Jilly Cooper - Score!

Shutting the door behind him, Isa leant against it. In the moonlight his eyes were a skull’s black hollows. ‘I’ve been brought up to hate the name of Campbell-Black,’ he said wearily, ‘but I can’t help myself. You are the most desirable…’

But he didn’t have time to finish. Tab had belted across the room, tripping over a still unpacked suitcase into his arms.

‘You’re as verboten as a cream bun in a health farm,’ she gabbled, ‘but I can’t help myself either.’

For a second, he put his hands round her white throat, so slender that he could have snapped it in an instant, telling himself he could still escape. But her breath, which came in little gasps, smelt so sweet and her mouth, shyly testing his, was so soft, that he found himself gently sliding his tongue between her perfect white teeth.

But it was the last gentle thing he did. Sharon must have thought one of the blacksmith’s oaks had landed on her as they collapsed onto the bed. Ripping off Tab’s striped pyjamas, scattering the buttons of his shirt, jamming the zip of his jeans, leaving on just his gypsy earrings to ward off evil, Isa appreciated her true beauty only when he held her naked and quivering in his arms. Kissing, often biting his way downwards, he found a little seahorse tattooed just below her left breast.

‘You’re in for a bumpy ride, fellow,’ he whispered mockingly, as his exploring fingers crept between Tab’s legs.

‘Oh, bliss, you mustn’t, oh, please go on,’ gasped Tab, then, worried that he might be bored by such a wonderful but extended foreplay, ‘Oh, please come inside me.’

As Isa brought her to extremes of pleasure with the same pelvic thrusts that drove winners past the post, she knew exactly why he had been nicknamed the Black Cobra. It was as though constant lightning were being unleashed from his body, and she never seemed to dry up, as if a Cotswold spring was constantly bubbling between her legs. As their breathing grew quicker and the four-poster creaked like an old tree in a high wind, she thought she had never known lovemaking like it.

As he watched them through the two-way mirror, which kept misting up, Rannaldini realized he had never seen anything like it either. Silvered by moonlight, they were so transported by their passion, it was as though Canova’s Cupid and Psyche had sprung to white-hot life: constantly changing positions, they coupled with snakelike frenzy.

Now Isa was kissing one of Tab’s small, amazingly high breasts, biting the nipple until she cried out. Now he was lying sideways his dark head and stabbing tongue buried in her blonde pubic hair as simultaneously her lips and tongue teased and caressed his cock, which Rannaldini was furious to confess looked bigger than his own. At least the little blighter couldn’t hold out much longer.

But, exulting in his control, Isa drew himself out as proudly as Excalibur. Then swivelling round, he plunged inside her once more, his pale murderer’s face triumphant, his hips a juddering blur. Only when Tab arched, went rigid then cried out, did he finally let himself come, kissing in ecstasy her long white throat, her damp forehead, her loving mouth, as for a fleeting moment his defences were down.

Frantically wiping a peephole in the steamed-up mirror, Rannaldini thought he would explode — and did. He must install a video camera so he could gloat for hours over the playback. Reluctantly he had to admit that Isa was as good at riding women as he was horses.

‘I love you,’ mumbled Tabitha, when Isa finally removed his mouth from hers.

‘Thank God you’ve washed off that bloody awful perfume.’

‘It’s Mummy’s. Jolie Madame. She never wore anything else until this summer when she switched to Organza so I thought I’d help her use up the old stuff.’

In horror Isa realized he must have smelt the same scent on his father, when Jake had come upstairs to tuck him in after stolen meetings with Helen.

‘Never wear it again,’ he snapped, and rolled off her on to his back.

‘Buy me something else, then. God, you’re a revelation, I’ve always been soixante -nervous before, but with you it was unbelievable.’

Isa couldn’t believe it had happened. How could he have betrayed his parents like that?

‘I’d better go,’ he said.

Hearing the rusty creak of drawbridges being pulled up, fighting desolation, Tab scooped a drowsy Sharon into the warm place left by his body. Then she caught sight of the bedside clock. ‘It’s October the thirty-first now,’ she said insolently. ‘Happy birthday, Daddy. Sleeping with the enemy is the worst present I could give him.’

Isa glowered down at her, his arms trapping her like the debtor’s chair. ‘Is that why you went to bed with me?’ he hissed.

‘Not entirely,’ said Tab.

For the next week, they devoured each other, making love in the hayloft, on the wet autumn leaves, knowing they were playing with fire but unable to stop themselves. Aware of the difference in their backgrounds and temperaments, Isa was the more detached of the two. But within three weeks Tab was pregnant.

Isa, who had a strong sense of dynasty and a smouldering eye for the main chance, hoped that Rannaldini would settle money on her as hinted, and insisted they got married. There was no way a possible Lovell heir was going to be terminated. Anyway he couldn’t get enough of Tab.

But he was worried sick about Martie, his Australian girlfriend, to whom, in explanation of his absence, he had considerably exaggerated Jake’s illness. In junking her and consorting with the devil-led Campbell-Blacks, had he lost all his principles?

Terrified of trapping him, Tab would willingly have had an abortion.

‘I’ve never looked after a man,’ she gibbered. ‘I’ll probably give you hay for dinner.’ But she loved him so passionately, she was only too happy to get married.

Events were much bowled along by Rannaldini, who not only agreed to pay for the wedding, which — because of his overflowing diary — could take place only on a late afternoon in the middle of December, but also offered them his latest purchase, Magpie Cottage, just across the valley, rent-free.

Helen had mixed feelings. Tab could have done infinitely better and it would mean the press raking up her affaire with Isa’s father, Jake, but she’d enjoy showing everyone at the wedding how much better she looked than Tory, the wife Jake had gone back to. She must book in for a few days at Champney’s.

Finally there was undeniable pleasure in how much the whole thing would enrage Rupert, and at least it meant that Tab, who had draped a banana skin on Psyche’s head only that morning, would move out. And Rannaldini wouldn’t run after her any more if she married Isa, who looked capable of knifing any competition — or so Helen thought.

Meanwhile, rehearsals for Don Carlos were supposed to have started in a defunct WI hall in North London. Tristan, however, grew increasingly frustrated when all his stars, headed by Fat Franco who was singing Otello at La Scala, failed to turn up. This meant that poor Mikhail, whose hotel bill was being picked up by Liberty Productions, had no-one to rehearse with except his voice coach, who found it a great strain having to squawk Hermione’s and Chloe’s parts, let alone growling like an old bear pretending to be Alpheus. The reason for this mass absenteeism was that top singers hate rehearsing because they don’t get paid for it. ‘Why should we roll up because Mikhail Pezcherov hasn’t sung the part in English before?’ they chorused. ‘We’re only going to be reading our parts at the recording anyway, and could be whizzing round the world avoiding tax and making fortunes elsewhere.’