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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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BOOK: My Favorite Countess
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The footman's eyes grew round with concern. “I'm sorry to hear that, my lady. Is there anything I can do?”
“I'm perfectly—”
“Lady Randolph could use a brandy,” John interrupted. “Please bring it to her bedchamber immediately.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
To her immense irritation, Buckles scurried away without a second glance.
“How do you get them to do that?” she groused.
His hand pressed against her spine, urging her across the entrance hall and toward the iron-work staircase. For some demented reason, she couldn't seem to resist him.
“Do what?”
“How do you get absolutely everyone to do everything you want?”
He chuckled. “Because they know I'm right. Now up with you, and show me to your room. I'm not leaving until I'm satisfied you're not experiencing a relapse.”
Bathsheba affected a long-suffering sigh, but his determination, as usual, wore down her resistance. Perhaps she did need a quick examination. After all, she was feeling a tad light-headed, and her heart continued to beat in a rapid and somewhat alarming fashion.
“Oh, very well,” she capitulated. “But please be quick about it. This evening has already been irritating enough without you poking and prodding away at me.”
“Why, Lady Randolph, I thought you were enjoying yourself. Could it be possible you were lying to me?”
She scowled back at his laughing face. He gave her another nudge, and she led him up the spiral staircase to her apartments.
As they entered her sitting room, he stopped and looked around.
“This is a beautiful room, Lady Randolph. I commend you on your excellent taste.”
She frowned, confused by his cool tone of voice, and even more so by the carefully blank look on his face. What the devil was bothering him now?
Before she could puzzle out the answer to that question, Boland slipped through the connecting door from her bedroom. Concern leaped into her eyes, visible even behind her steel-framed spectacles.
“My lady! Dr Blackmore, is her ladyship unwell?”
“I'm fine, Boland. There's no need to make a fuss. I simply felt a little faint at the opera. Dr. Blackmore was kind enough to escort me home.”
Her abigail rushed over, her sharp features marked with distress.
“I knew you shouldn't be gadding about,” she scolded. “Dr. Blackmore, I told her that she was doing too much—especially in this heat.”
Bathsheba frowned. “Don't be ridiculous, Boland. You always feel the heat worse than I do. In fact, I believe I told you to have Lucy wait up for me. I don't want you getting sick.”
Truly, Boland looked exhausted and pale. How could the woman have been so foolish as to disobey her orders?
“Go to bed. Now, Boland,” snapped Bathsheba, anxiety making her voice sharper than she intended.
The older woman immediately starched up, looking mutinous and ready to argue.
“You needn't worry, Boland,” John interjected. “I'll see to her ladyship.”
Boland looked suspiciously between the two of them, and opened her mouth as if to voice an objection.
Bathsheba cut her off with a sharp stab of the hand. “Go to bed, Boland, before I lose my temper with you.”
John looked startled, then annoyed, but held his tongue.
“As you wish, my lady,” said Boland. She made a stiff curtsy, directed a final glowering look at Bathsheba, and left the room.
“Why are you angry with her?” John said in a quiet voice after the door had closed.
Bathsheba cast her shawl over the striped silk divan and began to unbutton her gloves.
“I'm not. I'm angry with you.”
“Ah,” he murmured, as if that explained everything.
A tap sounded on the door. John opened it and, over Buckle's objections, took the tray holding the brandy and a glass before closing the door in the footman's face.
Bathsheba sniffed. “You're very high-handed with my servants, Dr. Blackmore.”
“Not as high-handed as you,” he said, handing her a glass of brandy. “Now take your shoes off and sit down and drink this.”
She thought about saying something cutting, but she was tired and sick of arguing—with everyone, it seemed.
“Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “I suppose you'll just nag at me until I do.”
He smiled, but didn't answer as he followed her over to the divan. With a grateful sigh, she kicked off her shoes and tucked herself against the cushioned bolster. He stood over her, his eyes intent, his gaze smouldering in most undoctorlike fashion.
The air seemed to thicken in her lungs. She took a large gulp of brandy, welcoming the distraction as it seared down her throat.
Looking up at him, she met his heavy-lidded gaze with a defiant one of her own.
“I thought you were going to conduct an examination, sir. That
is
why I let you come up here.”
He laughed. The husky, baritone rumble vibrated through her like a silent caress.
Oh, Lord.
Bathsheba's toes actually curled at the sound of it.
“Scoot over, my lady, and take your gloves off.”
The command brought a hot flush to her cheeks—whether from irritation or pleasure, she couldn't tell—but she did as he instructed. Tucking her legs up under the soft skirts of her evening dress, she began removing her gloves. He watched with an amused, appreciative gleam in his eyes, clearly enjoying her discomfort.
Now
that
was annoying. Bathsheba would throw all her jewels out into the street before she acted like a simpering miss in front of any man—even John.
Especially John.
She slowly unbuttoned her gloves and seductively drew them off, letting the delicate fabric whisper over her skin with a lazy slide. She felt rather than saw the change in him. Felt it in the way the muscles of his powerful arms flexed. Felt it in the silence that suddenly throbbed with a sense of darkness and danger.
She took an unsteady breath, refusing to meet his gaze, trying to heed the warning voice in her head. Why in God's name was she trying to tempt him? Had she truly gone mad?
“Give me your wrist.”
She looked up, startled by the faint note of bitterness shading his voice. Obediently, she gave him her hand, as she had done so many times before.
Eyes half closed, he bent his head, focusing his attention on the place where his fingers touched her wrist. Yearning slipped through and filtered along her veins to her pulse, coalescing like a small, aching wound under his touch. So simple an act, and yet it conveyed a world of meaning. It had become an expression of his devotion and of her need, the only expression she could ever allow between them.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to do something irretrievably stupid. Casting about in her mind for something—anything—to distract her from his touch, she blurted out the first thing that came into her head.
“Why were you glaring at me so fiercely in the theater tonight?”
He glanced up, looking surprised by the question. “You were flirting with another man.”
The direct admission caused her heart to miss a few beats. He frowned, obviously feeling the stuttering rhythm under his fingertips.
She affected a casual shrug. “It's what I do, Dr. Blackmore. You do realize that, don't you?”
“You won't anymore,” he replied.
She gasped. “How dare—”
“Not if you want to leg-shackle Roston, which is what I assume your little performance at the opera was all about.”
She fumed, longing to give him a set-down. But how could she? After all, blast him, he was correct.
His deep-set eyes studied her. They were unreadable, but she had the uncomfortable notion that he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“I need to listen to your heart,” he said abruptly. “Your pulse is too fast.”
“If my pulse is too fast then it's your fault,” she retorted. “You've spent most of the evening insulting me, which I don't find amusing at all. I think it's time, Dr. Blackmore, for you to take your leave.”
“Soon,” he replied in a soothing voice. “Just lie back against the bolsters. I promise I won't insult you anymore.”
She grumbled, but warily sank into the padded cushions propped at her back.
When he leaned over her chest, resting his ear on the swell of her bosom, she gave a start. The sight of his head nestling there, his mouth so close to her silken-clad breast, set off a sudden clenching of desire in the cove of her thighs.
Oh, God!
Bathsheba could feel her nipple budding into a hard point. It was mere inches away from his mouth, begging for the wetness of his tongue.
“Why aren't you using your wooden tube?” She winced at the shrill tone of her voice.
He moved his head slightly, and his raven curls tickled the sensitive flesh plumping out over the top of her bodice. She bit her lip, forcing back a moan.
“I rarely take my medical instruments to the opera with me.” The laughter was back in his voice.
She stared up at the frescoed ceiling, praying for the strength to resist him.
“Perhaps you should,” she said, trying to sound as nasty as she could. She simply had to put an end to this, before what little self-restraint she had evaporated. “Who knows when you'll feel compelled to rescue some hapless theater patron?”
He sat up and she gasped—both from relief and from the loss of the delicious heat of his body.
But clearly he wasn't finished. Before she could take another breath, he brushed her tiny sleeves off her shoulders, sending the edge of her bodice slithering down to the top of her nipples. In fact, she could see the dusky areolas peeking out from under the Belgian lace trim.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Examining you,” he murmured, his voice deep and deceptively soft. “And I'm happy to say that you're in excellent health. These, for instance—”
He yanked her bodice and chemise down to expose her breasts.
“—are very fine specimens, indeed. But I think I should examine them more closely, just to make certain.”
She grabbed his shoulders and pushed, even as a savage weakness invaded her limbs and robbed her of any strength.
“How . . . how dare you?” Her voice ended on a squeaky high note as his calloused thumb flicked over one already painfully aroused nipple.
His lips curled back in a predatory smile as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. She shivered weakly at the raw passion that ignited his eyes with a midnight fire.
“Ah, Bathsheba,” he murmured as he closed the distance between them. “You were the one who dared me. And you must know by now that I can never resist a challenge.”
Chapter 17
Bathsheba was a vixen, a hellion who repulsed any attempt at domination. Her very nature demanded she resist his—or any man's—efforts to mold her to his desires.
John knew all that, but the knowing made it no more tolerable. She had been fighting him at every turn, driving him insane with her mercurial shifts in temperament. One moment she could melt like wax under his hands. The next, she pushed him away, straining with every bit of her formidable will to deny the sexual hunger consuming them both.
But she wasn't fighting anymore. Those little hands, fisted against his shoulders, suddenly opened and her fingertips clutched into the fabric of his coat as she pulled him closer. Her breasts, so creamy white and full, pushed against him, and he was suddenly mad to feel her naked body clinging to his own.
He leaned over, using his weight to push her into the firm bolsters of the sofa. Her lips parted, and she sucked his tongue deep into the brandied heat of her mouth. The taste of her, the wet slide of her sweet tongue as she tangled with him, drove a rush of blood to his aching groin.
She wriggled, settling her shoulders as he stretched out on top of her. With one leg, he gently nudged her knees apart so he could cradle his erection low against her belly and soft mound. A husky little murmur of appreciation rippled up from her throat, whispering from her lips into his mouth—a sound of quiet submission. A fierce joy took hold, stoking his sexual need. He ravished her mouth, using his lips, his tongue—even his teeth—to consume her, drugging himself on the nectar of her response.
But her mouth, as delicious as it was, could only be a foretaste of things to come. She lay sprawled beneath him, her naked breasts pushing into the satin of his waistcoat. Even through the layers of fabric, he could feel her nipples, hard little points thrusting into his chest. As much as he loved the moist slide of their lips and tongues, he needed more—to feel the arch of her body, straining up to him as he sucked those tight beads of flesh into his mouth.
With a reluctant nuzzle of her lips, he ended the kiss. Bathsheba's eyelids fluttered open, and her eyes, soft and green as newly grown moss, stared up at him. Her hands slipped up his arms to clasp the back of his neck.
“Don't stop,” she whispered, her voice both a purr and a plea. “I've been dreaming about kissing you for weeks.”
The admission drove another pounding rush of blood to his groin.
“Later,” he rasped. His voice sounded harsh, revealing how close he was to the limits of his control. “At the moment, there are other things I need to taste besides your mouth.”
Her kiss-swollen lips curved into a smile rich with anticipation. “Don't let me stop you.”
He wanted to laugh, but even her voice aroused him. It was all he could do not to rip her dainty silk and linen garments to shreds and drive his hot, aching length into her yielding flesh.
Instead, he pressed kisses into the soft column of her throat, forcing himself to slow down, to savor all he had been longing for these last endless weeks. The swell of her white bosom rose from her tattered chemise, which he
had
managed to rip in his haste to bare the treasures her garments so selfishly concealed. He was too impatient to undress her further, so he finished the job, ripping the soft linen and shoving it down to her waist. Bathsheba gasped, then gave a nervous giggle, which, perversely, fed his own sexual hunger.
For a moment, he simply gazed at her. At her beautiful, expressive face, her lush mouth and slim white throat, and then down to the full, round globes that quivered so prettily with the rise and fall of her breath. Her breasts—so soft, with their pink, flushed tips—were the picture of feminine vulnerability. All evening they had tempted him—
she
had tempted him. Teasing him with her attentions to other men. Making him feel like a savage, obsessed with the need to carry her off for a very thorough and possessive ravishing.
He swooped, fastening his mouth over her right nipple in a hard suck. Bathsheba gave a choked gasp and arched her back. She clutched his head, weaving her fingers tightly into his hair and holding him against her breast.
John was happy to oblige. He suckled and licked her, relishing her moans, feeling how the little tip grew even harder under the flick of his tongue. He brought his hand into play, kneading her other breast, gently tweaking and pulling the nipple into a rigid peak. All the while Bathsheba squirmed and moaned beneath him, apparently driven as mad by their mutual passion as he.
As he gave a particularly deep suck, drawing the white flesh of her breast into his mouth, she bucked against him. The sudden movement almost dislodged him, sending them both teetering to the edge of the sofa. Only by slapping his hand down on the carpet was he able to keep them from tumbling to the floor.
With an unsteady laugh, he lifted his head while keeping them braced against the back of the narrow piece of furniture.
“My sweet, if we're not careful, we're likely to end up in a heap on the floor. The last thing I want to do is play doctor because one of us gets hurt.”
Her eyes, drowsy with passion, sparked with amusement. “Yes, I think we've played doctor quite enough for one evening, don't you?”
He smiled, loving that she could make him laugh, even in the midst of such heated passion.
“Bathsheba, the first time I took you was on a rock in the woods. I would be exceedingly grateful if this time at least, we could make love in a bed. Like civilized people. Although,” he said in a mocking tone, “if you prefer the floor I'm sure I can be persuaded to accommodate you.”
She laughed. “That won't be necessary, Dr. Blackmore, although I appreciate the offer. The bedroom will do just fine.”
He heaved himself up, wincing at the straining erection pressed against the fall of his trousers. With an apologetic smile, he straightened himself. She rolled her eyes but forbore to tease him, and he spared a moment to appreciate the joys of lovemaking with an experienced woman. He could be himself—as earthy as he chose, and she wouldn't be offended.
“Up with you, my lady.”
He pulled her to her feet, steadying her between his hands as she staggered a bit. Her dress and chemise sagged around her waist, tattered pieces of fabric that only served to obscure the rest of her beauty. He pushed them down past her hips, letting them slide to her feet.
She stepped gracefully from the crumpled heap of clothing, stretching her slender arms up to reach around his neck. With one quick movement, he swept her up in his arms and headed for the bedroom, relishing the feel of her generous, naked curves. Her fingers danced across the back of his neck, sending a prickle of lust racing down his spine.
He shouldered his way through the door and into her bedroom, pausing for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the flickering light cast by a few branches of candles.
The large room was dominated by a massive bed, set slightly back into an alcove. It was richly upholstered and hung with elegant silk drapes. The rest of the furnishings seemed to be in the French style, in rich tones of yellow and green, matching the swags and curtains now drawn over the windows. It was elegant, lush, and expensive, just like the lady herself.
John paused on the threshold, as he had done when he first entered her apartments, brought to a sharp awareness of the differences in their stations. By no means would anyone consider him a poor man, and the blood that ran through his veins came from a family as old and distinguished as hers. But Bathsheba was a countess, and a rich one at that. Their lives—how they viewed the world—had almost nothing in common, save for the fact that their social circles occasionally overlapped.
Bathsheba stirred in his arms. “What's wrong?”
He shook his head, casting away the doubts that bedeviled him. For tonight, at least, he would let nothing stand between them. He would claim her, making her his and his alone.
John dipped his head and gave her a playful, nibbling kiss. “Nothing is wrong, my sweet. What could be, when I've captured such a tempting prize?”
She squirmed in his arms. “Then get on with it, before I lose interest.”
He laughed at the imperious note in her voice.
“As my lady desires.”
He dropped her lightly on the bed. She gave another of those un-Bathsheba-like giggles and scrambled back to rest on the ridiculously large mound of pillows piled up against the headboard. Her limbs fell into a graceful, naturally seductive pose. Slender legs, still covered by sheer silk stockings, slightly parted to allow him a glimpse of her intimate flesh. She looked like a cherished concubine in the harem of an Egyptian prince.
One slender, dark brow rose with an arrogant tilt.
“Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for? You best do something soon, or I just might decide to find alternative entertainment for the evening. After all, Doctor, you know how prone I am to boredom.”
She was a demon to tease him, and even though he knew that's all it was, he still couldn't hold back a dark surge of jealousy. The thought of Bathsheba with any man but him, her body responding to another's touch . . .
He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tossing them in the general direction of an armchair. Slowly untying his cravat, he let his gaze wander up her body as he loomed over her. Her cheeks flushed pink and she bit her lower lip as she boldly eyed him.
He grasped the cravat between his hands, holding the length of material taut like a rope.
“Perhaps I'll tie you to the bed, my lady. Then you won't be able to escape, and I'll have you at my mercy.”
She stilled. Her features suddenly went blank, as if a hand had wiped clean a slate. All traces of her confident sensuality disappeared as she sat up, stiff and straight against the pillows.
“I'm sorry, John, but I don't want to play any silly games with you,” she said in a brittle voice.
He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her. Even so, ever so slightly, she moved away from him.
“Sweetheart, it was only a jest,” he soothed. “You must know I would never do anything to hurt you.”
She glanced at his hands—at the cravat—then looked away.
“I know,” she replied, sounding weary. “Don't mind me. I'm just being an idiot.”
Puzzled, he gazed down at the piece of fabric in his hands. Why had his foolish jest disturbed her so deeply? The answer came to him in a flash, and he crumpled the linen and threw it on the floor.
“This is about your husband, isn't it?” he asked as gently as he could. Every muscle in his body twitched with the need to pull her into his arms, but he forced himself to hold back.
She stared grimly at some point on the opposite wall, her lips firmly sealed. He patiently waited her out. After several long moments, she gave a jerky nod of her head.
“Bathsheba, did he tie you up?”
Her arms went across her breasts, covering as much of herself as she could. Another tight nod.
Fury surged through his body in a cold, splintering wave. It was a good thing Randolph was dead, because at that moment John would have gladly pounded the bastard into a pulp.
“Did he hurt you?” he managed to ask through clenched teeth.
Her startled gaze flew to his, and he saw something in the sea-green depths that stunned him.
Shame.
His face must have shown his reaction because this time she turned her head away, refusing to look at him.
Carefully, John reached out and brushed aside a tumbled lock of hair falling over her eyes. “He didn't hurt you, did he?”
She hunched her shoulders, but didn't jerk away.
“You can tell me,” he urged. “Nothing you say will shock me.”
When she didn't answer, he took her chin and gently forced her to look at him. “And nothing you say will change my feelings for you, or my desire to be with you.”
Her gaze fastened onto his, her expression both wounded and vulnerable. For a moment, she reminded him of an innocent girl. Then the cynical countess returned, looking as bitter as he had ever seen her.
“Reggie never hurt me that way,” she said in a hard voice. “In fact, I liked what he did. At least in the beginning, when I thought he loved me. I found it exciting . . . the games we used to play. I did everything he asked me to do, no matter how outrageous or ridiculous.”
That last bit was flung at him, but he simply returned her defiant look with a steady one of his own. Some of the starch went out of her, and she slumped onto the pillows.
“What kind of decent woman enjoys things like that?” she asked softly. “But then, I suppose we've already established that I'm not a decent woman.”
John took her cold hands between his. “My sweet, you've done nothing wrong. Nothing is forbidden between loving couples, as long as one doesn't seek to degrade the other. You loved your husband and you wanted to please him. He was a fool not to realize what a treasure you had bestowed upon him.”
BOOK: My Favorite Countess
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