Tess is simply not good enough for him.”
“Both of those comments are most presumptuous, my love,” Alex drawled. His voice was his own again, cool and incisive, but the love and amusement still blazed in his eyes. “In the first place, you have no notion whether Owen still cherishes a hopeless tendre for you, and in the second, you do your sister an injustice.”
“Do I?” Joanna asked, genuinely taken aback.
“Tess has a great deal more to her than you think,” Alex said.
“How do you know?” Joanna said.
“Because I have caught her in the library reading Rousseau,” Alex said.
“Who?” Joanna asked, mystified.
“Merryn,” Alex said, not without satisfaction, “is not the only bluestocking in this family.” He hesitated. “And I suspect Tess is a philanthropist too.”
“Tess!” Joanna’s face wrinkled up into genuine confusion. “Surely you jest? Tess cares for nothing but the cut of her gown! Or the identity of her next husband,” she added sharply. “Must she have four, Alex? It’s so greedy!”
“Enough!” Alex said, drawing her into his arms again. He pressed his lips to the hollow beneath her ear, a hollow that was wonderfully sensitive and sent ripples of sensation skittering along Joanna’s skin. “I find I am bored already with your sister’s nuptials,” he whispered, his tongue tickling her. “I want to discover my own wife all over again. Come to bed.”
A delicious little shiver whipped through Joanna’s body. “Now?” She glanced at the clock. “In the afternoon? But people will be calling—”
“We shall tell them we are busy,” Alex said, his fingers already delving beneath the fine lace that edged her bodice.
“Alex!” Joanna squeaked.
“Of course,” Alex murmured, his lips exploring the tender line of her collarbone now, “if you would rather do something else—”
“No!” Joanna squeaked again, her stomach hollowing with lust as she realised quite how much she wanted him. “I cannot think of any pressing engagements.”
Later, much later, as the grey shadows of autumn dusk were gathering outside, Joanna rolled over in luxurious abandon in the middle of her tumbled bed and propped herself on one elbow.
“Alex,” she said.
Her husband made a sleepy sound indicative of nothing other than that he was too exhausted to talk.
“There is just one small matter to do with Tess’s wedding that I feel we should discuss,” Joanna persisted.
Alex groaned. He half opened his eyes. “Must we?” he grumbled.
“Tess only marries impotent men,” Joanna said baldly. “Therefore she must imagine Owen to be impotent.”
Alex shot up in bed. “What ?” he said. “How on earth do you work that out?”
“Ha! Now I have your attention,” Joanna said. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, licking experimentally, tasting the salt on his skin. “After Brokeby she never wanted an intimate relationship again,” she said.
Alex rolled over, trapping her beneath him. “Did Tess tell you this?” he demanded.
Joanna shook her head. “Not in so many words. Tess tells me nothing. But I know it’s true. He hurt her in some way.” She ran a finger down Alex’s arm, feeling the muscle beneath the skin and the fine scattering of hair beneath her touch. His body was hard against hers and already she was starting to feel weighted with desire again. It pulled deep inside her, making her feel soft and heavy with languor, sharp with need. How could anyone, she wondered, not want this delicious fulfilment? A wave of acute pity for her sister assailed her.
“The question,” she whispered, “is whether we tell Tess the truth or not.”
“How do you know Owen isn’t impotent?” Alex asked mildly.
Joanna blushed. “I don’t,” she admitted, “but it seems unlikely.”
“Very unlikely,” Alex agreed with a reminiscent smile.
Joanna poked him sharply in the ribs. “I don’t want to hear about your joint exploits in the brothels of
“Both of those comments are most presumptuous, my love,” Alex drawled. His voice was his own again, cool and incisive, but the love and amusement still blazed in his eyes. “In the first place, you have no notion whether Owen still cherishes a hopeless tendre for you, and in the second, you do your sister an injustice.”
“Do I?” Joanna asked, genuinely taken aback.
“Tess has a great deal more to her than you think,” Alex said.
“How do you know?” Joanna said.
“Because I have caught her in the library reading Rousseau,” Alex said.
“Who?” Joanna asked, mystified.
“Merryn,” Alex said, not without satisfaction, “is not the only bluestocking in this family.” He hesitated. “And I suspect Tess is a philanthropist too.”
“Tess!” Joanna’s face wrinkled up into genuine confusion. “Surely you jest? Tess cares for nothing but the cut of her gown! Or the identity of her next husband,” she added sharply. “Must she have four, Alex? It’s so greedy!”
“Enough!” Alex said, drawing her into his arms again. He pressed his lips to the hollow beneath her ear, a hollow that was wonderfully sensitive and sent ripples of sensation skittering along Joanna’s skin. “I find I am bored already with your sister’s nuptials,” he whispered, his tongue tickling her. “I want to discover my own wife all over again. Come to bed.”
A delicious little shiver whipped through Joanna’s body. “Now?” She glanced at the clock. “In the afternoon? But people will be calling—”
“We shall tell them we are busy,” Alex said, his fingers already delving beneath the fine lace that edged her bodice.
“Alex!” Joanna squeaked.
“Of course,” Alex murmured, his lips exploring the tender line of her collarbone now, “if you would rather do something else—”
“No!” Joanna squeaked again, her stomach hollowing with lust as she realised quite how much she wanted him. “I cannot think of any pressing engagements.”
Later, much later, as the grey shadows of autumn dusk were gathering outside, Joanna rolled over in luxurious abandon in the middle of her tumbled bed and propped herself on one elbow.
“Alex,” she said.
Her husband made a sleepy sound indicative of nothing other than that he was too exhausted to talk.
“There is just one small matter to do with Tess’s wedding that I feel we should discuss,” Joanna persisted.
Alex groaned. He half opened his eyes. “Must we?” he grumbled.
“Tess only marries impotent men,” Joanna said baldly. “Therefore she must imagine Owen to be impotent.”
Alex shot up in bed. “What ?” he said. “How on earth do you work that out?”
“Ha! Now I have your attention,” Joanna said. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, licking experimentally, tasting the salt on his skin. “After Brokeby she never wanted an intimate relationship again,” she said.
Alex rolled over, trapping her beneath him. “Did Tess tell you this?” he demanded.
Joanna shook her head. “Not in so many words. Tess tells me nothing. But I know it’s true. He hurt her in some way.” She ran a finger down Alex’s arm, feeling the muscle beneath the skin and the fine scattering of hair beneath her touch. His body was hard against hers and already she was starting to feel weighted with desire again. It pulled deep inside her, making her feel soft and heavy with languor, sharp with need. How could anyone, she wondered, not want this delicious fulfilment? A wave of acute pity for her sister assailed her.
“The question,” she whispered, “is whether we tell Tess the truth or not.”
“How do you know Owen isn’t impotent?” Alex asked mildly.
Joanna blushed. “I don’t,” she admitted, “but it seems unlikely.”
“Very unlikely,” Alex agreed with a reminiscent smile.
Joanna poked him sharply in the ribs. “I don’t want to hear about your joint exploits in the brothels of
Similar Books
