Seducing the Beast (7 page)

She swore at him, a vile insult, accusing him of impotency.

“Yes, I heard that rumor,” he said calmly, knowing it originated with her spiteful tongue.

“Then disprove it. Give me a child.”

Her eyes were eerily opaque like those of a marble caryatid. Rather than delve deeper and explore the evil labyrinth of her mind, he wanted her gone from his chambers. “As I told you, I’ll consider it.” He gave a quick, sweeping clap of his hands, signaling her dismissal.

Retrieving her ermine muff, she brushed it down as if it might have become sullied in his presence. “Well, I gave you a choice.” She stood a moment, glaring down on his head. “Wickes left your wine in the annex.”

He wondered why she bothered telling him, but then she was gone. The door closed and he, at last, could breathe.

No one else would ever know it, but good God, even now when he was no longer an awestruck boy, that woman terrified him, shrank his balls to raisins.

Looking down he realized he’d cut his hand. Of course, at the tavern.

Blood dripped to his shirt cuff and his knee. And it hurt.

Cursing, he strode into the annex, and found a jug of hippocras waiting there on a tray. Wickes must have prepared it before going out. He’d better have a damned good excuse for leaving so abruptly, or he’d find himself out on his ear already.

He poured some wine into a goblet, moved back to the fire, dropped into his chair and put his heels up on a tapestry footstool, relishing a rare moment of peace.

Before he could take his first sip, there was a knock at the door. Since he’d forgotten to bolt the latch, and this new arrival was too impatient to wait for any reply, the door opened and they came in, bold as brass. Immediately he was on the alert, fingers tight around the wine goblet.

It was a woman. He knew it from the faint, chalky scent of lavender, the whisper of her skirt against the floor.

“Pardon me, sir,” she said, so politely it had to be trouble. “Is the Earl of Swafford here?”

“What do you want?” he grunted, weary and sour.

“I come to speak on behalf of Captain Nathaniel Downing.”

“Downing? The pirate?”

“He is no pirate, sir. Captain Downing was commissioned to attack that Spanish galleon. Only when the Spanish ambassador protested did the queen deny knowing anything of it. The distinction between privateer and pirate is too often distorted, depending on whoever the changeable queen decides is her latest enemy.”

“Madam, you speak treason,” he warned. “Tread with care if you come here for the earl’s help.”

Behind him, the woman sighed, releasing a shattered breath of frustration. “I did not mean any ill of her majesty. I confess, when I’m nervous or my temper is up, my tongue does run on.”

There was a familiar note in her voice. He swiveled around to look, and almost dropped his goblet.

She wore no elaborate headdress, just a simple caul for her midnight black hair. Her gown was rich, crimson damask, the sleeves a little too long, the bodice too tight. He stood swiftly, spilling wine from his goblet.

“Oh.” Her eyes were wide and clear blue, the color of a robin’s egg. “You? Once again? It must be providential.” She was flustered, her cheeks tinted pink

He bit down on his tongue, tasting his own blood. Damn. Where was Wickes? Where was the guard outside his door? He never dealt with women petitioners. Now, left entirely alone and at her mercy, he was tongue-tied, fumbling for the words to chase her out again. She was even lovelier than he remembered from earlier. Who the devil… Someone had put her up to this. It was some sort of scheme to make a fool of him perhaps, to verify the rumors of his “great incapability”.

Was it possible one of those devious courtiers, Dudley for instance, sent this creature here out of mischief?

He made a sudden, whimsical decision. “The earl isn’t here.”

And so it was done. Like that, the burden was shifted. For a while.

Aware of his hand trembling, he set his wine on the stack of books by his chair. “Still hoping to seduce him, eh? No luck yet?”

“The man is elusive as a unicorn.” Her lips parted to expel a quick, irritated sigh. “I was assured he’d be here tonight.”

“Alas, you find only me.”

“And who
are
you exactly?”

He couldn’t even be annoyed with her, although he knew he should. “I am, exactly, Griff, his manservant.” Pausing, he looked her up and down. “And this is your big plan? You came to seduce him for Downing’s pardon?” He chortled with dour amusement, couldn’t help it.

“I take offense at your tone, sir.” Even her netted hair bristled, as she squared her shoulders.

“It’s certainly a different approach, madam. No one has ever tried to sweeten their case before the earl quite so…candidly.” He pondered her peevish face, betaken with an unexpected, incandescent desire to claim what she offered. Oddly enough, his wife had just offered him the same thing, but for two hundred pounds a month, a proposition that left him cold. Not the case with this young lady. He cleared his throat. “Why not seduce me instead? Save yourself the trouble of hunting him down again. And he’s an old man. You’d enjoy yourself far more with me.” The wit spilled out of him suddenly, fluid and easy. Of course, he could talk to her, since she thought he was someone else.

“Is he very old? As old as thirty?”

He winced. “Ancient.”

Pressing a finger to her lips, she weighed her choices. “And ugly?”

“Why do you suppose they call him the Beast, madam?”

A curious glint warmed her dangerously blue eyes.

“Why not share my company instead? Suppose I can spare the time, save my master the inconvenience.”

A dimple appeared in her cheek. “While I appreciate your sacrifice on the Earl’s behalf, I’m saving myself for a good cause. Unfortunately.”

The woman must be an unscrupulous strumpet. He ought to send her out of his chambers before another word was said. Yet her polite rejection, delivered with a degree of bold humor, had a mollifying effect on his temper. The twitch of an almost extinct smile pulled at his reluctant mouth.

Good cause? He could think of no better cause than himself.

She read his expression, evidently. “Don’t be tiresome, there’s a good fellow,” she said genially, cheeks tinted pink as the underskirt of a daisy. “I came here on serious business.”

He frowned, scratching his nose again. “What makes you think you have anything special to offer him? What makes you different to any other wench?” Perhaps she had some fancy skill, he mused, a trick she thought no other woman could do for the Earl of Swafford.

But she faltered, lashes sweeping her cheeks, teeth nibbling her lower lip. Clearly, she hadn’t thought her plan through quite well enough. Watching her fingers tighten around the pleats of her skirt, he noted a few chewed fingernails.

“Give your message to me, wench, and I’ll deliver it. I’ll save you from the fate worse than death at my master’s fumbling, grotesque claws.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” She raised her haughty chin. “You have shifty eyes and low set ears, signs of a criminal mind. Not to mention, groping hands and lips that take without asking.”

“You have my word on it, madam. As a gentleman.” He bowed, one hand to his heart.

“Hmm.” She wrinkled her nose. “I know what the word of most men is worth. And I never trust one who feels the need to
tell
me he is a gentleman, because I might not think it from his shabby appearance. And especially after the way he treated me already.”

She shouldn’t trust him, he mused. Should turn her funny little tail and flee and he, if he possessed any good conscience, would tell her so. He didn’t, however.

“I have no letter of petition to leave for the Earl,” she was saying. “I lost it today in the river.” Her shoulders lifted in a pert shrug, drawing his attention to that overflowing bodice.

He carefully moved his gaze back to her face. “Whatever made you believe the earl might be seduced, madam? Surely you’ve been advised against it.”

She sighed. “Once set on a course, I’m seldom swayed from it. My father says I get my blinkers on like a plow horse.” Smiling with self-deprecating humor, she added, “The Beast might not be so awfully bad. Underneath it all, he must be the same as any other man with a heart that beats.”

He looked askance. “You’re an optimist, madam.”

She merely laughed, a gentle, soothing sound, before proceeding on an uninvited tour of his chamber, inspecting his possessions as if she owned the place and he was the one who’d come to beg a boon of
her.

“Name, wench?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you. I have it on good authority the earl may punish my entire family if I meet with his disapproval, instead of his favor.” Resuming her nosy progress around the room, she examined a collection of knives stuck in a wooden target, moving on to his table of books and papers, running impertinent hands over his possessions. “When will the earl return? Will he be gone long? I could wait, if you have no objection.”

Objection?
Objection?
The word suddenly meant nothing to him.

“He won’t be long. Would you like some wine?” He heard the voice, the question, but couldn’t be sure it was his own. What was he thinking to encourage her? She was an impertinent little creature; already she upset the important order of his papers. Now, reading the title of a book, she discarded it with a gusty sigh, as if it was the most boring tome ever written.

So she could read. Who was she? What was she? Her gown, like the one she wore earlier that day, was of rich material, even if the fit left much to be desired--or displayed much to be desired, he corrected himself, with an unusual amount of mischievous humor. She spoke with a slight country burr. That afternoon she’d worn her hair loose, like an unmarried maid; this evening she made an attempt for more sophistication. He was amused by it, even charmed by her desire to dress up for him.

He would rather have her undressed for him.

“Usually I would say, yes, please.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder, a decidedly devious, sultry gleam in those blue eyes. “However, I
think
I should keep my wits about me.” Her lips lingered over the words, drawing them out with an implied suggestion that he might persuade her not to behave.

Yes, please
. Did she read his mind? Oh, it was stirring now. After so many years of famine, the Beast was ravenous tonight.

“The wine,” she clarified, lashes lowered. “I must decline.”

Ah, the damned wine. He lifted his goblet, saw it was half spilled and so poured more, struggling to put his thoughts in order.

“I’ve been warned,” she said, drawing closer, “the earl will eat me alive.”

“Yesss.” He paused, ready for his first sip of wine, watching her over the goblet rim. “He might.”

Averting her gaze, she touched the back of her neck with those chewed fingernails. “Have you worked long in his service?”

“All my life.” Returning to his chair, he put some distance between them, still wondering why he didn’t throw her out.

“Poor you!” She followed, sinking to the little tapestry footstool before him, the action performed in a casual manner, without his permission. No one--man or woman--ever dared sit in his presence without first being asked. She smiled warmly up at him. “In a city the size of London, three times in one day we find each other. Do you believe in fate?”

His reply choked him. “No.”

Undeterred, she rested her chin in one hand, elbow balanced on her knee. “I didn’t thank you properly earlier, for saving me from the river. I’m most grateful to you, sir.”

Fidgeting in his chair, he reminded her, “Griff. Not sir.”

“Then thank
you
, Griff. See how well-mannered I can be? I’m not always a frowning scold.”

He waited, one eyebrow raised.

“I was not in a pleasant mood when you met me this afternoon.”

“Will you apologize for slapping my face?”

She considered it, briefly. “No. You deserved it for stealing a kiss.”

He could have argued he stole nothing, that she’d given it willingly. Disregarding the thought, he hitched forward in his chair, watching her lips. “What if I want another?”

“Another kiss or another slap?”

“Can one be enjoyed without the other?”

“Try it,” she said, giving him an arch look, “and find out.”

Falling back in a lazy sprawl, arms behind his head, he sighed, “No matter. I changed my mind. Don’t want one now.”

“Good, because I must save myself for your master.”

The implication in that simple phrase caused another jolt of heat through his body.

“He may not be quite so repellent as you tell me,” she went on. “I’ll make up my own mind. I may decide to seduce him in any case.”

For the first time in his life, the Earl of Swafford experienced a sudden, savage awareness of territorial prerogative in the matter of a woman. “What is your relationship to the pirate Downing, wench?”

“Aha!” She shook her finger. “He is no pirate, as I told you already.”

He didn’t like the sound of it. Criminals consorted with the like-minded. By association, she was tainted.

A restless creature, as she gestured with her arms, the voluminous sleeve of her gown knocked the pile of books by his chair, and the ill-fated goblet of wine tumbled over. The contents splattered across her skirt and the floor. Immediately all apologies, she collected the rolling goblet, pressed it into his hand and fetched the wine jug to pour again. He said nothing, simply let her do it, his defensive instincts muffled.

Even pouring his wine, she kept up her chatter, paying only scant attention to her actions, soon overfilling his goblet. This necessitated a tiny sip from the brim, which she took without asking, her hands clasped around both the goblet and his fingers. The physical contact, apparently unconsciously done, shocked him to the core and, while he watched her lips on the rim of his goblet, the Beast stirred again. The heaviness of raw desire was almost beyond endurance, beyond sanity. And when she licked her lips, he felt that bold tongue caress his skin, warm and wet, insatiable and brazen.