A Sinful Deception

by Isabella Bradford

  It wasn’t a wifely kiss, either, because it had a great deal more to convey than a mere dutiful kiss could manage. She remembered how he’d kissed her before and what he’d liked, and she tried to do it again, boldly slanting her mouth over his and kissing him with as much eagerness as she dared. She wanted him to understand how much she appreciated his concern for her, and how she’d never take the word of others over his. She wanted him to know that she regarded the vows she’d made earlier every bit as seriously.

  But most of all, she wanted to show him that she loved him, even if she still wasn’t certain of the words, and she guessed that kissing him would be the next-best way to express herself.

  It didn’t take long for her to realize she’d guessed correctly.

  As her lips moved over his, he made a muttered, rumbling sound of surprise and pleasure. At once he curved one arm around her waist to pull her close to him, while his other hand cradled the back of her head as if to make sure she wouldn’t escape. She was sitting across his lap, their faces so close she felt his breath on her cheek, swaying together with the motion of the carriage. She was struck all over again by how stunningly handsome he was, from the sharply sculpted lines of his cheekbones and jaw to the sensuous temptation of his lips, the slash of dark brows over the most beautifully blue eyes she’d ever seen on a man.

  Eyes that were, at present, entirely focused on her.

  “My wife,” he said, managing to sound commanding and awestruck at the same time. “Mērī patnī. My wife.”

  “Mērē pati, my husband.” Overwhelmed with emotion and suddenly shy, she struggled to smile. She ran her hands over his chest, marveling again at how he was all hard muscle and bone and strength beneath his extravagantly embroidered wedding clothes. “It sounds as fine in English as it does in Hindi, doesn’t it?”

  “No matter the language, it means you’re mine.” The edge to his voice remained from earlier, dark and a little dangerous. He tangled his fingers into her hair to draw her closer, heedless of the havoc he was doubtless causing to her elaborate wedding curls. When he sealed his lips over hers and claimed her mouth, he made her forget everything except that she was his.

  He made her first little kiss seem as insubstantial as a feather by comparison. Instead he kissed her as if he’d devour her, his mouth hot and demanding. Her hat toppled backward, and she didn’t care, nor did she care that he’d somehow whisked away the filmy lace kerchief that had modestly covered the top of her bodice. Deftly he scooped one of her breasts free from the low neckline, cupping it in his palm and teasing the nipple into a stiff little peak with his thumb.

  “You like that, don’t you?” he said, a question that seemed to her to be completely unnecessary. Sensation rippled through her with astonishing speed, and she caught her breath even as he kissed her again. He was so much more skilled at this, so much more adept at both giving and taking pleasure, that she felt light-headed from it. Effortlessly he eased her from his lap to the cushioned seat, and her eyes fluttered open just enough for her to see the blue afternoon sky over his shoulder.

  She circled her hands around his back to draw him down, too, relishing his weight atop her and his hand on her breast. She adored how he kissed, demanding and possessive in a way that left her breathless with excitement. It was as if the few weeks they’d been kept apart had vanished, and they were once again lying together on the cushioned bench in the breakfast parlor.

  Except they weren’t. Then she’d been wearing only the insubstantial silk sultana over a shift, and now she was trapped by her own finery. With a whimper of impatience, she struggled to shift beneath Geoffrey, fighting against the boned stays and the turban ornament, hoops, and petticoats and other sundry layers of clothing that were keeping her apart from him.

  “Damnation, this is wrong.” Abruptly Geoffrey left her and sat upright.

  “What is wrong?” Serena asked in breathless confusion, propping herself up on her elbows. “We’re married now.”

  “That’s exactly why it’s wrong,” he said, his expression showing exactly how difficult this was for him. “You’re my wife. I can’t ravish you on the seat of a carriage as if you were some tawdry Covent Garden strumpet.”

  She realized that she must look very much like that strumpet with her breasts exposed and her pelisse shoved aside, and heaven knows she’d been behaving like one, too. Swiftly she pulled her bodice back in place and sat upright, her cheeks flaming.

  “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “It’s my fault.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said sharply. “Not one thing.”

  He seized her hand and pressed it to the fall of his breeches. Behind it his cock was large and hard, its throbbing heat palpable through the layers of cloth. Shocked, she tried to pull her hand away, but he held it there.

  “That is what you’ve done to me, Serena,” he said, his voice harsh, “and I’d never wish it otherwise. But what I want now, this moment, is to throw up your skirts and spread you wide and take you hard and fast, the way I’ve been imagining ever since I first saw you. I want to make you cry out with pleasure, and I want to bury my cock so deep inside you that you’d never wish me to stop. Then I want to do it again in my bed, in my room, and again and again after that, in every manner and posture we can contrive, and still I’ll want more. More of you, Serena.”

  She should have been stunned, even appalled, and she’d vague memories of how her aunt had warned her to be prepared for the marital demands that even the most well-bred of gentlemen might make upon a wife.

  But she wasn’t stunned or appalled. Not at all. To sit here now, tousled and aching from his kisses and caresses, with her hand pressed to his cock while he told her of what exactly he wished to do to her, was the most exciting thing she’d experienced in her life. Her lips were parted with anticipation, her entire body feverish for everything he described. He wanted her, and oh, how she wanted him.

  “Yes,” she whispered, all she could manage, all that was necessary. “Yes.”

  Before he could respond, the carriage door swung open. Neither of them had noticed that the carriage had stopped, or that the footmen had stepped down to unfasten the door and unfold the steps. Now four liveried footmen, their wedding ribbons pinned to their chests, stood at attention on either side of the carriage’s open door while the butler himself stood at the front door of Geoffrey’s house, with the rest of the staff doubtless waiting just inside.

  And their first glimpse of their mortified new mistress would be of her hatless and her clothing crumpled and in disarray, with her hand held firmly to the front of their master’s breeches.

  CHAPTER

  11

  “Come with me,” Geoffrey said, climbing down and reaching for Serena’s hand to help her from the carriage. For her sake, he regretted that they’d been taken by surprise like this. He never gave much thought to his servants—they’d seen him in plenty more embarrassing situations over the years—but she was bound to feel differently as the new mistress, and he could understand why she might be distressed.

  Even now she hesitated in the carriage doorway, like a beautiful exotic bird on a perch. She’d lost her hat, her hair was half-unpinned, her silk skirts were crushed and creased. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks and lips were still flushed from his kisses. She looked equally ravishing and ravishable, and the unified thought of his brain and his cock (not necessarily in that order) was to lead her inside and upstairs to his bedchamber as quickly as possible.

  She’d retrieved her wedding bouquet, and was clutching it tightly in her hand. At some point, the bouquet must have ended up beneath them, leaving the white roses broken and crushed. Ruefully he thought of how none of the roses he’d given her ever seemed to stand much of a chance; yet forlorn as the bouquet was, it also served as a caution for him, a reminder not to let his own desire run roughshod over her. She was making a brave show, much as the roses had done, but she was also so much smaller and more delicate than he was that if he
didn’t slow down and stop behaving like the village bull in rut, he’d end up hurting her.

  “Come inside with me, Serena,” he said, striving to sound welcoming. “It’s your home now as well as mine.”

  She looked past him, at the front of the house. He’d always thought it one of the most handsome on Bloomsbury Square—four elegant stories of brick, picked out with white, and a grand entry—but now he worried that she’d somehow find it wanting. With no claim to the dukedom, his house was not so grand as either his father’s house or his older brother’s, but thanks to the generous foresight of his mother and aunt, it was his with a hundred-year lease.

  “The pictures and furnishings are rather nice,” he continued. “You’ll see once we’re inside.”

  Some wayward breeze caught the hem of her petticoats, swirling them upward above her ankles.

  Of course he looked.

  Of course he forgot all about furnishings, and instead recalled what he’d seen of the pretty shape of her ankles and calves. From there he began imagining the rest of her naked, and all bets upon civility were instantly off.

  Manfully he cleared his throat, his hand still outstretched toward her.

  “All I ask is that you trust me, Serena,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” she said, swiftly and without hesitation. “Yes.”

  Impulsively he plucked her around the waist and swept her from the carriage into his arms. She gasped with surprise, yet clung to his shoulders as he carried her up the two white marble steps and into the house. He’d heard of superstitious country grooms carrying their brides over the threshold like this for good luck and a long life together; he wasn’t above hoping it would work for him and Serena as well.

  As he set her down in the front hall, her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright with what he hoped was anticipation. He would have kissed her again if they weren’t standing before his household’s servants, all waiting in a neat line of hierarchy to be presented to the new mistress. It was a ritual that could take a good forty-five minutes or more to review each servant’s name, position, and duties—forty-five minutes that Geoffrey was in no mood to stop and squander today.

  “Colburn,” he began without pausing, addressing his butler as he led Serena through the hall and up the stairs. “Lady Geoffrey has every desire to meet the staff, but she is weary from the day’s festivities, and must ask to postpone the greeting until tomorrow.”

  “We should have stopped,” Serena said breathlessly as he hurried her along the upstairs hall to his rooms. “I’m their new mistress. What will they think of me now?”

  “They’ll think that your husband is more interested in you being his new wife than their new mistress,” he said, throwing open the door to his bedchamber for her.

  Everything was simply but luxuriously appointed, from the plush Turkish carpet on the floor to the silver candlesticks on the elaborately carved mantelpiece. The mahogany bedstead dominated the room, the tester hung in dark blue damask that matched the counterpane. The servants had pointedly prepared the bed for them, with the counterpane already turned back and the feather pillows plumped. Opposite the bed hung a large Italian painting of Venus and Mars together, their amatory combat eminently suitable for a bachelor bedchamber. Dusk was beginning to fall, and outside in the street the first lamps were being lit for the night. He followed their suit, and lit a handful of candles in the room.

  “So this is your bedchamber,” Serena said, giving the room only the most cursory glance. She seemed unable to stand still, unconsciously dancing small steps around the room with the bedraggled bouquet still clutched in one hand, innocently provocative. “Where is mine?”

  “Your rooms are at the other end of the hall.” He stood before her, intentionally leaving a small distance between them and giving her time to accustom herself to being alone with him. For her sake, he was determined to control his own urgency. After all, she was his wife, and he intended to seduce her, not ravish her. “They overlook the garden.”

  “So far from yours?” she asked, her disappointment gratifying.

  “Farther than I’d like,” he said. “Which is why I intend to keep you here as long as I can.”

  She smiled up at him, a little tremulous. By the candlelight she was achingly beautiful, and innocently vulnerable, too. He’d been, perhaps, a bit impetuous in the carriage.

  Slowly he leaned down to kiss her. He didn’t draw her into his arms, or touch a hand to her waist or hip. Instead he let his lips alone woo her, kissing her with leisurely assurance, and nipping lightly at her lower lip. Finally he sealed his mouth over hers, letting his tongue thrust and play against hers until she made a smothered moan of frustration, and spun away from him.

  “I must call Martha to help me undress,” she said. “You know Aunt Morley sent her ahead hours ago, and poor Martha’s been waiting for me ever since. It won’t take her long—”

  “That’s not necessary,” he said. “I’ll assist you, if you need it. I may not be as adept as your Martha, but I’d wager I can make it much more … interesting.”

  To encourage her, he kicked off his shoes and shrugged his arms free of his coat, tossing it over the arm of a nearby chair. Next he untied his linen neck cloth and unfastened the small diamond shirt buckle beneath it, pulling his collar comfortably open.

  He’d only revealed a small triangle of his chest and his bare throat above it, but that was sufficient to make her stare, her eyes wide. True, it was a part of a gentleman’s anatomy that unmarried ladies would not ordinarily see, but if that caught her attention, then he couldn’t imagine how she was going to respond when he removed his breeches.

  “Your turn,” he suggested. “You could begin with that emerald-studded dagger in your bodice. You know that evil old Lucretia Borgia kept a poisoned stiletto in her stays to ward off unwanted lovers.”

  “It’s not a dagger,” she said defensively. “It’s a turban ornament that belonged to my father, and it’s certainly not poisoned.”

  She pulled the ornament free and held it briefly above her forehead, showing where it would be worn in an imaginary turban. Now that she’d explained the piece’s connection to her father, he understood its significance for her, and regretted teasing her about it.

  “One day you can show me how to wrap my head like a rajah,” he said, striving to lighten the moment. “That would be a sight, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would,” she murmured, but her expression had grown clouded, looking inward. Carefully she placed the ornament with his coat, and the lace kerchief from around her neck as well. Then she methodically began to unpin her bodice and stomacher, looking down as she plucked each straight pin free, letting them drop to the floor with a little ping.

  Her determination was oddly seductive, or perhaps it was how her bodice gaped further open as each pin gave way. Without looking, he began unfastening the long row of cut-steel buttons on his waistcoat, shoving it from his shoulders just as she finished with her pins. She worked her arms free of the narrow sleeves, and let the gown fall back to the floor with a shush of silk.

  “There,” she said, almost daring him. Her face was flushed as much from the exertion of removing her clothes as from embarrassment; in fact he didn’t think she was embarrassed at all, which both pleased and excited him. She was still wearing her stays over her shift, as well as her hoops and petticoat, standing there defiantly with her hands at her waist. “Are you happy?”

  Clearly she believed she was as good as naked already, which she most certainly wasn’t.

  He smiled. “It’s a fair beginning. Now pray remove those abominable hoops.”

  “They are abominable.” Deliberately she untied the bow that held her petticoats and shoved them down, followed by the looped cane hoops that had supported her skirts. “They are likely the ugliest things that Englishwomen are compelled to wear. There! Gone!”

  She stepped free of the piled petticoats and hoops, giving them an extra ki
ck of contempt with the toe of her shoe.

  “You’ve done well without your maid,” he said softly, studying her. She was worth studying: her stays were covered in dark red damask that locked his gaze on the narrowness of her waist and the full curve of her hips below, and her white knee-length shift, trimmed with narrow lace, was of such fine linen that it was nearly transparent. The fullness of her breasts raised high by the boned stays, the ivory-gold of her skin, even the shadow of the dark thatch at the top of her thighs was displayed for him.

  “I’m not entirely helpless,” she said, reaching up to begin pulling the remaining hairpins from her tangled dark hair, the heavy waves already half-undone. “Nor do you appear to require your manservant.”

  “Not at all,” he said absently, distracted by how she made the simple task of taking down her hair seem so damned seductive. He’d always liked the intimacy of a woman with her hair down, free of all the pins and potions that kept it tortured into place for propriety’s sake. Her breasts lifted as she raised her arms, her nipples barely contained by her stays. He could finally see the womanly curves that all that trumpery hid, and he liked what he saw. Her hips and thighs were rounder and more voluptuous than he’d expected, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to be as restrained as he’d ordered himself to be.

  Her loose hair fell nearly to her waist, as glossy as a raven’s wing. She raked her fingers through the heavy waves, divided it into sections, and began to braid it.

  “Leave your hair as it is,” he said, and the growl he couldn’t keep from his voice made her pause. “I like it that way.”

  “But I always plait it at night.”

  “Tonight you won’t.” He jerked his shirt free from his breeches and whipped it over his head, dropping it to the floor. At once her gaze lowered to his chest, her lips parting in wordless admiration. He recognized that look; he’d seen it before from other women, but their reaction had never mattered the way Serena’s did.