The Rake's Intimate Encounter

The blatant sensuality of the woman’s smile, as she watched the lad, held Tony captive. No wonder she had the youth on his knees at her feet. And her breasts? Well, they were magnificent. Glorious mounds of pale, soft flesh. He didn’t need another glance for confirmation. Didn’t care to look, because her smile intimated she’d discovered life’s greatest jest and hinted that if the right person found the key, she might share the joke. He wanted that key.

“Vanity,” she said, with a mock shake of her head at the lad. “It does wonders for a broken heart. I recommend cold water at once.”

Radcliffe spun around. “Cold water, madam? Will it not make it worse?”

She laughed, a throaty chuckle with a pulse-quickening effect. Had he lost his mind?

“Not at all,” she said. “Take the word of someone who has cried many tears.” She turned her amazingly liquid eyes on Tony. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

Tony smothered a smile as the young man paled. “Without a doubt. As one who has been the cause of many tears.”

The woman laughed outright. More heat to his blood. Good God, he’d never met a woman who so instantly aroused his interest. Aroused. An unfortunate word, with hardening results.

“Countess, you will forgive me if I go in search of cold water?” Radcliffe asked, returning to stand in front of her, much like a lad before a governess. “I will return. Then you will listen to me.”

“Try some ice,” Tony said. “I suggest you use it elsewhere on your anatomy. Cool your ardor. Can’t you see you are bothering the countess?”

“Am I, Countess?” Radcliffe asked with a boyish smile. Tony wanted to punch him in the mouth.

The woman smiled. “Darling boy, I am old enough to be your mother. Now run along and find a nice young girl of your own age.”

Radcliffe pouted. “You are not old enough to be my mother. She is ancient. And girls my age are dull.”

The boy needed a lesson in manners. Tony took a half step into the room. “The lady is being polite to protect your manly pride. I, on the other hand, have no such scruples. If you don’t leave now, you might find your nose a deeper shade of scarlet.”

The countess’s handkerchief held to his nose, Radcliff scuttled from the room.

The countess sighed. “I made a mistake in letting him speak to me alone. I had intended to let him down gently and instead, seemed to have raised his hopes. The dashing of them was hard, I think.”

“I apologize for my countryman, Countess.”

“Oh la, sir. No need for that. I’m as English as plum pudding, born and raised. ”

Not plum pudding. Perhaps baked apple with cinnamon or a succulent lemon curd, or a rich honey cake. He pulled back from the images and smiled. “I did wonder, given your lack of accent. I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. Anthony Darby, at your service.” He bowed and as he rose, raised a brow in question. “Countess…?”

She inclined her head and held out her hand. “My deceased husband was a Russian count. I am recently returned to England. I was beginning to think I would require the help of a servant to release me from the poor boy’s clutches. Thank you for your timely intervention.”

A widow and thus available. Something feral and hungry sharpened its claws in Tony’s gut even as he noticed she had not supplied her name. Damnation, he was mad, because instead of bidding her farewell, he took her hand and pressed his lips to the filmy lace covering her fingers.

The view of creamy breasts rising from plush red velvet, and the shadows in their valley sucked the breath from his chest. Even so, he inhaled the subtle fragrance of lavender. “The pleasure is all mine.” He was surprised at the low growl in his voice

She tilted her head, a flicker of amber in warm brown eyes. Interest. Perhaps even challenge. Definitely not fear.

She withdrew her fingers slowly, lingeringly.

He regretted the loss. “I was looking for something to eat. May I escort you to the dining room?” He blasted well hoped food was laid out somewhere, because he needed something to counteract his lightheadedness.

“Why not?” she said, rising.

Only then, did the full glory of her figure reveal itself. Full bosomed, tall for a woman—almost his height in fact—and with long, elegant limbs, she embodied each and every aspect of female charm he preferred.

Perhaps he wasn’t in such a hurry to depart, after all. Dash it. Hadn’t he said less than five minutes ago that he didn’t want any commitments? He held out his arm.

Margaret put her hand on the sleeve of the man holding out his arm with élan, felt muscle and sinew beneath the dark blue superfine coat as they walked. An athletic man, as lithe and sleek as a racehorse. Quite beautiful, in fact. Unlike the bear-like Russians to whom she’d become accustomed, this man oozed finesse. And he was tall. Lovely and tall.

She studied his profile. Handsome in that narrow-faced, rather vulnerable English way, he’d looked too young at first glance. On closer inspection, the cynical mouth and the world-weary silver-gray eyes marked him as older. Around her age, or a little older, some thirty summers, she guessed. He glanced at her, caught her staring. The flicker of heat in the depths of his steely gaze had the same effect as too many glasses of champagne on her blood. A dizzy sort of breathlessness.

“I don’t suppose you know where we might find supper?” he asked with a heart-stopping smile, his deep voice hinting at seduction. The dark, wicked places in her body responded with a delicious thrill. This man positively created havoc on her senses.

“Aah,” she said, indicating the direction. “This is your first visit to Lady Falstow’s infamous establishment.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “But not yours?”

“No indeed.” In a rash moment of utter abandon, she bit back the information that her only previous visit was for afternoon tea. After all, such an admission would weaken the armor of scarlet gown and carefully constructed air of confidence. After five minutes alone with young Radcliffe, she’d decided her wild flight of fancy to experience a little danger, to savor some of the joys she’d missed these past many years, wasn’t really her cup of tea. Now she was wondering if perhaps this man could change her mind. It was a long time since her heart had fluttered, and right now it beat within her chest like a caged wild bird. A heady and youthful sensation she’d almost forgotten.

“This must be it,” Darby said, ushering her into a room at the back of the house. A table set with epergnes and covered dishes lined the wall opposite the door. Artfully scattered small round tables allowed for groups of guests to talk, while equally tasteful screens permitted an element of privacy for those who wished it.

Margaret tensed at the sight of an inebriated noble plying his female companion with champagne. Couples and groups also occupied some of the other tables. An army of burly footmen hovered throughout the cream and gold painted room ready to intercede, as her ladyship had promised, should matters get out of hand. Margaret wasn’t ready for this. She wished they’d remained in the drawing room’s seclusion.

Their hostess, a gargantuan figure in a gown of gold tissue, and shimmering with diamonds, circulated among her guests, her plump face beaming, her beringed hands gesturing volubly. She surged towards them in a tidal wave of hastily moved chairs. “There you are,” she cried. “I heard you’d gone off with young Radcliffe. I was about to send Peter—” she gestured vaguely at one of her minions “—to see if you were all right.”