His hands wandered down across her collarbones and paused over the upper swell of her breasts. He insinuated his thumbs under the lacy edge of her bodice, between her breasts. Isabel sat as still as she could manage.
His hands closed on the fabric and ripped, baring her breasts to his gaze and his touch.
Isabel shrieked. “How dare you tear my dress?”
Maxwell shrugged. “I’ve seen it more firequently than I like.”
“You cannot just destroy my wardrobe!”
“Why do you care? You can’t be especially fond of this garment, for you’ve worn it so often you must be weary of it. Besides, our bargain means you will have no shortage of funds to buy new dresses.”
“Someday.” After she gave him a child…a son to carry the title…How odd, that the heavy sensation in her womb had given way to something almost like a throb. “But in the meantime, if you continue this course I’ll have nothing to wear!”
“Then do not keep me waiting, wife—or you shall have to stay naked in my bed.”
She jumped up, trying to spin away from him—but he didn’t release his hold on her dress, and with a rasp the fabric tore through the rest of the bodice and halfway down the skirt. She stared down at the wreckage in disbelief.
“Have you a pair of scissors,” Maxwell said calmly, “so I can cut your corset strings?”
“No! You mustn’t, for it’s the only one I have with me!”
“That is hardly a reason for me to want to preserve it.”
“You’re still dressed.” The protest was no more than a feeble sally.
“Come here,” he said softly.
She cast a glance over the dressing table, making certain there was no blade in sight, and warily presented her back. He worked loose the knots in her corset strings and pushed the garment down so she could step out of it. “Thank you for not ruining it,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome. How do you plan to reward my patience, Isabel?”
She should have known he’d put even such a tiny concession to use. But there was no point in turning this sparring match into a battle she could not possibly win.
As quickly as she could, she unfastened her slippers, rolled down her stockings, and wriggled out of her underthings, till she stood before him in only her chemise. The garment had been washed so often it was growing threadbare, and it was creased against her skin from the tight corset that had fitted over it. Though she tried not to look at him, she was uneasily aware that he had not taken his gaze off her for so much as an instant.
A nightdress lay across the chaise where Martha had left it—but it would not cover her better. Since she could not put it on without stripping off the chemise, she decided not to bother.
As Isabel crossed the room to the bed, she couldn’t quite keep her gaze from straying to Maxwell where he stood in the center of the room with his hands on his hips, quietly watching. The blankets were already turned back, and she started to slide between them.
“Not yet,” he said. “Tonight I have a fancy to see you wearing nothing.”
She wondered if he had read her mind. “But…” His eyes narrowed, and she thought better of protesting. She hadn’t brought enough chemises to take the chance of him ripping one.
Before she could raise her hands to the ties of her chemise, he was there beside her, disposing of her last garment by lifting it over her head with a surprisingly gentle touch. She tried to slip between the blankets, but he pulled them back until there was nothing to hide her. He did not take his gaze off her as she lay there, naked and exposed, while he stripped off his clothing.
The previous night she had caught only a glimpse of his body. As he divested himself of his breeches and his erection sprang free, she tried to stifle a gasp.
“Frightened?” he said softly. “You accommodated me quite well last night, and I assure you I am no larger now than I was then.”
Suddenly, however, all his urgency seemed to dissipate as he stretched out beside her on the bed and drew her close against him. The soft hair on his chest teased her nipples; his mouth against hers was hot but not demanding; his hands were gentle on her breasts, her belly, her thighs; and when he moved over her, she gave a little sigh and opened her legs for him. Best to get it over with, she told herself, but her heart had speeded up till it was matching the rhythmic pulsation deep in her belly.
The head of his penis nudged at her, and then he paused. “I know you have never taken a lover, Isabel, but you must have been tempted sometimes. Think of one of those men, if you like, while I make love to you. I don’t mind if you pretend.”
He slid slowly inside her.
If the room had been dark, she might have thought of someone else, but all she could see was him, looming over her. All she could feel was him, sliding slowly in and out, heating her from the inside until she felt she would burst into fames. All she could think of was him, as he seemed to take more than her body…
His face was fierce, and she wondered whom he was thinking of as he stroked her. A woman he had known before her? One he had wanted but never had? Or a mistress he would have preferred to be with now, if not for his need of an heir?
Her child might look like him, with the same fierce concentration, the same determination to take what he wanted. Her muscles clenched around him, pulling him even more deeply inside her.
The throbbing in her womb grew until she could think of nothing else, and an instant later she climaxed just as he gave a hoarse, almost painful cry, and spilled his seed inside her.
A long minute later, he rolled just enough that he didn’t crush her. She waited for him to move away as he had the night before. Instead, he cupped one hand over her derriere and pulled her closer, till he was once more buried fully inside her.
Isabel was at a loss. Did he intend to stay here—to rest like this? Somehow, this stillness was even more intimate than the act that had preceded it, as though he was claiming her somehow. His breathing had steadied; hers didn’t, for every beat of his heart seemed to press him more closely against her core, reminding her of the rhythm they had shared.
“Does it hurt?” she said finally. “I mean, when you… finish.”
He opened his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you looked as though you were in pain. I wondered why men do it, if it hurts. Women have to—and I suppose men do, too, if they’re to have an heir. But that doesn’t explain why they set up mistresses, if they don’t enjoy…” She saw that he was smiling, and her voice trailed off.
“It only hurts in a good way, Isabel. A very enjoyable way.”
“Oh.” She remembered that throbbing ache inside her. “I think I see, but…”
He moved then, his penis sliding slowly out of her as he rolled to his side. Isabel knew she should be relieved because her duty was at an end for tonight—but she was a bit fearful, too. She shouldn’t have asked those questions but remained silent and unassuming. If he was annoyed…
What a shame it will be if he goes away. The thought came so naturally that for a moment she didn’t even realize how odd it was to want him to stay—but she had almost enjoyed lying quietly together and talking.
As if he had read her mind, Maxwell settled back against the pillows and looked at her. All he did was look— but suddenly Isabel’s throat tightened and she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
He kissed her temple, tasted her earlobe, traced her collarbone. Her breathing grew labored. His mouth moved onto her breastbone, and he nibbled softly at each nipple in turn. She arched against him. He drew a line with the tip of his tongue to her navel, and palmed her hipbone to hold her steady.
Once more he moved over her, and this time she parted her legs for him without hesitation. He smiled as if satisfied, and she saw to her surprise that he was hard once more. But rather than slip inside her, he settled back between her knees, his hands resting lightly on her thighs, holding her open. His gaze still held hers, while almost absently his thumbs stroked the soft curls between her legs.
And then he bent down to her and licked—and Isabel came off the mattress with a surge and a half-swallowed shriek.
Gently but firmly he pushed her down and set about caressing her with hands and mouth until she writhed and wailed. He was utterly relentless as he alternately fondled and tormented. He brought her to the very edge of satisfaction, but just as she reached for release, he backed off and started again—over and over, until ultimately she screamed for relief from a frustration she could no longer bear. Only then did he give her what she begged for, and while she was still quaking with her climax, he slid inside her once more. He took his own pleasure with fast, hard, deep thrusts which would have terrified her earlier, but which now seemed right, and natural, and infnitely satisfying. Before one orgasm had ended, another rolled over her and left her panting and exhausted and trembling.
“You see? It only hurts in a good way,” he whispered, and with a great effort Isabel managed to regain enough control of her muscles to nod.
Chapter 9
When Gavin reached his suite, his valet was fussing around with something at the wardrobe. Sorting stockings, Gavin saw when he drew near. “I’m not sure how many pairs you think I need in a single day, Benson,” he said, “but surely you don’t have to arrange them all at this hour of the night.”
“I was merely busying myself until you came in, sir, in case you should need me.”
It was an almighty good thing, Gavin told himself, that he’d scared Emily so thoroughly down in the billiard room. At least she wouldn’t be popping in at any minute.
“I haven’t forgotten how to undress myself,” he said dryly. “But I would like a brandy before bed.”
“Certainly, sir.” In his unhurried way, the valet put aside the last of the stockings, hung up the coat that Gavin had carried upstairs with him, and went out. A few minutes later he returned with a decanter and glass, built up the fire, and took his leave.
Gavin shed his neckcloth and sat down beside the fireplace in his sitting room, sipping his brandy and hoping he would eventually calm down enough to sleep. What kind of fool was he, anyway—deliberately setting out to almost make love to a woman, with no intention of following through?
He supposed he should find gratification in knowing that he’d saved Emily from her own foolishness. After his demonstration in the billiard room, he was reasonably certain he’d frightened all her curiosity away. Since that was exactly what he’d set out to do, he should be pleased at the outcome.
But who would have thought that hoity-toity Lady Emily had it in her to arouse him even more than he’d managed to arouse her? Her kisses had been inexpert, her touch uncertain—but both had inflamed him. He’d pushed her further than he’d intended to because she hadn’t reacted as he’d expected. He had thought she would be too much the lady to allow him—or anyone—to touch her so intimately. Instead…
She’d been shocked when he’d begun to undress her—that was obvious—but not shocked enough to call a halt. It wasn’t until the interlude on the billiard table, when she’d thought he was going to make love to her right there, that she’d gone all tense and terrified.
He regretted that it had been necessary to frighten her so much. But it was for her own good.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Just thinking about her was keeping him hard. The velvety smooth skin on the underside of her breasts…the surprisingly soft and downy hair between her legs…the feminine scent of her which still lingered on his hands from touching her so intimately…
He drained his brandy and poured a second.
He had acted in her best interests. But now that it was too late, he was suffering deep and painful regret—not for what he’d done, but for what he hadn’t. He could have taken her, right then and there. If he had employed a little gentleness—instead of deliberately acting like a demanding cad—she would have given herself to him.
You’re capable of satisfying my curiosity, she had said. And oh, how he would have enjoyed satisfying her!
He’d never before kissed a woman who was so naturally responsive. He had almost lost control of himself for a few moments there—he had forgotten they were on a billiard table and not in a bed.
How ironic, considering her low opinion of his manners—which his conduct tonight had done nothing to change, he was certain—that he was too much the gentleman to take what she had offered. If he was truthful, he had to admit that he had been able to stop only because he knew she had no idea what she was doing. Still, he could congratulate himself for showing restraint—even if his control had been minimal and slow to surface.
It was just as well that he’d scared her into giving up on her plan. She would be safe now.
Too safe. He’d lay odds that her determination not to marry would be stronger yet, now that she’d glimpsed first-hand what a man expected. If the Earl of Chiswick ever did succeed in chivvying her into marriage, Lady Emily’s husband would have the devil of a time talking his way into her bed.
Gavin smiled. The problems and frustrations of a hypothetical husband were not his concern, though he had to admit, Oh, lord, how I would enjoy watching that dance play out!
In the meantime, he was looking forward to seeing her at the breakfast table tomorrow—though he wouldn’t be surprised if she had a tray in her room instead, too embarrassed to come downstairs. But she’d have to face him sometime, and he thought she was too much of a lady not to acknowledge that she had been at fault in breaking her promise to come to his room. He was looking forward to hearing how she tried to explain that lapse of manners. She’d no doubt be the most proper, upright lady anyone had ever seen…doing her best to hide the shame she must feel.
Whenever she made her appearance, he would be the complete gentleman. He would pretend amnesia about the few dramatic, heated, passionate minutes they had shared. Except he knew that all he would have to do was smile at her, and she would remember and turn that delightful shade of pink that was so becoming to her.
Yes, he would have fun for the rest of their stay, reminding her without ever saying a word.
Also, it was a dead certainty he’d never again feel the same way about a billiard table.
He laughed at himself and went into his bedroom. In the dim glow cast by the fire, he shucked off the rest of his clothes, draping them over the nearest chair for Benson to deal with in the morning. As he did every night, he took the nightshirt the valet had left on his pillow and set it neatly atop the pile on the chair before he climbed between the sheets wearing nothing.
The well-ironed sheets were smooth—but not as smooth as Emily’s skin had been. The pillow was soft, but not as soft as her breasts. The blankets were warm, but not as warm as…
He heard something stir in the sitting room. Benson, no doubt, sneaking back in to finish up his project with the stockings. The man never seemed to sleep. Or Lucien, looking for a brandy and a bit of conversation. Come to think of it, the young man seemed to have had something weighty on his mind tonight. He might want to ask advice.
Or, Gavin thought lazily, Emily was coming to keep her assignation.
Wishful thinking, of course. She had practically burst out of the billiard room in her anxiety to escape—it was a wonder she’d stayed long enough for him to get her dress back on straight. And it had been obvious to him why she’d made the choice she had, when he’d asked her which room they should use. “Yours,” she’d said—and it had been clear right then that she had no intention of carrying out the implied promise.
Not that the result would have been any different if she’d invited him to her room instead, for he wouldn’t have gone. Still, it was far better that he not be the one to break his word. She couldn’t blame him if it was her own choice not to proceed—but regardless of the location, he was too much the gentleman to debauch her.
And he’d keep right on repeating that for as long as it took to convince himself.
The connecting door opened. Gavin rose up on one elbow.
; Within the half-drawn curtains of the four-poster bed, he was concealed from view, but the same couldn’t be said of the figure in the doorway. A pale, billowy shape loomed there; Gavin blinked, and for a moment thought he had conjured up a ghost. Then he saw how the moonlight from the sitting room outlined a perfect shape, easily visible beneath a pale dressing gown and a white nightgown so thin that it seemed no more substantial than a spiderweb.
Unbelieving, he could do nothing but stare.
“Gavin?” Emily whispered. “Are you there?”
For the life of him, Lucien couldn’t get his head around what Chloe Fletcher could possibly want, and why she had made an assignation to speak to him alone. A long, comfortable coze about how best to please Chiswick? Tips on how to wheedle her future husband into doing as she wanted? No; the girl wasn’t a fool. If she wanted anything of that sort, she’d have asked his sisters. Not that talking to Isabel and Emily would do her any good, but she wasn’t likely to realize that.
You are my best opportunity, she had told him…and then there had been that threat about doing what she wanted or else. Or else what? It all depended, he supposed, on exactly what sort of intrigue innocent-looking Chloe Fletcher was capable of.
He should just forget about their meeting, stay in bed, and let her steep in her own juice out there in the linden grove at Mallowan. And yet…if her goal had been to fascinate him, she’d managed nicely.
“I’ve a mind to ride in the morning,” he told his valet carelessly. “Wake me early.”
His valet looked so startled at the idea that Lucien wanted to curse. Had living in London turned him into such a lazy slug that his valet thought him incapable of enjoying country pursuits? “Oh, go away,” he said finally.
“I’ll get myself to bed.”
But despite his early appointment, Lucien sat by the fire for a long while, still mostly dressed and still thinking about Chloe Fletcher.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if she aspires to be a wealthy widow,” he muttered. “She might wish to be certain of what I’m prepared to do for her, once I’m the earl, in the way of settlements and such—beyond what the marriage contract allows her.”
The Birthday Scandal Page 14