by Jade Lee
"Keep your head down," he continued, "and walk quickly inside. Go straight upstairs and do not reveal yourself until you have closed the door to the upstairs bedroom."
Fantine frowned. "Can your servants be trusted?"
"Of course," he said stiffly. "But I try not to tempt their loyalty." Then suddenly he grinned. "Besides, I have just raised all their wages. Pray do not give them an excuse to demand even more."
"Perhaps you could give them another holiday," she said, responding easily to his teasing tone. "That was what you did last time, is it not?"
"Yes, but you cannot believe how much my fellow MPs hated it. Once one lord's servants receive time off, they all want it. Harris even claimed I was undermining England's social fabric."
"Goodness," she gasped in mock outrage. "How dreadful of you."
"Yes. So dreadful that I think I shall do it again."
Their entire conversation was nonsensical. It was merely play talk, used to dispel the growing tension between them. Unfortunately, it did not work.
She could see his face, outlined by the moonlight. His eyes were dark pools focused on her and her alone. She saw him swallow, his jaw clenched, and she knew he held himself in check.
Suddenly, desire rushed over her. She felt a hunger beyond reason. Her skin felt scorched, and her lips painfully dry. She licked them, and heard his sharp inhale.
"Fantine..." he said, his words a low groan.
She did not know how to answer, did not know what to think. So she ran. She pushed past him out the door, rushing up his steps as the door opened before her. She heard his heavy footfalls behind her as she rushed into his home.
Then she was up the stairs and into her room, the one she had used so many nights before. The one where they had almost...
She shut the door fast, leaned against it, and closed her eyes tight. Downstairs, she heard Marcus speak with his butler. His voice was indistinct, but her body seemed to hum with the sound of his low tones.
She did not want this, did not want to respond this way to him, to think about him, to remember the feel of his body alongside hers. But she did. She wanted him.
Then a troubling thought came to her. It was a soft whisper in her mind, but its effect was like thunder. Two simple words:
Why not?
Why not give in to Marcus, why not welcome him into her bed this one night? The answer was clear. She was a virgin. In fact, she had guarded her virginity as closely as she would have guarded a hundred bars of gold. It was the one proof that she was nothing like her mother and never would be.
She looked up, seeing her moonlit reflection in the mirror. Her dress was in tatters, her face dirty, and a half-crumpled leaf stuck out from her hair. The very sight made her grin, not because she enjoyed being filthy, but because her mother would have been horrified by the sight.
Her mother had cared for nothing except herself. She became an actress so that people would look at her. She became a courtesan for the jewels and beautiful clothing she could wear. Her greatest dream was to live in a big house with a carriage to drive her around Hyde Park where everyone would say how beautiful and rich she was.
But Fantine cared nothing for those thing and never had. She wanted an easier life than the rookeries offered. She wanted a man to love her, one who would never, ever abandon her.
So she was nothing like her mother. The thought was so liberating that she nearly laughed out loud. She was not her mother! Marcus was right. No matter what she did, she was herself. And she was in love with Marcus.
Why not finally express that love for one night? For one precious moment before committing herself to a loveless marriage with Mr. Thompson?
Why not?
There was no reason not to. She knew how to prevent pregnancy. For that matter, she knew how to simulate virginity for her wedding night. So when she heard Marcus's measured tread outside the door, she opened it willingly, quickly, and allowed him to come in.
He looked nervous, his hands fumbling and his eyes dark and hungry. "My servants will bring a bath as soon as the water is heated."
She shook her head, the implications of her decision still too new for her to act on just yet. "N-no. A small pot and a cloth will do. There is no need to wake the entire staff."
Marcus nodded. "I have sent a message to Wilberforce, so there is no need to be uneasy about that. He will not go to White's tomorrow."
"Good, good," Fantine answered, her hands twisting uneasily in the remains of her skirt.
"And I sent a message to Lottie telling her you are safe. I said you were visiting a sick friend."
"Good, good."
They stared at each other a moment; then Marcus abruptly turned and left. Fantine could hear his curt tones through the door as he gave instructions to his servant.
Chastising herself for her nerves, Fantine quickly lit a small fire. Though it was spring, the night was chill, and the mundane task occupied her hands.
But it was not enough to occupy her thoughts, so when Marcus returned, she still felt jittery, anxious, unprepared. But then she saw something she had never thought to witness in her life. Marcus came in carrying a large pot of water.
Fantine gaped at the strange sight. "Marcus?"
"As you said, there was no need to wake the staff." His words were breathless as he set down the large cooking pot of hot water. "I think my sister left some gowns in the wardrobe."
Fantine glanced at the huge armoire. "Yes. Several." Her words came out in a breathless whisper.
"She sometimes stays here when I am away. Shopping trips, you know. Easier to stay here than rent a house."
"Of course."
Their conversation was awkward, their words stilted as they stood and stared at each other. Then suddenly Marcus frowned and looked down at the cloth in his hand. "Oh, and here is this." He handed it to her as she reached for it.
She would have touched him just then, but he dropped it in her hand and drew abruptly away. Then he ducked his head and made to leave.
"Marcus?" she asked, confused by his new, awkward side.
He stopped moving, his back to her. She could see how his shoulders bunched, the muscles of his back shifting beneath the linen shirt.
"I cannot stay, Fantine," he said, his voice hoarse. "I want you more than life itself right now. I will do anything, risk anything to have you in my bed this night."
She felt her breath catch. Could he feel the same hunger as she? Was it as strange for him—both exhilarating and terrifying all at once?
There was only one way to find out.
She stepped forward and gently laid her hand on his shoulder. She felt his muscles ripple beneath her touch, felt the tension he restrained for her sake.
"I am not used to gowns," she said, her voice husky and low. "Could you not stay and help me change?"
He whirled around, his expression fierce. "Damn it, Fantine, can you not understand? I am trying to keep my promise!"
He would have said more, but she reached up and pressed her fingers to his lips. His skin felt hot, his mouth even more so.
"I understand," she whispered. "But do you?"
She moved her fingers into a long caress of his face, starting with his mouth, curving across his roughened cheek, then brushing downward until she passed over his shoulder.
Then she stepped away.
She saw his dumbfounded expression and smiled. What power this was to so completely flabbergast a man!
She turned around, showing him her back as she pulled her hair across one shoulder. Then, as she walked toward the heated water and the fire, she released the last of the catches on her torn bodice, shrugging so that both gown and shift slipped off her shoulders. With each step she took, her clothing fell away until she stood naked, outlined by the fire.
Behind her, Marcus groaned. She turned her head slightly and peeked at him. He stood as if rooted to the spot, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side.
Then she did the most blatantly sexual thi
ng she could think of. She slowly extended one leg, raising it up until it rested on a chest. She made sure Marcus had a full view in profile of her limb. Then she leaned down, wet the cloth, and slowly began washing herself. She started at her foot, dripping water across her ankle and toes. Then began the long slide up her leg to the top of her thigh.
She stopped and glanced coyly at him before leaning down and wetting the cloth again. She took her time, stretching and twisting so that she presented a variety of profiles. And all the while, he just stood there, his breath a low rasp.
When she was done with her legs, she once again reached down and wet the cloth. She stood up, arching her back and raising the fabric until water dripped across her breasts.
His groan reverberated in the still room.
Suddenly he was behind her, his large frame surrounding her as he reached around and gently pulled her backward. His touch sizzled across her skin, and for the first time she noticed that her own breathing was none too steady.
"Here," he said, "allow me to help."
He pulled her backward until she leaned against his chest. He wore no coat. Instead, she felt the silken swatch of his cravat, and beneath that, the cool press of each one of his pearl buttons. But the fabric could not mask the heat of his body or the fire in his touch.
He took the cloth from her, his palms large and powerful as he brushed against the back of her hands. Then, drip, drip, he allowed the water to slide onto her chest, slipping in long, wet rivulets over her breasts.
She gasped at the sensation. She felt her nipples tighten, and her body arch in response.
It took him a long time before he lowered his hand, brushing the cloth over her collarbone, circling around a breast, then leisurely stroking across a nipple. His touch was feather soft at first, then firmer, then torturous as he teased her peaks with the softest of strokes. She moaned, shocked by what they were doing, yet thrilled as well.
"Marcus." His name was more whisper than word, and beside her temple, she felt his lips curve into a smile.
"You are so beautiful," he said, and for the first time in her life, she believed it. She was beautiful. He made her so. "I cannot believe you are finally mine."
She smiled and made to kiss him, twisting in his hold, but he would not allow her to.
"No," he whispered. "Stay this way for me a moment longer."
He continued to stroke her body, brushing the cloth in random patterns, moving across her body where and how he willed. He pulled her arms up over her head, draping them over his shoulders, and with her stretched against him, he stroked the underside of her breasts.
She moved against him, wanting to turn to kiss him, and yet wanting more of this exquisite torture. It did not matter. He would not release her as his other hand joined the cloth, first pulling her hips hard against him, then roaming on its own.
Soon he discarded the cloth altogether, and his two hands cupped her breasts while she rocked her buttocks against him. As he held her, his fingers ever moving, he bent his head to kiss her along the side of her neck. His tongue made slow circles that were echoed by his fingers, and her legs began to tremble.
Marcus lowered his hands to her belly, then her hips as she rocked against him. He responded in kind, thrusting upward.
It was too much and too little. Turning in his hold, she lifted her face for his kiss. He claimed her mouth with a swift possession, and all too soon they were both gasping for breath.
Her fingers fumbled with his shirt, tearing at the buttons and peeling off the wet fabric from his slick body. He helped her as best he could, all the while raining kisses across her face, her neck, whatever part of her he could reach.
Then when she had at last stripped away his shirt, he leaned over and lifted her. In two strides, he was beside the bed, laying her down on the mattress with amazing gentleness.
Abruptly he stood back. His body was a powerful silhouette, broad and strong, but his eyes were dark, his face shadowed.
"Marcus?" she asked softly.
"I swore to leave you. To let you be a lady."
"But I am a lady," she answered easily. "And nothing you ever do or say can change that. I understand that now. I choose my life. And I choose you." She stretched up, catching his lips with her own. Then she pulled him down with her onto the bed. He went reluctantly, as if still doubting her, but soon she overpowered his restraint. His hands touched her, his tongue stroked her, and his weight began to shift on top of her.
She reached for his trousers, but he brushed her fingers away, breaking off their kiss. He disrobed quickly, with an efficiency she could not have managed. When he returned to her, he went not for her lips, but lower, to her breasts, tasting her as no one but him had ever done before.
She gasped, feeling the erotic swirl of his tongue, the slight nip of his teeth, even the heated brush of his breath.
She cried out, feeling the tension coil almost unbearably within her, but still he went on, tormenting her while she writhed.
"Marcus," she cried, "please." She didn't know what she asked for, only knew that she needed him more than ever. She felt him shift on the mattress, settling his weight over her as she opened up to him. She stroked his back, letting her hands slide down his lean form until they settled on his hips.
She felt the brush of his legs—corded muscles, taut on the inside of her thighs. Then she pulled him toward her.
His thrust was swift and powerful, and she cried out at the swift pierce of pain. He stopped, holding himself still, his eyes wide with astonishment.
"My God, Fantine, I never thought—"
"It is nothing," she whispered, except that it was everything, and yet she did not mind in the least. It felt right that he should be the one to take her virginity.
Marcus shook his head. "You should have told me."
"I chose this. I chose you." Then to emphasize her words, she began to move. Her body stretched for him, her hips pressed against him.
With a groan, he lowered his head and kissed her, taking her mouth while below he drove into her again.
And again.
The tension within her built and she gasped with each powerful stroke. She felt his hands, firm and hard on her body, pulling her against him.
Again.
And again.
Until with a final thrust, her world splintered into a thousand glittering diamonds. She heard voices crying out and knew one was hers. She felt Marcus, joined with her in joy, his own ecstasy as triumphant as her own.
Chapter 20
Marcus was grinning.
He knew he was grinning because his cheek muscles ached. In fact, his whole body ached, but he was so happy, he did not care. He could not believe what had happened. After thinking he had lost Fantine forever, she had come to him. She had offered herself to him in a seduction that still had the power to arouse him. If he closed his eyes, he could see her once again, outlined by the firelight, slowly extending one long, sleek leg to be washed.
Looking at her now, curled on her side in sleep, no one would guess at the passion she contained inside. How many times had they come together last night? How many times had she cried out his name in her joy?
She was his, and he could hardly believe his luck.
He reached out and stroked her cheek. Her skin was a soft rose, innocent and pure. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the pink blush of her mouth.
Did they have time? Could he lose himself in her again?
From a long way away, he heard the downstairs clock strike eleven. There was no more time. Yet as she stirred, a smile of welcome curving across her lush mouth, how could he resist her?
* * *
"I must go." Marcus was feeling languid and sleepy and altogether too happy to stir. But he had to. "The servants will bring you anything you need."
"What if I need you?" Her words were soft and seductive as she stretched her arms across his shoulders and drew him down for a tantalizing kiss.
He nearly succumbed, but he co
uld not. "Lord, Fantine, you do not know how much you tempt me." His words were nearly a groan, but he pushed away from her.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" She sat up, letting the sheet pool about her waist. Her glorious breasts were revealed in the sunlight, and he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from touching her.
"I must talk with someone." He took a deep breath, then tore his gaze away from her. "And I must send Jacob to Wilberforce to make sure the man does not go to White's this afternoon."
Fantine frowned, remembering last night's events. "I swear I have heard Teggie's voice before. Why did you stop me from following him? I could have ended this."
"You know full well why," he said as he extricated himself from the bedsheets. "You would have drawn a great deal of attention. I shudder to think what Hurdy would do if he discovered you betrayed him."
Fantine shrugged, though he heard a slight tremor of nervousness in her voice. "I can handle Hurdy."
"No doubt you can. But I will not risk you. Not when I can handle the situation just as well today."
She had been shifting her position on the bed, but at his words she stilled, her gaze cooling even as she questioned him. "What do you mean? How can you resolve things?"
He knew he should have waited to tell her. He should have held his tongue until the entire affair was completed to his satisfaction. But he hated keeping things from her, hated that he had lied to her.
Their relationship had changed last night, and he did not want to begin the morning less than honest. So he settled back onto the bed and took her hands, trying to soften the blow as much as possible.
"I lied to you. I did recognize Teggie's voice. I know who he is."
She did not react immediately. In fact, she was completely still. Then he saw the fury blaze in her eyes as she jerked her hands out of his and leaped out of bed. She whirled around to confront him.
"You know who he is?"
"Yes."
"And you did not tell me! How could you?" She was shaking in her rage.
"Fantine, you must let me handle this—"
"I will not!"
