“You must marry eventually,” she pointed out.
Which was not something one ever told Lord Blakely. “Not so, Miss Goodnight, not so.” He was smiling but a cold hard look returned to his eyes. “I’d as soon marry you as I will do my father’s bidding.”
She stumbled. Gosh darn it! All those feminine feelings that had come over her just a moment before transformed into a heightened awareness of her own insignificance. “Such the flatterer, you are.”
And upon hearing her words, he seemed to catch himself. “Ah, do not take offense. I’d as soon marry anyone rather than give in to my father’s wishes.”
She wished she understood. What had caused such bitterness?
The dance came to an end. Rather than await the third piece to begin, Emily curtseyed and excused herself. Perhaps she could escape to the library until her other promised sets began.
Such an arrogant and selfish man! She’d tell him where to go if he ever asked her to marry him!
She nearly sobbed at the thought.
Fool, Emily! You fool!
Marcus watched Miss Goodnight scurry away. Such an intriguing little mouse. He’d not intended the comment to be insulting. And the truth of it was, he’d marry just about anyone except for the woman his father had betrothed him to.
He’d never do his father’s bidding again.
A heaviness set upon him as he watched his sister and her husband conversing with his “betrothed’s” father, Lord Quimbly. It was one thing to ignore his father’s existence, quite another for his sister and mother to ignore his own.
He could live without the allowance and access to his family’s resources and property. Denying him the love of his sister and mother hurt, he admitted grudgingly.
Marcus glanced around in search of a certain widow. Ah, there she was. At least he could satisfy other needs.
He jerked his head in the direction of the foyer. Mrs. Cromwell, Vivienne, licked her lips leisurely and then nodded. At the thought of his intentions, his cock stiffened. Best remove himself before he embarrassed anyone who might be paying attention.
This wasn’t the first time he’d had an assignation in the Crabtrees’ library. He’d found the architecture quite handy in its design. A gentleman, in the midst of swiving, could easily hear anyone who approached, as footsteps tended to echo conveniently loud before an intruder pushed open the heavy door.
He arrived first, surprised to find someone had carelessly left a few candles burning. Ah, well… familiar with his surroundings, he poured himself a dram of scotch, downed it, poured another, downed it as well, and then one last one. The heat of the liquor burned his chest and removed the edge he’d had ever since hearing the majordomo announce his father and mother.
Damn the bastard to hell.
Telltale footsteps echoed, indicating he’d soon be forgetting even more.
“Marcus.” Her voice sounded low, throaty with desire.
Marcus turned and watched as the lovely widow, hips swaying provocatively, approached him.
Soft, curvaceous, and willing, this woman was made for sex. Her pale, soft arms wound around his neck. A bit too much perfume for his tastes, but nonetheless, he took command of her mouth.
He didn’t feel romantic.
He didn’t feel seductive.
He walked the woman backward until the backs of her thighs pressed into the settee. Squeezing her buttocks, he clarified his intentions. “This is what you want?” He pressed himself against her.
In answer, she raised one hand and lowered her bodice. “This is what you want?” She thrust her chest forward. No set of breasts were ever the same. Marcus took hold of one, as though testing its weight, and squeezed.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Her eyes, which until that moment had been half closed and sleepy looking, suddenly flew open. “Naughty man.”
Marcus took hold of her waist, turned her, and bent her over the settee. Gathering her skirts, he raised them while she spread her legs.
Mrs. Cromwell knew what was to come. He waited for his mood to improve as he undid his falls. She was wet and soft and willing. And beautiful.
That was all that he required.
Hell, even beauty was unnecessary for what he needed.
“Oh, Marcus, oh, yes. Harder, Marcus, you nasty man, harder.” As he buried himself methodically, listening to her moans, he wished he’d taken another shot of the scotch. Her voice grated. He wished she’d shut the hell up.
CHAPTER TWO
An Educational Experience
Perched upon the catwalk, hidden by a tall column, Emily had thought she’d find some solitude in the old library.
And when Lord Blakely had entered, she’d intended to announce her presence… but she had not.
He’d appeared… bothered, haunted. So, instead, she settled quietly into her corner and watched him down nearly half a bottle of their host’s scotch.
Oh, drat. Someone else was coming. She curled herself into a tighter ball and practically held her breath. It would be too embarrassing to be discovered now.
Even more so upon realizing she was witnessing an assignation!
Perhaps watching Marcus Roberts in such a tawdry situation would squelch this ridiculous infatuation once and for all. A tiny crack tore through her heart at the thought, but she ignored the sensation and forced her natural scientific curiosity to take over.
She almost felt sorry for Mrs. Cromwell.
Almost.
The woman promptly pulled down her bodice and then allowed Lord Blakely to bend her over the arm of the settee.
Emily cringed.
She had once discovered a picture book in her father’s library. Illustrations of nude men and women engaged in coitus… sometimes more than two. All the captions had been written in Latin. She surmised that her exposure to such literature prevented her from falling into the vapors at the sight of Mrs. Cromwell’s heaving bosom. And then again, when he gathered the lady’s skirts and lifted them nearly to her face.
She’d never expected, however, to witness such a crude exhibition.
When she realized what Lord Blakely was doing with his mentula… One of her hands fluttered to her chest.
Oh, my! Her eyes nearly popped out of her head at the sight of it.
Straining, purplish and red.
It was so much larger than those depicted in the drawings. And almost as though it had a life of its own, it bobbed against his trousers before he’d taken control of it and…
She’d never have guessed at the colors. Perhaps if she could take a closer look…
It looked almost angry.
How did they not hear her heart beating?
She wished she had a paper and pencil to document her impressions. For when he began his rhythmic thrusts, she found the sounds they made quite intriguing. Not the mutterings of Mrs. Cromwell, but the thuds and squishes produced by the act itself. Slapping noises, and an occasional sucking sound.
When she wasn’t watching the place where they were joined, Emily watched his face.
His eyes were closed, and his lips pressed together in a tight line. Occasionally, he appeared in pain or concerned. Yes, the vertical lines appearing in the center of his forehead caused him to appear distraught.
How odd.
When he increased his pace, as the widow demanded, he seemed to plow into her with even greater intensity.
And yet…
Lord Blakely did not seem nearly as engaged as Mrs. Cromwell. He didn’t verbally respond to her even once. He didn’t moan or groan in ecstasy. He merely worked himself steadily, similar to riding a horse while it galloped.
Even when he reached his novissime acutam, he murmured not a single word of appreciation or satisfaction, nary a sound.
He simply stood there straining, clutching at the woman’s hips until gathering his wits again.
“Marcus, my love. Oh, my dear. You’re as magnificent as ever.” Mrs. Cromwell continued her long narrative and rev
iew of his performance until he disengaged himself and slapped her once on the rounded protruding buttocks.
Emily searched his expression for any manner of pleasure or fulfillment.
Nothing.
He did not seem nearly as satisfied as he’d looked after drinking the scotch. In fact, disgust raced across his features.
Ought she to pity Mrs. Cromwell?
No. the woman had come to him. And she’d welcomed such carnal attentions without demanding anything in return.
And… the lady had seemed to enjoy it.
Emily wanted to stretch. Her back and knees were stiff, and she had an itch on her ankle. Oh, heaven’s though, she dared not move. Mrs. Cromwell was now reclining on the settee, watching Lord Blakely pour himself another drink.
“If you’re so unhappy at seeing the duke here in London, why don’t you come with me down to Brighton? Forget about the Season this year. I’m sure you and I could find some way to… entertain ourselves.”
The earl tossed back his drink and then set the glass down. “Ah, Vivienne. My dear. As delightful of an offer as that is, I must decline.” No explanation. Ouch. “You’ll wish to return to the ballroom—alone—your reputation.” Emily thought she would burst into tears if a man spoke to her thusly after… well. It was nothing she’d ever have to fear. She’d likely go to her grave with her virtue intact.
Mrs. Cromwell’s lips pursed as she pouted for all of ten seconds before gathering her skirts around her. “I imagine I won’t be the first woman to call you a bastard, Marcus.”
“Nor the last,” he agreed.
With as much dignity as one could possibly manage following such an indiscretion, the widow swept out of the room. The door slammed closed behind her. It didn’t matter how regally the “lady” ever acted in public again, Emily would only recall the image of the daft strumpet bent over the settee with her skirts about her face.
Oh, but her foot was itching now, too!
She must not be discovered! She’d be mortified!
Marcus couldn’t help but agree with Vivienne’s assessment of his character. Likely most women of his acquaintance had the same opinion. He hadn’t always been thus, but… Ah, well.
Perhaps he ought to have accepted Vivienne’s offer to go to Brighton. He could have visited a few of his company’s vendors, avoided the marriage traps set for him here in town… But, no, the lady would have expected more. More than he’d ever be willing to give. Furthermore, he refused to leave town merely to avoid seeing his father.
He scrubbed one hand down his face.
This encounter with Vivienne had done nothing more than leave him feeling… sordid. Any normal man would be basking in sexual satisfaction right now. He wondered at this thought. Was he no longer normal? Had this bitterness ruined even the most carnal aspect of his life?
A man’s booted footsteps echoed in the foyer outside the door. Damn, he was in no mood for company. Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. He’d avoid performing any further niceties if possible.
Perhaps another couple sought the privacy of this room. Marcus would acknowledge them, comment on the weather, and then return to the ballroom to fulfill his duties for the evening.
If he remembered correctly, he’d written his name on Miss Mossant’s dance card for one of the waltzes after the supper dance. Another “interesting” lady. If he could believe the rumors…
“Marcus.” This time, it was a masculine voice. A familiar but unwelcome one.
His fingers clenched into a fist.
“Waters,” Marcus addressed his father for the first time in five years. Since returning to England, Marcus had only caught sight of him from across the room at one event or another.
In this proximity, his father’s changed appearance surprised him.
More gray than brown peppered the duke’s hair and a sallow color tinged the skin hanging loosely on his jowls. The once larger than life Duke of Waters seemed smaller somehow.
Marcus felt not one iota of sympathy.
He moved to brush past his father, but before he could take more than a few steps, coldly spoken words halted him.
“I see you haven’t changed in the least.”
When Marcus remained silent, the older gentleman gestured toward the door. “I passed the lovely Mrs. Cromwell in the foyer. She certainly looked to have experienced a good tupping. At least you’re no macaroni, eh? You always did appreciate beauty in your birds of paradise.”
At the mention of beauty, Marcus couldn’t help but think of his first love, his Meggie. “Say what you will.” He looked forward to the day he could attend his father’s funeral.
The man he’d looked up to as a child strolled indolently toward the settee and then sat in the very spot where Mrs. Cromwell’s face had been buried minutes ago. “Have a seat, Marcus. Let’s come to a truce, shall we?”
After all these years? What was the bastard about? Marcus could never forgive what his father had done. But what could he want with him tonight? And why now?
He refused to sit, choosing instead to lean against the sideboard. “I’m listening.” For the sake of his mother and sister, he would hear the duke out.
“Quimbly hasn’t forgotten your betrothal to Lady Lila. Getting rather insistent, in fact. Come now. You’ve seen the gel, Marcus. She’ll be a magnificent duchess. Perfect English rose. Elegant, poised. As the duke someday, you stand to benefit from everything she’s ever been taught in life.” The duke dug around in his pocket and pulled out his ever-present snuff box. After offering some to Marcus, which he refused, the duke placed a pinch upon his hand and inhaled noisily before pressing his point. “It’s not as if you’ll have to change your ways. Get her with an heir, perhaps a spare or two, and you can continue swiving your way through all of England’s widows.”
“How insistent?” Marcus asked. Not that he cared about his father or intended to honor the damned agreement, but such information might be valuable, especially where Waters was concerned.
“Quimbly wants it done by the end of the Season.” His father appeared rather hopeful. Leave it to him to believe he could still control his only son.
As though he actually believed Marcus would give in to the betrothal.
Marcus crossed one leg over the other, digging his toe into the floor and then stared across the room. Why did his father care so much about what Quimbly wanted? Even more so than his own son? Likely too proud to admit his son didn’t bow to all his wishes. “Tell Quimbly he can bloody well wait until the end of time. I’m no closer to marrying her now than I was eight years ago.”
His father winced and for the first time, Marcus noticed how deeply the wrinkles had etched themselves into the duke’s forehead. During the years Marcus had been out of the country, his father had become an old man.
The duke’s shoulders slumped for only a moment before he renewed his campaign. “Why persist with your stubbornness, Marcus? It’s not as though I’ve asked much of you. I am your father, after all. The man who sired you. Are you still upset over that business with that farmer fellow, and the gel you knocked up, what was her name? Mary? Margaret? Really, you ought to be thanking me by now.”
Just when Marcus might feel a hint of softening… Good God, the man knew no bounds.
“You know damn well her name was Meggie. She carried your grandchild, for God’s sake. And her father, the man you had killed, was Mr. Thistlebum.”
At these words, his father closed his eyes in what appeared to be resignation. He leaned forward, pressing his fist into his forehead, and after a moment, rose to his full height. When he stared at Marcus this time, he did so with a cold, hard gaze. “You insist. You insist on believing the worst.” His nostrils flared. “Very well, then. You’re leaving me no choice. London can be a very unpleasant town without my approval. You are my son, but you are not yet a duke. You’d be wise to remember that. When you’ve come around, we’ll revisit this discussion. And I’m certain you will.”
Marcus waited a good t
en minutes after the duke left the room before returning to the festivities. He was not dependent upon his father’s wealth. He’d made a fortune in his own right.
So how, he wondered, could this new threat affect him?
Because the man could be devious—that was why. Blast. Perhaps he should have gone to Brighton after all.
CHAPTER THREE
A Most Unusual House Party
“I was thinking I’d write your dear Aunt Gertrude,” Emily’s mother opined as the two of them sat quietly in the room they’d dubbed the drawing room. Parlor sounded far too common.
Set on the outskirts of Mayfair, the less than impressive house had been leased by her father for the duration of the Season. It was not as big as their home near Bath, but set in a respectable part of town, it allowed them to participate in ton events without driving far.
“So that she knows to expect you this summer.”
Emily glanced up hastily, and in doing so, stabbed the needle right through to her finger. “Not yet, Mother!” She sucked on the puncture before blood spilled onto the dress she was mending. “The Season’s barely begun!”
Her mother set her own embroidery aside to examine Emily critically. “I think perhaps we must be realistic.” The stern disapproval on her mother’s face was nothing new.
How could her mother not be disappointed? What with Emily having inherited none of her mother’s natural beauty and grace. Whereas her mother’s eyes were a deep emerald, Emily’s own were not only plain and brown but forever hidden behind her less-than-ornamental spectacles. Her mother had suggested she forgo them while in London, but Emily adamantly refused.
She needed to see, for heaven’s sake!
No, Emily had been bestowed, most unfortunately, with her father’s plain features and mousy brown hair. Add to that her diminutive stature and slim, nothing-special figure, and one had a slightly feminine version of Mr. Goodnight. Her mother mightn’t have been quite so very disappointed had she any affection whatsoever for her husband.
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