The Birthday Scandal (19 page)

Before Emily had quite realized that he had capitulated, he pushed himself away from the billiard table and caught her tightly to him. His hands slid down her back, pressing her close against him. Her breasts felt as if they were melting from his body heat. Even Philip had never held her like this; no wonder there was a rule about gentlemen always wearing their coats when they were in the company of ladies.

He cupped her derriere and pulled her even closer. She tipped her head back, trying to see his expression, but his mouth came down on hers, so hard and hungry and demanding that her vision blurred.

Her mind was going fuzzy, too, but she retained enough awareness to know that this kiss was so far unlike Philip’s that to use the same word for the two experiences was utter foolishness. When Philip had kissed her, she had been puzzled by his actions and a bit put off because he had tasted of stale wine. Now, though Gavin was doing things she had never dreamed of, she was too swept up in the moment to wonder what might be next. And his mouth was the most luscious favor she had ever tasted, something exotic but so perfectly attuned to her tastes that it seemed she had always known it and had been waiting patiently to sample it again.

He was no longer holding her so tightly; his hands had wandered higher, and suddenly she felt the brush of cool air against her naked skin and realized that he had released the fastenings of her dress. The silk and lace of her bodice whispered down her arms, holding her fast and leaving her breasts open to his gaze—and his touch. He ran his tongue along the edge of her chemise, across the tender upper swell of her breasts, and then around her nipple. She gave a little squeak of surprise as a pleasurable shock shot through her.

She planted her hands against his chest, not to push him away but simply to enjoy the feel of him, the smooth linen of his shirt barely concealing the strength of muscles underneath. She had never touched a man so intimately, but she wanted more. She wanted to rid herself of the last remaining barrier between his flesh and hers.

He nipped once more at her breasts, then picked her up and set her on the edge of the billiard table. Catching the ruffe at her hem, he pulled it up until skirts and petticoats pooled around her waist, then tugged her knees apart and stepped between her legs. The same cool air that had tightened her nipples brushed across her most private areas, followed by heat once more as he pressed against her. The bulge of his erection felt firm and eager against her. “You’re not ready for that just yet,” he whispered against her lips, “but you soon will be.”

His hungry, openmouthed kiss left her panting, and his fingers sliding inside her made her gasp. But when he began to ease her down onto the table, she was stunned. “
Here
?”

“Why not?” Gavin laughed softly. “Oh. My apologies, for I am in truth a barbarian. No, not here.” Gently, he pulled her skirt down, smoothing the fabric over her hips, and lifted her from the table. He turned her away from him and cupped his hands over her breasts for a moment before he raised her bodice back into place and refastened her dress up the back. Then he bent to press his lips into the hollow under her collarbone. His breath teased across her throat and down between her breasts, sending a wave of heat over her once more.

“Shall I come to your bedroom, my dear?” he whispered. “Or will you come to mine?” The rumble of his voice against her skin made her entire body resonate.

Emily hesitated, feeling the full weight of this decision. She knew she was contemplating far more than the question of where they should rendezvous. “Yours.” Her voice was little more than a croak.

“Then I shall wait for you there.” He kissed her once more, long and thoroughly, and his hands roamed over her as if he planned to draw a map of every inch of her skin.

When he released her, Emily fled.

She had won, and she should be celebrating. But she had never in her life been more confused.

The evening had been long and wearing, but Isabel was not eager to go to her room. Emily had vanished, however, and Lucien was yawning—though Isabel suspected he was more bored than tired. She was never excited about spending time with her father, and Gavin seemed preoccupied, interested only in billiard balls. Which left just her husband—and though conversation with Maxwell would be preferable to the other activities he no doubt had in mind, she was certain she would not enjoy the topics he chose.

You’re not upset, you’re aroused,
he had told her in the Fletchers’ conservatory. A little jolt ran through her at the thought. She was feeling anxious, that was all. Yes—anxiety about the night to come was mixed with some disdain. Even a tinge of distaste.

None of which explained the slight sensation of heaviness in her womb. Was it possible she had already conceived? Surely there could be no physical sign—and yet…

You’re not upset, you’re aroused.

He must be wrong. Her body was
not
tightening in anticipation of him making love to her again.

The mere suggestion sent a sudden rush of heat through her belly. The reaction took her by surprise, and suddenly she wanted only to be alone. “You may go, Martha,” she said, and began pulling pins from her hair. Then she thought better of the command. She couldn’t get out of her dress, much less her corset, without help. If her assistance must come from either her maid or her husband, the choice was clear. “No, wait.”

Her half-undone hair had fallen over her face. Silently the maid took over the task of searching out hairpins. When Martha began brushing, Isabel relaxed under the gentle strokes and closed her eyes, letting her head tip back.

The door must have opened silently, for she didn’t hear Maxwell until he spoke from beside her. “Thank you, Martha. You may go now.”

Isabel’s eyes snapped open. The maid looked even more surprised than Isabel herself felt. Isabel was more startled by the fact that he knew her maid’s name than by his presence, though she had thought herself safe for another half hour.

Martha bobbed a silent curtsey and went out, leaving Isabel annoyed that her own servant had obeyed Maxwell without even a glance at her mistress for instructions.

“I didn’t realize you enjoyed acting the part of lady’s maid,” Isabel said.

“I don’t, particularly.” He stepped around behind her, laying his fingertips on her shoulders, and studied her in the dressing-table mirror.

Isabel flinched under his touch. Or was that a shiver of expectation instead? No, she told herself. It was only that tonight she knew what to expect, and she was bracing herself for his demands. She returned his inspection, noting that he was still dressed as he had been at dinner.

His hands wandered down across her collarbones and paused over the upper swell of her breasts. He insinuated his thumbs under the lacy edge of her bodice, between her breasts. Isabel sat as still as she could manage.

His hands closed on the fabric and ripped, baring her breasts to his gaze and his touch.

Isabel shrieked. “How
dare
you tear my dress?”

Maxwell shrugged. “I’ve seen it more firequently than I like.”

“You cannot just destroy my wardrobe!”

“Why do you care? You can’t be especially fond of this garment, for you’ve worn it so often you must be weary of it. Besides, our bargain means you will have no shortage of funds to buy new dresses.”

“Someday.” After she gave him a child…a son to carry the title…How odd, that the heavy sensation in her womb had given way to something almost like a throb. “But in the meantime, if you continue this course I’ll have nothing to wear!”

“Then do not keep me waiting, wife—or you shall have to stay naked in my bed.”

She jumped up, trying to spin away from him—but he didn’t release his hold on her dress, and with a rasp the fabric tore through the rest of the bodice and halfway down the skirt. She stared down at the wreckage in disbelief.

“Have you a pair of scissors,” Maxwell said calmly, “so I can cut your corset strings?”

“No! You mustn’t, for it’s the only one I have with me!”

“That is hardly a reason for me to want to preserve it.”

“
You’re
still dressed.” The protest was no more than a feeble sally.

“Come here,” he said softly.

She cast a glance over the dressing table, making certain there was no blade in sight, and warily presented her back. He worked loose the knots in her corset strings and pushed the garment down so she could step out of it. “Thank you for not ruining it,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome. How do you plan to reward my patience, Isabel?”

She should have known he’d put even such a tiny concession to use. But there was no point in turning this sparring match into a battle she could not possibly win.

As quickly as she could, she unfastened her slippers, rolled down her stockings, and wriggled out of her underthings, till she stood before him in only her chemise. The garment had been washed so often it was growing threadbare, and it was creased against her skin from the tight corset that had fitted over it. Though she tried not to look at him, she was uneasily aware that he had not taken his gaze off her for so much as an instant.

A nightdress lay across the chaise where Martha had left it—but it would not cover her better. Since she could not put it on without stripping off the chemise, she decided not to bother.

As Isabel crossed the room to the bed, she couldn’t quite keep her gaze from straying to Maxwell where he stood in the center of the room with his hands on his hips, quietly watching. The blankets were already turned back, and she started to slide between them.

“Not yet,” he said. “Tonight I have a fancy to see you wearing nothing.”

She wondered if he had read her mind. “But…” His eyes narrowed, and she thought better of protesting. She hadn’t brought enough chemises to take the chance of him ripping one.

Before she could raise her hands to the ties of her chemise, he was there beside her, disposing of her last garment by lifting it over her head with a surprisingly gentle touch. She tried to slip between the blankets, but he pulled them back until there was nothing to hide her. He did not take his gaze off her as she lay there, naked and exposed, while he stripped off his clothing.

The previous night she had caught only a glimpse of his body. As he divested himself of his breeches and his erection sprang free, she tried to stifle a gasp.

“Frightened?” he said softly. “You accommodated me quite well last night, and I assure you I am no larger now than I was then.”

Suddenly, however, all his urgency seemed to dissipate as he stretched out beside her on the bed and drew her close against him. The soft hair on his chest teased her nipples; his mouth against hers was hot but not demanding; his hands were gentle on her breasts, her belly, her thighs; and when he moved over her, she gave a little sigh and opened her legs for him. Best to get it over with, she told herself, but her heart had speeded up till it was matching the rhythmic pulsation deep in her belly.

The head of his penis nudged at her, and then he paused. “I know you have never taken a lover, Isabel, but you must have been tempted sometimes. Think of one of those men, if you like, while I make love to you. I don’t mind if you pretend.”

He slid slowly inside her.

If the room had been dark, she might have thought of someone else, but all she could see was him, looming over her. All she could feel was him, sliding slowly in and out, heating her from the inside until she felt she would burst into fames. All she could think of was him, as he seemed to take more than her body…

His face was fierce, and she wondered whom he was thinking of as he stroked her. A woman he had known before her? One he had wanted but never had? Or a mistress he would have preferred to be with now, if not for his need of an heir?

Her child might look like him, with the same fierce concentration, the same determination to take what he wanted. Her muscles clenched around him, pulling him even more deeply inside her.

The throbbing in her womb grew until she could think of nothing else, and an instant later she climaxed just as he gave a hoarse, almost painful cry, and spilled his seed inside her.

A long minute later, he rolled just enough that he didn’t crush her. She waited for him to move away as he had the night before. Instead, he cupped one hand over her derriere and pulled her closer, till he was once more buried fully inside her.

Isabel was at a loss. Did he intend to stay here—to rest like this? Somehow, this stillness was even more intimate than the act that had preceded it, as though he was claiming her somehow. His breathing had steadied; hers didn’t, for every beat of his heart seemed to press him more closely against her core, reminding her of the rhythm they had shared.

“Does it hurt?” she said finally. “I mean, when you… finish.”

He opened his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you looked as though you were in pain. I wondered why men do it, if it hurts. Women have to—and I suppose men do, too, if they’re to have an heir. But that doesn’t explain why they set up mistresses, if they don’t enjoy…” She saw that he was smiling, and her voice trailed off.