Read Online Princes of Charming by Georgia Fox - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Georgia Fox
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stickier, wetter, made their bodies a tighter fit. Or so it seemed.
Brandon bent his legs and pushed up again until she almost cried out. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and he shuddered, pressing her to the wall, his cockhead pushing at her womb, coming hard inside her, just where she'd told him not to.
Seven in the Evening
November 22nd
The moment he'd disposed of Nicholas, he marched back into the bedroom, where she was pulling on her bloomers and chemise.
"What exactly are you up to, woman? Is this a scheme to cheat my father out of his last pennies? You and Nick are in this together perhaps, eh?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
He stood with his hands on his hips, jaw squared, eyes narrowed. "Has he had you?"
"Has who had me? Your father?"
"My son !" he snapped impatiently.
Drusilla pulled on her corset and turned, waiting for his help. "Of course not. I told you, I'm not that sort of woman."
He huffed, fingers pulling hard on her laces. "Your behavior this afternoon in my suite has rather given another impression."
"Blackmail was your idea," she exclaimed over her shoulder. " You put me in this position. I have not slept with your son. He's all prideful hot air, like most boys of twenty one. Can't you see that?"
"How would he know you have gorgeous breasts."
A loud laugh shot out of her, cut off abruptly when he tugged especially and needlessly hard on her corset laces. "Do I?" she managed, breathless.
"You damn well know you do, woman."
She felt very light-headed suddenly. Perhaps it was the tight corset again. In fact her entire person felt lighter. Even her heart and soul. She'd enjoyed herself that afternoon. Now she felt—dare she think it—young again? Free.
"I have not slept with your son," she repeated firmly, turning to face him. "I have no intention of doing so."
He was still doubtful, peevish. "And this Madame Pantoufle? What's all that about?"
"I shudder to think. Perhaps your son has a vivid imagination, or simply muddled me with some other woman." Pushing by him, she grabbed her gown and stepped into the skirt. "Now I would like my notebook back, Mr. Wilder. After today, you and I need have no further contact."
He thrust a hand into the pocket of his bathrobe and drew out the little leather-bound book. "Where did my son see you before then?"
"I have no inkling." Drusilla pulled on the silk blouse and again required his assistance to button the back of it—a task he fulfilled with apparent reluctance, holding her book in his teeth. "But I do not hide away like a hermit crab," she added, "so it could have been anywhere."
Swinging around again she snatched the book out of his mouth and moved to his washstand mirror.
"Nick doesn't want a wife," he snapped. "I knew that and he just confirmed matchmaking was not the reason he hired you."
"He said no such thing."
"Then he inferred it," he shouted. "Heavily."
She kept her voice even. "He may not think he wants a wife, but perhaps he needs one." Smiling at him breezily in the mirror, she added, "In any case, worse things can happen to a man than falling in love."
He scowled. "I wouldn't know about that."
"Of course you wouldn't." She jabbed a pin in place to hold a particularly stubborn and wayward lock of hair.
"It would seem to me, Mrs. Kent, that whatever your intentions, my son wanted to hire you for reasons other than those he gave my father."
"Then he'll be disappointed, won't he?"
His lips turned up in a snarl. "He'd better be."
Drusilla slipped into the smart little jacket of her ensemble. "Don't be tiresome, Mr. Wilder."
" Tiresome ?"
"I believe you know what I mean." She sat on the bed to pull on her boots. "I have no interest in your son other than correcting his manners and finding him a bride. But even if I had any interest, this —between us—was one afternoon only, as we both agreed. You maintain no rights over me, nor I over you. Have you got a button hook?"
Still frowning, he padded barefoot
Brandon bent his legs and pushed up again until she almost cried out. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and he shuddered, pressing her to the wall, his cockhead pushing at her womb, coming hard inside her, just where she'd told him not to.
Seven in the Evening
November 22nd
The moment he'd disposed of Nicholas, he marched back into the bedroom, where she was pulling on her bloomers and chemise.
"What exactly are you up to, woman? Is this a scheme to cheat my father out of his last pennies? You and Nick are in this together perhaps, eh?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
He stood with his hands on his hips, jaw squared, eyes narrowed. "Has he had you?"
"Has who had me? Your father?"
"My son !" he snapped impatiently.
Drusilla pulled on her corset and turned, waiting for his help. "Of course not. I told you, I'm not that sort of woman."
He huffed, fingers pulling hard on her laces. "Your behavior this afternoon in my suite has rather given another impression."
"Blackmail was your idea," she exclaimed over her shoulder. " You put me in this position. I have not slept with your son. He's all prideful hot air, like most boys of twenty one. Can't you see that?"
"How would he know you have gorgeous breasts."
A loud laugh shot out of her, cut off abruptly when he tugged especially and needlessly hard on her corset laces. "Do I?" she managed, breathless.
"You damn well know you do, woman."
She felt very light-headed suddenly. Perhaps it was the tight corset again. In fact her entire person felt lighter. Even her heart and soul. She'd enjoyed herself that afternoon. Now she felt—dare she think it—young again? Free.
"I have not slept with your son," she repeated firmly, turning to face him. "I have no intention of doing so."
He was still doubtful, peevish. "And this Madame Pantoufle? What's all that about?"
"I shudder to think. Perhaps your son has a vivid imagination, or simply muddled me with some other woman." Pushing by him, she grabbed her gown and stepped into the skirt. "Now I would like my notebook back, Mr. Wilder. After today, you and I need have no further contact."
He thrust a hand into the pocket of his bathrobe and drew out the little leather-bound book. "Where did my son see you before then?"
"I have no inkling." Drusilla pulled on the silk blouse and again required his assistance to button the back of it—a task he fulfilled with apparent reluctance, holding her book in his teeth. "But I do not hide away like a hermit crab," she added, "so it could have been anywhere."
Swinging around again she snatched the book out of his mouth and moved to his washstand mirror.
"Nick doesn't want a wife," he snapped. "I knew that and he just confirmed matchmaking was not the reason he hired you."
"He said no such thing."
"Then he inferred it," he shouted. "Heavily."
She kept her voice even. "He may not think he wants a wife, but perhaps he needs one." Smiling at him breezily in the mirror, she added, "In any case, worse things can happen to a man than falling in love."
He scowled. "I wouldn't know about that."
"Of course you wouldn't." She jabbed a pin in place to hold a particularly stubborn and wayward lock of hair.
"It would seem to me, Mrs. Kent, that whatever your intentions, my son wanted to hire you for reasons other than those he gave my father."
"Then he'll be disappointed, won't he?"
His lips turned up in a snarl. "He'd better be."
Drusilla slipped into the smart little jacket of her ensemble. "Don't be tiresome, Mr. Wilder."
" Tiresome ?"
"I believe you know what I mean." She sat on the bed to pull on her boots. "I have no interest in your son other than correcting his manners and finding him a bride. But even if I had any interest, this —between us—was one afternoon only, as we both agreed. You maintain no rights over me, nor I over you. Have you got a button hook?"
Still frowning, he padded barefoot
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