The Dangerous Viscount (21 page)

“I’ll do it,” she whispered. She stood and turned her back on him. At a shrug of her shoulders the slippery silk robe slid to a pool at her feet.

Sebastian found it difficult to exercise restraint when confronted with Diana’s figure backlit by the glow of the fire. Her full-length night garment was like a gauze veil, blurring but not hiding the feminine curves of her waist and hips. She returned to sit beside him on the sofa. Her neckline was low, revealing the swell of her bosom, but to his regret the cloth was heavily gathered and covered the rest of the breasts quite efficiently.

“You are so beautiful,” he said. Trite, inadequate
words. Again he raised a hand to her shoulder and found he’d regained the use of his fingers. He traced the tender indents of her collarbone with his thumb while using his other hand to pull on the ribbon between her breasts. The bow dissolved and the neckline widened, gradually at first then faster as the weight of the material descended the slope of her shoulders.

Sebastian Iverley was a well-educated man, a gentleman of culture with an appreciation for the arts. As such he’d seen any number of female nudes depicted in paint and canvas and in sculpture. Nothing had prepared him for the sight of Diana Fanshawe naked to the waist. No marble goddess, however perfect, could equal the flesh-and-blood reality of creamy flesh, the lower curve more pronounced than the upper and each exquisite fruit capped by a pink circle surrounding a pert red nipple.

Awed into silence, he ventured to touch. He cupped silken weight in his palm and felt the firm peak under his thumb. Experimentally he flicked it and it hardened further. As though in sympathy he felt his cock and ballocks ache.

A sound emerged from her throat, one with the emotional message if not the timbre of a cat’s purr. Doubling his efforts, he applied his other hand to the second breast, gently kneading rich flesh and stroking the stiff crests.

“Don’t you want to see my stockings?” she whispered.

He couldn’t speak. He merely freed one hand from its duty and tugged at her skirt, dragging it up to thigh level. And reaching down to grasp her ankle then explore the entire length of her leg. Because, he
discovered, he was much less concerned with seeing her stockings than he was in touching them, and feeling what the stockings contained. And when his hand reached their end he quite lost interest in the topic of hosiery since the skin of the inner thigh was softer, smoother, and warmer than satin.

He felt her shift, sink lower. Her legs parted. His fingers crept higher and touched a nest of dark hair, the gateway to a woman’s secrets, ventured farther and found wet heat. He knew it by a number of names, both crude and poetic. The “cradle of delight” was the one that came to mind.

In his researches in Tarquin’s library, he’d read accounts of a hundred seductions. His theoretical knowledge of how to satisfy a woman was immense. His brain emptied. He could remember none of it. All he knew was that he needed to possess her. Now.

Without any pretense at finesse he kissed her: her temples, ears, neck, hair, frenzied stabbing kisses all over her face, and finally her lips. They kissed deeply while he tugged at his own clothing. Dimly he realized she was trying to help. She’d freed his shirt from the waist of his trousers and he felt her caress his back.

He managed to pull back with the greatest reluctance. He didn’t want to stop, even for a second, but there was something he needed to reveal.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, his breathing harsh.

If she laughed at him he’d die. But she didn’t.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “I have.” And reached for him again.

She started tugging at his waistcoat buttons but
undressing didn’t go well when they were entangled on the sofa, trying to kiss and embrace at the same time. Finally she pushed him away.

“We’ll be better off in bed,” she said with a little breathy laugh.

It took him so little time to shed his clothes that Diana had barely climbed onto the mattress when he joined her. Any notion of finesse vanished. He’d waited a lifetime for this.

The feeling as he entered her exceeded even his own fevered expectations. How had he lived twenty-six years without this? He must have been mad.

He muttered something incoherent. Her name?

She said his.

He feared it was going to be over all too soon. He knew a man was supposed to last longer. But he was ready to explode almost as soon as he felt her slick heat encompass him.

By a miraculous effort he seized back a measure of the control he’d relinquished and saved his pride from incineration. He ceased his thrusts and looked down. Diana’s head was tilted back, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her breathing fast. Though it was hardly news to him that she was the most beautiful woman in existence, her face caught in the act of love rendered him breathless.

Her eyes opened, pure and blue. “Lovely,” she murmured. Silken limbs wound around his thighs, inner muscles clenched and pulled at him. “You feel so good. Don’t stop.”

He kissed her, deep, wet, and long, but he had no more inclination or capacity for restraint. Three minutes, he lasted, at the most. He supposed he should be
thankful it hadn’t been three seconds. As he lost all control she gave a cry that sounded like ecstasy and her body stiffened. He collapsed into bliss. He’d done it.

At that moment he had no idea what came next.

D
iana sighed happily. She propped herself up on one elbow and surveyed the man lying beside her, eyes closed. One arm curved on the pillow above his head, a position that emphasized the muscles of his chest and arms. Her former scarecrow was no weakling. She knew that. At Mandeville he’d carried her up a hill. And he was a good-looking man, too. How had she ever preferred Blakeney? Sebastian’s face had character and strength and intelligence, like him. She’d chosen well.

She leaned over and kissed his chest, inhaling his musky scent. It had been too long, much too long. She very much hoped her wait for a repeat would be a matter of minutes rather than hours, let alone days or years.

He wasn’t asleep, she thought, just relaxing. She’d put that satisfied look on his face. And she’d do it again. In the meantime they could get on with the proposal of marriage. Make it slightly more proper.

Slightly. She’d never have let Blakeney into her bed before they were married, let alone betrothed. But she trusted Sebastian. Thank God she’d come to her senses in time and realized her tendre for Blakeney
was nothing but a long-ingrained habit. She’d picked the better cousin, a man worthy of her love. She wanted to hug herself with glee.

Sitting upright she considered, and dismissed, the notion that she should wear a nightgown when he made his offer. She merely tidied her hair a little, stretched luxuriously, and rubbed her foot along Sebastian’s thigh. “I know you’re awake. Sit up and talk to me.”

He opened his eyes and tilted his head. His happy look faded and the expression in his eyes was flat, unreadable.

“Do you always order people around?” he asked.

“No!” she said. “As a rule I’m a most amenable person, as you must be well aware.”

Something was wrong. It occurred to her he might be worried about his performance. He had been a virgin and surely not only females worried about their first time. It had taken her quite a few times to enjoy being with Tobias.

She smiled at him. “That was wonderful,” she said in an encouraging voice. “And next time will be even better. I can’t wait.”

“Is there going to be a next time?”

Oh dear,
she thought,
he’s afraid he has disgraced himself.

“Of course there is,” she hastened to assure him. She wished he’d take her in his arms. Given the trend of the conversation she hesitated to make the first advance and appear domineering.

He grunted. Sebastian seemed to have regressed to his former state of inarticulacy. And while that might be indicative of a flattering exhaustion, it was
inconvenient when she expected him to have something particular to say to her.

“We never had a chance to finish our conversation on the terrace.”

Instead of taking the hint, his only response was another grunt. Then he hauled himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed, on the opposite side, with his back to her.

“What were you going to ask me when we were interrupted tonight? You said, just before Blake came out, that you had a question for me.”

There! She could hardly be blunter than that.

He didn’t look at her and he seemed to think about his answer for a long time. “I remember,” he said finally. “I was going to ask why you smell so good. I’m not good at naming scents.”

“There’s nothing else you wanted to ask me?”

“No.” His voice was dull.

Diana began to feel a little panicked. She crawled across the bed and knelt at his back, putting her arms around him and resting her chin on his shoulder. “Stop teasing,” she said.

“Teasing?” His muscles tensed in her embrace.

“Why did you come to my room tonight?”

“Because you invited me.”

“But why did you accept?”

“I find it impossible to believe that any man has ever turned you down.”

The insolence of his tone was like a slap. She jerked backward and scrambled off the bed to find her robe. Once covered she returned to stand in front of him, lifted his chin in one hand, and engaged him eye to eye. His gaze was guarded, perhaps a little wary.

“You are the first man, aside from my husband, I’ve ever invited to my room,” she said tremulously.

He shook her off and looked away. “I’m honored to be the first. There’s a certain poetic quality to the fact, don’t you think, since you are
my
first? I don’t suppose either of us is destined to be the other’s last.”

She stood there, stunned, taking in the meaning of his words. “I think you’d better go,” she said, striving to speak calmly as she knotted her sash with a vicious tug. “You … you …” she stammered, vainly seeking a suitable epithet.

He left the bed and gathered his scattered clothing. Diana went over to the fireplace and stared at the glowing coals, unable to comprehend the disastrous turn the night had taken. She barely resisted the urge to snatch up a bottle of perfume and hurl it at him. Her scent! She’d give him scent. Either that or burst into tears.

She still couldn’t believe she’d been so mistaken in Sebastian. He was the last man in the world she’d have supposed an amoral rake, yet that was how he was behaving.

Her eyes narrowed. Something didn’t add up. How could he be a heartless womanizer when she was the first woman he’d ever had? Without pretending to be an expert on the subject, she was sure men had to work up to rakehood.

She spun around. “Sebastian.”

He looked up quickly and stopped fastening buttons. His eyes seemed almost eager, and he was himself again.

“Why?” she asked. “Tell me what this is about, and please, tell me the truth.”

For a moment he appeared uncertain, then she watched as the warmth faded from his eyes and she saw nothing but pain. “Five hundred pounds was, I believe, your payment for kissing me. I’m prepared to call us even.”

Leaving her speechless, he collected the rest of his garments and left the room.

D
iana spent the day curled up in bed, huddled in misery.
That smell
lingered, reminding her of her folly. She couldn’t have the linens changed. Chantal would know immediately what she’d been doing. Most likely the servants already knew; they always found out.

As darkness fell her hostess would no longer be denied and Diana told Chantal to admit her.

“Are you truly unwell?” Juliana asked in obvious concern. “Shall I send for a physician? Minerva’s very worried about you. We all are.”

Diana had stirred herself to put on a dressing gown—not the ivory satin but a sensible blue one—and let Chantal comb her hair. But she knew she looked terrible: pale and hollow-eyed.

“I’m a little better,” she said dully. “It’s nothing that needs a doctor.”

“Are you hungry? I hear you’ve taken nothing all day but tea. Will you come down for dinner?”

“Maybe. Probably not.” Definitely not. Nothing would persuade her to share the same room, let alone a meal, with Sebastian Iverley.

Juliana climbed up to sit on the bed and gave Diana’s
hand a comforting squeeze. “Female problems?” “Male problems.”

“Iverley!”

“How did you know?” For one horrified moment Diana imagined Sebastian swaggering about the breakfast room, hinting at his conquest.

“He left this morning without warning or credible explanation. Something must have happened.”

Diana nodded and could no longer fight back her tears.

Juliana crawled over and put an arm around her. “It’s all right,” she murmured.

“I can’t believe he would do such a thing!” Diana sobbed.

Her friend let her weep for a while, and when the sobs subsided, found her a handkerchief. “You must forget all about him,” she said. “He’s just a worthless poltroon.”

Diana managed a watery smile. “Did you just use the word
poltroon?”

“Unfortunately I’ve never had the opportunity to do so before. But if ever there was a candidate for the insult, it’s Sebastian Iverley.”

“He’s worse than a poltroon,” Diana said. “He’s a blackguard.”

“A scoundrel.”

“A caitiff.”

“One of my favorite words.”

“A scurvy varlet.” Diana mopped her eyes and blew her nose hard.

“What did he do? Would it help you to tell me about it?”

She hadn’t meant to, but Diana found herself telling the whole story.

“He deserves to be torn apart by wild horses,” Juliana exclaimed when she heard of Sebastian’s final exit the night before.

“It’s true I did make that wager with Blake and I shouldn’t have,” Diana said. “That was wrong of me, very wrong.”

Juliana dashed aside this attempt at an excuse for Sebastian’s behavior. “Since when was kissing a man a crime? A kiss, for God’s sake! He should be grateful.”

“That’s just what I thought.”