Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  Anne Winton… She deserved love as well. And so he must let her go. Let go of this remarkable woman who had faith in him. Who challenged him to be his best. Who believed in him when he couldn’t. Who made him stronger and gave him hope. Well, he would survive without her. His sweet Owl now truly safe from his schemes.

  Ivo, trudged silently behind, as they made their way back up to his cell. Once again, he faced the oaken door with its barred hatch, but it did not fill him with dread as it had in the past. This place would not be his end.

  “You may go back to Grace, Ivo. I will not need you this evening.”

  The giant tentatively touched Dev’s forehead as if he knew the change that had gone on inside, then he grinned, his eyes nearly disappearing as his heavy cheeks rose and bunched to almost meet an overhanging brow.

  Not wanting to spoil the moment with words, he simply clasped Ivo’s hand. They stood for a long while simply grinning at each other. Finally he squeezed the man’s huge paw and then stepped inside.

  An orange lay square in the middle of his throne chair, the only bright spot in his lifeless chamber.

  Anne…she had remembered he’d longed for the taste of an orange.

  “Goodnight, Lor-Dev.”

  “Oh, yes. Goodnight, Ivo,” he murmured, never taking his eyes off the gift.

  He barely registered the click of the lock’s tumblers as they slid home.

  Drawn to the fruit’s simple beauty, he crossed the room. Raising it to his mouth, he brushed the cool, pebbled skin over his lips. The press of his fingernail into the flesh released a spritz of zest, tickling his nose. His mouth watered. Not so much for the orange, as for the giver.

  Never one to savor a treat, he always gobbled it down in a trice, leaving him wanting more.

  But this night, he would have control. He would fill the time with her gift. He would spin his own fairy story, each section of orange adding a new element. And when he finished, she would appear. Very like her fairy-heroine, Cristabelle.

  Carefully separating each section, he lined them up along the arm of his chair.

  Juice ran down his fingers. He lapped it up. Now the last piece, a pale crescent of sunset-orange glowing translucent in the fading light. He had made the fruit last far longer than he imagined, but alas, it was only a story. She had not appeared.

  The last bite exploded in his mouth. He swallowed it down whole. The rind, a spiral of flesh he’d removed in one careful piece, would go next to him in his bed.

  He stood. Time for sleep.

  His body froze at the fumble of a key sounding in the lock. Steady, old boy. Probably just Ivo returning to perform some forgotten task. He turned.

  His heart pounded and the rind dropped from his fingers.

  “Anne—” He stepped toward her.

  She did not meet his gaze, but took the chair Ivo sometimes used and wedged it underneath the doorknob. Testing its strength, she seemed satisfied, but still did not turn to him. Instead she laid her forehead against the door.

  “Anne?” He took another step toward her.

  Her candle’s flame shuddered and nearly went out as she spun and rushed to him. He had the impression if he had not called her name when he did, she might have fled.

  Her small body curled into him, her hair silk against his chin. She reached up, her fingers skating along his lips, as if she might taste with them. So shy, yet so brazen. Her breath fanned hot against his thumping heart.

  He smiled and her fingers spanned his lips as they pulled wide. “I have eaten it all, but would you like a taste?” He nipped at her fingers. Capturing one, he touched the pad with his tongue. The light quivered with her soft gasp. He rescued the taper before she dropped it, and then brought his other hand to her cheek. She turned her face into it. She would smell and taste orange all over him—his fingers, lips, tongue.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Her tongue flicked out to lave the very center of his palm.

  His breath hissed over his teeth as he sucked in air. Now he was the one who nearly let the light go out. He set the taper on the nearest surface, the arm of his chair, and then lifted her chin, dipping his tongue into her mouth. Like sliding home.

  He tasted her, claiming his gift in a whole new way. His free hand threaded around her neck and into her hair. It came down as if a dam had broken. He would never get used to that heavy silk rushing down her back if he lived to be ninety.

  For once she did not seem to care how many pins were lost. He wound her hair around his sticky fingers and looped it over his wrist as if he might bind her to him.

  She pushed his shirt apart and pressed her lips to his heart.

  Yes, eat it, eat it up and carry it inside you. Keep it safe for me.

  Such a glutton he was. Settle. He could so easily scare her with his desperate need.

  “And what of my gift?” she whispered against his chest. “What do you have for me?” she repeated, now meeting his gaze.

  God, she was luminous.

  “Ah, was the fruit just a first course?” he said smiling. My, his Owl learned fast. “You have a second in mind? Something I might provide?”

  She nodded solemnly. Thick, perfectly straight eyelashes cast long shadows over her cheeks as they dipped. “I would like that.” The shadows lifted as her gaze again found his. “I am very hungry.”

  Sweet Jesu, save him from sultry virgins.

  His mouth opened wide over hers and she answered gamely. Teeth clashed, as their tongues jousted seeking to claim territory. Her hands left his neck and fluttered at her throat. She pulled back for air but he dove after her to capture her mouth once more.

  So much for holding back. At this rate, he would have her on her back in about five seconds. Not what he wanted—well, not what should happen. He did not need to use Anne Winton. He was strong now. He would pass his father’s test.

  She fussed with the buttons that snaked up to just beneath the scar under her chin. He’d forgot, he wanted to ask her about that. A new story from his fairy owl.

  When the hideous dun brown of the gown parted, only then did it dawn on him she was undressing.

  “What are you doing?”

  The lump in her pale long neck bobbed as she swallowed, but her hands never stilled, and her gaze remained steady, almost calm.

  “Anne. Stop,” he admonished, when he wanted nothing more than to push her hands away and do the job himself. “You must stop,” an edge of panic now coloring his directive. “You do not know what you are doing.”

  “No, I admit I don’t. But I am hoping you will teach me.”

  The thread-bare cotton of her chemise begged to be ripped open.

  “My dear little Owl.” He stepped away, hoping some distance and sarcasm would make her see her folly, but more importantly, give him respite. “Do not tempt me with your naïve wiles. You have no idea how hungry I am. I may just pounce on you.”

  “Yes, that is precisely what I wish.”

  Well, that pulled his ballocks a notch tighter.

  “I would like for you to…pounce on me.”

  Sweet Jesu.

  “You do not know what you are saying.” He meant for his words to come out more forcefully, but they sounded hollow and breathless to his ears. “You are a maid.”

  “And that fact makes me unsuitable? Unattractive?”

  “Unattractive?” He shook his head trying desperately to rein in the situation. “I do not make a practice of debauching virgins, Miss Winton.” He blamed himself. He had set this in motion—her in motion. Needing her to be his. But they were going too far. He would not ruin her this way.

  Besides, he’d never had a virgin. Always thought it likely not worth the effort. Dead wrong, that notion.

  “Anne, if Hives could hear you, he would surely lock you up along with Tippit and Nester. You are not thinking.” Please let these sobering words douse the fire building between them.

  “No, you are right. I am not. But I do not want to think. Not tonight. I only want to feel. To
feel you within me.”

  Oh, dear God, this virgin just heaped burning coals on the pyre. His blasted reason fizzled and writhed under her sultry gaze.

  She had not stopped with the buttons while he scrambled to save them from the inferno. Her deft fingers had got down nearly to her waistline.

  In a last ditch effort, he prayed to the Almighty for logical reason to swoop down and take her from him. If God was just, He would spare her.

  Flick. Anne stared brazenly into his eyes. Apparently, the tiny buttons came free quite easily. Flick, flick.

  He caught her hands.

  “Don’t stop me. I want you to—to do it all. I know what happens now. I want this.”

  Her hands escaped his and found the ridge of his penis.

  “This, I want this.”

  For the love of—This green-girl would un-man him yet.

  He took her hands firmly. “No. Anne. That, you cannot have.” Apparently, God had it in for poor Anne Winton. “I will do the other. What I did before.”

  Her gown gaped open, all the secrets within, still hidden in shadows, but only a whisper away. He turned so his body no longer blocked the light. A bulky roll of petticoat obscured her waist. Never the seamstress, she must have to hike the fabric up so as not to trip. He’d always supposed her waist thickish, like a young girl’s. Likely this dress was a castoff from a larger girl and never altered.

  Either God had abandoned him, or somehow, in a moment of profound mercy, granted him this respite of joy. He would not squander such providence. Dipping his hands into the opening, he pushed aside the fabric until they spanned her true waistline. His fingers met easily and then splayed over the surprising roundness of her bum, also buried under the massive petticoat.

  What other treasures did she have hidden beneath these dull feathers?

  Her breasts, his wicked mind answered. He licked his lips. Just up over her ribs and he could test their fullness and weight.

  Devilish girl, she knew the temptation and moved his hands upward, pushing herself forward to fill his open palms.

  “Oh, Anne…you do not know…”

  But the humming, which until now had been a low rumble in his core, now took over his entire body

  She pressed into him harder and the miraculous vibration buzzed between them.

  “But I do know. I do,” she whispered. “You will leave me soon. Your father will see you are recovered and you will be free of Ballencrieff. Free of me.”

  “Anne, I will never—”

  “Let me finish. You must go. I want you to go. You are meant to be in the limelight, among your own people. Among the beauty and color of the world. Beauty should be with beauty. Of this I am certain.” She dipped her head to kiss his hands. “But I have grown selfish. You have made me selfish.” Her gaze met his again. “I cannot allow you to leave without granting me this one wish. This gift.”

  Once he had her, could he ever let her go? Would his Owl survive in the often vicious world of the haute ton? A world of pretense where preserving rank was paramount. Bloody hell, why did he even want to go back? How could he ever think of subjecting her to such trite cruelty?

  “James, will you give me this?”

  Her liquid gaze poured into him, washing out the dregs of his resolve. “You must promise to tell me when to stop. And I will. It may kill me, but you must trust that I will stop. We will go slowly, Anne.”

  And if she did not speak up, he would have to have the ballocks to stop himself.

  In answer she pulled her gown fully open and then dropped it to the floor.

  ****

  Anne would have smiled at the look on his face if she weren’t so nervous.

  The petticoat was not as easy as her gown. A stubborn knot thoroughly spoiled the drama of the moment, giving him time to get his wits together to come to her. She pushed his hands away, but after a tenuous moment he took the knotted string between his long fingers and snapped it in two. The petticoat joined her dress.

  “Anne…” He stepped away now, his gaze raking over her. “You are Venus emerging from your shell. A pocket Venus, but a goddess none the less.”

  She resisted the urge to cover herself. “Not your Owl?”

  “Always. But you forget, a goddess can transform herself. You goddesses are very tricky for us mere mortals. You lure us into perilous waters. You make us do things we ought never do.” He shook his head and backed away.

  She did feel rather powerful just now. “Now you. I want to see you.”

  Again, he hesitated, but once more his decision fell her way. Shadows jumped on the walls as he kicked off his shoes. He opened his fall and pushed the waistband down. Hooking his thumbs in the fabric, he slid them down and then stepped out of his breeches and hose, and finally, his smalls.

  His legs were long and beautiful, so different from hers. Muscled and dusted with dark curling hair. His shirt tented at his crotch.

  “The shirt,” her voice rasped. “I want the shirt off as well.”

  He hesitated and turned to the candle.

  “No! I want the light. I want to see.”

  “Anne…”

  “Very well, I will go first.” She prayed her fingers would be steady enough to pull the new silken ribbon that wove through her old chemise. She had replaced it only this morning when she planned her seduction. The bow released with no effort, silk sliding against silk. The neckline gaped and hung from one shoulder.

  Would he want her? Would she be beautiful enough?

  James Drake, the Marquess of Devlin, would be the first to see her naked.

  She gave a tiny shrug and the cotton slipped down her body.

  Now utterly exposed, the urge to look down, to see what he saw felt enormous. She resisted. His mouth parted, his lungs laboring beneath the fine linen of his shirt. He stepped toward her.

  “Wait. Not yet.” She gestured for him to remove the last barrier.

  “You may regret this. I am not so beautiful as yourself.”

  Silly man. He would be perfection. “I will be the judge of that.”

  He closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his body and grabbed handfuls of linen. Then in one quick movement, he wrenched it over his head.

  Oh, my.

  Indeed a weapon. A sword. A mighty broadsword polished and glistening, primed for battle. The place between her legs throbbed in answer to the unspoken battle cry. Her gaze rose to meet his eyes to tell him she was ready but she never got past his chest.

  “I warned you.” His voice was raw. He shifted the shirt, still in his hand, and began to put it back on.

  “No!” Her feet tangled in her skirts. She stepped from them, kicking them away. Still several paces from him, she stopped. He would hate her tears. He flinched, seeing her grit her teeth. “No,” she said again, meeting his wary eyes, desperate to make him understand it was not his scarred body that had made her grimace.

  She crossed the last few steps separating them, took the shirt from him, and tossed it aside.

  She touched the welt nearest his heart. He hissed and pulled back.

  “Shhh. Please, James. Let me.” She traced the red blotch. “You are my gift. My beautiful gift. So beautiful. You cannot take it away from me now.” She bent her head to kiss the wound. Fine, soft hairs tickled her nose. The beat of his heart pulsed heavily against her kiss-swollen lips. She reached around his chest, her fingers skating over ridges of ruined flesh. She squeezed her eyelids shut willing the tears to stay locked away until she was alone back in the safety of her room. She would have plenty of time for grief. But later. Much later.

  Now she only cared that she loved. She could not make him love her. One could not control love. It would be like trying to hold an ocean within your hands. This evening would be enough—would have to be enough. She would hold this memory to her breast, and her heart, like a bellows, would keep the flame alive over the long years ahead.

  His arms wound around her and he nudged the top of her head with his chin. She raised her fa
ce to him.

  Their tongues mingled desperately. A conversation of need and hot insistence calling to each other, filling the empty space, mocking his earlier resolve of going slow. There was no possibility of stopping. He must see that now.

  Arms locking about his neck, her feet left the ground as she wove her legs around his hips. Her breasts crushed against his beating chest, her belly against his throbbing member. She dug her fingers into his hair, her tongue thrusting deep, wanting to be connected everywhere.

  They were moving. Moving to his cot.

  He lay her down. Dimly she registered the creak of the ropes as he covered her with his body.

  “Tell me to stop, Anne.” His words ground out next to her ear.

  “No.”

  He bit her ear. “Say it. Say, stop.”

  She bit his neck in response, sucking the flesh between her teeth. She tasted salt.

  “No,” she repeated as she kissed where she had sucked, reining little soothing kisses along his collar bone to distract him. “No.” The word felt deep and sultry in her mouth. He arched his neck giving her more room to explore. “No,” she said again because is felt so good. Her hand slipped from his and dove between them to find his hot cock. “Yes.”

  In an instant, she found herself flipped, now on top of him, her hands firmly caught in his. Heavens, he was strong. And fast. She would remember that for next time. No, not next time. Only now. She only had now.

  “I know we can do it this way as well.” She had found Lady Tippit’s naughty books with all the tantalizing possibilities. “You will not stop me. I am quite determined.”

  He smiled then. His wicked smile. The one she could imagine him unleashing on so many women. How they must have clamored for this man. But they did not have him. He was hers now. At least for this night.

  “Now.” She squirmed against his hot velvet. “I want this inside me now.”

  “Ah, ah.” He sucked in air, as if she hurt him. “You are an eager little thing. Better not to rush these things. We will go slow, Anne. You must trust me on this.” His thumbs circled her nipples, light as breath.

  “Hmm…ah!” She bit her lip trying to keep those sounds inside her, but his torture continued as he pinched her peaks and then pulled.