Page 3

Yes, he thought, the belt is the problem. He smirked at the absurdity.

Vivienne moaned, her lips working over his cock, the smacking sounds filling the room. Gideon placed his palm on her head, guiding her, his hips pumping in a steady rhythm.

He glanced at the mantelpiece. He’d spent enough time here with Vivienne for her to brag about their encounter, as he knew she would. If any busybody noted his absence from the ballroom, they’d soon learn it had been spent in the arms—or rather, in the mouth—of Vivienne.

She was infamous for her trysts, even before her husband’s death.

That was why he chose her.

With a grunt, he spilled into her mouth—then pulled back to let the last of it drip onto her chin and bodice.

She’d need to change. That would spark questions. Force her to explain.

She’d talk. She always did.

He stepped back and watched her lick her lips before swallowing loudly.

“Since you’ve sullied my gown and ensured I’ll have to change,” she said, “will you do me the honor of undressing me and joining me in my bed?”

Gideon suppressed a grimace.

The idea of lingering in her presence made his skin crawl. He felt no warmth in her body, no comfort in her touch, and no pleasure in her arms.

Just reflex. An imitation of desire.

And something about taking a woman in her dead husband’s bed—especially considering how the man had died and by whose hand—felt foul.

If he were more depraved, he might have taken satisfaction in the act.

But Gideon rarely felt satisfaction. And certainly not like this.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his cock clean of both their residues.

“No.” He buttoned the falls of his breeches and walked toward the side door. “Is this your dressing room?”

“Yes,” Vivienne replied irritably, a handkerchief pressed to her lips, still kneeling. “You won’t even offer me a hand?”

Gideon didn’t answer; he simply walked into the dressing room, leaving the door open to let in a sliver of light.

“How rude,” came her voice from the other room.

Gideon hunched over a basin in the dressing room, his breathing loud.

“I love your gentle soul,” the soft whisper of a memory echoed in his mind.

It had been fifteen years. The gentle man he’d once been was gone.

And so was she.

He poured water into the basin and scrubbed his hands clean.

A dark stain on his shirt cuff caught his eye. Just a speck, but noticeable enough. He scrubbed at it, but the stain had already set.

Cursing under his breath, he tugged his jacket sleeve down to hide it, then dusted off his coat, ran a hand through his hair, and gathered it into a queue.

He was ready. He looked the part now. Slightly disheveled, but not too undone.

Just like a rake after a midnight tryst.