“You have no notion of how long I’ve waited for you to ask that,” she admitted with a soft chuckle.

“Why didn’t I ask before?”

“We did not talk about such things.”

“No?” His eyes laughed at her. “What did we talk about then?”

She moved to pour him a brandy, but he shook his head. “Why, we talked about you, Gray.”

“Me?” he asked with raised brows. “Surely, not all the time.”

“Nearly all the time.”

“And when we weren’t talking about me?”

“Well, then we were talking about your inamoratas.”

Gray grimaced, and she laughed, remembering how much fun she used to have in simple discourse with him. Then she noted how he looked at her, as if he could not quite put his finger on something about her. Her laughter faded away.

“How insufferable I was, Isabel. How did you ever tolerate me?”

“I quite liked you,” she said honestly. “There never was any guessing with you. You always said exactly what you meant.”

He looked past her shoulder. “You still hang Pelham’s portrait,” he mused. Gray returned his gaze to hers. “Did you love him so very much?”

Isabel turned, and looked at the painting behind her. She tried, truly tried to dredge up some remnant of the love she had once felt for him, but her bitter resentment was too deep. She could not reach below it. “I did. I cannot remember the feeling now, but once I loved him desperately.”

“Is that why you avoid commitment, Pel?”

She looked back at him with her lips pursed. “You and I did not discuss personal things either.”

Gray’s arm left the back of the chair and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Could we not be better friends now, than we were then?”

“I am not sure that would be wise,” she murmured, once again glancing at her wedding band.

“Why not?”

Isabel rose and stood at the window, needing to put distance between herself and his new intensity.

“Why not?” he asked again, following her. “Do you have other, closer friends who you share things with?”

He set his hands atop her shoulders, and it took only a moment for his touch to heat her skin, and his scent to reach her nostrils. When next he spoke, his voice came close to her ear. “Is it too much to ask that you add your husband to your list of trusted friends?”

“Gray,” she breathed, her heart racing with her distress. Her restless fingers brushed the satin billowing beside the window frame. “I do not have friends such as you describe. And you say the word ‘husband’ with an import we never gave to it.”

“How about your lover, then?” he pressed. “Does he hear your thoughts?”

Isabel attempted to pull away, but he held her fast.

“Why a tent, Pel? Can you tell me that, at least?”

She shivered at the feel of his exhale against her nape. “I like to imagine it is a part of a caravan.”

“A fantasy?” Gray’s large hands slid down her arms. “Is there a sheik who occupies this fantasy? Does he ravish you?”

“My lord!” she protested, thoroughly alarmed by the way her skin was prickling with sensual awareness. There was no way to ignore the hard male body that bracketed hers.

“What do you want, Gray?” she asked, her mouth dry. “Have you suddenly decided to change the rules?”

“And if I have?”

“We would end up apart, our friendship ruined. You and I are not the type of people who find love ever after.”

“How would you know what type of man I am?”

“I know you kept a mistress while professing to love another.”

His hot, open mouth pressed against the side of her throat, and her eyes slid closed at the seductive touch.

“You said I have changed, Isabel.”

“No man changes that much. Regardless, I…I have someone.”

Gray turned her to face him. His hands around her wrists were hot, his gaze hotter. Lord, she knew that look. It was the look Pelham had brought her to heel with, the look she made certain none of her lovers gave to her. Passion, desire—she welcomed those. But carnal hunger was something to be avoided at all costs.

That famished gaze swept over her body from head to toe and back again. Her nipples ached and tightened as his heated examination passed them, until she knew they must be visible even through her gown. His perusal paused there on the upward journey, and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Her lips parted on a panting breath.

“Isabel,” he rasped, his hand lifting to cup her breast, his thumb brushing across the tight peak. “Could you not give me a chance to prove my worth?”

She heard her own needy moan, felt her blood heat and grow sluggish. His mouth lowered to hers, and she tilted her head back, waiting.

And wanting.

A soft scratching at the door broke the moment. She stumbled backward, breaking free of his slackened hold. Her fingers covered her lips, pressing hard to hide their quivering.

“My lady?” came the soft query of her abigail from the hallway. “Should I return later?”

Gray waited, his breathing harsh, the crests of his cheekbones flushed. There was no doubt in Isabel’s mind that if she sent her maid away, she would be flat on her back and mounted within moments.

“Come in,” she called, wincing at the note of panic that she could not hide.

Damn him. He’d made her want him, this new spouse of hers. Want him with the type of need that made her ache, a need she had thought herself too old and too wise to ever feel again.

It was her worst nightmare come to life.

Her husband closed his eyes a moment, collecting himself, as Mary swept in and went straight to the armoire.

“Shopping tomorrow, Pel?” he asked, his voice maddeningly calm. “I do need new garments.”

The most she could manage was a jerky nod.

Grayson sketched an elegant bow and retreated, but his presence lingered in her mind long after he had gone.

Gerard made it to the hallway that led to his rooms before pausing to rest against the damask-covered wall. He closed his eyes and cursed himself. His plan to renew relations with his wife had gone horribly awry the moment he had opened the door.

He should have been prepared, he should have known how his body would react to the sight of Pel draped in black satin, one creamy shoulder bared as she lounged on a chaise. But how could he have known? He had never felt that way about her before. At least, not that he could recollect. But during those previous meetings in her boudoir, he had been so in love with Em. Perhaps that was what had granted him immunity from his wife’s abundant charms.

Banging the back of his head lightly against the wall, Gerard could only hope that it would knock some sense into him. To lust for one’s wife. He groaned. For most men, that would be so convenient. Not for him. Isabel had been frightened by his interest.

Though not uninterested, a voice whispered in his mind.

Yes, his seduction skills were a bit dusty, but he hadn’t completely forgotten everything. He knew the signals a woman’s body gave when she lusted in return.

Isabel may be correct in saying they were not the type of people who found love ever after. Lord knows they had both stumbled badly in that pursuit before. But perhaps it did not have to be a grand love affair. Perhaps it could simply be an affair of indefinite duration. A marriage of friendship, and a shared bed. As much as he liked Pel, they had the foundation. He loved the sound of her laugh—that rich, throaty purr that warmed a man from the inside. And her smile, with its teasing hint of wickedness. The sexual attraction was there in bushels. Besides, they were married, after all. Surely that gave him a leg up.

Gerard pushed away from the wall, and went to his rooms. Garments tomorrow, then a slow reintroduction to Society, and a heated seduction of his wife.

Of course, there was her paramour to attend to.

He grimaced. That would be the most difficult part. Isabel did not love her amours, but she cared a great deal for them, and was fiercely loyal. Winning her would take cunning and time, the latter being something he was not accustomed to investing in the pursuit of women.

But this was Pel, and as many would attest, she was worth the wait.

Chapter 2

“You do not look happy, Isabel,” John, the Earl of Hargreaves, whispered in her ear. “Perhaps you would care to hear a bawdy joke? Or move along to another party? This one is dreadfully boring.”

Isabel sighed inwardly and offered a bright smile. “If you wish to leave, I have no objections.”

Hargreaves set his gloved hand at the small of her back and gave a soft caress. “I did not say I wanted to leave. I suggested it as a cure for your ennui.”

At the moment, she almost wished she were bored. To have her head filled with nothing of import would be infinitely better than having it filled with thoughts of Gray. Who was the man who had moved into her home today? She truly had no notion. She knew only that he was very dark, shadowed with torments she could not understand, because he would not share. He was also very dangerous. As her husband, he could demand anything of her that he desired and she would be helpless to deny him.

Deep in her heart, Isabel could not help but long for the Marquess of Grayson she had once known. The younger Gray with the ready wit and careless disdain. He had been so simple to manage.

“Well, Isabel?” Hargreaves pressed.

She hid her slight irritation. John was a kind man, and had been her paramour for over two years, but he never voiced an opinion, never gave a hint of what he would prefer. “I would like you to decide,” she said, turning to face him.

“Me?” He frowned, which did nothing to lessen his appeal.

Hargreaves was very handsome with his aquiline nose and dark eyes. His black hair was graying at the temples, a distinguishing feature that only served to increase his attractiveness. A renowned swordsman, his body displayed the lanky grace of one who was expert in the sport of fencing. The earl was well-liked and well-respected. Women wanted him, and Isabel was no exception. A widower with two sons, he had no need for a wife, and he was good-natured. She usually enjoyed his company. In bed, and out.

“Yes, you,” she said. “What would you like to do?”

“Whatever you desire,” he said smoothly. “As always, I live for your happiness.”

“It would make me happy to know what you want,” she retorted.

Hargreaves’ smile faded. “Why are you so out of sorts this evening?”

“Asking for your opinion does not make me out of sorts.”

“Then why are you snapping at me?” he complained.

Isabel closed her eyes, and tamped down her frustration. Her irritation with John was Gray’s fault. She looked at Hargreaves, and caught up his hand in hers. “What would you like to do? If we could do anything at all, what would give you the most pleasure?”

His scowl lifted as his lips curved in a sultry smile. He reached out and stroked the tiny bit of skin that was visible between her short sleeve and long glove. Unlike Gray’s touch, it did not make her burn, but it did spread a gentle warmth that Hargreaves could stoke into a fire. “Your company gives me the most pleasure, Isabel. You know this.”

“Then I will join you at your home shortly,” she murmured.

He departed immediately. Isabel waited a discreet amount of time, and then she made her egress as well. During the carriage ride to Hargreaves House, she brooded over her situation and considered what, if any, options she had. John noted her preoccupation the moment she entered his bedroom.

“Tell me what troubles you,” he murmured as he removed her cloak.

She sighed and admitted, “Lord Grayson has returned.”

“Bloody hell.” Hargreaves circled her and faced her head-on. “What does he want?”

“To live in his home, to regain his social life.”

“What does he want with you?”

She noted his distress, and sought to soothe him. “Obviously I am here with you, and he is at home. You know how Grayson is.”

“I know how he was, but that was four years ago.” He moved away, pouring himself a drink. When he held the decanter up to her, she nodded gratefully. “I do not know how to feel about this, Isabel.”

“You should not feel anything. His return does not affect you.” Not like it affected her.

“I would be foolish not to see how it could affect me in the future.”

“John.” She accepted the proffered glass and kicked off her slippers. What could she say? Perhaps Gray’s advances toward her had not been an anomaly. It was possible her husband would still want her in the morning. Then again, perhaps the stress of returning had addled him in some way. She could only hope that the latter was true. A girl should only have to live with one man like Pelham in a lifetime. “No one knows what the future will bring.”

“God, Isabel. Do not spout phrases like that.” He tossed back his drink and poured another.

“What would you like me to say?” she asked, hating that she could offer no words of comfort and still tell the truth.

He set his snifter down so hard the reddish liquid sloshed over the sides. Hargreaves ignored it, and came to her. “I want you to tell me it does not matter that he has returned.”

“I cannot.” She sighed, and lifted to her tiptoes to kiss the clenched line of his jaw. His arms came around her, and squeezed her tight. “You know I cannot. I wish I could.”

Taking the glass from her, Hargreaves set it on the end table, and pulled her toward the bed. She shook her head.

“You deny me?” he asked, clearly incredulous.

“I am confused, John, and distressed. Both of which rather dampens my ardor. It is no reflection on you. I promise.”

“You have never turned me away. Why did you visit? To torment me?”

Isabel pulled back, her lips pursed. “My apologies. I was unaware that I was only invited to fornicate.” She tugged her hand from his, and moved away.