His Black Sheep Bride (Aristocratic Grooms 1)

Sawyer listened with one ear to the two gentlemen with him discussing the economic legislation being debated by the European Union Parliament in Brussels. The rest of his attention was on Tamara across the room, as she chatted amiably with Count de Lyndon, a portly, white-haired gentleman wearing an impressive number of medals and other recognitions on a red sash.

From his vantage point in the consulate’s impressive entry, at the foot of the imperial staircase leading to the banquet rooms, Sawyer could easily survey the guests circulating among the various rooms and keep an eye on Tamara, her profile to him.

How convenient.

He wondered idly whether Tamara’s gown had a zipper at the back or side. He itched to find out. Damn it.

The bodice of Tamara’s gown had fallen a fraction of an inch by the time they’d stepped inside the consulate more than an hour ago, and he’d just been able to make out the top of her rose tattoo.

Now, with laser-sharp vision, he zeroed in on the tattoo again from across the room. The faint outline that he could discern was driving him crazy.

“I say, don’t you agree, Melton?”

“Yes, certainly,” he responded absently.

“Oh?”

Sawyer’s gaze swung back to his companions. The man who’d expressed surprise was the holder of a defunct Eastern European dukedom, as Sawyer recalled.

“You agree that the legislation is a good idea?” the duke asked.

Sawyer glanced at the other man in their circle, a career foreign service officer, who’d posed the original question.

“Any controversy is good for the news business,” he hedged.

The duke’s face relaxed. “Ah, of course. Rightly said!”

“Will you excuse me, gentlemen?” Sawyer asked. “I’ve discovered someone I wish to speak with across the room.”

His wife.

As he strode toward her, he watched her laugh at something her companion said.

Ever since their wedding day, his desire for Tamara had seemed to grow exponentially. If only there hadn’t been that hint of vulnerability that had stopped him on that first night. And then misguided chivalry had taken over. It had somehow seemed crass to wed and bed her immediately. He was regretting those scruples now.

Tamara glanced up at him when he joined her and Count de Lyndon. A small smile hovered at her lips.

He longed to kiss her smile, steal it and keep it for his own.

He mentally shrugged at his bit of whimsy.

Lyndon inclined his head, and Sawyer shook the man’s hand as they exchanged greetings.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight,” Lyndon said heartily. “I half expected you and your lovely bride to be on a honeymoon voyage.”

Sawyer threw a quick glance at Tamara. “The honeymoon has been postponed for a more convenient time.”

With any luck, he and Tamara would start their honeymoon in earnest in bed later that night.

Sawyer had seen a number of men tonight allow their gazes to linger on her appreciatively. It had made him unaccustomedly possessive, and now he staked his claim.

He rested his hand on the small of Tamara’s back as he stepped closer to her. “What have you and Lyndon been discussing, sweetheart?”

From the corner of his eyes, Sawyer noticed Lyndon catch the endearment and smile with knowing amusement.

Good. Let everyone think he was the enamored bridegroom. After all, he had a role to play. That’s all this was—that and his unfettered lust for his new wife.

“Your wife was enlightening me about the fine art of pottery,” Lyndon said.

Sawyer shot Tamara a look of mild surprise.

She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “It was a hobby of mine in past years.”

“One that I’ve recently taken up,” Lyndon chimed in.

Sawyer looked from Tamara to the older man. “And did she also tell you she is a talented jewelry designer?”

Lyndon chuckled. “Are you, my dear?”

“It’s a small business,” Tamara allowed.

Sawyer addressed Lyndon. “Your wife may be interested in Tamara’s designs. Tamara is making quite a name for herself with her colored gemstone jewelry.”

“I shall certainly mention it to Yvonne,” the count declared, a twinkle in his eyes. “She does love to be one step ahead of the other ladies.”

“As a newsman, I can empathize with the desire to keep ahead of one’s competitors,” Sawyer said smoothly. “Tamara’s studio is located right here in the city—down in SoHo.”

“Splendid,” the count responded. “Yvonne and I won’t be heading to Strasbourg until the end of next week.”

From the corner of his eyes, Sawyer noticed Tamara looking at him speculatively, as if she was both astonished and impressed by his seamless plug for her business.

“Your bride is charming, Melton,” Lyndon said. “A breath of fresh air in contrast to these women—” he gestured around them dismissively “—who are afraid to get their hands dirty.”

The count leaned toward Sawyer as if about to share some confidential information. “She—” he looked at Tamara approvingly “—works with her hands. She even likes gardening!”

“Does she?” Sawyer said, amusement crinkling his eyes. “I’ll have to put her to work at Gantswood Hall, then.”

Tamara raised her eyebrows. “Really? How much does the gardener earn?”

The count laughed heartily, and clapped Sawyer on the shoulder. “There you go, Melton. Any other woman here would have been decidedly not amused.”

“But I am not amused,” Tamara protested halfheartedly.

At that moment, another man approached to engage the count, and Sawyer said smoothly, “You don’t mind if I steal my wife away, do you, Lyndon?”

“Not at all, not at all,” the count responded, waving them away even as Sawyer guided their retreat with his hand at the small of Tamara’s back.

When they’d gone a few feet, Tamara asked with slight exasperation, “Do you know everyone? It does seem as if everyone that I’ve spoken with here knows you.”

Sawyer nodded at an acquaintance. “Yes,” he acknowledged without vanity, “but the Count de Lyndon is a fifth cousin once removed on my father’s side. A female ancestor married into the Belgian aristocracy.”

“How charming,” Tamara returned, not looking at him either, but smiling as they glided passed a couple of guests and into an adjoining reception room. “You Langsfords have infiltrated bloodlines far and wide.”