8. Chapter Eight

Acheap doxie. An unfaithful strumpet. A loose whore. Society used harsh words to pass judgment on women who enjoyed sex.

A charming rake. A handsome rogue. A fun-loving scoundrel. So why did the phrases used for men such as him feel like compliments?

And why did he suddenly care about others' opinions and meaningless words? His sister-in-law, Evangeline, had once told him that underneath his carefree exterior, she thought him introspective. Could it be true?

Nay. Probably not. A truly laughable notion.

However, Katrina Harrington was correct. While the ton might find his antics acceptable, perchance even winsome, they'd cast disparaging accusations against her for their behavior in the gardens.

Somehow, he had to prevent Greyson from outing their secret and destroying Katrina's reputation. But how to stop a man with no conscience who wanted her for himself?

The damn chit would be the death of him. She was so blasted infuriating. So damn beautiful. And he bloody desired her. Every time she came near him, his anger simmered, and he hummed with need. He was quite good at hiding his pique behind a smart-arse grin. His overwhelming desire was not as easy to conceal.

Her lingering smell of roses hung in the air. He inhaled deep, and his frigging cock hardened.

Well, there was no way he was solving problems with a damn tent in his trousers. He fell backward, landing in the center of his mattress. Placing a palm on his aching bulge, he squeezed.

"Fuck." Hard as oak.

The blasted thing was painful, so ignoring it wasn't a plausible solution. Reaching into his trousers, he fisted his tingling prick.

Sweat dripped, damping his shirt. A whirling sensation took hold in his belly. He moaned and stroked harder. Then faster. He was so damn close.

Knocking startled him. He halted his frigging to stare at the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Bloody hell," he murmured.

If he ignored his visitor, he or she might go away. But what if it was Katrina? She might need him. She might desire him. She might take care of his aching cock.

Well, probably not. But a man could fantasize. He situated his body parts and clothing, and balls burning, strode to the door.

Regrettably, the pretty woman standing in his doorway was not Katrina Harrington. Instead, a young maid, her arms full of bedding, smiled up at him. Although she dressed in her black uniform, her hair was not in the chignon the maids at Yardley Manor typically wore, and her mobcap was nowhere to be seen.

Evan did a double take to make sure he wasn't seeing things, because her brilliant red locks hung to her shoulders, her cheeks were rouged, and she fluttered her light lashes.

Huh. He hadn't recognized her at first. But this was Fanny. He'd been introduced to her days ago, and the pretty chit had been sending him sideway glances since he'd arrived.

She boldly met his gaze. "Master Eaton, I've brought you fresh linens."

He leaned against the door frame and grinned at her. "I think someone already changed my sheets while I was at breakfast." He pointed to his bed.

The rumpled counterpane probably outed his afternoon indiscretion. At least he hadn't spurted his seed all over it. On second thought, it was a shame he hadn't come. For if he had, he might not be standing there staring at a flirtatious maid while his aching cock strained against his trousers.

"Hmm," she said. "I was told I should take care of you."

Take care of him,indeed. He knew women, and he was being propositioned.

She closed the door, shutting the two of them in the room together. Her hips swayed as she crossed the room and set the linens on the mattress. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. Her grin was mischievous and seeped in sensual intent.

His shoulders back, he peacocked to her. "Fanny, correct?"

Her face lit up. "Sir, I am flattered you remember me."

"I never forget a beautiful woman," he said.

"Oh, my." She bit her lip.

He should strip her naked, throw her onto the bed, and tup her until the memories of Katrina Harrington's scent and pleading blue eyes faded to nothingness. First, he'd retrieve his always-ready male sheath from the nightstand drawer, and then he'd sink into her soft curves.

Her breath hitched, and her arse wriggled in an inviting taunt as she crawled onto his mattress. "Is it true what they say about you?"

"It depends on what they say." Evan lifted a brow and sent her his most wicked grin.

"They say you can bring a woman pleasure beyond her wildest imagination."

He chuckled. "Who says that?"

Of course, he knew who said that. Chambermaids. Milkmaids. Widowed countesses. Bored baronesses. Women he'd tupped. Women he hadn't tupped. The whispering ton, engaging in salacious gossip. Still, his ego enjoyed being stroked, and the rumors had started somewhere. And yes, he took immense pride in making women scream his name. Therefore, he eagerly awaited her response.

"Everyone." Fanny lifted her arms overhead, stretching her body long as if she were a feline in heat.

Hell's bells. Fanny, thefertile feline, should come with a Beware of Peril warning, and the last thing he needed was another difficult woman. Katrina Harrington was troublesome enough.

Oh, Katrina. What would she do if she could see him now? Perchance she'd feel jealousy. Or mayhap curiosity about his bedroom skills. But most likely, she'd glare at him with that disapproving scowl, and he was damn tired of that.

"Please forgive me. I am to meet Lord Wellspring," he said.

Kneeling on his bed, the chambermaid watched with sad eyes as he shoved his sketchpad under his arm and tugged his art satchel from the wardrobe.

Without looking back, he slammed his door closed. His bloody prick was so swollen that it was difficult to dash down the hall. But somehow, he managed. He only stopped to breathe once he stood at Wellspring's chamber. Before he had a chance to knock, the earl opened the door.

"Eaton, you look as if you were in the fencing piste and lost." Wellspring sniffed him. "And you smell bloody foul."

Evan swiped a palm over his sweat-soaked brow. Damnation. It had been a hell of an afternoon.

"I think I need fresh air," he said. "Let us head to the overlook we picnicked on yesterday."

"Do you have all of your sketching supplies?" Wellspring asked.

Evan tapped his satchel. "Of course."

"Not to be an arse, Eaton, but you are quite forgetful."

Evan tensed, preparing to tell Wellspring to go to hell. Instead, he swallowed his bitter lump and chuckled. "Bugger off, Earl. Now let us go."