by Emily Larkin
Marcus dragged a deep breath into his lungs, feeling winded. What the devil had just happened? And then his attention was caught by what Miss Brown was doing, the path she traced across his torso with her fingertips.
Her touch was light, skimming over his skin—down his ribcage, across his abdomen, and up again. She outlined the faint, pink line Jeremiah Smith’s knife had made across his heart. The blade had cut through coat and waistcoat and shirt, but barely marked his skin.
Her gaze lifted, her eyes catching his again. “Your throat, how bad is it?”
“Shallow. No stitches. This—” he touched the bandage, “is at my valet’s insistence.” To preserve the whiteness of his neckcloths, should the cut leak blood. Another day or two and he’d stop wearing it, however much Leggatt fussed.
Miss Brown nodded. Her gaze lowered. She stroked the faint, scored line across his chest again—from collarbone to ribcage—then her fingers slid sideways. She outlined his pectoral muscle. The path she made was hot and tingling on his skin.
Her fingertip traced decreasing circles. Marcus’s skin tightened, became hotter. His breath was shallow, his pulse quickening, arousal rising inside him.
Miss Brown circled his nipple, light, tickling. Anticipation shivered through him. “Pinch it,” Marcus said. His voice was low, almost a whisper.
Their eyes locked for another long, breathless moment, and then she did as he bid, her fingers closing around his nipple, pinching.
Arousal spiked through him. He couldn’t control the twitch of his body.
A smile lit Miss Brown’s eyes. She turned her attention to his right nipple, repeating the light, teasing circles, the pinch, and his body gave another helpless twitch.
From his nipple, she moved higher, tracing the line of his collarbone, then the muscles of his shoulder and arm. Her shy curiosity was oddly arousing. Wherever her fingers moved, heat followed.
Miss Brown’s exploration grew bolder. She returned to his torso, moving lower, circling his belly button with tiny, tickling circles, stroking down his abdomen. She halted at the crisp black curls at his groin, at the semi-erect length of his cock.
“You may touch me there, too. If you wish.” Marcus gently took her hand, let her cup his testicles in her palm, let her feel their weight and heat, and then curved her fingers around his cock. Arousal pulsed through him.
Miss Brown’s gaze jerked to his face.
It felt incredibly intimate: her hand on him, his gaze holding hers. “Like this,” he whispered, guiding her hand, letting her stroke him. Pleasure shivered over his skin, ran like quicksilver through his veins, pooled in his groin, stiffened his cock.
It would be easy to let her continue, easy to let himself come to completion—but that wasn’t what he wanted with her. Marcus removed her hand. “Now it’s my turn.” He sat up and pointed to where he’d been reclining. “Lie down.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Miss Brown obeyed.
Marcus gazed at her. Candlelight gilded the pale curves of her breasts and made shadows pool between her legs. Anticipation gathered inside him. Where to touch her first? His gaze rose to her dark eyes, her soft mouth. A blush colored her cheeks; she was embarrassed by his perusal.
Marcus leaned down and kissed her. “Relax,” he whispered against her lips, and then he bent his head and kissed her jaw, her throat, the beating pulse at the hollow of her collarbone.
Slow, delicious minutes passed as he moved down Miss Brown’s body, kissing, tasting her skin with his tongue, nipping lightly with his teeth, teasing. She was soft, womanly, beautiful. He explored her breasts, her belly, the silken skin of her inner thighs.
Her feminine scent came to him, a light, erotic fragrance that seemed to reach inside him and wrap itself around his bones, to pulse in his veins.
Marcus stroked his fingers up her inner thigh, drawing shivers of response from her, then parted the curls of hair and slid a finger inside her. She was hot and slick and tempting.
He wanted to taste her.
For a long moment he hesitated—and then he gave in to temptation, parting the soft folds with his fingers, bending his head, licking her.
Arousal jolted through him.
Miss Brown inhaled sharply.
Marcus explored, caressing with his tongue, teasing with his teeth, learning what made her tremble, what made the breath catch in her throat. Her scent and taste were intoxicating, heightening his arousal. His cock grew harder, hotter.
Miss Brown’s body began to shift helplessly. Marcus held her hips down as she climaxed. Satisfaction surged inside him. He lifted his head and laughed, a soft, triumphant sound.
Miss Brown was flushed and breathless.
Marcus laughed again. He rose to hands and knees and kissed her, tasting her mouth as he’d tasted her body. Miss Brown clutched him, her fingers digging into his arms, and kissed him back deeply. He almost groaned aloud when she broke the kiss.
Sex. Now.
He shifted his weight, ready to bed her, ready to sink himself into her.
“Sir . . . may I touch you again?”
Marcus hesitated, the word No on his tongue. He wanted sex, not titillation. But what happened in this bed was as much about Miss Brown as it was about him. He dragged a breath into his lungs. “If you wish.” He could wait a few more minutes for his release.
He let her sit up, let her place her hand on his chest and push him back onto the pillows. Her face was shadowed by the fall of her hair.
Two minutes, he told himself. He could wait that long.
Miss Brown bent forward and pressed her mouth to his shoulder.
Marcus closed his eyes. Heat and pleasure rose in him as she traced his collarbone with light kisses, as she tasted the pulse at the base of his throat with her tongue. Soft hair spilled over his chest, tickling.
Miss Brown took his nipple between her teeth, nipping lightly, making his body shiver. She licked his belly. Her mouth moved lower, lower . . .
Marcus opened his eyes and stared up at the shadowy ceiling. Was she going to taste his cock? Anticipation tied itself into a tight knot in his belly. She wasn’t a whore, he couldn’t expect it of her—
Her fingers lightly touched his erection, halting his ability to think for a moment. “May I?”
His throat was so tight he could barely speak. “If you wish.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched the sheet in his hands, willed his body not to move.
Her lips touched the head of his cock. Marcus stopped breathing. He lay motionless, trembling. And then, he felt her tongue. A groan came from his throat.
Miss Brown explored with her tongue, hesitantly at first, and then more boldly, learning his shape. Arousal pulsed through Marcus, growing more urgent. When she took him into her mouth it took all his self-control to hold still, to stop his hips from bucking off the bed.
Marcus inhaled a shuddering breath. Women had pleasured him like this before. The expensive courtesans whose services he’d used before his marriage had sucked him expertly, had brought him to climax—but it had never felt so intimate as it did now, so erotic.
Finally, Marcus could bear it no longer. The heat of Miss Brown’s mouth, the caress of her tongue, were driving him wild. His cock ached to be inside her. “Enough,” he said, hoarsely.
He rolled her beneath him, settled between her legs, bent his head to kiss her, and thrust deeply into her.
He’d needed to be inside her so much that he closed his eyes and held on to the moment, motionless, drinking in the sensations: the heat, the delicious tightness, the beginnings of an orgasm rippling through her—and then he opened his eyes and took hold of her hips and eased into a slow rhythm. Miss Brown climaxed almost immediately, her fingers gripping his arms, a cry coming from her lips. Marcus gritted his teeth and held on to his self-control; he wanted this to last.
Time slowed. Reality faded. He was unaware of the hotel room, unaware of the bed. His universe narrowed to Miss Brown and the exquisite pleasure of
being inside her, the exquisite pleasure of each deep thrust, the exquisite pleasure of her body moving beneath him as she climaxed again. His arousal spiraled tighter and tighter until it felt as if his skin would burst from the pressure—then the orgasm engulfed him, pulsing through him in vast, endless waves.
Reality slowly returned: the bed with its plain hangings, the folded screen in the corner, his clothes piled on the table. He gathered Miss Brown in his arms and rolled onto his side, but he didn’t withdraw from her body; he wanted to stay inside her as long as possible. He felt her warm breath against his skin, felt her heartbeat.
Miss Brown didn’t try to pull away. She lay relaxed in his embrace. She trusts me. She feels safe with me. The thought made his throat tighten.
His skin gradually cooled. Miss Brown shivered when he released her, when he withdrew from her body. Marcus pulled the covers up over her shoulders. He was as hungry as he’d been that morning. Ravenous. “Shall I send for food?”
Miss Brown’s expression became anxious. “I’d rather not, sir. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” He mentally kicked himself. Miss Brown had a position in a respectable household. She wouldn’t want anyone—even a servant—to witness what was clearly a sexual liaison.
They dressed in front of the small fireplace. Marcus fastened Miss Brown’s gown. The nape of her neck tempted him. He wanted to press his lips to her skin, inhale her scent, taste her.
His fingers slowed as he did up the buttons. He’d been more intimate with Miss Brown than he’d been with any other woman, but he didn’t know her name. She’d held his cock in her mouth, he’d tasted her with his tongue—and yet they were still Lord Cosgrove and Miss Brown to each other.
A sense of wrongness grew inside him as he pulled on his boots. He and Miss Brown were too intimate for Sir and Miss.
But knowing her name would alter their relationship, take it from tryst with a stranger to something more personal. Did he want personal? While she was Miss Brown, he could walk away, never see her again, forget about her.
Marcus uttered a silent snort. Who was he trying to fool? He couldn’t walk away from Miss Brown. He wanted to visit her again. Wanted to kiss her again. Taste her. Bed her.
Marcus cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “Miss Brown . . . will you please tell me your Christian name?”
Miss Brown’s eyes lost their smile, became wary. “My name?”
“Yes.” He felt gauche and awkward, a callow youth, not a man of thirty-one. “Mine is Marcus. I’d like it if you used it.”
Miss Brown hesitated. She moistened her lips. “My name is Charlotte.”
“Your real name?”
She nodded.
It felt significant to know her name, as if they were no longer strangers, but lovers. Significant—and disconcerting.
Marcus picked up his coat and shrugged into it. Had he done the right thing, asking for her name, giving his? “May I see you tomorrow evening?”
“If you wish.”
I do. He didn’t want to leave now. If he weren’t so hungry he’d take her back to bed and spend the evening with her.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring a picnic,” he said. “Would you like that?”
A smile lit her face. “Yes.”
Marcus picked up his hat and gloves from the table. He wanted to kiss her, to lay a tender goodnight upon her lips.
The tenderness disturbed him. Lust, he was fine with. Desire, he was fine with. But tenderness was dangerous. Tenderness was a precursor to love, and he didn’t want to love her. He took a step back, away from her. “Good night, Charlotte.”
“Good night.”
He walked to the door.
“Sir . . . Marcus, please be careful. Don’t walk home. Take a hackney.”
Reality impinged. From the moment he’d first kissed her this evening, he’d not thought of the Smiths, or Phillip, or the letters. “I’ll be fine.”
Miss Brown crossed to him, anxiety creasing her brow. “It’s not safe for you to walk alone.” She laid her hand lightly on his arm. “Please.”
Marcus grunted a laugh. She reminded him of Albin. “I’ll take a hackney. I promise.”
Her face relaxed. “Thank you, sir.”
“Marcus.”
She bit her lip and lowered her gaze, blushed. “Marcus.”
He gave in to temptation, took her chin in his hand, and kissed her. Her lips were soft, warm, sweet.
Tenderness is dangerous.
Marcus released her. He jammed his hat on his head and opened the door. “Good night.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
October 26th, 1805
Grosvenor Square, London
Albin was sliding a ledger from the bookcase when Marcus entered the study. “Put that back. We’re heading out.”
“Where to, sir?”
“Phillip’s.” Marcus glanced at the clock. A few minutes past eight. Phillip wouldn’t be sober at this hour of the morning, but he might still be awake.
The lad shoved the ledger back. “Shall I be a dog again, sir? I might smell the Smiths. It would prove he had dealings with them.”
I don’t need proof; I know it was him. Marcus shrugged. “If you wish. But I should warn you, I intend to walk there.”
Albin bent to pull off his top boots. “Perhaps it would be wise to take a pistol, sir.”
Marcus patted his pocket. “Ahead of you, lad.”
* * *
It was the better part of a mile to Upper Rathbone Place, where Phillip had his lodgings. The sky was an ominous pewter gray, promising snow.
Marcus tried to plan as he walked. Phillip first. Then, the letters.
Brashdon was behind the letters. If he could gain entry to Brashdon’s house and search the place, he knew he’d find proof.
But with his reputation so badly damaged, was searching Brashdon’s a risk he dared take? If he were caught . . .
He turned into Rathbone Place, the black spaniel trotting at his heels. The street narrowed, the tall houses funneling the wind. Marcus turned up the collar of his greatcoat.
Phillip lodged opposite the small, dark-stoned Percy Chapel. Albin set to work sniffing the steps, sniffing the door.
A knife grinder was making a circuit of Upper Rathbone Place. “Knives or scissors to grind today?” he cried.
Marcus watched the man broodingly. How to gain entry to Brashdon’s house?
“Do you smell the Smiths?” he asked, turning back to Albin. He blinked. The spaniel was now a large brindled mastiff. He didn’t need to wonder why: To protect me.
The mastiff shook its head.
“I have a pistol.” I’m not helpless. “Change back.”
Albin didn’t obey. He stayed as he was, a mastiff.
“Fuck,” Marcus said, under his breath. He scowled at Albin, climbed the steps, and rapped sharply on the door.
The middle-aged maid who opened the door recognized him, but she didn’t bob a curtsy and invite him inside. Her eyebrows pinched together in a frown. “Mr. Langford is behind with his rent, sir. Master wants him out by tomorrow.”
Marcus looked down his nose at her. “I beg your pardon?”
A flush mounted in the woman’s cheeks. “Mr. Langford ain’t paid—”
“That will do, Jenny!” Honeymay, the retired valet who owned the building, hurried up behind her. “Enough! Cook needs you in the kitchen.”
The maid pressed her lips together. “Don’t let that dog in the house,” she said, and departed, a flounce in her step.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Cosgrove. Please come in. Please come in.” Honeymay punctuated each sentence with an agitated bow.
Marcus held on to his anger a moment longer—sharp, hot—and then made a conscious effort to let it go, leaving it on the doorstep as he stepped inside. Honeymay didn’t deserve his anger. Even Albin, despite his disobedience, didn’t.
“I beg your pardon for Jenny’s behavior, sir,” Honeymay said, pink-cheeked, flustered. “S
he’s got it into her head that I need looking after and she sometimes steps above herself. But she means no harm, sir.”
Marcus glanced sourly at the mastiff. I have the same problem. He removed his hat. “Mr. Langford is giving you trouble?”
“You could say so, sir,” Honeymay said. He looked at the mastiff, but made no protest.
“He hasn’t paid his rent?”
“No, sir. Not for several weeks now.”
“Did he tell you I’d pay it?”
“No, sir. He said you’d . . .” Mr. Honeymay became even pinker. “What he said isn’t for repeating, sir.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. Is he in? I’d like a word with him.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Langford didn’t go out last night. Or the night before.”
“He didn’t?” That was unusual.
They climbed the stairs, Honeymay, himself, the mastiff. Honeymay knocked on Phillip’s door. After a moment he knocked a second time, more loudly.
“Where’s his man?”
“He left several days ago, sir.” Honeymay took a bunch of keys from his pocket and inserted one into the lock. “Said he hadn’t been paid and he wasn’t about to give his service for free.” He knocked once more and swung the door open.
The room released a foul exhalation of air. Marcus recoiled from the stink of gin, the stink of vomit, the stink of shit.
“Oh, dear me,” Honeymay said faintly.
Marcus pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose. The mastiff pushed past him, entering the darkened room.
Marcus followed. He threw open the curtains and heaved up the window, letting cold air gust in, and then turned and surveyed the room, the handkerchief still pressed to his nose.
In the absence of his manservant, Phillip hadn’t bothered to tidy up after himself. Clothing littered the room—hats, gloves, a greatcoat, neckcloths. A half-eaten meal sat on the table. The tankard alongside had tipped over.
Phillip had clearly spent some time drinking beside the fireplace; several gin bottles lay on the floor. There was vomit on the rug, vomit on the armchair, even vomit in the grate.
