But that did not alter the fact that she wanted more.
She ran a finger along the rope of pearls, tracing them from her neck to the low point where they settled on her belly. Then, she spread her legs.
He stared at her for a moment, doubtful. ‘I suppose I could stay. For a while.’
She nodded. Then she smiled as he began to remove his clothing. He looked rather undignified, standing over her with his breeches hanging open. But it would not last. The Marquess of Fanworth was never without his dignity. She would cherish the brief loss of control, for she might not see it again.
Now he was fully nude. The sight of him made her forget that she longed for vulnerability. Like this, he was invincible. The long smooth flanks, narrow waist and strange ridges of muscle made her long to touch and to submit. If she could capture such fluid power in gold, she would worship at it, like a pagan.
She smiled to herself at the ridiculousness of the idea. But the sight of him stirred something in her, other than simple lust. It was the strange, creative rush she got, right before a new idea. Tomorrow, when she got to the shop, she would take up her sketch pad and see what resulted.
But for tonight?
He was climbing up on to the bed with her, lying on his side, his head leaning against his bent arm. Then, he leaned forward and kissed her. It was more tender than passionate and his smile was achingly familiar. It belonged to Stephen Standish: the man she loved.
His free hand reached to brush the hair from her face. ‘Lady Fanworth,’ he said softly, ‘you are temptation incarnate.’
If that was so, then for a change he was at her mercy and she could do as she wished with him. So she slipped the pearls from about her neck, wrapped them loosely around his manhood and stroked.
Stephen awoke the next morning to the smell of lavender and the feel of satin against his cheek. It took him a moment to realise that he was face-down in the pillows of his wife’s bed. He had requested the linen be pressed with flowers and chosen the coverlet himself. It was to be the sort of gentle bower his beloved deserved.
Despite his careful planning, she had left him again, to go to that damnable shop. It had never occurred to him that, when offered wealth, title and a life of ease, the woman he married might continue to work. It was a nice enough shop, he supposed. He had found his visits to the white-velvet salon to be relaxing and pleasant.
But then the place had not been his rival. When he thought of it, he felt something very like jealousy. It was clear that she loved it more than she did him. And she gave no indication of changing her mind on that point.
The current situation could not continue. He had no real wish to command her to give up her work and stay in his home. If she chose to do so of her own accord, life would be better for both of them. But to achieve that, he must give her a reason to stay.
His intent had been to wake before she did and be ready to stop her as she passed by his bed on her way to the door. If she could be tempted with the pleasures of the marital bed, she might forget all about the desire to rush away from him, just to stand behind a glass-topped counter, smiling at strangers.
He had intended to do that. Instead, he had overslept. To be fair, she had exhausted him. One of her silk stockings was tied about his wrist in remembrance of a point during the previous evening when he had tried to leave her. His other hand clutched those infernal pearls.
He set them gently on the pillow, as if they were a dangerous weapon that could discharge at any moment. He had thought to tease her with them. But she had turned the tables upon him, binding him with them until excitement made the tightness a mix of pleasure and pain. Then she’d released him and he’d surged into her, desperate for relief.
At least she seemed to have forgotten her threat to hold him to their earlier agreement. If she meant to set a strict limit of four encounters, they would need to reason like Jesuits to explain last night. At the very least, he would insist that some of the things they had done to celebrate their wedding could count for a half, or perhaps a quarter of a whole.
Of course, some had been so delightful they should be counted twice. If some creativity was not used in the accounting, the rest of his marriage would be had on credit.
He hoped that her ardour was a sign that her resolve was weakening. If she would warm to him enough to listen, he was more than willing to apologise for the trouble he had caused her. She would be more likely to believe him if he could have got Pratchet to retract his slander. But there was no hope of that. Stephen had taken too much pleasure in frightening him and, as expected, the little man had bolted.
The alternative was to force Arthur to explain himself. But if his brother wanted revenge for his damaged nose, it would be most unwise to introduce him to Margot.
He’d find another way, then. But damned if he knew what.
* * *
It had been an interesting night.
Margot stood behind the counter, staring off into space, unwilling to wipe the small, secret smile from her face. It was clear that marriage had advantages. She had filled several pages of her sketchbook with ideas for new designs, including a fob chain with links that reminded her of the crook in her husband’s elbow.
Then she set Miss Ross up with the form and the heaviest gauge of gold wire, teaching her how to twist as she wrapped it to add character to a plain chain. It was a simple enough construction and it would be a useful skill for the girl to form and cut links and solder them back together.
Perhaps some new designs in the front window would help to draw trade. She had been an object of curiosity when she was Fanworth’s mistress. People came to the shop so they might gossip about her. Many of them made purchases so their motives might be less obvious.
But the moment that it was announced she was to be his wife, the crowds had dispersed. The world could not decide what to do with a marchioness who was in trade. Were they to scrape and bow to her, or should she do it to them? So far, society had decided she was neither fish nor fowl, therefore, it was best to push her to the side of the plate and ignore her.
But just now, there was a fashionable lady, passing by on the other side of the street. Perhaps she was in need of a gift for a lover or a husband? Then the woman passed from shade into sunlight and adjusted the angle of her parasol so Margot could see her face.
Not her.
She needed customers. But of all the women in Bath, this one must just keep walking. It was the beautiful woman who had been speaking with Fanworth, the week before their marriage. More importantly, she was the one to whom Stephen had had been speaking.
Even during last night’s intimacy, when speaking to her he’d seemed to navigate with caution. He had spoken little, but when he’d smiled, he’d seemed almost like his old self. It had been going so well that she hoped, just maybe, he might relax and be the man she once loved.
But at the sight of this woman, Margot’s confidence slipped. He might have married her, but that did not mean that he intended to open his heart to her. If there was to be a relationship between this woman and Stephen, it was not her place to comment on it. Perhaps, if he was distracted, he would be less likely to interfere in the shop. Perhaps he would forget about her, and it, and things could go back to the way they had been.
Suddenly, that prospect did not seem nearly as inviting as it would have, before last night.
And now the last woman in the world whom Margot wished to see had crossed the street and was passing by the shop again, pausing at the front window to stare directly in at her.
Margot offered a polite