Princes of Charming (8 page)

Now he was older—a great deal older—Brandon wished he'd done things differently. He'd been too rash. Unfortunately, he always had a tendency to want to help people and frequently at his own cost. When Charlotte came to him, desperate and in floods of tears, what else could he do but try to stand by her. He gave her money, her husband found out, and thus suspicions quickly mounted against him. He'd known Charlotte since they were children. It felt like the right thing to do back then, to save the woman by taking responsibility for her child. Of course, he'd thought only of the backlash against himself and was nobly prepared to bear it.

For the trouble and grief he'd caused his family he was now deeply sorry. At eighteen he'd never stopped to consider the effect upon them. But at eighteen, it must be said, he seldom had thoughts that reached beyond the end of a night. He had nothing to worry about, nothing to exercise his mind. Back then, Brandon's life was already sketched out for him like an architect's blueprint. It was expected that he would run the Charming Chocolate empire, so he didn't even have to think about a profession. He already had a fortune, amassed by previous generations of Charmings. What was there for him to think about beyond his immediate pleasures and finding ways to spend coin?

After the scandal, he thought going into exile would be the best thing to do. For everyone. Charlotte didn't want him around once he'd paid for her divorce, his father wasn't speaking to him, his grandmother pretended to take to her bed in suitably dramatic fashion, and he'd been thrown out of every club in London thanks to Lord Parker's influence. So getting as far away as possible seemed like a very good idea.

Today he was back again, facing old demons. His family and other beasts. 

"Do you ever hear from your mama?" he asked suddenly.

"On my birthday, if she remembers, she sends me a letter and a gift." Nick laughed. "What do I care? She's a stranger to me."

Brandon knew what it meant to grow up without a mother. It rather spoiled the equilibrium of life, to not have that close bond and feminine influence at an early age. Of course, Brandon had a step-mother for a few years before he left England, but she had no interest in him and made that plain. Theirs had been a relationship of mutual dislike and distrust. As for his grandmother Elinor, he always thought of her as more Sergeant Major than woman. Tenderness, in her oft stated opinion, was only good in a steak. 

It was lucky he came back to help the boy. Someone had to—someone whose interest was in the boy's happiness, not the Charming fortune or any social climbing ideas.

Suddenly Nick exclaimed, "Have you had a woman in here? I can smell violets."

Brandon strode back to the brandy decanter. "I was...occupied earlier."

"I thought so. No wonder you were still in bed at this hour."

Smirking, he poured them both another brandy. Mrs. Kent was waiting behind that dressing screen right now. Unable to dress without help, she was stranded until he lent a hand. Well, she'd just have to wait a bit longer. He wasn't inclined to let her go from his suite just yet. The woman, he though with a warm leap of brandy-fired excitement in his gut, wasn't leaving until he'd tried out that freshly shaved pussy. She was quite delectable. It amused him to no end that his father had hired the woman to teach Nick etiquette and find him a bride. It would have made more sense if she was hired to teach Nick something else. Not that his son needed lessons in
that
, he was quite sure.

He looked at the boy again. "Heels— off the furniture."

Nick frowned. Slowly he took his booted foot off the table.

"And slow down with the drinking," he added.

"Damn it, father. I didn't expect to be lectured by
you
."

Cheeky brat. Brandon raised his eyebrows. "That's what fathers are for. That's what they do."

"Yes, but you're not a normal one."

He sighed. "I fear you'll have to take what you've got in this case." Setting his glass on the sideboard, he motioned toward the bedroom. "Excuse me, I need to dress."

The boy stared morosely at his brandy. "I wonder where she disappeared to. Mrs. Kent."

"Perhaps something... came up." He coughed and strode quickly into the bedroom. Rather than close the door all the way, and risk rousing the boy's suspicion, he left it ajar to continue their conversation.

Nick shouted from the couch, "She'd better have a bloody good explanation for the mix-up. Grandfather's paying her a pretty penny."

"I have no doubt she'll come up with something," he called back, slipping off his bathrobe and walking behind the dressing screen.

Drusilla Kent stood there, clutching her clothes and looking cross. Also looking extremely beautiful in her state of dishabille. He tugged the pile of clothing out of her arms and dropped it to the floor.

"Women always have excuses," he shouted louder.

She backed up to the wall and he followed, eyeing her naked body from her tumbled dark hair to her mysteriously knowing eyes and tense mouth, to her cherry nipples, full globes, softly rounded stomach and shaven mound. His hands around her face, he lifted it for another kiss. She could make no sound, no complaint, for fear of his son hearing in the adjoining room. But her mouth was soft and yielding; there was no attempt to stop him. She raised one arm around his neck and kissed him back, her lips opening wider, her tongue caressing his.

"She's a very interesting woman," Nick called out. "I can't quite make her out."

"Hmm." He slid his hands down and lifted her against the wall until she curled her legs around his waist. "Tricky things, women." At this angle her cunt was spread for him, the petals open, exposing her pollen for harvesting by his eager stinger. What a luscious treat this surprising afternoon had turned out to be. He slapped his cockhead against her opened labia and she gasped softly, moving her hips, her legs climbing up his back. The woman was a powder keg and he, apparently, had been the spark she needed after sitting unused for too long. He nudged upward until his crest filled her entrance.

"She's got a beautiful pair of titties," Nick shouted from the other room.

In the process of lowering her onto his erect phallus, Brandon paused. "She's got what?" He stared at the subjects of their discussion, which were, at that moment, directly in his face.

"Titties," Nick hollered back, his voice getting louder as if he approached the room.

Easing her all the way down, prying her smooth cleft open with his cock, he grunted. "I see." Eyes narrowed he glared at her. She put both her arms around his neck now and fluttered her long lashes. "And how would you know about that woman's titties? I thought you'd never met her yet."

"Oh," Nicky laughed lazily, "I met her alright. How do you suppose I came to recommend her services to grandpapa? Have you never heard of Madame Pantoufle and her House of Correction?"

* * * *

Drusilla felt the muscles in his shoulders stiffen. She saw the fire in his eyes. His hands grabbed her bottom and he began moving her up and down on his rod, impaling her over and over, merciless. His body beside hers was so darkly tanned it made her skin look like ivory. She couldn't catch her breath, but hung on with her legs and arms as he angrily ravished her up against the wall of his bedchamber.

He was right about the shaved pudenda, she mused; it did heighten the sensations, made her feel even stickier, wetter, made their bodies a tighter fit. Or so it seemed.

Brandon bent his legs and pushed up again until she almost cried out. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and he shuddered, pressing her to the wall, his cockhead pushing at her womb, coming hard inside her, just where she'd told him not to.

Seven in the Evening

November 22nd

The moment he'd disposed of Nicholas, he marched back into the bedroom, where she was pulling on her bloomers and chemise.

"What exactly are you up to, woman? Is this a scheme to cheat my father out of his last pennies? You and Nick are in this together perhaps, eh?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

He stood with his hands on his hips, jaw squared, eyes narrowed. "Has he had you?"

"Has who had me? Your father?"

"My
son
!" he snapped impatiently.

Drusilla pulled on her corset and turned, waiting for his help. "Of course not. I told you, I'm not that sort of woman."

He huffed, fingers pulling hard on her laces. "Your behavior this afternoon in my suite has rather given another impression."

"Blackmail was your idea," she exclaimed over her shoulder. "
You
put me in this position. I have not slept with your son. He's all prideful hot air, like most boys of twenty one. Can't you see that?"

"How would he know you have gorgeous breasts."

A loud laugh shot out of her, cut off abruptly when he tugged especially and needlessly hard on her corset laces. "Do I?" she managed, breathless.

"You damn well know you do, woman."

She felt very light-headed suddenly. Perhaps it was the tight corset again. In fact her entire person felt lighter. Even her heart and soul. She'd enjoyed herself that afternoon. Now she felt—dare she think it—young again? Free.

"I have not slept with your son," she repeated firmly, turning to face him. "I have no intention of doing so."

He was still doubtful, peevish. "And this Madame Pantoufle? What's all that about?"

"I shudder to think. Perhaps your son has a vivid imagination, or simply muddled me with some other woman." Pushing by him, she grabbed her gown and stepped into the skirt. "Now I would like my notebook back, Mr. Wilder. After today, you and I need have no further contact."

He thrust a hand into the pocket of his bathrobe and drew out the little leather-bound book. "Where did my son see you before then?"

"I have no inkling." Drusilla pulled on the silk blouse and again required his assistance to button the back of it—a task he fulfilled with apparent reluctance, holding her book in his teeth. "But I do not hide away like a hermit crab," she added, "so it could have been anywhere."

Swinging around again she snatched the book out of his mouth and moved to his washstand mirror.

"Nick doesn't want a wife," he snapped. "I knew that and he just confirmed matchmaking was not the reason he hired you."

"He said no such thing."

"Then he inferred it," he shouted. "Heavily."

She kept her voice even. "He may not think he wants a wife, but perhaps he
needs
one." Smiling at him breezily in the mirror, she added, "In any case, worse things can happen to a man than falling in love."

He scowled. "I wouldn't know about that."

"Of course you wouldn't." She jabbed a pin in place to hold a particularly stubborn and wayward lock of hair.

"It would seem to me, Mrs. Kent, that whatever your intentions, my son wanted to hire you for reasons other than those he gave my father."

"Then he'll be disappointed, won't he?"

His lips turned up in a snarl. "He'd better be."

Drusilla slipped into the smart little jacket of her ensemble. "Don't be tiresome, Mr. Wilder."

"
Tiresome
?"

"I believe you know what I mean." She sat on the bed to pull on her boots. "I have no interest in your son other than correcting his manners and finding him a bride. But even if I had any interest,
this
—between us—was one afternoon only, as we both agreed. You maintain no rights over me, nor I over you. Have you got a button hook?"

Still frowning, he padded barefoot across the carpet and sat beside her. "No I don't. Listen, Drusilla—"

"Oh, never mind, I'll manage without. Well, it's been most interesting, Mr. Wilder, but I must dash. Other appointments to keep. Thank you for the tea and cake."

As she bounced up, he did too, catching her by the arm. "Drusilla."

She took a breath. "Yes?"

He looked down at her, his eyes hot, dangerous.

"Yes?" she demanded again, eager to be off.

"It might itch when it grows back," he managed finally, letting go of her arm.

"How nice. I shall look forward to that then."

He did not follow her from the bedroom and she left his suite with the very odd feeling of unfinished business between them. And the suspicion that he had meant to say something quite different. That what he had in mind for Drusilla Kent was much more perilous than a little itch.

* * * *

An hour later she relaxed in a hipbath of warm, fragrant water and looked through her notebook, searching for names of clients with eligible daughters. Time to get the business of matchmaking underway. Nicholas Wilder wasn't going to be much help to her, his father even less so. But they might become obstacles. Therefore she must strike quickly, find a girl for Nick to fall in love with before he even knew what had hit him, and then collect the balance of her fee from Captain Wilder.