Nicole Jordan
Authors: Lord of Seduction
Contents
Please read on for a sneak peak at...
To my terrific agent, Karen Solem,
for all you are and all you do.
A million thanks.
Prologue
LONDON
MARCH 1814
T
he passion
in her kiss caught him off guard. Christopher, Viscount Thorne, braced himself as his mistress clung tightly to him, her fingers twining sensuously in his hair, her mouth trying to devour his.
Moments before, he’d been admitted by a servant to the elegant little house in St. John’s Wood and shown upstairs to the parlor that he’d recently refurbished for Rosamond at significant expense. But he barely had time to shed his greatcoat before she threw herself at him with a breathy little sigh.
“At last,” she’d exclaimed, pressing her lips hotly against his.
Thorne couldn’t quite understand her lust. As kisses went, this one was hungry and eager, tasting of urgent need, almost of desperation. He had significant expertise arousing a woman’s body, but he’d done nothing yet to elicit such a fervent response. He’d had only to cup Rosamond’s luscious breasts to evoke soft little moans of pleasure from her.
Gingerly pulling her hands from his hair, Thorne drew back to study his mistress of two months. She was a creature of remarkable beauty, with translucent skin, large blue eyes, and a petite but magnificently shaped figure. Her blond tresses, several shades lighter than his own hair’s gold hue, spilled over her shoulders in sensual disarray, as if she’d just arisen from her bed and intended to return there as soon as she could lure him to join her. Her careless coiffure and diaphanous dressing gown—open to the waist to expose her ripe, rose-tipped breasts—were clearly calculated to arouse any hot-blooded male.
“Your eagerness is flattering, darling,” Thorne admonished, “but there is no need for such haste. We have the entire night.”
“I know, but I don’t want to waste a moment of it. Come, my lord, please….”
Eagerly Rosamond took his hand and led him into the adjacent perfumed bedchamber. Candlelight filled the room with a golden glow, while a fire blazed in the hearth, illuminating the pale silken sheets of the enormous bed.
Thorne permitted Rosamond to guide him to the bed and press him back so that he was half-sitting, half-leaning against the high mattress. With a graceful shrug then, she slid her dressing gown off her shoulders and down her hips so that the garment pooled on the carpet, baring her voluptuous body to his heated gaze.
Thorne felt his loins throb.
When she knelt before him, he concluded that she meant to attend him while he was still fully clothed. But he let Rosamond have her way with him…watching indulgently as she unfastened the front placket of his satin evening breeches, then his drawers, so that his rigid erection sprang free.
Her warm fingers curved around the base of his pulsing arousal, and he felt all the muscles in his body tighten. Then, squeezing his swollen sacs, Rosamond ran her tongue around the engorged tip of his phallus, tracing the sensitive ridge, and a delicious shock flared through Thorne.
His hand moved to her fair hair, and he shut his eyes at the burgeoning pleasure. Eventually she drew him fully into her open mouth, welcoming him gladly, sucking and licking and teasing the thick shaft. Stifling a groan, Thorne gave himself up to her expert ministrations and the ravishing delight she offered.
It was several moments more before he realized that the soft sounds coming from Rosamond’s own throat were not moans but quiet little sobs.
She was weeping—and not with passion.
Bewildered, Thorne opened his eyes to stare down at the beauty kneeling between his spread thighs. His lovemaking frequently made women sob with ecstasy, but obviously something else was the matter here.
Catching Rosamond’s wrists to stop her, he drew her to her feet. Her pale cheeks were streaked with tears, while her huge blue eyes shimmered with a disturbing sadness.
“Tell me what is wrong, sweetheart,” he said gently.
“Forgive me, my lord. I am overwrought.” She brushed at her streaming eyes. “The thought of never kissing you again, never making love to you again, makes me weep.”
“I beg your pardon?” Thorne murmured, not certain he had heard correctly.
“This will be our last night together,” she said sorrowfully.
He felt the heat of passion start to fade. “Pray tell me why you think so.”
“Your father says you mean to offer for a bride any day now.”
Mention of his illustrious father definitely cooled Thorne’s ardor. The Duke of Redcliffe had long tried to rule his life and, in recent years, had schemed and plotted to get him respectably married. Indeed, avoiding his father’s machinations had become a game of sorts.
“You never told me you planned to wed,” Rosamond added with a pout of her lush lips.
Thorne felt the hardness of his erection fade altogether. “Possibly,” he replied, releasing her wrists, “because I have no intention of shackling myself with chains of matrimony.”
“Your father says differently.”
“I’m certain he does,” Thorne said dryly, torn between amusement and exasperation at his noble father.
“I do understand the ways of the quality,” Rosamond declared. “You are a duke’s only son and heir, and Redcliffe craves seeing you settled with a proper wife and a son of your own to carry on the title. Furthermore, he wants no impediments to your securing a distinguished bride, and the wealthy young lady he has chosen for you has grave objections to you flaunting your mistresses. At least, that is what his grace told me.”
“I assure you,” Thorne vowed in clipped tones, “I will never marry my father’s choice of a bride.”
“Even so, this must be farewell between us….” Tears welled in Rosamond’s eyes again. “I have agreed to your father’s terms.”
“Terms?”
“Redcliffe offered me his patronage,” she confessed. “He promised to secure me a leading role in the opera if I break off my liaison with you.”
“My father
bribed
you?” Thorne’s eyebrows shot up as he debated whether to laugh or curse. His father had never gone so far as to interfere directly in his amorous affairs before, but this was a devilish intrusion—bribing his mistress to leave his protection in order to clear the way for his marriage to a wealthy, well-born debutante.
Thorne bit off an oath, promising to deliver a few select words to his sire when next they met.
“It is not precisely a bribe,” Rosamond objected. “And it is for your own sake more than mine.”
“You may spare me your concern, love,” Thorne replied, his drawl languid.
She bit her lip, evidently realizing the hollowness of her argument. “Truly, I will miss you dreadfully, my lord. No one is as magnificent a lover as you.”
“I am gratified you think so.”
Rosamond peered up at him through her kohldarkened lashes. “Are you very angry with me?”
Thorne fastened his breeches while he pondered what he felt. Admittedly his pride smarted to have his mistress choose her opera career over him. And unquestionably it stung to be outmaneuvered by his father.
He could offer Rosamond a higher bribe, no doubt, but he didn’t want a mistress who was so disloyal that her allegiance could be bought—a sardonic grin touched Thorne’s mouth. Rosamond’s delectable charms had always been for sale to the highest bidder.
But his father had won this round of their game, he conceded, amused in spite of himself. He would regret losing Rosamond, naturally, since her amorous skills could satisfy even a man of his jaded and discriminating tastes. But he could bear the disappointment.
Summoning a smile, he ran his thumb tenderly over her lower lip. “No, I am not angry with you, love. My heart is wounded, of course, but I understand why you would favor your career over me.”
“I shall return the jewelry and carriage, if you wish, since I have been with you barely two months—”
“You may keep them.”
“Oh, my lord, you are so generous!” She tried to kiss him again, but Thorne grasped her naked shoulders to hold her away.
“I promise to vacate this house next week,” Rosamond offered magnanimously.
“There is no rush. At the moment I have no candidates in mind to replace you.”
“But I will need to live closer to the Opera in any case.”
