He didn’t reply for a moment. Nothing remotely rational had entered into the compulsion that had brought him from Paris to this marriage bed. “Well, since I obviously didn’t find myself a virgin and we are married,” he murmured, not unfamiliar with impulse in his life, “we might as well take advantage of our unlimited opportunity for fucking.”
“If only such a gallant invitation had put me in the mood,” she noted with exaggerated sweetness.
His smile was insolent. “Would you care to make a wager on how long it would take to get you in the mood?”
“We already have one unfulfilled wager.” Her gaze was challenging.
“Ah… the one on fidelity,” he remarked, as though he’d not been evading the issue all night. “Why don’t I get the cards and then we can get on to more interesting wagers.” And he left the bed without so much as a warning glance for her.
For a flashing moment she debated whether she could run. And if so, where? Rising on her elbows, she surveyed the room, looking for options.
He turned just before exiting the room, his mouth twitching into a grin. “Did I mention I have guards inside and out?”
He was gone before the pillow she flung at him reached its target and all she could do was curse her stupidity. No wonder there had been a dozen footmen at dinner. The spectacle had nothing to do with Gore’s organizational skills. And the familiar grooms who had greeted them when they’d arrived. They, too, weren’t simply there to ease Simon’s stay. Instead, he’d taken the precaution of bringing a phalanx of guards from London for his own express purpose.
To keep her captive.
To make sure she didn’t run.
To play duenna during their sojourn at Kettleston Hall.
Which undisclosed period of time was no doubt carefully planned as well.
Damn his iniquitous soul.
Chapter 26
She was dressed in a man’s navy-blue silk robe and seated on a chair when he returned with the deck of cards.
“You’re fast,” he murmured, taking in her attire. “Although I should have had Gore send up something closer to your size.”
“Is this yours?” Loathing filled her voice.
“Sorry.” He grinned. “Maybe you should take it off.”
“And maybe I’m not a stupid ingénue. Just cut the cards.”
He sat across from her, shameless in his nudity, his bronzed skin dramatically appropriate against the viscount’s fashionable green, striped, silk-covered chair with gilded sphinx heads for arms. “Do you feel lucky?” he inquired, the tenor of his voice unabashedly cheeky.
“Perhaps if I weren’t prisoner, I might,” she petulantly replied, annoyed at his nonchalance. “What are we playing?”
He gestured at the deck of cards on the table between them, his wide muscled shoulders looking wider as he leaned forward. “Your choice, La Duchesse.”
“Piquet.”
“Your favorite.”
She detected a hint of sarcasm and relished it. So he remembered her winning that night at Shipton. And Kettleston Hall proved as providential; she took the first hand by thirteen points. Perhaps everything in this marriage wasn’t completely biased, after all, she reflected, pleasantly.
But then Simon won the second hand.
Although, just barely.
“Let me shuffle before we cut for deal,” she said, looking for whatever advantage she might considering the dead heat. Rolling up the sleeves of her robe, she gently flexed her wrists and shuffled.
They cut for dealer.
Hers was high, her advantage again.
Five minutes later, she was twenty points ahead and permitting herself to indulge in the smallest degree of elation.
Simon was about to lay down his last cards.
He glanced at her as he placed them on the table. “Quartorze, ”he said, softly, spreading out four kings.
Sweeping the cards from the table in a rage, she jumped to her feet and stormed out of the room. It was a childish reaction of course; she fully realized it. But fifty-six points! Four kings! How bloody rare was that? she fumed. Must he always win? Would she always lose? Had he cheated? she suddenly wondered. And if it would have made an iota of difference, she would have stalked back into the bedroom and accused him.
But even had she won their wager, what were the chances he would have complied?
Certainly his past conduct gave her little cause to hope.
She stood in the doorway of the sitting room. Furious, inexpressibly frustrated… and-she decided, taking in the delicious array of sweets on the table-maybe just the tiniest bit hungry.
Dessert-actually, several desserts… and a great deal of champagne. That was what she needed. And then Simon could be as infuriating as he pleased. At least she wouldn’t care.
Although, she thought, still highly exasperated, perhaps a modicum of revenge would be even sweeter.
Why not call for some of the guards to serve her? she decided, moving toward the apartment door, feeling a small gloating satisfaction for the first time since Simon’s irritating and irrational stand on paternity.
“Don’t bother.”
His voice was amused and she turned from the door, her hand slipping from the latch.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Her expression was one of cloudless innocence.
They won’t come in.“
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” she replied, virtuously.
He lounged on the threshold of the sitting room, bronzed, honed, male splendor in repose, one shoulder resting against the door frame. “I’m interested in exclusivity; the guards have been warned.”
“I resent your insinuation.” She smoothed the skirt of her robe.
“Let’s just say I’m a cautious man,” he murmured, taking note of her nervous gesture. “Or were you calling them in to discuss the furniture arrangement?”
“If you must know,” she said, churlishly, wondering if she was to be constantly checkmated, “I was going to bring them in to irritate you.”
“No need to go so far. I’m already irritated by the fact that you fucked that man at Ian’s.”
Caroline scowled at him. “This obsession of yours is ridiculous. Why don’t we simply bring Will over and he can tell you that we only kissed once?”
“I expect he’ll say whatever you want him to say.” Simon’s tone was dismissive.
“Will is a man of honor.” Each word snapped with indignation.
“Good. Fine. I believe you.” He moved to the table and lifted a champagne bottle from the monteith bowl. “Do you want some of this?” He’d know soon enough if she was pregnant, and if she wasn’t, he’d see that she was carefully guarded until she was. He didn’t plan on sharing his wife.
She refused to answer. Did he think everything was resolved now that he had thwarted her again? That she wanted to share his champagne?… Or anything of his for that matter-damn him! But regardless of her annoyance, she found it difficult to ignore the perfection of his lean, muscled body as he moved about the room or more unnerving yet, to avoid looking at his magnificent penis-aroused as usual. Which fact was doubly annoying, considering both his dissolute past and the wager he’d just won.
“Are we sulking?” He shot her a glance before dropping into a chair. And then apparently indifferent to her humor, sulky or not, he raised the bottle to his mouth and drained half of it.
Caroline proceeded to deal with her frustration in the time-honored female answer to impediments and rage-dessert… in this case, a charlotte russe with pistachios, one of her favorites; a meringue with berry sauce; and two chocolate confections that would go a long way toward improving her mood. Picking up her own bottle of champagne from the bowl on the table, she took her restoratives to a chair as far away from Simon as the room allowed.
At her deft uncorking of the champagne bottle, her husband’s brows drew together in a scowl. “Where did you learn to do that?” he asked, a surly note to his voice. In his experience, only
females in the demimonde who waited on their client’s every wish developed such skills.
“I believe you taught me.” Her smile was treacle sweet. Having been on the fringes of the demimonde during her exile in Europe, she knew what was causing Simon’s scowl. “It’s been very useful on numerous occasions.”
Tuck you,“ he said, not at all agreeably.
And her sweet tone turned even more cloying. “There’s no need to immediately bestir yourself, darling. We have a lifetime ahead of us to indulge in that activity. Although, with luck, you’ll soon find interests elsewhere.”
“You, however, won’t.” Each word was implacable.
“We’ll see.”
He looked at her from under the dark fringe of his lashes. “No, we won’t.”
“Do you think you can watch me every minute?” she purred, enjoying her piquant moment of retaliation.
“Someone on my staff of hundreds certainly can.”
She didn’t reply for the time it took her to put a forkful of chocolate mousse into her mouth and wash it down with a lengthy draft of champagne. “We’ll see about that, won’t we,” she eventually said, her gaze angelic. “In the past you often spent a great deal of time in the brothels. That will allow me a certain-shall we say-freedom of movement? And your servants have always liked me, you know.”
He growled deep in his throat, the sound too shockingly literal for his peace of mind. “God, Caro, you’re going to drive me crazy,” he muttered. “Although, I should be used to it by now.”
Taking note of his less arbitrary tone, she paused with a forkful of meringue poised inches from her mouth. “Perhaps we could come to some amicable agreement. It’s a common enough arrangement in the ton, is it not? Most fashionable couples lead separate lives and still manage to keep up appearances in the most civilized way.”
“If by separate lives, you refer to sexual freedom, absolutely not.”
“Are you speaking of your sexual freedom as well?” she remarked through the meringue melting in her mouth.
“You lost the wager, darling. Not I.” His voice was unutterably bland.
She sighed in a blatantly theatrical way that put his teeth on edge. “Unfortunately, I’ve never taken orders well,” she murmured, scooping up another portion of meringue before meeting his gaze. “You’re aware of that minor flaw in my character I presume.”
“And nobody touches what’s mine,” he drawled, each word underlaid with a steel inflexibility. “If you weren’t previously aware of that unflinching principle in my character, consider yourself warned.”
She lifted her forkful of meringue in salute. “It should be interesting then…”
He raised the bottle in his hand in a negligent gesture. “Take off that robe and we’ll see…”
“You don’t really think I’m likely to do that, do you?”
“Actually, I know you will.”
“And why is that?” she asked licking the meringue off the fork in a particularly provocative way.
“Any number of reasons-most of them having to do with your unquenchable sexual appetite.” He set his bottle down. “I could show you.”
“Don’t bother.”
“It’s no bother. In fact,” he said, rising from his chair, “I look forward to your education.”
“I’m not frightened, Simon. If that’s what you’re trying to do.” But she set down her plate and fork.
“Nor would I want you to be frightened, darling.” But his dark gaze belied the softness of his voice and he was steadily advancing. “On the other hand,” he murmured, “you may need some schooling on your wifely duties.”
“Do husbands have duties as well?” She refused to show fear, although she understood she was quite alone and well guarded.
“I’m not sure. We can discuss it later if you like.”
“Why not now?” She had to look up because he was standing directly before her.
“Mainly because I don’t wish to.”
“Do you expect me to tremble before you?”
“Certainly not. Although you do tremble in passion on occasion, do you not?”
She wouldn’t answer. He was annoyingly right, as he was annoyingly imperious.
“Are we sulking?”
“Don’t press me, Simon. I’m not in good humor with you.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Even if it were true about Will and it’s not, for you of all people to take issue…”
“I’d prefer not giving my title to a by-blow.”
“And I prefer you believe me.”
“Time will tell.”
“Lord, I dislike you righteous.”
“I’ll try to fuck you in a different frame of mind. Take off that robe.”
She gazed at him, hot-tempered and sullen. “You’re the last person I want to have sex with.”
“I’m the only person you’re going to have sex with. Take off that robe or I will. I’m not in the mood to play.”
She didn’t move.
Leaning forward, he nimbly opened the robe tie and slipped it from around her waist with a light jerk of his wrist.
As she moved to rise, he pushed her back, looping the silk tie around her wrist in the same smooth motion.
“Simon!” In vain, she pulled on the tie.
He had already secured her wrist to the chair arm. “Just a minute, darling,” he murmured, as though she’d been speaking about something innocuous and sweeping the tie once around her waist, he held her against the chair back with his forearm while he tied her other wrist to the chair arm.
Only mere seconds had elapsed.
He stepped back to admire his handiwork.
Speechless with rage, she glowered at him.
“You look very pretty.”
“Trussed up like a Christmas goose?”
“No, like a succulent, lush, alluring wife who I expect will soon be in a much improved mood.”
“Not likely,” she snapped, although against her will, her gaze was drawn to his erection-very near and very large and lamentably a magnet to her treacherous cravings.
“Do you like it?” he murmured, taking note of her gaze.
“Not at the moment,” she muttered, wrenching away her gaze, her perfidious sensibilities responding to his swelling erection with a surge of desire.
“Maybe we could induce you to think of us with more fondness,” he said gently, leaning near to slide his robe down her shoulders. The fabric caught at her bound wrists and shifting his attention, he opened the front of the robe, pulling it away from her body so she sat nude before him-framed in navy silk.
“Your nipples are hard.”
“It’s cold.”
“You don’t look cold.”
She was flushed pink, her breasts noticeably rising and falling, her breathing agitated.
“I could warm them.”
“No!”
“Don’t say no to me, darling.” He touched one nipple with a light flicking touch. “Lesson one in wifely duties.” And taking a pink crest between his thumb and forefinger, he compressed the pliant tissue, delicately rolled it against the pads of his fingers, stretched it slightly, forcing her to sit up straighten “Can you feel that?”
She sucked in her breath. “No.” But there was no longer vehemence in her tone.
“Is that so,” he murmured. Dropping to his knees, he moved between her thighs, forcing them open. “See if you like this better.” Cupping one of her breasts in his hands, he lifted it as he bent his head, and taking her nipple between his lips, he drew it into his mouth. Gently kneading her breast, he sucked on her taut nipple with unerring pressure, tugging it slightly as he suckled so she felt the tingling rapture ripple down to her heated core, down her thighs, into the heavy, aching flesh of her vulva.
She felt it most intensely, where her engorged clitoris and unsated lust waited for surcease.
He didn’t have to ask again whether she liked what he was doing to her. He could tell. And when he mov
ed to her other breast, she arched her back against the exquisite pleasure and pressed into his mouth.
“You want more?” he whispered, lifting his head.
“Please,” she breathed, beyond questions of sovereignty, aroused and ravenous, aching to feel him.
“Are you ready for me? A wife must be ready when her husband wants to have sex with her.”
“Yes, yes.”
He dropped his hands from her breast and sat back. “Will I slide in easily? I can’t have my wife unprepared to receive me.”
“Yes, yes… please, Simon-I’m more than ready.”
“I think that would be for me to decide. Open your legs wider.”
She instantly complied and he slid three fingers into her pulsing core with unimpeded ease. He gently stroked the sleek flesh while she panted and strained against his hand. “Very nice.” His voice was velvety. “Are you ready to perform your wifely duties?” He slid his fingers deeper.
“Yes, yes,” she gasped. “Whatever you want.”
He kissed her lightly. “I’ll untie you then.”
“Thank you-I mean it, Simon-thank you very much.”
He smiled faintly, withdrew his fingers and came to his feet. “Get into bed and wait for me,” he ordered as he began to untie her.
Her lashes came up, her eyes filled with entreaty. “Will you be long?”
“I don’t know. You must wait. Dutiful wives wait. I’ll come to you when and if I decide to fuck you.”
As he pulled the last knot open and she was suddenly free, she lunged forward and seized his testicles in a punishing grip. “I’m not in the mood to wait,” she said, fretful and peevish and strongly averse to further delay. “Perhaps,” she added, very, very softly, “this would be a good time to discuss husbandly duties.”
“If you squeeze much harder,” he murmured, standing utterly still, “you’re going to lose whatever chance you have for sex tonight.”
Her brows arched upward. “If you don’t oblige me, what do I have to lose?”
“Compromise?” he breathed, every muscle taut with restraint.
“I’m open to compromise,” she replied, dulcetly.
“Sex now?”
“Here?”
Again and Again Page 18
