The Pleasure Seekers Page 3

  “Going somewhere?” he asked in a whisky-dark voice.

  “Yes,” she managed, his nearness wreaking havoc on her balance. “Wherever you are not.” She made to move around him, but he sidestepped her, blocking her path. “Get out of my way.”

  “Your damn mare ruined Khan for stud.”

  The infuriating clod! “I beg to differ. Your damn stallion ruined Ciara for mating. I vow she’ll never want to do so again, after what he did to her.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw, and he looked as though he was about to throttle her. “I don’t think you grasp the concept of what has happened here.”

  “Well, let me see if my pitiful female brain can figure it out,” she said with feigned sweetness. “Your stallion mounted my mare, two minutes of heavenly rapture followed, and now we’re in a quagmire according to you, the master of all things, whose head is so bloated with self-importance I can only hope its prodigious weight topples you into the gaping maw of a bottomless pit.”

  The tic in his jaw increased in tempo. “You do know how to push a man.”

  “So I’ve been told. It’s a blight on an otherwise exemplary record of feminine accomplishments, if one overlooks the occasional discordant note on the pianoforte and my haphazard attempts at a quadrille.”

  His face never changed; if he possessed any humor, it was buried so deep as to be nonexistent. “You owe me a stud fee for the privilege your mare has just been afforded.”

  “Privilege?” Bliss gaped at him. “Surely you jest.”

  The look on his face told her he never jested. “Khan is from the Anazah, a pure desert-bred Arabian, with a lineage that can be traced back to the Abbas Pasha.”

  She could tell the stallion was from the finest stock; every line of its body conveyed this: from his graceful head, tapering from the eyes to the muzzle; the sharply cut cheekbones; the gentle arch from the poll to the withers; the powerful loins, high croup, and fine haunches; the well-set tail and short dock; the gaskins full and muscular without being heavy.

  All and all, a truly spectacular animal. Any foal Ciara might have would not only be beautiful, but would race like the wind. Still, that didn’t give the man the right to make demands on her as if she were at fault.

  “Ciara’s dame was a wild Devonshire pony,” Bliss returned, “and her sire a Dongola Arab, straight from Knight’s Folly.”

  He stood unflinching, vastly unimpressed. “You’ll still pay the fee.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.” If she were a man, she would punch his arrogant nose. That once patrician appendage already sported a small cant, as though someone had beaten her to it.

  He closed the scant foot’s worth of space that separated them, and Bliss had to stop herself from taking a step back, even though he stood so close that barely a breeze could whisper between their bodies. An incredible heat assaulted her, and she realized it was coming from him.

  “You’ll pay the fee,” he said in a silky voice, “or pay the consequences.”

  She met his gaze unblinkingly. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Yes.”

  Bliss could only stare, momentarily stunned by the sheer scope of his audacity. Then she laughed. “Does this barbaric manner of yours work on most people? Because it won’t work on me. You can stomp about and tower over me and pound on your chest until you turn blue, and it will still change nothing. Good day.”

  Tension crackled in the air as Bliss brushed passed him. She could feel his dark, penetrating gaze boring into her back.

  How dare he ask her to pay him! He acted as though her mare had pranced into the stables and lured the stallion to her with a siren’s song, rather than his unruly beast being unable to keep his lust in check.

  Had he even inquired as to Ciara’s welfare? Or her own, for that matter? His blasted horse could have killed her, but all he was concerned about was his stud fee.

  Suddenly, she was jerked up short. Something was holding her back. Or, she thought with mounting fury, some one. She whirled around to find the oaf’s big-booted foot on the hem of her skirt, trapping her firmly in place.

  “Are you mad?” she fumed. “Release me at once.”

  Surprisingly, he did, but only to grasp her upper arm and yank her forward, bringing her flush against his chest. Her nose barely reached the V in his shirt where taut, bronzed skin lay bare to her direct line of vision. A hint of sandalwood teased her nostrils. Very pleasing. Very masculine.

  A curious thrill shot through Bliss as she tossed her head back, returning the glare of those frosty blue eyes that made her think of glacial streams.

  His silky hair tumbled forward as his mouth, sensuous and full, came perilously close to hers. “This isn’t over,” he said, the words a vow.

  Foreign sensations sizzled through Bliss’s veins, and her heart missed a beat. “Unhand me. Or shall I scream down the rafters?”

  His gaze dipped to her lips, as though thinking to stifle her that way, which very nearly tempted Bliss to test him. He was so maddening, he deserved his comeuppance, the irritating lout.

  His grip eased, but his fingers trailed down her arm, leaving a warm path in their wake.

  Far too affected by that simple touch, Bliss slapped him, then pivoted on her heel and marched away.

  Caine watched her go, his hand pressed to his face like a bloody half-wit. He had seen the slap coming and let it happen. Hell, he deserved a cudgeling for allowing the sight of her to distract him.

  Even now his gaze tracked her, drifting downward to the seductive sway of her hips, the slow melting heat in his loins proving again that brain and body don’t always work in harmony.

  The duke’s precious daughter had just ruined his chance to make some additional blunt, which left him that much more at Olivia’s mercy.

  Like father, like daughter, Caine thought bitterly, his hands clenching at his sides. But he’d be damned if anyone would get the better of him this time. Fate, which had always held him in contempt, had seen fit to drop one hundred and ten pounds of retribution in his lap—and he would exploit this boon wherever, whenever, or however the opportunity arose.

  Three

  Careless she is, with artful care,

  Affecting to seem unaffected.

  William Congreve

  Bliss studied her reflection in the mirror, running a critical eye over her ball gown, which was fashioned in the latest Parisian style with a daringly low, square-cut bodice and high waist, which accentuated her ample bosom.

  The dress was truly scandalous. Her nipples were covered by only the barest wisp of material. A single deep breath could very well expose her to all, but she enjoyed pushing the boundaries; life was too dull otherwise.

  At first, she told herself that her choice of attire was arbitrary, but she knew better than to delude herself. Should a certain vile horse owner be in attendance tonight, she would give him the cut direct, while floating by on a cloud of satin decadence.

  A knock sounded at her door. “Come,” she called as her maid secured a delicate sapphire necklace around her throat to match the earrings she wore.

  She turned to find Court leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his golden brown hair tamed, his jaw freshly shaven, and his smile disarming. “You look lovely, Cousin.” His gaze was warm and appreciative.

  “Thank you.” Bliss ran a hand over her satin skirt. The dark blue material shimmered with hidden threads of silver, which deceived the eye at every turn.

  Court held out his arm to her. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes.” Unexpected nerves tightened her stomach as she linked her arm with her cousin’s, but she forced down the unfamiliar sensation.

  From the landing, the long gallery gleamed. The glass and brass sconces lining the walls cast a golden glow on the highly polished floors, making the wood look like still, dark water.

  It was not so much the size of Northcote that impressed Bliss, as she had seen larger estates, but rather the combination of elements: the Turkish carpet in shades o
f crimson, emerald, and gold running the length of the stairs; the entranceway done in rose-hued granite cut from the cliffs; the numerous embrasures and niches lined in rococo paneling of rich cherry that housed Sèvres bowls brimming with hyacinths and ornate silver candelabras. An arched portal of Italian marble led into the ballroom, and an unusual chandelier glittered from a recessed dome, reflecting pinpoints of light that looked like diamonds in a midnight sky.

  The house seemed to possess its own personality, or perhaps it was just her artist’s eye romanticizing the elegant lines and graceful curves.

  “It has been refurbished to its former glory by the marchioness,” Court told her when she inquired about the house’s history. “But it has a somewhat checkered past. The previous owner, the tenth Earl of Hartland, threw himself from the cliffs when he lost everything to debt.”

  Bliss’s steps faltered. She had stood at the edge of those cliffs today, dwarfed by their sheer scope, yet strangely fascinated by their deadly beauty. What kind of suffering must the man have been going through to take his own life, and in such a brutal fashion?

  “Tragic, I know,” Court said, reading her expression. “But perhaps more tragic is that the earl’s son haunts this place.”

  Bliss’s eyes widened. “You mean there’s a ghost?”

  “No, the eleventh Earl of Hartland is very much alive. He was left virtually penniless when his father died, and the house was sold to the Marquis of Buxton, who passed away not quite a year ago. Soon after that, the earl’s son returned. Now he’s living here.”

  “Is he related to Lady Buxton?”

  The look Court sent her was decidedly uncomfortable. “It seems my tongue has gotten the better of me. I have raised a topic that is not meant for polite company.”

  “Polite company?” Bliss laughed softly. “Good Lord, Court, you aren’t going to start treating me like some harebrained female whose sensibilities will be outraged at the mere mention of impropriety? I thought you knew me better than that.”

  “I do,” he replied with an endearingly boyish grin. “Sometimes I forget that you’re not like other women.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, who is the earl’s son?”

  He hesitated. “His name is Caine Ballinger.”

  Bliss puzzled for a moment, tapping a finger on her chin. “Ballinger. I’ve heard that name before.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. The man’s exploits appeared frequently in the scandal sheets. Women, wine, and gambling were his life’s calling, with women topping the list. But his success in the bedroom didn’t extend to the gaming tables. He could have parlayed his money into quite a fortune, had Lady Luck not constantly frowned upon him. Apparently she was paying him back for his innumerable sins.”

  Bliss’s interest was thoroughly piqued. “You will point him out to me, won’t you?”

  They had reached the gallery and were about to head down the stairs into the ballroom, when Court stopped and turned her to face him. “You’re to stay away from him, Bliss. Do you hear me? Your reputation would be tarnished for all eternity if you were seen in his company.”

  Bliss couldn’t help an amused smile. “My reputation, Court? Do you see my gown? Have you not admired my skill with a gun? Or remonstrated me for riding astride? Or come to Paris and viewed my paintings?” The last comment made him shift uncomfortably. “My reputation is what it is. I can’t imagine it suffering further abuse.”

  “Being seen with Caine Ballinger will blacken it beyond all repair; the other things you’ve done will pale in comparison. Trust me.”

  Bliss looked down into the ballroom, searching the crowd for a man who epitomized vice. But what would such a man look like? “Is he here tonight?”

  “Bliss,” Court said in a warning tone.

  “Is he in the ballroom? Do you see him?”

  “Damnation, why did I open my mouth?” He raked a hand through his hair. “Just once, couldn’t you heed my advice?”

  “You’re beginning to sound like my father.”

  “The poor man’s beleaguered. Between you and your mother…” He grimaced.

  “I know.” She smiled gently at him. “We Ashton women are a vexation to men.”

  He treated her to a crooked grin. “It’s that French blood.”

  “Oui, blame it on the French blood.” In a sisterly fashion, she brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “Shall we go in?”

  He took hold of her elbow, his expression sobering. “Please tell me you’re not going to do anything foolish?”

  Bliss bestowed a look of guileless innocence on her cousin. “Foolish? Why, Court, when have I ever done anything foolish?”

  His stare was pointed. “You want me to start listing them? We could be here all night.”

  “Rest assured, I will be a shining example of moral rectitude.”

  “I would pay good money to see that.” Then he gave her a look that said he was about to impart more worldly male advice. “Before we go in, there’s something else you should know about Caine Ballinger.”

  “More?” She was already intrigued beyond measure.

  That strained expression settled over his face again. “He’s…”

  “Yes?” she prompted when he faltered.

  “He’s a kept man.”

  Bliss was certain she couldn’t have heard correctly. “Kept?”

  “By the marchioness.”

  Her cousin’s implication sank in. “You mean he’s Lady Buxton’s lover?”

  A terse nod was his reply. The topic clearly chafed at him, which was silly. “The man sounds very enterprising,” she mused.

  “Damnation, Bliss! Are you being purposely obtuse?”

  “Why does this subject bother you so? If the situation were reversed, you wouldn’t have thought it worth mentioning. Indeed, men rally around each other in such circumstances, patting themselves on the back and toasting their good fortune, openly flaunting their transgressions while laboring under the mistaken impression that women don’t possess the mental acumen to know what they’re doing.

  “But should a woman want a man for the same purpose, then there are gasps heard ’round the world, outraged men collapsing in the street. Women burned in effigy and cast out like lepers. Doesn’t anything about that strike you as one-sided?”

  Not surprisingly, her cousin frowned at her, reminding Bliss that he was the owner of a male brain, and therefore unable to grasp the concept of an independent, self-sufficient woman.

  “We’re men,” he said as if that explained everything. “It’s different.”

  “How so? Because men believe they created the world? And that women are simply receptacles for their lust?”

  “You read too many books.”

  “And that is never a good thing, is it? Not for the delicate female brain.”

  “Why do you twist everything I say?”

  “Because you make no sense.”

  Before he could utter any more absurdities that would have her so incensed she would scream, Bliss descended the stairs, barely waiting for the footman to announce her arrival.

  Gently, Court took hold of her arm, drawing her to a stop at the bottom of the steps. “Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Her anger softened, yet the issue was still a sore point with her. When would men ever see women as partners they could talk to, instead of as birthing machines and ornaments?

  “I promise I’ll be careful,” she said, indulging his need to protect her. “I do believe that’s Lady Rebecca over there, surrounded by at least eight gentlemen. My, but she looks like an angel.”

  Her cousin scanned the room, his gaze stopping when he spotted his lady love, men on either side of her, and her mother keeping them from getting too close with a fire-and-brimstone look.

  The scowl that gathered on Court’s face told Bliss that the demure Lady Rebecca meant quite a bit to him. He was clearly torn between staying with Bliss as her escort, or ripping off the heads of his l
ady’s admirers.

  Wanting some time alone, Bliss said, “Go on, Court. I’ll be fine.”

  His conflicted gaze slid to her. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. You’d best hurry. I see Lord Danridge moving in.” That was all the prompting her cousin needed; he cut across the dance floor.

  Bliss breathed a sigh of relief. Now she was free to search for the elusive Caine Ballinger. She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing servant and retreated to the edge of the ballroom to observe the crowd, endeavoring to conjure up an image of a man whose prowess was legendary.

  Oddly, the face of the hulk who had accosted her in the stables came to mind; those dark eyes, hard as quartz, and hair that looked as thick and soft as a sable pelt.

  And that wicked scar.

  Where had he gotten it? No doubt from the sword of some cuckolded husband. The man was a boor, purposefully intimidating, without a speck of gentleman existing beneath that exquisite exterior—an impressive six-foot-four, she would estimate, and weighing no less than sixteen stone, all solid. She found herself searching for him, surprisingly disappointed when she didn’t see him.

  “There you are, my dear.”

  Bliss started at the sound of a female voice. She turned to find her hostess bearing down on her, the woman’s expression masklike as she took in Bliss’s outfit.

  “How stunning you look.”

  “Thank you.” Bliss made her own quick perusal of Olivia Hamilton. What must it be like to control a rogue so infamous that his name was bandied about in clubs and salons alike?

  “Those Parisian styles are so very daring, aren’t they?” her hostess added, assessing the bodice of Bliss’s gown.

  Having only met the woman briefly that morning when she had arrived, Bliss had been afforded little opportunity to discern Lady Buxton’s character. Now that she’d been scrutinized, judged and labeled within a moment, Bliss knew she and the marchioness would not be friends.

  “The French are more visceral in their appreciation of clothing,” Bliss replied. “They believe it should drape, and mold, and enhance.” Her pointed look took in the older woman’s attire. The dark burgundy coloring did little to enliven Lady Buxton’s pale skin or hide a thickening figure.