Seducing the Master (An Erotic Historical in the Red Chrysanthemum Series) (6 page)

Somewhat ruefully, Wendlesson said, “Does my
wife not please you? You find her revolting in some manner?”

“Hardly. You have a beautiful wife, and I
congratulate you on winning the hand of so fair a maid.”

With a grunt and nod, Wendlesson finally
took the glass from Charles. “She will be the perfect wife when she
has learned the ways of the submissive.”

“Unlike a claret, perfection in man rarely
exists. You only set yourself up for failure if you expect it.”

“Are you saying you are incapable of
training my wife?”

“Not if you provide me but an hour each
evening and for the limited duration of a sennight.”

“You require more time with her?”

“And reasonableness from you. It will not
help your wife if you were to place undue expectations upon her.
Her fear of failing you will only hinder progress.”

His eyes downcast in thought, Wendlesson
drank the claret.

“How long will you require?” he asked of
Charles.

“If you desire a specific result, I cannot
name a time. I have had but an hour with Miss Katherine and most of
it spent putting her at ease. I have yet to ascertain her aptitude
for what you seek.”

Wendlesson frowned. “Perhaps you need only
press harder. Katherine may appear a delicate flower, but her
constitution is strong. She can withstand more than you
suspect.”

“Is that your conclusion sustained by
evidence or wishful thinking?”

The viscount took a step toward Charles. “Do
you presume to tell me that I do not know my own wife?”

“In the capacity that you seek instruction
in, I will come to know more than you. Will you not serve as her
mentor, my lord? I think she would receive her education far better
from you.”

Wendlesson shook his head and began pacing
once more. “I have not the inclination to deal with neophytes.”

“Then if you insist upon my services, I will
have no interference from you. I will allow her comfort to dictate
the pace. You wish, afterall, for her to enjoy the role of
submission, do you not? It is
her
pleasure you also seek to
fulfill.”

“Of course, of course,” Wendlesson grumbled.
He ceased pacing. “Do I understand that you are interested in
representing Porter’s Hill?”

Charles paused before replying, “I am.”

“The elections of Porter’s Hill are often
hotly contested. One year there were no fewer than eight and ten
men vying for the burgesses.”

“You have an interest in Porter’s Hill, my
lord?”

“I’ve a cousin who owns a few properties in
Porter’s Hill. His wife is quite active and has hosted a number of
events on behalf of various candidates. She spares no expense.
Perhaps I could put in a good word for you.”

“Whilst I appreciate the gesture, I would
prefer that my actions and acquaintances through this venue not
interfere with my activities elsewhere.”

“Yes, you would make for a more infamous
libertine than Wilkes if your membership here were known.”

Charles could not discern if this was a
threat. Any member who violated the confidentiality of the Red
Chrysanthemum would be banished from the Inn for life, and
Wendlesson, an avid member, would surely be cognizant of the
rule.

“A risk we all endure here at the Red
Chrysanthemum,” Charles said, “though the consequences of exposure
are greater for men such as ourselves. If I should fail the
election due to my association with the Red Chrysanthemum, I have
no one to blame but myself.”

“I do not mean to suggest that you
would
be revealed. Only that you
could
.”

“As could we all.”

Wendlesson seemed to accept that Charles had
no intention of bartering his services. “I will attempt to grant
you more time each night with my wife, but the duration of the
sennight must hold. You see, we are to travel to my uncle’s estate
in the country. He is celebrating his fiftieth birthday, and all
the family is expected to be in attendance. I understand you cannot
promise a particular outcome within the sennight, but I should like
to speak well of you to my cousin and his wife, Mr. and Mrs.
Brentwood. You must know of them. Should you meet my expectations,
I am certain my recommendation would be sufficient to garner their
support, which, for many a candidate, has been instrumental to
their victory.”

“The incentive is a thoughtful one, Lord
Wendlesson, but I require and expect no enticements. Your wife’s
pleasure is sufficient.”

Wendlesson eyed him closely. “Indeed? Surely
the charge serves your own interests as well?”

“If I were devoted to seeking my own
gratification, I would not be undertaking this assignment. I, too,
prefer a more seasoned woman.”

“Yes. That is what impressed me: your
handling of Mistress Scarlet. I never would have thought her
capable of submitting to anyone. You may wish for no reward, Master
Gallant, but you cannot prevent me from speaking on your behalf if
it strikes my fancy. I think it would behoove my cousin to support
a man of your character. I will see that my wife is available
tomorrow night for more than an hour. Good night, Master
Gallant.”

With a bow, the viscount took his leave.
Charles leaned against the doorframe and watched the man depart. He
had said all he had wished to say to the man but felt little
reassurance. That Wendlesson had mentioned the borough of Porter’s
Hill only complicated matters.

Walking to the sideboard, Charles poured a
glass of claret, this time for himself. He would not compromise the
integrity of his instruction to Miss Katherine, but if he were
clever, he would look for all opportunities to press her progress.
He knew of the Brentwoods. His own father, when seeking to
represent Porter’s Hill, had solicited their support several times.
They had backed his candidacy the first time, but after he had
lost, they had turned their efforts toward others. Charles had
requested a meeting with the Brentwoods and still awaited a
response, but, not wanting the interference of the viscount,
Charles had not brought this fact to the man’s attention.
Nonetheless, though it was possible Lord Wendlesson exaggerated his
influence, a recommendation from him might pave the way for the
Brentwoods’ endorsement.

It was just as well that he had had but an
hour with Miss Katherine tonight. The morrow portended a long day,
filled with meetings, including one with his employer, and he
desired to review the documents Sir Canning had requested a final
time. Charles also wished to stop by the apothecary of Mr. Barlow
to ask after his daughter. Though Mr. Barlow had never asked, it
must have been clear to the man by now that Charles had a heavy
interest in Miss Greta Barlow.

Charles eyed the implements adorning the
wall. He saw the flogger he had used upon her slim body. Miss Greta
wanted more flesh, but he had still found her beautiful to behold.
Closing his eyes, he could see her bound form kneeling before him,
her breasts captured in rope. How delightfully her pale flesh had
quivered beneath the tails!

An unexpected click at the door made Charles
turn around. He thought Wendlesson to have returned, but the woman
upon the threshold could never be mistaken for the viscount. The
former was tall and sinewy, a man who had lived past his median
year. The latter possessed all the curves and softness of her sex,
her youth still apparent in the smoothness of her skin and the
tautness of her flesh.

Miss Terrell had accosted him upon the
stairs earlier and had made her desires quite obvious. His cock
twitched involuntarily at the memory of her tongue protruding from
a pair of succulent lips to lick at the button of his waistcoat.
But, if he was not mistaken, she was assigned to Sir Arthur at his
request, and the man had made clear his wish that no other man was
to approach her.

“Miss Terrell,” he greeted stiffly, hoping
his lack of warmth would send her on her way.

It did not. She gave him a small smile and
arched against the doorway, presenting her waist and hips to him.
He wondered how much of her figure was due to the corseting. The
women of current fashion displayed little shape at the waist, but
he found the disparity between the width of the waist and the width
of the hips to be quite provocative.

Moving his gaze to what he hoped would be
less enflaming, her physiognomy, though the blush of lust there
proved distracting as well, he asked, “You are in need of
assistance?”

“Indeed I am, Master Gallant.” She ran the
tops of her hands up the sides of her neck and then her head,
pushing her thick black hair into disarray.

He looked away from her flagrancy. He had no
desire to deal with her at the moment.

She looked at him through lowered lashes.
“And as you are finished with Miss Katherine—I saw her depart—we
are both of us now alone.”

Straightening, he gave her a stern look. “Is
Sir Arthur gone as well then?”

“You know of Sir Arthur?”

“He is not a man to trifle with, especially
if you have accepted his coin.”

She moved as if making love to the door with
her head and upper back. “You need not fear Sir Arthur.”

“I do not fear Sir Arthur, but I have no
desire to displease the man.”

She paused only momentarily, then stretched
her arms above her, pressing the back of her wrists against the
door. If it had arms, it would clasp the wanton little minx to its
frame. Charles took a long swallow of the claret, amazed that she
could lend lewdness to an inanimate object.

“I doubt Sir Arthur concerns himself with
you,” she said.

“But his interest in
you
is
unmistakable. He would not approve of another man’s attentions upon
that which he deems his.”

He finished the claret and retrieved his hat
and gloves, a clear signal of his intentions. She noticed but did
not budge.

“But he will not know.”

“You have no wish to risk his ire, Miss
Terrell. I know the man from my dealings elsewhere. He is not a man
of abundant tolerance.”

“Ah, you are concerned for my welfare, are
you?”

He frowned at this unintended interpretation
of his words. “Neither would you wish to disappoint Madame if she
gave assurances that Sir Arthur would have your fidelity.”

Miss Terrell frowned for but a second before
saying, “She need not know either.”

It was like reasoning with a child, he
decided. Her mind was fixed and she would contemplate no
contradictions.

Nonetheless, he would instruct her. “How
long have you resided here, Miss Terrell?”

She dropped a hand to her head, then lower,
skimming her knuckles along the top of one breast before settling
at her hip. Though he stood the length of the room from her, he
noticed how trim her wrists were, how slender the fingers. As with
Miss Greta, he could easily encircle both her wrists in one hand,
but Miss Terrell had more substance in other parts. In a challenge
of finesse, the odds would likely favor Miss Greta, but if the two
were matched in a contest of brute force, the strength and weight
of Miss Terrell would prevail.

“A year about,” she answered.

“I have known Madame Devereux far longer.
She does not forgive transgressions.”

His statement gave her pause, giving him
time to drape his cloak over his arm and cross the room, hat and
gloves in hand. He came to within an arm’s length of her. In
thought, she had lowered her gaze, and he noted the lushness of her
lashes, the high cheekbones and flawless complexion. He wondered if
her dark coloring allowed her skin to better hide discoloration and
other imperfections.

“I believe Joan to be quite partial to you,”
he said more gently. “You could do much to win her favor. Do not
let a moment of recklessness squander your prospects with her.”

She looked up at him with large round eyes.
“You are worth the risk, Master Gallant.”

The impact of her stare, the husky quality
of her voice, and the conviction with which she spoke made his
groin tighten. He had no response for her at first. Despite her
youth, she had acquired the arts of a seasoned seductress.

“You know not what you speak,” he dismissed,
treating her once more like a child. He reached for the handle of
the door behind her, but she did not move.

“I am neither child nor dunce,” she replied,
her plump lips pouting in displeasure.

“No? How old are you?”

“Old enough. I am far more practiced in the
ways of a man and a woman than most married women, than the oldest
of strumpets.”

“How old?” he pressed.

“Twenty. Perhaps nine and ten. I don’t
rightly know. What does it matter?”

“It is significant enough. I am near ten
years your senior.”

She slid along the door toward him, covering
the handle of the door. “That did not stop you from kissing
me.”

His gaze fell to her mouth. He remembered
that kiss, remembered tasting Miss Greta on Miss Terrell’s
succulent lips. The blood had coursed strongly through his cock
then. It coursed strongly now.

“I’ve not known age to hinder a man before,”
she added, and he sensed she spoke not just of her term here at the
Inn.

Pulled into her bright eyes of ebony, he
thought he saw in their depths years that did not show upon her
features, years that belied her youth. In truth, the difference in
years, in station, or in color would not have been sufficient to
stay him in most circumstances. But he had not given up hope of
Miss Greta, and any pursuits beyond his obligations to Madame
Devereux would have the air of perfidy to him. Moreover, there were
all the arguments he had already presented to Miss Terrell
concerning Sir Arthur and her own placement at the Red
Chrysanthemum.

Suppressing his curiosity of her past, he
said, “That may be, Miss Terrell, but I am not inclined to dismiss
our differences so hastily.”