Ripe for Pleasure

CHAPTER 3   



Charles burst into The Red Lion on a wave of gin. Leo allowed the upper edge of his newspaper to sag. The general din of conversation ended abruptly as his fellow League members watched Charles drop into a vacant seat.

A sprig of hope unfurled in Leo’s chest at the sight of him, only to die just as quickly. Charles’s hair was rumpled and hilly in its queue, as though he’d pulled it hastily back without the aid of a comb. His cravat hung loose and open about his throat, and his coat was nothing short of a disaster—a large water spot marred one whole side from shoulder to waist.

His disheveled state did not bode well. Charles had a mercurial temper: One moment he was amiable, jovial, the best of fellows; the next he was anything but. He could turn on you as quick as a mad dog, and today, they weren’t even beginning with Charles in a good frame of mind.

“Long night?” Leo dropped the newspaper on the table and waved a hand. The owner’s daughter appeared as though summoned by a spell. She had twisted her calico-coated hips through the crowd with practiced ease and set a steaming cup of coffee before Charles.

Charles didn’t even reach for it. He just stared at Leo over the table. Hate scuttled through the recesses of his eyes, unmistakable even in so brief a flash. Where had that come from? How had he missed its inception?

Leo had been hoping that today, in light of his lack of success, Charles would listen to reason, would be open to joining forces. If what the letters hinted at was true, there was more than enough money there for both of them.

From across the room, Gareth Sandison caught Leo’s gaze, his brows raised inquiringly. Leo gave him the slightest of head shakes. If Charles meant trouble, best not to antagonize him by bringing Sandison into their shared secret quite so publicly.

Leo pushed the steaming cup toward his cousin. Charles’s gaze dropped, and his hand closed around it like that of an automaton. He raised the cup up and blew on it, holding it with unsteady hands.

“A long night…” He sounded pensive, but the anger laced beneath it was evident if you were listening closely. “You should know, Cousin. You were there, after all.”

Leo sipped his own coffee and let the comment settle. The warm, earthy scent of the coffeehouse washed over him.

He and Charles hadn’t been as close of late as they had been as boys. Leo had been hoping for something very different when he’d invited Charles to Dyrham Hall after their grandfather died. Some small part of him was still hoping…

“Charles—”

“No.” His cousin slammed his cup down hard enough to send coffee sloshing over the rim. He yanked his hand away and shook off the steaming liquid. Leo held his breath.

All around the room, heads rose, attention shifting to Charles as though he were a fox scampering through a kennel of hounds. His cousin’s mouth flattened, lips almost entirely disappearing.

“No, Leo.” Charles’s voice shook, and the vein in his forehead stood out in stark relief. “The money doesn’t belong to your family. And it wasn’t your family who suffered after the forty-five because of it. It was mine. Mine!” The final word erupted out of Charles. Spittle sprayed across the table, trailing behind like a comet’s tail.

“We’re both Vaughns.” Leo kept his voice soft, low, as though he were speaking to a frightened horse. “And the fortune in grandfather’s letters doesn’t belong to either of us. It belongs to the King of France, or to the Cardinal Duke of York, if you prefer, but I for one have no intention of giving it to either of those bastards.”

Charles wiped his mouth on his sleeve and chuckled, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. They stayed flat as those of a fish in a monger’s basket. “I’m only a distaff Vaughn. We might share blood, but we’re not the same family.”

Leo opened his mouth to protest, but his cousin raised his hand to forestall him. A pale band on his ring finger marked a loss Leo had thought impossible. Things must be far worse than Leo had ever imagined if Charles had gambled away his father’s ring.


His hand still held up like a shield, Charles said, “You’d say I was raised a Vaughn, but you’d be wrong. I spent every damn day of my childhood having my face rubbed in the fact that I was a poor relation. A duty. A burden.”

Leo frowned. It was impossible that his cousin could say that, could feel that. Or it should have been. “You’re my father’s favorite sister’s son. My father—”

“I’m a MacDonald.” Each syllable was clipped, harsh, and emphatic. “The son of a disgraced and broken house, but I’m going to reclaim my birthright, my place in the world. And that money is the key to it all.” Charles leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white. “You don’t need it, Cousin. You’ve got an entire estate to entertain yourself with, thanks to Grandfather. Let it be.”

“You know I can’t do that, Charles. What I have is a house that at present isn’t capable of—”

“Just stay out of it, damn you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Don’t cross me on this, Leo.” Charles stood up and shook out his rumpled coat. The soft pile was smashed askew, making it dull and rough. He turned to go, but stopped before stepping away from the table. “That money is there for the taking, and I mean to have it. Neither you nor that whore is going to stop me.”

Leo watched his cousin go with a sour taste in his mouth. He’d seen Charles work himself up about things in the past, but this cold fanaticism was something new. There was no hope of him seeing reason. Charles was beyond that now.

It wasn’t just about the money. Leo turned his cup between his fingers, absently studying the blue transfer pattern of birds and teahouses, wishing he could simply let it go. Dyrham Hall was small, barely more than a house and a few acres of pasture, but it was also beloved, a love he and his grandfather had shared, along with their passion for horses and hunting.

The estate was simply too small to support itself, let alone support the care of the hunters who were its reason for existence. If Leo wanted to live there, to make a life there, he was going to need money. Quite a lot of money, actually. Far more than his younger son’s portion.

Besides, whatever else Mrs. Whedon might deserve, she didn’t deserve Charles. Especially in his present mood. No one did.

Leo was pulled from his introspection as his friends, Sandison in the fore, descended upon him. Most of them had been friends since they were boys, all except Dominic de Moulines. The Frenchman—bastard son of a French comte and his island mistress—had been inducted into the League when he’d come to London to give a fencing demonstration.

Roland Devere pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his tobine coat and mopped up the table, fastidiously careful to keep his cuffs clean, before sitting down. Sandison simply sprawled at his leisure, prematurely silver hair swinging loose, looking very much as though he’d slept in his coat. Knowing Sandison, he probably had, if he’d slept at all. The others took the remaining empty seats and stared at Leo expectantly.

Devere wadded up the handkerchief and sent it sailing toward Anthony Thane, who caught it in midair and dropped it onto the folded newspaper. “Anything we can help you with?” Thane said, glaring at Devere.

“Not at the moment.” Leo tossed back the last of his coffee and set the cup aside. “Just a family squabble.”

De Moulines shook his head, just the way Leo’s older brother did when he knew he was lying. “Non. No such thing with you damn Vaughns, this we all know. Mad, the lot of you.”

“Besides,” Sandison cut in, “MacDonald was quite loud: money, the forty-five, poor relation, birthrights.”

“From across the room, it was all very intriguing,” Devere said.

Leo held back a smile. Devere was always looking for an adventure, and Sandison, despite his sleepy appearance, was all too keen when it came to schemes and puzzles, while de Moulines was a fire-eater, ready to fight on the flimsiest of provocations. Only Thane could be counted upon to keep a cool head.

“No,” Leo said, answering Thane and ignoring the others. “At the moment it’s nothing but a family squabble. For now you’ll have to excuse me. I’m off to call on Mrs. Whedon, and that most certainly isn’t something I need any of your help with.”

Devere’s eyes narrowed, and Sandison went off in a peal of laughter, while the other two choked on their coffee. Leo shook his head at them and refused to be drawn in. He reclaimed his hat and swordstick from The Red Lion’s porter and set off briskly toward St. James’s Park.

His cousin’s refusal to see reason still chafed, but it wasn’t all that surprising. The cards had been dealt and the bets laid; there was no going back now. Leo stopped in the middle of the walk as a plan began to take shape.

A covey of giddy demi-reps out for an airing swirled around him. They sized him up as they went by, the stench of stale perfume and cheap cosmetics swirling in their wake. He could feel them weighing the cut of his coat, the expense of his boots, the value of his purse. They could probably guess his worth as well as any moneylender.

Leo adjusted his hat and flipped his swordstick up smartly under his arm as they drifted off slowly so if he wished to catch them he might. One of them smiled back over her shoulder, displaying her fine neck and an expanse of straight and surprisingly white teeth. Leo shook his head, causing her to whip back around. Her walk took on a decided flounce, skirts swishing, bouncing erratically over the false rump beneath them. He had a much more alluring conquest in mind. Beside Mrs. Whedon, the gauche girls before him in their rouge and patches didn’t stand a chance. Just the thought of her set his mouth watering, made his pulse rise with expectation.

Leo plucked his watch from his pocket and thumbed the tortoiseshell case open: three-eighteen. He quickened his pace. He was going to be late to meet Addison’s men, and he had a serious bit of seduction to get under way. A vision of flame-colored hair, slightly damp and tangled, hanging over him like a bedouin’s tent made him inhale sharply. The loamy scent of the park washed over him, reminding him of her perfume.

He even knew exactly how to put his proposal to her…

“So, in exchange for your continued protection, I’m to become your mistress?” Viola smiled in spite of herself. Lord Leonidas had certainly found an original way of framing his proposal. He’d launched into it mere moments after the Bow Street runner had left them.

Her savior shook his head, mad eyes dancing beneath long lashes. “No. In exchange for both continued physical protection, and my letting it be known in certain quarters that you are under such, you’ll become my lover.”

“The term you choose makes no difference, my lord. The end result is the same.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Whedon. It’s not the same thing at all.”

Viola let out an unsteady breath. The hint of a growl in his voice set her nerves on edge and made her nipples tighten until they pressed uncomfortably against the stiff wall of her stays.

She wanted this man, much as she hated to admit it. Wanted him badly enough to consider breaking every rule she’d ever made for herself. And that was all the more reason to resist the impulse. The last time she’d felt this way, it had been disastrous, and getting what she wanted had only made things worse.

“No?” Her voice came out embarrassingly weak, almost breathy. She swallowed and balled up the hand he couldn’t see until her nails bit into her palm.

Calm. Serene. Unflappable. That was what she was famous for being, what gave her the allure of being unobtainable. Calm, serene…

“No.” Lord Leonidas smiled and abandoned his post by the cold grate to claim the chair across from her. His long legs stretched across the small space between them, boots nearly tangling in her skirts. Viola drew her feet back and tucked them under her chair. He grinned, clearly aware of her withdrawal.

“A lover, Mrs. Whedon, puts his partner’s pleasure first. Or rather, her pleasure is his pleasure.” He leaned forward, close enough for the scent of Bay Rum, warm skin, and sun-dried linen to wash over her. Her mouth watered, forcing her to swallow. One corner of his mouth kicked up as though he knew. “Just as his is hers.”

Viola settled back into the embrace of her chair, moving away from the dizzying scent of him. She traced the bargello work with a nail, eyes on the intricate needlework that covered the chair rather than on Vaughn. “Her protector’s pleasure is always a mistress’s—”

“Exactly my point, ma’am. When has your pleasure ever been the first and most important concern of either person in your bed?”

Her eyes snapped up, riveted to him.

Never. At least not since Stephen died. Perhaps not even then. They’d both been so damn young… She pushed the memory away. Men paid for their pleasure to be the only concern. That was the whole point. Whether wife or mistress, a woman’s pleasure was of little import.

A bubble of panic clawed its way up her chest and lodged beneath her heart, making it nearly impossible to breathe. To suggest that there was some mythical third option of lover made her want to slap him, but it also sparked a wild desire for him to prove what he said. Her lamentable curiosity was going to get her into trouble yet again. At least this time she had no reputation to lose. No family to embarrass or disappoint.


“So, in exchange for being allowed to put my pleasure first, you’ll slay all my dragons.” She did her best to be dismissive, to make his proposal sound as ridiculous as it was.

Lord Leonidas chuckled, a low, throaty sound that curled around her. “In exchange for being allowed to attempt to pleasure you, I’ll slay any damn thing you like.”

Viola sucked in a breath. His blue eye was steady, sincere, but the green one held a hint of mischief. That was the eye to watch, the one that gave away his secrets. It wasn’t as simple as he made it out to be, but she’d be damned if she could fathom what his real motivation was. A bet perhaps? The challenge of climbing into bed with the most infamous whore in England without so much as tuppence changing hands?

“In fact, I propose to seduce you in stages, my dear. To make you beg for each and every intimacy.”

“Beg?” A thrill coursed through her as her last shred of dignity evaporated. Her hands and feet began to tingle as heat pooled in her belly. The air between them crackled with tension, lust recognizing lust. What sort of man bothered to seduce a woman whose bed others had merely paid to enter? How badly did she really want to find out?

“Beg,” he echoed with a conviction that unnerved her.

The muscles in his thighs bunched as he rose, straining the seams of his breeches. His large, square hands smoothed his coat into place, the subtle, striped silk sliding across his chest to mask the magnificent waistcoat beneath. Viola sucked in her bottom lip and caught it between her teeth. It was impossible not to imagine those hands touching her.

If she clung to that almost gaudy waistcoat, crushed the embroidered panels with both hands, would he carry her to the chaise? Or would he simply sink with her to the silk carpet beneath their feet?

How long had it been now since a man had touched her? Could it really be months? And how much longer than that had it been since she’d had a man with any real skill in her bed? Years? Forever? Never? The ones worth bedding were never the ones who could afford to keep her.

It simply didn’t bear thinking about. A sudden wave of regret flooded through her. This wasn’t the life she was supposed to be living… not the one she’d been raised to expect nor the one she’d dreamt of as a girl. Not even close.

Lord Leonidas circled around the back of her chair and leaned over her. “But for now, Mrs. Whedon”—his breath washed over her ear, and she shivered—“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to your afternoon.” He inched closer, until she could feel the slight abrasion of his cheek against hers, until the scent of Bay Rum flooded every pore. “You might indulge me and spend it imagining just what I might do, if allowed to touch you only below the knee, to induce you to beg me to touch your thigh.”

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in her boudoir, flushed with anger and quaking with need. All she could think about were those long-fingered hands sliding up her calf… The bastard.