When she said nothing, he murmured, “Ah, such a stubborn little wench.” Then he reached around in front of her to untie her chemise. She tried to face him, but he held her forcibly in place.
“Another thing,” he went on, “and this time I want the truth. Why did you want to have the children here, Abby?”
Dear heaven, he was back to that. Had he figured that out, too? “I told you—”
“No. The real reason. You knew how I felt. So you had a purpose for convincing me to let you bring them here, and then for keeping them past the hour I’d dictated. I think I know what your purpose was. I just want to hear you say it.”
She gave up. “All right, curse you. I wanted to see if you really hated children. And I think I proved that you don’t.”
“I see.” He sounded oddly calm as he dragged her chemise down to her waist, leaving her breasts completely exposed. The chill air made her nipples pucker into hard buttons, and his breath on her neck quickened. “So it was a test, was it?” he whispered in her ear, then tugged her earlobe with his teeth.
All her nether muscles tightened into an aching knot centered between her legs. “Wh-what do you mean? What sort of test?”
His arm snaked around her waist again, but this time right over her bare flesh. “To determine if I’d make a suitable husband.”
Heavenly day, he’d figured everything out. “Don’t be silly. If we’re going to separate in the end anyway, why would I care?”
“Good question.” His finger circled her navel, then darted in it. “I wondered the same thing. And I could only come up with one explanation—you want to make this marriage permanent if you can.”
She wasn’t fool enough to admit that. “Certainly not.”
“No?” His fingers danced along her ribs.
“No.”
“Still stubborn, I see.” His voice now held an edge. “Tell me, Abby, have you any idea what it’s like to live with heaven dangling always beyond your reach?”
She frowned. “That’s an odd question.”
“I know. Answer it anyway.”
“All right.” She thought of how this past few days had been, living as his wife but not his wife. “I think I do. Yes.”
With a growl, he flattened his large hand over her belly and tugged her hard against him, forcing her to feel every inch of the bulge beneath his trousers. “I think not. I think you have no idea what that’s like.”
She didn’t know how to answer and barely even had time to wonder what he was getting at before he ordered, “Pick up the peep-show box and look inside again.”
The ever-curious and wicked wanton in her found his demand vastly interesting. The well-bred lady in her recoiled. “Why?”
“Because I told you to. You’re my wife. And wives in England obey their husbands without question if they know what’s good for them.”
The implied threat sent a shiver along her spine. “I’m only your pretend wife.”
“Funny how you only notice that when it suits you.” When she stiffened, he softened his tone. “Just do it, all right? Think of it as a game, an erotic game. You like playing erotic games, don’t you?”
Not when you’re acting so strangely, she nearly said. Then he pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss to her neck, and all her objections melted into nothing.
“Look in the box, Abby,” he coaxed again.
Through her haze she saw him thrust it into her hand as if he didn’t trust her to pick it up herself. With a sigh, she grabbed it, then lifted it so she could look inside.
“Good girl.” He flexed his fingers on her bare belly. “Now tell me what you see. Start at the left and describe everything.”
Feeling the blood rush into her cheeks once more, she said in a whisper, “There’s a woman st-standing by a curtain.”
“And how is she dressed?”
“She isn’t,” she said in a small voice.
He feathered kisses over her jaw as if to reward her for her honesty. “Go on. What’s she doing?”
“You already know what she’s doing,” she accused him.
“Yes. But tell me anyway.” He sucked her earlobe. “It’s a game, remember? And you do like games.”
Why did he keep saying that? “She’s…well…got a man standing behind her holding her—”
“Like I’m holding you.”
She blinked. “Yes. Exactly.”
“And what is she doing with the man?”
Now that she was catching on to the “game,” a perverse excitement blew through her. “She’s pressing the man’s hand to her breast.”
“Show me.”
Abby hesitated, but his gruff command hung like a tantalizing promise in the air. If she just played the thunder god’s game, she could ride the wind, tame the storm. She caught his hand and pulled it to her own breast, then pressed it there. “Like this.”
With a growl of approval, he began to fondle her, palming her breast, teasing the nipple, and in general making her crazy. His caresses dragged the breath from her lungs, leaving her gasping and craving his mouth on hers.
She turned away from the box to seek his lips, but he merely moved his head to the other side of her neck and began to rain kisses on her sensitized skin.
“Go on,” he rasped against her ear. “Keep talking. What about the woman in the middle? What is she doing?”
“Clearly you’ve looked in this box more than once,” she said, faintly annoyed. “You seem to have the entire picture memorized.”
He laughed harshly. “Pretty much. Even a serious-minded man has to have some pleasures.” His fingers tweaked her nipple just enough to get her attention. “Tell me what’s in the middle, Abby.”
With a gasp, she returned her gaze to the image inside. “The woman is sprawled in an armchair with her gown open. The chair has gilded legs and—”
He nipped at her ear. “I don’t care what the chair looks like. Describe the woman.”
“She’s sitting in it with her legs parted, that’s all. And there’s a…black pillow or something between them.”
A strangled laugh escaped him. “It’s not a pillow. Look closer.”
Perplexed, she shifted the box to catch the light better. “All right, so the pillow is hairy, but…oh…” A blush spread over her cheeks. “You’re right—it’s not a pillow.”
“No. It’s a man’s head.”
Curiosity got the better of her. “What’s he doing?”
His fingers had stilled on her breast. “You tell me,” he said in that rumbling tone that always sent the butterflies to knocking around inside her.
“I…I suppose he’s…kissing her.”
“Where?”
“You know where,” she whispered.
This time he took pity on her and put his own hand where he wanted it—down beneath her chemise, which still covered her below the waist, to rest right on top of the curls clustered between her thighs. “Here?” he asked huskily.
Her mouth was too dry for speech. All she could manage was a nod.
His palm cupped her there, rubbing her and making her collapse against him, weak-kneed. His other hand returned to fondling her breast, and she thought she’d died and ascended right into the clouds. It felt so delicious, so very delicious to have his hands on her, all over her. Then he dragged one finger up to part her curls and toy with a certain sensitive spot so adroitly that she moaned and swiveled her hips forward against his teasing hand, wanting more, needing more.
“Would you like me to kiss you there?” he said hoarsely. “Like in the picture?”
That seemed wicked in the extreme, yet the thought of having his mouth on her heated flesh…“I-I don’t know,” she admitted.
Apparently that was answer enough, because he slipped from between her and the desk to move in front of her. Setting the box aside, he stripped her chemise completely off. Then he nudged her legs apart and knelt between them atop her rumpled clothing.
A wave of expectation swept through her when he parted
her curls with an impatience that seemed to rival her own.
As he stared at the tender flesh he’d exposed, a hint of uncertainty crossed his face. “I was right, wasn’t I? Your reason for finding out if I really hated children was to see if there was any hope of making this marriage permanent?”
She wanted to deny it, but it was hard to lie to a man who was eyeing one’s private parts as possessively as the thunder god surveying his domain. When she didn’t answer, he glanced up and read her answer in her face.
Thunderclouds rolled over his face. “I thought so.”
She opened her mouth to explain, to make him see that a marriage between them could work. But then he kissed her right there between her legs, and her mind went blank.
Oh, dear heaven. This wasn’t a kiss at all. It was…it was…
Erotic. Amazing. And thoroughly maddening. His tongue did things she’d never dreamed a tongue could do. Her eyes slid closed as she reached for his head, threading her fingers through silky hair to hold him closer.
“Do you like that, Abby?” he drew back enough to growl. “Does it please you?”
“Yes…oh…yes.”
With a grunt of satisfaction, he returned to laving her with his tongue, mouthing her so expertly she writhed and bucked and sighed. With his talented teeth and tongue and lips, he dragged her forward toward her pleasure, like the wind kicking up, blowing all before it, pushing everything into flight. Each caress of his clever mouth swept her farther and faster and higher until she started to leave the ground, started to soar…
He jerked back abruptly. Shaking off her convulsive grip on his head, he rose to his feet. She cried a protest as she crashed to earth without ever taking flight.
“Spencer, please…” she whimpered, but though his eyes blazed with his own desire and his trousers bulged, he ignored her plea. As she reached mindlessly for him, he backed toward the door, his tortured expression sounding the death knell to all her hopes.
Anger thundered in his voice. “Now you really do know what it’s like to have heaven dangled just beyond your reach.”
Pain sliced through her. He’d purposely brought her to the brink of fulfillment. Then left her here with no intention of finishing it. “Why are you…doing this?” she whispered, every inch of her body still throbbing with unmet need. “Because…because I went against your wishes today?”
With a ragged curse, he reached behind him to close one fist around the doorknob. “I told you nothing would come of our sham marriage. I told you I didn’t want to make it real, but you persisted with all your games.” The snick of his unlocking the door echoed in the intimate room. “Well, I can play games, too. So the next time you decide to scent my cravats or bring hordes of children here or tease me into ‘playing,’ remember that. If you do any of it again, I swear I’ll give you what you’re asking for and take you to bed.”
A long, shuddering breath rocked his rigid frame. “But it will change nothing, do you hear? Once I find Nat, you’re returning to America, ruined or not.” He raked her with a blatantly needy glance. “Or if you really want to stay in London, I’ll happily set you up in a nice house in Chelsea as my mistress.” His voice was storm wrapped in ice, as cold and unyielding as a winter tempest. “But I will never make you Lady Ravenswood in truth. Do you understand me?”
Shocked by the fury emanating from him, she could only nod.
“Good.” Jerking open the door, he stalked out and slammed it closed behind him.
For a moment, all she could do was stare after him, feeling battered and tossed by a whirlwind of emotions—thwarted desire…shock…despair.
And finally anger as it dawned on her what he’d done. He’d brought her in here purposely to tempt and tease her before dashing all her hopes with his curt withdrawal and bitter words.
Her gaze fell on the peep-show box, and her anger surged higher. Him and his temptations—why had she ever thought she might want to stay married to the heartless beast? With a curse, she snatched up the box and hurled it against the door.
Tears burned her eyes, but she fought them back as she stormed about the room, snatching up clothes. He could only stomach having her in his life when it suited his purposes, when he controlled everything and could rid himself of her whenever he pleased. He’d actually offered to make her his mistress. His mistress, mind you!
She jerked her chemise on over her head, then yanked her gown up and shoved her hands through the sleeves. Oh, yes, he would stoop to make her his mistress and have her share his bed, but God forbid she should encroach upon his career or his plans for the future by wanting…by wanting…
By wanting to be his.
She lost the battle with her tears. Collapsing on the floor, she let the sobs pour from her without restraint. She could never be his—the wretch had made that perfectly clear. All this time she’d misunderstood everything. She’d thought that his willingness to oblige her, his thoughtful attentions, and yes, his sweet kisses and caresses had meant he really was the wonderful gentleman she’d known in America.
But there was no wonderful gentleman—there was just the officious viscount. Yes, he desired her, but that was all. He wanted only her body, not herself. Nothing had changed from when she’d first come here—she was still the naive American fool with no connections to speak of, too unsuitable to be the wife of the wealthy and important undersecretary of England’s blessed Home Office.
She scrubbed at her tears angrily with her fists, furious at herself for mourning the loss of him when he’d never been hers in the first place. If he’d only given her time, a chance to prove herself…
No, he was too sure of what he wanted for that. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still prove herself. She could do it just to show him that she could. And rub his nose in it.
Drying her eyes on her sleeve, she stared blindly at the fire. Why not? Why not get a bit of revenge on him for his coldness? She would become the quintessential English lady. She’d go to that May Day fête and meet the king, as coolly elegant as any lady there. She’d make him regret that he hadn’t snatched her up when he had the chance. And when he finally came begging, she’d refuse him flatly.
Just see how he liked that.
Spencer sank against the wall outside his study. Her sobs had subsided, thank God, long after they’d deflated his rampant erection. Nothing quelled a man’s lust like the sound of a woman’s tears, especially when they belonged to a woman he desired with uncommon desperation.
He shouldn’t have stayed here to listen. He should have headed straight to the privacy of his bedchamber to deal with the problem of his arousal. But it had seemed patently unfair to find his own satisfaction after leaving her with none, since she didn’t have the sophistication to know how to pleasure herself.
Instead he’d stood motionless in the dimly lit hall while she’d vented her temper by throwing things. And then he’d stayed to punish himself, to listen to her heart-wrenching sobs and endure every stab of pain they inflicted.
Because he deserved to share her misery after what he’d done.
Devil take it, he should never have let his temper get the better of him. He’d gone too far. But after that dinner from hell where he’d seen just how sweet life with her could be if not for his inability to sire children, he’d snapped. If he hadn’t done something, she would have kept on with her tactics designed to bring him to heel.
At least one good thing would come of this. She would hate him now. And that was just as well. He could handle her hatred better than he could handle her hopeful looks and her none-too-subtle attempts to tempt him. Just knowing she was in his house was more temptation than he could stand—he didn’t need her actively seeking to seduce him. Or worse yet, to coax him into keeping her.
You should tell her the truth. Have it out. That would squelch her hopes at once.
Perhaps. Or she might protest that his inability to sire children didn’t matter. She might even really believe it didn’t. Until later, after he’d bee
n lulled into giving her his heart and soul. Then it would be just like with Father and Dora—years of not having her own children would wear on her until she destroyed the marriage in her discontent. Leaving him alone again.
No, better not to risk that.
McFee appeared at the other end of the hall. When he spotted Spencer, he headed toward him with purposeful steps. Spencer pushed away from the wall and strode to meet his butler, relieved to have some household nonsense to take his mind off Abby.
“One of the runners is here with news of your brother, my lord,” McFee said without preamble. “Shall I bring him to your study?”
“No!” Spencer dragged one hand through his hair. “No, Abby is in there and doesn’t wish to be disturbed. I’ll meet with him in the front drawing room.”
“Very good, my lord.” McFee glanced toward the study door. “Should I fetch Mrs. Graham to attend her ladyship?”
His stomach roiled at the thought of that harridan finding her darling mistress cursing Spencer’s name, but it occurred to him that Abby might have trouble dressing herself. “That would probably be a good idea,” he said wearily.
“As you wish.” But McFee remained standing there, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He tugged at his cravat and cleared his throat. “I’m not sure if I should presume to tell you—”
“You shouldn’t,” Spencer broke in.
McFee colored, but went on. “Forgive me for my impertinence, but I thought you might wish to know…that is…well, sir, you are missing some items of clothing.”
That brought Spencer up short. Glancing down at his shirt and trousers, he stifled a curse. Good God, she had him so scattered he hadn’t even noticed his state of undress.
“Thank you, McFee. Put the man in the drawing room, and I’ll…” He paused. He could hardly go back in his study to fetch his clothes. “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve stopped in my room for fresh attire.”
“Of course, my lord.”
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