When Scandal Came to Town (Scandalous Sons 3)

Benedict moistened his lips. “Then let me show you.”

Chapter Eight

Numerous times during their outing to town, Benedict had imagined drawing Cassandra into an embrace and kissing away her doubts and fears. Many times during his late-night visit to Hyde Park, he’d thought of racing home to claim his bride. Pride prevented him from acting. When a man had suffered the worst kind of rejection, he approached all romantic liaisons with an air of caution.

But his wife had asked for a kiss. Not a chaste peck, but the sinful kiss of a scoundrel, and he was happy to oblige. He knew how to seduce a woman without complicated entanglements and heightened emotions. Perhaps he’d been wrong in the belief that a man had to make love to his wife. Perhaps lust was a perfect foundation for marriage.

He took hold of Cassandra’s chin, angled his head and pressed his mouth to hers. Instantly, he was hit with the same violent jolt of awareness he experienced whenever they touched. The muscles in his stomach clenched. His body hardened. His blood burned in his veins. He closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of the woman who always sent his world spinning on its axis.

Damnation!

His control was slipping before he’d barely begun. That’s what happened when a man focused his mind on the urges of his body, not the fanciful musings of his heart.

“Straddle me,” he demanded, pretending this was just another opportunity to fornicate with a courtesan in the privacy of one’s carriage. He leant forward and yanked down the blinds. “Sit astride me, Cassandra.”

She seemed confused and fumbled about trying to follow his command without lifting her skirts.

Benedict clutched her hem and gathered her skirts up past her knees. The sight of her white stockings sent blood rushing to his cock. Lust vibrated through his veins as his wife parted her legs and came to sit on top of him.

God, he was harder than he’d ever been in his life.

He cupped her nape and dragged her mouth to his. With the tip of his tongue, he coaxed her lips apart and devoured her in a wild and wicked kiss that left him hungry. Ravenous. He plunged into her mouth with the same fervent passion he would her body. Their tongues tangled, mated, fucked, every wet caress tugging at his insides as his ballocks grew tight and heavy. Soon, their moans and breathless pants rent the air.

Struggling to control his raging desire, he continued to feast while unfastening her jacket. Once undone, he yanked the material apart to reveal the soft swell of milky-white flesh. Perfect. How he longed to free her breasts and lavish her nipples with attention. How he longed to open her legs and push deep inside her tight body. To ride her so damn hard he would forget her past betrayal.

But he sensed the carriage slowing and so tore his mouth from hers, leaving her panting. Wanting. Needing him.

“Touch me like you used to,” she breathed, writhing against his erection. “My body is aching to feel you again.”

Bloody hell!

The minx was set to make him spill in his breeches.

But the carriage rocked and rolled to a halt, and along with it came the depressing sense they had reached their destination.

“If you’re willing, we might continue our exploration in the carriage this evening.” Now he had tasted her again he doubted he had the will to keep his hands to himself.

Cassandra struggled to catch her breath. The haze of desire in her blue eyes dazzled him. Then her lips curled into a smile, and she looked at him in the sensual way she used to long before they were enemies.

“I would be willing to sample more lustful kisses. Indeed, I have never felt so alive.”

How would she feel when he was thrusting inside her? When her body soared on the dizzying heights of her release? Would she marvel at the skill of his tongue? Would she curse herself for rejecting him?

Benedict couldn’t resist stroking her breasts as he set about fastening her jacket. “Would you mind moving to the opposite seat,” he said once he’d finished the task. “I cannot enter Mrs Seymour’s home with an erection straining against my breeches.” He forced an image of Mrs Crandall into his mind, which soon dampened his ardour.

“Mrs Seymour? You mean we’ve not gone directly home?”

“No.” And he was thankful for his foresight. He needed time to adjust, time to gauge the best course of action now he’d ignited his wife’s passions. “You need a suitable gown for this evening, and Valerie will know what to do.”

“Valerie?” Jealousy and suspicion clung to that one word. “Is she a lady you know from the demimonde?”

“Valerie is my father’s mistress,” he said, unable to suppress a grin, “and a friend.”

“Oh! So your father has given up trying to sire an heir?”

Tregarth had been widowed three times, lost his only legitimate son and heir in childbirth. The Earl of Worthen was marred by a similar misfortune.

“Having a mistress would not stop my father marrying. But he no longer has an interest in securing his bloodline. The estate will pass to a cousin, and I shall inherit everything unentailed. He regards me as some sort of miracle.”