duel. I am excellent with a pistol, and could not bring myself to kill him, as would inevitably happen. The most circumspect course of action was to depart France.”
“I cannot listen to this.” She would have risen and swept out, but her legs had taken to trembling.
His eyes danced, as if he understood her plight. “There is more to the story than the gossipmongers know.”
“More?” Despite better reason, she was intrigued.
“I will tell you the truth, my lady, because you have been married and will understand such delicate matters.”
Oh my! What on earth did he refer to? Curiosity came close to overwhelming her better judgment, but she forced herself to say, “No, I should not listen to such—”
He held up a hand, silencing her. “I have been misjudged, and I wish one person—you, my dear Lady Emma—to know the truth.”
In the space of an hour she had gone from Lady Whitehead to Lady Emma, and now my dear Lady Emma. She should protest, but sat mute.
“I did not take advantage of the lady in question. She was married to a man who could not—how would you English say this?— perform his marital obligations.”
His marital obligations? Did the Comte mean that the man could not support his wife financially?
“In the bedchamber,” he murmured.
“Oh!” Could he actually be talking about …? Her heart raced so fast she could barely draw breath. She could not, should not, listen, but already he was going on.
“She begged me to give her the pleasure she craved, and I did not refuse that plea.”
Emma’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. The Frenchwoman found pleasure in conjugal relations? For Emma, those acts had been painful and embarrassing—a part of marriage she never, for one moment, missed. Surely no decent woman could enjoy something so base.
When the Comte reached for her hand, she was so shocked she didn’t resist. He stroked the back of it, sending shivers coursing through her entire body. “I see from your reaction that I was wrong about you, my dear. I sense your husband did not teach you the joy a man and woman can create together. The beautiful music their bodies can play. My lady, there is no duet to compare.”
Her lips quivered as she tried to form words to tell him she could hear no more of this. Her legs trembled too; else she’d have sprung to her feet and dashed from the room.
He leaned closer and her breath stopped entirely. And then—how shocking, but oh, how sweet—his lips touched hers.
Kit-Kat tried to crawl onto Georgia’s chest, blocking her view of the e-reader. “Oh no, you don’t,” Georgia muttered. “I’m not stopping now.”
She nudged the cat aside and read on, enthralled, as the Comte skillfully seduced Emma, playing her body as if it were a beautiful instrument and he the most talented and appreciative of musicians. He overcame her embarrassment, her inhibitions, and taught her that sex could be an act of supreme pleasure.
Lying on the sofa in the library, surrendering to the caresses ofhis deft fingers and tongue, Emma climaxed for the first time in her life.
And then, when he entered her slowly and tenderly, patiently teaching her the rhythm of intimacy, the dance of two bodies moving in perfect harmony, she climaxed again.
Lying in bed, Georgia’s body tingled with the memory of her own orgasms. She flicked off the e-reader. Two orgasms. What a strange coincidence.
Of course, her own circumstances were very different from Emma’s. Emma’s husband had been a cold, inconsiderate man, whereas Georgia’s Anthony had been warm and loving. And then Emma had been coaxed toward climax under the attention of a charming man, a subtle seducer, a skilled and patient lover who devoted himself to his partner’s pleasure. Georgia could, perhaps, understand how Emma had let herself be persuaded.
Her own actions with Woody made far less sense. She wasn’t even attracted to him. Not really. Only to a splendid body. He certainly wasn’t suave
“I cannot listen to this.” She would have risen and swept out, but her legs had taken to trembling.
His eyes danced, as if he understood her plight. “There is more to the story than the gossipmongers know.”
“More?” Despite better reason, she was intrigued.
“I will tell you the truth, my lady, because you have been married and will understand such delicate matters.”
Oh my! What on earth did he refer to? Curiosity came close to overwhelming her better judgment, but she forced herself to say, “No, I should not listen to such—”
He held up a hand, silencing her. “I have been misjudged, and I wish one person—you, my dear Lady Emma—to know the truth.”
In the space of an hour she had gone from Lady Whitehead to Lady Emma, and now my dear Lady Emma. She should protest, but sat mute.
“I did not take advantage of the lady in question. She was married to a man who could not—how would you English say this?— perform his marital obligations.”
His marital obligations? Did the Comte mean that the man could not support his wife financially?
“In the bedchamber,” he murmured.
“Oh!” Could he actually be talking about …? Her heart raced so fast she could barely draw breath. She could not, should not, listen, but already he was going on.
“She begged me to give her the pleasure she craved, and I did not refuse that plea.”
Emma’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. The Frenchwoman found pleasure in conjugal relations? For Emma, those acts had been painful and embarrassing—a part of marriage she never, for one moment, missed. Surely no decent woman could enjoy something so base.
When the Comte reached for her hand, she was so shocked she didn’t resist. He stroked the back of it, sending shivers coursing through her entire body. “I see from your reaction that I was wrong about you, my dear. I sense your husband did not teach you the joy a man and woman can create together. The beautiful music their bodies can play. My lady, there is no duet to compare.”
Her lips quivered as she tried to form words to tell him she could hear no more of this. Her legs trembled too; else she’d have sprung to her feet and dashed from the room.
He leaned closer and her breath stopped entirely. And then—how shocking, but oh, how sweet—his lips touched hers.
Kit-Kat tried to crawl onto Georgia’s chest, blocking her view of the e-reader. “Oh no, you don’t,” Georgia muttered. “I’m not stopping now.”
She nudged the cat aside and read on, enthralled, as the Comte skillfully seduced Emma, playing her body as if it were a beautiful instrument and he the most talented and appreciative of musicians. He overcame her embarrassment, her inhibitions, and taught her that sex could be an act of supreme pleasure.
Lying on the sofa in the library, surrendering to the caresses ofhis deft fingers and tongue, Emma climaxed for the first time in her life.
And then, when he entered her slowly and tenderly, patiently teaching her the rhythm of intimacy, the dance of two bodies moving in perfect harmony, she climaxed again.
Lying in bed, Georgia’s body tingled with the memory of her own orgasms. She flicked off the e-reader. Two orgasms. What a strange coincidence.
Of course, her own circumstances were very different from Emma’s. Emma’s husband had been a cold, inconsiderate man, whereas Georgia’s Anthony had been warm and loving. And then Emma had been coaxed toward climax under the attention of a charming man, a subtle seducer, a skilled and patient lover who devoted himself to his partner’s pleasure. Georgia could, perhaps, understand how Emma had let herself be persuaded.
Her own actions with Woody made far less sense. She wasn’t even attracted to him. Not really. Only to a splendid body. He certainly wasn’t suave
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