Her Prodigal Passion (2 page)

Fire rushed over her, rendering her thoughts to ashes, leaving nothing but the hot, urgent magic of the moment.
He wants me
, her heart rejoiced
.
His hands drove into her hair, holding her steady, angling her for his deep exploration. She kissed him back with all of her pent-up longing, all of her trembling heart and soul. He groaned and the world tilted, taking her with it. Her spine arched against the pallet as his kisses blazed along her neck.

Her blood turned to honey, her entire being suffused with sweetness and heat. She clutched at his shoulders, helpless, whimpering in the wake of the exhilarating sensations. So many of them, layer upon layer of delight. He caught her earlobe between his teeth, suckling it, making her squirm and pant. Her breath hitched when his hand covered her breast, his fingers finding the straining peak beneath the layers of fabric. He strummed her nipple, and stars flashed.

"Please," she heard herself whimper.

"Yes, love." Rolling and pinching the sensitive bud, he breathed, "You make a man burn."

She was the one burning, her skin itching with desperate heat. For so long, she'd watched him from afar; now she couldn't get close enough. He muttered an endearment and then his thigh wedged shockingly between her legs. Even through all the barriers of clothing, the heat and hardness of him set off sparks at the core of her being. With sudden panic, she registered how far things had gone, but then his leg ground against her and the wicked, exquisite sensation obliterated all reason, all thoughts save ...
more
.

"Will you come for me, my darling?" he rasped.

What does he mean ...?

His leg left her, and she wanted to weep. Fabric rustled, layers pushed up and away. She couldn't even think to protest as his hand travelled up her stocking-clad leg, past her garter, over her bare thigh, and then—dear God,
then
.

A moan escaped her; her thighs locked together on instinct.

"Poor little puss is weeping," he whispered. "I know just what it needs to feel better."

Only then did she register how wet she was ... down
there
. Mortified, she tried to close her legs again, but he kept stroking her with skillful fingers, showering her with guttural praise.

"Never hide from me, darling. I love how lush and wet you are—it makes me want to pet your sweet cunny all the more. And here especially ..."

Fiery pleasure streaked through her as he touched a transcendent place. Her lips parted on a soundless cry. Her hips bucked helplessly.

"You
like
that," he breathed. "How about this?"

Merciful heavens.
Her eyes squeezed shut as the unfamiliar thrills intensified with each circling stroke, each flicking caress.
Too much.

"Oh, please, I can't ..." she gasped.

"Yes, you can." His eyes were dark, glazed with passion. "Let go, my love. Fly for me."

The chains of caution and self-doubt fell away. She soared, climbing higher and higher, incoherent words spilling from her lips.
I love you. I always have and always will …
She hit the sun, and the blinding brilliance made her cry out. Heat shimmered through every nerve, searing and cleansing, leaving nothing but her shining adoration—

"Rosalind, my only love, don't ever leave me again," he groaned.

Charity lay there, dazed. Tremors of delight still coursed through her body as her heart crumbled. Not into pieces, but ashes. The deadening weight settled in her chest. As the mix of pain and pleasure grew too intense to bear, numbness spread through her. An eerie calm. In the silence, she could hear her disordered breaths and feel his steadier ones striking rhythmically against her neck.

Rosalind Drummond
, she thought dully.
Of course he loves her—he always has. How could I be such a fool?

Moments passed—she didn't know how long—before she came to her senses. Her mind took note of the fact that she was lying wantonly beneath the man of her shattered dreams whilst he ... The faint snore snapped her fully back to reality.

Dear God ... he'd fallen
asleep
?

Humiliation and panic imbued her with stealth. With care, she eased from under him; he remained lying upon his stomach as if he'd been passed out the entire time and she'd never been there at all. As if this had all been a terrible dream ...
With shaking hands, she attempted to straighten her rumpled gown. She gathered up her things and tiptoed toward the door, freezing at the sound of his voice.

"Sick of hiding."

Turning, she saw with relief that his eyes remained closed—he was mumbling in his stupor. But his next words chilled her.

"Bastard can have my vowels." His head rocked against the pallet, his face contorted. "Don't care—nothing matters anymore. Failure ... all I am. March over and hand 'em over myself first thing ..."

Breath held, Charity waited until he quieted. Only then did she slip out the door. She hurried down the steps, making her way back as she'd come … unnoticed.

TWO

Country Seat of the Marquess of Harteford

Nine months later

Reclined against cushions in the guest chamber, Paul Fines reflected that house parties were a deuced bore. Then again, that was the case with life in general, and 'twas only the alternative to living that made boredom more palatable.
Tedium over death
 ... that could be his motto. It was a pragmatic philosophy: for while he knew of no antidotes to the sweet hereafter, he was well acquainted with those for
ennui
.

"You were
splendid
," a female voice breathed in his ear.

His attention returned to Lady Augusta Beaumont, who lay naked next to him in bed. From her profusion of red curls to her bountiful curves, everything about her was excessive. Subtlety had never been his strong point.

"I must return the compliment," he said.

She traced a coy circle on his chest. "I daresay your prowess in bed exceeds even your abilities in the boxing ring."

Last month, Paul had participated in a series of exhibition matches sponsored by Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Academy. The tournament had paired students with seasoned prizefighters to show how gentlemen could benefit physically and mentally from training in the "sweet science." Despite his status as a gentleman student, Paul had won all five of his bouts. The papers had capitalized on the crowd-pleasing outcome, hailing him as a symbol of The Fighting British Male (clearly, they knew nothing about him). Overnight, he'd become a sensation and all the rage amongst the
ton
.

And, in particular, amongst the upper class ladies. Although he'd never lacked for female companionship, Paul now found himself plagued by fashionable females. Not that he was complaining. He never looked a gift horse in the mouth or an attractive bed partner in the ... well, no need to extend
that
particular analogy. The point was that sex provided only a temporary remedy; already he could feel the restlessness creeping back.

As if she sensed his withdrawal, Augusta rubbed her cherry-tipped breasts against his arm. "Ready for another round, lover?"

"You wore me out, pet." His hand squeezed her plush bottom; his mind worked on a polite exit strategy.

"Well, it
was
a challenge." She fluttered her lashes. "I don't believe I've ever sported with such a well-endowed partner before."

Though the jaded part of him doubted the flummery—she hadn't had the least bit of trouble handling him, no matter his size—he gave her an easy smile. "You flatter me."

"And
you
were well worth the wait," she purred. "With so many ladies vying for a fuck, I despaired of ever having my turn."

"You've never been good at sharing, sister dear," another voice chimed in.

His head turning on the pillow, Paul met the limpid gaze of Lady Louisa Parkington, who lay on his other side. The wife of a conveniently absent earl, she was Augusta's twin sister, and, arguably, the more voracious of the two. Which was saying something.

"That is untrue," Augusta protested. "You had your turn."

Louisa's plump lips formed a pout. "But you received his
prime
attentions. As usual, I received an inferior seat at the table."

Inferior
? Paul's brows inched upward. Being a gentleman, he always saw to his partners' satisfaction before his own. Pleasuring two ladies simultaneously had been no simple business: he'd expended more effort than usual. And unless he'd been mistaken—which he doubted, given his level of expertise in the matter—the sounds that Louisa had made as she'd perched over him had hardly been complaints.

"There's no need to be a spoil sport. Look at him." Augusta's gaze roved downward over his person, and she licked her lips. He had the unsettling sensation of being eyed like a meaty bone by a ravenous mongrel. "Clearly there's
plenty
to go around."

"I don't care. I'm getting first dibs," Louisa said, "for I deserve to make the most of my lord's absence. I mean to have my fun whilst Parkington is off dallying with his string of whores."

"At least
your
lord can cock up something other than his toes," Augusta shot back. "The only stick that old Beaumont is capable of using is the one that helps him walk.
I
definitely deserve first choice next time."

As the sisters bickered, Paul felt faint stirrings of alarm.
Next
time? Devil and damn, he'd already gone several rounds with the insatiable wenches. In truth, he was beginning to regret choosing bed sport over the honest trading of blows. His host and close friend, Nicholas Morgan, the Marquess of Harteford, had an excellent sparring chamber next to the study, and a few rounds would have battled monotony just as well as sex.

Being a man of sizeable appetites, some means, and no purpose whatsoever, Paul found that his greatest enemy in life was restlessness. Fending off boredom was like fighting the Hydra of legend: each time he managed to lop off one head, two sprung back in its place. It seemed that nothing could defeat that monstrous sense of ... emptiness.

Although his papa Jeremiah had resided with the angels for some years, Paul could still see the look of befuddled disappointment on the old man's face. He could hear his sire's lecturing refrain as well.

What is the matter with you, Apollo? No Fines has ever lacked in fortitude and purpose. If you fail, you must buck up and try again.

Without a doubt, Jeremiah, esteemed founder of Fines & Company Shipping, had been the most industrious and determined fellow who'd ever lived. He'd built an empire from nothing but blood, sweat, and ambition. Yet the poor sod had somehow managed to produce the ultimate prodigal offspring.

Shame clamped Paul's insides. He thanked the Gods that his father had not been around to witness his ultimate disgrace. A year ago, he'd taken leave of his senses or, more accurately, pickled them in spirits. His drinking and gambling had spiraled out of control, and at his lowest point, he'd wagered his shares of Fines & Company—his papa's
legacy
—on a round of hazard.

That wasn't even the worst part. Drunk and desperate, he'd resorted to hiding like the veriest coward from the cutthroat who'd held his vowels. Only the intervention of his sister Percy and Nicholas had saved him from the abyss of ignominy.

When it came to personal virtues, Paul could claim only one: he had the ability to see his own faults clearly. Like Cassandra, he could forecast his own doom, and his biggest flaw lay in his neck-or-nothing personality. He was incapable of doing anything in half-measure. Either he couldn't lift a finger toward it—as in the case of his father's company—or he threw himself into the endeavor with such abandon that he lost himself entirely.

As had been the case with Rosalind Drummond.

Heartbreak had been the beginning of the end for him; even now, two years after losing Rosalind to another man, he tasted the bitterness of regret. The pain had dulled, however, to the point where he no longer had to mask it with spirits or gaming, vices that had turned his situation from bad to worse. A lack of self-discipline was a despicable weakness, but it was his. To retain what remained of his self-respect—and it wasn't much—his only choice was to avoid temptations of the heart, bottle, and wallet entirely.

This, unfortunately, left few options with which to slay time. Thus, he'd turned to pugilism, spending his days training at Gentleman Jackson's Saloon. And since his unexpected triumph at the exhibition, an opportunity had recently presented itself. For the first time in a long time, anticipation stirred in him as he contemplated the future.

If properly executed, his new plan could provide a means to rebuild his fortune. For though he'd recovered his shares of Fines & Co., he'd gambled away what savings he'd had. Now he would have a shot at redemption. Not only at getting his money back, but at proving, for once, that he could get things right. That he was a
winner
.

But first, he wanted to discuss this new development with Nicholas. Perhaps he should go now to hunt the other down for conversation and a few rounds. But now that Nick was a husband and father—and amusingly devoted to the roles—the old chap probably had better things to do than to talk and spar into the wee hours of the morning.

"We are agreed then, Augusta?" Louisa was saying. "We'll toss to see who rides where."

Paul stifled a sigh. Like cheap gilt, the novelty of the twins had worn off. Besides, he had a suspicion that if he didn't make his exit soon, he might not make it out alive.

Thus, he said in an appropriately regretful tone, "Ladies, as lovely as you both are, I must admit that you have humbled me. How can a mere mortal keep up with goddesses … and a pair of them at that?" Patting the voluptuous hips on either side of him, he sat up. "It has been a true pleasure, but now I must bid
adieu
."

He blinked as two pairs of hands pushed him back against the pillows.

"We are not yet finished with you, sir," Louisa said.

Good God.
"But I'm afraid
I
am finished. Done in. Tapped out."