He had no doubt that Miss Violet Kent was responsible for the state of his mind and body. Regarding the former, what man wouldn’t be furious at being assaulted—pushedinto a bloody fountain and by a mere chit at that? Under normal circumstances, her little tap wouldn’t have budged him, but she’d taken him by surprise and then he’d slipped in that goddamned puddle…
Embarrassment scalded his gut. In all honesty, the fact that a close encounter with a female had resulted in him emerging a fool should come as no surprise. In his dictionary, women were synonymous with trouble. Miss Lucinda Belton and Lady Audrey Keane had taught him that lesson long ago. In fact, they’d schooled him so well that he’d avoided entanglements with respectable ladies altogether.
Whenever he required female companionship, he purchased it. A simple exchange and one in which both parties left satisfied. In bed, he dealt with women just fine.
Outside of bed, however, they were a damned nuisance. All he’d wanted was for Violet Kent to leave his brother alone: was that too much to ask? Instead, she’d made him the laughingstock of the party.
Well, he’d refused to give thetonthe blood they wanted, the satisfaction of seeing his humiliation. He’d exited the gilded arena as if he weren’t dripping with champagne. As if his bloody boots weren’t squishing with every step. He’d walked out of there as if nothing had been out of the ordinary, and he’d managed that by focusing on varied and creative ways of retribution.
Bending Violet Kent over his knee, for instance.
Unfortunately, that led to his second—and persistently throbbing—problem.
He ought to have let her get doused by the fountain, he thought savagely. That would have served the little romp right. But, oh no, he’d had to obey his instinct to pull her out of harm’s way. The resulting jolt of lust had been his own damned fault.
He chalked it up to animal urges. What red-blooded man wouldn’t respond to the wriggling of a pertly rounded derriere against his groin? It was only primal instinct that had caused the lurid image to blaze in his head: of bending Miss Kent over the nearest surface, tossing up her cheerful yellow skirts, spreading her sleek thighs and…
He glanced down; to his disgust, his shaft now tented the sheet.
Just bloody perfect.
Throwing off the bedcovers, he stalked over to the table holding the basin and ewer, grimacing as his aroused flesh bobbed heavily with every step. He splashed icy water onto his face and, gripping the edges of the rickety washstand, waited for the room’s drafty chill to cool his blood. Although there was a more appealing way of discharging the problem, he refused to yield to the primitive impulse.
Self-discipline and rationality were his ruling principles. From experience, he’d learned to distrust his emotional reactions when it came to the opposite sex and relied instead on his intellect to guide his decisions. Despite his body’s inexplicable reaction to Miss Kent, he told himself he had only one objective pertaining to the chit: to keep her out of his brother’s life.
The thought of Wickham smothered the remnants of his arousal. Knots tightened in Richard’s gut as he yanked on a tattered robe. His younger brother knew nothing of restraint and was infinitely susceptible to the dangers of the opposite sex. And Wick was up to his ears in hot water already.
For Wick was in debt—and this time, Richard hadn’t the coin to pay it off. Wick’s only hope of staying afloat was marrying an heiress. To that end, Richard had spent no small effort in securing a lifeboat for his brother. He’d paved the way with Alfred Turbett, a wealthy merchant. All Wick had to do was take that last step and propose to the man’s daughter.
Which Wick wouldn’t do if he remained mesmerized by Violet Kent.
Richard was intimately acquainted with Miss Kent’s type, all right. She was a shallow flirt who waltzed her way through life with no care for consequences. She thrived on male attention, gave no damn about anything but herself and her own pleasure. The brazen minx would have Wick wrapped around her little finger—and then, when her fun was done, she’d toss him away like last season’s slippers.
Over my dead body, Richard thought fiercely.
He rang for Bartlett; the valet was one of the few servants he retained in this small house he rented. Reduced circumstances had made such economies necessary. He was not a man to live beyond his means; if only he could say the same of his brother.
He had just sat down for breakfast in the small and shabby parlor when Wickham sauntered in. The latter was still dressed in last evening’s clothing—typical, seeing as the young rakehell never went to bed before dawn. Also typical was the fact that despite whatever debauchery Wick had been engaged in, he still managed to emerge looking like a Greek god.
Shadows accented Wick’s long-lashed hazel eyes, the hollows beneath his sculpted cheekbones. His golden brown curls were fashionably rumpled. Their mama had been a famous beauty in her day, and Wick took after her in looks and temperament—the opposite of Richard, who resembled their father and all the viscounts before him.
A stroll through the family gallery showed a line of dark, swarthy men with the hulking bodies of peasants and the glowering disposition of Hephaestus. Unfortunately, like that humble god of the smithy, they were also attracted to their natural opposites—dazzling, vibrant Aphrodites—which had led to a family legacy of disastrous unions.
Staid and vivacious never made for a good match.
“No need to get up on my account, old boy,” Wick said. “Thought I’d stop by and join you for a spot of breakfast. Though I had the devil’s time getting here. Don’t know what you were thinking leasing this hellhole.”
“It’s Cheapside, not the Ninth Circle—” A pungent odor tickled Richard’s nostrils, and he sneezed. Twice. “Holy hell, what is that smell?”
“What smell?”
Eyes watering, Richard said, “The noxious odor that suggests you rolled in a field of lily of the valley before diving into a vat of musk.”
Wick sniffed at his jacket. “Ah, that. Must have rubbed off on me. It’s French,” he added in lofty tones, “and expensive.”
Seeing the smudges of rouge on his brother’s collar, Richard said dourly, “Are you referring to the perfume or the tart who wore it?”
“Both,” Wick said with a smirk.
