Absolute Pleasure

Absolute Pleasure

Cheryl Holt

She Was A Complete Innocent...

The lonely, never-married
Lady Elizabeth Harcourt
desperately longs for a distraction. She finds one when a chance encounter leads her to the lush studios of artist
Gabriel Cristofore
. Gabriel insists upon painting Elizabeth's portrait, vowing to do justice to her ravishing figure. But Elizabeth soon realizes that Gabriel's plans for her have little to do with painting-for his true passion in life is the art of seduction...

Until He Showed Her The Most Irresistible Passion

The first moment Gabriel sets eyes on Elizabeth, he can see she's not his usual mark. Her lush auburn locks, luscious skin, and ruby lips offer just a hint of the pleasure they promise. Despite his desire, he is torn between seducing her instantly and taking his time so that he can explore every aspect of her. But Gabriel is about to discover that some affairs cannot be so easily abandoned-especially when the heart of a rogue has been captured...

Chapter One

London, England, 1812

"Exquisite. Positively exquisite...”

Elizabeth stilled and cocked her head to the side, listening intently. The man's whispered adulation was murmured from nearby, and fondly pronounced, as though he was wooing a lady right in the middle of the crowded theater foyer. His diction was unusual, imbued with a hint of the exotic. Perhaps he was Italian or French.

"Splendida.
Ravishing."

The male voice came again, closer this time and—if she didn't know better—had been uttered from directly behind her. She was dying to turn around, to probe the swarm of faces, in order to discover which pair of lovebirds had the audacity to carry on so affectionately in such a public place.

"Your skin is like silk. So smooth, so soft."

Her brows rose in amazement. No doubt about it, he was hovering immediately to her left. Why, she could feel his warm breath gliding across her nape! Her gown was stylishly designed, trimmed low across bosom and back, revealing a broad expanse of shoulder, arm, and chest, and the fiery puff of his exhalation shimmered over her collarbone and slithered down into her cleavage, settling on her breasts in a manner that was disconcerting and discomfiting.

Though the cramped entrance was stifling, the air hot
and stale with the crush of bodies proceeding toward the stairs and the box seats above, she shivered.

Who was he? And who was the woman with whom he was so enamored that he would risk an improper verbal display where anyone might hear?

Cautiously, she glanced over, not rotating in the slightest, but shifting only her eyes, eager to make out form and substance. When ... there he was! A stranger, tall and indistinct, a lanky torso dressed in formal black. It was the second week of February, yet he was bronzed as though he'd tarried too long in the sun.

She wrenched her gaze to the stalled line before her, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

But he'd seen her peeking! He laughed, a seductive chuckle that rumbled across her nerve endings and tickled her stomach, filling it with dancing butterflies. Embarrassed at being caught, she stoically stared toward me stairs, which now appeared miles distant and unattainable. An unwelcome flush reddened her cheeks.

"My glorious beauty"—his legs were brushing her skirts! — "Please tell me your name so that if I perish in the next instant, I might die a happy man."

That foreign lilt, that fanciful flair in his enunciation, sent a chill down her spine. Was he talking to her?

Frantically, she searched the area around her, vainly hunting for his companion, but perceiving no one. There were dozens of women scattered across the bustling lobby but, at that very moment, she was surrounded by men. Her eyes widened with the stunning realization mat she was the sole female he could possibly be addressing.

The bounder! What was he up to, accosting her? She cast about, seeking a familiar face—her father or some acquaintance—who would rescue her from the interloper's inappropriate advance, but there was nary a friend in sight.

Hoping she wouldn't be observed chatting with him, she nevertheless whipped around to confront him, to scare him off with a fierce look or, if necessary, to give him a thorough dressing-down that would make him desist and depart Yet to her dismay, once she made the move, she couldn't express a single reprimand.

He was so beautiful—if such a term could be used to describe a man. His hair shone in the glittering candlelight. It was swept off his strong forehead, highlighting his aristocratic nose, his full mouth, his immaculate, tanned skin. He was resplendent, his features perfectly assembled, and he had the sort of countenance an artist might paint on the ceiling of a cathedral or carve into a block of swirled marble.

People pushed past, jostling them until he was bumped against her, and for some idiotic reason, her heart fluttered. His fabulous eyes, blue and keen and shrewd, were focused on her mouth, evaluating every nuance in painstaking detail. Leisurely, he examined her pursed lips, then slowly, methodically, he lifted his calculating gaze to hers.

"Gad, but even the blush on your cheeks is becoming."

Her color deepened, and the indecorous comment provided the fortitude she required to retort. "Are you speaking to me, sir?"

"Assolutamente,"
he admitted without an ounce of repentance. *'How could I resist?"

Elizabeth frowned and whipped away, trying to gain insight into the scoundrel's impertinent overture. Men never dared to waylay her. Her exalted station, as the only child of the Earl of Norwich, meant she was protected from unsuitable encounters. In fact, with the exception of a newly hired servant, she couldn't recall when she'd last conversed with someone to whom she hadn't been introduced.

The rogue next to her was impeccably dressed for the event, his clothes excellently tailored, his shirt starched and blindingly whitened, his cravat expertly tied. He seemed to be the finest gentleman, out on the town for an evening of entertainment, yet his conduct was far out of bounds, and he didn't grasp that he was acting in an uncouth fashion.

By her attire alone, he should have recognized that she was inaccessible. From the expensive fabric of her gown, to the adroit coif of her auburn hair, to the priceless string of emeralds circling her neck, she was the very picture of an affluent, titled English lady, and therefore ruled by society's strict standards for interaction with the opposite sex.

Still, from his choice of words and the slight inflection in his voice, it was obvious that he was a foreigner, so in all fairness, maybe he didn't understand the serious breach he was committing. As she'd had scant occasion to prattle with unknown men, she wasn't certain how to go about educating him as to his lapse, and she decided not to try. The best resolution was to reach the stairs and, ultimately, the safety of her father's box.

"Don't glower so, milady," he urged gently, the fluid flow of his accented speech washing over her. "I mean you no harm. I'm merely enchanted by how lovely you are.”

They were packed in with the other theatergoers like fish in a bucket, and each of his avowals was quietly declared, so no one else could hear him; she was sure of it. Another passerby jostled him, and through her ample layers of undergarments, petticoats, and skirts, she could feel his lean frame flattening the length of her backside.

Never before had she been wedged up against a man, and his adjacency instigated a curious medley of previously unexperienced sensations: of sentimental longing, but also a peculiar impression of physical yearning. Her body was attuned to his, as if it was extending out, craving to be merged with his more tightly.

Their odd arrangement instituted an informality that suggested a bond and partiality that was out of proportion to their actual circumstances. Puzzled by the stimulation his proximity invoked, she scooted away as much as she was able.

He countered by resting his fingers on the small of her back. The gesture was outlandish and totally indecent, but she didn't shake him off. It felt good. Shockingly, she couldn't remember when another person had held her hand or hugged her. Her sterile, barren environment was one of polite discourse and tepid exchanges, and nobody possessed an ounce of the zeal essential for tangible contact.

When had that happened? How had she grown so disconnected from others that the simple caress of a man's hand could bum through dress, corset, and chemise?

"Please go away," she decreed through clenched teeth.

"I've been watching you," he said. "From the instant you alighted from your carriage."

He'd been watching her? Was he insane?

Overt curiosity had her spinning in his direction. And conversing with him even though she'd rather have bitten off her tongue.

'To what end?" she couldn't preclude herself from inquiring.

"So that I might learn who you are," he unabashedly replied. "I had to find out."

His divine lips were only an inch from her own, and he was analyzing her, cataloging each trait, and missing no characteristic. His azure eyes bored into hers, then dropped to her mouth, once more, and she couldn't get past the perception that he was dying to kiss her, which was absurd.

As she'd never been kissed in her life, and had never had a man ogling her with anything vaguely resembling ardor, she couldn't deduce why such an astounding prospect might be conceivable, but in an internal, isolated, feminine part of her, she discerned his male intent: He wanted to kiss her, and bizarrely, she was wondering what it would be like.

What if he closed the gap that separated them? Remarkably, the brief fantasy did amazing things to her anatomy. Her pulse raced, her palms itched, and her breasts...

They swelled and expanded, the nipples instantly emphasized and erect. They rubbed against the confines of her corset; the lacing was too constricting, and she could barely inhale.

With a practiced flick of her wrist, she opened her fan and whisked it back and forth, cooling her exposed surfaces, and giving her unruly hands something to do. Of a sudden, they were dangerously inclined to caress the nap of his debonair evening jacket, or mayhap to rest against the center of his chest.

Her inexplicable weakness was appalling, and she couldn't prevent herself from gaping at him in alarm. She was not a spontaneous person; she didn't pine away or fantasize over handsome dandies. Not even as an adolescent, when marriage and family were still a nebulous, oft-contemplated option. The corporeal cravings that induced others to ludicrous episodes of amorousness had never plagued her. .

She was too sensible, too discriminating and rational, to be swayed by a comely appearance or masculine physique. Yet, in a matter of seconds, she was all but smitten by an attractive knave who'd done scarcely more than say hello.

Though she was loath to admit it, his whispered compliments were excessively gratifying. Sweet, endearing balms. It had been a long while since anyone had examined her and appreciated the woman lurking beneath the prudently poised exterior.

For years, she'd dawdled in her widowed father's shadow—as his hostess, his companion, his secretarial attendant—until she'd become a master at the art of blending in and never garnering attention for herself. She'd stooped so low in ceding to her father's wishes, needs, and commands, that she was little more than an extension of his illustrious self. Not a woman in her own right, but merely the earl's rather plain, unmarried, boring but efficient daughter.

How marvelous to have her eccentric swain behold another aspect of herself, someone better and more grand. She was secretly flattered, even though he was too bold by half; no sense in encouraging him.

"You're angry with me," he murmured, just when she would have turned away.

Indeed, she was piqued, but how had he guessed?

"As I don't know you, sir," she was compelled to mention, "How could I possibly feel anger or anything else toward you? Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Gabriel," he interrupted.

The man's breeding was atrocious. Had he no discretion at all? He simply blurted out his identity like a common ruffian.

"Pardon?'

"My name is Gabriel Cristofore."

Italian. Of course, he would be.

The appellation rolled off his tongue, conjuring images of sun-drenched hills and turquoise oceans. Temperate, lazy days and fine red wine. Soft music and romantic suppers.

She'd always dreamed of visiting Italy, but she'd dutifully passed up the lone chance she'd once had to travel to the charming country. Shortly after she'd finished her formal education at age sixteen, her favorite teacher and several students had planned a scholarly tour, but she'd declined to go, succumbing to pressure from her father as he'd insisted that he couldn't manage without her for the six months she'd have been gone.

It still rankled that she hadn't taken that trip. There had been many opportunities lost due to her father's maneuvering and coercion. In many ways, he was like a spoiled, demanding infant, wanting her at his beck and call, with her entire energies devoted exclusively to his happiness.

At his behest, she'd abandoned numerous adventures, staying at home to supervise the mundane trivialities of his day-to-day affairs, until it seemed that all she ever did was tally her regrets.

As she stood there in that heated foyer, an ancient twenty-seven years old, and with nothing to show for her interval on earth but a decade of serving as a combination nanny and governess for her spoiled, overbearing tyrant of a father, she was swamped with a thriving discontentment she'd never previously noticed. She was chafing against restriction and constraint

What she wouldn't give to throw off the shackles that fettered her, to live as she pleased, to be tree of her father and the injunctions he imposed upon her?

The turbulence bubbling just below the surface baffled her. From where did this resentment emanate? Why hadn't she noted it before? Why was it abruptly pleading for acknowledgment?

Yes, she'd been disgruntled recently. With her father's unanticipated, hasty marriage to his seventeen-year-old child bride, Charlotte, everything had changed. The horrid, immature girl had inflicted herself into their once-peaceful residence. Who wouldn't be put out by the transformations? But apparently, Elizabeth's umbrage was more grievous than she'd suspected, and it played a much bigger role in her current condition than she'd ever supposed.