There was nothing Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort, wanted more after an exhausting night of lovemaking than mindless sleep.
And never was that truer than after his evening with the naughty, insatiable, and more than anything, tempting widow, Mrs. Stillwell. Mrs. Stillwell, whose Christian name might have or might not have been mentioned. Either way, it eluded him. It mattered not.
A satiny soft caress whispered along his naked chest. “Surely you do not want to sleep, my lord.” That voice marred by desire, purred in his ear.
“Actually I do,” he drawled lazily, his arm stretched and bent above his head. Countless women believed they mattered more than others. Believed themselves more inventive. More passionate. Those egos prevented them from seeing the obvious truth—they were all the same. All fools who’d somehow deluded themselves into believing he was a man worthy of an extended affair.
The young widow dragged her nails around his navel and he flinched at that cold caress sharp enough to draw blood.
Forcing his eyes open, he winced as the sun pierced the crack in the curtains, blinding and bright, and devilishly unwelcome. “Have a care, sweet,” Daniel said tightly and captured her wrist in a hard grip.
The voluptuous beauty pursed her mouth. That tightening around her slightly too narrow lips gave her a pinched look that showed a woman who was no longer in the blush of her youth. “I expected far more interest from a gentleman with your reputation,” she said, shrewish in her determination.
He stretched his arms. Nothing repelled him more than clingy interest from desperate ladies. “I had you and now I intend to sleep.” Then he closed his eyes, dismissing her.
The persistent widow ran clever fingers up the inside of his thigh and his shaft stirred. “I see you are not as immune to me as you pretend,” she breathed teasingly against his ear and then closed her palm around him.
What the lady failed to realize was after more years than he could remember of availing himself to the pleasures of women who were equally wicked to his own licentious self, she was just another warm body. He could respond to her soft touch and efforts to arouse, but she was no different than any other. There was no emotion; there were no feelings or sentiments beyond the gratification of two like beasts sating mutual desires.
Daniel shifted quickly, startling a gasp from the widow, as he brought her under him.
“I see you are interested, after all,” she said triumphantly, lifting her lips to his.
He lowered his mouth to claim hers—
RapRapRap
The beauty in his arms frowned.
“Go away,” Daniel bellowed. The handful of loyal servants who remained on knew better than to interrupt him—particularly when he had a woman in his bed.
Mrs. Stillwell spread her legs and he positioned himself between her welcoming thighs.
RapRapRap
“My lord,” his ancient butler interrupted, “you have a visitor.”
“There is no one I’m expecting,” Daniel said impatiently. His man-of-affairs was not due to discuss the increasingly dire state of Daniel’s finances until next week when he returned to London. Mayhap it was an irate husband? “Tell him to—”
“It is a lady, my lord,” the butler said on a loud whisper. “It is—”
“Splendid,” he called out. He really didn’t require a name. “Show her in.” Mrs. Stillwell giggled.
A long pause stretched out, and then: “Uh…she is not that manner of lady, my lord.”
Then he was otherwise uninterested. “Let the lady know I am not receiving visitors, Haply.” One’s proper reputation was safer with the Devil himself than Daniel Winterbourne.
The widow in his arms stroked his back and arched her hips in invitation.
“The lady insists, my lord. Demands a meeting.” Demanded a meeting? His curiosity stirred. But for a spot in his bed or the exchange of sexual favors, women didn’t demand anything of him. “Insists it is a matter of urgency.” He had long since become immune to the undercurrent of disapproval in a person’s words. Yet, to Mrs. Stillwell’s cry of protest, he rolled off her frame and sprawled on his back.
He may be a rake with no morals, but even he would have trouble sustaining an erection with the same butler who’d teasingly chased him around this very household as a child carrying on outside his chamber doors. Daniel dragged a hand over the day’s growth on his cheeks. “I will be down shortly,” he called out and reluctantly swung his legs over the side of his bed, settling his feet on the cold floor.
“Should I show her to the parlor, my lord?”
Bloody hell, Haply and his temerity. “No.” He climbed to his feet and gathered his wrinkled breeches. “Leave her in the foyer.” Mayhap she was one of those naughty ladies offering payment to be debauched by him. He’d never bothered with virgins, regardless of their hot eyes and eagers hands. Regardless of what had brought the woman here, she wouldn’t be staying long. Daniel stepped into his pants, tugging them up.
“Is there anything else you require, my lord? A visit from your valet?” Poor Haply. He’d even less hope of curtailing Daniel’s outrageous ways than when he’d attempted it years earlier.
“Must you go?” His now forgotten bedpartner pouted, rolling onto her stomach, so her lush buttocks were on display.
“We’re done here, sweet.” Daniel returned and slapped her sharply once on the arse, eliciting a squeal. “Haply?”
“My lord?”
“Have Mrs. Stillwell’s carriage readied.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Her mouth fell agape. “You mean you do not plan on returning? We were—”
“We’re done here,” he repeated. And with her sputtering and shrieking after him, he started for the front of the room.
“You are heartless, my lord,” she pouted.
“Indeed,” he agreed, not bothering to look back as he pulled the door open. And it was folly for any person—man, woman, or child—to believe he was in possession of that organ.
Stalking down the halls shirtless and in his bare feet, Daniel made his way to the foyer. In the hall, the truth of his circumstances glared back with a mocking potency. The dire state of his finances. As he walked, he took in the faded satin wallpapers. The frayed carpet.
Yes, his last and latest attempt at financial survival was a failing mine he’d won in a lucky game of hazard, had proven little help. And he, who was emotionally deadened in every way, felt something deep in his belly: panic. It sat there like a pit in his stomach, needling and niggling.
A familiar painting momentarily froze his steps and he stared at the heavy gold-framed portrait. A bucolic setting with twin boys, identical images of the other for all but their eyes, and a smiling papa with a hand resting on each of his sons’ shoulders. The smiling golden-haired mother, her eyes alight and vibrant. That moment, forever captured a lifetime ago.
It was the easy smile of those twelve-year-old boys memorialized on that canvas which held him frozen. Real and joyous…and alive. That moment in time, may as well be fiction for how long it had been.
…I cannot hold on any longer, Alistair…I’m so sorry…
His own sobs from long ago echoed around his mind, making a mockery of the last joyous family tableau captured. Daniel gave his head a disgusted shake and moved on from that portrait. It should have been sold long ago. The gold frame would have fetched enough coin to make it worth the sell. For some reason, it had escaped him. He’d rectify that. Eventually. He’d speak to his man-of-affairs during their next meeting.
For now, there was still the meeting with his mystery visitor. She was a lady, whom according to Haply, was “unlike that lady”…as in every woman who entered Daniel’s home and came to his bed. He reached the top of the stairs and, making his descent, he glanced around the spacious marble foyer. His gaze landed on a figure hidden inside a hideous brown cloak. That fabric was antithetical to the fine silks and satins donned by his lovers.
“Madam,” he greeted, icing that single word with an edge of steel. “If you are here with hopes I’ll debauch…”
The woman shoved her hood back and he froze with his foot suspended. There was nothing that a man would remarkably note of the lady being any grand beauty. She wasn’t. Her crimson hair, pulled back tightly at the base of her skull, accentuated the sharp angles of her heavily-freckled face. But there was something familiar about her. Too familiar.
Surely exhaustion and too much liquor the evening prior accounted for seeing a girl from his past as a grown woman before him now. Then the lady collected the cane resting against her seat and struggled to stand. His lips parted in shock. He swung his gaze to her face. It had been countless years since he’d seen her or spoken with her but the green eyes, freckled face, and wooden cane all marked her identity. “Daphne.” Surprise pulled that word from him and he struggled against the onslaught of long buried memories. Of a carefree past, of laughter and happiness and—
“Lord Montfort,” she greeted curtly.
…I won’t call you ‘my lord’ or ‘lord anything’…you’re just a boy and I’m just a girl, so we’re equals, and this is as much my lake as it is yours… That long ago recollection of her, hands on her hips glaring at him from beside the brook, whispered around his mind, until now, forgotten.
Her large, emerald green eyes snagging on his chest and her cheeks blazing the same shade of red as her hair, she dropped her gaze to the floor to his naked feet. She gasped. Then she glanced up at the mural painted on the ceiling. The tense lines at the corner of her mouth belied her casual perusal.
A hard half-grin tilted his lips. This absolute lack of artifice was foreign to him in the life he now lived. The Daphne of his youth would never have done something as innocent as avoid his gaze. Then, time changed them all. “Daphne Smith,” he drawled. As soon as the name left him, he arched an eyebrow. “Or are you now a Mrs…?”
“I am no Mrs.,” she said tightly.
When had she become this staid creature? A peculiar regret stirred for the girl she’d been. “A shame.” He stretched those syllables out in a husky whisper, in a bid to elicit some Daphne-like response.
She cocked her head and then slapped her spare hand over her mouth, glowering over her long, gloveless fingers. “My lord,” she scolded with far more impressive sternness than any of the tutors he’d suffered through as a boy. “I understand you are a rake, but I daresay even you draw the line at attempting the seduction of a childhood friend.”
He tamped down a grin at that show of spirit. “You would be wrong.” In a deliberate bid to further unsettle, Daniel folded his arms at his naked chest. “In the ten years since we’ve last exchanged words,” he said in lazy tones, “the rule of seduction expanded to include all.” He followed that up with a wink.
The lady narrowed her eyes.
A loud commotion sounded from the landing above, calling their attention up. Mrs. Stillwell, golden tresses disheveled and gown wrinkled, stormed down the stairs.
If Daphne’s cheeks burned any brighter, she was going to catch fire. When was the last time he’d so much as exchanged a single word or greeting to one of those innocent creatures? Then, this wasn’t just any innocent creature. This was Daphne Smith, whom he hadn’t seen in thirteen years and he didn’t care what she thought of him. Or he shouldn’t. And yet, with Daphne frowning on as his lover from last night made her appearance, his ears went hot. Surely he was not…embarrassed? He thrust aside the preposterous thought.
Mrs. Stillwell paused briefly beside Daphne. “Miss Smith,” she greeted in cool, polite tones.
“Mrs. Stillwell,” Daphne returned punctiliously.
For, of course, even in matters of extreme discomfort and slight scandal, ladies recalled the rules of propriety. With a last pout for Daniel, the plump woman stormed through the door that a diligent Haply pulled open.
As soon as he’d closed it behind her, the older man stalked off, after a bow in Daphne’s direction. A twinkle lit the old man’s rheumy eyes. She favored him with a wide smile that dimpled her cheeks, softening her features and momentarily transforming her.
Daniel cocked his head. By God, Daphne wasn’t truly ugly. She was—
Frowning once more. Her sharp features drawn into a smooth mask of disapproval, she flicked her gaze up and down his largely naked form. “Thirteen.”
It was his turn to tip his head.
She thumped her cane and glanced about. “It has been thirteen years since we’ve spoken. Not ten.” A sad, wistful expression stole over her face as she took in the discoloring left by paintings that had long since been sold.
Daniel shifted, unnerved by her obvious disapproval. “I did not expect you’d be keeping track, love,” he said with forced nonchalance. He was a heartless bastard, but long ago they had been inseparable friends and her opinion had once mattered more than his own parents’.
Again, Daphne whipped her gaze to his.
Daniel took several slow, predatory steps forward, closing the space between them. He more than half-expected this new Daphne Smith to retreat. Then, he’d underestimated her too many times in their youth.
She rooted herself to the floor and angled her chin up. “I’m hardly one of your doxies.” Doxies? “I’m here because of Lady Alice.”
He furrowed his brow.
“Your sister, Daniel,” she snapped, the sharp ire in her tone stripping his name from her proper lips.
His favorite part of a woman was her mouth. A man could imagine and receive so many wicked pleasures from a woman’s mouth and learn just as much. Never before had he noted Daphne’s lips. Then, the last time he’d seen her had been in black mourning attire, when she’d been a girl of fifteen. Now, he appreciated the bow-shape to the plump flesh. The—
“Aliice,” she spoke slowly as though talking to a lackwit and effectively killed his improper musings. “You do remember your sister?” she gritted out.
By the downturned corners of that same mouth, the lady was furious. Then her frigid tone and furious eyes were proof enough of that. “I know who my sister—” He froze and his mind ran through a meeting several weeks ago. A letter received from his uncle. Cutting off funding to Alice’s finishing schooling at Mrs. Belden or Mrs. Biden’s, or whichever Mrs. B’s Finishing School had been one more expense cut. Bloody hell. The whole bloody reason he’d been forced from London to the countryside.
“I trust you’ve remembered to collect her?” Like an elderly Society dragon, Daphne again thumped her cane on the floor. The sharp staccato echoed around the space.
“I remembered,” he groused under his breath.
Some of the vitriol faded, replaced by a wistful glimmer. “You were always a rotted liar. Go get her, Dan—my lord,” she quickly substituted. She drew her hood back into place and then gave him one final reproachful look. “And I suggest you put a shirt on.”
Haply materialized, sliding from the shadows, and rushed to pull the door open with a speed befitting a man many years his junior. Daphne’s words of thanks were met with another grin from the old servant.
She paused on the threshold and then angled her head over her shoulder. “Oh, and one more thing, my lord. With your reputation of charmer, I expect you can at least pretend you didn’t forget her.”
“What do you know of my reputation, love?” he called after her.
Daphne snorted and without another glance, took her leave.