Rapture

Susan Johnson writing as

CC GIBBS

First published in the United States in 1995 by Bantam as Brazen

This ebook edition published in 2013 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 1995 by Susan Johnson

The moral right of Susan Johnson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 78206 572 2

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

About the Author

CC Gibbs was born and lives in the USA. She is the author of over 40 romance and erotica novels, including the recent bestsellers Knight’s Mistress and Knight’s Game. Many of her novels were originally published under the name Susan Johnson.

Don’t miss any of CC Gibbs’s
tantalizing novels

SURRENDER TO YOU
AT YOUR MERCY
A STORM OF DESIRE

BURNING TOUCH
A SEDUCTIVE FLAME
FORBIDDEN PLEASURE

THE SWEETEST TABOO
SINFUL DREAMS
WICKED FASCINATION
TOUCH OF SIN

TO PLEASE A LADY
MISTRESS AT MIDNIGHT
OUR BODIES ENTWINED
WHEN SOMEONE LOVES YOU
AT HER COMMAND
ONLY FOR YOU
SECRETS AND SINS
INTENSITY LAID BARE
VENUS LAID BARE
TEMPTATION LAID BARE
DESIRE LAID BARE
PROMISE LAID BARE

Available at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Rapture

1

Cowes, England
August 1896

‘No, darling,’ Kit Braddock murmured. ‘I have to sleep—’

A heated kiss silenced his dissent, and for a lengthy interval only the faint sound of lapping waves floating in through the open portholes broke the stillness. Then, sighing, he gently pushed the seductive woman away. Setting her at a safe distance, he dropped back into a sprawl amid the tangle of bed-sheets, his tall, lean body dark against the white linen. ‘The race starts early,’ he said, gazing up at the siren kneeling at his side, his smile pale in the moonlight. ‘Be sensible,’ he cajoled.

‘Wales’s crew does all the work,’ she countered, her voice minutely fretful, her tumbled golden hair framing a pouty face.

‘Not tomorrow. They’re going to need help sailing against the Meteor. I also have to be polite to royalty all day,’ he added, stretching his large frame, the fluid ripple of muscle vivid in the gilded light of moonbeams. ‘And that’s damned tiring.’

‘This won’t take long.’

Kit smiled broadly. ‘We all know the measure of your orgasmic speed, Saskia – but, sweetheart, it’s really getting late.’

At that precise moment, however, Cleo’s warm mouth began tracing a slow gliding progress over the tanned firmness of his thigh with the ultimate focus of that journey reacting in a predictable way.

Noting his instant response, Saskia triumphantly smirked.

A wet tongue languidly slid up his rising erection, and he softly groaned as exquisite pleasure inundated his senses. Glancing down at the dark-haired woman resting between his legs, then up at the clock on the teak-paneled wall, he swiftly debated carnal urgency against the practicalities of time.

‘Just once more …’ Saskia softly purred, her eyes half-lidded, anticipation stirring her blood, her gaze on the rigid length of Kit’s penis slipping in and out of Cleo’s mouth.

A third woman rolled closer on the large bed, her plump breasts swelling against Kit’s shoulder. She was small and lithe, and when she raised herself slightly to touch her lips to his ear, the silken heat of her body slid up his arm. Her voice was no more than a seductive resonance in his ear, her tantalizing words reminding him of the night they’d outraced the pasha’s yacht near Cyprus.

Lust flared through his body at the memory.

‘Just a few minutes more …’ the Ceylonese beauty whispered.

His shadowed eyes swept the lush trio, their scented flesh fragrant in his nostrils, their naked charms incarnate womanhood.

He’d raced more than once without sleep, he thought. And, he decided, royalty would just have to be content with a less energetic guest … three hours from now.

Shutting his eyes, he shifted slightly to absorb the fierce jolt of pleasure convulsing his body, Cleo’s training in the pasha’s harem cultivated to excite every sensitive nerve … and obliterate cerebral concerns.

The race vanished from his thoughts.

Even the sound of waves faded from his ears.

Until sometime later when Cleo lifted her head.

Kit’s eyes opened, and surveying his lovely companions, he said with a grin, ‘Now, then, darlings … who’s going to be first?’

2

The ball at the Royal Yacht Club was raucous and heated – more so than usual, for the Prince of Wales’s three-hundred-ton racing cutter Britannia had won against the kaiser’s radically designed yacht Meteor that afternoon. Even had the prince not loathed his posturing nephew, the win would have been cause for celebration. But defeating what was reputedly the priciest yacht in the world was the sweetest of victories.

His Royal Highness had been celebrating since the finish line had heaved into view and the decibel levels at the Royal Yacht Club indicated England’s pride and elation.

But two people escaping the din and tumult had taken refuge on the starlit terrace.

The Countess de Grae was struggling to maintain her composure against the pressure of tears welling in her throat and eyes. She never should have come to Cowes, despite the Prince of Wales’s invitation; Cowes always reminded her of Joe. How many summers had she sailed with Joe Manton? Too many to forget all the memories. And while she understood Joe’s need to marry now that he’d inherited his title, his marriage to Georgiana last month had left her feeling adrift, bereft of a dear friend.

Leaning against the stone balustrade, Kit Braddock was contemplating the distant tranquillity of his yacht moored far out in the harbor. After having sailed with the Prince of Wales on the Britannia that day – and after having drunk more than his share of celebratory toasts the last several hours – the peaceful hermitage of the Desiree lured his weary spirits. Inhaling deeply, he drew in the cool night air, the sharp tang of the sea breeze, refreshing after the cloying heat of the ballroom. He could see his stateroom lights twinkling across the water. Would it be possible to slip away unnoticed?

Tomorrow he raced against the Italians and French. His American-built ocean racer was expected to win. He smiled. Of course he’d win; his yacht could outrun anything on the seas. But some sleep wouldn’t be out of order….

When he first heard the muffled sobs, his immediate reaction was to ignore them.

It was late.

He was tired.

And weeping women invariably meant trouble.

But the closeness of the sound surprised him; he wondered that he’d overlooked her presence. That’s what came of living the idle life of leisure during the London season, he noted. One lost one’s fine edge playing the gentleman.

Angela de Grae preferred not to embarrass herself before the man who had been paying court to her best friend’s daughter the past fortnight. Kit Braddock would have been distinguishable by his formidable size alone even had the moonlight not disclosed his distinctive features. Charlotte had glowingly described the rich, handsome American yachtsman who’d charmed his way into her young daughter’s heart. Angela was to have been formally introduced to Priscilla’s beau tonight – if she’d been able to withstand the brittle gaiety inside. How damnably awkward. Maybe the man would pretend not to have heard and go away. The countess dearly hoped he would.

The woman’s scent struck Kit as a swirl of night air eddied across the secluded corner – an intense attar of rose – separate from the Asian lilies and climbing rugosas cascading over the terrace wall. The fragrance struck a vaguely familiar chord somewhere in the indecipherable recesses of his mind.

Then he heard a small sniffle.

And silently swearing, he debated his limited options. Would it be ignominious to cut and run? Had he been recognized? How could he possibly offer solace to some unknown woman? Lord, he disliked crying females. But ultimately good manners and an inherent courtesy prevailed, and when, with a suppressed sigh, he turned and moved toward the sound, his polite smile was in place.

The figure of a seated woman materialized from the mottled shadows of the turreted wall, very near indeed to where he’d been standing. ‘Could I be of some assistance?’ he quietly said.

When the countess lifted her head, a streak of moonlight caught and shimmered on the pale tips of her fashionably curled coiffeur, framing the perfection of her face in a platinum halo.

For very good reason Angela de Grae had reigned as a recognized beauty for so long, Kit thought with a sudden stabbing clarity. She was undeniably breathtaking. Even with that sadness in her eyes.

When she gently shook her head, the renowned Lawton diamonds swung from her earlobes. ‘It’s just a touch of melancholy,’ Angela murmured. ‘Fatigue, no doubt, after a very busy season. And the noise inside …’ She shivered in delicate revulsion.

‘Would you like an escort home?’ Kit queried. Gossip was rife concerning Major Joe Manton’s sudden marriage and the consequences to his long-term love affair with the countess. Her need for privacy was understandable. And then he suddenly recalled why the attar of roses had nudged his memory. The countess had been wearing the same perfume when he’d briefly met her years ago at Biarritz, where she’d been on holiday with the Prince of Wales.

‘How can we leave? Bertie’s still here,’ she replied with a small sigh. No one could precede a royal guest.

Kit’s eyes shone with mischief. ‘I could lower you over the balustrade, and we could both escape.’

Her mouth quirked faintly in a tentative smile. ‘How tempting. Are the festivities wearing thin for you, too, Mr. Braddock? We were supposed to meet formally tonight,’ she graciously added. ‘I’m Angela de Grae, a good friend of Priscilla’s mother.’

‘I thought so,’ he neutrally replied, thinking her gracious not to flaunt her celebrity as a professional beauty. Her photos sold in enormous numbers in England. ‘And, yes, “worn thin” is a very polite expression for my current mood. I’m racing early tomorrow, and I’d rather sleep tonight than watch everyone become increasingly drunk.’

‘Champagne is flowing in torrents, but Bertie is pleased with his victory. Especially after losing to his nephew last year.’

‘Willie deserved his trouncing today. He should have been disqualified for almost shearing off our bow on the turn. But at the moment I’m concerned only with escaping from the party. If I’m going to have my crew in shape in the morning, we’re all going to need some rest.’

‘Do they wait for your return?’ The countess’s voice held the smallest hint of huskiness, an unconsciously flirtatious voice. ‘Priscilla doesn’t know, of course.’ Although Kit Braddock referred to his female companions as ‘crew,’ reportedly he kept a small harem on board his yacht to entertain him on his journeys around the world.

‘She’s too young to know,’ he casually replied, ‘and rumor probably exaggerates.’

The countess took note of the equivocal adverb, but she too understood the demands of politesse and said, ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ to both portions of his statement. It was very much a man’s world in which she lived, and though her enormous personal wealth had always allowed her a greater measure of freedom than that allowed other women, even Angela de Grae had at times to recognize the stark reality of the double standard.

‘Well, then?’ His deep voice held a teasing query.

‘I’m not sure my mopish brooding is worth a broken leg,’ Angela pleasantly retorted, rising from her chair and moving the small distance to the balustrade. Gazing over the climbing roses, she swiftly contemplated the drop to the ground. ‘Are you very strong? I certainly hope so,’ she quickly added, hoisting herself up on the balustrade and smoothly swinging her legs and lacy skirts over the side. ‘Although, Mr. Braddock,’ she went on in a delectable drawl, smiling at him from over her bare shoulder, ‘you certainly look as if you have the strength to rescue us from this tedious evening.’

How old was she? he found himself suddenly wondering. She looked like a young girl perched on the terrace rail, her hands braced to balance herself. In the next quicksilver instant he decided it didn’t matter. And in a flashing moment more he was responding to the smile that had charmed a legion of men since young ‘Angel’ Lawton had first smiled up at her grandpapa from the cradle and Viscount Lawton had decided to overlook his scapegrace son in his will and leave his fortune to his beautiful granddaughter.

‘Wait,’ Kit said, apropos her pose and other more disturbing sensations engendered by the countess’s tempting smile. Leaping down onto the grass bordering the flower beds, he gingerly stepped between the tall stands of lilies, stopped directly below her, lifted his arms, smiled, and said, ‘Now.’

Without hesitation she jumped in a flurry of petticoats and handmade lace and fell into his arms.

They both laughed amid the swaying lilies as he held her hard against him, like youngsters who’d joyously evaded authority – and then they suddenly went quiet, a volatile, urgent susceptibility stifling their breath. Heedless to circumstance, Kit’s body responded to the impetuous sensation of desire while a rash answering heat coursed through Angela’s blood. As he held her tightly, her slippered feet suspended in space, her small hands resting on his powerful shoulders, the countess found her voice first – because Priscilla Pembroke was enamored of this handsome young man, and because Charlotte was her very good friend.

‘If you’d be so kind, Mr. Braddock, to set me down,’ she said, her voice pleasantly neutral.

He hesitated for the smallest moment, his life to date one of reckless disregard for convention. Her voluptuous body was pressed hard against his – against his swelling arousal – and he’d seen the startled, flashing heat in her eyes. He’d heard all the stories, too. She was a woman of great passion, lover to the Prince of Wales and others – Countess Angel, the great temptress of her age.

‘You must put me down, Mr. Braddock. Priscilla wouldn’t understand.’

Mention of the young woman he’d been seeing lately served to curb Kit’s less principled impulses, and he released his grip, allowing her to slide to the ground. ‘I hope she understands my abrupt departure,’ he casually said, ignoring the mild reprimand he’d been given. He smiled. ‘But winning the race tomorrow is important.’

‘Priscilla knows how men like to win, Mr. Braddock,’ the countess said with an answering smile. ‘She’s a very sensible young girl.’

‘But not as beautiful as you,’ he softly replied, knowing even as he uttered the words, he shouldn’t.

There was the briefest pause before she, as aware as he of incautious feeling, answered in a bland, courteous voice, ‘How flattering of you, Mr. Braddock.’ Moving away to a less intimate distance, she added, ‘I’ll say good night now.’

‘Do you need an escort home?’ Kit replied with a well-schooled politesse.

‘No, I’ve only a half block to walk.’

‘Good night, then, Countess. Pleasant dreams.’

‘I never dream, Mr. Braddock.’ She was moving through the tall, stately lilies, the sumptuous flowers shoulder high to her diminutive size. ‘But thank you very much for saving me from a miserable evening. I’m in your debt.’ Turning, she smiled at him, then waved, her white kid glove pale in the shadowed night.

As she walked away over the velvety lawn, Kit found himself contemplating the enticing possibility of collecting that debt someday.

Someday when he was in a less politic mood.

Or when he was less well behaved.

*

When Kit returned to his yacht, he found himself thinking of Angela de Grae numerous times in the course of the night. Each time that reality intruded into his reverie, and his gaze focused on the women in his bed – none of whom resembled the pale-haired countess – he always experienced a novel pang of regret.

Angela found herself unable to sleep when she arrived home. Standing on the balcony outside her boudoir, her gaze settled on the distinctive masts of the Desiree as it rode at anchor in the moonlight. She hoped Kit Braddock would win tomorrow, although her good wishes probably weren’t required; everyone said the Desiree was going to take the cup this year. She suddenly smiled into the moonlit night as the realization struck her: For the first time in a month she wasn’t overcome with melancholy.

Priscilla had found herself a remarkable young man.

3

By eleven the next morning, the Prince of Wales’s guests were assembled for breakfast on the Victoria and Albert, his preferred residence at Cowes. The racing yachts were expected to clear the Needles by noon and make for the finish line. And the prince’s guests had a perfect view from the decks of the Victoria and Albert; one need only look up from the breakfast tables scattered under the striped awnings.

‘Isn’t it fortunate we found a table away from that awful breeze?’ Charlotte Pembroke, Countess Ansley said, waving a distasteful hand at the choppy sunlit sea.

‘Since we’re on the water, it’s hard to avoid,’ Angela replied, smiling faintly at Charlotte’s unsuccessful attempt to straighten the georgette ruffle on her daughter’s neckline against the blustery wind.

‘It won’t lie down, Maman, and my hairdo’s going to be ruined, too,’ Priscilla complained, tucking in a tendril of chestnut hair that had fallen from her fashionable upswept coiffure. ‘And the dreadful sun on my skin …’ she lamented, as if her mama might be able to arrest its shining beams.

‘We needn’t sit here much longer, darling. The racing yachts are scheduled to appear soon, and then we can go belowdecks out of this devastating weather.’

While Angela had been a friend of Charlotte’s for years, she was always amused at her fussy style of mothering. As for the weather, the morning couldn’t have been more perfect: a clear blue sky above the sparkling sea, warm temperatures, the breeze pleasant. ‘Why not go below now if you’d be more comfortable?’ Angela amiably suggested. ‘You needn’t keep me company.’

‘We can’t miss the Desiree’s finish.’ Charlotte’s brows rose in delicate emphasis over the rim of her teacup.

‘Kit would never forgive me,’ Priscilla breathed.

‘His devotion to Prissy is charming.’ Charlotte had the smug look of a mother with an eligible bachelor securely in her net.

‘He sends me the most gorgeous flowers. Huge, huge baskets – but, then, the Americans are always so lavish in their spending, and he’s so very rich.’

‘Forty million a year,’ Charlotte said. While the aristocracy decried money as vulgar and beneath their notice, it was a constant topic of conversation: who had it; who didn’t; who had expectations; who had cleverly made a fortune.

‘And even if Kit’s money is from trade – mines and shipping,’ Priscilla airily noted, ‘and he doesn’t have a title, Maman says I can marry him if I wish. I think a Christmas wedding would be deevy. I could wear velvet and ermine with diamonds like snowflakes – Kit’s company ships South African diamonds, too,’ she smugly noted, ‘and of course Grandmama’s Brussels veil that every Pembroke bride has worn.’

‘Wynmere is so beautiful with snow.’ Lady Ansley pronounced the words with sufficient drama to cause Angela to look up from her creamed lobster, curious to see what would follow such theatrics. ‘The pristine countryside’s like a fairy-tale set. So utterly perfect for young lovers.’

‘Has Mr. Braddock proposed?’ Angela asked, her perception of Kit Braddock at odds with the Pembrokes. Idyllic concepts of devotion and young love didn’t quite suit the adventuresome Mr. Braddock.

‘Well … not precisely.’ Priscilla’s large blue eyes in the perfect oval of her face narrowed slightly. ‘But Maman says he will, that’s certain, because I’m the most beautiful deb this year, everybody agrees. So when I marry him, then Papa can have his new racers and stables and Maman will have Wynmere all redone, with the east wing redecorated for us. I could never think of living in the ghastly colonies. Do you think Baby May could be a flower girl at my wedding?’

‘I’m sure she’d love to,’ Angela politely replied for her two-year-old daughter while wondering if Kit Braddock knew his wedding and future life were being arranged by this chit of a girl.

‘Will Fitz be home from the Continent for the wedding?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Your son would be perfect for one of the groomsmen.’ Her brows rose in searching query. ‘Or will he still be keeping his distance from England and that Manchester merchant’s daughter who fancies him for a husband?’

‘He wrote he’d be home next month,’ Angela replied. ‘And he’s safe for the moment, since I offered Brook more than the Loftons did for Fitz’s future coronet.’

‘But Brook continues to gamble.’ Charlotte’s statement was in the way of question.

‘Of course.’ Angela grimaced slightly, her husband’s ineptitude at the gaming tables an ongoing expense for her.

‘So the problem is only temporarily resolved.’

‘The immediate jeopardy of Fitz being sold off to the Lofton girl for the price of Brook’s gambling debts has been averted. As for the future,’ Angela said with a sigh, ‘one can only meet each of Brook’s monetary crises as they occur.’ Her husband was not only the bane of her life but a danger to her children, and she often wondered if she could continually protect them from his temper and greed. This last instance concerning her seventeen-year-old son had terrified her. Fitz had gone to visit his grandmother on her birthday and been coldly apprised of his coming engagement by his father. He’d ridden away from de Grae Castle in only his shirtsleeves, arriving at Easton exhausted and shaken the following day. She’d sent him abroad within hours, wanting him beyond his father’s reach. And when she’d gone to Brook to negotiate her son’s future, the price he was asking to release Fitz from the marriage contract was staggering.

‘Brook has been a burden for you, darling,’ Charlotte bluntly retorted. ‘At least my Arnold isn’t a spendthrift.’

‘Is it the Lofton heiress Fitz is avoiding?’ Priscilla inquired. ‘The one whose papa owns a dozen mills and three banks and the best stud in the north?’

‘The same,’ Angela said, surprised at the girl’s definitive grasp of Reginald Lofton’s assets. ‘Do you know her?’

‘Heavens, no. She’s pudding-faced and bourgeoisie. But you have plenty of money, so Fitz needn’t really marry her. It’s a shame there’s not a son in the family.’

‘What if he were pudding-faced and bourgeois?’ Angela quizzically inquired, unprepared for such a cool assessment of marriage by a young girl.

‘He’d still be richer than Kit.’

‘Really,’ she softly uttered, astonished at such matter-of-fact financial auditing.

‘Of course. The Lofton mills are the biggest in England, and their banks are involved in world trade, particularly South Africa.’

‘Priscilla is quite fascinated by business,’ her mother proudly interjected. ‘She and her father know to the penny everyone’s worth.’

A daunting thought, Angela considered, wondering if her own money would be safer from such avid scrutiny abroad. ‘So Mr. Braddock has reached the top of your eligible list because Lofton has no son.’

‘I could never marry a man who wasn’t enormously wealthy,’ Priscilla succinctly noted. ‘And, after all, the arrangement would be infinitely fair; he’d be getting me for a wife.’ Her smile was sunnily self-assured.

‘You must meet Prissy’s Mr. Braddock. Why don’t you come to Wynmere next week and meet her beau?’ Charlotte cheerfully suggested. ‘Since we couldn’t find you last night at the ball, you’ll have an opportunity to see for yourself how charming the wealthy Mr. Braddock can be.’

Angela had already discovered the agreeable extent of Kit Braddock’s charm, and knowing that, she wisely excused herself. ‘I’m afraid I’m promised at the Oaks next week.’

‘With Wales, I suppose,’ Charlotte archly noted.

‘You know how he likes old friends,’ Angela said, ignoring Charlotte’s insinuating tone.

‘How do you and Alice Keppel get along?’ The Prince of Wales’s mistress was a recent acquisition.

‘She’s a much better bridge player than I.’

‘At least you enjoyed Wales’s friendship when he was young enough not to devote himself exclusively to bridge,’ Charlotte murmured with an irreverently raised brow.

‘Bertie is always charming company. I’m sure Mrs. Keppel thoroughly enjoys their friendship.’ Despite Charlotte’s prodding, she had no intention of discussing her past intimacies with the Prince of Wales.

‘Joe and Georgiana aren’t at Cowes, are they?’ Charlotte asked, as if her mind had made the same connection as Angela’s. It was common knowledge Angela had scandalously discarded the prince for Joe Manton.

‘They’re still in Europe.’ A soft constraint underlay Angela’s answer.

‘You raced with Joe last year, didn’t you? Or did he race on your yacht?’

‘We raced on his.’

‘Didn’t you win some cup … the Queen’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘That silver one on the chinoiserie table in your sitting room? Do you still have it?’ Lady Ansley posed, a faint sly smile curving her generous mouth.

‘I didn’t know you sailed.’ Priscilla interjected, astonishment in her wide-eyed gaze. ‘Don’t you get wet and terribly windblown?’

Repressing her smile, Angela said, ‘You don’t mind. It’s great fun.’

‘Really? Well I should mind terribly – but, then, you hunt too, don’t you?’

‘My grandpapa liked to sail and hunt, so I learned very young to enjoy both.’

‘How very odd.’

No more odd, Angela thought, than the practice of leaving young aristocratic girls like Priscilla largely untutored and uneducated. ‘It never seemed unusual to me,’ she calmly replied. ‘But we lived quite isolated at Easton when Grandpapa was alive.’

‘You and Kit have so much in common,’ Priscilla said. ‘He hunts, too,’ she went on, returning to her favorite topic other than herself. ‘You wouldn’t think an American would be so refined. What a shame you’re going to be at the Oaks next week.’

‘I’m sure I’ll meet him soon. It sounds as though you’ve found a perfect beau,’ Angela kindly said, grateful for the disruption to Charlotte’s interrogation about Joe Manton.

‘We could all come to Easton the following week,’ Charlotte pointedly said with a grin, ‘if you’d invite us.’

‘How subtle,’ Angela replied with a faint smile. ‘But I’m sure Mr. Braddock would prefer doing something else. We live so simply at Easton.’

‘I’m sure he’d like to do whatever I like to do,’ Priscilla countered, the faintest petulance in her voice.

‘You have a nicely tamed man.’

‘Since Priscilla is the most splendid girl out this season, he’d be an absolute fool not to be enamored,’ Lady Ansley asserted. ‘So are we invited, darling?’

As a friend of long standing, Charlotte was impossible to refuse. In addition, she had no subtlety when she wanted something. ‘If you won’t be bored with our lazy schedule,’ Angela graciously acceded. ‘Easton has only country amusements, but Millie and Sutherland are coming down and perhaps Dolly and Carsons.’

‘Easton is always a jewel, darling, and no one entertains like you. It sounds as though you’re having a cozy family party with your sisters. We’d love to join you.’

Easton was Angela’s country home, inherited from her grandfather. With her husband’s estate distant from hers, they saw each other infrequently – a not unusual arrangement in aristocratic circles. Like many marriages based on practical and financial considerations, their union had evolved into one of strained civility and cool disregard.

‘It’s settled, then,’ Angela said while she considered how best to dilute the inconvenient ‘coziness’ of the gathering. Country weekends were notorious for flirtations, and though she didn’t wish to misjudge Kit Braddock’s intentions toward Priscilla, nor her own few brief moments alone with him, she would feel infinitely safer with several more people about. ‘I wonder,’ she queried, ‘if I should invite some guests more your age so you and your Mr. Braddock won’t find the visit too dull?’

The silk violets on Priscilla’s straw hat shimmered and bobbed as she vigorously shook her head. ‘I won’t have you inviting Harriette Villiers or Fanny Frampton or any of the other debs,’ she hotly declared, ‘because they’re nothing but little tarts. Everyone knows Fanny uses rouge and Harriette’s own aunt says she’s fast. Even Cecily, who puts on such innocent airs, lured Kit into the conservatory at Lord Albemarle’s party, and I practically had to pull him from her clutches. I don’t want the little sluts anywhere near him.’

‘Watch your language, dear,’ her mother warned. ‘What will Kit think if he hears you speaking like a common person?’

Kit Braddock struck Angela as devoutly unshockable, but conscious of Priscilla’s aversion to rivals, she suggested, ‘Why don’t you send me a list of some friends you’d like to invite to Easton? Some who don’t flirt,’ she added with a smile. Then, catching sight of the Desiree rounding the Gurnard spit with its rakish sails aloft and, even from that distance, its tremendous speed apparent, she was gripped by the familiar thrill she always felt at the sight of a fine ship. ‘The Desiree’s in the lead!’ And even as she indicated the far-off roads east of Cowes, a cheer went up from the royal party seated near the rail.

‘The Prince of Wales adores Kit.’ Priscilla pronounced each word with a priggish self-conceit, as if Kit Braddock’s friendship with the prince was simply another measure of her own allure.

‘Kit’s always with the prince,’ Charlotte pridefully added.

‘He must be amusing, then,’ Angela noted, her gaze shifting from the racing yachts to her companions. She knew Bertie didn’t abide boredom.

‘Oh, Kit’s ever so droll. The darling can even make Papa smile.’

A formidable feat, Angela thought. Arnold Pembroke had a dour, authoritarian temperament without a visible shred of humor.

‘And Kit’s helping HRH add to his racing stables,’ Priscilla declared. ‘They were at Newmarket together.’

‘Did you hear he brought Knolton’s team the championship at Hurlingham last week?’ Charlotte added.

‘Charlie must have been pleased.’ But the image of Kit Braddock riding down the polo green at breakneck speed suddenly unnerved her – the sense of unrestrained power almost palpable. ‘Do send me your list of names,’ she quickly interposed, ‘as soon as possible.’ A houseful of guests would be added security against her quixotic feelings.

‘I have a marvelous idea,’ Charlotte impetuously offered. ‘Why don’t we bring Kit to Eden House tonight when we come to dine?’

‘How perfect, Maman! Angela, you always have the most wonderful dinners with all the best people.’ Priscilla cast her most charming smile at Angela. ‘Do say we can!’

Everyone was standing at the rail by then, watching the Desiree close in for the finish, the French racer a thousand yards back, the Italians not even in sight. Only Charlotte and Priscilla seemed immune to the crackling excitement. Glancing at the sleek, graceful yacht slashing through the waves, Angela knew she couldn’t refuse even if she wished, and at the moment she wasn’t certain her answer would necessarily be motivated by politeness. From her vantage point, Kit’s muscled form was clearly visible as he helped his crew work the sails. Nude above his white duck trousers, he was sleek with sea spray, his upper body glistening as if it were oiled, like a gladiator on display. A shockingly physical sight.

‘Say yes, Angela. Please …’

It took a moment for Priscilla’s plea to register in Angela’s consciousness and a second more for her to find her voice. ‘Yes, of course. Mr. Braddock is welcome if he wishes.’ His skin was deeply bronzed, she noted, her gaze drawn back to the conspicuous exposure of male virility. Then she noticed the women on deck. And she recalled the sensational accounts of his harem. No doubt obliging that number of women kept his body toned.

Kit Braddock was an excessively profligate man.

Even in an age setting new standards for profligacy.

Surely she had more sense.

*

After the requisite round of congratulations and celebratory toasts at the Royal Yacht Squadron Club, Kit received Charlotte’s invitation to join them for dinner. Having taken the note outside to read, he smiled as he gazed at the lavender-scented message. How gratifying, he thought, to conclude his victorious day in company with the delicious Angela de Grae.

‘Tell Countess Ansley I’d be pleased to join her and Lady Priscilla,’ he said to the waiting footman, folding the note and sliding it into his coat pocket.

As the servant exited the terrace, Kit drew in a deep, calming breath. It’s only an invitation to dinner, he reminded himself, not an invitation into Countess Angel’s bed, the thought of which did nothing for his composure. Swiftly sliding his fingers through his still damp hair, he stood motionless for a moment, his mind racing with tempting visions. Then, dropping his hands to his sides, he shook his fingers as though the irrepressible excitement strumming through his senses needed release. Steady, Braddock, he cautioned himself, you’re too old for adolescent fantasies.

Relax.

It’s just dinner, no more.

Then he slowly stretched and grinned.

On the other hand …

*

‘You’re in a fine humor,’ Saskia said with a smile, lounging on Kit’s bed as he dressed for his dinner engagement. ‘And correct me if I’m wrong, but I detect something beyond the Desiree’s victory fueling your good mood.’

‘We’ve been friends too long, darling,’ Kit replied, tying his white tie with a deft expertise, smiling at her image in the mirror. ‘You can read my mind.’

‘She must be interesting to intrigue you so, which leaves out the dull-as-dishwater Priscilla Pembroke,’ Saskia murmured, her brows raised in artful query. ‘Tell me her name.’

‘The Countess Angel of fame, and I’m feeling very adolescent tonight. Do you remember your first time?’

‘Of course. That excited,’ she purred. ‘How nice.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t think she’s interested,’ Kit said with a rueful grimace as he ran two brushes over his sleek hair.

‘Ah – but then again, you might be able to change her mind. …’

‘Maybe, maybe not … I don’t know,’ he said, dropping the silver-backed brushes onto the dresser top. ‘She’s heard all the stories.’

‘About us.’

He nodded and reached for his waistcoat draped over a nearby chair.

‘Apparently the Pembrokes are willing to overlook the scandal.’

‘Money talks,’ he succinctly said, slipping his arms into the embroidered white silk vest.

‘And the Angel isn’t interested in your money?’

He shook his head as he buttoned the waistcoat. ‘Everyone’s not as calculating as Priscilla’s family. Besides, she has plenty of her own.’

‘Did you tell her we’re all just friends?’

‘I haven’t had the chance to; I saw her only once, briefly, and she judiciously reminded me that she and Priscilla’s mother are good friends.’

‘A distinct rebuff, darling.’

‘Exactly. But tell my libido that. She’s been on my mind constantly.’

‘The notorious Countess Angel would appeal to you, of course. A woman who’s always had her pick of men.’

‘Her reputation does have a certain tantalizing appeal.’

‘And what of your quest for a wife and a grandchild for your mother?’

His brows rose the smallest distance. ‘The two aren’t related.’

‘Have you decided on the beautiful but stupid Priscilla Pembroke, then?’

‘I haven’t decided on anything, although until I met the countess, my plans seemed much more reasonable. She brought into focus Priscilla’s numerous shortcomings.’

‘You apparently haven’t been listening to me the last fortnight.’

‘While you, darling, haven’t been subjected to my mother’s loving but constant pleas for a grandchild. If I have to marry someone, at least young ladies like Priscilla understand the standard conventions. They trade their beauty or title for money; in turn they bear a required number of children to accommodate their husbands. It’s a straightforward business arrangement. Which is precisely why I’m interested.’

‘Did you ever consider love?’

‘No. Did you? I don’t recall your marriage was based on romantical notions.’

She grinned. ‘He was damnably rich.’

‘And old.’

‘Unfortunately … and cruel.’

‘Look, sweet, we’re both practical people. When I met you in Java, you wanted passage out and I was happy to help, but in all the years we’ve known each other … and it’s been a while …’

‘Five years now.’

‘In those five years I’ve never heard you talk of love, so don’t ask me to consider it as a requisite for my marriage. I wouldn’t even consider marriage except my mother has her heart set on my marrying an English girl. She’d really like someone from Devon, her old home, but I warned her filial obligations extend only so far. If I was going to oblige her, she’d have to take potluck on the county.’

‘Not exactly a man in love,’ Saskia sardonically murmured.

‘I prefer my bachelor life, darling, as you well know. And I don’t see you searching out a husband.’

‘I don’t have to with the generous sum you settled on me. Nor do any of us. Thanks to you.’ Kit had provided well-endowed bank accounts for his female companions, so their arrangement was one of mutual interest, not financial necessity.

‘You’ve all been the best of company. It’s my pleasure. Now, tell me, do you think Countess Angel will smile on me tonight or not?’

‘Not with Priscilla there, darling. How could she?’

‘Hmmm …’ A faint frown drew his brows together. ‘So what do you suggest? Give me some of your astute female advice.’

‘Discard the prissy Priscilla.’

‘Some reasonable advice, sweet. Lord, I need a drink.’ Striding across the large stateroom, he lifted a decanter from its slot in a liquor compartment specially constructed to hold the bottles in heavy seas. Pouring a half glass of Kentucky bourbon, he dropped into a chair, stretched out his legs, lifted the glass in salute, and said with a smile, ‘To kind winds.’

‘Priscilla might look more interesting after a few of those,’ Saskia drolly noted.

‘The countess surely will,’ he softly said.

‘The woman is definitely on your mind.’

His eyelids half lowered, and he dipped his head the faintest measure over the rim of his glass. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. She’s very beautiful, I suppose.’

‘Is she tall?’ She knew Kit had a preference for tall women.

He shook his head.

‘Is she flirtatious?’

He snorted. ‘Hardly. She gave me my congé.’

‘Perhaps she’s a challenge.’

He shrugged, then shook his head again. ‘No, it’s not a game this time. It’s … just … different,’ he slowly enunciated. ‘She’s very small …’ he said, as if some explanation existed in those few words ‘And blond … very pale blond …’ His voice trailed away for a moment, as did his attention, and Saskia contemplated a novel dimension to the Kit Braddock she’d known for five years. Perhaps she might get her wish, after all, apropos Priscilla. She’d hated watching him court the Pembroke girl for all the wrong reasons.

‘So we won today,’ he said, rousing from his reverie, deliberately moving to more comprehensible topics. ‘Did you think we would?’

‘Of course.’

Kit grinned. ‘Me, too. Now we have a day off.’

‘Except for your social duties with the Prince of Wales.’

‘Another week or two, and then maybe I’ll beg off from the Scottish shooting.’

Which meant he might not propose to Priscilla, after all, she pleasantly thought. Two days ago he’d planned on staying for the shooting. ‘Then next to New York?’ she casually inquired.

He nodded. ‘And Newport later.’

Was the Priscilla plan already jettisoned in his mind? she cheerfully mused, watching him drain the glass of liquor in one huge swallow. ‘You don’t have time for another,’ she said, reading his thoughts. ‘You’re going to be late if you don’t finish dressing.’ Rising from the bed, she walked over to the armoire and took out his black evening coat. Holding it out for him, she teased with a grin, ‘Now, remember to be good tonight and mind your manners.’

Setting his glass aside, he rose from the chair with a sigh. ‘I hate these complications.’

‘Leave your Angel alone, then.’

Standing motionless for a moment, he seemed to consider. ‘But I don’t want to,’ he softly murmured, moving toward the outheld jacket.

‘I can tell,’ she calmly declared. ‘Bon chance, mon ami.’ Her smile held a special warmth for the man who had saved her life on the docks of Surabaja.

He grinned. ‘I may need your luck tonight,’ he said, sliding his arms into the sleeves. ‘I feel as if I’m sixteen.’

‘That in itself might tempt the sophisticated countess,’ Saskia lightly retorted, adjusting the jacket on his wide shoulders.

Turning around, Kit touched her chin lightly with a finger. ‘While Priscilla likes older men.’

‘What a shame. She’ll have to find someone else.’

‘It’s a thought, isn’t it?’

‘The first good one you’ve had since we arrived in England.’

‘Don’t be shy with your feelings,’ he drawled.

‘I’ve been the pillar of constraint since you first decided on this matrimonial venture.’

‘And I appreciate it,’ Kit quietly said.

‘Go now,’ Saskia ordered, giving him a push toward the door. ‘Your countess is waiting.’