Ripe for Pleasure (4 page)

Devere wadded up the handkerchief and sent it sailing toward Anthony Thane, who caught it in midair and dropped it onto the
folded newspaper. “Anything we can help you with?” Thane said, glaring at Devere.

“Not at the moment.” Leo tossed back the last of his coffee and set the cup aside. “Just a family squabble.”

De Moulines shook his head, just the way Leo’s older brother did when he knew he was lying. “
Non.
No such thing with you damn Vaughns, this we all know. Mad, the lot of you.”

“Besides,” Sandison cut in, “MacDonald was quite loud: money, the forty-five, poor relation, birthrights.”

“From across the room, it was all very intriguing,” Devere said.

Leo held back a smile. Devere was always looking for an adventure, and Sandison, despite his sleepy appearance, was all too
keen when it came to schemes and puzzles, while de Moulines was a fire-eater, ready to fight on the flimsiest of provocations.
Only Thane could be counted upon to keep a cool head.

“No,” Leo said, answering Thane and ignoring the others. “At the moment it’s nothing but a family squabble. For now you’ll
have to excuse me. I’m off to call on Mrs. Whedon, and that most certainly isn’t something I need any of your help with.”

Devere’s eyes narrowed, and Sandison went off in a peal of laughter, while the other two choked on their coffee. Leo shook
his head at them and refused to be drawn in. He reclaimed his hat and swordstick from The Red Lion’s porter and set off briskly
toward St. James’s Park.

His cousin’s refusal to see reason still chafed, but it wasn’t all that surprising. The cards had been dealt and the bets
laid; there was no going back now. Leo stopped in the middle of the walk as a plan began to take shape.

A covey of giddy demi-reps out for an airing swirled around him. They sized him up as they went by, the stench of stale perfume
and cheap cosmetics swirling in their wake. He could feel them weighing the cut of his coat, the expense of his boots, the
value of his purse. They could probably guess his worth as well as any moneylender.

Leo adjusted his hat and flipped his swordstick up smartly under his arm as they drifted off slowly so if he wished to catch
them he might. One of them smiled back over her shoulder, displaying her fine neck and an expanse of straight and surprisingly
white teeth. Leo shook his head, causing her to whip back around. Her walk took on a decided flounce, skirts swishing, bouncing
erratically over the false rump beneath them. He had a much more alluring conquest in mind. Beside Mrs. Whedon, the gauche
girls before him in their rouge and patches didn’t stand a chance. Just the thought of her set his mouth watering, made his
pulse rise with expectation.

Leo plucked his watch from his pocket and thumbed the tortoiseshell case open: three-eighteen. He quickened his pace. He was
going to be late to meet Addison’s men, and he had a serious bit of seduction to get under way. A vision of flame-colored
hair, slightly damp and tangled, hanging over him like a bedouin’s tent made him inhale sharply. The loamy scent of the park
washed over him, reminding him of her perfume.

He even knew exactly how to put his proposal to her…

“So, in exchange for your continued protection, I’m to become your mistress?” Viola smiled in spite of herself. Lord Leonidas
had certainly found an original way of
framing his proposal. He’d launched into it mere moments after the Bow Street runner had left them.

Her savior shook his head, mad eyes dancing beneath long lashes. “No. In exchange for both continued physical protection,
and my letting it be known in certain quarters that you are under such, you’ll become my lover.”

“The term you choose makes no difference, my lord. The end result is the same.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Whedon. It’s not the same thing at all.”

Viola let out an unsteady breath. The hint of a growl in his voice set her nerves on edge and made her nipples tighten until
they pressed uncomfortably against the stiff wall of her stays.

She wanted this man, much as she hated to admit it. Wanted him badly enough to consider breaking every rule she’d ever made
for herself. And that was all the more reason to resist the impulse. The last time she’d felt this way, it had been disastrous,
and getting what she wanted had only made things worse.

“No?” Her voice came out embarrassingly weak, almost breathy. She swallowed and balled up the hand he couldn’t see until her
nails bit into her palm.

Calm. Serene. Unflappable. That was what she was famous for being, what gave her the allure of being unobtainable. Calm, serene…

“No.” Lord Leonidas smiled and abandoned his post by the cold grate to claim the chair across from her. His long legs stretched
across the small space between them, boots nearly tangling in her skirts. Viola drew her feet back and tucked them under her
chair. He grinned, clearly aware of her withdrawal.

“A lover, Mrs. Whedon, puts his partner’s pleasure first. Or rather, her pleasure
is
his pleasure.” He leaned forward, close enough for the scent of Bay Rum, warm skin, and sun-dried linen to wash over her.
Her mouth watered, forcing her to swallow. One corner of his mouth kicked up as though he knew. “Just as his is hers.”

Viola settled back into the embrace of her chair, moving away from the dizzying scent of him. She traced the bargello work
with a nail, eyes on the intricate needlework that covered the chair rather than on Vaughn. “Her protector’s pleasure is always
a mistress’s—”

“Exactly my point, ma’am. When has your pleasure ever been the first and most important concern of either person in your bed?”

Her eyes snapped up, riveted to him.

Never. At least not since Stephen died. Perhaps not even then. They’d both been so damn young… She pushed the memory away.
Men paid for their pleasure to be the only concern. That was the whole point. Whether wife or mistress, a woman’s pleasure
was of little import.

A bubble of panic clawed its way up her chest and lodged beneath her heart, making it nearly impossible to breathe. To suggest
that there was some mythical third option of
lover
made her want to slap him, but it also sparked a wild desire for him to prove what he said. Her lamentable curiosity was
going to get her into trouble yet again. At least this time she had no reputation to lose. No family to embarrass or disappoint.

“So, in exchange for being allowed to put my pleasure first, you’ll slay all my dragons.” She did her best to be dismissive,
to make his proposal sound as ridiculous as it was.

Lord Leonidas chuckled, a low, throaty sound that curled around her. “In exchange for being allowed to attempt to pleasure
you, I’ll slay any damn thing you like.”

Viola sucked in a breath. His blue eye was steady, sincere, but the green one held a hint of mischief. That was the eye to
watch, the one that gave away his secrets. It wasn’t as simple as he made it out to be, but she’d be damned if she could fathom
what his real motivation was. A bet perhaps? The challenge of climbing into bed with the most infamous whore in England without
so much as tuppence changing hands?

“In fact, I propose to seduce you in stages, my dear. To make you beg for each and every intimacy.”

“Beg?” A thrill coursed through her as her last shred of dignity evaporated. Her hands and feet began to tingle as heat pooled
in her belly. The air between them crackled with tension, lust recognizing lust. What sort of man bothered to seduce a woman
whose bed others had merely paid to enter? How badly did she really want to find out?

“Beg,” he echoed with a conviction that unnerved her.

The muscles in his thighs bunched as he rose, straining the seams of his breeches. His large, square hands smoothed his coat
into place, the subtle, striped silk sliding across his chest to mask the magnificent waistcoat beneath. Viola sucked in her
bottom lip and caught it between her teeth. It was impossible not to imagine those hands touching her.

If she clung to that almost gaudy waistcoat, crushed the embroidered panels with both hands, would he carry her to the chaise?
Or would he simply sink with her to the silk carpet beneath their feet?

How long had it been now since a man had touched her? Could it really be months? And how much longer than that had it been
since she’d had a man with any real skill in her bed? Years? Forever? Never? The ones worth bedding were never the ones who
could afford to keep her.

It simply didn’t bear thinking about. A sudden wave of regret flooded through her. This wasn’t the life she was supposed to
be living… not the one she’d been raised to expect nor the one she’d dreamt of as a girl. Not even close.

Lord Leonidas circled around the back of her chair and leaned over her. “But for now, Mrs. Whedon”—his breath washed over
her ear, and she shivered—“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to your afternoon.” He inched closer, until she could feel the
slight abrasion of his cheek against hers, until the scent of Bay Rum flooded every pore. “You might indulge me and spend
it imagining just what I might do, if allowed to touch you only below the knee, to induce you to beg me to touch your thigh.”

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in her boudoir, flushed with anger and quaking with need. All she could think about
were those long-fingered hands sliding up her calf… The bastard.

CHAPTER 4

V
iola handed her hat and gloves to Mrs. Pendergast’s doorman and hurried to the parlor. It was evident, even through the closed
door, that a lively discussion was already under way. As she pushed into the plush inner sanctum of London’s most elite brothel,
she heard Lady Grosvenor’s laughter cut through the air like a soprano climbing to the top of her range.

Beside Lady Grosvenor were the other members of the New Female Coterie, demi-reps all. Lady Ligonier, Lady Worsley, Mrs. Newton,
and the grandame of them all, the Countess of Harrington. Most of the members of their society were the fallen wives and daughters
of nobility. Lady Harrington, on the other hand, was merely infamous, her husband having been more democratic in his views
of wifely fidelity than most of his fellows. Of course, he was probably upstairs with one of Mrs. Pendergast’s girls at this
very moment…

Lady Grosvenor gathered her ever-present pug into her lap and patted the settee beside her, her eyes crinkling
with mirth. “Mrs. Whedon, I hear such tales of you that I burn for corroboration. You were attacked? In your own home? And
saved by Lord Leonidas Vaughn?”

“Yes,” Lady Worsley said, leaning forward, anticipation writ plainly on her face. “Please do tell us that the rumors are true.
That Lord Leonidas has fallen at last?”

“I’m afraid I’m the one who’s meant to fall.” Viola fingered the trailing ribbon of her sash. “And yes, I awoke to find housebreakers
in my bedroom. They were after the manuscript for the next volume of my memoir.” She shuddered at the memory. “Lord Leonidas
was walking home from a late night of cards when I burst onto the walk.”

“Thank heavens,” Mrs. Newton said.

“Lucky girl, more belike,” Lady Grosvenor replied with a hint of a smile. “What a savior to find at hand.”

“Yes,” Viola conceded, ignoring the flustered pulse beating its way through her veins. “He took care of everything, from searching
the house to meeting with the runners.” Her footman’s lifeless body flashed behind her eyes. “The runner doesn’t hold out
much hope for catching them, though. He promised they’d do their best, but without more to go on, they can hardly accuse Sir
Hugo publicly—though I know they must have been in the baronet’s employ—and without Sir Hugo, the runners are unlikely to
be able to trace my assailants.”

“But Lord Leonidas has everything in hand?” Lady Harrington asked with a somewhat surprised expression.

Viola nodded. “He’s taken the reins quite handily. I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to. He’s outrageous.”

“But handsome.”

“And rich.”

“Not to mention, just think of the
size
of him.” Lady Ligonier looked rapturous. “There must be only a handful of men among the
ton
who are anywhere near his height.”