Nicole Jordan (36 page)

His heart was still beating painfully as he stared up at the moonlit sky. It had been their deepest bonding, sweeter than anything he had known before. He wondered if they had made a child together.

He pulled her close.

It didn’t matter if it had happened tonight. It would, Max had no doubt. They would build a new life together. Their own family. Showering the love and devotion on their offspring that they had denied for themselves for so long. They would be guardians of their children and of each other.

“You were wrong, love,” he murmured, his lips caressing her damp temple. “There is no island spell. But the enchantment is very, very real.”

He felt Caro smile against his throat, while her contented murmur told him of her complete agreement.

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Lord of Seduction

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Prologue

London, March 1814

The passion in her kiss caught him off guard. Christopher, Viscount Thorne, braced himself as his mistress clung tightly to him, her fingers twining sensuously in his hair, her mouth trying to devour his.

Moments before, he’d been admitted by a servant to the elegant little house in St. John’s Wood and shown upstairs to the parlor that he’d recently refurbished for Rosamond at great expense. But he barely had time to shed his greatcoat before she threw herself at him with a breathy little sigh.

“At last,” she’d exclaimed, pressing her rosebud lips hotly against his.

Thorne couldn’t quite understand her lust. As kisses went, this one was hungry and eager, tasting of urgent need, almost desperation. He had significant expertise arousing a woman’s body, but he’d done nothing yet to elicit such a fervent response.

Gingerly pulling her hands from his hair, Thorne drew back to study his mistress of two months. She was a creature of remarkable beauty, with translucent skin, large blue eyes, and a petite but magnificently shaped figure. Her blond tresses, several shades lighter than his own golden hue, spilled over her shoulders in sensual disarray, as if she’d just risen from her bed and intended to return there as soon as she could lure him to join her.

“Your eagerness is flattering, darling,” Thorne admonished, “but there is no need for such haste. We have the entire night.”

“I know, but I don’t want to waste a moment of it. Come, my lord, please….”

Eagerly Rosamond took his hand and led him into the adjacent perfumed bedchamber. Candlelight filled the room with a golden glow, while a fire blazed in the hearth, illuminating the pale silken sheets of the enormous bed.

Thorne permitted Rosamond to guide him to the bed and press him back so that he was half sitting, half leaning against the high mattress. With a graceful shrug then, she slid her dressing gown off her shoulders and down her hips, so that the garment pooled on the carpet, baring her voluptuous body to his heated gaze.

Thorne felt his loins throb.

When she knelt before him, he concluded that she meant to attend him while he was still fully clothed. But he let Rosamond have her way with him, watching indulgently as she unfastened the front placket of his satin evening breeches.

His hand moving to her fair hair, he shut his eyes at the burgeoning carnal pleasure and gave himself up to her expert ministrations and the ravishing delight she offered.

It was several moments more before he realized that the soft sounds coming from Rosamond’s own throat were not moans but quiet little sobs.

She was weeping—and not with passion.

Bewildered, Thorne opened his eyes to stare down at the beauty kneeling between his spread thighs. His lovemaking frequently made women sob with ecstasy, but something else was the matter here.

Catching Rosamond’s wrists to stop her, he drew her to her feet. Her pale cheeks were streaked with tears, while her huge blue eyes shimmered with a disturbing sadness.

“Tell me what is wrong, sweetheart,” he said gently.

“Forgive me, my lord. I am overwrought.” She brushed at her streaming eyes. “The thought of never kissing you again, never making love to you again, makes me weep.”

“I beg your pardon?” Thorne murmured, not certain he had heard correctly.

“This will be our last night together,” she said sorrowfully.

He felt the heat of passion start to drain away. “Pray tell me why you think so.”

“Your father says you mean to offer for a bride any day now.”

Mention of his illustrious father definitely cooled Thorne’s ardor. The Duke of Redcliffe had long tried to rule his life, and in recent years had schemed and plotted to get him respectably married. Indeed, avoiding his father’s machinations had become something of a game between them.

“You never told me you planned to wed,” Rosamond added with a pout of her lush lips.

Thorne felt the hardness of his erection fade altogether. “Possibly,” he replied, releasing her wrists, “because I have no intention of shackling myself with chains of matrimony.”

“Your father says differently.”

“I’m certain he does,” Thorne said drily, torn between amusement and exasperation at his noble father.

“I do understand the ways of the quality,” Rosamond assured him. “You are a duke’s only son and heir, and Redcliffe craves seeing you settled with a proper wife and a son of your own to carry on the title. Furthermore, he wants no impediments to your securing a distinguished bride, and the wealthy young lady he has chosen for you has grave objections to you flaunting your mistresses. At least, that is what his grace told me.”

“I assure you,” Thorne vowed in clipped tones, “I will never marry my father’s choice of a bride.”

“Even so, this must be farewell between us….” Tears welled in Rosamond’s eyes again. “I have agreed to your father’s terms.”

“Terms?”

“Redcliffe offered me his patronage,” she confessed. “He promised to secure me a leading role in the opera if I break off my liaison with you.”

“My father
bribed
you?” Thorne’s eyebrows shot up as he debated whether to laugh or curse. His father had never gone so far as to interfere directly in his amorous affairs before, but this was a devilish intrusion—bribing his mistress to leave his protection in order to clear the way for his marriage to a wealthy, well-born debutante.

Thorne bit off an oath, promising to deliver a few select words to his sire when next they met.

“It is not precisely a bribe,” Rosamond objected. “And it is for your own sake more than mine.”

“You may spare me your concern, love,” Thorne replied, his drawl languid.

She bit her lip, evidently realizing the hollowness of her argument. “Truly, I will miss you dreadfully, my lord. No one is as magnificent a lover as you.”

“I am gratified you think so.”

Rosamond peered up at him through her kohldarkened lashes. “Are you very angry with me?”

Thorne fastened his breeches while he pondered what he felt. Admittedly his pride smarted to have his mistress choose her opera career over him. And unquestionably it stung to be outmaneuvered by his father.

He could offer Rosamond a higher bribe, no doubt, but he didn’t want a mistress so disloyal that her allegiance could be bought—The thought brought a sardonic grin to Thorne’s mouth. Rosamond’s delectable charms had always been for sale to the highest bidder.

But his father had won this round of their game, he conceded, amused in spite of himself. He would regret losing Rosamond, naturally, for her amorous skills could satisfy even a man of his jaded and discriminating tastes. But he could bear the disappointment.

Summoning a smile, he ran his thumb tenderly over her lower lip. “No, I am not angry with you, love. My heart is wounded, of course, but I understand why you would favor your career over me.”

“Thank you for being so understanding, my lord…. But please, won’t you stay the night? I had intended to make this an occasion you would long remember.”

With a reluctant glance at her luscious nude body, Thorne shook his head. “I think not, sweetheart.”

Reaching for him again, Rosamond gave him one last, clinging kiss, until he gently pried her hands away.

Leaving her sobbing anew, Thorne made his way downstairs and collected his greatcoat, then let himself out the rear door, heading toward the mews behind the house.

Since he’d planned to stay the evening, his horses had already been stabled, and he had to rouse his coachman from a pleasant game of draughts in order to ready his carriage.

Waiting in the frigid night air, Thorne stamped his feet against the cold. This was the harshest winter in memory, and he found himself longing for the golden warmth of Cyrene—the small island in the western Mediterranean where he spent several months of each year. He would have made his home there permanently had not many of his missions required his presence in England.

Oddly enough, he had his father to thank for the drastic change in his fate. Years ago his outrageous behavior had so provoked his illustrious sire that Thorne was banished to Cyrene, where he was given the chance to redeem himself. He’d joined the secret society of protectors headquartered there—the Guardians of the Sword. The order had been formed centuries ago with the purpose of rooting out evil and tyranny across Europe, its members sworn to uphold the ancient ideals once championed by a legendary leader.

Thorne had not only developed a passion for the golden island, but his recklessness and his love of danger had proved assets in his new career, and he’d become a highly effective Guardian. He had continued, however, to be at odds with his father, despite the affection they bore for each other. Redcliffe continued to deplore his wild ways, Thorne was well aware.

If he ever did marry, it sure as the devil wouldn’t be to a milquetoast miss his father chose for him, but to a woman who was brave and spirited and worthy of being a Guardian’s life mate.

He would never settle for less.

Meanwhile, he fully intended to enjoy his bachelor-hood along with his rakehell friends, while continuing his frequently dangerous role as a Guardian.

Just then his groom held open the door to his town coach for him.

“Home, my lord?” his coachman queried.

The question reminded Thorne that he had just been rejected by his mistress. Rejection was a novel experience for him. Usually he could have any woman he wanted.

“No, not home. Take me to Madame Venus’s club.”

Climbing inside, he sank back against the velvet squabs. Venus’s sin club on Mount Street was part gaming hell, part high-class brothel. There he could find delectable female companionship if it suited his mood, or a high-stakes game of faro or hazard amid excellent company.

Thorne settled in for the half-hour drive, focusing primarily on cooling the savage ache in his loins that the lovely Rosamond had intentionally aroused, curse her.

By the time his carriage came to a halt, Thorne had himself well under control. Soft lights shone from the windows of the large mansion as he mounted the front steps, and he could hear the convivial chatter of contented guests as he was admitted by a hulking brute of a footman.

Venus’s nightly soirees were famous for their superb wines, exhilarating games of chance, and titillating carnal indulgences. The large, elegant drawing room was the center of the club’s activity. One end boasted a low stage for erotic performances and an orchestra for patrons who enjoyed dancing. The remainder of the room was decorated with plush brocade sofas and card tables.

Thorne stood a moment surveying the company. Hearing his name hailed, he made his way toward one of the card tables.

“Hah! You owe me twenty guineas, Hastings!” a seated gentleman proclaimed. “I told you he would show.”

“My dear Boothe,” Lord Hastings drawled. “The wager was whether Thorne would concede victory to his illustrious papa. So tell us, Kit, did La Rose refuse you her favors?”

Technically Rosamond had done just the opposite tonight, but Thorne didn’t intend to mince words. Instead he flashed a self-mocking grin, admitting his defeat. “Sadly lowering, isn’t it?”

“And you did nothing to fight back?”

Evidently word had already gotten around about his father’s latest attempt to force his hand.

“I fear not,” Thorne replied. “It would have required too much effort.”

Drawing up a chair, he joined the table, even though he had no particular desire for cards at present. For the next round, he pretended an interest in the play while the conversation flowed around him:

“His grace won’t win in the end. Thorne has slipped out of more marriage traps than an eel out of nets.”

“Never knew a gentleman so wary of getting leg-shackled as you, Thorne. The married state ain’t so bad.”

“Might as well give in gracefully. Redcliffe has deep enough pockets to buy off all your mistresses from now to eternity.”

“Know what you should do, old trout? Take refuge on your island. Foil your sire’s damnable plots. He cannot reach you there.”

“I might consider that,” Thorne murmured with all sincerity.