by Emma Wildes
“So far we have only used a few positions, but maybe you would like to try something new.”
“Like what?”
“You be on top.” His voice had taken on that slightly husky note she now recognized as arousal. “Most women like it. The friction is slightly different in this particular position, I’m told. Lift up.” His hands caught her waist and urged her to where she straddled his lean hips, her thighs pushed open. “Take my cock in your hand,” he said in a thick voice, “and guide me inside you.”
She obeyed, her hand closing around his swollen, hard penis, bringing the head to her female opening and positioning it so it prodded her entrance. His large sex felt rigid, but smooth and alive, and as she lowered her body, he sank so deep inside her she couldn’t suppress a small sound of pleasure at the sensation of fullness and possession. Her vagina pulsed as it stretched to accommodate his entire erection.
Ross’ face was dark and his gaze glittered with passion. “You set the pace, sweetheart. Whatever feels good.”
It took a few moments, but Cassandra caught a rhythm, her hands braced on his shoulders as she rose and then sank back down to accept him again.
Up and down she moved, aware of his caressing hands urgent at her hips as he aided the dual movements of their bodies. Suppressed desire rose and fluttered in her chest, making her breath stick in her throat. Ross watched her with heavy-lidded eyes, his tanned skin slightly flushed in sexual enjoyment, his lips parted as his breathing quickened.
It was decadent, Cassandra decided as an almost delirious rising need took over her movements. She could feel the sway of her breasts, the potent power of his body beneath her, barely leashed and controlled with effort, and when he reached between them to touch her where they joined with the slow swirl of his thumb, she shuddered frantically and began to slide over that glorious precipice.
Even as her muscles began to tighten in wondrous tiny spasms, he said her name in a low groan and pushed upward hard, the pulse of his ejaculation matching her inner contractions. It swelled and burst inside her in a hot rush. Cassandra collapsed forward on his chest and felt the dampness of orgasmic release on his skin. The wild beat of his heart thudded beneath her ear.
Long fingers traveled down her back, tracing the curve of her spine. His whisper came in the quiet of the room. “Do you feel properly enlightened?”
“Yes,” she murmured back, wondering over the tumult of her unruly feelings. Lifting her head, she kissed him lightly, a soft touch of their lips as her lashes drifted downward. He responded, clasping her close, his mouth gentle on hers in direct contrast to the explosive passion of just moments before.
It was only with supreme effort that she kept from telling him she loved him.
Completely. With her heart, and her mind, and undeniably with her body.
Passion…
Cassandra wondered if it was working. Not that her enthusiasm for what happened between them was feigned in anyway, for he brought her incredible, exquisite pleasure whenever he touched her.
But was he falling in love?
Chapter 7
A bead of sweat slowly rolled down Harold Babcock’s unshaven jaw. He’d had a particularly bad spell the past few nights, and his head pounded like a drum from drinking cheap swill and having almost no sleep. His stomach rumbled, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten lately. When had it been last? He couldn’t remember, but often he forgot giant blocks of time when this happened. And it happened way too often, more and more it seemed. These binges would kill him some day, he knew it, and worse, they put him at Randolph’s dubious mercy on a constant basis.
At least he looked like he belonged in this horrible place, he thought with inner, bitter humor as he glanced around the seedy room. The patrons of the pub were all roughly-dressed, ill-kept, and just as morose. His own clothes were well-tailored, but after three days, rumpled, dirty, and just as disheveled as the rest of him.
His hand trembled as he lifted his tankard of ale, sloshing the beverage over the rim to drip on the dirty table. When he finished this business, Randolph would pay off his creditors, and that was all he cared about at the moment. The one bright ray of light was that during his low crawl of some of London’s most heinous and infamous gaming hells, he had finally stumbled upon someone who knew just the right men for the job his brother wanted done.
Completely without scruples, he’d been assured, which is what they needed if the task was to kidnap a titled lord and his wife, violate her while he watched, and then slit his noble throat. Not to mention what would happen to the poor chit afterwards. Harold wished he hadn’t attended the opera the other evening, for the couple had actually been there. Lord Winterton and his new wife were the center of all eyes as society gawked at the woman the infamous rake had decided to marry. She hadn’t been what Harold expected at all for though the demure blond was very lovely, she also young and apparently quite shy and obviously uncomfortable with all the attention. It had been almost amusing the way her normally indifferent and debonair husband had hovered protectively at her side, and it was easy enough to see—in his opinion—the handsome lord was quite taken with his bride. As far as Harold could tell, the rest of society thought the same thing, though he was growing so immersed in his gambling addiction he rarely paid attention to what was being said in the fashionable set any longer.
Good God, he thought with a lurch of his stomach, how could he do this? Yes, he was weak, he knew it, but not truly evil. His demented brother’s plan for revenge was hard to swallow it was so brutal, but not all that surprising. One would think Randolph would be satisfied that Winterton had deliberately left town to spare his life— which in Harold’s opinion, was a damned pity. His older brother also beat Danielle mercilessly when she admitted the rumors were true, his fury so maniacal that finally one of the footmen had intervened before he killed her and sent himself to the gallows.
Randolph on trial for murder would be a delight. As he sipped his tepid drink, Harold lost himself in the fantasy of his brother’s corpse dangling from the gibbet until a shadow fell over the table.
“Babcock?”
He glanced up. The two men were so extraordinarily similar they must be brothers, hulking specimens with thick shoulders and brutish coarse features. He said in a voice that sounded thick and unwieldy, “Yes, that’s me. I’ve been expecting you.”
* * * *
In an amused tone, Diana said, “You look like a protective father, Ross. Or,” she added succinctly, “a slightly jealous husband.”
He glanced away from his observation of the dance floor and saw the laughter in her green eyes with resignation. “She’s dancing,” he said coolly. “I am simply watching her enjoy herself.”
“Dancing very gracefully, I notice.” Diana joined him, languidly sipping from her glass of wine. One dark brow edged upward. “May I point out again you look unfashionably interested in her every move?”
“No, you may not.”
“I don’t think your new viscountess is nearly as gauche and unaccomplished as you intimated to me several weeks ago. She waltzes beautifully.”
His gaze went back to where Cassandra, stunning in a well-cut silk gown, with her golden hair styled simply but to perfect effect, swirled in the arms of a young man who looked properly dazzled. “I never said once she was gauche or unaccomplished. I said she was shy and naive.”
“I suppose I have seen glimpses of that,” Diana, resplendent in emerald tulle, conceded, “but, quite frankly, your worries over her introduction into society are apparently without foundation. She is enchanting, if a bit quiet and reserved. All the current gossip is over you.”
“Me?” He frowned.
“Your obvious infatuation with your bride, darling.”
That was a little startling to hear, but he was ruefully all too afraid it was true. They had now been in London for almost three weeks, and he had to admit it, every day that passed he grew more fascinated with his bluestocking bride, not the opposite. The attra
ction wasn’t all in bed either, though Cassandra was remarkably passionate and eager.
“She’s different.” He paused to take a sip from his glass of champagne and then smiled. “Yesterday I caught three maids in the hallway. I wondered what on earth they could be doing, just standing there, and then realized they had the door to the music room cracked a little and were listening to her play the piano. Naturally, they scattered when they saw me, and I was undeniably curious. I went and stood there and I have to admit, she plays very well. An hour later, I was still there, lurking like an idiot in the hallway, quite captivated. She’s always loved music, or so Timothy told me, but I had never heard her play.”
“Good lord,” Diana scoffed and rolled her eyes. “That sounds remarkably like sentimental drivel to me.”
“I know,” he admitted, a little uncomfortable with the concept himself. He rubbed his jaw and sighed. “Damn all, I know.”
“Does she still bury her pretty nose in books all day long?”
“Absolutely.” He grimaced, but then grinned indulgently. “Philosophy, political history, the occasional gothic romance, you name it. There is always an open book on about every available surface within her reach. I get asked the most unusual questions and God forbid I don’t know the answer for she whisks right back to the library to find it herself.”
“You don’t mind.” It was a soft statement. Diana’s eyes had narrowed in thoughtful surprise.
“I like it. I admit, she’s…actually interesting. There is nothing superficial about Cassandra in any way.”
“Since when do you want substance? With you, sex has always defined women.”
It was an astute observation from someone who knew him well. He said in amused concession, “That, my dear, is certainly also part of her enchanting allure.”
“The fact that there is another part is the novelty of this situation.” Diana sighed. “I fear you are a lost cause, Ross. I didn’t think I’d ever see you fall in love, much less with an innocent little ingénue.”
Was he in love? Actually, he’d started to think that might be true. Certainly he’d never been so interested in spending time with any other woman he’d been involved with, and there was no doubt about the fact he felt entirely possessive of both her time and person. Well-used to detachment with his lovers, being territorial was out of the realm of his experience, but then everything about his new wife seemed that way. Neutrally, he said, “I’m entirely a novice when it comes to marriage, my dear Diana, but I have to say that so far, it hasn’t been at all like I imagined.”
“You sound frighteningly sincere.” Diana languidly closed her fan, letting it dangle from her wrist. “So when the next Winterton heir is conceived, will you still send her back to the country?”
Actually, Cassandra was late, she had confessed with charming embarrassment when he finally quizzed her on the subject of her monthly courses. It was something he’d already deduced because of the fact that she slept in his arms every night and it had been a month since that fateful reckless night at Ivydale. The idea of a coming child pleased him, much to his surprise.
“I have reason to think she’s pregnant already, and yes, we’ll retire to Winterton Hall for her confinement.”
“We?” Diana asked delicately.
“We,” Ross said firmly.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll be bored?”
He didn’t even need to think about it. “No.”
“I’m happy for you, darling, believe me. Now, if you’ll forgive me, the music is ending and I have promised the next dance to Lord Wallace, who, quite frankly, is extraordinarily boring, but waltzes beautifully. Besides,” she added, “I have a feeling you are about to desert me anyway to go claim your wife.”
It was true, and Ross gave his glass to a passing footman and then proceeded across the crowded room with a purposeful stride. With polite but absent greetings to several acquaintances, he shouldered his way through the throng.
Cassandra saw him coming. Her lovely face lit in a completely undisguised smile of welcome and pleasure, and her delicate cheeks tinted with color as she blushed.
Good God, he thought, almost halting mid-stride as the realization hit home. No one had ever looked at him with such honest, open emotion.
No other woman—of the legions of his notorious past—had ever given him such sincere, unselfish pleasure, both in bed, and out of it. Cassandra, he knew it unerringly, looked at him the way a woman should look at her husband.
The way a woman in love looked at the man of her choice.
He caught her hand as he neared the edge of the dance floor, oblivious to her partner’s stammered farewell, and brought it to his lips. She wore a seafoam green gown this evening—his selection, of course—that brought out the unusual color of her beautiful eyes and was cut in a way that flattered her slender, shapely figure. “This is the last dance,” he said as he straightened. “We’re going home when the music ends.”
I want you all to myself, he thought, gazing down at her.
“Yes, my lord.” Her gaze lowered but he caught the glimmer of relief in those gold-green depths.
They swung out onto the floor, her skirts swirling around his legs as the lilt of the orchestra began. At first he didn’t speak, not sure what he wanted to say—not sure of anything with the turbulent state of his emotions. Finally, he settled on, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“More so now that I am dancing with you.”
It was an evasive answer and he had to stifle a smile. He’d dragged to her practically every function possible in the past few weeks and she hadn’t complained once, though he sensed she was no more enamored of city life than before their wedding. To his surprise, he’d begun to look at his former pursuits with a fresh eye, finding them frivolous and banal. Ross reminded her gently, “Husbands are not supposed to monopolize their wives, my dear.”
They moved in a graceful circle to the swell of the music, and she said wryly, “So you tell me. I admit I find some of the rules of society a little silly, Ross. If I prefer to partner with you, why should I spend most of the evening with men I don’t know, making meaningless polite conversation?”
This irrational urge he had suddenly to have her tell him she loved him goaded him to murmur, “I’m flattered you prefer waltzing in my arms.”
“Of course, I do. You are my husband.” She gave him a quick look from under the fringe of her lashes.
“That can’t be the only reason,” he observed with sardonic sincerity. “Believe me, Cassie, the majority of the women in this room do not feel that way. In fact, I can attest that many of them would rather dance with any other male than their husband.”
Her response was soft, her face slightly averted. “But they are not married to you Maybe that is the difference.”
“What is so different about me?” he prodded, one hand at her slim waist, the other clasping her fingers. “Aren’t I like most of them, jaded aristocrats who view morality as something to be considered only when it is convenient; too rich, too spoiled, and infinitely too self-absorbed?”
Her lips parted and she glanced up, obviously startled at his vehemence. “No, of course not. You aren’t like that at all, Ross.”
“No? Then tell me, what am I like? Why do you prefer to dance with me than anyone else?”
Her cheeks, already flushed from the exertion of dancing for several hours, took on a deeper hue. In fact, his lovely wife looked decidedly flustered. “You are in an odd mood.”
“Perhaps. But I am also very interested in your answer.” “I…I…enjoy your company. It makes sense I would prefer to be with you.”
Almost unable to believe the impulse—especially in a crowded, overheated ballroom—he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Could it be you love me?”
If there was one thing he would stake his life on, it was that she would never lie to him. It was an indescribable feeling as he heard her admit almost inaudibly, “Yes.”
* * * *
&n
bsp; Across from her, Ross wore a very faint unfamiliar smile as the carriage rumbled over the cobblestone street. It was absolutely nothing like the deliberately charming curve of his mouth that he used so easily to seduce. Instead, he looked almost boyishly pleased with himself, which wasn’t exactly what Cassandra expected.
She had been entirely convinced the very word love would make him ill at ease, which is why she had kept her feelings as much to herself as possible. However, when asked a direct question, she couldn’t help but confess the truth.
His puzzling reaction made her almost forget the note.
Cassandra reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out the small slip of folded vellum. “This is for you.”
With a frown, he reached out and accepted the offering. “What does it say?”
“I have no idea. At the ball, a woman approached me and asked that I give it to you. She gave me the paper and left so quickly, I didn’t even get a chance to ask her name.”
In the very act of unfolding the note, her husband stopped and glanced up. “You mean you didn’t look at it?”
Cassandra shrugged. “She said it was for you.”
That small quixotic smile once again touched his mouth. “How many women, if handed an unsealed note from a strange woman to give to their husband, would not read it?”
“I have no idea. Is it something important?”
For a moment he just sat there, looking at her with that peculiar expression that seemed to be a mixture of amusement and tenderness, before he opened the missive and quickly scanned it. His dark brows snapped together and when he glanced up, his blue eyes were narrowed. “What did she look like?”
“The woman who gave me the note?” Cassandra said thoughtfully, “A bit tall for a woman, brown hair, dark eyes…”
“Rather strikingly pretty, with a small mole at the corner of her mouth?”
“Yes, now that you mention it, I do remember the mole. Is something wrong?”
