Free A Well Pleasured Lady by Christina Dodd Page A

self and her fortune.
    If she allowed Sebastian to lay claim to her, he could protect her wealth from Fairchild greed.
    Whom did she want? Bubb, apparently good-natured, obviously a wastrel, and one of the many Fairchilds who couldn’t be bothered to help her when her grandfather chased her away? Or Sebastian, who…She found herself staring at Sebastian, eyes glazed.
    Sebastian.
    Power hungry. Rude, impatient. A blackmailer.
    But not weak. Although she’d never asked what Sebastian planned for her after this wretched masquerade was over, she didn’t worry he would strip her of her fortune and, when that was done, throw her into the dung heap.
    Into prison, perhaps, but not the dung heap.
    Before she could change her mind, she said, “Uncle, I have good news. Lord Whitfield and I are betrothed.”
    Bubb didn’t wilt or show signs of shock. He’d seen Lord Whitfield lifting her from the carriage, then, and seen the way they moved together with the ease of a couple accustomed to their ritual. He’d probably heard Lord Whitfield’s carefully announced claim on her affections, too. Bubb seemed a simple, jolly man, but did he hide his financial schemes beneath that bluff facade? Mary’s toes curled in her slippers as she remembered Hadden’s prediction of trouble.
    Of murder. Her murder.
    Lord Whitfield moved to her side, placed his hand on her shoulder, and pressed firmly. “You’ll have toremember to call me ‘Sebastian,’ my love, or your uncle will believe we are not fond.”
    â€œI think my uncle understands a woman’s need to maintain the proprieties,” Mary said to the room at large.
    â€œPossibly.” Lord Whitfield sat beside her, and his hand slid along her arm in a leisurely, sensuous sweep.
    Her fist clenched, and she called on those years of housekeeperly training to keep her from boxing his ears.
    Turning her wrist over, Lord Whitfield unbuttoned her glove. One fingertip at a time, he loosened her glove from her hand. Slowly he stripped it from her. She watched, as fascinated as their audience, until he clasped their hands, palm to palm.
    Then she understood his intent. The intimacy of his touch forced her to comprehend, and she struggled to free herself until he caught her wrist with his other hand and held it still.
    He wasn’t done with his show. Speaking loudly enough that his voice would reach across the study, he said, “Your uncle undoubtedly understands a lover’s need to break down the barriers of propriety, also.” He looked warmly into her eyes as he raised her hand to his mouth.
    She would have been impressed, but she remembered a similar gesture made to his godmother not a fortnight ago in Scotland. So what? He would kiss her knuckles. Did the man have to depend on such a boring repertoire?
    Then he took her forefinger in his mouth—and nipped it.
    She jumped so high, everyone in the room no doubt observed, and she gasped when he soothed the ache by closing his lips around her finger and sucking on it.
    Tangled in a web of embarrassment and fascination, she stared at him, at his mouth, the mouth she’d noticed the very first time she’d met him. Not even the horror of that bloodstained night had dimmed the memory of his lips, and now he used them to touch her flesh in a manner she could only describe as intimate. She didn’t know what he meant by such a display, and at the same time her instincts informed her it was a gesture for lovers.
    And he made it look so sincere. The way he watched her face, eyes glowing as he observed her struggle to deal with sensation as sharp as his teeth and as soft as his lips.
    If he was going to simulate the part of her fiancé so sincerely, she would be hard-pressed to retain her good sense.
    Good sense. Surely some resided somewhere in this madhouse. She looked at the others, appealing for help, but none abided within this chamber.
    Not from Lady Valéry, who