“No wonder.” He gave her an appraising look. “You think this is a comic guide to married life?”
Joan bit her lip, staring fiercely at the plaster rose right above her. “I could hardly tell you what it really was, could I? Besides, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s just a lot of piffle.”
“Piffle?” He glanced down at her with that lazy grin that always made her wonder what wicked thoughts were going through his mind. “It’s not piffle if you read it, my dear. I merely want to be ... educated in your tastes.” He went back to the pamphlet and turned the page. “Good God. No wonder your mother didn’t want you to have this.” Her husband looked at her with ... was it approval? “You’re a wicked wench at heart, aren’t you?” he growled, swooping down to kiss her hard on the mouth.
Joan cleared her throat. “Well, it’s not really proper for unmarried ladies to read things like that ...”
He laughed. “I understand why!”
“But absolutely everyone is talking of it,” she protested. “How viciously unfair it is for everyone to simply decide that unmarried ladies shouldn’t see it. Nobody cared whenyoubought it, as an unmarried gentleman, but I would have been in such trouble if I’d been caught with it.”
“How fortunate you are now a married lady, and subject only to me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And if you think you’re going to prohibit me from reading what I like, you shall have a very hard and combative marriage, Lord Burke.”
“On the contrary.” He tossed the pamphlet onto the floor and lowered himself over her again. “I look forward to corrupting you in oh ... “ He kissed her jaw. “So ...” He kissed her neck. “Many ...” He kissed the base of her throat, where her pulse beat hardest. “Many more ways,” he finished before lowering his lips to her breast.
“Good,” she sighed, plowing her fingers into his long hair.
“So tell me,” he murmured, flicking his tongue across her nipple, “did you picture me as Lord Masterly? And yourself as Lady Constance?”
“How dare you ask such a thing!” she gasped, trying not to laugh. “If you had read carefully, you would know that Lord Masterly is the very model of a gentleman! He would never ...” He had sucked her nipple between his teeth, and Joan was quickly losing the thread of her thought. “He would never be rude,” she finished weakly, arching her back to offer her other breast for the same attention.
“Oh, no. Our noble gentleman only put the lady on a chair, spread her legs, and brought her to climax with his mouth. Very proper of him—at least for Lady Constance, I imagine, from the ardor with which she returned the favor.”
She was blushing again even as she moved beneath him like a wanton. “How—how does a man do that?” she whispered. “Is it even possible?”
Tristan lifted his head, looking faintly surprised. “You think it’s not?”
“I just don’t know,” she admitted. “It sounds ... alarming.”
“Alarming!” His eyebrows shot up.
Her face must be purple by now. “Oh, never mind! I can’t imagine any decent lady tolerating it. I suspect that it’s just another incredible thing the author created. An author can make up anything and make it sound appealing, can’t she?”
He grinned wickedly. “It sounds appealing to you, does it?”
“It doesn’t seem likely to matter, since you don’t know how it’s done, either,” she retorted, wishing he would go away. Either that or quit talking and make love to her like a normal husband would.
He stopped laughing. “Now there is your second mistake this evening, my dear. Haven’t I warned you about issuing challenges?” He pushed himself up and jumped off the bed. “Stay there,” he said in a deep, stern voice, holding up one hand as she struggled to sit up. “As your lord and master, I command it.”
“Lord and master!” Just to show him, she flung herself out of bed. “Lord and master, perhaps, but not of me. And how dare you accuse me of not one but two mistakes. Perhaps my real mistake was made this morning.”
He picked up his dressing gown and leveled a dangerously glinting gaze at her. “Joan,” he said evenly, “get back on the bed.”
“Why?” She retreated a step, eyeing the garment in his hand.
“Not doing so would be your third mistake of the day.” He pulled the sash from the dressing gown and wrapped it around his hand, then waved her backward. “On the bed, please.”
“What does the sash have to do with it?” She was beginning to feel aroused again. Tristan clearly was; he walked toward her, unashamedly naked, and she stared at his erection. She had seen it before—even touched it before—and yet it looked larger now.
“It’s to prevent any hindrances.” He cocked his head. “Do you want me to show you what made Lady Constance melt in rapture?”
“You must be quite the crudest man in all of England,” she said, but she sat on the edge of the bed.
Tristan just shook his head and tied one end of the cloth around her wrist, then wound it through the carving on the headboard. He caught her other arm and bound her other wrist, pushing her back against the pillows, her arms held wide by the sash.
Her heart was thumping furiously, half in nerves, half in anticipation. She tugged at the sash, but he had left little slack. “Why do you have to do that?”
