“I wanted to travel away,” he said dryly, his sidelong glance revealing his knowledge of his affect on her, “and spend some time with you and Spencer. I had no notion this would turn into a gathering of all the people we most wished to avoid.”
“Isabel!”
Rhys’ cry caught their attention. Walking backward with his gaze directed elsewhere, her brother nearly ran her over. Grayson, however, stepped in as a formidable buffer and saved her.
“Beg your pardon,” her brother offered quickly, then he looked at her with a tangible excitement about him. “Do you know who that woman is over there?”
Looking around his tall frame, she saw a small group of women speaking with Lady Hammond. “Which one?”
“The brunette to the right of Lady Stanhope.”
“Oh…Yes, I know her, although at the moment, her name eludes me.”
“Abby?” he prompted. “Abigail?”
“Ah, yes! Abigail Stewart. Niece to Lord Hammond. His sister and her entrepreneurial American husband have passed on, leaving Miss Stewart orphaned, though quite wealthy I’ve been told.”
“An heiress,” Rhys said softly.
“Poor thing,” Isabel said with a commiserating shake of her head. “She was hounded to death last season by every scapegrace and destitute man in England. I spoke with her briefly once. She is very bright. A bit rough around the edges, but charming.”
“I never noticed her.”
“Why would you? She hides herself well and she is not your type of female at all. Too smart for you,” she teased.
“Yes…I’m certain that is true.” He walked away frowning.
“I think you were correct,” Gray said, his voice low and near enough to make her senses leap to attention. “I do believe he’s ill. Perhaps we can follow his lead. You and I can feign poor constitutions and lie abed for a week. Together. Unclothed.”
“You are incorrigible,” she said, laughing.
With quiet efficiency, they and the other guests were settled in their rooms to freshen up before the evening meal. Gerard made certain that Isabel was well established and tended by her abigail, before excusing himself to meet with the other gentlemen below.
Despite the unfortunate choice of guests, he found some slight convenience in it. The odd menagerie created by the presence of his mother and Hargreaves allowed him to dispense with whatever remaining illusions they had about his marriage to Pel. His affairs were not to be interfered with. Foolish of them, really, to forget how few qualms he had. However, it was no great burden to remind them.
Entering the lower parlor, he took in the design of the room, noting the large windows framed with dark red, tasseled drapes, and the proliferation of burgundy leather chairs. A man’s retreat. Just the type of setting he required to say what needed to be said.
He gave a curt nod to Spencer, refused the cheroot offered to him by Lord Hammond, and then strode across the Aubusson rug toward the window where Hargreaves stood studying the view outside. As he approached, Gerard examined the proud bearing and impeccable attire of the earl. This man had shared two private years with Pel and knew her far better than he himself did.
He remembered how she had been with Markham, lit like a candle with confidence and sparkling eyes. The contrast to the purely mercenary sexual regard with which she held him was striking and disturbing. The casual friendship they had once shared was now marred by tension. He missed the ease he’d once felt with her, and longed to bask in the kind of affectionate attentions she shared with others.
“Hargreaves,” he murmured.
“Lord Grayson.” The earl turned cool dark eyes on him. They were almost of a height, with Gerard having only a slight advantage. “Before you try to waylay attempts on my part to woo back Isabel, allow me to tell you I have no intentions in that regard.”
“No?”
“No, but if she comes to me I will not turn her away.”
“Despite the hazard such an action would place you in?” Gerard was a man of action, not empty threats. By the slight nod Hargreaves gave him, he could see the other man knew it.
“You cannot cage a woman like Isabel, Grayson. She values her freedom more than anything. I am certain it chafes her to realize she married you to be free, and yet finds herself trapped.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Besides, you will tire of her eventually or she of you, and this desire you have to claim her so primitively will fade.”
“My claim,” Gerard said dryly, “is not merely primitive. It is also legal and binding.”
Hargreaves shook his head. “You have always wanted women who belong to someone else.”
“In this case, the woman I want belongs to me.”
“Does she? Truly? Odd you should discover that after five years of marital oblivion. I have seen you together since your return, as has everyone else. In truth, it appears you barely tolerate one another.”
Gerard’s mouth curved in a slow smile. “We definitely more than tolerate one another.”
The earl’s face flushed. “I do not have time to school you on women, Grayson, but suffice it to say that orgasms are not all a woman requires to be content. Isabel will not grow an attachment to you, she is incapable of it, and even if she were open to elevated feelings, an inconstant man such as yourself will never appeal. You are much like Pelham, you know. He, too, failed to see the prize that was his. I cannot count the number of times Isabel would tell me some humorous tale of your exploits and finish with, ‘Just like Pelham used to do.’”
A blow to his gut could not have struck Gerard harder. Outwardly impassive, his insides knotted with apprehension. Markham had said the same. There could be no worse mark against him than to remind his wife of her late husband. If he could not, at the very least, prove himself better than Pelham, he would never win Isabel’s affections.
But she had written him faithfully every week, and held on to that tenuous tie. Surely, there was some hope to be found in that?
Damn it! Why had he disregarded those letters?
“You say she is incapable of deep affections, and yet you think she may return to you, when she has never been known to revisit a paramour once finished with him?”
“Because we are friends. I know how she likes her tea, what her favorite books are…” Hargreaves straightened. “She was happy with me before you returned—”
“No. She was not. You know this as well as I.” Isabel would not have been tempted away if Hargreaves had been what she wanted. She was not a fickle woman. But she was a woman who bore wounds, and Gerard was determined to heal them.
The earl’s jaw tightened. “I think we understand each other. There is nothing left to be said. You are aware of my position. I am aware of yours.”
Gerard tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Are you aware? Be certain, Hargreaves. I am easily irritated and frankly, I will not have this conversation again. Next time I feel the urge to remind you of my marriage, I shall demonstrate the finer points of this discourse with the tip of my blade.”
“Gentlemen, can I regale you with my tales of India?” Lord Hammond intruded, his gaze shifting nervously between them. “A fascinating country, I must say.”
“Thank you, Hammond,” Gerard said. “Perhaps over port this evening.”
He withdrew and crossed the room to Spencer, who raised both brows as he approached.
“Only you, Gray, would be so brazen.”
“Time is precious I’ve learned. I see no point in squandering it when directness works so well.”
Spencer laughed. “I must admit, I was resigned to a week of lassitude. I am pleased to see there won’t be a dull moment.”
“Certainly not. I intend to keep you busy.”
“Do you?”
Spencer’s eyes lit up bright enough to compete with his grin. Gerard realized again how much influence he had on his younger brother. He only hoped he made full and positive use of it.
“Yes. There is a Grayson property only an hour’s ride from here. We will go there tomorrow.”
“Smashing!”
Gerard smiled. “Now, if you will excuse me…”
“Can’t stay away from her for long, can you?” Spencer shook his head. “You are more randy than I will ever be, I think. Much as it pains me to admit that.”
“You assume when we are alone we only stay abed.”
Spencer snorted. “Are you saying that is not the case?”
“I refuse to say anything at all.”
Sinking deeper into her cooling bathwater, Isabel knew she should finish, but could not seem to manage the strength to do so. Despite how often she serviced him, Grayson’s sexual appetite for her had not abated at all. Sleep was a luxury she snatched when she could.
She almost wished she could complain, but she was too sated to make the effort. It was difficult to muster true irritation when the man ensured she had a few orgasms for every one of his. And he had quite a lot.
He had begun to use French letters, no longer capable of withdrawing before he came. The lessening of sensation for him meant that he could fuck longer, a circumstance she had appreciated previously with the lovers she saw only once or twice a week. With her amorous husband it was very nearly too much. He enjoyed her writhing and begging for mercy beneath him, continuing the sensual torment until she could do nothing but whimper in pleasure and take what he gave her.
The man was an animal, nipping with his teeth, bruising with his hands, and she loved every moment of it. Grayson’s passion was real, not practiced like Pelham’s had been.
Isabel sighed. Against her will, memories of the last house party she’d attended with her late husband filled her mind, bringing with them the all too familiar roiling in her stomach. He had been in top philandering form then, dallying with other women in alcoves and slipping from his room at night. The entire fortnight had been hell, the time spent wondering which of the women drinking tea with her had serviced her husband the night before. By the time they left, she was fairly certain all the attractive ones had.
From that occasion onward, she’d denied Pelham her bed, which he had the temerity to protest until he realized she would cause him bodily injury if he insisted. Eventually, they had ceased to travel together at all.
The adjoining door opened and Gray’s delicious voice dismissed her abigail. His footfalls as he approached were as sure and confident as always. There was a rhythm to them, a cadence, the sound of dominance. Grayson took for granted that every time he entered a room he owned it.
“You’re chilled,” he noted, his voice coming so close to her ear she knew he must be crouching beside her. “Let me assist you out.”
Opening her eyes, she saw his outstretched hand, saw his face so close to hers, so intent on her. The way he examined her always took her off guard. Of course, she often found herself staring at him in the same manner.
As was happening more often, the sudden flare of possessiveness the sight of him aroused was painful and piercing. He was a man any woman would beg to claim as her own private property, but she, the only woman who had the right to do so, could not. Would not.
He had removed his clothes and now wore only a thick silk robe. Before she could stop herself, Isabel touched his shoulder and watched the blue of his eyes turn to icy fire. A touch, a smile, a lick of her lips—all could stoke his ardor in the space of one breath.
“I’m weary,” she warned.
“You start it, Pel. Every damn time.” As he stood, he pulled her up with him and then held a towel out for her.
“I do not!”
As he wrapped her, he kissed the tender spot where her shoulder met her throat—a gentle press of his lips to her flesh, not the heated open-mouthed kisses she had grown used to. “Yes, you do. On purpose. You want me panting for you.”
“Your ‘panting’ is inconvenient.”
“I have come to realize you like it inconvenient. You like me hard and aching for you in public, and in private. You like me mindless with lust until I would fuck you anywhere, in front of anyone, at any time.”
She snorted, but shivered at his tone and the feel of his breath gusting across her damp skin.
Was it true? Was her aim to provoke him?
“You are always mindless with lust, Gray. You always have been.”
“No. Lustful, yes. Mindless with it, never. Sometimes, I actually think I could take you in public, Isabel, the craving is so provoking. Deny me now, and I may bend you over the dinner table and provide the evening’s entertainment.” He nibbled her earlobe.
She laughed. “There is no hope for you. You are a beast.”
He growled playfully and nuzzled against her. “You know how to tame me.”
“Do I?” Turning in his arms, she faced him with a smile and brushed one fingertip across the bare skin revealed by the part in his dressing robe.
“Yes. You do.” Gray caught her hand and thrust it lower, between the parting of his robe at his thighs so that she felt how hard he was.
“It is nearly ridiculous how quickly you rouse,” she chastised with a shake of her head.
And he was so base about it, so blatant. Yes, she was seduced by him, but he was not a seducer. Perhaps his outrageous handsomeness had made the need for coaxing unnecessary. Or perhaps it was the size of the cock that throbbed against her palm. That would accomplish the task for him nicely.
He flexed inside her clasp and smiled with wicked arrogance.
She smiled back, admitting to herself that she quite liked primitive. No games, no insincerity, no guessing.
“You don’t feel tamed.” She moved in a way that caused the towel about her to puddle on the floor. Stroking the heated length of his shaft, she licked her lips.
“Witch.” He stepped forward, pushing her back, catching her hips when she stumbled in surprise. “You enslave me with sex.”