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She berated herself again for allowing, and wanting, such an intimacy.
“Now, would you be so good as to turn down my bed and see to it that this note is delivered.”
He strolled to her side. She took the note. He patted her bottom. “Now be a good girl, sweet. Off you go.” He nudged her in the direction of his bed.
She heard the sound of his shirt being whisked from his body.
With a quick turn, she caught a glimpse of his back while his hands stretched in the air. She clutched the note to her breast. None of her other lovers looked like him. Not even a paunch from the pampered lifestyle he enjoyed as one of the wealthy, privileged merchant class. He had a broad, muscled back and smooth, sleek arms that bulged and rippled as he moved. English dandies didn’t look like him, nor did they work to earn their wealth like Dorian Montgomery.
He couldn’t see her stare. He mustn’t have the upper hand.
She reached for the covers, pulling them back. Jasmine floated up to tease her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he worked at the placket of his trousers. He bent. The trousers eased over his smallclothes.
Standing at the head of the bed behaving like a ninny, she gazed at his approach. He reached around her then crawled into the bed and pulled a light sheet upward, turning on his side away from her.
When Isabelle didn’t move, he turned his indolent gaze toward her.
“The letter, sweet. It needs to be delivered this afternoon. I need my valet in time for dinner.”
“Certainly,” Isabelle said.
She took a few steps. His words sank in with dreadful clarity. “Your valet? No. I do not want your valet in my home.”
“Whyever not?” he asked. Commanded was more like it, she thought.
She hated other people to see her work—what happened in her home was for the benefit of paying customers. The shame of being the most coveted whore was a far cry from having an actual witness to those events causing her notoriety.
This was between Dorian and her. Only her loyal servants served her and the household. Having the valet see her in Dorian’s arms in the morning, weary from a night of loving—it was beyond tolerable. And all of her other lovers had heeded her demands. Dorian’s care out of bed was her responsibility. It was all part of her seduction. She controlled the relationship and having it interrupted by a third party in any form was unacceptable.
She shook her head in earnest. “No.”
“Isabelle, sweet. My valet is expected. I like a bath before dinner. Wake me an hour ahead of time.” He rolled over, his leg splayed upward, another arm pulling two pillows close.
The decision made—just like that.
Watching his every move, she yearned to feel those arms around her. She yearned for just the possibility that he was the lover gossip claimed.
A weight settled on her chest. Dorian, the legendary lover, was to be a gift to herself. A gift to make her feel like a woman instead of the whore she’d become. Splendor and passion, satisfaction and completeness—she’d hope for those things with him. The money tainted her hopes, of course.
So far, Dorian won the prize for strangest lover. He hadn’t even intimated he wished for sex, other than describing the act, instead directing her as if she were a common house servant. Men could be lewd and indiscriminate in their tastes—rich or poor, noble or not—she’d experienced every degree of depravity along with some surprising kindness. Was this some game he enjoyed playing? She prayed Dorian had refined sensibilities. Isabelle wanted a man to treat her like a woman. A woman he cherished.
But she would never know if she couldn’t persuade him she was more entertaining than an afternoon nap.
* * * * *
Isabelle would be worn ragged before the night ended, and she’d not get to spend one minute in bed with him. Dorian hoped his ploy worked.
She had backbone. He wanted to see it. If he had to live through thirty days of “if it pleases you,” he’d go batty. Once she believed she didn’t need to subject herself to a man’s whims, once he could bring out her fire, then he would take her.
He’d just be damned uncomfortable until then.
Napping in the middle of the afternoon.Since he had turned five, he hadn’t napped in the afternoon. Bed in the middle of the afternoon involved naked bodies and exquisite pleasure, followed by a refreshing doze wrapped in nothing but his lover’s arms. Not a nap with a blanket and a pillow.
He rolled to his back and pushed away the sheet. Propping one hand behind his head, he tried to collect his thoughts about Isabelle St. Hillaire. Very little information circulated about her, other than the obvious. That she rode and had a brother doubled his knowledge of her.
The first time he’d seen her, his father still lived. When he’d heard the story of the Westminster Whore ten years ago, it titillated his imagination. “Father, I’d like to purchase a whore for a month. Would you be so good as to increase my quarterly?”Father would have disowned him for such a request.
