Deliberate cruelty was the only way to protect them both. Once she understood this relationship had no future, he could offer her the small kindnesses he would offer a mistress. Until then he would obliterate any small hope she might harbor that he could offer her more. He should never have bedded a virgin. They mixed up emotions with lust.
Gavin tried not to feel guilty about those thoughts as he removed his clothes. She was twenty-five years of age, long past marriageable. She knew what she was doing. She benefited as much as he, maybe more so, from this arrangement. He had no reason to feel guilty over what was, after all, a business transaction. He didn’t exactly bed a child.
But his ability to rationalize flew out the window the instant Dillian emerged from behind the screen wearing nothing but the silk robe she had carried in the prior night. Her nut brown curls clung to her pale cheeks. Her devastatingly blue eyes filled her face. And the white silk clung to every ample curve. Gavin drew her forward, pulling the robe aside and filling his hand with her breast. She shuddered, but the nipple puckered obligingly.
“Thank you,” he muttered, assaulted by too many senses to say more before he bent and took that enticing plum into his mouth.
Her moan fed his needs. He eased her back against the bed. Her robe fell open, and he plucked her nipples into readiness. She raised her legs of her own accord, circling his hips to bring him close. The silk still rubbed between them, hindering his access to the heat of his goal. Gavin swiped the soft material away, positioned himself carefully, and thrust forward so quickly she bucked off the bed, taking him deeper than he thought possible.
Not until he’d rode her hard and spilled his seed deep inside her and began to harden again did he realize the trap he’d set for himself.
He’d found the only woman in the kingdom who could look on his grotesqueness without flinching, and he had turned her into a whore. She would never look on him with anything but hatred from now on. She would leave him the first chance she found. And he would be right back where he started again.
Gavin closed his mind against the image of long lonely nights tossing on the couch in his study, not considering them while he held the solution in his arms.
Dillian struggled as he surged against her again, but Gavin subdued her easily enough. She was as ripe as he was willing. They’d take what pleasure they could from that. Her shudders of ecstasy from their last joining still engulfed them.
* * * *
Dillian lay still against the sweat-dampened sheets, absorbing the sensation of a man’s heavy leg entrapping hers. She could feel his heartbeat and heard the sound of his even breathing. Those elemental signs of life stirred something deep within her, something she had to deny before the tear creeping down her cheek became a flood.
She would prefer denying the alien sponge, but she could feel the heavy flow of his seed against her thigh and understood its necessity. In just this brief time she had come to accept the naturalness of Gavin’s body inside hers.
Her womb grew taut and ready just thinking of him. She even understood now why women had children. She could easily dream up fantasies of taming the beast, revealing the gentle man inside.
Turning her head, she traced the pale scars of his jaw, knowing the damage went deeper than his skin, wanting to believe she could heal it. She ached with a longing for completeness she’d never known before.
He didn’t want any part of the stable relationship she craved. Dillian’s fantasies snapped back to the dark corners of her mind, where they belonged.
The marquess thought of her only as a vessel to ease his needs. He had made that more than clear. The sponge offered concrete proof of his intent. Its presence sickened her. If she thought too long about it, her own cooperation in this charade would sicken her.
She shoved Gavin’s leg away and felt him stir, but she rolled from the bed before he could reach for her again. For her own peace of mind, they would have to establish some rules here. He couldn’t just haul her into any available room and attack her like that again.
She slipped behind the dressing screen and rid herself of the abomination before scrubbing thoroughly, using the vinegar douche. She wished desperately for some of Blanche’s perfumed water, then vowed to have it before she committed this act again.
Gavin sat bare-chested with his back against the pillows when Dillian emerged from behind the screen, fully dressed. His powerful shoulders silhouetted against the white linen made her pulse race madly but she fought her more primitive instincts—a trifle difficult while her gaze kept straying to the dark trail of fur on his chest.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” she warned. “Even a whore deserves more respect than that.”
She saw nothing in his eyes, only the mocking expression of his scarred features as he carefully regarded her.
“What does respect have to do with anything?” he asked coldly. “We both had an itch, and we satisfied it. Or is that the problem? Did I not satisfy you enough?”
Dillian reached for the first thing that came to hand— the vase of roses on the dresser. Water drenched the rug as both vase and petals splattered dead center on his chest. Before he could even react to the first volley, she followed it with the brass candlestick, the ivory hairbrush, the Dresden figurine, and a half-dozen crystal, nearly empty perfume decanters. All bounced near or on the pillows and bed as her target leapt—roaring— from the sheets.
Dillian didn’t linger to hear his furious diatribe. Pulling back the chair blocking her exit, she escaped to the hall, slamming the door behind her. The satisfying crash rattled any remaining pictures on the wall.
Chapter Twenty-one
“If Dillian is to go about in society, she must have gowns,” Blanche announced decisively. “She will protest, but you must see that she goes to my modiste. Madame will accept my credit.”
“I would rather see her strung to the rafters,” Gavin muttered, pacing the room with fists clenched, occasionally glancing out the window at the rapidly fading day.
“We must find a tailor for you, and you will need the carriage,” Michael added, apparently enjoying the sight of his brother’s discomfort. “A marquess cannot walk to society functions.”
“The carriage is little more than a rattling heap of junk,” Gavin fumed.
“Where will you stay?” Blanche asked. “Dillian must stay in my townhouse, but that would not be at all appropriate for you.”
“I have friends.” Still growling, Gavin paced the length of the chamber once more. He bristled with energy and frustration.
“Mellon,” Michael said knowingly. “The earl never uses his house. Excellent idea. Gives you credibility.”
“I don’t want credibility. I want this over. I detest this invasion of my privacy. I have no inclination for skulking about glittering ballrooms for the amusement of London.”
Blanche drifted from her seat and placed a placating hand on his chest. “You have been more than kind, my lord. I cannot begin to offer you all the gratitude I feel. I know this is a tremendous imposition. If I could think of any other way around it, I would gladly do so. But people’s lives may depend on your actions. I cannot jeopardize my households by appearing in public. Dillian is very clever. She will find a way to complete this mission quickly.”
Gavin’s eyes blazed at this mention of the dragon lady who blew hot and cold and sometimes both at the same time. “She’d best, or I’ll trade her to the duke for the papers.”
Blanche smiled and patted him lightly. “Dillian is difficult, but she will grow on you, you’ll see.”
“It’s almost dark. Where is the fair lady?” Michael raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Pulling wings off butterflies, I expect. I’ll tell Mac to bring the carriage around. If she doesn’t appear, I’ll let her find her own way.”
The marquess stormed out, obviously relieved to escape the box they held him in. Michael and Blanche exchanged glances as she removed her scarf.
“Is he always so temperame
ntal?” she asked hesitantly.
“Only when he’s frothing at the bit. Your cousin must be keeping him on a tight rein.”
“Dillian? She most always avoids men. The marquess isn’t one to molest a lady, is he? Upon occasion some of my friends have tried, and she’s cut them extremely cruelly. If there is any chance that...”
Michael waved her to silence. “Let them fight their own battles. Gavin’s avoided women these last few years. No doubt any woman makes him uncomfortable.”
Blanche blinked and regarded him carefully. “And you? Do you avoid women, too? You only linger long enough in my company to teach me amusing tricks, then you disappear again.”
He dug his hands into his pockets and shifted uncomfortably as he stared at the window instead of at her. “A footman has no business in a lady’s chamber. I’ll see that our hero and the she-devil get off properly.”
Blanche’s grimaced as O’Toole quickly followed the marquess, leaving her to her own devices.
Biting her bottom lip, she gazed consideringly at the wardrobe hiding the secret passage. Idleness did not become her. She could see in the dark. Her hands had healed enough to use them a little. Why should she be the only one left sitting here?
* * * *
With Mac driving the ancient barouche, Gavin clung to the overhead strap inside and glared at the woman on the bench across from him. She had wrapped herself thoroughly in an old shawl and pointedly gazed out the window, although darkness made all but the most distinctive shapes impossible to discern.
Before the war—before a pointless fight had turned his handsome visage into a caricature of itself—Gavin would have coaxed and wheedled Dillian into laughing. He knew how to turn a lady up sweet.
Heaven only knew, he and Michael had survived on the kindnesses of ladies often enough. He couldn’t do that anymore. Perhaps he had grown rusty. Perhaps whatever charm he had once possessed grew hard from lack of use.
He saw himself back then as a feckless, useless piece of baggage. He didn’t consider himself much more these days, but he didn’t pretend to be more than he was, either. He didn’t have it in him to offer sweet words, charm, or tenderness.
But Dillian’s silence disturbed him. Her senseless attack earlier had infuriated him, but life was too short for holding grudges. He had said something, done something, that had gone against the grain. He understood that much, even if he didn’t quite understand what he had said or done.
Women had odd principles. Gavin could accept that. But he couldn’t accept this stony silence between them.
Admittedly, now that she had released his ruthlessly suppressed desires, his main interest centered on getting her back in his bed again. He wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t think of the immense pleasure she had brought him and crave more of it.
He didn’t think he’d ever felt anything quite so good in all his days of philandering. But part of the joy had come from the fact that he knew he had given her the same pleasure she had given him. He’d thought they’d actually had an understanding of sorts. Dillian’s withdrawal now displeased him if only because it proved him wrong.
The carriage hit a particularly rough rut, jostling them both in their seats. Dillian grabbed for the strap but made no comment. She released the edge of her shawl to hold on, and the heavy material sagged, revealing her lovely breasts straining against the ridiculously out-of-fashion gown. Gavin had some fond memories of those creamy globes. He had no desire to be denied access to them.
“I understand making love in a moving carriage is a provocative experience,” he suggested idly. Just saying the words aroused him. He could imagine her kneeling over his lap with her skirts pulled up around her. He bit back a groan as his flesh grew stiff against his trouser seam.
“You wish to retrieve the vinegar and sponges from the valise?” she asked icily.
Since the valise rode on the outside of the carriage, it would require stopping Mac and answering a great number of ridiculous questions. Just the thought dampened Gavin’s ardor.
“You would have to rely on me to withdraw.” The cold-blooded discussion of such a topic drained the pleasure from it. This business of keeping a mistress took away a great deal of the spontaneity and pleasure he remembered from his younger days. He found himself craving just a little bit of her affection, a spark of her wit. He didn’t want it like this, coldly businesslike. He was at a loss as to how to change it.
She finally looked in his direction, but the look was so icy, Gavin would have preferred it if she’d kept her gaze on the window.
“I have learned the hard way not to trust any man. No, thank you. Unless this is an order?” she asked with such heavy sarcasm that he almost called her bluff.
Now that they reached the toll road, Gavin released the strap and rested his hands on the knob of his cane. He held her gaze as best as he could under the circumstances. “Is that what it will require from now on? Direct orders? Shall I make appointments?”
She had the grace to blush and turn away. “I do not know how these things are commonly done. If a man wishes an assignation, doesn’t he make the arrangements?”
“I know extremely little about your rarefied London society. I prefer some semblance of naturalness myself. I would like to take you on my lap right now and unfasten some of those buttons and progress from there.”
Gavin smiled grimly when he detected a deepening of her blush in the dim light from the carriage lantern. The carriage halted to pay the toll, so he heard her reply clearly.
“I’m not a whore,” she murmured, clenching her hands into fists in her lap.
He ignored Mac’s discussion with the toll taker outside as he formulated his answer. “No, you’re an extremely responsive woman who enjoys the physical pleasures of her body. Not many women are so fortunate. If I thought you did not like what I do to you, I would not bother you again. As it is, we could find some enjoyment in what would otherwise be a tedious journey.” The carriage jolted back to motion as he spoke.
“I still feel like a whore.” She didn’t speak loudly, but she kept her fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned white.
Gavin considered her words, looking for some way to ease her natural reaction. Men had little difficulty falling into bed with any woman who offered. Why, in blazes, did women insist on carrying around all the guilt?
Groping for the right words, he asked, “Are you saying the only way you won’t feel like a whore is if I force you? You would feel better if I order you over here and pull you into my arms against your wishes?”
Gavin admitted to himself that he wasn’t adverse to doing that at this point. He wanted her, and he didn’t have patience for playing games. He would take her in whatever way she preferred. It just would have relieved his conscience and bolstered his pride if he thought she wanted him also.
He should know better by now, he thought grimly. What woman would want a monster like himself?
With fascination, Gavin watched as Dillian’s eyes widened and fastened on him as she contemplated his words. He could almost see her thoughts as they played across her face. He’d give her credit for that much: she wasn’t unintelligent. She caught on quickly.
“That’s what I’m asking, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’m asking you to take all the responsibility so I can continue playing injured maiden. I’m sorry.”
Gavin heard her reply with amazement. He had never expected such an admission and certainly not an apology. After all, she was an injured maiden. He had all the experience on his side, and he had taken advantage of her. By accepting equal responsibility, she placed herself in the same position with him. He didn’t know if he liked that idea or not.
“Does that mean you’ll come sit beside me of your own accord, or do I still need to pursue you?” he asked with interest.
She knitted her hands together and studied his face a moment, then obligingly dropped the shawl, picked up her skirts, and rearranged herself on the sagging seat beside him. The narrow carriage bench bar
ely held two, and he sat nearly in the middle. He could feel the heat of her thigh squeezed against his.
Gavin met her upturned gaze as he pulled down the window shade. “Would you prefer it if I doused the lantern?”
She traced the ridges of his scarred jaw, and he flinched, but she didn’t seem particularly revolted by the irregularities. “It took a particularly vicious person to do this to you. I didn’t think men in battle had time for such things.”
Gavin caught her slender waist and with relief and gratitude, hauled her on to his lap. He began unfastening her bodice buttons as he spoke. “I never claimed sainthood. That set of scars didn’t come from battle. It came from a man who thought I’d seduced his betrothed. At the time, I was better at pistols than rapiers,”
She inhaled sharply as his fingers slid beneath her bodice to cup her breast. He sighed with contentment at the heavy warmth of her against his palm. He needed this, though he didn’t analyze the reason why. He just needed the soft warmth of human flesh and the rhythm of her pounding heart. Gavin relaxed and stroked the malleable peak, finding it already aroused.
“Did you seduce his betrothed?” she asked with interest, delaying the inevitable result of their rising ardor.
Gavin shrugged. “It worked a little both ways, I suppose. She was young and lovely. He was a middle-aged, balding, paunchy merchant. In those days, I didn’t deny any willing woman.”
“Stupid.”
He tweaked her breast, and she gasped. He covered her mouth with his, and she drank him in hungrily. Yes, he’d been stupid.
Gavin threaded his fingers through her hair and tilted her head back to see her eyes. “After the duel, her reputation was in shreds. I went back to do the honorable thing and offer her marriage. She screamed in horror at the sight of me and ran away. I heard later that she married the bald merchant.”
The Marquess Page 21
