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Authors: Cheryl Holt

BOOK: Promise of Pleasure
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“Hello, Mrs. Stewart.” He nodded in a lazy, smug way that carried a hint of derision. “May I join you?”
For the briefest instant, she thought about denying his request, but courtesy prevented her from being rude.
“If you wish.”
He entered and sauntered over; he walked so gracefully—like an athlete or a dancer—that it was impossible not to watch him. He pulled out a chair and sat across from her, the glow of the candle accenting the planes of his perfect face, his golden hair, and his mesmerizing brown eyes.
He looked angelic, but appearances could be deceiving, and she’d heard stories about him.
As a gambler and drunkard, he prided himself on his low reputation. He exuded devious intent, always scheming to the detriment of others, and she had no desire to add her name to his growing list of victims.
“I’ve removed my coat,” he mentioned. “You won’t swoon, will you?”
“I’m hardly the type.”
“Good. I can’t abide a timid woman.” He noted her brandy glass and raised a brow. “Where is the bottle?”
She indicated the sideboard, and he went over and poured himself a glass.
Since he’d arrived with Redvers, she’d avoided him like the plague. They’d scarcely conversed, which was fine by her.
He was tall and lithe, his shoulders wide, his legs long, and he was too handsome, when she didn’t like handsome men. They made her nervous; they reminded her of how her life might have gone if she’d chosen a different path, if matrimony hadn’t been held out as such an imperative, lofty goal.
“Did you have trouble sleeping?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it a common affliction for you?”
“Yes,” she said again.
She didn’t enlighten him as to the fact that, before her wedding, she’d slept like a baby. It was only afterward that insomnia had become a constant companion.
He gestured to her cards. “Do you like to play?”
“It passes the time.”
“It certainly does.”
He took the deck and shuffled it as he silently studied her, his probing gaze digging deep, and she didn’t like how she was being assessed. He seemed to be calculating the odds or plotting her downfall. He seemed to peer straight to the center of her cold, black heart.
She’d once been a fairly happy, animated person. Now, she didn’t feel anything. Not joy. Not anger. Not humor. She was dead inside.
“I’d heard,” he said, “that your husband left you broke and miserable. Is it true?”
“How tactless of you to inquire.”
“I’m not much for fussy manners. If I want to know something, I ask. Isn’t my method better than gossiping about you behind your back?”
He had a point, but she wouldn’t concede it to him. “
Manners
are exhibited for a reason, Mr. Adair. Perhaps you should reconsider.”
“Or perhaps not.” He flashed a roguish grin. “I also heard that he was a perverted ass. Was he?”
“He could be.”
“You poor girl.”
His sympathy appeared genuine, but with him it was impossible to tell. He was a master at deception, a complete fraud.
She shrugged. “I survived. It’s more than some women can say.”
“Yes, it is. And now, you’ve run home to your mum. What is your plan? Will you fritter away the rest of your life, hiding in the country with her? Having met Mrs. Barnes, I offer my condolences.”
He gave a mock shudder, which made Cassandra smile.
“It could have been worse,” she said. “I could have had nowhere to go at all. At least my mother was willing to take me in.”
“And if she’d slammed the door in your face, what then?”
“I don’t know.”
He relaxed in his chair, pretending to be intrigued by her responses. He seemed to be flirting with her, but then, he flirted with everyone.
London drawing rooms were purportedly littered with inconsolable women whom he’d loved and abandoned. He had a way of looking at a female that made her ponder things she had no business pondering, and Cassandra was perturbed to discover that she wasn’t immune to his significant charm.
After the welcomed end to her marriage, she’d told herself that she would never again entertain romantic notions. Yet Adair merely stared at her, and her pulse was fluttering like a debutante’s.
“I don’t understand,” he commented, “how you could leave Town and move back here. Aren’t you bored out of your mind?”
“Occasionally.”
“What do you do to amuse yourself?”
“I walk. I read. I sew.”
“How about if I shoot you and put you out of your misery?”
She chuckled. “It’s not that unbearable.”
“You’re very pretty,” he said, the compliment not unusual. She’d always been beautiful.
“Thank you.”
“Are you living like a nun? Or have you a dozen secret lovers?”
She’d just taken a sip of brandy, and at his voicing the audacious remark, she swallowed wrong, and she coughed and sputtered.
“You are the most impertinent man I’ve ever met.”
“Have you?” he pressed.
“Have I what?”
“A lover.”
“Gad, no.”
“Would you like one?”
The conversation was becoming more bizarre by the second. Did adults actually conduct themselves so brazenly? She was a widow but still had scant idea of how grown-ups behaved.
“Are you offering your services?” she asked.
“Yes. Depending on how long Redvers dithers over your sister, I may be here an entire month. It’s an eternity for me to go without carnal companionship, and I’d hate to have to start chasing after the housemaids.”
“So if I agreed, I’d be doing you a favor?”
“Yes. When I’m without a paramour, I get cranky.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
“No. We definitely wouldn’t.”
He picked up the deck, shuffled it, then dealt them each a card, facedown. “Let’s play. High card wins.”
“Wins what?”
“Are the stones in your necklace real?”
“Yes.”
“Then if I have the high card, I win your necklace.”
“You can’t have it. And besides, I’ve heard that you cheat, so why would I gamble with you?”
“Maybe—deep down—you’d like to give me exactly what I want.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He scooted his chair so that it was right next to hers, and he leaned in, effectively blocking any chance she had of escape.
She probably should have been afraid, but she perceived no danger. He was challenging her, or daring her, and she sensed that she could tell him to desist and he would. To her amazement, a flicker of excitement kindled in her belly.
He was so close, and she suffered from the most insane impression that he was about to kiss her.
Would she let him? Should she let him?
Although she’d been wed and widowed, she’d never been kissed. Her deceased husband had had no amorous tendencies. There had been one thing he’d sought from her, and he’d taken it without seduction or delay.
What would it be like to be kissed by a man who was eager to? By a man who knew how?
“I’m going to win your necklace,” he said, “then I’ll go after your clothes—until I have them all.”
The image of herself being stripped, a garment at a time, was so shocking and so intriguing that she trembled.
“You are mad,” she charged.
“Why would you say so?”
“I would never remove my clothes for you.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
His hand had been carefully placed on her knee, and he dipped under her chin to nibble at her nape. Goose bumps cascaded down her arms.
She groaned in agony, not knowing what to do. She wanted him to leave her be, but her entire body was ablaze.
“I’ll be here a month,” he murmured. “A whole month.”
It sounded like a promise; it sounded like a threat. It would be heaven; it would be hell. She pushed him away and stood.
“I don’t want this from you,” she insisted.
“Liar.”
He smirked, his wicked smile hinting at the paradise she’d dreamed of as a girl but had never found as a married woman.
She spun and fled.
 
“REDVERS?”
“What?”
Lauretta Bainbridge loitered in the doorway that separated his bedchamber and his dressing room. She’d checked her reflection in the mirror, so she knew she looked fabulous, but he hadn’t noticed.
She was wearing a new negligee her seamstress had brought over from Paris. It was made of red silk, cut low in the bodice to bare most of her breasts, yet she couldn’t get him to turn around. He was lost in thought, perched by the window and staring out across the park.
“Jordan!” she grumbled, exasperated and trying not to snap at him.
He glanced over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“You’re being positively boring.” She affected a credible pout.
“Yes, I am. Sorry.”
He gazed out the window again, not the least bit repentant, and she couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him.
Ever since that frumpy spinster, Mary Barnes, had caused her scene in the parlor, he’d been very glum, which was so unlike him. Usually, he couldn’t care less about what other people said or did, but for some reason, Miss Barnes had left him in a state.
Well, Lauretta wasn’t about to have her evening spoiled by the likes of Mary Barnes.
She sauntered over and snuggled herself to him, her front to his back, but he didn’t react. He was completely impassive, and his behavior was frightening.
Was he growing weary of her? The notion made her ill.
They were a perfect pair. He was so dissolute, and she was so greedy, eager to give him what he wanted so she could get what
she
wanted. They’d both been happy with their arrangement. She still was, and though Lord Sunderland had cut off Jordan’s allowance, the funds would flow soon—either from his father or from Felicity.
For five long years, Lauretta had stood with him through thick and thin, through poverty and plenty, and she’d never once failed to satisfy his every whim. So what the bloody hell was his problem?
She reached around and caressed his stomach, but he stepped away, his arms crossed over his chest as a barrier to her snuggling herself to him again.
“Now that you’ve met Felicity,” he absurdly asked, “do you still believe I should marry her?”
“Absolutely, darling. Why wouldn’t you?”
“She’s so young, and she’s so ... so ... stupid. She annoys me with her chatter.”
“So? We discussed this. You wed her, you receive her money, you dump her in a house far out in the country, and you never have to see her again.”
“It’s so calculated.”
“Of course it is. It’s
marriage.
It’s always premeditated for personal gain.”
“I’m just . . . just . . .”
He paused, having the strangest look on his face, and his vacillation alarmed her.
Though he had to pick a bride, Lauretta was determined that it be a match without affection or even cordiality so that there would be no threat to Lauretta’s position as his mistress. She’d chosen Felicity, had promoted her to him, and she couldn’t have him getting cold feet.
“Think how much fun your wedding night will be,” she counseled. “Think how much fun you’ll have screwing your rich virgin. I’ll even help you if you’d like.” She neared and hugged him. “Does the idea excite you? Would you like to see Felicity and me together? I’d do it for you; you know I would.”
“The thought of fornicating with her is revolting to me, and should the moment ever come to pass, I would never allow you to participate.”
Lauretta sighed. He would have sex with anyone, in any configuration, so his ill humor was very dangerous, indeed.
“You seem terribly fatigued, Jordan. Why don’t you lie down and let me relax you?”
She stroked his phallus, stroked it again, then stopped.
The bastard wasn’t even hard!
She clutched at his trousers, anxious to slip a hand inside and provide a bit of encouragement, but he grabbed her wrist.
“Not tonight,” he said for the first time ever. “I’m not in the mood.”
The peculiar phrase raced around the room like the kiss of death. What was bothering him? Was he sick? Exhausted? Insane?
Something had disturbed him, but what was it? He was a disgusting, immoral libertine and always had been. He couldn’t go changing on her. She wouldn’t permit it, and the sooner she ascertained the cause of his sulk, the better for all concerned.
 
“HE’LL propose, won’t he, Mother?”
“Yes, he will.”
Victoria rested against her pillows, watching Felicity braid her hair as they prepared for bed. She’d spent much of the past decade in the same spot, parlaying over marriage with her daughters, and it had become an evening ritual.
“Do you promise?”
“Yes.”
“What if you’re mistaken?”
“I’m not.”
“All the other girls will be so jealous.”
“Yes, they will,” Victoria smugly agreed.
“In the end, if he cries off, I’ll die. I’ll just die!”
“Don’t worry so much,” Victoria advised. “He’s desperate. He needs your dowry so badly that I wouldn’t be surprised if he got down on his hands and knees and begged me to give it to him.”
Felicity had had her debut the previous year, and they’d dawdled through two Seasons, hoping for an aristocrat to come sniffing after her money. She’d had many, many offers—from merchants, from destitute gentlemen, from clergy and soldiers—but she’d refused them all.
With the arrival of Jordan Winthrop, Victoria’s prayers had been answered. She, herself, had once dreamed of a noble match, but she’d been sold by her father to a lower societal rung, and she’d never recovered from the shame of it.
As a result, she was determined that her own daughters would never suffer the same fate. She was using the fortune of her loathed, dead, common husband to see them married as they deserved.

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