Page 11 of The Devil in Her Bed
Francesca was as much of a ghost as he. The world had presumed her dead after Mont Claire had been razed to the ground. But she’d risen from the ashes somewhere on the Continent, claiming to have suffered days of unconsciousness due to smoke inhalation. The story went that a Romani woman had spirited her out of Mont Claire in time, and the child had regained consciousness at a country hospital some counties away.
The Devil of Dorset had learned along with the rest of London about her impossible survival. She’d attended some finishing school on Lake Geneva and subsequently gallivanted with her fellow spinster friends across half the globe by the age of twenty-five.
He squinted through the window as Francesca apparently refused tea, punch, or champagne in favor of a strong scotch. Her gold hat lay upside down on a settee where she’d tossed it. Uncovered, her coiffed hairglinted with a ruby sheen, upswept to uncover the long, graceful curve of her swanlike neck.
The Red Rogues, indeed.
In a few short months, the Countess of Mont Claire had become the most notorious of them all. She’d famously fucked her way through half the available men in the ton and twice again the married ones.
His fingertips twitched. Fists curled. An indulgent outward showing of a growing inner turmoil.
He wanted to break every finger that profaned her. Rip out every tongue that’d tasted her. Unman every sod who’d taken his pleasure inside of her.
And that was why obsession was dangerous. Wrong.
This had to stop.
And he knew it wouldn’t.
The Countess of Mont Claire’s return to England had been quiet, at first. The engagement soiree and subsequent wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Redmayne, a few other intimate dinner parties and social gatherings. Just enough to cause a stir, and rarely far from the sides of her two compatriots.
How she collected so many lovers was a miracle andwhy, a mystery.
The stories of her exploits were as varied as the men, themselves. Some reported that she’d been as gentle as a dove, cooing at their masterful touch. Others claimed her a kitten, pouncing and playful, purring as they drove her to heaven. Yet more lovers swore she was a lioness. Fierce and passionate, a huntress and a heathen. Her hunger insatiable and her roar mighty.
Which was it? Could her tastes and talents be as vast and varied as his own?
Gods, but he yearned to find out.
He squinted through the window, drinking in the vision of her like a man about to lose his sight.
What did she desire? Why had she become such a wicked woman? Had loss and pain driven her into dark corners where throbbing, straining, damp sins momentarily filled the void left by violence? Did she strive to fill the emptiness with penetrations of hard flesh and yielding lips?
Were they that much alike?
He had to know.
Because her return had stirred not only the bright stars of the ton but the shadows, as well. Her name was whispered in curses and chants.
What did she know about what happened to her family? What, if anything, did she have to do with it now?
Was she truly a seductive spinster? Or a serpent siren?
The Devil of Dorset vowed to find out, if only to rid himself of this obsession.
CHAPTERFOUR
Francesca felt a gaze upon her the way one might feel the presence of a ghost. Or demon. The fine hairs of her body lifted and tuned toward the window. She fought the instinct to turn and look. Her neck tensed until it ached. But finally she gave in, her head whipping around to find the glowing eye of Ra that was the sun.
Blinking away the black shadow left upon her vision, she turned back to her friends, who were both undressing for the final fitting of the gowns they’d wear that evening to Cecelia Teague’s engagement soiree.
“Do you know what a woman’s worst enemy is?” Francesca spoke the question that would start the conversation she’d been burning to have all day.
Cecelia’s fingers paused, her stocking only halfway rolled down her shapely calf. “According to you, it’s a man, isn’t it?”
“It’s submission,” Francesca corrected, her brow wrinkling in concern. “Cecil.” She used the masculine moniker they’d coined at the Chardonne Institute for Girls in Lake Geneva, where they’d met and forged their years-long friendship. “You are the kindest soul in the known universe, and I worry that Scotsman of yours is going to trample your tender heart under his ambitions. Are you absolutely certain such a prompt marriage is advisable?”
Cecelia slipped her stocking off the rest of the way and methodically arranged it before unhooking the other one. “I hear what you’re saying, Frank, and your concern touches me, but Ramsay is not so demanding as you think. He doesn’t require submission from me, only understanding, and I give that gladly.”
