Susan Johnson - Again and Again

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed.

It took him a pulse beat to understand, to bring himself back from orgasmic paralysis. “Nothing,” he muttered, rolling off her, shutting his eyes for a fleeting moment. He and his father had rarely agreed on anything, but on the issue of paternity they had. And after the warm embrace he’d interrupted at Netherton Castle, he was taking no chances on the paternity of his heir.

“Don’t tell me nothing, damn you!” Surging upright, she swung at him, landing a vicious blow.

He winced, but he didn’t retaliate, steeling himself instead for the inevitable confrontation. He rubbed his stinging jaw. “I thought it might be a good idea to wait.”

“For what pray tell?” she spat, pulling out the pearl bracelet and flinging it at him.

He dodged it deftly and it hit the wall with a splat. “You know as well as I do, for what,” he said, looking at the stain on the wallpaper.

“I’d like to hear it from you.”

“All right,” he said, gruffly, turning back to her. “I don’t want any question about paternity. I thought it might be wise to wait for your menses.”

“You don’t trust me.”

He didn’t answer.

“I can see why someone like you wouldn’t trust anyone. You’ve been telling charming lies to women for years,” she said, tersely.

“Don’t get righteous on me,” he brusquely rebuffed. “I know you, and if that man only kissed you once, he must be a fucking eunuch!”

“It would be impossible for Will to simply be a gentleman?”

His glance was derisive.

“Did you ever consider I might not have wanted to kiss him?”

He snorted. “You?”

“Bloody bastard!”

“No, I’m not. And that’s the point.”

“And I have nothing to say about this?”

“Not at the moment” His voice was as adamant as hers.

“And when might I?” she inquired, rudely.

“I’m not arguing about this.”

“No matter what I say, you won’t believe me?”

“Jesus, Caro, consider our history,” he returned crossly. “You don’t trust me and I don’t trust you.”

“I not only don’t trust you, I despise you.”

“Fortunately for me, that never interferes with your fucking,‘’ he said with withering sarcasm.

“It certainly will now. You won’t touch me,” she snapped.

It was a particularly inflammatory phrase under the present circumstances; marriage had been an extraordinary undertaking for Simon. He wasn’t likely to concede his conjugal rights. “I’ll touch you when and where I wish,” he growled.

Scrambling away, she tried to roll from the bed, but he caught her around the waist and swung her around. Dropping her on her back, he said, “Don’t move,” in so unyielding a voice, even in her defiance, she obeyed.

Ignoring her virulent gaze, he wiped her stomach dry and then cleaned himself with a fastidiousness she took note of with rancor, knowing what dictated his caution.

When he was finished, he shoved the sheet aside and leaning back on his hands, contemplated her as though debating the manner of his assault. ‘Tell me about Will,“ he said. ”In case it should matter.“

“I don’t choose to. You’re wrong. You’ll find that out soon enough,” she finished, fretful and sullen.

“How soon will that be?” Soft, dulcet words that belied the flinty harshness of his gaze.

“You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” she snapped, her temper rising. She was never docile long.

His jaw tightened. “I hope I don’t have to wait nine months.”

“For your information, everyone’s not a gross libertine like you.”

“You never had any trouble keeping up.” His brows arched upward in derision. “Or setting the pace on occasion.”

“I must have been crazed.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he jibed. “Let’s hope you didn’t become crazed too often at Ian’s. Remember, I know what you’re like.” His smile was tight.

Overcome with a moment of discomfort, she wondered if Simon was more right than he knew. Would she have given in to Will at some point? Would she have succumbed to his affectionate advances?

Was her self-righteousness unfounded?

“You surprise me, darling. No biting retort? How many men did you fuck in the last five years?”

“Considerably less than your record with women, I’m sure.”

‘That’s not a reassuring answer.“

“If you were looking for a virgin, you should have thought of that before you forced me into,” she half-lifted her hand, “this bizarre arrangement.”

He didn’t reply for a moment. Nothing remotely rational had entered into the compulsion that had brought him from Paris to this marriage bed. “Well, since I obviously didn’t find myself a virgin and we are married,” he murmured, not unfamiliar with impulse in his life, “we might as well take advantage of our unlimited opportunity for fucking.”

“If only such a gallant invitation had put me in the mood,” she noted with exaggerated sweetness.

His smile was insolent. “Would you care to make a wager on how long it would take to get you in the mood?”

“We already have one unfulfilled wager.” Her gaze was challenging.

“Ah… the one on fidelity,” he remarked, as though he’d not been evading the issue all night. “Why don’t I get the cards and then we can get on to more interesting wagers.” And he left the bed without so much as a warning glance for her.

For a flashing moment she debated whether she could run. And if so, where? Rising on her elbows, she surveyed the room, looking for options.

He turned just before exiting the room, his mouth twitching into a grin. “Did I mention I have guards inside and out?”

He was gone before the pillow she flung at him reached its target and all she could do was curse her stupidity. No wonder there had been a dozen footmen at dinner. The spectacle had nothing to do with Gore’s organizational skills. And the familiar grooms who had greeted them when they’d arrived. They, too, weren’t simply there to ease Simon’s stay. Instead, he’d taken the precaution of bringing a phalanx of guards from London for his own express purpose.

To keep her captive.

To make sure she didn’t run.

To play duenna during their sojourn at Kettleston Hall.

Which undisclosed period of time was no doubt carefully planned as well.

Damn his iniquitous soul.

She was dressed in a man’s navy-blue silk robe and seated on a chair when he returned with the deck of cards.

“You’re fast,” he murmured, taking in her attire. “Although I should have had Gore send up something closer to your size.”

“Is this yours?” Loathing filled her voice.

“Sorry.” He grinned. “Maybe you should take it off.”

“And maybe I’m not a stupid ingénue. Just cut the cards.”

He sat across from her, shameless in his nudity, his bronzed skin dramatically appropriate against the viscount’s fashionable green, striped, silk-covered chair with gilded sphinx heads for arms. “Do you feel lucky?” he inquired, the tenor of his voice unabashedly cheeky.

“Perhaps if I weren’t prisoner, I might,” she petulantly replied, annoyed at his nonchalance. “What are we playing?”

He gestured at the deck of cards on the table between them, his wide muscled shoulders looking wider as he leaned forward. “Your choice, La Duchesse.”

“Piquet.”

“Your favorite.”

She detected a hint of sarcasm and relished it. So he remembered her winning that night at Shipton. And Kettleston Hall proved as providential; she took the first hand by thirteen points. Perhaps everything in this marriage wasn’t completely biased, after all, she reflected, pleasantly.

But then Simon won the second hand.

Although, just barely.

“Let me shuffle before we cut for deal,” she said, looking for whatever advantage she might considering the dead heat. Rolling up the sleeves of her robe, she gently flexed her wrists and shuffled.

They cut for dealer.

Hers was high, her advantage again.

Five minutes later, she was twenty points ahead and permitting herself to indulge in the smallest degree of elation.

Simon was about to lay down his last cards.

He glanced at her as he placed them on the table. “Quartorze, ”he said, softly, spreading out four kings.

Sweeping the cards from the table in a rage, she jumped to her feet and stormed out of the room. It was a childish reaction of course; she fully realized it. But fifty-six points! Four kings! How bloody rare was that? she fumed. Must he always win? Would she always lose? Had he cheated? she suddenly wondered. And if it would have made an iota of difference, she would have stalked back into the bedroom and accused him.

But even had she won their wager, what were the chances he would have complied?

Certainly his past conduct gave her little cause to hope.

She stood in the doorway of the sitting room. Furious, inexpressibly frustrated… and-she decided, taking in the delicious array of sweets on the table-maybe just the tiniest bit hungry.

Dessert-actually, several desserts… and a great deal of champagne. That was what she needed. And then Simon could be as infuriating as he pleased. At least she wouldn’t care.

Although, she thought, still highly exasperated, perhaps a modicum of revenge would be even sweeter.

Why not call for some of the guards to serve her? she decided, moving toward the apartment door, feeling a small gloating satisfaction for the first time since Simon’s irritating and irrational stand on paternity.

“Don’t bother.”

His voice was amused and she turned from the door, her hand slipping from the latch.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Her expression was one of cloudless innocence.

They won’t come in.“