Kasey Michaels - The Regency Redgraves - What an Earl Wants / What a Lady Needs / What a Gentleman Desires / What a Hero Dares

“And not before you tell me more of what you hinted at earlier. You do remember that, don’t you?”

If he noticed she was speaking to him with her back turned to avoid seeing his nakedness, he didn’t call her on it. “I’ve rethought the matter. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of your concern.”

Now Jessica did turn toward him, making certain the coverlet she’d reached for earlier covered her breasts. He’d already donned his breeches, thank the Lord. She didn’t think she could continue this conversation if they both were naked. “None of my concern? You all but guaranteed me my father and stepmother were murdered. I have a right to know why you think that.”

“Why would that be? You hated your father, fled from hearth and home many years ago. That was the way of it, you said.”

“Oh, and that means I shouldn’t care if he and his wife were murdered? Perhaps you think I should be doing a jig? No, don’t answer that! Besides, you wanted to talk to me about the Society, remember? Your father’s Society?”

“My mistresses don’t plague me with talk. I prefer my pleasure without prattle.”

“I’m not one of your mistresses and I’ll speak when I wish,” Jessica countered, at last far enough removed from the revelations of the past half hour that her mind had begun to function once more. “Must I add, Gideon, that you’re not my lover? You said the word inevitable . Perhaps it was. But now we move on.”

He looked at her blandly, as if what she’d said meant nothing. “Just get dressed,” he said, and then—finally—quit the room.

Leaving Jessica to wonder what on earth had happened, why it had happened so easily with this infuriating, totally exasperating man, if it was the man or something else that had changed inside her to make what had happened possible.

And, having happened once, was it possible for it to happen again? Surely not with the insufferable Gideon Redgrave, but he wasn’t the only man in the world. It very well could have been James who had been the aberration. Not that she was now about to go the route of Mildred or her ilk in order to satisfy her curiosity. She simply couldn’t allow what had happened with Gideon to happen with Gideon again. He was an earl and thoroughly unlikable, and she was a widow running a gaming house. He was not for her, and she definitely was not for him.

Although she could, being at heart an honest person, feel some gratitude toward the man.

“Not that he can ever know what he did, or else he’d be more than insufferable. Much better to allow him to continue to think of me as nothing more than one of a probably endless list of casual liaisons. Yes, this all is going to take some concentrated thinking,” she told herself as she held up her gown and frowned at the wrinkles, her hard-won practical nature finally coming to her aid. “And perhaps a pressing iron…”

THE WINE IN JESSICA’S SITTING room, again tonight, was of good quality, but there was an insufficient quantity of it for his needs. There might not be enough wine in all of London sufficient for his needs, as his need was to drown the disquieting feeling he’d taken some sort of fateful step into an unknown he did not recognize and had little chance of escaping unscathed.

“What in bloody hell just happened in there?” he muttered, directing a fierce glare toward the bedchamber door before downing a full measure of wine and filling his glass once more.

He’d set out to prove a point. He’d set out to taste the 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 at odds with the flowing mane of red hair that put the lie to the prudish ensemble.

Without speaking to him, she turned her back and employed both hands to lift her hair, giving him access to the long row of buttons…and her bare back. What woman shunned at least a chemise, wearing only a pair of those flimsy French drawers tied at her waist? What torment for a man to look at that high-necked gown, those modestly covered arms, knowing what lay beneath! Modesty and vice. No and yes. Prude and wanton. Oh, yes, the mistress of the game she played.