Lord Atwood's Lovers. Eva Clancy

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      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.

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