Page 9 of All Scot and Bothered
Even Redmayne had indulged in adventure to the pointof obsession, until the swipe of a jaguar’s claws had cost him his handsome features, and nearly his life.
And look at him now, equally under the thrall of his formerly impoverished bluestocking wife, who’d also nearly gotten him killed on more than one occasion. They seemed impervious to the fact that the ton whispered about them even as they gorged upon Redmayne’s wealth and influence. But how long would that last?
Nay. Nay, indulgence was a curse and pleasure a peril. Something that controlled a man until he was no longer himself. Until he’d surrendered power, dignity, or both.
He’d given over to temptation in his younger days, temptation that had very much looked like love.
And it had very nearly been his undoing.
His eyes rested on Miss Teague, once again, his notice snagged by the intriguing way her pale skin disappeared as she pulled her gloves back on.Rested.How long since he’d done that? Just sat quietly and allowed himself to enjoy a lovely view. Lord, but she was so pleasant to look at, and just as wondrous to listen to. She’d an air of softness he’d never before witnessed, and it boggled the mind how he could be both aroused and comforted by her all at once.
How could she so thoroughly inflame him by covering up more skin? There was nothing intrinsically seductive about the gesture, and yet he found it more provoking than a dozen dancehall girls undoing their corsets.
“Forgive me if I’m prying,” she said, forgetting, or merely giving up on, her previous question. “But I’m curious as to the reasons for your… abstinence.”
He studied her, searching for a double meaning in the word. For a lascivious undertone. Did she ken that he was without a woman? That he so acutely desired her now?
He found only genuine interest in her open expression, and so he gave her a genuine answer.
“It’s a tactic, more than anything.”
“A tactical war against chocolate and wine?” That half smile again, the one that put theMona Lisato shame. Both shy and impish without a hint of coyness or guile.
“In my line of work, one must be above reproach. Therefore, I avoid all excess that could lead to addictive partiality or a weakness in moral character. Such as alcohol, idle pursuits, rich food, gambling—”
“Women?” Count Adrian Armediano slithered into the conversation, an expression of charm and challenge carefully arranged upon his dusky, too-handsome features.
“That should go without saying,” Ramsay reproached. “Especially in front of one.”
“On the contrary. A woman is not a weakness, but a strength.” Armediano turned to Cecelia, his lips curling with a feline appreciation Ramsay instantly disliked. The Italian slid a white-gloved hand along the back of her settee in a gesture that managed to be both seductive and unthreatening. “A life without women is not one worth living.”
Cecelia’s cheeks flushed a fetching peach beneath the count’s frank, appreciative regard.
Ramsay scowled, his fingers curling into fists.
One could not appreciate a woman if one’s eyes were plucked out.
Armediano moved with a practiced elegance, flicking open a jacket button as he sank intolerably close to Miss Teague. He swiped two glasses of champagne from a footman and flashed a smile that never reached his calculating golden gaze.
She accepted the proffered wine with a gracious, appreciative noise, glancing wryly at Ramsay as she took a delicate sip.
The count had the eyes of a raptor, Ramsay noted. Sharp and hard. He missed nothing as he glided through the ton with unobtainable ease. No one felt much threatened by someone so foreign and far above.
Until he dove for his prey.
Poor Miss Teague was a soft rabbit about to be clutched in his talons.
Bristling with masculine heat, Ramsay crushed the predator rising within himself. He’d no reason to lock horns with this man. Cecelia Teague was nothing to him but a passing family acquaintance. What did he care if she fell prey to a rake?
“Can you think of anything better to end an evening with than champagne?” she asked dreamily.
“Just the one thing.” The count left his meaning unmistakable as he drew his knuckles over what little skin of her arm was visible above her gloves and below her sleeves. A rise of gooseflesh appeared where the man had trailed his touch.
Ramsay could have cheerfully broken Armediano’s fingers. One by one.
Her nipples would be hard. And another man made them so.
“Forgive my intrusion upon your conversation,” the count offered without one iota of sincerity. “But I couldn’t help but overhear the subject and it both intrigued and distressed me. Are you not miserable, my lord Chief Justice, denying yourself the pleasures life has to offer?”
