Virtue v-1

by Jane Feather

  Marcus came up behind her. He lifted the massed copper curls from her neck and laid his lips softly on her warm nape. A shudder went through her and he felt again that jolting surge of energy that met and matched his own. His lips moved to the soft vulnerable spot behind her ear, his breath whispering over her skin.

  "My beautiful lynx, I want to see you naked." He drew her backward into the room, turning her to face him, taking her chin between thumb and forefinger. Judith read the brilliant sensual sheen in his eyes, as vibrant with longing as his words, and she felt herself slipping into some half world where the only reality was contained within the powerful surges of her responses. Her need and her hunger were his. She whispered that she wanted his nakedness as he wanted hers, and she ran her flat palm over his cheek, lightly tracing his mouth with her little finger. His hand came up to grasp her wrist, holding her hand steady, and he sucked her probing finger into his mouth, delicately nibbling the tip.

  It was an exquisite sensation. The nerve endings in the tip of her finger seemed to be connected to other parts of her body. Her tongue ran over her own lips and her eyes glowed up at him, the sensual currents as frank and clear as his own.

  "Sweet heaven, but I want you, Judith." His loins were on fire with wanting. "I have to look at you." He lifted her, feeling again her light, tensile muscularity. A true golden-eyed lynx.

  He carried her to the bed and sat her on the edge, dropping to his knees to pull off her boots. He rose and drew her to her feet again. "I'll find it easier to undress you standing up," he said with a smile, kissing the corner of her mouth.

  "I could do it more quickly," Judith offered.

  Marcus shook his head, taking a handful of her hair in each fist, holding her face steady as he kissed her mouth. Her breasts pressed against his chest and she moaned softly beneath his lips. With a sharply in-drawn breath, he released her head. His fingers, swift and deft, moved to her jacket. The buttons flew undone and he pushed the garment off her shoulders with rough haste, before turning his attention to the buttons of her lawn shirt.

  The soft mounds of her breasts, the nipples hard and erect widi desire, disappeared into his warm palms. Judith closed her eyes on a deep shudder of pleasure as his fingertips teased the taut crowns. He ran his hands down the narrow rib cage, feeling the shape of her, the smoothness of her skin, the delineation of her ribs, until he spanned her waist. He took a step backward and looked at her, bared to the waist for his hungry gaze, her hair lustrous against the whiteness of her skin, her breasts moving gently with her swift breath.

  She smiled, a deep, self-absorbed smile, her eyes hooded as she ran her own hands over her bared breasts in offering. "Take your skirt off," he rasped.

  She unfastened the hooks at the back of her skirt, sliding her hands into the loosened waistband, easing the garment over her hips, until it slithered to her ankles. She stood in front of him, clad only in her thin cambric petticoat. Putting his hands on her hips, he turned her. Judith shivered at his touch, at the warm imprint of his hands through the thin material. He ran a flat finger down her spine, feeling her skin ripple. Holding her shoulders, he bent his head and his tongue followed the path of his finger, a hot, moist stroke that brought a low moan to Judith's lips. She tried to keep still, but her feet shifted restlessly on the wooden floor.

  The button at the waist of her petticoat came undone and the garment slipped to her ankles. Marcus ran his hands in a lingering caress over the curve of her hips, the firm rise of her buttocks, the supple slenderness of her thighs. Then, with his hands on her hips, he turned her around to face him.

  Again stepping backward, he took in her body, from the tip of the burnished head to the toes of her still-stockinged feet. Lacy garters banded her thighs, just above the knee, and he decided he would leave them there. There was something rather wonderfully wicked about them, something that went with the essential Judith he thought he was beginning to know.

  "So beautiful," he said. "As beautiful as in my wildest imaginings."

  Judith stepped toward him, reaching her arms around his neck, pressing her nakedness against the slight roughness of his coat, feeling the smooth leather of his britches against her thighs. Her head fell back, offering him the porcelain column of her throat, her hair cascading in a burnished river over her shoulders, her loins pressed hard against him in a gesture as eloquent as any words of arousal.

  "Dear God, Judith," he whispered, cupping her buttocks and lifting her against him. "Dear God, lynx. What are you doing to me?" He took a step to the bed and let her fall onto the coverlet. He stood looking down at her for a second, then began to throw off his own clothes.

  Judith watched. She gazed with a predator's lustful greed as the powerful, athletic body was revealed. When he shrugged out of his shirt, she dwelled on the broad chest, lightly dusted with dark curls, the narrow waist, and then stared with uninhibited curiosity as he unfastened his belt and pushed off his britches; a concave belly, slim hips, long muscular legs, the hard, erect evidence of his arousal… He turned to throw his britches on the chair, revealing taut-muscled buttocks, and she drew in a sharp breath, her body stirring on the coverlet.

  He came down to the bed, stretching himself beside her, kissing the soft pulse at the base of her throat as he caressed her belly, tickled a fingertip in her navel, inhaling the scents of her body. He touched the line of her body, from below her ear to her hip, feeling the tender curves, the deep indentations, and she moaned beneath his hand, whispering his name. His mouth moved to her breasts, his teeth lightly grazing her nipples, and Judith was awash in sensation, the liquid fullness in her loins a near unendurable urgency. Shifting her body, she felt his hardness against her thigh and reached down to take the turgid, ridged flesh in her hand, feeling the blood pulsing strongly against her palm. It was a curious and wonderful sensation as she curled her fingers around him, enclosing him in a warm grip.

  Marcus groaned softly under the knowing caress, and his tongue trailed a moist and fiery path over her belly. She opened her thighs in sudden demand, still caressing his flesh, her fingers now conveying an acute urgency in their tips.

  "Such impatience," he whispered, slipping a hand beneath her, his fingers closing like pincers over the firm, sweet flesh of her buttocks. "Slow down, sweetheart." He pinched just hard enough to pierce the self-enclosed trance of her need and her eyes opened, focusing fully on the face hanging over her. "You'll have me over the edge in a minute," he said, smiling. "And that would be a great pity for both of us."

  She nodded in fierce understanding, clenching the cheek of her captured backside against his fingers.

  Marcus moved his hand, flipping her onto her stomach. And now his lips were cool, his breath warm, erasing the marks of his fingers on the imprisoned flesh. His hand slid between her thighs, delicately probing, opening the soft swollen petals, feeling her warm readiness. She opened to his touch, moving her body backward against his hand, her little whimpers of pleasure filling the room.

  "Turn over now," he said softly, moving his hand, kissing the nape of her neck. "I want to look into your eyes when I'm a part of you."

  She rolled onto her back and gazed up at him through half-closed eyes. "I cannot describe how I feel." It seemed to both of them the first time she'd spoken in an eternity, and her voice sounded to Judith rusty and thick from disuse.

  Marcus kissed her again, his pleasure in her pleasure glowing in his eyes as he eased himself between her legs with a low sibilant murmur of fulfillment. She felt the press of his manhood against the cleft of her body and instinctively tightened against him. Surprise skimmed his eyes, and then he touched her again with his hand, and her body surged against him, her legs lifting to receive him as he pressed within her, her heels gripping his buttocks with a wild urgency. Too late he became aware of her tightness, of the thin membrane momentarily barring his entrance. And then he was deep within her, his body a part of hers, and the tears glittered in her eyes, but her lips were parted on an exultant little c
ry and she was moving with his rhythm and the full force of Napoleon's Imperial Guard couldn't have stopped either of them then.

  A look of astonishment appeared in her eyes, her head fell back, her throat arching, and her legs curled around his waist, pulling him into the cleft of her body. With a supreme effort of will, he held himself still, glorying in her velvet warmth as her climax surged around him. He wanted to stay forever on the precipice, reveling in the feel of her, the grip of her body around him, but the deep spiraling urgency could not be controlled. With a sharp stab of loss, he forced himself to withdraw from the tight sheath in which she held him, gathering her against him as his own climax throbbed.

  "Sweet heaven." Judith gasped. "What a wondrous thing."

  Marcus fell back on the bed beside her, his eyes tightly closed, and for a long minute he didn't say anything. Then finally he asked in a curiously flat voice, "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Tell you what?"

  He rolled over, propping himself on an elbow. "That you were a virgin." His gaze fell on the bright blood smearing her thighs as she lay sprawled in wanton abandonment beside him. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" he demanded, his eyes hard as the shared glory of that union was abruptly tarnished by a wash of guilt and confusion.

  "Did you think I wasn't?" she asked.

  "How could I think you were? You behaved like an experienced woman. How could I possibly have imagined you to be still virtuous?"

  "Does it matter?" Judith sat up, unease puncturing her euphoria.

  "Of course it matters." He fell back on the pillows again. "I don't make a habit of deflowering virgins."

  "But we only did what we both wanted." She was genuinely puzzled. "Nothing happened that wasn't supposed to happen."

  He looked at her closely. "No," he said slowly. "Perhaps that's true. Nothing happened that wasn't supposed to happen."

  There was an edge to the flat statement that was as

  confusing to Judith as it was dismaying. She slid off the bed and went to the dresser, pouring water from the ewer into the basin. "You sound angry. I don't seem to understand why." She squeezed a cloth in water and sponged her thighs. "How have I upset you?"

  Marcus stared up at the flowered canopy, trying to sort out the raging confusion in his brain. Perhaps he was wronging her. Why would she have contrived such a happening? And surely not even the most consummate actress could have faked her passion, her need, her fulfillment?

  "Come to bed," he said. "It's well past dawn and we need to sleep."

  "But won't you explain?" She came across to the bed, her eyes huge with tiredness and a distress that he would swear was genuine. With a wash of remorse, he reached up and drew her down beside him.

  "Tristesse de I'amour, "he said gently. "Forgive me. It happens sometimes, and you did take me by surprise. I feel a little guilty, but it'll fade after a few hours' sleep. Close your eyes now." He closed her eyelids with his fingertips, stroking her cheek until he felt her relax against him, yielding anxiety to the soft billows of exhaustion.

  Judith breathed deeply of the sweat tang of his skin and the lingering perfume of their loving as she slipped into unconsciousness. The whole business was so new to her it was no wonder it had some puzzling aspects.

  She awoke to a rumbling, booming roar. For a moment she lay, disoriented, aware of the contours of an unfamiliar bed, staring up at the muslin canopy. Then memory rushed back and she sat bolt upright. "Whatever is that noise?"

  "Guns." Marcus was standing at the window. He

  had on his britches and was in the act of putting on his shirt. "The battle has been joined."

  "What time is it?"

  "Four o'clock." He turned to the bed. Judith was an artless yet bewitchingly wanton sight, sitting up, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, the sheet tangled around her thighs. He remembered the abandonment of her responses, the wild and glorious honesty of her desire. Honest… except that she hadn't told him of her innocence, had left him to discover it when it was too late for control or caution. But perhaps that was part of the openness of her response; she genuinely hadn't given it a second thought in the blind world of arousal. She was an adventuress, after all. He allowed doubt and confusion to fade and enjoyed the sight of her as she blinked and shook her head in some bemusement, struggling to come back to the bright world of daytime reality.

  "We've slept the day away," she said finally.

  "So it would seem." He crossed the room and bent to kiss her. "How do you feel?"

  Judith took stock. "A little sore," she said, after due consideration.

  He winced and said wryly, "I did ask, I suppose. There's hot water in the ewer. But how do you feel in yourself?" His voice was serious, telling her he wanted an equally serious answer.

  "Wonderful," she declared. "Virginity is a much overprized condition." She smiled up at him. "Why were you worried about it last night? There's no need to feel guilty; you weren't responsible."

  Marcus frowned. "Of course I was responsible." He caught a tangled ringlet and twisted it around his finger. "Things happened very fast… perhaps too fast."

  "Oh, I don't know," she said, putting her head on one side. "I rather thought it was a very leisurely business."

  Marcus gave up trying to persuade her to feel badly about something she clearly didn't regret in the least. Any regrets he might have would fade soon enough. It was done now, and there was nothing to hinder the progress of this liaison. Indeed, if it wasn't for the sound of cannon and the knowledge of what that meant, not to mention his own very empty belly, he'd be back in bed with her in a trice.

  He laughed and pulled the sheet away from her legs. "Get up! Shameless wanton! I'm going belowstairs in search of an extremely delayed luncheon."

  "Good, because I am starving. Are we going on to Quatre Bras, then?"

  He was, but he had no intention of taking Judith into the theater of war. However, that tussle could wait on a full stomach. "As soon as possible. I'll be needed at Wellington's headquarters. I should have arrived there last night, but I daresay I'll think of some excuse other than the truth: that I was delayed by delight." He chuckled and drew the heavy, gold signet ring from his finger. "You had better wear this while you're here, for appearance's sake. Madame Berthold is sure to notice such an absence."

  "Yes, of course. I hadn't thought," she said, slipping the ring on her finger. "It's a bit big, but I can hold it on." She poured water from the ewer into the basin.

  Marcus stood transfixed by the door, watching the matter-of-fact manner in which she sponged her body. His loins stirred anew and, with a muttered oath, he fled the webs of enchantment and went down to the taproom that served as parlor and dining room.

  "Oh, there you are, my lord. I was just explaining to these officers that we had a benighted gentleman and his wife as guests." Madame Berthold, the innkeeper's wife, looked up from the keg of ale from which she was drawing foaming tankards. She looked frightened. "The battle has begun, my lord. All day we've been waiting for the sound of the guns, only it didn't start till but an hour or two past. Boney's been delaying his attack, these gentlemen say."

  "Carrington, good God, man, what brings you here?"

  Marcus silently swore every oath he knew as he recognized the Dragoon officer and his two companions, lounging against the bar counter. "I'm on my way to Wellington's headquarters, Francis." He stepped into the room, nodding at the other men. "Whitby, George. Good day."

  Colonel, Lord Francis Tallent, looked at his old friend with a suddenly arrested expression. "Wife?"

  "We all have our secrets, Francis," Marcus said casually. His friends would draw the correct conclusion and discreetly drop the subject. A man's amorous adventures were his own concern. He turned to the innkeeper's wife. "Could you have a nuncheon taken abovestairs, ma-dame?"

  "And would your good lady like a dish of tea with that, sir, or perhaps a glass of sherry?" The woman bobbed a curtsy, looking helpful.

  "Oh, there's no need to wait upo
n me. I can perfectly well be served in the taproom. I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse."

  Judith Davenport swept smiling into the room. She was still putting up her hair as she walked, blind fingers twisting the ringlets into a knot, pushing in securing pins. She wore no jacket and her lawn blouse was carelessly opened at the neck, her breasts lifted by her upraised arms. "Marcus, I was thinking…" Her voice died as she took in the room's other inhabitants, all of whom had turned the color of beetroot. Her hands dropped to her sides.

  Had she heard the voices? How could she not have heard them as she came down the stairs? The world spun on its axis as Marcus faced what had happened and its immutable consequence. He'd once found a poacher caught in the steel jaws of a man trap. His sick horror at the man's plight was what he now felt for himself as the vicious jaws of his own trap clamped. He had no choice… no choice whatsoever. Adventuress she may be, but he'd taken her virginity and knew she was no whore… not unless he made her one.

  "You know my wife, of course, Francis," he said. He crossed to the door and took her hand, drawing her into the room. "My dear, are you also acquainted with Viscount Whitby and George Bannister?"

  "We have met, I believe," Judith replied distractedly, her head spinning as she took in the disaster. These men were all prominent members of London Society. The story of this encounter would be on everyone's lips and she'd never be able to enter the hallowed portals of the ton… and neither would her brother. And her father would go unavenged. Marcus's fabrication was her only protection at the moment, and she had to go along with it until she could think things through clearly.

  "Devil take it, Marcus, but you're a dark horse!" Francis exclaimed. "Secrets, eh? Pray accept my congratulations, Lady Carrington."

  "Yes, indeed. This calls for a bottle," Bannister announced. "My good woman, champagne."

  "Well, I don't know as we've got any, sir," the flustered woman said. "I'll go and ask Berthold." She hastened out of the room and a short silence fell. The puzzlement of the other men was evident, although they were trying politely to disguise it.