The Last of Lady Lansdown Read Online Free PDF Page A

ring—originally one of the French crown jewels. He ran his finger over another favorite, a pearl and amber necklace once owned by a Russian czarina. He had allowed Jane to wear it at dinner. Not that she deserved to wear it, but how else could he display the family treasures? He closed the lid, carried the box to the fireplace, and set the box down. With both hands, he slid up one of the large stones from the hearth. Then he picked up the box and dropped it into the large, empty cavity beneath, replacing the stone. A fine hiding place . He was the only one who knew of it. Someday he would make other arrangements. After all, he would not live forever, but no need to worry now. He heard a discreet knock on his door. “Enter!”
    She glided in, holding herself tall, lovely as always. At dinner she had looked strikingly beautiful with her upswept hair intertwined with pearls, the pearl and amber necklace around her swanlike neck and a gown of white satin displaying her magnificent breasts to perfection. Now she had changed into her tartish, red velvet dressing gown, the one he ordered specially made for her. He insisted she wear it whenever she came to his bedchamber. She had not said as much, but he knew she hated it. How she must despise him. His mouth pulled into a cynical smile. He would change her hate to panting desire before the night was over.
    “Good evening, m’lord.” Her voice was quiet, courteous, and oozed with innate sensuality.
    He loathed the woman, absolutely loathed her. What he loathed the most was how she stood there with her head held high, shoulders squared, the hint of an inscrutable smile playing on her full red lips. Well, she did not fool him. He had to look deep but could always find the gleam of defiance buried in the depths of those turquoise blue eyes. God’s blood! He had tried to tame her, but thus far nothing he did could efface that gleam. It was as if he could not reach her, as if her body might belong to him, but her soul within would remain ever aloof, unmindful of whatever small cruelty he might inflict upon her.
    He would take care of that tonight.
    He picked up the two glasses and offered one to her. “Come sit by the fire. This is my finest Madeira.”
    Glass in hand, she seated herself in a chair by the fireplace. He sat opposite and raised his glass in a toast. “To a pleasant evening.”
    “To a pleasant evening.” Her voice held no warmth. Flames from the fireplace danced a golden reflection in her wine as she raised it to her lips. She took a long sip. “It’s very good.”
    “It ought to be. It’s from Malvasia. True liquid gold, they say. Gentle and smooth, seductive, mysterious, sensual. It’s the elixir deities suckle from, not the drink mere mortals can bear.” He took his first sip. “Been in my cellar for years.”
    “My, my,” she replied without enthusiasm. “What’s the occasion?”
    “Drink up, my dear. You will soon find out.” He watched her tilt her head back to take another sip, feeling a stirring within himself as he devoured the tantalizing sight of that slender white neck and the suggestion of those delicious, naked curves beneath her red velvet dressing gown.
    Why wait? With one swift gesture, he brought his glass to his lips and gulped its contents. The wine cut a warm, smooth path down his gullet. It tasted delicious despite all those drops of Spanish Fly he had added. Better get her to his bed. He was told on good authority it worked almost instantly, without fail . He laughed to himself. That fool Felton thought he wanted it for his wife. What nonsense. Why waste a drop of his precious aphrodisiac on a woman?
    “Come to bed, Jane. Now.”
    * * * *
     
    Beneath the covers of the canopied bed, Jane lay waiting for her husband to join her. A sinking feeling overwhelmed her. What was she doing here? How could she live with this detestable man for the rest of her life? In happier times long gone, she had been Miss Jane Hart, the respected,