Page 7

“What are you doing?” the sultry redhead asked as she turned her head languidly on the pillow.

Trevor Morely, Marquess of Dardington, stiffened slightly at the sound of her voice. Yet he never hesitated as he tugged on his black evening trousers and began to calmly button them, half hoping if he ignored her, she would remain silent.

“Darling, come back to bed,” the female voice insisted. “It won’t be light for hours, and my dreadful husband never returns until the dawn has broken.”

Trevor lifted his head and gazed with a practiced eye at the naked woman sprawled among the bed linens.

Lady Melody Ramsey was a sight to behold, with her tousled red hair, flushed face, and creamy white skin.

It was rumored among the ton that she was able to do most anything a man could want or even imagine.

After tonight, Trevor could testify that claim was not an exaggeration.

Lady Ramsey’s expertise in the bedroom went beyond mere skill. She was inventive, aggressive and incredibly lovely. So why was he donning his trousers instead of removing them?

“ ’Tis late, Melody.” He smiled gently, hoping to avoid a scene. “And I’m tired.”

Trevor shifted restlessly, searching the moonlit room for the remainder of his clothing. He discovered his silver patterned waistcoat and linen shirt draped over a chair back, but could locate neither his stockings nor his shoes.

“You shall hurt my feelings if you leave so soon,” Melody pouted. Her voice was playful, but there was expectation in it, too. She rolled off the bed in a quick, efficient movement and walked toward him, her heavy breasts swaying.

Trevor grinned despite his mild annoyance. Her athletic mobility was one of the reasons he had found her such an exhausting bed partner—that, along with her seemingly insatiable sexual appetite.

For a man who had spent the last eight years of his life intent only on forgetting, on living life for the moment, she was the perfect match.

As with most of his women, she required little effort.

No sweet phrases or coy wooing, no grand seduction or forceful embraces were needed to get her on her back.

And yet after spending two nights in her bed, Trevor was already feeling restless—bored, almost, though given Melody’s inventive nature that seemed a ridiculous notion.

She must have sensed his distraction. As she came within reach, Melody struck a provocative pose and gave a low soft moan. Instinctively Trevor braced himself, thinking she was going to fling herself at him.

Instead she gracefully extended her arms, her eyes glittering with seductive intent. She touched his naked chest with the tips of her fingers, slowly gliding them down his torso until they came to rest on the top of his trousers.

Trevor drew in a sharp breath when those nimble fingers stroked him through the fabric. With practiced efficiency, Melody slipped the first gold button free, then the second and third. Trevor’s mouth twisted, and he wondered how he was going to escape without mortally offending her.

But the handsome marquess was too long in making up his mind.

Without the protection of his garments, he was an easy target and Melody took full advantage of it.

She greedily reached inside his open trousers with both hands, drawing him out.

She stroked him slowly with her palm, finding his most sensitive places with unerring accuracy.

“It appears you are not so very tired,” Melody pronounced with relish as she cupped his testicles, squeezing gently.

Trevor shut his eyes. He briefly entertained the notion of stepping away from his insatiable partner, but she had dropped to her knees before him.

One vigorous pull of her mouth destroyed any thoughts of leaving.

She blew a stream of hot breath over his straining penis and the marquess groaned at the sensation.

His hands fell to her head, spanning her skull and holding her firmly in place.

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving with the effort. Trevor gave himself up to the passion, reasoning that if he brought Melody to whimpering pleasure, rode her hard and long, she would fall deeply asleep, and then he would be able to make his escape in blissful silence.

“You are late.”

Forcing himself to a civility of tone he was far from feeling, Trevor replied calmly, “Yes, I am. Would you like me to leave?”

He struck a casual pose and waited. Trevor’s father, the Duke of Warwick, flicked a chilly gaze over his son.

“Sit down,” the duke commanded after only a brief hesitation. “It has already taken you three days to answer my summons. If you leave now, lord only knows when you will see fit to return.”

Deciding it would be in his best interests not to provoke the duke further, Trevor complied, though he wondered at his father’s fairly mild response. In the past, a battle of wills between the duke and his heir would not have been so easily conceded.

Yet as he settled himself in an upholstered gilt chair near the blazing fire, Trevor remained wary. Though he saw his father rarely, it seemed each time he did, the duke was increasingly ill-tempered and petulant.

“The weather is exceedingly fine this afternoon,” Trevor said conversationally. “I noticed many green buds on the trees as I rode through Hyde Park. Perhaps we shall have an early spring.”

“I did not ask you here to discuss the damned weather!” The duke cast him a glare that would have withered a lesser man, but Trevor returned the stare with equal measure.

“I was merely trying to engage in polite conversation,” Trevor said evenly. “We speak so rarely I thought it might be refreshing to begin our discussion on a civil note for a change.”

The duke grunted. “You’re a fine one to be speaking of civility and polite conversation. Those ruffians and reprobates you spend your days and nights carousing with wouldn’t know a civil discussion if it came up and bit them on the arse.”

“And therein lies the essence of their charm,” Trevor replied. He settled himself back against his chair, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. No matter how cruelly provoked this afternoon, the marquess was determined not to be baited.

“Have you eaten?”

Trevor blinked in surprise at the unexpected question. A grumble from his empty stomach gave the answer before the marquess could voice it, and the duke nodded his head in understanding.

Instead of ringing for a servant, the duke walked to the door and opened it.

A footman stationed outside snapped to attention.

“Tell Cook the marquess is hungry. I want a meal served to him here within the hour. A combination of hot and cold dishes will be fine, but make certain to include a lemon cake for dessert. ’Tis his lordship’s favorite.

” The duke glanced back at Trevor. “And tell Harper to bring up another bottle of wine.”

The servant bowed deeply and rushed off to do his master’s bidding.

“Thank you, sir,” Trevor said cautiously. He suspected his father had ulterior motives for demonstrating such benevolent concern, but surprisingly his suspicion left Trevor feeling a distinct sense of guilt. “I find that I am rather hungry.”

“I doubt you can remember the last time you had a decent meal,” the duke grumbled as he crossed the room to stand near Trevor’s chair. “I don’t know why you insist upon living in those squalled rooms on St. James Street when you have a perfectly fine home right here.”

“My quarters are hardly squalid,” Trevor replied. “Especially if one takes into account the substantial rent I pay. More importantly, the size and location of my rooms suit my needs perfectly. I want for nothing else.”

“I still say it is unnatural to prefer them to all of this,” the duke proclaimed, lifting his hand in a sweeping gesture. “If you lived in a proper establishment, you would be taking better care of yourself. You are far too thin.”

It galled Trevor to realize his father was correct. He had lost weight this past winter after suffering from a nasty cold and had yet to regain it. But he was determined to make light of the situation.

“A man of fashion cannot have a protruding stomach. It totally ruins the smooth line of one’s waistcoat,” Trevor replied airily.

“Prinny’s stomach protrudes noticeably and he fancies himself a real connoisseur of fashion,” the duke said.

Trevor smiled in private amusement. “That is true. However, it is my understanding that the Regent does not button his waistcoat completely unless he is wearing a corset.”

“He is still a fool, no matter how he is dressed,” the duke grumbled.

He took the chair opposite his son and glowered. Trevor wasn’t certain if his father’s annoyance sprang from his dislike of the Regent or his disapproval of his son, yet he realized philosophically it was most likely a combination of both.

A silence settled over the room. Trevor regarded his father patiently, knowing the duke would reveal the true reason for this summons when he was good and ready and not a moment sooner.

Despite his age, the duke was still an impressive, aristocratic presence, possessing towering height and a sharp, authoritative voice that could reduce many a servant, male and female, to trembling tears.

Trevor had feared his father when he was a young boy, held him in awe as an adolescent, and grown to respect and admire him tremendously when he reached adulthood. Yet that, like so many other aspects of Trevor’s life, had changed dramatically at Lavinia’s death.

“I won’t bother to ask what has kept you away from my house for so long,” the duke began. “I am well aware you spend your time and money in all manner of salacious pursuits. I shudder to imagine the depths to which your debauchery has sunk.