CHAPTER7
He had committed an egregious mistake. A bloody stupid, reckless, pointless misstep.
Nearly tupping his brother’s—Christ, not betrothed, but what to call her? His brother’s… No. Garrick refused to think of her as anything in relation to Aidan now. Not after he had stroked her silken quim until she had come. She would forever be Pen to him now.
Still, nearly fucking her on a French sofa in a darkened drawing room had not been one of his finer moments. As he threw his shirt over his head and hastened to stuff it into the waistband of his trousers whilst someone continued a barrage upon the front door, he knew a searing, stinging shame.
“Whoever this is, he had bloody well be about to tell me the world is coming to an end,” he grumbled, as irritated by the interruption as he was with himself and his utter lack of restraint.
Pen was scrambling to right her garments as well, and scoundrel that he was, he could not resist chancing another glance at her full breasts swaying with her frantic motions. Her pretty pink nipples were still deliciously hard, and keeping himself from taking a stiff peak into his mouth required all the restraint he possessed.
Rap rap rap.
The unknown presence at the door continued to make himself known in loud, irritating fashion.
“I will return,” he told Pen, having shrugged into his coat. His cravat was missing, and his waistcoat had been thrown somewhere into the murk. This was his best effort at appearing as if he had not just been about to shag a thoroughly inappropriate woman he had no business desiring, let alone touching.
She nodded, and for reasons he cared not to examine, the fact that she had remained silent in the aftermath of her crisis nettled him. He wished she would say something—anything. Perhaps even a caustic Lord Lordly would be welcome. It would certainly do to quell his aching prick and the memory of her, all sleek and pulsing and tight, clamping on his finger.
If only it had been his cock.
Rap rap rap.
“Do not go anywhere,” he added for good measure, his throat suddenly thickened by thwarted desire.
Still, she said nothing, her small hands working to restore her clothing into a semblance of order. Grinding his jaw, he turned and stalked from the room, intent upon answering the door and putting an end to this damned nonsense. What a lark—a viscount, answering the door as if he were a butler. And in such a state of dishabille. But there wasn’t any other help for it. He had dismissed the staff some time ago, and there was no one else about.
Rap rap rap.
He threw open the door, determined to put the bastard in his place. But the man standing at the threshold, presumably responsible for all the noise, was a familiar face. His coachman, as it happened.
“Neave?”
“Begging your pardon for the interruption, my lord,” said his ordinarily impeccable retainer, breathless and wild-eyed and quite unlike himself.
“What is amiss?” he demanded, concern curdling his gut.
“It’s Lord Aidan, Lord Lindsey.”
Aidan? His stomach lurched with a combination of relief and upset. “Where the devil is he?”
And why here, why now? Why could he not have appeared hours earlier, before Garrick had made such a muck of everything?
“I can’t say, my lord.” Neave held out a missive which had been neatly folded. “A scamp in the mews gave this to me without a word and ran off. I read it, thinking it was for me. But it seems as if Lord Aidan is being held for ransom.”
Ransom?
Aidan?
With a trembling hand, Garrick took the missive, unfolding it and hastily reading its concise contents.
Find Lord Aidan Weir by delivering one thousand pounds to the alley behind The Beggar’s Purse tomorrow evening at half past ten.
Tell no one if you value his life.
It was unsigned.
His fist clenched on the words, crumpling them.
Could it be true? Had his reckless brother somehow fallen into the clutches of villains who were now using him as a pawn to secure a small fortune for themselves?
“The scamp who delivered this to you in the mews,” he said slowly, trying to force his overburdened mind to make sense of the situation at hand. “What did he look like?”
Neave shook his head. “I am sorry, my lord. He was in the shadows, and it happened with such haste…I never imagined the importance of the missive the lad handed over, or I would have apprehended him. He was no more than twelve, I would say, with hair that was perhaps dark in color.”
Damn it.The coachman could have been describing anyone.
But this was not Neave’s fault. If Aidan had indeed been kidnapped by thieves, he was entirely to blame for his stupid, wild carousing and his lack of respect for every virtue Father had instilled in them and…
Her.
Garrick’s eyes narrowed as a new suspicion set in. The sum mentioned in the missive was twice the amount he had offered Pen to break off the engagement. A betrothal which she had just insisted never existed in the first place. Was it possible she was attempting to secure an even greater fortune from his family than that which had already been offered?
And meanwhile, Garrick had been sucking at her breasts, his hand shoved down her trousers, making her spend like the scoundrel he apparently was. What power she held over him. He would have to put an end to it.
“You are not to blame, and nor do you have a need to apologize,” he reassured his worried-looking coachman. “You could not have known what the missive contained or why the lad had sought you out. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, that it may be speedily dealt with. Bring the carriage around, if you please. I will be returning my friend to his club in the East End before traveling home.”
Yes, referring to Pen as his male friend rendered him peevish. Especially since he was standing before his coachman looking as if he had just been involved in libidinous behavior. Which he had. But not with his gentleman friend.
Friendwas the last appellation he would apply to Pen Sutton.
“Of course, milord,” said the coachman, who took his leave with a bow.