Taming His Scandalous Countess (5 page)

She swept past him without a glance
and stormed off down the hall, accompanied by his low chuckle.

*
* * * *

The evening was a dazzling success,
judging by the number of people crushed into the Earl of Snow's Audley Street
mansion. Isabelle, a smile pasted on her face, stood stoically by her husband's
side as she greeted the seemingly endless stream of guests who mounted the
stairs. Snow's connections boasted some of the bluest blood in England. They
were all uniformly cordial, if not warm, in welcoming her to the family. Snow's
sister, Lucy, now married to diplomat some years her senior, was one exception.
The earl's friend, Leighton Frost, was another.

Lucy had embraced her with
affection.

"Isabelle, you've altered
scarcely a whit since school! How delightful it is to see you again."

This was accompanied by a
mischievous smile. Isabelle smiled nervously in turn. Her husband had evidently
primed his sister about their fictitious relationship. Lucy winked and moved
down the receiving line.

Mr. Frost, whom Snow presented as
one of his oldest friends, was generally accounted the handsomest man in
London. From the top of his golden head to his immaculate evening pumps, he was
perfection. Sensuous lips, a slightly aquiline nose and the coldest blue eyes
Isabelle had ever seen, accompanied a well-cut figure, slightly above medium
height.

"Lady Snow, it's a pleasure to
finally meet you. Your husband has kept you hidden away for far too long."

Frost bowed over her hand. He
surveyed her thoroughly, and then his gaze dropped to the expanse of bosom
displayed by the low-cut gown the
modiste
had insisted was all the rage.

He pressed a kiss into her palm.
"I hope to become more...intimately acquainted with you in the
future."

Isabelle stepped back and Frost
immediately released her. He smiled and passed down the line, greeting her
husband and exchanging a few pleasantries with the other guests.

The Beaufort sapphires her husband
had given her before the ball glittered in the candlelight, their weight a
brand of possession. Isabelle chatted and danced, ignoring the headache which
kept growing in proportion to the noise in the ballroom. She turned from
listening to a discussion of family bloodlines with two of Snow's elderly aunts
to encounter the hard stare of Lady Merritt, her former sister-in-law.

"You've certainly fallen on
your feet, my dear sister," she said, with a hard smile.

"Leticia, thank you so much
for coming. You look lovely." Isabelle clutched her fan.

"Spare me your hypocrisy. I
don't want to be here anymore than you want me to be. If my husband hadn't
insisted, I would be home with a glass of wine, toasting my dear Charlie. How
quickly you've forgotten him."

"I've forgotten nothing,"
Isabelle said, "nor forgiven."

"You jumped-up little whore!
Charlie was worth ten of you. But you made him wallow down in the mud with you.
He would still be alive if not for you!"

The ivory spines of Isabelle's fan
snapped audibly.

"You were always blind about
your brother. He was a drunkard and a cheat who did his best to ruin my
life!"

Leticia's slap resounded through
the ballroom, followed by a shocked silence.

"I will never forgive you, you
worthless slut. I wish you were as dead as Charlie." Leticia's raised arm
was halted in mid-swing by Snow.

"I believe we've had enough
excitement for one night, ladies." He dropped Leticia's arm and beckoned
to Lord Merritt. "Your husband will escort you out. I believe you are
suffering from a migraine and need to leave." Leticia sputtered, but
Merritt arrived to pull her away.

Snow turned to Isabelle and offered
his arm. "May I escort you into supper, madam?"

She placed her fingers on his
sleeve, his large warm hand closing over her cold one. What a disaster.  She
prayed her husband would forgive her for creating such a sordid scene.

*
* * * *

Isabelle watched with relief as the
last of their guests straggled towards the stairs. Her face ached from smiling.
She curtsied to the Beaufort aunts, her husband's arm rigid beneath her
fingers. He was still angry.

"Lord Snow, what a lovely
evening, quite the success." The lovely Mrs. Meldrum leaned forward to tap
Snow's free arm with a flourish worthy of a younger coquette, affording any
interested party a clear view of her extravagant cleavage.

Snow thanked her with a smile while
Isabelle ground her teeth inaudibly. Madam Meldrum was not the first attractive
woman to single out her husband this evening, but quite possible the rudest.
She had barely acknowledged Isabelle throughout the evening and now attempted
to pass by her with the briefest of nods.

Isabelle extended her own fan with
a graceful gesture. "Thank you so much for attending, Mrs. Meldrum. I'm
sure the view was enjoyed by all." She dropped her gaze to the neckline of
that lady's gown, where her large breasts threatened to escape their
confinement.

Mrs. Meldrum gasped, and Isabelle
turned to address the next guest, leaving her to flounder in outrage.

"Sheathe your claws, little
cat," Snow murmured in her ear. Isabelle pretended not to hear him as she
watched Mrs. Meldrum flounce away.

"A palpable hit,
countess." Leighton Frost bowed over her hand. "I look forward to our
next encounter."

Isabelle smiled but did not reply.
Mr. Frost made her feel uneasy, with his predatory gaze and cold eyes. She
wondered at his friendship with Snow. What could they possibly have in common?

And then it was over. Warwick
closed the door on the last of the guests. Isabelle heaved a sigh and pressed a
hand to her aching head.

"Tired, my love?"

"Merely a slight headache, my
lord." Isabelle looked up her husband. Snow's expression was the stern one
which filled her heart with dismay.

"Come and let me attend to
it." Isabelle protested but he would not be gainsaid. Snow led her down
the stairs and through the hall to his study. Isabelle trailed after him.

"Sit down." Snow pressed
her into a chair. He walked over to a large cupboard, and opened the lock with
a key retrieved from his vest pocket. He retrieved a small square bottle
containing a milky-colored liquid. He filled a glass half full with water and
carefully added a few drops of the liquid. He stirred it for several seconds.

"Here, drink this down. It
should help with your headache."

Isabelle took the proffered glass.
"What is it?"

"Just a small dose of
laudanum."

Isabelle recoiled. "I don't
drug myself."

Snow raised a brow.

"Ever."

"Very well. I won't force you.
I sought merely to make you feel better."

"Quite the sea change for you,
isn't it? These little trips to your study usually end in me feeling much
worse."

Snow's face froze and Isabelle
swallowed. Blast her unruly tongue. He set down the glass with a thump.

"Over the desk, madam."

"What?"

"I thought to spare your
punishment tonight because you are tired, but you have managed to change my
mind with this astonishing display of insolence." Snow turned her around
and urged her over the desk. She attempted to rise, but he forced her down.

"That's enough, Isabelle. Now
grasp the edge with your hands. Do not let go or you will be very sorry."

Isabelle heaved a sigh. "I
already am."

He pushed up her skirts up around
her waist, tucking them under her body.

"Now what implement to use?
The hand seems barely sufficient based on all your offenses, and I believe you
are developing quite a fondness for your paddle." Snow turned to the
cupboard again. "Perfect."

Isabelle sensed him approaching,
heard a whoosh of displaced air before a rattan cane smacked onto the desk
beside her. She jumped off with a scream.

"Not so hasty, my love."

He pressed her back down, and
re-arranged her skirts to bare her bottom once again. One large warm hand
pressed on her lower back while the other insinuated itself between her legs,
parting her and sliding a long finger inside her. She tried wiggle away from
his questing hand, but Snow held her firmly in place. He pulled his finger out,
and pushed it back, thrusting firmly. Isabelle's legs fell open. She moaned.
Snow leaned over her, pressing another finger inside.

"So wet already, my wanton little
wife."

She writhed, captured by his rhythm
in spite of herself. A warm weight grew inside her, building, building, until
Snow removed his fingers. She heard that horrible swishing sound again, and the
cane cracked against her buttocks. Red hot agony lanced across her skin. A
pause as if he were waiting for her to absorb the pain, followed by four more
swift strokes.

"Stop!" she screamed.

"No." Her husband's
voice, cool, implacable.

Five more strokes landed on her
shrinking skin.

"Have you anything to say for
yourself?"

Isabelle turned her head.
"Have you fucked every woman that was here tonight?" She heard Snow's
swift intake of breath.

"Five more, I think."

The final strokes hurt so much that
Isabelle thought she might faint. She struggled against the pain, unwilling to
give Snow the satisfaction. He leaned over her, the pressure on her smarting
buttocks nigh unbearable.

"The only woman I fuck now is
you," he said in her ear.

She heard the cane clatter to the
floor and Snow's footsteps walking away from her. He opened the cupboard again
and walked back. A pungent herbal aroma. Snow soothed an ointment over her
tender flesh.

"This is arnica; it should
help with the pain and bruising."

Isabelle lay quiescent, all fight
gone out of her for the moment. He pulled her skirts back down and helped her
gain her feet. She staggered slightly and he grasped her arm. He raised her
face.

"Still no tears, my
love."

A sound, somewhere between a laugh
and a howl stuck in her throat.

"I never cry."

"I am beginning to believe
you."

Holding her arm, Snow assisted her
down the hall and up to her rooms on the first floor. He dismissed her maid,
shut the door and undressed her himself. He took down her hair and brushed it,
pulled a night rail over her head and bent her over the end of the bed.

Snow pushed up her gown, fondling
the welts he had inflicted. He parted her legs, touching and stroking her until
an inadvertent moan escaped her. A pause. His rigid member replaced his
fingers, rubbing along her, thrusting gently just inside and then leaving,
until pleasure mixed with pain.

As her tension ebbed, he grasped
her thighs, opened them widely and slid inside. She burned, inside and out, as
he drove into her without tenderness. Her defenses shattered, she opened to him
eagerly, knowing nothing but the glide of wet, hot flesh and the wicked ecstasy
of completion. He held himself immobile while his seed emptied into her and
then withdrew, all without saying a word. He pulled down her night rail and
helped her under the covers, then kissed her forehead lightly and left the
room.

She closed her eyes, bone-weary,
all emotion spent in a welter of pain and rapture. A sea change indeed.

Another letter arrived with the
post at breakfast two days later. Isabelle, still sitting somewhat gingerly on
the edge of her chair, slipped it under the rest of her correspondence.

Snow glanced up. "News from
your brother?"

"Yes, John sends his regrets
for not attending the reception. Their eldest came down with a fever. They will
write again to let me know how he fares."

"Have you finished your toast,
my love?"

Isabelle set down her cup.

"You know what to do."

The footman hastened to pull out
her chair. Snow opened the door and ushered her into the hallway. They walked
down the hall to his study, where he sat down at his desk. Snow motioned with
one hand.

She heaved a sigh, and turned
around slowly.

"Isabelle."

She pulled up her skirts. She could
feel the heat of his gaze on her shrinking flesh. This inspection had been
going on since the caning. His fingers traced the welts he had left on her sore
bottom.

"Nice marks." A sharp
slap across her ass made her cry out. Another followed.

"Good girl. You may let down
your skirts. I will see you at dinner."

Isabelle left without another word,
without even looking at him. He hadn't asked her to apologize for that night
and she hadn't offered. Nor had he visited her bed. Her husband had made it
very clear who was in charge. What really gave her pause was how she liked
being called his good girl, even while he fondled the skin he'd marked. Had she
become as perverse as Snow?

Isabelle made her way to the small
parlor where the portrait of Snow's mother stared into the horizon for
eternity. She took the letter from her pocket and broke open the seal.

Dear Countess,

What a lovely party the other
night. Snow seems happy but he doesn't know, does he?  What do you think he'll
do when he finds out?

The anonymous letter writer had
been at the reception. Or was that a ruse? The event had been mentioned in
society columns. Anyone could have found that out. The questions remained: who
was writing the letters and what did they want? There was no request for money
or anything else. Perhaps making her suffer was an end in itself.

"Countess?" Mr. Trent
hovered in the doorway. "Might I have a moment of your time?"

Isabelle stuffed the letter back in
her pocket.

"His lordship has asked me to
assist you with your social calendar for the next month."

"Of course. Pray be seated,
Mr. Trent."

Isabelle took the opposite chair,
grimacing slightly as her buttocks made contact with the firm surface. A ripple
of something passed over the secretary's smooth countenance. He seemed to be
well aware of Isabelle's difficulties. She cringed inwardly. Did everyone in
the household know? A hot wave of humiliation broke over her.

Mr. Trent waited, until she firmed
her chin and looked at him.

"Let us begin."

*
* * * *

Snow scowled into his cup of
coffee. He'd found a quiet alcove in the club to peruse the newspapers, but the
devil of it was, he was having trouble concentrating. Images of his wife
intruded into his consciousness, some disturbing and others frankly sensual.
How pathetic was he, when just the thought of his wife's ass, deliciously
rounded and reddened from his ministrations, made him hard? They'd barely
spoken since the night of the ball. Isabelle was his, to punish or succor as he
pleased, but had he gone too far? When she'd asked him if he'd fucked all the
women present, he’d been shocked and angered.

Then again, she hadn't been
completely wrong. He had enjoyed congress with quite a number of them, either
married or widowed. As long as an outward respectability was preserved in the
eyes of society, any number of vices might be tasted in private. Snow knew he
had a reputation and it was well-earned. Isabelle, however, had no business to
question him about anything, let alone his morals.

How to tame his high-spirited wife,
without breaking her? What was it that Isabelle needed? She had married him to
get away from her brother, to regain a place in society and a full life. Snow
knew her first marriage had not been happy. Perhaps Croucher was responsible
for her extraordinary behavior. And what of the child she never spoke about? He
hadn't presumed on her reserve to discuss the marriage, but perhaps he should.

Snow took another sip. There had
been something about Isabelle that night, something beyond the defiance that
stirred both his anger and his desire. Perhaps she was afraid that he, too,
would betray her. The sad fact was that since encountering Isabelle, he hadn't
looked at another woman. She couldn't know that, of course.

He wanted his wife to be happy, to
feel cherished and secure. Until that night, he'd thought they were growing
closer. He blew out a sigh. He was probably wrong about that too.

Snow looked up from his ruminations
to meet the ironic gaze of Leighton Frost.

"How pensive you seem, my dear
fellow." Frost crossed his legs. "Woman trouble?"

Damn the fellow for being so acute.
Snow shrugged.

Frost snagged his own coffee from a
passing waiter. "Tell Uncle Leighton all about it. Don't feel you have to
neglect any of the salacious details."

"Marriage is the very
devil."

"Indubitably. How is your
angel, by the way?"

"Headstrong, saucy, and
completely adorable."

"Good God, man! Are you in
love with the wench?"

"Of course not. It's just that
having a wife is quite different from what I imagined. Having her available
whenever I want, yes, but it's the other part, the caring about how she's
feeling, and what's she's thinking, worrying about her. I tell you, it's
exhausting." Snow downed the rest of his coffee and signaled the waiter.

Frost raised an eyebrow.

"Brandy. I might as well start
drinking right now. I'm a wreck anyway."

Frost tapped long white fingers on
the armrest.

"My dear fellow, this simply
won't do. You are the Earl of Snow, a peer of the realm. You mustn't allow your
wife or your more tender feelings to rule you. It's not done."

Snow rubbed his jaw. "I
know."

"Lucky for you, I believe I
have a solution."

Snow raised a brow. "I'm not
sure you are the best person to give me advice."

Frost smiled, his crocodile smile
which never reached his eyes. "Trust me, my old friend, you'll love
it."

"And Isabelle, will she love
it too?"

Frost pursed his lips, considering.
"I think she'll learn to. If she is as willing as you would have me
believe."

"Have you forgotten the part
of the conversation where I told you she is headstrong?"

"My dear Snow, that will just
make it more...rewarding."

*
* * * *

Isabelle had finally fallen into a
fitful doze. She hadn't really slept well since...her mind shied away from
those memories. She had tried to smother them, all of them, but they smoldered,
like hot coals whose blackened surface would return to burning life with a puff
of blown air.

 A soft knock on her door woke her
up. Snow. A tingle of erotic anticipation cut through her lingering resentment.
She still wanted him, damn his eyes. Isabelle sat up.

Snow entered and walked towards the
bed. He stopped beside her, his candle illuminating the planes and hollows of
his face. He did not smile but motioned to her wrapper, which lay at the bottom
of the bed.

"Put that on and come
downstairs."

Isabelle swallowed at his hard,
unyielding tone. It was the voice he used to enforce his will on her body. It
meant pain and submission, and, sometimes, glorious release. She knew better
than to dawdle. She accepted his assistance to clamber over the side of the
bed. Isabelle picked up the thin silk garment and drew it over her shoulders,
tying it carefully. His hand fell on her shoulder and she shivered. His fingers
pressed down, guided her to the door, where they dropped to grasp her elbow
firmly.

"Are you frightened?" he
murmured in her ear, so close she could feel the moist heat of his breath. She
nodded. His hand moved to her breast and squeezed hard until she gasped, before
dropping to her elbow once more.

"Good."

He pulled her along the upper
corridor and then walked her, his hand hard, down the stairs, through the
silent and deserted hall, along the passage to his study. The door lay open. A
log fire crackled on the hearth. He pushed her into the room and shut the door,
turning the key in the lock.

 "My dear, we have
company."

She paused. This was new. A fair
man unfolded from the wing chair where he'd sat in shadow.

"Lady Snow, a pleasure, as
always." A graceful bow.

"Mr. Frost." A curtsy was
beyond her. What was he doing here, with those cold eyes fixed on her, the thin
smile that always made her shudder?

"Brandy, Snow?"

"Yes, thank you." Snow
dropped onto the sofa and pulled her to kneel beside him. She sought her
husband's gaze for reassurance, but he was looking at the fire. Frost splashed
brandy in two glasses and brought one to Snow. He stood beside Isabelle as she
knelt, his satin breeches stretched over his swollen member. Isabelle turned
her head away. Frost grasped her chin and raised her face.

"So shy." He turned to
Snow. "I don't think she likes me.""

Snow shrugged. "That hardly
matters."

Frost laughed softly; the sound
slithered along her spine. He sat down, one leg flung over the chair arm, his
erection on blatant display.

"But, you must admit, my dear
Snow, that it does add a certain piquancy to the evening." His gaze never
left Isabelle as she huddled closer to her husband's side.

Snow tossed off the brandy. He bent
over Isabelle, unbound the tie of her wrapper and pushed it off her shoulders.
The night rail beneath was of sheerest silk. She tried to stand, intent on
fleeing. Snow pushed her slowly back to the floor. She tried to speak but he pressed
a finger to her lips in warning. Whatever was happening was by her husband's
design. She let her weight shift back to the floor.

"Good girl."

Isabelle dared a glance at Frost.
His pose was unchanged, but his expression held a heat she'd never seen before.
Snow undid the tiny buttons on her bodice, one by one. He pushed the fabric
down her shoulders and bared her to the waist. His hands brushed over her
breasts and lifted them, thumbs caressing her hardening nipples. She cringed
and stared at her husband, but his eyes were lowered to her bosom, his dark
gaze filtered by those sinfully long eyelashes. He began to pull on her
nipples, hard, his long fingers pinching the aureoles and then pulling the
erect flesh, igniting a sharp desire that arced without thought to her womb,
tightening it. A moan escaped her.

"Much more of that and I'll
come in my breeches." Frost's voice was hoarse.

Isabelle dropped her eyes, shamed.
Her husband continued to milk her breasts, the pain and pleasure mixing until
no thought was possible, only sensation. His grip eased finally. Her nipples
felt on fire. She looked down. They were red and swollen, impossibly stretched.

"Go to Leighton,
Isabelle."

Cold dread nearly quenched the
fire. Snow’s eyes finally met hers, dark with unbending purpose.

"Go to him, on your knees.
Now."

Isabelle shook her head.

"No?" Her husband's
voice, thick with menace.

She swallowed again, convulsively,
and crawled to the man in the chair. Frost unhooked his leg and bent to pull
her between his thighs. He caught her breasts roughly, rolling her swollen
nipples in hard fingers. This was wrong, so wrong. Frost moved one hand to the
fall of his breeches and released his straining cock. He ran a thumb over its
head, the darkened flesh slick with his essence.

"Suck him, Isabelle."

She felt Snow move behind her. One
heavy hand slipped to her shoulder. He urged her on silently.  Isabelle could
feel the weight of his unspoken demand. She licked her lips and opened her
mouth. Frost leaned forward and slowly pushed his cock into her mouth. He
tasted...different, the tang of his fluid was not the same as her husband. She
licked her tongue over the top, under the curve, flicking the thick vein that
ran underneath it. A tremor shivered along Frost's thighs. He thrust into her.
Isabelle overbalanced and put out a hand. Her husband grabbed both her wrists
and pushed them behind her back.

"Keep them there."

His hard tone, the heat of his body
pressed against her to keep her steady, made her clench with humiliated desire.

Frost thrust again and again,
without any thought for her comfort or pleasure. He grabbed her head to hold
her in place while he plumbed her mouth, seeking the back of her throat. She
gagged and pulled back. His cock slipped from her lips.