by Cheryl Holt
With infinite, scorching animosity, he analyzed her, then he insulted her by swiping his hand across his lips, as if attempting to wipe away her taste.
“You kiss like a skilled whore, Lady Banbury.”
She probably should have been hurt by the contemptuous comment, but all she could focus on was the fact that he’d referred to her as his wife.
“So do you, Lord Banbury,” she tartly retorted. “Your vast array of prior paramours has trained you well.”
The outrageous remark was a direct hit—at his manly pride, at his masculine sensibilities. His formidable temper flared. “Let’s see what else you can do with that mouth.” He seized her hand and placed it on the placket of his pants. “Get down on your knees and open my trousers. I would have a French kiss.”
There was very little about sexual diversion that her sister had neglected to mention, so Ellen understood what he was demanding. When Alice had initially explained the raucous, lewd maneuver, Ellen had been appalled, but the more they’d discussed it, the more intrigued she’d been, and they’d squandered incalculable hours, dissecting technique and method.
Could she do it?
She was acutely conflicted. It was an exploit that he shouldn’t have requested until much later in their association, not until she’d been thoroughly indoctrinated into libidinous behavior and felt at ease with him as her partner. Yet nothing would please him more. Her own body was electrified with unsated passion, and her titillation was inciting her to folly, urging her toward conduct she normally would never have considered.
He was watching her every move, waiting to discover what she would do, and she couldn’t help suspecting that his dictate had been a dare, that he wanted to ascertain how far he could push her, how far she would go. Well, he could challenge her all he liked; she wouldn’t back down.
She clutched at the waistband of his trousers, wrapping her fingers over the edge and drawing him toward her. Her thumb flicked the top button through its hole, then the second. He stood before her, rigid, irate, immobile but, when she progressed to the third button, he slapped at her hand and leaped away.
Troubled and flustered, he assessed her as though she were a dangerous enemy. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” she fibbed. “Nothing at all.”
“I won’t be a true husband to you!”
“Have I asked you to be?”
“I don’t want children. Ever!”
“Neither do I,” she prevaricated.
“Then what do you think will happen if we keep on? Are you idiotic enough to presume that we’ll go at it like a pair of rabbits, but there will be no consequences? I refuse to be shackled to you by some squalling, sniveling brood. I won’t care for them! Or for you!”
She blanched at his vehement anger, then wondered why he was being so adamant. It seemed as though he was striving to convince himself—rather than her.
“Bully for you, Lord Banbury,” she murmured.
“I have your money, Ellen. You have my title. We reviewed the terms, and you agreed to them. We will lead separate lives, and you will have no say over what I do or where I go. I will drink and carouse and dally with one woman after the next. It’s the sort of man I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How the bloody hell would you know?” he shouted. “I can’t fathom any other life. I don’t have the faintest idea how to carry on any other way.”
“You could learn a new way.”
“I don’t want to. I’m absolutely happy with how things are now.”
“I see.” She was mumbling, mortified that she’d assumed she could persuade him otherwise.
“No, you don’t. What were you hoping to gain out of this morass you’ve created with me? Are you scheming for us to become involved? To grow attached? Well, let me tell you something about myself that you don’t seem to grasp. I am not about to practice fidelity for you!” He bent down, so they were eye-to-eye, and he sneered at her preposterousness, at her lack of sophistication. “You can bait me into being your lover, and I’ll acquiesce, but I will rapidly weary of you. Then I will cheat on you each and every day of our marriage.”
He was denigrating himself hideously, and she declined to concur with this dim portrait of his character. Deep down, he was a fine man, one who could be counted on by his friends, who honored his word, who made a vow and stuck to it.
“You would never do that to me,” she asserted.
Scoffing, he laughed meanly. “If that’s what you believe, Ellen, then you’re a fool.”
He stormed out, slamming the door behind, and she remained rooted to her spot, listening to him go.
CHAPTER THREE
Tormented and humiliated, Ellen froze as he flew down the stairs and out of the house. He banged the door hard enough to rattle the windows. It seemed as if all the air had suddenly left her body, and she slumped against the dressing table.
She was crushed, unable to understand how she’d misread him so terribly. As he’d peeked through the dressing room door that she’d deliberately left ajar, she’d been so sure she could coax him into a tryst. His assessment had been as hot and potent as she’d imagined he, himself, would be should she be clever enough to goad him past his idiotic, self-imposed restraint. But he hadn’t been enticed.
The beguiling night rail and robe she’d worn for her grand adventure hadn’t worked either. The outfit had been Alice’s idea. In matters of passion, Alice was an expert, so Ellen had concurred with her suggestion of attire.
Alice was a widow, her brief, blissful marriage having come to a sorrowful end after her seafaring husband’s mortal accident. Before they’d been betrothed, her spouse had been a randy fellow, vastly experienced from amorous flings in ports around the world, so the newlyweds had reveled in a bawdy, torrid physical relationship.
Alice was extensively versed in intimacy, having vivaciously mastered the techniques of marital duty about which Ellen had been totally unenlightened. Ellen was the older, spinster sister who had remained unwed simply because she was a romantic, searching for the man of her dreams. With very little prodding on Ellen’s part, Alice had graciously divulged the particulars.
Their devoted father was eminently conservative and had shielded them from life’s harsh lessons, protecting them from all dangers. His worst fears had been over the caliber of men who would eventually call on his daughters due to his accumulated wealth.
Ellen had been kept ignorant about many facets of living, and she was grateful that Alice had been kind enough to teach her, for though she’d agreed to Stephen’s absurd clamoring for a marriage of convenience, she wasn’t about to honor their arrangement.
This was love. This was war. And she intended to utilize every feminine wile in her immense arsenal to win his affection. How depressing to have blundered so utterly in the first battle.
Alice had avidly explained how Ellen was to incite him until he was overwhelmed by lust, until he was inclined to take her without regard to the consequences, but she hadn’t truly grasped what her sister had meant.
His menace and calculation had thrown her off balance, and his intensity was frightening.
She’d thought she knew more about Stephen St. John than just about any person on earth. Her decision to approach him with an offer of marriage hadn’t been hasty or imprudent. Her father had brought her to London for the sole purpose of finding an impoverished, desperate peer of the realm who was in need of an heiress.
The dream of being a titled lady hadn’t been her own, but her dear da’s, and it had been fueled during the forty years he’d resided in America. He’d come from a distinguished family, his father having been an estate agent for a viscount. When he’d been arrested for stealing, the accusation had been made to hide evidence that the actual culprit had been the viscount’s son.
While no more than a boy, her father had landed on the foreign shore, a forsaken, penniless felon.
In the beginning, hatred over the injustice had rule
d him, but he’d used his rage for maximum benefit, laboring harder and saving more than any other individual could have done. Every accomplishment had been a move toward the day he’d be able to thumb his nose at the very people who’d ruined him.
With only a few conditions, he’d let her have her pick of the spoiled, available aristocrats, and her choice had been Stephen St. John. She’d been introduced to, had spied upon, and chatted with dozens of admirers, but from the evening she’d set eyes on him, she hadn’t wavered.
She’d initially seen him at the theater. He’d been keeping company with his paramour, the voluptuous beauty Portia Poundstone. They’d been sitting together, holding court, across from her box. Throughout the tedious operatic presentation, she’d observed him. As the last aria was being sung, she’d sent her father’s men scouring through London’s clubs, brothels, and gaming hells to unearth every piece of information to be gleaned.
A proud man, he’d been coddled and pampered, and he wouldn’t bend or compromise. He had to be in charge. Others bowed to his wishes and obeyed his commands. His father, the Earl of Stafford, was the only person with enough power and authority to order him about, but Stephen wouldn’t come to heel. Because he wouldn’t settle down and wed, he was at constant loggerheads with his family.
He always got his way. He always triumphed. No one countermanded his dictates or instructions. Tonight he’d stared her down, exuding a mixed combination of wrath and exasperation, making her wonder why she’d thought her seduction stratagem was a good idea.
She was intrepid, and she knew what she wanted. Alice had coached her on how to go about getting it, but when confronted with his fierce virility, she was no longer convinced she could best him.
How could he hie off to his other women? On her wedding night!
Of all nights, she wanted him home and in his own bed. Preferably with herself intimately snuggled by his side.
She was confused, upset, afflicted, not knowing what to do or where to turn. Though her sister was down the hall, she couldn’t confer with her, couldn’t confess what a dismal failure their ruse had been.
He’d desired her; his elevated raving had been unmistakable. But he hadn’t wanted her! His rejection was harsh, degrading to endure, and her woe was excruciating.
Endlessly, she replayed every horrid insult they’d bandied, and she prayed that he’d return, but he didn’t. Finally, she crawled into the bath and loafed until the water grew cold. With every creak of the old house, she jumped, anxiously assuming that it was Stephen, that he’d changed his mind about their relationship or, at the least, that he’d resolved to express his regret over their argument.
What sort of people fought so viciously on their wedding night?
In despair, she inevitably admitted that he wasn’t coming back, that he’d gone to celebrate his new fortune with an evening on the Town. She pictured him in the arms of the ravishing Miss Poundstone or another of the gorgeous women who flitted through his social circle, and she thought her heart might break.
While she was no acclaimed beauty, she was deemed by many to be winsome as well as educated, witty, and charming. She’d been eager to demonstrate that she could be an ideal mate and viscountess, enthused to share the end of their glorious day by making love, and the knowledge that he would rather carouse with his male friends—or worse yet, with one of his disreputable doxies—was an embarrassment too great to be borne.
She was too agitated to stay in her own room. Not without talking to him. Not without ascertaining that he was home, safe and sound. Though it was inappropriate and imprudent, she went to his bedchamber, needing to surround herself with his possessions.
Distractedly, lovingly, she explored his shaving equipment. She snooped through his drawers, fingering his scarves and undergarments, and she peeked in the wardrobe, counting and petting his shirts and coats.
Brimming with longing and remorse, she crawled onto his bed, ruminating over what to do, how to carry on after such a terrible misstep and, gradually, she drifted into a fitful sleep.
* * * *
“Bloody, insane woman!” Stephen growled as he tromped down the stairs and banged out of the house.
A rented hansom was parked by the curb, the driver waiting patiently for his illustrious passenger to show. Stephen’s own carriage had been sold long ago, and with Ellen’s marriage settlement only recently coming into his control, he hadn’t had the chance to buy a new one.
In the shadows, the conveyance appeared cheap and seedy, but the driver understood his trade. He leaped to attention and held the door, but Stephen waffled. He knew he should get in, but he couldn’t decide what direction to give. Should it be to his club where his friends could heckle him over his failed wedding night? How about to a gambling hall, where he’d waste a bit of his wife’s fortune? Or maybe to a brothel, where he could slake some of the lust pounding through his veins?
As opposed to preceding months, he was flush with cash. Bidding the surprised man his thanks, he slapped too many coins into the driver’s palm and stalked off, needing to be by himself, to walk off his fury.
Although his residence was situated in one of the better sections of town, London was hardly the place to go trekking about in the dark. Even in an exemplary area mischief could befall a chap, but Stephen was scarcely concerned. His upset was so fierce that he was almost eager to blunder upon a few ruffians. Nothing would garner him greater pleasure, or provide him with a more suitable mode of letting off steam, than to have a nasty brawl with a pack of criminals who deserved a proper thrashing.
Head down, hands jammed in his pockets, he stomped down the street. A carriage pulled out from a neighbor’s stable yard, and lest he bump into any of his acquaintances, he ducked and turned the corner. He’d rushed out so quickly that he hadn’t bothered with hat or cloak, and he regretted his haste.
There was no way to disguise himself. What if someone saw him? How would he explain his wandering about shortly after the last guest had departed his wedding reception? All of London would theorize as to why he hadn’t been snuggled in his wife’s bed. He’d never hear the end of it.
He’d be a laughingstock. He’d be badgered and taunted, his manhood questioned. The men would chaw over why he couldn’t seduce his wife. They’d debate over exactly what he’d purchased by accepting all that money.
The women would be more vicious. They’d titter behind their fans, would gossip over whether he’d lost his infamous stamina, if he’d been unable to rise to the occasion. Or if—God forbid!—he hadn’t satisfied her. They’d spread stories that she hadn’t enjoyed it, that she’d tossed him out.
He could precisely imagine the crude gibes and banter.
Rounding another corner, he found himself on a particularly deserted tract where he was concealed from passersby, and he pressed at the front of his trousers, desperate to alleviate his erect phallus. His cockstand was so painful that his teeth hurt. It hadn’t waned in the least. Neither the brisk stroll, nor the chilly evening air, had had any effect on the rude member at all.
Loitering, he thought of his wife, of how she’d looked as he’d dabbled with her on the dressing table. He’d never witnessed a more glorious, erotic sight. Her curvaceous, well-proportioned body was his concept of feminine perfection. Wide where it should be and slim where it should be too. Her skin was smooth and creamy, her blond hair luxurious and tempting. She was desire incarnate, every man’s wildest fantasy, and she could have been his if he’d had the courage to proceed.
In agony, he rubbed his hand over his face, stopping abruptly when he realized he could smell her sex on his fingers. He suffered another stab of tormented longing, pondering her and what they might have done together.
Her taut nipples! Her tight sheath! He’d wanted her as he’d never previously wanted a woman, and he wished he’d had the nerve to progress to the natural conclusion, that he’d taken them both to heaven and beyond. No doubt he’d have spiraled to ecstasy in her arms.
Wh
y had he halted? What had been his rationale? The sassy strumpet had virtually thrown herself at him, had practically implored him to ravish her, but he’d declined to cooperate. Merely because she was his wife. When had he ever denied himself? What had compelled him to start now? What purpose was served by refusing to copulate with her?
He could have her every night, every day too, if he was so disposed. Whenever and wherever the mood struck him. She was an unfettered, bawdy wench, ripe for the plucking, who’d submit with a reckless abandon he rarely encountered among the jaded Jezebels of the ton who regularly warmed his bed.
So what if he had her, then took another woman later on? If he had a mistress or two or ten, it was no one’s business but his own. It was his right. His due. He could have her routinely, and when the sizzle dwindled, when he’d had enough and his appetite for her dissipated, he could entertain himself on the side.
If she learned of his infidelities, if she was distressed or humiliated by them, what did it signify? Every gentleman of means had other lovers. It was the norm. Expected and allowed.
His personal gratification was the sole factor that mattered. The doctrine of his unadulterated superiority had been drilled into him since birth. He believed in it, had reveled in the prerogatives afforded him by his exalted status, had thrived on the unwritten tenets that guaranteed he could do as he pleased and damn the consequences.
Why then had it been so difficult to take what he’d wanted from her? Why had he been so unnerved? Usually, he frolicked heedlessly, cavorting and gamboling through an interminable stream of licentious, profligate amusements. Undeterred by morals, social mores, or others’ opinions of propriety, he simply barged through life, seizing the moment, and relishing whatever diversion tickled his fancy.
