“You say you love watching and feeling me play?” he asked, walking back around to the keyboard. She nodded, clearly breathless from her sudden change of altitude. “Then you’re going to adore this.”

He touched a finger to one ivory key, then tapped it with a firm stroke.

“Oh.” Her hand went to her throat. “Oh, my.”

Grinning, he played a quick arpeggio with his right hand, skipping up and down the high range of the keyboard.

“Julian,” she said in a shocked tone, her cheeks flushing with color. “The vibrations, they’re … You were right. This is wicked indeed.”

“Shall I stop?” He held up his hands.

“Heavens, no.”

He teased her a bit longer, with light, discordant scales. Just as he would trace tantalizing caresses up and down her bared thighs. She closed her eyes, and her lips fell apart. A husky moan eased from her throat.

Enough with the études and foreplay.

He put both hands to the keyboard and coaxed from it a full-bodied, if ill-tuned piece of music, with dark, powerful chords and a lilting melody.

“Oh.” She squirmed atop the pianoforte. “Oh, Julian. Is that … Is that our waltz?”

God, how he loved her. He nodded in affirmation. “It is indeed our waltz. And this”—he paused—“is our country dance.” He gave her no time to adjust before launching into the brisk, vigorous, pounding rhythm.

She made a sound that was half shriek, half delight. “Have mercy, please,” she laughed. Her throat and chest were blushed crimson, and he could see the points of her taut nipples pressing against the bodice of her dress. “I can’t take anymore. Julian, do stop, or I shall speak of plaster.”

He stopped.

Her breath heaved in her chest. Strands of her hair had fallen loose, floating about her face. “Goodness,” she said, putting a hand to her brow. “I’m perspiring. I must look as though I’ve been tumbled.” Her eyes accused him merrily. “You truly are wicked.”

“Brace yourself, my dear wife. That was just the prelude.”

He reached for her over the keyboard, buffing the polish with her skirts as he pulled her toward him and spun her legs around. Now she sat perched just before him, sitting directly above the keyboard. Her knees grazed his chest. He pushed up her skirts and spread her legs wide, so that her feet dangled over opposite ends of the piano keys.

Lust surged through him, and he took a moment to adjust his trouser fall. He’d gone hard as marble, just watching that erotic display. He probably could tap out a tune with his engorged staff, if he freed it from his clothing.

But first he needed to free her from hers.

She was spread out before him like a luscious feast, her trim, stocking-clad legs converging in a shadowy valley of bare skin and dark curls and intoxicating feminine musk. He removed her left slipper and let it fall to the floor, skimming his hand up the enticing curves of her leg—from the high arch of her instep, to the gentle curve of her calf, over the knob of her knee, and further.

“Julian,” she said frantically, as he yanked at her garter. “We can’t do this. Not here.”

“Why not here? It’s our house.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Oh. Did you prefer one of the other homes we toured?” He pulled the garter loose, then deftly rolled the stocking down her leg.

“No, you impossible man. You know I want this house, but—”

He shucked her other slipper. It hit the floor with a softly echoing thud. Then he ceased his attentions, momentarily devoting his whole body to communication. “You want this house, and you shall have it. I want you, and I shall have you. Right here. Right now. There will be no further discussion.”

Then he went back to removing her other garter and sliding her leg free of its delicate silk sheath. Once he’d pulled the garment free and exposed her dainty, wriggling toes, he kissed his way up her leg, tracing every smooth ivory contour with lips and tongue. As he reached the quivering slope of her inner thigh, her foot slipped to the keyboard in disharmonious protest.

“Be still,” he told her, shushing against her skin. He picked up her foot and braced it on his shoulder. Pushing aside the white, gauzy folds of her chemise and petticoat, he bared her most intimate places to his view. The petals of her sex were flushed deep red and dewy with excitement, and the sight alone drove him to a new peak of arousal.

Rather then dipping to taste her directly, he schooled himself to be patient. Instead, he licked a winding path up her inner thigh, giving her time to grow accustomed to the idea. Even so, her hips bucked with surprise when he made that first teasing pass with his tongue.

He kept a firm grip on her ankle, holding her bare foot braced against his shoulder. With his other hand, he clutched her hip. She wasn’t getting away from him. Oh, no.

He pressed his open mouth to her sex, just lightly. No kisses or fancy work with his tongue. He merely settled there, hovering near. Feeling her maidenhair tickle at his freshly shaven cheek, letting his ragged breath warm her aroused flesh. With devilish intent, he lifted his gaze and made eye contact with her over the heaving horizon of her bosom. Her brown eyes were glazed, her lips dusky and flushed.

He licked, once. In a reflexive move, her leg tensed against his shoulder, as if she would push him away.

He licked again, this time making a long, slow slide along her cleft, parting her. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she slumped back with a moan.

Eye contact ended. Her leg relaxed. Now he could tend to business.

He slid his hands up to frame her hips. She was so slender, he could curl his fingers over her waist and still reach toward her center with his thumbs, spreading her open for his pleasure and hers.

Damn, but he loved this. The teasing, the tasting, the tonguing of her every delicate contour and crest. Having explored every secret part of her, he swept his tongue to the pinnacle of her cleft and found her swollen bud.

Above him, she gasped and moaned. Her hand tangled in his hair, twisting and grasping. But she made no effort to wrench him away.

Needing to get closer, he lifted one knee to the piano keyboard. The incidental chord faded as he slid one hand up to knead her breast, tweaking her hardened nipple through the fabric. She inched closer to him, splaying her legs with shameless abandon and pressing her heat against his mouth. He began a swift series of experiments, running through his repertoire of kisses, nibbles, and licks until he found just the precise flicker of his tongue that set her thigh aquiver.

There, her body told him. Just like that.

So he did it again. And again. And again, refusing to slow or stop until she cried out in ecstasy, arching off the pianoforte with the force of her climax.

And still he did not relent.

Her fingers relaxed their grip on his hair, and she stroked him instead, raking her fingernails lightly over his scalp. A little sound escaped her throat. He doubted she was even aware of making it. A whimper, raw-edged with yearning. It was a sound of sensual satisfaction, and yet—it was an unmistakable plea for more.

Something in him snapped. She’d wanted a return to the wicked Julian, and she was going to have her wish. Turning his head, he kissed her inner thigh. Then he bit it, drawing on the fragile skin with firm suction until he pulled from her a sharp hiss of pain.

Widening his stance to brace his lust-weakened knees, he stood, pulling at the buttons of his trousers with desperate fingers. Within moments, he’d freed his rampant erection. He stroked himself a few times, gazing hungrily upon the plump, rosy display of passion so conveniently positioned at eye level. Staring at the way he’d marked her with that bite just at the top of her thigh. The tiny bruise was a violet petal fallen on fresh snow.

She was wet and hot and glistening. She was his.

“Beautiful,” he muttered, giving his aching arousal one last squeeze. “So damned beautiful.”

From the pianoforte, she rose up on her elbows. She gave him a sleepy smile, looking drugged with satisfaction. She would not wear that look for long. He was determined to rouse her, in more ways than one.

Grasping her by the hips, he dragged her down from atop the pianoforte. Her backside landed on the keyboard with a discordant crash, her legs on either side of his. Giving her no chance to prepare or protest, Julian guided himself to her entrance and thrust deep, encasing himself in bliss.

Sweet … heaven.

“Your legs,” he demanded, “wrap them over my hips.” He demonstrated his wish, lifting her thigh to aid her in compliance. Soon her ankles were linked at the small of his back.

“Arms, too,” he said.

She laced them tight around his neck.

With her clinging to him, he slid one arm around her waist. He braced his other hand against the pianoforte, to protect her from taking the brunt of his thrusts.

He worked her hard and fast, and beneath them, frenzied music played in an ungodly key, building to a quick crescendo. This was not tender lovemaking, but a claiming. This was his beautiful wife. This was his beautiful house. And this bright, elegant, glittering future … all of it, his for the taking.

She felt so good against him, under him, surrounding him. He threw back his head, and she chased him, pressing her lips to his throat. His whole body hummed with anticipation as he raced toward completion. She beat him to the finish, seizing around him in a second climax. He heard himself making harsh, guttural noises—shouting, almost. And why shouldn’t he shout? This was his house, his wife. No need to hold back.

So he didn’t. He came into her, losing himself in a clamor of bucking hips and strange, groaning piano chords, and clashing, open-mouthed kisses.

And life was very, very good.

For now.

Chapter Twenty

“Well, it appears someone’s feeding the beast. Grooming him, too.” Rhys St. Maur, Lord Ashworth gave the stallion’s withers a brisk rub. “Osiris, you look a damn sight better than when I saw you last.” The former warrior looked to Julian. “For that matter, so do you. Marriage must be suiting you.”

Julian shrugged. “Funny how that works, isn’t it? Where’s Lady Ashworth?”

“Merry?” Ashworth’s eyebrow lifted, splitting in the middle where a thick scar divided it. “Left her at the hotel. She’s fatigued from the journey, or so she says. Too enamored with the scented soaps and bed hangings, is more like it. But she sends her regards.”

“Bring her by Harcliffe House later, if you will. My wife will be glad to make her acquaintance.”

“Your wife.” Ashworth chuckled. “And just think, six months ago you were so determined to marry Lily off to some other man.”

Julian knew he was being ribbed, but he didn’t take offense. These days, so little seemed worth getting upset about. “I was only following the code, you know. A member of the Stud Club needed to marry her. Once you and Morland married elsewhere, the duty fell to me.”

“Duty, my arse. You’ve been in love with that woman from the start. Don’t try to deny it.”

Very well. Julian wouldn’t. He pulled a stub of carrot from his pocket and offered it to the horse.

Ashworth scratched the stallion behind his ear. “What would Leo think, if he could see the remaining members of his fast, subversive club? We’re all old married men now, settled and sedate.”

Osiris snorted, sending a little cloud of vapor into the brisk December morning.

“This stallion’s none too youthful, either.”

Ashworth asked, “You think Morland will agree to your plan?”

Julian nodded. “I have my ways of convincing him.”

The duke himself arrived at that moment, approaching the mews astride a stately bay gelding. He dismounted smoothly and handed his reins to a waiting groom.

“Ashworth,” he said, catching his breath as he removed his gloves. “This is a surprise. When did you arrive in Town?”