by Anna DePalo
Instead, he waited patiently until Tamara reached him and Viscount Kincaid kissed her cheek.
Once she put aside her bouquet of tightly-packed roses, he took her hand, claiming her.
He felt a tremor go through her and glanced her way, but her alabaster profile remained composed.
He barely registered the voice of the minister. “We are gathered together…”
He kept Tamara’s hand in his, feeling the vital flow of life between them.
The minister led them in their vows, the same ones used in royal weddings. Sawyer felt his eyes crinkle when Tamara delicately repeated “to love and to cherish” and omitted “obey.”
For his part, he intended to love and cherish her—in the full physical sense and as soon as possible. In that way, his vows couldn’t be more real.
When it was time for the exchange of rings, he produced a filigreed wedding band of platinum and diamonds and slipped it on her finger. There it joined the diamond engagement ring that he’d given her.
He was glad to see Tamara’s lips curve into a faint smile as she looked at the new ring on her finger. He’d debated long and hard before selecting the wedding ring at longstanding Langsford family jewelers Boodle & Dunthorne. He’d wanted a ring that fit Tamara’s fashion-forward sense and was impressive enough for the new Countess of Melton. From the look on Tamara’s face, he’d made the right choice.
Moments later, Tamara slipped a wedding ring on his finger—the plain platinum band with small grooved edges that he’d ordered.
When it was time to kiss the bride, he settled his lips on hers with satisfaction, letting her glimpse his simmering passion and feel the promise of more.
He was joined to Tamara now, and somehow it didn’t feel just like a means to an end. Except, of course, if that end was the wedding night.
Tamara sipped her champagne, adjusting to the weight of two magnificent rings on her finger—and adjusting to the enormity of what she’d just done.
Married to Sawyer. She was now the Countess of Melton.
She was seated among the seventy-odd invited guests in the main dining room of Gantswood Hall, where the traditional wedding breakfast was taking place.
Thankfully, she thought, glancing around, this whole affair would soon be over. Pia was ignoring the Duke of Hawkshire, and Belinda and Colin sat like two combatants at an impasse. The remaining wedding guests and a roving photographer were convenient buffers.
In fact, the only person who appeared in the best of spirits was her father.
As if on a cue from her thoughts, Viscount Kincaid pushed back his chair and stood.
“A toast,” her father announced, raising his glass.
Tamara nearly groaned aloud, and everyone else dutifully reached for their glasses.
This, Tamara thought, was destined to be her life if she stayed married to Sawyer. There were all sorts of issues of protocol, precedence and etiquette that she would need to be aware of. She would need to conform to certain rules after years of priding herself on being a nonconformist.
True, she’d enjoyed her horseback ride yesterday. True, she found Sawyer’s kisses more potent than any other man’s. But they were all wrong for each other.
She pulled her mind back, realizing her father was looking at her, for once in her life, with approval.
“To Tamara, my dear daughter, and Sawyer, whom I proudly welcome as my son-in-law,” her father said. “May your marriage be long and fruitful.”
Tamara refused to glance at Sawyer. If only her father knew. This time he’d met his match in ruthlessness.
“And may you find a lasting happiness together.”
Tamara hid her surprise. She wasn’t expecting that toast. Looking at her father’s face, though, she realized he meant it.
“To Tamara and Sawyer,” the other guests said in unison, saluting them before sipping their champagne.
Tamara set down her glass, and then before she could react, Sawyer picked up her hand and raised it to his lips.
“I shall endeavor to use my very best efforts to make Tamara happy,” he announced, gazing into her eyes.
She could almost read the end of his sentence in his tawny gaze. In bed.
Extricating her hand, she gave a fixed smile. “Sawyer, you’ve already made me happy.”
She thought of her loft back in New York and her dreams for Pink Teddy, and banished all thoughts of Sawyer’s seductiveness.
Sawyer’s amused expression was all too knowing, and she angled her chin up stubbornly.
She refused to be vanquished over plates of salmon in a delicate cream sauce with a side of asparagus spears.
A door connected the master’s and mistress’s private quarters at Gantswood Hall.
Sawyer contemplated the door now. He’d just showered, his hair still damp as he pulled on a pair of cotton pajama bottoms.
In centuries past, the door, which connected the earl’s and countess’s sitting rooms, had been the gateway through which the lord and lady of the house were expected to meet to do their sacred duty—namely, to beget heirs.
It was how his father had been conceived, and his father’s father and so on down the line.
He himself, on the other hand, had by all reports been conceived in one of the luxury hotel suites at Claridge’s, soon after his parents had embarked on their impetuous and tempestuous union.
His aristocratic father had married a free-spirited American socialite and heiress, and the marriage had been a—thankfully brief—disaster.
The thought gave him a brief moment’s pause. He was well-versed in the pitfalls of marrying a woman unsuited to the role of countess.
But he’d struck his bargain with Viscount Kincaid. And even in this day and age, he had a duty to secure the earldom by producing a successor to the responsibilities of his hereditary peerage.
And the truth was he was as impatient to consummate his marriage as any bridegroom. He’d been suffering the pangs of frustrated desire for his bride for too long.
Tonight, God help him, there’d be no untimely interruptions by sad-sack boyfriends or unsuspecting household help.
Tonight, he’d seduce Tamara.
With that thought, he strode to the door and tapped lightly. After a moment, trying again and receiving no answer, he turned the knob and entered.
Tamara’s sitting room was empty, and so, for that matter, was what he could see of her bedroom through the doorway.
Where was she?
It was nearing midnight, and they’d both had a long day. After the wedding breakfast, they’d continued to socialize with various guests, until they’d seen a number of their visitors depart.
Sawyer walked farther into Tamara’s bedroom.
Her personal belongings lay about, and his eyes came to rest on the wedding dress that was draped on a rose-and-gold-striped armchair.
Walking over, he picked up the dress and brought it up to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.
A hint of jasmine.
A little exotic, a lot erotic.
His body tightened.
Allowing the lacy gown to drop back onto the chair, he let his eyes follow a path of strewn clothing from where he was standing to the bathroom door.
A pair of red panties, a white garter…
His blood began to hum.
He could hear the shower running now, and his feet took him to the bathroom door.
He didn’t even think. He opened the door and walked inside, and immediately focused on Tamara’s silhouette visible through the fogging shower door, her dark-red hair partly wet.
Her face was turned up to the shower jet, her eyes closed as soapy water ran in rivulets over her shoulders and disappeared beneath the steam that partially concealed her from his avid gaze.
Sawyer felt his blood pound harder in his veins. His body was revved, ready on a hair trigger to seek mind-blowing pleasure with her.
At that moment, Tamara turned her head and saw him.
He wa
tched her eyes go wide with shocked surprise.
They stared at each other while the steam continued to rise between them.
Then she slapped her hand on the handle of the shower and shut off the water.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded as she turned to face him again.
“I live here, if you’ll recall.”
He wanted to enjoy the show. Step out of the stall slowly.
He reached for one of the plush beige towels hanging nearby and moved toward the shower door.
Her green eyes flashed, as bright as any fine emeralds. But despite the performance, he could read her nervousness.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she said.
“We need to discuss what we’re doing tomorrow,” he replied. “This is the only time we’ll have to speak privately. We still have guests—including your father—who’ll expect us to act like content, if not lovestruck, newlyweds.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. They did need to talk.
But his body damned conversation. It wanted something more elemental from her.
“Out,” she demanded.
“Precisely what I was thinking.” He held the towel before him. “I won’t look.”
She hesitated, and then chin held high, opened the stall door and stepped out.
He lowered the towel, and she sucked in a breath.
He drank in the sight. Her shoulders and arms were sculpted, her waist tiny. And her breasts…
He swallowed. Beautiful. Her nipples were erect and rosy, beckoning to him in their tightness.
And that damned rose tattoo…
“You said you wouldn’t look!”
His lips twitched. “The sight proved irresistible.”
Her eyes rounded, the sexual current oscillating between them.
“Tamara, all grown-up,” he said roughly. “You do make an exquisite countess.”
Her lips parted, her eyes moving from his bare chest and down to his arousal.
The part of his brain still functioning was a bit amused by her loss for words. The other part took satisfaction in the evidence that she was just as affected as he was.
He let the towel fall from his grasp to the floor.
The curls at the apex of her thighs were just as dark and lushly red as her hair.
Heaven.
He reached out and drew the pad of his forefinger over her nipple.
She gasped, and he hoped the sensation was as exquisite as she gave every evidence of it being.
Her eyes flashed. “Looking for some novelty, Sawyer? A shag with someone who’s not your usual type?”
“With someone who’s my wife.”
“In name only!”
“Labels are only as meaningful as we allow them to be.”
She bent to snatch up the towel, but he was just as fast…bending with her and dragging her into the shelter of his arms as his mouth fastened on hers.
Lips locked together, they rose slowly.
He folded her close, and her arms inched around his neck. The wetness that still clung to her skin dampened them both, joining them, as his arousal settled against her.
Ever since their first kiss, the attraction between them had been combustible, and now it seemed they were both powerless as it flamed to life again.
His hand slipped down her back, rubbed over her derriere and back up again. She felt so good.
He moved his mouth from hers, trailing kisses across her cheek and down to her throat.
“You’re a moth to the flame, aren’t you, Sawyer?” she taunted softly.
He lifted his head, and looked into her green eyes, bright with desire and provocation.
“Does it get boring for you buttoned-down types?” Tamara asked.
“Never when you’re around.”
A hint of vulnerability flashed across her face, but it was quickly gone. “Is that a compliment?”
“A promise.”
She opened her mouth, but he swallowed her response with his, breathing in the scent of jasmine that lingered lightly on her skin.
He slid his hand over her thigh, lifting it and wrapping it around him.
He let his hands dance over her body, plying her with pleasure until he felt her relax. Only then did he bend over her, cupping and nuzzling her breasts.
He laved one nipple and then the other, heard her moan, and then fastened his mouth over one breast.
Her hands tangled in his hair, and her moan fueled his ardor.
He lifted his mouth to move to the other breast. “You’re so responsive.”
“We unconventional types usually are.”
Her reply made him smile.
“Show me,” he urged, planting a quick nip on the rose tattoo that always drew him.
She was obviously set on reminding him how different she was from his usual type, because she thought he was after a quick coupling with novelty value.
Instead he… Well, he would love to demonstrate to her just how novel an experience theirs could be. There was so much passion between them that he couldn’t wait to explore.
But then he thought unexpectedly of that hint of vulnerability he’d seen earlier.
Damnation.
He wanted her. But if he took her, she’d think it was because she was the flavor of the day.
The movement of her hand cut into his thoughts. He felt the flutter of a caress along his arousal, and then another, and bit back a groan.
Her hand slid up and down along the length of him through his pajama bottoms, again and again.
Hot and heady sensation coursed through him. His breath became more labored and he felt his muscles bunch, readying his body for release. He needed to be inside her. Except he couldn’t.
Hell and damn.
He turned his head and growled next to her ear, “You, too.”
Then he cupped her intimately, his hand delving into the damp curls at the juncture of her thighs, interrupting her hand in its steady motion on him.
After a moment, he slipped a finger inside her and felt her body clasp around him, pulling tight as a bow.
They both groaned with satisfaction.
He moved his thumb, finding the nub hidden in her curls with unerring accuracy, and pressed.
She gasped, and then her hand reached up to grasp his arm. “Sawyer…”
“Yes, say my name,” he replied thickly.
He pressed forward, feeling her tremble with anticipation.
And in the next instant, she shattered, shaking and crying out, her body racked with waves of pleasure that seeped from her skin to his.
He held her, and moments later, feeling her heart still pounding, he moved damp hair back from her face and brushed his lips across hers.
A promise.
“Sawyer,” she said scratchily.
But he wasn’t done.
He knelt and cupped her bottom, bringing her against his mouth. He gave her an intimate kiss, one that had her body rising up to meet him while the breath seemed to leave her lungs in a whoosh.
Soon, she came apart again, this time against his mouth, and his palms smoothed down her legs, easing the tremor that signaled her release.
When he finally rose, his eyes locked on hers. Her face was flushed, her lips full and red, and her eyes wide and glazed.
He stifled an oath. His body still hurt with his unspent release. But in her eyes, there was still that vulnerability, reminding him how easily she could be hurt by what he did.
He bent and handed her the fallen towel, though many of the droplets that had clung to her skin had evaporated—no doubt due to their steamy encounter.
Then silently, he turned and walked from the room before he gave in to temptation.
Ten
With experienced precision, Tamara used the tweezers to set the opal in place, and then sat back and sighed.
She removed her visor, whose attached magnifying glass she had previously turned up, and rubbed the back of her neck.
She stared o
ut at the majestic English countryside beckoning to her from between the damask drapes of her sitting room. It was early, before eight, but soon she’d have no choice but to face Sawyer again.
After having slept badly, she’d resorted to one of her better relaxation techniques. There was something soothing, almost tranquilizing, about jewelry-making. Like knitting, it kept the hands busy while allowing the mind to wander.
She always traveled with a jewelry project or two, just so she’d have something to turn to if necessary—and with Sawyer around, it was proving very necessary.
Methodically, she put away her implements, placing pliers and tweezers back in their carrying cases. She closed the box holding semiprecious gemstones, and put away her portable metal-working kit.
She hadn’t heard any movement in the earl’s suite next door, so Sawyer was either sleeping soundly or had woken up before she’d gotten out of bed.
For her part, she had tossed and turned last night, willing herself to sleep.
Despite having had not one, but two, orgasms in Sawyer’s arms, she’d gone to bed alone and feeling frustrated and out of sorts.
How dare Sawyer surprise her while she was in the shower? How dare he bring her sexual fulfillment—not once but twice? How dare he leave without explanation?
She was so confounded by his behavior she didn’t know what she was most upset about.
How dare Sawyer twist her in knots.
Of course, she’d been an active participant in their romantic interlude. She’d told herself she was going to remind him just how incompatible they were—the bohemian, wayward daughter and the aristocratic lord. But events hadn’t unfolded in the way she’d expected.
Her cheeks flamed as she replayed the scene from last night. Sawyer had shown a greater mastery of her body and all its pleasure points than any man she’d ever known.
And then he’d left abruptly.
Was it because he’d come to his senses and realized the two of them were, in fact, a crazy pairing?
She felt an unexpected squeeze around her heart.
Her cell phone beeped, indicating she’d just received a text message, and she got up to retrieve it from where it was recharging on a nearby table.