Read Online What an Earl Wants by Kasey Michaels - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kasey Michaels
Ads: Link
her as she moved through the years,
softening a bit about the edges, her blond hair lighter now that it was streaked
with silver, her blue eyes alive and sparkling even as small laugh lines framed
them. Her chin and swanlike neck remained those of a much younger woman, perhaps
because of the queenly way she held her slim, fit body erect, perhaps because a
crafty Mother Nature had decided a determined chin was the only warning a sane
man should need.
There was, Gideon had decided long ago, a true dearth of sane
men in England.
The Dowager Countess of Saltwood had been married to her late
husband at sixteen, had borne her only child at seventeen, buried her husband at
twenty-one and been terrorizing society ever since. First it was her son’s
guardian who had learned Beatrix Redgrave may not have been in control of her
life for those twenty-one years, but she was in control of it now, even if she’d
had to bed and then blackmail her son’s guardian to do it until the underage
earl reached his majority.
Marriage, to the widowed countess, was little more than a way
for men to control women, beget heirs and have someone to satisfy their base
desires when they were too lazy or cheese-paring to seek out a whore. Beatrix
would not willingly put her head in the marital noose again, although she had
rather elevated the discreet taking of lovers to a sort of art form. Reportedly,
thanks either to her late husband’s prowess or her own appetites, she was very
good at what she did, but whether she truly enjoyed what she did was her secret.
Her grandchildren rather thought she did, or she wouldn’t indulge herself quite so much, although they were secretly appalled
that she continued to indulge now and then as she drew ever closer to her
seventieth birthday.
Mostly, with the marked exception of her grandsons, Trixie,
Gideon believed, loathed men as a clearly inferior species.
Now, wafted along on dainty slippers and a soft cloud of the
intoxicating scent that was her own special mix, she held out her arms to her
oldest grandson, allowing him to capture and kiss her hands. He did take her
hands in his, but only so that he could pull her closer, lean in and kiss both
her artfully powdered cheeks.
She tilted her head and smiled archly. “Oh, so very vaillant. You must cut a wide swatch through the
ladies with that little trick.”
“I can only do my best.”
“Yes, and I hear you do your best quite a lot, you naughty
scamp. I can excuse Lady Malvern, I suppose, as she’s passably attractive, save
for those unfortunate ears. They’re not her fault, and she usually has the good
sense to keep them covered. But the widow Orford? Honestly, pet, that woman’s so
tight in her ways, I fear for your eventual progeny. She could take you in and
snap you right—”
“Trixie,” he interrupted quickly before his own grandmother
could put him to the blush, “what the hell are you up to this time?”
He had to give her credit; she didn’t attempt to dissemble, bat
her kohl-darkened lashes and trill, “But whatever do you mean?” No. She simply
smiled that smile that had her clear blue eyes sparkling.
“You mean Reggie, don’t you? Max never could keep a secret. I
gave the duke a good run, more than he deserved. But I can’t simply let him die
peacefully in his bed, now can I? Lilyann Smithers, late of Bath, Tunbridge
Wells and the beds of whomever, soon to be the next Wickham duchess? Delicious!
Just think, pet. Reggie condemned us Redgraves as not being fit for a peerage,
and now his heirs will henceforth descend from a whore who’s been sat in more
than any village barber chair, if you take my meaning.”
“I do. I’d go so far as to ask you to tell me where you heard
that description, but then you’d tell me.”
“Most probably. In any case, she’s been instructed to tell
Reggie of her great and most helpful friendship with me when her husband first
introduces her on their return from Gretna. That’s part of our
softening a bit about the edges, her blond hair lighter now that it was streaked
with silver, her blue eyes alive and sparkling even as small laugh lines framed
them. Her chin and swanlike neck remained those of a much younger woman, perhaps
because of the queenly way she held her slim, fit body erect, perhaps because a
crafty Mother Nature had decided a determined chin was the only warning a sane
man should need.
There was, Gideon had decided long ago, a true dearth of sane
men in England.
The Dowager Countess of Saltwood had been married to her late
husband at sixteen, had borne her only child at seventeen, buried her husband at
twenty-one and been terrorizing society ever since. First it was her son’s
guardian who had learned Beatrix Redgrave may not have been in control of her
life for those twenty-one years, but she was in control of it now, even if she’d
had to bed and then blackmail her son’s guardian to do it until the underage
earl reached his majority.
Marriage, to the widowed countess, was little more than a way
for men to control women, beget heirs and have someone to satisfy their base
desires when they were too lazy or cheese-paring to seek out a whore. Beatrix
would not willingly put her head in the marital noose again, although she had
rather elevated the discreet taking of lovers to a sort of art form. Reportedly,
thanks either to her late husband’s prowess or her own appetites, she was very
good at what she did, but whether she truly enjoyed what she did was her secret.
Her grandchildren rather thought she did, or she wouldn’t indulge herself quite so much, although they were secretly appalled
that she continued to indulge now and then as she drew ever closer to her
seventieth birthday.
Mostly, with the marked exception of her grandsons, Trixie,
Gideon believed, loathed men as a clearly inferior species.
Now, wafted along on dainty slippers and a soft cloud of the
intoxicating scent that was her own special mix, she held out her arms to her
oldest grandson, allowing him to capture and kiss her hands. He did take her
hands in his, but only so that he could pull her closer, lean in and kiss both
her artfully powdered cheeks.
She tilted her head and smiled archly. “Oh, so very vaillant. You must cut a wide swatch through the
ladies with that little trick.”
“I can only do my best.”
“Yes, and I hear you do your best quite a lot, you naughty
scamp. I can excuse Lady Malvern, I suppose, as she’s passably attractive, save
for those unfortunate ears. They’re not her fault, and she usually has the good
sense to keep them covered. But the widow Orford? Honestly, pet, that woman’s so
tight in her ways, I fear for your eventual progeny. She could take you in and
snap you right—”
“Trixie,” he interrupted quickly before his own grandmother
could put him to the blush, “what the hell are you up to this time?”
He had to give her credit; she didn’t attempt to dissemble, bat
her kohl-darkened lashes and trill, “But whatever do you mean?” No. She simply
smiled that smile that had her clear blue eyes sparkling.
“You mean Reggie, don’t you? Max never could keep a secret. I
gave the duke a good run, more than he deserved. But I can’t simply let him die
peacefully in his bed, now can I? Lilyann Smithers, late of Bath, Tunbridge
Wells and the beds of whomever, soon to be the next Wickham duchess? Delicious!
Just think, pet. Reggie condemned us Redgraves as not being fit for a peerage,
and now his heirs will henceforth descend from a whore who’s been sat in more
than any village barber chair, if you take my meaning.”
“I do. I’d go so far as to ask you to tell me where you heard
that description, but then you’d tell me.”
“Most probably. In any case, she’s been instructed to tell
Reggie of her great and most helpful friendship with me when her husband first
introduces her on their return from Gretna. That’s part of our