His Black Sheep Bride (Aristocratic Grooms 1)

“Oh?” she said, cursing the catch in her voice. “Do tell!”

Sawyer searched her face, arousal stamped on his. “Your eyes are already cloudy with desire.”

She tried to look bored, even as the press of his arousal sent a fresh wave of awareness shooting through her. “You’re making me sleepy.”

Sawyer chuckled before his expression turned seductive and intent again.

“What’s the matter, Goldilocks?” he muttered, his head bending toward hers. “Are you finding that this bed is just right?”

And then his mouth met hers again.

He tasted of wine from their meal, and the scent of some expensive and finely-milled English sandalwood soap clung to his skin. The combination was strangely intoxicating. And she yielded to it, her hands running up his arms until she clung to him, her arms around his neck.

Damningly, she didn’t think about whether this was right. It just felt good.

She’d passed the point of reflection and gone on to someplace more elemental.

Sawyer pressed her against the bedpost, his muscled thigh wedging between her legs.

He toyed with her lips, and she moaned with each nip and suck and gentle graze.

“That’s right,” he approved gutturally. “Let me know how you feel.”

His mouth wandered away from hers, tracing along her jaw, and her head fell to one side, exposing her neck for their mutual pleasure.

While he kissed the column of her neck, his hands roamed and molded, running down her sides, from the curve of her br**sts to the jut of her hips. In response, her fingers curled into his shoulders with pleasure.

When Sawyer’s mouth came back to hers, he slid his hand up under the hem of her dress. Her head fell back, and she moaned again as his hand brushed aside her panties.

They both held still as his hand caressed her, his fingers delving into her moist heat, stroking her. From beneath her lashes, Tamara noticed Sawyer’s eyes glittering down at her, his face intent with arousal.

“Ah, Tamara,” he breathed. “Ah, Goldilocks…”

Sawyer’s free hand went to his belt, but then he suddenly stopped, his head tilting.

A moment later, Tamara heard it, too—the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

Just as Tamara frantically jerked away, Sawyer stepped back, his expression turning smooth and businesslike even as he took care to straighten her dress.

Sawyer was a practiced master of seduction. The thought flashed through her mind a second before she peripherally noticed someone walk past their open doorway.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed our tour, Tamara,” Sawyer said in a voice loud enough to carry.

His eyes laughed down at her, his expression gently mocking.

“Who was that?” Tamara whispered urgently.

Sawyer bent his head toward hers.

“I believe a person sent by the weekly housecleaning service,” he said with a grin, matching her low and urgent tone.

Argh. Gathering her dignity, or what remained of it, she stepped away from him so that she was no longer cornered by the bedpost.

“No need to be concerned,” Sawyer said. “I’m sure she wouldn’t have been too surprised to discover an engaged couple locked in an embrace. Embarrassed, maybe, surprised, no.”

Sawyer had acted deftly to avoid embarrassment to an outside employee. Unfortunately, Tamara thought, her own mortification was unabated.

She should be thankful that Sawyer had again been thwarted by the unexpected arrival of a third party. Instead, she was concerned, very concerned, by her reaction and increasing susceptibility to his charms.

“We’re not really an engaged couple,” she responded with false composure. “Or need I remind you of our agreement?”

Sawyer’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but then his lips quirked.

He reached out and smoothed her hair. “What’s the harm in a little pleasure along the way?”

What indeed. She took another step back, and he dropped his hand back to his side.

“We don’t suit,” Tamara said firmly, “and we never will.”

His expression turned mocking. “We suited just fine a minute ago—”

She made a sweeping movement with her arm, gesturing to the room around them.

“This is not my world,” she said, putting aside her earlier charmed reaction to his town house. “And I’m not going to trade away who I am in exchange for it.”

He arched a brow.

“We may need to put on a convincing show that our marriage won’t be a complete sham,” she continued stubbornly, “but we don’t need to be too convincing. And you don’t need practice!”

Sawyer gazed at her thoughtfully for a second, and then laughed throatily.

She turned on her heel.

Unfortunately, this Goldilocks had made her bed, but she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to lie in it.

Eight

Tamara stood at the base of the steps of Gantswood Hall and surveyed the picturesque hills in the distance. From her vantage point, she could see the white dots of grazing sheep on the hillsides under the July sun. The stately home that was Sawyer’s ancestral family seat sat amid the Cotswolds, and like most of the neighboring architecture, was made of an inviting honey-colored limestone, worlds away from the bleak, drafty castle she used to imagine him in.

A car that Sawyer had sent to pick her up from the airport stood parked near the front entrance of the Tudor mansion, its driver unloading her luggage.

Tamara breathed in the crisp country air, fragrant with the smell of grass and leaves and fresh streams.

The truth was she hadn’t ventured to a stately British country estate since reaching adulthood. Not even to her father’s family seat, Dunnyhead. She had been expecting to be put off by the whole experience. She was surprised to find herself…enchanted.

Gantswood Hall lay farther south than Dunnyhead, and its landscape was less bracing, more pastoral. It was the Gloucestershire countryside at its best.

But it was more than the landscape that drew her. A part of her, she acknowledged now, would always remain attached to the British countryside, no matter how many miles and how much time she stayed away. And soon she’d have a new—if temporary—tie to bind her there.

She’d arrived today as Tamara Kincaid, but she would leave as Tamara, Countess of Melton, and she would be addressed as Lady Melton or simply, my lady.

In deference to the mantle she’d opted to assume, she’d dressed conservatively in fawn-colored pants and a sky-blue shirt. She could have, she thought, walked out of an ad for Ralph Lauren.