Her Prodigal Passion (3 page)

"I doubt it. Your stamina is legendary," Augusta said. "Lady Eugenie claimed that at the Yardleys' hunting party you did not leave her bedchamber for the
entire
weekend."

Damn his own libidinous ways. The trouble was that he liked women, their perfumed company and plush embraces. He'd learned to choose lovers who sought the same things as he did: pleasure, a few moments of forgetfulness.

Love was a vice he couldn't afford.

"There was only one of Lady Eugenie,"—he pried Augusta's fingers off of his chest—"and I was a younger man back then, pet."

"But the Yardleys' party was only two weeks ago," Louisa said, frowning.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Nevertheless, a man needs time to recover. Along with my sex's other failings," he said, "we haven't the endurance of ladies—"

Determined hands clamped onto his shoulders and yanked him backward onto the bed. His back met the mattress, and, giggling, the wenches pinned him, each sitting atop one of his arms. Mildly entertained by their antics, he allowed it.

"Nonsense. All you need is a restorative." So saying, Augusta applied her mouth to his torso. Despite his mind's flagging interest, her practiced licks caused the bands of his abdomen to tauten. "And I do so enjoy a challenge."

"Me, too," Louisa said.

Her breasts brushed against his thigh as her explorations took her southward. Egad, she had an adept mouth. Paul exhaled slowly.

"Oh, goody. You're rising to the occasion already." With a cat-got-into-the-cream smile, Augusta nudged her sister. "Make room for me as well, Louisa. Let's see if our combined efforts can hasten the process."

Louisa made a noise which seemed to indicate agreement—he couldn't be sure as her mouth was rather occupied. Augusta joined the fray, and his thoughts began to blur. Mindlessness beckoned … and he had nothing better to do at present anyway.

Staring up at the ceiling, he lay back and endeavored to think of England.

THREE

Sometime later, Paul left the satiated pair. At one in the morning, the darkened hallway had as much traffic as Rotten Row on a weekday afternoon. He exchanged nods with gentlemen returning from a night of frolicking and avoided the frankly inviting gazes of several ladies draped in the latest boudoir fashions. Devil and damn, what he wouldn't do for a brandy. But he'd sworn off liquor and getting cup-shot would do nothing to improve his disposition on the morrow.

He heaved a sigh. Might as well get a book and try to bore himself to sleep.

Too lazy to trek to the library downstairs, he stopped by the parlor on the present floor. His hostess was a bit of a bluestocking, so books could be found in most public areas. Wandering in, he saw that a fire lit the large stone hearth at the center of the room, and a few lamps burned at a low flicker. Wingchairs and couches were scattered throughout in cozy configurations.

Ah, excellent: bookshelves claimed the entire back wall.

Paul browsed indifferently through the shelves. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle ... all the old boys from his Cambridge days were present and accounted for and no livelier a bunch now than they'd been back then. He stifled a yawn. Ye Gods, his plan was working already.

A quiet rustle made him spin around. He blinked: a female had materialized, seemingly out of nowhere. A second passed before he recognized her. Charity Sparkler, his sister's bosom chum from finishing school. 

He bent at the waist. "Beg pardon. I didn't notice you, Miss Sparkler."

"I know," she said.

He must have imagined the wry edge to her reply. From their past interactions, he knew her to be a retiring little mouse. A marked contrast to his hoyden of a sister, yet the two were as thick as thieves. Indeed, a few Seasons ago Percy had begged him to dance attendance upon Miss Sparkler during the latter's unfortunate episode of spots. Feeling sorry for the chit, he'd done his part and squired her through a few ballrooms. In truth, he had only a hazy memory of those instances: his mind had been engaged elsewhere.

Back then, all his thoughts had centered on Rosalind. An image of shining midnight hair and violet eyes crowded him even now. Beautiful, passionate Rosalind. He could still picture that vivacious smile she'd worn for all her suitors even as her gaze smoldered only for him. His throat tightened as he remembered their trysts and stolen moments—if only he'd acted on his heart's desires rather than made a game of them. By the time he'd discovered his courage, it had been too late.

He'd lost the love of his life. Worse yet, he knew that she had chosen the better man. 'Twas another failure to add to all the rest.

He pushed aside the bitter regret and watched as Miss Sparkler returned his courtesy. With some surprise, he saw that she had ... changed. The past year had been good to her. Free of blemishes, her skin glowed like porcelain in the lamplight, and she'd subtly blossomed. Though she'd never be a classical beauty, her small, neat features and uncommonly large eyes possessed a delicate charm. She put him in mind of a wood nymph, actually—though a rather stern and Quakerish one.

If Miss Sparkler wanted for admirers now, it was not because of looks but style. Specifically, the lack thereof. Her scraped-back coiffure would pass muster in a convent; her dull brown topknot was so tightly wound that
his
temples throbbed just looking at it. Her ill-fitting gown dwarfed her waifish figure and, for the daughter of a jeweler, she had precious little to show for it. A plain silver locket appeared to be her sole bauble.

The most peculiar thing about her, however, wasn't her appearance but her manner. Her stillness and the perspicacity in her gaze would discomfit any man. He had the disconcerting thought that although Miss Sparkler might escape the observation of others, she did plenty of observing of her own.

He became acutely aware that he was standing there in a state of undress; after leaving the twins' company, he hadn't bothered tying on a cravat or throwing on his jacket. His throat was bare above his shirt laces, his hair mussed, and the faint musk of sex clung to his skin. In Miss Sparkler's quiet presence, he suddenly felt ... dirty. Embarrassed, though as a hot-blooded and unattached male he had no reason to be. Besides, it wasn't as if the prim miss would pick up on the post-coital clues. She probably didn't even know what fornication was.

Hell, she'd probably never even been kissed.

Which brought to the forefront of his mind that she
was
an innocent girl—precisely the kind he avoided—and here they were standing unchaperoned in the parlor past midnight. He'd best exchange a few niceties and beg off for propriety's sake.

For lack of anything better, he asked, "Did you arrive after supper?" Then he had the alarming thought that perhaps she
had
been there—and he'd overlooked her yet again.

"My journey was delayed. I arrived just an hour ago," she said.

Thank God.

"I'm sure you must be peaked." He hoped she'd get the hint.

"I sent my maid to bed," she replied. "But then I couldn't sleep so I thought to find something to read."

"Find anything good?" He glanced politely at the volume in her hands.

She blinked … and then she did the
oddest
thing. She shoved the book behind her back.

"No," she said. "Not really."

Oh ho. Why was the chit prevaricating?

Surprised and a bit intrigued, he studied her more closely, trying to discern the reason for her little covert action. She returned his stare, her long, curly eyelashes fanning rapidly. Her irises were a shade of jade and shale that ought to have been dull ... and yet he saw now that they produced a rare, subtly opalescent gaze. As the lamplight flickered, shards of amber and emerald flashed with sudden fire.

With a jolt, he wondered why he'd never noticed Charity Sparkler's exceptional eyes before. Probably because in the past she'd kept them fixed in the vicinity of his chest or upon her tiny slippers. And he, himself, had admittedly been preoccupied by other matters. But now she had his attention because
nothing
piqued his curiosity more than a secret.

"If I promise not to make a grab for your evening's pleasure," he said in genial tones, "will you tell me what you've got there?"

"It's nothing, really I ..." Her throat worked. "It wouldn't interest you."

He was startled to discover that it did.

"We'll only know if you show it to me," he coaxed.

Her straight, fine brows drew together. "I'd rather not."

She had more gumption than he'd expected
.
Another tactic was called for. "If you won't tell me," he said, raising his brows, "I'll have to assume it's because you've got your hands on something improper. Material a young miss has no business reading."

"Such as what ... exactly?" Her grey-green gaze gave nothing away.

Devil and damn, she'd outmaneuvered him. Had she done so intentionally or was she so innocent that she didn't understand he was teasing her? At any rate, he couldn't very well accuse her outright of filching a naughty book.

Raking a hand through his hair, he gave her an amused glance. "You win, Miss Sparkler. I have no argument left except a claim to friendship. We are old friends, are we not? As such, surely you would not leave a man dying of curiosity?"

"I do not think it possible to expire from curiosity, Mr. Fines."

"I could be the first," he said, "and then you would have to live with the guilt."

"I'll manage to survive."

Hearing the dry edge to her tone, he realized that Charity Sparkler was not as placid as she first appeared. Beneath that calm surface, an agile mind shimmered. If there was anything he enjoyed, it was a duel of wits.

"As a personal favor to me,"—he gave her his best cajoling look, one that had reaped countless female favors (and all of them a great deal more intimate than the current request)—"will you please tell me what you have behind your back?"

'Twas overkill, and he knew it. But now he was
burning
to know.

Her lips pursed, and then he was struck by the comeliness of her mouth. The top lip had a pretty bow shape that made him think of hearts and angels, the bottom a pouty fullness that made him think of the exact opposite. As if that heady balance of innocence and sin weren't tempting enough, it seemed nature wanted to tip the scales: a tiny beauty mark floated just beneath her lower lip, the most wanton little speck …

He caught himself. What the devil was he about? Was he actually lusting over
Miss Sparkler's
mouth? He shuddered. All the carnal overindulgence must be affecting his brain, making him see sex everywhere. Yet it seemed that the more one looked, the more one discovered with this odd little mouse.

So stop looking, you coxcomb.

Just as he was about to let her off the hook, she drew her hands from behind her back.

"Alright." Her fingers clasping the leather volume as if it were a prized treasure, she held it out. "If you must."

He couldn't help peering at the cover.

"
The Lyrical Ballads
by Wordsworth," he said in bemusement.

"Yes." Her chin angled upward, her eyes searching his.

Why the deuce did she feel compelled to hide a volume of harmless poetry? And why was she gazing at him in that ...
expectant
way? As if she'd just disclosed an extraordinary piece of information—like she'd been a spy for Bonaparte or some such thing—and was waiting for him to react accordingly.

Curious gel, no doubt about it.

Silence stretched between them. The ticking of the longcase clock grew louder in his ears.

"I've read it myself," he said in pleasant tones to offset the awkwardness, "and, if you ask me, the verse is overrated. For its soporific qualities, however, I daresay the poems are first-rate. If you're trying to fall asleep, Wordsworth should do the trick as well as laudanum."

Silence greeted his witticism. As the tension grew, he let out a quiet laugh to emphasize that he was trying to be amusing. But her stricken expression—like a crack spreading through a fine Limoges plate—killed the sound in his throat. He had that incontrovertible feeling one got the instant one's boot made contact with a steaming pile on the street. He felt an overwhelming urge to ... apologize? Before he could open his mouth—to say what, he had no idea—she drew a sharp breath.

"I must go. It is late." Her composure was back, and the only sign that he'd ruffled her was the faint quivering of her bottom lip. "Good night, Mr. Fines."

Her eyes remained trained on the carpet.

"Er, the pleasure was mine, Miss Sparkler." Baffled, discomfited, he bowed low.

By the time he raised his head, she was gone.

FOUR

Charity stifled her impatience as Sarah halted again on the pebbled path leading to the picnic. Sarah was the Sparklers' housemaid, but as Charity had no proper lady's maid and needed a companion for the house party, Sarah had accompanied her. The housemaid was clearly enjoying her temporary role. Peering over a manicured hedge, she let out yet another excited squeal.

"Lord above, miss! Do you know who that
is
?"

A rhetorical question. Because while Sarah obviously spent her spare time memorizing the society pages, Charity did not. Consequently, she hadn't recognized anyone who Sarah had stopped to gawk at, which was just as well. She was here for one reason only: to see her bosom chum Percy.

Don't fool yourself: you wanted to see
him
too.

She exhaled. And so she had. She'd seen Mr. Fines, spoken with him, and their exchange had driven the last nail into the coffin that held her dreams. If she'd ever required proof that she meant nothing to him, she'd gotten it last night. She'd known from their past interactions that he remembered nothing of Spitalfields: his inebriated state had taken care of that. But to learn that he didn't even recall quoting Wordsworth to her …

That
had wrung the final drop of hope from her heart.

She'd hoarded that poem as if it were a precious jewel when, in reality, it had been a compliment made of paste. Disposable, meaningless, and without worth ... the kind of nonsense a gentleman would utter to a chit he felt sorry for. Her throat thickened.