, let's get another thing straight," she spun around as she entered the suite, "I am not..."

He was very close on her heels, shutting the door behind him. "Not what?"

"The sort of woman you appear to assume I am."

But she'd seen the way he studied the items she carried in her reticule. Who knew what he'd concluded about her. He was very observant. Look how he'd picked apart even the way she removed her gloves!

"You are, however, a very tightly bound lady," he muttered. "In need of an afternoon's recreational delights. In my hands." He reached up and began to unpin her hat. Drusilla quickly brushed him aside and did it herself, walking away from him at the same time, casting a quick eye over the room. Very nice for a man who supposedly lived life on the edge. Clearly he still liked his comforts and must have found a way to afford them.

She tossed her hat and reticule onto the couch. "What have you been doing all these years away? Your father didn't seem to know much."

"I'm surprised he even mentioned me." Already his fingers skipped with agility over his waistcoat buttons. Like his son he wasted no time, she mused wryly. Couldn't help wondering if he shared certain other attributes with Nicholas. Her gaze wandered down his tall length. He was not so lean as his son. His shoulders were broader, his form much more solid, his skin darkened by the sun of foreign climes, but he had the same breezy manner, same arrogance, same determination in the set of his jaw. "I spent my time away working, Mrs. Kent. Had to earn my living. I worked in a mine in the jungles of Brazil for a time. I also worked on the railroad. See these hands." He briefly held them up for her perusal. "Not the soft, lily-white hands of an English gentleman are they? I wonder which you prefer."

She did not reply.

Soon his waistcoat and shirt were flung aside and he stood before her in only his worn corduroy trousers. The bulge stretching from groin to navel was impressive. One might even say...indulgent.

"May I have my notebook now?" she asked coolly, while inside, under her drawers, she was anything but cold.

"Not yet." He followed her around the couch. "In a while."

Drusilla waited and let him reach her. It was rare for her to take the passive path of least resistance, but here she was quite incapable of preventing what happened. She was incapable because... she wanted it.
Oh, hellfire and damnation! Why did he have to tempt her?

When he snapped out, "Take off your jacket," she did so gladly, already beginning to feel the heat of desire, turning to perspiration under her clothes.

To her surprise his hands did not go to the buttons down the back of her blouse. Instead he lifted her skirts and petticoats. "Bend over the couch, Mrs. Kent." He was right behind her, his groin pressed against her bustle, his hands on her waist.

She knew it would be almost impossible in her rigid corset. "No
please?
We're not in the jungle now, Mr. Wilder."

He chuckled deeply. It went right through her, like a glass of intoxicating wine. "Of course! How remiss of me. I've been so long away from society. I really must remember my manners."

"Yes. You should." Might as well teach him something while she was there. "What about my corset?"

"If you're a good girl, I'll let you loosen it. Eventually," he whispered, his warm breath brushing her ear, shaking the little pearl earring. He moved his hips, grinding against her backside. Even through all her ruffles she felt that enormous erection, still trapped inside his trousers, raring to be freed. Something caught in her throat. She didn't know if it was fear, anxiety or joyful anticipation. Her pussy moistened rapidly, having no qualm about what it was willing to take on.