More or Less a Marchioness

by Anna Bradley

  He cleared his throat, and tried again. “I should have talked to you, but you could have talked to me, as well. You never did.”

  She’d reached over the stall door and was stroking the stallion’s chest, but her hand stilled at his words. “I wanted to at first, but…well, I was afraid I’d say the wrong thing, and after a while I was afraid to say anything at all. It just seemed easier to remain quiet.”

  Finn almost laughed. A few minutes ago this woman had nearly brought him to release with her voice alone. What did she need with words? “You don’t seem to have any trouble finding the words to speak to Lord Wrexley.”

  “He’s easier, somehow.”

  A muscle twitched in Finn’s jaw. “Why? Because he’s an earl and I’m a marquess? Or is it because Lord Wrexley is such great fun? After all, he’s the sort of man who’ll run races with you, whereas I’m the man who refused to kiss you in a sunlit garden.”

  There was so much resentment in his tone he couldn’t deny the truth to himself any longer. He was jealous. Of Lord Wrexley, for Christ’s sake, and angry with himself, because he’d been fool enough to squander the chance to kiss her.

  A faint flush rose in her cheeks. “It has nothing to do with that, and even if it did, I don’t wish to discuss it here. Lord Wrexley and Lady Honora are right outside the door, and they’re waiting for us.”

  “Let them wait. It sounds as if you’re saying you were afraid to talk to me, and I want to know why. I may be a marquess, but I’m not a brute.”

  She sighed. “I don’t think you’re a brute, Lord Huntington.”

  This sounded more promising, and some of Finn’s tension eased, but before he could draw another breath, she added, “But at the same time, I never got the impression you cared much about what I thought, whereas I believe Lord Wrexley asked about Typhon because he truly wanted to the know the answer.”

  “Yes, he was quite keen, wasn’t he? I doubt his curiosity is as innocent as you think it is.” Wrexley was a villain, but he wasn’t a fool. He had a reason for everything he did, and Finn had no doubt whatever reason he had to suggest she ride Chaos, it benefitted no one but himself.

  She turned away from him, back toward Chaos’s stall, but when she spoke she was watching him from the corner of her eye. “Innocent or not, I prefer his curiosity to your indifference, Lord Huntington.”

  She’d gone back to stroking the horse, but Finn wasn’t about to let her avoid his gaze. If they were going to speak truthfully to each other at last, she was going to look him in the eyes.

  He caught her wrist and drew her away from the stall. “Look at me. I’m not as…easy with people as Lord Wrexley is, but if you’d tried to talk to me, I would have listened to you. Did you think I’d reproach you, or dismiss your wishes?”

  “We’ll never know now, will we?”

  “Why shouldn’t we? You have my undivided attention right now, Miss Somerset, so if you’ve something to say to me, then say it.”

  She met his gaze with unflinching steadiness. “Very well, my lord. If I had told you about Typhon, if I’d said I wanted a beast of a horse just like him once we were married, what would you have said?”

  Finn hesitated. Part of him wanted to insist he’d have been delighted to hear his future marchioness rode like a cavalry officer, but he’d asked for this, and he wasn’t going to lie to her. “I might not have liked it, but I wouldn’t have forbidden it. I would have insisted we get you a second horse, however.”

  “Why should I need a second horse? Surely one horse is enough for any lady.”

  “Not for a marchioness. Several horses, a carriage for your exclusive use—these things would have been yours as a matter of course, but a horse like Typhon or Chaos wouldn’t be appropriate for a ride in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour.”

  She raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh? I don’t see why not.”

  “Because a marchioness doesn’t get into a tussle with a headstrong mount in the middle of the promenade with all of the ton watching.”

  “Ah.” She smiled a little. “What if I told you I’ve never in my life gotten into a tussle with any horse, and even if I did, I wouldn’t care a thing what the ton thought of it? What would you have said to that?”

  Finn opened his mouth, then snapped it shut without speaking.

  Now she’d found her words at last they poured out of her, as if she’d kept them behind her lips for far too long, and a dam had suddenly given way. “What if I said I didn’t want to ride on the promenade at all, but preferred a hard ride in Richmond Park to a mindless simper with every other aristocrat in London riding on my heels? That even if I did take a gentle mare out for sedate rides along the promenade, and everyone who saw me thought me a proper marchioness, I would have been wishing I was flying over the open ground of Richmond Park the entire time? Somehow, Lord Huntington, I don’t think any of it would have pleased you.”

  Finn stared at her. He wanted to argue with her, to deny her assumption, but he couldn’t say a word, because it was true. He wouldn’t have been at all pleased to hear that, not so much because he gave a damn if she paraded around Hyde Park on the mare, but because it was the last thing he would have expected her to say, or to feel.

  A lie by omission.

  He’d lied to her. The wager, his mistress, his past—he’d hidden it all from her, and those were lies of omission, and as devious as any other kind of lie. But she’d lied to him, too. She’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t, just as he had.

  “Yesterday you accused me of not being the perfect gentleman I pretend to be, but neither are you the quiet, docile lady you pretended to be, Miss Somerset. A great many lies were hidden in our silences, weren’t they?”

  She stiffened, going unnaturally still. “I think…I think we preferred each other’s silence. It’s easier that way—easier to be what you’re expected to be, rather than what you are. If we’d been honest with each other, we might not have made it as far as a betrothal. It’s a pity we did, but we can be thankful we escaped the marriage, at least.”

  Anger pulsed through him, and his fingers tightened around her wrist. “We’ve escaped nothing. It’s much too late for that now. We will marry, because people will be hurt if we don’t.”

  You’ll be hurt.

  “But we’ll be hurt if we do.” She tugged to free herself from his grip. “Now, if you’d be so good as to tell the stableboy to saddle Chaos, I’d be grateful.”

  Damn it, he’d forgotten all about the horse. “No, Miss Somerset. You can’t ride this horse. You’ll have to choose another.”

  “I beg your pardon? Did Captain West say he couldn’t be ridden?”

  “No, but I’m saying it. You need a safer mount. Chaos may look quiet now, but he’s as temperamental as they come, and he’s too much horse for you. Choose another, and then we can be off.”

  She studied him for a moment with narrowed eyes, then, “You’ve never seen me ride anywhere but on the promenade, so you can’t have the faintest idea what I can or can’t manage, and I’m afraid this isn’t your decision to make, Lord Huntington. I can ride Chaos, and I will.”

  She spoke politely enough, but the cool determination in her tone told him she wouldn’t give up easily, and it lit a spark inside Finn’s chest. He kept his temper under tight control at all times, but this wasn’t just anger. Oh, he was angry enough, but the anger was tangled up with other, more complicated emotions.

  Admiration, disbelief, and a pulsing, restless excitement.

  “No, Miss Somerset, you won’t. Not until Captain West approves it, and not until you’ve taken him out in the stable yard and convinced me you can manage a horse of that size.”

  She stared up at him with mutiny in every line of her face. Her lips pressed into a thin, tight line, and…

  Ah, yes. There it was, that stubborn chin.

  “Convinced you? I
don’t think so, my lord. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll find the stableboy myself.”

  She went to brush past him, but he still held her wrist, and he pulled her against his chest. “You’ll do no such thing. You will not ride that horse, Miss Somerset. Not today.”

  His voice was low and rough, and he felt a slight shiver go through her.

  Finn went still as his senses leapt in response. Her stared down at her, into eyes such an endless blue he felt as if he were hurling himself into an ocean, willingly, even though he knew he might never surface again. She was so close he could see the quick rise and fall of her chest under her riding habit, and caught the soft, delicate scent of her hair. Jasmine, perhaps, but with something else, too, something unexpected and exotic.

  “How do you intend to stop me, Lord Huntington?”

  An unmistakable challenge sparked in her blue eyes, and then, somehow, his lips were mere inches from her ear, so close the springy tendrils of hair that seemed to be forever escaping her pins brushed against his jaw, and he had to bite back a sudden, unexpected groan at the teasing caress of those curls.

  “Look around you, Miss Somerset. I already have.”

  Another lady would have shuddered at his rasped command. Another lady would have submitted to him, or pushed him away and fled the stables.

  But not her.

  She drew closer, until her lips were a breath away from his ear. “For now. But Chaos will be waiting for me tomorrow, and so will Lord Wrexley.”

  The moment she said Wrexley’s name, the tight control Finn held over his emotions snapped. His riding crop landed on the floor of the barn as he caught her other wrist, then pulled her harder against his chest before his mouth crashed down on hers.

  She let out a startled squeak at the first touch of his lips, but within seconds her mouth went soft under his, and when the tip of his tongue darted out to trace the seam of her lips she made another sound—a sigh, or a quiet moan—and her mouth opened to him without a hint of resistance, her breath a warm drift across his tongue.

  And oh, God, she was sweet, sweeter than he could have ever imagined. Was this why he’d resisted kissing her? Because he’d known, even before his lips touched hers, he wouldn’t be able to get enough of her?

  His mouth clung to hers, coaxing her to open wider with a single gentle stroke of his tongue, and then another. He still held her wrists, and he lifted her hands to his chest. Her warm palms pressed flat against him and her fingers curled into his waistcoat. He released her wrists then and slid his fingers into the mass of silky hair at the back of her neck and drew her tighter against him, a low groan tearing from his chest as his tongue darted over the delicious curve of her bottom lip.

  Finn tried to pull air into his heaving lungs, tried to remember that Wrexley and Lady Honora were just on the other side of the stable doors and could walk in at any moment, but he couldn’t breathe or think. He could only taste her, his mouth growing more desperate with each eager stroke of her tongue, his hands rough in the heavy silk of her hair. He wanted to pull each pin loose until it spilled over her back as it had yesterday, so he could tangle his fingers in it, pull her head back and devour the soft, white skin of her neck and throat.

  He nipped at her bottom lip, and a strangled moan escaped her as he trailed his fingers over her neck and down her back to palm the curves of her hips. He dragged her body tighter against his so the soft warmth of her belly cradled him, and he thought he’d go mad, was going mad, his brain clouding with frantic desire.

  “We can’t…this isn’t…” She was breathless, her whisper a soft, warm breath against his neck.

  Finn could almost pretend she hadn’t said the words, that she hadn’t gripped his forearms to pull his hands away.

  Almost.

  But he was still close enough to feel her trembling, and the thread of panic in her voice cleared some of the fog of desire from his brain. For the briefest moment he let his cheek rest against the top of her head, let himself bury his face in her hair, desperately inhaling her warm scent one last time before he forced himself to release her.

  He dropped his arms to his sides.

  They stared at each other, both of them breathing hard, neither of them moving, until at last he took a step back, away from her.

  “Do you still think I’m a child, Lord Huntington?” There was a flicker of triumph in her eyes.

  Finn stared down at her in a daze. “No.”

  She was no child. She was a woman who needed to be kissed, often, by him, and only him. Her mouth was made for his, and no one else’s. He dipped his head toward hers again. Her taste was still on his lips, and all he could think about was getting more of it.

  But she pressed her hands against his chest and held him back. “I’m not a child, and I’ll decide what horse I’ll ride and who I ride with. If I choose to spend time with Lord Wrexley, that’s not your concern.”

  But it was, because he’d made it—her—his concern. “You think I’ll just let him have you? You may think Wrexley is a wise choice, but he’s—”

  “He’s my only choice. Nothing has changed since I jilted you, my lord. Both of us know I’m not the kind of lady you’d willingly choose for your marchioness. You don’t want me, not really, and I don’t…” She stopped, her throat working, then said, “I don’t want you.”

  Liar. I can still feel you trembling, still hear your breathlessness.

  She did want him, and he wanted her, so much he was dizzy with it, but he couldn’t deny the thought of making her his marchioness filled him with both longing and dread at once. She was defiant and willful, tempting and beautiful, and he’d never wanted a wife who made him lose control. A wife who made him want her, who drove him mad with fury and desire.

  He’d never wanted someone extraordinary.

  But he didn’t say any of this, and when he spoke, his voice was cold. “It doesn’t matter what either of us wants anymore.”

  Finn got one final glance at her pale face in the weak sunlight coming through the door before she stepped into the deep shadows of the stables and hurried down the row of stalls, the skirts of her dark blue riding habit dragging across the floor.

  He leaned down to pick up his riding crop, and when he straightened again, she was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “If you must spend the entire evening gaping at Lord Huntington, Iris, the least you can do is stop nibbling on your lip. You look as if you wish you could take a bite out of him.”

  Violet, who was seated next to Iris on the settee, nodded subtly toward the other side of the drawing room where Lord Huntington sat, his rapt gaze fixed on Lady Honora, who was playing the pianoforte for the assembled company.

  I already bit him, and he’s delicious.

  Iris’s body flooded with unwelcome heat at the memory, and she gave her pink silk skirts an irritated twitch. “I haven’t the least intention of biting Lord Huntington, Violet. I just had dinner.”

  That is, she’d been served dinner. Halfway through the meal she’d abandoned her plate in favor of her wine glass. Had the wine been unusually good tonight? Iris frowned, trying to recall.

  Yes, yes. It must have been. Otherwise she wouldn’t have had so much of it. Perhaps a trifle too much, but if she had overindulged, it had nothing to do with Lord Huntington.

  Or his kiss.

  Especially not his kiss, no matter if her blood was still humming with pleasure, and her knees were still weak, hours later. “But if I were going to bite Lord Huntington, it would be nothing less than he deserved.”

  Violet had forgotten Iris entirely in favor of gaping at Lord Derrick, who was seated next to Lord Huntington, his face aglow with pleasure as he watched Lady Honora, but now she turned her attention back to her sister, her brow creased with a frown. “What’s Lord Huntington done to you this time?”

  He’s kissed me, and now I
can’t stop thinking about his mouth.

  “Not a thing, it’s just…well, he isn’t as perfect as he pretends to be.”

  She sounded like a fretful child, but Iris didn’t dare tell Violet about Lord Huntington’s kiss. It would lead to all sorts of awkward questions, none of which she could answer unless she also told her sister he’d “rejected her dismissal” and was demanding she go forward with the marriage.

  “Well, he’s been a perfect gentleman tonight.”

  Yes, he had, hadn’t he? His fashionable dress, his manners, his air of polite attention as Honora played—it was all impeccable. He was every inch the exalted Marquess of Huntington tonight. Looking at him now, Iris could almost believe that wild, passionate kiss in the stables had never happened.

  “My goodness, he looks handsome in his blue coat, doesn’t he?”

  Iris darted a sour look at him. He looked handsome in every color coat, or no coat, come to that, but the effect was spoiled by his captivated expression as he gazed at Lady Honora. Indeed, both Lord Huntington and Lord Derrick seemed unable to look away from her, as if they’d forgotten anyone other than Lady Honora was in the room.

  “Certainly, if you think cold, stiff gentlemen are handsome. He hasn’t so much as twitched since we entered the drawing room. Why, just look at him! He looks as if he’s sitting for a painting.”

  “Well, what do you expect him to do? Dance a jig? He’s listening to the music.” Violet stared hard at Lord Derrick for a moment, as if she could will him into looking at her, but he appeared transfixed by Honora, and his gaze never wavered.

  Violet sighed. “Honora plays wonderfully well, doesn’t she?”

  She did, and she looked lovely, her cheeks flushed with pleasure as her elegant fingers flew over the keys. “She does. She does everything beautifully.”

  Iris glanced down at her pink skirts with a sigh. Honora was wearing a pink gown tonight too, one nearly the same color as Iris’s pink gown, and as soon as Honora finished playing, Iris would be called upon to play. She played well—quite as well as Honora—and her pink gown flattered her, just as Honora’s pink gown did.