Ripe for Pleasure (11 page)

W
ashed in moonlight, Dyrham slid into view as Leo broke from the avenue of lime trees that curved from the road to the house.
He was home. A nightingale’s call wove through the sound of iron-shod hooves on gravel and the dull grind of the wheels of
the coach.

The stone façade of the house, half-mantled in creeping ivy and wisteria, looked almost blue in the night. The large lamps
on either side of the door were overshadowed by greenery, but welcoming all the same. Before the coach had even stopped, the
front door opened, spilling forth his small staff of servants.

Leo swung down from Meteor’s back, transferring his pistol from holster to pocket as he did so. He tossed the reins to the
groom who came running from the stable block and gave the bay a final affectionate slap as the boy led the gelding away.

Tension leaked out of his shoulders. They’d arrived without a single mishap, if one didn’t count Viola’s new pet. Footmen
were already disappearing into the house
with their trunks as he opened the door to the coach. Viola yawned behind her gloved hand and pushed the sleeping dog off
her lap.

“Come along, my dear. I’m sure my staff will have supper ready for us, and arranging for a plate of scraps for your dog should
be easy enough.”

“Boudicea.”

“Queen of the Iceni?” Leo’s eye twitched.

“The first warrior queen of England. It seemed appropriate.”

“Beau won’t thank you for that.”

Viola put her hand in his and stepped down. The dog bounded out behind her, and he could have sworn he heard his steward mumble,
“Sweet Savior, deliver us.”

“Beau?”

“My sister, Lady Boudicea Vaughn. If she discovers that I have a bitch at Dyrham who shares her name, I assure you there won’t
be a safe place in all of Britain for me to hide.”

“We can’t have that, can we?” Viola ducked her head, a grin curling up the edge of her lips.

Leo ushered her into the house, waving back his servants as they stepped forward as if to block the dog from following. He
heard Sampson laugh, the groom’s deep basso profondo drowning out Viola’s maid’s indignant protest. His grandfather had always
had a dog or three about the place, and though there’d been none here of late, he had no doubt his household would make the
necessary adjustments. And so would Viola’s maid.

“Perhaps you’d like to wash the dust, and dog, off,” he added with a laugh, “before we dine?”

•     •     •

Lord Leonidas’s butler led her to a room that was large and plush. A silk-upholstered settee sat before the fireplace. Matching
silk hangings curtained the bed. Everything in pale shades of pink and primrose.

Nance bustled about the room, muttering under her breath.

“Oh, do stop fussing.”

The maid’s head snapped around, and she flushed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just that between that beast of a dog and that monstrous
footman…” She let her voice trail away.

Viola eyed the blush. She’d bet her favorite earbobs that Nance was very well pleased with Sampson’s attentions. She’d seen
the smile that had accompanied his pinch and her hand slapping.

Viola pulled down her hair and shook out her curls. Nance was in the process of pinning it back up when Sampson arrived with
a pitcher of hot water. He bobbed his head, set it down, and left, while Nance blushed red as a boiled lobster.

“Monstrous, is he?”

“Yes, ma’am. A cheeky devil, too, not above pinching.”

“Quelle horror.”

Nance schooled her temper, her expression shuttered. Viola shooed her away. “Shake out my calico.”

Viola took her time dressing. Lord Leonidas was waiting downstairs, and he was every bit as monstrously cocky as his footman.
He’d taken control the moment they’d met and not let the reins slip once.

It couldn’t be allowed to continue.

CHAPTER 11

I
was thinking about Hippolyta, or perhaps Penthesilea.”

Leo chewed thoughtfully, nodding. Amazon queens seemed a likely enough namesake for the beast currently sleeping on the rug
at her mistress’s feet, a joint bone gnawed to a naked stub beside her.

“Something of a mouthful.” And names that only someone as well versed as his father in the writings of Homer and Smyrnaeus
was likely to have dredged up. Who
were
her people? Most women had quite memorable scandals attached to their debut among the ranks of the fallen, but he could remember
nothing of Viola’s story. “Not to mention a name only a scholar could love or pronounce. Was your father a vicar with a penchant
for history? A Latin tutor? Can you read Latin and ancient Greek, or do you just know the stories?”

Her face went blank for a moment, panic and something like pain shooting through her eyes. “Yes, my father was a man of the
cloth, and yes, I can actually read both Latin and ancient Greek, a good bit of Hebrew as well—
but I put myself beyond Christian forgiveness and they cast me off, and there’s an end to it.”

Leo frowned. That wasn’t an ending. That was a beginning, or at least a very muddled middle. Viola dropped her eyes to her
plate and pushed the remnants of her meal about with her fork. After a moment, she said with forced brightness, “She could
be Polly or Pen for everyday use. Of course this is assuming you don’t have another sister already so christened?”

“No, just the one sister.”

“And one brother, if memory and Debritt’s serve.”

Leo studied her for a moment. The shadows were back beneath her eyes. She looked almost crushed, almost weak. She shook her
head slightly and reached for her glass, resolution in the set of her jaw.

“Yes, one brother as well: Alexander William,” Leo said. “Damn lucky to have been born first and got the more unobjectionable
names. And he isn’t forced to use them, having been the Marquis of Glennalmond since the moment of his birth, so it seems
doubly unfair that he shouldn’t have been burdened with Charlemagne or Battus.”

“Or both.” Viola smiled, the edge of anger and despair seemingly gone, glossed over quite adroitly. The dog scrabbled in its
sleep, chasing imaginary rabbits, nails loud upon the floor. “Is it too rude to ask whatever possessed your father?”

Leo sighed and refilled both their wineglasses. He swirled his about, watching the heavy, dark liquid color the glass. Should
he give her the full history? “My father was born a younger son. Did you know that?”

She raised her brows inquiringly and sipped her wine
by way of answer. The deep burgundy stained the seam of her lips until she licked it away.

Leo blew out his breath in a soft huff, desire flooding out from his groin. “He spent his youth in a classical fog. My mother—God
love her—has an equal passion for the histories of England and Scotland. Hence our names: one for father, one for mother,
and nearly all of them ridiculous.”

“Except for Lord Glennalmond’s.” The corners of her mouth mocked him with a hidden smile. “What outrage did your mother perpetrate
upon you?”

Leo gave her a smile with an edge of teeth. It was inevitable that she would ask. “Roibert, after the Bruce.” He drained his
glass and reached for the bowl of nuts and sweetmeats. He plucked a walnut from the pile and cracked its shell between his
palms.

He extended the broken nut across the table. Viola took a large piece of the meat, lifting it from his hand with long, pale
fingers that ended in polished nails.

“Crushed with your bare hands? Impressive.” She placed his small offering in her mouth, pink tongue darting out to tease him
again.

“Just a boy’s trick. I could teach you as easily as my father taught me.”

“Don’t.” She selected another and held it out to him, her grin returning as he broke it neatly in two. “So much more interesting
to allow me to go on thinking you as strong as your legendary namesake.”

“If you like.” Leo shrugged. She was flirting. Teasing. Offering… but something didn’t feel quite right. There was a brittle
edge to her smile.

She rose, skirts rustling almost imperceptively over
the snoring of the dog. She’d changed out of her dusty traveling gown, reappearing for supper in a simple gown of printed
cotton. A fichu obscured her décolletage, its two ends primly tucked into her bodice. She tugged them free as she stepped
toward him, letting the delicate wisp of embroidered gauze float away as she moved.

“I believe you’d reached my knee when we were interrupted.” Viola swallowed convulsively as she faced Leo down. It was time
to act. Time to regain control. She had to return to a scenario she knew how to manage. Allowing Lord Leonidas to continue
his game of seduction was too unnerving. Letting him talk, letting him ask questions, was even worse.

And she could manage it… and him. She just had to make the effort, and everything would fall into place. He was just a man,
after all.

Leo tipped his head and leaned back into his chair. A smile cocked up one side of his mouth, causing the cut that marred his
cheek to tighten and pull. His wicked green eye glinted, as if it could laugh all on its own, even past the bruise that shadowed
it.

One large hand shot out to grip her skirts, pulling her toward him. His fingers grazed her hip as he tightened his hold. “Search
your memory. I think you’ll find I’d reached your thigh and was well on my way heavenward.”

“Really?” Viola raised one brow, gazing down at him, trying to look arch and mocking. It had always been so easy, controlling
men. And when you controlled them, controlling yourself, your world, was easily accomplished. But she was clearly not in control
with Lord Leonidas
Vaughn, and tonight she could barely keep her hands steady. She had to concentrate just to place one foot in front of the
other, her nerves jangling with anticipation.

“Really.” Leo stood suddenly, chest scraping the length of her, the buttons of his waistcoat stuttering across the hook and
eyes that held her gown closed, popping the uppermost free. She fell back a step, his firm grip on her skirts preventing her
from retreating farther. Her breath caught in her throat as her lungs seized.

He yanked her closer, head dipping to her ear. “But perhaps I’ll start over from the top.” He caught her lobe between his
teeth and kissed the pulse point behind her ear, mouth hot, breath moist.

“And work your way down to hell instead?”

He laughed, hands sliding around to grip her bottom. Her feet left the floor, one shoe falling to the carpet with a muffled
thud. He sank back into the chair, dragging her with him, her thighs splayed wide, embracing his ribs. A flurry of panic beat
its way up her spine.

Leo hadn’t pulled her into his lap because he’d lost control. He’d put her there because, in such a position, she had almost
none. Physically she was trapped, restrained… lost.

His mouth was at her throat. His teeth slid roughly along her clavicle. His hands slid up her thighs, gripped her hips, and
tugged her forward in his lap. Her skirts rose in a froth between them. Leo shoved them back, leaving her naked nearly to
the waist.

Warm as the night was, the air felt cold as it washed over her exposed skin. Excitement mounted, desire threaded through her.

“If this is hell, I’ll be happy to forgo Christ’s promise of forgiveness.”

Viola gasped, as much from his easy blasphemy as from the shock of his knuckles running lightly over the straining peak at
the base of her mons. She arched, body seeking more, spine fighting against the embrace of her stays. One nipple slid free
of her bodice, and Leo captured it with his mouth.

His cock was hard against her thigh. The promise of earthly delight blatant and tantalizingly close. He bit lightly down on
the bud of her nipple, opened his mouth, and sucked hard, teeth sharp on the tender flesh of her breast.

Her hands locked in his hair. Her hips rolled as his hand possessed her, long fingers filling her, thumb circling, teasing,
torturing.

Her thighs shook as she leveraged herself up so she could open his breeches. She yanked his shirt loose, fought her way past
his drawers. His hand left her, slid around to manacle her wrist.

She caught a sob at the sense of bereavement that followed. She was hollow, aching, her whole being wound down tightly to
the throbbing between her thighs that had replaced her heartbeat as the measure of life. As the only thing of import in the
world.