He was being beastly, and even he could admit as much to himself. But he would be damned if he would make such a concession to her. He owed her nothing. He had given her pleasure, and she had given him aching ballocks and a cockstand he could do nothing to assuage. And then there was the self-loathing, which rivaled the size of England itself, festering within him.
How could he long for her so when he did not trust her, and when she was the most unsuitable female he had ever known, and when she was somehow entangled with his own brother? It made no sense.
“What would you have from me, madam?” he demanded, stalking past her to rescue his pathetically rumpled cravat from beneath a chair. “An apology? All you have done from the moment you first insinuated yourself into my brother’s life is to make trouble.” He snatched up the cravat and rose to his full height, turning back to her with a scowl. “First this betrothal folderol, then his sudden disappearance, followed by your hoydenish behavior.”
“Hoydenish, is it?” Her arms were uncrossed and planted on her hips now, which meant that her nipples, still prodding the soft fabric of her white shirt, were taunting him. As were the full mounds of her breasts, swaying as her dudgeon increased. “I ought to darken your day lights for saying such a despicable thing to me.”
Some part of him—a peculiar part to be sure—found her defiance intriguing. Appealing, even. But the rest of him—the part that had been sternly and steadfastly raised to bring credit to the family line as the future Duke of Dryden—was appalled that she would dare to threaten him with bodily harm after already having struck him on a previous occasion. He had thought they were beyond such foolishness.
Garrick tried to envision Lady Hester in a similar situation and failed. Curse it, he could not even seem to recall the color of her eyes at the moment. He was so absorbed in the hazel gaze of the spitfire before him that everything else ceased to exist.
Aidan, he reminded himself. Your stupid, foolish, addle-pated, ne’er-do-well brother needs you.
“I dare you to attempt it,” he forced himself to tell Miss Sutton. “You are more than welcome to try.”
By now, Neave would be awaiting them in front of the house. Lingering here with her was not just idiotic but a waste of precious time as well. He made short work of a knot and then took off his coat so that he could don his waistcoat.
All the while, she watched him silently, that stare of hers following his every movement. Judging him, it seemed. But neither had she moved in an attempt to follow through with her warnings, so he likely ought to deem this a victory.
“You aren’t worth bloodying my knuckles again, Lord Lordly,” she said.
He should not have allowed those words to burrow past his defenses, but he did.
He turned back to find her winding her hair into its former chignon using whatever pins she must have scavenged from the floor. What a pity to watch those long, wavy locks disappearing. However, the action did force her breasts to rise high and full against the front of her shirt.
He forgot to breathe as he recalled those sensitive buds in his mouth, beneath his tongue. She was so wonderfully responsive and genuine in her desire. Other women he had known in the past had always possessed an air of cunning calculation. When one was engaged in a business transaction with another, passion could scarcely be trusted. But Pen Sutton writhing beneath him had been nothing short of heavenly. He would never forget this night, no matter how hard he tried, and likely, he would be damned to hell for all eternity for it.
“I shall consider myself fortunate,” he drawled in mocking fashion.
It was the sort of cutting rejoinder he might have issued in the drawing room or on the ballroom floor to let a social enemy know they were impinging upon his patience and grace. In polite society, the approval of Viscount Lindsey could make any man or woman. But the disapproval could break him or her just as well.
He was equally revered and feared.
Only Miss Penelope Sutton failed to appreciate the immensity of his stature, mocking him and taking a stand against him at every turn, and when she had no damned right to do so. She was infuriating.
The most beautiful, intoxicating creature he had ever known.
Lady Hester could not possibly compare, and nor could the woman who had once inhabited these four walls. But it was hardly a competition, was it? And nor did it matter.
“You do that, Lord Lordly,” came her taunting voice, slicing through his thoughts. “And while you’re going about it, tell yourself I’m the one who seduced you. Tell yourself I’m the one who slipped her hand down your trousers and stroked your—”
“Enough,” he ground out, needing to put an end to her words, for fear the effect they were having upon him.
He needed to think of Aidan. To find his brother. Not to continue dallying with this cursed female.
“Why can you not admit it?” she queried softly.
He should not ask her what she was speaking of. He ought to be shepherding her to the damned door. Instead, he was lingering in this world of mystery and shadow and iniquity, where he had nearly taken her as his. Where he wanted to take her still, despite all reason and logic and honor.
“Admit what?” His attempt at scoffing was rendered nebulous by the hitch in his breath.
Lord, how much further could he lower himself into the pit of disreputable deeds?
She sauntered nearer, exuding confidence that was entirely deserved. If she but crooked her finger, he would be on his knees for her.
“That you desire me, Garrick. You desire me, and you loathe yourself for that weakness. You are accustomed to living a life that is always above reproach. How dare your body betray you with something so base and unwanted as physical need for a woman you have deemed so hopelessly your inferior? That is how you feel, is it not?”
His thoughts teemed, scrambling and tripping over themselves. How despicable she made him sound. And how strange and intimate it was for her to use his Christian name. Who had given her leave to…
Hehad. In the frenzy of lust which had overtaken him, he had told her to call him Garrick. She had been charming him with her acerbic wit and unparalleled bravado. And so he had bid her use the name scarcely anyone used.
How right it sounded on her lips.
Curse it all. How dare he think Aidan a hen wit when he was no better, falling so easily beneath her spell?
He swallowed. “You know nothing of what you speak, Miss Sutton.”
She raised a brow, the expression on her countenance one of sensual knowledge, sending a new arrow of heat directly to his groin. “Oh, I know, Lord Lordly. Trust me. I do.”
But that was the trouble, was it not? He did not trust this woman. Nor could he.
Ever.
He was not sure which of them angered him more in that moment, her or himself.
“Finish preparing yourself, madam,” he said coolly, attempting to disguise his irritation. “We have tarried here long enough, and my carriage awaits.”
Without bothering to wait for her response, he offered her a terse bow and then quit the chamber.