Ripe for Pleasure (18 page)

She let the linen pool in her lap and fingered the bite mark that lay hidden beneath her fichu. She’d shared her bed with
men concerned only with their own pleasure, with men barely even up to claiming that, and with men who’d moved her to orgasm,
but she’d not taken any real pleasure in doing so.

She’d never had a lover whose sole goal was her pleasure, or who’d been so genuinely enamored that he’d left marks without
even knowing it. There was something about it that left her feeling powerful. Something delightfully wicked. Each mark like
a badge of honor.

Still savoring the slight aches of her various well-earned bumps and bruises, Viola put her needle back to work. As she set
the final anchor stitch, the door opened and Pen surged to her feet, hackles up.

Mr. Pilcher didn’t so much as spare the grumbling dog a glance. “Mr. Sandison has arrived, ma’am. Shall I—”

“Don’t bother announcing me, Pilcher.” Mr. Sandison burst into the room, pushing past Pilcher with a scapegrace smile. “Mrs.
Whedon and I are already acquainted. Good God! What the devil is that?”

Pen’s low protest became a full-throated growl. “Pen!”
Viola stood, snapped her fingers, and pointed at the ground. The dog quieted, but moved to place herself between Viola and
Sandison.

“Hello, Mr. Sandison. This horrible beast is Penthesilea. And she’s being a very bad girl.” Pen flopped at Viola’s feet, head
propped up on her crossed paws. “I’m afraid Lord Leonidas is gone for the afternoon. Have you eaten? Shall I send Pilcher
for something from the kitchen?”

“No, no, ma’am. Thank you. I stopped at the Craven Bull not an hour ago.” He crossed the room slowly to take the seat farthest
from her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but is that
your
dog?”

Viola nodded, amusement curling her lips into a smile.

“Not quite most ladies’ idea of a pet, is she?”

“Pen was something of a volunteer.”

His brow wrinkled, one eyebrow rising in question.

“A very enthusiastic volunteer,” she continued. “Impossible to deny, you might say.”

“Impossible to get out of the carriage, you mean.” Leo strode into the room, hair slightly windblown and boots dusty.

Pen leapt up and ran to greet him. Viola’s pulse leapt, too. She took a deep, steadying breath. Leo gave Pen a hearty pat,
just as he did his horses, and she wriggled with joy, her stub of a tail wagging frantically.

“As I remember it, my lord, you had no problem ordering her out.” Viola sat back down and reached for another piece of mending.

“Only to be met with two pairs of pleading eyes. Admit it, Vi, you’d have turned back to London with this beast in tow if
I’d not given way.” Viola shrugged as Leo
wiped ineffectually at a long smear of slobber Pen had left upon his breeches. “Don’t let that placid expression fool you,
Sandison. Mrs. Whedon is every bit as bad as Beau when it comes to getting her way.”

“No one could be as thoroughly unscrupulous as your sister when it comes to getting her way. Except, perhaps—”

“My mother.” Leo’s eyes crinkled with merriment as he cut off his friend, and they both burst into laughter. Pen leaned into
him, and he dropped one hand to absently play with her ears. With sudden decision, he pushed her away. “Come along, Sandison.
Come and see my new colt. He’s a thick, heavy-boned Irish beauty. He ought to be up to even Thane’s weight when he’s grown.”

Mr. Sandison sketched her a slight bow as Leo ushered him from the room. The door shut on a note of laughter from them both.
Pen whined at the door, then shuffled across the room to reclaim the sunny spot on the carpet.

“How very domestic.”

Leo glared at his friend and refused to be baited. Sandison knocked the head off an encroaching plant with his crop and continued
toward the stable.

“She’s darning your bloody stockings, Mrs. Whedon. The woman has brought half of London to their knees, and you’ve got her
doing your mending. You’d think”—he glanced back over his shoulder to see if his darts were hitting home, and Leo forced his
expression to remain as bland as possible—“a man of your reputation could find something far more imaginative to keep her
busy.”

“She seems content enough.” Leo thrust his nosy friend into the cool shade of the stable. He wasn’t about to
tell Sandison that she was mending only what she herself had torn asunder, and that without a bit of mending, he’d be wandering
about in nothing but his drawers.

Sandison’s smile plainly said he didn’t believe him in the least. Leo paused to scratch Quiz. The gelding lowered his head
and shook it like a dog. Leo dug his fingers into the sensitive spot just beside Quiz’s ear.

Sandison picked his way around a pile of droppings. “Too much a gentleman to tell your friends all the glorious details? Lud.
It’s not as though I can’t just read her memoir.”

“Ah, but what she chooses to write is her own business, just as what I choose to divulge is mine.”

“You always were a tight-lipped bastard, Vaughn.”

Leo gave a bark of laughter, and Quiz jerked out of his hands with an affronted snort. “Any further sign of my cousin or the
treasure?”

Sandison shrugged one elegant shoulder and flicked a bit of hay from his sleeve. “I saw MacDonald at the Ackroyd route. Got
an icy glare and a rude hand gesture from him as he left.” Sandison smiled slyly and Leo raised one brow. He knew that look.
Sandison meant devilment.

“After all the time I’ve spent in Mrs. Whedon’s house, I do have a very solid idea of her general tastes,” Sandison added.
He held one hand out to the new colt and clucked his tongue. “Bohea or Pu Erh for tea. Black glycerin soap from Spain for
her bath. Her room smells of
Eau de Cologne,
her stockings of lavender… and a copy of Julius Caesar’s
Commentarii—
in the original Latin—on her bedside table for a bit of light reading.”

“Leave her stockings out of it.”

Sandison grinned, then turned his attention back to luring the colt to him. “Noted. What about her shoes? Are they too out
of bounds? They do, after all,
touch
her stockings.”

“I know this is likely an impossible request, but don’t be an ass, Sandison. There was nothing at all? No secret door in the
larder? No hidden staircase to an attic room?”

“No, no, and no. I know the trail in the letters leads to number twelve, but perhaps we have only part of the story. Perhaps
they took the money with them when they fled. Or maybe it had already gone on to the next stage of its journey before everything
fell apart for the prince.”

Leo ran a hand over his face. “Perhaps, but I’m not prepared to give up on it just yet. Maybe there’s some clue I’ve missed
in the letters.”

“Or maybe the letter that would tell us what we need to know is what is missing.”

Leo nodded, knowing that his friend’s suggestion was all too likely a possibility. “Well, if this turns out to have been nothing
but a wild goose chase, I’ll simply have to face up to selling Dyrham.”

Sandison eyed him sharply. “Is Dyrham really so unsound?”

Leo nodded. “It’s a hunting box. A rather grand one, I’ll grant you, but it was never meant to be self-supporting. Oh, I could
live on here without the prince’s treasure, but everything would go to rack and ruin before I was sixty.”

“The old duke forget to take the cost into account when he left it to you?”

“I rather imagine that Grandfather didn’t give it a second thought. It must have seemed incidental to him. Just
one of many small holdings, none of which pulled its own weight.”

“But what does that matter when one enjoys them, eh?”

“Exactly. No different than the house in Mayfair, or the one in Bath.”

“Except,” Sandison said, “that an estate such as this, with a stable full of horses and a full staff, costs a hell of a lot
more to maintain.”

“That it does.”

Sandison whistled softly, and the colt finally stepped up to the door of the box stall. He rubbed his thumb over the animal’s
wide blaze.

“He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?” Leo asked.

“Yes. I imagine Thane will be mad for him.”

“As well as my brother, Squire Watt, and a few dozen others. But they’ll all be decidedly out. This boy is mine. He’s going
to be the foundation sire for my stable. It’s taken me three years to find just the right blend of blood and bone.”

“Going to set yourself up as a gentleman farmer?” Sandison smiled as he stepped away from the stall and brushed off his hands.

“Something like that, yes. If the universe cooperates.” Leo paused as the sound of carriage wheels on gravel became distinct.
“Ten pounds it’s Thane.”

“Done. Thane has never beaten Devere anywhere in his life. It’s beneath his dignity to rush.”

Leo chuckled. Sandison was right about that. The idea of Thane in a heat or a hurry was simply impossible to picture. Even
when delivering a speech in the House, he was always calm and precise. But one of these days, the
sleepy giant would wake, and Leo was willing to bet his new colt that the result would be more than worth the wait. Today
was unlikely to be that day, but Devere wasn’t due until tomorrow, so it was even odds as to which of them was in the carriage.

The jingle of the links of a collar reached them and then de Moulines’s greyhound came dancing into the stable, quickly followed
by Devere and de Moulines himself. The Frenchman whistled, and his dog rushed back to him, a fawning sycophant of the first
order.

“You’d best hope Mrs. Whedon’s new pet doesn’t eat the Dauphin,” Sandison called out by way of greeting.

De Moulines gave them both a quizzical look. “Has she adopted a tiger? Or perhaps some poor gypsy’s bear?”

“No, just a mongrel mastiff,” Leo assured him. “And I’m sure the Dauphin is more than capable of charming away her snarls.”

The greyhound, upon hearing his name repeated, slunk forward and thrust his head under Leo’s hand. Leo ran his fingers over
the silken fur. “That’s a good boy. You work the same magic on Pen, and we’ll have no worries at all.”

CHAPTER 20

… and though I have often heard him called a brilliant speaker in Parliament, one could have wished to have found him brilliant
in other areas. Alas, both his wife and I were doomed to disappointment.

V
iola signed the final
t
with a flourish and placed the period with such satisfaction that she nearly punctured the sheet of foolscap. That did very
well for Sir Hugo. A niggling bit of disquiet stirred within her. She was very nearly done with her manuscript. She brushed
the feather tip of her quill across her chin.

When she was done, there’d be no reason to stay on at Dyrham. She could return to London, to her friends, to her life. She
could pick up the strings of gossip, superintend the replanting of her garden…

Viola sighed and caught the feather between her teeth. She would buy a horse when she returned to London. Her afternoon ride
was something she was entirely unprepared to give up when she returned to town.

And then there was Leo himself. The very fact that her feelings had become involved at all was something more than worrisome.
It was mortifying and untenable.

She was growing too comfortable at Dyrham. It was becoming hard not to think of it as home, as hers. And it had happened with
alarming ease. Something about the haphazardly furnished house had simply laid claim to her. Only last evening, she’d caught
herself niggling with the idea of a house party, mentally matching up her friends and Lord Leonidas’s, planning whom to seat
next to whom at dinner…

She dipped her pen into the inkwell, resolute. This was the final section, the final story, and when it was done, so too was
her time at Dyrham.

“Deliver him to Dyrham tomorrow. Mr. Pilcher will be expecting you and will have your payment ready.” Leo let his hand linger
on the chestnut’s withers. Fine-boned in the way of Thoroughbreds with a great deal of Arab blood, the gelding had a beautifully
sculpted head and a thick, heavy mane. He was the perfect mount for a lady, and he’d suit Viola to a tittle.