Reckless (15 page)

“Lady Whitmore,” he said, and his voice sounded weary, “there is very little about you that is genuine. You aren't the strumpet you wish you were. In fact, you are a kind woman who loves Montague very much, and for that I'm grateful.”

“You have no cause nor right to be grateful,” she said, her languor vanishing. “My affection for Monty has nothing to do with you.” She tried to pull her hand free, but his grip tightened, and she was right. He was quite strong.

“True. But my feelings are my own. I reserve the right to feel anything I wish. Gratitude, disapproval, desire.”

Her laugh was supposed to be light and airy. Instead it sounded bitter even to her own ears. “You don't feel desire, remember, Vicar?”

“I don't give in to desire. It doesn't mean I don't feel it quite profoundly. Unlike you.”

She froze. “Don't be ridiculous. As you put it so elegantly, I spread my legs for anyone. I like to sleep with men. Is that so hard to believe? You think only men feel sexual desire?”

“I think women feel sexual desire quite strongly. I just don't think you do. You're a fake, a poseur, Lady Whitmore. You may open your legs, for whatever twisted reason you have, but you never open your heart.”

Since he wasn't releasing her hand, she moved closer still, pressing her body up against his, her
anger overcoming every other feeling that might have tempered it. “Spare me your homilies, Vicar, they make me ill.” She rubbed up against him, like a cat in heat, mocking him, but as he released her hand he caught her arms, putting her away from him. But not before she felt the unmistakable outline of his erection.

“My, my… It seems the legendary holy man vow of celibacy might be ready to take a tumble. Unless you walk around with a spyglass tucked in your breeches. It seems you want me to spread my legs for
you
.” Her smile was mocking as she waited for him to push her away.

He wouldn't pull her back, she knew she was safe. She didn't want someone like Simon Pagett in her bed—he saw her with uncomfortable clarity. She preferred drunken lordlings and—

“I gave up meaningless couplings outside of marriage for reasons you couldn't possibly understand.”

“Try me. And I do mean that.”

“No,” he said flatly.

“There it is again.
No. Don't. Never.
You really should find new words. Like
Yes. Do. Always.
”

His fingers tightened, and he was going to kiss her. His grip was almost painful, and he lifted her off her feet, pulling her closer, and she wanted this kiss more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. His hands hurt her, though she doubted he realized
what he was doing, and she closed her eyes, waiting for his mouth to meet hers.

And then she found herself plopped down on the floor, unceremoniously. “I refuse to play your games, Lady Whitmore.”

She should have left well enough alone. He was far more of a danger to her equilibrium than the men she slept with—he had the capability of destroying all her hard-won defenses. But she couldn't stop herself.

“Coward,” she said.

Monty let out a soft snore. Before she realized what was happening, Simon had grabbed her arms again and pushed her outside the tall French doors, out onto the stone terrace in the early-morning light. He pushed her up against the stone facing, holding her there, and put his mouth on hers.

It was astonishing. It was full-mouthed, seething with lust and abandon, and for a moment she froze. She'd been kissed like that before, and she knew all the tricks of a measured response. But those clever tricks evaporated, and she closed her eyes, sinking, sinking. He kissed her with a fierce hunger that shook her to her bones, a deep, carnal kiss that was more sexual than anything she'd done in her entire life.

He lifted his head, glaring down at her. “You think I don't feel desire, Lady Whitmore? That's not a trout inside my breeches. You think I don't want you? You're the only woman to make me this crazy in ten years. You think I couldn't betray my
conscience and take you standing up against the wall, right here, right now? Damn you.”

He gave her a little shake, and she let out a small, a very small murmur of distress.

“But you don't fool me. You don't like men, you don't like sex, which is far worse than simply being a loose woman. You don't even get pleasure out of the act.”

“I get—” Her denial was immediate, but he cut her off.

“No, you don't. Which is why I'm not going to betray everything I believe in, in service to whatever sick game you like to play. I won't do it. Damn you.” He pulled her back into his arms, and she looked up at him, torn, confused, longing. “Damn you,” he said again, just a whisper, and his mouth found hers.

The kiss was gentle this time, but there was nothing innocent about it. It was sweet and sexual, a kiss of such unbridled longing that it frightened her, and she reached up, meaning to push him away, but instead her arms went around his neck and pulled him closer, down to her, losing herself in the wonder of his mouth.

It was amazing that anything could penetrate the sudden, unexpected, sweet haze of longing that swept over her as he wrapped his arms around her. Just her name, in a hoarse whisper, and she yanked herself away, expecting that Monty had woken up.

Instead she saw three figures at the end of the wide terrace. Two liveried figures, and a limp, berobed woman in between. Charlotte.

A
drian Rohan lounged in the chair, surveying the busy club with a jaundiced eye. There was a great deal of noise coming from the faro table, where someone had clearly just won or lost a fortune. Normally Adrian would have risen and strolled over to see who had changed their life, at least for the day, but he was bored, restless, annoyed. Gaming had lost its charm for him, wine its taste, sex its delight. For the past three weeks Etienne had tried to interest him in his old pursuits, but nothing managed to entertain him. He'd made an effort, letting his father's cousin drag him off to the clubs, the bordellos, but nothing was able to capture his interest.

Not even the remarkable prowess of Madame Kate's best fellatrix could do more than produce a desultory release, when normally he would have enjoyed the act immensely. He moved through his life with a stunning apathy. He was tired of everything,
including Etienne de Giverney, who was growing ever more tedious in his attempts to distract him. Drink bored him, high-stakes gaming was tepid, he'd had every woman that caught his fancy, everything was flat and tasteless.

“That fool Lindenham,” Etienne wheezed as he sank into the chair opposite him. “Wagered the family estate on a roll of the dice. Always a bad idea, no matter how lucky he seemed to have been earlier in the evening. He'll probably blow his brains out in a fortnight.”

“Or win it back next week,” Adrian said absently. “Etienne, I'm thinking I might rusticate. Town has grown dreadfully stale lately, and I'm thinking a bit of fresh air and exercise might improve my spirits.”

“You had plenty of fresh air and exercise at Montague's place. Then again, your little piece of fluff didn't let you out of your cave at all—no wonder you're feeling the need of blue sky. Assuming you'll find it in this dreadful country.”

“If you don't like our weather you could always return to France, cousin,” Adrian suggested in a sweet voice, unaccountably annoyed.

“And lose my head? I think not! I'm more than happy to wait out the revolution right here. It won't be long before the canaille give up. As long as they keep executing each other there soon won't be anyone left to rule, and they'll have no choice but to invite us back.”

“As you say,” Adrian murmured, having heard all this before.

“Anyway, your estate adjoins that of your impressive
père
, my boy. I have a difficult time feeling comfortable in the wilds of Dorset.”

“I wasn't aware that I had asked for your company,” Adrian murmured, his light tone taking the sting from the insult.

Etienne smiled with just a trace of malice. “Ah, but I know I am welcome wherever you go. Otherwise you risk the chance of becoming sadly bored, and I couldn't allow that to happen to my young protégé.”

The word startled Adrian. Did Etienne really see him as a protégé? In what? Etienne's expertise was reserved for depravity and excess, and Adrian considered he did well enough on his own in that area.

Then again, what was the Viscount Rohan known for? The same kind of libertine behavior as Etienne, though in truth his bad behavior tended to be overlooked, due to the fact that he was both titled and unmarried.

Etienne didn't live on quite such an exalted level, and if it hadn't been for Adrian's sponsorship he would have been persona non grata at any number of places. He wasn't well liked. The English distrust of the French, even those exiled by their current bloodthirsty mess, was enough to keep Etienne from joining the uppermost tiers of society, the ones
Adrian took for granted. Etienne would be welcome at gatherings of the Heavenly Host, or galas thrown by women of dubious reputation, such as the notorious Lady Whitmore. But he was barely tolerated in his parents' household, and he'd been given the cut direct more than once since he'd been in England.

“I wouldn't think of dragging you away from London during the season,” Adrian said with a touch more grace. “I simply find myself in need of a bit of solitude. I expect I'll go mad with boredom and be back within the week.”

Etienne surveyed him for a long moment. “Why would you be in need of solitude? I've known you all your life, and I don't remember a time when you weren't ready for a lark.”

“I was fairly subdued when my brother died.” The words came out before he could stop them.

“Ah, yes,” said Etienne in a suitably somber voice. “The poor boy. I wish I could have done more for him. So young, so strong, and then just…gone. The fever swept through him so quickly. I think your father blames me for his death.”

“Don't be absurd,” Adrian said in a sharp voice. “It was scarcely your fault.”

“Of course it wasn't. But I expect your father believes that English doctors might have been able to save him. That if he'd taken that fall when he'd been at home, the fever might not have been so virulent.”

He hated this conversation. He hated talking about
Charles Edward. His death at age nineteen had been devastating for all of them, but for a thirteen-year-old with a severe case of hero worship it had been unbearable.

He surveyed his cousin coolly. “You don't know my father very well. He's not the kind of man who spends time with words like
if only.
He took my brother's death hard, but the only one he blames is himself, for letting Charles Edward ride that horse in the first place.”

“The horse belonged to me,” Etienne pointed out.

“So he did. And you warned Charles Edward many times. Unfortunately the more you warned him the more determined he became. Being willful and headstrong seems to run in our family.”

“Indeed,” Etienne said. “You realize that that was when I stopped practicing medicine for good. If I couldn't save my beloved cousin's oldest son then what good was any of it?”

Adrian turned to look at him, biting back his instinctive retort. Charles Edward would have hated the fuss—he'd been young, carefree, determined to live his life to the fullest, and he would have mocked any excessive mourning on their part. And like Adrian, he despised hypocrisy.

Francis Rohan, the Marquess of Haverstoke, was no more beloved than Adrian was a monk. The two cousins, Etienne and Francis, had genially despised
each other. Etienne had always been convinced that Francis had stolen his birthright, simply by being born on the right side of the blanket. Bastard or not, Etienne de Giverney was French, and believed that he and he alone should be the comte de Giverney and hold in possession the family estates and the vast house in Paris.

Francis had given them to him. And the Reign of Terror had taken them away, a few short years later.

“I doubt my father appreciates your sacrifice,” Adrian said wryly. Etienne's abandonment of his medical career had coincided with his claiming the disputed title— the comte de Giverney would hardly have kept his surgery open, the surgery Rohan money had paid for.

“No, your father has always questioned my affection for him,” Etienne said sadly. And then he brightened. “Lady Kate is bringing in new girls, including an African one. Why don't I see if we can take them with us when we rusticate. It would certainly make the time go more quickly. And I can have them ship several cases of the cognac I've just taken possession of. The time will pass in a trice.”

“Etienne, I have no desire for the time to pass quickly. No desire for African whores, cognac, or, I'm afraid, your company.”

Etienne looked taken aback. “Well,” he said. “I see.
I had no idea my friendship had become burdensome. I'll relieve you of it…”

“Don't be tiresome, Etienne,” Adrian said. “You know I love you, and there's no one I'd rather spend time with.” A month ago, a week ago, that would have been true. Now, for all his polite protests, he wanted nothing more than to get away from him. “It's simply that I want some time alone. Is that so difficult to comprehend?”

Etienne was clearly undecided as to whether he should continue to be offended or let Adrian charm him out of it. “It's not like you,” he said grumpily. “And I don't believe it's good for you. The season has barely begun. If you still feel the need to rusticate in another month then I won't argue.”

This was getting as tedious as everything else, and Adrian gave in. “A month,” he agreed. He looked around him. “Where's that boy with the wine? My glass is empty.” He managed to summon up a smile. “I'll wager a hundred pounds he doesn't come before I have to go fetch him.”

“Done,” said Etienne, grinning at him. “Though I might have to borrow the hundred pounds. I'm running a bit short nowadays.”

“Just get the boy here sooner and you'll win the money.”

“But if you lend me the hundred pounds for the wager then when I win I'll have two hundred,” Etienne said, practical as always.

Adrian laughed. “So you will. Consider it done. We'll settle up tomorrow.”

He didn't really want to go to the country, he thought, tossing back the glass that Etienne had seen promptly filled. He didn't want to be alone, with nothing to distract him. He didn't want to be thinking about the look on Charlotte Spenser's face when he was inside her. He didn't want to be thinking about any woman. He wanted to get roaring drunk, visit Lady Kate's bawdy house and work out his frustrations.

Charlotte had never taken him in her mouth. There hadn't been time to talk her into that particular delight. Perhaps he could enjoy Lady Kate's specialist again. Or he could simply see if the madam had a girl with coppery hair in her exotic stable.

Faith, one wench was as good as another. He hadn't truly enjoyed those two days in his little cave, had he? It must have been the novelty of it that made it stick in his mind. If he'd had an experienced woman the time would have passed in a much more pleasant fashion.

Then again, if he'd an experienced woman he would have never activated the locked door, and he would have gotten rid of her as soon as he politely could. So perhaps his current edginess was simple boredom, the need for novelty.

He could seek out other virgins, like some of the
Heavenly Host were wont to do. Or he could broaden his horizons and consider men.

No, he couldn't see the appeal.

Which brought him around to the question of Montague. After taking off in pursuit of Charlotte, he hadn't seen his old friend again. He'd looked more frail than usual, and it was difficult to tell whether the bright spots of color on his pale face were signs of fever or a lavish hand with the rouge pot. If he retired to the country for a bit he could go by way of Sussex, check on Monty to make sure he was feeling well. He hadn't been in town this season, and Adrian had the lowering feeling that Monty's London days were at an end.

As long as he didn't die. No one had died in Adrian's life, no one he truly cared about, since Charles Edward, in France, fifteen years ago. Of course, he refused to allow himself to care about anyone outside his family, and his mother and four sisters all tended to give birth easily, without the dangers usually inherent. He already had seven nieces and nephews, and while he'd been intemperate enough to adore them, he was cheered by the fact that they were incredibly healthy little monsters. Even so, he did his best to keep his distance from his sisters and their families.

He could just say to hell with Etienne, take off, and by the time he found out it would be too late to talk him out of it. But that smacked of cowardice,
and Adrian had never shied away from a challenge in his life.

Besides, the nervy bastard would probably just follow him out to the country. Why Etienne seemed so intent on his company was an absolute mystery. When he'd first appeared on the London scene and attached himself to Adrian he'd been flattered by the older man's attention, not to mention completely infavor of the dangerous excesses he exposed him to.

But the delight had definitely begun to wane.

He rose, sauntering over to the faro table where Etienne seemed to have grown roots. “I find I'm unaccountably tired,” he murmured. “I'm heading for an early night. Shall I see you at the ridotto tomorrow night?”

Etienne's small frown turned approving. “It will be my pleasure. Though I would think we'd find more…specialized entertainment elsewhere than Ranelagh Gardens. Things tend to be so English there.”

Once again the irritation rose. “You're
in
England, Etienne. What do you expect?”

Another night of boredom, Adrian thought as he strolled the few blocks from the gambling club to the small house on Curzon Street he'd bought for a mistress several years ago and then moved into once she'd moved on to greener pastures. The night was cool and clear, the recent rain having washed the stink from the streets, and he was reminded of the
night air in Sussex. The chapel that Monty had had constructed, the Portal of Venus.

He slashed his ebony walking stick in the air, annoyed with himself. And continued determinedly onward.

 

Miss Charlotte Spenser sat in a large, comfortable chair in the solarium in Evangelina, the Countess of Whitmore's mansion. The greenery was abundant, the air moist and warm, and the scent of fresh spring flowers filled the air. She was drinking a cup of tea. Not the wretched stuff that Lina had been forcing down her throat by the gallons, but nice strong, black, English tea, with a little milk and a great deal of sugar. So far it was easier on the stomach than that evil brew.

It had been three weeks since the Revels of the Heavenly Host. Her twisted ankle had healed nicely, the scrapes and bruises from her tumble down the embankment were almost gone. It should have been hard to believe any of it had ever happened. It was only when her mind started to drift that the feel of his hands, his mouth his…
cock
, he'd called it. She could almost feel everything again, and she wanted to weep.

Charlotte Spenser wasn't a weakling. This was hardly that traumatic—no one had to know anything about it.