Ripe for Pleasure (6 page)

L
eo shook his hand, trying to relieve the sting. He hadn’t been struck such a blow since he was a boy. His mother was also
a master with that particular weapon and had employed it ruthlessly with him and both his siblings. He’d always been amazed
that his father had been brave enough to snatch her from the steps of St. Martin’s. To call his mother formidable was to grossly
understate things, and to say she was somewhat high in the instep was tantamount to a slight. But it was those very qualities
that had allowed her to brazen her way through a runaway marriage to the son of a Scottish earl who most of the world thought
mad.

His mother had even managed to redeem the family somewhat, at least in the eyes of those with romantic leanings or a soft
spot for a rake redeemed. She’d always acted as though she’d intended to marry his father all along, and perhaps she had.
She was a deep, quiet, dangerous woman. One of the ones it was best not to cross, and he loved her as a dog loves its master:
wholeheartedly, unreservedly, and with just the slightest bit of awe.

He’d be lucky if she didn’t react like a combination of a banshee and an avenging archangel when word of what he was up to
finally reached her in the hinterlands of Kinross-shire. With any luck, she’d spend the summer mired in local affairs and
not give him, or London, a thought until September when it was time for his father’s annual shooting party.

Leo settled back in his chair and let his eyes slowly unfocus. The play was some trite affair by Sheridan, full of characters
with ridiculous names like Backbite, Verjuice, and Sneerwell. He hadn’t come for the play. The entire point of the outing
was to be seen. To make enough of a spectacle of themselves for polite society to sit up and notice that Mrs. Whedon had passed
into his keeping. And by doing so, to take the first step down the path that led to her eventual seduction and capitulation,
and their mutual pleasure. And it would be mutual, of that he was sure. Anything else was unthinkable. Unacceptable.

The actors broke into a song about blushing maidens, which meant he had at least another hour to go before the play ended
and the farce began. Sitting complacently beside Mrs. Whedon for that length was insupportable.

What would she do if he knelt before her and took what liberties he could in so confined, and public, a space while the players
cavorted below? Leo turned away from the rather tepid fare being offered and caught her watching him. Their eyes met, and
she held his gaze. As was her wont, she simply waited. She didn’t seem to be quizzing him, nor challenging him, nor attempting
to puzzle him out. After a prolonged moment, when he was almost sure she was going to lean in for a kiss, she blinked and
twisted her head back around to face the stage.

Leo tugged off his glove and dropped his hand to catch the silk of her petticoat. When she didn’t protest, he slowly gathered
the skirt upward, revealing first her ankle, then a good deal of her calf. Her breath hitched ever so slightly, but she kept
her attention firmly fastened on the stage below.

He worked his hand under the hem, fingers sliding up her calf and over her knee, thumb sinking into the sensitive crease behind
it. He traced the kneecap, skimmed up over the top of her knee, and slipped beneath her stocking, letting his thumb trace
the edge where silk met skin.

Unable to stop himself, Leo leaned toward her, buried his nose in the small, alluring gap between her ear and her hair, and
inhaled. As before, Mrs. Whedon smelled like sunshine and grass on a warm afternoon, underlain with the sweet scent of her
own flesh. His hand left her knee, pushing up to the bare skin of her thigh.

Under the whorls of his fingers, the skin was soft, as supple as the glove he’d tossed to the floor. Suddenly her own hand
locked about his wrist. She turned toward him, her cheek brushing his, her mouth perfectly poised for a kiss. Everything about
her, save the steady grip on his wrist, spoke eloquently of capitulation.

Mrs. Whedon made a soft tsking sound, shaking her head no almost imperceptibly. “I was supposed to beg first, remember?” Her
lips grazed his ear, and his whole body clenched.

Leo let his breath out with a laugh and rested his head more firmly against hers. “Ah, but ‘bravery is a rampart of defense.’
”

“Don’t quote dead Romans at me. I’m not some village maid ready to be impressed by vague claims to education.”

He pulled away to look at her, searching her face in the dim light for something he couldn’t quite put a name to. “The claim
isn’t vague in the slightest. I’ve a very good memory for Tacitus.” What was surprising was that she did as well. It certainly
wasn’t a common female accomplishment.

No getting around it. He was going to have to read the first volume of her memoir and see what it had to reveal about her
past.

Her grip loosened, and he squeezed her thigh again before she shoved his hand away. “I don’t suppose you’d care to leave now
and let me resume my sortie in the carriage?”

She twisted about to face him, her expression triumphant. “Not a chance of that, my lord. We’ve the rest of
School for Scandal,
and then there’s the farce. And during the break, you’re going to fetch me another drink, and I’m going to enjoy a quarter
of an hour’s flirtation with all the gentlemen who even now are panting for a chance to be where you are.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll see.”

Mrs. Whedon turned her attention back to the stage and pushed her petticoats back into decorous order. Leo folded his arms
and grinned. She could have her farce and her
we’ll sees
if she wanted them. They changed nothing.

Onstage, the lead actress broke character to accept a rose from a man who’d climbed up from the pit. The crowd roared in disapproval,
and the man slid back down, buffeted by a rain of rotting vegetables as he went. Leo sighed and blew out a desultory breath.
It was going to be a long night.

When the intermission before the farce finally arrived, Leo stepped outside the box and sent his footman to fetch more wine.
Now was his chance for a bit of public dalliance. It was now that he and Mrs. Whedon would perform upon a stage of their own
for the eager masses.

He stepped back into the box, and Mrs. Whedon welcomed him with a cool smile and one slightly raised brow. She wasn’t going
to make this easy. Good. The seduction was half the fun. More than half, if he was to be truly honest.

All around them, faces were turned eagerly toward their box. Leo nodded to a few of his friends across the open expanse of
the pit. From his own box, Sandison raised his glass in a toast, before returning his attention to his own guests.

Leo reclaimed his seat and took possession of one of Mrs. Whedon’s long-fingered hands. He unclasped the bracelet she wore
over her glove and tucked it into his pocket. One side of Mrs. Whedon’s mouth slid up into a grudging smile. Leo tugged at
the tip of each finger, loosening the glove, then he pulled it off and stowed it with the bracelet. “You have lovely hands.”
He kissed her palm, then slid his mouth down to the pulse point at her wrist.

Her charming intake of breath became a hiss of displeasure as a male voice interrupted them. The man’s sputtering, inchoate
curse erupted into an uproar. “You’ve no right, my lord! No right at all.” Leo pushed his thumb in lazy circles across Mrs.
Whedon’s palm. He ran an eye over Sir Hugo. The baronet was a big man, not overly tall, but with a pugilist’s formidable build.

“I’ve a contract signed and sealed.” Sir Hugo’s face flushed from pink to puce, and his glare locked on Mrs. Whedon. “She’s
mine through the end of the year. Bought and paid for.”

Mrs. Whedon was also flushed. Anger seemed to be choking her. Leo raised her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles.
“Was he always this crass? It must have been a chore to put up with him, let alone bed him. You have my sympathy, madam.”

Mrs. Whedon’s eyes widened, and after a pregnant pause, she burst into laughter. Sir Hugo lurched toward them, hands balled
into fists. Leo shot to his feet, grabbed hold of the other man’s coat, and wrestled him out of the box.

The crowded corridor parted around them, ringing them in quite effectively. Sir Hugo looked close to apoplexy. He straightened
his wig as though he were donning a helm and squared his shoulders.

“Fair warning, my lord,” Sir Hugo spat out. “You’re trespassing.”

Leo nodded. It was entirely likely that he was. “You have my apologies, sir. You can be very sure that I will have my solicitor
review your contract with Mrs. Whedon. If she’s found in breach, I’ll be sure you’re made whole.”

The crowd tittered and jeered. Sir Hugo ground his teeth, his hands flexing as though he were imagining them around Leo’s
neck. “I should like to teach you a lesson, whelp. But this is neither the time nor the place.”

Leo raised a brow by way of response. The baronet must know such contracts were nearly unenforceable. And the theatre was
the perfect place for such interac
tions. Public exhibitions of personal lives were practically the only reason anyone came.

Mrs. Whedon approached from behind, her skirts fluttering against his legs. She placed one hand just between his shoulder
blades and leaned forward so that she could see around him. “I’m not some scrubby schoolboy,” Leo said, not taking his eyes
off the seething baronet. “Whelp or not, I’m still the son of a duke, and Mrs. Whedon is no longer your concern.”

Sir Hugo’s breath huffed out of him as though he were the bellows in a smithy. “I hope she bleeds you dry, Lord Leonidas.
Lord knows it’s what you deserve.”

Charles frowned as the crowd exiting the Haymarket swelled, pushing past him in a torrent of silk and lace and the heavy stench
of violet hair powder. He raised his handkerchief to his nose, trying to block out the stink.

His cousin Leo was a few yards ahead of him, his height making him conspicuous, easy to follow. Beside Leo, Charles could
just make out the Whedon woman’s mass of curls and the bob of her very expensive feathers.

He’d watched them from the pit all evening. Leo might as well have bent her over the railing and fucked her in full view of
the entire audience.

What was the point of bringing such a woman to see a play? Of treating her like a lady? Of wooing her? Everyone knew she could
be had for a price, and it hardly added to a man’s reputation to be seen groveling and pandering in such a manner. His cousin
was making a fool of himself, and for what? Because he wasn’t man enough to simply take what he wanted.

It was ridiculous.

Charles gritted his teeth as the corridor swelled with people, and he was relentlessly borne along with the tide of humanity.
A man jostled him, elbowing him smartly in the ribs. Charles glared and shoved back. The man threw him a frightened glance
before stumbling away and disappearing into the throng.

Damn Leo. This was too important a matter for him to simply let Leo win, as he always had. Leonidas: the golden boy of the
Vaughn clan, for all that he was the younger brother. Always the best at everything, or at least always the one praised for
being best, singled out for reward simply for being born who he was. The pampered spare who had to neither live up to an heir’s
responsibilities nor scramble to support himself. He was like a pug, pampered and sheltered. Useless.

It was to him that their grandfather had left an estate. What had Charles got? A yearly annuity of a few hundred pounds. Leo
could insist they were both Vaughns, but their grandfather’s will had made it perfectly clear that they weren’t equals. Leo
was to become a landed gentleman, to have a life worthy of a duke’s son, while he was left to scrape by as best he could on
his wits and a pittance. The duke had even gone so far as to recommend the Church.

Charles’s stomach clenched. A pinch-penny vicar, that’s what the mighty Vaughns thought appropriate for him. Damn them.

But Leo wasn’t going to prevail this time around. Charles couldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t allow it. His great-uncle’s involvement
with the Jacobites had been all it took
to bring the entire family to its knees. Heads had rolled, titles had died out, and fortunes had been lost. Children like
him, the final fruit of those pruned vines, had been left to fend for themselves as best they could.

Most people supposed him lucky to have been taken in by his maternal family, but they were wrong. Every moment of every day
simply heaped further insult upon injury. Every triumph of his usurper-supporting family was another blow. The prince had
been their rightful king. Charles’s family’s reward for doing what was just, what was required by God and honor, had been
destruction, desecration, and ruin.

But the money hidden in number twelve would change all of that.

CHAPTER 6