“Liar,” he contradicted. “It is just the beginning. Do you know why? Because it is the same for me.” Tristan shifted and straightened his spine until his mouth was inches from her lips. “Relax your legs. I promise this will not hurt.”
Tristan nibbled on her lower lip. She was as stiff as a statue. Even her mouth was unyielding. He would have stopped if he had glimpsed genuine fear in her eyes. Imogene was wary of the unknown, but she was not frightened of him.
“Think about my hands on you,” he murmured enticingly against her throat. He kissed her neck. “My lips on your lips … down to your breasts. Do you remember the warmth you felt?” Her thighs loosened enough that his hand was free. “That’s it, sweet love. My hand on your knee … your thigh.”
Imogene made a soft sound of surprise at his first tentative touch.
“Aye, even there,” he whispered encouragingly. “The soft down between your legs. A fine soft pelt for me to pet over and over until you are wild for my caresses.”
Tristan kissed her firmly on the mouth, swallowing any protests she might have at the liberties he was taking with her body. His cock throbbed in his breeches, but he ignored the discomfort. Imogene would never accept him until he conquered her fears—not of him, but of her own body. Her needs were as great as his, but she was unfamiliar with satiating her desires. He wanted to be the man who wholly awakened her. Ignited and fanned her carnal needs.
His finger dampened with her arousal as he emboldened his strokes. Wariness faded as she raised her head in distress. Tristan comforted her with a few low wordless sounds and a kiss to her cheek.
“The warmth and wetness is a natural response to my touch,” he assured her, keeping his touch light. “Your body is welcoming me. Encouraging me to be bolder.” His thumb sought the hidden nubbin of flesh and he gently stroked it. She sucked in her breath and tensed, fighting her body’s response. “Breathe, darling. Let the caress of my fingers flow over you and through you.”
Usually, when he seduced a lady, he managed to get her out of her clothing. Imogene’s gaze was unfocused and her cheeks were flushed, either by the sunlight beating down on them or the wicked things he was doing to her body. Tristan preferred to believe the high color in her cheeks was because of him. He had lost track of time as he concentrated on the lady in his arms. Soft compliments, kisses designed to coax and tease her, and his hand between her legs—stroking her wet yielding flesh as he enticed and tamed her to his touch. The heady musk of her arousal filled his nose, and perspiration dampened his brow.
He demanded nothing, but was silently asking for everything.
Minutes later, his patience was rewarded. Imogene tensed and shuddered, her face pressed against his shoulder. She whispered his name in wonderment. It was a small response, but it might as well have been as shattering as an earthquake. The increased wetness coating his fingers was another sign that she had found pleasure at his touch.
His own arousal thundered back into his consciousness. Tristan had been so focused on Imogene that he had buried his needs. His hand withdrew from Imogene’s hot, welcoming flesh and he wiped the wetness on his fingers on the outer thigh of his breeches. In his mind, he could see himself freeing his cock and thrusting into her womanly sheath. She had found her pleasure with his hand, and it would be twofold with his cock. He could see to both their needs. She would not regret surrendering her maidenhead to him. He would make certain of it. The need to finish what he had started pounded like a drum in his head.
Every muscle in his body tightened as he fought against his instincts. He closed his eyes and concentrated on steadying his breathing and heartbeat. When he opened them, he noticed she was staring at him. She reached out and caressed his cheek.
“Tristan?”
He had accomplished what he had set out to do. The next time he touched her, she would not fight her body’s response. She would let him pleasure her again. With a ragged sigh, he smoothed her skirt down over her legs. “I do not know about you, but I am famished. Shall we see what Cook packed in our basket?”
“Of course.”
Imogene’s gaze shifted to the front of his breeches. Oh, how could he have forgotten about his cock? His need for her was on prominent display. Perhaps he should stand up and head straight for the lake, though he doubted the water would cool his ardor.
Tristan turned away and climbed to his feet. He needed a strong drink, though he suspected his cook had packed nothing stronger than apple cider.
Chapter Ten
Lord Norgrave had added another card to Sandwick’s silver salver while Imogene was enjoying her picnic with Tristan. A note had been included with an invitation to join him at one of the tea gardens. She was still annoyed with him for speculating on the duke’s friendship with his former mistress, but she had decided to forgive him. His invitation reminded her that she had injured Lady Charlotte’s feelings when she walked with Lord Norgrave in Lady Yaxley’s gardens, and she wished to make amends so she decided to play matchmaker for her friend and the marquess.
The next afternoon, Imogene and Lady Charlotte enjoyed their surroundings while they waited for Lord Norgrave to join them.
“This was a terrible idea,” Lady Charlotte muttered as she fidgeted with her jewelry. “You should have mentioned that I would be intruding.”
“For the fifth time, you are not intruding,” Imogene said, resisting the urge to groan in frustration. “You and I are friends. The marquess will not be upset that I have not come alone.”
“I have overheard rumors that he and the Duke of Blackbern are courting you.” The blonde looked as if she was on the verge of crying. “He likes you, you know. I noticed almost immediately when he asked you to walk with him.”
Good grief, Imogene thought. Lady Charlotte was not smitten—she had fallen in love with the marquess.
“Is he aware of your feelings?” she asked, feeling guilty that she had inadvertently added to her friend’s pain.
“I—” Lady Charlotte started as she glanced up to see the gentleman whom she coveted above all frowning at her. “Lord Norgrave, it is good to see you again.”
* * *
Two hours later, Imogene returned home. Initially, she and Lady Charlotte had made tentative plans to visit Bond Street after taking tea with Lord Norgrave. The strained conversation that had ensued had dampened the lady’s spirits and had given Imogene a slight headache.
Lord Norgrave had been impatient and condenscending. All in all, she was relieved the entire visit was over.
“Good afternoon, Sandwick.” Imogene greeted the butler as she walked through the door.
“I trust your outing with Lady Charlotte was enjoyable?”
“Sandwick, it was dreadful and it was my fault.” She paused and rethought her decision. “No, it was Lord Norgrave’s fault. Well, parts of it anyway.”
“What precisely is the marquess’s fault?” her mother asked, descending the stairs.
“Lord Norgrave invited me to join him at the tea garden,” Imogene explained while she removed her bonnet and gloves. “I invited Lady Charlotte in a clumsy attempt at matchmaking.”
“Oh, Imogene,” the duchess lightly chided her. “I told you that young lady was besotted with the marquess. It is plainly obvious to all that Lady Charlotte cares too much, and Lord Norgrave barely tolerates her.”
“I wanted to help her, Mama,” she said glumly. “All I did was upset Lady Charlotte and Lord Norgrave was obnoxious and deliberately rude to us. The next time he tries to leave his card, I have a mind to order Sandwick to tear it up and shower the marquess with the pieces.”
Her mother laughed. “He was that terrible?”
“Positively beastly,” Imogene replied. “Lady Charlotte did not deserve his callous regard. Neither did I.” She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “I am tempted to retire to my bedchamber and sleep the rest of the day away.”
“I have something to show you that will make you reconsider.”
She followed
her mother into an alcove where a small trunk seemed out of place. “Who is it from?”
“I have my suspicions, but the boy who delivered it refused to give me the name of the person who hired him. You have been invited to the masquerade at Ranelagh Gardens. There are several groups planning to attend. Cassia has already asked that you ride with her.”
“Perhaps she was the one who sent the trunk.”
“The note within implies you have received two invitations to the masquerade.”
Imogene glanced back at her mother. “Did you look inside?”
The duchess shook her head, and handed her the note. “I assume it is a costume. If not, then you will need one unless we have something suitable buried in an old trunk.”
Imogene folded the note and tucked it away. She recognized the handwriting as Blackbern’s.
“Who sent the note?”
She ignored the question and opened the trunk. She pursed her lips as she scrutinized the vibrant patchwork dress. At the bottom of the trunk she discovered a black half-mask and a tambourine.
“Someone wishes that you dress as Columbine for the masquerade,” her mother observed. The duchess did not appear to be pleased with the choice, but she was not threatening to burn it. “Hmm … who could be so thoughtful, I wonder?”
The duke was responsible for the costume. Only he would insist that she dress as Harlequin’s mistress. The man had a peculiar sense of humor.
Chapter Eleven
“Norgrave will be vexed with us for leaving the masquerade without telling him.”
Tristan silently agreed, but not for the reasons Imogene assumed. He and Norgrave had often shared a woman or two. Bending a female to their will and overwhelming her with their passions had been adventurous and extremely satisfying. He could not summon any regrets about his past, or the countess females with whom he had honed his skills as a lover. If he had suggested to the marquess that they forget about the wager and slowly introduce Imogene to the carnal delights of taking multiple lovers, he had little doubt that Norgrave would have eagerly amended the terms of their wager.
Even so, Tristan had kept his mouth shut. He had lied to the man who was almost a brother to him, and he would continue to do so. When it came to Imogene, he had discovered that he was a selfish man. The thought of Norgrave kissing and touching the lady sitting beside him could provoke him to violence.
Imogene was not one of the nameless and faceless fucks that he and his friend had shared when they had figured out what they could do with their cocks. She was a goddess among women, and she deserved to be worshiped.
He was her devoted acolyte if she would have him.
Imogene had been concerned about abandoning Norgrave, because they had arrived together. Tristan observed her and his closest friend together, and he noted only friendship in her gaze. Occasionally, regret flashed across her expressive face, but it occurred when the marquess tried to coax a kiss from her. In public, she was content to have two gentlemen court her, but there would be only one man in her bed—and that man was him.
Imogene leaned back against her seat and sighed. She had not removed her black half-mask when they had slipped away from Ranelagh Gardens, and he was content to leave the disguise in place so she would not be recognized when they disembarked from the coach.
He kept his hands to himself until they had reached their destination.
“Where are we?” she asked sleepily.
“A quiet place where no one will try to steal you from me,” he said, his voice gruff as he recalled Norgrave’s attempt to pull her into an alcove. He did not want to contemplate what his friend had in mind, when he was filled with his own lusty thoughts.
The coachman opened the door, and he took her hand to help her descend the few steps. Imogene yawned. “Is this your residence?” she asked, squinting at the house that was barely visible in the darkness and lamplight.
“When it suits me,” he said, reluctant to reveal that the house was where he had built his reputation with the notorious balls he had held over the years and the many lovers he had escorted through the front hall and upstairs to one of the bedchambers. “I inherited the house from my mother. Before her, my grandmother used it as her dowager house. It has a rich history.”
Most of it she would never hear from his lips.
Even in the shadows, the colorful patches on her skirt were visible as he escorted her up the walkway to the front door. He paused to remove the key from his waistcoat, and used his fingers to find the keyhole.
“I am surprised you do not rent the house this time of year,” Imogene said, resting her cheek against his arm.
“Over the years, I have considered it,” Tristan admitted. He grunted with satisfaction when the lock yielded. “Most of the furniture belonged to my grandmother. My mother had her bedchamber decorated to her tastes, but she did little else to the house. No one resides here, but the servants visit once a week to keep the floors and furniture clean for when I invite guests.”
Her sudden stillness made him apprehensive. He wondered if she had guessed the reasons why he brought people to this house instead of his private residence. “How often do you entertain guests here?”
Tristan shrugged. “It depends on the year.” He paused. “Norgrave has a key and my blessing to invite whomever he wants.”
“What about you?”
“You are the first guest I have invited here in over a year,” he answered truthfully. “I sometimes come here when I need to think. The quiet is soothing, and no one would think to bother me here.”
She stepped into the house, and wrinkled her nose at the slight staleness scenting the air. “Not very recently.”
“No,” he said, shutting the door and turning the key. “I have been too distracted by an enchanting blonde who knocked me off my feet.”
Imogene’s laughter filled the front hall. “How long do you plan to tease me about our first meeting? I cannot believe I was so clumsy!”
Tristan lit a candle behind her before he pulled her into his arms. “You were perfect. I have never been so flattered, even though the dragon caught us together.”
She winced. “You have to cease calling my mother a dragon. She has enough reasons to dislike you.”
“Is it important to you that she likes me?” he asked, untying her half-mask so he could see her face.
“Yes.”
The simplicity of her reply understated how complicated their relationship had become. Nor would it deter him from what he longed to claim.
Picking up the candleholder, he took her hand and led her toward the stairs. “Come with me.”
Hand in hand, they made their way up the stairs. Tristan had lit the candle for her benefit. He had lost count of how many times he had climbed the stairs, only to fall into bed with or without a lover. Abruptly he halted and startled Imogene.
“Is something amiss?” she whispered.
How could he tell her that he had made a mistake? He did not want to lay her on the same mattress where he had bedded so many women in the past.
“For a minute, I lost my way,” he lied. “This way.”
His mother’s bedchamber had the newest furniture, but he avoided the room. He released her hand so he could turn the doorknob of one of the spare bedchambers that had been used for guests. If the servants had been shirking in their weekly duties, he would sack them all.
Fortunately the room was free of noticeable dust and the room smelled faintly of freshly laundered linens. He set the candle down on a table beside the bed and he reached for the woman who often invaded his thoughts when he should have been working.
“Come closer, my lovely and impudent Columbine. Your Harlequin has been hungering for a taste of your honeyed lips,” he growled against her mouth.
Playing along, she rubbed her hips against him. “My husband might protest,” she whispered, tilting her head and offering him her neck.
Norgrave had considered dressing up as Columbine’s husband, but he disliked
the notion of being the cuckolded husband to Tristan’s Harlequin. The plotting Pantalone held more appeal, but he had also been deceived.
“If we are careful, no one will ever know about us,” he said, nipping her ear with his teeth. He did not know if he spoke for Harlequin or himself.
Without warning he swept her off her feet and into his arms. Imogen gasped and instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. “Harlequin—Tristan!”
“Right on both counts,” he said, teasing her mouth with his. He carried her to the bed and eased her down until her backside settled onto the soft surface. “Do you trust me?”
She nodded.
His hands shook as he removed the red spencer, peeling her slender bared arms from the snug sleeves. Tristan went to work on the buttons of her dress. Proficient at his task, he set about removing layer after layer of clothing and discarding them until she sat in her shift.
Imogene crossed her arms over her breasts, but she had only managed to draw attention to the mounds of flesh. “Are you undressing, too?”
“Aye, my love. Soon,” he promised, lowering himself onto his knees so he was positioned between her legs. His hands slid up her calves to the garters tied above her thighs. He undid the bows, and slowly revealed her pale, shapely legs and bared feet.
Tristan pressed a kiss to the inner portion of her right knee. His mouth lingered and teased, a hint of what he longed to do. “I want to start with the arch of your foot and nibble my way up your body.”
It was obvious she was nervous, and her mouth trembled as she attempted to smile. “Am I allowed to do the same to you?” she asked.
“Only if you wish to see me spill my seed before I have the opportunity to make love to you properly.” Beneath the garish Harlequin costume of triangular patches, his cock had thickened in anticipation. The patterned fabric concealed his arousal, but once he removed it she would be aware of the power she had over him. “You can torture me later.”
Tristan moved closer and gently pried her arms from her chest. Her nipples poked enticingly through the thin linen, begging for his attention. Without asking for her permission, his mouth covered one of her breasts. He suckled her nipple, dampening the fabric while his hands slid higher, lightly caressing her outer thighs until he found her hips.
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