Ripe for Pleasure Read Online Free PDF Page B

the roof of the carriage, the longest curling
     down as if bowing.
    Leo allowed himself a smile, picturing the looks on people’s faces when they entered together. He was about to cause an unholy
     amount of gossip. But this very public display was necessary for Mrs. Whedon to continue in the belief that it was Sir Hugo
     she needed protection from, and that Leo had taken on the challenge. And when the lady did finally take him to her bed, that
     alone might make it worth the trouble. “Ready to face the lions?”
    Mrs. Whedon smiled back, just a slight upswing of her lips, gone almost before it started, not even a crease in her powdered
     cheek to mark its passing. She ran her hands over her petticoats, smoothing them over her knees, then dipped her head and
     fiddled with one of the pins that secured her gown to its stomacher. “It’s only the
ton.
I’ve faced worse.”
    Leo caught the tight expression on her face and was unsure whether to attribute it to the strain of their approaching debut
     or to give her words more weight than he normally would, considering her flippant tone. Before he could undertake any further
     interrogation, the carriage lurched to a halt and the door swung open, the steps falling with a soft
thunk
at the footman’s instigation.
    Mrs. Whedon met his gaze steadily, then rose and allowed the footman to hand her out. Leo jumped downafter her and watched with amusement as she shook out her skirts, haughty as any of the grand dames of the
ton.
She had presence, and she clearly knew she drew the eye. She expected to do so.
    Mrs. Whedon tipped her head and held out her hand. He took it, settled it on his arm, and led her toward the theatre’s entrance,
     pushing past the gaping throng without so much as a nod. Let them wonder. Let them marvel. So long as they took note—so long
     as word got back to Sir Hugo, and whatever game he’d been playing with Mrs. Whedon ended before it interfered with Leo’s own—he
     didn’t care what they thought or said.
    This was a grand performance. The protector claiming his mistress. The dog warning off the rest of the pack. This is mine.
     Don’t touch. The point wouldn’t be lost on Sir Hugo or Mrs. Whedon.
    If it wouldn’t have resulted in a screaming match with his mother—and one he was destined to lose—he’d have fastened the family
     rubies around Mrs. Whedon’s throat as an unmistakable declaration of ownership. As it was, she was wearing a shocking collar
     of topazes, given to her by Lord only knew who.
    The desire to rip them off nearly stole his breath. There was something deeply unsettling about having her parading about
     in another man’s gift. The fact that it bothered him was more unsettling still. The performance was leaching into reality.
    If she’d been truly his, an awe-inspiring parure would have been in order. Something to send those damn topazes to the bottom
     of her jewelry case for good. Peridots, or perhaps coral. Coral would be amazing with her hair.
    But she wasn’t. His. Not now, not ever. And even if she were, such a gift was well beyond his purse. Mrs. Whedon was a means
     to an end. A delightful means, but nothing more. Though it was all too easy to forget such quibbles when he looked at her,
     when he was plotting out how—where—to touch her.
    Viola curled her hand more securely around Lord Leonidas’s arm as they pushed through the crowd. His arm was hard under the
     silk, the veiled strength comforting in the crowd. For the first time in days, she felt utterly secure. Sir Hugo wouldn’t
     dare bother her, under the circumstances.
    After ascending several flights of crowded stairs, they arrived at the Vaughn family box. It was blissfully empty, a softly
     lit corner of the world where they were both entirely alone and dramatically on display, like a magnificent curio in a glass
     display case.
    Viola took several deep, calming breaths and raised her chin a hair as Vaughn seated her on one of the dainty gilded