Seducing the Groom (6 page)

He could precisely imagine the crude gibes and banter.

Rounding another corner, he found himself on a particularly deserted tract where he was concealed from passersby, and he pressed at the front of his trousers, desperate to alleviate his erect phallus. His cockstand was so painful that his teeth hurt. It hadn’t waned in the least. Neither the brisk stroll, nor the chilly evening air, had had any effect on the rude member at all.

Loitering, he thought of his wife, of how she’d looked as he’d dabbled with her on the dressing table. He’d never witnessed a more glorious, erotic sight. Her curvaceous, well-proportioned body was his concept of feminine perfection. Wide where it should be and slim where it should be too. Her skin was smooth and creamy, her blond hair luxurious and tempting. She was desire incarnate, every man’s wildest fantasy, and she could have been his if he’d had the courage to proceed.

In agony, he rubbed his hand over his face, stopping abruptly when he realized he could smell her sex on his fingers. He suffered another stab of tormented longing, pondering her and what they might have done together.

Her taut nipples! Her tight sheath! He’d wanted her as he’d never previously wanted a woman, and he wished he’d had the nerve to progress to the natural conclusion, that he’d taken them both to heaven and beyond. No doubt he’d have spiraled to ecstasy in her arms.

Why had he halted? What had been his rationale? The sassy strumpet had virtually thrown herself at him, had practically implored him to ravish her, but he’d declined to cooperate. Merely because she was his wife. When had he ever denied himself? What had compelled him to start now? What purpose was served by refusing to copulate with her?

He could have her every night, every day too, if he was so disposed. Whenever and wherever the mood struck him. She was an unfettered, bawdy wench, ripe for the plucking, who’d submit with a reckless abandon he rarely encountered among the jaded Jezebels of the
ton
who regularly warmed his bed.

So what if he had her, then took another woman later on? If he had a mistress or two or ten, it was no one’s business but his own. It was his right. His due. He could have her routinely, and when the sizzle dwindled, when he’d had enough and his appetite for her dissipated, he could entertain himself on the side.

If she learned of his infidelities, if she was distressed or humiliated by them, what did it signify? Every gentleman of means had other lovers. It was the norm. Expected and allowed.

His personal gratification was the sole factor that mattered. The doctrine of his unadulterated superiority had been drilled into him since birth. He believed in it, had reveled in the prerogatives afforded him by his exalted status, had thrived on the unwritten tenets that guaranteed he could do as he pleased and damn the consequences.

Why then had it been so difficult to take what he’d wanted from her? Why had he been so unnerved? Usually, he frolicked heedlessly, cavorting and gamboling through an interminable stream of licentious, profligate amusements. Undeterred by morals, social mores, or others’ opinions of propriety, he simply barged through life, seizing the moment, and relishing whatever diversion tickled his fancy.

Why hadn’t he reached for her and the rapture he knew he would have derived?

He was so conflicted!

Plodding on, slowing, he let the peace and quiet soothe him. Rambling, he trudged down various dim, indistinct streets, unsure of his destination. He couldn’t visit any of his customary haunts, and he couldn’t go home.
She
was there, and in his disordered state, he couldn’t conceive of venturing inside.

What if she was awake? What if he came face to face with her?

He’d been an ass, had dealt with her as if she were a whore, and he was extremely embarrassed. Gad, but he’d essentially accused her of being a harlot! He’d demanded to know if she was a virgin. On her wedding night!

What sort of despicable cad was he?

In spite of his faults, he had impeccable manners, and he knew how to act the consummate gallant when the situation called for it, yet she’d thrown him totally off balance, swaying from one indiscriminate remark to another when he hadn’t meant any of them.

He’d just been so...so...curious and awestruck and angry and...and...and...

Perversely, he felt a drastic need to persuade himself that he’d behaved appropriately. He never apologized, never expressed remorse, or tried to make amends. As he was a viscount who would inherit an earldom, he was so far above others that, without reflection or recompense, he could harm anyone who got in his way. Yet in this instant, he was besieged with guilt.

Dammit! He’d never be able to look her in the eye again.

After careful contemplation, he could only infer that she’d been intent on beguiling him, then being deflowered. Her tarrying in his dressing room and her propitious disrobing had been a ploy to lure him into debauching her.

But why?

What could her objective have been? They’d discussed their arrangement, had agreed to coexist and go about their separate lives. What was she really after? He’d asked her, and she’d maintained she wanted nothing, which was obviously a lie.

Evidently, she’d concocted a scheme to snare him into a physical relationship, to make their marriage genuine in every sense of the word, and the prospect scared the hell out of him. What kind of a husband would he be to the poor girl? Why should she want him to put forth the effort?

He was a spoiled, pampered ne’er-do-well who did naught but trifle and lollygag. He couldn’t be counted upon, couldn’t be trusted, would do whatever benefitted him—and only him—with no regard to others’ sensibilities.

It was his nature, at the root of his personality, and the reason he’d wed with none of his family in attendance. No one could tell him what to do, coerce his compliance, or quash his stubbornness. He made his own decisions, selected his own path, and if others didn’t like it, they could go hang.

What woman would deliberately bind herself to such a fellow? If she assumed he could make her happy, she was destined for a lifetime of disappointment.

Perhaps, he’d just never go home! He’d spend the rest of his days, roaming blindly through London, too much of a coward to confront his wife, beg her pardon, commence anew, or carry on.

Pausing to get his bearings, he checked out the row of wrought-iron fences, the neatly trimmed hedges, the majestic dwellings, when it dawned on him that he was standing on his own street, his residence down the block. While he’d presumed he’d been drifting aimlessly, apparently he’d traveled in a big circle, and his feet had automatically delivered him back to where he’d begun.

Was this a portentous sign? Had he wanted to return all along?

At his gate, he climbed the steps and lingered on the stoop. No light emanated from any of the windows. He hoped that meant she’d given up on her carnal quest and retired so he could slither to his room and crawl into his bed undetected.

Fumbling with the latch, he slunk into the foyer. The moon was high and flooding the stairs, so he didn’t need a lamp, and he ascended to his bedchamber and sneaked in without meeting another soul.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he shut the door, turned, and...

There she was, dozing in the middle of his bed. She was lying atop the covers, as if she hadn’t been brave enough to crawl under, but she’d staked out her spot in the center, and she seemed to belong just where she was.

Frowning, he dawdled, hands fisted on his hips, not certain of what to do. His first inclination was to march over and shake her, to reignite their quarrel, which wasn’t a good idea. It was blatantly clear that she had a keen wit and could best him in any argument. He didn’t want her here, but chagrin and perplexity forestalled him from barking out her name and sending her scurrying to her room.

He’d married the vexatious lady, and she wouldn’t fade into the woodwork as he’d ordered, so he had to alter his plan of action.

Tiptoeing to the bed, he studied her. She was wearing her scanty negligee, the robe absent, and it had crept up past her knees, revealing her long, slender legs. Her ribs rose and fell in a leisurely rhythm. Dead to the world, she hadn’t roused the slightest upon his entry, and it occurred to him that she was exhausted. It had been her wedding day after all. The stress on her had to have been tremendous.

The entire afternoon and evening, he’d rued and fused over the fact that he’d married a stranger, but he hadn’t taken a second to conjecture as to how
she
had weathered the ordeal. She’d married a stranger too, then she’d been constrained to host his cadre of daunting, exuberant associates, and she’d done so without a whimper of complaint.

Gracious, charming, she’d mingled and chatted. As his guests had left, he’d been repeatedly patted on the back, while his friends informed him how fortunate he was, what a catch he’d made, how he had the devil’s own luck with women.

She looked young and dear, and his heart seemed to tumble erratically. He massaged over it, trying to ease some of the sudden ache. As she was pretty, smart, sexy, she was everything a man could possibly want in a wife. Why had he viewed her arrival as a millstone, an impediment? Why not dwell on some of the advantages?

He evaluated her a few minutes more, disconcerted, confused about what he wanted, and a soft voice niggled at him.

What if...?
it queried. What if he grabbed for what she was offering? What if he forged on and made her his own?

In his prior ribald forays, he’d habitually felt as if he was searching for something, but he’d never found it. He was lonely and had no true friends. The women with whom he consorted were superficial and wanton, benumbed by their wealth and privilege. They had no more emotional attachment to him than he did to them. He was so alone, wanting companionship, craving contentment, but he never attained even a modicum of comfort.

What if the prize he’d perpetually been hunting for was her?

The notion swept over him like a bright ray of sunshine.

Appealing and irresistible, she had faith in him, in the type of spouse he could grow to be. She seemed to be aware of the less savory aspects of his character, yet she liked him anyway. If he dared risk all, he’d gain a confidante, a comrade he could depend on and esteem, cherish and protect, and the concept didn’t sound so bad.

Why...if he treated her decently, if he let her discover the man he was deep down, she might become fond of him. Eventually, she might come to...to...love him.

He smiled. It would be grand to be loved by Ellen Foster St. John.

Quietly, he went to the dressing room and removed his clothes. The tub from her ill-fated bath was in place, the water cooled, and he wondered if she’d washed in it after he’d strode off in a temper.

Taking a cloth, he dipped it and ran it over his heated skin. He hoped she
had
lain in it, for he liked to suppose that the water coating him had enveloped her too. Finished, he dried with a towel, slipped into his robe, loosely looping the belt around his waist, then he strolled to his room.

He glided to the bed, but she hadn’t stirred. Eager to observe everything that transpired, he lit a candle, watched the flame as it flickered and extended, then he dropped himself down. His hip was nestled to hers, his upper torso braced on an arm. He scrutinized her, dissecting her features.

She was so damned enticing, and she was his.

A wave of possessiveness rippled over him, and he was anxious to make her truly his own, to claim her and keep her. Resting a hand on her stomach, he caressed her belly in a languid circle. She smiled in her slumber, some unconscious part of her perceiving that it was he.

Leaning over, he kissed her, a brush of his lips to her velvety cheek.

“Ellen,” he whispered.

Scowling, she rolled onto her back, stretching, gradually awakening. Her eyes fluttered open, but she scarcely recognized that he was hovering over her.

“Oh...I was sleeping so hard.” She blinked, then alertness was restored in a rush. Her smile faltered. Tentatively, she ventured, “Hello.”

“Hello.”

“You’re here.”

“Yes.”

“I was so worried about you.”

“I took a walk,” he inanely mentioned. “I needed some time to think.”

She nodded. Plainly, she’d been endlessly cogitating their impasse as well. “While you were gone, I made myself at home.”

“I see that.” Glancing around, he chuckled. A half-empty glass of wine stood on his dresser. Her robe was draped over a chair, her slippers next to the wardrobe. “It’s quite all right.”

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“Neither do I. I hadn’t intended to. I was...was...” Was what? Irate? Bewildered? Aroused? Unsettled? All conditions applied. “I’m not sure what to do with you.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Aye, I expect we will.” Abashed, he blushed. “I didn’t mean what I said to you earlier. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, and I was distraught. I should have—“

She pressed a finger to his lips, quelling the remainder of his confession. “I said several things I didn’t mean either.” A mischievous grin creased her cheeks. “I might have been goading you. Just a tad.”

“Minx.”

A companionable silence descended as they perused one another, and he was overcome by the most peculiar sensation, that he’d always known her, that he’d been waiting for her forever.

Reeling with amazement and excitement, he kissed her. It was a gentle embrace that went on and on, and he shifted fully onto the bed, so his body was touching hers all the way down. As he broke the kiss, she was gazing up at him so tenderly that he could barely stand to witness her affection. It was perceptible, real, and it poured over him. Like a blind man who’d been wandering in the desert, seeking an oasis and had finally stumbled upon one, he soaked it in, thirsty for what she could give him.

Feeling adored and revered, he luxuriated in the possibility that she might have married him for himself, that she’d wanted
him
and no other.

“Let’s start this night over,” he suggested.

“I’d like that.”