Isabel nodded. “Exactly. Therefore, there is no longer any need to…” She hesitated and added delicately, “to spend your energy on me.”
“How very convenient that would be for you. But since you have never been pregnant before, how can you be certain?”
Taken off guard, she had no answer. She shifted her feet on the carpet. Suddenly his hand on her belly seemed to burn. This isn’t going to be so easy after all.
His voice, low and soft, stirred the tendrils of hair around her ear as he whispered, “Have you considered the possibility, Isabel, that the odd feeling in your womb might be desire?”
She snapped, “More likely it’s dread!”
He smiled. “No, or you would not respond to lovemak-ing as you do. There is nothing unladylike about admitting you have physical needs—or that I satisfy them. In any case, since it is far too soon to know for certain that you are pregnant, and because I prefer not to take the risk of losing another month in case it turns out that you are not, I intend to…as you say…spend my energy on you at every opportunity.”
The heat of his hand sank deeper into her flesh, until her insides seemed to have melted. She fidgeted under his touch, and he gently kneaded her belly, his fingertips scorching a pattern on her skin.
“Fine,” she said between clenched teeth. “Get it over with, then.” She flung herself back on the bed and pulled up her nightdress to better accommodate him.
He laughed softly. His hand slipped down to stroke her curls, and he slipped a finger inside her. “Your body can’t lie,” he whispered. “You’re wet and slick and eager for me.”
What was it he had said? Something about how she must have been tempted at times to take a lover. Think of one of those men, if you like, while I make love to you. I don’t mind if you pretend.
“Eager? Not for you,” she said coolly.
He moved over her, nudging her legs apart, settling himself against her with the head of his penis barely sliding inside her body. “Tell me,” he whispered against her ear. “Describe him for me—your dream lover.”
Her mind went blank. She could think of nothing, only feel the spot where they were so nearly joined as she waited for him to take her. She gasped in a feeble effort to regain her senses.
I don’t mind if you pretend…
He didn’t mind if she dreamed of some other lover, because he must be doing the same himself. What if she asked him to describe the woman he imagined when he closed his eyes? But she didn’t need to ask. The picture was just as clear in her mind as it must be in his, of Lady Murdoch—playful and willing, sprawled out under him, her supple body cradling him.
Pain shot through her at the thought, followed by the urge to wound him. “His hair is golden as ripe wheat. And his eyes are blue—like a summer sky.”
Maxwell nibbled her earlobe and palmed her breast. Her nipple peaked, thrusting against his hand. “Does he have a name, this dream lover of yours?”
Warily, she said, “Why would I tell you?”
“Why not? It’s not an offense I can call him out for, you know—being your fantasy lover. As long as he’s never touched you…” He trailed his tongue down her throat, between her breasts, and on to her navel. “Does he do this, when you pretend?”
“No. And I don’t want you to, either.” She would not allow a repetition of what had happened last night, when he had driven her wild with his tongue. He had wanted to make a point then, and he had done so. But that sort of conduct did not lead to a pregnancy, and that was all either of them was interested in. “This whole thing would be much easier if you just got on with it—with no distractions.”
“Interesting, that you don’t want to talk about your fantasies.” His voice rumbled against her stomach as he worked his way lower. “What a very dull and predictable man your dream lover is, Isabel.”
She threw up her hands to clutch a pillow and pretended not to notice what he was doing. If she denied him the satisfaction of reacting to his caresses, then he would soon tire of the effort. He could try to repeat what had happened the night before, but if she refused to cooperate…
She had to admit, however, that it was easier to make a resolution than to keep it, for he didn’t give up lightly. Finally she gasped, “Why are you doing this? Why not just—take me?”
He shifted his attention to her breasts, licking and nipping. “I’ll take you when I’m ready, Isabel—and when you are. And as for why, I told you that already—to make it easier for you to conceive. Surely you wish that, too. The sooner you are with child…”
The sooner she was pregnant, the sooner his heir would be born, and the sooner she would have Kilburn all to herself and never have to deal with him again. All of those were things to be wished for—and yet…
Isabel closed her eyes and tried to picture that golden-haired, blue-eyed man she had told him about—but the dream lover would not come into focus. She tried to picture any other man, for surely having anyone else in her bed would be preferable to having her husband there, with his mouth warm and slick on her breast, his breath tantalizing her skin, his hand toying with the curls between her legs…then delving beyond, slipping a fingertip inside her and then withdrawing, only to dart a little deeper with the next stroke, and the next.
She couldn’t stop herself—and when she pressed upward against his hand, Maxwell smiled. “You can’t deny me, Isabel—or yourself.”
Only then did he slide very slowly inside her, branding her with his heat. He seemed even bigger and harder than ever before, though it didn’t seem possible that he could be—unless the difference was Lady Murdoch’s actual presence, making it easier for him to picture her.
“Are you thinking of…” At the last moment, she swallowed the name. She didn’t want him to know that she had recognized Lady Murdoch for what she was. Isabel would pretend to be above it all.
No, that wasn’t accurate—for she wasn’t pretending. She was above it all. Nothing about this situation mattered, as long as there was an end to it.
“Thinking of…?” Maxwell murmured.
Isabel tried to sound matter-of-fact. “You must think of your mistresses when you’re inside me.”
He stopped moving for a moment, as if he was considering the question. “Mistresses?” he mused. “No. At least, only one at a time.”
She wanted to hate him. She wanted to lie rigid beneath him and deny him any response. But slowly, stroke by stroke, he tantalized her, until finally when he thrust hard and came deep inside her, she shuddered, and clenched around him, and screamed her own release.
Chapter 12
There was nothing uncomplicated about making love to Emily. Or, more accurately, the real problem was that Gavin’s urges were all too plain—and the woman in his arms was far too willing to accommodate his desires. Finally, in a last-ditch effort to keep his promise to himself that she would leave his bed still a virgin—no matter how fragile the distinction might be—Gavin resorted to conversation.
The idea was simplicity itself. Women always wanted to natter on about nothing after they had sex, and their chitchat was always a mood-killer. Since his mood could stand some killing just now, he would encourage her to talk, and that would be the end of the problem.
“Talk?” Emily said doubtfully. “You want to talk? About what?”
He rolled onto his back and laced his fingers together beneath his head. “Anything. Whatever you’d like.”
She stretched and her breast brushed against his side. “Anything?”
Gavin groped for a topic that would bore him senseless. “What do you think of the new guests?”
Emily propped herself up on an elbow. “You want to gossip about the Carew sisters and Lady Murdoch and Lady Stone?”
“Of course,” Gavin lied. “These people are important to the duke, or he wouldn’t have invited them. Therefore it is to my benefit to understand them. Who better to explain it all than you?”
She seemed to accept his logic and curled up once more against
his side. If she’d been glued to him, she couldn’t have ft more closely. “The Carews are only accidental guests, of course.” She frowned. “At least, that’s the way it was made to sound, but it is a bit too much to believe, don’t you think? That they just happened to be visiting their uncle right now?”
“Why? Is there something special about them?”
“Their father is heir to the Earl of Kilchurn—and he is one of the wealthiest men in England. I wonder if Uncle Josiah is hoping that one of them might catch Lucien’s eye.”
“I think the duke would have given up the idea of matchmaking for Lucien long ago.”
“But he did sort of promise Lucien that he would help make his fortune. I wonder if that might have been what Uncle Josiah meant. Marrying one of the Carew sisters would let Lucien be completely independent of our father.”
Gavin yawned. “Plus it’s the sort of match Chiswick couldn’t turn up his nose at. What about your fortune?”
“Mine? What do you mean?”
“I can’t think young Baron Draycott is a bosom companion of the Duke of Weybridge—so why is he at this party if not because of you?”
Emily sat up. “You think Uncle Josiah invited him to make a match with me? But that’s—”
He rolled onto his side so he could see her better and waited patiently, trying to interpret the series of expressions that crossed her face. Irritation—yes, he was all too familiar with that one. But the others baffled him. Finally he could stand it no longer and attempted to finish her sentence himself. “Brilliant? Wise? Foolish? Devious?”
“Annoying,” she said. “And insulting. I’d never have considered marrying Draycott, so it’s a bit of a facer if Uncle Josiah thinks that’s the best I can do, after—” She turned her back to Gavin. “Never mind. It hardly matters what Uncle Josiah thinks of my marriage prospects. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of them.”
“Because you’re never going to marry.” Her spine felt rigid against his chest, and Gavin was nearly certain she was crying—though the only sound that escaped her was a tiny sniff. He scooped her closer, spooning her body against his, curving himself around her. “What happened, Emily? Tell me, my dear.”
Gradually she relaxed, and after a long while she began to speak. “My first Season was almost over, and Isabel was to marry Maxwell in June, just before the ton left London. With her so close to being settled, my father turned his attention to getting me married off. Even though I believed I’d met every unattached man in London, none of them seemed just right. Then Philip Rivington began to court me, and he was at least young and exciting, and he seemed more likely to be compatible than some of the others had. And Father approved. That was important to me, for you must have observed how rare it is to win my father’s approval.”
“I noticed,” Gavin said dryly.
“My betrothal to Philip was announced in the newspapers on the day of Isabel’s wedding.”
Her voice was so soft that Gavin had to lean his cheek against her hair to hear.
“That very night, Philip was challenged to a duel. He met the challenger just before dawn the next morning—and Philip was killed.”
Gavin frowned. “So because your betrothed died, you gave up on the entire idea of marriage?” But if she hadn’t even loved Philip Rivington, why had his death—tragic though it sounded—affected her so strongly? He must be missing something, for this straightforward story didn’t seem to ft with what Lucien had hinted about a scandal and a mystery surrounding Emily. “Why did they duel?”
She took a deep breath, which pushed her nipple against the palm of his hand, sending tingles all the way up his arm. “Because of the sister of the young man who issued the challenge. Philip had gotten Miss Lester with child, and she said he had promised to marry her. But then my father offered him a dowry so tempting he could not turn down the opportunity to marry me instead.”
“So he abandoned the mother of his child?” And by dying, Philip Rivington had abandoned Emily too—leaving her behind to face the scandal and gossip that should have come to rest on him. No wonder the entire idea of marriage left her cold. Why couldn’t her father understand that, and leave the poor darling alone?
Gavin kissed her hair, snuggled her closer, and held her tenderly until she sighed like a tired child and slept in his arms.
He would let her sleep for a while, for it would be cruel to drag her back into wakefulness and send her to her cold and lonely bed with the painful memory of her betrothal so freshly stirred up. Let her rest a bit first, for this might be the only slumber she got tonight. As for himself—he expected his own anger would keep him riled until morning.
A good thing it is that Philip Rivington is dead, or I’d have to kill him myself.
He intended to keep watch for the first hint of dawn. As soon as the sky began to lighten, and well before the servants started to stir, he would awaken Emily and take her back to her room.
He only vaguely heard his bedroom door open, and by the time he roused enough to react, it was too late. The bed curtains that he had pulled slid back with a hiss. Gavin reared up and banged his head on something hard. He did his best to shield Emily from view, but even the still-faint light of early morning that flooded across the coverlet from the long windows near the bed made it impossible to conceal her presence.
Warily, Gavin looked over his shoulder. The back of his head had hit the edge of the silver tray that held his morning tea, and Benson was doing some fancy juggling to keep the teapot and cup from bouncing off.
Finally, with the china once more safe, the valet spoke. “Good morning, my lord. It promises to be a sunny day.”
Was the imperturbable Benson pretending he couldn’t see them tangled together in the bedclothes?
“Perhaps, sir,” he went on calmly, “you would like me to fetch another cup, for your guest?”
Clean living must be getting to be a habit, Lucien told himself when he woke with a start just as dawn cracked over the eastern horizon. He shaved with cold water left from the previous night’s ablutions and scrambled into his clothes without bothering to ring for his valet. The boot boy was making his rounds to deliver newly cleaned shoes to each bedroom door as Lucien crept out onto the gallery. On the lower floor of the castle’s new wing, footmen were clearing out cinders and ash and delivering fresh coals, while maids polished and cleaned and swept the public rooms.
No need to tiptoe, for that would make a gentleman look sneaky even if he had nothing to hide. If he walked across the hall with a bit of a swagger, everyone would assume he was merely going out for a ride to clear a head left murky by last night’s port.
Lucien whistled a fragment of a tune, to reinforce the idea that his conduct was perfectly normal, and pulled open the door of the breakfast room in the faint hope that something already on the sideboard would be portable enough to tide him over. Ham and a slice of bread would do nicely.
The Earl of Chiswick laid down his newspaper. “Off for another adventure, Hartford?” he asked. “By the way, did you lame one of the duke’s horses yesterday?”
Lucien bristled. “I most certainly did not. What sort of horseman do you think I am?”
“Don’t fly into the boughs with me, young man. That was the only explanation I could generate for why you were gone so long. But if you were not walking miles to lead an injured horse back to his stable, then how, I wonder, did you entertain yourself for so many hours away from the castle?”
You must learn to think before answering. If he’d admitted to laming an animal, the inquisition would be over by now. Besides, it usually wasn’t anything a rider did that caused a horse to go lame. Why had he so quickly assumed that Chiswick intended a slur on his horsemanship?
Because he always assumes the worst of me.
To get out of this spot, Lucien needed a convincing answer—right now. “I found myself entranced by the beauty of the countryside, Father.”
Chiswick’s tone was dry. “Congratulations on your newfoun
d enjoyment of country life. I assume you’re going out for another deep breath of fresh air right now.”
Please don’t offer to accompany me. “I plan to ride, yes. I find the atmosphere quite refreshing.” He hoped that sounding like a prig would accomplish his purpose.
Chiswick turned the page of his newspaper. “Is it only the environs of the castle that excite you, or do you embrace the country in general?”
Wariness swept over Lucien, for that hadn’t sounded like an ordinary, casual question. Could Chiswick have guessed at yesterday’s tryst in the linden grove at Mallowan? Was it possible Lucien and Chloe had been observed? Would it defect suspicion if he openly admitted to having ridden onto Sir George Fletcher’s land, or would the confession only confirm some intuitive sense of Chiswick’s that his son was up to no good?
Before Lucien found an answer, his father went on. “I ask because I find myself hopeful that you are finally ready to come home to Chiswick and begin learning to manage the estate.”
“Uh, no.” The refusal was out before Lucien could stop himself, and he groped wildly for a plausible excuse. Chloe’s lovely face, her wide-set green eyes, that lush golden hair, sprang into his mind. “I mean…your new wife will not want anyone around to interrupt the honeymoon.”
“Nonsense,” the earl said crisply. “Any wife of mine will soon learn who the master of the house is. My countess will do exactly as I say.”
Lucien couldn’t keep control of his tongue. “Did my mother obey you in everything, sir?” He didn’t remember ever hearing his parents quarrel, that was true, but surely he recalled discussions—perhaps even heated ones.
“Of course she obeyed me.”
“Then no wonder she died,” Lucien said under his breath. “It must have seemed the only way to escape.”
Chiswick stared at him. “What did you say, Hartford?”
Lucien reminded himself that this was no time to pick a quarrel with his sire. Whatever had happened to the late countess was long past; the only thing Lucien could do right now was to help Chloe escape the same fate. No wonder she was willing to put her life in the hands of a soldier. No wonder she was willing to abandon her home and her parents and run away in the hope of finding freedom. No wonder she hadn’t hesitated to threaten Lucien himself.
The Birthday Scandal Page 20
