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To the rest of the ton Lord and Lady Atwood seem to have the perfect marriage. They wed for love and their marriage bed doesn’t lack for passion—but Imogen is haunted by the memory of her first marriage…while Charles harbors secret thoughts and desires he’s been unable to confess to his wife.
Then Charles’s ex-lover, Alexander Lambert, arrives in town, throwing Charles into a tailspin—and awakening a surprising attraction in Imogen. Now, both have to face the possibility that they may need more than just each other to be truly complete….
www.spice-books.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-408-98192-4
LORD ATWOOD’S LOVERS
© 2012 Eva Clancy
Published in Great Britain 2015
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.spice-books.co.uk Version: 2020-08-24
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter One
That Sir Charles Atwood was always watching his wife was a fact much remarked upon at the Countess of Ballater’s ball, attended by Lord and Lady Atwood some four months after their surprising marriage.
It was the first entertainment that the Atwoods had attended as man and wife and the curiosity of the jaded, weary ton was momentarily piqued by their entrance. Quizzing glasses were raised and eyes peeped over fans as Lord Atwood and his new lady perambulated the ballroom greeting friends and acquaintances.
It was noted that, after dancing the first set with his wife, Lord Atwood joined a group of gentlemen who were discussing politics and hunting, whilst Lady Atwood continued to dance. She danced every set, and over the course of the evening, drew about her a circle of adoring gentlemen. There was a great deal of laughter from her corner of the ballroom.
The former Mrs. Imogen Standish had been a notorious slayer of hearts before she met her husband and it appeared that nothing had changed now that she was married. The lady wore an expression of almost perpetual merriment, her brown eyes bright with laughter. She was a very pretty woman but it was not her beauty that enslaved; it was her irrepressible, infectious joie de vivre.
It was odd, some said, that she had chosen to marry Lord Atwood, a man who—though handsome—was known to be rather grim. She had had other suitors after all, including a marquess, no less.
Atwood had been on the marriage mart for many years and hadn’t shown the slightest interest in settling down. But that had changed the instant he set eyes on Imogen Standish. He had pursued her with single-minded determination, making no secret of his feelings. Never one for dancing, all of sudden he was at every ball of the season, always hovering near to her, his eyes always on her. Within a few weeks they were constant companions. Within two short months, they were married.
Some predicted that Lady Atwood’s flirtatiousness would quickly be curtailed by her serious-minded husband; others were certain that Lady Atwood would bring out her husband’s softer side. Lady Ballater’s ball was the ton’s first chance to see what changes the first few weeks of marriage had wrought.
Several hundred curious eyes watched Lord Atwood’s icy gaze follow his wife’s progress around the ballroom. He stood, impassive, as she flirted and danced and laughed with her circle of admirers. It was impossible to guess what he made of it all.
But he watched her.
Endlessly. Obsessively. Missing nothing.
At one o’ clock in the morning, Lord Atwood approached his lady. She was, at that precise moment, in the process of listening to an ode that had been hurriedly composed in her honor by a young gentleman of her court. The would-be poet—Viscount Blackstone—was occupying a rather uncomfortable position on one knee before his muse when her husband arrived. Atwood stared at Blackstone. He slowly raised one eyebrow as the other man hastily scrambled to his feet, blushing.
“Have you had a pleasant evening, my lord?” Lady Atwood asked politely of her husband.
“Yes indeed, ma’am,” he replied coolly, though he had neither danced nor played cards. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Of course,” his wife murmured. She rose to her feet and placed her gloved hand on her husband’s arm.
“Good night, gentlemen,” she announced, smiling at her circle of admirers. Then, turning to the embarrassed-looking poet, she said, “I am sorry that I am obliged to leave before hearing the rest of your delightful composition. I am so terribly tired. But perhaps you would call upon me one day this week, in order that I may hear it in full?”
“It will be my pleasure, my lady,” the young man replied, a smile chasing away his forlorn look.
“Thank you. Good night gentlemen.”
And with that, Lord and Lady Atwood departed.
* * *
“Did you enjoy watching me tonight?” Imogen asked Charles later. At the sound of her voice he turned. She was lounging in the doorway that connected their bedchambers. Her luxuriant mahogany hair was loose about her bare shoulders. She still wore her stockings and garters. Nothing else. Instantly he was hard.
“You know I did,” he murmured, moving towards her, his eyes eating her up. He loved Imogen’s diminutive height, the deceptive fragility of her slender ankles and wrists. Such a surprise to love that about her. But then everything in his life since meeting Imogen had been a surprise. Breath-stealing, life-altering. Almost entirely wonderful. Almost…
Pushing the looming thought away, he pulled Imogen’s small form into his arms, relishing the soft crush of her breasts against his hard chest. Imogen’s dark eyes gleamed and her hands curved around his muscled buttocks.
“Blackstone wanted to stick his head up your skirt,” he told her in a soft growl, dropping his head to press a row of kisses along her delicate jawline.
Imogen laughed softly, a husky whisper in his ear that made him shiver with pleasure. He loved her laugh. Loved her.
“I only permit you to stick your head under my skirts, Charles,” she reminded him teasingly then nibbled his earlobe.
He groaned and swung her up in his arms, striding over to the bed. Her laughter came again, a musical little gust of it this time, an arpeggio of joy that did his heart good and made his lips stretch in a way that still felt unfamiliar to him.
He sat down on the mattress with her in his lap, a lovely tangle of bare limbs and breasts and silky perfumed hair. The room was very dim, one lone candle flickering on the dresser. Their shadows merged as they kissed, looming beast-like on the opposite wall.
God, he loved kissing his wife. He kissed her lazily at first, teasing her berry-red lips apart and gently touching his tongue to hers. But soon his kisses grew more urgent and he shifted his right hand to palm her breast, adoring the moan of pleasure the movement elicited from her, the sinuous arch of body that pushed her stiff little nipple into the very center of his hand.
“I wager your beaux would love to see you now,” he murmured against her mouth. “With your hair down and your clothes off.” He lifted her off his lap and laid her down. She cried his name out as he came over her, pushing her down into the mattress with the weight of his body. Capturing her wrists, he raised them over her head, imprisoning her.
He rubbed his strong, hard body against her softer, weaker one and she moaned delightedly, her hips shifting restlessly beneath him.
“Charles,” she breathed. “Please.”
“I was so hard for you tonight,” he murmured, nipping her lower lip. “I could hardly move, never mind dance. I’ve been wanting you underneath me like this all night.”
She arched against him powerfully. “Oh God, Charles, please.” she pleaded. “You’ve made me wait and wait tonight. Don’t make me wait any longer!”
He smiled against her throat. “Be patient, Immy.”
She struggled against the firm grasp in which he held her wrists over her head, her back arching, breasts quivering. Dipping his head, he lapped at her small pointed nipples, strong wet strokes with his tongue. She writhed underneath him, pleading prettily for his cock. He felt his balls tighten and shift.
“Not yet,” he said softly, biting back a groan. “You knew you were making me hard tonight. You were being a wicked girl, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I was being a bad little slut, Charles. Now fuck me, please.”
“So now you want your husband?” he asked, his voice light and questioning, as though he could deny her. But they both knew he was faking control. His cock throbbed painfully between them, and when she stretched her legs wide, angling her quim so that the tip of him slipped between her moist folds, he gave a hoarse cry and plunged all the way in.
“God, Immy, you’re so beautiful,” he groaned as he began to piston his hips. He felt her cunt fluttering around his prick. She was already close.
“Did you like letting those men touch you tonight?” he muttered in her ear as he screwed deeply into her. “I saw Radleigh holding you a little too close when he waltzed with you. And Fenton kissed the inside of your wrist.”
She gripped him tightly with her thighs, angling her cunt sharply upwards, mashing herself against his groin as her internal muscles sucked his shaft powerfully.
“Did you like it?” she whispered.
“I bloody well loved it,” he snarled, and increased his pace, beginning to pound her in earnest. He could tell how close she was. She was warmly, wetly rippling around him, clutching at him.
“Charles, I’m coming,” she gasped unnecessarily. She pulled him even closer, her mouth at his throat, her legs tight about his waist, her heels pressing into his buttocks. And then she was coming. Hard. Crying out, clenching him. Gushing.
As the ripples of her orgasm died away, he let himself go, closing his eyes and driving into her. An image came to him; Immy being fucked from behind by Lord Radleigh while he looked on. She was loving it, her face transported as the other man grasped her hips and ground himself into her. Half ashamed, half aroused, Charles felt the draw of his own orgasm. And it was then, in the moment of his climax, that Radleigh’s face shimmered away and another took its place.
The louche, beautiful face of Alex Lambert.
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