His Black Sheep Bride

by Anna DePalo

  And, of course, Sawyer attracted her sexually as no man ever had.

  She was afraid she was falling for h—

  No, she wouldn’t let her mind go there.

  L— No, infatuation wasn’t part of the program.

  And yet…

  Here they were, married. And she had another couple of months at least to try to stay out of Sawyer’s bed while the dust settled on the merger of Kincaid News and Melton Media.

  Help. She knew all about how oxytocin flooded a woman’s head during sex, bonding her to her sexual partner. Making her think she was in l—

  It could only be more so when the sexual partner was already your husband.

  Still, she also knew the pitfalls of someone of her background and disposition marrying someone like Sawyer. Didn’t she?

  Tomorrow, Sawyer would expect her to appear on his arm for a reception and dinner at an Upper East Side consulate to honor visiting European royalty. It was to be their New York debut as a couple.

  Did she dare make her first public appearance in a role she’d spent her life avoiding—that of the new Countess of Melton?

  Eleven

  She came down the town house stairs in a draped strapless emerald dress—folds of fabric crisscrossed her bodice before cascading down in a chiffon skirt. She’d paired the dress with—in a nod to her more unconventional side—peep-toe green satin pumps with feathery bow confections over the vamp. She hadn’t had much time to shop for this evening, but fortunately she’d found the perfect dress at the second designer boutique she’d visited.

  Sawyer stood at the foot of the stairs, looking every inch the wealthy and powerful aristocrat and media baron.

  Frank male appreciation was stamped on his features, and she breathed in deeply to quell the sudden butterflies in her stomach.

  Sawyer had knocked on her bedroom door moments before and, when she’d told him she was almost done getting ready, he’d insisted there was something she had to see downstairs.

  Stifling a sigh, she’d complied. Her hair had already been done, thanks to the salon she’d visited earlier in the day, and her makeup had been carefully applied. There really hadn’t been much else to do, except dither until the appointed time.

  “You look fantastic,” Sawyer said now.

  “Thank you,” she responded.

  She wet her lips, and his eyes focused on her mouth.

  Sexual tension crackled between them.

  She told herself she’d dressed the part of a proper countess in order to convince the world that theirs was a real marriage, and not to please Sawyer. But she knew she was playing a dangerous game.

  Sawyer slid a velvet case off a nearby console table. “I wasn’t sure how you’d be dressed tonight, but I believe I chose well.”

  He held the box in front of her, and she swallowed.

  He looked amused. “Don’t be afraid to open it.”

  “I thought you’d choose a Pink Teddy creation,” she tried gamely.

  “And I thought you’d make another exception for the Melton family jewels,” he teased, opening the box for her.

  She caught sight of the jewelry inside, and her mouth opened in silent surprise.

  Nestled on an ivory satin surface was a simple but exquisite tiara made of diamonds and emeralds.

  She touched the tip of one tiara point. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Only as beautiful as the intended wearer.”

  She searched his expression.

  The corner of Sawyer’s mouth lifted. “After all,” he said with a tinge of humor, “if we’re going to convince the world we’re really married, we might as well play the part to the hilt.”

  She felt let down at his words, and broke eye contact before he could read her expression.

  Of course, this wasn’t real. She knew that.

  The tiara was real, but the countess wasn’t.

  She retreated to safe territory. “It reminds me of the Queen Victoria Emerald and Diamond Tiara.”

  Sawyer smiled. “You’re familiar with it? One of my nineteenth-century ancestors liked it so much, she commissioned a tiara in a similar style.”

  “Well, the Queen Victoria tiara was very famous in its time,” she responded, and then touched one of the points on the tiara resting in Sawyer’s hands. “It’s in what’s known as the Gothic Revival style.”

  “If one tiara gets you this excited,” Sawyer teased, “I really should let you play in the family vault.”

  The sexual suggestion in his comment, accompanied by the look in his eyes, made her heat. And just like that, the air between them became charged again.

  “I’m not excited.”

  “I am,” he murmured.

  He set the box down and removed the tiara. Carefully, he nestled the jewelry in her hair.

  “There,” Sawyer murmured.

  He admired his handiwork for a moment before his topaz gaze traveled to meet hers.

  He bent and brushed a kiss across her lips.

  She felt the tingle down to her toes. “I’ll be right back,” she said, her voice breathless. “I’ll have to go anchor it with pins.”

  Somehow she found her way back upstairs, and with shaky legs, sat down in front of her vanity. How was she going to survive tonight?

  Was it gauche to be unable to take your eyes off your wife on your first public appearance as a couple?

  If so, Sawyer thought self-deprecatingly, he was as unsophisticated as they came.

  But he didn’t give a damn. He was impatient to get Tamara home—alone.

  Around him, assorted dignitaries and politicians mingled in the reception rooms on the ground floor of the consulate. Later, they’d all ascend to the second floor for a sit-down dinner.

  And unfortunately, Tamara seemed to be having a marvelous time and appeared in no hurry to leave. He’d seen her chatting and laughing with two older women whom he knew to be old money pillars of New York society. Then a little while later, he’d seen her fall into conversation with a junior royal as if the two of them had been acquainted for some time.

  Already a couple of other guests had stopped to congratulate him on his recent marriage and remark on how charming his wife was and how much they’d enjoyed talking with her and how lucky he was.

  He’d have dismissed the remarks as idle cocktail party conversation and meaningless flattery, but he’d witnessed Tamara entertaining one conversation partner after another.

  It was August in New York, so a sizable portion of the fashionable crowd had decamped to their summer homes in the Hamptons. The crowd tonight was made up mostly of those from the aristocratic and political spheres, with a strong concentration of foreigners. And despite any apprehensions on her part, Tamara was fitting just fine into his social circle.

  Sawyer listened with one ear to the two gentlemen with him discussing the economic legislation being debated by the European Union Parliament in Brussels. The rest of his attention was on Tamara across the room, as she chatted amiably with Count de Lyndon, a portly, white-haired gentleman wearing an impressive number of medals and other recognitions on a red sash.

  From his vantage point in the consulate’s impressive entry, at the foot of the imperial staircase leading to the banquet rooms, Sawyer could easily survey the guests circulating among the various rooms and keep an eye on Tamara, her profile to him.

  How convenient.

  He wondered idly whether Tamara’s gown had a zipper at the back or side. He itched to find out. Damn it.

  The bodice of Tamara’s gown had fallen a fraction of an inch by the time they’d stepped inside the consulate more than an hour ago, and he’d just been able to make out the top of her rose tattoo.

  Now, with laser-sharp vision, he zeroed in on the tattoo again from across the room. The faint outline that he could discern was driving him crazy.

  “I say, don’t you agree, Melton?”

  “Yes, certainly,” he responded absently.

  “Oh?”

  Sawyer’s ga
ze swung back to his companions. The man who’d expressed surprise was the holder of a defunct Eastern European dukedom, as Sawyer recalled.

  “You agree that the legislation is a good idea?” the duke asked.

  Sawyer glanced at the other man in their circle, a career foreign service officer, who’d posed the original question.

  “Any controversy is good for the news business,” he hedged.

  The duke’s face relaxed. “Ah, of course. Rightly said!”

  “Will you excuse me, gentlemen?” Sawyer asked. “I’ve discovered someone I wish to speak with across the room.”

  His wife.

  As he strode toward her, he watched her laugh at something her companion said.

  Ever since their wedding day, his desire for Tamara had seemed to grow exponentially. If only there hadn’t been that hint of vulnerability that had stopped him on that first night. And then misguided chivalry had taken over. It had somehow seemed crass to wed and bed her immediately. He was regretting those scruples now.

  Tamara glanced up at him when he joined her and Count de Lyndon. A small smile hovered at her lips.

  He longed to kiss her smile, steal it and keep it for his own.

  He mentally shrugged at his bit of whimsy.

  Lyndon inclined his head, and Sawyer shook the man’s hand as they exchanged greetings.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight,” Lyndon said heartily. “I half expected you and your lovely bride to be on a honeymoon voyage.”

  Sawyer threw a quick glance at Tamara. “The honeymoon has been postponed for a more convenient time.”

  With any luck, he and Tamara would start their honeymoon in earnest in bed later that night.

  Sawyer had seen a number of men tonight allow their gazes to linger on her appreciatively. It had made him unaccustomedly possessive, and now he staked his claim.

  He rested his hand on the small of Tamara’s back as he stepped closer to her. “What have you and Lyndon been discussing, sweetheart?”

  From the corner of his eyes, Sawyer noticed Lyndon catch the endearment and smile with knowing amusement.

  Good. Let everyone think he was the enamored bridegroom. After all, he had a role to play. That’s all this was—that and his unfettered lust for his new wife.

  “Your wife was enlightening me about the fine art of pottery,” Lyndon said.

  Sawyer shot Tamara a look of mild surprise.

  She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “It was a hobby of mine in past years.”

  “One that I’ve recently taken up,” Lyndon chimed in.

  Sawyer looked from Tamara to the older man. “And did she also tell you she is a talented jewelry designer?”

  Lyndon chuckled. “Are you, my dear?”

  “It’s a small business,” Tamara allowed.

  Sawyer addressed Lyndon. “Your wife may be interested in Tamara’s designs. Tamara is making quite a name for herself with her colored gemstone jewelry.”

  “I shall certainly mention it to Yvonne,” the count declared, a twinkle in his eyes. “She does love to be one step ahead of the other ladies.”

  “As a newsman, I can empathize with the desire to keep ahead of one’s competitors,” Sawyer said smoothly. “Tamara’s studio is located right here in the city—down in SoHo.”

  “Splendid,” the count responded. “Yvonne and I won’t be heading to Strasbourg until the end of next week.”

  From the corner of his eyes, Sawyer noticed Tamara looking at him speculatively, as if she was both astonished and impressed by his seamless plug for her business.

  “Your bride is charming, Melton,” Lyndon said. “A breath of fresh air in contrast to these women—” he gestured around them dismissively “—who are afraid to get their hands dirty.”

  The count leaned toward Sawyer as if about to share some confidential information. “She—” he looked at Tamara approvingly “—works with her hands. She even likes gardening!”

  “Does she?” Sawyer said, amusement crinkling his eyes. “I’ll have to put her to work at Gantswood Hall, then.”

  Tamara raised her eyebrows. “Really? How much does the gardener earn?”

  The count laughed heartily, and clapped Sawyer on the shoulder. “There you go, Melton. Any other woman here would have been decidedly not amused.”

  “But I am not amused,” Tamara protested halfheartedly.

  At that moment, another man approached to engage the count, and Sawyer said smoothly, “You don’t mind if I steal my wife away, do you, Lyndon?”

  “Not at all, not at all,” the count responded, waving them away even as Sawyer guided their retreat with his hand at the small of Tamara’s back.

  When they’d gone a few feet, Tamara asked with slight exasperation, “Do you know everyone? It does seem as if everyone that I’ve spoken with here knows you.”

  Sawyer nodded at an acquaintance. “Yes,” he acknowledged without vanity, “but the Count de Lyndon is a fifth cousin once removed on my father’s side. A female ancestor married into the Belgian aristocracy.”

  “How charming,” Tamara returned, not looking at him either, but smiling as they glided passed a couple of guests and into an adjoining reception room. “You Langsfords have infiltrated bloodlines far and wide.”

  Sawyer chuckled. “Why not? Queen Victoria and her progeny did it. We had a royal model.”

  “And you’ve since been multiplying like bunnies, apparently,” Tamara muttered.

  Sawyer leaned close and murmured, “Your tattoo is showing above the bodice of your dress.”

  He caught Tamara’s small gasp just before her hand slapped over the spot on her bodice where the tattoo was daring to show itself.

  “Are you worried your aristocratic friends will be offended?” she asked tartly, nevertheless matching her low tone to his.

  “No,” he murmured. “I’m worried they’ll want to bed you as much as I do.”

  Sawyer watched with satisfaction as her skin tinged pink.

  Good.

  He’d been suffering the temptations of the damned ever since their wedding night, thanks to her. Let her feel some of the heat.

  “Are you concerned that I’m being perceived as sexually available?” Tamara demanded, still refusing to look at him. “Because I can assure you that my behavior tonight has been beyond reproach.”

  “I see you’ve misunderstood me,” he replied. “You couldn’t possibly be more sexually promiscuous than some of the women here.”

  “Speaking from personal knowledge?”

  “I’m in the news business.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” he inquired, letting his hand slip to cover her backside and leaning down again so that his mouth was close to her ear. “I wonder.”

  Her lips parted.

  “I’m afraid some here will be consumed by the same inescapable desire I am,” he said. “The desire to strip you out of that emerald dress, for example, and make slow and sweet love to you until you cry out my name again and again.”

  Sawyer watched as Tamara’s eyes, focused on the room in front of them, went wide with shock and, yes, a mirroring desire.

  She wanted him, too.

  She swallowed. “It’s hot in here.”

  “Quite.”

  She finally looked at him, and her eyes conveyed the same message that was in his. Let’s leave.

  “Tell me you feel faint,” he said thickly.

  He’d seize any excuse she gave him.

  “I—”

  Unfortunately, they were joined at that moment by the Consulate General.

  Sawyer managed to school his expression into a pleasant one as he exchanged greetings and shook hands with the other man.

  Damn it. Were he and Tamara destined to be forever interrupted?

  Hours later, Sawyer drove them home in his Mercedes and parked in the private garage next to the town house. Tamara alighted from the car, but before she could take more than a couple of steps, Sawyer came
around and took her hand.

  Together they walked from the garage directly into the garden and toward the town house itself.

  “Did you have a good time?” Sawyer asked, his voice deep.

  “Yes,” she responded.

  She realized with some surprise that she had enjoyed herself, despite how unsettled she’d felt thinking about this evening ahead of time.

  Tonight, she’d smiled and chatted even as she knew she was comporting herself flawlessly. In fact, she hadn’t been sure where Tamara Kincaid had ended and the Countess of Melton had begun. One had blended seamlessly into the other.

  On top of it all, a couple of female guests had expressed interest in Pink Teddy creations, and it was only belatedly she’d discovered it had been Sawyer who had extolled her work to them.

  His support of her work was oddly touching. Of course, he was probably just looking out for his investment, but still, his encouragement was more than she’d gotten from any man in her life before.

  And all along tonight, it was Sawyer’s eyes she’d felt. His appreciative gaze had made her acutely aware of her femininity as she’d sipped champagne and tried to concentrate on the conversation around her.

  Sawyer stopped in the garden now, and raising their linked hands, placed a kiss on the back of hers. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” He bent and brushed a kiss across her lips. “You make a lovely countess.”

  “Mmm,” she responded just before he kissed her again.

  When they broke apart, she breathed against his mouth, “What are we doing?”

  It had been a magical evening, but she wasn’t so far gone on champagne and tiaras not to be lucid enough to ask the question.

  Since when, she mused, had starchy ceased to be a turnoff for her and started being a powerful aphrodisiac?

  Tonight, Sawyer had looked every inch the titled aristocrat born to wealth and privilege—one who, she acknowledged, by dint of his own intelligence and hard work, had expanded the family business to make himself one of the most powerful media tycoons on either side of the Atlantic.