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At that time, Edgar Kingston, a mere baron, had purchased her favors for two hundred pounds. Dorian’s curiosity led him directly to Kingston to inquire. Kingston nudged him and with a wink said, “She was worth every pence.”
Some men dream of estates and titles, others of horses and wars. Dorian, however, set his sights on Isabelle. Her price got higher in ludicrous increments, every baron outbid by an earl, earls trumped by marquesses. He pondered that. She hadn’t been with a duke, but most of the dukes he knew were lumbering, aged, sanctimonious peers who’d only be caughtdeadwith a whore. All other women, of course, were eligible.
Dorian Montgomery’s only claim to peerage involved a great uncle whose title passed from a Scottish clan chieftain to a small holding in Northumberland, where the Montgomerys still ruled the Fife.
Dorian’s grandfather, brother of said great uncle, invested an inheritance wisely in a local shipping company. Father expanded it and Dorian would get to squander the part he’d earned for a taste of heavenly elixir. There was plenty, he wasn’t worried.
He set himself up for disappointment, he knew. She couldn’t bethatgood. He reminded himself of those words again in anticipation of potential dissatisfaction.
His reputation didn’t involve his wealth. He had a loyal following of women admirers who would lie down in the street for a chance in his bed. In truth, it disgusted him. Whatever satisfaction could be had from Isabelle, he wanted to sample it—in soul-drenching, body-melting carnal pleasure. He wanted a full participant in lovemaking, not a woman who lay underneath while he labored for her satisfaction.
He wanted an equal. His mother would have swooned had she known he had purchased such a notorious woman. Her prudish mien had shaped his early childhood, but somewhere along the way he’d become his own man. He’d watched Isabelle, studied her, had known of her for years, but she had remained a complete mystery. And Isabelle St. Hillaire had become his grail.
But maybe now that he was in her presence, he would find himself unworthy to tip the chalice to his lips.
* * * * *
Dorian must have dozed, but he came quickly awake when two men carried in a large brass tub, which they set near the fire, and then returned carrying pails of steaming hot water. With practiced efficiency, the servants filled the tub while another two pails were placed over the flames.
He flipped his fingers through the steaming water, stepping out of the way when the menservants carried in a tri-fold silk screen that opened, protecting the bather from other eyes in the room. She was too thoughtful. He could not have cared less who saw him bathe.
The servants took up positions on either side of the screen, facing him, their arms folded across their chests. Dorian sensed the challenge in their pose, but wasn’t certain why until he saw her.
Isabelle entered the room from the door he forbade her to use. He fought back a smile. She marched past him without saying a word, her hands laden with plush-looking yellow towels. More noticeably, she wore only her sheer outer robe.
Had he been a hunting hound, he would have howled into the air. Dorian took a step to follow her, stopping only when he saw her disappear behind the screen.
He tilted his head, looking. Disappear wasn’t quite the word he meant. Her silhouette was visible from his side of the room. Her menservants didn’t bat an eyelash as she began to disrobe. The towels, he imagined, fell to the floor. Her body faced the fire, he saw only her profile in stark relief against the screen.
How would he control his reactions to such a sight? He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. His body took immediate notice and reacted with swift, sexual hardness. Shit, he’d been in her house exactly four hours and he was ready to devour her, starting at her toes. Swallowing hard, his hand crept toward the full maleness throbbing inside his smallclothes.
He wiped a hand across his mouth.
She lifted her arms and bunched her hair up with a comb. Her breasts,merde, her breasts rose and bounced. He took another step closer to the screen, intending to knock it down. The two servants would prevent his approach, he knew it instinctively. Her game involved absolute want. He liked her game, but suddenly found himself in over his head.
A puppet could have had more control, and he would not be her puppet. He clenched his fists. He firmed his resolve.
Isabelle started a ditty, a few words and a hum. Then a splash as she lifted her leg over the side of the tub and sank into the steamy depths he’d imagined sampling a few short moments ago.
He stared, hoping the saliva didn’t drip off his chin. The show could only be described as extraordinary—her limbs in and out of the water as she soaped and dunked and soaped again.
Finally, he turned away. With silent tread, he picked up his shirt and slipped it on. He grabbed one of the periodicals and strolled into her bedchamber. He couldn’t watch another minute. It would be torturous enough sitting in her bedchamber knowing what happened in the room next door.
Dorian gave in to the inevitable. He would not last the night.
But then neither would she.
Isabelle smiled with self-indulgent satisfaction. He’d be wound tighter than a clock by the time she finished. One strike to the tinder and he’d go up in flames.
She stood, water dripping off her in sensuous runnels. She bent for a towel, giving him another display of her treasures. Walking around the screen, her gaze searched the room.
He had disappeared.
Anger ripped through her. She’d selected him to be her lover. She washislover.
She advanced across his bedroom with quick, determined steps.
Slamming the door between their chambers, she notched the squib, locking him out. Marching into her room, barely covered with the large Turkish towels, she stopped when she saw him in front of her fire, in her chair, in her room.
