Married to the Viscount (38 page)

“Suddenly,” Mrs. Graham went on, “he’s the viscount
himself, with an estate and a rascal of a younger brother to manage, not to mention his duty to his country that he don’t want to give up. It’s hard to handle all that if you don’t order people about. After a while, you get used to it. You feel safer making everybody follow your rules.”

“Yes.” Abby couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice. “Because he doesn’t believe they’re capable of thinking for themselves. They can’t be trusted to run their own lives.”

“Oh, lass, don’t you see? The man is afraid to trust what he can’t control. All the things he couldn’t control gave him grief. So when he comes upon a sweet lady like yourself, who he don’t know what to make of, he’s plumb flummoxed. But that don’t mean he won’t come round in the end. Once he gets to know you better.”

The door opened and Marguerite hurried in with Abby’s gown, effectively ending the discussion.

Still, Mrs. Graham’s words lingered in Abby’s head the whole time the two women were helping her dress for dinner with Spencer. If she could be sure that Spencer would come to his senses eventually, she might stay around just to be with him.

The problem was, what if he didn’t? What if she committed to him only to find he could never commit to her? She would give up any possibility of children.

But did it really matter if she never had a child to cradle in her arms, to teach and spoil and love? She sighed. Of course it mattered. Still, a foundling child would be enough for her. She could love any babe she took into her caring, whether she’d borne it herself or not. Maybe in time she could convince Spencer of that…

The way his stepmother had convinced his father to do as
she
wanted? Abby swallowed. Spencer was his father’s son—once he plotted a course, he didn’t change it easily. And did she want a marriage where she was forever waiting for him to trust her?

That was the question. And an hour later, as she and Spencer sat down to dinner, she was still no closer to answering it.

Nor was he making it easy, with all his sly seductions. “I see you’re wearing the pendant I sent up,” he said.

“Yes.” She’d let Mrs. Graham and Marguerite talk her into it. But judging from his hungry gaze trailing down to where her breasts cradled the heavy vinaigrette, that was a mistake.

“It looks perfect on you,” he said in that husky tone that roused her blood fever every time…

She swallowed. “Thank you.”

Though the man was all the way at the end of the dinner table, nearer the door, she could feel his gaze as hot on her as if it were a caress. She tried to ignore it as the footmen brought the oysters, tried to concentrate on her food.

But she found herself casting him furtive glances every so often. And when during one of those glances he forked an oyster, then swirled it in melted butter the way he’d swirled his tongue over her breasts the other night—

“You’re not eating your oysters,” he said, a knowing smile touching his lips. “Worried about the effect they might have on you?”

“What do you mean?” Mesmerized, she watched as he ate the oyster and licked butter from his lips. The way he’d licked at her lips, then parted them to—

“Some say oysters are an aphrodisiac.”

“What’s an aphrodisiac?”

“Something that arouses a person’s passions.” He ate another, and a drop of butter landed on his chin. After wiping it with his finger, he sucked it off his fingertip. The way he’d sucked her tongue, the skin of her neck, her aching nipples—

Curse him. “Really?” Defiantly, she stabbed an oyster with her fork, then thrust it into her mouth and chewed, hardly tasting it. “That’s ridiculous. I never noticed any such effect. Oysters usually give me dyspepsia.”

That didn’t deter him for a second. His mouth crooked up
ward. “Well, if you have dyspepsia later, just let me know. I’ll be happy to rub your belly for you.”

And your breasts. And your thighs. And the delicate, needy flesh between them
.

She jerked her gaze away. Heavenly day, now she was doing the seducing for him.

The rest of the meal went no better. If she watched him eat, she imagined all the naughty things his mouth could do to her. But if she didn’t watch, she imagined that her bread glistening with butter was his bared chest glistening with sweat, that the beef roast was his thick thigh, that the erect sausage…

She snorted. Erect sausage, indeed. But when dessert arrived, a quivering mound of custard with a cherry in the center that looked exactly like a nipple, she’d had enough.

“Excuse me,” she murmured as she rose from the table. “I…um…don’t want dessert. The oysters, you know.”

She hurried for the door, but before she could pass Spencer, he reached out to grab her arm and tug her onto his lap.

“What on earth are you doing?” she hissed with a furtive glance at the servants.

“Rubbing your belly.” His expression teemed with wickedness. “To help ease your dyspepsia.” He cast the gaping footmen a warning look. “Leave us. And tell the rest of the staff that anyone venturing near the dining room before I call for them will be dismissed forthwith.”

After the servants vanished, she tried to wriggle free, but he wouldn’t let her. She glared up at him. “How dare you imply to them that you and I are in here—”

“What? I don’t know about you, but I’m merely soothing my wife’s indigestion. And since that requires my holding you in a scandalous manner, I thought you might prefer to have them gone.”

“A likely story. I warned you that if you so much as attempted to steal a kiss—”

“I’m not attempting anything.” His large hand covered her belly, then began to knead it in slow, sensuous motions. “I’m merely banishing your dyspepsia.”

She sucked in a breath when he splayed his fingers wide over her lower abdomen, the warmth of his flesh feeding the warm ache between her legs. “You…you know that’s not all you’re doing.”

“What a suspicious mind you have. Here I am, trying to be courteous, and you suspect me of having an ulterior motive.” His hand swept up and down now, once, twice.

But when it brushed the underside of her breast on its third circuit, she caught his hand. “That’s because you do. And I won’t allow you to break our agreement—”

“You said nothing about my not being able to touch you.”

“I implied it.”

“You said, ‘If you so much as attempt to steal a kiss.’ That leaves enormous room for interpretation, my dear.” He shifted her on his lap until she sat forward with her back pressed to his firm chest. Then he started rubbing her belly with his other hand.

A sudden surge of memory hit her…of that night in the study when he’d held her like this and caressed her and turned her to putty…

She groaned, hardly noticing when the hand she’d been clasping slipped from her grasp. Now he stroked her belly with both hands, side to side, up and down. “Surely it…violates the…spirit of the rules for you to touch me like this.”

“Like what? In a manner meant to ease your discomfort?”

“Well, no, but—Wait a minute, stop that!” Exactly when had the sneaky wretch begun unfastening the buttons of her front-opening gown? “That is definitely not—”

“I’m only making you comfortable.” He went on unbuttoning. “This gown is much too tight on your stomach. It’s no wonder you have dyspepsia.” He swept his hand inside to boldly caress her belly through her chemise. “Besides, I
can rub it better if I don’t have to contend with layers of fabric.”

“If you think I’m going to let you…” She trailed off with a moan when his hand suddenly dropped down to stroke her right between the legs. “That’s not…my belly…” she protested weakly.

“Sorry, my hand slipped.” He danced his fingers sensuously up her abdomen.

Put them back
, she thought, then cursed herself for her weakness. But the man was both clever
and
persistent, a combination she found incredibly seductive. Besides, if he wanted her so badly that he’d risk these dangerous touches when he knew she might run off to Clara’s any minute…

“The problem is your chemise, you know,” he went on smoothly. “We really should open it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t wait to hear your reason for that bit of cheating.”

“I’m merely saying it prevents me from seeing where I’m putting my hand.” Now that her gown gaped open from neckline to thigh, he easily tugged the ties of her chemise loose. “Let’s just move it out of the way, shall we?”

An uncontrollable urge to laugh bubbled up inside her. “You are incorrigible,” she said, fighting to maintain her resistance and losing rapidly.

“I’m only trying to be helpful.” He swiftly opened the short placket of her chemise. “That’s what a good husband is supposed to do, isn’t it?”

“A good husband is supposed to honor his wife’s wishes,” she said dryly.

“Precisely. Surely you don’t
wish
to suffer from your dyspepsia.”

When his hand slipped inside to fondle her breast, she shoved his hand down, then shifted back around to sit across his lap and eye him sternly. “I thought moving the chemise
out of the way was meant to prevent your hand from slipping.”

“My hand didn’t slip.” A smile ghosted over his lips as he again cupped her breast. “From what I understand, indigestion often causes pains in the chest as well as the belly. I thought I’d take care of those, too.” With a roguish smile, he thumbed her nipple, blatantly, erotically.

The beginnings of a laugh escaped her lips before she squelched it. “Next you’ll be telling me that indigestion sometimes causes pain in one’s privates.”

“Now that you mention it—” he began, sliding his hand downward.

“Spencer Law,” she said, trying to sound severe as she caught his hand and drew it out of her chemise, “you know very well I wasn’t suggesting—”

“Of course you were.” He stuck his other hand inside her chemise. “And I’m more than willing to help.”

Stifling a chuckle, she grabbed that one, too. “What if I tell you I lied about the dyspepsia? Will you stop this?”

“Certainly.” Eyes twinkling, he tugged his hands free of her grip, but only to start unbuttoning his waistcoat. “However, it seems that
I
suddenly have dyspepsia. And since I was kind enough to help you in
your
hour of need…”

She couldn’t help it. A laugh boiled out of her. “You have got to be the most persistent, exasperating—”

“And helpful.” He leaned forward enough to shrug off his coat, then his waistcoat. “Let’s not forget helpful.”

She gave up. What woman could stand firm in the face of such blatant and egregious manipulation? Especially when he was manipulating her in the very direction her heart wanted to go.

Not to mention her body. Now that he had her thoroughly aroused, she wasn’t about to let him leave her unfulfilled. “By all means, let me be helpful, too.” She reached for the
buttons of his trousers. “Just tell me where it hurts, my lord.”

Clearly realizing that he’d won, he gazed on her with a look that mingled triumph with rampant need. “Everywhere.” He dragged his shirttails free of the trousers she was unbuttoning, then grabbed her hand and slid it up underneath to cover his chest. “Here.” He slid it lower over his abdomen. “And here.” His eyes slid closed as he pressed her hand beneath his gaping waistband. “And definitely here.”

He shuddered deliciously when her fingers found the arousal still cradled by his stockinette drawers. Anticipation surged through her to feel him so hard, so ready. She stroked him through the fabric, delighting in the guttural groan it wrung from his throat.

“Better?” she asked with a teasing smile.

“Not yet.”

She shifted toward him so she could touch him more easily. Caressing his chest with one hand, she fondled his staff with the other until his breathing increased to rapid-fire gasps.

But when she leaned up to kiss his mouth, he jerked his head back, his eyes flying open. “No kisses, remember? I won’t have you claiming later that I broke the rules.”

As if he hadn’t already. But one look at his fierce expression told her he was serious. She smiled coyly, then drew her hand from beneath his shirt to stroke his mouth. Rubbing her thumb over his lower lip, she said in a throaty whisper, “Do you really think you can make love to me without kissing me?”

Desire streaked across his face like lightning scoring the sky. “If I have to.”

“You don’t,” she said, then drew his head down to hers.

After two days of pent-up desire, their kiss exploded instantly into a violence of turbulent need. He stabbed his tongue deep; she sucked it deeper. Soon they were battling
for mastery, his mouth ardent and determined while hers gave as much as it got.

He shifted her to straddle his lap so he could thrust both hands inside her chemise, one to fondle her breast, the other to “slip” down between her legs. As he drove two fingers inside her, he tore his mouth from hers.

“I want you now, my darling,” he rasped against her cheek. “I don’t think I can make it upstairs.”

“Then don’t.”

Apparently that was enough answer for him. Grabbing her about the waist, he set her off him so he could wriggle his trousers and drawers down. She leaned against the table and watched wide-eyed as his impudent “staff” sprang free.

“You see how bad my dyspepsia is?” he ground out. “What will you do to ease me, wife of mine?”

With a playful smile, she licked her finger, then stroked a circle over the insolent crown of his aroused flesh.

Spencer groaned. “Teasing wench.”

She laughed and shrugged off her gown and chemise. Her drawers rapidly followed. “I’ve still got dyspepsia, too. And what will you do to ease mine?”

Desire flared in his gaze as he raked it down her naked body. “What do you think?” Reaching for her, he settled her astride his thighs until his staff rested like a hot, heavy promise against her belly.

“That seems a very naughty remedy, my lord. Whatever will the proper Mr. McFee say to his master performing such wicked acts in the dining room?”

“He won’t say anything if he knows what’s good for him,” Spencer growled. “Besides, even McFee should know that a man needs a little dessert after dinner.”