Taming His Scandalous Countess Read online

  Isabelle had not visited a modiste since her first marriage, certainly not one as exclusive as this. They reviewed fabric samples and fashion plates until finally Madame suggested some fittings. They adjourned to a private room, where Isabelle was stripped of every layer of clothing, right down to her chemise. Her husband's interested gaze, as each item was removed, kindled a disturbing warmth deep within her.

  "A new corset–several–to begin with. This," Madame fingered the offending item, "is appropriate only for a refuse pile. You will pardon my frankness, Lady Snow."

  Isabelle was measured, prodded and manipulated into a variety of frocks, evening gowns and spencers. She was starting to get a headache when Snow called a halt. He asked they be left alone for the countess to take a rest. Madame gathered up her staff like a mother hen, ushering them through the door which she closed after them.

  Isabelle turned from the looking glass to thank her husband, whose gaze had grown from interest to lust. She was still in her chemise and looked around for a robe or something to cover herself. She felt acutely on display.

  "Come here," Snow told her, his voice languid with desire. He placed his hands around her waist, before slipping behind to grasp her bottom. "Still sore?"

  She bit her lip. "It's much better."

  Snow caressed her with increasing pressure, pulling her close to press hot kisses against the skin swelling over the silk undergarment. He sucked her nipples through the cloth, nibbling lightly with his teeth until Isabelle cried out. He raised his head, breath coming faster. His hands moved to her shoulders, pressing down until she knelt before him. He released her to undo the fall of his breeches.

  "Do you remember the night when first we met? How I tasted you in the moonlight?"

  "Yes." She felt her lower body coil tight, with wanting, with anticipation.

  "I want you to taste me, the same way." Snow pulled his member from his breeches, gripping it in his fist. He was hard and huge. He pumped his hand along the swollen length. A bead of moisture trembled on its reddened tip. He leaned forward.

  "Lick it."

  She hesitated. "Charlie wanted me to do this....but I refused, told him I wasn't a whore."

  Snow stroked himself, the wet tip slicking the surface in a motion she could hear.

  "Passionate women do this," he corrected her, "women who want to please their husbands."

  Isabelle's tongue flicked along her lower lip nervously.

  "Yes," Snow said, "just like that."

  Isabelle leaned against his knees and he parted them, pulling her closer. Snow took her hand and placed it over his, where he continued to pleasure himself, so that her movement mimicked his. The motion was almost hypnotic. Her breathing quickened. Her hand grew wetter as his member wept over their entwined fingers, and she could smell his essence. Her womb pulsed. God, he was beautiful.

  Snow lifted her chin with one finger.

  "You refused to suck Charlie's cock?"

  She nodded.

  "But you'll suck mine?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Good girl."

  Isabelle bowed her head. She licked along the top of his member and underneath, her tongue swirling along the ridged edge. Snow made a sound deep in his throat. His hips pushed towards her. She opened her lips and engulfed him. So hot, so hard. She pulled back, licking along his length. He grasped her shoulders, thrusting a few strokes into her mouth, before he slipped a finger between her lips to break the suction. She looked up at him in surprise. Snow shook his head.

  "That's enough for now. We will wait until we're home. I don't want Madame and her seamstresses seeing you with my seed all over your face."

  A soft caress along her jaw softened his frank assessment. Snow forced his still rigid member inside his breeches and fastened them. Isabelle stood up, though her knees trembled. He'd made her want to touch him, just like that. She raised a hand to her mouth, to wipe away the wetness. If he'd wanted to take her, right there, she would have spread her legs willingly. Her longing both puzzled and frightened her. She'd vowed that no other man would have such power over her, but her husband’s lust awakened her own desires, and made her want to break that promise.

  Snow pulled out a spotless handkerchief and cleaned her face and hands. He bent to kiss her.

  "You taste like me," he whispered, and guided her from the room. Why did he make her feel this way?

  * * * * *

  Alone in her bed, Isabelle huffed with frustration. She had thought, hoped, that her husband meant to come to her bed tonight, following their interlude at Madame Reynard's. Instead, after dinner, Snow had left to play cards at his club. After so many years alone, Snow had touched her and left her aching for more. She was a woman, with normal appetites and desires, and he had whetted them, without satisfying her.

  Isabelle's hand reached for her breast. Snow had held her, right here, his grasp hard and almost painfully exciting. Her nipple pebbled under her fingers. She slid her hand down the front of her nightdress. She eased up the material to touch the soft flesh of her leg, before moving to caress her molten core. So wet. Her fingers slicked along her secret places, before parting the delicate skin to lightly rub the swollen nub. Isabelle moaned at the hot lick of pleasure. Her fingers stilled. Should she be doing this? Her body belonged to her husband now.

  "Don't stop."

  Her eyes flew open at the sound of those hoarse, whispered words. Snow stood at the foot of her bed, one hand wrapped around the bedpost. His eyes were hungry as they roamed over her naked body.

  "Touch yourself again. I want to see you pleasure yourself."

  Isabelle stroked herself, eyes fixed on her husband's. She opened herself with her fingers, using her other hand to rub herself in quick circles, pressing and then releasing. God, she was so wound up, she wouldn't last long. He undid his breeches and started to touch himself while he watched her, his harsh breathing in counterpoint to the wet sounds of their sliding flesh.

  Each brush brought her closer to the brink. Each stroke of her fingers was echoed by Snow's, as he worked himself. He swelled even larger; his member gleamed wetly in the candlelight. Their eyes locked in shared ecstasy until she finally peaked, spiraling down and down, while she shuddered with her release. She panted, eyes closed, and felt his weight upon the bed.

  Isabelle opened her eyes to see Snow crawling along the bed between her thighs. He grasped them, opened her wide, and shoved inside. Dear God, how he filled her with his hardness. The sweet friction of his movements made her tighten against him. His answering thrusts sent spikes of pulsating heat all down her thighs. Isabelle cried out. He pushed into her with increasing fervor. So good. Sensation streaked along her flesh as the tension wound tighter and tighter. Snow raised himself on his hands, so that his pelvis rubbed against her with each thrust. So close. She held her breath. He ground against her and she came as his hot rush of seed flooded her womb.

  * * * * *

  She was in a dark room, lit only by the remains of a fire smoldering on the hearth. It cast red shadows on the walls, shadows that dripped and ran as she watched. She reached out to touch them, but her hand came away wet. It was blood. Before she could open her mouth to scream, an eldritch shriek rang out from the darkness. She had to run, away from the dark, from the blood and the screaming.

  Isabelle turned to flee and awoke abruptly, bathed in sweat, heart pounding. The echo of the shriek still rang in her ears. Then she heard it again from the connecting door to her husband's room. She leaped off the bed, ran across her room and flung open the door. Snow lay asleep amid twisted bed sheets, a bar of moonlight illuminating his face. He moaned and flung out an arm, as if to ward off a blow.

  "Angeline, ah, non, Angeline..." he groaned. "Je vous en prie! Arretez, pour l'amour de Dieu." Snow continued to mutter unintelligibly in French for a few moments.

  He sat up suddenly, eyes wide and fixed towards the foot of his bed. There was nothing there. Then he screamed and kept on screaming. Isabelle ran to
him, catching his arm. Snow tried to push her away, but she hung on.

  "Snow, calm yourself. You're safe."

  He didn't seem to be aware of her, but he stopped screaming. His breath shuddered in his chest. Isabelle pressed down gently on his shoulder, and he collapsed on the bed. Sweat rolled down his cheeks. Isabelle grabbed a cloth from the shaving stand, wrung it out in cold water and dabbed his face. He sighed, and his entire body relaxed into a deep sleep. She straightened the blankets, and pulled them up over his chest. A lock of hair spread damply over his cheek and Isabelle smoothed it back. In sleep, all decision and severity were smoothed from his face. The finely carved features were almost those of a young man. Her beautiful man. One last stroke of his hair, and she turned to leave. His hand clung to hers.

  "Don't go," he murmured.

  She glanced down. He seemed to still be asleep. She tried to unclasp her hand but his fingers tightened on hers. Isabelle sighed and sat on the edge of the bed.

  "I won't leave you," she promised.

  * * * * *

  There was something on the bed with him, a warm weight against his leg. Snow opened a bleary eye and looked down. Isabelle lay curled at the foot of the bed, her chest rising and falling with each enticing breath. She was asleep. He frowned, trying to remember. Why was she here? He'd been quite clear about them sleeping apart.

  The dreams meant he never actually spent a night with someone in his bed. Too dangerous, both to his hard-won mask of self-possession and to the safety of the lady in question. He was Julian Beaufort, the Earl of Snow, not some shattered shell of a man who cried out at night to the phantasms conjured by bad dreams. He needed no witnesses to the contrary. Who knew what he might do in his darkest hours?

  Another breath, bosom rising until the curve of one breast almost slipped from her nightdress. He reached towards her, his cock already stirring. That soft skin of hers made him weak, made him crave to touch her, always wanting. His fingers slipped down her throat. Her eyes opened and she looked at him, startled, until awareness grew and he saw the pity in her eyes.

  He reared back, snatching away his fingers as though burned.

  "Get out!"

  She blinked, her lovely blue eyes still hazy with sleep.

  "I told you not to come here. When I want to be pleasured, I will visit you. Now get out." He pushed her with his foot.

  "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She struggled to sit up. "You were dreaming, and I wanted to help."

  "I don't need your help. If you won't go, then I will." Snow threw back the bedclothes and stalked into his dressing room. He heard her stumble off the high bed and run to her own room. His shoulders slumped in relief and despair. He should not have married her.

  * * * * *

  Isabelle slammed the door behind her. Ungrateful...bastard. She'd gone to him as his wife, to comfort him in his anguish. She'd slept as his feet, like a dog. And then he'd treated her like one. Just when she thought they might be growing closer. She had even held Snow's hand while he slept. It clearly meant nothing to him. Isabelle was merely a convenience, a sanctified receptacle for his lust.

  She walked over to the window and braced her fingers on the sill. Her room overlooked the back garden. It was beautiful: tended and cultivated, until every plant and shrub bloomed with life. Isabelle took a deep breath. How could she expect her marriage to be any different? She was barely acquainted with her husband. It would take time to know him. And it would take effort to create the marriage she wanted, one where both she and her husband respected each other.

  Snow had been so vulnerable last night. She'd seen his suffering and wanted to help him. That was only natural. Blessedly normal, in fact. She was his wife. And Snow was her husband. She hadn't imagined his fear and sorrow. Her formidable husband, so adept at guarding his heart, had feelings. Deep feelings, which haunted him. At least Snow knew how to feel. But who was Angeline, and where was she now?

  Her maid knocked softly at the door and then entered with a tea tray.

  "Good morning, my lady."

  Isabelle managed a smile. There, she could do this. She just needed to give her husband time, time to adjust to being married. To having someone care about him.

  "Shall I draw your bath, my lady?"

  "Thank you, Nan. And would you lay out a walking dress? I plan to visit Kew Gardens this morning."

  The tea was strong and hot, just as she liked it. Her husband's household, at least, had embraced her. She took another fortifying sip. There. She wouldn't give up on her marriage, or on her husband.

  Her bath was exactly the right temperature, fragrant with lavender. Isabelle pulled off her night rail and slid into the water. She'd made do with a metal tub in front of the fire at Larkspur Hall. A far cry from having her own luxurious bathroom. Isabelle reached for the hand-milled soap Snow had imported for her from Paris. She lifted an arm, soaping down its wet length. She heard the door catch and saw it open, just a crack. Her maid checking on her? Or her husband?

  Isabelle suppressed a smile and raised her leg, resting her ankle on the edge of the tub. She smoothed the soap down her leg, her fingers lingering on her skin. She thought she heard a quick intake of breath. She rinsed off her leg, put it back in the water and raised the other one, repeating the same process. She sat up and soaped her breasts, running her hands over them slowly and plucking at her nipples. The door opened a little wider and she slid back under the water. Let him suffer.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dear Countess Snow,

  How lovely that title must sound to you. After all, how could a mere baronet compete with an earl? Though why two men of property would choose to wed a trollop like you exceeds all bounds of common sense. Tell me, what does your new husband prefer, your loose morals or your tight cunt?

  You'll be hearing from me again, Countess.

  Isabelle let the letter fall from numb fingers. It was unsigned. She turned it over. Her title and direction were printed in block letters. Anyone could have written it, but who, and to what purpose? The ugliness of it sickened her.

  The breakfast parlor door opened. Snow. Isabelle folded the letter and hid it in her lap. She could not disgrace herself by showing him the letter and letting him read that filth. She tried to compose her features while her husband sat down. Isabelle raised her cup of chocolate with a hand that trembled slightly.

  "Good morning, my love."

  Snow seated himself. He took a sip of ale and selected a letter from the stack of correspondence beside his plate. He did not indicate by word or look any of the events of the night before. They might never have happened.

  Isabelle lifted a slice of buttered toast to her lips.

  "What are your plans for today?"

  Isabelle started at her husband's questions and dropped her toast on the plate. She moistened her lips.

  Snow raised a brow at her silence.

  "I... I'm going to Kew Gardens to see the rose display. Then I have a final fitting at the modiste for the gown she designed for our reception.

  "Excellent. I look forward to having this affair over and done with. These social events are tedious things."

  Isabelle forced a smile and sipped her chocolate. What was she going to do?

  "Isabelle, are you unwell?"

  "I am fine."

  He stared at her for a moment. "You are very pale."

  She took a deep breath, determined to master herself. She would deal with this new threat, she must.

  "I didn't sleep very well." She motioned for another cup of chocolate.

  To her surprise, the merest hint of color rose along Snow's cheekbone. He was ashamed of needing her, of showing simple, human emotion. The thought depressed her. Why had she imagined this marriage would be any different? And how could she tell him of this new threat? Isabelle might have confided in the man last night, the one who'd needed her comfort so desperately. This aloof aristocrat, who'd thrown her out of bed, and now sat eating his breakfast without a care, no, she could never confide in t
hat man. He'd probably drive her back to her brother's house himself, if he didn't throw her into the street first. Her throat constricted. Isabelle tucked the letter into her sleeve and rose, her napkin crushed in one hand

  "If you will excuse me, my lord."

  He nodded, his gaze intense.

  "Mr. Trent will wait upon you later today to discuss the reception."

  "Of course." She had to get out of the house. She would think about this new threat later. Figure out some way to keep going, to keep this from ruining her marriage. Would Charlie never let her go, even in death?

  * * * * *

  Snow watched his wife leave the table. She hadn't slept well. How could she, with her sorry excuse for a husband calling out in his sleep like some madman fit only for Bedlam. And then he'd treated her like a dog that displeased him, by kicking her out of his bed. That was not the kind of husband he had promised her.

  He was a mess. First, Isabelle had entwined herself into his life, and now she was making inroads on his heart. He'd thought that organ nigh impenetrable. She was like a damned drop of water, dripping ceaselessly on the frozen lump, until it started to melt.

  Snow threw down his napkin. He was reduced to spying on his wife in the bath to assuage his near constant desire for her. He had to find a way, for both their sakes, to protect and care for Isabelle, without falling in love with her. That could only lead to disaster. But every smile, every sigh as he made love to her, made more inroads into his yearning heart.

  Christ, he was getting maudlin again. He must regain the upper hand, and exercise his authority as her husband, as he had promised her. He must master himself, and then, he would master his wife.

  * * * * *

  "Hail to the groom!" Leighton Frost lifted a bumper of brandy in a toast.

  Snow threw himself into a chair opposite. He'd noticed the glances and smiles from the other club members when he'd walked in. The damned reception was in a couple of days, and then things could return to normal.

  "Discord in paradise?" Frost had the tongue of an adder, but they'd been friends since the war, so he simply shrugged.