Anton lifted a brow. “And if I do take her to my country chateau, she will be safe?”
“I can see you are very enamored indeed, Roussel. Let me say this, I am not as concerned with a foreign woman as I am with traitorous Frenchmen.”
“What about Lacroux? I do not want her slandered at every turn.
That man is a dog and I should have killed him years ago when I had the chance.”
“The minister’s gaze was speculative. “I don’t know this story.”
“Ask him.”
“I will. And as for your beauteous countess, I will do my best. I do not, as ever, control our sovereign.”
That being as close, at a guess, to getting the minister’s assurance, Anton stood and inclined his head. “We will leave at once.”
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Emma Wildes
The valley was verdant and bordered by meadows, the river that moved with lazy grace through the middle hung with willows. To Lara’s surprise, it was only a half day’s carriage ride from Paris, and to her further amazement, the house, when they pulled into the long drive, was nothing like the grand chateau she had expected.
Considering the size of the
comte’s
Parisian mansion, the villa was quite small, charmingly set amid groves of fruit trees and informal gardens.
“This is mine alone,” Anton said by way of explanation when they came to a rocking halt. “A place where I can escape the rigors of the city and relax. I keep no servants here. A woman comes to clean each day, and when I am in residence, her sister cooks for me. We will have the utmost privacy.”
Surprised a man of his sophistication and wealth would ever choose to live simply, even if it were for short periods of time, Lara murmured, “You are more complicated than I thought, monsieur.”
His familiar smile was spontaneous and dangerously attractive.
“Here, we can fully explore the myriad ways of satisfying our sexual desires, Countess. With no one to disturb us, I plan on instructing you on the fine art of infinite pleasure and carnal bliss. I have a feeling you will be an apt pupil, my sweet.”
One brow lifting, Lara smiled back coolly. “I see now this must be where you bring your amours, Anton. For a moment, I thought there was much more to you than your infamous reputation suggests.”
“I have never brought a woman here. Not even my family is invited here,
chérie
. Shall we go in?”
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A little chastened and also flattered, she took his hand. Allowing him to politely assist her out of the coach, Lara was escorted inside, finding the interior of the house as attractive as the inside, with gleaming wooden floors and bright windows, the furnishings simple and unassuming like his bedroom back in Paris.
He must be telling the truth, she decided, seeing how pleased he looked to be there, discarding his cravat and tailored coat immediately. He took her to a small salon where he poured them both a glass of chilled wine that had been left with a small repast of cheese and a loaf of bread.
Settled in a comfortable chair, gazing out the window at the vista of flowers and leafy trees, Lara felt suddenly safer than she had in a long time, which was disturbing. She hadn’t even realized she was so nervous and unsettled over the possibility that he was right and the danger of imminent arrest hung over her head. Not to mention Lacroux. The man repulsed her in every way imaginable.
But Anton had just the opposite effect.
She looked at the man sitting across from her, his long fingers gracefully holding his goblet. His good looks were striking in their masculine appeal, his long, lean body lounging in a chair that seemed inadequate for his height and muscled strength, and she felt a glimmer of something else—something that had nothing to do with safety or contentment and everything to do with his unconventional promise of sexual license.
Just thinking about what might lie ahead made her nipples stiffen and rise against the fabric of her gown.
Madame Dupont had worked with dizzying speed, spurred, no doubt, by the notion of the
comte’s
deep purse, and she had some additions to her wardrobe that she was sure Anton would find interesting.
In fact, tonight when they dined, Lara decided, she would wear the red dress.
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Emma Wildes
Anton lit the candles in the dining room himself, using a taper and only two candelabras to illuminate the modest space. The table was gleaming teakwood, purchased during a trip to the Orient, and the carved chairs unique—a gift from a former lover, a duchess who had been a decade and a half older and extremely generous, in bed and out of it.
He’d only been twenty and she had taught him with patience and enjoyment about how women’s bodies worked, his previous sexual encounters being geared more toward his own adolescent lust.
Learning how to stimulate a woman’s breasts until she achieved orgasm from just his touch, how to find her clitoris and abrade it perfectly with his fingers or tongue until she writhed with the physical joy of it, and the more difficult task of gauging exactly when to press deep against her womb as she climaxed to increase her pleasure. All of it had been done in the bed of a royal descendent.
Marie had been a Bourbon granddaughter, married at a young age to an aging roué who wished his wife to be more whore than regal duchess, and had initiated her accordingly. Anton kept the chairs because they were beautiful, but also because he would always remember Marie with affection and gratitude.
Deftly uncorking a bottle of wine, Anton eyed the cold buffet of sliced veal, assorted cheeses, glistening fruit, and a dense chocolate torte, with an approving eye. He disdained ceremony while at the villa, and liked things simple. For dinner he had done little more than wash the stain of travel away and changed into a white shirt, fitted trousers, and boots, eschewing his normal formal dress.
Glancing at the doorway, he wondered just what was taking Lara so long. She too, had retired upstairs to change before dinner, in the bedroom she would use for everything except actual sleeping. That, he thought with deep inner satisfaction, she would do with him.
If he allowed her to sleep at all.
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A soft rustle of silk told him she was coming down the stairs at last. When she appeared in the doorway, Anton froze in the act of pouring her a glass of wine, his gaze riveted suddenly, the rest of the world fading to oblivion.
Beautiful at all times, this evening Lara was…beyond imagining.
Her dress was the color of old, rich wine. It contrasted with her creamy skin, blood against ivory, the combination both lurid and alluring. It was fitted perfectly to her slender waist, flaring out over her hips, and the bodice was so low across the upper curves of her full breasts that the flesh mounded high in opulent offering, pale and succulent.
The deep plunge of her cleavage was intriguingly dark, making him long to bury his face there and inhale her delicate scent as he kissed those smooth, tempting curves. Her hair, exquisitely raven black, was worn loose in a smooth shining fall down her elegant back, which was also bared almost to the dimples above her buttocks, another glorious contrast in colors.
His body responded instantly, desire spiking deep into his groin, his cock stiffening on cue to the vision before him.
She looked like every man’s fantasy of a courtesan, exhibiting herself for his use, seduction the only purpose for such indecent attire.
When she moved into the room, smiling with sensual confidence— secured no doubt by the expression on his face—her breasts swayed provocatively, giving him a bare glimpse of the upper coral circles of her areolas.
“Good evening, Monsieur de Comte,” she murmured, a spark of humor in her blue eyes. “As you can see, I took your suggestion and did not dress formally for our
intimate
supper.”
The emphasis on the word intimate did not escape him and Anton felt his erection swell further. “I have never been so glad,” he responded, finally realizing he still held the wine bottle poised over her glass. Never taking his gaze from the extravagant display in front
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Emma Wildes
of him, he poured, heedless that he splashed a little on the pristine tablecloth.
“Please, my lady, allow me.”
He seated her, holding her chair as she sank into it in a whisper of violet perfume and red silk. Staring downward as he adjusted it forward, so she sat comfortably at the table, he could tell she wore absolutely nothing under the gown. Already rock hard, Anton stifled the urge to lift her in his arms and storm upstairs, taking her at once with urgent and sudden need. He instead walked around the table and sat opposite, carrying the wine bottle and smiling ruefully as he went to fill his glass. “Your entrance, Countess, is a triumph. As you can see, my hand is not quite steady. If you had walked into a ballroom back in Paris—or any other city in the world for that matter—in that dress, civilized men would kill each other for the privilege of dragging you off and ravishing you.”
“I believe you have yourself to thank for this particular garment,”
Lara informed him, her smile tinged with wry amusement. “Your reputation as a hot-blooded lover is so well-known that Madame Dupont felt this style would intrigue you.”
“It does,” he admitted, holding her gaze. “As long as you wear it for me only.”
“So you not only dictate my place in your bed, but now you own me, as well?” she asked quietly.
He’d like to, he realized, which was an odd feeling. He never felt possessive over his lovers, at least not before this glorious Englishwoman. “It is nothing that simple,” he said honestly, his voice hushed, “but rest assured, what I want is for you to be happy. I want the cloud of possible trouble off our horizon…and mostly, I
want
you.”
“Well,” her slim fingers went around the stem of her glass as she lifted it, “tonight you will have me, Anton, rest assured.”
If he wasn’t already rigidly erect, he would be at that declaration.
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Glad her face had lightened back to the teasing flirt, he arched a brow. “In any way I wish? How adventurous are you, Lara?”
Her smooth brow knitted. “I have no idea. You know about my marriage and you have been the only other. Whatever I know, I learned from you.”
The only other
…he liked the idea of it, that she had been essentially an innocent in the ways of pleasure when she had come to his bed. Being her teacher was definitely his privilege. “I have a few ideas for this evening’s entertainment.” He lifted his wine. “Here, let us toast to mutual delight and unbridled pleasure.”
Lara lifted her glass, taking a sip at the same time, her eyes veiled.
“Are you hungry?”
She inclined her head. “It looks wonderful. I am famished, actually.”
“I will happily serve you, my love, if you will do me one small favor.”
Her fine brows lifted in inquiry. “I beg your pardon? What favor?”
“Pull your bodice down, so I can see your breasts entirely.” Anton felt the heavy throb between his legs, wondering if he could actually make it through dinner. “It doesn’t look like it will take much.”
Her lashes lowered, but not before he saw the shimmer of excitement there. She liked being on exhibit before him as it gave her a sort of sexual power. That was easy to sense. “As you wish, Monsieur de Comte,” she said huskily, “but I am complying only because I am very, very hungry.” Hooking her fingers in the neckline of her dress, she eased it down a fraction, exposing her nipples, those luscious crests firm and erect.
“A bit more.” He heard his voice only abstractly, all of his attention on the female presentation across the table.
Lara complied, pulling the fabric lower until her breasts were completely revealed, their soft weight thrust upward by the cloth beneath them, so high and splendid that he caught his breath. “How is
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Emma Wildes
that?” she asked demurely, as if she wasn’t half-nude at the dining room table, her flesh more potently delectable than any food he had ever tasted.
“Perfect,” he replied truthfully, spearing a piece of veal and placing it on her plate. “Fruit?”
“Yes, please.”
Lifting a pear, the sweet aroma heavy in his nostrils, the weight of it cool, Anton said, “Your breasts are so warm and ripe and delicious.
When I taste them, it is like eating ambrosia and sucking on your nipples better than the finest dessert. Here, my dear, this pear looks and smells delightful.”
His words had the desired effect for her body reacted immediately, her bared nipples darkening and growing very tight. As if to do him one better, she accepted the piece of fruit and brought it her mouth, taking a small bite and chewing delicately. A tiny bit of the juice filled the corner of her pink lips and he fought the need to reach across the table and lick it away.
Then she did it herself, her tongue languidly searching that intriguing spot, sliding along her full lower lip.
Experienced he might be, but it almost undid him.
Looking into her eyes, he said, “I have a feeling this might be the most wonderful, excruciating meal of my life. Are you certain you are hungry for food right now?”
“Ravenous,” Lara answered, her quivering breasts thrust up over her plate as she speared a piece of meat.”
“
Diable
,” Anton muttered and began to eat.
Anton’s bedroom was not as large as at the Hotel Roussel back in Paris, but the bed was just as wide, the hangings simple dark gray silk, the rug under her feet lush and patterned in an oriental style.
Lara’s heart had begun a slow, steady increase in rhythm, her
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anticipation acute, the circuitous hint of something unique to come very intriguing. How much she enjoyed her own sexuality was a bit of a revelation, but if there was one thing about her virile French lover, it was his unabashed appetite for excess in bed. In the time since he’d coerced her into his arms, she had already had intercourse with him many times and he had never failed to bring her to the brink of ecstasy.