Sylvia Day - Perfect Kisses

A familiar sound.

Understanding that fierce, avaricious desire had effectively curtailed her objections, Ormond rapidly debated his options. A less conspicuous location was required. On the other hand, if he gave his driver new directions-the interruption, however brief, might cause her to rediscover her virtue.

Patience.

Once she reached that wild, fevered point of no return, consummation alone would engage her senses. She wasn’t some light skirt intent on accommodating his whims-although Claire’s swift and fevered arousal did cause him to reconsider her past. If she was indeed a spinster, she must indulge in solitary vices; for she was not only easily roused, she was panting now and rubbing against his turgid cock as though needing immediate surcease.

Perhaps she was a spinster who entertained lovers with discretion. Certainly a woman who made her own living might gratify her independence in other ways as well-say with the fathers of her students or with a headmaster, if such was the case at her school.

With such lascivious thoughts racing through his brain, issues of patience suddenly became irrelevant. “Come to my apartment,” he murmured. “We’ll have more privacy.” Not to mention comfort, he selfishly thought, leaning forward to signal his driver.

As though the sudden draught of cool air between them once again returned her to stark reality, Claire recoiled at her appalling behavior. She was no better than some harlot or tart who gave away her favors without compunction. Worse, she hadn’t been able to withstand Ormond’s allure any more than Harriet, whom she’d always considered frivolous and flighty beyond measure. Leaping up, she grasped the door handle.

The viscount pulled her back down, held her firmly on his lap. “Stay. Please.” He stopped himself from saying, I beg of you, only by sheer will. “I promise complete discretion,” he said instead. “No one will ever know. My word on it.”

She hesitated when she shouldn’t have. When she should have instantly refused.

With practiced skill, he entered that breach of indecision and offered in negotiation, “What if I promise not to court Harriet?”

She swung around to face him. “I wouldn’t let you see her anyway.”

Her cool, abrupt volte-face surprised him; she was a woman of parts it seemed. Even in the heat of lust, she’d reverted to her role of protector. “You think not?” he murmured, his gaze amused. “Would you be locking up your sister, then?”

“Very funny,” she said with a sniff, brushing away his hands.

He obliged her, releasing her when he wouldn’t have had to.

But the mood was broken.

There would be other opportunities, he decided. The lady obviously liked sex. It would just be a matter of waiting for the right occasion. “Perhaps we could be friends at least,” he pleasantly said, lifting her from his lap and placing her on the seat beside him. He smiled. “You could tutor me in Greek philosophy when you have time.” Harriet had spoken of her sister’s admiration for the Greeks with mockery. “I confess, Aristotle always put me to sleep.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t make him any more palatable,” Claire said, crisply.

“I’m sure you could,” he answered with a grin.

“Fortunately, Ormond, that question will remain moot. Although, I thank you for the ride home,” she added politely, as if they had just finished tea or ended a waltz.

“And I thank you for the pleasure of your company,” he replied in an similar vein. “Perhaps we might meet again under more satisfying circumstances,” he suggested.

“I’m sure we won’t.”

“As you wish.” He was all cordial good manners as he opened the carriage door, stepped out and helped her alight. That he wished otherwise, of course, was all that mattered.

As they stood on the pavement, he bowed gracefully and murmured, “Good night, Miss Russell.”

Claire nodded like she might to a tradesman or the merest acquaintance. “Good-bye, Ormond.”

He watched her walk across the pavement, ascend the stairs, and enter the modest house, a faint smile on his handsome face. Not good-bye, my pet, but au revoir. We shall meet again.

Very soon.

“My dear insomniac cousin. Do you ever sleep, James?” Lady Harville inquired as she swept into the breakfast room in a cloud of violet scent.

Ormond looked up from his breakfast. “I sleep when I don’t have anything better to do, coz. Sorry to wake you.”

Signaling a footman to pour her a cup of tea, Catherine Knightly dropped into a chair beside Ormond. “Dressed like that-” she indicated his evening clothes with a flick of her fingers-“you obviously had a busy night.”

He smiled over the rim of his coffee cup. “Don’t I always.”

“Just toast, Franson-then that will be all.” James was here at this ungodly hour of the morning for some pertinent reason, she understood. There was no point in immediately spreading the news throughout London.

The viscount continued with his hearty breakfast, the countess sipped her tea and only after the footman delivered her toast, walked from the room, and shut the door, did Catherine Knightly give her cousin a pointed look. “Now tell me what you want, for obviously you do when this couldn’t wait for a more civilized hour.”

James glanced at the clock as though to take issue, but grinned instead. “Sorry, Rene, it is damned early.”

“She must be very beautiful,” the countess noted, smiling in return.

“Not in the conventional sense, but yes she is.”

“So who is this seductive female? Apparently not one of your actresses or dancers since you want something from me.”

Ormond’s gaze was amused. “How astute, coz. The thing is, I need a raft of books from your library. Miss Russell runs a school for young ladies and I thought I’d visit her today and bring your donation of books for her school.”

“Your books won’t do?” Ormond had an extensive library.

“Of course not. What will people say if I donate books to her?”

“They will say you’re trying to seduce the little miss.”

“Exactly.”

“What was I thinking?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps you’re still not completely awake.”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, “since it’s not yet ten o’clock. However, your high-strung impatience intrigues me.”

His look clearly disputed her characterization. “High-strung?”

“Oh, very well,” she murmured, knowing Ormond generally didn’t care enough about anything to become agitated. “Although you must admit to a degree of impatience at least.”

“Lust, I’m afraid.”

“Of course-the prime motive in your life.”

“We can’t all be virtuous. The beau monde would have nothing to gossip about.”

“Thankfully, you have been doing your part to generate conversation in that regard.”

He smiled faintly. “We do what we can.”

“I expect this new woman who pleases you will soon be in the gossip sheets.” Leaning back in her chair, the countess gazed with affection on her favorite cousin. “So tell me why she so engages your attention. Should I have heard of this Miss Russell?”

“No, but I wish you to meet her tonight. To that purpose, I’d like you to invite her to your evening rout. Address your invitation to Mrs. Bellingham, Miss Russell, and Harriet Russell; she lives with an aunt. And if you could pay them some special attention when they arrive, I would be extremely grateful.”

“Indeed. Is there anything more you’d like?” she inquired archly.

Ormond grinned. “No.”

The countess laughed. “I gather you have not yet taken this miss to bed.”

His gaze narrowed faintly. “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”

“No, darling. You never kiss and tell. I expect that’s one of the many reasons the ladies love you so.”

“And I them in return,” he lightly replied.

The countess gave Ormond a measured looked. “You seem happy.” The viscount wasn’t an exuberant man.

“I suppose I am.”

“Because of her?”

He shrugged. “Who knows.”

An ambivalent answer, Catherine decided, but not unexpected. James had been amorously involved with a great many ladies for a decade or more and had never shown any inclination to enter into a permanent arrangement. “I look forward to meeting this astonishing woman. Although you realize, while I may offer her every courtesy tonight, there may be others who will not be so cordial.”

“Leave them to me.”

She smiled. “I am forewarned.” Ormond was famous for his set-downs.

He nodded at the small bell beside her plate. “Be a dear and ring for pen and paper. The sooner I deliver your invitation the better.”

“You don’t intend to go calling in that condition.” She rang for a servant.

“No. I’ll detour by way of my apartment first.” He blew out a breath. “Then I shall have to offer a plausible excuse for the lateness of your invitation.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Suddenly hit with a wave of fatigue, he rose from his chair and moved to the buffet to pour himself another coffee. “She has the same color hair as my mother,” he casually remarked.

So that was it, the countess thought. “I always liked that shade of red,” she neutrally declared, looking up as Franson reentered the room and quickly giving him instructions.

“Her sister’s a blonde,” he noted as he returned to the table and sat down once again.

“More your style.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

“Until?”

“Until I met the older sister.”

“She must be fascinating. I’ve never seen you orchestrate a schedule for any of your lady loves. Rather, they’ve always been obliged to accommodate you.”

“I know.” His shoulder lifted in the merest shrug. “I have no explanation.”

“You just want what you want.”

“Don’t we all,” he said. “We nobles only labor to amuse ourselves,” he cynically observed. Raising the cup to his mouth, he drank it down. “Except for the few like you who have found a love match,” he noted, setting aside the cup.

“You, too, might someday find your love match.”

He shook his head. “Not likely that. You forget I had the misfortune to be in contact with my father as a child.” His smile was sardonic. “I am deeply scarred.”

“Pshaw.” Catherine spoke with the surety of a true romantic. “You only need find the right woman to love.”

“Perhaps Miss Russell will serve,” the viscount drawled. “At least temporarily.”

Catherine made a small moue. “You’re incorrigible.”

“So I’ve been told on so many occasions I fear it’s true.”

Beneath his insouciance and mockery she discerned a different Ormond. Was it possible this little schoolmistress had struck some hitherto untouched sensibility? Or was she just not privy to his seductive protocols. Were all his initial pursuits like this? “Ah, here’s pen and paper. Tell Franson which books you require and we’ll have them delivered to your schoolmistress.”

Ormond rose from his chair. “I’ll pick them out. Tell Harry I’ll replace them, of course. Nor will I select anything from his grandfather’s renowned collection. Also, be sure to make your invitation excessively friendly.”

“Would you care to compose it? I wouldn’t want to take a wrong step.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, the viscount cheerfully said, “I trust you, darling. Are you not the most courteous member of our family?”

“Compared to you, I certainly am.”

“Exactly. I thank you in advance. Expect us early. I’m not sure their guardian, Mrs. Bellingham, is familiar with the late hours of our set. After you, Franson.”

He was whistling as he left the breakfast room, a circumstance that further heightened the countess’s curiosity. This woman had to be the consummate paragon of womanhood.

She was very much looking forward to meeting Miss Russell. The countess quickly penned the most gracious and hospitable of invitations, even alluding to a well-known aristocratic bluestocking as though that personage may have been the impetus for her invitation.

Informing Ormond on his return of her reference to Lady Whiteside who was forever holding intellectual soirees no one wished to attend, she added, “If you wish to affix your own explanation to my invitation, please do.”

“No, no…your attribution is excellent. I couldn’t have done better. The books are in my carriage; I thank you again.” Taking the note Catherine held out to him, he said with a smile, “I warn you again, we shall arrive unfashionably early tonight.”

The countess sat at the table for a few moments after her cousin left and tried to imagine who this woman might be to so enthrall Ormond. He’d said she wasn’t conventionally beautiful. Was he drawn to her only because she reminded him somehow of his beloved mother? But his mother had been not only conventionally beautiful, she’d been the reigning beauty of her day.