by Cheryl Holt
ISBN: 9781483539577
Cheryl Holt celebrates her years as “The Queen of Erotic Romance” with this sexy, yummy, and fun tale of a bride’s seductive antics on her wedding night...
Stephen St. John, Viscount Banbury, is in a bind. His father has cut off his allowance, so he’s had to rein in his decadent habits and split with his beautiful, spoiled mistress whom he can no longer afford. When an American heiress comes to London and dangles her fortune in Stephen’s direction, he sees it as the answer to his prayers. He’ll wed the pretty, delectable heiress, but he won’t let her interfere with his decadent lifestyle. He’s a confirmed bachelor and determined to have a marriage of convenience.
Ellen Foster has traveled to London for the express purpose of buying a titled husband. She’s been husband shopping for months and can’t make up her mind. All the available candidates seem tepid and boring. But when she lays eyes on handsome, dashing Stephen St. John, she knows he’s the one, and with her large fortune as bait, he’s easily snared in her web.
When he suggests a marriage of convenience, she pretends to agree. But she has no intention of living separate lives. She plans to enjoy every delightful, wicked minute that marriage to a rake can provide. With Stephen determined to avoid her, seduction seems the only choice.
Though Stephen doesn’t realize it, Ellen always gets her way, and as she turns their bedchamber into a den of erotic pleasure, poor Stephen doesn’t stand a chance...
CHAPTER ONE
London, 1815...
“Well, good night then, Lord Banbury.”
“Good night.”
Stephen St. John, Viscount Banbury, eventually to be Earl of Stafford if his recalcitrant, impossible father ever dropped dead, glared at the interloper who’d now been his wife for all of ten hours. The silence extended; the farewell grew awkward.
What repartee, precisely, was a man supposed to express at a time such as this? Sleep well? Pleasant dreams? See you in the morning? Or how about more aptly, What was I thinking, marrying a woman I don’t know? Have I gone mad?
Nothing seemed appropriate. Astoundingly, he blushed, his cheeks heating with an embarrassing dose of discomfort.
The wedding guests were gone, the house had been tidied by what was left of his domestic staff, and he’d been about to leave too, when he’d stumbled upon her floating down the stairs. She was scarcely dressed, clad in a diaphanous green negligee and robe that hardly covered anything that ought to be covered. Apparently, as she’d concluded that he was already off to his merrymaking, she’d believed herself to be alone in the massive, drafty domicile. Unable to sleep, she’d descended to fetch a relaxing refreshment.
Her hair was blond, the shade of ripened wheat. It was unbound and hanging down her back to brush her bottom, and he was gravely troubled by the display. She was much too forward and assured, prancing about in her nightwear before an unfamiliar man, yet she didn’t appear perturbed.
Yes, he was her husband, but nevertheless, they were strangers.
Even though he hadn’t meant to, he evaluated her graceful figure. He was only human! He couldn’t be expected to avoid looking at what was flaunted in plain sight.
She was much too shapely, and he squirmed uneasily and inspected the floor, only to be confronted by her feet.
Her toenails were painted red! The splash of bright crimson in the dull salon seemed immoderately sexy, out of place, incongruous and irreconcilable with the individual he pictured her to be.
Ordinarily, he was an urbane, sophisticated fellow, renowned and lauded for his aplomb, his polish and poise and, most particularly, for his way with the ladies. Yet with his new bride, he’d been transformed into a bungling, gauche oaf.
From the moment earlier in the day, when she’d waltzed into the parlor, promptly at eleven, he’d behaved like an ass. Throughout the abbreviated ceremony, then the afternoon of toasting and celebration, and the interminable meal that had wrapped up the festivities, he’d constantly tripped over himself, saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, and generally making a fool of himself.
She likely presumed that she’d wed a moronic buffoon.
He was dawdling in the doorway, acting like a simpleton, powerless to depart, but incapable of maintaining any sort of intelligent conversation.
“Don’t let me keep you,” she obligingly said. Showing him her back, she strolled to the other side of the room, where surprisingly, she helped herself to a stout glass of brandy.
During the excessive, protracted gala, he’d covertly watched her. When his rowdy, wild friends had still been in attendance, she’d had naught to drink. While she’d ceaselessly had a beverage in her hand, he’d never seen her take so much as a sip. So why now?
He was used to consorting with a rather decadent type of lady, so he normally wouldn’t have heeded whether she’d imbibed or not. Usually, he paid no heed to what a female did or didn’t do. But it bothered him to discover that she was so nonplussed by events that she could blithely delight in a nightcap.
“Enjoy your...revelry,” she added. “I’m sure it will be most entertaining.”
From the beginning, he’d recognized that she had a husky, come-hither voice. When she talked, she always sounded as though she were on the verge of mentioning an indecent proposition. Thus, it was difficult to focus on the content of her speech, because the words kept getting lost in the sensual timbre of any utterance.
Narrowing his gaze, he studied her rounded behind, trying to deduce if she was mocking him with her flip adieu. Was she jesting? Was she serious?
She had to be joking. She had to be!
Though she’d readily and freely yielded to his ultimatum that theirs would be a marriage of convenience, how could she blandly acquiesce to his rushing out to cavort with others on their wedding night? Had she no feelings in the matter? Was she genuinely unconcerned about where he went or what he did? What woman—what wife!—could be so tolerant, so unmoved? What kind of person was she?
There was the crux of his problem. He had no idea.
She was an American, and he’d been acquainted with very few in his twenty-nine years, so the explanation for her peculiar apathy might be buried in the fact that she was a foreigner. Perhaps American women held their men to a lower standard. Though he doubted it. A contrary culture and upbringing couldn’t alter basic feminine instincts that much.
By nature, females were possessive, jealous, and suspicious. Every one with whom he’d ever dallied had exhibited the invidious tendencies, and his wife—deep down—couldn’t be any different. Reluctantly, he was forced to concede that she wasn’t upset about his rudely trotting off because she didn’t care about their marriage anymore than he did.
The realization vexed him enormously.
On his end, he’d perceived their speedy, abrupt courtship and union as a simple business transaction. She—Ellen Foster, twenty-five-year-old daughter of a wealthy Massachusetts cotton mill magnate—had wanted the English title that her daddy’s money could buy. He—disowned, disinherited, impoverished scoundrel and libertine—had needed a quick infusion of cash so he could thumb his nose at his stubborn father, and so he could afford his pursuit of the depraved, wicked lifestyle on which he thrived.
The pragmatic solution conferred infinite benefits to both parties, but evidently, she’d embraced all the terms—those in writing, as well as those upon which they’d privately agreed.
How the notion galled!
She spun toward him, startling him with her stunning emerald eyes. Those eyes invariably took him unawares, amazing him with their intensity, their keen estimation and reflection. Whenever she peered at him straight on, he suffered the uncanny sensation that she discerned much more about him than she should, that she und
erstood much more than was fitting or warranted.
She tipped her glass. “Would you like a whiskey before you go?”
“Why not?” he replied, pondering what would possess him to linger. She returned to the sideboard to fill a second tumbler, and he meticulously assessed her.
For many months, she’d been dawdling in London, flaunting her assets and sending out tentative inquiries to numerous potential suitors, but he hadn’t crossed paths with her in the social whirl. His initial contact had come through a solicitor who’d approached him confidentially, and he’d been supplied with a financial contract and an astonishing, unforeseen overture of marriage.
No sane gentleman—especially one in his dire fiscal condition—would have balked at the offer.
Originally, he’d assumed her decision had been precipitate and inadvertently made. Upon further deliberation, he’d been left with the eerie conviction that her choice hadn’t been random in the slightest, that she was a shrewd negotiator and schemer who’d been surveying the viable candidates, and who had settled on him for reasons that remained a complete mystery.
The dastardly wench had unquestionably known how to go about getting what she wanted, and she’d obviously wanted him and no other.
Prior to the wedding, he’d met with her only once, at the lawyer’s office, but she’d been surrounded by her imposing father, a cadre of male relatives, and several bodyguards. Conservatively attired, she’d had her hair pulled up in a severe style and, after he’d proposed, they’d been permitted to chat for a few fleeting minutes before he’d been brusquely hustled out. His memories of her, and the fateful appointment, were so disorganized, brief, and scattered that he’d recalled her as being a brunette!
She’d seemed conventional, suitable, polite, and average, and any hint that she might be pretty or appealing had been prudently disguised. As he gawked at her now, dissecting the silhouette and contours that were flawlessly outlined by her flowing robe, he was shocked to feel a stir of desire. The temperature in the stuffy chamber suddenly became warmer, his pulse beat a tad faster, and his pants grew unaccountably tight.
In all actuality, she was striking but, mystifyingly, upon their inaugural introduction, she’d scrupulously hidden her favorable characteristics behind a dour coif and an unflattering gown. She was an excellent height, neither short nor tall, and she was slim, yet curved where a female should be, and he couldn’t keep from noticing how her unconfined breasts played against the fabric of her nightgown as she shifted and moved.
She was winsome. Not a grand beauty as were some of the women with whom he regularly fraternized, but she had pleasing features, winged brows, high cheekbones, a pert nose, a tempting mouth. And those magnificent eyes...
Previously, her distinctiveness hadn’t registered and, at this late juncture, he didn’t care to note it. Not when he had every intention of sticking to their platonic accord. When the bargain had been struck, he’d inferred that he was getting a plain, modest spouse, and he was unnerved to ascertain that he’d been mistaken.
If he’d misjudged her countenance so terribly—when he was repeatedly hailed for his abilities with the fairer sex—what else might he have overlooked in his haste to wed?
Twirling about, she walked toward him, holding out his libation, and as she slipped the glass into his hand, her fingers trialed across his. He frowned. The gesture had been almost calculated, like a contrived caress.
“Would you like to sit with me for a bit?” she asked. “With everyone gone, the house is so quiet. I could use the company.”
Without tarrying to learn his answer, she sauntered to the couch, her swift rotation making the hem of her robe flare out and graze across his knee and thigh. Furtively, he sniffed at her perfume, a clean, charming aroma that reminded him of summer afternoons and fresh cut flowers.
She drifted down onto the sofa, while he sat directly across, and as she didn’t tend to propriety in any fashion, he was furnished with a superb view as she nestled against the arm. Lounging, she curled her legs on the cushion, and her nightclothes rose up, revealing a slender foot, a smooth calf.
He couldn’t quit staring.
Languidly, she sampled her brandy as she scrutinized him with a sly smile, and he couldn’t stop speculating as to what was going on inside her head. Her dainty pink tongue flicked out and nipped at a droplet of liquor clinging to the edge of her glass. Just as with her scarlet-tinted toes, he was mesmerized by that tongue, held spellbound by its color and form, enchanted by the possibilities it represented.
He gave himself a good shake. Both mentally and physically. It had been a tedious day, with an arduous night still to come. He was merely weary from the rollicking, and fatigue was making him see things that weren’t there, inducing him to surmise and hypothesize over details that were of no significance whatsoever.
“What a day!” she exclaimed, ostensibly reading his thoughts.
“Yes.”
“I’m exhausted.” She arched her back and stretched. “How about you?”
The motion thrust her bosom up and out and caused her robe to glide down, exposing a shoulder. Her silky hair rippled past in a glossy wave. She appeared wanton, inviting, as though she were awaiting a swain or had just wallowed in a clandestine romp.
He could make out every aspect of her breast, the mass, the shape, the amplitude. Neither too large nor too small, they were just the right size for a man to appreciate. Her nipples were erect from the cool air in the room and from rubbing against the soft fabric of her robe. He could imagine what it would feel like to clasp the tiny nubs between his finger and thumb, how stimulating it would be to lave at them with his tongue.
She’d writhe and moan beneath him, and he’d pin her down while he...
Gad, but he really, really needed to go!
“I’m not tired in the least,” he lied.
“Anxious to do up the Town?”
“Yes,” he fibbed again.
In reality, he had no appetite for traipsing about London on his wedding night. What would he tell people? How would he explain it?
Those who knew him—as well as those who didn’t—would anticipate that he, Stephen St. John, the notorious rake and user of women, would be snuggled between the sheets with his new bride. Not just for the night, but perhaps for days to come. What rational chap would pass up the chance to slowly and delectably initiate his virginal, rich spouse into her marital role?
He’d confided in no one the pact he’d made with her during their sole conversation before their nuptials. Bluntly, he’d informed her that he didn’t want a wife, that he’d never fancied marrying at all, which meant that he’d require very little from her in the way of matrimonial obligation.
She’d been so eager for the match that she’d rashly acceded to his dictate, had latched on to his stipulations for solitude and independence with nary a complaint or objection, asserting that she had no problem with his demand that he be allowed to keep on with his bachelor habits.
At the time, her concurrence had seemed a godsend, and he’d insolently accepted her compliance with his mandate, but it wasn’t the type of thing one could discuss with one’s companions. Nor was it news he would relish having bandied about Town.
So once they finished their drinks, what the bloody hell was he to do with himself until dawn?
“Your friends are an interesting lot,” she announced.
“You’re remarkably generous in your description of them.”
“I was wondering if you’ll be entertaining them here at the house, or if you’ll meet them elsewhere? I was curious if—on occasion—I’ll be compelled to serve as your hostess.”
Inwardly, he groaned. Here was another facet of matrimony that he’d discounted in his impetuous alacrity to snag his heiress. Over the years, his domicile had been acclaimed as the scene for various and diverse lewd amusements. His covey of uncivilized, barbarous associates would overrun the residence, and he’d been more than happy to accommodate their vices,
but he couldn’t persist with his schedule of ribald parties now that his wife was on the premises and determined to make it into a home.
“No, I’ll save you the aggravation.”
“I don’t mind if you have them over.”
“Thank you, but we’ll socialize at my club.” The last thing he needed was Ellen getting to know any of his dissolute cohorts. The stories they might impart to her made him shudder.
“Should I ever plan on your being here for supper? Or will I be free to adjust my calendar with no regard to yours?”
She posed the query with a great deal of apathy, as though it was of no import if she ever saw him. Her audacity chafed. At his arrogance. At his pride. Didn’t the blasted woman want him about? Wouldn’t she fret over where he was or what he might be doing?
Pique and irritation had him retorting, “I’ll join you for supper each and every night.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Pity,” she murmured.
He couldn’t have heard her correctly! “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I’d intended to—“ She cut the sentence off, befuddling him with that cunning smile again, and she sighed, then leaned nearer. “We’re both adults, so I guess I can be frank.”
After her lengthy hesitation, he barked, “About what?”
“I have a few gentleman friends of my own whom I’d like to visit. Very discreetly, of course. And I’m sure you and your mistress—what’s her name? Miss Poundstone?—would like to continue on with your customary routine.”
He’d just taken a swallow of his whiskey, and he choked on it, coughing and gasping as he struggled to absorb all she’d just said. She was contemplating cuckolding him? She’d been apprised of his protracted affair with Portia Poundstone?
There were so many scathing responses he could make that he was dizzy from sorting them all out.
“You would take a...a...lover?” It had never occurred to him that she might, and he was infuriated at the prospect, so he strove to imbue casualness in his tone, refusing to let her detect how disturbed he was by her disclosure.