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Make Me Beg
Alice Gaines
Rake Thomas Boulton no sooner decides to abstain from pleasures of the flesh than he meets the most arousing woman he’s ever encountered. Widow Olivia Trent is clever, confident…and determined to beat him at the game of seduction. She challenges him to play sensual games until one of them pleads to be bedded. Thomas is sure he will soon have Olivia at his mercy—or will he be the one forced to beg?
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter One
Thomas Boulton’s cock would stay in his pants tonight. Just as well as not one ounce of female flesh he’d viewed at Lord Ridgeway’s little fete inspired Priapus to more than an occasional twitch. Three lusty widows, a half-dozen or so adventurous wives, two eager debutantes with careless mothers—a smart fellow stayed well clear of those—even a French countess. None of them tempted him in the least. Instead, he poured himself a stiff whiskey at the sideboard and made his way to the library for a good book to read until courtesy would allow him to give Lord and Lady R his regards and point his carriage toward home.
Had he had too many lovers lately? Had the quality of female pulchritude declined? At five-and-thirty, he no longer hardened whenever a female passed, but he couldn’t have lost touch entirely with his lustful nature. His father still menaced the upstairs maids whenever given the chance. He, himself, planned to dandle a voluptuous female on his knee well into his dotage. Perhaps if he gave Long Tom a rest, he’d come roaring back with twice the vigor.
Yes, that was the ticket.
He entered the library and glanced around. Hundreds of books looked back at him. Shelf after shelf of knowledge. He’d neglect his cock for a while and enrich his brain instead. He wouldn’t allow himself any dalliances until his lust rose to unbearable levels. Until he felt like a crazed beast. Nothing tasted sweeter than a cool drink after a raging thirst. He hadn’t allowed himself to grow thirsty. Simple and logical and easily fixed.
After taking a swig of his drink, he set the glass on a table and went off in search for food for his intellect. The first shelf appeared to hold nothing but histories—every single king of England, various shires and counties. From the condition of the spines, it appeared not a single volume had been opened. Understandable. He walked around that shelf in search of something a bit less likely to induce stupor.
He found it. Not a book, but a woman holding a book. He hadn’t seen this one before, or he might not have decided so quickly to forgo sex. She stood tall—most likely only a few inches shorter than his own height—and had long limbs, judging from the grace of the arm that had reached to the shelf. Hair the color of honey lay pinned in curls on top of her head, but a few wisps had escaped to frame her face and accentuate the warmth of her brown eyes.
When she spotted him, she straightened her shoulders and smiled. “Mr. Boulton?”
“You know me?”
Her lips curved in a most delicious manner. “I know your reputation.”
“Interesting.” Her accent marked her as not English. American, probably, but with a difficult regional accent to interpret.
“You have the advantage, madam,” he said.
She laughed. “My reputation is no better than yours, I’m afraid.”
“Now I am intrigued.”
“No doubt.” Instead of telling him more, she opened the book and flipped through a few pages. “Darwin. Hidden away here and untouched until I found it. What a waste.”
“Ridgeway owns a copy of On the Origin of Species?”
“Thank heaven,” she answered. “I’ll have something to read.”
She swept past him and disappeared around the bookshelf. A floral scent trailed after her and worked its way into his brain, creating images of lying in a field with a woman’s head on his shoulder. Priapus took note of that and stiffened with more enthusiasm than he’d shown all night.
He followed her and found her sitting beside the table with his drink in her hand. The book lay open on her lap, and as she read, she sipped the whiskey. Rather indelicately for a lady, but then, what lady drank spirits from a tumbler at all?
His surprise must have shown in his face because she lifted the glass in a toast. “Good Irish. We don’t get anything like this at home.”
“Where’s home?”
“The United States.”
“I guessed that much. Where in the United States?”
She cocked her head. “Why? Do you plan to visit me?”
“I might. I’ve never traveled in that part of the world.”
“Well, you won’t find me. I’ll be here for some time yet.” She took a healthy swallow, set the glass back down and resumed reading.
Clever thing. She’d taken the book he might have found interesting, helped herself to his drink and gotten the attentions of his cock, all without giving him any clue who the hell she was. He walked to the table and picked up the whiskey, finishing it in one swallow. She pretended not to notice, but one brow lifted and her gaze flitted briefly to the front of his pants before settling back on the page in front of her.
“Would you like another?” he asked. “Ridgeway keeps a good stock.”
“If I drank more, I might drift off out of sheer boredom.”
“You have Darwin to amuse you.”
“I’m not used to reading with an audience.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
“You’re not offending me. You’re blocking my light.”
“I’ll leave you, then.” He turned. Not exactly on his heel, but close. He’d almost made it to the library door when she laughed.
“Honestly, Mr. Boulton, I never expected you’d give up so quickly.”
“I beg your pardon.” Damn, first heel-turning and now “I beg your pardon.” She had him acting like the worst sort of prig. The type of fool he most enjoyed nettling. And he still had no bleeding idea who she was.
“A dedicated rake like you ought to be more persistent with his seduction.”
“I don’t need persistence,” he said. “I usually win easily.”
“I don’t give in easily.”
“But you do give in.”
She turned and looked at him, but her features showed no evidence of shock or even anger at a remark that could cause any decent woman to take great offense. Instead, she seemed satisfied that she’d hooked his ire to the point where he’d say something so indecent.
She swept him from head to toe with an appraising glance. “I’d expected to meet a few famous swordsmen during my visit. I didn’t anticipate finding one in a library.”
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my reputation,” he said. “You haven’t been in London long, or I would have heard of you.”
“You’re the topic of conversation for all the women here tonight. If I were looking for a lover, you’d be at the top of my list.”
His jaw fell, and he had to consciously shut his mouth. What an audacious, little witch. Worse, she sat there smiling at him as if she’d