She shifted in his lap, bringing a groan from his lips and his attention back to his physical predicament. He was still aching with his own need—and his self-restraint had reached its limit. Elizabeth’s small cries of pleasure and the instinctive thrusting of her hips had shredded his control, urging him to lower her to the rug and sheath himself in her tight, wet heat. But he couldn’t. She wasn’t ready, not for that.
Raising her head, she looked at him, her eyes sparkling like amethysts, her cheeks flushed and glistening with the glow of her release. “Isn’t there more?” she whispered.
“More?” he choked out, taking hold of her hips to still her agonizingly arousing little movements. He grinned wryly. “Insatiable little vixen.”
“I didn’t mean for me.” Her lashes drifted downward, shyly. “I meant… for you.”
She slid her hand from his shoulder, over his bare chest, then lower, to his ribs.
“Elizabeth.” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, gripped by a tension unlike any he had ever experienced. He found the merest brush of her hand more arousing than the most skilled caress of a courtesan. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“I think not,” she said mischievously. Her fingers came to rest on the waist of his breeches. “I should think you’d be able to withstand at least as much as me.”
Opening his eyes, he saw her regarding him with a wicked smile that filled him with even more heat than her touch. “Sweetheart…” he said in soft warning, unsure how long he could last without losing what was left of his control.
She started to unfasten his breeches, trying unsuccessfully to change her expression to complete seriousness. “I only wish to be fair.” She moved her leg a bit, just enough to allow her access to that part of him that so ached for her attentions.
The laces weren’t even completely undone when his rigid arousal filled her hand.
Marcus drew a ragged breath as she hesitantly, lightly ran her nails along his length. When she rubbed her fingertips over the swollen tip, his entire body jerked in response, nearly tumbling them both to the floor. He cursed vividly.
Her hand moved away. “There must be a way I can please you.” Her eyes were liquid and languorous, filled with feminine curiosity. “You said something about hundreds of ways to make love—”
“Elizabeth, I…” He lost the rest in a groan as her fingers returned to stroke him.
“Let me try,” she whispered. “I want to give to you as you gave to me.”
He stopped objecting, helpless against the white-hot need that shot through him. He gripped the side of the chair with one hand, his other arm still around her back.
She held him more firmly now, moving her hand up and down slowly, experimentally. Her gaze, at first fascinated by his size and hardness, now lifted to his face. Her eyes had darkened with desire to a truly royal shade of purple. That mischievous grin curving her lips, she watched him.
With her hair tumbled about her shoulders, her lips wet and swollen, and her pale curves framed by the rumpled shirt, she looked the very image of every man’s most sensual fantasy, a woman at once sweetly innocent and wildly erotic. Marcus’s breath choked out in harsh bursts as he fought the instinct to take her. Now, on the floor. To join his body to hers, hard and fast and deep. He wanted to make her his, he thought fiercely.
His. Wholly and completely… and forever.
He never got the chance to wonder where that extraordinary thought had come from. In the next heartbeat all reason fled as Elizabeth’s fingers took up a new and playful position, rubbing his hard shaft against her naked thigh.
He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing.
Leaning forward, she kissed his temple, his bearded cheek, then teased him with her tongue—exactly as he had done to her—darting a damp path along his collarbone. He struggled for breath, for sanity.
Suddenly he felt her lips claim his in an open-mouthed kiss, her tongue thrusting forward. Her fingers closed around his shaft, moving faster… tighter…
In the span of a single heartbeat, the entire sky seemed to explode inside him. A hoarse shout tore from deep in his chest and she swallowed it hungrily. The hard climax shook his body, his seed flowing over her hand and her skin with a liquid rush. The sensation was so intense, he thought for a moment he might pass out.
When reason finally returned and he managed to open his eyes, he was looking up into her smiling face. She dropped another light kiss on his lips, her expression one of almost feline satisfaction, like a cat who had just conquered a very large canary.
Still breathing heavily, he enfolded her against him. “Sweet lady.” He wrapped one hand in her hair and tilted her head back. “My sweet, reckless Elizabeth.”
He kissed her, deep and long and hard. Then he lifted her in his arms, shirt and all, as he stood up. She shivered against him as he carried her toward the bed.
He threw back the blankets and laid her on the sheets.
This time, she didn’t withdraw as he settled himself beside her. She only looked up at him, eyes shining with newfound wonder. “Is there…” Her voice was a soft, unsteady whisper, “more?”
He laughed, a genuine, full laugh unlike any he had enjoyed in a very long time. “I’ve created a tyrant.”
She ducked her head, a blush dusting her cheeks.
Marcus pulled the sheet and coverlet over them. He tilted her chin up, running his thumb over the delicate curve of her jawline. Despite her newfound enthusiasm, he heard the reticence that still lingered in her voice. She wasn’t ready… not yet. And he wanted to be careful of her feelings.
He didn’t know how it had happened, that her needs and her feelings had become more important than his own.
That this lady had come to mean so much to him.
Drawing her into his arms, he finally answered her question. “Yes, there’s more,” he whispered, rubbing one hand up and down her back. “There’s this.”
He kneaded and caressed her muscles until she closed her eyes on a sigh. Even after her breathing relaxed into the slow, even patterns of sleep, Marcus still held her close.
And wondered how much time with her would ever be enough.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth wasn’t sure how long she had slept when she felt Marcus kiss her awake, but she was still curled on her side beneath the covers, her body still tingling in all the most sensitive places. Opening one eye, she saw that it was dark out, the room illuminated only by moonlight. Thin swirls of smoke rose from the oil lamps that flanked the bed, revealing that he had just extinguished them.
“Wake up, sleepy lady.” He bent down and nuzzled her cheek. “It’s time for us to go.”
“Mmm,” she murmured, letting her head sink back down into the pillows, sighing when he placed a delicious little kiss on her bare shoulder. Her logical side knew that he was right. They had taken an awful chance staying as long as they had. But another side of her was reluctant to leave. Once, she had feared sharing any sort of physical intimacy with Marcus, but now…
Now he had chased away those fears, brought light and warmth to the dark corners of her memory where Geoffrey had lurked so long.
“Up you go.” Tugging the covers gradually downward, Marcus dusted kisses over her elbow, then her hip. “Before the innkeeper stops thinking about the joys of hosting royalty—and starts thinking about the joys of collecting payment.”
Elizabeth sat up, grumbling in protest, pushing her tangled hair out of her eyes. His gaze lingered over her nakedness before she belatedly thought to cover herself with the sheet.
Flashing her a devilish grin, he finished buttoning his shirt as he walked over to the dining table. She couldn’t help noticing that he looked achingly handsome, fresh from bed—with his hair still mussed from sleep, a shadow of a beard darkening his jaw, his shirt hanging loose over his breeches.
She found her gaze drawn to the snug fit of those breeches, the muscular shape of his backside. Her cheeks turned scarlet at the direction of her thought
s. Never had she noticed such things before. Oh Lawks, spending just one night—or rather, one day—in bed with Marcus had had quite an unexpected effect on her.
She had gone to sleep a perfectly rational sort of person and woken up a wanton.
An unrepentant wanton, she decided with a devilish grin of her own, seeing no reason to direct her attention elsewhere.
Digging through the covers, while enjoying the view, she found the loose white shirt she had worn to bed and slipped it on.
Marcus helped himself to the remnants of their meal from the table, stacking a scrap of each item that was left—veal, chicken, roast beef, cheese—on a piece of stale bread.
Elizabeth blinked as she began buttoning her shirt. “You’re actually going to eat that?”
He paused with his snack halfway to his mouth. “The food is still perfectly good.” He wolfed it down in three bites and followed it by finishing the last of the tavern punch, after which he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Watching him eat, she shook her head. “My lord,” she said, her grin widening, “I believe the past ten years may have worn away a bit of your aristocratic polish.”
“Entirely possible,” he said around a mouthful of apricot tart, without a hint of regret. He carried the other remaining tart over to her. “Breakfast?”
“Thank you. Though it’s more like supper. What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty.” He sat on the bed beside her while she ate. “Elizabeth, before we go…” His voice turned serious. “We have matters of importance to discuss.”
After finishing the tart, she finished buttoning up her shirt. “Which matters?”
“Our plans for London.” He reached out to brush a crumb from her chin. “And the Fair.”
She arched one eyebrow. “What about the Fair?”
“I’ve decided that you shouldn’t go.”
“You’ve decided… what?”
“Before you get angry,” he said evenly, “think it through. There is no logical reason for you to be there. You are hopeless with a gun—and that shipment is going to have more guards than an heir apparent on Coronation Day. You’ll only succeed in getting yourself killed.”
“Marcus…” She searched his dark eyes. “Don’t you understand? I can’t sit idly by and let myself be dependent on a man, any man. Not even you. I need to vanquish my own demons.”
“I’m not asking you to be dependent on me.” He reached for her hand and threaded their fingers together. “I thought perhaps we could depend on each other.”
Elizabeth felt a warm wave of pleasure unfurl within her. He did understand. And he did care for her, the irresistible, aristocratic scoundrel.
She looked down at their linked hands resting on the sheet that was still tangled around her. What he was suggesting was entirely new to her… and undeniably appealing. “I like the idea of the two of us depending on each other. But I can’t let you face all the danger alone—”
“We agreed that danger and firearms are my responsibility, remember? There’s no need for you to risk your life by taking part in the actual theft. I’ll secure the gold and deliver your half to you after the Fair. Montaigne will be finished… as will any and all demons.”
Elizabeth drew her knees up to her chest. She understood that he was trying to protect her, and why that was important to him. And she knew that he cared about her.
Would it be so terrible to do as he asked? To rely on his strength and courage and cleverness to see them through the worst of this?
Perhaps she could compromise, just a bit. “If I were to stay away from the Fair,” she said tentatively, brushing her thumb over his bruised knuckles, “I would still want to help with our plan.”
He looked surprised at her acquiescence, and more than a little relieved. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, to start with, we don’t know enough about exactly how, where, or when the gold is to be brought in. I could find out.”
Wariness replaced the relief in Marcus’s eyes. “And how do you plan to do that?”
“I could meet with Montaigne.”
“No,” he said flatly. “It would never work. He knows you.”
“He knew me as Elizabeth Thornhill, not as Lady Barnes-Finchley. I could wear heavy cosmetics and a wig. Nell could help me. Montaigne would never recognize me as the poor, disheveled woman he condemned to Fleet—”
“I don’t like it.”
“I’m agreeing to stay away from the Fair. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Elizabeth kept her voice calm and tried to make him see reason. “This sort of thing was my responsibility, if I recall—dancing, gossip, gathering information? I’ll convey whatever I discover to you, and you can carry out the actual robbery. I’ll arrange a second assignation with Montaigne to keep him occupied while you’re stealing the gold.”
Marcus clenched his jaw. “It’s too dangerous.”
“It won’t be nearly as dangerous as attacking a heavily guarded coach,” she said in exasperation.
“I don’t want you in any danger, Elizabeth.” His voice became gruff. “You’re… important to me.”
Elizabeth felt another wave of warmth sweep through her. It was the closest he had ever come to declaring his affections. “Montaigne will never know that I’m me,” she assured him quietly. “And would you rather have me involved in drawing room conversation or gunfire?”
Marcus let go of her hand with a sound of frustration and stood, turning away from the bed. He stalked over to the hearth… where he found the rest of her clothes still lying in a heap, next to the chair where they had shared such extraordinary bliss, only hours ago.
He stared down at the masculine garments, his broad shoulders rising and falling as if he were breathing hard, struggling with his decision.
Then he picked up her discarded breeches, waistcoat, and frock coat and returned to the bed, holding them out to her. “I’ll want you to carry a gun—a loaded gun. No arguments. I will not send you to meet with Montaigne unarmed.”
Blinking in surprise, she took her clothes from him. “Shall I take that as an acceptance?”
“Let me make certain I understand all of this correctly.” He paced over to the window while she dressed. “You’ll gather the information, I’ll steal the gold, we’ll each take our half… and then we’ll go our separate ways.”
Elizabeth felt a sharp pang when he said go our separate ways. “That’s… always been our plan,” she said softly, wriggling into her breeches.
He folded his arms, glaring out at the moon. “And what do you intend to do after you’ve filled up the coffers of this charity of yours? Have you given any thought to that?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.” Tucking in her shirt, she laced up the breeches. “Lady Barnes-Finchley is going to have a sudden religious conversion. She’ll donate all her worldly goods to the London Women and Children’s Trust and retire to the country.” She shrugged into her waistcoat. “Blackerby Swift will become just another legend, never to be heard from again.”
Marcus turned to face her. “And what about you?” he asked, the intensity of his voice matched by his gaze. “What about Elizabeth Thornhill?”
“I…” She swallowed hard. It made her feel swoony when he looked at her that way. Every time. “I-I’ve made plans with Georgiana and Nell. Our bank in London will manage the Trust, while we…” She cleared her throat. “We’re going to Spain.”
“Spain?” he echoed blankly.
“Yes.” She got out of bed and began hunting for her shoes and stockings. “My younger sister, Emma, lives there. In a city called Barcelona, on the sea. Her husband is an artist. We… we’re all looking forward to living there.”
Somehow, she wasn’t looking forward to it quite as much as before.
“You intend to leave England? Permanently?”
“Yes.” She located one of her shoes, but couldn’t find the other.
“You’re leaving England?” he repeated incredulously. “To live amo
ng a… gaggle of impoverished artists… in some rustic hovel in Spain?”
She almost laughed. “You make it sound as if I mean to live in a mud hut on a South Seas island with a tribe of cannibals.” She found her other shoe, with both stockings in it, and sat on the bed to put them on. “I gather you believe that England and the English are superior to any other country and people?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “England is the greatest country in the known world. The most powerful, the most advanced, the most civilized—”
“I take back what I said before.” She sighed, feeling a twinge of something like sadness. “A bit of your polish may have been worn away, my lord, but you are still very much an English aristocrat.” Standing, she pulled on her frock coat. “And what of your plans? After you purchase all of your magnificent estates… what then?”
He grabbed his gleaming boots from where they sat near the foot of the bed. “Then I will do what I must to make sure that the heritage passed down to me by past generations continues.” Yanking on his boots, he located his frock coat slung over a chair. “Once Montaigne is ruined, I’ll force him to clear my name, in all the newspapers, and tell the truth about the way he deceived and destroyed my father and so many others. Then I’ll begin working to restore the Worthington family to our rightful place in the peerage, starting with…”
“What?” she asked when he didn’t finish.
“Starting with…” He hesitated again. “An advantageous marriage.” He winced as he pulled on the coat over his wounded arm. “My plan has always included a bride from one of England’s most elite families.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth regarded him in silence for a moment, because she couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat. “You made a plan for that as well. Yes, of course you would. I-I believe you mentioned once that the Darkridge earls have always had a talent for making advantageous marriages—”
“Elizabeth—”
“It’s… quite brilliant, actually. An ideal way to secure your family’s place, and carry on the Worthington line. Perfectly pragmatic, as matches among the gentry always seem to be. Yes, marriage to a lady of fine breeding from a titled family is exactly what you’ll need.”
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