The Pleasure Seekers Page 2

  She was beating her male counterpart by a good two leagues as they thundered into the courtyard in front of the house, her husky laughter ringing in Caine’s ears as she came to a dust-raising halt.

  With a light hop, she dismounted, not waiting for assistance. With her feet now touching the earth, Caine was surprised to discover how petite she was.

  She shook her hair away from her face; it had become unbound during her mad dash to the finish. The dark cinnamon tresses were lush and reached just beyond the middle of her back.

  Beneath the straight, silky veil was a face of the most striking features. Piquancy battled with classic beauty. Incredibly high cheekbones melded with a mouth so dazzlingly wide as to affect the whole aspect of her face when she smiled. Dark brows slanted above eyes whose color he could not discern, but which instinct told him were as blue as the water behind her.

  “I’ve beaten you, Court,” she said to the other rider in a breathless, laughing voice, pressing a light kiss to her horse’s muzzle. “Do you yield?”

  From his mounted position, the man offered her an exaggerated bow. His sandy brown hair, cropped close to his head, gleamed in the mid-morning sun. “I do, my lady. I submit to your greater horsemanship. You may count me as another man who has fallen victim to your superior skill.”

  She tapped his knee with her crop in a playful gesture. “Remember that when next you challenge me.”

  “Only a very foolish man would challenge you,” he returned in the same light vein. His attention was then diverted, directing Caine’s gaze to what he had spotted. Or rather to whom.

  Lady Rebecca St. Claire, Olivia’s niece, was strolling along the garden wall, her maid a few paces behind. The lady cast coy glances over her shoulder toward the man.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Cousin?” he said in a distracted tone. “There’s a matter that requires my prompt attention.”

  Her amused gaze traveled in the same direction. “Oh, yes. I can see that ‘matter’ requires immediate attention,” she returned in a teasing voice, her eyes alight.

  With a conspiratorial grin, he saluted her with his crop and cantered off toward his quarry. She stood for a moment, watching him, sunlight glinting off the gold buttons of her riding outfit, a hunter green confection with a daring neckline and a clever split skirt that allowed her to sit her mount astride.

  Unexpectedly, she glanced up and caught Caine watching her from the window. Her unflinching regard conveyed that she knew he had been eavesdropping. That didn’t bother him. He had never claimed to be a gentleman and wouldn’t pretend to be one now.

  The whinny of her restless mare ended the long moment of appraisal. She inclined her head, the gesture distinctly mocking, as she turned and led her horse away.

  Impudent baggage. She didn’t know whom she taunted, and he was of a mind to educate her. Images ran rampant through his brain as his gaze followed the provocative swing of her backside, which held his undivided attention until she disappeared from sight.

  “Don’t drool, darling,” Olivia chided in a proprietary tone. “I might take offense.”

  Caine reluctantly turned to look at her, forcing a bored expression to his face. “Jealous, Lady Buxton?”

  She lightly fingered the ties of her dressing gown, her nipples showing clearly beneath the filmy material. “Don’t be absurd, darling. I can have you whenever I want.” As if to prove her point, she took the three steps separating them and pressed her body to his.

  Caine stared down at her with disinterest. “The equipment needs a rest.” He brushed past her and grabbed his shirt.

  “She really affected you, didn’t she?”

  He tucked in his shirt, playing obtuse. “Since I’ve had the misfortune of knowing more than one ‘she’ in my life, perhaps you’d care to elaborate?”

  “You know exactly who I’m speaking about. The little tart with all the hair.” Envy rang in her words. Olivia’s own hair was beginning to thin in spots, forcing her to wear hairpieces to enhance what nature had not given her.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Caine shoved his foot into his boot. “And if she did?”

  “Then I’d have to remind you that you can look but not touch.”

  Caine clenched his jaw and rose slowly from the bed. Closing the short distance between them, he stared down into Olivia’s sly green eyes. “I give you certain liberties, but I’m not a man who takes well to women who attempt to control me. Remember that.”

  Her catlike smile told him she would humor him until it suited her to do otherwise. “This gathering has suddenly become far more interesting than I would have imagined.”

  “For you, maybe.” Caine headed for the door, knowing full well where he was going. To the stables—questioning his motives the entire way for allowing a fiery bit of temptation to garner a reaction from him.

  Olivia’s words stopped him halfway out the door. “You don’t know who she is, do you?”

  Something about the way she framed the question unnerved him. He looked over his shoulder and noted the gleam in her eyes. “I assume you’re referring to the hellbent-for-leather horsewoman?”

  “I guess you wouldn’t recognize her, would you? There really is no familial resemblance, and she does spend a great deal of her time in Paris, from what I understand.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Does the name Edward Ashton mean anything to you?”

  Everything inside Caine froze.

  “Yes, I can see it does.” She met him at the doorway. Caine stood immobile as she reached up to trace a finger along the jagged scar on his left cheek. “Does it still hurt?”

  “No,” he bit out, jerking his head away, his entire body suddenly feeling taut and explosive.

  The scar was a reminder of his folly, compliments of one of the duke of Exmoor’s henchmen. But Caine figured he deserved what he got for going to the man’s London townhouse, drunk and wanting to avenge his father’s death. He never made it past the front door. A burly footman had the advantage of sobriety, heft, and a broken bottle.

  Caine remembered waking up in a charity hospital, where someone had deposited him, his brain feverish and his body awash in sweat as infection set in. Two months he had stayed, his world reduced to a solitary sphere of comprehension: revenge.

  His gaze narrowed on Olivia’s face. “Who is she?”

  She reveled in her secret a moment longer, then replied, “Lady Bliss Ashton. Exmoor’s darling daughter.”

  Caine felt as though someone had reached down his throat and divested him of his innards. “What is she doing here?” he demanded in a deceptively soft voice. “Did you invite her?” He took a menacing step toward her. “I swear, if you did—”

  “No, blast you. I didn’t invite her.” For an instant she looked frightened, but then her hauteur surged back in full. “She must have come with her cousin.”

  “Well, get her the hell out of here.”

  She arched a brow. “And only five minutes ago you wanted to fuck her. How mercurial you are, my love.”

  Caine took another step forward, purposely crowding her. “Don’t push me, Olivia.”

  “If you want her gone,” she said, lifting her pointed chin and glaring at him, “then do it yourself. Certainly a big, bad man like you can drive away one little female. You do so excel at being a bastard.”

  “Remember that when you find her body washed up on the rocks,” Caine snarled as he stalked from the room.

  Two

  She is Venus when she smiles;

  But she’s Juno when she walks,

  And Minerva when she talks.

  Ben Jonson

  Bliss meandered toward the stables, feeling oddly discomposed. She found herself replaying her silent confrontation with the half-naked, muscle-laden eavesdropper. An unexpected jolt had rocked her when her gaze locked with those brooding eyes, a total lack of contrition in the man’s regard as he stared down at her with an expression both blatant and sexual.

  She had come
to Northcote at the invitation of her cousin, Court, who had shown up on her father’s doorstep not three days after Bliss had arrived home from Paris for a visit. She soon discovered the reason. The lovely Lady Rebecca St. Claire and her mother—“the dragon,” as Court referred to her—would be in attendance.

  Clearly Bliss’s presence at her cousin’s side was intended to lend Court’s interactions with Rebecca St. Claire an air of propriety, which, had the lady’s mother been more acquainted with Bliss’s unconventional background, would have been comical.

  Her upbringing had greatly differed from that of her peers. Her French mother was a restless spirit, always seeking new adventures, pushing the boundaries that threatened to restrain her freedom, teaching her daughter that all things were possible, even for a woman.

  Her father, on the other hand, could be too serious-minded at times, stodgy, and occasionally rigid. But he was also a lovable bear of a man and a great political thinker with a heart as big as England.

  Bliss had never really understood what had brought her parents together. Never had there been a more unlikely couple, though they always seemed so much in love. But six years ago, they had decided to live apart. Neither of them spoke of what had prompted the decision, and neither, to Bliss’s knowledge, had taken lovers. In all the ways that counted, her parents remained faithful to each other.

  Her father divided his time between their estate in Exmoor and their London townhouse, and her mother lived in Paris with Bliss. Bliss found England too restrictive to suit the artist in her, though she tried to come home as often as she could.

  Stopping at a water barrel shaded beneath a gnarled beech tree, Bliss dipped her hands in, smoothing the liquid over her face and neck. Closing her eyes, she savored the coolness against her heated skin.

  Images rose unbidden in her mind of a dark, handsome face, broad shoulders brushed by silky, ink-black hair, mussed, as though ravaged by female hands—which was undoubtedly the case as Bliss had glimpsed a woman’s form obscured in the shadows behind him.

  Bliss envied whoever she was. The brute was glorious. She would love to paint him, all those hard planes and eyes full of dire looks. He exuded danger, and everything inside her responded.

  In Paris, she frequently painted nude male models, though her portraits were mostly of François, her dearest friend, who supported her art in a field dominated by men.

  But artists were far more open to a woman in their midst than the rest of the domineering male world, in which women existed as brainless ninnies who were expected to do no more than look pretty and spend their days nurturing fragility.

  Ciara nudged Bliss’s shoulder, demanding attention. Patting her mare’s neck, Bliss headed into the stables, where she was met by the stable master, a wizened old character who was quick with a joke and a smile. He took Ciara’s reins and led her to the cross ties so Bliss could groom her.

  The sound of running feet heralded the arrival of an out-of-breath young boy whom Bliss recognized as one of the grooms. “Come quick, Hap!” he urged. “Phantom’s gone and jumped the fence!”

  “Damn and blast that beast,” the man muttered, then flashed an apologetic look Bliss’s way. “Pardon my language, miss.”

  “Quite understandable.” Bliss smiled. When he remained rooted to the spot, uncertainty etching his weather-beaten face, as though he thought he was deserting her in some foreign land riddled with scorpions, she prompted, “You’d best hurry.”

  He hesitated another moment, a slight frown pulling his wiry brows together, as if trying to catch hold of an elusive thought. He gave up the pursuit and promised to return in a matter of minutes, his bandy legs hastening out the door.

  Shaking her head in amusement, Bliss turned toward the tack room to search for a curry comb and bristle brush to rub Ciara down.

  Then a loud crash rent the air.

  Whirling around, she found a huge black stallion in the far stall rearing on its hind legs and tossing its head, nostrils flared, eyes glazed and slightly wild. Its forelegs came down again and splintered the wooden slats on the stall door, trying to break free. The sight of the magnificent beast held Bliss immobile for a heartbeat, until she realized what was happening.

  Ciara was in heat, and the stallion was primed for stud.

  Bliss raced over to untie her mare, but the black had now forced its massive body through the shattered door. He swiftly headed down the center aisle, straight for Bliss, who barely managed to get out of the way to avoid being trampled.

  As she stumbled to safety, the stud mounted Ciara. Bliss was powerless to do more than watch; only a fool would try to separate them now. Just seeing the damage the horse had done to himself trying to get to Ciara was proof of his lust. Blood seeped from the cuts on his legs and sides.

  “Khan, down!” an enraged male voice suddenly bellowed.

  Bliss turned to see the man from the window running into the stables, but he was too late. The deed had been done, even though the black responded instantly to his master’s command.

  Eyes sharp as flint slashed in her direction. “Damn you! What have you done here?”

  For a moment Bliss could do no more than stare, startled not only by his imposing physical presence, but by the anger he directed at her.

  Holding his glare, she rose to her feet. “What have I done?”

  “Do you have a bloody brain in your head? Your mare is in heat! Did you take one second to think that there might be animals in here who would respond to her scent?”

  “What I expected,” Bliss countered, her own anger building, “was that any studs would be in the corral, safely away from temptation. As a guest, am I supposed to anticipate a problem such as this?”

  He glowered at her, the light scar on his cheek showing the tic in his jaw, emphasizing the extent of his fury. The man was as superb as his stallion. Big, beautiful, and infinitely dangerous. He emanated barely controlled energy; there was no softness at all in his tall, solid frame. It was quite an experience to be the sole focus of all that restless, churning power.

  “Where’s the damned stable master?” he growled. “He should be drawn and quartered.”

  Bliss brushed away the hay clinging to her skirt. “This is not Mr. Rigby’s fault. One of the horses jumped the fence. He didn’t want to leave, but I told him to go.”

  Those black-flint eyes narrowed once more, as though calculating the benefits of her demise. “And who anointed you overseer here?”

  Bliss sighed. “How you do go on. Perhaps if you took a few deep breaths or chanted a mantra, you might feel a bit more rational.”

  “You wouldn’t like what I chanted.”

  The man was truly insufferable. “Has anyone told you that you have the manners of a grave digger? If I were not a lady”—a stretch, but he didn’t know that—“I might feel inclined to take my crop to your hide.”

  “Then I’d put you over my knee and blister your backside.”

  “I suspect you’d try.”

  His gaze moved slowly down her body, as if mocking her worth as an opponent, and just as leisurely skimmed upward before his eyes locked with hers. Something besides anger now simmered in that intent regard.

  “Hell,” he swore fiercely as Ciara, now intolerant of the stud’s presence, began to kick her back legs out at him. “Get your horse into a stall!”

  Pushing past him, Bliss took hold of Ciara’s reins and led her to the nearest unoccupied stall, silently fuming as she began to clean her mare up.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the despicable brute run his hands over his horse’s flanks, the stallion’s magnificent coat speckled with blood and several ugly gashes.

  The churl caught her looking and glared at her, a gesture she returned. Undoubtedly he thought she would be cowed by those intimidating looks.

  Never had she come across so disagreeable a person. He wore menace like an unholy aura, his black hair a banner of defiance as the silky strands caressed the collar of his wrinkled white shir
t, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing large hands and a dusting of dark hair on his corded forearms.

  The stable master dashed in then, a look of horror dawning over the poor man’s face as he discerned what had happened.

  “Where the devil have you been?” the oaf demanded.

  Incensed, Bliss answered, “Out chasing down one of the horses, as I’ve already told you.”

  Eyes as cold as the Bering Sea slashed her way. “Stay out of this.” Before she could retort, he refocused that diabolical regard on the stable master. “Get some salve and towels. Now.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” Like a frightened jackrabbit, the man hastened away.

  Bliss watched him go, her body taut with indignation. “You’re a bully, do you know that?”

  That wholly unpleasant stare focused on her face as he stalked toward Ciara’s stall, leading his stallion with lethal grace in his stride. He stopped in front of the door, the stud’s nearness upsetting her mare, as he said, “You have no idea.” His voice warned that she would find out before long. Then he guided his horse to the end stall, growling at Mr. Rigby as they tended the animal’s wounds.

  Bliss muttered words most young women didn’t know, let alone speak aloud, about the man’s origins and how utterly contemptible he was.

  Once she was finished tending to Ciara, she dug out a sugar cube from her skirt pocket. Ciara’s soft nose tickled her palm as she ate the treat.

  “You’ll be fine now,” Bliss crooned, rubbing her mare’s neck. “I won’t let that beast come near you again.”

  She let herself out of the stall, her gaze shifting to the far corner where only the stallion and the stable master now stood. Khan’s master had departed. Good riddance.

  Bliss turned to leave before the prince of darkness returned and she succumbed to the temptation to skewer him with the nearest pitchfork, but she ran up against an object as solid as a brick wall, which, to her misfortune, turned out to be Mephistopheles himself.

  Bliss looked up to find fierce blue eyes glowering down at her, the expression on his chiseled face as dark and turbulent as a coming thunderstorm.