An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance Read Online Free

she have to choose
between them?
    Not
that she had much choice in the matter. If Christopher could be brought to
offer for her, there would be no-one else. And if he didn’t, she would be
paraded before all the eligible bachelors in London like a prize brood mare.
She stifled a sigh. Christopher was certainly the lesser of two evils.
    He
stepped aside to let her pass. As she headed for the stairs, she sensed his
gaze on her. With the new insight the last few days had given her, she knew
without a doubt that Christopher admired her, that he wanted her. She felt it
like a prickling along her neck, an awareness of her power over him.
    He
was a nice enough man, attractive and well mannered, as pale as Stefano was
dark. He was quiet and bookish, and in another lifetime, before she’d met
Stefano, she’d have been only too happy to have his regard. But now the thought
of his hands on her skin made her flinch.
    As
soon as she was out of his sight, Isobel raced up the remaining stairs, taking
them two at a time. She paused only when she reached the wing she shared with
Frances. Half way along the corridor, a small sound brought her up short. A
whimper.
    Then
a moan.
    Concerned,
Isobel followed the sound. At the end of the corridor Frances’ bedroom door
stood ajar, scarcely an inch but wide enough to allow her a glimpse into the
room.
    She
froze.
    She
should leave. Avert her eyes. Run away.
    But
she did none of these.
    She
stood aghast, eyes wide, and stared at her cousin who lay naked on the bed,
dark hair spread out in a cloud upon the pillow. And beside her, on the edge of
the bed, leaning over her, sat a man as naked as she. Frances did not appear at
all shy of her nakedness. She ran a slender hand over the curve of her hip, a
smile of invitation parting her lips.
    Who
was this man? He was certainly not a house guest. He looked Italian, with the
trademark olive skin and black hair. What madness was this, that Frances would
expose herself this way to a man, who had not been introduced in the usual way
and who was no doubt wholly unsuitable?
    Isobel
stepped slowly backwards into the shadow of the door, careful not to make a
sound. But she could not tear her eyes away. Through the crack between the door
and wall she watched, terrified and entranced, as Frances’ lover stretched out
beside her on the bed. He was an attractive man, stockier than Stefano and
somehow coarser, yet still as perfect a representation of strength and youthful
beauty as the statue of David she and her school friends had giggled over
during their visit to the Galleria dell’Accademia.
    Isobel’s
heart stuttered as dark, dangerous thoughts swirled through her. Would Stefano
look like this unclothed?
    No.
Like David, Frances’ lover was the embodiment of the common man. There was
nothing at all common about Stefano. He would be utterly beautiful
naked.
    Isobel
could scarcely breathe. She watched, fascinated, as the man ran a brown hand
over Frances’ bare skin, skimming lightly over her breasts and downward,
disappearing between the pale mounds of her thighs. Frances sighed, the sigh
becoming another moan as she arched into the slow, sensual movement of his
hand. He slid a thick finger inside her, into the folds of her womanhood,
moving slowly at first, then with growing urgency. Frances’ breathing grew
ragged, and her limbs thrashed against the sheets, not in pain but in a
pleasure unlike any Isobel had ever imagined.
    The
man took his engorged manhood in his other hand and began to stroke along its
length. Isobel’s eyes widened. He seemed impossibly large, the organ swelling
even further in his hand. No sculpture or painting had ever prepared her for
the sight.
    “Now,
Carlo. I want you now .” Frances’ voice was low and urgent.
    Isobel
stifled a gasp as the man rolled astride Frances, his back to the door where
she hid. He forced Frances’ legs further apart and lowered himself onto her.
    As
he thrust his full length into Frances, Isobel