Wonderful. It was wonderful.
She wasn’t aware she’d said the word aloud until he answered her. “It is rather wonderful, isn’t it? How do you feel now?”
“Better.” More used to it.
She dared to move and found the response good. So good she did it again.
He urged her to lift up. “Up and down. I’ll take care of the rest. Just tell me when it feels particularly good.”
Doing as he told her, she lifted up so the bottom part of his cock left her body.
He pushed her back down. “More.”
She did it again. Some liquid seeped out of her, easing her passage. She tried again. Easier this time. And again. Until she realized she was riding him, and his analogy made sense. A laugh surprised her, escaping to echo around the room.
As she pushed down, he thrust up. She gasped, but did not stop. Repeating the motion felt so good.
She was sitting upright, not as much as when she rode a horse, but not leaning forward, as a jockey did. Her breasts shook as he moved. When she leaned back even more, his cock nudged a spot inside her. Intense quivers rocked her, so much that her vision went out of focus, and she cried out.
“A small orgasm,” he said. When she frowned he said, “The climax of passion, when every part of you peaks. You will have more, sweetheart, if you want them.”
“Oh, yes, yes I do.”
“Then move.”
Not needing to be told twice, she kept working, riding him, moving from an easy trot to a canter, faster. He met her plunges, forcing his shaft deep inside her, more powerful with every stroke. Her body slammed down on to his. When he put one finger down there, where her clitoris hit it every time, he urged more intense responses from her. Sweat broke out on her body, but she ignored it. This was too good to stop now.
Deeper, harder, her reactions rose, the piercing pleasure rocketing through her, taking her to a point she had never known. He grunted, an essentially male sound as his groin tensed and became hard.
Everything in her coalesced, peaked, and exploded, like a shower of fire, spreading the warmth right to her fingertips. He cried her name, froze, and his cock pulsed deeply inside her.
She watched in wonder, saw a powerful man come completely within her orbit. He hid nothing, showed her his response to her lovemaking, gasping. The pulse in his throat throbbed, speeding up.
He pulled her down and gave her an open-mouthed, luscious kiss. He thrust his tongue into her, imitating their play below, supporting her when she collapsed against him.
They kissed until the pleasure ebbed, leaving contentment in its wake.
“So that was it,” she said, when they finally broke apart.
“Some of it,” he replied shakily. “We have a long way to go, though. Many avenues to explore together. You were wonderful, sweetheart. That was perfect.”
As a learning experience, she could not disagree.
Chapter 14
They practiced a great deal over the next week. With the news of her father spreading, Viola took to wearing a black armband and subdued colors. She felt right doing that, although black would not be appropriate for a new bride. When she thought of her father’s fate, such happiness seemed wrong, but Marcus listened to her, held her, and let her weep when she needed to. Then he made love to her.
He brought her a deep joy she had not known possible.
“You should go out a little,” his mother said after he first week when they were sitting at dinner. “Not to dance, of course, but the theater, the opera, and dinner with friends is entirely allowable. Did you not say you wanted to see more of the city?”
“No,” Marcus said firmly. “Viola is in danger, and we are no nearer discovering who did it than we were before.”
“I should be safe in company,” she responded. “You said so yourself.”
He had. Nobody would shoot at her in a crowded place, surely. They could hit any number of innocents. She had fired weapons more than once herself and knew how inaccurate they could be. “If nobody can get close enough to stab me, or I’m with people you trust, surely I’m fine.”
“I don’t like it.” He took her hand as if to assure himself of her safety.
“Marcus, this house is beautiful, and the garden too, but…”
His mother continued when Viola’s voice trailed off. She had not seen the look of helplessness in Marcus’s eyes. Or if she had, she chose to ignore it. “She will run mad if she stays here much longer. Marcus, Viola is a country girl. She is used to roaming free.”
He turned his attention to her as if nobody else sat around the dining table, giving her his complete attention. “Is this true? Are you unhappy?”
“No, of course not,” she said, but his mother’s exasperated sound told another story.
“Take her out,” Lady Strenshall said. “Show her some of the city. And for heaven’s sake, let her meet our friends. Not just the family. People will begin to believe something is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong!” Viola said.
Marcus lifted her hand to his lips. “Yes, it is. Mama is right. Would you like to go to the opera tomorrow night?”
Instead of preparing for a night at home, Viola had her maid dress her in a brand new lavender silk. Then she tied the black band around her upper arm. She wore black gloves, too, but excitement simmered low in her belly. She had never been to the opera before. Plays, of course. Her aunt in York adored going to the theater, but she had an aversion to opera, so on opera nights they’d stayed at home.
Viola liked singing, doing it and listening, although her voice was not above average. She could play, though, and she enjoyed music.
What she did not feel was fear. Marcus would take care of her, and just in case of danger, she had a small knife secreted in her pocket, sheathed in soft leather. Small, but enough to do serious damage should she wish it. She would not hesitate if anyone attacked her.
The opera held a danger if she sat in the Strenshall family box. Isolated in that way she could form a target. So Marcus took her to a more public seat on the balcony. A footman sat behind her, not in livery. Tranmere made Viola feel much safer. She suspected Marcus had employed others, but when they had taken their seats, he leaned to her and murmured, “Julius knows we are here. He has put men in the audience.”
She almost laughed. Who was she to draw such attention? She still felt like Viola Gates, the unimportant daughter of an estate manager, a woman who could not expect her appearance to attract undue interest.
She had not changed.
People stared at her. They would not know the secret of her parentage, so they were staring at her because she was a new bride. She had unexpectedly taken one of the most eligible bachelors in the country off the market. They wanted to assess. Maybe the ladies who were freer with their favors wanted to see exactly how devoted Marcus was as a husband.
He gave her most flattering attention. He took her fan from her and wafted cool air over her face when she exclaimed it was hot in the theater. A chandelier blazed above them, the a hundred burning candles heating the air.
Despite those distractions, plus the constant chattering of the audience, Viola thoroughly enjoyed the opera. At a particularly poignant moment when the soprano was giving her all, a tear escaped from the corner of her eye. It slipped down the side of her cheek.
Marcus gave her his handkerchief, which she took with a grateful smile, dabbing at the tear before she returned it to him. “Music affects me very much,” she explained.
His smile held warmth, but the corners of his lips were tilted. “I remember.”
Ah, yes, that time when he’d caught her playing a bawdy song on the best harpsichord. “That was different.” But although she lifted her chin and tried for her best haughty expression, she glanced at him and gave him a reluctant smile.
Then she returned her attention to the stage. The performers were excellent, and the music superb. Handel, she assumed, from the s
tately pace and the tragic nature of the opera. A king returned from exile to find a wife and children unfairly persecuted. Of course, after expressing a number of admirable sentiments at length and musically, they perished horribly.
Viola thoroughly enjoyed it. She especially enjoyed the part where the king sang for a good five minutes, although he was poisoned and pierced through with half a dozen swords before finally succumbing.
The whole experience drained her. Although the evening held more entertainments, a ballet and a farce, Viola had all she wanted from the opera.
“You’re tired, sweetheart?” Marcus asked.
When she said yes, he set about ordering the carriage to take them home.
Seeing the moonlit piazza of Covent Garden before them, Viola would have dearly loved to walk back and see more of this tantalizing city. The glimpses she’d had of it were not nearly enough.
They stood in the portico of the opera house, breathing in the cool night air, when someone approached. Marcus stiffened, and then relaxed. “Lord Dorsetshire,” he said.
His lordship, a man of around fifty, and his wife, who needed a considerable amount of pink satin to swath her form, smiled and bowed.
The lady watched Viola through narrowed eyes. “I wondered who was lovely enough to draw Lord Malton’s attention away from our Elizabeth,” she said. “Now I see you for myself, I perfectly understand why he could not resist you.”
Just as if she’d seduced Marcus into marrying her. For two pins she would have told her ladyship so, but with a rare moment of discretion, Viola controlled her tongue. “We have known each other for a long time,” she said.
“Ah, yes, your father was…his estate manager?” A note of disbelief crept into her voice.
“And a distant relation to the family.” She hated making that claim, as if that made everything all right, made her eligible.
Marcus drew her closer. She had her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. The soft fabric of his coat rubbed her fingers. “Viola has her own charms,” he said.
Viola could have groaned. He’d made matters worse. Could he not see the lady was looking for a reason for him to have spurned her daughter in favor of someone who was no better than a servant? She kept the smile on her face, but it had become a rictus.
“And such haste!” The lady’s gaze deliberately swept Viola from head to toe, lingering on her stomach.
Ah, yes, she could be pregnant. After the way they had spent the last week, the likelihood had increased. That would give the society matrons—jealous cats!—reason to chatter. Lady Malton had trapped his lordship into marriage. Not because he wanted to keep her close to protect her from enemies who would stop at nothing to see her dead. Oh, no, that would not matter in the least.
“My lady, a woman may attract a man without trying.” She did her best.
Marcus lifted Viola’s hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. Even though she wore gloves, he affected her, and she could barely resist the sensual way her eyelids drooped when he used such tactics. He knew it, too.
A wicked smile deepened the creases at the corners of his mouth. “A woman may indeed do that,” he said. “I could scarcely believe I was so blind when I met her recently after a few years’ absence. I had nearly missed all that loveliness.”
“Your father approves?” Lord Dorsetshire said. He looked at Viola too, but his gaze lingered on her breasts.
Viola wanted to cover up. He made her feel unclean, the way his lips loosened even more, revealing a very wet underbite.
“Naturally,” Marcus said in a tight voice.
He was not pleased. Why the Dorsetshires could not detect his displeasure Viola didn’t know, because to her it was unmistakable.
“But had my father opposed it, I still would have gone ahead. I would not willingly let Viola go to any other man.”
He sounded like a man in love. Which was wrong, because he had married her for different reasons.
Her carriage drew up, the crest gleaming in the golden light of the flambeaux flaming in their sconces, making it easy for everyone to see them.
Relieved, Viola allowed Marcus to hand her into the vehicle before following her himself. At once he reached for her, drew her face to his, and kissed her. Although he did not make the embrace an overly passionate one, it was nevertheless a potent exhibition of what their marriage meant. Not a meeting of great fortunes or political alliances, but a meeting of bodies.
Viola would have liked a meeting of minds, but she would take whatever came her way.
What did come her way was passion. Marcus kept her hand in his on the short journey home. As soon as the carriage rumbled away over the cobbles, he let out a sigh of relief. “I cannot tell you how glad I am that ordeal is over!”
“Did you not enjoy the opera?” she asked, disappointed.
“Not that. Our first appearance in public as a married couple. I detest being the center of attention, and I fear we were. People gossiped about us, and I daresay we will feature strongly in the scandal sheets tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t aware you read them.”
“Papa reads everything. We all do, if we have time. Those rags tell us what public opinion is tending towards as much as any serious piece. Nobody admits to reading them, yet they sell hundreds of copies every day. They can’t all be to coffee houses and the lower orders.”
“You did not like people talking about us. Neither did I, but they will do it whether we are there or not.”
“I will find some select musicales to take you to. Whatever got into my head, taking you to a public place? I must be going insane,” Marcus said with feeling. “I could not rest for looking about me, wondering where the next attack would come from.”
“It will not do, Marcus,” she said decidedly. “We cannot go about our lives worrying. The people who—” She broke off, finding it difficult to articulate the next part, took a breath, and continued. “The people who killed my father to get to me may never be found.”
“Oh, we will find them,” Marcus said, a grim line to his mouth. “Never fear. And we will do it soon, because I want you to enjoy next season.”
“I’m enjoying this one.”
“It’s hardly a season. They will close the playhouses and opera houses soon for the summer. We will either stay quietly in town or go into the country. In any case, we should return to Haxby next month for the shooting party.”
She shuddered. A week or more of sudden retorts and dozens of birds thumping to the ground. They would be eating pheasant for a week, and so would the villagers. “I will do my best.”
They rolled through the smoother streets of the West End, towards home. “You don’t need to do your best,” he said. “You only have to be yourself.”
As well for him to say. He did not have to endure the insolent stares of people trying to assess why she had trapped him.
When they arrived home, he hustled her upstairs and into her room, startling her maid, who was preparing the place for her. Her night rail lay across the embroidered bedcover and the dressing table was laid out neatly with freshly cleaned brushes.
At their entry, the maid took one look at them, bobbed a curtsey, and scuttled away through the jib-door.
Viola doubted very much Marcus had noticed. The gleam in his eyes demonstrated intent clearly enough for her. Her heart beat harder, and her breath came in short gasps. “Marcus…”
He seized her by the waist and pushed her against the wall by the door. Half crushed by the weight of their bodies, her hoops belled out at the sides, ominous cracking sounds coming from the whalebone. Marcus ignored her protests and took her mouth in a savage kiss.
Viola responded. When he dragged handfuls of her skirts up, she pressed against the wall. She pushed her body towards his, wetness dewing the apex between her legs. He shoved his hand between her thighs, roughly urging her legs apart. Then he lifted her, dragging her up with one hand while he fumbled at the fall of his breeches
with the other.
With clumsy haste, he freed his shaft and pushed it into her. Swaths of lilac silk fell between them, but he pulled them free and kissed her again before pausing.
“What you do to me, Viola. I could not bear the danger. I have no idea what was happening on stage. I took no notice of it.” He thrust deeply into her over and over. “I will not lose you. I will not.”
Gasping, she said his name. That only impelled him to further efforts to nail her to the wall. He hammered into her, her body thudding against the paneling, the dado rail digging into her back with every hard, punishing stroke. He drove her higher, and when her fall came, he growled like an animal claiming its mate.
Thrills coursed up her spine. They exploded in her head, forcing her up and up, until she exploded in a series of what felt like jagged sparks.
The conflagration burned out of control. He continued to thrust inside her. Her passage clenched, tightened around his cock, until he gave one sharp cry and pulsed his seed deep inside her. Continuing to thrust, he pressed his forehead against hers and whispered her name, so intimately she melted all over again.
The sound of their breath sawing in and out of their lungs mingled with the clop of horses and carriage outside, the occasional shout from someone in the street. But that was another world, not the one that occupied them now.
“All I could think of was your safety,” he said between hard pants. “Any minute I expected to hear a shot or feel cold steel in my back. I’m going insane, Viola. Stop me doing this.”
She laughed shakily, rejoicing that she should matter so much to him. He had gone beyond duty, whether he realized it or not. “Marcus, I will be safe, I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt me.”
“Now that is a foolish answer.” He sounded more normal as he drew away and let her feet slide to the floor.
She had lost a shoe in their encounter and landed awkwardly, but compensated by standing on tiptoe. “I do believe you cracked my new petticoat.” She tried to sound stern, but she could not.
Dilemma in Yellow Silk (Emperors of London) Page 18
