wares
so blatantly put on offer the previous evening. He’d been out to convince
himself that a night spent wakeful, consumed by thoughts of what he would like
to do to Jessica Linden, had been an aberration, perhaps caused by some juvenile
fit of pique over that ridiculous pistol, possibly brought on by simple
curiosity: Could she live up to the intriguing expectations he’d felt as he’d
helped her unbutton her gown?
He damn well hadn’t expected what had happened. He felt half
defiler of innocence, half possibly king of the world, as she’d been so
genuinely passionate, so clearly astounded as he took her over the top with him.
She’d seemed eager at first, then resigned, even detached from her surroundings,
a whore who would endure, even attempt to feign interest, if only her client
would take what he’d paid for, and then let her get back to work.
And then... damn. He’d nearly lost
himself in her then, hadn’t he? That never happened. There was always a part of
himself he withheld, that part of him he shared with no one, tried to believe
didn’t even exist.
She’d seemed so vulnerable. He didn’t want vulnerable, had no
use for vulnerable. He wanted expertise, and he paid for it. Paid well for it
and then walked away when it suited him to be gone.
She’d made him want to stay in the bed with her, she’d made him
want to hold her, feel her heart beat against him, listen to her breathe as she
drifted into sleep, her head on his shoulder. By God, he couldn’t get out of
that bed quickly enough!
Was that something she practiced? That intoxicating mix of
reticence and passion? If so, she’d definitely perfected her technique, because
he wanted more. He’d been satisfied, but certainly not satiated; she shouldn’t
still be in his mind, but she was.
He should leave. What was she going to do, chase him down
Jermyn Street? Confront him again in Portman Square? No, of course she wouldn’t
do that. She hadn’t been anywhere near Portman Square last night, yet he’d done
nothing but think about her.
He’d simply have to get her out of his system, that’s all.
She’d hit him unawares, unprepared, the mistress of whatever game it was she
played. She’d been married, she lived her life on the fringes, she’d probably
had more lovers than many women had consumed hot dinners. She’d offered her
body, clearly not for the first time. Her trick was in somehow making him feel
she’d offered more.
A week, two, and he’d wonder what he’d ever seen in her that
had attracted him in the first place.
Gideon nodded his head, as if in agreement with himself and his
plan, and then settled down on the slightly shabby sofa, glass in hand, to await
her exit from the bedchamber. She’d walk in, that chin of hers held high, so
like how Trixie faced down the world, and he’d close up her buttons while he
recited verses of Paradise Lost inside his head to
keep his mind occupied, and then they would discuss his father’s damnable
Society.
Not that he’d tell her anything too specific...just enough to
keep her interested until he lost interest in her. As for her assertion they
weren’t to become lovers? Let her lie to herself if she wished, let her repeat
that lie each night as he left her warm and rosy from his lovemaking.
Yes, two weeks. Perhaps a month. No longer. Until he figured
her out, until he figured out what had just happened.
Tonight, once he’d shared some small morsel of what he knew, he
would escort her downstairs, he’d carefully lose five hundred pounds at the faro
table in lieu of actually offering her payment for her services, and he’d return
to Portman Square, lock himself in his study and drink until dawn.
It wasn’t much of a strategy, and thank God both Valentine and
Max were not in residence, but for the moment, the plan satisfied him.
He could hear her moving about in her bedchamber, and a very
long ten minutes later the door opened. She was once again clad in that damn
black gown,
so blatantly put on offer the previous evening. He’d been out to convince
himself that a night spent wakeful, consumed by thoughts of what he would like
to do to Jessica Linden, had been an aberration, perhaps caused by some juvenile
fit of pique over that ridiculous pistol, possibly brought on by simple
curiosity: Could she live up to the intriguing expectations he’d felt as he’d
helped her unbutton her gown?
He damn well hadn’t expected what had happened. He felt half
defiler of innocence, half possibly king of the world, as she’d been so
genuinely passionate, so clearly astounded as he took her over the top with him.
She’d seemed eager at first, then resigned, even detached from her surroundings,
a whore who would endure, even attempt to feign interest, if only her client
would take what he’d paid for, and then let her get back to work.
And then... damn. He’d nearly lost
himself in her then, hadn’t he? That never happened. There was always a part of
himself he withheld, that part of him he shared with no one, tried to believe
didn’t even exist.
She’d seemed so vulnerable. He didn’t want vulnerable, had no
use for vulnerable. He wanted expertise, and he paid for it. Paid well for it
and then walked away when it suited him to be gone.
She’d made him want to stay in the bed with her, she’d made him
want to hold her, feel her heart beat against him, listen to her breathe as she
drifted into sleep, her head on his shoulder. By God, he couldn’t get out of
that bed quickly enough!
Was that something she practiced? That intoxicating mix of
reticence and passion? If so, she’d definitely perfected her technique, because
he wanted more. He’d been satisfied, but certainly not satiated; she shouldn’t
still be in his mind, but she was.
He should leave. What was she going to do, chase him down
Jermyn Street? Confront him again in Portman Square? No, of course she wouldn’t
do that. She hadn’t been anywhere near Portman Square last night, yet he’d done
nothing but think about her.
He’d simply have to get her out of his system, that’s all.
She’d hit him unawares, unprepared, the mistress of whatever game it was she
played. She’d been married, she lived her life on the fringes, she’d probably
had more lovers than many women had consumed hot dinners. She’d offered her
body, clearly not for the first time. Her trick was in somehow making him feel
she’d offered more.
A week, two, and he’d wonder what he’d ever seen in her that
had attracted him in the first place.
Gideon nodded his head, as if in agreement with himself and his
plan, and then settled down on the slightly shabby sofa, glass in hand, to await
her exit from the bedchamber. She’d walk in, that chin of hers held high, so
like how Trixie faced down the world, and he’d close up her buttons while he
recited verses of Paradise Lost inside his head to
keep his mind occupied, and then they would discuss his father’s damnable
Society.
Not that he’d tell her anything too specific...just enough to
keep her interested until he lost interest in her. As for her assertion they
weren’t to become lovers? Let her lie to herself if she wished, let her repeat
that lie each night as he left her warm and rosy from his lovemaking.
Yes, two weeks. Perhaps a month. No longer. Until he figured
her out, until he figured out what had just happened.
Tonight, once he’d shared some small morsel of what he knew, he
would escort her downstairs, he’d carefully lose five hundred pounds at the faro
table in lieu of actually offering her payment for her services, and he’d return
to Portman Square, lock himself in his study and drink until dawn.
It wasn’t much of a strategy, and thank God both Valentine and
Max were not in residence, but for the moment, the plan satisfied him.
He could hear her moving about in her bedchamber, and a very
long ten minutes later the door opened. She was once again clad in that damn
black gown,
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