Ripe for Pleasure

CHAPTER 21   



Viola turned the massive brass-and-leather dog collar over in her hands. Leo smiled as she studied it. The brass had been stamped with Strayed from Dyrham. He’d been inspired at the horse fair when he’d seen the men selling them. He’d present her with the gelding later.

Her expression went from bland to confused. Her straight brows pinched in, causing a furrow over the bridge of her nose. She looked up at him, blinking rapidly, as though searching for something she couldn’t quite grasp.

“In case she goes wandering.” Leo took a step toward her. “I thought she’d be safer if—”

“But we—she—I…” Her shoulders slumped, her eyes clouded with disquiet. “I don’t live at Dyrham.”

The floor creaked, and the door banged shut behind him. Leo turned to find his friends had fled. Wise of them. The Dauphin’s nails clicked across the floor as he circled back to join Pen on the rug. He whined softly, and the mastiff laid her giant head on his flank.

“I was hoping you’d stay for the summer.” Leo plucked the collar from Viola’s unresisting hands and turned to buckle it about Pen’s neck. The dog licked his hand, and he ruffled her ears.

“Oh.”

Leo swallowed hard and kept his face turned toward the dogs. There was an entire conversation in that simple word. Regret, trepidation, sorrow, fear. He could sense them all swirling around her, much like the starlings at Kirby Muxloe: dark, menacing, and unwelcome. He’d made a mistake, but for the life of him he couldn’t fathom what it was.

“I’ve nearly finished my manuscript, and I was thinking of returning to town next week. Once I’ve handed it over to Mr. Nesbit, there should be no reason for Sir Hugo to continue his harassment, should there?” She turned her face away, hands fiddling with her skirt, pleating up the fabric.

Leo let every conflicting emotion flood through him, run its course, and then drain away. His hands clenched, the knuckles popping.

“No, no, you’re quite right. Returning should be safe enough.” Assuming that he could convince his cousin that there really was no treasure. “So if that’s your wish,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “my coach awaits your orders. But I’d be happy to deliver your manuscript myself, if you’d trust me with the undertaking.”

Viola bit her lip, choking down a sudden desperate sob. It would be so easy to stay. So easy to fall into the illusion that this was her home, that she really was the chatelaine of Dyrham. It was bad enough to want a man as much as she wanted Lord Leonidas, but it was infinitely worse to realize that she wanted a great deal more.

If she could just get back to London, back to her own house, back to a semblance of normalcy, she might survive it. If she stayed here, every day Leo and Dyrham would work their way a little farther under her skin until she couldn’t live without them.

And she’d have to, one day. His entreaty for her to stay held enough of an icy splash of reality to steel her. For the summer. He’d hoped she would stay until she had to be sent away to make room for his family. He couldn’t possibly keep her under the same roof as his beloved, horse-mad sister and brother with the tragically mundane names.

“I find I’m missing London. Lady Ligonier writes that there’s to be a grand masquerade at Vauxhall and a balloon ascension in Hyde Park… Besides, we’ve torn so many of my gowns that I’ll soon be as naked as Eve if I don’t pay a visit to my modiste.”

Her reasons sounded lame even to her own ears, but she could hardly blurt out the truth: that she had to leave before she fell hopelessly in love with him and Dyrham both.

Leo continued to kneel beside the dogs, one hand on each, fingers making swirling patterns in their fur. His coat buckled stiffly across his shoulders, looking as uncomfortable as she felt.

“I’ve no objection to you naked as Eve in Eden, but I’ll admit it might be a tad problematic when there are guests.” He stood. Pen gave a protesting whooing bay and pawed at his boot. “I can escort you back on Monday if that’s acceptable.”

Viola nodded, forcing a smile that felt like the grinning rictus on a puppet’s face. The urge to touch him overwhelmed her, and she put out a hand to draw him near. He helped her up, hand engulfing hers, gripping it, hard.

“Don’t look so stricken, my dear. You’ve every right to order your life as you please, and if it’s London you want, then so be it, though I admit I prefer life here.”

Viola squeezed his hand back and wished his green eye didn’t look so defeated. She preferred it here, too. That was the problem.

The steps of the carriage fell with the sound of a death knell, a series of jarring metallic clanks that ended with an ominous clang. She was home.

Sunlight reflected off the pale stone of her house, blinding her momentarily. She missed her footing and stumbled as Lord Leonidas handed her out. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow and lip. He dabbed them away with his handkerchief, then rubbed at his face to clear the fine layer of dust that seemed to coat everything. She could feel it on her own skin like a mask.

At the door he paused, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll leave you now, ma’am.”

Viola tightened her grip on his arm, and beneath her hand, the muscle spasmed. She clung harder as her stomach twisted. He was about to give her her congé. “Will you be returning tonight?”

The tense lines about his eyes faded a bit. “If I’m welcome, yes.”

Viola let her breath out in a rush, a laugh catching the tail end. “You’re not just welcome, my lord.” She pressed close, hands spread over his chest, lips finding his for a brief moment. “You’re expected. I’ll tell Mrs. Draper to have dinner prepared at eight, if that suits you.”

Leo nodded, brushed his lips over the back of her hand, then turned and ran lightly down the stairs. Pen whined and nudged her hand with her head until Viola responded and scratched her ear.

Panic subsiding, she stood on her stoop and watched until he, Meteor, and the coach all disappeared around a corner with a final flick of the gelding’s long black tail. Pen turned to investigate the entrance hall, and Mrs. Draper practically seethed with disapproval.

“His lordship’s man fetched me home this morning, ma’am. I’ve done the shopping, but if you want anything particular for supper, you’d best tell me now so I can send Mary back out for it.” She eyed the dog again and stiffened her spine. “I shall have to send her out anyway, given that no one informed me about your new pet, and I’m certainly not feeding her the prime beef I bought for your table.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Draper. I’m sure whatever you intend to serve will be fine. As for Pen, she’s happy with scraps.”

Mrs. Draper escaped to the kitchen, her mumbled, incoherent protest following her down the corridor. Viola swept up the stairs, wiping her fingers over the dusty railing. She brushed her hands clean on her skirts.

Odd that. There was a layer of fine dust over the entire house: the paneling in the corridor, the rug on the floor, even the knobs to the doors.

Viola fretted and plotted as the hours passed. Finally, she collapsed into a chair before her nerves caused her to worry a hole in the Turkey carpet in her parlor. Her maid was moping below stairs, clearly resentful of having been separated from Leonidas’s footman, who’d been left behind at Dyrham. Viola realized with a jolt she’d never asked about Nance’s Midsummer-men. Had they portended true love, or had they reared away from one another in aversion? Did she really want to know?


Pen grumbled in her sleep. The dog had long ago eaten her supper and fallen asleep on the chaise she’d promptly claimed as her own. Pen was seemingly content no matter where they were.

Lord Leonidas was late. That simple fact hung over the evening like a shroud. Viola damped down a wave of despair. The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed nine times, and she found herself fighting back tears. She sat listening to her heartbeat, to her dog’s soft snores, and the ticking of the clock. Nothing was in time with anything else. Each sound grated, shredding her nerves further.

Mrs. Draper finally shooed her into the dining parlor and forced her to eat. Viola pushed the stewed carp around on her plate. He wasn’t coming. The food turned to chalk in her mouth, making it impossible to swallow.

She put the plate on the floor for Pen and refilled her wineglass. She drained it in one long draught. She was going to bed. And she wasn’t going to get up for a week. Maybe two.

She was at the top of the stairs when a loud knock arrested her progress. Her hand shook, and she gripped the railing tight. The wine in her stomach swirled with sickening power, and her pulse fluttered with it, battered like a leaf in a storm.

She could hear Mrs. Draper’s voice, followed by Lord Leonidas’s, then the rapid sound of his boots on the stairs. She twisted about to make it look as though she were descending.

Leo reached the landing and rounded the corner. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I’ve already made my apologies to Mrs. Draper for ruining her supper. I was unavoidably detained.”

Relief turned to anger, quick as a hawk snatching a rabbit from a field. Viola forced herself to smile as the urge to slap him made her fingers flex. A protector being late had never bothered her, had certainly never sent her into a rage. It was his right to keep her at his beck and call.

But Leo was not her protector, by his own design. He wasn’t paying for the privilege of her indulgence.

He continued up, stopping when his eyes were on level with her own. “I truly am sorry. I meant to send a footman with a note. The women of my family have descended like the monstrous regiment they are. There was no getting away sooner.”

One hand snaked out, and his arm slipped around her waist, pulling her down a single step so that she was brought up against the hard wall of his chest. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

His eyes crinkled with mirth and relief. “See there, you’re halfway to forgiving me already.” He dipped his head, lips tracing her ear, the heady scent of Bay Rum and clean skin surrounded her. Her fingers curled into his lapels of their own accord.

“Have you eaten?” Her question came out barely louder than a whisper.

He shook his head, hands sliding over her hips.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.” He pushed closer, lips finding the pulse point just below her ear.

Her breathing hitched. “Would you like a drink?”

He laughed, the sound bouncing back at them in the narrow stairwell. “Not just now.”

He kissed her hard, pressing her into the wall. Her skirts were up, and her thighs were gripping his hips before she quite knew how it had happened. He pushed inside her, arms locked about her, one hand fisting into her hair.

She didn’t remember being lifted, couldn’t begin to explain when or how he’d freed himself from his breeches. It had all happened at once, as though their melding was some kind of clockwork toy. A naughty version of the chess-playing Turk that had been on display in London just last season.

And she responded as though her body—his body—knew the exact motions necessary to drive her heedlessly, helplessly toward her release. Her hands began to tingle. Her toes curled, the arch of her foot fighting against the unyielding sole of her shoe. And then, poised on the cusp, he came instead, his body pinning her to the wall as he pulsed within her.

Her breath came out with a sob of disappointment. She’d been so damn close. Too close to even think of pretending. Close enough to ache with the loss of it.

“Good Lord, Vi.” He rocked gently against her, fabric working roughly over her *oris. She tried to catch her breath, but it hitched uncontrollably as he adjusted his position and the angle of their joining. “There’s a bed not thirty feet away, and I’m tumbling you on the stairs like a lad having a go at a housemaid.” He chuckled, head resting against the wall, breath stirring the curls at the nape of her neck. “I’m not usually so hasty or inept.”

Viola smiled into his collar. Relief that he’d arrived, late or not, thrummed through her. Triumph that he wanted her so badly was singing in her blood. She kissed his neck, lips and tongue and teeth sliding over the spot below the ear he always seemed to favor when doing the same to her. He made a happy, rumbling sound deep in his throat, and his cock stirred within her.

“I believe you know how to find the bedroom, my lord. Make it up to me.”