The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (30 page)

He stood and moved to
sit backwards on the only straight chair in the room, leaning his
arms along the top rail. “Now you can easily reach my back and
neck.” When she’d moved to stand behind him and was ready to
begin, he said, “Just pretend I’m bread dough and knead my neck
and shoulders with a lot of vigor.”

She laughed, a light
tinkling chime.

He loved the sound of
her laughter. It burst from her and she always looked surprised by
it. It was so rare, he mined it like gold, and when he was rewarded
with a particularly delightful gale of it, a warm syrupy feeling of
satisfaction flowed through him.

“Not that you’ve
ever done such work yourself, but surely you have witnessed it in
your kitchen.”

Tally grimaced.
If
he only knew!
Feeling less intimidated, she set to work.
Being careful to avoid his wound, she laid her hands on his bare
skin. A hot flush surged within, from tip to toe. She was glad he
couldn’t see her. Her face must be peony red. As much as she craved
this experience, she was mortified. What if Grandma Lawton were to
walk in at that very moment?

Shoving that
uncomfortable notion aside, she set to work. She poured some liniment
into her left hand and, placing the bottle on the side table, she
smoothed the liquid over his skin and began to “squeeze” his taut
shoulder muscles just as he’d directed.

He groaned.

She jerked her hands
off his back, as if scalded. Then she laughed nervously at what a
scared rabbit she was. Placing her hands back on his shoulders, she
began again and, this time when he groaned, she left them there. It
must be his way of telling her it felt good.

“Your hands are
astoundingly strong,” he marveled. “What do you do that has made
them so strong?”

“Am I doing it too
hard? I don’t want to hurt you.” She deflected his question with
one of her own. Her hands were strong because of all the gardening
and sculpting she’d done but she was not accustomed to talking
about her life, and especially not about her art, with anyone. And
she didn’t want to be disappointed in him if, like so many men, he
believed women weren’t capable of being serious artists. She’d
rather not know.

“No! Don’t stop.
That’s perfect. It feels so good.” He grunted when she touched a
sore spot. “I can’t understand why my arms are so sore. All I’ve
done is stay in bed for days and slept.”

She knew why. Anybody
who climbed a wall up an ivy vine, had to have exerted a lot of
force. No doubt his muscles were belatedly protesting the effort that
had required. The laudanum had probably staved off the worst of it
until now. How ironic that she was standing here, trying to relieve
him of pain that was caused by him breaking into her bedroom, perhaps
wanting to cause her pain!

She soon realized that
working on one muscle for awhile caused it to slacken, so she applied
herself to loosening each muscle one at a time. His skin was smooth
and brown. He’d clearly spent a fair amount of time outdoors
without a shirt on. What had he been doing?

So many questions. She
shook her head. So few answers.

“It feels like
sculpting.” She molded his skin with her agile fingers. Not that
his body needed changing, in any way.

“You sculpt?” His
query was drowsy.

Dio!
She’d spoken without thinking. Surely by tomorrow, he wouldn’t
remember what she’d said. He was falling asleep. “Yes, although
not so much anymore. It’s hard...”
getting
the material and hiding the end products from prying eyes.
Aloud, she said, “on one’s clothes. Now, I paint.”

“Ah, that’s right,
I forgot, my wife is an artist,” he teased. “What do you paint?”

She stiffened.
Don’t look for hidden meanings, Tally.
“Oh... the
usual, people’s faces, animals...”
Dramatic
landscapes of storms on the moors, of ocean waves curling into
endless eddies as they reach shores, of mountains, majestic and
powerful, looming over villages, dwarfed by their presence
…
“like ducks waddling across the yard, dogs wrestling
together, pastoral scenes.”

Her hands swept down
his back. His body was strong and lithe. He had the most beautiful
male torso she’d ever glimpsed and, contrary to most young women of
her age, she had seen a few.

The male models her
twin brothers used looked nothing like Reed. They were thin, with few
visible muscles at all. His strong back muscles reminded her of
paintings she’d seen of galley slaves’ backs from the Helenistic
era, many centuries ago. Solid yet smooth, his skin was–

She felt him jerk and
his head lolled forward.

He’d fallen asleep!
Leaning down, she peered into his face. My heavens! She didn’t
think she could have fallen asleep had
he
been rubbing
her
shoulders!

But… how was she
going to get him into bed? Contemplating her dilemma, she continued
kneading, though with a lighter touch. She could go get Foster to
help her, but she’d sent him to bed and the poor man needed his
sleep. He wasn’t getting any younger and worked far too hard. In
any case, she was remembering that first night. They’d dragged Reed
to this room and struggled to get him into the bed. It had taken
Herculean efforts and a long time to manage it. He’d be sure to
wake in the process.

Maybe if she tried to
lift him, he’d stand up in his sleep and she’d be able to lead
him to bed. She remembered servants doing that with her when she was
a child and had fallen asleep in the library or drawing room. She
bent forward, leaning against his back, and scooped her arms under
his. She pulled him backwards against her and tried to lift him, with
little success. He was a deadweight. Far heavier than he looked.

She had no choice, she
had to wake him. “Mr. … um… Reed! Wake up. Please.”

Grabbing his shoulders,
careful not to touch his wound, she shook him. He seemed to wake a
little, so she coaxed him, “Come on, stand up.”

She lifted again and he
rose. “That’s it. Now let’s move to the bed.”

She shuffled him along
and when they reached the bed, she turned him around to stand with
his back to the bed. His legs wouldn’t bend to sit, so she pushed
him like a felled tree and let him drop straight back onto the bed.
Tittering nervously, she bent to remove his slippers, lifted his legs
up onto the bed and pulled the spare cover from the bottom of the bed
over him. She was just about to straighten up when his hand reached
for her neck and pulled her down on top of him.

“For goodness sakes!”
She pushed against his chest with both hands. “Let me go, you big…
clod!”

He mumbled something
incomprehensible and nuzzled her neck, sending shivers shooting
straight to her nether region.

She froze, stunned by
her body’s powerful reaction to his sleepy caress. He rested his
head in the crook between her head and shoulder. His warm breath
settled to an even rhythm that told her he was asleep again.

His breath was tickling
her… not exactly tickling, so much as inciting a riot inside her
stomach that was suddenly a mass of busy butterflies flitting madly
about.

She struggled to
untangle his limbs from hers. Getting away from a sleeping man was no
easy task. He foiled every attempt she made to escape his octopus’
hold.

She was desperate
enough by now to poke him to make him let her go. She was no longer
sure if he was really asleep or if he was teasing her. It was hard to
believe he wasn’t aware of all her struggles to free herself.

On the other hand, she
was the one administering laudanum to him each day, so she knew his
deep sleep might well be genuine.

His leg was nestled in
between hers. Such an embarrassingly intimate position! Her breath
was coming fast and sounded harsh and ragged in the quiet room.

His arm slid around her
waist, while the other hand settled on her buttocks.

She gasped and wiggled
to free herself. So he wasn’t asleep.

Slowly his hand drifted
back and forth igniting sparks of arousal. She ceased her struggles.
Hot liquid pooled in her woman’s core. She bit her lip to stifle
her moans as tremors shook her body. He startled her by rolling them
both over and pressing her back into the mattress, his hard body
covering hers in every way.

It felt so good, so
right.

He squeezed her bottom
one last time before moving his hand around to fit in between them
and caressed her softly where she ached to be touched.

Still, she didn’t
protest. Couldn’t protest. She was no longer in control of her own
body. He was like a magician, making everything he touched quiver
with excitement and swoon with bliss. She never even noticed her
skirt lifting until his fingers skimmed up her bare thigh, reaching
past her woman’s fold to rub against the sensitive little nub
there.

She thought about
protesting, but when she opened her mouth to object, her voice
emitted only moans of pleasure. The more he stroked, the less she
wanted to complain, the hotter she became. Now, lifting to his touch,
she was almost begging for surcease. Up on her heels, arching higher
into his magical fingers.

“Settle down, dear
heart. You don’t have to work so hard. Let it come.”

“I…” She didn’t
know what she was doing or thinking anymore. She could only feel.
Suddenly, the most wonderful buzzing… numbing sensation began in
her toes, rapidly gaining momentum to thunder through all of her. The
center of the quake was in that one spot where his bold and
breathtaking caresses played her like a piano, coming to the final
crescendo. And when she wanted to scream and sob out her joyful
release, he claimed her mouth in a deep kiss that vibrated to the
tips of all her limbs.

Deeper she fell, as he
plunged her into a world of pure sensation. His knee nudged her legs
apart and he fit himself between them. He guided her hand to touch
his rigid arousal. She wondered vaguely when he’d freed himself
from his trousers, but was more fascinated by the soft texture of hot
skin moving over what felt like hard bone. She ran her hand from base
to tip and the shudder that shook him sent a thrill of excitement
skating up her back. He raised himself above her, preparing to join
with her, to fill her where she ached for him to be.

Suddenly, he cursed and
halted abruptly. He cocked his head. Some sound had disturbed him.

She listened with him,
annoyed at the interruption. Loud footsteps trudged up the stairs.

Footsteps.
The halting gait told her who it was.
Foster!
What was he doing up?
She’d told him to get some sleep.

Suddenly realizing what
he was about to witness when he came through the door, she stiffened
beneath Reed and pushed frantically, palms against his chest.
Foster
might even have his blunderbuss and shoot Reed dead!
They
had to stop!

“What the blazes!”
Reed rarely cursed in front of her, so she knew he was incensed at
yet another untimely interruption. “How does he do it?” he
groaned hoarsely

“Do what?” She
wanted to die of mortification! What had happened to her vaunted will
power?

“He always shows up
just at the wrong… well,
right
moment when we’re about to…” He gestured evocatively. “But at
the wrong moment to stop.”

Embarrassed heat washed
through her like water gushing through a broken dam. She couldn’t
think… couldn’t talk. She pushed harder, trying to move him off
of her.

“No, don’t go.”
He refused to budge. “Surely he knows what married couples do?”

Married!
Panicked, she shoved with all her might. Holding her still, Reed
stared intently into her eyes for several silent seconds. He must
have seen that she was in no state to continue their lovemaking.
Releasing a shaky breath, he lifted himself up and off and buttoned
his flap, before lying back with his arm over his eyes.

She quickly rolled off
the bed and scrabbled to her feet. She gulped a few unsteady breaths
then rushed across the room to the cheval mirror to set herself to
rights before Foster came in. Her dress was horribly creased but
there wasn’t much she could do about that. She looked anxiously
around, grabbed the tray with empty dishes on it, marched across to
the door keeping her head averted from Reed’s angry glare, and left
the room without a word or glance back.

* * *

Hours later, Reed was
still fuming and so frustrated after his wife’s precipitous exit
from the room, he couldn’t stay in bed. Thwarted, his body
continued to thrum with unspent energy.

He put on his banyan
and left his room. The house was quiet, except for Foster’s snores
echoing up from the front hall. Next time, he’d wait to hear those
snores before seducing his wife!

He probably should have
found out where Mason’s chamber was located before setting out to
walk the halls at this time of night. But it wasn’t as if he was
out to rob the house, he only wanted to satisfy himself about
something. He started up the stairs toward Talia’s studio.

Curiosity was a
powerful motivator. The intensity of the look on her face while she
painted, compelled him to find out what she was painting. But it had
to be done quickly, because he had only about thirty minutes before,
like a sentry, she made her nightly round. She had stopped changing
his bandage, but she still watched over him as she would a cherished
child.

Once through the door
to the studio, he went across to the fireplace that now held mere
embers and lit the candle he’d brought with him. He made his way to
the covered canvas by the window, where he set the candlestick down
on the windowsill and turned back to the easel, using both hands to
lift the cloth from the painting.