Ravensthorpe stepped around her, his footsteps crunching on the gravel path as he stormed away. She sagged against the prickly hedge behind her, more aroused than she’d ever dreamed possible.
Do you stroke your clitoris?
Was that the place between her legs that she rubbed in order to climax? She might not have learned the proper names, but she had explored her own body. She wasn’t nearly as innocent as he thought.
And someday, now that she knew their attraction was reciprocated, she would prove it to him.
Chapter Two
I am destined for Hell.
Not that Max was a religious man, but the Devil himself was certain to come collect him for the dirty thoughts he harbored for Lady Violet Littleton.
He burned for her. So badly he could hardly stand to be in the same room with her. And she was wrong—he always noticed her. Since the moment she’d developed into a woman, Max hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. If they were anywhere in close proximity, his body remained in a permanent state of readiness, arousal simmering beneath the surface.
That was precisely how he’d known she was behind the hedge, watching him with Louisa. And then he, God forgive him, put on a prurient show meant to scare Violet away.
Yet he hadn’t scared her.
Worse, she’d called him Your Grace in the high-pitched, breathy tone used by yielding lovers, those who adored nothing more than getting on their knees and taking whatever he was willing to give them.
Fuck.
He straightened his clothing and tried to compose himself. He was forty-one years old. Far too advanced to feel this twisted giddiness, this dark lust for a girl less than half his age. Hell, he had a son who was two years younger than Violet. Max was positively decrepit in comparison.
Not to mention that he’d fucked plenty of women since losing his virginity at the age of fifteen. Even more after his wife died while delivering their son. He had enjoyed a lifetime of debauchery and pleasure, hardly any of which he regretted. Moreover, he had no plans to give it up, not even for a fresh-faced virgin begging to ride his cock.
Jesus, her father would skin Max alive if he knew.
Max would need to adjust his social schedule for the remainder of the season to ensure Violet and he never attended the same event. It was for the best. She was far too tempting, especially now that she’d admitted her feelings for him.
Because I wished to take her place, Your Grace.
The statement had made him instantly, painfully hard, and it had been followed by a deep sense of shame. The girl was eighteen. A virgin. His friend’s only daughter.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Max stepped inside the ballroom, not bothering to close the terrace doors. Charles Littleton, Lord Mayhew and Violet’s father, grabbed Max’s arm. “Ravensthorpe, have you seen my daughter?”
Charles was one of Max’s close friends, a man he’d met shortly after arriving at school, long before he’d become Ravensthorpe. They had crossed cities and continents together, growing up in luxury, as many entitled aristocrats did. They knew each other’s darkest secrets—well, all save one.
He forced his expression to remain blank. “No.” Max held Charles’s gaze like the competent liar he was, thanks to years in Parliament. “I was, ah, outside with Louisa.” Not a lie.
Charles chuckled. “Of course you were, you bounder. Never one to pass up the opportunity for quality quim, are you?”
Uneasiness slid through Max. He reminded himself he’d done nothing untoward out there, at least not with Violet. “Cannot seem to help myself.”
“I’ve an appointment myself tonight. Going to a little place on Holywell Street, one where they all wear masks. Perhaps you’d like to tag along?”
“I thought you said you were scaling back on your nocturnal activities after the missus discovered that you fathered a bastard.”
“Well, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt anyone. So, what do you say?”
“Afraid I have plans, Mayhew. Have a pleasant time. If you’ll excuse me.”
Max had to get out of here. His skin was crawling with hunger for a girl he could not have. A woman, he supposed, but barely.
Violet was the type of gorgeous woman oblivious to her appeal, which in turn made her all the more appealing. An angel’s face with a siren’s body. Lush tits barely contained by any neckline, a round arse that beckoned with every stride. A woman built like a mistress, not a wife. In other words, utterly fuckable.
However, he was no green lad lacking in self-control. He could not pursue her. Even if the age difference did not bother him, there was the issue of his friendship with her father. While Max may have been a scoundrel, he was a loyal one. God knew he would not want his profligate friends anywhere near a daughter, if he had one.
No, Charles knew too much of Max’s sordid history. Charles would reach for his pistol the instant after hearing word of his daughter in Max’s bed. And Max wouldn’t even bother to defend against such an egregious breach in friendship. He would deserve a bullet or two for defiling her.
Do you even know what it’s like to make yourself come?
No idea why he’d asked such a crude question, other than to frighten her away, but it was clear by her reaction that she had touched herself. In the bath, perhaps? Or, had her seeking fingers drifted beneath the covers at night to stroke and circle her clitoris?
Blast. He had to stop or else he’d grow hard in the middle of this godforsaken ballroom.
Tonight, he would see Louisa and do all manner of wicked things to her. Moreover, he would forget about the blond beauty that haunted his dreams.
“Ravensthorpe.”
Max stopped and found Louisa’s husband, the Earl of Underhill, at his elbow. Hellfire and damnation. Was he conjuring these men through his illicit thoughts of the women in their lives? “Evening, Underhill.”
Underhill wasn’t a bad sort, actually. Louisa had been a penniless third cousin to a viscount before Underhill married her twelve years ago. More to the point, he was aware of Max’s sexual relationship with his wife. Underhill might even have been relieved over it, seeing as how the Underhills had stopped screwing eons ago.
And, as much as Max loathed it, his mistresses enjoyed an elevated social status during their time together. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with his title. Still, husbands had been known to leverage that status a time or two, including Underhill.
Sodding aristocracy.
“Need a favor, Ravensthorpe.”
Indeed, here came the leverage. “Oh?”
The skin above Underhill’s cravat flushed, and he cleared his throat. “I suppose it is unusual considering the circumstances, but I, uh . . .”
Out of the corner of Max’s eye he saw Violet slip into the ballroom. Awareness skated over every inch of him, his flesh hot and itchy under his clothes. He had to leave. Piercing the man across from him with a harsh glare, he barked, “Spit it out, Underhill.”
The other man leaned in. “I need you to stop seeing Louisa. Just for a time. I’d like to start trying again for a son and, well, you understand.”
He couldn’t risk raising a duke’s bastard. “Have you spoken to her about this?”
“No, but it is her duty to provide me with an heir.”