Married to the Viscount (28 page)

“Would you like me to kiss you there?” he said hoarsely. “Like in the picture?”

That seemed wicked in the extreme, yet the thought of having his mouth on her heated flesh…“I-I don’t know,” she admitted.

Apparently that was answer enough, because he slipped from between her and the desk to move in front of her. Setting the box aside, he stripped her chemise completely off. Then he nudged her legs apart and knelt between them atop her rumpled clothing.

A wave of expectation swept through her when he parted her curls with an impatience that seemed to rival her own.

As he stared at the tender flesh he’d exposed, a hint of uncertainty crossed his face. “I was right, wasn’t I? Your reason
for finding out if I really hated children was to see if there was any hope of making this marriage permanent?”

She wanted to deny it, but it was hard to lie to a man who was eyeing one’s private parts as possessively as the thunder god surveying his domain. When she didn’t answer, he glanced up and read her answer in her face.

Thunderclouds rolled over his face. “I thought so.”

She opened her mouth to explain, to make him see that a marriage between them could work. But then he kissed her right there between her legs, and her mind went blank.

Oh, dear heaven. This wasn’t a kiss at all. It was…it was…

Erotic. Amazing. And thoroughly maddening. His tongue did things she’d never dreamed a tongue could do. Her eyes slid closed as she reached for his head, threading her fingers through silky hair to hold him closer.

“Do you like that, Abby?” he drew back enough to growl. “Does it please you?”

“Yes…oh…yes.”

With a grunt of satisfaction, he returned to laving her with his tongue, mouthing her so expertly she writhed and bucked and sighed. With his talented teeth and tongue and lips, he dragged her forward toward her pleasure, like the wind kicking up, blowing all before it, pushing everything into flight. Each caress of his clever mouth swept her farther and faster and higher until she started to leave the ground, started to soar…

He jerked back abruptly. Shaking off her convulsive grip on his head, he rose to his feet. She cried a protest as she crashed to earth without ever taking flight.

“Spencer, please…” she whimpered, but though his eyes blazed with his own desire and his trousers bulged, he ignored her plea. As she reached mindlessly for him, he backed toward the door, his tortured expression sounding the death knell to all her hopes.

Anger thundered in his voice. “Now you really do know what it’s like to have heaven dangled just beyond your reach.”

Pain sliced through her. He’d purposely brought her to the brink of fulfillment. Then left her here with no intention of finishing it. “Why are you…doing this?” she whispered, every inch of her body still throbbing with unmet need. “Because…because I went against your wishes today?”

With a ragged curse, he reached behind him to close one fist around the doorknob. “I told you nothing would come of our sham marriage. I told you I didn’t want to make it real, but you persisted with all your games.” The snick of his unlocking the door echoed in the intimate room. “Well, I can play games, too. So the next time you decide to scent my cravats or bring hordes of children here or tease me into ‘playing,’ remember that. If you do any of it again, I swear I’ll give you what you’re asking for and take you to bed.”

A long, shuddering breath rocked his rigid frame. “But it will change nothing, do you hear? Once I find Nat, you’re returning to America, ruined or not.” He raked her with a blatantly needy glance. “Or if you really want to stay in London, I’ll happily set you up in a nice house in Chelsea as my mistress.” His voice was storm wrapped in ice, as cold and unyielding as a winter tempest. “But I will never make you Lady Ravenswood in truth. Do you understand me?”

Shocked by the fury emanating from him, she could only nod.

“Good.” Jerking open the door, he stalked out and slammed it closed behind him.

For a moment, all she could do was stare after him, feeling battered and tossed by a whirlwind of emotions—thwarted desire…shock…despair.

And finally anger as it dawned on her what he’d done. He’d brought her in here purposely to tempt and tease her before dashing all her hopes with his curt withdrawal and bitter words.

Her gaze fell on the peep-show box, and her anger surged higher. Him and his temptations—why had she ever thought she might want to stay married to the heartless beast? With a curse, she snatched up the box and hurled it against the door.

Tears burned her eyes, but she fought them back as she stormed about the room, snatching up clothes. He could only stomach having her in his life when it suited his purposes, when he controlled everything and could rid himself of her whenever he pleased. He’d actually offered to make her his mistress. His
mistress
, mind you!

She jerked her chemise on over her head, then yanked her gown up and shoved her hands through the sleeves. Oh, yes, he would stoop to make her his mistress and have her share his bed, but God forbid she should encroach upon his career or his plans for the future by wanting…by wanting…

By wanting to be his.

She lost the battle with her tears. Collapsing on the floor, she let the sobs pour from her without restraint. She could never be his—the wretch had made that perfectly clear. All this time she’d misunderstood everything. She’d thought that his willingness to oblige her, his thoughtful attentions, and yes, his sweet kisses and caresses had meant he really was the wonderful gentleman she’d known in America.

But there was no wonderful gentleman—there was just the officious viscount. Yes, he desired her, but that was all. He wanted only her body, not herself. Nothing had changed from when she’d first come here—she was still the naive American fool with no connections to speak of, too unsuitable to be the wife of the wealthy and important undersecretary of England’s blessed Home Office.

She scrubbed at her tears angrily with her fists, furious at herself for mourning the loss of him when he’d never been hers in the first place. If he’d only given her time, a chance to prove herself…

No, he was too sure of what he wanted for that. But that
didn’t mean she couldn’t still prove herself. She could do it just to show him that she could. And rub his nose in it.

Drying her eyes on her sleeve, she stared blindly at the fire. Why not? Why not get a bit of revenge on him for his coldness? She would become the quintessential English lady. She’d go to that May Day fête and meet the king, as coolly elegant as any lady there. She’d make him regret that he hadn’t snatched her up when he had the chance. And when he finally came begging, she’d refuse him flatly.

Just see how he liked that.

Spencer sank against the wall outside his study. Her sobs had subsided, thank God, long after they’d deflated his rampant erection. Nothing quelled a man’s lust like the sound of a woman’s tears, especially when they belonged to a woman he desired with uncommon desperation.

He shouldn’t have stayed here to listen. He should have headed straight to the privacy of his bedchamber to deal with the problem of his arousal. But it had seemed patently unfair to find his own satisfaction after leaving her with none, since she didn’t have the sophistication to know how to pleasure herself.

Instead he’d stood motionless in the dimly lit hall while she’d vented her temper by throwing things. And then he’d stayed to punish himself, to listen to her heart-wrenching sobs and endure every stab of pain they inflicted.

Because he deserved to share her misery after what he’d done.

Devil take it, he should never have let his temper get the better of him. He’d gone too far. But after that dinner from hell where he’d seen just how sweet life with her could be if not for his inability to sire children, he’d snapped. If he hadn’t done something, she would have kept on with her tactics designed to bring him to heel.

At least one good thing would come of this. She would hate him now. And that was just as well. He could handle her
hatred better than he could handle her hopeful looks and her none-too-subtle attempts to tempt him. Just knowing she was in his house was more temptation than he could stand—he didn’t need her actively seeking to seduce him. Or worse yet, to coax him into keeping her.

You should tell her the truth. Have it out. That would squelch her hopes at once
.

Perhaps. Or she might protest that his inability to sire children didn’t matter. She might even really believe it didn’t. Until later, after he’d been lulled into giving her his heart and soul. Then it would be just like with Father and Dora—years of not having her own children would wear on her until she destroyed the marriage in her discontent. Leaving him alone again.

No, better not to risk that.

McFee appeared at the other end of the hall. When he spotted Spencer, he headed toward him with purposeful steps. Spencer pushed away from the wall and strode to meet his butler, relieved to have some household nonsense to take his mind off Abby.

“One of the runners is here with news of your brother, my lord,” McFee said without preamble. “Shall I bring him to your study?”

“No!” Spencer dragged one hand through his hair. “No, Abby is in there and doesn’t wish to be disturbed. I’ll meet with him in the front drawing room.”

“Very good, my lord.” McFee glanced toward the study door. “Should I fetch Mrs. Graham to attend her ladyship?”

His stomach roiled at the thought of that harridan finding her darling mistress cursing Spencer’s name, but it occurred to him that Abby might have trouble dressing herself. “That would probably be a good idea,” he said wearily.

“As you wish.” But McFee remained standing there, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He tugged at his cravat and
cleared his throat. “I’m not sure if I should presume to tell you—”

“You shouldn’t,” Spencer broke in.

McFee colored, but went on. “Forgive me for my impertinence, but I thought you might wish to know…that is…well, sir, you are missing some items of clothing.”

That brought Spencer up short. Glancing down at his shirt and trousers, he stifled a curse. Good God, she had him so scattered he hadn’t even noticed his state of undress.

“Thank you, McFee. Put the man in the drawing room, and I’ll…” He paused. He could hardly go back in his study to fetch his clothes. “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve stopped in my room for fresh attire.”

“Of course, my lord.”

True to his profession, McFee walked off without daring to speculate on why his master was gadding about so improperly clothed or why Spencer couldn’t simply put his cravat, waistcoat, and coat back on.

Thank God for discreet servants. At least there was one place where his commands were never questioned. God knew his wife questioned them often enough.

He groaned as he climbed the stairs. His
wife
. Thinking of her like that was what had landed him in trouble in the first place. She would never have taken the notion to make their marriage a real one if he hadn’t succumbed to her sweet offer that they “play” in his bedchamber.

So unless he wanted her to become his wife in truth, he mustn’t think of her as one. He must think of her as a guest, nothing more, who just happened to be using his name at the moment. Never mind that he wanted to seduce her every chance he got. Never mind that her presiding over his table felt natural and right.

She was not his wife and never could be—why couldn’t he get that through his thick skull?

Because she dogged him everywhere. Even now in his room, as he washed her scent off his face and hands, he could taste her, musky and female, on his tongue. He could even still feel her flesh quiver beneath his mouth. She’d trembled as she’d obeyed his stern demands, yet her excitement had been evident in her rapid breaths and hot sighs. And that had fired his own excitement.

He’d wanted so badly just to thrust himself deep inside her, join her to him irrevocably. He’d only resisted the urge by remembering the yearning in her face when she’d held that damned baby in her arms. The yearning he could never satisfy.

With a curse, he donned fresh clothing. Then he went to meet the runner, praying that there was news this time. The sooner he brought Nat home and banished that alluring female from his life, the better.

As Spencer entered the drawing room, a gangly young man with penetrating eyes and a cowlick rose to give Spencer a deep bow. “Good evening, my lord. I’m sorry to call so late, but I thought you’d wish to have this news as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Spencer gestured toward the man’s chair, and the runner resumed his seat. Spencer was too restless to sit, but instead went to pace before the fire, clasping his hands together behind his back. “So have you found him?”

“Er…no, not yet. But we’ve made a rather surprising discovery. He didn’t flee to the Continent, as we expected.”

Spencer shot the man a surprised glance. “That was always his refuge before.”

“We have three witnesses who saw him on the coaching road headed north. Unfortunately, the trail grows cold in Derbyshire. Our last news of him is from when he bought a horse in Derby. He must have left the main road there, which will make him harder to track, but not impossible. Somebody
is sure to have seen him or given him shelter. Unless he has friends in that vicinity whose direction you could give us.”

“He has no northern friends that I know of. And if it’s gaming he’s looking for, the best places for that outside of London are in the south of England.”

“Precisely, my lord. That’s why it took us so long to find his direction. None of us expected him to go that way, so it was the last route we explored.” The runner leaned forward. “But I have a theory about why he’s there.”

“Oh?”

“As you’d requested, we traced his steps in the days before his disappearance. We discovered that he had meetings with three captains of industry. He met each one at a private room in a hotel. Unfortunately, none of the three is in the city at the moment for us to question. We’re trying to locate them. But one of them is a resident of York.”