An Unconventional Affair: Forever Yours Series Page 4

  ‘It’s my husband…he…the viscount…he…this is what he wants…what he says I must do, or I will be failing in my duty to him! Oh, Max, I am so mortified, I should have resisted more and face the consequences!’

  Those words had killed something inside of him that night. She had only taken him to her room on the order of her husband, who had lurked to watch his young, ravishing wife make love to another. And without a word, Max had turned and walked away.

  A hiss slipped through Max’s teeth, as he also recalled the scandal which had roared through the ton one day after that faithful encounter.

  ‘Viscountess Weatherston seen racing down the streets of Mayfair barefoot and in her night rail with one Lord Spencer, a most profligate rakehell of the ton, giving chase’, the headlines had screamed in the scandal sheets.

  That very same day, her husband had collapsed and died. And Society had been unforgiving in their condemnation. They had branded her a shameful hussy who had driven her viscount to death’s door with her wanton behavior.

  Thinking how wretched the entire thing must have been for her, Max had tried to find her right away. For several weeks he had searched for Amalie, and it was as if she had disappeared from England itself. Then he had left, traveling the world again, until his new responsibilities as the earldom had drawn him back to England’s shores over these last months.

  Five years, Amalie, he said silently. I’ve not seen you in over five years.

  Max lifted his glass in a toast, and a ripple went through those who noticed his gesture. Curious as to what she would do, Max almost expired when the bold, sassy minx winked at him for all of London to see. And suddenly he realized he was a fool to even think of taking another to be his lover. It has always been her. Once he’d let her go and she’d marry another. He would be a damn fool to allow her to escape his grasp easily again. While she would not do as a wife…certainly the passion which had always burned between them could finally be explored.

  Ah, I’m coming for you, my sweet Amalie, and I believe I shall tempt from you what has haunted me all these years.

  Chapter 4

  “All women deserve patience and gentleness when initiated into the art of lovemaking. A woman’s body is a work of beauty, a temple a man should worship with his tongue. A man should take his time over her body, especially if she is a shy, blushing wife. Remove her gown slowly…kiss her throat, even nip it a bit with your teeth. Take your lips on a journey over her bare shoulders, use your lips and tongue to do wicked things between her thighs. A nibble of the soft folds of her sex, some gentle and others slightly harder. That small sting will allow her body to become accustomed to pain with pleasure for when you pierce her wet flesh with your manhood. Yes, my friends…that sweet spot should be soaking.”—A Guide to Passionate Romps between a Lord and his Lady.

  Her face flushed, and unknown sensations fluttered low in her belly. Amalie closed the book, still hardly believing that it was Max who’d written it or that it was still so popular months after its release. She’d heard that the first print run had been twenty thousand copies and had sold out from the stores within a few days, even though the book was not on display, and you had to discreetly ask the seller for a copy. Copies of A Guide to Passionate Romps between a Lord and his Lady had been kept under the counter, already wrapped so no one knew who had bought so outrageous a volume. Who knew fashionable London would have been so eager for this kind of erotic literature?

  Walking over to the easel with the image she’d been painting, she selected a smaller brush and dipped it in some pigment, then stroked the brush over the canvas, slowly creating the violet-hued skyline she spied through the windows.

  Several minutes later, a brisk knock sounded on the door to her private parlor. Amalie frowned, for her staff knew not to disturb her whenever she was in her private parlor, and she had no appointment today. Lowering her paintbrush, she said, “Please, enter.”

  Her butler, Collins, came in. “My lady, you have a caller. Lord Kentwood. Should I turn him away, your ladyship?”

  Collins wasn't impertinent, only that the few bold men who’d dared to call over the years had been refused an audience. Her tongue felt thick and heavy as she searched for the words to reply. “Please, show him in.”

  His gaze swept the large room she’d never allowed anyone but the staff to enter. She had paintings mounted on the walls, and some even rested on the floor, leaning against the green and silver patterned wallpaper.

  “In the drawing-room—”

  “Here,” she said, removing her stained apron with trembling fingers. “And have Cook prepare tea and cakes.” This morning she had slipped into a simple ivory day gown with peach ribbons, her dark red hair piled atop her head in a careless chignon, and her feet were bare of stockings and slippers.

  Collins kept his features admirably composed, and replied, “Right away, your ladyship.”

  Perhaps she should have turned Lord Kentwood away or made him wait while she dressed more appropriately. With a groan, she rushed toward the door, only to falter when it opened and revealed Max framed in the doorway. The breath escaped audibly from her lungs.

  “Max…Lord Kentwood,” she said clasping her hands before her. Lord Kentwood was dressed for riding, in a dark blue coat and buckskin breeches which clung to strong thigh muscles that her former memories failed to recall. Had he always been so handsome? She could not remember him being so overpoweringly masculine before. Amalie fought to be formally correct and found herself staring at his shiny top boots. His raven-black hair had been neatly pomaded into the correct mode although some rakish curls had been allowed to frame his darkly tanned face. She looked into his so familiar slate-gray eyes for some reassurance. Although they now appeared to crinkle, she was not sure the smile reached his eyes. He had handed his high-crowned black beaver hat to Collins along with his riding coat.

  “I...how are you?” she asked, a trifle breathlessly.

  “My Lady Weatherston,” he said, affecting a charming bow, his intent gaze caressing over her face as if he wished to sear her features onto his thoughts. It was impolite and heartwarming.

  They stared at each other, and her heart squeezed. How I’ve missed you, Max. “I didn’t expect you to call so soon.” But after that toast in Lady Rushworth’s ballroom the previous night, she had been waiting on something.

  “Ah,” he murmured with an amused glint in his eyes. “But you did expect me, surely that audacious wink you gave me was an invitation?”

  Though her lips twitched, Amalie made no reply. She turned on her heel and led him to the fireplace, where two leather wingback chairs faced the low-burning flames.

  “Oh, it was, I simply did not anticipate such eagerness from a man of your fashionable notoriety,” she said, pleased that she had acquitted herself with admirable composure. “Sit wherever suits you,” she said with a careless wave around the room.

  He glanced around the elegantly appointed space, his gaze lingering on the few framed canvases on the wall, the easel in the center of the room, and the small sleeping dog on the pink, plush sofa positioned near large bay windows. His gaze sharpened on something. Oh! It was his book. Max strolled over to the small table and picked it up, noting where she had paused in her reading.

  “Do you like it?” he murmured, thumbing the pages.

  At her silence, he looked up and simply stared at her.

  “I…it is interesting,” she admitted, swallowing tightly.

  “I’ve heard so many descriptions of my work but have never heard interesting before. Wicked. Filthy. Naughty. Erotic. Salacious. Those epithets I’m familiar with, in what manner do you find these words and drawings interesting?”

  There was an unexpected gleam of humor in his gray eyes, and it pulled a smile to her lips and eased some of the tension from her body. Amalie sank into the sofa, folding her legs beneath her.

  She hesitated only a moment and then said, “I…I did not think it dirty or too naughty.”

 
“Perhaps a woman of your varied experience would not think so.”

  She arched a brow. So, he believed the rumors floating about town. “I thought it more of loving instructions to men for their wives.”

  He smiled, and she could tell that he was pleased by her assessment.

  “You always did have a keen romantic sensibility,” he said, with a rueful smile still staring at the pages. “It is one of the things which drew me to you when I saw you chasing butterflies, barefoot in the grass, kneeling to speak to the bunnies. I thought ah…here is a girl who believes in fairy tales with enchanted characters, not the morbid and grim ones which had been the rage.”

  She had been a young girl when she’d met him, and very improper, always playing by the woods of her father’s country estate instead of planning for her marriage. “What inspired you to write it?”

  A derisive scoff escaped him. “You.”

  The single word dropped into the room like a chemical explosion. Amalie’s heart pounded, and her mouth went dry. A startling fire invaded her, and the shock sent prickles all over her body. “Me?”

  An unfamiliar warmth entered her body, and her heart quickened. Why did that knowledge affect her so?

  “Hmm,” he said noncommittally, closing the book, and resting it once more on the table. “For a long time after that night…in your chamber, I couldn’t think…dream of anyone but you. All those pent-up longings went into me dreaming about if you were mine and what I would do to you.”

  A strange stirring began in the pit of her stomach and drifted lower. “I have thought of you often over the years as well, in a similar manner.” Drat. She tried to sound unaffected, but her voice had held a distinct croak.

  He faced her, and once again they looked at each other for a long time. Max strolled over and sat in the seat opposite her. His expression was one of curiosity as he stared at her, and Amalie leaned back, provocatively crossing her legs at the ankles, displaying an air of casual indifference.

  Those winter-gray eyes skipped over the picture she made, draped in the large chair, her ankles on display, her toes bare, and her head a loose knot about her head. Amalie thought she might look quite messy, but his breathing fractured, and he was the first to look away into the fire for a long moment before his gaze came back to her.

  “Are you seeking a lover?”

  That blunt question had her fighting to maintain the unaffected air she wanted to exude. Suddenly it felt false, this hiding of her true feelings. With a sigh, she straightened, settling her hands in her lap.

  “I’ve never had one,” she said softly.

  “Me either,” he murmured.

  And she took that to mean he’d never bedded the same woman twice. Suddenly it hurt, the thought of him with so many others, laughing, romping in bed the way he described it in his book.

  Playing in bed, light, and laughing is a great precursor to sexual intimacy.

  How many ladies have you played with so, teased them with your banter and light touches, soft kisses, and nibbling? she wanted to ask, but simply could not. “Are you looking for a lover, Max?”

  His lips curved. “Yes.”

  “And is that why you called upon me…in the hopes that woman will be me?”

  “Yes.”

  The heat spread even more throughout her body at his blunt responses. “I am not certain how to feel about your honesty,” she said, searching his face.

  There were crinkles at the corners of his eyes, but the familiar smile she expected did not follow.

  “Being truthful and establishing trust is essential,” he replied. “Wouldn’t you agree, Amalie?”

  The best foundation for passionate encounters is to be honest with your partners about your wants and desires. There is no shame in saying them.

  “I see you are a man who practices what you write.”

  “Ah…that, I shall aim for.”

  And suddenly, everything he had written about how a gentleman should take the care and patience to rouse his wife’s passion crowded her thoughts. The licks and nibbles he spoke about, the strokes of fingers over soft folds, the positions she should be held in, and the pictures drawn to depict the words in case the reader lacked any sort of erotic imagination.

  Heat flushed through her body, and acute hunger blossomed. “Yes,” she said softly. “I want a lover. And if I should pick anyone to take that position in my life, brief as it might be, it would be you.”

  Another wave of taut tension fraught with intimate peril washed over them. Their interactions in the past had never been like this…so intense or filled with such an awareness of each other. Amalie realized that night when she had taken him to her bedroom had changed the sweet and always hovering love, which had been between them to something more tense and uncertain.

  He leaned forward, dropping his hands between his legs to brace on his knees. “Come here, Amalie.”

  The inherent dominance in that command froze her. At first, she thought about refusing, but she stood and went over to him. He straightened, and she sat in his lap, looping her hands around the nape of his neck. She had no idea what possessed her, but she had shocked herself. And perhaps him too, for a brief moment he stiffened before his body relaxed.

  He gripped her chin gently and ensured she stared into his eyes. “Do you want me to take you to your boudoir, splay you on the bed, kiss your quim with my mouth, and then take you?”

  The sensual promise in his voice made her breath catch. Heat flushed through her at the provoking image, but her heart…it ached for something else, even as long-denied flesh cried out its denial. “No.”

  She sucked in a breath when he leaned in and his lips, soft and hot, pressed against the tender skin beneath her ear. “What do you want to do then?”

  When the words came to her lips, they came almost unbidden. “Talk,” she said.

  He eased her away a bit, assessing her face.

  She offered him a shaky smile. “It has been years, Max. I…I missed you. How have you been?”

  Amalie braced for some sort of derision, but relief lit in his eyes.

  “Thank Christ,” he said, hugging her to his chest in a tight embrace. “I missed you too, old friend.”

  The years fell away then, and it was as if they had never parted. She laughed, feeling unexpectedly delighted with the man. Somewhere inside, she had wondered if a man of his varied erotic experiences only wanted her because of her unattainable airs.

  She hugged him back for several moments, swallowing past the lump that had formed in her throat. “You are still my friend, aren’t you, Max?”

  “Yes,” he said softly, giving her another firm squeeze about the shoulders. “I’ve missed you too, dreadfully.”

  “I’m glad I was not alone in my torment.”

  “Now have mercy and get off my lap,” he muttered. “I am not a damned saint.”

  With a soft laugh, she stood and dropped back into her chair. The sexual tension which had hummed in the air had vanished, leaving behind that sweet, warm feeling which normally filled her whenever they chatted.

  “So, shall I put that away?” she asked, lifting her chin to the book.

  He made a little tsk, a chiding click of his tongue. “Please, never to resurface!”

  “I shall not believe that mock horror for a minute.”

  “Everyone seems to only see me through the lens of those words, and I am mightily tired of it. I am fortunate to be endowed with a supposedly knowing tongue, fingers, cock, rank, wealth, and elegance,” he said with a glint of amused mockery in his eyes. “Truly the earldom is the icing on that naughty cake.”

  She choked and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Max!”

  “Too inappropriate?” he asked with a warm twinkle in his eyes. “Surely, you know the word cock…because I assume that word is why you are blushing so beautifully!”

  Her cheeks warmed even more under his curious appraisal. And how it warmed her to know that carefree scoundrel she had been so fascinated by still
remained underneath the worldly and dashing man. She jumped to her feet and slipped the book into the small writing desk before retaking her position on the sofa. He had loosened his cravat and removed his jacket. Amalie glanced at him quickly when he leaned forward and took her hands into his.

  He laced his fingers through hers, his thumb stroking across her palm. “How have you truly been, Amalie? It has been so long since we last spoke.”

  She stared at their hands remembering how in the past as they walked through the glen or fished together in the lake, they often stayed like this. Touching…always wanting but never dreaming, each had love in their heart for the other. She had not known he loved her too until he had shown up on her wedding day, and she’d seen the heartache in his eyes. Too late, she had cried silently, feeling as if a slight breeze would have totally shattered her. God, the memory of it was enough to sting her eyes.

  “Amalie?”

  His murmur was rough and questioning.

  “I’ve been as well as can be.”

  “That sounds charmingly cryptic.” He released her hand and stood. “I am captivated, but I suspect our chatting will require something firmer than tea.”

  Max padded over to the liquor cabinet, glass clinking as he filled a glass with whisky. “What would you like, a brandy?”

  “Perhaps some sherry.”

  He poured one for her. She took the proffered drink with a murmur of thanks. This time he sat in the seat opposite the one he had occupied before, and though he was farther away, somehow it felt more intimate as he now stared so directly at her features. He lifted his glass. “To rekindling friendship…and perhaps to eventually dancing hot and sweet between the sheets.”

  Amalie gasped at his blunt crudeness even as her belly tightened at how low and rough, he’d murmured it.

  “There it is,” he said, clearly fascinated.

  “What?”

  “You are blushing, even though I said perhaps. You might decide you do not like me that way, after all.”