How To Tempt a Viscount (4 page)

Her blood was pounding. Her breathing was ragged. His hands worked a magic that rivalled his lips. From the distant edges of her mind the last vestiges of sanity yelled at her to stop before she destroyed everything for which she had worked so hard. Every touch, every kiss, was breaking down the barricades she had erected around her heart. Temptation whispered again louder than ever, seeking to sway her and coming dangerously close to succeeding. If she allowed him into her body, if she gave herself to him, any small pride she had managed to salvage would be destroyed. And even knowing that truth she still wanted him, wanted him more than ever she had done. And she yielded to him with her lips.

It was Marcus who broke the kiss. Yet he did not release her. She could feel the rigidity of his manhood against her belly, sense the strain and need that quivered through it. Where her hand rested against his neck she could feel the fast, hard throb of his blood. There could be no doubting the intensity of his desire rivalled her own. He stared down into her eyes as he slid his thumb across her cheek in a tender caress. Such a small, gentle gesture but one so powerfully moving that it made her tremble. ‘Until later,’ he said and his voice was low and husky and filled with promise.

The words seemed to echo in the bedchamber long after he had gone downstairs to greet the guests she had invited, fanning those embers of doubt over her plan, over all that she had plotted to do, into the first small flicker of a flame. Sitting there alone in her bedchamber, on the verge of executing the vital step of her plan, she hesitated, unsure if she were doing the right thing. Things between them were not as they had been. Then Amanda’s taunting words whispered through her mind again. And when she closed her eyes she could see again the young widow’s features, beautiful and mocking, as they stood alone in the ladies’ withdrawing room at that ball. And smell again that cloying heavy scent of jasmine that made her want to retch. And the memory slashed across her heart, both sobering and strengthening her in an instant. Ellen hardened her heart and turned her back on the doubts that niggled at her. She wanted this. It was everything she had worked for. And she would not falter now in this final furlong.

The tension at the dinner was so palpable between them that Ellen did not know how Lord and Lady Willaston could fail to be aware of it. The very air seemed to spark with it. His eyes, when they found hers, were dark and heated and dangerous. Everything about him seemed primed, intense, focused…barely held in check. Awareness tingled through her, making her feel every beat of her heart, every thrum of her pulse. Strength. Virility. Masculinity. She was attuned to his every nuance, connected to him in some way that she could not sever, no matter how hard she tried to engage in conversation with Lady Willaston. She picked at her meal, her appetite crushed by anxious anticipation. The clock crawled by and that terrible stretched waiting seemed only to stoke the intensity of the desire that smouldered between them. Second by second. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Creeping closer to the time they would be alone and all of that simmering, roiling passion would boil over and unleash. The skin goose-pimpled at the nape of her neck and all over her scalp at the thought of what was coming.

Until at last the Willastons made their farewell and Ellen and Marcus were left looking at one another across the drawing room. Only the tick of the clock upon the mantel sounded. And the fast, hard beat of her heart. And now that the time had come her mouth was dry with nerves.

‘The hour is late and I am tired. If you will excuse me, Marcus, I shall retire to bed for the night.’ She flicked a glance at the maid carrying away a tray of cups and glasses.

‘Of course.’ He gave a nod and his eyes never left hers. ‘I shall retire shortly.’ And in those eyes were a desire and hunger and pledge so scalding that her legs were trembling as she crossed the room to the door.

‘Good night, Marcus.’

‘Good night, Ellen.’

Her nerves had drawn her stomach to a small knot. She feigned normality before her maid, undressing as quickly as she could and dismissing the woman for the night, waiting until she was out of earshot before she moved. She was shaking with anticipation as she turned the key in each lock, blew out the candles and climbed beneath the covers. And waited.

If she had found the waiting throughout dinner intense it was nothing compared to that now. The seconds had never seemed so long. She lay there in the darkness with the smell of candle smoke filling her nose and the frenzy of her heart thudding in her chest. She lay there and heard the tread of Marcus’s footsteps passing her door in the passageway outside. Waiting as each second slipped leisurely by. Lying on her back, her hands balled to fists, her fingers curling so tight that she could feel her fingernails cutting into her palms. Afraid that he would not come. Afraid that despite everything he would change his mind. She could hear the murmur of voices and the rustle of clothing and the soft sliding of drawers and opening of wardrobes filter through the wall and knew that Marcus was undressing. Preparing for bed. Her whole body shivered at the thought. And then the noises ceased and there was a resounding silence.

Her lips were trembling so much she had to catch them with her teeth to make them stop. She held her breath. Everything seemed to stop. Pause. Wait.

And then through the dark hiss of silence she heard the slow turning of the handle of the door that connected their bedchambers.

And she knew that everything she had done, all that she had worked for, had not been in vain.

‘Ellen.’ His voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but she heard it through the thick panelled mahogany as clear as if his lips were at her ear.

Her heart was thudding so hard she felt sick.

‘Ellen,’ he said again.

Ellen turned her back to the door and pulled the covers over her head. She had achieved what she had come here to do. She had seduced her own husband, lit a desire in him, made him want her, just as she had wanted him. All those nights she had lain waiting in vain for him to come to her. Those few times he had bedded her out of duty, when it was not her that he wanted. He wanted her now, but he would not have her. His desire would go unrequited. She heard him try the handle again and she knew she was victorious. But she felt nothing of the justification she expected, and everything of misery. Her heart was heavy. She felt chilled, a bone-aching chill that set her skin shivering and her teeth chattering.

And in the awfulness of the moment, with all of her anger and injured pride stripped away and her soul laid bare, she realised that what she really wanted was for him to break down the door and come to her bed. She wanted to feel his arms around her body and his kiss upon her mouth. She wanted the intimacy of a physical union. She wanted her husband and his love and a future for her marriage.

Marcus did not try the door again. There was only a silence, a silence in which Ellen had never felt more alone. What had been a means to communicate how very badly he had treated her felt a lot like cruel revenge. She hugged her arms around herself and silently wept.

Chapter Four

The tension in the breakfast room the next morning was palpable. Ellen was dressed in a pale blue silk with a neckline that was so low that the creamy swell of her breasts threatened to spill over it. The sunlight flooding the room picked golden highlights in the deep sherry of her hair, which had been arranged in a pile of curls and showed off her slender neck. She looked pale, he thought. Even the hint of powdered blush she had touched upon her cheeks did little to disguise it. And her manner was different. Not blasé and unconcerned as it had been since her arrival back in London. He waved away the footman from the room and topped up her coffee cup before pouring one for himself.

‘Last night,’ he said. He did not know why she had taken him right up to the brink before refusing him, but having spent half the night brooding upon it, he had an idea. She had teased him, toyed with him, tortured him with deliberation until there was a constant aching throb between his legs.

She sipped at the coffee but did not look at him.

‘Oh, that,’ she said in a casual tone, as if it were nothing of importance, but he could see the way she bit at her lower lip. In punishing him she did not realise how she punished herself. She did not understand the depth and layering of the desire and feeling that was between them. He was only starting to realise that himself. He only now saw what he had almost let slip through his fingers.

‘Yes, that. We need to talk, Ellen.’

He saw the sudden tremble of the cup within her hand, saw the way she set the cup down so suddenly that it clanked against the saucer, and a small wave of coffee sloshed over the edge.

‘We have nothing to talk about.’ She smiled a feigned teasing smile that did not even begin to hide the shadows and unhappiness behind her eyes. And he knew that she was not so unaffected by the start of their marriage as she had pretended. ‘Besides,’ she said in a false bright tone, ‘I thought I would go shopping. Madame Boisseron showed me the most glorious evening gown. Deep fuchsia pink with a diaphanous bodice. Apparently it is the new and daring fashion to wear it with the barest of underclothing.’ She forced the smile again and got to her feet. But when she would have walked away he caught her back.

‘Ellen.’

‘No.’ She shook her head, denying him and everything that was roaring between them. His arm snaked around her waist, anchoring her to him. He stared down into her face and the teasing bold expression faltered and slipped away. She averted her eyes, refused to look at him, but Marcus captured her chin, tilting her face to him. And when she looked at him he was shocked by the ache of emotion he saw there. Very gently he reached his lips to hers and kissed her. It was a tender kiss, a kiss to salve the misery he saw in her eyes. A kiss to woo her. The kiss he should have given her as his new bride. She looked up at him and in her gaze was a raw honesty that seemed to reach into his chest and squeeze tight at his heart. Something passed between them, something that touched heart and soul and body. Something that he could not define yet knew was of integral importance. An infinitesimal shift from which there was no going back. And he knew from the way she was looking at him that she felt it, too.

‘Marcus,’ she whispered and he could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

Their mouths edged closer. He could feel the soft press of her breasts against his chest, feel the slide of her arms around his neck.

He kissed her gently at first, tentatively, exploring this newness that was between them, but then deepened the kiss, their tongues conspiring to such intimacies that made him lose himself in her. She pressed herself against him, clinging to him as if she would never let him go. All of the passion that constantly simmered between them boiled and surged with a fury, so that when he closed the blind, sat down on the small sofa in the corner of the room and pulled her down on to his knee, she came willingly. He pulled up her skirt and positioned her to straddle him on the seat.

He felt the rub of her against his shaft, which was already erect and straining against the fall of his breeches. He ached with longing and desperation, knowing that there were only the layers of his drawers and breeches that separated him from the moist warm core of her. He unbuttoned her dress, and slid the sleeves down her arms until the bodice gaped and fell away to reveal the coral-pink and ivory striped corset and her barely contained breasts.

He buried his mouth in her cleavage, kissing the tops of her breasts as he had longed to since that first night in the theatre.

‘I need you, Marcus,’ she whispered and her breathing was harsh and ragged with urgency and desire. She reached her arms up high, stretching so that her breasts inched higher out of the bodice. He could see the tight press of the coral-pink and ivory-striped corset against her breasts, see the slow enticing way it seemed to slide down her skin when in truth it was her breasts that were inching their way to freedom. The first peep of that soft pink skin. His gaze flickered up to hers and he could see that she was watching him with such a heated intensity that it made him strain all the harder as if he would burst through his breeches to reach her. Such exquisite torture. She reached higher and from the edge of the corset he could see the start of the peak of her nipples, all hard and pebbled with desire. And higher, until they finally escaped and he swooped and feasted upon her, teasing each peak until she was gasping her need, and rocking against the boned ridge of him and it was all he could do not to come within his breeches like some green boy. But he gritted his teeth and controlled himself.

For this could not be about his own selfish desire. He wanted Ellen to know her height of pleasure. He wanted to wipe away her memories of what it had been like between them in the past, and replace them with something new and precious. He wanted to show her what it would be like between them when he took her to bed.

He shifted her so that she was lying on her back on top of him.

‘Marcus?’ She seemed dazed and tried to sit up but he coaxed her down onto him, holding her there, spreading her legs and sliding his hand up her skirts.

‘Marcus! What are you—’ But as his fingers found their place amidst her slick, moist warmth and began to work their rhythm, she gasped aloud and made no more protest. She lolled back against him, her legs opening to him. He worked her harder, and as she began to pant his other hand slid up from her waist to her capture her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and fingers, teasing it.

She groaned and arched her back, thrusting her breast harder into his hand. She was moaning now, her breathing hard and laboured, her body taut and straining as she approached her climax. He tugged gently on her nipple, tumbling her over the edge, and slid his fingers into her as she pulsed around him.

‘Marcus!’ she cried. ‘Marcus,’ she said again and although he was aching with unspent desire his heart swelled to hear his name upon her lips as she found her pleasure.