The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Yancey surprised him by stepping up and brushing his hands away. “Oh, no. No, no. Allow me.”

  Sam gestured widely. “Please. Do as you wish.”

  “And we both know what you wish, don’t we?” She pursed her mouth primly.

  “I can only hope so.”

  Yancey rolled her eyes and expertly worked his buttons. As she did, she grinned up at him and then almost sent him to his knees when she, without warning, captured one of his hard, flat nipples in her mouth. Gasping, his eyes closing almost of their own will, Sam had to grab her arms and hold on as she swirled her tongue around and around over the sensitive bud there. From the touch of her fingers against his skin, he realized that she’d worked all the buttons and was even now slowly lowering his trousers, along with his smallclothes, down his hips.

  In only moments, he would be naked and proudly jutting, free of restraint.

  Blessedly, she released his nipple, but only so she could kiss her way down his chest and belly as she took his pants ever lower. In a fever of wanting to be inside her, Sam gripped her shoulders and then caressed her arms. “Oh, evil woman,” he growled, his voice guttural.

  She took her mouth away from his skin only long enough to ask, in a husky whisper, “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  “Now who’s evil?” she quipped, kneeling gracefully in front of him and going down on her slender haunches to help him step out of his pants. When he did, she tossed them aside and met what was now just above her face level. “Oh, Sam. Look at you. I feel I should applaud.”

  He looked down at himself. “It wouldn’t be the first time. But … if you must.”

  She smacked playfully at his thigh. “Conceited man.”

  Shaking her head and laughing, she pulled herself up to her knees and held him by his hips. “On second thought, I have a better idea.”

  She then lavished her attention on the most sensitive part of Sam’s entire body. Gently holding her head, and groaning at the exquisite torture of her mouth on him, he had to tense every muscle in his body just so he could remain standing. Sam’s only lucid thought was that the Spanish Inquisition had never devised a torture as cruel as this one. He could stand no more, literally or figuratively. Already hating himself, Sam pulled back and away from Yancey and helped her to her feet. She smiled at him … just smiled.

  “Yancey, you…” He could say no more. He lifted her up under her arms and she clung to him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

  Kissing her, caressing her back, and stroking her hair all in a fevered rush, Sam worked them over to the bed and managed to brace himself with a hand and a knee against the mattress. Yancey let go of him and was now on her back, stretched out suggestively, her pose leaving nothing to the imagination.

  Sam’s breath caught. He could contain himself no longer. He slid off the bed and knelt beside it, lifting her legs and pulling her to him. The instant his tongue found her center, she gasped, and he heard her clutching at the bedding. “Oh, Sam, oh Sam, oh my…” A sound of need, of compelling desire followed. But no more words … only mewling gasps that urged him on. She rotated her hips slowly and seductively against his mouth and arched her back.

  Sam continued his loving ministrations, eagerly awaiting the moment when she would still … and tense. And then, it was there. Feeling himself stiffen even more in response to her pleasure, Sam flicked his tongue against her bud with a steady pressure that had Yancey’s muscles rippling and jerking in a spasmodic rhythm. She cried out, and he held her hips firmly, helping her ride the crest of her release. Her body opened to him, rewarding him with a rush of warmth and wetness. He sipped and sipped of her until she was drained and begging him for surcease.

  Almost out of his mind now with his need for her, Sam could wait no more. He came to his feet and leaned over her. Her knees bent, Yancey raised her arms to him. “Oh, Sam, you make me so happy.”

  “Good. Because I love you, Yancey.”

  She smiled, warm and genuine. “Come to me, Sam.”

  That wasn’t exactly the answer he needed … he’d hoped she’d say she loved him, too … but, under the circumstances, it was the exact answer he wanted. Needing no further encouragement, Sam positioned himself at the side of the bed and pulled Yancey to him. He entered her in a smooth, slow, slide that left both of them gasping with the exquisite pleasure of their coupling. When he was fully sheathed in her, Sam held still, his eyes closed, just savoring the moment.

  She was as he’d known she would be. Hot. Slick. And tight around him. Opening his eyes, meeting Yancey’s inviting green eyes, he held her hips. She wrapped her legs around his waist. And perhaps sensing what was to come, Yancey clutched wide-eyed at the bedding. She was wise to do so, because this first time was not one for finesse. The need was too great. Sam was helpless to stop his body from seeking its pleasure. It instantly found its rhythm with her and pounded against her, wanting its release, seeking her center, wanting to take her there with him. All too soon, Sam felt himself tighten, felt his member swell … and heard Yancey make that guttural sound at the back of her throat that told him she was near.

  He forced a slower pace on himself, waiting for her, pushing into her, sliding out of her, then back in, penetrating his fullness into her enveloping depths. Then she moaned and stilled as she had done when he’d held her in his mouth. Excited beyond imagining, Sam quickened his pace. Yancey matched him stroke for stroke. She was absolutely exhilarating. Such wanton abandon. Sam leaned further over her, and Yancey gripped his arms. The pleasure was unbearable. He must have relief. He must. Driven wild, Sam took them to the height of the loving precipice, and then held them there, suspended … carrying them finally over into the chasm of pleasure realized.

  Done, empty, sated, happy, Sam fell atop Yancey, bracing his elbows on the bed to hold his weight off her. He tried only to breathe as he watched her face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was open, and her cheeks were colored a dark pink from their sexual exertion. And she had never been more beautiful. Sam smoothed a hand over the satin-slick sheen of wetness on her ribs.

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him, weakly putting her arms around his neck. He hadn’t lied, he told himself. He would never let her go. She belonged to him. To Stonebridge. To England. She was truly the Duchess of Somerset. And he would have her. No matter what it took. No matter what he had to do, where he had to go … he would keep her. And God help any man who ever, ever tried to hurt her. Because he, Samuel Isaac Treyhorne, the Twelfth Duke of Somerset, would kill him. Or be killed trying.

  * * *

  Yancey awoke that next morning to find herself part of a tangle of arms and legs and sheets. She felt so deliciously sore and wonderfully lethargic. And decadently naked. Last night Sam had used her body in pleasurable ways she would never have thought possible. Wicked, wicked man. She smiled, relishing now the feel of his warm muscled chest under her cheek. This was heaven. Lying pressed to his side, her head nestled at the juncture of his shoulder and his chest, she had apparently draped an arm and a leg over him sometime during the night. He, in turn, lay on his back and had an arm around her. He was fast asleep. His even breathing told her that much.

  Seized with a sudden desire to lovingly study his every feature, Yancey ever so carefully, so as not to awaken him, raised her head. Her heart full, her eyes those of a lover, she feasted on the sight he made. His strong neck, his skin so taut. She eased her hand up his chest and touched his throat. Surprising her, and halting her movements, was the huge diamond ring on her left hand. Then it came to her. Oh, of course. Sam had pressed it on her last night. Smiling, shaking her head at the memory of how she had resisted him over wearing it, she gave in again to her desire to touch him and to study him.

  After pushing her hair back from her face, she ever so slowly edged a finger up to his jaw and felt of the beard stubble there. Sam’s mouth twitched and, without waking, he brushed at his jaw where she’d touched it. Grinning, biting down on her bott
om lip, Yancey pulled her head back, out of his way. She waited for him to settle again into a deep sleep. Then her grin changed to a smile for all the good things in her heart. This man was such an answer to all her prayers.

  Her smile faded. An answer to her prayers? She didn’t remember praying for a man to love. Ever. If anything, she’d prayed that one didn’t come along … ever. And yet, here he was. So, didn’t that make him more of a complication in her life, rather than the answer to anything? She frowned. Probably so. But right at this moment he didn’t feel like a complication. Or seem like one. Yet he was, and she knew it. He was also a heartache waiting to happen. Yancey exhaled sadly and rested her hand against his chest, propping her chin atop it as she stared at him, so close and warm and sleeping.

  Suddenly, she wanted to cry. What was she going to do about him? He’d been so wonderful to her with her awful confession. For the first time, the memory of her deed didn’t overwhelm her. Perhaps telling him had set her on the road to healing that wound. It certainly seemed so. But he’d been wonderful in every other way, too. Such a gentleman he’d been at supper. He’d made her laugh. And that was hard to do. He’d made her feel whole and welcome. That was even harder to do.

  Then he’d told her—and more than once—that he loved her. She hadn’t been able to say it back. For one thing, that word held such permanence in its four little letters. He’d also told her that he wouldn’t let her go. But he would. She knew that. She also knew what he meant when he said it. Not that he’d physically stop her. He wouldn’t. What he meant was he wouldn’t want her to go. She shied away from the realization that maybe she wouldn’t want to go, either.

  No, that couldn’t be right. That wasn’t what she was feeling. Yancey quickly conjured up the men from her past. There weren’t many, only three. They were good men, too, and not a one of them had wanted her to go, either. But she always had. One of them, Spence Caulfield, a deputy sheriff out in Wyoming, where one of her cases had taken her, had said that he loved her and had tried to hold her with that. She’d cared about him, of course. But she’d still left. It had been easy to do, which had told her everything she needed to know.

  But now, with Sam? Oh, Sam. Yancey sighed, moving her hand only enough to allow her to plant a tender kiss on his rib. Overcome, she laid her cheek against him, where she’d kissed him. So solid and warm. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to go. Or that she could. He loved her, and she hated that he did. Because she feared she loved him, too. Could she do it? she wondered. Could she give her unconditional love to a man forever and marry him and give him children and be happy with that?

  She blinked, pursing her lips and staring at the tangle of sheet that covered them. She didn’t know if a life of domesticity would be enough for her. She was too used to using her mind and living by her wits. It would be hard to settle for anything less. Not that Sam was a mindless imbecile who wouldn’t excite her and challenge her. He would. But the thing of it was she loved her career.

  She’d worked hard at it and had built up quite the reputation as a top agent. That meant a lot to her. Marrying and living in England—or even America—would end all that. Mr. Pinkerton did not encourage his female agents to marry. Nor did he encourage them to stay on once they did. But every married one that Yancey knew of had quit because her husband had insisted on it, and not Mr. Pinkerton. Yancey didn’t want to be one of those women. She knew how she and the remaining female agents disparaged their sisters for leaving, and how they’d assured themselves they were better off without a husband and children.

  That brought Yancey back to her original question. Would settling down and giving up the excitement of the job be fulfilling enough for her? Did she even want a family? A husband and children? And what about a lifetime spent in England among the nobility and in London for half the year? Could she be happy making social calls all day and abiding by strict rules of etiquette? Would she miss the danger, the excitement, of a new case, the delicious subterfuge of donning a new disguise?

  Or getting shot at and chased and living on the edge and never having a home or anyone to come home to?

  Yancey frowned. Where had that come from? But she knew. Her darned old heart, the fickle thing. But speaking of her work, what would Mr. Pinkerton say if she were to quit, if she were to send him a letter of resignation? She couldn’t even begin to imagine how disappointed he would be. Then, in her mind, she heard him saying, that day in his office when he’d told her she was coming to England, that the duke would probably end up wishing she were the woman he’d married. Yancey smiled. Truer words had never been spoken.

  Sam loved her. Sighing with the contentment of that truth, she hugged Sam to her, snuggling in next to him as close as she could get without actually crawling under his skin. As soon as she was settled, though, her heart—or was it her mind?—had an observation it felt compelled to make. What Mr. Pinkerton—or even she—hadn’t considered that day, this ornery part of her self commented, was … would she come to wish she were the woman Sam had married?

  Oh, I don’t know, Yancey fussed, frowning. Why did she have to think about this now? Couldn’t she just enjoy their warm, loving nest for a little bit longer? Sometimes she hated her overactive mind. It just never gave up. She felt certain, Yancey fussed, that if she dwelled on this long enough, she would ruin her mood and the coming day … and would end up wanting to scream.

  At that exact second, a scream shattered the morning quiet.

  Chapter Twenty

  Shocked, Yancey heard the scream echo in her head. But had she only imagined it? She could only wonder because it didn’t seem possible that such a sound could invade her morning, not while she was so happily snuggled with Sam.

  But in the same instant as she thought that, Sam jerked awake and struggled against the bed’s heavy covers and Yancey’s weight atop him. “What was that?” he demanded, his voice husky, his features frowning. “I thought I heard a scream. Did I dream it?”

  Dread washed over Yancey, stiffening her muscles. “Dear God, Sam,” she cried out, a sense of urgency seizing her. She shoved away from the warm protection of Sam’s body. “I thought I’d only imagined it. But if you heard it, then it was a real scream. A woman’s scream.”

  Behind her, she felt the mattress shift and then Sam grabbed her arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Instead of fighting his hold on her, which would only delay things, Yancey met his gaze, seeing the steel in his gray eyes. “Let me go. I think the scream came from my bedroom. I have to go see—”

  “No. Whatever is happening in there was meant for you. I’m going, and you will stay here.”

  Before he could move, Yancey clutched at his hand on her arm, now holding him in place. “I’m the Pinkerton here, Sam. You let go of me. I’m going.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, apparently measuring her stubbornness and resolve … and arriving at the correct conclusion. “We’ll go together.”

  She could have screamed herself. Yancey let go of Sam, but he didn’t release her. “Fine, then,” she hissed. “But we need to go now, Sam. We’re wasting time arguing. Someone could be dying as we speak.”

  “Quite possibly. And we could be, also, if we go haring in there naked and unarmed, Yancey.”

  She looked down at them both, confirmed her forgotten nakedness for herself, and his, as well. “Good point. We’ll get dressed. Do you keep a gun in here? Mine’s in my room.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Where is it, Sam?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “A valiant effort, Yancey. But I see your trick, and so I won’t tell you.”

  Damn his quick-wittedness. Yancey gritted her teeth. “I work alone, Sam.”

  “Not this time.”

  A cry of frustration erupted from her. “All right, all right. Just let’s go now before there’s no need.” Still he didn’t release her. Yancey fisted her free hand and raised it threateningly. “If you don’t let go of me, Sam, right now, I fully intend to—”
>
  “Don’t even try it, Yancey.” His fierce, challenging expression backed up his warning.

  Yancey was frantic with awareness of each passing second. “Sam, I will not tolerate your misplaced romantic and manly sentiments. If you don’t release me this instant, I’ll be forced to render you unconscious.”

  He looked her up and down in such a way that she felt the mouse to his lion. “I don’t think you can.”

  In truth, she didn’t, either. She lowered her fist and resorted to another, more compelling argument. “You’re keeping me from doing the job you hired me to do, Sam.”

  “Then you’re fired, Yancey. You now have no job to perform.”

  She ignored that. “Do you not care about what might be going on in the next room, Sam? Someone could be dying. For God’s sake, man, where’s your concern?”

  His expression was fierce. “My concern is for you alone.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.” Yancey reared back again, cocking her arm to smack him in the jaw—right at the point she knew from experience would drop a full-grown man in his tracks. Well, most full-grown men.

  But Sam handily captured her other wrist. Now he held both of her arms. “We’ll go together, and I’m going in first.”

  Yancey went limp with defeat and said, sourly, “As you wish. However, you may as well order up a bath and breakfast and a carriage for a leisurely ride before we go investigate. Because whatever has occurred in there is already over and done with.”

  “Then we need to go see what has already happened, don’t we?” With that, Sam finally released his hold on her and swung his legs over his side of the bed.

  Knowing this was a race—one she meant to win—Yancey scooted off the bed and quickly searched the floor for a suitable article of last night’s discarded clothing. Her gown and crinolines would never do. She found what she wanted at the foot of the bed. Sam’s shirt. Plucking it up and fussing her way into it, she took a quick, deep breath of frustration which only worsened things when her senses were invaded by the man’s intoxicating scent that lingered in the shirt’s folds. Fighting against its effect on her, and shoving the shirt’s sleeves up her arms, then rolling them over and over, she hastily looked around for its owner.