Rebel Marquess

by Amy Sandas

  “Michael,” she murmured between gasping kisses, “you must let me touch you.” A wicked thought flashed through her mind. “Remember, you promised to do as I say.”

  “That was in reference to your appointment,” he argued. “It has no bearing on the present moment.”

  “Oh?” she asked, looking at him with a naughty grin. The desire was heavy in his gaze. An answering pulse began deep in her core. She leaned forward to nip at his throat and pulled his hands from her body to press them palm down onto the seat. “I think it does,” she replied.

  He dropped his head back against the wall of the carriage as Eliza kissed her way up his throat. His skin was warm and she breathed deeply of his spicy scent. Twisting carefully on his lap, she tried to find a position where she could continue to press herself against him and yet have access to the remarkably masculine part of his body she wanted so badly to touch.

  The rocking of the carriage and the confined space limited her options. As she grew more frustrated she noticed he was watching her from beneath heavy eyelids. A faint smile hovered about the firm lines of his mouth.

  She narrowed her gaze. “You are enjoying this aren’t you?”

  “Thoroughly.” His reply was raw with desire and humor.

  “You could help me.”

  He cocked an arrogant brow. “Is that an order, mistress? Or do you relinquish your command?”

  As she sat across his lap considering her next move, she felt the throbbing heat of him against her hip. The fire blazing in his eyes fueled the inferno raging within her, and her entire body tingled with a surge of sexual excitement.

  Did he even realize he had addressed her with the same designation he’d used when in his masked guise? Hearing the term mistress on his lips just then gave her a rush of confidence. In a bold, impulsive move, she grasped her skirts in both hands and yanked them up to her hips. She heard a rumbling male groan when the full length of her silk-clad legs were exposed. And as she lifted herself from his lap just long enough to turn to face him and part her legs over his thighs, she saw his hands curled into fists at his sides. Sliding her knees to either side of his hips, she settled herself astride him and looked down to see the thick bulge in his breeches. Without a pause for breath, she covered the hard ridge with her palm. He was unbelievably hot and throbbed beneath her hand.

  Glancing to his face, she saw he had closed his eyes and the muscles of his jaw were tightly clenched. His entire body was tensed for action, yet he kept himself under stiff control.

  For her. To allow her the freedom of exploration and the thrill of command.

  His strength was such that he could do whatever he wished with her. He had proven it over and over to her never ending pleasure in Northamptonshire. Knowing he could easily take over yet didn’t filled her with an aching tenderness that tightened her throat.

  She swallowed past the unexpected rise of emotion and lifted her hand. His body gave a subtle jerk at the loss of her touch and she smiled. Extending one finger, she traced the outline of his sex, pausing to lightly circle the tip several times, enjoying the way his erection twitched and jumped in reaction to her teasing caress.

  Anxious to feel the full weight of him in her hand, she rushed to release the fastening of his breeches. Her fingers fumbled in her haste, but soon he was freed and she curled her fingers around him in a firm grip.

  His moan was quite audible this time and she licked her lips as she lifted her eyes to his mouth.

  “Kiss me,” she gasped. At the same time, she swept the pad of her thumb across the intriguing crest of his sex.

  As if he could barely contain himself, he grasped the back of her neck to pull her mouth to his. Their lips and tongue met in an open-mouthed kiss and heat pooled between Eliza’s thighs. She didn’t even realize she had begun a stroking rhythm with her hand until he grasped her hip in a strong grip, his fingers almost painful as they dug into her softness.

  “Eliza,” he growled as he thrust his hips upward, pushing himself farther into her hand.

  “Hush,” she said, squeezing her fingers around his base. “I did not give you leave to speak. Nor did I say you could touch me.”

  When he didn’t release her immediately, she tightened her grip around him. With a tortured sigh, he released his hand from the back of her neck. After a possessive stroke over the curve of her derriere, he pressed his other hand back onto the seat as well.

  She could see the effort it took for him to do as she said and wanted to reward him in some way. She looked down between their bodies and noticed a glistening drop of moisture had beaded at the very tip of his sex.

  Without pausing to think, she slid off his lap and lowered herself to her knees between his parted thighs. The idea came so quickly and the act felt so natural it didn’t even occur to her that such a thing might be inappropriate. In the next second, she leaned forward and extended her tongue to lick up the droplet of fluid.

  His moan was so heavy and so deep it reverberated through his entire body. It took her a moment to realize it had been a sound of immense pleasure rather than pain, but once she did, a blast of hot lust flooded her body, making her own sex throb in response. Not sure how long she could get away with such deviance, she eagerly flicked her tongue again over his tip, wanting to taste as much of him as possible. And when the muscles in his thighs tightened to steel on either side of her shoulders, she took him in both hands and parted her lips to slide her mouth a short way down his length.

  He gave a sharp jerk and she splayed her hand over his lower belly to keep him still. Slowly pulling back, she swirled her tongue in a lavish stroke across the tip then circled the head before drawing him into her mouth once again. This time, she wanted to see how far she could take him in.

  His stomach trembled beneath her hand. His strong legs supported her against the jostling movements of the carriage, keeping her securely in place. She lifted her gaze along the length of his body. Every inch of him was rigid in his effort to remain still. As her gaze reached his face, she was surprised to discover his eyes opened to dark penetrating slits.

  He was watching her. Watching as her mouth moved over his satiny flesh. The corded muscle of his throat stood out, his teeth were clenched and the hard lines of his lips were drawn back to allow the swift passage of his ragged breath. She realized then that the act of caressing him with her mouth provided an intense sort of pleasure.

  She wondered if the same could be done for her. An image flashed to mind of his head ascending between her parted thighs.

  A moan vibrated in her throat and her sex fluttered deep inside.

  As if he sensed her reaction, his hardened flesh throbbed against her tongue and he arched his head back in a taut line. His breath seemed to get caught in his lungs.

  He was close to his release and he was resisting his pleasure.

  She could not allow that.

  Sensual power flowed through her as she shifted to a better position and grasped him in both hands. Her movements became insistent as she twirled her tongue and took him deep into her mouth, gliding her lips up and down his length in a demanding rhythm.

  At one point, he lifted his hand as if to stop her. But she pressed her hand heavily on his chest, reminding him he was still under her command. He covered her fingers with his, trapping her hand over his heart as he strained and arched his back.

  She marveled at the pure masculine beauty of his expression in the moment when his sex pulsed violently between her lips. And when his salty issue touched her tongue, she did what was natural and swallowed the intoxicating elixir of his surrender.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Eliza’s entire body hummed with the desire building within her while she had been focusing on his pleasure. She loved that she had been able to bring a man as strong as Rutherford to a trembling climax. It was a seductive experience.

  The moment his deep shudders subsided, the marquess grasped Eliza’s shoulders and hauled her up against his chest. She had no chance to
brace herself as she fell atop him, but he held her secure with a strong arm around her back. With a nudge under her chin, he tipped her head back just enough to gently press his lips to hers. The kiss was tender and sweet, the pressure of his mouth reverent and modest. He brushed his fingertips against her nape in light strokes that caused a rush of sparks to chase over the surface of her skin. And when he drew her bottom lip between his teeth in a delicate sucking bite, her bones melted.

  Still holding her atop him, he used his free hand to tuck himself back into his breeches and right his clothing then he rapped his knuckles on the roof of the carriage. When his driver called out in query, he gave a sharp order. “To Rutherford House.”

  Eliza met his eyes in question. “You are not taking me home?”

  He ran his hands in slow, soothing circles over her back and hips, easing the tension from her muscles even as her body’s awareness of him continued to deepen. Heat pulsed wickedly at her center and she wondered if she would ever feel normal again.

  He curved his hand around the back of her neck, his fingers teasing behind her ear and his thumb brushing seductively against the side of her throat. “Are you expected back at any particular time?”

  “No,” Eliza replied, growing breathless. Shivers spread out from the feathered caress of his fingers. “Mother went shopping and Father is at his club today.”

  As she answered, he curled his fingers behind her knee and drew her leg up alongside his hip. He slid his palm up the back of her thigh and beneath her skirt until he cupped the under curve of her rear.

  “Then you are not free of me yet.” He spoke in velvet tones as he delved between her thighs. The touch of his fingers where she so desperately ached was heaven and hell at once. Because he did not move. He simply held her sex, telling her body he was there but providing no further stimulus. No relief from the sensations gathering within her.

  “Such unexpected generosity is deserving of a gesture in kind. And this carriage is not nearly suited to my purpose.”

  The image again flashed through her mind of his broad shoulders spreading her knees and his head lowering between her thighs…

  A wave of heady desire made her momentarily mindless. A rush of slick heat flowed from her core and the muscles of her thighs tensed. She clutched the material of his coat in tight fists and dropped her forehead to his shoulder.

  He murmured soft, soothing words into her ear. Words that promised retribution for her bold behavior and endless pleasure if she would trust him. And finally, his touch grew more intent. Eliza tensed with each stroke as she held her breath, waiting for the thrust of his fingers into the wanting heat of her body.

  But he only teased her. He skimmed the surface of her sex, lightly circling her swollen bud, ruthlessly inciting sparks of pleasure and needful aching.

  “Is it your desire to torture me?” she gasped.

  “It is my desire to do so many things,” he murmured. “But right now, I want you a breath away from the precipice, ripe and trembling for what is to come.”

  “I am trembling.”

  His laugh was sensual and heightened the awareness of her nerves. “Patience, love.”

  He continued inflicting gentle, relentless stimulation that never went as far as Eliza wanted until she was practically out of her mind with need.

  And then he stopped.

  He carefully pushed her back until she was set on the opposite seat of the carriage. Then he drew her skirts down over her legs just before the carriage door was opened by a liveried footman.

  Dazed by the passion raging through her system, Eliza clung to the marquess when he helped her to the cobbled drive, as if he were the only thing keeping her from dissolving into a puddle at his feet. And likely he was. The frustration that threatened to claim her slid into blade-sharp anticipation as she looked up to the imposing edifice that was the Marquess of Rutherford’s townhouse.

  The carriage had brought them around to the back of the house, away from the street and prying eyes. In silence, he led them to the servant entrance, up a spiraling stone stairway, along a hallway lined with rich wood paneling and lastly into his bedroom.

  As he turned to close the door behind him, Eliza continued slowly into the room, finally feeling the strength to stand on her own. She looked around, soaking in the feeling that exuded within his personal space. The room was decorated in rich burgundy and deep-chocolate brown. The wood was all mahogany and the bed, which dominated the space, was straight from the time of Queen Elizabeth. Velvet privacy curtains were tied back to reveal a mattress large enough to hold three men the size of the marquess. All of the furniture was antique and undoubtedly had been in his family for many generations. The paintings that graced the walls had been created by masters and hung in heavily gilded frames.

  The room was a study of old wealth and unapologetic luxury, and it reflected a long history of such. In spite of the museum quality of its parts, everything came together in a way that was oddly unassuming and comfortable and so very perfect for him.

  But as Eliza stood there, a disturbing heaviness began to creep in around her. The room seemed too ostentatious. Too representative of timeless family legacies, overwhelming expectations and no way out.

  She walked to the window and pushed open the casement, feeling better as fresh air bathed her face.

  The date of the wedding swiftly approached.

  The marquess would do the honorable thing. Having taken her innocence, he would also take her as his wife, whether he wished to or not. If Eliza had been more thoughtful in her dealings with him, she would have realized such a quandary much sooner, though she really couldn’t be sure if it would have changed her decision to go to bed with him that afternoon at Boarhill. Their coming together had been destined.

  But that meant it had become entirely up to her to stop the wedding.

  A cool sweat broke out on her skin and her stomach twisted.

  Her gaze flew about the room, seeing everything from a terrifying perspective. She could not commit to a life as a secondary character in someone else’s grand history. She wanted to write her own story, direct the importance of her own life as Eliza, not as someone’s wife.

  Even Lord Rutherford’s. Or maybe especially his. She could so easily see herself sinking into him. Losing herself. Loving him.

  “Eliza, is something wrong?” Her heart completed a tumbling summersault at the sound of his rich voice. She put her back to the window and looked to where he stood across the room.

  He had not moved since he’d closed the door. His handsome face was drawn into harsh lines of concern and question. Looking into his eyes, a warm sigh moved through her body but stopped short in her throat, blocked by fear. She felt as though the certainty of her future balanced on a knife point.

  She forced herself to be brave and form the questions that could send her sliding painfully down the blade’s edge. “What do you really think about the fact that a book I have written is going be published?”

  His brow furrowed, creating a twitch in her fingers as she instinctively yearned to smooth it out. He took a step forward then stopped, and Eliza realized she had flinched at the thought of him coming near. Not because she didn’t want his nearness, but because she wanted it too much.

  He had noticed her involuntary reaction and his expression shifted. A cool and shimmering veil of distance fell between them. Her heart ached at the withdrawal, though she knew it was necessary.

  “Of course, I am happy for you.” His tone was low and deliberate. She could see he was struggling to understand what had changed since reaching his bedroom. And she appreciated that.

  “Of course,” she repeated. “You understand I intend to continue writing and trying to have my work published? This novel will be under the name Elizabeth Terribury,” she could not keep the pride from coloring her voice. “How will you feel when the Marchioness of Rutherford publishes her first title? Or her second or third?”

  He heaved a sigh and shoved a hand throu
gh his hair. Squaring his broad shoulders, he came toward her. His eyes held hers until he reached her and lifted his hands to gently cup her shoulders. The weight and warmth of his touch seeped into her bones, but rather than comforting her, she felt a twinge of panic.

  “As the marchioness you will have dozens of responsibilities you do not have now. It is more than a name, it is a social and political position and one you cannot take lightly.” She stood stiffly beneath his hands and did not reply. “You can continue to write, of course. As a hobby,” he stressed and paused as if to be sure she understood. “When we are married, your focus will be on your position as my wife, the Marchioness of Rutherford.”

  Eliza almost smiled at the way he spoke, as if by declaring something he made it so. A foregone conclusion.

  “That is what I thought you would say,” she said.

  He began to run his hands down the length of her arms as if to warm her. Perhaps he could feel the chill that had entered her body.

  “You will do well as the marchioness,” he assured. “Grandmother likes you.”

  Eliza looked up to meet his heavy gaze and held her breath.

  What about him? Did he like her?

  He looked back at her with an expression of shadowed concern and stern pride. His jaw was tensed, and though she saw a hint of familiar warmth in his eyes, it was muted by his stoic, aristocratic veneer.

  He was worried, yes. But she wondered how much of his thoughts just then were concerned with her happiness and how much was centered on ensuring his betrothed was prepared to meet the demands of her future station.

  She suddenly wanted to cry. She never cried, but as she stood there in his bedroom, she felt a welling of fear and sorrow so overwhelming it stopped her breath and forced her pulse to thud loudly in her ears. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what she was grieving the loss of—him or her dreams.

  “I think you should take me home after all,” she said.