Rejar (6 page)

But it was his face which captivated even the most discriminating of connoisseurs in the room. For it was a face of such utter sensuality and masculine beauty that many of the women actually gasped aloud.

He was breathtaking.

Madeline Fensley, who had been eyeing the newcomer with a mixture of awe and disbelief, sidled over to her only real competition in the room. Lady Harcorte.

“Darling, is he really there or do you think Byron put one of his interesting surprises in the wine?”

Lady Harcorte blinked at the vision of masculine perfection in red silk. “I was wondering the very same thing myself.”

The two women stood side by side taking in their fill of the luscious surprise which had presented itself this evening.

“So, what do you think?” Madeline murmured to Lady Harcorte. “Can he possibly be as good as the wrapping indicates?”

At thirty-five years of age, Leona Harcorte was known throughout the ton as a most accomplished mistress of the boudoir. A widow, her affairs were legend, but while she was indulgent, it was also known she was most discriminating. Men vied for her favors; women sought out her advice. It was said she could accurately assess a man’s skill in the art of amour with just a look, and, conversely, ruin his masculinity with just a word.

Leona studied the man intently, noting the fluid, sinuous way he moved, the air of steamy sensuality which surrounded him. There was only one thing a woman thought of when looking at a man like that, she mused. Sex.

The man embodied it, dripped it, and probably tasted it too.

“I think, in this case, my dear Madeline, the wrapping is the hors d’oeuvre.” Fastening her trained sights on him, she left her rival in stunned silence, already making her way toward him.

Apparently, not having found the person he was seeking, the stunning creature was about to turn from the room when she caught up with him.

“Dressed casually, are we?”

As was his nature, Rejar turned in response to the feminine voice.

She was surprised by his eyes. Rimmed in thick, black lashes, one was a pale glittering ice-blue, the other a heated, fiery gold. They were stunningly beautiful. Eyes that captivated and enticed.

Such eyes promised a wicked passion.

Leona Harcorte had no doubt that by next week every woman in the ton would be talking about those eyes.

He swept her a mocking bow.

“You have me at a disadvantage, madam.” His voice was low, melodious, rich.

What an incredibly sexy voice, she thought; why, it almost has a purring quality to it...

He had a slight, undefinable accent; or perhaps it was just the cadence of his speech which was a bit different. Whatever it was, it only added to his overwhelming allure.

Leona raised an eyebrow at his facetious reply. “A disadvantage?” She raked his form with an appreciative glance. “An impossibility, I’m sure.” His eyes glittered at once with a knowing sensuality.

How exciting! A man who knows exactly how to play the game. He confirmed her opinion by waiting for her to take the next step. She was more than happy to oblige.

“Do you often come into drawing rooms attired in such a manner?” Her hand swept the length of him. To outward appearances the gesture was meant to convey the robe he was wearing; only he felt the tips of her fingers barely graze down the front of his body.

His sensual mouth curved up slightly at the left corner. “I am a man of simple tastes.”

His expression conveyed he was anything but.

Lady Harcorte’s response was frank and experienced. “Or a man who simply tastes everything life has to offer?”

At her provocation, his eyes traveled slowly down the length of her form, revealing more of those lush black lashes of his. When he raised his glance to meet hers, his eyes were twinkling with innuendo.

He did not need to verbally respond.

Leona Harcorte was no novice in the art of seduction, but by comparison his blatant, practiced regard made her feel like an untried country girl. She was suddenly desperate to have him. Who was he?

An introduction was definitely in order.

“Countess Harcorte,” she said imperiously, using her title in a slight power play.

Rejar looked into her cold yet feverish eyes and knew this woman for exactly what she was. It would never have entered the Familiar’s mind to judge her in any way for the excesses of her pleasures. Rejar understood all about excesses of pleasure.

He stood back from her for another reason.

This was a woman who seized power in her pleasures. She did not take joy in the pleasure itself but in something else—something... . not good.

All his senses reacted negatively to this and he mentally backed off, shielding himself from her spiritually, if not physically. So his response to her introduction was rather clipped.

“Prince Nickolai Azov.” He did not feel dishonest in using that particular title. Taking into account his position within his own society, he was probably entitled to it.

She looked surprised for a moment, then gracefully dipped into a curtsy. “Your Highness.”

“If you will excuse me, I seem to have misplaced my clothes.”

The man might have been discussing the weather, so bland was his voice. He turned and climbed up the stairs without a backward glance.

Misplaced his clothes, indeed.

His words left a searing picture in Leona Harcorte’s mind. An image of golden muscular thighs and firmly rounded buttocks. An image of his powerful body with that wildly sensuous pagan hair. An image of his erotically beautiful face contorted with passion as he took her again and again ...

She must have him.

And in the meantime, what a juicy little tidbit for her to spread about the ton! Like her, no one would have a moment’s doubt as to how the handsome prince had lost his clothes. One only had to look at him to figure it out.

From that moment on, his place and his reputation in society was set.

* * *

Rejar found Lord Byron in the upstairs hallway. The man was slightly swaying from excesses of every kind. This pleased Rejar, for it would probably make Byron more susceptible to his suggestive ability.

“Good lord, man, what happened to you?” Byron peered at him in the dimly lit hallway. “Do I know you, sir?”

{Yes. We met up again late last evening. We went carousing together.} Rejar waited to see if the suggestion would take.

“Wait! I remember now ... we went chasing a bit of muslin!”

“Yes, we had quite a time with those three women you procured for the night.” {I am Prince Nickolai Azov, a Russian nobleman.}

“We did, didn’t we, your Highness.”

“You are most inventive; for a baron, that is.” {We are good friends. You often call me Nickolai.}

Byron winked at him. “In case I didn’t say it last night, it’s good to see you again, Nickolai. I say—that robe you’re wearing looks rather familiar.”

“It should since it is your own.”

“Ah, yes! I purchased it last year during my trip to the continent. It is in the Chinese style. But where are your clothes, Nickolai?”

Rejar grinned. “I cannot seem to find them, Byron.”

Lord Byron rubbed his chin while he swayed in the hallway. “An amusing fix, to be sure. I’ll have my man send my tailor to you at once. After all, we can’t have you wandering about the place unclothed.” Byron grinned at him in a strange way. “But then again ...”

Rejar paled. It appeared he had misjudged the man in one way at least.

He began backing down the hall.

“A tailor would be fine. I will await him in this suite.” Rejar opened the first door he came to, ducked inside, and slammed the door shut.

* * *

Rejar stared morosely into his glass.

His long legs, now encased in tight, thigh-hugging black trousers and Hessian boots, stretched out before him.

Hock, he remembered, the spirits are called hock. He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. Everything is so strange here.

But it was his home now, so he must make do.

He sighed nonetheless. At least he had won the battle with that odd little man who called himself a tailor. He would not wear that ridiculously stiff collar on his shirt known as a cravat! Familiars could not abide tight restrictions about the neck.

Unless it was a woman’s arms. Or legs. That was different.

Stranger still, all the odd man had to hear was his name and he almost tripped over his own feet to supply Rejar with a wardrobe. He had not given the man any payment whatsoever for his efforts. It seemed his name was enough to satisfy the man—at least temporarily.

This valuable knowledge regarding the power of his name, Rejar could use to his advantage. It appeared this title of “prince” held much magic.

He shifted in his chair.

The restlessness was back. Leaning farther back in the seat, he crossed his legs at the ankles, trying to find a comfortable position. It was useless.

“Why the long face, Nickolai?”

Byron was sitting across from him. The small table between them held several bottles of spirits. And several empties. It was very late in the night.

Since his first evening here, Byron had not made any remarks of a disturbing nature to him, and Rejar, having conveyed his shock at the man’s dual inclinations, decided to let the incident go. It was not for Rejar to judge him and, although such inclinations were extremely alien to the Familiar, perhaps this behavior was a common one here. Some of the young men he had met seemed most peculiar with their rouged faces and frilly clothes.

A smile curved through his cheeks as he thought of what the Aviaran warriors would make of that. It would be most amusing.

In any event, he discovered that he genuinely liked the young baron.

“I need a woman.” Rejar made the statement with all the honesty inherent between men after imbibing spirits for several days straight.

“Ah. None here to suit your palate?”

That was just it. Rejar could not understand why, for the past two nights, he had not prevailed upon several of the females who had been in attendance here. Especially in his current state of urgency.

All of the women had seemed most receptive to him. In fact. Lady Harcorte had pursued him relentlessly—once even coming uninvited into his chamber just as he was preparing to bathe. He had firmly shown her the door.

His continued refusals were a mystery to him.

Oh, he had tried.

One woman was very alluring, yet her hair somehow seemed the wrong shade. Another was enticingly sensual, but the shape of her mouth left him cold. It happened again and again. Just when he thought he had found a good choice something would put him off.

It was most frustrating.

“No. None suits me,” he responded truthfully. A flash of forest green crossed his dulled mind. He squelched the image immediately.

“Pity.” Byron took a long swallow of his drink. “You don’t seem like a man who likes to waste much time between his pleasures.”

“I am not.” Rejar emptied the bottle into his glass, then started another. The drink was not helping alleviate his restlessness, but, then again, it did not seem to concern him so much anymore.

Rejar did not overindulge in spirits often; Familiars generally disliked having their senses dulled. He wondered why he welcomed such a state at this moment.

“Didn’t think so.” Byron snapped his fingers. “You’ve given me an idea! ‘His manner was perhaps the more seductive, because he ne’er seem’d anxious to seduce.’ I believe I shall write about a most interesting fellow;

I shall base him on the two of us. Let’s see ... I’ll call him Don ... Don ... well, it’ll come to me.”

The room was companionably silent for several minutes as the men continued to drink.

Byron abruptly asked in drunken stupor, “Nickolai, have you ever ‘tooled’ in a gondola? I have, you know.”

Rejar turned bleary eyes to him. “What is a gondola?” He needed no translation for the other term.

Byron waved his glass through the air. “It’s Italian—a long narrow boat.”

Rejar reviewed his numerous past conquests in his mind. At least those he could presently remember.

“Yes,” he said, thinking aloud. “A boat, a sailing vessel, a ship, a raft, a paddle boat, and a supply transport—twice.”

Byron seemed surprised. “And here I thought I was the only one to do that.” He looked challengingly at Rejar out of the corner of his eye. “How about on a table?”

The corners of Rejar’s mouth twitched as he got into the game of one-upmanship. Familiars loved games. “A chair, once on a council seat—when my father was not there—a ledge, a shelf, a bench, and ... a table.”

Byron expelled a breath. The Prince was a challenge. “What about under a table?” Byron thought he had him now.

Rejar laced his hands behind his head, affecting a bored mien. “Of course.”

Byron narrowed his eyes. “Against a wall?”

Rejar waved his hand, not even deigning to answer.

“Hmm ...” Byron tapped his fingers against his glass, trying to come up with an even more unusual place where he had succumbed to his passionate nature. “On the stairs?”

Rejar’s eyes widened. “The stairs?”

“Yes, the stairs.” Byron gave him a comically sinister smile, thinking he had the Prince now.

Rejar grinned slowly back at him. “Which particular stair do you speak of?”

The smile died on Byron’s face. “You can’t be serious?”

Rejar raised one black eyebrow, saying nothing.

“By damn!” Byron slapped his knee. Both men started laughing.

“Will you be taking up Scrope’s invitation to stay in his town house?”

Scrope Davies was one of Byron’s closest friends. The congenial man had graciously offered the “prince” use of his home when he found out Rejar intended to seek lodging. Of course, the lodging part was only a guise for his persona. Rejar still fully intended to remain with Lilac.

Especially during the nights.

“I think not. This Clarendon Hotel you spoke of will better suit my purposes.” It was vital he maintain his freedom to come and go as he pleased. In the form he pleased.

“Probably wise. Scrope has a bit of a problem with the tables. If he asks you to lend him some blunt, you needn’t be concerned—he’s a man of honor.”