second brazen imprint.
She was deliberately leaving bruises on his neck when he’d never allowed the London ladies such latitude. His policy was a hands-off one when it came to proprietary claims. The little puss was bold and cheeky. On the other hand, he knew where her trail of kisses would end.
By the time Isolde had satisfied her jealous pangs and paid homage to her husband’s splendid body-kissing and caressing his bulging pectorals, his nipples, the hard ripple of his abdominal muscles, the dip of his navel, the crisp black hair at the juncture of his thighs, Oz was in a cold sweat, curtailing his climax by sheer will alone.
Circling his penis with her fingers, Isolde drew it away from his stomach and met his hot gaze. “You’re not going to last much longer, are you?”
He shook his head.
“Then I suppose it’s up to me to do my wifely duty.”
“Sooner rather than later or you won’t have to,” he said on a suffocated breath.
“But of course I want to. Wait-wait!”
He was almost undone by her wistful zeal, and as she quickly obliged him and the crest of his penis slid into her mouth, he felt an unparalleled suffusion of spine-tingling pleasure. Whether it was her accommodating mouth, the continuous assault on his libido, or the rare level of delirium she incited, the fierceness of his ejaculation coursed through his body like a shock wave.
When Isolde swallowed the last drop and he was debating whether he was paralyzed or could still move, she slid up his body and kissed him on the mouth, her lips still wet with semen. Lifting her head, she smiled at him. “How was that? Do I please you, my lord?”
He smiled. “It was perfect, darling, and yes, you please me. I must send Fremont a thank-you gift.”
“Not just yet,” she sweetly said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not while I still have a heartbeat,” he replied with a grin, sliding a finger inside her as if her willingness was ever at issue. She was open and ready, her cunt slick and warm, pulsing around his finger. “The gates of paradise are ever open, I see.”
“Always for you,” she whispered, wiggling against his finger. Reaching up, she brushed the light bruises on his neck. “And these are for me.”
He laughed when in the past he would have risen and left. “Is that a fact?”
Her smile was bright and she spoke not rationally, but with her heart. “They mark you as mine.”
“In that case I’ll have to make you
She gasped at each forceful downstroke, a soft, breathy pleasure sound, and on each upstroke, she clung to him-loathe to lose him.
It was never enough-no matter how many times they climaxed that afternoon.
They were filled with lust, vibrating with lust.
Seething, feverish, out of control.
Until wild-eyed and hysterical, she shoved him away, fell on her stomach, and shuddered uncontrollably.
Oz gently stroked her back until her tremors ceased.
She rolled over then, her eyes wet with tears. “Hold me.” He gathered her into his arms, settled her on his lap, and leaning back against the sofa arm, held her with unaffected tenderness. He whispered all the love words, the play words, the amorous phrases meant to soothe and placate and disarm. He knew them well, glibly some would say, but his make-believe wife pleased him and he willingly uttered the words of affection.
She fell asleep quickly, like an exhausted child after too much excitement.
He waited for her breathing to settle before carefully shifting his position and easing her onto the sofa. Placing a pillow under her head, he covered her with a paisley shawl, and in an unprecedented gesture of sentiment, bent and kissed her cheek.
Conscious of the time, his dressing was swiftly accomplished, and when he left the room, he closed the door with the utmost quietness.
Going directly to the conservatory, he ignored the pointed interest of the young seamstresses and apologized to Mrs. Aubigny. “I understand the delay is a serious inconvenience with time so limited. Allow me to offer you a substantial monetary incentive to both forgive the interruption and bring in additional help to complete my wife’s gown. I do apologize,” he said again.
“There’s no need to apologize,” the Frenchwoman said, fully conscious of Lennox’s wealth as well as the power of amour. His lordship was still sweating, his hair damp. “My lady has a mind of her own. It alleviates the boredom, I wager.”
“Indeed,” Oz replied with a faint smile. During the past two years, he’d spent considerable time in Mrs. Aubigny’s shop with one woman or another; he and the modiste were on friendly terms.
“I’ll need the fabric, of course,” she said with a lift of her brows.
“A servant will fetch it. Ask Josef for whatever else you need and he’ll see to it. Davey will bring you the additional bank draft for your trouble, and when my lady wakes, I’ll see if she’s available for another fitting. Although, I’m not sure,” he carefully said, “if she will be or not.”
“I have her measurements.”
His expression cleared. “I thought you might. Excellent. By seven then.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He bowed with grace. “I’m in your debt.”
She watched him walk away, the brilliant light in the conservatory betraying the bruises on his neck as well as the bite marks on his ear left by his wife’s passion. Despite his bride’s look of innocence, they appeared well matched. As for Lennox, his wildness was common knowledge. He was also as experienced as any man when it came to amour. He wouldn’t have been marked unless he’d allowed it.
Oz went next to meet with the jeweler.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Martin,” he said, walking into his office and smiling at the heavyset man who looked more like a prizefighter than a jeweler. “Did you get coffee? Good. I hope you have pearls.”
“Some very fine ones, sir. The kind that rarely come on the market.”
“Sounds intriguing.” Oz pulled up a chair beside the jeweler. “I’m sure my wife will appreciate them,” he said with such obvious good cheer Martin was taken aback.
Martin, as the premier jeweler to those of prodigious wealth, had served Lord Lennox on occasions too numerous to count, but none in which the baron had appeared in such jovial spirits. He wasn’t a man one would characterize as jovial. Or even animated; his natural reserve was as notable as his willfulness.
Martin briefly wondered at his lordship’s sobriety. He was known to drink away his days with some frequency. But after a surreptitious glance as he was laying out the splendid necklace of large matched pearls, Martin saw that the baron was surprisingly sober.
He gently arranged the pearls in a circle on the pad of black velvet he’d set on the small table before him. “This exquisite piece was a Napoleonic trophy brought back from Italy-from a Venetian collection. The maker’s mark on the diamond clasp, however, indicates Constantinople as the original provenance, with the original recipient Empress Theodosia. See-here-the imperial cipher.”
Oz leaned forward to witness the imperial stamp. “I’ll take it,” he said, sitting back and offering Martin a smile. “I don’t suppose you have earrings to match?”
“Unfortunately not. Sets rarely survive the centuries. But I have some superb pearl pendant earrings you might appreciate.”
“I’m sure I will. Your taste is always impeccable.”
Martin spread out a collection of expensive baubles; Lennox only wanted the best. A design question from the baron, another about a diamond clasp, a query as to gem-stone quality, one about a goldsmith, and their business was quickly done. Lennox generally knew what he wanted, but then Martin understood the baron owned ruby mines in India. He wasn’t a novice with gems. In short order Martin left Lennox House with a light step and a broad smile. The baron never quibbled over price, but more surprising-as gossip suggested-he seemed enamored of his new wife. His lordship had purchased all the jewelry shown him, including the diamond and onyx tiger brooch that was
