“Come, man—” George began, his brow furrowing.
Max slapped him on his shoulder. “I’ll be able to find a lover on my own…even if I bumble and make an arse out of myself, I think I’ll be fine. I am not certain what I was thinking of mentioning it to you.”
George scowled, narrowing his gaze. “I will give you some pointers—”
“No need!” Perhaps the sense of wanting something else which had been haunting Max wasn’t to be found in an affair. Ignoring his friend, Max made his way down the stairs and through the crowd for the second time that evening.
Predictably his name rode the air—in shocked gasps, admiring tones, and scandalized awe. It amused and bewildered him in equal measure. Who would have thought an expression of his belief in how love should be between a man and his wife would have garnered him such a reputation?
His good friend Simon, Earl Benoit, who had once been skeptical that passion could be found with his wife, was now satisfied with his countess. He’d given his mistress her congé and had been filled with guilt that, what he had given to another for several months, should have been reserved solely for his wife. His countess hardly knew what to do with the change, but whenever Max saw them together, she peered at the man with unabashed adoration, and Simon himself seemed equally besotted.
“It is all thanks to your book, my friend,” Simon had said, slapping Max’s shoulder.
So, he supposed some good…or possibly much good had come from him publishing his blasted musings. Lady Benoit had introduced to Max’s notice a number of eligible females, hoping he would have chosen one as his wife.
Yet…
Max allowed his gaze to linger on Amalie. Feelings he’d thought long dead rose inside and swamped his senses. As if she felt his rude and provocative stare, she angled her head and met his stare…with a boldness he’d not known her for. Her mouth appeared sweet, startled, soft, and once again, his name shaped that alluring mouth. Max. Her eyes widened, and her fingers tightened around the champagne glass. Yet she did not look away from him but lifted her chin slightly, and an expression of civil indifference settled on her face.
How curious.
His heart jerked, and something hot and turbulent went through his body. Oddly, in the past, he’d never had such overwhelmingly lustful thoughts of her before. While he’d hungered to kiss her, he had craved their long walks and conversations more. Max leaned against the balustrade on the upper floor, cloaking himself in shadows so he could watch her without anyone noticing.
“Oh, I like it,” George murmured, coming up behind him, his voice rich with humor. “London’s wickedest lover still a virgin and in lust with Society’s most sought-after enchantress. I am not sure whether to worry for you, my friend, or envy you. I’ve never seen her look at a man like that before. In truth, I had started to doubt that she liked our sex.”
Drawn to her beguiling sensuality, Max kept her in his line of sight as he ignored his friend and made his way down the stairs. He couldn’t help staring, despite the ripple of a whisper. She seemed different, more self-assured, more composed, that hint of naïveté which had surrounded her had gone. And George had been right, Amalie was even lovelier than when Max had last seen her.
Her hair gleamed like the golden-red hue of sunset under the candle-lit chandeliers. Her throat looked soft, supple, shapely above the low-cut bodice of her gown. It did not cling to her figure, but there was a suggestion of lush, nubile curves beneath that silken dress. Her smooth skin glowed with a pale golden undertone as if she spent a lot of time outdoors. Dark red ringlets curled on her forehead and nape, softening her stunning loveliness.
Memories seared through him of the time he had foolishly thought she would leave her husband to be with him. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he had believed, for a divorce had not been possible. Still, Max had willingly gone into her townhouse in Grosvenor Square at her invitation.
The years fell away, and he could see on her face that they thought of the same night—memories flowed between them, the shyness she’d exuded as she’d taken him to her bedchamber, how hopeful and in love he had felt when she had confessed how much she admired him and longed for him though she knew it to be inappropriate.
Max had been so overcome he hadn’t paused to think…to wonder too much about the situation. He had taken her into his arms and kissed her senseless.
How she had moaned and gripped his nape, arching her light, sweet body into his. And when he had slipped his fingers down to the valley between her thighs, with a passionate cry she had opened her thighs to his caress. He had rubbed her clitoris through her nightgown, and she had soaked the material with her delightful response.
As he’d tossed her onto the bed and started to strip from his jacket, something had made him glance up into a peephole where he’d seen a pair of eyes watching them. The shock of it had frozen him and blushing like a sweet innocent with tears filling her eyes, she had tried to explain.
‘It’s my husband…he…the viscount…he…this is what he wants…what he says I must do, or I will be failing in my duty to him! Oh, Max, I am so mortified, I should have resisted more and face the consequences!’
Those words had killed something inside of him that night. She had only taken him to her room on the order of her husband, who had lurked to watch his young, ravishing wife make love to another. And without a word, Max had turned and walked away.
A hiss slipped through Max’s teeth, as he also recalled the scandal which had roared through the ton one day after that fateful encounter.
‘Viscountess Weatherston seen racing down the streets of Mayfair barefoot and in her night rail with one Lord Spencer, a most profligate rakehell of the ton, giving chase’, the headlines had screamed in the scandal sheets.
That very same day, her husband had collapsed and died. And Society had been unforgiving in their condemnation. They had branded her a shameful hussy who had driven her viscount to death’s door with her wanton behavior.
Thinking how wretched the entire thing must have been for her, Max had tried to find her right away. For several weeks he had searched for Amalie, and it was as if she had disappeared from England itself. Then he had left, traveling the world again, until his new responsibilities as the earldom had drawn him back to England’s shores over these last months.
Five years, Amalie, he said silently. I’ve not seen you in over five years.
Max lifted his glass in a toast, and a ripple went through those who noticed his gesture. Curious as to what she would do, Max almost expired when the bold, sassy minx winked at him for all of London to see. And suddenly he realized he was a fool to even think of taking another to be his lover. It has always been her. Once he’d let her go and she’d marry another. He would be a damn fool to allow her to escape his grasp easily again. While she would not do as a wife…certainly the passion which had always burned between them could finally be explored.
Ah, I’m coming for you, my sweet Amalie, and I believe I shall tempt from you what has haunted me all these years.
Chapter 4
“All women deserve patience and gentleness when initiated into the art of lovemaking. A woman’s body is a work of beauty, a temple a man should worship with his tongue. A man should take his time over her body, especially if she is a shy, blushing wife. Remove her gown slowly…kiss her throat, even nip it a bit with your teeth. Take your lips on a journey over her bare shoulders, use your lips and tongue to do wicked things between her thighs. A nibble of the soft folds of her sex, some gentle and others slightly harder. That small sting will allow her body to become accustomed to pain with pleasure for when you pierce her wet flesh with your manhood. Yes, my friends…that sweet spot should be soaking.”—A Guide to Passionate Romps between a Lord and his Lady.