Improperly Wed (10 page)

“You're welcome,” Belinda responded tongue-in-cheek. “Except she didn't get your address.”

“I'm sure a few inquiries will yield my coordinates at Halstead Hall.”

“How often have you done that?”

“What?”

She waved a hand back toward where they had come. “You know,
that.
”

“It happens from time to time.”

“It was a rather nice thing to do,” she allowed. “Rather classy to not immediately correct her misimpression but just offer your assistance.”

She tried hard not to feel charmed, but still felt herself slipping.

“She called me
young man,
” Colin remarked as he walked beside her. “I suppose it's all a matter of perspective, but still it's worth a few points in my book.”

“It's no more than you deserve,” she scolded with mock humor, “for taking a trip to the supermarket dressed so unassumingly that you might be mistaken for anyone.”

“Would you prefer I wear a pin declaring me a lord? Or better yet, a Granville?”

“Please.”

Colin gave an uneven grin. “I suppose it would be easier than facing the awful possibility that not all Granvilles are died-in-the-wool villains.”

They reached their car, and Colin pulled open the passenger door for her.

Belinda glanced up at him but found her gaze skittering
away again. They were getting into uncomfortably deep waters.

“Now, about that tip that you owe a certain good-looking store employee…”

There was laughter in Colin's voice, and it brushed tantalizingly across her skin as he let her pull the car door closed.

 

From the doorway, Colin watched Belinda exchange smiles with his cousin's nine-year-old daughter.

Daphne was standing before an easel, and Belinda was encouraging the girl, as well as pointing out a few ways to deepen the painting.

The empty playroom next door to what traditionally functioned as the nursery, on the third floor of the house, had been turned into a painting studio and an arts-and-crafts room. Canvas covered the wood floor, and the curtain-free windows offered an unobstructed path for the morning sunlight.

A half-dozen children moved about. Everyone wore paint-smeared smocks over casual clothes and sneakers or clogs. Some retrieved art supplies and others stood intently before easels. One child was the ten-year-old daughter of his stable manager, and another was the housekeeper's grandson. There was also Daphne's seven-year-old younger sister, Emily.

Belinda had suggested setting up an art playroom once she'd heard there were definitely children in his extended family and among the family of the staff. The art classes had been a big hit. At least those Granvilles below the age of twelve had taken to Belinda naturally. And Sophie had admitted to spending some time in the art room working with the kids alongside Belinda.

Colin thrust his hands into his pockets. Belinda's guard
was down, probably because she hadn't yet noticed his appearance in the open doorway.

He took the opportunity to study her.

Similar to the kids, she was dressed down in jeans and a pullover lavender top. The jeans showed off a pert rear end, though her smock obscured the rest of what Colin knew to be a delicious figure. Her hair was caught back loosely, but tendrils escaped to caress and frame her face.

Colin felt a tightening in his gut.

Daphne gave an impish grin, and Belinda laughed down at her. It was clear Belinda was in her element—spattered with paint and laughing. And she was relaxed, naturally, all because she thought he wasn't there.

In the next moment, however, she glanced up and caught his eye. She froze, and he gave her a mocking salute with a lift of his lips.

For him, every look and glance was overlaid with the memory from Vegas of kissing her luscious pink lips, smoothing his hand down a satin thigh and tracing a path along the tender skin of her abdomen.

Belinda quickly looked down to answer another of Daphne's questions.

When Daphne finally moved off, Colin sauntered in.

Belinda glanced at him warily.

“Who knew that what was missing was an art room?”

She gave him a tart look. “Well, it does already possess a double-height library, two wine cellars and a private theater.”

He let his eyes crinkle. “Welcome to the ancestral pile.”

“Is there any element I've overlooked?”

“No worries. You've added the missing element. An art room.”

“You're the one who has a Renoir hanging in the master suite.”

“Perhaps I was hoping to tempt you.”

Belinda reddened. “Thank you, but I'm perfectly content with reproductions in books.”

He laughed softly. "Any time you change your mind…"

“I won't.”

“The agreement is awaiting your review and signature.”

They both knew which contract he was referring to. It was the postnuptial accord that she had set up as the final barrier between them.

Belinda turned away. “Yes, I know. I'll get to it as soon as I have the chance.”

“Don't wait too long.”

He laced the words with promise. He watched Belinda's profile stain with heat again before she walked over to help another child.

Colin watched her go.

He'd stayed away in London and New York on business for a week, he'd taken cold showers and pressed his attorney to act fast. Let Belinda feel some of his urgency.

He knew he had to keep up the heat. He
would
seduce his wife back into his bed.

And then his plan to make Belinda acknowledge she wanted a Granville—that their night in Vegas was no fluke—would be achieved.

Frankly, his sanity was starting to depend on it.

W
hen Colin had suggested they attend a performance at Covent Garden, Belinda had been unable to resist agreeing. She knew
Aïda
was playing. She'd always thought the opera was unbearably beautiful.

One of the things she'd always loved about the southern corner of Berkshire where Downlands and Halstead Hall were located was that it was just a short trip to London, making a night in town more than possible.

She was happy and excited when Colin bought tickets for good seats, which she knew were expensive and often hard to come by. She wanted to think he'd thought of her when doing so, but she was also enough of a realist to remember Uncle Hugh's words: since Colin had suffered a blow to his ego when she'd nearly walked down the aisle with another man, of course he'd be eager to line up public engagements for the two of them.

She dressed with care in a one-shouldered midnight-
blue cocktail dress and croc-embossed peep-toe pumps. She had caught back her hair in a loose knot. She knew Colin would be in a suit and tie.

In fact, her heart palpitated excitedly as she came down the main staircase at Halstead Hall, all the while aware of Colin, handsome and distinguished, looking up at her from the landing.

Their postnup had just been finalized—she'd reviewed and signed it—so there was nothing barring Colin from her bed anymore. She also knew this was the twenty-first century and a marquess couldn't just order her around. Still, she knew that she was morally obligated to stand by her agreement.

She tried to focus on the fact that she had signed a contract. She wouldn't let herself think about standing face-to-face with Colin in his bedroom, his hot eyes on her while his hands skimmed over her sensitized skin, making her desperate with the desire for him to undress her.

She wouldn't think about the pleasure to be found in his arms.

No, she wouldn't.

Because they dined at home, they went directly to London's Royal Opera House in Covent Garden for the performance. Colin drove them in his Aston Martin, eschewing the services of Halstead Hall's resident driver.

Inside the opera house, the crowd was already milling. Colin introduced her to a couple of acquaintances who greeted him, and Belinda thought she did a credible job of smiling and being an appropriate consort.

When she and Colin eventually ended their conversations and made their way up to their seats in a front box, she had trouble relaxing. She almost wished Pia and Tamara were there for support. At least their husbands
were friends of Colin's with whom she was familiar and comfortable.

When she and Colin took their seats with a close view of the stage, Belinda caught her breath. No need for opera glasses, she thought whimsically. The view was spectacular.

She perused her program until, minutes later, the lights blinked and dimmed, signaling the beginning of the performance.

She was just sliding into the start of the opera when Colin clasped her hand, folding it gently into his. She couldn't help focusing on the contact.

His hand was bigger, tougher and rougher than hers. It was an apt metaphor for their relationship, she thought. Yet, his clasp was surprisingly gentle, and his lightest touch had an electric effect on her.

She felt tossed by a storm of emotion mimicking the drama onstage. There were two shows here tonight—the one in which the singers participated, and Colin's private one for her benefit.

He traced over her hand with his thumb—an airy and rhythmic movement that might be mistaken for a soothing motion but that caused a quickening tempo of tension inside her.

She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He faced forward and his face gave nothing away—except he continued his light touch on her hand.

She admitted that Colin had quite charmed her lately. Logically, she wished it were otherwise, but she was finding him hard to resist.

Belinda parted her lips on a sigh as she focused on the stage again.

The military commander, Radames, was caught between his love for Aïda, a captured princess, and loyalty
to his Pharaoh—whose daughter, Amneris, had unrequited love for her father's commanding officer.

Belinda felt her heart clench as the opera built to its tragic climax. She almost couldn't bear to watch the final scene, where Radames and Aïda were destined to die together.

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat and blinked rapidly. Belatedly, she became aware of Colin squeezing her hand, his thumb smoothing over the pulse at her inner wrist.

The audience burst into applause as the final scene faded to its close. Belinda bit her lip and distractedly accepted Colin's offer of a tissue. She felt silly—she'd known how Verdi's opera ended. But still, she cried.

She told herself that the image of star-crossed lovers was iconic. Radames and Aïda were the Romeo and Juliet of another era. Neither couple bore any resemblance to her and Colin—
not in the least.

“Did you enjoy the performance?” Colin asked, his voice deep and low.

“I loved it,” she croaked.

He chuckled then, and she gave a weak laugh—because her tears clashed with her statement.

“Let's get home.”

Belinda felt a rush of emotion at Colin's words. It was the first time he'd used the word
home
with her to refer to Halstead Hall, but of course she knew what he meant without thought. Had she already started to think of Halstead Hall as home?

They rode back in companionable silence, making desultory conversation.

“I thought I'd make you happy with tickets to
Aïda,
” Colin joked at one point, “but it would seem you prefer to cry when you go to the opera.”

“You weren't unaffected by the performance, either,” she parried. “You wouldn't be an opera fan otherwise.”

He cast her a sidelong look, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. A smile played at his lips. “I was enjoying watching you as much as the opera singers on stage.”

She heated. “You were not watching me!”

“How do you know?”

She bit her lip, because of course she had been found out. The only way she could know for sure that he hadn't been watching
her
was by being aware of
him.

“I know,” she insisted. “You were too busy playing with my hand.”

Colin laughed, low and deep, and then faced the road again.

Belinda glanced out the window. They were speeding toward Halstead Hall and already the air between them had become more intimate.

When they arrived at the house, everything was still and dark. Colin had told the butler not to await their return from London. Some of the staff, of course, had the day off.

Belinda hesitated in the hall, unsure of what to do.

“Nightcap?” Colin asked, offering a solution to her problem.

“All right.” She nodded, willing to put off the climb up the stairs to their adjoining suites.

She followed him into the library, where she disposed of her evening bag and coat while Colin busied himself at the side bar.

When Colin returned, she gratefully accepted the glass of clear liquid on ice from him.

“Cheers,” he toasted, raising his glass. “To new beginnings.”

She took a sip at the same time as he did, and her eyes widened. “Water?”

“Of course.”

He took her glass from her and set both glasses down on his nearby desk.

This was not what she'd envisioned when he'd suggested a nightcap. She'd pictured imbibing something strong—to fortify her.

Colin trailed one finger up her arm to her shoulder. “It's a good thing neither of us has had a real drink.”

“Why?” she asked, stumbling over the word. “So we don't do anything rash and regret it again?”

He gave a small smile. “No, so we won't have any excuses when we do.”

Belinda's heart beat a staccato rhythm in her chest. “We have to stop this.”

“Do we?” he joked, and then looked around. “Last time I checked, we were married. We even live here.”

“The marquess ravishing his wife in the library? It sounds like a bad round of Clue.”

“If I weren't so aroused right now, I might suggest we play.”

“Isn't that what we're doing? Playing?” she parried. “This is a game.”

“Then why am I so deathly serious?”

“Because you play to win.”

“Exactly. Kiss me.”

“Rather direct,” she tried. “I would have thought you'd have more subtle lures in your repertoire.”

“I do, but I've waited three years.”

“Perhaps the first time was a fluke.”

“Does this feel like a fluke?” He took her hand and placed it on his chest. “Touch me, Belinda.”

Belinda's head buzzed. She felt the strong and steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. The contact with him was intoxicating, just like at the opera.

“We may have been born and bred to be enemies,” he said, “but in this, we're one.”

“It's just passion…”

“Enough to build on.”

Colin bent his head slowly, tilting it first in one direction and then in another, as if deciding how he wanted to kiss her.

Belinda felt as if the moment drew out forever.

When he finally settled his lips on hers, it was with soft but insistent pressure, and Belinda unconsciously parted her lips.

He tasted faintly minty and all male, a flavor that only fueled and deepened her desire. His hands settled on her shoulders, where they molded and relaxed her.

She'd closed the door on their past. She'd tried not to dwell on how hotly passionate their night in Vegas had been. Now, however, she recalled vividly how he'd kissed every inch of her.

Her nipples became pronounced, her hips heavy with desire.

Colin moved his hands down her back.

“I don't know where the zipper is,” he murmured between kisses.

“That's the point,” she said against his mouth.

“I don't want to ruin your lovely dress. It fits you like a glove, and with any luck, there'll be other evenings when you can wear it to bring me to my knees.”

She fought against the feelings that his words evoked. “You are not literally on your knees.”

He pulled back to gaze into her eyes. “Would you like me to be?”

She trembled because she remembered the previous time that Colin had called her bluff. They had walked into a wedding chapel.

He trailed a finger lazily down from her collarbone to her cleavage, just skirting the tip of one breast.

“If I were on my knees,” he said in a deep voice, “I think my lips would reach right here.”

He touched the sensitive skin of her midriff.

She found herself holding her breath.

“On the other hand, if you bent forward,” he continued, “my mouth would close over here.”

His thumb skimmed over her nipple, and Belinda gasped and her eyes went wide.

“Would you bend over for me?”

“I—it's a theoretical question,” she responded thickly.

“But it doesn't have to be.”

He settled his lips on hers again, and Belinda's response was muted.

This time, rather than holding still, he folded her into his arms, and she slid her hands around his shoulders.

Colin found the zipper hidden in the side seam of her dress. He lowered it slowly, and cool air hit her skin.

Colin trailed his lips across her jaw to the delicate shell of her ear and then down toward her throat.

Images, words and scents from their night in Vegas came back to her. They'd been joking and teasing…until suddenly they weren't. Instead, they'd lain back on the bed, entangled in passion.

It had been the best sex of her life. Colin had been tender, prepared and patient—that is, he had been until a powerful climax had shaken him and sent her over the top with its aftershocks.

And now he was doing it again.

The dress slipped away from her.

Colin took a step back so that he perched on the corner of his desk. “Come here. Please.”

If he'd been arrogant or impatient, she'd have had a
chance at resisting him. Instead, she took two steps forward and fit in the space created by his legs.

He leaned forward, and his lips nuzzled her cleavage.

Belinda's eyes drifted closed.

He licked first the tip of one breast and then of the other, stoking a fever of emotion inside her.

She moaned, and her fingers spread through his hair.

Colin settled his mouth on one breast, and Belinda arched up to him.

She felt deliciously alive, her body humming with desire. She rubbed against Colin's erection, the evidence of his burgeoning passion.

Colin groaned and turned his attention to her other breast.

It was all too much and yet not enough, Belinda thought hazily. It was consuming and liberating.

Their clothes fell away from them, one by one, until only Colin's trousers remained as a barrier between them.

With her gown and panties pooled at her feet, he lifted her, not breaking their kiss.

Her high-heeled pumps hit the library floor with a thud, one after the other.

Colin strode with her across the room and stopped next to the sofa. She slid down his body, feeling every hard plane and muscle on the way, her breasts grazing the sparse hair on his chest, until her feet touched the ground.

A low fire burned in the hearth nearby, casting shadows on the Oriental rug before it.

She looked up at Colin. “I thought we'd be safe in a room without a bed.”

He grazed her temple with his lips. “There are ways around it. And we've already tried a bed.”

“The Renoir hangs in your bedroom. Isn't that the key to your seduction?”

He gave a choked laugh. “Call it arrogance, call it flying without a net, but maybe I thought I would be enough.”

Colin skimmed his hands over her thighs and then up her back.