“Pel, wait.” Hargreaves caught her about the waist, and buried his face in the curve of her neck. “Forgive me. I feel a gulf between us that was not there before, and I cannot bear it.”
He turned her to face him. “Tell me truthfully. Does Grayson want you?”
“I don’t know.”
John released a frustrated breath. “How in hell can you not know, Isabel? You, of all women, should know if a man desires to be in your bed or not.”
“You have not seen him. His garments are odd—coarse and overly simple. Wherever he has been, it has not been anywhere he would socialize. Yes, he lusts, John. I recognize that much. But is it me he lusts for? Or a woman in general? That is what I do not know.”
“Then we must find your husband his own paramour,” John said grimly. “So that he will leave mine alone.”
She gave a weary laugh. “What an odd conversation to have.”
“I know.” Hargreaves grinned, and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Shall we sit, and plan a dinner, then? We can make a list of all the women we think Grayson would enjoy, and invite them.”
“Oh, John.” Isabel smiled her first genuine smile since Gray had returned. “That is such an inspired enterprise. Why could I not have thought of it?”
“Because that’s what you have me for.”
Gerard read the morning’s newspaper over coffee, and attempted to ignore his anxiousness. He would be seen today, Society would know that he had returned. Over the next few days, old acquaintances would come to call, and he would have to decide which friendships to renew, and which would remain in the past.
“Good morning, my lord.”
He looked up at the sound of Isabel’s voice, and took a sharp, quick inhale as he stood. She was dressed in pale blue, her bodice low and displaying the generous curves of her breasts, while the waist was high and banded with darker blue ribbon. Her gaze would not meet his directly until he returned her greeting. Then she looked at him, and managed a smile.
Pel was obviously nervous, and it was the first time that he had ever seen her less than utterly confident. She stared at him a moment. Then her chin lifted, and she approached him. She pulled out the chair next to him before he could unlock his muscles and do it for her. He cursed inwardly. He had not been a monk for four years, but it had been a good while since his last liaison. Too long.
“Gray,” she began.
“Yes?” he prodded when she hesitated.
“You need a mistress,” she blurted.
He blinked, and then dropped back into his chair, holding his breath to avoid smelling her. One whiff of her perfume, and he would be hard, no doubt. “A mistress?”
She nodded, and bit her luscious bottom lip. “I doubt you will have any difficulty acquiring one.”
“No,” he said slowly. Good God. “With the proper attire, and a reintroduction to Society, I could manage the task, I’m sure.” Gerard stood again. He could not talk about this with her. “Shall we go, then?”
“Eager, are we?” She laughed, and he grit his teeth at the lusty sound. The wariness that had stiffened her frame when she first entered was gone, leaving behind the Pel of old. A Pel who expected him to contract a mistress, and leave her alone.
“You ate upstairs, did you not?” He backed up a step, and breathed through his mouth. How in hell would he make it through the afternoon? Or the next week, or month? Or—bloody hell—years, as she often invested in her affairs.
“Yes.” She stood. “Let’s be off then, Lothario. Far be it for me to delay the discovery of your next amour.”
Gerard followed at a safe distance, but doing so was not effective in quelling his lust due to the lamentable fact that he now had an excellent view of Isabel’s gently swaying hips and lush derriere.
The landau ride was a bit better, as the open top helped to dissipate the scent of exotic flowers. And the walk on Bond Street was better than that, since he could no longer think about his errant cock while being gaped and pointed at. Pel walked beside him, chatting merrily, her lovely face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “You would think I had risen from the dead.”
“In a way, you have. You left without a word, and kept in touch with no one. But I think they are just as interested in the changes to your appearance.”
“My skin is sun-darkened.”
“Yes, it is. I quite like it. Other women will like it, too.”
He glanced down at her in the course of his reply, and realized that from his vantage he had a prime view of her breasts.
“Where is the damned tailor’s?” he growled, frustrated beyond measure.
“You do need a woman,” she said, shaking her head. “Here we are. This is the establishment you listed in your old schedule, is it not?”
The door opened inward with a soft ring of bells, and within moments they were in a private fitting room. He was divested of his clothing, which Pel ordered away with a toss of her hand and a wrinkling of her nose. Gerard stood there in his smalls, and laughed. Until she turned to face him. Then the way she looked at him tightened his throat and choked off his merriment.
“Good heavens,” she breathed, while circling him. Her fingertips brushed lightly across the ridges of his abdomen. He bit back a groan. The entire room smelled like her. Now she was touching him intimately.
The tailor entered, and gaped a moment in surprise. “I believe I will have to take new measurements, my lord.”
Isabel stepped back quickly at the intrusion, her cheeks flushed. The tailor began to work, and she recovered quickly, directing her attention to talking the tradesman into parting with finished garments ordered by another customer.
“Surely, you would not wish His Lordship to leave your establishment in any manner other than suitably attired?” she asked.
“Of course not, Lady Grayson,” came the ready reply. “But these are the closest to finished that I have, and they will not fit His Lordship. But perhaps I could add some extra material here.”
“Yes, and let it out a little more there,” she said, when the tailor pinned the material at his shoulder. “Look how broad he is. You can remove the padding. First and foremost, he must be comfortable.”
Her hand drifted down his back, and Gerard clenched his fists to fight off a shudder. He was anything but comfortable.
“Do you have smalls that will fit him?” she asked, her voice lower and huskier than usual. “This material is too coarse.”
“Yes,” the tailor said quickly, eager to sell as much as possible.
The jacket was whisked away, and Gerard pulled on the matching trousers. They stood behind him, the tailor and Isabel, and he was grateful. He was holding off a cockstand by dint of will alone. He could not help being aroused. Pel’s gaze was so hot, he felt it, and she continued to touch him and say admiring things about his body. A man could only take so much.
“Do not alter this,” she breathed, her breath hot against his bare back. Her hand cupped the curve of his ass. “Is it too tight back here, my lord?” she asked him softly, caressing him. “I hope not. It looks wonderful.”
“No. The back is fine.” Then he lowered his voice so only she could hear. “But you have made the front damned uncomfortable.”
The curtain moved to the side, and an assistant entered with the smalls. Gerard closed his eyes in misery. Everyone would see his condition now.
“Thank you,” Isabel murmured. “Lord Grayson will need a moment.”
He stood in surprise as she shooed the others out. Only when they were alone did he turn to face her. “Thank you, Isabel.”
Her eyes were riveted to the placket of his trousers. She swallowed hard, and hugged the smalls to her chest. “You should remove those before you burst the seams.”
“Will you help me?” he asked gruffly, hoping.
“No, Gray.” She handed him the smalls, and looked away. “I told you, I have someone.”
Gerard was tempted to remind her that she also had a husband, but that would not be fair, considering how he had coerced her into marriage. Selfishly, he had wanted her as his wife to irritate his mother, and save himself from overly ambitious mistresses. He had paid no regard to the censure she would face by taking lovers without first providing him an heir. This was his repayment for his narcissism—to desire what belonged to him, but was not his to take.
He nodded, swallowing the bitterness of his regret. “Give me some privacy. If you would, please.”
She did not look at him as she left.
Isabel stepped out of the fitting room, and closed the curtain behind her. Her hands shook terribly, incited by the sight of Gray’s body as he dressed and undressed, teasing her with his male perfection.
He was in the prime of his life, retaining the power and strength of youth, while adding the maturity of tough times and a few years. He rippled with muscle everywhere, and she knew from being held against him yesterday that he wielded that power carefully.
Honestly, Gray. You are too young for me.
Why had she not stayed the straight course? Looking at him now, seeing all of his vigor and vitality, Isabel collected how wrong she had been to bind his life to hers.
He needed a lover to take up his time and attention. A man of his age was bursting with lust, and the primal desire to sow his oats. She was convenient and attractive, and so he wanted her. She was the only woman he knew, for the time being. But one does not have an affair with one’s spouse.
Isabel groaned inwardly. God, why had she married again? She had made the ultimate commitment to avoid commitment, and look where that foolishness had landed her.
Men who looked like Gray were not constant. She had learned that lesson with Pelham. The dashing earl had needed a wife, and he’d lusted for her. A perfect combination in his mind. But once his infatuation had faded, he had moved on to the next bed, completely disregarding how in love with him she was. Grayson would move on as well. Certainly, he was more somber now, more grounded than when they had wed, but his age was undeniable.
Isabel could bear the rumors of his sexual prowess, and the innuendoes that she was too old to satisfy him or provide him an heir, as long as she felt no claim to him. She was faithful to her lovers, and expected the same in return for the duration of the affair. And therein lay the rub. Affairs were meant to be ended, while marriages lasted until death.
Isabel walked away, determined to find something to distract her from her thoughts. Moving toward the main room, she was intent on looking at the latest renderings, but the sliver of open curtain caught her eye. She paused. Then took a step back.
Against her will, she peeped through that tiny gap, and was arrested by the sight of Gray’s fine derriere. Why had God given so much beauty to one man? And that ass! It was fiendish to have a man who looked as good from the back as he did from the front.
The firm cheeks were pale, especially in contrast to the deep tan of his torso. Where had he been, and what had he been occupied with to have developed those muscles and gained that skin color? He was glorious—his back, buttocks, and arms flexing with rhythmic power.
She released her held breath. It was then she noted why he was making those repetitive motions.
Gray was masturbating.
Christ! Isabel sagged against the wall as her knees went weak. She could not look away, even as her nipples tightened into aching points, and a slow trickle of arousal began deep inside her. Had she pushed him to this with a simple touch and a heated glance? The thought of holding so much power over such a glorious creature made her ache. Customers and employees scuttled behind her, and there she stood, obviously a voyeur. A woman of the world, she was nevertheless devastated by lust.
He was panting, his thighs straining, and she wished she could see the front of him. What did that beautiful face look like in the heat of passion? Was the lacing of muscle on his abdomen taut with tension? Was his cock as well built as the rest of him? Her imaginings were worse than the watching.
His head fell back, his dark hair drifting across his shoulders, and then he shuddered with a low, pained moan. Isabel moaned with him, sweat misting her skin, and then she turned away before he saw her. Before she saw him, in all his glory.
What the devil was she to do now?
Yes, she was a sensual woman, and the sight of a man pleasuring himself would titillate her, regardless. But never to this extent. She could barely breathe, and the need to climax was near maddening. It would be foolish to tell herself otherwise.
She recognized the tendrils of heat that curled low in her belly. Some called it desire. She called it destruction.
“Lady Grayson?” he called, in that deep raspy voice.
She placed that tone now that she had heard it enough. It was a bedroom voice, the sound of a man who had just cried out his pleasure. Why he should have that voice all the time, to torment women with the desire to give him reason to sound that way, was simply wrong.
“Y—yes?” She took a deep breath, and entered.
Gray faced her wearing the new smalls. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes knowing. She had not gone undetected.
“I hope one day you do more than watch,” he said softly.
She covered the lower half of her face with a gloved hand, mortified and anguished. Yet he was unashamed. He stared at her intensely, his gaze taking in the outline of her hardened nipples.
“Damn you,” she whispered, hating him for coming home and turning her life upside-down. She ached all over, her skin too hot and too tight, and she detested the feeling and the memories it brought with it.
“I am damned, Pel, if I must live with you and not have you.”
“We had a bargain.”
“This,” he gestured between them, “was not there then. What do you propose we do about it? Ignore it?”
“Spend it elsewhere. You are young and randy—”
“And married.”
