The old door creaked as she pushed it open. The heat from a blazing fireplace engulfed her. The heavy scent of roses perfumed the air. Candles illuminated every corner of the room, decimating the shadows, and flickering light played rainbows across a crystal decanter beside the bed.
The bed. With widened eyes, Dillian stared at the bed. The marquess waited there, lounging—fully clothed— upon pillows she had gathered from all over the house. He had his boots crossed over the wine satin bedcover she had found in an old trunk. The candlelight didn’t completely erase the shadows created by his strong cheekbones, but she could see the glitter of obsidian eyes from beneath dark curls. He had one arm crossed over his elegant frock coat, propping up the other, which held a fluted glass to his lips. He appeared as frozen as she felt, and she daringly closed the door behind her.
“I’m giving you a chance to reconsider your offer,” he said finally, swinging the glass between his fingers.
* * * *
Gavin attempted to feel as cold as he sounded, but he had too much wine in him. He blamed it on the wine even though his loins tightened at just the sight of the seductive sway of the lady’s hips as she took a hesitant step. In that ancient high-waisted gown, she was all curves instead of the slender stick of today’s fashion. Some lower part of his mind taunted him with how those curves would feel in his hands even as his conscience strove to warn her of the treacherous shoals ahead. There could never be more between them than lust, and for all he knew, that could all be on his part and the result of long abstinence.
He had spent this past day and night fighting his ridiculous urge to protect her, to keep her from throwing herself away on someone as worthless as himself. He’d finally lost that battle, but still his conscience demanded he warn her. That she showed no sign of repulsion even though he’d made certain she could see him fully for the kind of man he was made him admire her even more. Or desire her even more. He was beyond the ability to differentiate.
He wanted her with every aching fiber of his body. Something deep inside his mind continued screaming at him to remember who she was, but it made no difference any longer. He recognized her as a well-bred English lady despite her appearance. He also saw her as a woman with the immense generosity and intelligence to see beyond his scarred face to something in him even he no longer believed existed. She obviously thought him a man of character, one worthy of her trust.
He was about to prove her wrong. “I don’t think you fully understand the consequences of your offer.”
“More than likely not,” she answered.
Her voice sounded slightly huskier than usual. Gavin couldn’t decide if she looked terrified or delighted. He’d made certain she could see him, knew fully what she would have to look at when she woke in the morning, but she didn’t tear her gaze away as other women did.
“You can turn around and walk out now, or start removing your clothes,” he answered without any gallantry at all.
These last twenty-four hours had been pure hell. He couldn’t summon any more gallantry. The fool woman had no clue what she asked of him. He’d have to make her see it before they went too far or before either of them developed any more sentimental notions.
Still, the possibility that she accepted this as mere lust kept the heat rising. Gavin wanted her so much he could taste it. He needed her. Hell, he needed a woman, period. It just so happened this one appealed to his more prurient instincts.
Beneath his glare, she hesitated. Then dropping the robe over a nearby chair, she slowly raised her hand to the bone button at her low-cut neckline. Gavin watched with fascination as the button slid from its hole. He turned the empty wineglass to his lips and kept his gaze fastened on her as she undid the second button.
She’d accepted his challenge and prepared to face him down. This was one battle he didn’t mind losing. Something in his gut clenched as the third and fourth buttons fell open, and he glimpsed something white and lacy beneath.
He could see far more than that from this vantage point. She didn’t have the winter white skin of so many women in this country. The flesh rising above those lacy undergarments swelled with a creamy richness he wanted to lick. He told himself he should have eaten more dinner, that his always ravenous hunger needed appeasing, but he didn’t have a taste for roast pork tonight. He wanted cream. Already, she’d won the battle. Or lost, whichever the case might be. His conscience disappeared entirely beneath the boiling tide of his desire.
Dillian hesitated again before reaching for the long slender sleeves, and Gavin heard himself growling with impatience. This time, he thought he detected uncertainty and a moment’s trepidation before she rolled off the sleeve. Good. Let the little witch have second thoughts. And third.
But the moment those sleeves slid off her fingers, he forgot even those few good intentions. The chemise beneath the bodice barely concealed the full rising curves of her breasts. Had an artist sculpted a goddess he could not have created more perfect femininity, and no corset supported all that wealth of loveliness. It was entirely natural. Gavin’s fingers itched to touch.
Motionless, he continued watching as she pushed the dress from her hips. It puddled on the floor, leaving her clad only in the skimpy chemise and stockings. He could see right through the thin material where the firelight silhouetted the juncture of her legs. She wore no pantalets. Gavin reached to unfasten the flap of his breeches before it cut into his straining flesh.
He had only one last weapon left in his arsenal with which to halt this charade. In a voice hoarse with lust, he demanded, “Do you know how to protect yourself?”
He winced inwardly at her look of startlement, followed by a furious flush from the tips of her ears to the full curves of her breasts, but he didn’t relent. He gazed mercilessly at the hard points of her nipples against thin cloth while waiting for her reply.
“I thought you would know.”
The husky sound of her voice surprised Dillian as much as her reply. As a lady, she shouldn’t know about these things. But she’d absorbed a great deal from her masculine companions over the years, more than they’d ever realized she’d understood. Whores had ways of protecting themselves from the eventual results of their couplings. She’d just never learned what they were.
The thought of creating a child with this man lying here so coldly watching her left a chill in her middle, but she supposed these matters should be attended to. He’d already made it plain he had no wealth to support her. She couldn’t expect him to support a child.
She cringed at his scowl. Her humiliation deepened with his growl.
“I didn’t bargain to teach lessons.” He jerked his head in the direction of the dressing screen in the corner. “I found vinegar in the pantry, but no sponges. I’ll be careful this first time. You can use the vinegar to cleanse yourself afterward. Now, take off the rest of those clothes.”
The heat of his gaze on her skin burned more warmly than the fire, creating an exquisite sensitivity that scorched her like flame. His words completed her humiliation.
She hoped the fire’s light concealed her flush as she reached for the ribbons of her chemise. Her fingers trembled while scraping across newly sensitive skin, arousing her breasts to a heavy ache as she loosed the first ribbon. She’d not thought to stand before him like this, in a full blaze of light. She’d imagined the cover of darkness concealing her sins.
When she glanced up to see the man in the bed unfastening his breeches, she thought she might burst into a pyre of embarrassment, but she couldn’t turn her gaze away.
The part of her mind still functioning told her she must go through with this. She had come this far, surely she could make herself go farther. Miraculously, she had gone beyond humiliation already. The bulge threatening to push the marquess’s breeches open held her fascinated, much as a snake fascinates its intended victim. She had caused that bulge. He couldn’t help himself any more than she could. The notion gave her enough courage to untie the second ribbon and let the che
mise fall.
The filmy material caught on her breasts, and she tugged at it until it dropped to her hips. She watched the involuntary muscle behind his breeches lurch dangerously, and her hand flew to her throat. The touch of her own hand against naked flesh caused another nervous jerk. Gritting her teeth, Dillian tore her gaze away from his breeches and watched the marquess’s eyes. The blatant need there tore her into tatters. He would never let her stop now.
Effingham moved more swiftly than Dillian thought possible. One minute he lay sprawled across the satin covers, the next he unfurled like a striking snake, catching her about the waist, hauling her down on top of him. The chemise fell, unnoticed, to the floor.
Fully uncovered, the male part him pressed hot and heavy between her bare thighs.
Chapter Nineteen
The frill of Effingham’s shirtfront bit into Dillian’s breasts. The buttons of his unfastened breeches pressed into her thighs. None of those material things had as much effect on her senses as the heated flesh pushing between her legs. She couldn’t imagine how this coupling business worked, but this juxtaposition of bodies told her more than she wanted to know. Her first instinct screamed for her to scramble out of this bed and flee.
But then the marquess pulled her mouth down to his, and the sensations of heat and wine and the moist demands of his tongue overpowered all rationality. His hands clenched her bare waist, but the power of his kiss held her more surely than his hands. The urgency of his lips made Dillian feel devoured, needed, desirable. It opened a well of yearning she hadn’t known existed inside her.
A longing to please consumed her. She wanted to know where his kisses led. She wanted things she couldn’t put a name to, so she kissed him back as thoroughly as she knew how, hoping he would teach her, hoping she could satisfy his cravings as well as her own.
The mortification he had imposed on her earlier faded into nothingness. Common sense evaporated. The intoxicating man beneath her became her entire world.
A large hand encompassed her breast, and Dillian gasped at the sensation of being held there. It almost distracted her from the pressure between her thighs— almost, but not enough. She opened her legs wider to kneel more comfortably astride his hips, and his groan matched her own when they came in contact like that. She froze.
The marquess slid his other hand between them, touching her where they connected, and her gaze darted to his. His dark eyes watched her every move, and Dillian suddenly felt very naked, very vulnerable beneath his gaze. He could see right into her soul, but he still wore all his clothes.
The hard control in his voice as he spoke brought her swiftly back to earth.
“I’m going to put the candles out before we burn the house down. If you’re having second thoughts, get out now while you still can. I won’t stop once I come back to this bed.”
Effingham shifted her to one side and stood gracefully, tucking his thickened member behind his breeches as he reached for the nearest candle. Dillian felt cold all over as she watched him walk around the room, coolly snuffing out flames with his fingers. The shadows of darkness followed him, filling up the places the light had conquered.
His shadow loomed ever larger as he passed the fire. From here, he seemed enormous. She had to remember she bedded a monster, a man who despised the society she knew. She had no idea where this would lead other than to eventual abandonment. She must be mad. She ought to heed his warnings and run.
Instead, she pulled the satin covers down and climbed between the cool sheets, clinging to the memories of a lonely, misunderstood man who risked his life for a stranger’s children, a man who could turn back an angry mob without loss of life. Somewhere beneath the guise of beast existed a man who could teach her the ways of love, even if he could not love himself.
The marquess left a single lamp burning as he approached the bed, and Dillian could see he had begun unfastening his shirt. When he drew it over his head and flung it to the floor, she suppressed a gasp. She hadn’t noticed the particularly ragged scar decorating his ribs before.
She thought the gleam in his eye might be sardonic as he reached for the band of his trousers, but she would never totally understand the moods of this man. When he stepped out of the pants, she realized he had just made himself naked for her as she had done for him. He didn’t do it to expose his beauty, however. He did it to expose his ugliness.
She didn’t seek physical beauty. She didn’t know what she sought other than Blanche’s safety. She wanted to cower into the pillows as Effingham kneeled on the bed’s edge, but she wouldn’t let him see fear. That’s what he expected to see. Reaching beyond herself, thinking only of him, Dillian held out her arms and welcomed him to her embrace.
She avoided looking as his manhood stiffened. That part of him still frightened her. But the caress of his fingers on her breast as he lay down beside her thrilled her beyond any joy she had ever experienced. She arched upward for more, and he rewarded her with a slightly one-sided smile. She clung to the bleak look of pain and desire in his eyes, searching for something more, something too deeply hidden for him to reveal.
“You may despise military men, madam, but you’re as brave as any soldier,” he praised her gruffly. “And too trusting by far. Come here. I’ll not wait any longer.”
He frightened her with those words, but Dillian came into the strength of his bare arms as ordered, not knowing the meaning of retreat. Effingham lay beside her and kissed her mouth while caressing her breast. Then, when she relaxed, he bent and took her nipple between his lips.
Dillian nearly arched from his arms as the electricity of that touch shot through her. The marquess growled his approval of this success and moved on to the other breast, caressing the first one with agile fingers until Dillian thought she would melt into a puddle of hot wax. The scent of snuffed candles drifted through the room, mixing with the musky smell of his skin and their combined ardor. The worn sheet rubbed against her back as he pressed her down, but she only noticed the strength of the arms and legs pinning her against the mattress.
The marquess’s lean elegance disguised his sheer physical power. Dillian couldn’t move unless he let her. She raised her arms to the hard curve of his shoulders, and he pressed more kisses to her mouth in return, but they both knew these gentle caresses merely prolonged the inevitable.
The heat of desire throbbed through them in every place flesh touched flesh. When he inserted his knees between her thighs, she stiffened, but he caught her hands between his and bent to kiss her nipples once more. This time, her legs parted of their own accord, to ease the stabbing ache of desire between her thighs.
He held her wrists, covering her mouth with his until she writhed with the depth of his kiss. Her powerlessness made her tense, but then he lifted himself to seduce her breasts once again, and she relaxed, giving herself up to the pleasure. That’s when he impaled her.
Dillian screamed but Gavin’s mouth drowned her cries. He filled her so completely she thought she should surely burst, but he held himself still until her torn tissues adjusted to the invasion. All her stomach muscles pulled taut, protesting his blunt intrusion. He kissed her again, and the warm familiarity of those kisses slowly reassured. When he did no more, Dillian looked up into the whitened scars of his face to see him watching her.
“You’ll regret this one day,” he said somberly, giving recognition to what she had just surrendered. But then he caressed her, and Dillian closed her eyes and let sensation overwhelm thought.
He brought her breasts to peaks of excitement, then moved inside her, until the moisture lubricating them made his thrusts more than bearable. Dillian clung to his muscular upper arms, raised her hips, and felt him shudder with need. This time, he thrust so deeply she thought herself torn asunder. Then he jerked completely from her, and spilled his seed into the sheets.
She felt strangely bereft as he jerked and trembled atop her. She should be grateful that he had taken this precaution, but she felt empty and abandoned, useless s
omehow. Bereft. And soiled.
She wanted to turn away but couldn’t. Effingham held her too firmly pinioned with his weight. She became more aware than ever of the bronzed torso looming over her, of the thin lines of scars that marked his otherwise magnificent chest, of the heavy weight pressing her deep into the mattress.
She felt the heat emanating from him, noted the trail of dark hairs between his flat male nipples down to his navel and beyond. It was difficult to believe that the Dillian Whitnell she knew lay in a naked man’s bed, thoroughly ruined, except she could feel the stickiness of her own blood if she needed proof. She fought back tears of shame. She never looked back and never cried.
He rolled aside but held her down with one strong arm across her breasts. His fingers played with the peaks until she felt that restless stirring within her womb again.
“I thought you had at least some experience,” he muttered roughly.
“I’ve been mauled before,” she answered without thinking of the coldness of this reply. The coldness wasn’t for him, but for the other men who had made her feel as if she were no more than a horse to be petted or whipped as the mood took them. And perhaps it was a little bit for him, for the dissatisfaction she felt right now.
“I didn’t maul you,” he reminded her. “The first time just isn’t pleasant. The necessity for caution didn’t help. I’ll show you how to fit yourself with sponges soaked in vinegar next time. If this is the life you mean to take up, then you should know how to protect yourself.”
She felt humiliated, abased, reduced to a whore off the streets. “There will be no other after you,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Let us keep this to the immediate. Must I use the vinegar now?”
Dillian knew he stared at her, but she couldn’t look at him again. The place between her legs ached abominably. How many more times must she repeat this performance before he grew bored with it?
The Marquess Page 19
