With an oath, he shoved away from the door.
“Boys?” she called out loudly.
They tried the handle outside and Ian slammed back against the door. “Go away!” he hissed at the door, but his eyes ate her up.
She reveled in the wicked thrill that shot through her as his gaze raked every inch of her naked body. This was reckless, audacious in the extreme. She ought to be ashamed of herself, but she wasn’t. Not at all. It served him right to suffer a little of the torture he’d put her through yesterday.
“At least have the decency to use the screen,” he bit out.
“All you have to do is close your eyes.”
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely.
In truth, he seemed frozen, the very picture of a frustrated male as he leaned against the door and drank up her every move, the rest of his body as rigid as the thing inside his smallclothes. Raising an eyebrow, she held up one stocking, then lifted her foot and propped it on the bed so she could put the stocking on. From his vantage point, he had to have an excellent view of a certain area of her anatomy.
A strangled noise, a cross between a groan and a curse, erupted from him. She tied the stocking with a garter, then put down her foot and reached for the other stocking.
“Enough!” he roared. When she lifted an eyebrow at him, he straightened. “Two can play this game, you know. Continue displaying your assets, querida, and I will describe exactly what I wish to do with you. Loudly. We might as well give your brothers an education as long as they’re listening in on the other side of the door.”
She hesitated. Indeed, it had become very quiet out in the hall, and she knew her brothers too well to think they’d left. “You wouldn’t.”
His eyes narrowed. “That little patch of skin above your garter? I want to take my tongue and run it up—”
“All right, all right!” Scooping up her clothes, she darted behind the privacy screen.
His sigh of relief echoed in the room. She dressed quickly, and when she came out from behind the screen, it was to find him donning his shirt and pantaloon trousers with a scowl. He’d propped a chair under the doorknob but had clearly relinquished any further plans to bed her this morning, since the boys were making such a clatter outside the door that it was clear neither of them would get any peace until it was opened.
As she hurried past him, however, he caught her by the arm and pulled her close enough to whisper, “Tonight, my teasing wife, there won’t be any boys pounding on our door.”
A shiver skittered along her spine. Perhaps her method of revenge hadn’t been such a good idea after all. “Tonight, I’ll have my own bedchamber.”
“For sleeping only.” His roguish smile made her skin come alive. “In fact, I want you to repeat this morning’s stunning performance in the privacy of my bedchamber at Chesterley.”
She lifted an earnest face to him. “Gladly. As soon as you tell me what I wish to know, Ian, I’ll be happy to join you in your bedchamber.”
His smile vanished. “Do you never quit?”
“No. I’d rather forego the many pleasures of your embraces than spend one moment in your bed knowing it’s nothing to you but a mating.”
For a moment he looked as if he might say something. Then his jaw tightened and he glanced at the door. “You’d best open it before the little hellions break it down.”
No doubt about it, he’d married a wanton, Ian thought sullenly as he sat in the parlor where the Taylor Terrors eviscerated a score of wrapped boxes and packages. His gaze was fixed on his new wife—in truth, he’d been unable to turn it anywhere else since her little stunt in the bedroom. Her hair mantled her shoulders like a rumpled velvet cape, and a fresh, sweet smile curved her mouth every time her brothers opened one of his many presents. Seated on the floor with her body hidden behind mounds of shredded paper and tangled ribbons, she might have been mistaken for another of the children.
But not by him. My God, this morning when she’d slipped out of her drawers…
He groaned. She was a piece of work. The image of her naked body, drenched in sunlight that kissed the high, small breasts and the tempting curls between her legs, was still emblazoned on his memory. As were all her come-hither-but-not-now smiles. If he hadn’t taken her virginity himself he’d doubt her virtue, but apparently her provocative instincts were as natural to her as writing gossip. She’d be the death of him yet.
A self-mocking smile touched his lips. And yesterday, he’d had the arrogance to think this would be easy! If he didn’t take care, she’d have him blurting out not only all the secrets about his past, but a thousand others, anything to regain the privilege of spreading those supple white thighs and—
Bloody hell. Time for a new strategy. But what? Overt attempts to seduce her merely roused her determination to resist, and covert attempts made her respond in kind, only to stop short of the act.
William bounded toward him, dragging behind him the hobbyhorse he’d received from “Father Christmas,” an elaborate affair with real horse’s hair that Ian had picked out with the boy especially in mind. George and Ansel had already darted out the door to try theirs on the stairs, and James sat beside his sister beaming at a set of woodcarving tools.
But William approached Ian with a shy smile. “Look, Lord St. Clair, it has leather reins and everything!”
The boy’s excitement banished any lingering resentment he’d felt toward the lads for ruining his plans for his honeymoon. “You know, William, now that I’ve married your sister, you and I are brothers. So why don’t you call me Ian?”
William beamed. “Truly?”
“Truly.” Ian lifted the boy to sit on his knee, surprised at the flood of familial affection that possessed him. “And when your sister and I return to town next week to bring you and your brothers to Chesterley, we’ll see about buying all of you real ponies.”
“’Ods fish!” William threw his arms about Ian’s neck. “You’re the best brother ever!”
“Or at least the richest,” Felicity quipped. When Ian grinned at her undaunted over William’s head, she added, “You’ll spoil them if you keep that up.”
“I’m merely looking for ways to keep them occupied in the early-morning hours, so they don’t go about knocking on people’s bedroom doors.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Well, you overshot your mark.” She swept her hand around the room. “Father Christmas has been far too extravagant.”
“I should hope so. He seems to have bypassed the Taylors lately, so he owed them more than usual, don’t you think?” He jiggled William on his knee. “Do you mind Father Christmas giving you so many presents at once, my boy?”
The answer was predictably a loud “no.”
“You see?” Ian continued laughingly. “The males of this family have no trouble agreeing on anything. You’re the only naysayer.”
She sniffed. “Because I’m the only sensible one.”
“Does that mean you don’t want the gift I bought for you?”
Her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “You bought me a gift?”
“Of course. You’re my wife.”
Averting her face from his, she stammered, “Y-Yes, but I haven’t got one for you…that is…there was no time—”
“And no money. It’s all right.”
He set William aside, and the boy dashed from the room to join the other two triplets, shouting, “Guess what, Georgie! Ian’s gonna get us real ponies!”
Ian stood, then walked to the window and retrieved a stack of presents from behind the curtain. Returning to where she sat, he handed them to her. “I don’t need anything. You do.”
Her eyes shone with delight as she took the packages from him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Open them before you say anything. You might not like them.”
He found himself tensing as she reached for the small rectangular box on top. He hadn’t given many gifts to women, but somehow he’d assumed she wouldn’t be like his few paramours and wis
h for baubles and frills and lace. Now he reconsidered. He might have been wrong; she might hate it. But it was too late to do anything about it.
Opening the box, she withdrew a silver-plated cylindrical object. She turned it over in her hand in perplexed concentration.
James had come to sit cross-legged beside her on the floor, and now he peered over her shoulder at the object. “What is it?”
“It’s a fountain pen,” Ian explained. “A man named John Scheffer obtained the patent on it last year. It makes the inkpot unnecessary.” He took it from her and demonstrated how it worked, pushing a little button that triggered the release of ink to the nib. “I’ve invested in Scheffer’s company. I think it’ll be a great success. I asked him to make this one specially for you after we returned from the Worthings last week. See here? It’s engraved with your initials.”
After using a scrap of wrapping paper to wipe off the little bit of ink that had collected on the nib, he handed it back to her. She clasped it so silently, his throat went raw. She hated it. Damn. He should have bought her more of the fripperies in the other boxes, instead of risking such a foolish gift.
A pen was too commonplace, not passionate enough for her wild nature. But what did he know about buying gifts for a wife, especially one as unusual as Felicity?
At her continued silence, Ian said offhandedly, “Go on and open the others. The pen is more an experiment than a gift anyway. I thought you could use it and tell me if it works right.”
Then she lifted her head, tears shining in her eyes. “It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given me.”
The look on her face made his heart leap, an unfamiliar sensation. “You like it.”
“Oh, Ian, I love it! I hate those messy inkpots. This will be so useful.” Rubbing tears from her eyes with one hand, she carefully replaced the pen in its box with the other. “I’ll treasure it always.”
He cleared his throat, unused to such effusive thanks. “Here,” he said, thrusting the second gift at her again. “Open this.”
“You shouldn’t have bought so much. I feel awful that I have nothing for you.”
Yet she opened them all with enthusiasm. The rest of his gifts were more typical—a lace fan, silk hose, and a pair of exquisite ruby earrings that he’d paid a king’s ransom for. Although she exclaimed loudly over each one, when she was finished it was the pen she took out to examine again. As she stroked it, pleasure shining in her face, he thought of her hands on him that night. My God, what he wouldn’t give to have them on him again.
Suddenly she glanced up at him, her pretty face brightening even further. “Wait!” Turning to James, she whispered instructions, and he ran off.
“What are you up to now?” Ian asked, raising an eyebrow.
Her smile was secretive. “You’ll see.”
James returned moments later with a framed canvas. He handed it to his sister, who held it out to Ian. “This was Papa’s favorite painting,” she explained. “I couldn’t bear to sell it. But now that we’re married…well, I see no reason you can’t enjoy it.”
He took the canvas from her and stared at it in surprise. He could easily see why her reckless father had liked it. It was a harem painting, probably meant for someone’s collection of erotic art, though not badly done. A dusky-skinned sultan stood upon a dais with chest bared and arms crossed. Below him a bevy of scantily clad young women posed in various positions about a pool painted in lush colors.
“You’re giving me an erotic painting?” he asked.
Her quick blush and furtive glance at James, who was listening avidly, told him she hadn’t thought of it like that. “It’s not…Well, it is, but…It’s by a Spaniard. That’s why I thought of you. Though the artist isn’t anyone of consequence.”
“No, he wouldn’t be.” He examined the painting more closely, unable to keep the smile off his face. Only Felicity could give her husband something so patently scandalous for a seemingly innocent reason.
“Papa bought it because he admired the colors and the lines,” she persisted.
“I’m sure he admired them a great deal.” He chuckled. “Especially the flesh colors and curving lines.”
“Ian!” she exclaimed with a worried glance at James, who’d lost interest in the conversation and now examined her new pen. “The sultan is also well-done, don’t you think?”
The sultan? He looked at the figure again. Then it dawned on him why she’d thought to give him the painting. The realization lightened his mood considerably. His eyes met hers over the top of the canvas. “Very well done indeed.”
“You can tell the artist was a Spaniard,” she babbled on. “He made the sultan look Spanish. His features are Castilian, not Turkish.”
“Yes, Castilian.” He lowered his voice. “Like mine.”
Ducking her head, she swallowed, the motion of her throat doing something wicked to his insides. “Anyway, I thought you might like it. And now I’d best go help Mrs. Box oversee the preparations for dinner. If you’d keep an eye on the boys for me—”
“Certainly.” She thought to run off after dropping this surprise in his lap, did she? “You and I can discuss the painting later.”
Her gaze shot to him. “What do you mean, ‘discuss it’?”
“I’m curious to know what attracts you to the painting.”
“Me? Nothing at all.” But her high color confirmed his suspicions, as did her mumbled, “I-I’d better go.”
He watched, trying not to laugh as she fled the parlor. At last he’d figured out his strategy for winning her. He hadn’t gained a bit of ground by advancing on her with all the subtlety of a battalion. She wanted him as badly as he did her, but whenever he blustered at her and backed her against a wall, her pride rose against him.
No, he must use her own needs against her. He must provoke her, tempt her. Her pleasure at his gifts, her shy offering of a most erotic painting, demonstrated that she felt enough ambivalence about him to be vulnerable to courtship. Now that he thought of it, she’d succumbed to his seduction after his week of heightening her jealousy and his day of squiring her about town with her brothers.
So although he was impatient to have her in his bed again, he would progress slowly, wooing her without any overt advance until he had her on her knees begging him to take her.
He had a week alone with her. If by the end of that time he hadn’t brought her willingly to his bed, he was no kind of tactician at all.
Chapter 21
The marriage of the Viscount St. Clair to Miss Felicity Taylor, daughter of the late architect Algernon Taylor, took society by surprise. Though rumors had circulated about the two, no one expected such a hasty wedding.
LORD X, THE EVENING GAZETTE,
DECEMBER 27, 1820
On the third night after her wedding, Felicity sat writing with her new pen at the table in her spacious bedchamber at Chesterley. But her mind soon wandered from her column to her enigmatic husband.
What was she to make of Ian’s behavior? After their Christmas morning confrontation, she’d expected a long and bitter battle. One she would win, of course, but still a battle. She’d been determined to make him see the advantages of a true marriage, where the partners shared everything with each other. Abstinence from marital relations had seemed the only thing that might make an impression on him.
Now she wasn’t so sure. After she’d spent all of Christmas morning and afternoon girding herself to resist his too-tempting kisses and caresses, there’d been none. He’d given a reason for it the day he’d brought her here—some nonsense about allowing her time to adjust to the marriage—but she didn’t believe that for a moment. Ian had never allowed her time to adjust to anything before. Why be so considerate now? Besides, Ian never acted without a purpose. He was up to something.
Very well. Ian might be a master at stratagems, but she’d spent an inordinate amount of time studying the workings of the men and women who populated London society. Surely she could figure out his intentions
.
But not tonight, she thought wearily. This wasn’t the time to brood on such matters, not when her courses had just come, with all the attendant discomfort and moodiness. She should dwell on happy things, on how much she liked Chesterley and its staff, who’d surprised her with their welcome. When her courses were upon her, she couldn’t think rationally. She made mountains out of molehills and cried for no reason, which was not an advantage when dealing with her husband’s cool tactical mind.
My husband. The thought gave her a little thrill. Oh, why must the thought of his being her husband soften her resolve?
Perhaps because as Lord St. Clair, he’d been the enemy and as Ian, he’d been an irritation, even a temptation, but not someone capable of altering her life substantially. As her husband, however, he was the most the dangerous creature on earth, an incubus rising up from hell and demanding her soul in exchange for satisfaction of her wicked desires…her hot, abandoned dreams…her flagrant fantasies…
She sighed and took up her pen again. These days she dearly wanted to strip naked and throw herself at the man’s feet. Which was exactly what he hoped for.
A knock at the door between their bedchambers made her jump. “Who is it?” she snapped without thinking.
“Your husband, who else? May I come in?”
“Of course.” Good Lord, how did he do that? Appear like that whenever she thought of him? And even know to use the one word calculated to reduce her to mush? The man truly was the devil.
Especially now, when he entered the room wearing only a half-buttoned shirt that scarcely disguised the breadth of his dark-skinned chest and a pair of pantaloon trousers that fit snugly over strong thighs. Give him Persian garb and he would be her sultan in the flesh, all rough features and exquisite muscles and splendid economy of motion.
Not that his state of undress should surprise her at this time of the evening. Still, he seemed to only enter her bedchamber when he could reasonably do so half-dressed, as if to use the casualness of his attire to reinforce the intimacy of their being husband and wife. Then he roamed the room with familiarity, or worse yet, sprawled on the bed to discuss the day’s events or plans for the morrow.
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