Marquess of Mayhem

by Scott, Scarlett

  Yes, she was his now. It had not felt that way over the last week they had spent at daggers drawn, circling each other like duelists, afraid to make the first move. But it felt that way now, with him surrounding her with his hands on her body and…

  He stepped into her, pressing his hard body against her softness. She felt something long and thick through the layers between them, and she knew what it was, what it meant, for Freddy had explained a great deal more to her mere hours before. He raked his teeth down her neck, and her head fell back of its own accord, desperate for whatever ravishment he would give. Teeth and lips and tongue. He sucked at her throat, beneath her ear, then lower, once more at the place where her shoulder met her neck. These were places she had never bothered to touch herself, skin that had never clamored to be touched until this man.

  “Mine,” he said, finding her collarbone and biting. “Say the words, Leonora.”

  When she hesitated, he bit again. Harder this time, and she was sure it would leave a mark. She did not care.

  “I am yours,” she managed, breathless.

  “Yes, you are.” His voice was dark and resonating, and it made something inside her flutter and then burst wide open.

  Her leg pained her, but she was helpless to stop the reckless desire coursing through her. She would stand here with him all day, his mouth and hands upon her, his body burning into hers. She never wanted it to end, except she did. She wanted more. She wanted to be closer. She wanted nothing between them but skin.

  The first time she had touched herself, she had not dared to do so directly. Rather, she had used her nightdress as a barrier to keep her shame from drowning her. In time, she had realized her nightdress was not necessary and that everything felt so much better without its encumbrance. She had no doubt Searle’s body and caresses would only be enhanced by the same removal of limitations.

  But just as the thought hit her, so, too, did an undulating tide of pain from her injury, radiating up her leg. She shifted again, attempting to remove all weight from it when he stilled.

  Perhaps he sensed her movement and knew what it meant without needing to ask. Perhaps he was carried away by her declaration. She would never know. But he had suddenly taken her up in his arms, and he was carrying her in the wrong direction. Not toward the beckoning invitation of her bed, but to his own chamber.

  “Searle,” she protested, flushed and needy and confused.

  He ignored her and kept walking.

  Her arms locked around his neck, and she could not help but to admire his profile. How strong his jaw was and set at a determined angle. His cravat was not tied with a fop’s love of intricate knots and falls, but simplistically instead, revealing far more of his neck than gentlemen ordinarily allowed.

  She wanted to bite him there as he had done to her. To sink her teeth into his flesh. To make him as wild and mindless as he had made her, with nothing more than a few simple touches and a wicked mouth. She ought to be ashamed of herself, shocked by her own reactions. What periphery-dwelling, lame-legged spinster entertained such beastly cravings?

  “I want you in my bed,” he told her, staring straight ahead as he carted her over the threshold and into his territory as if she weighed nothing.

  Yes.

  She thought she said the word aloud, agreeing with him, for there was suddenly no place she would rather be. But she could not be sure, because he had once again rattled her senses, addling her wits.

  He was a strong man to carry her thus, for she was no willowy miss. With his broad body and lean strength, she had no doubt it would have been difficult indeed for the enemy to take him prisoner. He would have fought viciously. The notion gave her a shiver, for she wondered again how much he had suffered. What had happened to him?

  He looked down at her, a slight frown marring the flesh between his brows. “Cold?”

  For a moment, she was reminded of the first evening she had made his acquaintance, when he had descended upon Freddy’s private salon and had tended to her, ordering her about in clipped, one-word sentences. She wondered if he was always looking after the wellbeing of others. He hardly seemed the sort of man to be possessed of a caretaking nature. Perhaps it was ingrained in him from his time spent at war.

  “No,” she answered, awash in sensation, in emotion, in him.

  The Marquess of Searle affected her as she had not even known was possible. Her gaze dipped to his mouth, and how she wished to feel it upon hers, hard and hot as she somehow knew it would be.

  But before she could act upon her restless urgings, he had deposited her on her feet alongside his bed.

  “Certain?” he asked.

  For a beat, she wondered what he was asking her. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the immense, beautifully carved bed at her side. With what would happen. With his mouth.

  “I am not cold,” she said at last, her mind returning.

  “Good.” His hand found the heavy chignon keeping her wild curls tamed, his fingers spearing through it until he held her tight, angling her face toward his.

  He lowered his head.

  At long last, his lips connected with hers. It was a kiss.

  Her first kiss.

  And it was more than she had dared to dream a kiss could be, not just a meeting of the mouths but an onslaught. It was as if he stood at the brink of damnation, a hellfire in eternity, and kissing her was the only act that would keep him from the flames. He kissed her long and hard, demanding, coaxing, his lips working over hers, his tongue finding the seam and sliding inside to tangle with hers.

  She tasted his tea in truth now, the sweetness of sugar upon her tongue and the dark truth of something else, him. Searle. His kiss tore her apart and then put her back together again. It was bruising and harsh, yet powerful and tender. She would never be the same.

  But as quickly as it had begun, the conflagration ended. His mouth lifted from hers, and there was a sound of denial in the air. A protest. Hers? His? She could not be sure. All she could do was blink, attempting to find her purchase in a world torn desperately asunder. Her lips tingled. And she wanted more.

  “Your chemise,” he said roughly, releasing his hold on her as her body cried out in protest. “I want you to remove it for me.”

  His wicked directive stole her breath, and she hesitated, fear and shame threatening, attempting to crowd the desire from her mind and body. She had a lame leg. Her hips were too full, her belly too rounded, her bottom far too large. No man had wanted her since her comeout. Why would this one be any different?

  “Please,” he added.

  This lone word, this torn and ragged and desperate sounding word, was what tipped the scales for her. Her hands fisted in the linen of her chemise, and with one effortless tug, she had it over her head, sending it sailing somewhere behind her. It landed, she knew not where, with a hushed whisper, but all thoughts of the garment and anything that was not the Marquess of Searle fled her at the look of blatant need that came over his face.

  Beneath his gaze, she felt…transformed. She felt as if she were someone different than Limping Leonora. As if she were beautiful and desirable. She arched her back and inhaled as his eyes raked her form, and she told herself she would not cover her imperfections. She would not hide anything from him. She was herself, and she was horridly flawed, but she was also the woman he had wed.

  His forever, just as he had said.

  “My God,” he gritted. His gaze was pure fire as it skated over her curves, lingering on her breasts, lowering to the mound between her thighs, sliding down her limbs. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  She would have laughed and flushed had any other gentleman made such a proclamation, for she would have known it flattery at best and falsehood at worse. But this man—this strange and perplexing and delicious man she had married—was different. His charm was sparse. He was cool and remote, vexing and confusing, harsh and unrepentant. He was a sharp blade that could cut deep.

  And so, when he uttered t
hose words—when the Marquess of Searle told her she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—she believed him.

  Freddy’s directives returned to her then. Make him weak for you. Gentlemen like to be touched.

  Because she felt bold, and because she felt beautiful, and because nothing about either her marriage to Searle or this seduction in the midst of the day had been expected, she decided to dare. For the first time, the wallflower was ready to break free of her mold. The periphery of life could go to perdition for all she cared.

  She wanted action. Touch. Passion. She wanted everything she had never had.

  “I want to see you,” she told him.

  *

  Morgan inhaled sharply against a sudden burst of violent need. Leonora stood before him, entirely nude. Lord God, she was a vision to behold. Better than he had imagined, and he had spent every night since seeing her for the first time, imagining her whilst stroking his cock.

  She was all creamy curves and sweet pink perfection, a mouthwatering marriage of the innocent and the wicked, the musky perfume of her desire redolent in the air, mingling with the floral notes of her fragrance. He had never wanted another woman—or another damned thing for that matter—more.

  He clawed at his clothing like the wild beast he was, tearing open the knot of his cravat. She did not need to tell him twice. He stripped off his jacket and waistcoat. Flung the linen of his neck cloth to the floor. His shoes and stockings were next, then he undid the fall of his breeches, tugging them down.

  He paused before removing the final garment shielding him from her—his shirt. His back was a macabre mural of lash marks, and burn scars marred his chest. One of his captors had taken great joy in stubbing the glowing tips of his cigars upon Morgan’s flesh in an effort to get him to reveal privileged information about the movement of English troops. Others had preferred whipping him while he was tied to a post as if he were no better than a mule.

  Morgan did not wish to horrify or disgust her, and he had no way of knowing how she would react. No one had ever seen them but him and the doctor who had tended his infected wounds when he had finally escaped and made his way back to English forces. Instead of removing his shirt, he caught her waist in his hands, marveling at the silken smoothness of her flesh. So soft. So lush.

  So his.

  And then he took her mouth again. He kissed her with all his desperation and need, his burning desire. He could kiss this woman forever and never have enough of her lips yielding to his, of the husky sounds of surrender emerging from her throat. He lifted her and settled her gently on the center of his bed, nudging her thighs apart and settling between them as he joined her.

  He rocked against her wet heat, against the gentle swell of her cunny as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sinking inside the way he longed to plunge deep within her. She was slick, so soaked for him, his cock glided over her folds.

  My God, she was a revelation. This desire between them was something he had not anticipated, and it was potent and raw and real. Though he had fantasized about bedding her, he had never once imagined she could surpass the wickedness his mind had cooked. That she would want him as much as he wanted her. That she would be brazen and bold in her passion, her body so responsive, he feared all he need do was stroke her pearl once before she would explode.

  He kissed his way down her neck, finding her collarbone, exploring the roundness of her shoulder before sinking his teeth into her. She made another husky sound of desire, so he soothed the perfect skin he had just marked and then bit again. This one would leave a mark he would see tomorrow when he stripped her bare and bedded her again. He liked the notion of seeing the evidence of himself upon her flesh. It made his prick harden even more.

  She cried out in earnest, hips swiveling against him in an effort to bring her swollen flesh into greater contact with him. He had been right about her on the day of their wedding. She was curious. Curious and hungry, and he would give her what she wanted.

  His fingers dipped into her folds, connecting with the engorged bud he sought. He bit back a moan as he kissed his way to her lush breasts. Damnation, she felt good. Too good. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, then caught it in his teeth and tugged. Then the other. She grew restless beneath him, her breath coming in faster pants that told him she was on the edge.

  He hummed his approval and flicked a tongue over one distended nipple. “Spend for me,” he commanded, and then he increased the pressure over her pearl.

  She did. Oh, how she did. When she came, she was even more splendid, a goddess come to life, her white-blonde curls a halo about her face, her cheeks rosy, mouth open, eyes closed. Her back arched, her breasts like ripe offerings just for him, all for him. He worked her until the tremors rocking her subsided, admiring the sight of her coming undone, of his hand buried in her golden curls, of her thrusting shamelessly against him.

  Barely holding his own desire in check, he raised his fingers, glistening with her juices, to his lips and sucked them clean. Tomorrow, perhaps even later, he would take his time and would make her spend on his tongue. For now, he was not going to last, and he would have to satisfy himself with this sweet taste of her instead.

  Her eyes were upon him, shocked and dazed, glazed with pleasure, her cheeks tinged pink. He expected her to protest. To offer some maidenly shock. It had been so long since he had been with a woman—and then never an innocent lady like her—that he had no inkling of what would make her swoon. He was acting upon instinct alone, driven by his raging lust.

  “Your shirt,” she said, her fine-boned fingers snagging in the fabric, tugging it.

  She surprised him, not just by the demand in her tone but by the request itself.

  “I have scars,” he bit out.

  “I have a lame leg,” she countered.

  “You are perfection,” he said, meaning it. She was glorious, lovely, and he knew a moment of guilt at claiming her with such bitterness in his heart, such rancor and murderous rage in his blood. The ugliness festering inside him should not dare touch the woman beneath him.

  But he had gone too far to stop, and she was his wife. Moreover, he felt quite certain he would burn alive if he could not sink inside her.

  “Please?” she asked softly. “Trust me with yourself, as I have entrusted myself to you.”

  Hell and damnation, what was he to do with such an angel?

  He knew what he ought to do, set her free. Grant her an annulment. Send her on her merry way before he hurt her. Before his quest for revenge left her sullied and stole her innocence and banished all the kindness and goodness from her.

  He also knew what he was going to do, take her. Seal both their fates. Make certain she would never forget she was his wife.

  He caught fistfuls of his shirt and yanked it over his head. Her hands were upon him before he could stop her, caressing, soothing. The sensation of her small, soft hands upon him proved his undoing.

  He did not care if she was disgusted by his scarred hide. Blood was roaring through him. Desire was heavy and hot, sliding down his spine, radiating through him, driving him relentlessly forward. He reached between them once more, stroking her, and she was as wet and responsive as ever.

  Morgan gripped his cock, guiding it to her entrance as he lowered himself over her, taking her lips in another kiss. He could not even warn her this would hurt. Could not form more words. All he could do was feel and need and take.

  He plunged his tongue into the velvety recesses of her mouth at the same time as he breached her. One slow thrust of his hips, and he was partially inside her, the tip of his shaft bathed in her heat. The animal in him screamed to thrust all the way. To sink home, to take her relentlessly and hard and deep. But he reined himself in, exerting so much control, beads of sweat rolled down his neck. One more slow, agonizing thrust, and he met the barrier of her innocence.

  His to claim.

  Forever his.

  The knowledge was so potent, so thrilling, sending a great rush of possession surg
ing through him, that he lost his ability to stop. He sank deeper as she stiffened beneath him, the only sign he had caused her pain. Still kissing her, he returned to her pearl, rubbing over it in slow, steady circles until she relaxed. One more thrust, and he was all the way home, seated as deep as he could be.

  And she was tight. God, was she tight, milking his cock as her body adjusted to him. She was close to spending once more. He could sense it in the small jolts rippling through her and the sounds in her throat, the small moans he swallowed with his frenzied kisses. His body took on a will of its own, his hips undulating in steady, shallow thrusts. He could not stay still. She felt too good, sucking him inside her, clenching on him, bringing him closer to his own release.

  She came again, shaking beneath him, contracting on his prick with such force, he knew he could not last much longer, even as he wanted to prolong this. He wanted to stay inside her forever. But his hips were moving, and he was taking her harder and faster than he wanted. Faster and faster as she made sweet, breathy sounds of her own helpless lust, her hips rocking against his, meeting him thrust for thrust.

  Warmth rolled down his spine and his ballocks tightened. Rocking against her, he emptied himself. Bedding a woman had never felt so satisfying, as if it completed him.

  “Damn,” he groaned, trailing kisses down her neck, burying his face against her elegant throat. The oath was torn from him, and he knew he should suppress it, for she was a lady, but his emotions were so violent and visceral, nothing else would do. “Leonora, you feel so good. So bloody, bloody good.”

  Her hands were on his shoulders, fingers pressed into the blades, clutching him to her. “So do you.”

  She still clenched him hard as the last of his climax rippled through him. Reluctantly, he slid from her cunny and rolled to his back, his body more sated and replete than he could ever recall. He lay there, staring at the plaster work on the ceiling, a medallion of acanthus leaves that had become so familiar to him as to cease existing, not truly seeing anything, breathless and mindless.