Seducing the Groom (2 page)

He gave himself a good shake. Both mentally and physically. It had been a tedious day, with an arduous night still to come. He was merely weary from the rollicking, and fatigue was making him see things that weren’t there, inducing him to surmise and hypothesize over details that were of no significance whatsoever.

“What a day!” she exclaimed, ostensibly reading his thoughts.

“Yes.”

“I’m exhausted.” She arched her back and stretched. “How about you?”

The motion thrust her bosom up and out and caused her robe to glide down, exposing a shoulder. Her silky hair rippled past in a glossy wave. She appeared wanton, inviting, as though she were awaiting a swain or had just wallowed in a clandestine romp.

He could make out every aspect of her breast, the mass, the shape, the amplitude. Neither too large nor too small, they were just the right size for a man to appreciate. Her nipples were erect from the cool air in the room and from rubbing against the soft fabric of her robe. He could imagine what it would feel like to clasp the tiny nubs between his finger and thumb, how stimulating it would be to lave at them with his tongue.

She’d writhe and moan beneath him, and he’d pin her down while he...

Gad, but he really, really needed to go!

“I’m not tired in the least,” he lied.

“Anxious to do up the Town?”

“Yes,” he fibbed again.

In reality, he had no appetite for traipsing about London on his wedding night. What would he tell people? How would he explain it?

Those who knew him—as well as those who didn’t—would anticipate that he, Stephen St. John, the notorious rake and user of women, would be snuggled between the sheets with his new bride. Not just for the night, but perhaps for days to come. What rational chap would pass up the chance to slowly and delectably initiate his virginal, rich spouse into her marital role?

He’d confided in no one the pact he’d made with her during their sole conversation before their nuptials. Bluntly, he’d informed her that he didn’t want a wife, that he’d never fancied marrying at all, which meant that he’d require very little from her in the way of matrimonial obligation.

She’d been so eager for the match that she’d rashly acceded to his dictate, had latched on to his stipulations for solitude and independence with nary a complaint or objection, asserting that she had no problem with his demand that he be allowed to keep on with his bachelor habits.

At the time, her concurrence had seemed a godsend, and he’d insolently accepted her compliance with his mandate, but it wasn’t the type of thing one could discuss with one’s companions. Nor was it news he would relish having bandied about Town.

So once they finished their drinks, what the bloody hell was he to do with himself until dawn?

“Your friends are an
interesting
lot,” she announced.

“You’re remarkably generous in your description of them.”

“I was wondering if you’ll be entertaining them here at the house, or if you’ll meet them elsewhere? I was curious if—on occasion—I’ll be compelled to serve as your hostess.”

Inwardly, he groaned. Here was another facet of matrimony that he’d discounted in his impetuous alacrity to snag his heiress. Over the years, his domicile had been acclaimed as the scene for various and diverse lewd amusements. His covey of uncivilized, barbarous associates would overrun the residence, and he’d been more than happy to accommodate their vices, but he couldn’t persist with his schedule of ribald parties now that his wife was on the premises and determined to make it into a home.

“No, I’ll save you the aggravation.”

“I don’t mind if you have them over.”

“Thank you, but we’ll socialize at my club.” The last thing he needed was Ellen getting to know any of his dissolute cohorts. The stories they might impart to her made him shudder.

“Should I ever plan on your being here for supper? Or will I be free to adjust my calendar with no regard to yours?”

She posed the query with a great deal of apathy, as though it was of no import if she ever saw him. Her audacity chafed. At his arrogance. At his pride. Didn’t the blasted woman want him about? Wouldn’t she fret over where he was or what he might be doing?

Pique and irritation had him retorting, “I’ll join you for supper each and every night.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Pity,” she murmured.

He couldn’t have heard her correctly! “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I’d intended to—“ She cut the sentence off, befuddling him with that cunning smile again, and she sighed, then leaned nearer. “We’re both adults, so I guess I can be frank.”

After her lengthy hesitation, he barked, “About what?”

“I have a few gentleman
friends
of my own whom I’d like to visit. Very discreetly, of course. And I’m sure you and your mistress—what’s her name? Miss Poundstone?—would like to continue on with your customary routine.”

He’d just taken a swallow of his whiskey, and he choked on it, coughing and gasping as he struggled to absorb all she’d just said. She was contemplating cuckolding him? She’d been apprised of his protracted affair with Portia Poundstone?

There were so many scathing responses he could make that he was dizzy from sorting them all out.

“You would take a...a...lover?” It had never occurred to him that she might, and he was infuriated at the prospect, so he strove to imbue casualness in his tone, refusing to let her detect how disturbed he was by her disclosure.

“I’ve encountered so many fascinating men while I’ve been in London, and I am married now. Where would be the harm?”

“Yes, but what will people say if you’re perpetually gadding about with every available roué?” He shook his head, dumbfounded, unable to believe that the comment had spewed forth from his own mouth. “I don’t have the most pristine reputation, but I’m afraid—in this instance—I must put my foot down. You absolutely can’t.”

“That sounds like a husbandly edict, Lord Banbury.”

“Call me Stephen,” he griped. She’d been
Banbury-
ing him all day, and it was beginning to grate. Throughout the reception, whenever she’d referred to him by his title people’s brows had raised.

“I thought we were to have a nontraditional marriage. That we would be at liberty to carry on as we pleased.”

“Yes...well...”

He cleared his throat, his collar tight. He’d insisted on the autonomy for himself! Not for her! How could she have deemed otherwise? As she’d misconstrued on such a vital eventuality, there were—no doubt—all manner of situations over which they’d need to haggle. What else would he be constrained to clarity?

“Some conduct is beyond the pale, Ellen. Surely, you grasp that fact.”

“As you wish,” she conceded graciously as she whirled a distracting finger round and round the rim of her glass. “If you would restrict my behavior, must I still suffer Miss Poundstone’s presence? That hardly seems fair.”

“Ellen,” he gently chided, “it’s not proper for you to mention the subject of Miss Poundstone to me.”

“Why? We don’t have an ordinary marriage. What’s inappropriate about conferring over the conditions by which we’ll progress?”

She looked so damned innocent. He scowled, feeling off-base and in the dark. Every statement she uttered seemed to be charged with enigmatic meaning and purpose.

“Be that as it may“—Lord, but he hadn’t known that he had such a knack for being pompous and pretentious!—“my personal activities are just that: personal. You shan’t question my comings and goings. It’s not done.”

“I will try my best not to, Lord Banbury.”

“We’ll get on much better that way,” he contended.

“I’m positive we will.”

Her submissive capitulation made him nervous. There wasn’t a woman alive who as so subservient, so yielding. What was she up to?

As they chatted, she was toying with the strap of her negligee, sliding it up and down her nude shoulder. Her hand would descend, and the bodice dip slightly, baring the creamy swell of her breast. When she deliberately tugged it up, the cloth would constrict. The movement was overtly beguiling, and he locked his gaze on hers, declining to loiter on the enticing, hypnotic tempo of her hand.

She set her feet on the floor and deposited her empty glass on the table between them. As she yawned and stretched again, her breasts lifted, and her nipples were peaked and blatantly visible. Her neck, long and delicate as a swan’s, was tipped back, and he could see her pulse thumping in an elevated rhythm at her nape.

“Well, I’m off to a nice hot bath, then my bed,” she said.

“How lovely,” he replied, for want of anything more profound, but a vision of her—wet and slippery all over—filled his mind, and he couldn’t dislodge it. It was so vivid that his fingers tingled as he conjectured what it would be like to skim them over her slick, damp skin.

“Would you like me to replenish your whiskey before I retire?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Why not have a tad more? He’d valiantly endeavored to keep up with his rambunctious guests but, obviously, he hadn’t had nearly enough alcohol. Total paralysis had been his goal, but he wasn’t anywhere close to being numb.

As she reached for his glass, she leaned across the table, and the alteration of her position loosened the front of her nightgown. Her breasts were swinging down, the bodice flopping. With a start, he realized that he could see her cleavage, the pink of her areola, her contracted nipples, her flat stomach.

Sweet Jesu, but if she advanced another inch, he’d be gawking at the womanly hair shielding her mound!

He bit down a moan. Of delight. Of dismay.

In a flash, he was cocked as a pole. His undisciplined, impolite phallus strutted to attention, rudely instructing him to alleviate the discomfort. He crossed one leg over the other and draped a hand across his lap. She was a virgin, so she wasn’t likely to notice his inflamed predicament, or to understand it if she did, but still, he was desperate to conceal his reaction.

Needing to calm himself, to gain control of his licentious impulses, he yanked himself away from the dangerous territory she’d unwittingly revealed, focusing instead on her face. Which was a mistake.

Her skin was so smooth, her eyes so dazzling, her hair so alluring. And that mouth! Her lips were pouting, ruby red, moist, captivating. She made a man think about more than kissing, made him want to have her kneeling down before him and...

Frantic, he lurched backward.

He was sexually attracted to his wife! How could this be?

Not cognizant of the carnal effect she had on him, she strolled to the sideboard without so much as a glance in his direction. As she relocated, he breathed a sigh of relief. Surreptitiously, he observed her, and his trepidation escalated at an alarming rate.

There was something categorically erotic in how she walked. Her hips swayed adorably, and the material of her robe molded to her legs, bewitchingly outlining her petite waist, her curvaceous thighs, her gorgeous bottom.

She had a fantastic ass, the sort a man could really get a grip on when he was...

Yikes!
He was a mess! Aroused. Titillated. Intrigued. And, under the circumstances, much too sober.

She offered him his drink, which he accepted, but he had to clutch the glass with both hands so he could keep it steady. Quickly, he swigged the amber liquid, and tears welled into his eyes, but he managed to refrain from humiliating himself by hacking or sputtering.

“Good night again, Lord Banbury.”

Did she address him as Banbury just to annoy him?

She ambled away, and as she passed where he was sitting, the billowy sleeve of her robe grazed his cheek. Had she been more skilled at the art of coquetry, he might have assumed that the motion was practiced.

“Good night,” he echoed to her well-proportioned, retreating derriere.

Long after she’d withdrawn, he stared at the spot where she’d been. He could smell her perfume, could feel the caress of her robe, and his manly instincts were stimulated by her lingering essence. His cock throbbed, his balls ached and, suddenly, he was burning up with unassuaged passion. He wanted nothing more than to march up the stairs, boldly intrude into her room, and have a genuine wedding night.

Bloody hell! What was he considering? What was he hoping to achieve?

Reclining in his chair, he shut his eyes, quelling his careening emotions and his scattered musings, while trying to analyze the forces that were raging through him.

Rapidly, it was becoming apparent that she wasn’t the type of woman a fellow could neglect. Nor was she the kind he could have a time or two and be shed of—as was his wont. There was a chemistry or magnetism about her that drew a man in, that lured him to his doom, that made him want to chase foolishly after her just to discover if she could be caught, which was exactly what he was eager to attempt.

Was he insane?

It was those vows, he decided. Speaking those wedding vows before the minister and his assembled colleagues had left him unsettled. His financial quandary had driven him to take a rich bride, and he’d entered into the union without much thought, deeming it to be a lark, an easy solution, an excellent jab at his overbearing tyrant of a father. Clearly, however, the improvident whim was a blunder of monumental proportions.

Since the day he’d turned eighteen and had moved out on his own, his father had been subordinating him through adept manipulation of the purse strings.

Recently, the earl had been obnoxious, ordering Stephen to wed by his thirtieth birthday. Without garnering Stephen’s permission, he’d gone so far as to select a potential fiancée and had commenced negotiations with the girl’s father, even though she was a whiny, homely nag whom Stephen couldn’t abide.

When Stephen had rebuffed the earl’s scheme, the earl had halted Stephen’s allowance.

Marriage to Ellen Foster had been a windfall, a stroke of luck that had plucked him out of the doldrums of economic despair and had immediately rectified all that was wrong with his life, but the event had transpired so swiftly that he hadn’t had sufficient opportunity to acclimate to the ramifications of what he’d wrought.