So she lay on her belly on the bearskin rug, reveling in the decadence of lying on the soft rug in front of a fire, reading a book as if the place belonged to her. As if she belonged here, amid the books and the sumptuous furnishings.
She forced herself to banish the fantasy she would someday belong to Nicholas, too.
She must be feeling maudlin tonight, for she had chosen a book on romantic poetry, and, as she read, an unfamiliar lump formed in her throat. A small, girlish part of her still believed in the knight on his gallant steed coming to rescue her from the mess of her life. She wanted to hear a man call her beautiful and speak words of love to her. Wanted to belong to a man, body and soul, to be his wife and bear his children. It was not lost on her that the knight in her fantasies bore Nicholas’s face, even though he was so cavalier in his seduction of women his own housekeeper remarked on it.
Only a fool would fall for him, and Lexie was no fool. At least, she didn’t think she was.
Her cheeks felt damp, and she nearly laughed as she brushed a tear away. What was wrong with her, daydreaming about a man like Nicholas Wetherby? He wasn’t an honorable sort come to rescue her from her circumstances—he had won her in a card game. There would be no knight in shining armor coming for her, but she was strong and capable and comfortable here, and she had his books. Her requirements were simple, and she needed nothing more.
As if on cue, she heard someone clear his throat. She looked up, alarmed, and there stood the devil himself, looking handsome and roguish at once, with his tousled hair and his shirt collar undone, his string tie draped loosely around his neck. “What have we here?” he asked.
Hastily wrapping her robe around her body, she jumped to her feet, hiding the book behind her back and silently cursing him for being here at all. She didn’t need him seeing her read romantic poetry. That just seemed like an invitation for him to seduce her.
“My apologies, sir,” she said quickly. Good God, had she just sounded as breathy as she thought she had? Her cheeks caught fire. “I will leave at once.”
His smile caused her heart to leap in her chest. “No, by all means, stay. It’s been some time since I’ve had a woman in my library.”
The blush spread from her chest, up her neck, to her already flaming face, and she caught her breath: his tone suggested the last time a woman had been in his library, they hadn’t been reading. Should she blush any brighter, she would surely ignite. Clearing her throat, she said, “I really must be going.”
He held up a hand in a gesture meant to stop her, and she stilled, waiting, her body a jangle of nerves. “Tell me, what is it that has you so engrossed? What are you reading?” A question asked innocently enough, and Lexie almost answered him, thinking this a harmless enough topic, when his gaze dipped and lust crept into his eyes.
Lexie’s breath hitched and she glanced down at herself. Her robe had gaped open, revealing the plain white nightgown clinging to the swell of her breasts, her hardened nipples visible beneath the thin cotton cloth. Gasping, she pulled the robe together. “I—”
He put a finger to his lips, the pose of a man thinking erudite thoughts. “I have been wondering for the last few days what you sleep in. I imagined you in the most elegant silks of the Orient, in the finest French lace.” Desire bathed his words, and she shuddered at the hint of menace in his tone. Approaching her, he caressed her cheek with a single finger. His touch sent shivers down her spine, and she retreated from him, though the reckless part of her was secretly thrilled a man like him would spend any time thinking about what she would look like in her nightclothes. She banished that thought, too. “Though for some reason, this plain cotton shift is more provocative than anything I dreamed up. Almost like you intended for me to find you here.”
She glared at him, anger swiftly replacing the rush of passion. She was no brazen hussy, and even if she fantasized about him, she had no intention of allowing any man—especially Nicholas Wetherby—to seduce her. She knew better, so she ignored the mad hammering of her heart and the gooseflesh that dotted her arms when he touched her. “Just what are you suggesting?”
He took another step toward her, captured her arms and pulled him to her. He smelled faintly like brandy, though, much to Lexie’s everlasting exasperation, rather than being repulsed, she found herself entranced by the scent. Her breasts crushed against him, she thought she should struggle to get free of him, but she didn’t. She didn’t even want to.
“I’m suggesting you were waiting for me, Miss Markland.”
And then, slowly—so slowly it seemed as though time had stilled—he bent to kiss her.
She had no words to describe what happened between them. Lexie’s father had kept her sheltered her entire life. At twenty, she had never been kissed quite like that—it made her wonder if she’d ever been kissed at all. His lips touched hers, warm and tasting of liquor, and a pleasant sensation rippled through her. As he deepened his kiss, licking at her lower lip with his tongue, the warmth became a flame threatening to burn her. And when his tongue slipped between her lips to dance with hers, the flame became a conflagration melting her reserves, engulfing her in the pleasure and heat of his touch.
She had never known it could be this way between a man and a woman, this ache in the pit of her stomach, this heat swimming between the two of them, this desire to touch and be touched. Yielding to his kiss, she reached up and threaded her fingers through his tawny hair, thrilling at the silky texture between her fingers. His hands burned where they rested on her hips. She moved against them restlessly, eager for more of his touch, more of his kiss.
He pulled away from her, began to kiss a path down her neck, and she arched into him to giving him greater access. His hands roamed her hips, slid up the sides of her body, caressing the sides of her breasts. Lexie didn’t know if the touch was accidental or if he intended to touch her so intimately, and indeed, the reckless part of her—the one overwhelming her good sense—didn’t even care. But when he slowly opened her robe to expose her thin cotton nightgown, Lexie was suddenly afraid—and very aware no honorable woman would allow this to continue, especially a woman who had as much riding on her virtue as she did.
“Mr. Wetherby...” she began.
“Shh.”
She pushed against his shoulders. “Mr. Wetherby.”
He leaned up to look at her before bending and whispering in her ear, “Nicholas. Call me Nicholas.” He took her earlobe into his mouth and began to suck.
Even as she shook her head, she shivered at his touch. She shouldn’t allow this to continue any further—if she did, she would be far too tempted to relinquish herself to his seduction.
She couldn’t allow this.
“Mr. Wetherby, stop,” she said, jerking away. She scampered out of his grasp. Undeterred, he followed after her. When he came within an arm’s reach of her, she slapped him with every ounce of strength she possessed.
The crack of her hand against his face rang out in the quiet of the library, and she was instantly mortified by what she had done. She had it easy here. Mrs. Ferguson was fine company, and Nicholas’s household was easily cared for. Given his expansive library, Lexie had to admit she was happy, perhaps for the first time since her mother died. In the secret spaces of her heart, she even admitted she enjoyed Nicholas’s attentions and welcomed his advances. She craved the heat between them, yearned to taste the passion. Had she not already been promised to another...
She pushed the thought away. What was done was done. Holding up her hand, she said, “Mr. Wetherby, I’m so sorry. I...”
His laugh interrupted her apology, and he rubbed his cheek as if her blow stung him still. “That wasn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for.”
Heat rose to Lexie’s cheeks—again. “Mr. Wetherby, I apologize. I—I’ll just be going now.”
“Oh, don’t think you can escape so easily,” he said with a chuckle, and, in his sleepy, half-lidded eyes, Lexie saw both arousal and amusement. “I might be deterred if you we
ren’t dressed so scandalously, but surely, you’ve heard of my reputation. A girl like you doesn’t stand a chance dressed like that.”
Lexie took another step back, her jaw dropping open. “Mr. Wetherby, I am your servant!”
He reached for her. “Actually, Alexandra, there are a number of ways I would like to serve you.”
She stared at him, unsure what he meant. Didn’t even know if his words made sense. She backed away. “Mr. Wetherby, if we could just talk about this...”
The corners of his lips twitched in the ghost of a barely suppressed smile. She didn’t know why he even bothered—she could see the mockery in his eyes. “I can think of a number of things I would like to do with your mouth, Alexandra, but talking is not necessarily one of them.” Losing his battle against his own sense of humor, the grin he’d been trying to hold back escaped.
She gasped—the smug bastard meant to seduce her, as if she would simply fall back and allow him to take her. Maybe that was how it worked with the other girls, but not with her. Never with her. “You are outrageous!” she exclaimed. Anger burned bright to cover the humiliation and the shame. She reminded herself she would never be anything more than a doxy to him, and she was worth so much more than a few stolen kisses—worth more than even the sum of money he had paid for her. Worth more than any amount her father could wager. Clinging to that thought, she sneered, “I am not that kind of woman!”
“Every woman is that kind of woman, in the arms of the right man,” he purred silkily, his voice pouring over her like honey. “Maybe I’m the right man for you. Maybe I should kiss your pretty mouth again and find out.”
She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him to cover the fact the idea intrigued her. She noticed he maintained his distance after her slap—though he baited her with his words, he had no intention of crossing boundaries if she did not allow it. If she were wise, she wouldn’t tempt him.
“You will not!”
“What will you do if I do?”
“I’ll never speak to you again!”
Nicholas laughed, the dull, empty space in his chest filling with unexpected delight. She was the most interesting woman he had ever met. “As I mentioned before, I’m not interested in talk,” he returned jovially. He liked the fire in her eyes. One day, the fire behind them would be different. As a peace offering, he suggested, “Why don’t you tell me what you’re reading?”
She glared at him. “I thought you weren’t interested in talk.”
“And I’m not,” he returned. “But you seem to be.”
“Oh! You are an impossible man!”
He nodded, unable to stifle the smile rising to his lips. She looked outraged, but she didn’t leave, and he wondered if a part of her enjoyed their exchange as well. Her face was flushed with either anger or passion, and from the look of her, it may very well be both. He had stoked this kind of heat before—it was all part of the game, and he was willing to indulge her. “So. What are you reading?”
She hesitated just a moment before she notched her chin and squared her shoulders. Her voice firm, she said, “Engels. As if you want to know.”
“Friedrich Engels?” he asked dubiously. He wasn’t sure why he had that particular text, but it hardly seemed to suit her. The way she had been when he walked into the room suggested something closer to the heart. “How very...studious of you. I would have thought you’d been reading love sonnets, with the way you were so...engrossed in the book.”
“Yes, well, you thought wrong. Being a practical woman, I am not interested in matters of the heart, Mr. Wetherby. I’m interested in the plight of the proletariat,” she said with such passion he almost believed her. “I’m interested in the fate of the working class, seeing as I am a servant.”
“So, the plight of the working class had you in tears?”
Her eyes widened in an expression of surprise so fleeting he wondered if he had imagined it. Straightening her shoulders, her face a mask of serenity, she said, “Yes. It’s a sad fate to be a servant in the working class. I would know.”
Her words stung more than he cared to admit. “So my library is a means for you to improve your station?” he asked, taken aback by her vehemence. She seemed to enjoy the finer things, and he had finer things. He had looks and money but little else to offer anyone. Those things had always been enough before.
“Indeed,” she said coolly.
“You could always improve your station by taking one of the guest rooms,” Nicholas suggested.
“Bah! I’ll not be taking anything from you. I’ll be advancing my position with my own hard work and sweat. I’ll do it by my own merits!”
Damn him if he didn’t believe her. If she hadn’t been reading Engels, he knew she had in the past. Heady stuff for a woman so lovely, but then, Alexandra Markland was not like any woman he had ever met. Turning the conversation back to something more comfortable for him, he said, “There are much more pleasant ways to advance your position than hard work, though sweat may certainly be involved. I can think of several.”
“You are incorrigible!” she shrieked.
He couldn't deny that, so instead he said, “Let me see the book.”
“No!”
“Perhaps I’d learn a thing or two. Your influence could affect the conditions under which my employees labor,” he mocked, and her cheeks glowed with embarrassment. He was behaving like an absolute boor, and his older brother, had he lived, would be ashamed of his conduct, but drink emboldened him. Alexandra was beyond seduction tonight. Besides, he liked the way her eyes glittered when she was angry, the way her lips tightened into a stubborn line. He never should have sought her out when he was drunk, but even that thought didn’t force him to turn away. He wasn’t sure anything could.
Holding out his hand, he said, “Give me the book.” He wanted to see for himself if the work of German philosophers had affected her to such a degree that she wept.
Her cheeks went red with anger, but all it did was encourage him. She was beautiful when enraged. With a cry, she hefted the book over her head and threw it into a stack of books piled on his desk. The books tumbled and fell in a heap.
He laughed at her show of temper. A fiery heart lurked underneath the polite, formal demeanor she presented to him daily, and he liked bringing it out. “Feel better?”
“You are impossible!”
He smiled at the wrath in her eyes, but he thought he saw the relief in them, too. “Well, now, that was hardly polite. How are you going to repay me for possibly destroying my book?”
“Take the cost out of my salary,” she spat, angrily pushing a long, black tendril from her face. He had the urge to take the lock of hair and wrap it around his finger, to stroke her dark head, and he very nearly did until she continued, “Oh, right, you’re not paying me.”
“Hm. I’ll just have to think of something,” he replied lazily. He took another step toward her, but she stood her ground, hands on her hips, obsidian eyes burning bright. She glared at him for a moment, her mouth set into a stubborn pout. Her full lower lip drew his attention, and he could think of nothing else but tasting her again, so he took her into his arms and kissed her.
Her body was tense and rigid when he began kissing her, but within seconds, she relaxed against him, her body melting into his. He hardly had to press her to open her mouth for him, and he would have sworn she leaned into him, pressing her breasts against him, her nipples tightening beneath her thin cotton shift. The heat from her anger dissipated into a different kind of heat altogether. He had enough experience to know she was ripe for the plucking—all he had to do was press her, stoke the fire inside her, and she would be his. More intoxicated by her taste than even the brandy he’d had earlier, he was tempted to do just that.
He broke the kiss to nuzzle her neck, kissing the sweet spot just below her earlobe, and she trembled in his arms. “Nicholas,” she whispered.
He liked the way she said his given name, heard the passion in her voice. But she sh
ook in his arms, either from fear or passion, and he knew her father had been right about another thing: she was a good woman. The thought occurred to him that maybe she was just the thing he needed in his life. His world had brightened in just the few short days she had lived in his household.
He wouldn’t take advantage of her innocence or her good nature. Giving her one last way out and hating himself for doing it, he whispered in her ear, “All it takes is the right man, Alexandra.”
“What?” she breathed, stiffening in his arms as she understood his words. Her face wreathed in fury, she cried, “Mr. Wetherby!” and shoved against him with all her might. He stumbled backwards, surely the result of the brandy he had consumed earlier. He had to admit, for such a tiny thing, she packed quite a wallop.
Smiling wryly, he shook his head at her. “I suppose it takes the right woman, too.” He gave her an appraising look. “I think you might be that woman.” And then he damned himself—why would he not stop baiting her? Maybe because he had more fun fighting with her than he had had doing anything else with anyone else in almost a year. He would have a hard time getting back into her good graces if he kept this up—she was stubborn, his marker. He wondered what it would take to win her affection.
But when he saw the tears standing in her eyes, he felt like a cad. He liked taunting her, but he didn’t want her to cry. Lexie might be a firebrand, but she had a gentle spirit and a tender heart. He would remember that in the future.
“I am not! I am not, nor will I ever be, anything to you! And you may call me Miss Markland when addressing me.”
“Very well, Miss Markland,” he acquiesced.
Putting her hands on her hips, she pointed her index finger at him and hissed, “I told you what would happen if you kissed me again.”
He thought about it, unable to remember what she had told him. “And what punishment are you planning on doling out for my liberties with your person, Miss Markland?” He was interested to find out what she had planned—and to come up with a plan of his own to combat it.
The Marker Page 4
