Notorious Pleasures (22 page)

“He hates gin making,” she whispered back fiercely. “You are a gin distiller. How long before he finds that out? You have no idea of the depths of his hatred for gin and gin makers. What he will do to you—and me—when he does find out.”

He shoved her away suddenly, as if he didn’t trust his hands on her. “Have you even thought of the alternative? If you go through with this marriage with Thomas, we’ll be knotted together for the rest of our lives with
this
between us.”

“I know,” she cried. “Dear God, don’t you think I’ve known that from the moment I rose from your bed this morning?”

He backed from her vehemence as if stunned, and in that moment she did what she’d never done in her entire life.

She turned and ran.

He’d always loved women. Ever since that first sweet tavern owner’s daughter—Belle or Betty or perhaps Bessie. She’d had wide blue eyes and tits with freckles on them, and she’d shown him infinite pleasure at the age of nearly sixteen. He’d never had any particular problem attracting women, both low and quite high. They seemed to be drawn by his smile and his ease. One of his lovers had called him charming, and maybe he was. All he knew was that he took care of them for the short period they were with him, and when they inevitably left, either with a laugh or a quiet tear, he smiled and kissed them and sent them on their way. He didn’t moon over them, he didn’t lie awake thinking about them, and he never, ever,
ever
went chasing after them like some pie-faced simpleton.

And yet here he was stalking through a crowded ballroom, his brother and her cousin in attendance. Well. That only made the hunt more interesting, didn’t it?

She was skittering around the edge of the crowd. She looked over her shoulder, and he stopped, half turned away from her, to greet an elderly gentleman he’d never met. The old man arched his eyebrows, confused but pleased, and Griffin leaned a little closer to hear his reply.

She fell for the ruse, silly, silly chit, and darted down a hallway. He straightened and turned from the old man, moving with purpose now. One glance showed that Thomas was clear across the room with a gentleman Griffin vaguely recognized as a member of the House of Lords. Griffin made sure no one was paying him any particular attention and ducked into the hallway.

The hall was lit, but the candelabra were few and far between. This wasn’t one of the main thoroughfares where the ladies went to mend their appearance. He tutted. She couldn’t have chosen a better place for his purposes had she acted under his own instructions.

Statuary lined the hall, eerily lifelike in the candlelight. The first room was on his left, the door ajar. He glanced inside and saw two shapes moving in the darkened room. His mouth curved in a cynical smile. She hadn’t gone to ground there. The next sitting room was empty. He carefully searched it while keeping an eye on the door so she wouldn’t double back past him.

The moment he entered the third room, however, he knew. It might have been the faint scent of a woman, or perhaps he heard a low gasp. Or perhaps he simply knew on a level below his senses and skin, a level as deep as his soul: She was here. He closed the door behind him, enclosing them both in near darkness. A single candle flickered, abandoned, on a side table.

Griffin glanced about the room. It seemed to be a small library or retiring room. A trio of chairs was by the fireplace on the far side, facing away from the door. Two settees were nearer to him, at right angles around a low table in the center of the room. One of the settees had its back to him, but the trio of chairs was the more obvious choice.

He smiled slightly, feeling his pulse spike, and walked slowly toward the fireplace.

She waited until he was bent over the nearest chair. There was a scuffling and a sudden flurry, but he was watching.

Griffin whirled and made it to the door before she did.

Hero halted, panting, inches from his chest.

He cocked his head, smiling not at all nicely. “Going somewhere, my Lady Perfect?”

“Let me out,” she demanded. Any other woman would’ve pleaded.

He took a step toward her, forcing her to step back or let him run into her. “No.”

She flung back her head, regal and palely beautiful. The diamonds in her red hair glittered. “I’ve told you I won’t marry you.”

“So you have,” he agreed pleasantly. “But I’m not looking for marriage at the moment.”

Her lips parted, and he saw the delicate skin on her throat flutter under her heartbeat. He’d bedded her only this morning. She’d been an innocent; she’d still be sore. They were in a public gathering, for Christ’s sake.

None of it mattered.

He was ragingly hard for her.

“Come here,” he whispered.

“Griffin.”

He half closed his eyes at her murmur. “You say my name like a lover, so soft, so sweet. I want to lick the word from your lips, sip the exhaled breath from your mouth. I want to possess you utterly. Right now. Right here.”

She darted then, a hart flushed from cover, and tried to leap around him. He caught her by her waist and flung her up against the closed door.

Then he bent his head and looked her in her brilliant diamond-gray eyes. “What will it be, madam?”

She let her own worst impulses fly free. She raised her hands, framed his lean cheeks, and pulled his head down to hers.

Oh, yes, she needed this. She needed
him
.

His mouth was warm and luscious, and she feasted on it like a starved child. She hadn’t even known that she’d missed the taste of his lips. The taste of liberty.

He groaned and fumbled with her skirts, pulling, yanking them up. She felt a draft of cool air on her bare thighs, and then his big, hot palms were on her bottom. He squeezed and fondled her, all the while kissing her passionately, his tongue in her mouth. His fingers dipped into the crevice of her buttocks and stroked down until they met her wetness from behind.

He tore his mouth from hers, panting. “Put your arms around my shoulders.”

She complied, with no idea what he might have in mind. Then he was lifting her bodily, supporting her whole weight in just his arms. She hung gracelessly for a moment until she instinctively wrapped her legs about his waist.

“Good girl,” he breathed.

His hand was between them, fumbling awkwardly, and she bit her lip against a wholly inappropriate fit of the giggles. They were both completely dressed. He even still wore his white wig. How could he possibly think—

And then she felt the naked heat of his cock.

She gasped, staring into his eyes, only inches from her own.

“Shhh,” he hissed quietly. “You must make no noise.”

He made a movement and that broad head slid through her slick folds.

She bit her lip.

He braced one hand on the door and lowered his head to whisper against her lips. “Now.”

And his cock breached her.

There was a tiny pinch, a stretching. She watched him swallow, his strong throat working. His mouth pulled in a slight grimace; there were white lines at the corners of his lips. He pushed again. She opened her mouth in a silent gasp as he invaded her another couple of inches.

The door thumped against her back.

Hero squeaked in alarm. Griffin slipped his palm over her mouth and leaned hard into the door. She looked at him, her eyes wide. He shook his head.

“I say, the door won’t open,” came a slurred male voice from outside.

A feminine giggle was the reply.

The door thumped again, which had the effect of driving Hero’s hips hard against Griffin. His cock slid exquisitely against her, seating him fully, his pelvis brushing hers.

“Shall I try again?” the male voice asked.

Griffin leaned his full weight on her and the door, his legs braced, his head beside hers, his forehead against the wood of the door. She was spread wide, helplessly open and impaled upon his strong flesh, waiting to see if they’d be discovered.

The door gave another shudder, actually opening a crack. Griffin lunged into her hard and slammed the door back shut. Hero closed her eyes, close, so close, to ecstasy.

“Damn me, we’ll find another room, shall we?” the man without said.

Footsteps tromped away.

He didn’t move, holding her up, still impaled, still arched against him. They breathed together, their chests moving as one. Slowly, so very slowly, his hand drifted down from the door. He brushed over the tops of her breasts, lightly, almost casually.

She waited, her hand on his neck, feeling the animal heat of him. He burrowed beneath her skirts and traced leisurely up her thigh, toward her center, toward that point where he was joined with her. She turned her head and took his earlobe between her teeth. He circled, delicately, almost too lightly, his fingers trailing through her folds stretched wide. He reached the apex of her sex and spread his hand, pressing down quite explicitly on her clitoris.

And she jerked, hard and hot, falling from a great height, the wind whistling past her ears, glorious in her descent.

He arched away from her and pulled his cock partway out, then slammed it back into her, rough and fast and relentless. He thrust in and out in short, jerky, controlled movements, never so hard as to rattle the door, never so soft as to let her down from her fall from on high.

She wanted to scream, wanted to shout aloud with joy. This rapid energy was too much, was not enough. She wanted him to continue forever. She bit, gently, precisely, on his earlobe and his mechanical rhythm stuttered. He jerked, arched, jerked again and then thrust one last time, holding himself deep within her.

She felt heat flood her insides.

His breath was loud and harsh in her ear, and she amused herself by licking his earlobe. Then, moving slowly, he unwrapped her legs from his waist and set them on the floor.

She leaned against the door, catching her breath, watching with half-closed eyes as he took out a handkerchief and cleaned himself. How had she become so wanton in the span of less than a day?

He glanced up and saw her watching him. Deliberately, he held out the handkerchief. “My lady?”

She should have felt shame or even degradation, but instead it seemed a curiously intimate gesture. She took his handkerchief and, reaching under her skirts, wiped his semen from her thighs. She let her skirts fall and stood holding the soiled cloth, unsure of what to do with it.

He finished buttoning his breeches and took the cloth from her fingers, folding it and slipping it into his coat pocket. He twitched at her skirts, straightening them carefully as she stood there, as complacent as a child. Griffin caught her eye, reaching gravely to push a lock of hair behind her ear.

“There,” he whispered almost sadly. “Your toilet is done, my Lady Perfect. No one will ever know how I’ve despoiled you. You are as lovely as ever.”

She swallowed and leaned her head back against the door. “You’ve never called me lovely before.”

“Haven’t I?” he asked lightly. He turned away, glancing about the room, presumably to make sure there was no evidence left behind. He looked back at her, his wide mouth curled at the corner. “Perhaps I never found the need with Thomas constantly praising your beauty.”

“He does it by rote,” she said. “Do you?”

“No,” he murmured, and touched her hair lightly. “Nothing I do with you is ever rote.”

Her heart gave a pang then. What was he telling her? She inhaled to say something—what she wasn’t sure—but his hand fell, and he stepped back, executing a graceful bow.

His face wore a polite mask when he said, “The usual thing in these instances is for the lady to leave first. I’ll wait an appropriate amount of time before following you so that we are not seen together.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling suddenly naive, “of course.”

Hero smoothed her skirts one last time and peeked out the door. The dim hallway was deserted. She looked over her shoulder at Griffin, feeling as if she should say something,
wanting
to say something.

He cocked an amused eyebrow at her.

Well, she could play the sophisticate, too. She inhaled and sailed forth, moving without hurry. She was new to this type of subterfuge, but it seemed sensible to appear unruffled. She walked to the end of the hall, took another breath, and slipped into the ballroom.

She was just congratulating herself on having succeeded in avoiding detection when her brother’s voice spoke beside her. “There you are, Hero.”

She didn’t quite jump, but she may have squeaked before she turned to face Maximus.

His dark, heavy brows drew together. “Something the matter?”

“No.” She made herself unclench her fingers as she inhaled and smiled brightly. “No, of course not. I didn’t realize you were attending tonight.”

His lips pressed together in an expression that wasn’t quite a grimace as he scanned the room. “I need to discuss an urgent matter with Mandeville. Have you seen him?”

She nodded. “I talked to him earlier.”

“How is Phoebe?”

She blinked and glanced at her brother. His razor-sharp eyes were suddenly focused on her. “Better. Will you come to see her again? She asks after you.”

“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon, I think. I will have to tell her when I see her.”

Hero inhaled, closing her eyes. “Then you’ve come to a decision.”

“I have. She cannot have a season.”

“She’s been dreaming of one—you know that.” Her heart was aching.

“Would you have her make a fall at a dance?” he asked gently. “Can you imagine her humiliation? I will not let her endanger either her pride or her person. We’ll keep her safe with us, with her family.”

“How will she make a match?” Hero bit her lip. “Surely you don’t mean for her to remain a spinster all her life?”

Maximus shrugged one shoulder impatiently. “She is only seventeen. When the time is right, I can introduce a select number of gentlemen to her. Never fear. I will take care of her.”

Hero nodded. Of course he would. Maximus always took care of those around him. And perhaps he was right—a season might prove too stressful for Phoebe with her failing eyesight.

Still, it would be a terrible blow to Phoebe. She had been so excited at the prospect of her season.

“You’ve made the correct decision,” Hero murmured, glancing down at her hands.

Maximus brought his eagle-eyed gaze back to her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Naturally.” She smiled at him rather wistfully.

It would be so nice if she could talk to him about her troubles. About Griffin and the strange, tangled relationship they had, her doubts about the coming marriage to Mandeville, and whether it would even take place. There was so much she’d like to share with him, her elder brother. She’d lost Papa and Mama too young to really miss them overmuch, but at times like these, she longed for them. To have someone who truly cared about her.

But she’d never had that kind of rapport with Maximus. Perhaps it was because of her own reserved personality or because he was so much older than she and shouldered so many duties as the Duke of Wakefield. Or maybe it was simply never meant to be. Whatever the case, she realized now that she didn’t really know her brother. Not, at least, in the deeper sense. She didn’t know what he feared—if indeed he feared anything. If he’d ever loved or ever cried or if, late at night, he ever suffered any self-doubt.

Of course, he didn’t really know her either, did he?

Maximus surprised her by taking her hand. “I care for you and your welfare—you know that, don’t you?”

She nodded silently, feeling guilt mixed with pain at his words.

“If you ever need me, Hero, you have merely to ask,” he said.

He squeezed her fingers and then tucked them into the crook of his elbow. “Come. I see Mandeville in the far corner. I’m sure he’d be much pleased to see his fiancée.”

She agreed because she could hardly do otherwise, but she searched the ballroom as they crossed to Mandeville. She couldn’t see Griffin. Perhaps he’d already gone in to dinner.

“What is the urgent matter you wish to discuss with Mandeville?” she asked idly.

“It’s his brother.”

Hero stopped, causing Maximus to halt as well. “What about Reading?”

Maximus frowned down at her. “He’s distilling gin in St. Giles. I will have to arrest him.”

The blow was so sudden, so sharp, that for a moment she didn’t feel the pain. “No!”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Maximus began. “I know he’s Mandeville’s brother—”

She clutched his arm with shaking fingers. “You cannot arrest Griffin. You simply cannot.”

Maximus’s eyes narrowed sharply. “
Griffin
?”

This was it. She’d betrayed herself. She was going to lose Maximus, lose her family and friends.

Carefully, Hero took her hands from her brother’s sleeve and clasped them primly in front of herself. She must remember that they stood in a crowded ballroom.

“For me, Maximus,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. “Promise me you won’t touch him.”

Around them the crowd talked and laughed and even shouted, but Maximus was as still as a graven image and just as silent.

Hero closed her eyes and prayed.

Finally he spoke. “Whatever Reading is to you, it must stop immediately.”

Her eyes flew open. His face was pale and set, his lips bloodless. She opened her mouth to speak.

His hand rose, sharp and commanding, between them. “Wait. I will not move against him for your sake, but in return you will promise me that you will quit him. Hero, he distills
gin
.” The word was spat from his lips.

She bowed her head, her heart beating fast in relief.

“Your word, sister.”

She nodded mutely.

Maximus took a deep breath, and she realized suddenly that his entire body was tense and trembling, like a racehorse held back from the starting gate.

“We will not speak of this again,” he murmured, and then he took her arm.

They walked sedately to Mandeville’s side as Hero fought to catch her breath.

Mandeville’s first words didn’t help.

“Wakefield, my dear.” The marquess bowed to them both, then frowned. “I shall have to take my brother to task, my lady. He seems to have abandoned you to your own devices.”