In a Reckless Moment Read online

  BROTHERS OF THE ABSINTHE CLUB

  BOOK 3:

  IN A RECKLESS MOMENT

  by

  Emma Wildes

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  Published by

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC

  Copyright © 2017 by EMMA WILDES

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-68299-258-6

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Kelly Martin

  Editor: Dave Fields

  Printed in the United States of America

  Other Books by Author Available at Torrid Books:

  www.torridbooks.com

  by Emma Wildes

  The Switch

  Hot Sahara Wind

  Riding West

  Gone

  Lawless

  Face of the Maiden

  In the Wicked West

  Brothers of the Absinthe Club Series

  Book 1: Arabian Pearl

  Book 2: The Bloodstone Affair

  w/a Annabel Wolfe

  Pirates of London Series

  Satan’s Slave

  Between a Rake and a Hard Place

  The Devil’s Lagoon

  w/a A.C. Alexander

  A Cold, Fine Evil

  A Presence of Departed Acts

  Prologue

  London, 1817

  Jonas Maxim lifted his glass and sipped, smiling over the rim. “Ross should go next. I believe we decided that in our last meeting.”

  In a comfortable sprawl in his chair, Ross Benson lifted a brow. “I’m amiable, though my story does not involve foreign palaces with kidnapped heiresses or a clutch of bloodthirsty ghosts.”

  “What does it involve?” Gavin St. John asked, his eyes alight with curiosity. “Believe me when I say we are all ears.”

  Colin Maxim seconded the sentiment with a mock salute.

  The men all sat around a polished table in a private room in one of London’s most exclusive establishments, reserved for their use alone. The meeting of the Brothers of the Absinthe Club consisted of five firm friends, a bottle of the infamous beverage and perhaps a wild tale of a sexual exploit or two shared in confidence.

  “Well,” Ross said smoothly, “I suppose it involves passion, a dark desire for revenge, and a very beautiful, very reckless young woman.” The Earl of Grayson, Robert St. Claire, reached for the bottle to refill his glass. His silver eyes gleamed in the shrouded light. “Do tell, Winterton. I’ve been waiting for this one.”

  Chapter 1

  Cassandra Rollins blinked and rolled over, coming slowly awake. The sound of male voices raised in song certainly seemed out of place in the middle of the night, not to mention in the hallway outside her bedroom.

  She sat up and shook back her loose hair, feeling heat rise in her cheeks as she listened. As a lady, the words being sung with great zest were certainly not meant for her ears, though she easily recognized both the voices.

  The sound stopped abruptly, interrupted by a thud and followed by a low curse. Curious and a little alarmed, she slid out of bed and went to the door of her bedroom, opening it to peer out into the hall. Her brother, Timothy, was slumped against the wall in a sitting position just a few steps from the doorway of his own bedroom. Normally immaculate and formal in dress, he wore no jacket, his shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his fair hair disheveled. Eyes closed, he seemed to be sound asleep, which was ridiculous considering his position and that a few moments before he’d been singing at the top of his lungs.

  She said dryly, “I take it the two of you had a good time this evening.”

  His companion glanced up at the sound of her voice. He crouched next to Timothy, trying without apparent success to rouse him. Ross Benson, Viscount Winterton, appeared to be a great deal less inebriated, but then again, it was hard to tell. He was infamous for his smooth, polished charm and cool self-possession. Ross had recently returned from a trip to Africa and stopped over at Ivydale Manor for a visit, arriving earlier that evening. It looked like he and Timothy— lifelong friends and as close as brothers—had decided to celebrate his return to England with unfortunate enthusiasm.

  “He’s drunk.” Lord Winterton explained the obvious apologetically. His eyes, a vivid blue, were narrowed a fraction as if he was having difficulty focusing on her, and a lock of dark wavy hair fell over his brow.

  “That I gathered.” Cassandra came out in the hall, not certain if she should be amused or worried, and gazed down at her brother. “Is this at all natural?”

  “When you swill brandy and blue ruin for hours it is,” Ross muttered. “I predict we are both going have one devil of a headache in the morning. Here, if you open his door, I’ll get him to his bed.”

  Complying, she watched him heave Tim over one broad shoulder with some difficulty. Her brother didn’t even murmur in protest. They were both tall men and about the same size, and Ross staggered a little as he managed the steps down the hall and into her brother’s bedroom. She followed his weaving progress across the room and was relieved when Timothy was flopped finally on to the bed. Immediately, he began to snore. “Let’s take off his boots,” Cassandra suggested with only a modicum of sympathy, “but otherwise he can sleep it off like he is.”

  “That’s sounds fair enough.” There was just a faint slur in the viscount’s voice.

  Working together, they divested Timothy of his fitted boots, and Cassandra covered him with a blanket since the night was a little cool, tucking it around his limp form.

  It was a fact she remembered when she shivered slightly, a small draft brushing her bare shoulders.

  “It’s no wonder you’re cold, Cassie, you’re barely dressed,” Ross said softly.

  She glanced up at the tone of his voice and saw he stared down at her, openly studying the curve of her breasts through the thin material of her nightdress. He grinned boyishly, a careless curve of his well- shaped mouth. “Not that I’m objecting, mind you. My sincere compliments.”

  Her nipples were even visible, she realized in mortified chagrin, dark circles against the thin cloth. Fighting the urge to cross her arms over her chest, she said defensively, “I was sound asleep before the two of you woke me.”

  He rubbed his jaw, but thankfully moved his gaze back to her face. “I guess I’d better get to bed, as well. Damned if I can remember which room is mine.”

  Unfailingly polite and charming, he never would have normally sworn in front of her, much less commented so outrageously on her physical attributes. Cassandra wondered suddenly if he wasn’t much more intoxicated than she had first assumed. “I’ll show you,” she said in amused resignation. “I’d hate to have you stumble into Aunt Gloria’s room and crawl into bed with her.”

  Ross looked slightly horrified at that thought, her aunt being not only formidable and rigidly proper, but also unquestionably stout. “Thank you.”

  He’d been given one of the guest rooms just a s
hort way down the hall. They had only gone a few steps before he swayed a little and stumbled. She made a small sound of dismay, picturing him toppling over like Timothy, perhaps even hurting himself. Catching him around the waist, she helped him regain his balance. Ross murmured, “Sorry, bloody bad form, I know.”

  His arm came around her shoulders for support, warm and strong. Like Timothy, he had discarded his jacket at some point in their raucous revels, and his white lawn shirt was open at the throat. She couldn’t help but notice his scent, the heady odor of brandy balanced by a woodsy masculine cologne and clean linen. Lean and muscular, his body was warm, almost hot.

  As if in echo of her wayward thoughts, he murmured, “You smell good. Like flowers.”

  “It’s not far to your room,” she replied in a strangled voice, thinking this was most certainly unsettling and all she wanted was to get him to their destination and flee back to her bed.

  They made it through the doorway of his bedroom, and Cassandra saw with relief that his valet had earlier turned back the bed. Though he didn’t lean heavily on her, Ross’s arm was securely anchored around her shoulders. To her dismay, when they were close, he seemed to finally lose his balance. Pulling her with him, he fell onto the bed so she went sprawling across his hard chest. He had the nerve to laugh, a low masculine sound that echoed in the dark, as she scrambled off. “Can I ask one more favor as a guest? Could you also help me with my boots? I’m pretty sure I can’t quite manage it in my current state, but have no desire to sleep wearing them.”

  For a moment she thought about refusing. He was too compellingly good-looking, with his glossy dark hair, chiseled features, and those mesmerizing blue eyes. During his travels he had acquired a fine tan, which suited him. Since she had harbored a secret infatuation with her older brother’s friend ever since she could remember, this situation was a trifle unfair.

  “Fine,” she muttered, taking the heel of one polished Hessian in her hand and tugging. Ross didn’t help at all, but merely lay there and watched her, that faint, darkly attractive smile on his mouth, his long fingers slowly unbuttoning his shirt, exposing the bronzed, well- muscled planes of his chest. She was admittedly fascinated, but it was unladylike to stare, so she concentrated on pulling off his boots instead.

  Lord, I need to leave, he’s actually starting to undress…

  The second boot dropped on the floor with a resounding thud, and she turned hastily to leave. “Good night, Ross.”

  “Wait.” With surprising speed, his hand snared her wrist, tugging her back. “Don’t run away.”

  The tone of his voice made another shiver—this one having nothing to do with the cool evening—run down her spine. Cassandra stared at him. The feel of his long, graceful fingers around her arm was insistent and unrelenting. His shirt gaped open to his waist, showing a well-defined torso, and she averted her gaze. “Why should I wait? Please, Ross, I shouldn’t even be here in your bedroom alone with you. Your intoxicated state would be a poor defense if anyone caught us.”

  “I always knew, even when you were younger, you were going to be damned beautiful. My instincts didn’t fail me. When I arrived earlier, I couldn’t believe my eyes. In the past year, you’ve become a woman in every way.”

  That incautious statement, coupled with the suddenly predatory glitter in his eyes, made her catch her breath. “If that is a compliment…thank you, I suppose. Now, please let me go.”

  His gaze deliberately traveled up and down her body, as if he could see clearly through the gauzy material of her nightdress. “You’re stunning, Cassie.”

  “And you’re drunk,” she responded, a little panicked. Although it was one of her fantasies for the handsome Lord Winterton to notice her, it wasn’t quite like this. That particular daydream had involved bouquets of flowers, poetry, and romantic waltzes in his arms while all of London society sighed in envy at his unprecedented devotion. There was definitely no empty brandy bottle involved or her brother snoring just a few rooms away.

  “Kiss me good night.” His smile was impudent, the blatant heat in his eyes a new experience, but then again, she had virtually no experience at all.

  The man simply could not be serious. “I can’t,” she said in desperation, but found she looked at his mouth anyway. It was sensuous and well-shaped, one corner slightly lifted, emphasizing a dimple in his cheek.

  One ebony brow elevated suggestively and his fingers stayed in place, still holding her lightly, but firmly. “It is a shame you stay here, buried in the country. Tell me, have you ever been kissed?”

  She hadn’t, of course, since she was diligently chaperoned by Aunt Gloria at all times she was around eligible young males. “No.” She swallowed hard after that admission, wanting to run, but also anchored by something hard to define.

  “Let me be the first. I want to taste you.” The proposition was made in a husky sexy whisper that made her feel flushed all over.

  It was tempting…very tempting, and he didn’t act as if he was going to let her go—although she was convinced if she was truly resistant, he would never force her to do anything she didn’t want to do, no matter what his state of impairment. He was an undeniable rake of some stature, but he was also a gentleman.

  That was part of the trouble, of course, with his experience, he seemed to sense she very much did want to kiss him. “One kiss,” she capitulated, giving a small gasp as he responded by pulling her into his arms and lifting her onto the bed.

  He moved fluidly, rolling over so he was on top of her, his mouth hovering over hers. “One kiss,” he whispered, and his lips captured hers.

  It was shocking, scandalous, and wonderful. Heat, the feel of his lean length over her, the subtle pressure of his lips, both firm and smooth…he tasted of heady brandy and something unidentifiable and definitely more intoxicating. When his tongue slipped into her mouth, brushing hers, Cassandra felt an almost languorous enjoyment suddenly weigh her limbs. A small but distinct throb tightened her breasts and centered between her legs.

  Is this desire?

  His was unmistakable, a bold, hard length filling his breeches, pressing against the juncture of her thighs through their clothing. Ross continued to explore her mouth, his weight braced on one elbow, his body pinning her to the bed. His free hand tangled in her hair at first, his long fingers finding the curve of her cheek, gently sliding down her neck and along her collarbone. Cassandra didn’t at first realize he’d slipped free the satin ribbon on her nightdress, not until he pulled the cloth down and bared her shoulder and left breast.

  Her nipple puckered at the sudden coolness of the night air, and she shifted a fraction in open alarm. A kiss was one thing, but…

  “Don’t be afraid, sweet Cassie,” he whispered against her lips as his hand cupped exposed flesh, cradling it in his palm. When his thumb grazed her nipple, she stifled a moan, it felt so marvelous.

  But, still, they shouldn’t.

  “Ross—” she said, cut off when his mouth took hers again, this time with less gentle persuasion and more urgent need. He stroked her breast with skillful fingers as he kissed her deeply, his touch gentle but sure. When he finally lifted his head, she took in a long shuddering breath.

  “Doesn’t this feel good?” he asked, kissing the sensitive spot under her ear. The words were a low whisper as he continued to fondle her, lightly kneading and stroking.

  “Yes,” she admitted shyly, touching his hair, something she had always wanted to do. It was so thick and dark, the texture silky in contrast to the hardness of his long body. She slid her fingers deep into the strands and hesitantly along the corded strength of his neck.

  “You’re so soft, Cassie. Soft and perfect,” he murmured in that silky seductive tone that seemed hold her prisoner, as he pulled her loosened gown lower, off the other shoulder and down her arms to her waist. His stare was fastened on her bare breasts. “Just the right size. I have never favored huge breasts. Yours are nothing short of spectacular, sweetheart.”

  A bl
ush crept into her cheeks. It felt distinctly odd to let a man look at her in such a way, but then again, the heated look in his eyes told her he was sincere in the compliment. She must have taken complete leave of her senses anyway to be in bed with the rakish Lord Winterton, Cassie reminded herself hazily. Letting him strip her half- naked and fondle her breasts, which felt tight and full, that was purest insanity. His statement alone reminded her of his reputation for dalliance with the beautiful, sophisticated ladies of society. He was undoubtedly an expert on breasts of all sizes and shapes.

  If his good judgment wasn’t marred by drink, she doubted he would ever even dream of touching her. Marriageable young ladies were not part of his sexual diet. In the morning, he was going to regret this, and most probably so would she. Normally, he treated her with casual, teasing affection.

  She needed to go back to her own room right now, before things got even more out of hand. “We need to stop,” she said, a low whisper in the dark room.

  “What I need is you, sweetheart.”

  His mouth slid down her throat, making her shiver, his breath warm and heady. Finding her nipple, his lips closed over the tingling peak, sucking lightly and wickedly. Her hands grasped his shoulders and she arched, sensation streaking to her womb, warmth building between her legs.

  What is he doing to me?

  The delicate play of his tongue on the crest of her breast and the warm adhesion of his mouth was like a revelation. Long, skillful fingers cupped the other breast as he suckled, stroking, gently squeezing, making her tremble in involuntary response. He continued, lavishing attention on both her breasts until her breath came in short uneven gasps and all thoughts of practicality were banished.

  She was being seduced, and no longer had any desire to fight it. “I’m on fire,” he muttered against her skin, kissing the valley between the mounded flesh cupped in his hands. “I need to feel all of you against me. Now.”