He Said Yes

by Patricia Waddell

  Slowly, Marshall reached for the ribbons of her chemise. A gentle tug and they were loose. He held her gaze as he un­laced them, freeing her breasts to his gaze. She was even more perfect than he had imagined. Her skin was white, her nipples a dusky rose, pearled and waiting for his mouth. He lowered his head and kissed each ruby crown. She gasped with pleasure, and he kissed them again, this time raking his teeth ever so gently over each aroused peak. Her response was a soft moan. Then he drew her deeply into his mouth and began to suck.

  Waves of sensation swept through Evelyn's body, ripples of pleasure that began where Marshall's mouth was feasting on her, ending deep inside the very core of her. Her head fell back, her eyes drifting closed as she let the enjoyment rule.

  Marshall felt her nails digging into his shoulders, then sliding down his back. Tiny claws raked at his skin. Then her hands were rubbing, soothing away the minuscule pain, kneading the muscles of his back and shoulders the same way he was kneading the heavy weight of her breasts in his hands. He closed his mouth over one budded nipple and sucked hard. She began to twist beneath him, her body de­manding what his had waited days to give.

  One hand smoothed her skirt as it traveled downward lifting it on the upward journey. Her calves were slender and firm, covered by cotton stockings that stopped just above her knees. There was nothing softer than a woman's thighs, ex­cept her. . . He shuddered at the thought, at the open wan­tonness of her response as his hand began to randomly caress a new patch of skin.

  Now that she had decided there was no hesitation in her. Her hands roamed just as freely as his, touching him, curling in the hair on his chest and pulling. He flinched then smiled.

  "You are a delight," he chuckled. His own exploration ad­vanced until he was untying the string at the top of her drawers and easing them slowly down her thighs. "I want you so much it hurts."

  She smiled then, a beguiling smile, a woman's smile. "I want you, too."

  The acknowledgement was all he needed to hear. He reached for the buttons that held her skirt, then the tie of her petticoat. Within seconds, she was lying naked before him, her slender body glowing in the sunlight. He drew in a breath, reminding himself that although she had finally de­cided to become his lover, she was still new to the game of love.

  He traced the curves of her body, molding his hands to the valley of her waist and the flare of her hips, to the length of her graceful legs, then back up again, savoring her re­sponse, the way she curled into his hands like a contented cat. When he kissed her belly, he felt her muscles clench, then relax. His hands were gentle, but insistent, learning all her secrets save the sweetest one.

  Evelyn gloried in the discovery as much as he did. She could feel her body blooming under his expert touch, com­ing alive. She returned his caresses when she could letting her fingertips enjoy the crisp hair on his chest, the bulge of muscles in his upper arms, the leanness of his stomach and back.

  She cried out his name when he finally touched the center of her. She was hot and slick, her body now begging for the ultimate fulfillment. Marshall looked from her flushed face to where her legs had spread wider, offering him the access he needed. He played in the soft curls that covered her mound drawing out the pleasure, stroking and probing with tender care, feeling her response dampen his fingers.

  She was more than ready for him. He stood and quickly shed the rest of his clothes. He'd taken the precaution of locking the parlor door. There would be no intrusion, only the sunlight streaming through the windows and the faint chatter of birds in the outer garden.

  There was no shock on her face when he turned to stare down at her, no show of regret or disgust, only a faint smile that said she found the sight of him pleasing. He covered her then, letting her feel the full impact of their bodies touching shoulder to shoulder, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. His fin­gers softly massaged her bare shoulders, her neck, then moved slowly downward to her breasts. He pinched the aching tips, then soothed them with his mouth.

  Evelyn sucked in her breath at the scandalizing pleasure of it. His weight felt delicious, his body hot and hard above hers, his eyes still tender as he studied her face. They kissed long and deep, each savoring the intimacy of the moment.

  He pushed into her slowly, stopping when her body began to resist. "Look at me," he whispered. "Look at us." Evelyn did as he asked letting her gaze move from his face to the expanse of his chest, then lower, to where crisp, dark hair circled his navel. His muscles were tight, his strength controlled. Then she saw where they were almost joined the rigid length of his manhood posed at the gate of her femininity, ready to take possession.

  "I've wanted you from the first moment I saw you," he said in a husky whisper.

  He withdrew, then thrust his hips forward breaking through her barrier with as little pain as he could. She tight­ened for a brief moment, and he almost lost his control. She was even hotter than he'd imagined sleek and wet and tight. "Relax," he whispered. "Let me love you."

  He kissed her then, tenderly, his lips warm and coaxing. The touch of his hands was reassuring as he waited for the discomfort to pass, the surprise to pass. When it did Evelyn took a deep breath and did as he asked relaxing the tense muscles of her legs, her clenched stomach. He slid deeper, filling her more fully, stretching her to accommodate him.

  Her body was finally his, and he used it to bring them both pleasure, withdrawing then pushing slowly forward deeper, until all she could feel was him. He sank into her again and again, building the pleasure, making it spiral, until she was writhing beneath him, arching up, clasping his hips with her naked thighs to hold him to her.

  Their bodies met, slid together, separated but not entirely. The need became shattering, a blaze so strong it demanded satisfaction. Marshall moved more forcefully, feeling the small ripples of pleasure deep inside her, feeding them, building the hunger until there was nothing but a frenzied need to find that moment, that one instant when all that ex­isted was a deep, throbbing satisfaction.

  Evelyn followed him into the storm. Breathing heavily, she clung to his sweat-dampened shoulders, arched her hips to meet his, used her inner muscles to hold him as tightly as she could and let the sensations take over.

  He looked at her, and she found the strength to smile.

  Then he withdrew, almost leaving her. She shuddered with the need to have him return, whispered his name in an urgent plea. He answered holding her hips, then plunging hard and deep.

  Evelyn felt as if the world was exploding. Sensual, breath-stealing convulsions swept through her body. It was incredible. Unbelievable. She felt his body swell in response, stretching her, filling her, then bathing her in a hot, wet heat.

  Marshall held her for a long while, their breathing re­laxed their bodies lethargic with satisfaction. Reluctant-ly he slid free of her embracing arms and reached for his trousers, pulling them up and over his hips, then sitting down beside her. If they were upstairs in her bed he'd willingly lie with her all day. Taking her again at his leisure, holding her while they slept.

  Evelyn went into his arms with a deep sigh of content­ment. Reality was back, but not yet full force. She wanted to enjoy what they had shared for a few more minutes.

  Marshall rested her head on his shoulder and stared at the ceiling. "I didn't plan on making love to you in the parlor."

  She laughed lightly. "Some things shouldn't be planned my lord."

  "Marshall," he corrected her, reaching his hand down to squeeze the soft globe of her bottom. "After what just hap­pened formality is the farthest thing from my mind."

  Slowly, Evelyn untangled herself, loathing to give up the warmth of his embrace. She retrieved her clothing from the floor and began to dress.

  Marshall did the same. "I'll return this evening," he said reaching out to pull her into his arms, then planting a kiss on the tip of her nose. "We can dine together."

  "I'd rather you didn't, my lord."

  He looked down at her, unsure if he'd heard her correctly. "What?
"

  "I'd rather you didn't return this evening," Evelyn said.

  "What we did doesn't change anything. I won't be your mis­tress."

  He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind along with her virginity.

  "This can't happen again," she stated knowing it shouldn't have happened the first time but unable to regret it. "I wanted to." She paused to chose the right words. "Being your lover for the morning suited me. Being your mistress doesn't."

  Marshall released her and walked to the table in the cor­ner. He poured himself a drink, not looking at her again until the glass was drained dry. "I'm not sure I understand" he said doing his best to keep his voice even. "You just let me make love to you on a sofa. I took your virginity. Now you say that it changes nothing. I disagree. It changes every­thing. Look at me and tell me that you didn't enjoy what we did." He marched to where she was standing and pulled her roughly into his arms. "Tell me that you don't want me to touch you again."

  "I can't," she whispered.

  "Then, what's all this about? We are lovers now. If you think for one moment that I'm going to take you, then forget you, I will not. I cannot," he confessed wishing he could ex­plain how he felt. But he couldn't. Making love with her had been different. Vastly different than it would have been with the kind of woman he'd originally meant to install in a house for his personal pleasure. But telling her that would make him too vulnerable, admitting that more than his body had been engaged in the act wasn't something he could do easily. Everything about their relationship was unorthodox. He cared about her, held a deep affection for her, but that was all he was willing to admit.

  Evelyn shook her head. "I can't be your mistress. I want more than the comfort of a house and a lavish allowance that will buy things I can well live without. I want a man to care for me, to enjoy more than my body. I have no guarantee what my future will hold. But one day I want children. Children who can proudly claim their father's name. Can you give me those things, my lord? Your heart? Your name?"

  Marshall frowned. God how could things get worse. He continued to hold her, but she didn't yield in the slightest.

  "I will leave," she said. "I have enough money to provide lodgings for myself until I stand before Magistrate Riven­hall."

  "This is ridiculous!" He released her and stepped back. If he had any sense, he'd carry her upstairs and keep her there until she admitted. . . what? That she needed him, wanted him, loved him? How could he ask those things of her with­out giving them in return. Marriage wasn't something he was willing to consider with any woman, regardless of her social station. But he had taken a virgin, seduced an inno­cent, no matter how willing she had been.

  He studied her face. It was still flushed with pleasure, her eyes still bright with satisfaction. There was a glimmer of tears, but he knew she wasn't going to release them. She was just as proud as he was, and just as determined to choose her own path in life. He could see there was no winning the ar­gument; she didn't want what he had to offer.

  Marshall got hold of himself, containing his temper, forc­ing logic to overrule emotion, putting aside his bruised pride. "I assumed responsibility for you. I am not willing to relinquish it. Having said that, I shall be the one to leave. I will not call again until you meet with Mr. Portsman. Whether you like it or not, I have a vested interest in the court's deci­sion."

  Nothing more was said as he scooped up his jacket and strolled from the room.

  Evelyn watched knowing she had won the battle, but lost the war.

  Nine

  The butler who opened the door of the Belgrave Square town house recognized Marshall immediately. "Lord Granby is in the library, your lordship. Shall I announce you?"

  "Don't bother. I'll announce myself."

  The room the marquis entered was a well-furnished man's domain. The drapes were closed, blocking out the sights and sounds of the stylish neighborhood. Granby was sitting at his desk, writing a letter. Marshall nodded to his best friend then marched unceremoniously to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink.

  "Mind telling me what you're celebrating?"

  "Nothing," Marshall retorted dryly. "I'm about to get swaggering, staggering drunk. Care to join me?"

  "Normally one gets swaggering, staggering drunk in one's own home. Much easier to swagger or stagger one's way into bed afterward" Granby replied casually.

  "Can't," Marshall grunted. He carried the glass to the nearest chair and sat down. "Too many women in my house to get properly drunk. That's why I'm here."

  "By all means," Granby said spreading his hands in a show of hospitality. "I haven't been completely foxed since our Cambridge days. Have I forgotten a momentous anniver­sary?"

  Marshall raised the glass to his mouth, then frowned. Evelyn's scent was still on his hands. Grimacing, he finished off the port, then stared at the empty glass. "Do you have any whiskey?"

  Granby pulled the service cord. A moment later a foot­man appeared in the doorway. "Bring us two bottles of whiskey," he informed the servant. "Then see that we're not disturbed."

  Marshall waited until the footman had come and gone. Once the door was shut, sealing off his misery, he opened a bottle and passed it to Granby. "We're celebrating the stupid­ity of man," he announced raising the second bottle high. "Drink up."

  "Mankind's stupidity in general or one man's stupidity in particular?"

  Marshall upended his bottle. The hot rush of aged whiskey burned his throat.

  "I see," Granby remarked. "Very well, in that case, you could at least do me the courtesy of expounding upon your particular stupidity before we're both too drunk to give a damn."

  Marshall slumped back in the chair, put his feet on a nearby table, and looked at his best friend. "We're celebrat­ing a lesson hard learned. A mistake I won't make twice."

  Granby shed his jacket, sat down, added another pair of boots to the table, and smiled. "This mistake wouldn't have anything to do with a woman, would it?"

  "Blasted nuisances is what they are," Marshall grumbled taking another drink. "Blasted bloody nuisances."

  He knew he shouldn't be angry with Evelyn. In fact, he wasn't. He was furious with himself for getting caught in his own trap. Two weeks of watching his words, planning her se­duction, allowing himself no more than a few kisses, playing the role of a perfect gentleman—well, almost perfect—and what had it gotten him? An invitation not to call again!

  It wasn't that he couldn't understand her point of view. It was natural for a woman to want what she wanted the secu­rity of a husband's name before she had children.

  He could have given her a child this morning.

  The thought provoked another drink.

  "This woman wouldn't be the one formerly employed on Bond Street?" Granby asked. "Or is that the problem? She's still on Bond Street."

  "She isn't on Bond Street," Marshall informed him. "She's living in a house that I rented on Lambeth Road. A house which I have graciously been asked not to visit."

  "She threw you out of a house that you 're renting," the earl chuckled. "I'll drink to that."

  Over the course of the next several hours, Marshall re­lated the story of his bizarre involvement with a vicar's daughter, slurring the last episode, but conveying the basic idea that he had finally had the woman he wanted only to be told that he couldn't have her again.

  "Bloody hell, no wonder you want to get drunk . . . are drunk," Granby concurred midway of the afternoon, slurring right along with his friend. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't, sort of thing."

  "It's enough to make a man swear off women."

  "I wouldn't go so far as to say that," Granby replied. He poured the last of the whiskey into a glass, sloshing half of it onto the carpet. "Damn fine thing, women. If you keep them in their place."

  Marshall stood up, swaying from side to side for a mo­ment before flopping back down in the chair. "What place would that be?"

  "On their backs," Granby replied so drunk his smile was as crooked as
his once well-tied cravat. "Only place for them."

  Marshall shook his head. "Doesn't make any difference," he stammered. "The little darlings still manage to get their claws into you."

  He looked toward the liquor cabinet, thinking a bottle of port might be just the thing to top off the whiskey. That was the problem. He could still think. Still remember how won­derful it had been to hold Evelyn in his arms, how hot she'd been inside and out, how her body had accepted his, held it, fulfilled it. Damn her pretty hide.

  Granby tipped up his glass and finished off the last of his personal bottle. He studied the clock sitting on the marble mantel, then groaned. "Bloody hell, we're in for it now."

  "In for what?"

  Granby came to his feet and strolled as gracefully as his inebriated state would allow toward the service cord. It took several tries before he had it clutched in his right hand. "Morland" he groaned. "He'll be expecting us at the club."

  Marshall's reply was something between a curse and a prayer. "Send a footman."

  Granby pulled the cord. "And have the old man show up on the doorstep. Not bloody likely."

  The butler arrived just in time to keep his employer from sinking to the floor like a sack of potatoes. "My lord!" He grabbed Granby under the arms, holding him upright.

  "Ahhh, Briggs, my good man. Lord Waltham insisted that I get staggering, swaggering drunk. Or was that, swaggering, staggering?" He smiled drunkenly at the butler. "Think you can get us sober in time to keep His Grace, the dreaded Duke of Morland from seeing our shameful plight?"

  "Ahhh, milord. I'll have Cook brew up something to clear your heads. No, milord. Don't sit down. You and his lordship need a bit of walking about."

  "Can't walk," Marshall said laughingly from across the room. "I'm as drunk as a wheelbarrow."

  A short time later, three footmen, two drunken lords, and one butler climbed the stairs to the second floor of the town house.

  "Can you stagger a bit to the left, your lordship? Can't have you falling over the railing," Briggs said. "No, milord to the left! Aye, that's the way of it. One foot up, then the other. We'll have a go at a cold bath, then Cook's elixir. You'll be right as rain in no time."