The Pretender (10 page)

The lady's lashes fluttered, but Simon didn't miss the hard-eyed stare as she waited for his reaction to her offensive words.

Could it be a test? He tamped down his irritation and kept his smile easy. The lady was going somewhere, and he didn't mind a bit following along until he learned where.

"Oh, Aggie's all right. She's a comfortable sort, easy to please, not a lot upstairs. A man likes to keep his home life uncomplicated, if you take my meaning."

"Leaving you to pursue more discerning company elsewhere, hmm? A masterful plan. I'm sure my husband wishes he had done the same."

"Surely not, my lady. The man who could ignore your charms has yet to draw breath."

She blinked coyly at him, moving closer until her breast brushed his upper arm.

"But I am ignored, you see. All this"—she waved a hand at her luxurious surroundings—"means nothing when a woman cannot feel… like a woman." Her pout looked ridiculous on a face meant for feline superiority.

She rocked to and fro minutely, but Simon could feel her nipple hardening against his bicep.

"There could be no one more womanly than you, my lady."

Simon filled time with banal compliments, thinking quickly. If he could get her to lead him to her husband's study, he could save himself considerable time, and time was beginning to be of the essence in this matter.

Agatha was busily combing the crowd for news of the Griffin, and Lord Winchell was occupied with his cohorts in the smoking parlor.

Time to get down to business.

Giving Lady Winchell a heavy-lidded look, he leaned his arm into her breast and slid it slowly back and forth. "Tell me, my lady, have you ever considered taking a bit of revenge on the old chap for ignoring you?"

"Oh, I think it has crossed my mind a time or two," she breathed.

"A man like that, always off playing cards, is he?" Simon knew Winchell was a devoted patron of the arts, but Mortimer wouldn't necessarily know that.

"No, it is his collections. So demeaning, a lady such as I married to a man who would prefer to spend his time with a painting or a statue."

"Now that is a shame."

Simon slid two fingers into her d6colletage. He tugged at the fabric teasingly. "Such daring fashion. I wonder how easily I could slip these out and toy with them right in front of his lordship?"

Lavinia shuddered, her eyes closing at his suggestion. "Do it!" she whispered. "Right here, right now. Toy with me!"

"Oh, but that wouldn't be enough for a man like me, would it? Why settle for a simple tease, when I could show you so many interesting pastimes I've learned in my travels?"

That got her attention. Her eyes snapped open, glassy with lust. "Exotic pastimes?"

"My dear Lavinia, I could take you on such a journey you'll never want to come back. In the West Indies, I came upon a technique kept secret by the most decadent of courtesans."

"Show me! Now!" She grabbed his hand. "My bedchamber is—"

Simon repossessed his hand. "Lavinia, I'm surprised. I thought you wanted to explore the exotic. No one of any discernment uses a bed any longer."

"They don't?" She didn't seem terribly disappointed. If anything, her lascivious expression heightened.

"Now, this particular technique I have in mind for you is much heightened by certain… accoutrements, if you will. Of course, it requires a table or a desk of some sort…"

"The breakfast room. Hurry—"

"And to do it justice, I would really require…" How to get her into the study?

"Yes? Anything!"

"Ink."

"Ink?"

"Surely you've heard of the erotic art of tattooing?"

"But doesn't that hurt?" Far from appearing worried by the prospect, her eyes glittered.

"When done permanently, yes, it does. But this method is a sort of short-lived tattoo."

Even through her drink and lust, Lavinia was beginning to look suspicious. Simon pursed his lips and blew a soft trail of air across the exposed tops of her breasts.

"Imagine the sensation of brush and ink as I cover your flesh with mysterious designs. Swirling and wet, the brush is first cold, then, as it warms from contact with your skin, begins to feel like a human fingertip, or perhaps even a tongue."

She was panting now, eyes completely lust-glazed. "My husband's study. A desk. Plenty of ink."

"And imagine the enjoyment you'll feel every time you see him sitting at that desk and you remember your wicked, wicked revenge."

He needn't have embellished. She was completely amenable to the plan now. Grabbing his arm, she almost ran to the stairs at the back of the hall.

"Here. Down and to the right. Seventh door. I shall meet you there by another route."

"Godspeed, my pretty." Simon kissed her hand and nonchalantly headed down the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her skirts whirl as she took off in the other direction.

As soon as she was out of sight, he flung himself headlong down the steps.

No one was in sight in the ground-floor hall, which was lit by an abundance of sconces lining the walls. Simon ran, counting doorways under his breath.

"Seven!" Quickly he pulled a brimstone match from his pocket and thrust it beneath the glass shade of the nearest lit sconce. Once the match flared to life, he ducked into the dark room with it and shut the door behind him.

A handy arrangement of candlesticks stood on a table near the door. Simon grabbed the nearest available candle and lit it, then carefully snuffed the stick of sulfur-dipped juniper in his hand and returned it to his pocket.

Now, where to start? Moving quickly to the desk, he swiftly but silently pulled each drawer completely out and ran his hands around the back and bottom.

Without the slightest glance into the contents—for who would be stupid enough to hide something there?—he slid each drawer back into place before pulling out the next.

Nothing.

Dropping to his knees, he slid his hands over all the unexposed surfaces of the wood. Underneath, the bottom edges of the sides, around the kneehole.

Nothing.

Without pausing, he turned to the wall behind the desk and began neatly flipping paintings aside. He had just uncovered an iron safe-box when he heard a small sound. Smoothly he let the painting slip down and steadied it with his elbow as he turned.

The door opened. Lavinia thrust herself inside as if pursued by wolves and shut it once more, leaning breathlessly against it.

"Will it do?"

"Will what do?" Simon nonchalantly moved forward to settle one hip on the massive desk.

"The desk," she panted. "Can we use it for the 'technique'?"

"Oh, yes, perfect. I was just searching for some ink."

Simon was forced to step back as Lavinia flung herself at the desk and pawed wildly through a drawer.

"Here!" She thrust an inkwell and brush into his hands, then hefted herself to sit on the polished ebony surface. A predatory snarl on her lips, she leaned closer and tugged at his cravat.

"Where do you want me?" she growled.

"Ah, here is good, for now." Damn, now what? Simon couldn't believe the speed with which she had gotten here. She must have run the entire way. He couldn't leave now that he was so close to success.

Hmm. How gullible was she while aroused? Reaching into his jacket for the packet of headache powder, he waved it before her until her glazed eyes focused on it.

"What is it?"

"Ah, my lady, it is a substance so secret that it has no name. Ground from the root of a plant found only in the highest reaches of Peru, it is gathered in moonlight by virgins and preserved in bowls made from the skulls of lechers."

Well, that was laying it on a bit thick. Hellfire, he was getting to be as much of a liar as Agatha. However, Lavinia was completely and utterly hooked. Now to reel her in.

"What is it for?" she breathed.

"A mere pinch in a glass of brandy will heighten erotic pleasure to an exquisite level. It—"

Flinging herself from her perch on the desk, Lavinia rushed across the study to a small side table on which stood a full decanter and glasses. She sloshed a glass brim full and returned to him, holding it out eagerly.

"Put it in!"

Delicately Simon undid a fold of the paper and tapped a tiny sprinkle of powder into the brandy.

"More," she demanded, and reached for it.

He held it out of her reach. "Ah, now, my lady. There lies the road to madness. Imagine yourself caught up in an unending orgasm, lost in the throes of ecstasy forever." He shook his head. "A fate worse than death, to be sure."

She didn't look sure at all. In fact, she looked quite ready to fling herself bodily into the pit of insane release. Simon shook a finger at her.

"Now, my lady, you must trust me in this. If after you have drunk your brandy, you do not feel the effects, we shall see about giving you a bit more."

She raised the glass and tossed back the brandy with a professional speed that made Simon blink. This might not be as easy as he had thought.

"There. Nothing. Give me more." This time she brought over the entire decanter. Filling her glass again, she held it out. Simon sprinkled the powder and watched the brandy disappear with breathtaking swiftness once again.

"Damn you, I feel nothing. Nothing at all." She glared at him suspiciously.

Simon shrugged. "I don't understand. You should be trembling on the floor by now, lost in wave after wave of rapture."

Her eyes bulged. "Wave after wave?"

"Positively. Perhaps the formula has lost some potency over time. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to give you a bit more."

He held out the packet over her glass. She snatched it from him and dumped the contents, watching the powder sink with a satisfied smirk. She backed away from him, swirling her brandy.

"Sorry, love. I don't feel much like star—sharing." She blinked, then shook her head and giggled. "Waves and waves. Oh my."

She flung the contents of the glass down her throat. For a moment she stood, head thrown back and eyes closed, swaying.

Excellent. Any moment she should pass out.

When she lowered her head and opened her eyes, Simon was surprised. What fortitude! Most men would be lost by now. When she focused on him, he felt wary.

"I feel it, now. I feel the pleasure." She danced toward him slowly. "Touch me. Tear my gown from my body!"

Reaching up, she grasped her neckline with both hands and yanked. With a rip the seams gave and her breasts spilled out. Swaying before him, she closed her eyes. "Touch me."

"Ah, I will, in just a moment. First, ah, first the ink!" Stepping around her, being sure to stay out of her reach, Simon grabbed for the inkwell and brush.

She was quicker than he thought. With a growl, she flung her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, pressing his face to her bosom.

Under the unexpected burden, Simon staggered back. When the backs of his knees came in contact with the sofa behind him, he had no choice but to fall with her on top of him.

She straddled him now.

"I want to touch you. Take this off!" She tugged at his shirt.

Simon played for time. Surely the brandy would take effect soon? "All right, now. I don't want you to tear anything. Let me remove it." She swayed above him, giggling while he reluctantly undid his cravat and shirt studs.

"Oh, I like your chest. Do you like mine?"

She stroked her hands lightly up her body, teasing her own nipples, then slid her hands up her neck and plunged her fingers through her hair, pulling it loose. She stretched her arms above her head, arching her back seductively.

"Take me," she demanded huskily.

And then fell over, completely crocked.