Would Ravensthorpe return to sit in his house, alone? Or would he find feminine companionship elsewhere?
If he were at home . . . would the side door be unlocked, even with his cancelled plans?
No, she couldn’t.
Could she?
He would never allow Violet inside . . . but what if she didn’t ask? What if she surprised him? He was attracted to her—he’d admitted it outside—and she might convince him to act on it, if they were alone together. Isolated, where no one would find them.
The moment felt fortuitous. Momentous. Everything she wanted—a chance with Ravensthorpe—was dangling right in front of her like a sweet treat. She merely had to be bold enough to take it.
Was she content to wait around and hope he noticed her again?
Your body is made for sin and your face would make angels weep.
One thing was perfectly clear: he would never come to her. He had ordered her to stay away from him, had pushed her to find a man her age. She would need to take matters into her own hands.
Did she dare?
Chapter Three
Max lounged in the darkness of his study, legs angled toward the fire as he sipped the most expensive brandy his vast amounts of money could buy. He’d long lost track of the time, the chime of the clock forgettable since he arrived home. His plans for the evening were ruined, and he hadn’t been able to do much of anything except sit and brood.
I could be fucking her right now.
He shouldn’t think it, shouldn’t even let the hint of it cross his mind. He should imagine screwing Louisa instead, with her bold caresses and wicked tongue—not a girl barely out of the schoolroom.
And yet.
The brandy lowered his defenses, and Violet crept into his mind like a vine that burrowed under his skin to hold and drag him down. He couldn’t resist wondering and speculating, his mind storing a mental list of all the depraved things he’d do to her glorious body if but given the chance.
This had to stop. Lusting after her like this caused him to feel like a filthy old man. Many dukes in their twilight years married young girls, but Max had secretly sneered at those pathetic louts. Yes, they all needed heirs—Max had already scaled that particular mountain—but there were plenty of seasoned women who could bear children. One need not marry a girl barely more than a child herself.
His eyes drifted to the mound of paperwork on his desk. His nights with Louisa were necessary diversions, an escape from the responsibilities of his life. To pleasure and be pleasured in return, to let his mind focus on something other than numbers.
You’re lonely.
He snarled at the fire, as if the voice had come from the flames. The idea was ludicrous. He was invited everywhere, had his pick of bed partners, and there was Will, his sixteen-year-old son and heir. Will was away at school, off to Eton as all young aristocratic males did at his age.
Will had been the center of Max’s world for so long. Since the boy’s birth, Max had kept his son close and made certain to spend time with him, to show Will how much his father loved him. Then perhaps Will would not hate him when he came to learn the circumstances of what happened to his mother. How Max had utterly failed as a husband.
He didn’t want another wife or any more children. Ever. He had an heir and, thanks to Max’s proficiency on the Exchange, Will would inherit more money than God when Max died, not to mention a dukedom. Ducal duty had been fulfilled. Max never needed to go through that again.
He did, however, need another mistress. This required an immediate search, though there were some options. Such as the viscountess who had propositioned him at the opera last month, or the Spanish princess he’d flirted with at the palace dinner weeks ago. As well, his former mistress, Georgina, had written recently in the hopes of reestablishing their association.
None of them caused his blood to race, unfortunately.
That’s because you want her.
Christ, this had to stop. He downed the rest of the brandy in his snifter and debated pouring a fourth. He had a meeting with his estate manager in the morning and a hangover would only make the bloody business take longer.
The scrape of metal caught his attention. Someone was slowly opening his study door.
No servant would dare to enter without knocking. This could only be one person, and Max’s mood picked up considerably.
Louisa. She’d found a way to sneak off from her husband after all. Fortunate that he’d unlocked the side door earlier, despite Underhill’s warnings.
Relief flooded him. A distraction was exactly what he needed, and he should reward her a bit for coming. Louisa liked when he ignored her and she had to beg for his attentions. Max didn’t mind. What man wouldn’t want a beautiful woman begging him to fuck her?
Playing coy, he focused on the glass in his hands, twirling the empty crystal in the firelight. Slippers moved across the carpets, skirts rustling, and lust sparked in his belly as he contemplated what was to come. Louisa rarely wore drawers and kept the hair on her mound trimmed short. Was she already wet and eager for him?
The outline of a black cloak caught the corner of his eye. She’d come prepared like a thief in the night. Underhill wouldn’t like this, but one last time as a way to say good-bye properly wouldn’t hurt, would it? Max wasn’t fully hard, but it wouldn’t take much to excite him, not after his encounter with Violet.
Because I wished to take her place, Your Grace.
No, not now. He could not think of her now.
Louisa stopped just out of his reach, her face turned away from him, toward the fire. She trembled slightly, anticipating his touch, and he relished the reaction. It made him feel more powerful than any man on earth. “I see you escaped,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Are you here to play?”
The hood moved as she nodded.
“I like that you couldn’t stay away from me. Needy little thing, aren’t you?”
Another nod.
In deference to Underhill’s request for an heir, Max said, “I cannot fuck you tonight, sadly, but I do plan to enjoy you in every other way possible.”
She was quiet, but he could almost feel her vibrating with excitement. Normally, Louisa would break character about now with a giggle or urging him to hurry. She was showing incredible restraint . . . and he meant to honor that effort by giving her unimaginable pleasure.
“Bend over that chair,” he said, pointing to the plush armchair opposite his. “Fold yourself over the arm.”
For a second, she hesitated. Then she walked over and draped her front over the side of the chair, arse in the air, with her face hidden.
“Such a good girl,” he praised, unfolding from his seat and rising. “Now, lift your skirts.”
She struggled awkwardly with her skirts, almost as if she were shy. Or innocent.
Lust unwound in Max’s groin, a slow warmth that traveled along the backs of his legs and through his bollocks. He didn’t care to question as to why her performance aroused him—he was terrified of the answer—so he just accepted that it did.
“Higher,” he barked when she paused. “Show me.”
Damn, it was as if they’d switched and were now catering to his fantasies. His cock lengthened, pushing against his underclothes. Her calves and the backs of her knees were already bared to his gaze, and he saw the lace of her drawers peeking out to tantalize him.