The Birthday Scandal (28 page)

That would be a good thing, she told herself, for she would know for certain he would not be coming to her.

If she was truly fortunate, she was already pregnant, and when Maxwell’s heir was born, she would be in the same position as Lady Murdoch—with her obligations fulfilled, she could take a lover. And because she would have met every one of her husband’s conditions, she would be absolutely free—with a home of her own and an income more than adequate for all her needs.

Doubt assailed her. Their bargain was hardly an easy one, but could it be as simple as that? Had she overlooked something? Made an assumption that might come back to haunt her?

She took her jewel case from the wardrobe. There was little enough in it of value—her mother’s pearls, a pair of earbobs set with brilliants, a brooch that had been a gift on her sixteenth birthday from Uncle Josiah and his duchess. The most important item in it, in Isabel’s mind, was the single sheet of paper that she had tucked safely away at the bottom.

She tipped the contents out on the coverlet and unfolded the page of contract terms that Maxwell had written out. It all seemed direct, straightforward, plain and simple. And yet something about the agreement didn’t feel right.

She almost laughed at the insanity of that thought. How utterly foolish of her—
nothing
about an agreement of this sort was right!

Behind her, Maxwell spoke. “Are you deciding what jewels to wear for the ball, my dear?”

Intent on their contract, Isabel had not consciously heard him come into the room. Yet she didn’t feel the jolt of surprise she normally did. Somehow, even as she had explained to herself that he would not seek her out tonight, she had known better. She had understood, deep down, that the matter of his heir was so important to him that he would not be defected from his goal.

She wondered how Lady Murdoch would feel about that.

Isabel glanced over her shoulder at him, trying to block his view as she scrambled her few treasures—and the contract—back into the jewel case. “I am setting a new fashion,” she said airily. “With no jewels, my dress will receive the attention it deserves rather than being only a background to a hodgepodge of ornaments.”

“Then your gown must be beautiful indeed—but if you plan to wear no jewels, how odd it is to sort them. Are you certain you were not reviewing our agreement, instead?”

“Well, that, too.” She closed up the case and shifted her position on the edge of the mattress to face him. “You see, Maxwell, the truth is I feel…different.”

He settled onto the bed next to her. Though he left a few inches between them, Isabel’s skin prickled at his nearness. There was only the thickness of his dressing gown, and her nightdress, separating them.

“And by
different
, I suppose you mean pregnant?”

To Isabel’s relief, his voice was absolutely calm. She hadn’t expected this to be quite so easy—but perhaps he was eager to grasp the opportunity to spend his time with Lady Murdoch instead. “I expect that’s what it means, yes.”

He leaned a little closer and stretched his hand over her belly. His palm rubbed gently against the linen of her nightdress and warmed the flesh beneath. “And this odd feeling is centered right here, where our child would grow?”

Isabel nodded. “Exactly. Therefore, there is no longer any need to…” She hesitated and added delicately, “to spend your energy on me.”

“How very convenient that would be for you. But since you have never been pregnant before, how can you be certain?”

Taken off guard, she had no answer. She shifted her feet on the carpet. Suddenly his hand on her belly seemed to burn.
This isn’t going to be so easy after all.

His voice, low and soft, stirred the tendrils of hair around her ear as he whispered, “Have you considered the possibility, Isabel, that the odd feeling in your womb might be desire?”

She snapped, “More likely it’s dread!”

He smiled. “No, or you would not respond to lovemak-ing as you do. There is nothing unladylike about admitting you have physical needs—or that I satisfy them. In any case, since it is far too soon to know for certain that you are pregnant, and because I prefer not to take the risk of losing another month in case it turns out that you are not, I intend to…as you say…spend my energy on you at every opportunity.”

The heat of his hand sank deeper into her flesh, until her insides seemed to have melted. She fidgeted under his touch, and he gently kneaded her belly, his fingertips scorching a pattern on her skin.

“Fine,” she said between clenched teeth. “Get it over with, then.” She flung herself back on the bed and pulled up her nightdress to better accommodate him.

He laughed softly. His hand slipped down to stroke her curls, and he slipped a finger inside her. “Your body can’t lie,” he whispered. “You’re wet and slick and eager for me.”

What was it he had said? Something about how she must have been tempted at times to take a lover.
Think of one of those men, if you like, while I make love to you. I don’t mind if you pretend.

“Eager? Not for you,” she said coolly.

He moved over her, nudging her legs apart, settling himself against her with the head of his penis barely sliding inside her body. “Tell me,” he whispered against her ear. “Describe him for me—your dream lover.”

Her mind went blank. She could think of nothing, only feel the spot where they were so nearly joined as she waited for him to take her. She gasped in a feeble effort to regain her senses.

I don’t mind if you pretend…

He didn’t mind if she dreamed of some other lover, because he must be doing the same himself. What if she asked him to describe the woman he imagined when he closed his eyes? But she didn’t need to ask. The picture was just as clear in her mind as it must be in his, of Lady Murdoch—playful and willing, sprawled out under him, her supple body cradling him.

Pain shot through her at the thought, followed by the urge to wound him. “His hair is golden as ripe wheat. And his eyes are blue—like a summer sky.”

Maxwell nibbled her earlobe and palmed her breast. Her nipple peaked, thrusting against his hand. “Does he have a name, this dream lover of yours?”

Warily, she said, “Why would I tell you?”

“Why not? It’s not an offense I can call him out for, you know—being your fantasy lover. As long as he’s never touched you…” He trailed his tongue down her throat, between her breasts, and on to her navel. “Does he do this, when you pretend?”

“No. And I don’t want you to, either.” She would not allow a repetition of what had happened last night, when he had driven her wild with his tongue. He had wanted to make a point then, and he had done so. But that sort of conduct did not lead to a pregnancy, and that was all either of them was interested in. “This whole thing would be much easier if you just got on with it—with no distractions.”

“Interesting, that you don’t want to talk about your fantasies.” His voice rumbled against her stomach as he worked his way lower. “What a very dull and predictable man your dream lover is, Isabel.”

She threw up her hands to clutch a pillow and pretended not to notice what he was doing. If she denied him the satisfaction of reacting to his caresses, then he would soon tire of the effort. He could try to repeat what had happened the night before, but if she refused to cooperate…

She had to admit, however, that it was easier to make a resolution than to keep it, for he didn’t give up lightly. Finally she gasped, “Why are you doing this? Why not just—take me?”

He shifted his attention to her breasts, licking and nipping. “I’ll take you when I’m ready, Isabel—and when you are. And as for why, I told you that already—to make it easier for you to conceive. Surely you wish that, too. The sooner you are with child…”

The sooner she was pregnant, the sooner his heir would be born, and the sooner she would have Kilburn all to herself and never have to deal with him again. All of those were things to be wished for—and yet…

Isabel closed her eyes and tried to picture that golden-haired, blue-eyed man she had told him about—but the dream lover would not come into focus. She tried to picture any other man, for surely having anyone else in her bed would be preferable to having her husband there, with his mouth warm and slick on her breast, his breath tantalizing her skin, his hand toying with the curls between her legs…then delving beyond, slipping a fingertip inside her and then withdrawing, only to dart a little deeper with the next stroke, and the next.

She couldn’t stop herself—and when she pressed upward against his hand, Maxwell smiled. “You can’t deny me, Isabel—or yourself.”

Only then did he slide very slowly inside her, branding her with his heat. He seemed even bigger and harder than ever before, though it didn’t seem possible that he could be—unless the difference was Lady Murdoch’s actual presence, making it easier for him to picture her.

“Are you thinking of…” At the last moment, she swallowed the name. She didn’t want him to know that she had recognized Lady Murdoch for what she was. Isabel would pretend to be above it all.

No, that wasn’t accurate—for she wasn’t pretending. She
was
above it all. Nothing about this situation mattered, as long as there was an end to it.

“Thinking of…?” Maxwell murmured.

Isabel tried to sound matter-of-fact. “You must think of your mistresses when you’re inside me.”

He stopped moving for a moment, as if he was considering the question. “Mistresses?” he mused. “No. At least, only one at a time.”

She wanted to hate him. She wanted to lie rigid beneath him and deny him any response. But slowly, stroke by stroke, he tantalized her, until finally when he thrust hard and came deep inside her, she shuddered, and clenched around him, and screamed her own release.

T
here was nothing uncomplicated about making love to Emily. Or, more accurately, the real problem was that Gavin’s urges were all too plain—and the woman in his arms was far too willing to accommodate his desires. Finally, in a last-ditch effort to keep his promise to himself that she would leave his bed still a virgin—no matter how fragile the distinction might be—Gavin resorted to conversation.

The idea was simplicity itself. Women always wanted to natter on about nothing after they had sex, and their chitchat was always a mood-killer. Since his mood could stand some killing just now, he would encourage her to talk, and that would be the end of the problem.

“Talk?” Emily said doubtfully. “You want to
talk
? About what?”

He rolled onto his back and laced his fingers together beneath his head. “Anything. Whatever you’d like.”

She stretched and her breast brushed against his side. “Anything?”

Gavin groped for a topic that would bore him senseless. “What do you think of the new guests?”

Emily propped herself up on an elbow. “You want to gossip about the Carew sisters and Lady Murdoch and Lady Stone?”

“Of course,” Gavin lied. “These people are important to the duke, or he wouldn’t have invited them. Therefore it is to my benefit to understand them. Who better to explain it all than you?”

She seemed to accept his logic and curled up once more against his side. If she’d been glued to him, she couldn’t have ft more closely. “The Carews are only accidental guests, of course.” She frowned. “At least, that’s the way it was made to sound, but it is a bit too much to believe, don’t you think? That they just happened to be visiting their uncle right now?”

“Why? Is there something special about them?”

“Their father is heir to the Earl of Kilchurn—and he is one of the wealthiest men in England. I wonder if Uncle Josiah is hoping that one of them might catch Lucien’s eye.”

“I think the duke would have given up the idea of matchmaking for Lucien long ago.”

“But he did sort of promise Lucien that he would help make his fortune. I wonder if that might have been what Uncle Josiah meant. Marrying one of the Carew sisters would let Lucien be completely independent of our father.”

Gavin yawned. “Plus it’s the sort of match Chiswick couldn’t turn up his nose at. What about your fortune?”

“Mine? What do you mean?”

“I can’t think young Baron Draycott is a bosom companion of the Duke of Weybridge—so why is he at this party if not because of you?”

Emily sat up. “You think Uncle Josiah invited him to make a match with
me
? But that’s—”

He rolled onto his side so he could see her better and waited patiently, trying to interpret the series of expressions that crossed her face. Irritation—yes, he was all too familiar with that one. But the others baffled him. Finally he could stand it no longer and attempted to finish her sentence himself. “Brilliant? Wise? Foolish? Devious?”

“Annoying,” she said. “And insulting. I’d never have considered marrying Draycott, so it’s a bit of a facer if Uncle Josiah thinks that’s the best I can do, after—” She turned her back to Gavin. “Never mind. It hardly matters what Uncle Josiah thinks of my marriage prospects. It doesn’t matter what
anyone
thinks of them.”

“Because you’re never going to marry.” Her spine felt rigid against his chest, and Gavin was nearly certain she was crying—though the only sound that escaped her was a tiny sniff. He scooped her closer, spooning her body against his, curving himself around her. “What happened, Emily? Tell me, my dear.”