“Go and get the damned food.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll deal with you later.”
Bending low, he ran his fingertip over her lush lower lip. “I can hardly wait.”
But the food took center stage once it was all brought in and arranged within reach, the splendid assortment beautiful to the eye, delectable to the palate, and delicious. Dermott sat opposite her while she lounged on the bed, and they ate for some time in a companionable silence broken only by agreeable comments on the food or Dermott’s selection of wines.
“You have a remarkable appetite,” Isabella observed after Dermott had demolished two plates of steak with oyster sauce and an entire bottle of claret.
He glanced up. “I forgot to eat today. Anticipation, I suppose.” His smile was cordial. “Were you able to eat?”
“Actually, no. So you don’t do this every day either?”
“Not every day. Not ever.”
“I’m the first?” she flirtatiously inquired, knowing full well she wasn’t the first in anything with the prodigal earl.
“The first to share my bed in Bathurst House. You see how enamored I am.”
“I am wonderful, am I not?” she playfully agreed, spreading her arms wide.
“No argument there.” He lifted his wineglass to her in salute.
The sound of a door closing, followed by footsteps and the splashing of water, interrupted their solitude.
“Sounds like your bath.” Dermott nodded toward a small door in the corner of the room. Pushing away from the table, he stood. “I’ll check on their progress.”
The hum of conversation resonated through the door for a time, as did continuing footfalls and the sound of water being poured. Until a final thud of a door closing was followed by Dermott’s reappearance. “Would you like me to carry you?” he asked, moving toward the bed.
She smiled at him. “I’m not an invalid.”
He frowned briefly. “I wasn’t cut out to be a despoiler of maidens.”
“Soon I shall be a consummate courtesan and you need no longer castigate yourself.”
“We’ll see about that,” he gruffly replied, the thought of her as a consummate courtesan no less deplorable.
“We won’t, darling.” Throwing the coverlet aside, she slid her legs over the side of the bed. “I’m quite capable of making my own decisions.”
“We’ll see.” His voice was low, scarcely audible, an odd possessiveness overcoming him.
Her brows rose.
He smiled and offered her his hand. “I said, you’re right, of course.”
“And don’t forget it, my darling Bathurst. What I’ve just done was specifically intended to maintain my independence. I’m not likely to relinquish it to someone else.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he dulcetly replied, drawing her to her feet.
“You’re much too glib.”
He grinned. “A failing, I’m told. I shall endeavor to improve.”
She stuck out her tongue. “Insolent rogue.”
“A bath might soothe your temper, my lady.” He was blatantly unctuous.
“But not your insolence.”
“A shamelessly intractable trait, I believe.” He spoke with unabashed cheekiness. “Perhaps you could school me in manners.”
“I doubt you’d comply.”
“If the reward was sufficient, my lady, I might be persuaded.”
“A sexual reward, no doubt.”
“Unless you find poetry as intriguing as I.”
She laughed at his outrageous mummery. “You’d settle for poetry?”
“If the conditions were ideal, of course.”
“Meaning?”
“After your bath, I’ll tell you.”
“Now I’m intrigued, Bathurst.”
“On that common note, my dear, might I suggest you take advantage of the bath while the water’s still warm.”
He sat well away from her while she bathed, resisting the impulse to ravage her bounteous charms with an unaccustomed self-denial maintained with only the greatest effort. If he were a gentleman, he’d refrain from making love to her again tonight, he reflected, and allow her to recover from her denouement. But he wasn’t capable of such chivalry when she was so alluring. In fact, he was hard pressed to remain in his chair.
He drank to distract himself, although he questioned the suitability of further numbing his already tenuous self-control. She bathed with a serene disregard for his presence, as though they’d done this countless times before, and he wondered if she realized how uneasily he was balancing base impulse and good judgment.
“You’re quiet,” she murmured, tracing her palm over the surface of the water, causing light ripples to wash over the mounds of her half-submerged breasts.
His grip on his brandy glass tightened. “I’m practicing self-restraint; it takes all my concentration.”
“How sweet, but you could join me if you wish.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“What if I were to specifically invite you?”
“I still wouldn’t.”
“Because?”
“I might hurt you.”
“This heated water is making me feel very sexy.” She slid up higher so her large breasts floated on the surface of the water. “I think I’m going to be needing you very soon.”
“You’re making this damned difficult.”
“I feel perfectly fine—without a twinge of discomfort.” Lifting one leg from the water, she balanced her calf on the side of the copper tub and smiled at him.
“It’s not going to take very much to change my mind,” he growled softly.
“Would something like this help?” Raising her other leg, she rested it on the tub rim, her provocative pose bringing his erection to full alert.
He set his glass down and reached for the tie on his dressing gown.
“Oh, good … I have your attention.”
“And something more in about a second,” he murmured, stripping his robe off as he rose from the chair.
“My God, Bathurst, you’re a beautiful sight,” she whispered, a rush of desire flaring through her senses. He was tall, bronzed, broad-shouldered, honed to the finest pitch of physical fitness, and blessed with the most magnificent erection. “Do come closer,” she breathed, knowing what untold bliss he could offer.
A moment later, he stood at the foot of the tub, no less overcome by desire. “Wet or dry?”
“In the interests of enlightenment,” she purred, lifting her arms to him.
He’d stepped into the water before she was finished speaking, and sinking to his knees between her outstretched legs, he slid his hands under her bottom. “I’ve been in a ravaging mood since I first saw you.” He lifted her gently until her pulsing cleft met the hard length of his penis. “Like some plundering barbarian. I can’t guarantee finesse.”
“I’m not interested in finesse.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you were,” he said on a suffocated breath, forcing his rigid erection downward, easing it into the sleek entrance to her vagina, moving forward by slow degrees so she could feel what he was feeling, so he could forget about good judgment and chivalry. So he could take what he so desperately wanted.
She gasped as he filled her, stretched her, lifting her mouth to his, wanting to feel him everywhere, wanting to completely absorb him and experience the unearthly delights he so skillfully dispensed.
The heat of their bodies, their desire, rose by vaulting degrees, as though they had to no more than touch and a feverish passion stung them to the quick.
“Don’t stop,” she breathed, his penetration inflaming her senses.
He knew better, but he whispered, “Never …” and glided in a fraction more, sensitive to the limits of sensation, less reckless than she.
“I want to die of pleasure….”
“A thousand times,” he murmured, wanting her as much, submerged almost to the deepest extremity.
“Oh, God …
”
He held himself motionless against the very mouth of her womb while the world dissolved, heated ecstasy overwhelming mind and body, every trembling nerve incited to rapture pitch.
“You can’t leave me.”
He heard her through a thundering lust so unrestrained and lecherous, he could honestly answer “I won’t” even as he began to withdraw.
“No, no, no!” She clutched at his back, trying to maintain the ravishing pleasure.
“Hush,” he commanded, breaking her hold. “I’m coming back.” And when he’d reached the limits of his withdrawal stroke, he plunged in once again and felt her soft sigh of gratification as he buried himself to the hilt.
Riveting sensation jolted their bodies, thrilled through their senses, burned away all but rapacious need, and they moved in the heated water in an agitated flux and flow that sent waves of water onto the carpet. Unmindful, driven by a frenzy of torrid desire, they wildly took and gave, greedy, impatient, consumed by a carnal hunger that burned away all but feeling, and when their orgasmic culmination exploded over them, they were both left breathless.
“My undying … thanks,” she whispered, lying prostrate, her head thrown back.
“The pleasure … was … mine,” he gasped, his forehead resting on the rim of the tub.
“I’m … going … to be … wanting more….”
He turned his head and met her voluptuous gaze. “Wet or dry?” he softly drawled.
“Whatever you want.”
What he wanted might alarm her, he thought, the possibility of fucking himself to death mildly alarming to himself as well. “I’ll make a list,” he whispered, a faint smile playing across his mouth.
“And I’ll accommodate you.”
“Sight unseen?”
She moved her hips in the smallest of undulations. “As long as I have this inside me, I’ll accommodate you any way you wish.”
“An inspiring offer.”
“I can feel your inspiration already.” He’d grown rigid again, and the exquisite sensation brought a smile to her lips. “How lucky I am.”
A consummate gambler, he understood the laws of chance and he knew full well the ultimate degree of luck involved in their meeting. “We both are,” he softly said.
10
HE CARRIED HER from the bath sometime later, wrapped her in one of his robes, slipped on a dressing gown as well, and led her through the imposing crimson-bedecked bedchamber to another dressing room so large, she stood in the doorway, rapt.
“Is this your Roman bath?” The walls and floor were of green-veined marble, the high-domed ceiling a colorful mosaic depiction of fauna and flora, the light from numerous wall sconces reflected in dozens of gilt-framed mirrors lining the walls.
He shook his head. “That’s on the ground floor. My great-grandfather apparently saw this room in a villa in Naples and brought back twenty Italian craftsmen to replicate it for him. I thought you might like to use the facilities.”
“Thank you.” Her blush deepened the pink on her cheeks.
“I could leave if you wish.”
“If you would … although I suppose at this point—” A flaring bit of scarlet rouged her cheeks. “I mean, after what transpired …”
“I’ll wait outside,” he gently said. “The water closet is through those doors.” Pointing at a trompe l’oeil woodland scene, he added, “Just push on the clump of primrose.”
She stood for a moment after the door closed on him, in awe of the magnificence. Nothing in her past compared with the degree of luxury evident in Bathurst House. Although Dermott seemed not to notice—his small dressing apartment was almost ordinary in its plainness. A clock suddenly struck, and glancing around, she saw a tall case clock set between a freestanding marble tub and a silk-covered chaise. A large family could live comfortably in this chamber, she thought, smiling faintly, the warmth from the fireplace adding to the creature comforts of the room. Vases of flowers perfumed the air as well, and she wondered if one ever became blasé about such splendor.
Not that she would have the opportunity to find out, she decided with the practicality she’d learned at her grandfather’s knee. And on that pragmatic note, she moved toward the hidden doors and gently touched the primroses.
The doors swung open soundlessly on well-oiled hinges and another chamber decorated in marble met her gaze. Pink marble this time, with a water closet in the guise of a throne and a sink with faucets that implied Bathurst House was supplied with running water. She wished she had someone to describe these luxuries to, and incongruously, considering her reasons for being there, she wished her grandfather were available to listen.
Dermott was seated near the large boulle desk when she reentered the bedchamber, refreshed as well after using the simpler accommodations in his dressing room. Lounging in an outsized chair, he held a brandy glass in his hand. “Did you manage to make all the faucets work?”
“Yes, thank you. How beautiful, and ingenious as well. Grandpapa would have enjoyed seeing your plumbing.”5
He smiled. “And I would have liked to see your grandfather again. He raised a very unusual woman.” He rose as she approached and offered her a chair beside him.
“Do you think I’m unusual?” Sitting, she thought how gracious he was to charm after as well as before.
“Without doubt. Champagne? I had some more brought up.” Which required waking the servants he’d dismissed.
“Yes, thank you.” She took the proffered glass. “Unusual because of this—arrangement, you mean?”
He momentarily pursed his lips. “A consideration perhaps, but no—I think your lack of affectation most appeals.”
“My lack of social graces, you mean,” she noted with a smile.
“Hardly. You could grace Almack’s with the best of them. I suppose I dislike coy women, and you are not that. What you are, darling, is the fascinating focus of my desires—in a most disturbing way. And there, I’ve said enough. I despise conversations about feelings.”
“As do all men, in my experience.”
“Your experience?” He cocked one dark brow.
“In my grandfather’s business. If one ever broached a subject that even veered in the direction of how one felt—say about a shipwreck, for instance, or a spoiled cargo, or the plight of laborers on the plantations that supplied much of the cargo—they would invariably say ‘And so life goes,’ as though it were possible to avoid an emotional reaction. Even Grandpapa, darling that he was, rarely mentioned his love for me other than to say, ‘You’re my sun and moon, Izzy’—he called me that from childhood—‘now tell me what you want and you may have it.’”
Dermott grinned. “A spoiled young lady—which accounts for your sexual demands. Not that I’m complaining.”
“Nor I, Lord Bathurst. You’ve lived up to your reputation splendidly.”
“We’re not done yet.”
“I should hope not.”
His lazy smile was overtly sensual. “Wanton minx.”
“Indeed.” She winked at him over the rim of her glass. “And I never had the least idea.”
“I should be grateful to your disreputable relatives.”
“In a way I am. Because of you, of course.”
His gaze went shuttered, wary of female flattery after years of avoiding entrapment.
Her trill of laughter drifted to the bacchantes overhead. “Do they all want to leg-shackle you?”
“Enough to make one cautious.”
“I know better. No need for alarm. But I’m glad you were the first,” she softly added.
And perhaps the last, a rash, impulsive voice inside his head avowed. Which voice was instantly quashed by those brute impulses that had sustained him in recent years. “Thank you.” He didn’t know what else to say. He had no intention of becoming involved.
“You’re very welcome. And when you’re sufficiently rested, I was wondering—if you didn’t think me too forward—”
His gaze came up, and he waite
d with interest.
“Whether we could have some of that chocolate dessert that we left on the tray in your dressing room.”
He laughed. “I fear I’m losing my touch.”
“Not in the least. In fact, I was trying to think of a way we could—do them both.”
“Since I’m not particularly interested in chocolate dessert, perhaps something could be arranged,” he murmured. “Although I have the perfect wine for your chocolate. Come,” he said, rising and offering his hand.
He led her first to the dressing room, where he picked up the dessert plate she wished, and then, drawing her along, traveled through the large bedroom and drawing room, down the hall and staircase. Turning to his right, he ignored the hall porter dozing in his chair and walked down a lengthy corridor to a small door set oddly in a corner. “Watch your step now.” Opening the door, he slowly led her down a narrow staircase, a coolness immediately apparent as they descended, and at the bottom of the stairs he opened a door into a well-lit wine cellar.
Obviously, he spent some time there, for a small anteroom entirely of brick was furnished with an elegant table and four upholstered chairs, a bow-fronted console, and a cupboard gleaming with glassware. Waving her into a chair, he set the dessert plate on the table, rummaged in a drawer for some flatware, produced an ornate fork and knife along with an embroidered napkin, and placing them beside the plate, bowed with an impudent grin. “If Mademoiselle will allow me a minute more, I can assure her a pleasant interlude.”
“But of course,” she playfully replied with a cheeky grin of her own. “So far I’m most impressed with your qualifications. All the gossip is quite accurate, my lord.”
“As for you …” His voice was like velvet. “You’ve more than lived up to expectations.”
“Perhaps you should thank Molly’s tutelage.”
He gently shook his head. “You’re just a hot little puss.”
“Then we’re well matched.” Her brows rose faintly. “And I mean it in the most specifically sexual way.”
His smile would have dazzled from a furlong away. “We’ll have to explore that sexual specificity.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind, although,” she gently added, glancing at his robe jutting outward rather than falling in silken folds to the floor, “it looks as though I needn’t worry.”
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