Beau spun around and stared at her. Then he realized that not only had Mrs. Wimbley apparently emerged from her sick bed to come all the way down to the second floor, but Lady Copperpot was on her heels.
“What’s this?” Lady Copperpot entered the room and stared at Beau with a questioning look on her face.
“I stepped inside to find this man going through his lordship’s desk,” Mrs. Wimbley reported, her shoulders still tight.
“That’s not his lordship’s desk,” Lady Copperpot replied. “It’s mine. Or at least, I have been using it while we’re here, but I am curious, Mr.…”
“Baxter,” Beau helpfully supplied.
“Mr. Baxter,” Lady Copperpot continued. “I, too, am curious as to why you were going through the desk.”
Beau took a deep breath, weighting the merits of each of the lies that were hovering behind his lips. He was about to take his chances with the best of the lot when Marianne stepped into the room behind Lady Copperpot.
“There ye be, Mr. Baxter. Did ye find the button I asked ye to fetch?”
Beau cleared his throat and straightened his back. “No, Miss Notley,” he replied. “It wasn’t in her ladyship’s desk drawer as you’d guessed.”
“That be odd,” Marianne continued. “I coulda sworn that be where I left it. Well, no doubt the button be in the wardrobe in Lady Wilhelmina’s room. I do hope we haven’t disturbed ye, milady,” she added for Lady Copperpot’s sake, as the woman gaped at both of them.
“Oh, so you asked Mr. Baxter here to look in the desk drawer, did you, Miss Notley?” Lady Copperpot asked as if completely satisfied with that answer.
“Yes, milady. I was certain I’d put the button there, but I must be mistaken.”
Beau nodded and bowed to all three of the ladies. “Well, if there won’t be anything else, my lady?”
Lady Copperpot dismissed him, and Beau was out in the corridor in a flash. That had been a near calamity. And he had Marianne to thank for saving him. None of the lies he’d thought of had been nearly as believable as her assistance.
He’d nearly made it all the way to the servants’ staircase by the time Marianne caught up with him. They stepped inside the staircase door and allowed it to close behind them.
“Well,” she said quietly, a smug smile on her face.
“Thank you,” he replied readily, though in a hushed tone. “For that.” He gestured back toward the hallway with his chin.
“And?” she prompted.
“And what? Are you expecting payment of some sort?”
“Some sort,” she replied, her hands on her hips. “I don’t want money, though. I want something else.”
Beau arched a brow. “What else?”
“Don’t you think my helping you just now should prove to you that I’m trustworthy?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Very well,” she replied, in a low voice. “You found me sneaking about in your room. I found you sneaking about back there. Now we’re even. But I want to know your real name.”
Chapter Eighteen
Around midnight, a knock sounded on Marianne’s bedchamber door. It woke her from another one of her nightmares. The one where her brother, Frederick, was reaching for her, asking for her help. It always made her perspire. She bolted upright and caught her breath, remembering where she was.
A few moments later, the knock sounded again. Quiet but firm. She tossed back the blanket on her cot, stood, and pulled on her dressing gown before making her way to the door.
She cracked the door and peered out. Nicholas stood there. As usual, he was wearing breeches and a white shirt. Only this time his shirt was buttoned, thank heavens. His hands were behind his back, and he looked slightly guilty. “May I come in?” he whispered.
“That depends,” she whispered back, blinking at him through the crack.
“On what?” He afforded her a charming smile that served to melt her insides.
She narrowed her eyes on him. “On what you plan to say when you enter.” He’d again declined to tell her his real name earlier. She’d trotted off, leaving him to think about how much trouble he’d have been in had she failed to assist him with Mrs. Wimbley and Lady Copperpot. It had to be worth something to him.
“I’ve come to apologize,” he said.
It was the tone of his voice that made her open the door wider. He sounded humble and sincere.
She popped her head out of the door and glanced both ways down the corridor to ensure no one else was in the hallway, then she stepped back and made room for him to step inside, saying with a smile, “In that case, you may enter.”
He took two long strides into the room while she closed the door. The moment she turned to face him again, she realized that he’d been carrying a long-stemmed red rose behind his back. “From Lord Clayton’s garden,” he said by way of explanation. “I removed the thorns.”
He still sounded humble and sincere. Humble and sincere and bearing gifts? She was enjoying this side of him. Quite a bit.
She took the rose and held it to her nose. She’d never received a flower from a man before. William had never brought her flowers. He talked about things like bringing her flowers, but he hadn’t actually produced any.
“My apologies if roses aren’t your favorite,” Nicholas continued. “I thought you might find it suspicious if I asked.”
Marianne couldn’t help her smile. “Yes. I probably would have found it quite suspicious. But thank you. Roses are lovely.”
“For the record, what is your favorite flower?” he asked next, rubbing the back of his neck as if he was a bit nervous now that his hands were divested of the only thing they’d held. She’d never seen him nervous before. That was appealing, too.
“My favorite…?” She blinked. Did she have a favorite flower? It was certainly not something she’d considered before. Lady Wilhelmina’s favorite flower was the lily—she mentioned it often, and usually had vases full of them in her bedchamber back home.
But Marianne had never had an occasion to decide what her favorite flower was. When she was a child, she’d liked to run through the meadow filled with larkspur near the cottage where she’d grown up. That was the only flower she could think of at the moment.
“Larkspur,” she blurted.
“Larkspur?” He frowned.
She felt her face flush. The tone of his voice made her think that larkspur wasn’t exactly the type of flower one presented to a lady at her door. “I mean roses. Roses are perfect.” She clutched the rose even tighter to her chest.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to—”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Mr. Baxter. This rose is lovely. Thank you for it. Is that all you came to say?” Her voice sounded more curt than she’d meant it to, as awkwardness coursed through her veins.
He cleared his throat. “Well, actually, I came to say thank you again for what you did today. In Lord Copperpot’s bedchamber, I mean.” Humble, sincere, bearing gifts, and now apologetic. She could get used to this side of him. Quite used to it.
She twirled the thorn-less rose between her fingers. “Do you care to tell me what you were looking for?”
“No,” he replied simply, shaking his head and smiling at her.
“Very well, but I do think you owe me something more than a rose for my assistance.”
A slow smile spread across his face and he arched a brow. “Like what?”
She brought the rose up to her nose again and breathed in its sweet scent. “I already told you. Your name. Your real Christian name.”
He expelled his breath and shook his head. “Are you certain I can’t go find you some more roses? Or some larkspur?”
“Positive,” she replied with another smile, her nose still buried in the dark-red petals.
“Fine. I’ll tell you, but only if you tell me what your real Christian name is, too.”
She nodded promptly. “Very well. I promise.”
“And you’ll tell the truth?” h
e countered, his brow arched again.
She lowered the flower from her nose. “If you will,” she replied with a sweet smile.
He shook his head again, but the look in his eye told her he was serious. Quite serious.
“I will,” she promised, in a much more solemn tone this time.
He turned and took a step toward the window, scrubbing the back of his neck as he looked out into the night. “Damn it. I truly hope I don’t come to regret this,” he breathed, then hung his head. “But my name is Beau.”
“Beau?” She said it slowly and reverently. She never would have guessed it, but it seemed perfectly right. “It suits you.”
Turning to face her once again, he waved away her comment. “Very well, it’s your turn. What’s your real name?”
She twirled the rose between her fingers again. “I hope you won’t be too disappointed, but my real Christian name is Marianne.”
His face fell. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I told you I’d tell you the truth, and I have. I swear it.”
He eyed her carefully. “But your surname isn’t Notley, is it?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It isn’t.”
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me your real surname then?” he prodded.
“I don’t suppose I do,” she replied, setting the rose on the small desk near the door.
The hint of a smile still played at the corner of his firm lips. “Clever of you to keep your real Christian name, I suppose. Makes for less confusion.”
“Have you been confused by being called ‘Nicholas’?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Perhaps. At times.”
He gave her a quick nod. “Well, I suppose I should go.” But he made no move toward the door behind her.
Marianne took a deep breath. “I suppose you should, but…” A tingle brushed up her spine.
“But what?” he breathed.
“I was just thinking that, last night, I told you I don’t entertain men whose names I don’t know.”
“Yes?” His heavy-lidded gaze made her heart thump faster.
“Well…now I know your name.”
She didn’t have to say another word. In two long strides, Beau had pulled her into his arms and his mouth descended to hers. His tongue didn’t hesitate, it pushed past her lips, claiming her mouth.
Marianne leaned up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, matching his tongue’s movement, thrust for thrust.
Beau leaned down and wrapped his forearms beneath her buttocks. Lifting her gently, he carried her the few small steps to the cot, laid her upon it and followed her down.
Again, he didn’t hesitate. His lips moved to her cheek, her neck, her décolletage, and he quickly pulled down her dressing gown and night rail to expose one pink nipple to his probing lips.
His mouth sucked her nipple into his wet warmth and Marianne cried out softly, arching her back against the onslaught of sensation his tongue had conjured.
In a flurry of movement, he helped her remove her dressing gown completely, tossing the garment onto the floor before moving back to pull down the other side of her night rail, then lavishing attention on her other breast.
His tongue was velvety smooth against her nipple and she bit her lip to keep from crying out too loudly. Her fingers slid through his hair on either side of his head and she held his mouth to her breast, wanting him never to stop.
Her hips undulated beneath his and she cried out softly again as momentarily he lifted himself away from her to pull his shirt over his head with both hands.
He was only wearing his breeches. She had her night rail pulled down to her waist. They sat there on the cot, panting and staring at each other in awe.
“Are you certain you want this?” he asked in a voice that was strained but still deep and seductive.
“Yes,” she breathed.
Apparently, that was all she needed to say, because he pushed himself atop her again and braced his arms on either side of her head on the mattress, grinding his hips against hers, making her head toss fitfully back and forth.
“Beau,” she called, loving the way his real name sounded on her lips. She reached down and traced the outline of his manhood beneath his breeches. She squeezed him.
His breath came in hard pants. “As good as that feels, Love, you’ll unman me if you continue.”
She stroked him once more for good measure before helping him to sit up and pull off his breeches. She pulled her night rail down over her hips at the same time and soon they were completely naked and staring at each other’s bodies as if in a trance.
“You’re gorgeous,” he breathed.
“I thought you looked like Adonis when you were clothed,” she replied, her eyes traveling over every inch of his bare skin. “Now I know you aren’t human.”
He laughed softly and shook his head before deftly pulling her atop him on the cot. “Feel free to touch me wherever you’d like…to prove that I’m human.”
Marianne froze momentarily. In the few times she’d been with William, she’d never lain atop him, but her indecision only lasted a few moments before she realized the amount of power she’d just been given. She could touch him anywhere? With pleasure!
Beau settled onto the cot, folding both arms beneath his head and spreading his legs slightly. Marianne’s eyes flared. The man was perfection, sheer perfection, and she intended to touch and kiss every single inch of him.
She began by running her fingers down his chest just as she had last night, but this time she watched in fascination as his muscles jerked beneath her touch. She continued her hands’ path past his waist and down to his manhood, which stood out hard and strong against the patch of hair between his thighs.
She wrapped her fingers against his hard length and squeezed him. His breathing hitched so she did it again. His breath began coming in short little pants that filled her with power. She stroked him up and down and he groaned.
“Marianne,” he breathed. Oh, God, how she liked the sound of her name on his lips.
Still squeezing him, she leaned down and kissed his lips. His tongue tangled with hers and he made to pull his hands from behind his head, but she stopped him with a finger to his forearm. “No,” she commanded.
He nodded but leaned up, trying to prologue their kiss before she pulled her lips away to run them down his rough cheek to his neck. She suckled at the warm, salty skin of his throat and then used her tongue to trace the same path her finger had, down his abdomen.
His hips lurched off the cot and his hands pulled away to grab at the sheets next to his hips. “Marianne, please,” he begged as her mouth descended past his waist. “I can’t.”
“You can’t what?” she asked, her breath a hot pant against his manhood.
“I can’t stand it if you…” His words were labored. His manhood twitched.
“If I what?” she teased, not entirely certain what she intended to do next. She hoped he’d give her a clue as to what he wanted.
“If you suck me,” he breathed.
“An excellent idea,” she said with a sly smile, just before her lips descended upon the tip of his member. She took him into her mouth and sucked him, listening with raw pleasure as he gasped.
“What else don’t you want me to do?” she asked, teasing him by licking his tip while she asked the loaded question.
“Don’t…” His breathing caught. “Please don’t drag your mouth up and down me.”
Another excellent idea. She did just that. Pushing her entire mouth down the length of him while his hands ripped at the sheets and sweat beaded on his brow. She dragged her mouth back up his hard length and descended again four or five times before his hands grabbed her ribcage and he flipped her over.
“Jesus, I can’t take any more,” he whispered in her ear, just before his mouth descended down her body.
When he was settled between her legs, she stared down at him in awe. Was he about to—
The first lick of h
is slick tongue between the folds of her most intimate spot made her back arch off the cot. A deep moan tore from her throat. He did it again and again as her knees fell apart and her fingers tangled in his silken hair.
She was on the verge of the experience he’d given her two nights ago, poised on the precipice of having the entire world collapse beneath her. “Beau, I can’t—”
He pulled himself up to match her body with his and kissed her deeply. She tasted herself in his mouth, just before he pushed her knees apart even further with his own heavy knee. She felt him probing between her legs, just before he slid into her in one solid, slick movement that made her cry out.
He stopped. “Did I hurt you, Love?” he asked, still inside her to the hilt.
“No.” She shook her head forcefully, her eyes closed, feeling the exquisiteness of him filling her so completely.
He braced his arms on either side of her head and began to move. The experience was wholly unlike her prior experiences with William. Whereas William had plowed at her quickly like a jackrabbit, Beau moved in long, languid strokes, pulling out and sliding back in while her body writhed beneath him wanting more and more.
When he moved one hand to the nub of pleasure between her legs and began rubbing her in tight little circles, she cried out again, exquisite pleasure pulsing through her whole body.
He kept up his strokes, groaning as he pumped into her slowly and his finger never left her most intimate spot, making her hips move in rhythm with it. She stayed with him until dark spots replaced his handsome face above her and shards of pure pleasure radiated from her core, out of her hips, and along her entire body.
She cried out with pure pleasure and Beau’s mouth was there to capture the sound. He pulled his hand away while her body was racked with shudders. He stroked into her again and again and again before he pulled himself from inside her and spilled his seed on her belly, his own body racked with shudders this time.
His breathing was hot and uneven in her ear for a few moments before he fell to his side and pulled her against him, kissing her disheveled hair. “God, Marianne,” he breathed. “That was…amazing.”
The Valet Who Loved Me Page 10
