How To Tempt a Viscount (3 page)

‘We should go home,’ he said.

She slid her hand down lower, brushing it once ever so lightly against the bulge of his manhood in his breeches. ‘To talk?’

‘Amongst other things,’ he said. She could hear the slight strain in his voice and she was glad of it.

‘Not yet, Marcus.’ She gave him the slow seductive smile she had been months in the practising. ‘We have only just started our lesson.’ Then she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, as a respectable wife might do to her husband, and led him farther down the gallery to study a stone head of Hercules. And as a party of ladies had just entered into the gallery, the tall, powerful, aroused man by her side could do nothing other than acquiesce.

Marcus sat in the carriage opposite Ellen the next day and thought over last night’s political dinner. He had not expected Ellen to accept his invitation to accompany him, but she had done so, and been very quiet ever since. Their return to Dover Street had been too late for discussion or anything else. And now he was here in his town coach to accompany her on her shopping trip.

‘I hope last night’s dinner did not bore you too much.’

His words made her draw her gaze from the coach’s window. Her mind seemed elsewhere, as if she were seeing nothing of the passing streets. ‘I was not bored,’ she said and glanced towards the window again, her expression still brooding. ‘I did not know what you did at Westminster. I did not even know that you work for the Alien Office.’

‘Bullford should not have spoken of such matters at the dinner table. Not only was it bad manners in front of ladies, but my association with them is supposed to be confidential.’

‘I am glad that he did. For a wife should know of her husband’s life.’ She paused. ‘You should have told me right at the start, Marcus, before we were married.’

His eyes met hers, and he had the sensation that she was not talking about his work for the Alien Office, but something else much more personal, something about which he wanted to forget.

The coach stopped outside the dressmaker’s shop that she had come to visit and there was no more time for discussion. But Ellen was still looking at him and there was something in her expression that seemed to see right to the heart of him,, something that spoke of hurt and anger and coolness, as if she knew. He prayed to God that he was wrong. Everything had changed since those months leading up to and immediately after their wedding. He had not been honest with her then, nor would he be now; some aspects of the truth were too cruel to tell and he did not want to hurt her. He knew he owed her an apology, and some measure of explanation, but he wanted to draw a line under the past for both their sakes.

It was only once they were inside the shop he realised its nature. The decor was discrete. The only clue came from the row of small paintings upon the wall, each work showing women in various flimsy items of underwear. He lifted one of the business cards from the stack neatly piled upon the counter:
Madame Boisseron, Dressmaking and Corsetry.
He glanced up from the card to Ellen’s face and found her watching him. She said not one word; she did not need to. The fact that she had brought him here with her was enough.

Madame Boisseron bustled through from the back room. ‘Ah,
Madame
.’ Her accent was soft and French and she seemed to recognise Ellen. ‘I have everything in which you expressed an interest. All is ready and waiting for you.’ She slid a sly glance at him and her smile deepened. ‘Come through, please do.’ She beckoned to Ellen and gestured towards the back room.

‘
Monsieur
is welcome, too. The viewing area is small but comfortable.’

Viewing area?
Marcus felt his blood stir. He shot a glance at Ellen, gauging her reaction to the woman’s words.

Ellen smiled at him, a dark, come-hither look, and he knew she wanted this as much as him.

Madame Boisseron led them up a stairwell to the upper floor of the building. Everything of the place was expensive and up-market. The walls were a soft ivory, and the chandelier above their heads dripped with crystal and gold. The beige oak banister complemented the Italian marble flooring and stairs, at the top of which were several doorways. Madame Boisseron led them through the farthest one.

The first thing he noticed was the room’s warmth. Even though it was still summer a fire burned on the hearth. Across one third of the room dressing screens had been erected, and over the screens hung an array of erotic-looking corsets. There was a long sofa against the opposite wall, to which Marcus was directed. Ellen disappeared behind the screens with Madame Boisseron and he was left sitting alone.

He scanned the room. The decor in here, as with the rest of the shop, was tasteful and subtle. The walls were a pale pink and underfoot he could feel the thick softness of the pink-and-ivory carpet. Beneath the lace-draped window sat an oak console table upon which was an arrangement of white and pink orchids. Marcus’s gaze was drawn to the naked statue of Aphrodite by the white marble fireplace; it made him think of Adonis in the British Museum and the soft trail of Ellen’s fingers and the warm passion of her lips. Just the memory of it aroused him. He pushed the thought away and reined his body under some semblance of control.

He could hear the soft murmur of Ellen and the corsetiere’s conversation and the rustle of clothing. It seemed to take an age, during which Marcus wandered over to the window and looked down on the narrow long garden below. And then he heard her voice.

‘I was thinking of this one, Marcus. What do you think?’

Marcus turned to look, and the vision she presented fired his blood. His need for her was instant and fierce and feral, threatening all of his well-honed control. Instincts as primitive as time itself strained to be unleashed. He felt the muscle in his jaw clench.

‘If you will excuse me, I have a few things to which I must attend.’ Madame Boisseron slipped away, closing the door behind her. But Marcus did not shift his gaze from his wife’s.

He could hear the step of the dressmaker’s feet down the stairs. The only other sound was the thud of his heart. His focus narrowed on Ellen, as a hunter that had sighted its prey. She was wearing a corset of striped pale coral-pink and ivory that cleaved to the curves of her body, the shift beneath it so low cut that it did nothing to hide the thrusting creamy breasts or the first rosy tease of her nipples. The shift reached to her calves but it was so fine as to be almost translucent. He could see the shadow of her bare thighs, and the patch of golden brown hair that curled between her legs. He made no effort to hide his body’s reaction. Just stood there, rock-hard and ready, watching her.

He was perilously close to the edge. Ellen had no idea just how close, for she pushed him further.

‘You do not like it?’ She put her hands on her hips and revolved slowly for his perusal.

‘You know that I do,’ he said in a quiet voice.

She glanced down at the massive bulge in the front of his breeches and she smiled the smile of a woman that knew her power, before presenting him with her back. ‘See how the laces are made of a matching pink. Such a difficult shade to come by—especially in satin.’ She looked over her shoulder at him with blatant enticement in her eyes. ‘Feel how soft they are,’ she purred.

‘Not here, Ellen.’

‘Why ever not?’ She gave a little wiggle of her hips and his eyes dropped to where her buttocks showed through the fine weave of the shift.

‘Are you afraid that Madame Boisseron will return and catch us?’ she said in a teasing voice as she turned to face him once more with a gaze that smouldered.

‘You are playing a dangerous game, Ellen. You know what I want to do to you.’

‘Do I?’ One delicate eyebrow raised. ‘Why don’t you tell me, Marcus?’

Tell her how he wanted to walk over there, pull her into his arms and plunder her sweet riches. How he wanted his mouth hard against hers and his hands on her waist, her hips, her breasts. How he wanted her moulded to him, so that he could rip those pink satin laces apart, freeing her breasts from the corset, cupping the softness of those creamy mounds, rolling her nipples between his fingers until they budded, plucking them until she was panting and writhing for more. And to arch her in his arms, delivering her breasts to his mouth so that he could work upon each rosy peak in turn. Tasting them, tonguing them, until she cried her need aloud and he bent her over that armchair, taking her as hard and urgently as the desire that drove them both.

But Ellen deserved better than some hurried tupping in a corsetiere’s fitting room. When they went to bed again he wanted to tell her with his body what he had not told her with his words. He wanted to give her the lovemaking that she should have had in those early days of their marriage. He wanted to right what he had done wrong.

‘I will, Ellen. Every little detail.’

She smiled a secret sensuous smile.

‘Once we are home,’ he said.

She walked right up to stand only inches before him, torturing him all the more. So close he could smell the soft scent of freesias from her skin and see every individual long dark lash that lined her eyes and the rise and fall of her breasts with every breath. Desire hummed between them. The air was ripe with it. He reached out a single finger and gently touched the rosy softness of her lips, letting his hand drop lower to trail down her the line of her neck, on to her décolletage and heading slowly and steadily towards her breasts, his eyes holding hers as he did so, daring her as much as she had dared him. Ellen stepped away before he could reach his target. ‘Once we are home, Marcus…’ She parodied his words and arched one perfectly formed brow.

He did not release her gaze. Once they were home there was nothing that would stop what would happen between them.

Madame Boisseron’s tread sounded on the stairs. By the time she entered the room, Marcus was standing by the window, his body turned away, and his wife was waiting, demure and innocent, by the screen.

Ellen glanced over at him, and for the briefest moment there was the strangest expression in her eyes. And then she looked away, smoothing her hands down the front of the corset and smiling at the dressmaker. ‘I think I’ll take it. Indeed, I think I’ll take them all.’

Chapter Three

The atmosphere within the coach was tense as they made their way through the London streets towards the town house. Did he truly desire her with a passion? Did he want her as much as she had wanted him? He had not said the words or made the admission she so wanted to hear. He had not begged. But neither had he taken his gaze from her, not even for a moment. Across the coach his eyes were the darkest she had ever seen them and seemed to smoulder with such sensual promise that she felt her stomach somersault and the blood begin to pound in her head, and she was frightened for she felt the stirrings of all those old emotions she thought she had overcome. She had no feelings for him anymore. He no longer held her heart in his hand ready to be crushed. Or so she told herself. She glanced away, reassuring herself there was no real danger and that nothing could happen here in the coach. Nor once they reached Dover Street, despite all of Marcus’s expectations. Her body was safe. And so was her heart.

‘Ellen.’

She forced a smile, tried to look at him in that bold saucy way Kitty had shown her.

‘It will be different between us this time.’

‘Yes, it will.’ More than he could imagine. He would finally understand just what she had gone through in those two long months of marriage. And she would finally have some salve to her wounded heart and humiliated pride.

The coach rolled to a stop outside the town house. In the distance she heard the St James’s church clock strike three and hoped all was as it should be within. Marcus helped her down from the carriage. She was too conscious of his presence behind her as they walked up the stone steps and in through the front door; the sheer force of the man, and the tension that was stretching tighter between them. Neither of them spoke. And even knowing what waited ahead of them she could not suppress the shiver that rippled down her spine.

‘My lord, Lord and Lady Willaston have arrived for dinner,’ the butler told him as they entered the hallway.

Marcus’s eyes slid to hers.

‘It must have slipped my mind.’ The heat of her blush betrayed the lie. ‘I shall be down as soon as I have changed for dinner,’ she said, and felt the scald of his gaze upon her as she took the stairs. She did not look back at him, not once.

Within her bedchamber, with the door safely shut, her maid helped her undress and then went to fetch her evening dress from the wardrobe.

‘Scarlet, ma’am?’ The maid looked uncertain, as if she must have misheard.

‘Scarlet, Meg,’ said Ellen. It was her secret weapon. The dress that Kitty had promised her would bring Marcus to her bed. Even now she was not sure he would come despite all of the tension that was between them.

The door opened and from the shiver that tingled across her skin Ellen knew who had come into the room before she heard his voice.

‘Leave us,’ he said to the maid and she saw the dark purposeful look in his eyes.

Ellen’s heart began to race.

Then he closed the distance between them and took her in his arms. His lips were gentle yet possessive, their passion igniting a fire in her soul. Her nipples hardened and ached for his touch. The simmering heat low in her belly flared into life. She felt herself grow moist for him and knew she had to stop this, now. Turning her face away to break the contact of their mouths, she placed her palms flat against his chest to free herself.

‘Marcus…’

But he found her mouth again despite all her prevarications and kissed her with a thoroughness to set every nerve in her body tingling. Such dangerous temptation. He had never kissed her like this before, never touched her with such intensity, never looked at her with such ravishing hunger in his eyes. And she had not realised how much it would affect her. She could not think straight, felt herself succumbing to the madness of this overwhelming desire that was exploding between them.