The Perfect Scandal Read Free Page B

just on the other side of the square.
    Determined not to stray, for the past ten nights, the moment he retired into his room he had yanked those bedchamber curtains shut and had refused to look in that direction. Yet his thoughts lingered on that lush, accented voice, that alluring, pale face, the shifting of her nightdress against those soft, full breasts andthat delectable mouth he wanted to get to know on a very, very personal level.
    And then…last night…on the eleventh night before the eleventh hour, his well-molded, gentlemanly resolve finally fissured. He dug out his best riding crop, along with a spyglass, and toted them both into his bedchamber.
    After extinguishing every candle in the room with the tips of his fingers, he leaned his shoulder against the frame of the window and extended the brass eyepiece, pointing it in her direction. Fortunately for her—though not so fortunate for him—she had learned to keep her curtains drawn. He’d only been able to make out a few passing shadows, even after diligently watching her window for over twenty minutes.
    Unable to rest or think or sleep, he’d stripped, snatched up the riding crop from the windowsill and set his back against the nearest wall. After thwacking his thigh just enough to heighten his awareness of his body, he tossed the crop and pleasured himself into oblivion.
    All the while, he had envisioned himself wearing only trousers, kneeling before her. She worshipped him, told him that he was everything she would ever want and need, while she seductively rounded him on bare feet, draped in that flowing nightdress that slid off her right shoulder. Her eyes would never leavehis as her hand gripped the thick handle of a whip he’d given her to play with. She would then smile ever so softly, ever so charmingly, while delicately smacking the braided leather end against his thigh or back, causing him to suck in breaths of anticipation. She would further tease him by placing sections of the leather whip in her mouth and biting it between her teeth to show him how much she really enjoyed playing with him.
    When every last inch of his body and mind pulsed in awareness and desperation, he’d envisioned rising, yanking up her nightdress above her waist and quietly instructing her to release the whip and set both hands against the pane of the window. He’d envisioned ramming into her, her pale hands sliding down the glass, unable to find stability, as he kept ramming into her from behind, again and again and again.
    It was the best orgasm he’d had in a very, very long time. Which, yes, was pathetic. But then again, that was his life: pathetic. Hell, here he was, at the age of eight and twenty, and aside from several dozen tolerable nights throughout the years with women he shouldn’t have even bothered with, he’d never experienced true passion or a meaningful relationship. He wanted that. He’d always wanted that. Sex for sex’s sake made him feel so…vulgar. Especially the sort of sex he enjoyed.
    Bringing the porcelain cup up to his lips, Tristanswallowed a mouthful of hot, gritty coffee and paused, drawing his brows together. Smacking his lips against the acrid bitterness and granules coating his tongue, he refrained from spitting out his own saliva into the cup. Why was his coffee so mucky?
    He set the cup on the porcelain saucer with a solid chink and sighed in exasperation. Instead of complaining to the servants, he rose and trudged back upstairs, toward his dressing chamber. He was already an hour late anyway.
    After the valet assisted him in dressing, he surveyed his appearance in the full-length mirror one last time, only to pause, noting something wasn’t quite right.
    His boots.
    Glancing down, he drew up his right foot, to better inspect the black leather, before setting it back down. For some reason, his boots were scuffed.
    He blinked, realizing they were the same boots he’d worn the night