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Which was a good thing. He’d been too long without a woman—since the night of the Carrimores’ ball, in fact, and he wasn’t a man made for celibacy. He should have taken the barmaid up on her offer last night. That would have settled things.
But he’d been a right idiot and said no and here he was, needy, with the only tapmaid some forty years old and bearing a mustache. No, he wouldn’t be enjoying anything but his own hand tonight, more’s the pity.
Long Molly would be more than happy to take care of his needs, but they’d been lovers a long time ago, and the friendship they had now was too important to risk on a casual tup.
Besides, if truth be told, he didn’t want Long Molly or the buxom maid at the last tavern. He didn’t want Lady Blanche Carlisle, whom he’d been bedding on a regular basis when her husband was out of town, and he didn’t want Gracie, who ran Beggar’s Ken with an iron fist and a lovely smile. Everyone wanted Gracie, and she was right generous with her favors, but she was partial to him, and he enjoyed that partiality.
And he hadn’t touched either of them in more than a week. Bloody hell, a woman was a woman, at least when it came to sex. He could have taken either of them, and if he was longing for someone else he could close his eyes and pretend he was smelling violets.
Author: Anne Stuart
He pushed away from the bar, the beer sloshing a little bit. He’d had too much to drink and he knew it. They would be in London by noon tomorrow, thank God, and he’d never have to see Miss Jane Pagett again. She’d marry her worthy fiancé, have babies and a good life and he’d continue to raise hell.
He could pretend to be drunk, stumble into her private dining room and maybe she’d invite him in, talk to him in that soft, charming voice that he sometimes dreamed about.
He could …
He could head out to the stables and forget all about Miss Jane Pagett. She’d know better than to come traipsing down in her nightgown in the middle of the night this time. She could come across Jacobs the womanizing groom, and there was no telling what might happen.
The truth was, he didn’t want to return to London. He was sick of the city, the smell and the smoke, the noise. He’d been a traveling man since he first ran away from his master who’d beat him when he grew too big to climb up the chimneys. He wished he knew where that mangy old bastard was. He’d gotten right big, well over six feet, and it would give him a great deal of pleasure to loom over the old man and show him what it was like to be stuffed up a chimney.
Ah, but he’d let that go. Still, he was longing for sunshine and warm air. For different lands and words and choices. That was one reason he hadn’t put up an argument when Long Molly told him they were to spend another night on the road. He was in no hurry to return to London. He could happily drive this landaulet anywhere Miss Pagett with the sweet brown eyes and the wonderful mouth told him to.
He prided himself on being a practical man, a pragmatic one. He’d had that damnable romantic streak beaten out of him when he was young, for all that Scorpion liked to tease him. There was just something about her eyes.
He drained his ale, setting the mug down with a snap. As always he was the last man standing, alone in the taproom. She would have gone to bed by now, wouldn’t she? He could make a little bargain with himself. He’d go check on the private dining room. She was more than likely gone, in which case he’d go on out to his bed in the stables with no one the worse for wear. If she was there he’d stay and talk with her, flirt with her just a little bit. It was up to the fates.
The private dining room was up a few steps, and he stumbled, cursing. He was old enough to know better, he told himself, and reached for the cast-iron door latch.
The room was empty, the fire banked down to coals. It was a clear night, and the moon shone in brightly, illuminating the empty parlor. He closed the door and leaned against it, telling himself it was relief that he felt and nothing more.
And then he saw the stairs.
It was a very small inn. There was only one bedroom for the quality. Their servants, including Long Molly, were housed around back of the kitchens. He’d known that when he’d stopped for the night, hoping that the place would already be bespoken, and they could push on for the night, relieving him of temptation that much sooner.
But that had worked against him. The place was deserted except for the landlord, his good wife and the barmaid, and now all were abed. Everyone but the wicked, randy King of Thieves masquerading as a coachman, in search of.
He didn’t want to think about what he was in search of. In truth, his brain was too foggy to clarify exactly what he wanted, though his lower half was leaving him in no doubt. And he headed for the stairs.
Would she be asleep? Would her door be locked? Any sensible woman would lock her door in a public house, but he wasn’t convinced of Jane’s sense. She’d let him kiss her, hadn’t she? She’d invited him to join her by the fire. She hadn’t a whole lot of sense when it came to protecting herself from wolves like him.
Though those were two different men she’d invited, he reminded himself. Perhaps he was completely wrong about the girl. Beneath her startled eyes and soft mouth was the heart of a wanton, who took whatever was offered.
No. She hadn’t known how to kiss, and he could tell by the racing of her heart and the trembling of her body that she would have kissed him back quite hungrily had she known how. As it was, her attempts had only whetted his appetite.
No, she was an innocent, all right and tight. Most likely very tight, he thought dreamily. The women he tupped had had so many men that if he weren’t a good-sized man he might have fallen out.
Ah, but virgins were the very devil. He’d had his share of them, going through scores of them when he first discovered sex, and they’d discovered things together. As he grew more experienced he avoided them. They cried, they hurt, they didn’t know where to put their legs or their hands, they especially didn’t know where to put their mouths, they believed your lies and they wanted to be held when all was said and done.
He looked at the staircase. There was a window on the landing, and the moon illuminated the way. Clearly that was a sign.
He started up the stairs, thinking about what lay ahead of him. If the door was locked would he force it? Would he knock, and if she said go away, would he? If she screamed would he put his hand over her mouth until she liked it? Just how big a bastard was he?
He reached the top landing. Her door was there, the only door, and he contemplated it. What if he opened the door and she smiled and bade him come in? What if she was frightened?
He stood very still. Tomorrow she’d be out of his life for good. Tonight was his last chance, and he had to be hog-whimpering drunk to even risk coming up these stairs.
He was at her door, and he leaned his forehead against the warm wood, closing his eyes. He thought he could smell the faintest trace of violets through the door, but that had to be his imagination. The imagination that had become his worst enemy.
