Claimed by the Marquis

by Carole Mortimer

  Regency Unlaced Novella 2

  Claimed by the Marquis

  By

  Carole Mortimer

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2016 Carole Mortimer

  Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper Designs

  Editor: Linda Ingmanson

  Formatter: Matthew Mortimer

  ISBN: 978-1-910597-17-0 ePub

  ISBN: 978-1-910597-18-7 mobi

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DEDICATIONS

  My Wonderful Family

  Chapter 1

  Late June, 1816

  Oxbridge Park, Berkshire.

  Nicholas will be home soon, and then the two of us will be together again. I hate the times he has to leave me, but I accept he has many other demands upon him, and that I must not be greedy with his time. No matter. I know, once he is returned, it will be as it always is. As it was meant to be. The two of us together again.

  Because no other woman could ever worship and adore Nicholas the way that I do. Other women have no idea what Nicholas wants and needs, see only the title and wealth, and not the man. He is so much more than any of that. So much more than any of them.

  I accept there will be other women when he is in Town, but I know they are just a diversion for him, an amusement for the times the two of us must be apart.

  Once Nicholas is home for the summer, away from temptation, he will once again realize I am woman enough for him.

  The only woman he will ever need.

  Chapter 2

  Late evening,

  Ballroom of Blackmoor House, London.

  “Do please feel free to correct me if I am wrong, but did you just ask if you might sketch me? Sans my clothing?”

  The request, and those words in particular, which had sounded so practical when Lady Sarah Derwent—always known within her family as Sally, to distinguish her from the grandmother for whom she had been named—formed them inside her head, before daring to speak them out loud, now sounded far less than proper when repeated by the imposing and arrogant Nicholas Sefton, the Marquis of Oxbridge.

  Possibly because they were not proper.

  Any more than Sally herself was proper. She was the daughter of an earl, admittedly, but unmarried still at the age of five and twenty, and by choice rather than any lack of offers. She also managed her own household in a fashionable part of London and was considered something of an oddity for doing so. As such, she had suffered the frowns of disapproval, from Society matriarchs in particular, for much of her adult life.

  Lord Oxbridge’s expression appeared to show he was more bemused than disapproving of her wish to sketch him naked…

  He was, without a doubt, the handsomest gentleman Sally had ever had the pleasure of gazing upon. Also, his appearance showed he cared little for the dictates of Society; his glossy black hair was far longer than was fashionable, and more often than not, he had the growth of several days’ beard upon the strong line of his jaw, until, it seemed, he remembered to instruct his valet it was necessary to shave him again. He was exceedingly tall, at least three, possibly four inches above six feet. His physique—wide shoulders, powerful chest, trim waist, and long legs—was also more muscular than the athletic trimness favored by fashionable gentlemen.

  As evidence, perhaps, that the bored, even languid air the marquis so often showed in public was not the whole man. Certainly, Oxbridge must do something to maintain that muscular physique.

  Which was one of the reasons why Sally longed to make a nude sketch of the marquis, to add to the vast collection of erotica that had been bequeathed to her on her twenty-first birthday, by the grandmother for whom she had been named. Along with that collection had come the fortune which allowed Sally her independence, and in turn the means to refuse all and every proposal of marriage made to her these past four years.

  Lord Oxbridge’s appearance had intrigued Sally long before the evening reception of her friend Thea’s wedding to Oxbridge’s friend, the Duke of Blackmoor. For several years, in fact. Years in which Sally had found opportunity to gaze upon him often as they both attended one Society event or another. Her nighttime dreams were often filled with images of him too, some even with the two of them naked together.

  As a result, Sally had become obsessed with seeking out this one particular gentleman, easily distinguished in a crowd. Not just by his impressive height, but also by that glossy overlong black hair and piercing green eyes that would darken to emerald when he was displeased or angry. His features were as hard and sculptured as any statue: high cheekbones, that strong jaw, and sculpted lips which so often seemed to be curved in a mocking smile, as if he was enjoying some private joke at everyone else’s expense.

  That same cynical smile caused Sally’s breasts to ache and swell every time she so much as looked at him.

  Dancing a waltz with him this evening, that most scandalous of dances because it allowed for much closer physical contact between a lady and gentleman than any other, had deepened her physical awareness of him to such a degree that her breasts actually hurt. Her nipples were hard as small pebbles as they rubbed against the material of her chemise. There was also a heat and slickness between her thighs, causing her dampened drawers to chafe pleasurably against the hard little nubbin hidden amongst the gold curls covering her mound.

  None of which was in the least relevant to their present conversation.

  It did not prevent Sally’s thoughts from lingering on the enigma that was the gentleman dressed in black and dancing her about the ballroom so expertly.

  Aged nine and thirty, Nicholas Sefton had never married, and he seemed set on never doing so, as he shrugged off, year after year, Season after Season, all attempts by marriage-minded mamas to ensnare him as a husband for their newly presented daughters.

  As if a gentleman as sophisticated and cynical as Lord Oxbridge could ever be happy with some simpering miss half his age!

  Perhaps because of those many years of showing his complete disinterest in any of the new debutants, speculation had become rife as to what his preferences might be in the bedroom. A subject that was gossiped about endlessly by the married ladies of Society, and even some of the older matriarchs.

  A curiosity which—to Sally’s satisfaction—also revealed that none of those ladies could be personally familiar with the marquis’s “preferences.” Several times those conversations had led to questions as to whether Oxbridge’s preferences might possibly be…different from other gentlemen’s.

  It had taken Sally some time to realize what those ladies meant by “different,” after which she had been unable to stop herself from laughing at such a ridiculous suggestion in connection with a man so obviously sexually potent as Lord Oxbridge. No woman who had ever been the recipient of so much as a single invitation to dance with him, and so became the focus of his attention, could ever doubt his sexual preference was undoubtedly for ladies rather than gentlemen.

  Oxbridge was not openly flirtatious, nor did he make lewd suggestions or invitations to Sally as some gentlemen did. Instead, he possessed an unmistakable air of power, accompanied by a deep and alluring sensuality evident in every deceptively languid movement of his elegant body.

  A fact Sally was currently well aware of when that piercing green gaze raked over her in such thoroughly male assessment as the two of them danced together.

  It was not the first time Sally had danced with Oxbridge over the years, but it
was certainly the first time he had appeared to return her interest in such a predatory manner.

  Unsurprising, considering the subject of their conversation?

  “I hope I have not shocked you, my lord?” Dancing a waltz together had seemed like the ideal time for Sally to put forward her suggestion, when the opportunities to converse alone with Oxbridge were so limited. The discomfort she now felt made her wish she had refrained from doing so this evening too.

  He gave a slow and mocking smile. “I am not so easily shocked, I assure you, Lady Sally.”

  Perhaps Oxbridge was not so against the idea as she had thought…? “Then might we discuss my suggestion more fully another time, and somewhere less…public?” she prompted hopefully.

  Nicholas believed his nature to be one of sophistication, even cynicism, when it came to his dealings with women, as his last mistress had discovered to her cost several months ago when she attempted to hold his attention by implying another gentleman was interested in her. The relationship had ended that very same night, with Nicholas walking away from the arrangement, and her, after wishing her well with this new gentleman.

  No woman could hold his affections to such a degree he would ever allow himself to be ruled by those affections as his own father had done in regard to his mother.

  Nicholas always chose his mistresses from the demimonde, women who could not, and should not, expect any more from him than a house to live in for the duration of the affair, along with the occasional expensive bauble, which she would no doubt sell the moment the relationship ended. It was the way of things for most Society gentlemen.

  This proposition, coming from a young and unmarried lady in Society—even one known to be as unorthodox as Lady Sally Derwent—went beyond even Nicholas’s jaded experience. It had also been the last thing he had expected when he had embarked upon this duty dance at the wedding of his friend Blackmoor to the lovely Lady Fitzroy.

  Not that it was an unwelcome proposition. Lady Sally had long been a woman of interest to many of the gentlemen of the ton, and not only because of her fortune. A fortune Nicholas had no interest in, in any case, already being one of the wealthiest gentlemen in England.

  The truth of the matter was, not only was Sally Derwent a curiosity, but she was also a very desirable woman. Maybe half a dozen inches shorter than he, her bearing, in a gown of russet-colored silk, was proud, almost regal. Her hair was the color of gold and artfully arranged upon her crown, with several loose curls framing the loveliness of her face and resting enticingly against her nape. Her eyes were more gold than brown, and surrounded by thick lashes, nose attractively retroussé, skin the color of pale porcelain, and her mouth—Lord, her full and pouting lips were shaped and designed for being kissed. Or kissing. Everywhere.

  Nicholas’s cock perked up with interest at the thought of being lavished with attention from those lush lips.

  No, he could not claim to be averse to the suggestion of being completely and privately naked with the beautiful Lady Sally Derwent for several pleasurable hours. “Do you have somewhere, and a time, in mind?”

  “Would my own house on Duke Street be convenient?” Her eyes glowed with what Nicholas surmised was triumph, no doubt at the thought of her success. “Perhaps tomorrow afternoon, if you are available?”

  Nicholas had heard no tales from other gentlemen of this lady’s sexual adventures, or of her sketching any of them in the nude, but as he rarely bothered to listen to gossip of any kind, that was not unusual.

  Sally Derwent was a woman of five and twenty, and certainly not one of those innocent young misses seeking to entrap him into marriage. Not only was she financially independent, but also willful. Character traits demonstrated by the fact Lady Sally ran her own household apart from that of her father, the Earl of Hartford. She no doubt entertained her lovers within the privacy of that household. Discreet and yet passionate affairs she did not consider the business of Society or anyone else.

  Like the one she was now suggesting to him?

  Nicholas usually liked to be the one to do the chasing in his sexual liaisons, but he was willing to make an exception with this particular woman. Not least because Lady Sally had made it more than clear, by turning down each and every proposal of marriage made to her over the past few years, she had no interest or intention of ever marrying.

  An arrangement which fell in with Nicholas’s own desires completely.

  Growing up with the example of his parents’ unhappy marriage had been more than enough to sour his feelings toward the institution. His parents’ marriage had been an arranged one, an alliance between two powerful families. His father had quickly fallen deeply in love with his beautiful wife, but unfortunately, the emotion had never been reciprocated. Growing up as the only child of that tempestuous marriage had been hell on earth.

  Perhaps not quite the thoughts Nicholas should be having at Blackmoor’s wedding to the love of his life. But the obvious love between today’s bride and groom had done nothing to change Nicholas’s own opinion on the subject. He wished Blackmoor and his bride every happiness together but had no wish ever to enter the marital state himself.

  A passionate affair with the intriguing Lady Sally Derwent was an entirely different matter, however…

  “Why wait until tomorrow when we can take a stroll over to Blackmoor’s orangery now and begin to…discuss those arrangements?” he prompted. No reason why he shouldn’t indulge in a taste of what he had decided would become so much more than that tomorrow afternoon. “It is a beautiful evening and only a few steps across the garden to the orangery, which also lends itself to the privacy we are seeking.”

  “I— Why, yes. Of course.” Sally accepted Oxbridge’s arm as their dance came to an end, and the two of them departed the dance floor together.

  She was wholly aware of the curiosity in the gazes of the people watching their progress as they crossed the room and departed the ballroom through a set of French doors opened for them by one of Blackmoor’s footmen.

  Several of those curious gazes belonged to Sally’s closest friends, the widowed Lady Rachel Shaw and Mrs. Felicity Randall, and the bride herself. Sally avoided looking at any of them directly, but she knew she would not escape the demand for an explanation tomorrow from at least two of those friends. The bride, as might be expected, would be fully occupied with her new husband.

  Sally had never before had cause to visit Blackmoor’s mainly glass-structured orangery at the back of his London home, but Oxbridge seemed familiar with it as he set about lighting several candles inside the warm and cavernous building that smelled deliciously of citrus.

  Her own home, being so much smaller, both the house and the garden, did not lend itself to such a luxury, and she could not help but exclaim in delight as the lit candles revealed the beautiful cherub-adorned fountain in the middle of the building, surrounded by a vast number of fruit trees and other exotic plants.

  There was also a comfortable seating area to one side of the fountain, a chaise and several chairs, along with several low tables. Sally could imagine that Thea would spend many enjoyable hours here once she and Blackmoor had returned from their honeymoon.

  So enchanted was Sally by their surroundings, it took her several moments to realize how alone here she and Oxbridge were, shut away from the main house and other wedding guests. How quiet it was too, apart from the gentle fall of water in the fountain.

  A quiver of anticipation ran the length of Sally’s spine as she now felt Oxbridge’s brooding presence as he stood behind her.

  Chapter 3

  Sally drew in a deep breath before turning to face him, her chin held high. “What did you wish to discuss first about my proposition, my lord?”

  Nicholas allowed himself the luxury of gazing upon her for several moments—the way the candlelight gave her hair the appearance of spun gold, that same light giving a creamy hue to her shoulders and the swell of her breasts. As for her eyes… Nicholas did not believe he had ever seen eyes of quite
that golden color before. So warm, and the color of the clear nectar gathered straight from the honeycomb.

  “My lord…?”

  “Nicholas,” he correct distractedly as he stepped closer. “And I confess, I had more a…physical discussion in mind than a verbal one.”

  The quickening rise and fall of her breasts was the only indication she gave of being disconcerted, by his words as much as his close proximity. “You wish to remove your clothes for me now…?”

  He smiled. “Well, not all of them, perhaps, but certainly some, if that is what you wish too?”

  She shook her head, those golden curls moving enticingly against her cheeks and nape. “I do not have my sketch pad with me this evening.”

  Convinced the request to sketch him was just a ruse, he now wondered if the continuing of the conversation could be a euphemism for something else. If it was, then Nicholas had no idea what a sketch pad could be a euphemism for. Something to prevent pregnancy, perhaps? If so, then he had no doubt it was as unreliable as every other form of contraception. As his father had told him years ago, “The safest form of contraception is abstinence.” Considering his parents had not shared a bed for many years, and he was an only child, he felt sure his father knew what he was talking about.

  Unfortunately, Nicholas had never found abstinence to be an option. He enjoyed sex far too much ever to subscribe to that practice. Withdrawing before coming, yes, but never abstinence.

  Besides, he had always enjoyed slowly unwrapping any gifts he received, so that he might savor and enjoy each and every part of the process. He intended his seduction of Sally Derwent to be just as slow and enjoyable. For both of them. Consequently, he had many other things he wished to do with and to Lady Sally before actually bedding her, so there would be no need for the two of them to consider contraception for some time.