by Elise Marion
Even from this distance, he could hear the commotion in the ballroom, which would be filled wall to wall with guests. That would explain Isabelle’s absence. She would have wanted to be there to greet their guests, and would expect him to appear once he had arrived and gotten cleaned up. Or, would she? After he had received her letter only to decide not to answer with one of his own, she might not wish to lay eyes upon him.
As he ascended the stairs, he considered avoiding the ball altogether, but reminded himself that his absence would be noticed. As well, he could not go on hiding from his wife forever. She had planned this event with care, and no matter how strained things were between them, he could not bring himself to shun her efforts.
He would bathe and make himself presentable, and do his best to act as if everything were all right in his world. It was Christmas Eve, after all.
* * *
An hour later Serge procured a glass of brandy from a passing footman, lifting it to his lips as he surveyed the ballroom. Bathed, immaculately groomed, and well-dressed, he had entered the ballroom to find it packed wall to wall with both members of Barony’s court and common citizens mingling together in their finery—or, their Sunday best when it came to those without titles or wealth. More of the festive Christmas decor filled the room in bright splashes of red and green, with hundreds of candles setting it all aglow.
He spotted Esmeralda and Damien in a corner alone, their heads lowered toward one another as they talked in hushed tones. Judging by the heat in his brother’s gaze and the flush on Esmeralda’s cheeks, Serge guessed they would not be present much longer.
He found Tatiana on the dance floor with a man he could only assume was Lord Andrew Forsyth. He seemed ordinary enough, and Tatiana looked happy as she whirled in his arms with a radiant smile gracing her face. Damien had confided in him that Esmeralda was worried about a potential match between them, but Serge did not know the man enough to have any sort of opinion about it. It was none of his affair, so he tore his gaze away from them and continued scanning the room.
He’d been here for several minutes already and had yet to lay eyes upon his wife, even though he’d sent his valet to inquire about her whereabouts and had been assured she’d come to the ballroom.
Suddenly, he noticed a large crowd consisting of mostly men gathered close to the dance floor. Curiosity ate at his insides as he neared the small gathering, wondering what had their numbers swelling by the second. Knowing he was bound to run into his wife eventually, he forgot her for the moment and edged closer to the tight circle of men. Upon noticing the king was among them, they began to part and allow him through, a few giving him sidelong glances filled with meaning. He couldn’t understand it … until he got a clear view of what was in their midst.
At the center of the circle, chatting and laughing with a glass of champagne in hand, stood his wife. The half-empty tumbler nearly slipped from his hand when she came into view. He observed her from behind, but he would know her figure anywhere. Now, so would the court, he realized as his gaze traveled over her body beneath the flimsy gown she wore.
Sheer black organza had been molded to her form in a decadent display. The lining underneath was the same color as Isabelle’s skin, creating the illusion of nudity beneath. She wore fewer petticoats than usual, allowing the curves of her body to show in a way they never had in public. His fingers tightened around his glass as he realized she had gone without a corset. The mold of the bodice was far too close and there was none of the customary stiffness and … Dear God, she couldn’t possibly be wearing anything under that gown, he realized as she turned and gave him a full view of the front. The material fit her like a second skin, the neckline of the bodice so low that if she sneezed, her nipples were sure to make an appearance. Strings of pearls in varying lengths dripped from her throat, the longest one ending right at her waist.
But, the most provocative aspect of the entire getup was her hair. Serge would have thought he’d be upset at the prospect of her losing those glorious locks, but as he watched her, he found he rather liked it. The shorter hair only served to enhance her angelic face, as well as the delicate slopes and planes of her neck and shoulders, laid bare due to the almost nonexistent cap sleeps of her gown.
He fought with the innumerable emotions coursing through him at the sight of her, smiling at the man who bent down to kiss her hand. Equal parts anger and desire mingled until his blood was near boiling and every muscle in his body grew tense—including that most primal one hanging between his legs. The organ began to stir, reminding him that he’d been living like a monk for months.
The courtier whispered something in Isabelle’s ear and then pointed upward with a grin. Serge followed Isabelle’s gaze to the archway above them and his mouth went dry. Mistletoe hung directly above their heads.
Serge felt the glass beginning to crack in the brutal clench of his fist as she leaned forward and allowed the lord to kiss her cheek. When he made to pull away, Isabelle grabbed his shoulders and returned the kiss with a loud smack. Laughter and applause rang out and the young man blushed. Serge set the glass aside before it broke completely and he injured his hand.
Fury, red-hot and blistering rose up in him as she turned to accept the arm of another man.
Primus.
Serge’s hands balled up tight as he began shoving his way through the crowd, shouldering men out of his way to get to them. Oblivious to his approach, Primus led her toward a set of doors that led out to the terrace overlooking the garden. His gaze remained locked on them as he followed, weaving his way around guests in their direction. His progress was slowed by those seeking to greet and congratulate him on the success of his efforts thus far. He did his best to be gracious while ensuring they knew he was in a hurry. Finally, the crowd seemed to break and he made it to the doors.
They had not gone far, and remained just within his view on the terrace. He stopped in the doorway, grateful for the cold air that slapped him in the face. It proved just enough to calm him so he wouldn’t kill the man on the spot. Reason had him placing the blame upon Isabelle, the woman who had flaunted herself so fragrantly with no regard to how it would appear or how it would make him feel.
If she’d wanted his attention, she’d gotten it. Leaning against the doorframe, he crossed his arms across his chest and watched. He wanted to see how far she’d be willing to take her little farce before he stepped in. That alone would determine whether he strangled Primus outright, or merely beat him to a pulp.
* * *
Things had gone entirely too far. Isabelle had known the moment Serge clapped eyes on her. She had felt his fiery gaze on her, watching her every move as she’d flirted and laughed for his benefit. Her performance had worked, earning her husband’s full attention.
The mistletoe had not been part of the plan but, caught up in the moment, Isabelle had gone along with it. Her lips had only touched the other man’s cheek, and if it sparked even the slightest bit of possessiveness in Serge, it could only serve her well. But, he had hung back, watching her with murder in his eyes when she’d expected him to come and extricate her from the crowd—maybe even throw her over his shoulder and carry her from the room.
He’d made no move toward her, which would not have been so bad had Primus not appeared at her side, asking her to take some air with him out on the terrace.
She had lost sight of her husband, and was now apprehensive about being alone with Lord Primus on the dark balcony. The breeze carried the stench of spirits up her nostrils, and it became clear that the man was completely soused. She shivered from the cold and crossed her arms over her nearly exposed bosom.
“Are you cold?” he inquired, shrugging out of his coat. “Here, Your Highness, allow me.”
She accepted the coat, but stiffened when his arm remained around her shoulders. She was now in over her head.
“Primus,” she began as she edged away from his hold. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
“Another moment pleas
e, Your Majesty. I have something that I would like to say to you.”
Trepidation struck her at the grave tone in his voice, his words only slightly slurred from drink. A drunk man was also an honest one—he would say things he’d ordinarily keep to himself. When it came to Primus, she wasn't certain it would be something she’d want to hear.
“Perhaps it would be better...”
“Hear me out, please,” he interrupted, grasping one of her hands in both of his. “I just want you to know how happy I am to see you here, in this castle, in that ballroom. It is good to finally have you home where you belong.”
Isabelle would not breathe a sigh of relief just yet. The feeling that Primus was working his way up to something persisted, and her heart pounded with the urge to flee.
“It is good to be here,” she replied, attempting in vain to pull her hand from his grasp.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured as he edged closer, his other hand coming up to snake around her waist. “It’s really a shame that His Majesty has not seen fit to notice. He does not appreciate you, you know. He does not deserve you.”
Anger flared hot within her at this man who would serve as her husband’s councilman and show loyalty to his face, while making such remarks behind his back. It was no more than she ought to have expected, she realized. This man had never hidden his disdain for her husband.
Isabelle opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort when he tightened his hold on her, pulling her toward him, his eyes sliding closed and his lips puckering as if for a kiss. Isabelle leaned away, her belly roiling at the odor of liquor on his breath and the thought of being caught in this compromising position.
“Primus, please,” she begged, lifting her hands to push against his chest.
It was the last warning he would get—she’d grown weary of trying to handle this in a diplomatic fashion.
When he kept coming toward her, and Isabelle decided she had long since lost her patience, she balled up her fist and cocked her arm back, ready to strike.
Before her blow landed, Primus went flying from the bench head over heels. With a gasp, she shot to her feet as glanced up to find Serge standing over them, shaking the hand he’d used to strike the grand vizier. Primus rolled onto his back and groaned in agony, one hand pressed to his eye.
Her husband leaped over the bench and crouched over Primus’ prostrate form. Serge grasped his lapels and lifted him until the other man looked him in the eye.
“If I catch you near my wife again, I will have you horsewhipped!” he roared before delivering another blow, this one producing a spray of blood from Primus’ nose.
When she realized Serge intended to strike him a third time, she lunged and took hold of his arm. He swiveled to face her, the raw fury on his face stealing her breath away. She was not naive enough to miss that much of his rage was directed at her. Due to what he must have seen upon coming onto the terrace, she could not blame him. This was entirely her fault for allowing things to spin out of control.
“Don’t,” she whispered, tightening her grip on his arm. “He’s drunk, Serge. He probably won’t even remember this in the morning.”
“He had damn well better remember,” he snapped, his hard gaze swiveling back to Primus. “I have no qualms over killing for what is mine. You would do well to remember that.”
Without another word, he yanked his arm from Isabelle’s hold before grasping her wrist. Dragging her alongside him, he walked back toward the ballroom without slowing his strides to accommodate her shorter legs. He’d gotten so angry he likely wasn’t thinking of the difference in their heights, or how she practically ran to keep up with him. She kept her mouth closed and followed as best she could, not wanting to provoke him further—and provoke him she had, only it had not turned out as well as she’d hoped.
Ignoring the questioning gazes of their guests, Serge pulled her through the ballroom, not bothering to try to disguise his anger or his reddened knuckles. Her heart raced as they made their way out into the corridor, leaving the party altogether. He quickened his pace once they were out of view of the ballroom.
“Not a word,” he warned as they continued, at a near run now. “I will deal with you once we are behind closed doors.”
Her gut churned at that declaration, and she wondered what he would do to retaliate for what her behavior had led to. Would he allow her to explain? What could she say other than, ‘I wanted you to stop ignoring me?’
Finally, he yanked the door to the library open and shoved her through it before following, shaking the walls from how hard he slammed the door. Isabelle moved to the center of the room and turned to face him, shoulders squared as she prepared herself for what was to come. If he expected her to cry or cower, he was in for a rude awakening. She would admit she had been wrong, but she would not cower.
The echo of the lock sliding into place filled the darkened room as he turned to face her. His chest heaved with the heaviness of his breath, and his face was inscrutable in the darkness of the library. Only the light of the moon streaming through the windows offered any sort of light.
He stalked toward her with long, slow steps, his silence putting her on edge. She would have much preferred him railing and rage over this. A silent, brooding Serge was something she did not know how to handle.
Her breath caught in her throat as he neared, reaching out with one hand. Taking hold of her shoulder, he turned her in a swift motion so she gave him her back. She bit her lip when his body came against hers from behind, the hard planes of him pressing into her curves. With another push, he had her against the wall, both his hands coming around her wrists and pinning them to either side of her. She found it difficult to breathe, her senses overwhelmed by his closeness, his scent, the clamp of his hands around her wrists and the bulge of his erection at her back.
“You played a dangerous game tonight Isabelle,” he murmured, his mouth pressed hotly to her ear, chest rumbling against her back.
He released one of her hands and his arm came around her waist like an iron band, pulling her to her tiptoes so that her buttocks nestled into the cradle of his pelvis. She whimpered at the feel of him, hard and unrelenting through the fabric of his breeches.
He still wanted her. Despite what she’d done, and even in the midst of his anger, her husband could not fight back his desire for her any more than she could deny how badly she wanted him in return. The knowledge made her smile, even as she remained on edge, uncertain what he would do.
“You wanted my attention, didn’t you?” he continued, hand splayed wide on her stomach, fingers just under her breasts.
Incapable of speech, she nodded.
She arched her back and squirmed, trying to urge him to move his hands upward and touch her where she wanted it. Her nipples hardened and tingled at the thought, yet he stayed his hand, keeping her literally on her toes and off balance.
“I know you did,” he replied, both hands now at her waist and inching upward. “I can assure you, you had the attention of every man within a ten-mile radius tonight, my little vixen.”
One strong hand finally came up to her breast, and Isabelle’s knees weakened when the rough pad of one thumb caressed her nipple through the thin fabric of her bodice. She pressed her lips together and stifled a moan when his opposite hand treated her other breast the same way. Jolts of pleasure shot straight between her legs, growing stronger with each press of his fingers on her aching, tender nipples.
“You liked the attention, didn’t you? You enjoyed knowing that I was jealous … you reveled in it.”
Isabelle shook her head. “No, that’s not true. I …”
Her words broke off on a gasp when he slid her bodice and down to her waist before covering her breasts with his hands once more. With nothing between them, her nipples pebbled against his palms and she panted, writing against him as he went on kneading and squeezing her, working her into a frenzy. It had been so long, and she’d dreamed of him touching her this way.
&
nbsp; “Don’t deny it,” he growled against her shoulder, his breath tickling the bare skin. “You used every weapon in your arsenal tonight, and you did it methodically, intentionally. You knew you could set my blood on fire by wearing this indecent gown.”
One hand left her breast before grabbing a fist full of her skirts. He lifted them until cold air caressed her legs.
“You flirted with those men shamelessly to make me jealous, Isabelle. Admit it.”
Her mouth fell open, but no words came out. How could she possibly speak with his hand gripping her thigh and inching its way upward? Her breath quickened when his hand moved to just over the curls between her thighs, his fingers mere inches from touching her core, slipping inside of her and taking her to ecstasy. The gentle pressure he exerted there was downright excruciating, making her all-too cognizant of where she needed his touch most.
“Admit it, Isabelle,” he repeated, his fingers inching downward. “You used your beauty and your body to manipulate me like a shameless hussy.”
Hussy? Dear God, yes. She would admit to being the worst sort of hussy if he would only stop dragging out this exquisite torment.
His open mouth moved over her neck and his fingers paused, just above her slick opening.
“Admit it.”
“Yes!” she cried just as his hand finally cupped her, his fingers slipping between her lower lips and exerting the perfect pressure.
She moaned, hips bucking as he pulled her back against him, his hand working her into a state, his erection pressing against her buttocks.
