Her Prodigal Passion (12 page)

Charity frowned at that conclusion. To her mind, Mr. Fines possessed both style
and
substance, but he looked amused by the doctor's interpretation.

"Touché, Dr. Frankel," he said. "Do tell me more about myself."

The doctor obliged. "The pronounced areas above the ears indicate that
ideality
—the love of beauty—is also a significant aspect of the subject's personality."

"On that we agree. I am drawn to beauty,"—Mr. Fines' gaze locked on her face—"particularly when it is rare and unaffected."

Charity's lungs pulled for air. Surely, he couldn't be referring to her. Couldn't mean that he found
her
beautiful ...

"Finally, there is the protuberance at the back of the skull." Dr. Frankel straightened his cravat before saying, "The quality of
amativeness
appears to be prominent. Exceedingly so."

To Charity's amazement, raucous cheers and whistles exploded in the room. Looking at Mr. Fines, she saw that ruddy color stained his high cheekbones. He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture one of embarrassment. What was this
amativeness
the doctor spoke of?

Lady Helena came to the rescue. "Thank you, my dears. You are hereby relieved of your duties." To the audience, she said, "Now the rest of you will have the opportunity to practice what you just saw. Please raise your hands if you wish to participate."

Every hand in the room shot up.

As Lady Helena and Dr. Frankel went to organize the guests into pairs, Percy and Mr. Hunt came up to the stage.

"Well, that was quite the performance," Percy said brightly. "You two were brilliant!"

"Stuff it, sis," Mr. Fines muttered. Inclining his head to Charity, he said, "If you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to. We'll talk again soon, I hope. Your servant, etcetera."

Bemused, Charity watched his retreating back. "Percy?" she said.

"Yes, dear?"

"Why was everyone laughing near the end?"

A muffled sound came from Mr. Hunt; Percy nudged him with her elbow.

"Do you know what
amativeness
is?" Charity persisted.

"It's the organ that supposedly governs physical appetite." Her cheeks pink, Percy said, "For, er, amorous pursuits and the like."

It took a second for the information to sink in. "Then I just said in front of everyone that ... that …"—blood pounded in Charity's ears—"that your brother has excessive ...?"

"I wouldn't worry, Miss Sparkler," Mr. Hunt said with a grin. "You just called a rake a rake."

TWELVE

Paul worked out his frustrations in the sparring room. Practicing his combinations, he pounded a punching bag until sand leaked from its seams. By midnight, he was soaked with sweat, his muscles aching and knuckles smarting. The physical exhaustion, however, did little to alleviate the desire clawing at his belly.

Devil take it, whose idea had it been to instigate a night of public groping? Craniology? Another name for
foreplay
as far as he was concerned. His blood stirred at the memory of Charity's touch. The way her fingers had tunneled through his hair, caressing him ... it had taken all his willpower not to drag her onto his lap and take up where they'd left off at the gazebo.

Apparently, he had a sensitive head—make that
two
of them. If he hadn't left, he might have tossed Miss Sparkler onto the nearest surface and had his way with her. As it was, his jacket had barely hidden the fact that he'd been sporting a huge, pulsing cockstand.

A large and hard protuberance, indeed.

But what hot-blooded man wouldn't be drawn to Charity Sparkler? With her hair free, her eyes vibrant, and her mouth ripe and trembling, she'd been enticing beyond words. And his instincts told him he'd only scratched the surface. She was like a rare opal: her milk-smooth surface hid fiery depths, facets of untold brilliance—

Snap out of it, man.
Finally, his voice of reason took up the fight.
That's your bollocks doing the thinking, and you know they aren't the brightest of fellows. Consider the matter carefully: are you really ready to go down this path again?

Scowling, he shrugged into his jacket and headed back toward his chambers. Was this yet another instance of rash judgment? If he actually used the organ between his ears for once, he had to admit that he and Charity were as mismatched as two left shoes. They had little in common: she was responsible, sensible, and self-disciplined whereas he was … not. Though he couldn't quite put his finger on the source of it, some ineffable tension seemed to charge their interactions.

He wasn't even certain that Charity
liked
him.

A memory hit him: back at the gazebo, hadn't she mentioned some vague attachment? Did she have some fellow waiting for her in London? Was that the bounder whose kiss had made Paul's a
molehill
in comparison?

Paul stalked down the hallway, wanting to plant a facer on the sod. He didn't like the way he was feeling, on edge and ... jealous? Had he
ever
felt this possessive before? Probably not. Not even over Rosalind, oddly enough. She'd been surrounded by a constant throng of admirers, so perhaps he'd gotten used to all the competition.

But Charity was different. Her beauty didn't hit a man with the force of a tempest; no, her attractions unfolded gently, softly, like the blossoming after a spring rain. In fact, it took an observant man to notice the extent and depth of her loveliness, but once he did, he wanted it all to himself ...

Paul frowned at the direction of his thoughts. Charity confused the hell out of him, and he wasn't a man who needed more confusion in his life. He told himself not to rush his fences. He ought to calm down, think things through.

What he needed was a cold bath. A calming cup of tea.

Or ... he
could
frig himself to high heaven, fantasizing about all the ways he wished to debauch the delicious Miss Sparkler.

The notion sent a sizzle up his spine. He hadn't had to resort to self-pleasure since he was a greenling with an overabundance of animal energy and no skill to put it to better use. Since becoming a man, he'd been too lazy to do for himself what others would willingly do for him. Tonight, however, he would have to make an exception. Because he was randier than a sailor on leave and the fantasy of Charity Sparkler was far safer than the reality. Better to let off steam than get burned by it.

Frig first, think later—definitely the way to go.

Breathing heavily, he entered his room. He was surprised by the darkness that greeted him—his valet usually left the lamps lit—but at present moment obscurity suited his purposes just fine. He stripped off his clothes and boots and made his way over to the bed. He tossed aside the covers, got in, and—

"
What the bloody hell?
"

A giggle greeted his startled exclamation. "Surprise," a sultry female voice said. "I thought you might like some company."

Devil take it.

He fumbled to light the bedside lamp. Seeing the familiar face, he bit back an oath. Hell's teeth, what would it take for the doxy to get the message?

"I told you, Augusta. I'm not in the mood tonight," he said shortly.

"It's
Louisa
." The woman in his bed pouted, tossing red curls over her bare shoulder. "And you're
always
in the mood."

Goddamnit, he wasn't some bloody stud to be ridden at any female's whim.

"Not tonight," he repeated.

She switched tactics. "But you seem so happy to see me," she said coyly.

He pried her questing fingers off his erection and got out of bed. He was sorely tempted to tell her his aroused state had nothing to do with her. Ye Gods, he was tired of the man he'd become. The sort who fell into bed with any available trollop—simply because he had nothing better to do. It struck him that he wanted more. He wanted ... Charity. To explore what could happen between them.

Mad as the notion might be, it was also true.

"I'm not interested, Louisa," he said. "Please leave."

Her eyes squinted, her mouth turning hard and petulant. "But I just got here."

"Get out of my bed," he said grimly. "Now."

She crossed her arms over her breasts. "Make me."

Before he could contemplate his next move, a male voice sounded in the distance, the rage behind the words unmistakable. "I know you're with that bastard, Louisa—your maid has confessed everything. I'll not be cuckolded! Show your face, sirrah—or I'll knock down every bloody door until I find you!"

Blood pounding in his veins, Paul shot a look at Louisa. She didn't seem worried, and, in fact, appeared rather ...
smug
. The realization pelted him like a cascade of bricks.

"You
want
your husband to find you in my bed?" he bit out.

Her smile could have sliced diamonds. "Why shouldn't Parkington have a taste of his own medicine? He keeps a string of whores, so why shouldn't I have my fun?"

With an oath, Paul dragged on his robe and shoved his feet into slippers. No way in hell would he be a pawn in her manipulative games. If Louisa wanted her lord's attention, she could damn well get it another way.

He threw her dressing gown at her. "You're getting out of here."

"If I step foot in the hallway, Parkington will see me." Her eyes glinted with twisted delight. "I can hear him tromping down the hallway now."

Deuce take it, she was right. Paul's eyes circled the room in panic, latching onto the armoire. Given her abundant figure, there wasn't a chance of Louisa fitting inside ... or beneath the bed. That left only … He raced over to the balcony doors. Throwing them open, he stepped onto the small ledge. Identical stone balconies stood in a row like stepping stones across the velvet night. The balustrades were close together, separated by mere centimeters; one could cross from ledge to ledge without fear of tumbling to the ground below.

He counted three balconies between his and the largest one, that of the first floor parlor. An easy enough escape route—and from the increasingly loud bellows in the hallway, one that would have to be embarked upon immediately.

He strode back to the bed and grabbed Louisa's arm. "You're getting out of here. You can take the balconies to the parlor."

"A countess scrambling away like a thief in the night?" She stuck her nose in the air. "I will do no such thing. 'Tis ungentlemanly for you to even suggest it."

"I wouldn't have to suggest it if you hadn't shown up uninvited to my room," he bit out, yanking her out of the bed. "Now
get going
."

She grabbed onto one of the bed posts and gave him a triumphant look. "I'll scream if you make me."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Louisa!" Parkington's voice boomed—he was nearly at the door. "Where the hell are you?"

Desperation clawed Paul's insides. Any minute now the enraged earl would barge into the room, and Paul would have no way to prove his innocence. He'd be forced to fight a duel; he'd be damned if he had to shed another man's blood over a scheming wench.

She wouldn't leave? Fine.

He
would.

He sprinted out onto the balcony, ignoring Louisa's protest. With a smooth motion, he leapt over the first set of balustrades onto the neighboring balcony. One down. As he ran toward the next set of railings, he heard a door slam and Parkington shouting Louisa's name. Breath burning in his lungs, Paul kept going, his slippered feet skidding as he landed on the second terrace.
Almost there.
If he could get to the parlor without Parkington seeing him, nothing could be proven. He'd say that he'd never been in his room; if Louisa had wandered in ... it was her mistake and not his problem. Worse come to worse, it'd be her word against his.

He jumped over the last balustrade, his feet touching safety at last. He grasped the door knob to the parlor ... and it was locked.
Goddamnit.

"Fines! Is that you?" Parkington's voice pierced the night like a shot.

On instinct, Paul dropped to his knees behind the balcony railing. Bloody hell, had the earl spotted him? It was dark and unless the man had the eyes of an eagle—

"I see you, you bastard." The earl's voice rang from the balcony of Paul's bedchamber. "I'm coming to string you up!"

Fuck again.

As the earl charged off, shouting for blood, Paul jumped to his feet. He had to get in and out of the parlor before Parkington found him. Bracing, he charged shoulder first into the door. Instead of a hard impact, he encountered thin air as the door opened at the last second. He barreled into softness, heard a startled whoosh of breath, and
had the presence of mind to grab onto his rescuer, rolling her atop him so that he took the brunt of the fall, his head smacking against the parlor floor.

When the dots cleared, he saw Charity's face hovering just inches above his.

"Sorry—sorry," he managed to breathe. "Are you alright?"

She gave him a wide-eyed nod.

He understood in that moment that she'd overheard everything. Hell, by now the entire household had. He heard the footsteps approaching the parlor, and a desperate urge surged through him: he needed to make her understand.

"I wasn't with Louisa tonight. 'Pon my honor, I wasn't," he said hoarsely. "She set this up ... some sick game to get her husband's goat."

He didn't know why he even bothered trying to explain. Why Charity's opinion mattered so much. He couldn't expect her to believe him, not with his libertine history and, goddamnit, his behavior toward
her
didn't exactly inspire confidence. In her shoes, he'd probably assume he was guilty.

She continued to stare at him, was probably thinking that he was the biggest bastard alive. His throat closed. 'Twas too late. He couldn't sway her, would fail in this as he had so many things in his life ...

The door swung open. Parkington charged in. "I've got you now, you bastard—"

The earl stopped in his tracks. Belatedly, Paul realized how compromising the scene appeared: Charity was draped over him, escaped tendrils of her hair brushing his jaw. And he was wearing nothing more than a dressing gown. With an oath, he shot to his feet, taking her with him. He pushed her to stand behind him and felt the quiver that passed through her slight frame. Bloody hell, he'd do pistols at dawn if necessary, but he wasn't going to allow any of this to harm Charity or her reputation.