Mistress - Amanda Quick [44]
“No. Oh, nor.”
“That explains why you are so very snug.” He tested her gently with his finger. “Very tight, indeed. You are going to fit me more closely than a new pair of breeches.”
Iphiginia knew that if he were not supporting her, bracing her against the statue, she would have crumpled to the floor as though she were made of melted wax.
“Dear heaven,” she whispered.
She had never felt so wicked, so sensually abandoned in her life. Clearly she was at last on the verge of surrendering to the ungoverned artistic sensibilities everyone had always assumed that she had inherited from her parents.
During her years in Deepford a great many people had warned her that such inclinations were in the blood and that she must be constantly on guard against them. But until Marcus had come into her life she had been disappointed to discover that she’d had no such interesting inclinations to guard against.
“I am glad that you have not had a string of lovers since your husband’s death.” Marcus took her earlobe between his teeth. “I have no use for inexperienced females, but I confess to a strong preference for those who have been somewhat discriminating in their choice of lovers.”
“I have been extremely discriminating, sir.”
“Something tells me that the late Mr. Bright was not very demanding.”
“Uh, no.” She lost her breath entirely for an instant as he began to stroke her more quickly. “No, he was not. He was a … a most considerate gentleman.” Whatever that meant.
“What a waste.” Marcus eased his finger back inside her and probed deliberately. “I assure you I shall not make the same mistake.”
Iphiginia cried out. Her whole body seemed to clench around Marcus’s hand. She clung to him for dear life and pushed her face deeper into his shoulder as the most inexplicable sensation she had ever known soared through her.
“Bloody hell,” Marcus breathed as she quivered in his arms. “So this is how it feels to touch starlight.”
Iphiginia could no longer speak. She fought for breath as she went limp.
Marcus’s soft laugh held a husky note of masculine satisfaction. He removed his hand slowly from between her legs, steadied her carefully, and began to unfasten his breeches.
Iphiginia barely realized what he was about. She was too busy marveling at the delicious tremors of release that were already swiftly receding into the distance.
“That was really quite astonishing, sir.”
“Yes. Quite remarkable. And it will be even more interesting to be inside you when it happens the next time.”
“Inside me?” Iphiginia tried to focus on what he was saying.
“Do not concern yourself, madam. I brought along a condom. French, of course. They do make the best ones, do they not? It is designed to my precise specifications. After some study of the subject, I elected to modify the original design somewhat in order to—”
“For heavens’ sake, sir.”
Marcus winced. “Forgive me. This is neither the time nor the place for such technical discussions, is it? Sometimes my interest in mechanical and scientific matters gets the better of me. Rest assured that I shall take very good care of you.”
Iphiginia was speechless. She had heard of condoms. A charming countess in Italy had once described them to her and Amelia over tea. They were fashioned of sheep gut and secured with little red strings.
A small sound came from the shadowed doorway. It was followed by a woman’s giggle. A man hushed her and then chuckled drunkenly.
“Damn it to hell.” Marcus hastily refastened his breeches.
“What is it?”
“We are no longer alone.” Marcus lowered her skirts and shook them out for her.
“Someone is here? In this chamber?”
“Yes. Are you all right?” He glanced down at her with some concern.
“Yes, of course.” Iphiginia felt strangely languid, almost uncaring about the possibility of being discovered in such an embarrassing position.
Reality and the memory of why she had initially encouraged Lord Lartmore to lead her into the statuary hall returned in a rush. She hesitated and glanced toward the far end of the shadowed room.
“There is no need to hide.” Marcus sounded