A box wrapped in white paper with gold stripes and a pink bow lay on it. “It has your name on it.” Maggie’s smile brightened. “A gift from his lordship, I’m sure.”
Caroline recognized the wrapping paper as Madame Lefleur’s—one of London’s most sought-after modistes, who catered to the crème de la crème of London society. Sitting on the edge of the chaise, she untied the package. Inside, between tissue paper, lay a white nightgown and wrapper of the finest lace. Caroline lifted it out of the box. Her cheeks heated. The thing was as sheer as a butterfly net.
“Do you wish me to help you undress?” Maggie asked, peering at the scandalous garment, her face as red as Caroline’s must be.
“Now?” The word came out like a squeak. The sun was just starting to set. Surely, it was too early to dress for her wedding night. “I’d like the kitchen to send up a light repast before I change.”
“I’ll go tell them. Is there something special you wish them to prepare?”
She didn’t care. Anything that would delay putting on that scrap of gossamer would suffice. “No, whatever is prepared is fine.”
The door clicked closed behind Maggie, and Caroline was left to the solitude of the room. She glanced around. Her gaze stopped on the state bed with its brown velvet curtains draped in the corners, and the silk sheets. Across from the foot of the bed was another armoire with massive mirrored doors.
Her mouth gaped. Goodness, while lying in bed, one had a direct view of one’s reflection in the glass. Releasing a low breath, she distracted herself by studying the bucolic painting of grazing sheep, which hung above the mantel.
Two hours later, Caroline parted the window’s heavy curtains. The sun outside had set, leaving the Essex sky dark except for the moon and several twinkling stars. A lovely sight compared to the fog-drenched sky of London.
She let the fabric fall back into place. The soft, flowing material of the sheer lingerie she wore swayed against her legs as she walked to the mirrored armoire. She peered at her reflection. Her body was as exposed as one of Titian’s painted mythological subjects.
Footfalls in the corridor nearly sent her dashing for the bed to scurry under the sheets. Instead, she forced herself not to move. Waited.
The sound stopped outside the door.
Her heart thudded against her chest.
The footsteps moved on. A nearby door thumped closed. Had James entered the sitting room next door?
She darted to the bedside table and lowered the gas lamp, leaving the room bathed in dim light and the glow of the fire. So much for feeling confident when almost nude.
Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed. She fisted her hands. Was James doing this on purpose, making her wait while she was left feeling vulnerable in this sheer concoction?
She moved to the sitting room door and inched it open.
Her husband sat at the enormous desk, dressed in his shirtsleeves. The buttons lining the front of his shirt were unfastened and his unknotted neckcloth dangled from his collar. Light from the desk lamp burnished his already golden skin.
The pen in his hand stilled. He glanced up.
She stepped into the room.
The widening of his eyes reminded her of the transparency of her clothing. His dark gaze traveled a leisurely path down her body before slowly moving back up.
Her nipples hardened under his perusal. She crossed her arms over her breasts.
“I thought I heard someone in here.” It wasn’t what she wished to say, but it seemed a safe alternative to the invectives she itched to spew.
A long silence ensued. He looked back down at the ledger. “Good thing it’s me, dressed as you are.”
The chastising tone of his voice caused the heat in her cheeks to grow. Anger coursed through her. “You didn’t have to marry me, James. I didn’t ask you to. So, if it is regret that has you acting like a complete brute, I shall return to London. I’m sure an annulment can be arranged!”
She spun on her heel and slammed the door closed. She had just removed a gown from the armoire when the door flung open and banged against the wall.
James walked toward her—a dark expression on his face.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bloody hell. James stepped into his bedchamber and surveyed his wife. He doubted even an anvil could be harder than his manhood. Where the deuce had Caroline gotten that transparent nightgown?
His grandmother’s words floated to the forefront of his memory. I have a gift I wish brought to Trent Hall. It’s for Caroline. Every bride should have a new peignoir for her wedding night. Something sweet and virginal.
Was that what Grandmother had bought?
Sweet and virginal, my arse!
He’d all but lost the ability to breathe when Caroline had entered the sitting room with that diaphanous fabric clinging to the pink tips of her full breasts. His gaze had drifted downward to the hair at her mons. For a moment, he’d forgotten his anger. Nearly forgotten his self-control. He’d wanted to sling her over his shoulder, deposit her in his bed, and let his tongue explore the sweetness between her legs with excruciating slowness until she called out his name and climaxed.
Perhaps he’d let Caroline ponder his ambiguous behavior long enough. It was time to confront the deceitful enchantress who was now his wife. He closed the door behind him and took several steps toward her.
The violet gown she held slithered from her fingers to pool beside her bare feet in a soft mass.
His gaze moved up her body, over her shapely legs, the perfect triangle of hair, the curves of her hips and waist, past her glorious breasts to her flushed face.
Her mouth parted. Her tongue darted out to glisten her lower lip.
God help him. She was a seductress. He swallowed. Tried to redirect his mind onto what he wished to say. A complete waste of energy. How could he think when every ounce of blood in his brain had settled in his cock?
As if pulled by a magnet, he stepped forward.
Her breath quickened.
Did she realize how much he desired her?
Yes. Her expression confirmed she knew what he wanted—saw the yearning he couldn’t disguise, nor rein in.
The subtle scent of rose water and soap surrounded him. The scathing words he’d meant to spew—the accusations—drifted away. All he could center his mind on was burying himself in her warm sheath and feeling her climaxing.
Angry at himself for allowing his need to overrule his mind, he uttered a dark curse. A word not meant for a woman’s ears. Then with less grace than a man who once accounted himself a skilled lover, he cupped the back of her head and lowered his mouth to hers.
She curled her fingers into the linen of his shirt to draw him closer. She was angry as well, but like him, her anger fell to the wayside. The attraction, the need sparking between them, overwhelmed—a conflagration that burned everything else in its path.
He coaxed her lips apart, dipped his tongue into the warmth.
She made a noise. Soft and feminine. The kiss turned frenzied as their hands moved over each other. Her mouth moved to his ear. “Make love to me, James.”
Those words were his final undoing. He swung her up into his arms and carried her to his bed. Their bed. Even in his anger, he had wanted her in this room. Now. Forever. Fool that he was.
He set Caroline on the mattress.
She looked dazed, a woman whose desire had numbed her thoughts, but heightened her senses. Her nipples were hard, tantalizing buds.
James slipped his hands over the indent of her waist and glided it up to capture one perfect breast.
Her lashes lowered, casting two crescent-shaped shadows across her pink cheeks.
“Do you want me to make love to you?” he asked, drawing his thumb over the erect tip, knowing he should be railing at her instead of caressing her heated skin.
She didn’t speak but nodded.
He lay next to her, untied the white ribbon which held the scrap of fabric closed, then parting the material,
he drew it off her shoulders. The golden light from the bedside lamp highlighted her pale skin and the rosy blush that colored the swell of her breasts. His mouth trailed a path from her collarbone to her nipple. He scraped the bud with the edge of his teeth before soothing the tender skin with his tongue then drawing it into his mouth.
Caroline’s lids drifted closed. Her shallow breaths were quick puffs.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
Her lashes fluttered upward. Her dark pupils were so wide they consumed the vibrant green.
Knowing she watched him, he bent and placed kisses on her abdomen, the supple flesh near her belly button.
Her skin quivered. Her gaze widened as he settled lower.
The scent of her heated skin, of her arousal, filled his nose, more enticing than any elixir an apothecary could conjure up. His fingers stroked between her legs.
She made a noise, a whimper, then dragged her arm over her eyes.
“Look at me,” he repeated, gliding a hand up the inside of her thigh.
“No, it’s too wicked.”
“Do you wish me to stop?”
She snagged her lower lip between her teeth.
“Answer me, Caroline.”
She lowered her arm, stared at him, and gave a sideways jerk of her head.
He smiled and delved his tongue between the sweet spot between her legs.
Making a contented noise like a puss, she all but arched off the bed.
He glanced up. His young wife stared at him with clear fascination.
God have mercy. She would be the death of him. He dipped his tongue again, brushed it against her nub then suckled gently.
“Oh. I . . . oh.” She arched again.
Cupping her shapely bum, he deepened his quest. Her thighs tensed. The movement confirmed she was close to finding her pleasure, and he’d barely started exploring her, tasting her, showing her what a man could do to a woman with only his mouth.
Standing, he stripped off his clothing.
Caroline’s gaze slid from his face to his raging erection. Her mouth gaped, forming the perfect O.
Wicked thoughts flooded his mind. He tensed, reining in his own overheated body. They might have to do this a bit faster than he’d hoped. Then they would do it again. Slower. He settled next to her.
The sheer garment lay gathered above her hips. A thin band of fabrics. He was tempted to rip it from her body. Yet, he wanted her to wear it again, so he carefully slipped it down her legs until she lay naked.
Lowering himself, he planted kisses over her heated skin while his hands skimmed her arms, shoulders, and breasts.
Caroline was no docile lover. Her hands mimicked his, feverishly exploring. Her palm skidded gently over his cock. A tentative touch that made him tremble like a green lad. He cupped his hand around hers, brought her fingers about his manhood. Her thumb swayed against the tip, a feather light touch that drew his bollocks tight.
Holy Mother of God. His heart slammed against his chest. A heavy thump that felt close to deadly in its intensity. He was going to botch this if he didn’t act fast.
“Open for me, love.” He slid his hands up her inner thighs and settled between them. Braced on his arms, he kissed her long and deep. He positioned his manhood at her opening, sliding it in until he felt her virginal barrier. Wishing to ease what lay ahead, he brought his mouth to hers again, distracted her with his tongue and pressed forward with one quick thrust, knowing it would be for the best.
He crooned soft words into her ear, allowing her to adjust. Words meant to soothe as he held his body in check, cocooned in her warmth.
After a moment, she arched against him.
No theatrics for his sensuous wife. The Ice Princess, indeed. He rocked against her, buried himself deep, and then slowly withdrew to the tip. Her body moved with his, clinging to him. He settled deep within her again and began a dance as old as mankind.
He’d never wanted to talk during sex, but this wasn’t sex. This was something more, something infinitely stronger, more meaningful. He wanted to tell her how it made him feel. How she looked. So beautiful. So enticing.
Unable to stop himself, he whispered those words, along with sentimental words he’d never spoken before to any woman. And when she climaxed, he followed her into the dark abyss of pleasure, and nearly said the words he’d sworn during their wedding ceremony he would never reveal to his disingenuous wife. He almost told her the truth. He loved her.
* * *
The pleasant warmth that had enveloped Caroline after James made love to her throughout the night, was absent. She reached out, seeking the comfort of his solid body. Her fingers slid across the cool sheets.
She opened her eyes and blinked, adjusting to the dim light. A movement near the fireplace caught her attention. Dressed only in trousers, James stood with his back toward her, a hand braced on the mantel as he used the poker to move the glowing orange embers in the grate. Several sparks danced in the air. The light illuminated his skin, highlighting the beauty of his male form—a sculptured masterpiece of muscle and delineation.
He set the iron down, strode to the window and pulled back a velvet panel. Early morning light spilled into the room to reveal the side of his face. The gentle, almost reverent look which had softened his features throughout the night was gone—replaced by a complex expression one could only describe as sadness.
She knew the cause. This marriage. He wanted her in the physical sense. His actions last night, every kiss and touch, conveyed that soundly. Yet, he’d not truly wished to marry her. She blinked, trying to absorb the tears which threatened to spill forth.
As if sensing her regard, he looked at her. For several heartbeats his dark gaze held hers before shifting back to the window. A tense silence filled the room. Releasing the curtain, he turned and leaned a shoulder against the wood casings.
The top button of his trousers was unfastened, and the garment hung low on his lean hips. Memories of what they’d done, of how his body had joined with hers, over and over, until she’d cried out his name while climaxing, flooded back. The recollection caused heat to scorch her cheeks and a pulse to beat between her legs.
James’s sorrowful expression shifted to something darker. Once again, he resembled the stern gentleman who’d sat with her during the interminable journey from London. One of his hands clenched and unclenched. “I’ve always hated deceit.”
The harsh tone of his voice and the words themselves sent a chill down her bare back. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m not sure what you speak of.” Yet, as the words left her lips, she feared she might.
His laugh, absent any humor, filled the air. He walked to the bed, braced a hand on the headboard, and leaned close. “Last night, after my mouth and tongue explored your sweet skin, I couldn’t help thinking, who would have thought C. M. Smith would taste so lovely?”
Her body froze, except for her heart, which beat double time.
He knew. It all made sense. The look he’d given her in the church. His taciturn behavior. The anger that almost permeated his skin. Yet, he’d still married her. Saved her from marrying Hamby.
“No denial? No feigned shock? No pleading forgiveness, love?” he asked.
The bitter emphasis on the endearment cut like a blade to her soul. “I admit it. I am C. M. Smith. I intended to tell you before the wedding. I sent a letter, but the footman didn’t deliver it.”
“Really? How convenient.” Disbelief edged his voice. He grabbed his shirt off the chair, pulled it over his head, and jabbed the tails into his trousers. He moved to a dresser and withdrew a pair of socks.
Where the deuce was her nightgown? Seeing it atop the counterpane, she stood and drew it over her head. She stormed over to him. “James, allow me to explain. When I saw you at the theater, Anne told me about Henrietta and what was said about her death. I should not have listened to my cousin. I wrote the column before Lady Randall’s ball, but after talking to you there, I realized how unfair I’d acted.
Believe me, I tried to stop it from going to print. The day after the ball, I sent a messenger with a letter requesting Hinklesmith not publish the column.”
“I’ve seen your letters. And the missive you speak of doesn’t exist.”
A chill coursed down her spine. “You’ve seen them?”
“Yes. You’re looking at the new owner of the London Reformer.”
“Y-you bought the paper?”
“I did, and the editor gave me all your correspondence. And this phantom letter wasn’t among them.”
“Well, then he destroyed it! James, I’m telling the truth. I don’t believe what I implied in the column. Not now.”
“How generous of you. Though I realize that, love.”
The weight in her chest eased.
“I know because when cornered between marrying Lord Hamby and myself—a letch or a supposed murderer—you chose me. Only a fool would choose to wed a man she believed had murdered his first wife. And you, my dear wife, are no fool. It appears, I’m the fool.” He jerked the door open and exited the room.
The wall rattled from the impact of the thick wood striking the jamb.
For several heartbeats, Caroline stood still. She should have confessed to being C. M. Smith before their nuptials. She’d tried.
Perhaps not hard enough. Why?
The answer was clear. She loved James and hadn’t wanted him to withdraw his proposal. She sank into a chair. And James thought she’d betrayed him. Thought she’d only married him because she would have been trapped into marrying Lord Hamby. Understandable that he could come to this conclusion, but it wasn’t true. Deep down she’d known she loved him. Perhaps even fallen in love with him during their first conversation. Admitting how vulnerable that made her caused her hands to shake. To stop the trembling, she knotted her fingers together. It explained the way her stomach fluttered every time she saw him. Why she longed to be close to him when he was not near. Why, at this moment, her heart verged on bursting.
She needed to admit her feelings to him. Yet, she doubted he’d believe her. Not now.
Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 22
