Rogues Like It Hot

by Tamara Gill

  A knock sounded on the hotel room door. Percival and Fiona had left earlier in the evening, and Arthur’s heartbeat quickened. No one should be here now.

  He maneuvered past gilded furniture and the four-poster bed. Sumptuous linens and velvet pillows adorned the latter with such excessiveness that he’d struggled to avoid looking at it all evening. The majestic crystal chandelier that dangled from the ceiling, and the hotel’s generous supply of candelabras and accompanying six-hour candles, further hampered any attempt at avoidance.

  Madeline had taken the one armchair that faced away from the bed and seemed quite fixated on reading a book another guest had left, even though the book was written in Italian, and Arthur had not known her Italian was so fluent.

  Madeline and he might be husband and wife, but they had not yet consummated their marriage. If Admiral Fitzroy had doubts on the validity of their union—

  He opened the door.

  It wasn’t Admiral Fitzroy.

  A maid beamed at him. “Roses for you.”

  Thank goodness.

  The hotel staffed had seemed genuinely happy for them, spouting platitudes about romance and true love with glee. Arthur took the vase from her and set it before Madeline.

  Heavens, she was beautiful. Her blonde hair lay in long curls over her shoulders. She’d taken the pins from her hair, and they lay in a neat row on the vanity.

  She was so lovely. She’d always been.

  “My darling,” he said, and her shoulders tensed.

  He cursed himself inside. She wasn’t his darling. This was a marriage for convenience. She might be his wife, but that was purely for practicality. He shouldn’t be sentimental. She wouldn’t succumb to such old-fashioned urges.

  He cleared his throat. “My wife,” but her back remained rigid and perfectly straight, like the meter sticks Bonaparte had placed all over public buildings in Paris so as to best learn the new unit of measurement he’d created.

  Her dress might make her eyes even more blue, like some exotic flower one might only find in some African savannah, hidden from prying eyes and only visible to the giraffes and lions that roamed there in secluded bliss.

  He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that everything was fine. After all, she’d done it all before, hadn’t she? She was not some simpering virgin on her wedding night. Madeline had been married for four years, and then she’d been a widow, the sort who’d roamed about foreign countries. He wouldn’t fault her for being active: he’d been himself.

  He moved toward her, forcing his steps to remain small, lest she turn and laugh at him or leap from his arms and lurch out the window, fleeing to who knows where.

  This was a contract, he reminded himself. Not love.

  He was vowing to protect her. Consummating their marriage was another step toward formalizing it.

  Light still shone through the curtain, dimmer now that it was evening, but still too bright for what he wanted to happen next. He moved toward and closed the curtain.

  They were swathed in darkness.

  Perhaps drawing the curtain had been a bad idea. He wanted to see her, blast it.

  He fumbled for the candle that he’d seen earlier and lit a match. The process took longer than it should have, but for some reason his fingers were shaking, even though his fingers didn’t shake when confronting rugged Frenchmen armed with multiple muskets. Somehow the thought of being alone in the same room with Madeline, knowing that she was his, made his body quiver quite uncharacteristically.

  He gazed at her. The candle made her hair glimmer. She wouldn’t have looked out of place on one of the paintings by the Italian masters she so admired.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

  Her eyes widened further, and she moved an elegant finger over her throat, running her hands over the necklace as if for comfort. She was unlike the other women he’d been with.

  Most of them now would be twirling before him and inviting him to remove their dresses. They might slide into silky ebony or scarlet gowns, or might perhaps prefer to recline on the bed like Titian’s Venus of Urbino.

  None of them equaled Madeline in beauty. She’d always been the prettiest girl he’d ever seen: perhaps that was why he’d never felt a desire to marry someone else. Romance could be confined to the odd evenings when he was not working, with women eager to make themselves available to him. Romance could be fun, perhaps even passionate with them. But he’d never thought of sharing a country home with them, or declaring them his marchioness. He’d thought he’d never wanted to limit his options, but perhaps he’d simply been cognizant that he couldn’t have his favorite option.

  But now Madeline was his wife.

  Now everything had changed.

  He took her hand in his, noting the soft, perfectly formed slender hands. Jeweled rings sparkled from her fingers, and he bowed to kiss her sweet flesh.

  She seemed to shiver, and he released her hand.

  He gazed at her. Her face remained pale, and her shoulders remained tense.

  He’d imagined that she’d be eager for this moment as well.

  Arthur did pride himself on his appearance, and many women had been eager to confirm his belief. Bedding was an activity at which he thrived.

  Yet Madeline hardly looked eager for the experience. He’d thought consummating their marriage might be one of the few things she might enjoy, even if committing herself to him for eternity did not bring her the delight he wished it did.

  She almost acted as if…

  He shook his head.

  It was impossible.

  Madeline had been married for five years, a sizable time.

  There was no way she could be a virgin.

  The thought was absolute nonsense.

  Or perhaps…

  He thought of her late husband. The man had been rumored to roam the seedier sides of the capital, a task easy to do when such a large proportion of the population worked as whores.

  His eyes flared. “Did Mulbourne ever hurt you?”

  She blinked. “No. Of course not!”

  “Tell me the truth,” he said sternly. “There shouldn’t be any lies between us.”

  The statement seemed to belong to the overly romantic variety, the sort a husband might say to his wife whom he hadn’t married for sheer convenience.

  He didn’t take it back, though.

  “He never hurt me,” she said softly. “He was always a perfect gentleman.”

  Oh.

  Perhaps she missed him. Guilt swept through him. She’d chosen the baron instead of him. Perhaps the baron had been older, perhaps Arthur had always considered himself superior—but perhaps that had all been lies.

  Madeline was intelligent, far more intelligent than anyone had given her credit for. He’d known that even then.

  If she’d married the baron—surely there’d been a reason.

  Perhaps even love.

  Pain shot through his body. He tried to imagine losing a spouse. People might not live for long, but most wives were right to expect to see their husband for longer than five years. The baron hadn’t been a soldier, hadn’t even been a farmer which might expose him to accidents.

  Arthur sighed. “I never told you how sorry I was that your husband died.”

  She stared at him, and he averted his eyes, vowing not to become lost in her cobalt gaze.

  “We don’t—” He stepped away from her. “Of course, we don’t have to—”

  “Consummate?”

  He gave her a tight smile. “You always were good at finishing my sentences.”

  His legs were not working as well as they had been before, and he settled into a seat.

  Madeline inhaled. “I—I should probably tell you.” She gazed down, and her cheeks pinkened. “I’m not, I mean, I haven’t—”

  He blinked.

  The thought was occurring to him again. But it was impossible.

  Madeline couldn’t be…untouched.

  Could she be?

  Her
skin continued to pinken. “It’s just...”

  “You can tell me anything,” he said gravely.

  She smiled at him. “That’s right, isn’t it? I told you I was an art thief, and look where I am now.”

  “You’re my beautiful bride.”

  “I’m not…experienced,” she said finally.

  He blinked. He must have misunderstood. “You were married. For years. Your husband never even went to war. He lived with you.”

  “Maxwell tried, but—” She sighed. “He did not feel the urge to bed that other men are rumored to possess. Or at least,” she said more softly, “he did not feel the urge to bed me.”

  She laughed and swept the hairpins together and placed them in a small container. “It’s of no importance.”

  “On the contrary,” Arthur said gravely. “It’s of every importance. Everything that concerns you is.”

  “I warned you that I wouldn’t be a good wife for you,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” Arthur said. “If Lord Mulbourne didn’t see it, he was foolish.”

  “I don’t think he was capable of appreciating me in that matter.”

  Arthur nodded. That might explain the man’s predilection for brothels. Perhaps it had not been ladies of the night the man had been seeing.

  “He was a good friend,” Madeline said. “The best one I ever had.”

  “You deserved more.”

  “You left.”

  His eyes widened. Had she implied that she would have preferred him?

  Madeline spoke quickly. “He could have been worse.”

  She was right. Women struggled with lots of men. Men who hit them, men who drank, men who insulted them. Perhaps marrying a good friend was tolerable. She wouldn’t have worried about the prospects of childbirth. Clearly she’d had time to develop her other passions.

  “You deserve everything,” Arthur said, and took her hands in his. He hesitated. “Would you prefer to wait? We don’t need to do anything. We can just sleep.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes seemed to stop glimmering. “Yes. That’s fine.”

  He was an idiot.

  She’d just confided in him that her late husband had not consummated their marriage, and now he was here, suggesting to do the same.

  “Because I would really rather not wait,” he said.

  “Oh?” Her skin seemed to flush, and he grasped her fingers more tightly.

  “I want you,” he said hoarsely. Speaking was not a pastime he’d struggled with in the past, but his throat seemed to close in around Madeline, at the prospect of undressing her, of pulling her back into his arms, conscious this time that no clothes served as barriers from her delightful skin.

  Her lips parted, and he was vaguely aware of their dusky rose color before he caught them with his own. Heat surged through him, and he clasped her more tightly about him, as if there were a possibility that the coolness of her skin might lessen his passion.

  Instead fire flamed through him. He was transported to the Caribbean, the South Pacific, to absolute paradise.

  Her curves seemed to meld perfectly, alluringly against his form. He delved his fingers in silky locks, the golden color more glorious than the most polished metal or the most glowing flame.

  Vanilla and rose wafted over him, and visions of luscious bare skin and intriguing curves danced before his mind.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Madeline shivered, and Arthur pulled her closer to him. He didn’t seem to need to ask her any more questions to know exactly how to offer her comfort. Speaking would be too painful, finding words to emotions she barely understood herself, but Arthur seemed to render such striving needless. The man’s presence proved to be a blissful distraction, more comforting than the loftiest selected words.

  Arthur was always handsome, but now his eyes blazed a deep blue.

  His scent was masculine: pine trees and cotton. It was so different from the French perfumes she adored, but the scent seemed the most wonderful thing in the world.

  His broad shoulders filled her view, and she was conscious of a firm chest. The man was half-clothed, and the ends of his unraveled cravat dangled on either side of his neck. Madeline had always expressed a partiality to the elaborate knots of Brummel devotees, admiring the careful folds of linen, and the seeming ability of the men to keep each fold unwrinkled and exquisite. Yet the absence of an elegant cravat in no manner harmed Arthur’s appearance. Instead it revealed dark chest hairs that curled in a manner that shouldn’t make her long to touch them, and certainly shouldn’t make her curious to feel them beneath her fingers, just as the man’s Adam’s apple, once hidden beneath the folds of his cravat, shouldn’t be intriguing.

  Arthur wrapped his arms about her waist. The action shouldn’t have made her body quiver, sending sparks through her limbs.

  She’d had men gaze at her in adoration, but it had always been in the comfort of a ballroom, before hundreds of other people. She’d known what to say to them. She knew which politicians were en vogue, and which opinions would be just charming enough to make them smile. She’d known which sports champions to remark on. It hadn’t been difficult to learn it—she could read everything in Matchmaking for Wallflowers advice columns, and had scoffed at the women who struggled more.

  She’d known better than to allow herself to be lured to a balcony or garden for a midnight viewing of roses or foxgloves, and after she’d married, she’d not succumbed to the flirtations that so many people in the ton in less than ideal matches did.

  Shyness wasn’t one of her traits, but now, the emotion seemed to swell inside her.

  Arthur was not interested in learning her opinion of Liverpool. Not here. Not when he was gazing at her so intently, and certainly not when his fingers were sliding under her gown.

  He was solely interested in her, and it didn’t seem to matter that she hadn’t brought her lady’s maid, and she hadn’t yet brushed her hair the one hundred strokes that Matchmaking for Wallflowers wrote that men expected so that a woman’s locks might be most lustrous.

  “You’re lovely.” Arthur leaned toward her, and his eyes closed.

  He’s going to kiss me.

  The thought soared through her mind.

  They’d kissed before, and she knew the fleeting emotion of bliss his lips would inspire. This time though they were alone. In a bedroom. With rings on their fingers.

  Her heart beat a nervous rhythm, and she was incredibly thankful for the chair. Should she do something? Reach for water? Not reach for water?

  But when his lips met hers, the tension soaring through her body relaxed. His lips pressed against hers, and even though the act was strange and should be distasteful, it seemed the most blissful sensation in the world. Her discomfort eased, and the world seemed to vanish.

  The only thing that mattered was Arthur’s lips against hers.

  Did he enjoy this too? Was he merely making use of his years of practice to astound her? Was he even attempting to impress her, or was his every movement so perfect that he couldn’t help but do anything else?

  She’d heard women praise Arthur. The man was no innocent. Even during her season, other debutantes had confided to her their interest in him. That had been before he was a marquess, when even the least stringent debutante should have realized the unsuitability of a match with him. Few people would wager a marriage on a penniless half-American on the off chance that his cousin might die and he might find himself inheriting vast amounts of wealth. And yet his charms had been evident even then.

  Perhaps the man thought her foolish. Perhaps the smile on his lips—and how did his lips ever manage to be so succulent appearing—was simply because she was giving in to his moves, behaving in an utterly predictable manner.

  She stiffened. The temptation to yield to his every touch rushed through her, but she couldn’t appear foolish. The man knew she was untouched, and she couldn’t stand the thought of him returning to his club, like every other gentleman of the ton would likely do, and boast about ho
w he’d made her writhe and gasp in pleasure before he’d even led her to her marital bed.

  She refused to act predictably, and for a moment he halted his kiss.

  She’d thought that that would be an improvement. If they weren’t kissing, she couldn’t succumb to foolishness and dainty dreams of domestic delight.

  But now he was looking at her, and those large beautifully wide-set eyes managed to convey worry. He moved his fingers from the bare skin of her neck, and he brushed his hand through her hair.

  “I’ve longed for this moment,” he said.

  “Oh?” Her voice sounded higher pitched than normal, and warmth rushed to her cheeks.

  His lips didn’t flicker into a smile, and he continued to gaze at her gravely. “Indeed.”

  She was silent, but her heart seemed to be beating more, as if seeking to speak the words that her throat didn’t know how to do. The room was definitely warmer than it had been when she entered it. Surely Italian nights were not warmer as the sun vanished?

  “You are wearing too many clothes,” Arthur said.

  Madeline was sure that wasn’t true.

  She already felt far too exposed. Her gown might go to her neck, and her sleeves might extend to her wrists, covering a greater portion of her body than any French designed ball gown, but she felt bare in it.

  The material seemed unequipped to protect her. Only a single tallow candle might flicker in the room, but Arthur’s eyes seemed to roam over her body, undeterred by the dearth of light.

  Arthur smiled. “My shy marchioness.”

  Madeline’s heart thudded. She wasn’t shy. Not like other women. Shy women didn’t travel to the continent by themselves.

  But where Arthur was concerned…perhaps she was.

  Arthur swept her into his arms, settling her easily in his embrace, and he marched to the bed. He dropped her onto the center, and she sank into soft blankets. Arthur climbed over her, undeterred as the bed sank still further, the strings not tightened in a while.

  He moved his hand over her gown. “This, for instance, is entirely unnecessary.”

  “Oh.”