Pleasure Me (6 page)

The moment the question dashed through his head, he cast it aside. Christ Jesus, that fact was precisely
why
he needed to forget about Ruth as a replacement for Mary. He rolled over and punched at his pillow. All too aware of his growing erection, he groaned. He was exhausted, but his body was demanding something he couldn’t give it.

What would it be like to have Ruth beneath him? To taste her throat, her breasts, and her nipples. He swallowed hard at the image. He wrapped his hand around his stiff rod and allowed himself the pleasure of visualizing her in every carnal position he could imagine as he worked his cock hard until he spilled his seed. It wasn’t enough. He wanted something more. Something he could never have.

Even if he did the unthinkable and offered his protection to Ruth, this was the closest he’d ever get to being with her. He dragged in a deep breath as he cleaned himself up. God, he was tired. He yawned. His problems weren’t going anywhere. They’d be here when he woke up. He closed his eyes and just before he drifted off, he thought he heard the sound of his uncle and Bertha laughing. It made his stomach lurch.

Through the black veil covering her face, Ruth slowly turned around to study every aspect of the parlor. Nothing about the room had changed since the last time she’d visited Crawley Hall. It was still as bright and cheery as she remembered. Behind her, Smythe waited impatiently in the doorway.

The man was beginning to become annoying. She wanted to take her time viewing the house. She’d already made up her mind to buy the estate, but she knew it was important to scrutinize it just in case her instincts were wrong. The only time she’d visited Crawley Hall had been shortly after she’d become involved with Marston. Their carriage had broken a wheel near the entrance to the Hall, and the owner had invited them to tea while repairs were made.

Although they’d never met before, Ruth had immediately recognized the woman as a former mistress of the Prince of Wales. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but the older woman had been a prophetic sign of Ruth’s future. Perhaps that was why she’d never forgotten Crawley Hall. Subconsciously, she’d known then that her own retirement was close at hand. When she’d heard the woman had died and the estate was for sale, she’d mentioned to Marston that she was considering buying the house.

He’d immediately offered to purchase the estate for her, but requested she wait a couple of months for some of his investments to mature. She released a soft noise of disgust. She should have pressed him about the estate weeks ago, although something told her the man would have put her off just as he had the first time.

The sound of a carriage rolling across the gravelly drive caught her attention, and she crossed the drawing room floor to peer out the window. Having removed her gloves earlier, the sheer curtains that lined the interior portion of the window brushed over her skin like a fine sandpaper as she pushed the material aside. The position of the carriage made it impossible to see who’d arrived. With a frown, she turned back toward the salon doorway to see that Smythe had disappeared.

Her chest tightened with fear. Damn, the little toad. This couldn’t be a coincidence. The man knew she had limited funds. The sales agent was using her simply to extract a higher price from another potential buyer.

Perhaps the other bidder wouldn’t like the house. It had been on the market for more than a year, and that meant Smythe might find it difficult to sell to this new prospective buyer. Male voices echoed in the hall, and she sighed with resignation as she moved toward the doorway. She’d taken only two steps into the foyer when she came to a dead stop.

Almost as if he were expecting to see her, the man bowed in her direction, and as he straightened, a small smile curved his sensuous mouth. She clenched her teeth as she directed a sharp nod toward him.

“Lord Stratfield.”

“Lady Ruth.”

He moved toward her and she was forced to offer him her hand. The moment his mouth brushed across her skin, it was as if she’d been burned. She jerked her hand free of his to turn her attention toward the sales agent.

“I would like to see the upstairs now, Mr. Smythe.”

“Of course, my lady.” The sales agent bowed slightly, his manner hesitant. “Would you mind, if Lord Stratfield joins us?”

“Not at all,” she bit out. Did she mind? Of course she did. She didn’t want the bastard anywhere near her.
That wasn’t exactly true.
Determined to ignore the small taunting voice in her head, she turned away from Lord Stratfield in a dismissive manner and pinned her gaze on the sales agent. “Might we continue, Mr. Smythe?”

“Certainly, my lady. If you’ll both follow me.” The sales agent, suddenly realizing she wasn’t happy, bowed obsequiously to her as he headed toward the main staircase. At least the man finally understood that his efforts to provoke a bidding war might be in danger. But she already knew Crawley Hall was lost. She was certain Stratfield was far better off financially than she was, which meant the man could outbid her.

Muscles stiff with anger, she followed the balding sales agent toward the steps. It seemed pointless to see the remainder of the house, but perhaps Stratfield would decide the estate wasn’t to his liking. Fingers sliding over a burnished oak railing, she climbed the stairs that rose up from the center of the foyer to branch off to the left and right at the first landing.

As they reached the second floor’s main hall, she counted the number of doorways. Eight rooms. She entered the first bedroom and carefully assessed its dimensions. If the rest of the bedrooms were this size, she could easily accommodate more than twenty children on this floor alone, while still leaving two rooms for her and Dolores to use. The servants’ quarters would no doubt allow for two or three more children. She moved toward the window to look out at the landscape.

The sunshine made the late winter snow on the ground glisten. It was lovely now, but in the spring it would be even more so. She whispered a silent prayer that her rival wouldn’t want the house. The children she brought from the orphanage would flourish here. Smythe’s voice echoed in the corridor in an obvious attempt to capture Stratfield’s attention. She turned back toward the door only to see her competition leaning against the doorjamb. There was something beautiful about him in the nonchalant position he’d assumed that stole her breath away.

Irritated that she could even
think
to find him attractive after last night, she gripped the stem of her umbrella so tightly she thought it might snap. Not bothering to speak, she crossed the floor and waited in silence for him to move. With a frown, he straightened and she quickly tried to pass him. As she drew abreast of him, his hand caught her upper arm to hold her in place.

“Let me go,” she snapped.

“I’d like to explain about last night.”

“There is
no
explanation necessary, my lord.”

“I think there is,” he said as he leaned into her. She immediately shrank back, aware of the heat spreading its way through her that was becoming all too familiar. Equally familiar was that steady gaze of his. “I danced with you because I wanted to, Ruth.
Not
because I pitied you.”

Surprised by his fierce declaration, she stared at him in silence. In the deepest reaches of her mind, she acknowledged that she liked the way he’d said her name. There was a warm intimacy to the sound that threaded its way through her senses. She swallowed hard as she remembered the humiliation she’d felt last night as she walked away from him. Was it possible he was telling the truth?

The earnest expression on his face made her think he was. There was such an intensity about him that she could almost swear he was mentally willing her to believe him. The knowledge that he’d danced with her because he wanted to sent a warm rush of pleasure pulsing through her veins. Alarmed by her reaction, she gave him a quick nod and drew in a deep breath.

“I believe you.”

“Thank you.” The simplicity of his response made his confession all the more sincere. Rattled by the intensity of his gaze, she looked down at the hand wrapped around her arm.

“I’d like to see the remainder of the house, my lord.”

“Garrick.”

“I beg your pardon?” She knew exactly what he was doing, but the intimacy of using his first name frightened her.
Everything
about this man frightened her.

“My name is Garrick.” A stubborn look crossed his handsome features, and she studied him for a minute before nodding.

“Very well. Garrick.” She kept her tone crisp, expecting him to say something else, but he didn’t. He just stared at her. She grew selfconscious under his gaze and nodded toward his hand one more time. “May we continue, my . . . Garrick.”

“What? Yes. Of course.”

He seemed almost dazed for a moment as she darted a glance in his direction. He quickly released her, and stepped back to give her access to the hallway. As she moved past him, a whiff of cologne teased her nostrils. It was a heady aroma of spice and cedar. The scent lingered on her senses as she put distance between them. Smythe appeared out of one of the other rooms down the hall.

“There you are. If you’ll come this way, my lord, my lady, I’ll show you the master suite.”

Eager to finish viewing the property so she could escape, she hurried toward the sales agent, all too aware of Stratfield following close behind. As she entered the master bedroom, her first impression was that she’d entered a male domain. The furniture was heavy and masculine, while the drapes were a deep maroon brocade. She darted a look in Stratfield’s direction as he strode to the window and flung the curtains back. The room was a perfect complement to his sinfully dark looks. He turned around and as he met her gaze, his mouth curled upward in a small smile as if he had a secret. She immediately looked away.

“Is the furniture included in the sale price, Mr. Smythe?” she asked quietly as she looked around the room. There was little here she could use.

The stocky sales agent nodded his head. “Everything is included, but if the buyer prefers, the furniture can be sold at auction prior to moving into the house. Of course, this room in particular was clearly made for the master of the house.”

The reminder that she wasn’t the only one considering the purchase of Crawley Hall renewed her sense of frustration. The Hall should have been hers. Now she was forced to bid on the house and hope that Garrick didn’t offer more money.

“I’d like to see the dining room and kitchen if you please,” she said with a brisk note in her voice. She quickly turned toward Garrick. She winced. How quickly she’d fallen into thinking of him by his first name. “That is, if you’ve seen enough on this floor, my lord.”

He arched his eyebrow at her abrupt tone, but his only response was a brief nod and a slight bow. It was as if he was humoring her, and she didn’t like it. Struggling to keep her irritation hidden, she turned around and headed toward the door.

“Smythe, do you know anything about the current owners of the estate?”

Garrick’s question brought her to a halt as she turned and waited for the short, stocky sales agent to answer. To her surprise, Smythe suddenly appeared distinctly uncomfortable. He threw her a quick glance then averted his gaze.

“The owner died recently and her heirs wish to sell the Hall.”

“And the lady who owned the house. Do you know anything about her?”

“Only that she was one of the Prince’s . . . lady friends from his youth.” Smythe’s pained expression almost made her laugh, and her gaze met Garrick’s, whose mouth was twitching with amusement.

“Ah, then that explains the mirror.”

Puzzled, she watched Smythe swallow uncomfortably as the sales agent’s gaze shifted toward her then back to Stratfield. “Mirror, my lord?”

“I’m disappointed, Smythe. Don’t tell me you’ve not noticed it.”

With a nod toward the bed, Garrick arched his eyebrows at the sales agent. Frowning, she crossed the floor and looked up at the underside of the canopy. Attached to the ceiling, the canopy hid a large mirror centered over the bed. Etched boldly into the glass was the inscription
For Queen and Country
.

“Good lord,” she gasped, trying not to laugh.

The woman Ruth remembered from their only meeting had exhibited a wicked sense of humor, and she wondered if the Prince of Wales had actually slept in the bed. Somehow she was more inclined to believe Bertie’s old mistress had commissioned the mirror long after her affair with the Prince had ended. It didn’t really matter. She was certain Bertie wouldn’t want anyone else to see the mirror, and she was certain Mr. Smythe knew it, too. No wonder the man looked so uncomfortable. “Forgive me, my lady. My lord.” Smythe cleared his throat and one glance showed sweat milling on his forehead. “I apologize. I left word the mirror was to be removed this morning. Obviously my instructions were not followed.”

“I trust you’ll see to its removal soon,” Garrick said with a hint of steel in his voice.

“Most assuredly, my lord. If word ever reached . . . well I’d be ruined.” The sales agent eyed both of them with terror in his eyes.

“I have no desire to see your livelihood jeopardized, Mr. Smythe,” she said with a sigh. Despite his annoying manner, the man wasn’t to blame for the previous owner’s decorating choices. “But I agree with Lord Stratfield that the mirror should be removed without delay.”

“Yes, my lady. Thank you.” The sales agent bowed his gratitude then hurried toward the bedroom doorway. “Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the remainder of the house.”

Ruth resisted the impulse to look in Garrick’s direction as she turned to follow the sales agent out of the room. In the space of less than an hour, the man had forced her to completely redefine her opinion of him. It had been easy to keep her distance from him when she found him despicable. But now . . . now she was struggling hard not to like him.