Читать книгу Regency Vows - Kasey Michaels, Alison DeLaine - Страница 31

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Dear Sirs,

Observed Lady Dunscore at theater and Hyde Park. No sign of unlawful maritime activity, but recommend increasing naval budget to defend the Serpentine as a precaution.

In your humble service,

Croston

NICK WATCHED HOLLISWELL stuff a piece of bread half the size of a man’s fist into his mouth and fought to keep from curling his lip in disgust. The man had no bloody business being an earl—Scottish or otherwise. Nobody else at the table seemed to care, but then, every last one of them had reasons to curry Holliswell’s favor.

It was fitting company, considering Nick fell into that category himself.

Next to him, Clarissa poked at her stuffed pheasant and lifted three peas on her fork, casting him a quick, uncertain look from beneath long, dark lashes.

Bloody Christ. Holliswell could stuff an entire roast suckling into his mouth for all he cared—Clarissa was the one who mattered.

“Have you recovered from this afternoon?” he asked her under his breath.

“I have, Lord Taggart. Thank you.”

The sooner he could get her out from under Holliswell’s thumb, the better. She was so damned fragile. How in God’s name had she been allowed to go to the park with only her maid?

“I shall make sure Edrington doesn’t bother you again,” he told her.

Her hands faltered as she sliced a morsel of pheasant. She nudged it a little, sliced again.

He would have to teach her something of life or be driven to an early grave watching out for her. It would be easier to explain the dangers once she understood the intimate details of a marriage. But in order for that to happen—

God. He would have to be very, very careful on their wedding night. Incredibly, unbelievably careful. He could hardly stand to think of it. What a girl like Clarissa really needed was to be cloistered away in a convent somewhere on the Continent where no man’s hands could ever defile her.

He would bloody well need a mistress. Because aside from what was absolutely essential—if he could even bring himself to do that much—he could never expect Clarissa to endure—

Holy Christ.

He attacked his pheasant with new purpose.

“...cousin caused quite a stir at the theater last night,” a Mrs. Tinningsworth was saying to Holliswell across the table.

Holliswell reached for another hunk of bread. “I would imagine my cousin causes a stir everywhere she goes,” Holliswell said. “She is an oddity, after all.”

“I heard she removed all the furniture from her house and replaced it with Moorish cushions on the floor,” someone else said. “Could it be true?”

Nick imagined that it probably was. He was so bloody tired of hearing about Katherine Kinloch. He’d give his right testicle to see this whole damned business finished today.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured a little too sharply to Clarissa. He would find a way for them to marry even if the bill did not pass.

“Yes, I know.” Her eyes never left her plate.

“No matter what we have to do.” Even if they had to resort to something improper. Better to see her reputation sullied than her delicate body defiled by the likes of Oakley or Adkins.

By God, he’d bloody well take her to Scotland if he had to.

* * *

BY ALL THAT was holy, James was going to bed her. Just once—just enough to put an end to this fascination that led him around by the balls. Enough was enough. He was finished with wanting. It was time for having.

James tore off his coat without waiting for his valet and threw it on the bed. Five days. Five hellish days of thinking of practically nothing but Katherine, and thank God—thank God—the committee would meet tomorrow, because he couldn’t take much more of this. Laughing, talking, dancing... If he had to feel her hand on his arm one more time, instead of on his cock where he wanted it, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

He wasn’t growing more rational, finding a new sense of purpose, finding a cure for what ailed him. He was burning up with lust. It could not continue. One good tumble with her—that was what he needed. After that, he could find a suitable bride and live in peace.

A thought of Anne snuck in, and he kicked it aside. He didn’t want to think of Anne, or what Katherine might ultimately have to do to keep Dunscore. The only thing he wanted to think about was Katherine’s legs wrapped around his hips.

This entire business was nothing less than a debacle. Men he’d once considered friends slathered over her as though she were a succulent roast they couldn’t wait to devour. An evening at Lord DeBarre’s, a card party at Lord Kilbourne’s, another night at the theater after he’d sworn he wouldn’t go again and more strolls in the park than he’d ever hoped to take in his life. Each event felt specially calculated for his particular torment.

Tonight they’d dined with Lord and Lady Pelsworth. The only—only—redeeming value in the evening had been his introduction to a Miss Lydia Ridgeway. Miss Ridgeway was a perfect marriage candidate—on the shelf, he’d been told, well mannered and passably attractive. Not that he could find out anything else about her with Katherine constantly at his side.

Katherine—ill-mannered, insanely beautiful and far too convincingly amused by the damnable Earl of Tungsley—was the devil in silk. And he was no closer to finding her a husband now than he’d been the day she’d dragged his sorry arse from the water.

Because you don’t want to find her a husband.

He did. He did want to find her a husband. Just not before subduing this madness inside him, because he was halfway to losing his mind. More than halfway.

Well, he had a solution for that. James braced his hands on the edge of his dressing table and stared at the preservative he’d just pulled from the top drawer. It would let him do all he wanted to Katherine without fear of consequences, and then he could remove himself to Croston with the likes of Miss Ridgeway or Lady Maude or Miss Underbridge.

With any luck, tomorrow the committee would put an end to all this. The only event left to endure was tonight’s ball at the Rogersfields’. And there was a good chance he could turn that situation to his advantage. He would simply watch for the right moment, get her to the right part of the house and then he would seduce her. It wouldn’t be difficult. He could have had her on board the Possession if William hadn’t interrupted them, and it would have saved him the torment now. He could still feel her breasts as though he held them in his hands this moment. If William hadn’t burst in, he would have pushed those damned trousers over her hips and—

He inhaled sharply and pushed away from the dressing table, gripping the back of his neck. He stared at the preservative. Finally snatching it off the table, he stalked to the armoire and slipped it inside his jacket with a mercenary sort of relish.

Oh, yes. He would have every last inch of her open and quivering beneath him, hot and ready for him. He would have her at his mercy, to do with as he pleased, and by God there would be no bloody cutlass to get in the way. He would taste her and touch her until she screamed his name.

Not Captain. Not Lord Croston.

James.

His beautiful, piratical emasculator would beg for him, and he would satisfy her. He would satisfy them both, and their “acquaintance by necessity”—as she so coldly put it—could go to the devil.