Page 10 of House of Thorns
Chapter Three
A Particular Shade of Red
Lord Nicholas Hunter Blair, 4th Baronet of Dunskey, watched Lord Chesterfield mop sweat from his brow. By George, the man was leaking like a sieve. He obviously had no business at the gaming table, not when he clearly fretted over the sum he’d just lost and that which he stood only seconds away from losing, as well.
A soft pair of hands slid over Nicholas’s shoulders and a sultry voice whispered in his ear, “Are you coming up to bed soon?”
It was Demelza. If truth be told, he wasn’t in the mood for her attentions, even though he’d already paid for her particular skills a week in advance. He glanced around the bordello’s card room, strangely restless. Something had been roiling inside him the entire day, a something he had yet to identify. Something that informed him that he didn’t want to be here.
He cocked a brow at his winning hand of cards. Whatever disturbed him hadn’t affected his game—but then, nothing usually did. Lady Luck had taken a fancy to him, one that had lasted nearly a decade. She’d tucked him safely in her bosom and handed him wins, worth twice over his inheritance. Easily.
He certainly didn’t need to torture a man over a paltry two hundred pounds.
As fresh beads of sweat sprouted along Lord Chesterfield’s hairline, Nicholas cleared his throat and dropped his cards on the table.
“What say we end the game here, eh?” he drawled with a lazy yawn. “Let’s call it done. I’m in the mood for…other things.”
Lord Chesterfield’s eyes widened and his face split with relief.
“Upstairs, my lord?” Demelza murmured, thrusting her breasts forward.
Nicholas lifted himself to his feet and eyed the mass of blonde curls so artfully arranged over an exquisite, creamy expanse of skin. Her dress hung only an inch or two from falling off her curvaceous form entirely, but inexplicably, his body only offered a tepid, half-hearted response before abandoning the effort altogether.
How odd. Had he tired of Demelza so soon? Or was it—
Red. He chuckled, knowing in an instant what ailed him.
A particularly eye-catching shade of red hair, one he’d seen just that afternoon, in his mother’s garden. It was the lass who had surprised him with a kiss that played on his mind. Was she an opera singer, as well? The thought intrigued him. Opera singers made worthy mistresses. By far, his most unforgettable lover had been Florinda Marie de Bussonne, the Lark of Paris. There were times, still, that he was half-tempted to cross the channel and return to her bed.
“My lord?” Demelza half-panted and leaned forward, offering him a fine view of her breasts, the silk gown so low as to half reveal her nipples.
Truthfully, he’d enjoyed the snug, tantalizing fit of the garden redhead’s lacy, light muslin far more. Though far less revealing than Demelza’s gown, the play of the lass’s cloth had teased his senses, drawing him into the world of fantasy—a world that sent a spike of arousal charging straight through him.
A dark blue ribbon had spanned the redhead’s bodice, running a satin circle just under her ample breasts. Just what would she look like, wearing that ribbon…and nothing else?
“My lord?”
He expelled a breath and, now more than ready, followed Demelza up the stairs.
Once in the room, he sprawled back on the bed and closed his eyes, imagining it was quite another lass who unbuttoned his trousers, another pair of lips on his hardening flesh. Teasing. Nipping. Sucking.
Then, the heat of Demelza’s mouth consumed him, and he thought no more.
