Page 6 of His Brazen Tart
“What do you think of him thus far?” Miranda asked.
Joan stuffed her mouth with another cake to buy herself some time. How to answer such a question when she wasn’t certain herself what she thought of Piers? Mary’s revelations added little insight. Most of what she felt was centered around lust, and while she wasn’t usually reticent to speak of such matters with her friends, Joan was reluctant this time around. Maybe their association was too new, or perhaps the mysteries of what lay ahead of her were to blame.
After washing her cake down with a few sips of tea, Joan smiled and met each of her friends’ gazes. “I think he will make an excellent courtesan. I hope to have more to report once we have spent more time in one another’s company.”
Mary looked as if she wanted to press her for more, but just then the baby awakened with a mewl, drawing the attention of all four ladies. They lapsed into breathy sighs and coos as little Malcolm was lifted from his cradle and passed about—bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked.
There was nothing she could do regarding her courtesan besides wait for him to make contact. Remembering the heat in his eyes and the steel behind his words at the pleasure he had promised, Joan grew warm through her middle.
Chapter 3
Piers stood when the dining room door swung open to admit his guest for the evening. Anticipation made him go rigid as the footman stepped aside to reveal Joan. He had sent instructions to her townhouse this morning—tersely written but specific. Just as she had tested him the night of the ball, Piers would determine just what the alluring Joan Durbin was made of.
Every detail of the evening had been orchestrated to his exact specifications. He had purposely allowed two days to pass before reaching out, wanting her on edge and curious about what he had in store.
The first sight of her pleased him, as it looked as if she had followed his directions. Firstly, she had arrived on time—precisely at half past nine. Furthermore, she had donned a simple, tasteful white dress, just as Piers’ note had instructed. Her hair had been arranged into a simple knot at her nape—a far cry from the elaborate coiffure she had worn the night they met. Joan’s face was free of cosmetics, yet the inky dot teasing her upper lip remained. Piers cocked an eyebrow at the sight. A natural enhancement, or a small rebellion? He would soon find out.
Piers crossed the room to greet her, one sharp glance at the footman enough for the servant to make himself scarce. His staff had been ordered to keep their distance, and dinner had been arranged so that they could serve themselves.
“Good evening,” he said with a bow. “Thank you for arriving on time.”
Joan’s berry-pink lips curved into a teasing smile as she offered him an imperious, gloved hand. “I wouldn’t dare disobey after your ominous promises of punishment.”
Piers accepted her hand, his grip on her fingers just tight enough to remind her that she was playinghisgame tonight. “Wise of you. Come … Cook has prepared some of her best dishes for us this evening.”
Joan allowed him to guide her to the left of his seat at the head of the table. A delicate, fringed shawl slipped off her shoulders as she sat. Piers halted while pulling out his own chair, momentarily stunned into stillness as his gaze fell to the flesh she revealed.
While the gown had appeared simple enough with the shawl hiding her bosom, it was now clear that Joan had adhered to parts of his orders regarding her attire, while ignoring others. She wore white, but the cut of the bodice exposed Joan’s shoulders as well as an indecent amount of bosom. So indecent, in fact, that Piers made out tiny, pink half-moon protrusions at her neckline.
He ground his molars together and heat flushed the back of his neck. Her nipples weren’t completely exposed, but there was just enough aureole showing to make his cock twitch in his breeches. Adding insult to injury, the little minx had most certainly rouged her nipples, turning them into rosy blossoms that drew the eye.
“You look … lovely,” he seethed through clenched teeth.
Joan smiled and folded her hands in her lap, the motion pushing her breasts upward and tighter together. “Why, thank you. I am pleased you noticed.”
A heavy silence passed between them while Piers wrestled with his self-control. It was far too early in the evening to punish her, though she had certainly earned it with this little stunt. Instead of hauling her out of her chair and turning her over his knee, he would wait and see how far she thought to push him. Was Joan simply mischievous … or was she as impertinent as Piers suspected? If he punished her now, he would never know.
Pretending not to notice the lewd display of her bosom, Piers plucked a bottle of sherry from the silver bucket at his elbow. “Wine?” he offered, without waiting for Joan to accept before he began pouring. “Help yourself to as much as you like.”
Joan took a sip and then licked her glistening lips. “What’s this … no arbitrary rules dictating how much I may imbibe?”
The warmth that had stolen over him at the sight of her nipples had begun to spread to encompass his face. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that she could hear his teeth grinding together as he stared her down, somehow both astonished and unsurprised by her gall.
A smile came easily to his face as he thought of the small trunk he had hidden beneath the table—one she would soon become very familiar with. It was that knowledge which kept him calm in the face of her baiting.
“The choice of what to imbibe or ingest is your own,” he replied with a dismissive wave of one hand. “I prefer to concern myself with other matters. Such as, the safe word I asked you to think of. Are you ready to share it with me?”
“Apple,” she declared, while Piers served them both from the dishes scattered over the table. “Seems simple enough, and certainly out of place during … theact,as you called it.”
“Apple, it is.”
They fell silent as Piers filled their plates with mutton and roasted pheasant, and an array of potatoes and vegetables. He was used to dealing with women who pretended disinterest in food when in the company of others, but Joan struck him as being unconcerned with anyone’s opinion. She proved him right by lifting her fork and knife and attacking her dinner with relish, small sounds of pleasure escaping her throat between bites.
For a time, Piers was content to observe her, allowing the expectation of what was to come to build between them. Joan’s every small movement drew his attention to her breasts, which heaved and wiggled with each breath and sigh or slight shift on her chair. Piers hardly tasted his food as he ruminated over all the rules she had broken with nothing more than a gown and a pot of rouge. He had told her to dress modestly and wear proper undergarments. She had done neither. She had been warned against teasing him, but must realize he could hardly keep his eyes off her bosom, and seemed to derive great satisfaction from it.
Beneath the table, Piers had grown ridiculously hard, though his state of arousal had little to do with her wanton display. It was the myriad of thoughts concerning how he would make her pay that made his pulse race and his blood heat.
“Mr. Sterling tells me that you are a widow,” he said, grappling for light conversation. If nothing else, Joan should be allowed to finish her dinner. She was going to need the strength it provided to endure him. “How many years were you married?”
