The Pearl Page 3

  “Needed to cover a hole in the wall?”

  “I was married to Sir Jack for over nine years, and I wasn’t allowed to move so much as one book to another shelf. Everything always had to be in its place, and ‘its’ place was where Sir Jack wanted it and nowhere else. Now I change my paintings as often as I change my outfits.”

  She had changed her outfit, too. Gone was the black trench coat and black boots. Now she wore a black silk kimono with a red sash. No more tasteful pearl choker around her neck. Now she wore pearls dangling from her earlobes. They glinted in the firelight as she crossed the rug to bring him his drink. He took it but didn’t taste it.

  “Evelyn de Morgan,” Arthur said. “Wasn’t she a Pre-Raphaelite painter? Something like that?”

  She applauded by lightly slapping her free hand against the wrist that held her highball glass. “You do know a little something about art, don’t you?”

  “Yes, well, the Godwicks own over a dozen art galleries. I grew up in a house with a billion pounds of art hanging on the walls, and my name is literally Art.”

  “Such a brat,” she said. “I think that’s what I’ll call you. My Brat.”

  She laughed that low throaty laugh that had affected him so profoundly earlier. The laugh of a woman playing a game who already knew the outcome, but he couldn’t quite tell if she knew she’d already won or already lost.

  “Some trophy wives buy clothes, handbags, shoes. I bought artwork. Great art always goes up in value and you can sell a painting for quick cash if you ever have to make a dash for it. Luckily, Sir Jack died on me before I had to do that.”

  “Why did you marry him if he was so awful?”

  “You sold yourself to me to protect your brother. I sold myself to protect me. Everyone has their price, yes?”

  That morning Arthur would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that he couldn’t be forced, strong-armed, coerced, or blackmailed into doing anything that went against his own will, his own conscience. Example: having sex with a total stranger. Apparently, she was right. Everyone did have their price and she’d found his. He consoled himself that he could be bought for love while she’d sold herself for Jack Ferry’s money.

  “I suppose so,” Arthur admitted. “Maybe you got a bad deal.”

  “I got what I wanted, to never be caught short. Whenever it got bad, I’d repeat these three words to myself—I chose this.” She looked at him. “And so did you.”

  She pointed at the decadent luxury that surrounded them and then finally at herself. He could have left Charlie here. He could have let her have the painting and let his parents sort it out with lawyers. But no…he signed up for this. No one to blame but himself.

  She touched his glass with her own. He still didn’t drink.

  “It’s not poisoned,” she said. “Or do you not drink?”

  “I don’t know what you’re planning to do with me or to me. Thought I’d stay sober to be on the safe side.”

  “Scared?”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” He wasn’t too proud to admit to being afraid. “I don’t know you. I don’t make a habit of sleeping with women I don’t know.”

  “Then have a seat. Get comfortable. Let’s get to know each other.”

  With easy grace, she draped herself on the golden chaise. Arthur started to sit in a leather tufted club chair to the right, but she shook her head and pointed at the floor.

  It took a great deal of self-control to not roll his eyes. He took off his jacket and laid it over the arm of the chair he wasn’t allowed to sit in, then lowered himself on the floor, his back to Regan, his face to the fireplace.

  He set his untouched drink on the hardwood by the mantel. “Why did you say—”

  “Turn around, Brat. I know you’re sitting that way to spite me.”

  He was. He turned to face her, feeling annoyingly young and vulnerable sitting on the floor at her feet.

  “So,” he said. “Why did you—”

  “Oh no, I’m asking the questions.” She took another drink. “Question one. Why don’t you use your titles? You’re a Viscount, yes? What did Charlie say? Viscount Mansfield?”

  “Have you ever been to Mansfield?”

  “Never.”

  “Neither have I. It’s just a courtesy title. Doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Means the difference between getting the best table in a restaurant and one by the kitchen door.”

  “I don’t mind sitting by the kitchen door as long as the food is edible.”

  “And Sandhurst?” she said. “Really?”

  “Every Godwick heir has served in the British Army. Even my father in his early twenties.”

  “Charlie said your father tried to talk you out of it.”

  “Obviously he didn’t succeed.”

  “Your father’s much more a lover than a fighter, if the rumors are true.”

  “They are, but I’m not much of a fighter either. I’m planning to be a medical support officer, not a warlord.”

  “Intriguing choice.”

  “I love my parents but they’re…frivolous. They buy art, they sell art, they throw parties—”

  “And orgies.”

  “Yes, thank you for reminding me. Even my older sister is frivolous. All she cares about is Greek mythology and swanning around the Mediterranean with her husband. None of us are good for anything, really. I mean, art is lovely and all that, but no one with cancer was ever cured by a trip to a gallery. No drowning victim was ever resuscitated by a hand job—”

  “Perhaps if it were a vigorous-enough hand job,” she said.

  “Anyway, I want to do some good for the world. That’s all.”

  She gave him a strange look, as if she saw someone or something else than she’d expected to see when she looked at him. It was there, he’d seen it, then it was gone again just as fast. Now she was looking at him as if he were a disappointment, which seemed to be her default facial expression.

  “You’re a very unusual young man,” she said. “Not still a virgin, I hope?”

  “No.”

  “What age?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Late bloomer. For a Godwick.”

  “I take after my mother’s side.”

  “Oh, hardly. You’re the spitting image of Lord Malcolm. Black hair. Dark eyes. Impossibly handsome. I heard he was quite well-endowed. Just how much do you take after him?”

  “I would prefer not to talk about or think about the genitals of my great-grandparents, if you don’t mind.” Bad enough he had to know about his living relatives’ perversions. Did he have to think about the dead ones, too?

  She sipped her whisky again. “So, how many conquests have you made? Tell me when to stop.” She held up one finger. Then two. Then—

  “Stop.”

  “Only two? Who was number one?”

  “Wendy, my first girlfriend.”

  “And the other?”

  “Naledi, my mother’s PA. Former PA. Not because of me. Mum liked us dating, but she moved home to Botswana to be closer to her family.”

  “How long has it been?”

  He hated talking about this. Couldn’t she just push him down, get on top, and get it over with?

  “Before Sandhurst,” he said. “A year? Or more?”

  “Long time. You must be about to explode. I’ll be sure to put some newspapers down on the floor in case of a mess.”

  “Now may I ask a question?” he said. “Please?”

  “The Brat is learning some manners. Yes, I’ll let you ask one question.”

  “Why me? Why did you…you know, want me?”

  “I told you how handsome you are. Do you really need to hear it again?”

  He didn’t need to hear it again. Not that it would hurt his feelings, but they both knew that wasn’t what he was asking. “You said you thought I was different from other men. What did you mean by that?”

  She lifted her chin, gave him a half-smile. “That bothered you, didn’t it? That I said you wer
e different. Don’t like being different?”

  “I’m only asking what you meant.”

  “Come here, Brat,” she said. She crooked her finger, beckoning him to move closer to the chaise. He sat up and moved closer, between her knees. She rested her arms lightly over his shoulders and around his back, as if she was going to kiss him. She stroked his hair lightly.

  “What?” he asked.

  She cupped his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “That’s what I meant,” she said. “You’re sitting on my floor at my feet and answering to the name ‘Brat.’ You can tell me you don’t like it, and you might even believe you, but I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m doing this for Charlie.”

  “Right. Yes. Of course. For Charlie.” She tugged his earlobe. He found it weirdly sensual, which he didn’t like. Or he did like it, but he didn’t like that he liked it. What adult man would enjoy being treated like the spoiled pet of a pampered princess?

  He moved his head aside, trying to escape the touch he found so unnerving. Surprisingly, she let him.

  “Did you know when Lord Malcolm used to frequent The Pearl, one of his favorite games was to reenact erotic paintings?”

  “I hadn’t heard, but I’m not surprised.”

  “Ever played that game?”

  “No.”

  “Wrong. You are right now.” Pointedly, she glanced toward the painting on the mantel. “You’re my bird now—my bird in my gilded cage. How does it feel, getting treated like your great-grandfather used to treat his whores?”

  “Knees hurt. Bit peckish. Otherwise…no complaints.”

  “Peckish? Sore knees? Let’s fix that then.” She left him on the floor and fetched a small cushion off the chaise by the wall. With a sardonic bowing of her head she presented it to him. Then she turned and disappeared through another door and came out a few minutes later carrying a linen napkin and a silver bowl.

  She sat on the chaise again and motioned him to move between her open knees. Arthur did as she commanded, cushion on the floor, knees on cushion, eyes lowered, not wanting her to see how much he wanted to see her. If the room were colder, steam would rise off his skin. He settled in between her naked thighs, the robe opening enough he could see all the way to her lace-edged black knickers. Casually, Regan wrapped her legs around him and locked him against her, with her ankles crossed behind his thighs.

  “For my poor hungry Brat.” She lifted the linen off the bowl revealing grapes, cut pineapple, round fresh strawberries.

  His mouth watered.

  She lifted one strawberry by the stem. “Open up.”

  He stared.

  “I said, open up.”

  “You’re going to feed me?”

  “I feed my pet raven. Why shouldn’t I feed my raven-haired pet?”

  There were no words to describe the incredible awkwardness of being fed. He was twenty-one, a grown man who could feed himself. Just opening his mouth enough to let her press the sweet gritty edge of the strawberry to his lips took a Herculean and humiliating act of self-abasement. He did it though, opened his mouth and took a bite from the tender red flesh.

  The juices burst against his tongue and he swallowed. It went down like a chunk of pavement.

  “There,” she said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She wasn’t being sarcastic or mocking now. She spoke to him with the same tenderness in her voice she’d spoken to her raven. “More?”

  The craving for that tenderness was stronger than the urge to stand and bolt for the door.

  He let her feed him a bite of pineapple. The juices ran down his chin. Instead of using the linen napkin, she caught them with her fingers and licked them off her hand.

  As she brought a plump black grape to his mouth, he realized he wanted it. He wanted the grape, and he wanted her to feed it to him. If only for the pleasure that seemed to fill her grey eyes as he ate from her hands.

  Another bite of pineapple. When the juices dripped this time, she caught them with her tongue. Arthur’s eyes closed and his breath caught as her gentle tongue lapped them off his chin and the corner of his mouth. Before he’d planned to do it, he turned his head one inch to let his lips come to hers. She smiled into the kiss but didn’t return it, merely allowed it.

  Another fat black grape. She popped it into his mouth and flicked his lips with her fingertips. Lightly, but it shocked him into laughing the grape out into his hand.

  “That wasn’t sexy,” he said, palming the grape and setting it back into the bowl.

  “I beg to differ.” She took a sip of whisky on the rocks. “I love to watch you react to me. No matter how hard you try to hide, I see you.”

  “I’m not hiding. I’m right here.”

  “Yes, I see you. I see a spoiled, entitled brat, but so, so lovely…”

  He warmed at her words. He wasn’t used to being talked to like this, being treated like this, being touched like this. When she picked up the grape again he found he was starving for it. She brought it to his lips and he almost bit into it, but she said, “No, not until I say so.”

  Its smooth dark skin was cool on his mouth. He waited, waited, then she put it in her palm and said, “Now you may have it.”

  He dipped his head and took it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. This time it went down like honey. Bitter honey. How long had he been here with her? An hour, if that? And here he was…already on his knees, already eating out of her hand.

  She ran her fingers through his hair again. He shivered as she found the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck and caressed him there. His body screamed at him to wrap his arms around her and pull her close. But he fought the urge and let his hands lay flat on the golden velvet of the chaise. He was hard, painfully hard in his jeans. He told himself it was because her legs were wrapped around him and her knickers were black and lacy and because she had eyes the color of rain clouds. That’s all. He didn’t like being treated like this—like a pet—but he’d suffer through it if he had to. For Charlie.

  And for Charlie, he let his head fall back when she tugged roughly on his hair. For Charlie, he didn’t fight when she pressed her mouth to the side of his neck and bit it lightly, didn’t ask her to stop when she licked the hollow of his throat, didn’t complain when she raised her head and brought her mouth to his mouth. All for Charlie.

  The kiss was hot but quick, only the lightest brushing of her lips over his but it caused his cock to stiffen even more. It throbbed, pressing against his zipper. It wanted out, wanted touching. He couldn’t help but push his hips forward, to rub against the inside of her thigh, seeking some kind of relief.

  She tightened her legs around his hips, bringing him closer to her, tightening her grip on his neck, fingernails pricking his skin deliciously. Why couldn’t he hate this as much as he wanted to?

  “This is going to be interesting tonight,” she said. “I haven’t been with anyone since my husband died. You haven’t been with anyone since before Sandhurst. I’m a grieving widow—supposedly. What’s your excuse?”

  “No excuse. It’s impossible to date when you’re at Sandhurst. And why bother getting into a serious relationship when I don’t plan to get married for years anyway? It would only cause unnecessary pain all around.”

  “And you don’t like unnecessary pain.”

  “Who does?”

  “Me.” She reached behind him and slapped his arse, hard.

  He rolled his eyes. “Were you trying to swat a fly?” he asked. He’d barely felt a thing, other than surprise at the fact a woman so cold was capable of being playful.

  She shook her hand like it had stung. “I think I swatted your wallet.” She patted him down. “No wallet. You just have a very tight arse.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first to tell me that.”

  “Let’s do this properly.” She slid her hands under the back of his shirt, caressed the small of his back and then into his pants, and down. Her hands were cool and soft on his skin.

  He closed his eyes, s
aid nothing.

  “Very nice,” she said into his ear. “Very, very nice. But what else would you expect from a hundred-grand whore besides perfection? And you know what they say…when you buy quality, you only cry once.”

  She gave that low throaty laugh again that made his toes curl. She was rubbing his bottom now, kneading him, and his hips were moving with her hands. He was going to come in his pants like a teenage boy if she didn’t stop.

  A soft sigh escaped his mouth, soft and involuntary.

  “Poor Brat. This is terrible, isn’t it?” She slid her hands underneath his t-shirt and up his back. Up and up they went until they could go no further, and she had him lift his arms overhead so she could strip the shirt off of him. She ran her hands over his naked shoulders and torso.

  “Broad chest,” she said, resting a small hand over his heart. “Broad chest and a strong heart. It’s beating so fast against my palm I think it might burst out and run away if I moved my hand. But I think I’ll move it anyway.”

  He watched her slide her hand down his stomach to his jeans. She found the button of his trousers, then the zipper came down, slowly, too slowly. His chest panted as, inch by inch, she freed his cock. It came out into her hands like it had been waiting all its life for her. She took it and held it, stroked it. Arthur dug his fingers into the golden velvet, enduring it more than enjoying it. He could not let himself come. He bit his tongue and the pain calmed him.

  “Beautiful cock,” she said, staring at it with admiring eyes. “Big and beautiful and very thick. I can’t even wrap my fingers all the way around it.”

  She couldn’t. He hated how good that made him feel, but it did.

  “Do you want to put your cock inside of me?”

  He lowered his head, his eyes shut tight. “Yes,” he breathed.

  “What was that? A little louder.” She touched his chin, lifted it, forced him to meet her eyes. “Yes?”

  A little louder, as requested, he said, “Yes.”

  “Good,” she said. “I want it, too. I want your cock so deep inside my cunt I can feel it in my throat, and I want your cock so deep inside my throat I can feel it in my cunt.”

  Arthur’s chest heaved and she laughed her mocking laugh that made him aware of every nerve in his body.