If He's Sinful. Hannah HowellЧитать онлайн книгу.
by two scantily clad women. “A costume, Cornell?” He scowled at the youngest of his four friends, trying to emulate the look his late father, the viscount of Radmoor, had perfected. Cornell was unimpressed, judging by his wide grin. Obviously Ashton had to practice the look a great deal more.
“It is all a part of the game,” Cornell replied. “Part of the gift we are giving you.”
“I am not sure I ought to accept this gift. I am to speak with Clarissa’s brother tomorrow.” He had no intention of following in his father’s faithless footsteps, the ones that had put his family into the dire straits they were now in.
“Exactly,” said Brant Mallam, Lord Fieldgate, “and we all know that, once you do, you will consider yourself bound up tight. You will undoubtedly become quite pious in many ways. Consider this your last hurrah.”
Ashton grimaced as one of the women dressed him in a tunic and the other put sandals on his feet. “What sort of game requires me to dress like some ancient Roman?”
“The Pagan Sacrifice game.”
“God rot it!” Ashton shook his head. “Whyever should you think I would enjoy something like that?”
“It is harmless and we decided that you needed the memory of something rare and exotic, even a little shocking, before you became a staid, old, married man. If you do not enjoy it, I am quite certain the woman will be able to give you whatever you decide you do want. Mrs. Cratchitt trains her girls well. Fly free and wild for one night, Ashton. We have purchased you a full night of delight. Fulfill a few dreams. Even you must have some. After tonight there is only Clarissa and the breeding of heirs.”
There was no denying that hard, cold truth. His forthcoming union with Clarissa Hutton-Moore was no love match, not that he particularly believed in love, anyway. It was a union based upon the usual need for an heir and a nearly desperate need for money. Clarissa had the appropriate bloodlines, was beautiful, and had a very impressive dowry. She would be an excellent hostess, which was also important now that he was a viscount. She moved about in society far more comfortably than he ever had. She was a perfect choice for a wife.
So why did he feel as if the weight of the world now rested upon his shoulders? That question kept invading his mind more and more with each step he took closer to marriage with the much praised Lady Clarissa. True, there was no real affection between them, and little passion, but such things were luxuries few men in his position could afford. Yet a little warmth in one’s wife would be nice, he mused, and he had not yet detected even the smallest spark in Clarissa.
And that, he suspected, was what made him continue to drag his feet. The thought of a marriage bed where only cold duty existed was a deeply chilling one. He feared it could eventually cause him to act against his own principles and begin to seek out a little warmth elsewhere. Ashton knew his friends thought him too full of ideals or, worse, a hopeless romantic, but he had always wished for a good marriage. He did not want the more common arrangement found in society, one where the wife was simply a hostess who occasionally bred a child for her husband while the husband indulged in a long succession of mistresses. That sort of marriage had destroyed his family, had torn his poor mother’s heart to shreds. It began to look as if that was exactly what he would be stuck with, however.
He was abruptly yanked from his dark thoughts when one of the women began to blindfold him. “Is this necessary?”
“Adds to the mystery,” replied Cornell.
“I feel bloody foolish.”
“It is to be hoped that you will feel a great deal better soon. We shall see you in the morning.”
As he was led away from his friends, Ashton was not sure he would want to spend an entire night playing silly games. He was no innocent, but he was not the rake his friends were, despite what rumor and gossip tried to make him. It was an indulgence he had never been able to afford since his father’s reckless waste of a fortune on such indulgences and gaming had left the Radmoors nearly destitute. Ruefully he admitted to himself that his father’s actions were part of the reason he struggled to remain temperate in all things. That and the disease that had finally ended the man’s life. He was even somewhat staid in his lovemaking. The need was there but not the inclination to be inventive or daring. He prized his control in all things.
The problem was that, although he had felt a need for a woman before, he had rarely truly lusted after the woman herself. On the few occasions he had felt a stirring of a hearty lust, it had faded quickly when it had not been returned in kind or he began to think he was losing control of his passions. He had never experienced that knee-weakening, limb-trembling, fire-in-the-blood sort of lust others spoke of. That madness had been fleeting for those who had claimed to suffer from it, yet Ashton could not help but fear that there was something wrong with him since he had never felt it at all. Just once he would like to be gripped by that madness, but since he would be thirty soon and was about to commit himself to the cool, elegant Clarissa, he doubted he would ever know it.
“Here we be, m’lord,” said the woman leading him along as he heard her open a door. “I’ll just tug ye o’er to the bed and then take off the blindfold so’s ye can see the fine gift your friends got ye.”
When the woman removed the blindfold, Ashton looked at his gift and experienced a sensation that he compared to the time he had fallen out of a tree and landed so hard that all the breath had been stolen from his body. The woman tied spread-eagle to the bed was small, delicate. Ashton wondered if she were too stretched out to be comfortable. He was only dimly aware of a woman setting a tray of wine and cakes on the table by the bed while another placed his clothing on a chair. All of his attention was firmly centered upon his gift.
The white diaphanous gown she wore hid little from his gaze. His breath quickened, became something just short of a pant, as he studied her lithe shape. Her breasts were not particularly large but they were perfectly shaped, round and plump with dark pink nipples. She had a tiny waist and it accentuated the womanly curve of her hips. His palms began to sweat while he looked up and down the length of her beautifully formed, slender legs, and he slowly wiped them dry on the sides of his tunic. Her body was cushioned by thick, rippling waves of brown hair enlivened with glints of gold and red and reached almost to her knees. He wanted to wrap it around his body. His gaze was then caught by the tidy vee of curls between her pale thighs. He trembled and his heart began to pound.
When he heard the women leave the room, he quickly sat down on the edge of the bed. He felt oddly unsteady. Ashton fought the urge to throw himself at her as he studied her heart-shaped face. Her small straight nose was lightly dusted with unfashionable freckles and he wanted to kiss each one. There was the hint of a few more on her breasts and he wanted to count them, too. With his tongue. Fine cheekbones and a faintly pointed chin made for a face that was pleasing, but not elegant. Her eyes, however, were stunningly beautiful. A strange blend of blue and green, they were wide, surrounded by thick, long dark lashes and set beneath neatly arched dark brows. Her mouth would tempt a saint, he mused. It was a little too wide for fashion, was no rosebud or cupid’s bow, but it was perfectly shaped with slightly full lips. He wanted to nibble on them.
“Is that uncomfortable?” he asked and decided he deserved the scornful look she gave him. “A stupid question.”
“I would never be so rude as to say so.”
She spoke very well for a common whore, Ashton thought, and inwardly winced. He hated to think of her as one of that sad breed, which was utterly foolish of him. She was working in a brothel and was tied to a bed, prepared to play the part of a maiden sacrifice in some idiotic sex game with a total stranger. It embarrassed him a little to admit to himself that he was now prepared to play that game; was, in all truth, eager to participate. He would untie her ankles in a few minutes, he decided and reached out to stroke her thigh.
The soft gasp she gave and the sight of his hand upon her thigh made Ashton slightly feverish. This was lust, he realized; that blinding sort of lust he had just decided he would never experience. Suddenly what had seemed foolish now appeared highly erotic. Ashton discovered that he did have an imagination and it was filling his mind with a vast array of truly