Pleasure Me (18 page)

If she had ever needed instruction as to how old she was, tonight had been that lesson. What had possessed her not to order Garrick out of her bedroom when she’d found him waiting for her? That had been her first error in judgment. Her second mistake had been to let him coax her into talking about her father.

She never would have even considered sharing such intimate details of her life if she’d not been so tired. And she
was
tired—exhausted. Eyes closed, a tear squeezed itself out of the corner of her eye. The fact that she was crying over a man was bad enough. Even worse was the fact that it was a man she’d never been intimate with.

No, that wasn’t accurate. She simply hadn’t felt him sliding between her legs. And dear lord how badly she ached for him now. The image of him on top of her stroking her with his hard length was one that refused to leave her mind. It made her long for a release that, even in spite of her exhaustion, was assaulting her body. Just as bad was the way her skin still burned in every spot his tongue had touched.

Another tear pushed its way out from behind her eyelids to slide down her cheek. It was an indication of how deeply he’d affected her. She should never have agreed to be Garrick’s friend. It had been her ego that had allowed him to persuade her that they could have a platonic relationship.

She’d recognized her attraction to him, but thought she could put it aside simply for the pleasure of his company. It had been ridiculous to even think friendship between them was possible. Where had her age and experience been when she made that decision? They had been nonexistent because she’d allowed desire to control her head. Desire for a younger man and the way her body reacted to him every time he was near. A man who hadn’t bothered to hide his attraction to her, despite the difference in their ages.

As painful as it was to accept, she’d agreed to the relationship because she’d been flattered by his obvious desire for her. She recognized her decision now for what it was. It had been a desperate cry for attention by a woman who couldn’t accept the fact that she was past her prime. Oh God, she should have sent him away, gifts and all, the day he’d asked for her friendship.

It was all too clear now that her decision to pursue a relationship of any kind with him had been a mistake of colossal proportions. They couldn’t be friends, any more than they could be lovers. The notion sent another tear rolling down her cheek. She’d never thought growing old could be so lonely.

Garrick threw himself into one of the Marlborough Club’s roomy leather chairs. What the hell had he been thinking? He’d almost bared himself completely to the woman, and not just physically. The thought of her staring at him with either disgust or amusement made his stomach knot with that sickening sensation he remembered all too well.

He buried the ugly memory of his uncle’s and Bertha’s laughter back in the deep hole it had emerged from. He should never have insisted on Dolores allowing him to take Ruth’s supper up to her room. If he’d simply gone home, he never would have touched her. Christ Jesus, what a mess he’d made of things.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jenkins, one of the Club’s menservants, suddenly appear at his side. The man bowed slightly, a solicitous expression on his face.

“Good evening, Lord Stratfield. May I bring you something?”

“A bottle of Hennessy.”

“A bottle, my lord?” The small element of surprise in the manservant’s voice made Garrick lift his head up to send the man a hard stare.

“
Unopened
,” he growled.

As the man scurried away, Garrick rested his head on the back of the firm leather chair and closed his eyes. He’d not even had the ballocks to face Ruth when he’d pulled away from her so abruptly. His gut churned with disgust. That was a laughable thought when he only had
one
. It only emphasized the fact that he was less of a man for not explaining his reasons for rejecting her.

And it
had
cost him dearly to push himself away from her. God help him, not since Bertha’s ridicule had a woman tempted him so much that he’d been on the verge of opening himself up to another humiliation. The fact that he’d come so close to exposing his secret scared the hell out of him. The soft clink of crystal on metal forced his eyes open. Jenkins set a silver tray on the table in between his chair and the empty seat on the other side. The manservant opened the bottle, but Garrick waved him aside.

“I’ll pour it myself, Jenkins.”

“Of course, my lord.” The man hesitated, then left him alone. With a heavy hand, he splashed the cognac into his snifter. He downed the liquor in one quick gulp then poured himself another draught of the strong, select drink. It, too, followed the first. Somewhere in the back of his head a small voice reminded him the premium liquor was to be savored, not tossed down like swill from a back alley pub. He ignored the internal chastisement.

More liquid splashed its way into the glass, and he drank it just as quickly as the previous draughts. As the smooth-tasting liquid slid down his throat, he refilled his glass again then lifted it to study the contents. The amber-colored drink reminded him of the hints of gold in Ruth’s hair. Eyes closed again, he reclined deeper into the chair as her image took form in his head. How he’d ever found Bertha enticing mystified him. The bitch couldn’t hold a candle to Ruth.

The memory of her emerging from her bathroom with her robe billowing open made his mouth go dry. Water beads still clinging to her skin, she’d looked like a beautiful water nymph. Her breasts were full and lush with dusky pink nipples, while her waist had curved sweetly inward above a shapely thigh.

She’d been exquisite. The one surprise had been the smooth, hairless skin at the apex of her thighs. Despite his lack of experience in the bedroom, he wasn’t completely unacquainted with the female form. But he’d never seen a woman who’d shaved her sex before. It had only strengthened the tangible force of his desire for her. A need he’d barely kept under control when he’d stopped her from hiding the luxurious length of her hair from him.

The moment his hand had touched hers, he’d wanted to pull her into his arms. But sanity had prevailed. Having supper with her in such an intimate setting had aroused something other than desire in him. There had been a quiet, comfortable intimacy in sharing a meal with her. The familiarity of it was of the nature that only happened between good friends.

That feeling had strengthened when she’d shared the story of her childhood and her father’s reprehensible behavior. It had been a display of trust that he instinctively knew she’d not shown with many. And God help him, when she’d been fighting back those tears, he’d not been able to keep from offering her comfort. It had been a spontaneous action, which had led to something much more dangerous.

He tossed down his cognac and poured another glass of the liquor. Cradling her in his arms had aroused his protective instincts where she was concerned. She’d been hurt, and he’d experienced an urge to charge out into the night and find the men responsible for her pain. Instead, he’d simply held her and allowed her to weep.

He was accustomed to his sisters weeping, and although seeing a woman in distress was never comfortable, he’d learned to just offer his shoulder for them to cry on. That had been the mistake he’d made tonight. He should have simply held her hand. Holding her in his arms had made it difficult to let her go. And Sweet Jesus, when her robe had fallen open as he put her to bed . . . it had been impossible to turn away. The desire he’d barely had under control all through supper had erupted with a force unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

It had pushed him to touch her, explore her, and make her his. The taste of her had been deliciously sweet, almost as if she’d bathed herself in citrus oil. His cock stirred in his trousers as he remembered the scent of her. Warm and exotic against his senses. Even the satiny smoothness of her skin had been an intoxicating sensation beneath his fingers.

And the way she’d responded to him. His body tightened at the memory of her small whimper of desire. She’d wanted him. He had no doubts she’d been more than willing to open herself up to him. Just the way she’d responded to him had said how eager she was to welcome him into her bed.

It had been her ardor that had awakened him to the danger he was in, making him jerk away the instant he recognized how close to the precipice he was. But the way he’d pulled away from her had been cruel. The pain and humiliation in her voice had been like a sharp blade cutting into him.

He choked out a sound of self-disgust then gulped down the remaining liquor in his snifter to pour himself another stiff drink. Drunk. That’s what he wanted to be. Drunk to the point of forgetting how he’d not had the courage to look at her before leaving her bedroom. He was a bastard—a worthless son of a bitch who didn’t deserve the trust Ruth had placed in him tonight. Loud voices bellowed into the room behind him, but he didn’t bother to turn and inspect the new arrivals. Instead, he poured himself more Hennessy.

“Well, well . . . look who’s here, Marston. If it isn’t the little runt who took up with your antiquated leavings.” Mockery filled Wycombe’s voice as the man paused near Garrick’s chair.

The cognac flowing freely in Garrick’s veins ignited a fire in his blood at Wycombe’s insulting comment. He could care less what Wycombe thought of him, but when it came to Ruth, that was another matter all together. Ruth was far from old. She was a vibrant, youthful woman. His eyes, hands, and mouth were testimony to that. Marston had been a fool to give Ruth up for an addle-brained strumpet.

Slowly, he turned his head to study the contempt on Wycombe’s face before he returned his attention to the cognac bottle in his hand and set it down on the silver salver. In a deliberate movement, he looked away from the man standing over him and picked up his glass to take a drink of the premium liquor.

“Why is it, Wycombe, that whenever you open your mouth, you bray just like the jackass you are,” he said in a bored manner. His nemesis released a sharp hiss of anger, and Garrick’s mouth curled in a tight smile of satisfaction. Good. His insult had drawn blood.

“This coming from a man who pretends to be something he isn’t,” Wycombe said with malicious amusement.

“Your point, Wycombe? That is if you even have one in that half-wit brain of yours.”

“My point is that there’s some question as to whether your recently departed mistress was really your mistress at all.”

The hair on the back of Garrick’s neck rose as he struggled not to launch himself out of his chair and beat the man to within an inch of his life. Instead, he slowly set his snifter glass next to the cognac bottle and sent the man a cold look.

“You clearly don’t remember the lesson I taught you a few years ago, do you Wycombe?”

“Are you threatening me?” The earl’s voice rose a notch, and Garrick leaned forward in his chair to glance around the room. The interest their altercation was drawing pierced the alcohol-induced fog suddenly thickening his head.

“You’re far too insignificant to warrant a threat, Wycombe.” With a rude snort Garrick looked away from him and retrieved his drink from the salver. He refused to let Wycombe bait him, even if it meant denying himself the pleasure of beating the man into the ground.

“You always were an arrogant prick, Stratfield. The question is, are you really able to use it on a woman?” Wycombe sneered.

Ice slugged its way through Garrick’s veins. The man spoke as if he knew something . . . had spoken to someone. A dark fury dug its vicious claws into his body and drew him up tight with tension. If his uncle had broken his silence . . . he didn’t allow himself to finish the thought as he set his glass down.

His fingers digging deep into the leather arms of the chair, he slowly rose to his feet and turned to face the man. He’d expected to see the Earl of Marston, but the man standing next to him was a surprise. What the hell was Tremaine doing here? His gaze narrowed at the man, and the viscount sent him a contemptuous smile. The alcohol in his body was quickly making his brain sluggish, and he found himself regretting his decision to imbibe so freely. He jerked his gaze back to Wycombe, whose expression had become one of loathing.

“You see, gentlemen”—the earl directed a gloating smile at his companions—“the man doesn’t know how to answer me, which leads me to conclude that he’s not half the man he claims to be.”

Christ Jesus, either Wycombe’s words were sheer coincidence or his uncle
had
revealed his secret and Wycombe was privy to it. His temper on a thinly stretched leash, Garrick narrowed his eyes at the earl. The only way out of this quagmire was to turn the tables on the bastard. With a cold smile he arched his eyebrows at the man.

“Your preoccupation with my sexual prowess, Wycombe, makes me think that either one of
my
leavings has found you lacking in the bedroom or you’re an acolyte of buggery. If the former, you’ve my pity. If the latter, you’ll need to look elsewhere as I have no stomach for the sport.”

Wycombe sputtered with fury before he swung his fist in Garrick’s direction. Despite the amount of liquor he’d consumed, Garrick easily dodged the earl’s vicious jab. As he darted to one side, there was a surge of movement throughout the room. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he noticed two gentlemen springing from their seats to move quickly in their direction. Marston and Tremaine had a strong grip on the earl, but Wycombe was still fighting hard to be free.

“I’ll make you pay for this, Stratfield,” he snarled.

“You may certainly try.” A mist of alcohol still clouding his senses, Garrick fought to maintain his balance as he scowled at the earl. “But I’ll see you dead first.”

Someone off to his side grasped his arm with a light squeeze as a silent signal that he’d already said too much. He turned his head to see Baron Rothschild standing beside him with the financier Ernest Cassel.