“Good night, sir. Sleep well.” Meredith leaned forward, raised herself to the tips of her toes, and kissed the duke’s cheek. This too had become a nightly ritual.
“Good night.” The duke turned toward his sleeping quarters.
Meredith smiled wryly as she began the lonely, solitary walk to her rooms. That nightly kiss was the only one she bestowed upon any man these days, unless her brothers came to call.
She turned the final corner on her meandering journey and immediately noticed something amiss. The door leading to Trevor’s rooms stood open. How odd. In the past weeks, the door had always remained closed. Why was it open now?
Nervous energy surged through her as she cautiously passed it. The hall was lit with candelabra set on various pieces of furniture, as well as several sconces. In comparison, the marquess’s chambers seemed dark, lit by three single candles, each placed in the darkest corners of the large room.
Though the light was poor, Meredith was unable to resist pausing so she could look inside. To her utter shock, she saw a male figure sitting in a wing chair near the window. Trevor?
She must have whispered his name, for the man looked up at her. Meredith gasped.
“Ah, there you are at last,” the marquess called out. “Come in.”
When she made no move to comply with his command, he stood up and walked to the threshold. Meredith found herself staring into his blue eyes. She had never known a man with eyes so extraordinary, so beautiful. They were perfectly formed, fringed with dark lashes and the color of a sun-kissed sky.
“Come in,” he repeated softly.
Meredith pulled her gaze away and licked her suddenly dry lips. She made a move forward, then stopped. The marquess had invited her inside, yet he blocked the entrance.
He seemed amused by her dilemma. She angled her shoulder and tried again. Her back brushed against his front. Meredith stifled a tremor of anticipation, angry with her traitorous body for feeling such an extraordinary rush of pleasure.
“Is there something in particular you wish to discuss?” she asked formally.
“Must a husband have a specific reason to speak with his wife?”
“In our case, yes.”
“Perhaps I want to change that situation.”
Meredith blinked, taken aback by his answer. “Do you?”
His jaw clenched. “Why else would I be here? Waiting for you?”
Meredith shrugged her shoulders expressively. Was that what he had been doing? Waiting for her? It seemed impossible. Or did it? Meredith shook her head. She had long since given up any hope of understanding the complex, moody man she had married.
Looking about, she took in the decor of his bedchamber. Her eyes came to rest upon a wooden table set next to the wing chair. It held an open decanter of spirits and a nearly empty crystal goblet.
He did not seem to be in his cups, but obviously Trevor had been drinking. This might not be the most appropriate moment to have an important discussion, Meredith concluded.
Leave, her mind screamed. Leave before he makes a complete fool of you. It was the cautious, wise choice, yet her wayward heart would not obey. Each day since her wedding, Meredith had hungered for a glimpse of him, a chance to have a conversation—any sort of conversation—with him.
If he was sincere about effecting a change in their relationship, she was more than anxious to listen. Yet hope was a frightening commodity and something she could ill afford. Her heart was already bruised, her self-confidence on the brink of falling apart.
“Will you take a seat?” He indicated the chair opposite his.
“No, thank you. I prefer to stand.”
“I would think your feet are tired from all the dancing you did tonight.”
There was a long pause. The marquess settled himself in his chair and stared at her expectantly. He wore a starched white shirt, a perfectly tied silk cravat, black knee breeches, white silk stockings, and black shoes polished to an impeccable gleam, but no waistcoat or evening coat. She was unsure if he had recently returned from an evening on the town or was preparing to go out.
Meredith came closer to him. Her senses were assaulted by the distinctive scent of soap and mild cologne that was unique to him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It was erotic and mildly disturbing. Her poise began eroding rapidly.
“I danced but three times tonight,” she whispered.
“All with the duke?”
Her lips twitched in amusement. “So you have heard about that?”
“Ad nauseam.” He lifted the glass off the small table beside him, drained it, then held it in her direction. “Would you be so kind as to pour me another?”
A scowl settled over her features. Was that why she was here? To act as his servant? Or to listen to him complain about her social activities with his father? Meredith was of a mind to empty the contents of the decanter directly into his lap, but at the last moment refrained from giving in to her temper.
It gave her the oddest feeling to lean toward him and pour a thin, steady stream of liquid into the glass. He watched her intently as she performed this simple task, and she, in turn, felt unable to drag her eyes from his.
“Thank you.”
Shivers trickled down her spine. The mood had changed noticeably—tense and charged. More than anything she wanted to lean even closer, to press herself against his solid warmth. Yet she did not dare.
Keeping his gaze firmly locked with hers, the marquess put his glass back on the table without taking a sip. Then he reached forward and took the decanter out of her hands, setting that beside the glass. Her entire body felt singed by the look he gave her.
His hand thrust out suddenly and grabbed her wrist. She realized she was still bent over him and tried to straighten herself. He tugged harder and she lost her balance, falling forward to land in his lap. She tried to push herself away, but he held her wrist.
Mere inches separated their lips. A tide of sexual awareness swept over her. Something hard and masculine pressed insistently against her soft lower belly.
He smiled at her. Wickedly, sensually, irresistibly. The impact felt like a blow. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest. Though they supported only a small part of her weight, Meredith’s legs began to tremble.
She felt the warmth of his breath skimming her face. It filled her with a mixture of elation and excitement, yet also dread. For if he did not kiss her now, she would surely wither and die.
As if reading her desperate thoughts, he closed the slight gap between them. His lips brushed lightly against hers. She whimpered softly as the sensations strummed through her body. He released her wrist, but she did not move away. Instead she moved her mouth against his, her tongue stroking his lower lip.
The marquess reached out and cupped her face. He tilted her head, positioning her to accept his kisses, which grew progressively deeper, more intimate. His tongue parted her lips. He tasted of wine and sin. The fingers of one hand threaded through her tightly coiffed hair, while his other hand rested against her bottom.
Trevor then began to stroke her with that hand—pet her, really, like a purring kitten. Across her shoulders, down her back, a tight squeeze on her bottom. Then back again. She felt her body begin to heat, to ready itself for him.
Meredith arched into his palm as he shifted his fingers to the front of her body. Sighing with pleasure, she pushed her full breast into his hand. His fingers were teasing and exciting, but the silk of her gown was a barrier that frustrated her. Hastily she tugged at the low-cut bodice, yanking it away along with the thin chemise, exposing herself to the waist.
His eyes traveled over her bared flesh and she could see the raw need in his eyes. He buried his face against her throat, kissing his way downward. She leaned forward, and he took her bare nipple between his lips.
The sensation was almost more than she could stand. She clutched at him, clasping his head tighter. The tip of his tongue circled lazily, tasting, teasing. Then he placed the entire nipple inside
his mouth and sucked. Hard. Then slowly. Then faster.
Meredith struggled to breathe. It felt so good. The scalding touch of his mouth and tongue made her shudder with longing. She squirmed against him restlessly, acutely aware of a primitive ache in her, a desperate need to fill the emptiness inside.
He encouraged her passion. Pulling his mouth away, he bit playfully at her throat and earlobe.
“Move your legs so I can lift your skirts,” Trevor whispered sensually in her ear.
Blindly Meredith followed his instructions, hardly blushing at all when he pushed aside her undergarments and placed his hand between her thighs, on her bare flesh.
With agonizing slowness he circled the most sensitive, intimate part of her, his fingers teasing and tangling in the curls of her womanhood. Meredith’s pulses leaped as desire, wild and passionate, lanced through her.
Her hand came up between them, pressing against his chest. She could feel her body yielding to him, submitting to the mastery of his caresses. A part of her rebelled at this easy acquiescence, but she quickly shut it down.
Ever since her wedding night, she had known there was more pleasure to be discovered when making love. Trevor held the key to that pleasure, and for the moment seemed most intent on sharing it with her. She would be a fool to turn away from him now.
His clever, questing fingers urged her thighs farther apart. Parting the thick folds of skin, Trevor brushed against her swollen center, then slowly slid one finger deep inside her. Heat blossomed in every part of her body.
Meredith gave a strangled moan and turned her face to his for a kiss—a deep-throated, full-bodied kiss. The glide of his tongue in her mouth felt heavenly. She thrust her hips mindlessly forward and he stroked and probed until she was frantic.
Suddenly Meredith felt the escalating tension begin to crest and break. She arched upward with a keening groan, and Trevor kissed her full on the lips, swallowing her cries of pleasure.
That was it! The mystery of her wedding night had been solved in a most delicious, delectable manner. He continued to stroke her as the shudders subsided, almost as if he were calming and soothing her passion. She smiled lazily.
Drifting on the lingering swell of pleasure, Meredith sprawled inelegantly in her husband’s lap, until she noticed he had withdrawn his hands and was trying unsuccessfully to right the skirt of her evening gown.
Gathering her courage, Meredith opened her eyes. Trevor’s expression was guarded, but there was a glint of masculine pride in his eyes, the knowing glance of a man who has just pleased a woman.
It had been truly wonderful, a remarkable sensation superior to any other she had known. And yet still she was not completely satisfied. On their wedding night only Trevor had achieved this bliss. Tonight she had been the benefactor. The throbbing, pulsing erection poking insistently against her hip let Meredith know the marquess had not yet found fulfillment.
What heights of passion could they reach if they both experienced this ultimate release together? She could scarcely imagine, but Meredith decided she was quite eager to try.
With a sultry smile she tentatively reached for him, setting her hand on his muscular thigh. Imitating his actions, she began a tantalizing caress with her fingertips, drawing small, tight circles that inched forward toward his groin. “Please, allow me—”
The marquess groaned as if in pain, clasped her wrist, and pulled her hand away, while trying to stand up at the same time. Since she was lying in his lap, it was nearly impossible.
“I am fine, Meredith. There is no need for any of that.” He practically pushed her off his lap.
Slowly, Meredith straightened. Her body tingled, still riding on the currents pleasure he had given her, yet her mind was beginning to clear.
“Why?” she asked simply.
“ ’Tis getting late.” He turned his head away, and she felt the sigh he tried to suppress. “Perhaps it would be better if we spoke in the morning.”
“I do not plan on doing much talking tonight.” She reached again for him. “Or listening.”
He stiffened and lowered his head. “I am rather tired.”
She sucked in a breath. He was rejecting her, deliberately turning away from her passionate overture. Color flooded her face. But she would not look away or bow her head. He would succeed in humiliating her only if she allowed it. She had nothing to be ashamed of, had no reason to feel embarrassed or distressed by what they had just done, by what she wanted to continue doing.
For heaven sakes, they were married. To each other!
He was looking at her now, staring down at her with a wry expression. She noted a flush still lingered on his cheekbones. Her palm itched to cradle his face, to run her thumb along the seam of his sensuous lips, to tease and tantalize him with mindless passion.
A shiver of goose bumps flashed along her arms and neck, and Meredith realized with a start she was still bared to her waist. This wanton state of undress should have embarrassed her, but somehow it felt wickedly right.
Meredith casually slipped her arms through the sleeves of her gown as if she were donning a bonnet instead of covering her breasts. The marquess’s eyes remained on her face. Once she felt her breathing was under control, she asked, “Why did you really ask me in here tonight?”
“I wanted to remind you that you are still my wife.”
“How presumptuous of you, my lord.” She swallowed back her angry retort. “I was not the one who had forgotten.”
She turned on her heel and headed for her room, pausing only to slam the door resolutely shut as she left.
The harsh sound echoed through the chamber. Trevor swallowed back the thickness in his throat, determined not to give in to his emotions. The ache in his groin was an acute pain. His erection was hard and swollen and pressing against the fastenings of his breeches. He could barely shift in the chair without feeling a burst of discomfort.
He had not handled that at all well, certainly not as he intended. She did not understand why he had sent her away. Misleading Meredith was not his aim, yet he was not up to explaining. That exhilarating sexual encounter they had just shared had drained his energy, weakened his resolve, and left him aching and slightly confused.
It was very plain she thought he had rejected her, and he supposed on the surface that was partially true. Though he desired her greatly, more than any woman of recent memory actually, Trevor was determined not to use her body, even though she was his wife.
He had more respect, more regard for her. He knew what she wanted from him. Love, devotion, fidelity. Trevor smiled and reached for the goblet of brandy he had set aside earlier. Perhaps the alcohol would help take the edge off his discomfort. He took a long sip, then smiled again.
How ironic. Of the three, love, devotion, and fidelity, the only one he felt capable of providing to his wife was fidelity—a lowly state of affairs for a confirmed rake.
Life had settled into a pattern that was not much different than before he married. He had the same friends, same club, same late hours, same drinking, same wagering, same reckless fun.
One notable exception was the lack of females in his bed. Though he insisted to himself it was not because of any chivalrous sense of duty, Trevor found the idea of breaking his vow of fidelity repugnant.
If he were incapable of giving Meredith what she truly desired, the least he could do was be faithful to her. Tonight he had wanted to discuss moving to a new London residence, a town house his secretary had located, with Meredith. Perhaps if he were away from so many reminders of Lavinia, he could find his way in this new marriage.
Yet the moment he had seen the flare of passion glaze Meredith’s eyes, he knew living in these apartments of his father’s house was not the problem. The memories of Lavinia, the life and the love they had shared and the unquestioning pain and despair he had suffered at her death would follow him wherever they lived.
And thus was the crux of his torment.
Twelve
The marquess suspect
ed there might be dramatics and even tears to contend with at breakfast the next morning. But he never thought they would be coming from the usually composed housekeeper, Mrs. Pritcher.
As Trevor entered the dining room, he found the housekeeper sitting at the table, hunched over and sobbing into a crumpled square of white linen. Meredith stood beside the servant, her hand resting solicitously on the older woman’s shoulder.
“What has happened?” Trevor asked.
Both women turned to him in surprise.
“My lord!” Mrs. Pritcher made a move to rise from the chair, but Meredith’s hand pressed down on her shoulder.
“Mrs. Pritcher has received some terrible news this morning,” Meredith said. “Her niece, her sister’s oldest daughter, has died most suddenly.”
“Such a lovely creature she was, too.” Mrs. Pritcher blew her nose loudly into the handkerchief. “Only seventeen years old and pretty as a picture. I don’t know how my sister will manage without her. It breaks my heart just to think of it.”
Mrs. Pritcher pressed the linen to her trembling lips and began to weep again.
“You have our deepest sympathies, Mrs. Pritcher,” Trevor said helplessly. Emotional women were hardly his forte, especially older women.
“You are too kind, my lord,” Mrs. Pritcher said with a sniff. “And my lady, too.”
“Dear Mrs. Pritcher.” Meredith patted the housekeeper’s shoulder. “How I wish there was more we could do to ease your suffering.” She turned to Trevor. “I was just telling Mrs. Pritcher she should take the day off and go to her sister’s home at once. A family needs to be together at such a difficult time.”
“Yes, of course.” Trevor nodded his head vigorously. “Where does your sister live?”
“Here, in town, near Hampstead.”
“Then there is no need to delay your departure—though it would probably be best if you took someone with you.” The marquess looked at the frightened young faces of the two serving maids who had crept into the room and concluded they would be of little help.
To Protect An Heiress (Zebra Historical Romance) Page 17
