In the Flesh Read Free Page B

lost, beloved Clara. His first marriage had been fully and mutually satisfying in that department, as well as happy in every other way.
    As the efficient footman approached, weaving his way through the chattering, preening guests, Ritchie slipped the photograph safely back into his pocket.
    The whiskey was fire and peat on his tongue, and it settled him.
    Yes, he could view the photograph, and the others like it, and take pleasure in them whenever he wanted.
    But they, and the ministrations of his own hand, weren’t nearly enough now. He had to touch and admire the woman herself. From that isolated moment of contact, his fingers still tingled, feeling the warmth of her skin, and its softness where he’d held her upper arm. His entire body still felt the aftershocks of that singular instant, and his stiff cock jerked anew from simply reliving it.
    I’ll feast on you, divine Beatrice. I’ll draw from you every last ounce of sensuality that’s in you. Because I know it’s there, even though you might deny it now. I’ll taste and stroke every last inch of your flesh, and I’ll feel your exquisite fingertips on my cock returning that pleasure.
    And I’ll do it soon, because if I don’t, I might go mad.
    Mad? God no… The most unfortunate choice of word. Raising his glass to his lips again, he shuddered as if an icy specter had drifted across his grave.
    No! No dark thoughts now. Beatrice Weatherly was light. Heat. Passion. Everything positive and full of glorious, abundant life.
    And, thanks to her imprudent brother’s bad investments, and his foolhardy days at the racetrack and nights at the card table, The Siren of South Mulberry Street was now Ritchie’s for the taking.

CHAPTER TWO
    Creatures of the Tropics
    BEATRICE FELT AS if her head was on a spring, it swiveled about so often during the dancing.
    She wanted to freeze stock-still in the middle of the ballroom, turn around, and angrily demand that Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie stop staring at her!
    But the trouble was, every time she was convinced he was watching her, the aggravating beast wasn’t there. Had he become invisible all of a sudden? Was he watching her by some arcane, remote means, like a medium?
    And if wasn’t watching her, why not? Absurdly, his lack of scrutiny now annoyed her even more than being watched had.
    With a supreme effort, she maintained a courteous interest in her partners, of which, surprisingly, there were quite a few. Obviously, her notoriety as the Siren was attracting most of the men, but it was still a pleasant relief not to be a wallflower, as a twenty-four-year-old spinster with no money and a besmirched reputation should expect to be.
    She danced with Charlie, of course, who lectured her throughout, and stumbled once or twice, too. Brandy on his breath told a clear story, but Beatrice made a point of being especially patient and agreeable. It wasn’t all her fault that her brother’s life was difficult, but she certainly hadn’t helped matters by being so gullible in her dealings with Eustace Lloyd, and by leaving it so long to entertain a new suitor at all.
    She shared a waltz with Monsieur Chamfleur, tall and bluff and jolly, as well as a cotillion with Lord Southern himself, and several other whirls about the floor with the charming Mr. Enderby, and one or two other husbands of the ladies in her Sewing Circle.
    Ah yes, the Ladies’ Sewing Circle. Beatrice smiled wryly. Not much of a stitcher, she would never have joined such a group in the normal course of events, but when a card had arrived out of the blue, inviting her, she’d fallen upon it gladly. In the weeks since those accursed cabinet cards had begun circulating, along with a fruity exposé about them in Marriott’s Monde, all other social avenues had dried up to a state of desiccation. Backs had turned on her at church, the Ladies’ Charitable Guild had requested she not attend anymore, and likewise a ladies’ reading group she’d not long joined but had been