Married to the Viscount (27 page)

Spencer in shirtsleeves—how strange. She scanned the room until she found his coat and waistcoat slung over an armchair. But he’d draped his cravat over his shoulder like a soldier’s colors, and that gave her pause, too. He rarely dressed casually outside his bedchamber.

A tendril of foreboding crept around her heart, but she willed herself to ignore it. She was being silly. She had nothing to fear from him. What if he did dress casually in his own home? He had a right to walk around in his shirtsleeves if he pleased.

Even if he’d never done so before.

Studying him through the cracked-open door, she sought some sign of his mood. But though his profile was to her, she could tell little from the carved line of his jaw, the unsmiling mouth. He merely looked pensive as he swirled some dark liquor in a tumbler with one hand and balanced a peep-show box with the other.

“Come in, Abby,” he said without turning around.

She started. Her blood inexplicably clamoring in her ears, she pushed the door all the way open and walked in.

Yet he still didn’t face her. “Close the door behind you and lock it.”

The clipped command stirred up butterflies in her belly. Maybe she had something to fear after all. “Why?”

“I don’t want the servants barging in on our private discussion.”

“Oh.” That made sense, yet her hands trembled as she shoved the door closed and turned the key.

When she faced him, he’d set his empty glass on the desk next to him and was turning the peep-show box over in his hands. Firelight sketched unholy shadows over his profile, rousing her sense of unease to new heights.

As always, she met her fears boldly. “You said you wanted to see me.”

“Yes.” He kept staring down at the painted box. “You like children, don’t you?”

“Of course. Who doesn’t?”

He glanced to her, one eyebrow raised.

“And don’t try to tell me again that you don’t,” she went on quickly. “I won’t believe it. I saw you with those children. You were compassionate and entertaining—”

“I can put a good face on things when I need to,” he bit out.

“Hogwash. You could have gone to your club any time you wanted. But you didn’t. And no man who hates children would have told them jokes and tolerated them climbing all over him.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You enjoyed yourself with those little darlings, admit it.”

Slowly he turned toward her, still holding the box as his steely eyes searched her face. “Is that why you brought them here? To find out if I could tolerate children?”

The butterflies fluttered madly in her belly. “No! I-I needed them to help me.”

“And that’s why you planned an entire dinner for them. One that included dishes meant only for them as well as dishes meant only for me.”

That was harder to explain away. “I…um…merely didn’t take seriously your words about having them gone by dinner.”

It sounded lame, even to her ears. He fixed her with a disturbingly level gaze. “You had no ulterior motive for your actions, no reason beyond your aims with the perfume.”

The very fact that he asked the question gave her pause. But she wasn’t about to admit her reasons for her behavior. “Of course not,” she managed to say.

“I see.” His smile might have put her at ease if it hadn’t been so very…mysterious. It wasn’t like Spencer to be
mysterious. Evasive, perhaps, or cool, but not mysterious. What in heaven’s name was he thinking?

Eyes gleaming, he held up the box. “I’ve got something to show you.”

Her pulse leaped in apprehension. Did this mean the inquisition was over? And why show her yet another peep-show box? “I don’t remember seeing that one earlier.”

“I don’t keep it with the rest. My father gave me the others when I was a boy. This one is from Nat. He found it in Paris a few years ago.”

“Oh.” She sounded like an idiot, but she couldn’t help it. His strange behavior made her very jittery.

“Come take a look,” he said, a peculiar tension in his voice.

“All right.” Crossing the Turkish carpet on shaky limbs, she held out her hand.

Instead of putting the box in it, he tugged her toward him. Turning her in his arms, he leaned against the desk and settled her between his parted thighs so her backside rested against his groin. He anchored her there with one powerful arm clamped about her waist.

Heavenly day. Was he simply trying to torture her? Or had he finally accepted the attraction he’d been fighting at every turn? And if that was the case, why now?

A thrill coursed through her to feel him thickening beneath her backside. Then he pressed a kiss into her hair, and her thrill twisted into anticipation. She didn’t care why he’d changed his mind. He was holding her and kissing her—that was enough.

He pushed the peep-show box into her hands, then bent his head to whisper. “Look in it, Abby.”

Wondering what a peep-show box had to do with anything between them, she muttered, “Oh, all right,” and lifted it to her eye.

It look a moment for her to register the image, even though he held her facing the fire so that light shone through the back aperture. But as her gaze adjusted and the image formed in her vision, she gasped.

The scene was a bordello. Scantily clad women lay sprawled in various scandalous positions, touching themselves, being touched by men…

She jerked back from it, hot blood flooding her cheeks. “I…It’s—”

“—an erotic peep-show box. Not all of them are for children, you know.”

“Oh.”

His deft hand stroked back and forth over her belly, raising wanton shivers even beneath the layers of gown and chemise. But when his other hand began working loose the buttons of her gown at the back, she didn’t know whether to be delighted or alarmed.

“Wh-what are you doing, Spencer?” she whispered.

“I think you call it ‘playing.’” His breath warmed her neck, heated her blood.

“I thought you didn’t want us to play again,” she said warily.

“Sometimes a man can’t help himself.” He went on unfastening buttons until he had her gown completely open in the back. Taking the box from her, he set it on the table. Then he tugged her gown completely down, letting it drop with a rustle at her feet. “But then you were counting on that, weren’t you?”

Fear warred with excitement in her chest. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He dropped something about her neck, and only when the scent hit her did she realize it was his cravat. “You put the Mead on my cravats, didn’t you? That’s why you were in my room the other day. It took me until this evening to figure it out. When one of the girls commented on my sweet smell, I
realized the scent was too strong to be simply the figment of my imagination.”

Panic clutched her chest. “Sh-she smelled your own scent on your cravats, that’s all. I know you said you don’t wear any, but—”

“James set me straight—apparently he puts scent in my shaving water. But I went up to my room after dinner and checked the freshly washed cravats. They all smell like this.” He drew the silky fabric over her nose, then let it slither to the floor. “Like you, your scent. You may as well admit it.”

When she said nothing, he murmured, “Ah, such a stubborn little wench.” Then he reached around in front of her to untie her chemise. She tried to face him, but he held her forcibly in place.

“Another thing,” he went on, “and this time I want the truth. Why did you want to have the children here, Abby?”

Dear heaven, he was back to that. Had he figured that out, too? “I told you—”

“No. The real reason. You knew how I felt. So you had a purpose for convincing me to let you bring them here, and then for keeping them past the hour I’d dictated. I think I know what your purpose was. I just want to hear you say it.”

She gave up. “All right, curse you. I wanted to see if you really hated children. And I think I proved that you don’t.”

“I see.” He sounded oddly calm as he dragged her chemise down to her waist, leaving her breasts completely exposed. The chill air made her nipples pucker into hard buttons, and his breath on her neck quickened. “So it was a test, was it?” he whispered in her ear, then tugged her earlobe with his teeth.

All her nether muscles tightened into an aching knot centered between her legs. “Wh-what do you mean? What sort of test?”

His arm snaked around her waist again, but this time right
over her bare flesh. “To determine if I’d make a suitable husband.”

Heavenly day, he’d figured
everything
out. “Don’t be silly. If we’re going to separate in the end anyway, why would I care?”

“Good question.” His finger circled her navel, then darted in it. “I wondered the same thing. And I could only come up with one explanation—you want to make this marriage permanent if you can.”

She wasn’t fool enough to admit
that
. “Certainly not.”

“No?” His fingers danced along her ribs.

“No.”

“Still stubborn, I see.” His voice now held an edge. “Tell me, Abby, have you any idea what it’s like to live with heaven dangling always beyond your reach?”

She frowned. “That’s an odd question.”

“I know. Answer it anyway.”

“All right.” She thought of how this past few days had been, living as his wife but not his wife. “I think I do. Yes.”

With a growl, he flattened his large hand over her belly and tugged her hard against him, forcing her to feel every inch of the bulge beneath his trousers. “I think not. I think you have no idea what that’s like.”

She didn’t know how to answer and barely even had time to wonder what he was getting at before he ordered, “Pick up the peep-show box and look inside again.”

The ever-curious and wicked wanton in her found his demand vastly interesting. The well-bred lady in her recoiled. “Why?”

“Because I told you to. You’re my wife. And wives in England obey their husbands without question if they know what’s good for them.”

The implied threat sent a shiver along her spine. “I’m only your pretend wife.”

“Funny how you only notice that when it suits you.” When she stiffened, he softened his tone. “Just do it, all right? Think of it as a game, an erotic game. You like playing erotic games, don’t you?”

Not when you’re acting so strangely
, she nearly said. Then he pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss to her neck, and all her objections melted into nothing.

“Look in the box, Abby,” he coaxed again.

Through her haze she saw him thrust it into her hand as if he didn’t trust her to pick it up herself. With a sigh, she grabbed it, then lifted it so she could look inside.

“Good girl.” He flexed his fingers on her bare belly. “Now tell me what you see. Start at the left and describe everything.”

Feeling the blood rush into her cheeks once more, she said in a whisper, “There’s a woman st-standing by a curtain.”

“And how is she dressed?”

“She isn’t,” she said in a small voice.

He feathered kisses over her jaw as if to reward her for her honesty. “Go on. What’s she doing?”

“You already know what she’s doing,” she accused him.

“Yes. But tell me anyway.” He sucked her earlobe. “It’s a game, remember? And you do like games.”

Why did he keep saying that? “She’s…well…got a man standing behind her holding her—”

“Like I’m holding you.”

She blinked. “Yes. Exactly.”

“And what is she doing with the man?”

Now that she was catching on to the “game,” a perverse excitement blew through her. “She’s pressing the man’s hand to her breast.”

“Show me.”

Abby hesitated, but his gruff command hung like a tantalizing promise in the air. If she just played the thunder god’s
game, she could ride the wind, tame the storm. She caught his hand and pulled it to her own breast, then pressed it there. “Like this.”

With a growl of approval, he began to fondle her, palming her breast, teasing the nipple, and in general making her crazy. His caresses dragged the breath from her lungs, leaving her gasping and craving his mouth on hers.

She turned away from the box to seek his lips, but he merely moved his head to the other side of her neck and began to rain kisses on her sensitized skin.

“Go on,” he rasped against her ear. “Keep talking. What about the woman in the middle? What is she doing?”

“Clearly you’ve looked in this box more than once,” she said, faintly annoyed. “You seem to have the entire picture memorized.”

He laughed harshly. “Pretty much. Even a serious-minded man has to have some pleasures.” His fingers tweaked her nipple just enough to get her attention. “Tell me what’s in the middle, Abby.”

With a gasp, she returned her gaze to the image inside. “The woman is sprawled in an armchair with her gown open. The chair has gilded legs and—”

He nipped at her ear. “I don’t care what the chair looks like. Describe the woman.”

“She’s sitting in it with her legs parted, that’s all. And there’s a…black pillow or something between them.”

A strangled laugh escaped him. “It’s not a pillow. Look closer.”

Perplexed, she shifted the box to catch the light better. “All right, so the pillow is hairy, but…oh…” A blush spread over her cheeks. “You’re right—it’s not a pillow.”

“No. It’s a man’s head.”

Curiosity got the better of her. “What’s he doing?”

His fingers had stilled on her breast. “You tell me,” he said
in that rumbling tone that always sent the butterflies to knocking around inside her.

“I…I suppose he’s…kissing her.”

“Where?”

“You know where,” she whispered.

This time he took pity on her and put his own hand where he wanted it—down beneath her chemise, which still covered her below the waist, to rest right on top of the curls clustered between her thighs. “Here?” he asked huskily.

Her mouth was too dry for speech. All she could manage was a nod.

His palm cupped her there, rubbing her and making her collapse against him, weak-kneed. His other hand returned to fondling her breast, and she thought she’d died and ascended right into the clouds. It felt so delicious, so very delicious to have his hands on her, all over her. Then he dragged one finger up to part her curls and toy with a certain sensitive spot so adroitly that she moaned and swiveled her hips forward against his teasing hand, wanting more, needing more.