Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall #3) - Hazel Hunter Page 0,26

beat him senseless. “Not that it is any of your concern, but Jennet Reed would have been my wife.”

“You think she’d choose you again now?” The valet made a contemptuous sound. “It’s not all swiving in the greenery, man. Women have expectations, and never more than after they’ve been duped. She’d want answers, and how would you explain why you left? Where you’ve been? What you’ve done? You can’t, so you’d lie to her. Sharp as she is, she’d know it.”

Jennet had never been able to read his intention to leave her, Greystone realized, because until the day before the wedding he hadn’t planned to do anything but become her husband.

“You’d be the death of her, lad, or she yours,” Foray said, almost kindly. “Be done with it.”

He took in a deep breath and, with its release, let go of what few frustrations he could. “I will leave with your master as soon as the last of the guests depart.” His jaw tightened, but he forced out the rest. “I will not be returning to Renwick.”

Foray took a watch from his pocket, and opened it to check the time. “I’ll put a man at her house for the next week, if it’ll ease your mind.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Greystone told him. “No one is to go anywhere near Miss Reed.”

The valet regarded him for a long moment before he offered a mocking bow. “As you wish, milord.”

Chapter 11

Although he knew he should return to the ballroom to play host, Arthur Pickering first went to the second floor to make the rounds of the retiring rooms. It would not do for the vicar or his wife to walk in on any amorous young couple who had decided to make use of the available beds. He also had an uneasy feeling that refused to disperse.

The two rooms provided for the guests’ needs happily remained empty, but a faint sound from down the hall drew Arthur to the closed door of his own bed chamber. He listened outside for a moment, and then opened the door and stepped in quickly.

Nothing but silence and shadows greeted him.

“Bloody old house.” He went over to light a lamp on the night stand, but as soon as he did he saw a mound of old silk atop the coverlet on his bed.

Catherine Tindall lay on her side, watching him, as she held her loose bodice against her breasts. “You should not use such language in the presence of a lady, sir, especially one who is half-undressed.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Tindall.” Arthur glanced down at the unlaced stays beside her on the bed. “Do you require assistance?”

“From you, sir?” She pouted her lips as she glanced at the ceiling. “Well, I can hardly go downstairs in this state.”

He helped her off the bed, but as soon as she stood her bodice slipped down, revealing her pert breasts. He would have looked away, had she not cupped them with her dainty hands like two ripe fruits in offering.

“Do you like them?” Catherine asked. “They’re rather large, I’m told. Larger than Jennet Reed’s, certainly.”

Her game became clear in an instant, and Arthur turned his back on her. “That is not for me to say, Miss Tindall. I will go and find a lady to help you with your stays.”

“I cannot breathe in them.” Her arms came around him from behind, and she rubbed his belly with one and stroked his thigh with the other. Her skillful caresses attested to her familiarity with the male body. “I would much rather you help me out of this gown.”

He turned around and took in a sharp breath, and smelled the mulled wine on hers. “You are drunk.”

“A little, perhaps.” Catherine plucked at his breech buttons. “Not enough to bring my father hammering on your door in the morning.”

The Tindalls had great wealth and influence in London, Arthur knew. Catherine’s father had the ear of the Regent, and her mother commanded near-equal respect as one of the most admired ladies among the town. To trifle with her would be exceedingly foolish. His cock, which now pushed at the fastening of his breeches, didn’t care in the slightest.

Arthur pushed her back on the bed, jerking open his breeches as he watched her tug up her skirts. Beneath them she wore not a stitch, which laid her bare in the lamplight. She had even trimmed her nether hair in the shape of a heart, like a high-priced courtesan would.

“How rough you are, sir.”