Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  Would her nipples be shell-pink or dusky-mauve? Large or small? Her maiden hair would be dark—no doubts there—but would she be smooth petaled or frilled? Salty or sweet?

  Eventually he would uncover all her glorious secrets, but there would be no rushing.

  Her ribs were like a harp. He could count them through the thin fabric of her woolen gown and her stays. He strummed over them and was rewarded with a musical sigh.

  “Now, off with these boots.” She sat up to help him. “No, you lie back or you will spoil it.”

  “Boots? But…you said… Your gift?”

  “Mercenary little thing. I am afraid it is not that kind of gift. In fact, if I am totally honest, which I’m not often, it is really a gift for me as well. Do you still want it?”

  She nodded, her eyes grave.

  “Good. I am egotistical enough to want you to remember that I am the one to give you this. I am the first. Now, your part is to stop thinking and lie down.”

  She settled back, but only to her elbows. Very well. He would allow it. For now.

  The boots came off to expose not so carefully mended stockings. Once again, she tried to rise, but his look stopped her. “Not much of a seamstress, are you? Good, I am happy to know you are not perfect. Perfection is highly overrated.” His hands skated up her ankle, over her knee, and then on to the place where the cotton met her skin. “Easy, remember you must relax.”

  She lay back down.

  Her skin was the softest peach. He found her garter and pulled. Her stocking sagged. He hooked his forefingers under and pulled downward, catching the garter along the way.

  The stockings joined her boots.

  He kissed the inside of her ankle just under the bone where the hollow fit his tongue so perfectly. He ignored her gasp. Really, he could spend several hours just on her feet. So tiny, yet so well-made. The smallest toe curling under the others, begging to be found.

  “Oh!”

  If he had not had a firm hold, he might have gotten kicked. He smiled and dipped his tongue into all four crevices, just to be fair.

  Now up over the arch to her ankle, lips brushing the soft down on her calf to rest just below her knee. He pushed her leg up along with her drawers. Her skirts pooled higher, bunching in a heap onto her thighs.

  She was back up on her elbows.

  He pressed his mouth to the inside of her knee—another hollow for his tongue.

  Her hands fisted in her skirts and a small chirp escaped her.

  “Are you well?” he teased.

  Another faint chirp.

  “I will take that as a yes.”

  He could smell her now. Salty and sweet. Apricots and sea.

  His hands folded over hers, and he pushed her skirts up farther. She tried to sit up again, but it was easy to push her back. Limp as a wet feather.

  He captured her other foot, splaying her open. He licked and nipped up her thighs, hopping from one to the other, keeping her off balance.

  Another chirp, followed by a soft crooning. Her feet pushed against his palms and her bottom lifted just a fraction. Not so limp now. He gave her a reprieve until she settled again.

  He could see her now all glistening pink with darker, frilled edges. An exotic flower dripping sweet nectar.

  A bee. He was a bee. He went right for the honey.

  “Ahhhh! Oh… I… Oh!”

  ****

  Moments slid by while she recovered. He longed for his sketch pad to catch her utter languor, but that would mean moving. Finally she fluttered and then sat up, dragging her drab skirts back down over her glory. Now gathering her stockings and easing her feet into her boots.

  He sat back on his heels, hoping to catch her gaze. Hoping to hear her gush and fall at his feet.

  Damn it. He couldn’t stand it.

  “So? I do have my manly pride. How was it?” How was I?

  She took what seemed forever to lace up her boots.

  “Not as bad as all that, I hope?” He teased. But he could not help but begin to doubt his prowess her answer was so long in coming.

  She straightened from her task. “It was a bit like an over-due sneeze,” she said matter-of-factly.

  He gawped. “A sneeze?”

  “A very large sneeze,” she amended and then added, “a sneeze of the entire body.”

  When he said nothing, she continued. “You are very—adept.”

  “Adept? Better and better. Your praise is overwhelming.”

  She frowned. “Yes, that is the word. Overwhelming. I am overwhelmed,” she said quietly, ducking her head.

  He could only stare. She could not know the gift she had just given him by her simple words.

  “I will recover though,” she said, smoothing her skirts as if she were making a bed.

  He laughed. “Yes, I daresay you will. We wouldn’t want you to—catch cold now, would we?”

  She rose, and then started for the door, slightly wobbly he noted with some satisfaction.

  “I am known for my strong constitution. I never take sick.” She paused, and then added, “Though I do keep a handkerchief in my pocket at all times.”

  And she left the room.

  Ah, well, no sitting for a portrait this day.

  ****

  Anne carefully closed the door. She’d told him she would recover, but she wouldn’t. Her body would no doubt stop this beautiful humming soon. Her breasts would loosen and her nipples would not ache to be touched. The heavy, swollen feeling between her legs would subside, and she’d be able to walk without blushing. But the damage to her heart would not dissipate. Of that, she was sure.

  He had laughed and teased her. She was so transparent to this jaded, knowing man; a dumb fly caught in his brilliantly constructed web of silvery seduction. Mrs. Abbot had constantly warned of these men, dredging up poor Florence Burbage who had succumbed to the temptation of the handsome blacksmith’s boy and ended in ruin. But wasn’t it worse to live without ever knowing such bliss?

  Stripped to the bone—no, not bone—bones were cold and anonymous; he’d exposed her naked flesh, her folds and most secret places. Exposed her passion. Her love for him.

  Yes, this physical love was definitely a weapon. She could see that now. And so she had fled. If he knew, he could slay her in a moment.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “The prodigal returns,” Austin announced from the doorway. He made an elegant bow, then walked into the tower room as if he’d never left. Never been gone nearly five weeks.

  “Don’t you have that wrong, brother?” Dev spared him another glance. “I believe that role has always been mine.” Never did he think he would be disappointed to see his brother, but Anne had only arrived and he had just persuaded Ivo to try a game of blind man’s bluff.

  Anne gathered together her notebooks. “I will leave you to visit with your brother, Lord Devlin. Good afternoon, Lord Austin.” She made a curtsey.

  Amazing how quickly his rare bird turned herself back into the owl, her head ducking, her wings folding in around her, becoming smaller.

  Austin stepped aside to let her pass.

  “We will see you at tea, Miss Winton?” Austin’s question snared her at the door.

  “I—yes, I believe so, your lordship.” And she slipped out.

  “An odd little thing, your Miss Winton.”

  “She is not mine.”

  “No? I got the impression she is quite smitten with you.”

  He did not want to discuss Anne with his brother.

  Austin smiled and then turned to Ivo. “I see you have acquired more friends.”

  Blackie was draped round the giant’s neck, her tail flicked and she yawned. Ivo pulled the blindfold up, exposing one eye. His huge paw rose to stroke the cat. “Friend. Blackie.”

  “An excellent name for an excellent cat.”

  Ivo grinned. Never a pretty sight.

  His brother settled into the chair Anne had just left. “How is the portrait coming?”

  He shrugg
ed. He did not want to discuss that, either.

  “I must say I was surprised when Hives wrote to say you insisted on painting Anne Winton.”

  Austin was fishing. When would he figure out Dev was not in a biting mood?

  “Well, she seems to have done you good. You are looking well, better than I have seen you in months.”

  “Clean and wholesome living.”

  “Stubble it, Dev. It’s not fair to punish me with your frosty airs. While you have been languishing here with Miss Winton and your beloved paints, I have had to deal with Father, not to mention Margaret, who is still casting up her accounts every bloody morning. The doctor assured her it would ease after the first three months, the liar. Meanwhile, Macey—you remember the old steward at Malvern Grange—”

  He didn’t.

  “—is warring with the new man I’ve hired. With all the clamor about taking the waters in Malvern village, they want to put a railroad through—never mind. Suffice to say, I have been run off my feet. Someone has to hold down the fort.”

  “How is Father?” Why did he continue to care?

  Austin raised an eyebrow. “His heart is still a problem.”

  “He has one?”

  His brother ignored the jibe. “The doctor says he must not become too agitated. I have tried to keep the scandal sheets from him, but Tally, ever faithful, gets them despite my wishes.”

  The room felt suddenly stuffy. He yanked at his cravat. It was as if he should know some illusive set of rules but hadn’t the foggiest notion of the game. He shifted in his chair.

  “I had thought to keep them from you as well, but then rationalized, the devil you know, and all that.”

  Dev swiped his brow. What the devil was Austin yammering about?

  The answer came soon enough when his brother pulled a sheaf of broadsheets from within his coat and laid them on the table.

  Why would these papers make him want to throw up? He swallowed. He would not close his eyes. He would not let the face come. Not in front of his brother. Instead he made himself reach across the table and take the topmost sheet.

  Lord Devil to Reveal his Angel?

  It is rumored the M of D, who has been “rusticating” for several months due to an unfortunate episode, is producing a new masterpiece. His whereabouts and his subject are being kept very hush-hush, but apparently she is not his typical beauty, but a woman of scrupulous morals. There are even rumblings of a betrothal. A plain Miss for our illustrious marquess? We wait, agog with anticipation, to meet this

  Puritanical Angel.

  He reached for the next. And the next. These rags had no imagination. He pushed them back across the table.

  “Well, I must say, you took that better than I expected.”

  Fucking leeches.

  “Don’t ask me how it got out. I must own I did not keep Hives’ latest report under lock and key, and I suppose anyone could have snooped about. Servants these days are not what they used to be. But I assure you, it will not happen again.” Austin leaned back in his chair. “Though the leak may have come from your end, here at Ballencrieff.” He neatened the corners of the broadsheets. “How well do you know your Miss Winton?”

  Anne? The thought bit into him. He pushed it aside. Preposterous. He parried back. “Who is Phyllis Thornton?”

  “Ah yes, that little wrinkle.”

  “I signed the betrothal contract, but I won’t go through with it.”

  “We will cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, continue to indulge Father in this. I have a plan. You must trust me.” Austin stood. “By the by, do you know why Miss Winton is here?” His brother sounded almost taunting. “Consigned to a madhouse instead of teaching at Ardsmoore or some grand house?”

  Dev’s hackles rose.

  “Seems there was an incident where a student nearly died. Poison. Apparently they found arsenic in Miss Winton’s pocket.” Austin seemed to look for some dramatic reaction. He was disappointed. “Anyway, the vicar, a Mr. Harlow, smoothed it all over, but Miss Winton was removed from her position post haste.”

  “Sorry, old boy, your gossip is old news. Miss Winton told me the whole sordid tale.”

  “Did she?”

  He did not offer a reply.

  “Right, I must meet with Hives. I can only stay a few days, but I will see you again at tea?” Austin fished into his pocket. He held up a vial. The glass caught the bit of sun that leaked in from the window. “Do you need this?”

  His mouth suddenly felt huge and hollow. He ground his teeth and pressed his tongue against them and then turned away.

  “Very well, if you don’t—”

  “Leave it.”

  Austin laid the vial on top of the papers and left the room.

  Reaching out, his fingers closed over the familiar shape. A balm for his reading enjoyment. A friend.

  No, not his friend. His enemy. The darkness and devils were fading. He was stronger now, able to look deeper into the black hole of his memory. But once exposed, would he be able to fill it?

  Huge dark eyes flooded his mind, washing away his doubt. Anne…his balm?

  But the image of her cramming her notebook with reports to Hives—no, no she would never. At least she would never willingly betray him. She could not. Besides, she knew nothing of this betrothal. Or did she? Would Hives betray him?

  The thought kept niggling, making his head suddenly throb. Wasn’t he willing to betray Anne if it came down to it? Ruin her to gain his freedom. Would she betray him for hers? He did not know any more. If only this hole in his memory would fill, he would not need to rely on anyone.

  The floorboard came up easily. He shoved the vial into the hole, but the corner of one of his dream drawings caught his attention. He pulled it out. A snake writhed, its body covered in jewels.

  Only a piece of jewelry. No, a piece of memory. He had given it to…

  Nora stood, hands on her hips, her magnificent bosom thrust out.

  Something flashed and slithered over her chest. He blinked, trying to make it stay still. Emeralds, amethysts, with ruby eyes—a snake. Ah, only her brooch. He smiled and stepped closer, his fingers opened, ready to cradle her breasts.

  “She is increasing.”

  “What?” Dev’s gaze moved from her tempting bosom to her face. Not good. He started backing toward the door.

  “Lily, she’s pregnant.”

  “Lily?”

  “Lily, the girl you rescued from Cuddle Lane. Did you know? No, obviously not. You do not even know the child’s name.”

  “Of course I know her bloody name—” God, his head felt like it had been struck by a cleaver.

  “You, being a man, can only see what might give you ease and pleasure.”

  Since he’d brought the girl to Nora, she’d become more wet mother hen than delectable mistress.

  “It had better not be yours, or I will shoot you where you stand.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. Nora Havermere knew better than to accuse him of tupping a girl of two and ten.

  “Never mind me, I am distraught.” She paced the floor. The snake at her breast seemed to come alive. Sodding Satan, he had to sit down before he passed out from watching their perambulations.

  “Well, there is nothing for it,” Nora stopped—thank God—and turned to face him. “As soon as Havermere dies, I shall simply adopt them both.”

  The girl—Lily—appeared at the top of the stairs, her green eyes accusing. A white diaphanous gown covered the slight swelling of her belly. The snake whipped his head toward the movement. Seeing the girl, it hissed, leaping off Nora’s breast to strike at Lily. But she took no notice of the glittering reptile as it slithered, wrapping itself round and round her body as if it had no end.

  Nora shouted at him to do something.

  But he could not move. Lily’s condemning eyes froze him where he stood. Despite the snake strangling her body, her belly grew and grew—

  The drawing was a crumpled ball in his fist. But
why?

  Swiping the sweat from his brow, he spread the paper open on the floor. A coiled snake? Floating breasts? An endless stairway?

  “Bah!” He pounded his fists against the floor. Gone. Not a shred of memory remained, only the ruined paper and his throbbing hands.

  Useless. He was still a broken man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “The moon is full, you know.” Mr. Beauchamp hovered by the window of the drawing room. “And Mercury in retrograde. A perilous combination.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp, come and have your tea.” The man’s only response was to duck behind the curtain. With a long-held sigh, Anne put the cup of now tepid tea back on the table. Doctor Hives was in Edinburgh, presenting a paper on the efficacy of mesmerism. He would return on the morrow. And then, in a few short weeks, James would be leaving; going down to London to meet with his father, his year of recovery over. She would never see him again. Hoped to never see him again. That he would be free of Ballencrieff forever.

  “Winton.” Lady Tippit eyed herself in her small hand mirror. “I am thinking I will return to London and society after Phoebe delivers the babe. I have decided to take you with me, as my companion. Poppa is ill. He can’t last much longer. I believe with you by my side I shall be well able to navigate the capricious waters of the ton. I will speak to Hives when he returns.”

  A fresh cup of hot tea nearly spilled onto the carpet. “Lady Tippit, I am sorry to hear your father is not well, and while I am flattered by your proposition, you know I cannot accept. I thank you though.” She refilled the cup and added a splash of milk.

  “What do you mean you cannot accept?” Her ladyship slapped the mirror down. “Of course you will accept. Who would choose Ballencrieff over the delights of London?”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “Well, you, for one, your ladyship,” she said, placing the cup in Lady Tippit’s waiting hand.

  “Do not be impertinent, Winton. I am a mature woman who is firmly on the shelf. I know that now. I can no longer be hurt by fortune hunters and others… It is time to reemerge.”

  “Oh, Lady Tippit.” Phoebe Nester had roused herself from the couch where she lay. “I would like that above all things. I cannot bear to think of you here at Ballencrieff when I am far away in Town. Miss Winton, you must come.”