Chapter 20
Derek
Derek swirled his whisky as he stared blindly at the crowd in Grambler’s Gentleman’s Club while he waited for Rafe to arrive.
All the colors blurred together until all he saw was…
her. Blue eyes. Gold mask. Black silk dress.
She’d looked glorious in that silk the prior night, adorned with that mask befitting a queen.
He’d love to see her in nothing but the finest of fabrics.
Or nothing but that mask. He cocked his head. Now that would be a sight.
He couldn’t wait to discover what she was like when she finally let go.
Surrendered to him. When she stopped trying to fit into society’s confinements all so she could win the affection of some idiot.
Mr. Warren Thorton. The lily white-handed fop.
Derek scoffed, lips curling. The man wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like Miss Forester.
He was practically a child at one-and-twenty.
Derek highly doubted the fop knew how to give a woman an orgasm.
Or thought one was an accomplishment. Miss Forester deserved orgasms. Multiple.
Derek would wring so many from her she’d be begging him to stop.
He squeezed his eyes shut at the same time he pushed down on his breeches.
Dear fucking God. This woman had him so high-strung he wasn’t going to be able to go out in public soon.
But the thought of her mid-throw of pleasure?
A shaky exhale fled him. Giving a woman pleasure gave Derek a high unlike anything else.
A rush so intense it was as if her ecstasy flowed through him.
Derek also had a feeling, based on Miss Forester’s silent admission the prior night, that said fop was intimately acquainted with a certain pair of lips.
His hand shook, his whisky sloshing in his glass.
He shouldn’t be jealous. Derek didn’t get jealous.
He’d never cared about the paramours of any of the other women he’d bedded before.
It had to be because he hadn’t had her yet, but the imbecile had.
The imbecile didn’t deserve that kind of gift.
Bloody fucking hell. He scrubbed a hand down his face.
He needed to get the woman out of his system, or else he’d never be able to focus again.
He needed a new tactic to endear himself to her.
Seducing her with lips and hands and words hadn’t worked.
It hadn’t necessarily been a failure. Her defenses seemed to be weakening.
Their little foray at The Devil’s Eye had definitely been a step in the right direction.
But it hadn’t been enough. Her resolve was admirable—well, it would be if it were directed at anyone other than himself. He needed to find something else.
His fingers drummed on his thigh. Miss Forester’s uncertain expression back in his private rooms flickered through his mind.
The hesitation in her question, Do I look presentable?
She’d never donned something so fine; that much had been obvious.
She had only worn poorly altered and patched garments.
He threw back his whisky. Now that was a thought.
Movement close by caught his attention, and then a large form blocked the light of the club, shadowing where he sat. Derek turned and grinned at the towering lout who stood before him—just as dark, twice as broad, and a half-head taller than Derek’s six-feet-one-inches.
Derek raised his glass in greeting to his best mate. Rafe gave him a curt nod, the white puckered scar that ran from the corner of his eye to his jaw prominent despite the low candlelight of the clubs. That nod was equivalent to a hug in Rafe’s language.
At that moment, one of the ladies working at the club wandered over. Giggling, she trailed her hand across Rafe’s shoulders, then pushed her generous bosom up against his back, running her hands around to his front and lower, indecently lower. Derek grinned—some would argue decently lower.
“Your Grace, if you’re looking for entertainment tonight, Shelley and I are looking for company.”
She glanced over at Derek, and her grin turned hungry. “Ah, Lord Dunmore. Would you join as well? There’s nothing quite like a night with the two of you.”
Derek could practically see the woman salivating—both for the pleasure and the purse she’d receive from such a night.
Rafe gently extricated the wench’s hands from his person and murmured to her, “Check back in with me later, Rose.” He nodded in Derek’s direction. “I would like to catch up with Lord Dunmore.”
She pouted, emphasizing her red-rouged lips, then sauntered off.
Rafe collapsed into the chair beside Derek with a heavy breath and poured himself a glass of whisky. “You know, I think we may be somewhat of a legend here,” he mused. “After that night last year, when you and I entertained four of the wenches at the same time.”
Derek chuckled. “I had rope burns on my wrists for weeks after that.”
“The girls still talk about how you got them both off with your hands tied behind your back.”
Derek smirked. “To be fair, the redhead—Kitty, I think it was?—was doing much of the work herself. I just provided the prick.” But Derek couldn’t deny he was talented when it came to bringing women to orgasm without using his hands.
Miss Forester’s lust-drunk gaze swam through his vision.
She’d been so close last night. Just from his words.
“Ah, Kitty.” Rafe’s contented groan snapped Derek’s attention back to his friend.
Rafe leaned back, his eyes glazing over as he disappeared somewhere in his memory.
“Apt name that. Her purr was delicious.” He closed his eyes and held his hands in front of his chest, cupping the air in front of him.
“If I try hard enough, I can still picture her tits bouncing as she rode you. Glorious. A jockey if I ever saw one.”
“That is one shame in having your hands tied. You can look but not touch. Though that’s part of the thrill.
It’s the best kind of torture.” Christ, he loved being denied.
The feeling that came over him when he wanted nothing more than to touch but having that choice taken away from him.
It turned him into an animal. No wonder he couldn’t get Miss Forester off his mind.
Rafe’s eyes darkened, his whole body turning rigid. “There is no good kind of torture,” he muttered. “No restraints. Ever.”
Derek always wondered at that detail. Rafe wasn’t one to say no to something, willing to give almost anything a try.
But the minute restraints or gags were brought up, the man turned cold as the Thames when it used to freeze over.
Derek had tried to broach the subject on numerous occasions, but his friend remained tight-lipped.
His gaze fell to Rafe’s scar. He knew it had to do with Rafe’s upbringing, and Derek’s mind conjured all sorts of horrible scenarios he hoped were far from the truth.
Derek narrowed his eyes at a gentleman with thinning blond hair heading their way.
“Any new conquests as of late?” Rafe asked.
Derek shook his head. Not yet. But soon.
The aging blond lord stopped before them. “Your Grace. Lord Dunmore,” Lord Wentworth said with a bow.
Derek nodded stiffly. “Lord Wentworth.
“I wanted to stop by to ask if you had given any more thought to my proposal, Dunmore.”
“It’s a generous offer, but my answer remains no.”
“My land holdings would complement your Northamptonshire estate nicely. Not to mention the various investments included, the factories, the large donation to your foundling home…”
“As you well know, those aren’t the items I oppose.” Derek arched a brow. The man was being deliberately obtuse about the whole thing. And wasting Derek’s time.
Wentworth’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of his coat as he chuckled and shifted his heavy weight back and forth.
“My daughter would make you an exemplary wife. She has been raised to be the most accomplished of hostesses and will make a fine mother. The women in our line are known as good breeding stock. And she will be no hardship to bed; she is an incomparable beauty.”
Derek just managed to avoid grimacing. What kind of father spoke so cavalierly about the bedding of his daughter? Derek’s father’s visage flashed in his mind. His stomach twisted. Probably most.
“I have no intention to marry any time soon.” He stared hard at Lord Wentworth. “As I have told you on many occasions.”
The baron’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, well. The offer remains on the table.”
“I will keep that in mind.” Derek turned back to Rafe, effectively dismissing Wentworth.
“Why not marry the chit?” Rafe asked, his gaze tracking Wentworth’s departing figure.
Derek’s lips pulled back, and his incredulous gaze whipped to Rafe’s. “You know my feelings concerning marriage. And women. I prize my freedom—hell, I’m only eight-and-twenty. And I don’t need his money.” Now.
Rafe dipped his chin in understanding. Derek didn’t say it; didn’t need to.
It was comical that there had been no offers of funds when Derek had been in need of them. When he had been drowning in debt. When he’d been trying to clean up the mess his father had left him. When, at the mere age of fifteen, Derek’s father had cocked up his toes.
“We don’t need his money for the foundling home either,” Derek said. “You, Rutledge, and I have plenty of funds to keep the current home up and running. You’re funding the second foundling home all by your lonesome, for fuck’s sake.”
Rafe swirled his whisky, his gaze unreadable. Which wasn’t unusual. But something about it had the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck lifting.
“Let me play devil’s advocate,” Rafe murmured.
“Who would complain about more money? I highly doubt Wentworth’s daughter would object to your continuing with your current lifestyle.
Your reputation is not exactly a secret.
And as her father said…”—Rafe grimaced—“she would be a sporting good time in bed.”