His fingertips twitched. Fists curled. An indulgent outward showing of a growing inner turmoil.
He wanted to break every finger that profaned her. Rip out every tongue that’d tasted her. Unman every sod who’d taken his pleasure inside of her.
And that was why obsession was dangerous. Wrong.
This had to stop.
And he knew it wouldn’t.
The Countess of Mont Claire’s return to England had been quiet, at first. The engagement soiree and subsequent wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Redmayne, a few other intimate dinner parties and social gatherings. Just enough to cause a stir, and rarely far from the sides of her two compatriots.
How she collected so many lovers was a miracle and why, a mystery.
The stories of her exploits were as varied as the men, themselves. Some reported that she’d been as gentle as a dove, cooing at their masterful touch. Others claimed her a kitten, pouncing and playful, purring as they drove her to heaven. Yet more lovers swore she was a lioness. Fierce and passionate, a huntress and a heathen. Her hunger insatiable and her roar mighty.
Which was it? Could her tastes and talents be as vast and varied as his own?
Gods, but he yearned to find out.
He squinted through the window, drinking in the vision of her like a man about to lose his sight.
What did she desire? Why had she become such a wicked woman? Had loss and pain driven her into dark corners where throbbing, straining, damp sins momentarily filled the void left by violence? Did she strive to fill the emptiness with penetrations of hard flesh and yielding lips?
Were they that much alike?
He had to know.
Because her return had stirred not only the bright stars of the ton but the shadows, as well. Her name was whispered in curses and chants.
What did she know about what happened to her family? What, if anything, did she have to do with it now?
Was she truly a seductive spinster? Or a serpent siren?
The Devil of Dorset vowed to find out, if only to rid himself of this obsession.
CHAPTER FOUR
Francesca felt a gaze upon her the way one might feel the presence of a ghost. Or demon. The fine hairs of her body lifted and tuned toward the window. She fought the instinct to turn and look. Her neck tensed until it ached. But finally she gave in, her head whipping around to find the glowing eye of Ra that was the sun.
Blinking away the black shadow left upon her vision, she turned back to her friends, who were both undressing for the final fitting of the gowns they’d wear that evening to Cecelia Teague’s engagement soiree.
“Do you know what a woman’s worst enemy is?” Francesca spoke the question that would start the conversation she’d been burning to have all day.
Cecelia’s fingers paused, her stocking only halfway rolled down her shapely calf. “According to you, it’s a man, isn’t it?”
“It’s submission,” Francesca corrected, her brow wrinkling in concern. “Cecil.” She used the masculine moniker they’d coined at the Chardonne Institute for Girls in Lake Geneva, where they’d met and forged their years-long friendship. “You are the kindest soul in the known universe, and I worry that Scotsman of yours is going to trample your tender heart under his ambitions. Are you absolutely certain such a prompt marriage is advisable?”
Cecelia slipped her stocking off the rest of the way and methodically arranged it before unhooking the other one. “I hear what you’re saying, Frank, and your concern touches me, but Ramsay is not so demanding as you think. He doesn’t require submission from me, only understanding, and I give that gladly.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m no shrinking violet.” Cecelia stood to her full height, appearing, even in her corset and drawers, a broad-shouldered Valkyrie. Beautiful, strong, and devastating to any man who would cross her. Her lashes, however, swept down over shy cheeks. “Not anymore, at least.”
Her argument might have meant more if she weren’t wearing violet, which happened to be her favorite color. But no, nothing about Cecelia was shrinking; in fact, her figure had become fuller than ever now that she’d been applying herself to enjoying life with her Lord Chief Justice fiancé, a monstrous large man with determination and appetite to match.
“Not all men are the grotesque goblins you consort with, Frank,” Alexandra, the Duchess of Redmayne, teased from where she selected an assortment of chocolates from a dish.
Francesca’s mouth twisted wryly. “You know, I’m no great hater of men. I just…”
“Detest them?” Cecelia proffered helpfully.
“Despise them?” Alexandra chimed in.
She rolled her eyes at them both. “Distrust them.”
“As you well should, of course.” Alexandra bustled over to Francesca to pluck at a ribbon that had become tangled in her chemise. “However, it’s interesting to note that all of us have been betrayed by women, as well as men, and have learned they can be twice as vicious if need be.”
“An excellent point,” Cecelia agreed. “Women make just as fine heroes as men, but I daresay the inverse is true as well. They are fantastic villains.” She turned to the mirror, smoothing hands over her curves. “I’ll take this moment to remind you both that many women gossip and talk about frivolous things whilst being fitted for an engagement ball, rather than secret societies, villains, and suspicion.”
Alexandra, her wealth of dark curls shining auburn in the spectacular sunlight, squeezed Francesca’s arm with gentle reproof. “We are sorry, aren’t we, Frank?”
“Yes,” she muttered as the modiste swept in with a few of her assistants, pouring a confection of cream silk and lace over Cecelia and molding it to her curves.
“You do look like a goddess,” Francesca marveled. “I’m an utter ass.”
Cecelia’s sapphire eyes crinkled at the corners with a fond smile. “You’re a dear to worry for me.” She turned to Alexandra. “Ramsay’s your brother-in-law, Alexander. You don’t share Francesca’s worries about him, do you?”
“It’s not that I worry about the man,” Francesca cut in before Alexandra could reply. “It’s only … are you certain you want to marry so soon? That you can keep both your husband and the business he so detests without him forcing you to choose between them?”
Alexandra twisted her perfectly formed lips into a contemplative posture, guiltily glancing down at the floor. “Not to be a hypocrite, Cecil, but you do have the luxury of a long engagement if you need it.”
Cecelia glanced back and forth from Alexandra, who’d had all but a daylong engagement to her duke, and then to Francesca, who never slept in the same bed twice. “Do you two doubt me?”
“Of course not!” Alexandra reached for her.
“I do not doubt your ability, your brilliance, or your heart, dear,” Francesca clarified, “only I—we worry that your expectation to both live in marital bliss and maintain your personal sovereignty is a bit … optimistic, that’s all.”
Cecelia pouted, an unintentionally sultry gesture. “Naive, you mean?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“She didn’t say that out loud,” Alexandra corrected helpfully.