Mary and the Marquis

by Janice Preston

  Tremors washed his skin as she curled her fingers around his nape. Her other hand stroked his chest as she softly hummed her appreciation.

  She was real. She was here.

  He framed her beloved face with his palms, tilting it so he could read her eyes. ‘Are you sure?’

  She smiled, pressed closer. ‘I am sure.’

  He feathered kisses over her upturned face, then settled his mouth on hers, tasting her sweet, luscious lips as he explored with gentle hands, lingering over her delicate shoulder blades, tracing the elegant line of her back before settling, satisfyingly, on the round of her bottom.

  Desire, passion, need urged him on. Ruthlessly, he reined them in. He was achingly aroused, but he resolved to take his time, to pay her the homage she deserved.

  Slowly, he gathered up the fabric of her nightshift until he could lift it over her head. He stepped back, savouring the vision before him: her slender neck and the elegant sweep of her shoulders, the proud jut of her breasts above the curve of her ribs, the softly rounded belly and the barely visible fair curls at the juncture of her thighs.

  He lifted his gaze to her face. Saw her hunger as her eyes swept his body. Felt the responding tug in his loins. Closed his eyes and tipped back his head as she stroked his neck, his chest, then trailed her fingers down his torso.

  ‘Do you know how I have yearned to touch you like this?’

  He gasped as her lips closed around his nipple, hot tongue flicking. Her hand drifted down, down...and then his reins snapped.

  She was in his arms, all naked, writhing temptation. His lips devoured hers as he carried her to his bed and followed her down, fitting his hard lines against her lush curves. One hand tangled into the fragrant abundance of her hair and the other cupped her breast, kneading. Her nipple was a tight bud as he circled and teased. Her hands fluttered over his back and shoulders with butterfly touches, erotic, arousing. He was on fire. He tore his mouth from hers, pressed feverish lips to her neck, her collarbone, her breast. Sucked her nipple deep into his mouth, heard the catch in her breath, the low moan.

  He skimmed the side of her body, following the dips and curves, caressed her smooth thigh, stroked the sensitive skin behind her knee. Then his fingers swept higher, seeking the moist heat at her core.

  ‘Yes.’ She arched, spread her thighs. ‘Oh, yes, Lucas.’

  He moved, settling between her legs.

  ‘Please.’

  Her whisper was the trigger. He buried himself deep inside her. Scalding hot, tight, she surrounded him.

  Mary gasped her pleasure. Time stood still. He filled her, stretched her.

  Lucas.

  He was all she could see, all she could feel. He was all she wanted. She had made her decision. She had come to him, offering her body and her heart, knowing this might be her one and only chance to love him.

  He had stilled, was poised above her—exciting, tempting. She reached for him, pulled him close, luxuriated in his weight, his heat, his hair-roughened skin. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he lowered his head and his lips took hers. She clung, kissing back with urgent need, stunned at the ferocity of her desire. The weight on her eased as he began to move inside her. Passion swirled and spiralled as a near unbearable tension built at her core. She clutched at his arms, fingers digging into the solid muscle as her legs wrapped around him, opening, tempting him deeper. She met each thrust, desperate to drive him on, but he slowed, tore his lips from hers. Frustrated, she cranked open heavy lids.

  ‘Not yet, sweetheart.’

  His deep voice reverberated through her. His eyes, locked with hers, were dark and intent, his jaw set, as he began to move with tantalisingly slow, deep thrusts, driving her on until her back and neck arched, fingers clutched at the sheets, thighs strained.

  ‘Lucas.’ Her voice was a husky plea.

  He slipped his hand between her thighs and stroked, and she finally, blissfully, shattered into a thousand sparkling pieces as wave after wave of ecstasy rippled through her. Hot tears, half-pleasure, half-agony, scalded her cheeks. He thrust faster, deeper, once...twice...and, with an exultant cry, reached his release. He collapsed atop her, chest heaving and she held him, smoothing his hair from his sweat-beaded brow. All too soon he withdrew, searching her eyes questioningly. She knew what he asked—words were unnecessary.

  ‘No regrets.’ She reached for him and their lips met in a long, slow, spellbinding kiss.

  * * *

  Towards dawn, Mary watched Lucas sleep, as she had done so many times before. But not like this. Not half lying across him, one leg thrown across his, exhausted after a night of lovemaking, their passion still scenting the air. His chest rose and fell under her hand, the crisp hairs rough against her skin. He did not stir as she eased away from him.

  She slid from beneath the covers and found her nightshift where it lay discarded on the floor. She shivered as she pulled it over her head, the fabric chill against her skin. She must return to her own bedchamber before the servants stirred. It was the Quarter Day and she knew Trant would awaken Lucas early as he had a busy morning ahead, meeting with his tenants. She wondered what the day might bring. He had spoken no words of love, of a future; she had expected none. She had come to him last night with no purpose or hope other than to be with the man she loved.

  She had spoken the truth last night.

  No regrets.

  At least, not yet.

  She slipped out of the room and fled, silent-footed, back to her own room.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The next afternoon, Mary took two steps into the library, pushing the door to behind her, and then jerked to a halt, breathless with shock. There was no time to retreat, for Sir Gerald Quartly, standing by the fire with his hands clasped behind his back, had seen her. He strode towards her. His expression, forbidding from the start, was positively glowering by the time he stood in front of her. That he now recognised her, she could not doubt. Her whole body trembled as he raked her with cold grey eyes, hard as granite. Then her brain scrambled to catch up and she whirled around, reaching for the door.

  A hard hand encircled her arm and dragged her back against a solid chest.

  ‘So, this is where you’ve been hiding, is it?’ He spoke low, growling into her ear.

  Mary froze. Harsh breaths rattled against her cheek as his grip tightened painfully.

  ‘I should have recognised you before. I thought you looked familiar. And two brats, eh? The children you deprived me of: an heir, my future.’

  Mary struggled to get free, but made no sound. She could not bear anyone—Lucas!—to find out what her father had done. That he had drunkenly gambled her life away as if she was worthless. That knowledge had almost crucified her. That her own father, once so loving and kind, had changed so much. That he had so little love for his only child, she had become a mere commodity to be traded upon the turn of a card.

  Quartly dragged her away from the door and deeper into the room. Stumbling, she fought to stay on her feet. She spun around to face him, stomach churning. Her mind tumbled, snatching at options. Try to run? The door was impossible, with Quartly in the way. What about the windows? She glanced at them. No, she would never get them open in time.

  Reluctantly, she looked back at Quartly. His arms hung by his side as his chest heaved, his breaths audible in the silence. His face was mottled with fury. Mary clenched her teeth and clasped her hands in front of her, willing them to stop shaking. Her only remaining option, although it went against her instinct, was to reason with him. Try to pacify him. Tell him lies, if necessary, to help her get away.

  She stepped towards him. He stiffened. Good. She had surprised him, done the unexpected.

  She tried a smile. He frowned—a puzzled frown, not angry.

  Apologise.

  ‘I am sorry, Sir Gerald. The way I behaved—it was thoughtless, but I was very young at the time. Did you not make mistakes in your youth?’

  His eyes narrowed. Then he sneered. ‘Next
you will be telling me you wish you had wed me after all.’

  Not a fool, Sir Gerald. Try another tack.

  ‘No.’ She strove to keep her voice level and her expression neutral, knowing instinctively he was the kind of man who would feed on any hint of fear. ‘I do not wish that. But I regret my impetuosity. I should have stayed and talked to my father and to you. I am persuaded you would never have forced me to wed you against my wishes.’

  That was exactly what he had intended, Mary’s father had made that painfully clear. But she could act the ingénue.

  ‘And now you are Rothley’s lightskirt. How long have you been under his protection? Are the brats his?’ He barked a bitter laugh. ‘Your standards haven’t risen much since that clerk you ran off with, have they? I should have thought a woman in your position would require a protector with more than a couple of farthings to rub together.’

  ‘I am not under Lord Rothley’s protection, as you put it. I have only been at the Hall a few weeks. I shall be leaving very soon, now his lordship is recovered.’

  ‘Crawling back to your father? Do you imagine he’ll be interested in you and your spawn now he’s got a new family?’

  He might as well have ploughed his fist into her belly.

  Her father had remarried? He had other children?

  ‘You didn’t know, did you?’ His voice came from far away. ‘It is true. He remarried three years since. They have two boys. He has no need of you.’

  Bile rose to choke her. What now of her plans? No wonder her father had not replied to her letter. Quartly was right. What need had her father of a recalcitrant daughter and two grandchildren sired by his erstwhile steward? Her whole world fractured and reformed a thousand times inside her head. She felt her knees sag and she desperately sucked in several deep breaths. Quartly grabbed her arm and dragged her to a chair by the fireplace, pushing her into it. A small, panicked portion of her brain clamoured to resist him, but her body seemed powerless to obey her will.

  ‘It is a shock, I know, my dear. But never fear. Your father might be lost to you, but if, as you say, Rothley is nothing to you, you can come with me. You know I have always wanted you. And you have proved yourself fertile—I shall get my heir at long last.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice came out in a whisper. She licked at her dry lips and tried again. ‘No. Thank you for the offer, but, no.’

  Quartly knelt before her, clasping her hands. She battled the urge to snatch them from his sweaty grasp, pressing against the chair’s back to try to widen the gap between them. He leaned towards her. The bulk of his torso pinned her to the chair as his belly squashed against her knees. She fought to conceal her revulsion, taking shallow breaths to avoid inhaling his foul breath as it fanned her face.

  Her wits began to reassemble. She would reason with him and, if that failed, she would scream. Better Lucas knew the worst of her than she should endure much more of this.

  ‘Come with me, Mary dearest. I will provide for you. You shall want for nothing. I am a wealthy man.’ He sat back on his heels and released one of her hands as he gestured at their surroundings. ‘You deserve better than this rundown old heap and a debt-ridden, ill-tempered recluse.’

  Mary shook her head but, before she could speak, Quartly’s face darkened as his eyes bored into hers.

  ‘You owe me! I won you, fair and square. You are mine!’

  His hand was around her neck, squeezing. Desperate, Mary scrabbled at his fingers as they dug in to her flesh. Panic set in as she struggled to draw breath, tears starting to her eyes. Dark shadows edged her vision. Wet lips smothered hers, a thick tongue probing at her open mouth. Finally, the hand loosened and he took his mouth from hers. Her breath rasped painfully along her bruised windpipe and into her desperate lungs. As her vision cleared, she saw his satisfied smirk. Hatred spiked through her, tempered by caution. She was still at his mercy.

  Follow his lead. Say anything. Get away.

  ‘I will take you to pack your belongings. That way, Rothley will not get the opportunity to change your mind.’

  Sick dread pooled in her stomach. Where was Lucas? Trant must have shown Quartly into the library in the first place, then gone to inform his master. Where was he?

  Please come.

  ‘My...’ Her throat was on fire, her voice a dry croak. She coughed. Forced down some saliva. Tried again. ‘My children. What about...?’

  ‘Oh, do not worry about them, my dear. Why, I shall treat them as my own.’ He grinned as he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet, tugging her close. The other hand cupped her cheek. His abrupt change of mood frightened Mary more than ever. ‘I shall provide generously for you and the children, you’ll see. They shall have the best tutors money can buy and go to the best schools. Do you not want the best for them, my sweet Mary?’

  Hearing that endearment—the same words Lucas had whispered the night before—spewing from Quartly’s foul mouth nearly shattered Mary’s fragile hold on her sanity. She summoned up a strength she had not realised she possessed in order to sustain her charade.

  ‘Yes...yes, of course I do. They...they will have the benefit of a good education...and...and a father they can respect.’ Those deceitful words almost choked Mary. ‘What mother would not wish that for her children?’

  ‘They will be a ready-made brother and sister for our son, when he is born, my darling.’

  Mary stared at him, horrified. Did he actually believe the scenario he constructed? Was he mad, or simply deluding himself?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lucas had heard enough. His blood bubbled with fury. Visions of Julia in Henson’s arms crowded his brain. How had he been deceived again? Fallen for a woman who cared more for her material comfort than for the love he offered? Visions of Mary, her beautiful golden hair streaming around her naked body, taunted him.

  Fool! Would he never learn?

  He shoved the library door open with such venom it crashed back against the wall, shaking on its hinges. What a touching scene. Quartly—that money-grabbing, evil villain—and Mary: standing close together, gazing into each other’s eyes.

  He had delayed attending Quartly, wanting the satisfaction of handing over the interest due before it was demanded. He had counted the money into a pouch, anticipating Quartly’s anger and disbelief when told the final instalment would be paid, on time, at Christmas. Now, his victory was as ashes. What did it matter? What did anything matter, now?

  He had stood outside the library door and heard with his own ears yet another capricious female throw away love and happiness for pure greed. But on the brink of flying at Quartly and beating him to a pulp, Lucas hesitated. He would not give them the satisfaction. He was not his father.

  ‘Good afternoon, Quartly. I see Mrs Vale has been entertaining you in my absence.’ Scheming witch! ‘I apologise for the delay in attending you, but I had a business matter to conclude.’

  He crossed the library, his attention squarely on Quartly’s face. He did not dare to even glance in Mary’s direction for, if he did, he feared he might be unable to control his rage after all. He held out the pouch of coins.

  ‘Your interest payment.’ He indicated the table in the centre of the room. ‘If you would care to count it out, verify it is correct...?’

  ‘No need. I am sure it is all there.’

  ‘Oh, but I insist, my dear fellow. I should prefer to rectify any shortfall now than to oblige you to come back should my reckoning have gone awry.’

  It had happened before. Once. Quartly had returned to the Hall the day after the Quarter Day, claiming the full monies had not been paid when Lucas knew very well they had. He had been left with no choice but to pay an additional sum, or Quartly would apply to the court to gain possession of the mortgaged land.

  Quartly stumped over to the table and emptied the pouch, grumbling under his breath. Lucas felt Mary’s eyes on him, but kept his attention on Quartly. He would not weaken. They were welcome to each other. But not until he had told Mary pr
ecisely what he thought of her.

  As soon as Quartly had finished, Lucas said, ‘Good. I am pleased all is to your satisfaction. You will be delighted to know the final instalment will be paid on time at Christmas, together with any further interest due.’

  Quartly stared. ‘Oh!’ His frustration was clear to see. ‘I see...well...I suppose I must congratulate you, Rothley.’

  Lucas bowed. ‘Thank you. Now, I have business with Mrs Vale, so I will bid you good day, Quartly.’

  Quartly crossed the room in a flash, taking Mary by the arm. Lucas felt all his muscles lock in his attempt not to floor the man there and then.

  ‘Mary is leaving with me.’

  Mary twisted, pulling at her captured arm. ‘Lucas, I have...’

  Lucas spoke over Mary’s words. He did not want to know her reasons or her excuses. Not in front of Quartly. ‘Not yet, she is not, and if you are not out of my house in the next two minutes, Quartly, I shall throw you out. Later, if she wishes to come to you, she may do so, with my blessing.’

  ‘Now, see here...’

  ‘Lucas, please...’

  ‘Go!’ Lucas roared, closing the gap between himself and Quartly, gaining some satisfaction from the sudden panic on Quartly’s face. ‘Or shall I throw you out after all?’

  ‘Make sure you keep your side of our bargain, Mary,’ Quartly said, his face dark with fury, before he stalked from the room, leaving Lucas to look directly at Mary for the first time.

  ‘Oh, Lucas, thank goodness.’ Mary rushed to him, reaching for his hands.

  He snatched them from her grasp. ‘Well?’

  She eyed him uncertainly.

  ‘Do you have nothing to say? Were you going to admit your deceitfulness, or were you thinking to sneak from my house without a word?’

  ‘No, Lucas. You do not understand...’

  ‘Oh, I understand very well. He can offer you more than I. And your sort will always take the idle solution, will they not?’

  A frown creased Mary’s brow. ‘Offer? You made me no offer, Lucas, other than that of becoming your mistress.’