Amanda Scott (27 page)

“In point of fact,” she said, grimacing, “I am afraid you will tell me it’s none of my affair. Many men believe their wives have no business to know what they do outside their own homes—or inside them, for that matter—but I doubt I shall ever be able to turn a blind eye to activities that I know can prove harmful to my health as well as to yours.”

“Good God,” he said, “what do you imagine I’ve done?” When she still hesitated, he leaned toward her and said sternly, “Anne, I command you, as your husband, to whom you have promised obedience, to tell me the whole tale at once. I will promise before you speak that to the best of my knowledge I’ve done nothing—nothing, I tell you—that could harm you in any way.”

His words rang with sincerity. His gaze held hers, and she could not look away. Her mouth was so dry that she could not swallow, but her mind worked swiftly. Shutting her eyes, she said before a second thought could stop her, “I was told that you consort with prostitutes, sir, and while I know that many women—most, in fact—are singularly ill-informed about the dangers of such unions, I know of at least one lady who became desperately ill and died as a result of a disease she contracted from her own husband, who was in the habit of indulging his … his passions with common harlots. The thought that I could be contaminated in the same way utterly terrifies me.”

There, it was said. She kept her eyes shut, but she could not ignore the tension surging through her body. In the long silence that followed, her stomach twisted into knots, making it hard to breathe. She wanted to look at him, to see his reaction, but she did not want to encounter disgust or anger when she did.

“Anne, look at me.”

She shook her head.

He sighed. “Truly, you are a most disobedient wife. If I were half the husband you deserve for believing such a thing, I would no doubt beat you soundly.”

Her eyes flew open, and she saw to her astonishment that he was smiling ruefully. “I thought you would be furious,” she said. “I do know a wife should never interfere in her husband’s activities, but truly, I could not be comfortable, knowing—”

“Knowing what, Anne? Just what proof did your informant offer you?”

“That you are known to visit that dreadful boat on the river, that you have been seen talking to the women who … who work there.” She bit her lower lip. Telling him was easier now, but she still could not believe he would not become incensed with a wife who talked about such things.

He certainly frowned. “I would definitely like to know who has been so busy as to spy on me and bear such tales to you.”

He paused, as if to give her another chance to explain, but she could not do so without putting Jane Hinkle’s position at risk or, at the very least, without divulging to him Jane’s reason for working at Upminster. In either case, she did not feel that she ought to speak for Jane without warning her first.

When she kept silent, he said, “You put me in a difficult position, because I can only hope you will believe me when I deny any wrongdoing. I cannot prove my innocence, I’m afraid, for I did indeed talk to several of those women. I had my own purpose for doing so, a purpose that does not pertain to this discussion and that I would prefer—for my own reasons—not to reveal to anyone just yet. All I can say in my own defense is that I have never sought sexual congress with a prostitute.”

She opened her mouth and shut it again.

He said patiently, “Say what you want to say. I cannot defend myself against unspoken accusations.”

Reluctantly she said, “You were not exactly inexperienced when … when—” She simply could not put those thoughts into plain words, no matter what he demanded or how angry he got. With fire burning in her cheeks, she looked at him helplessly.

He touched her shoulder, and she felt the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric of her gown. Looking into her eyes, he said, “Anne, my sweet, I never pretended I was a saint before we met. I didn’t even deny the character ascribed to me by Jake Thornton. But what I was and what I did before we married need be of no concern to you now—not even if I still had time for such things, which I certainly do not. I give you my solemn word that I did not consort with harlots before we married and have not done so since, nor will I do so in the future. Such behavior is simply not in my nature. In short, I am not Jake Thornton.”

“No, you are not,” she agreed, feeling herself relax and her doubts dissolve as if they had never existed. “I see now, I was most unfair to think you were cut from the same bolt of cloth.”

“Do you believe me then, Anne?”

“Yes, Michael, I do.”

He stood up then and held out a hand to her, and she placed her own in his, letting him draw her to her feet. When he took the decanter from the table, she looked at him in surprise.

“Pick up our glasses, will you?” he said. “We are going to finish this conversation upstairs, and I do not want to be interrupted by a servant merely because I become thirsty.”

When she picked up only his empty glass, he waited patiently, pointedly, until she picked up hers. Then he opened the door. When she stepped past him, he put his free arm around her, kicked the door shut, and urged her toward the stairs, murmuring close to her ear, “It occurs to me, little wife, that I have resisted the temptation to display my considerable expertise before now, fearing to dismay you, or even to frighten you.”

Nearly dropping their glasses, she looked quickly up to see amusement in his eyes. “H-have you indeed, sir?”

“I have. And since you deserve at least some small punishment for so sadly misjudging your husband, perhaps the time has come to show you just what sorts of things I
am
capable of.”

His voice was low, reminding her now not so much of the king of beasts but of Juliette’s purr when the little cat was particularly contented. Anne’s body responded to the sound in a way that shook her, as if every nerve had leapt to attention.

Upstairs, when she would have passed his rooms to enter her own, Michael stopped her, saying, “No, sweetheart, I don’t intend to let you out of my sight tonight for a minute, and I don’t mean to have my plans countered simply because you find young Sylvia curled up in your bed again.”

“Sylvia is no doubt still outside with all the others, sir, but Maisie will be waiting to attend me.”

“Then she will wait in vain,” he murmured, opening the door to his dressing room.

Foster leapt to his feet when they entered. The wardrobe door stood open, and the valet held one of Michael’s coats in one hand and a clothes brush in the other. “My lord,” he exclaimed, “I did not expect you for several hours yet.”

“It is not your business to expect me at all,” Michael said. But then he chuckled at the crushed look on the valet’s face and added affectionately, “Oh, don’t be a fool. You know you serve me very well, but take that coat away with you now. You should be outside enjoying yourself. I shan’t need you again tonight.”

“But, sir, Miss Bray is waiting to attend her ladyship, and surely, you will not want to undress yourself.”

“I have done so many times before,” Michael said, “so you need not pretend that I shall be lost without your services. In point of fact, tonight her ladyship will be pleased to serve me, so do be a good fellow and go away before her embarrassment reduces her to an unseemly fit of the vapors.”

“Yes, my lord. Certainly, my lord.” Foster appeared to be even more distressed by the thought of Anne’s embarrassment than by that of his master undressing himself. Hastily shutting the wardrobe, he turned to leave, adding hesitantly, “Perhaps I ought just to stir up the fire first, my lord.”

“I am not totally incompetent, Foster.” Michael spoke calmly but with an edge that the valet evidently recognized as easily as Anne did.

“Certainly not, my lord. The wood basket is newly filled,” he added, resuming his customary air of dignity.

“Good,” Michael said. “Go away, Foster, and take Miss Bray with you.”

The valet bowed and left the room, and Anne, recovering her composure with some difficulty, muttered, “Really, my lord, he must know exactly what we mean to do!”

“He probably does.”

“Well, I could wish you had been less revealing in expressing your wishes to him.”

Michael chuckled. “I’m a revealing sort of fellow, as I shall presently show you, my dear.”

She licked suddenly dry lips but did not resist when he urged her into his bedchamber. The fire crackled merrily on the hearth, and despite the valet’s surprise at seeing them, the room was in perfect order. The bed had not yet been turned down, but candles lighted the side tables and the step table nearest the fireplace. Their glow and that from the firelight flickered on dark blue silk hangings and on the golden tassels and fringe, creating gilded, shimmering pathways on the wine-red Turkey carpet and setting shadows swaying on the Chinese wallpaper.

“First, my dear little valet, you may pour us each a glassful of wine while I tend the fire.”

“I have never drunk port,” she said, holding both glasses carefully in one hand while she took the decanter from him.

“Then it is time you tasted some. Or do you mean to defy my very first command of the night?”

“No, my lord,” she said meekly, suppressing a shivery little thrill at the knowledge that he intended to issue a good many more commands before the night was done.

“Excellent. Already the evening shows promise.” He knelt to stir the fire, although Anne could not see that it needed tending. When he put on another log, the flames leapt with the roaring sound of added heat rushing up the chimney.

While she opened the decanter and poured wine into his glass, and much less into her own, she watched him. Her body already anticipated his touch, for her pulse was tumultuous. Her breathing quickened, her skin tingled as if he had already caressed her, and the tips of her breasts hardened, becoming more sensitive to the fabric of her gown. Michael still knelt by the fire, and its leaping orange flames highlighted his face and set shadows and light dancing over his body.

The room was warm, and the golden glow touching the satin interior bed hangings and heating the outer curtains made the bed seem cozily inviting. The tingling in Anne’s body increased.

Michael straightened, and her pulse quickened again at the look of lusty intent in his dark eyes. He said, “First, I think you must prepare the bed. There is a warming pan somewhere hereabouts, but I daresay we won’t need it.”

Hoping the light was insufficient to reveal her blushes, Anne handed him his wine and moved to do his bidding. When she had folded the spread and turned down the bedclothes, she turned to find that he had drawn a side table and a little settee away from the wall, nearer the fire. The wine decanter and both glasses now reposed on the table.

He was watching her. “I like the way you move,” he said, “almost as if you were floating. Take down your hair.”

Obediently, though she suddenly found it difficult to breathe, she raised her hands to release her hair from the twists and coils that Maisie had created in honor of the grand day. “Perhaps I should fetch my hairbrush,” she suggested, though the words nearly stuck in her throat.

“I have a brush, Anne. Come here.”

Swallowing, she moved to stand before him, increasingly aware of his size, and of his intent. He touched her hair gently, and she heard his indrawn breath before he said softly, “So smooth, like satin.” Both his hands moved beneath her long tresses, and he lifted them, letting the strands slip through his fingers. Then one hand paused at the back of her head, still wrapped in her hair, and he drew her closer, lowering his mouth to capture hers.

The kiss was different from any he had given her before, longer, more gentle, both tantalizing and provocative. He tasted her lips, savored them, giving little licks with his tongue as if he had found something sweet and wanted to identify the flavor. The sensations he ignited inside her were disturbing, seductive, irresistible.

Anne responded, kissing him back and slipping her hands beneath his coat. When she encountered the soft material of his waistcoat and the feel of his hard body beneath it, it was as if her fingers had suddenly developed added sensory perceptions, almost as if they could see.

Her light touch was all the encouragement he needed. His arms enfolded her, catching her hands between their bodies, and his kisses became more urgent. His tongue pressed against her teeth until she parted them, but then it was as if he wanted to tease her, to explore the vulnerable interior of her mouth, to arouse and seduce her. She had thought, despite his boasts, that he would simply claim her again as he had done before, but this was altogether different from anything she had ever known.

Her body was alive, quivering with anticipation of what he might do next, and her lips moved against his with an urgency that matched his own. She even dared to play with his tongue, darting hers against it as if she would duel with him, and when, suddenly, he withdrew his, she hesitated only a moment before she sent hers plunging after it, delighting when he captured hers. His teasing encouraged her to explore his mouth in exactly the same way as he had explored hers.

That she might be, in any way, the aggressor in a match of seduction had never occurred to Anne, certainly not with Michael, who, before she had begun to evade his overtures, had always come to her bed as a matter of duty and out of the necessity to produce an heir. Had the notion occurred to her, she would have dismissed it, certain her husband would disapprove of such wanton behavior. He showed no sign of disapproval now, however, responding with delight to her every move. Only when he suddenly swept her off her feet into his arms, with his mouth still fastened hard to hers, did she realize that they still stood before the crackling fire. She did not care about that, or about her untouched wine, for a sudden mental vision of Michael as a conquering hero, bearing her off as the prize of war, made her chuckle against his increasingly ardent kisses.

When he looked at her in astonishment, she pressed her lips tightly together, attempting to stifle her merriment.

Michael sat on the settee with her on his lap, and said with mock sternness, “Do you dare to laugh at your husband, wench?”