Seducing the Groom

by Cheryl Holt

  “I’ve encountered so many fascinating men while I’ve been in London, and I am married now. Where would be the harm?”

  “Yes, but what will people say if you’re perpetually gadding about with every available roué?” He shook his head, dumbfounded, unable to believe that the comment had spewed forth from his own mouth. “I don’t have the most pristine reputation, but I’m afraid—in this instance—I must put my foot down. You absolutely can’t.”

  “That sounds like a husbandly edict, Lord Banbury.”

  “Call me Stephen,” he griped. She’d been Banbury-ing him all day, and it was beginning to grate. Throughout the reception, whenever she’d referred to him by his title people’s brows had raised.

  “I thought we were to have a nontraditional marriage. That we would be at liberty to carry on as we pleased.”

  “Yes...well...”

  He cleared his throat, his collar tight. He’d insisted on the autonomy for himself! Not for her! How could she have deemed otherwise? As she’d misconstrued on such a vital eventuality, there were—no doubt—all manner of situations over which they’d need to haggle. What else would he be constrained to clarity?

  “Some conduct is beyond the pale, Ellen. Surely, you grasp that fact.”

  “As you wish,” she conceded graciously as she whirled a distracting finger round and round the rim of her glass. “If you would restrict my behavior, must I still suffer Miss Poundstone’s presence? That hardly seems fair.”

  “Ellen,” he gently chided, “it’s not proper for you to mention the subject of Miss Poundstone to me.”

  “Why? We don’t have an ordinary marriage. What’s inappropriate about conferring over the conditions by which we’ll progress?”

  She looked so damned innocent. He scowled, feeling off-base and in the dark. Every statement she uttered seemed to be charged with enigmatic meaning and purpose.

  “Be that as it may“—Lord, but he hadn’t known that he had such a knack for being pompous and pretentious!—“my personal activities are just that: personal. You shan’t question my comings and goings. It’s not done.”

  “I will try my best not to, Lord Banbury.”

  “We’ll get on much better that way,” he contended.

  “I’m positive we will.”

  Her submissive capitulation made him nervous. There wasn’t a woman alive who as so subservient, so yielding. What was she up to?

  As they chatted, she was toying with the strap of her negligee, sliding it up and down her nude shoulder. Her hand would descend, and the bodice dip slightly, baring the creamy swell of her breast. When she deliberately tugged it up, the cloth would constrict. The movement was overtly beguiling, and he locked his gaze on hers, declining to loiter on the enticing, hypnotic tempo of her hand.

  She set her feet on the floor and deposited her empty glass on the table between them. As she yawned and stretched again, her breasts lifted, and her nipples were peaked and blatantly visible. Her neck, long and delicate as a swan’s, was tipped back, and he could see her pulse thumping in an elevated rhythm at her nape.

  “Well, I’m off to a nice hot bath, then my bed,” she said.

  “How lovely,” he replied, for want of anything more profound, but a vision of her—wet and slippery all over—filled his mind, and he couldn’t dislodge it. It was so vivid that his fingers tingled as he conjectured what it would be like to skim them over her slick, damp skin.

  “Would you like me to replenish your whiskey before I retire?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Why not have a tad more? He’d valiantly endeavored to keep up with his rambunctious guests but, obviously, he hadn’t had nearly enough alcohol. Total paralysis had been his goal, but he wasn’t anywhere close to being numb.

  As she reached for his glass, she leaned across the table, and the alteration of her position loosened the front of her nightgown. Her breasts were swinging down, the bodice flopping. With a start, he realized that he could see her cleavage, the pink of her areola, her contracted nipples, her flat stomach.

  Sweet Jesu, but if she advanced another inch, he’d be gawking at the womanly hair shielding her mound!

  He bit down a moan. Of delight. Of dismay.

  In a flash, he was cocked as a pole. His undisciplined, impolite phallus strutted to attention, rudely instructing him to alleviate the discomfort. He crossed one leg over the other and draped a hand across his lap. She was a virgin, so she wasn’t likely to notice his inflamed predicament, or to understand it if she did, but still, he was desperate to conceal his reaction.

  Needing to calm himself, to gain control of his licentious impulses, he yanked himself away from the dangerous territory she’d unwittingly revealed, focusing instead on her face. Which was a mistake.

  Her skin was so smooth, her eyes so dazzling, her hair so alluring. And that mouth! Her lips were pouting, ruby red, moist, captivating. She made a man think about more than kissing, made him want to have her kneeling down before him and...

  Frantic, he lurched backward.

  He was sexually attracted to his wife! How could this be?

  Not cognizant of the carnal effect she had on him, she strolled to the sideboard without so much as a glance in his direction. As she relocated, he breathed a sigh of relief. Surreptitiously, he observed her, and his trepidation escalated at an alarming rate.

  There was something categorically erotic in how she walked. Her hips swayed adorably, and the material of her robe molded to her legs, bewitchingly outlining her petite waist, her curvaceous thighs, her gorgeous bottom.

  She had a fantastic ass, the sort a man could really get a grip on when he was...

  Yikes! He was a mess! Aroused. Titillated. Intrigued. And, under the circumstances, much too sober.

  She offered him his drink, which he accepted, but he had to clutch the glass with both hands so he could keep it steady. Quickly, he swigged the amber liquid, and tears welled into his eyes, but he managed to refrain from humiliating himself by hacking or sputtering.

  “Good night again, Lord Banbury.”

  Did she address him as Banbury just to annoy him?

  She ambled away, and as she passed where he was sitting, the billowy sleeve of her robe grazed his cheek. Had she been more skilled at the art of coquetry, he might have assumed that the motion was practiced.

  “Good night,” he echoed to her well-proportioned, retreating derriere.

  Long after she’d withdrawn, he stared at the spot where she’d been. He could smell her perfume, could feel the caress of her robe, and his manly instincts were stimulated by her lingering essence. His cock throbbed, his balls ached and, suddenly, he was burning up with unassuaged passion. He wanted nothing more than to march up the stairs, boldly intrude into her room, and have a genuine wedding night.

  Bloody hell! What was he considering? What was he hoping to achieve?

  Reclining in his chair, he shut his eyes, quelling his careening emotions and his scattered musings, while trying to analyze the forces that were raging through him.

  Rapidly, it was becoming apparent that she wasn’t the type of woman a fellow could neglect. Nor was she the kind he could have a time or two and be shed of—as was his wont. There was a chemistry or magnetism about her that drew a man in, that lured him to his doom, that made him want to chase foolishly after her just to discover if she could be caught, which was exactly what he was eager to attempt.

  Was he insane?

  It was those vows, he decided. Speaking those wedding vows before the minister and his assembled colleagues had left him unsettled. His financial quandary had driven him to take a rich bride, and he’d entered into the union without much thought, deeming it to be a lark, an easy solution, an excellent jab at his overbearing tyrant of a father. Clearly, however, the improvident whim was a blunder of monumental proportions.

  Since the day he’d turned eighteen and had moved out on his own, his father had been subordinating him through adept manipulation
of the purse strings.

  Recently, the earl had been obnoxious, ordering Stephen to wed by his thirtieth birthday. Without garnering Stephen’s permission, he’d gone so far as to select a potential fiancée and had commenced negotiations with the girl’s father, even though she was a whiny, homely nag whom Stephen couldn’t abide.

  When Stephen had rebuffed the earl’s scheme, the earl had halted Stephen’s allowance.

  Marriage to Ellen Foster had been a windfall, a stroke of luck that had plucked him out of the doldrums of economic despair and had immediately rectified all that was wrong with his life, but the event had transpired so swiftly that he hadn’t had sufficient opportunity to acclimate to the ramifications of what he’d wrought.

  Those vows weighed heavily, having sunk in and wedged themselves into his consciousness, and he couldn’t discard their magnitude. He now had a wife. A comely, engaging, smart individual who would need and expect his courtesy, deference, and respect, yet he didn’t want a wife! He’d liked his bachelor’s existence just how it was!

  A wife connoted stability and obligation, responsibility and monogamy, and he’d never been one who could commit to a single woman. Fidelity was a preposterous theory that was beyond his capabilities.

  He was nettled by his folly, by the impetuousness that had brought him a lifetime of tribulation and strife. At all costs, he had to have his own way, so he’d spent almost thirty years clashing with his father, but to no avail. Look where he’d landed himself! He was wed to a foreigner with whom he’d been acquainted for only a few hours, and he’d been accompanied at the ceremony by his crew of immature, boisterous friends, with nary a family member in attendance.

  Standing, he adjusted his trousers, prodding at his cockstand, which wouldn’t abate.

  He needed a woman. Not his wife, of course, but a female nonetheless. Weeks earlier, he’d split with Portia. The grasping, avaricious vixen had had the gall to break it off merely because he’d been destitute.

  What loyalty! What devotion!

  The shrew!

  Since their quarrel and his auspicious acquisition of Ellen’s fortune, Portia had been trying to atone, to cozy up, claiming she hadn’t meant the horrid insults she’d hurled, but he’d taken them to heart and had sworn off romantic entanglement altogether. Evidently, his body was strongly feeling the lack.

  The deficiency had to be why he was experiencing such a dreadful corporeal gravitation toward Ellen, so some extensive, raucous fornication would suit him just fine. With an amenable partner, he could exhaustively slake his lust so that this asinine craving for Ellen would wane.

  Absently, he cogitated on the changes a female would bring to the house, how different it would be to have her constantly about and underfoot. Although there would be advantages too he supposed. She didn’t seem the type who would brook much nonsense from the retainers, so he could anticipate better meals, a cleaner residence, and more vigilant servants with her to superintend them.

  And, naturally, there would be the chance to see her first thing every morning, to come down to breakfast and find her sitting in the family dining parlor, with the sun shining like a halo around her flaxen hair, and her gown molded to her bosom, and he’d...

  “Get a grip on yourself!” he petulantly grumbled.

  He went to the foyer, ready to fetch his outer garments and depart for destinations unknown. After all, where could a married man receive succor and solace on his wedding night without the gossip—that he wasn’t in bed with his wife—spreading like wildfire?

  The anteroom was deserted, as were the hallways. The servants were absent. Ellen had given them the night off. He needed a hat and coat, though they all seemed to be conspicuously missing. Up in his bedchamber, he had many and, vastly irked, he trudged up the stairs to retrieve them, wanting to be off, but having no enthusiasm for the journey.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “He’s coming!” Ellen’s younger sister, Alice, whispered the warning as she swiftly but quietly shut the bedroom door. “It looks as though our ploy was successful.”

  Ellen jumped to her feet. “You should have seen him when I leaned over that table in the parlor. Most of my breasts were visible. He almost fell over!”

  “What if you’d given him an apoplexy?”

  “I was afraid he might expire before having a chance to do the deed!”

  They giggled like schoolgirls, then Alice sobered.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  “More ready than I’ve ever been for anything.”

  “At least I knew my husband on the big night. And I was madly in love with him. That definitely helped.”

  “I could picture myself falling in love with Stephen.” Considering how her heart fluttered whenever he was near, the notion wasn’t so far-fetched.

  Six feet tall, with dark hair and eyes, he was dashing, handsome. His physique was broad at the shoulders, thin at the waist, with long legs and a lithe, muscled torso, but it wasn’t his appearance that had captivated her. It was how he carried himself, the manner in which others deferred to him, how heads turned when he walked by.

  Women coveted him for his swagger and sexy disposition. Men envied him for his status and confidence, his attitude and demeanor. Ellen wanted him—for all those reasons and more.

  “I’m so worried about you,” Alice said.

  “Don’t be. I’ll be fine.”

  The two siblings clasped hands, linking their fingers and squeezing tight.

  “I’ll be in your room,” Alice advised, which caused her to chortle with mirth. As if Ellen would have followed Stephen’s silly order to use another suite. “If you need me...?”

  Alice’s voice trailed off in a question, because they couldn’t predict what was about to transpire. Ellen’s new husband was a mystery over whom they’d tittered and fussed for weeks before Ellen had made up her mind to pursue him. Neither of them could say what he might or might not do.

  “I won’t,” Ellen courageously maintained. However he might posture and preen, Stephen was a gentleman. A temperamental one certainly, but a gentleman nonetheless. “Go now. Before he discovers that you’re here.”

  Alice hugged her and, surprisingly, tears flooded her eyes. “You’re so pretty,” she said. “He won’t be able to resist.”

  “My fingers are crossed.”

  “I hope it’s as splendid for you as it was for me.”

  “It will be.”

  Taking into account Stephen’s scandalous reputation with the ladies, she reckoned that the event would be fantastic. By all accounts, she couldn’t have chosen a more apt candidate to ease her through the loss of her virginity.

  “Go!” she repeated, suddenly frantic to organize herself, to steady the tingle of excitement and calm her torrent of emotions before his arrival.

  Grinning, Alice sneaked out, leaving Ellen to cope with the ordeal alone—as every bride had to do.

  She went to the dressing room that divided the two principal bedchambers of the residence, even though it was an area she had no right to occupy. Stephen had tried his level best to keep her at a distance. Without asking her opinion, he’d relocated her accommodations to the other end of the hall, but it was a plan with which she had no intention of complying.

  Her husband was about to learn a distressing fact about his wife. She was her father’s daughter in all ways.

  Because she was too intelligent, strong-willed, and stubborn, she’d kept her tenacity prudently concealed from her spousal candidates. She’d wanted them to be complacent, to deem her tractable and meek, but she’d been raised to prevail and flourish as enthusiastically as her father had.

  Years earlier, he’d been wrongfully convicted of theft. Then, in chains, he’d been transported from his beloved England. Disgraced, he’d journeyed to the New World. There, he’d toiled unbearably, never losing sight of his goals or objectives, and he’d ultimately thrived far beyond anyone’s expectations.

  Ellen had acquired perseverance fro
m studying him and, occasionally, she fancied herself to be more determined than he could ever be. She’d wanted Stephen and now she had him. Despite his blunt insistence that they would have a platonic marriage, her aim was deflowerment. Immediately.

  After he’d proposed, she’d cordially listened to his drivel as to how he didn’t want to wed, and she’d patiently suffered through his contention that he felt no compunction to execute his noble responsibility to his family and line by siring any children. Unfortunately for him, she wanted a houseful, as well as a loving husband to govern over the large flock she anticipated having.

  Stephen was going to be that man. He just didn’t realize it yet.

  Anxious, but brimming with undaunted resolve, she stood next to the bathing tub that Alice had obligingly prepared. Insolently, she turned her back, pretending to tarry, waiting with bated breath, as he stomped into his bedchamber and cast about for the cloak and hat he’d had to retrieve—since she’d lugged them all upstairs in furtherance of her scheme.

  She was so attuned to him she could feel his movements beyond the wall, could discern the moment he saw her, and she stiffened, her pulse hammering in her chest, her senses festering and overloaded.

  Lord, give me strength, she silently prayed.

  Steeling herself, her hands shaky and her knees weak, she untied the bow that bound the front of her robe, and it slid to the floor.

  * * * *

  Stephen frowned. Could it be?

  A light emanated from his dressing room. The door was ajar, and he got a whiff of warm water scented with rose oil.

  The smaller room adjoined the next bedchamber, the one that would have belonged to the viscountess had his and Ellen’s been a true marriage, but she couldn’t be in it. As he hadn’t wanted her to misconstrue proximity, he’d specifically advised her to put her possessions in the suite at the other end of the hall.

  She wouldn’t have flagrantly ignored his wishes as to where her apartment was to be. Would she?

  Like the worst voyeur, he tiptoed to the door and peeked inside.

  It was Ellen! Taking off her clothes and preparing for her bath! She’d had his tub filled with steamy water. Towels and soaps had been laid out on a stood next to it. Facing the dressing table, her back to him, she slowly stripped, though there weren’t many pieces to shed.