The Marquess's Final Fling: Christmas Belles, Book #4

by DeLand, Cerise

  Even the charade they created had been a torment to complete. The touch of his hands as he whirled her into the blanket he substituted for Cleopatra’s rug set her breasts aflame. The humor in his eyes as they motioned to each other set her heart pounding. The way he accepted the guesses of the party with rollicking good cheer made her whole mind roar with the desire to hug him, kiss him and run away with him.

  But when she gained her rooms and shut her sitting room door behind her, she grinned. Madness was setting in. Tonight she would experience what she’d never known before.

  She’d analyzed it earlier today. Her past. Her experience with men. Her three husbands. And each one’s manner to make love to her.

  Sexual intimacy was quite different from passion. Instinct told her this must be true. Of course, she’d not known that as an eighteen-year-old bride. But she’d learned by experience.

  Her first husband, many years her senior, took her as his second wife. He had money, title and a male heir. Taking Penn to wife and to bed was more for society’s approval than need for a bed partner. He had—though she did not know it until the night of their wedding—a mistress of long standing. Penn was his wife for appearance’s sake, not for his (or her) actual physical pleasure. He confessed on their wedding night that he had long forgotten how to initiate a virgin to the arts of love, but that he would be gentle.

  He was. If he was also perfunctory about the initiation and afterward, frustrated with her shyness, she excused him. After all, she was his wife. Ordered to take him as her husband by her father, she made the most of her situation. What rights, she asked herself, did she have to question her spouse’s actions, his appetites or his mundane view of her as his bed partner.

  Her second husband, more interested in men than women, taught her another lesson about sexuality. He could love her in an ethereal way, and not covet her in any physical one. They were, most assuredly, friends. He, unlike her first husband, had wished for an heir. “It would legitimize me,” he’d said, “and remove any questions about my nature.” But try as they might with weekly pre-planned meetings wherein he laid her to his bed, she never conceived.

  Lord Henry Goddard, her third husband and her last, had an appetite for sexual congress and for her. Eight years her senior, he was vigorous, handsome and energetic in bed. That he performed his functions down to routine did not, however, fail to interest her. He liked their time in bed, nightly, with a vigor and humor that opened her own appetite and strengthened her desire for his attentions. He taught her that men and women had not one, but two positions which might gratify their needs.

  Henry had never pressed her against a wall to kiss her nor stroked her nipples while she was still dressed. He’d never spoken of his desire for her with any charm or heat. Nor had he ever danced with her in the rain. Or invited himself to a party. Or planned any private rendezvous in a garden or a ball or a house party.

  So as she took the chair before her sitting room fire, kicked off her shoes and waited for Theo to find his way up the library stairs to her rooms, she quivered with a woman’s raging desire. She’d never had a bed partner with whom she was secure in his acceptance of her. She’d never been encouraged by a man to be confident or free. Certainly, she’d never been tutored in erotic delights. Nor had she ever wanted anyone as much or as dearly as she desired Theo.

  Two knocks struck the door and it swung open. Then closed.

  He was inside in half a breath. And oh, he looked superb. Her lover. Hers. Attired in a Chinese red silk banyan, he was breathless from his run up the stairs. His magnificent chest bellowed. His nostrils flared. Theodore Alfonse Henley, Marquess of Tain, blond, bold and huge, was the finest specimen of manhood she’d ever seen.

  He paused, his hands pressed against the door as he leaned back and admired her, head to toe and back again. “Good evening, Cleo.”

  She stood and curtsied. “All hail, Caesar.”

  “I nearly swept you up in that damn ugly rug and carried you up here.”

  “I could barely keep my hands to my side. I was never so glad when they guessed straight away who we were. I wanted you then and there.”

  His eyes danced. “Shall we make you ready for the night?”

  Her breasts tingled at the invitation and she pressed her thighs together in an almost painful cry for his attentions. “Please. I see that you are.”

  “I want you, Penn. My God, darling. All of you.”

  She rushed to him, her palms to the hot silk of his robe. Did he wear nothing beneath? She shivered. “I told my maid I wouldn’t need her. And I ordered up brandy, tea and biscuits.”

  “With orange marmalade?”

  “What else? Only the best for you.”

  He chucked her under her chin. “I could barely eat a thing at dinner, I thought only of nibbling on you.” He brushed his mouth across hers.

  And her eyes fell closed in expectation that he’d kiss her.

  But he whirled her about, his hands plucking at her laces. “I could smell your jasmine four seats down the table.”

  She swayed in desire.

  He leaned into her, his mouth skimming the line of her throat. “I wanted to taste roast beef on your lips,” he said and undid one set. “And mushroom tart.” He let loose another. “And Chantilly cream.” He yanked at the third and fourth and fifth hooks. Then spun her toward him. “But do you know what I wanted more?”

  She shook her head.

  “This.” His gaze never wavering from hers, he traced two fingers over the line of her gown’s décolleté. “I want your breasts in my hands. Your nipples in my mouth.”

  “Theo.”

  “I’m needy, darling. You cannot imagine.”

  “I can,” she murmured and tugged at her own gown and consigned it to the floor.

  “Petticoats?” He undid her tapes and they fell off her hips. “Corsets. Hellish things.” He attacked hers.

  She watched his expression, rapt, dedicated to his goal. What a dear man, and for tonight he was hers. Finally.

  But he struggled with the hooks and she had to wait. And when he finally peeled the damn thing away, he put his hands to the bodice of her chemise and she caught his fingers. He read her purpose and lifted his palms to the air.

  She whipped the muslin over her head, balled it up and threw it to the corner.

  If she lived to be one hundred, she would remember him as he gazed at her in that moment. Reverence, awe, triumph. Yet, he could not seem to move. Only his gaze met hers. “My sweet Penelope, you are quite exquisite.”

  Praise for her throat, her shoulders, her curves, her breasts, her hips, her thighs and what was in between them, had come to her from her three husbands. Never as sweetly. Never as breathlessly. Never as reverently.

  She swallowed.

  “If I touch you, I wonder,” he said as he watched her and her nipples burned and hardened to stones, “will you disappear?”

  Mute with yearning, she shook her head. She was not shy. She was too old for that. She was not modest. She was too often wed for that. She was not humble. She’d been praised by three husbands for the swanlike reach of her neck, the elegant length of her arms, the firmness of her breasts and the large roses of her nipples. Her spouses had admired the fullness of her hips, the tautness of her thighs, the length of her legs that they wanted wrapped around their own. She’d even heard praises for her most delicate attributes. How sweet, how plump, how ready.

  As she was now.

  Wondering if he’d think her forward, she took to undoing the passementerie frogs that closed his banyan. She was ready to enjoy him. She needed to assure herself that his readiness matched her own. And so she undid one closure after another, spreading wide the luscious supple silk and marveling at the man beneath.

  She’d known his chest was wide. She had only to admire him in his pristine attire to see how his tailor had done the man proud. Tonight, he’d left coat, waistcoat, shirt and stock behind. Before her was the breadth of his muscular chest, the l
ine of blond hair down his ribs, the honed rack of them, his waist and the line of his hips and loins beneath the buff breeches he’d worn for modesty to climb the library stairs. She ran her fingers over the ripple of his arms to the pointed nipples. “You are quite handsome, my darling. A man who works on his farms. I admire that. Among other elements of your nature.”

  At once, she traced her fingertips along the line of his waistband. “May I undo your buttons?”

  He winced and looked at the ceiling for forbearance. “Undo me? My lady, you may in this way as you have done in all others.”

  She unhooked one button of his placket, then another and a third. But she paused and sucked in her breath. Near her hand stood the tip of his proof. She pressed her forehead to his bare chest. “Oh, Theo.”

  “Continue, my sweet, or I will soon die of wanting your hands on me.”

  She knew what it was to a man to have a woman hold him. She knew the power she could wield. She knew the promise she could offer. So as she slid her hand inside his breeches and he stiffened at her grasp, she knew too from experience that he could lose himself in her hand. As one man had done. Or he could quickly rush her to her bed and enter her without prelude. As two others had.

  Never had a man reached up and gathered her hair into his hand and kissed her with such sweetness as she stroked him. She caressed the smooth, hard, warm length of his member and felt her body gush with wicked desire.

  He tore his mouth away. “What do you think, lady mine?”

  It was good he did not wait for an answer because she had none.

  “Will I be able to satisfy you?”

  “Come show me,” she managed as she stepped backward.

  But he stopped her. In three quick moves, he shrugged from his banyan, pushed down his breeches and stepped from his slippers.

  And had her gaping at his assets. He was, to be sure, very hard. And in the candlelight, oh so very long.

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  The promise of a groom to his virginal bride.

  “I want to treasure you.”

  The words of a man to his lover.

  She made a small cry of delight and rushed to his arms. Her skin on his, she reveled in what was to come. This man was the culmination of her dreams. And she would prove to him her joy in all he did for her and she for him.

  She broke away and smiled at him. “No more talk. Just come.”

  She took him by his wrist and led him to the turned-down covers of her bed. She sat and pushed back. This, she knew, gave him full view of her naked body. Never had she struck this pose for any man, but for this one she would do anything to lure him. The praise in his eyes was more eloquent than any mere words he might have uttered.

  But she had her own feast marveling at the masculinity before her. No man compared. In body or spirit. That, she had perceived but never proven. Now. Now, she had.

  She stretched out her arm and wiggled her fingers at him. “Make love to me, Theo. Show me how it’s truly done, will you? I’ve hungered to learn all these years.”

  One knee to the mattress, he came to her like a sleek animal in heat. Slowly, stalking her up on his arms, he bent to kiss her lips, the points of her shoulders, the very tips of her nipples and then he slid between her thighs and opened her wide. The cool night air touched her and this new sensation of being vulnerable and yet oh so ravenous for him, made her moan and dig her fists into the mattress.

  He bent, a low sound of need in his throat. With a long swath of his tongue, he tasted her and murmured of her sweetness.

  Shocked at this new sensation, she whimpered-and begged for more.

  He spread her with two fingers and licked some spot inside her that made her buck.

  He sucked that same spot into his mouth and she groaned. Shameless, she arched up into his mouth. He laved her delicate flesh, made her wild, then he pinched that same spot so that she thrashed upon the pillows. What fine torture. What sweet heaven.

  His fingers slid inside her and she heard the luscious sounds of her craven joy in him.

  And then he paused, hooked his hands under her knees and hauled her down the bed so that his marvelous long cock slid all the way inside her.

  And she shook with a blinding pulse of mad delight. How long she quivered and cried for him, how long she pounded with some fierce magic, she did not know.

  She understood only that he waited as she convulsed, inside her deep and hard and hot. And as she fell to earth, he swayed forward inside her and then again, increasing his rhythm, taking her with him. The heat built like a firestorm. The need, the urge to explode into a thousand pieces surged through her. He was hers, as no man had ever shown he was.

  And she was his, totally, as she’d never wanted to belong to any other.

  * * *

  He took her with him, pulled up the counterpane and covers and curled her into his embrace. Winding his fingers in her long heavy hair, he inhaled the mingled fragrances of her jasmine and their musk. She clung to him, her breasts flat to his torso, her legs tangled in his, her core pressed to his own as if she did not wish to be apart from him. Dear god. Nor did he. He yearned for the stamina of ten men. More! To stay inside her and show her how he loved her for that would be the way to live and to die.

  She nuzzled her face into his chest and kissed the hollow of his throat. “I’d crawl inside you if I could.”

  He gave a little laugh. “I’d have you with me all the time.”

  “Mmm.” He could feel her smiling against his skin.

  He pushed back and lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “I was not too bold for you?”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “I encourage you to be bold from now on.”

  He stroked hair from her cheek. “I take that as license to make love to you again.”

  She grinned. “Tomorrow. The next day. Whenever!”

  He didn’t know how to take that. “Are you saying you…want me to leave…now?”

  “No!” She was incredulous and he smiled. “Don’t go. Stay. No one…no one has ever stayed afterward.”

  He hugged her. “I could remain until I’m old and grey.”

  She kissed him with purpose. “Never leave if you will do me the honor to do that again.”

  He noted she did not focus on him remaining in her bed for years to come, but on the way he’d made love to her. For now, he let go the promise of a future together and explored the other more pertinent issue. He narrowed his eyes on her. “Do you tell me that none of your husbands has ever…”

  The color on her cheeks went to bright pink. “Not what you did. Never.”

  Oh. Well! He stifled his pride that he was the first to taste her and sought her approval to seduce her with the novelty she craved. “So you’d like that again?”

  She rose up on her elbow and searched his expression. Her hand went to his brow to comb back his hair. Then she pushed up and straddled him. Her moist center poised above his rising cock, she nestled downward and drove him insane with her body’s hot invitation. “I’d like all of you again. Like that. Like this. Any way you’d desire, so would I.”

  He ran his hand up into her flowing hair and brought her down to give her a maddeningly wild kiss. He was stiff as a rock and ready to take her again.

  But she shifted, took him in hand, then guided him inside her.

  She flung back her head. He groaned that the long bountiful curves of her body were his to ogle and caress, to kiss and seduce.

  And he did. Then and again.

  Before dawn, he pushed back his unruly hair and rose to greet the sun darting through her window. Penn called to him from the bed and he raised a finger, walked away and brought back two biscuits, coated in orange marmalade. Penn ate hers with haste and brushed the crumbs from the bed. He had a better idea. Pulling her flat to the sheets, he retrieved the jar of marmalade and scooped out a sticky portion with his finger. Then he coated her large nipples with the sweet stuff and licked it from her skin. Once more as the sun’s rays str
eamed over her flawless beauty, he made love to her very thoroughly.

  And before he was tempted to stay the day, he left her with a promise of more. “Tonight.”

  Chapter 6

  The day was Christmas Eve and the house was abustle. The guests tippled all through the morning and afternoon. Gaiety was the order of the hour. And everywhere Penn went—to breakfast, luncheon or afternoon card games—there was Theo. Staring at her with those turquoise eyes that could make mush of her knees. Winking at her from far down the dining table. Brushing his finger against her palm as he passed her to enter the card room.

  “How many soloists must we endure?” he asked her, eyeing the house guests as they all filed into the salon for the after dinner entertainment.

  “Four. Five?” She threw him a baffled look.

  “I’m leaving early,” he said, extending a hand toward the window and pretending that they spoke of the snowfall.

  “Going home?” She was stricken.

  “No, my love. Upstairs and then to the library.”

  “Good.”

  Lady Bridgewater appeared at their side. “Ready for tonight’s delights?”

  Theo stared at her.

  Penn’s mouth dropped open.

  “I see you are!” she cooed and stirred up a gale with her fan. “How charming!”

  Penn waited until the woman had passed them by, then confided. “Is she a mindreader?”

  “My mother used to say she divined everyone’s secrets.”

  “How?”

  “She claims her grandmother was a gypsy!”

  “A likely story!” She chuckled.

  “The better one is that she gets all her news from one of Prinny’s tailors.”

  “But why would a woman go to…?” She stared at him. “She wears men’s clothes?”

  “My mother said the lady declared she liked the ease of trousers.”

  “Have you ever seen her wear them?”

  “Once.”

  “And?”

  He gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Well…I know from experience pants are comfortable.”