Claimed by the Marquis

by Carole Mortimer

  “That will never happen.” She gave a stubborn shake of her head.

  “No?” He put her slightly away from him, holding her gaze as his hand on her wrist allowed him to guide her arm downward. He used his other hand to slowly unfasten the top two buttons of his pantaloons, before pushing her hand beneath the loosened material.

  Sally’s legs almost buckled beneath her at her first touch of that lengthy hardness encased in velvet-soft skin, so much more…alive and hotter than any of the dildos she had handled, and so thick around, her fingers refused to meet as they attempted to encircle that throbbing and heavily veined girth. The crown was swollen and moist, and become more so as Sally could not resist giving it a light caress with the soft pad of her thumb.

  “I can wait, Sally,” Oxbridge whispered against her ear. “Can you?”

  She didn’t want to wait, longed to fall to her knees in front of this man and see his cock, not just feel it. To take that length in her hands, her mouth, to taste him as he had tasted her—

  Her eyes widened in panic as she recognized Nicholas for the sexual temptation he was.

  Had she known that all along? Was this what she had really wanted? Not just to sketch Oxbridge, but to become his lover? To have Oxbridge as her lover?

  She might have decided not to marry and give up her independence, but that did not mean she wished to become a dried-up old spinster, never knowing what passion was. Never knowing the touch, the possession, of a flesh-and-blood man.

  She had dreamt, fantasized about Oxbridge for years, these last four imagining him doing all those things with and to her depicted in her grandmother’s erotica collection. No other man, just Oxbridge.

  Was she now going to turn tail and run like a naïve little girl, when Oxbridge was offering her what she had wanted all along? Even if it was only for the duration of the time it took for her to sketch him?

  Nicholas felt some of his tension leave him as he saw Sally’s decision in her expressive golden eyes.

  A decision she chose not to voice but instead now demonstrated as her fingers tightened about his cock in a long, stroking motion from tip to base, so unexpected it was almost his undoing.

  He groaned low in his throat, and his hips arched forward instinctively into the second pumping caress of those alternately flexing and stroking fingers.

  Nicholas was already so aroused, and she set such a fast rhythm, that he was unable to catch his breath from one pumping squeeze to the next, until his balls drew up tight and he knew his release was imminent.

  His hand shot out, and his fingers tightly encircled her wrist to stop the motion. “I said I can wait,” he bit out between clenched teeth, his face mere inches above hers.

  Her breathing was erratic, breasts quickly rising and falling, a flush of excitement to her cheeks. “Perhaps I cannot?”

  Nicholas’s fingers tightened painfully. “I am afraid you will have to. Because I have absolutely no intention of allowing you to bring me to completion in your sitting room for the butler, or anyone else, to walk in on.”

  “Craddock would not enter without my say-so. Or allow anyone else to do so.”

  “Is that because he’s accustomed to your entertaining gentlemen alone here?” It irritated Nicholas intensely how much the idea of that displeased him.

  “No, of course not.” A frown appeared between her eyes.

  “Does it not bother you that you and your living arrangements are a cause for much speculation amongst the ton?” Nicholas eyed her impatiently as he disengaged her fingers from about his cock.

  Her chin rose. “Why should it? I do not judge them. I do not expect them to judge me.”

  He gave a humorless laugh. “You and I both know Society does not work that way. A married woman may do just as she likes once she has provided the heir, and as long as her husband does not object. An unmarried woman may not.”

  Sally was well aware of that. Her friend Thea, a widow before meeting Blackmoor, had been his mistress before becoming his wife. She was sure that her friend Rachel, also a widow, was also involved in an affair, although she always denied it when asked. Felicity was a much more private person, but as her husband had died at Waterloo, Sally could not believe she always slept alone either.

  Why was it so wrong for Sally to want to live her own life on her own terms, without the interference or condemnation of Society?

  Because as a single lady, it was. She knew it was. But she continued to risk that social ostracism anyway. “I am surprised you dare risk tarnishing your own reputation by openly calling on me in this way,” she challenged Oxbridge.

  His smile still lacked any genuine humor. “There is one vital difference between the two of us, I am afraid. Well, two… One, I am a man. Two, I do not give a damn what anyone cares to say about me.”

  Because he was the Marquis of Oxbridge. A title, and gentleman, much coveted by every marriage-minded mama and debutante in Society. No doubt he could openly fornicate in the street and still propose marriage to one of those young ninnies the following day, and he would be accepted.

  Sally felt the sting of tears in her eyes. “I despise this inequality between the gentlemen and women in Society.”

  “Have a care that Society does not learn to despise you,” Oxbridge warned almost gently as he released her wrist to begin unhurriedly refastening his pantaloons. “Although having the new Duchess of Blackmoor as a close friend may ensure—” He broke off as there came a knock on the sitting room door.

  Sally checked that Oxbridge had finished tidying his clothing before responding to that knock on the door. A warmth entered her cheeks as she saw his member was still very full and erect beneath the material of his pantaloons. She turned away quickly. “Yes, Craddock?”

  The butler opened the door to stand in the doorway bearing a silver tray. “A letter has arrived for His Lordship from Oxbridge House, my lady. The footman who delivered it apologized but said it was urgent the marquis receive it immediately.”

  She indicated the butler should enter and deliver the letter to the marquis as he now stood in front of the window, the sun shining in behind him making it impossible for her to gauge his reaction to the reason for the interruption. Or for the hard prominence of his erection to be seen by the butler.

  “Thank you, Craddock, that will be all,” Sally dismissed, waiting until after he’d left the room before turning back to Oxbridge. “You told your household staff where you would be this morning?”

  Having glanced at the letter, he made no move to break the seal and read its contents. “I had my valet inform my coachman where I wished to go. I assume that the usual household gossip did the rest.”

  “So all of London now knows the Marquis of Oxbridge has spent more than an hour alone with me in my home?” Her tone turned waspish.

  “I’m flattered to know you were keeping note of our time together, Sally,” he drawled.

  Her eyes narrowed at his mockery. “Are you not going to read your letter?”

  “No.”

  “The footman who delivered it said it was urgent.”

  “Then his idea of urgent and my own must differ greatly.”

  “You know who the letter is from,” she guessed from his derisive tone.

  “I recognize the handwriting, yes.”

  Sally felt unaccountably irritated by his reluctance to open the letter in front of her. Because it was from another woman? Perhaps a woman who had heard of the time he had spent alone with Lady Sally Derwent at the Duke of Blackmoor’s wedding three days ago, and possibly his visit to her at her home this morning?

  Was that jealousy she was feeling?

  Unquestionably.

  This man—infuriating, arrogant, mocking—intrigued and enticed her more than any other. After the intimacies they had already shared, she wished to be the woman to intrigue and entice him in the same way.

  Her chin rose. “The letter is from your mistress?”

  He smiled slightly. “My mother’s companion.”
>
  Her brows rose almost to her hairline. “Your…?”

  Oxbridge crossed the room, standing so close to her, Sally could feel the heat of his body, breathe in his unique smell, a combination of lemon and spices mixed in with a sensual musk that was all Oxbridge. “I currently have no mistress,” he informed her huskily.

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Then why will you not open your letter in front of me?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You do not believe me?”

  “It is not a question of my not believing you—”

  “Oh, I think that it is. Here.” He held the letter out to her. “You open it.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “For doubting me, you can and you will.” His voice was steely, his expression just as uncompromising.

  It was a commanding tone Sally responded to, her fingers shaking slightly as she took the letter from him, breaking the seal before unfolding the single sheet of paper. “It is signed Cousin Maud…”

  “My mother’s companion.” He nodded. “Who is not really my own cousin but my mother’s. A fluffy, irritating woman who sees to my mother’s every whim and fancy.”

  “The perfect companion.”

  Oxbridge gave a snort. “I trust you do not expect me to bring that sentiment to our own relationship?”

  It was the first Sally had heard they were to have anything as significant as a relationship. Having Oxbridge sit for her naked, to slowly divest an item of her own clothing each day, driving them both insane with lust until they succumbed to that “animalistic coupling” did not sound like any sort of relationship she had ever heard of.

  Nor was it all she wanted with Oxbridge.

  Beggars cannot be choosers.

  She was not a beggar, nor would she ever become so with Oxbridge, whatever their future relationship might be. “I believe you will find that subservience does not come easily to me either, no matter what the situation or circumstance.”

  “Then I shall enjoy taming you all the more because of it.” He bared his teeth in a satisfied grin.

  “You will not tame me!” Alarm colored Sally’s tone, at the same time as she felt a thrill of something wild and primitive stir deep inside her. Did she wish to be tamed by this man’s hands and mouth? The response of her body certainly implied that was so…

  “Oh, but I shall, sweet Sally,” he assured her evenly. “And you will like it too. May even come to love it.”

  Would she—could she enjoy, responding to Nicholas’s instruction?

  Oh dear God…

  “What does Cousin Maud have to say?” he mused as Sally distracted herself by reading his letter. “Have the deer managed to free themselves from the paddock and run amok again? Or perhaps she suspects the undergardener of stealing the vegetables for his own table? Cousin Maud finds drama in petty things—”

  “Your mother is ill,” Sally read in a hushed voice. “The doctor has visited and has prescribed medication, but your cousin writes it might be best if you return to Berkshire immediately.”

  Oxbridge gave a weary sigh. “My mother has long enjoyed her ill health. Cousin Maud is merely following her instructions in writing to me and suggesting my immediate presence in Berkshire. It is my mother’s response to the note I sent to her three days ago, advising her I had changed my plans and decided not to return for some weeks yet.”

  Sally looked up at him. “You delayed your journey back to your estate because of me…?”

  He arched one dark brow. “Does that displease you?”

  The opposite. It thrilled Sally to think of a man such as Oxbridge putting aside his own plans in order to spend time with her.

  Except his mother was ill.

  The Dowager Marchioness of Oxbridge had not attended a London Season for many years now, and it was known in Society that she preferred to live out her days in the Dower House on the principle Oxbridge estate in Berkshire. And the Dowager Marchioness might enjoy her ill health, as Oxbridge claimed, but he would not thank Sally if his mother died, and he had chosen to remain in London because of her.

  She swallowed her disappointment. “The sketches can wait until you return to London in January.”

  “But I cannot.”

  Her heart leapt in her chest. “You were the one who, a few moments ago, refused what I freely offered.”

  Nicholas stepped closer still, so close he could now breathe in the delicate perfume of Sally’s hair, a heady combination of citrus and floral. “I want hours, not minutes, for us to enjoy and savor every inch of each other. That pleases you?” he guessed as her body trembled enough that he could see it.

  The pink tip of her tongue swept across her lips. “Yes.”

  Nicholas made a decision. “Then come with me.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me.” Now that he had verbalized the idea, Nicholas appreciated how much more sense it made for Sally to accompany him to Berkshire than that the two of them remain in London during the hottest and, consequently, most disease-ridden months of the year.

  He was needed back in Berkshire, albeit at the behest of his hypochondriac of a mother. He had long suspected that these imagined illnesses had been his mother’s way of refusing her husband his marital relations. His father had been dead for ten years now, but the illnesses had become such a habit, he was sure his mother no longer knew how to exist without them.

  Taking Sally Derwent into Berkshire with him would give him a welcome diversion from that oppression.

  Besides, the Season was more or less over, and everyone in Society would soon be retiring to their country estates for the summer.

  Why not take Sally back with him to Berkshire?

  Perhaps because it would cause a scandal of monumental proportions in Society if a single lady traveled with, and then stayed at the home, of a single gentleman?

  There was no reason why anyone of significance should ever know. Nicholas did not socialize when in the country. There was no one in Society within a day’s traveling distance of Oxbridge Park. Perhaps a few people living on the estate might choose to discuss the matter amongst themselves, but he doubted any of that gossip would travel as far as London.

  The more Nicholas considered the idea, the more it appealed to him to have Sally Derwent within touchable—beddable—reach for the summer.

  Chapter 7

  Nicholas is not returning to Berkshire alone!

  They had received instructions from him just today. The bedchamber next to his own was to be made ready and comfortable for his guest, and vases of freshly cut roses from the garden are to adorn the household.

  The bedchamber adjoining Nicholas’s that should, by rights, belong to me as his future marchioness.

  Is Nicholas daring to bring another woman here, when I have longed for him, anxiously awaited his return all these months? A woman who is to occupy the bedchamber of the mistress of the house?

  Such a thing is not to be borne.

  Whoever this woman is, she cannot be allowed to take up Nicholas’s time or his attention. Or share his bed.

  Nicholas belongs to me.

  Chapter 8

  “I had not realized the journey into Berkshire would be quite as beautiful as this,” Sally remarked as she gazed out the carriage window, more for something to break the tense silence than any real enthusiasm for the subject.

  It was now two days since Nicholas had made his outrageous suggestion Sally should accompany him to his estate in Berkshire. An invitation Sally had refused.

  Initially.

  She told herself her family would be scandalized. Society would be scandalized. Sally herself was scandalized at the thought of going away alone with a single gentleman.

  Nicholas had shown his displeasure at her refusal by leaving immediately after she had made it. It was not until some time later Sally realized that leave-taking had been made with no arrangements having been made for the two of them to meet again when he returned to the capital in January or otherwise. />
  She had not slept well that night, arguing back and forth with herself as to the rightness of her decision. It was the right decision, she knew that, and for all the reasons she had given.

  Except it had not brought her any happiness in having made it.

  Thea had now departed on her honeymoon with Blackmoor, of course. Her other two close friends, Felicity and Rachel, had left for family estates. Sally’s own parents, two brothers, and their families, were all preparing to leave London for Hartford Hall, and all under the assumption that Sally would be joining them there for the summer.

  She already knew what those months would consist of. Long days spent helping to amuse her numerous nephews and nieces, and even longer evenings spent with the adult members of her family, the tedium broken only by the occasional dinner guest invited from within the local gentry.

  How could any of that compare with the excitement, the thrill, of spending the summer with Nicholas Sefton for days—and nights—on end?

  It could not.

  Even so, Sally’s pride prevented her from contacting Oxbridge to say she had changed her mind.

  Until yesterday.

  A note had been delivered by hand midmorning, and although Sally had never seen Oxbridge’s handwriting, she nevertheless knew the hand that had written her name on the front of the note, in a bold and confident scrawl, belonged to him.

  She had barely been able to contain her excitement until Craddock left the sitting room and she tore open the seal. As expected, the signature at the bottom of the page read “Oxbridge.”

  The note merely stated he had made his arrangements to leave for Berkshire on the morrow. Nothing more. No repeat of the invitation to go with him. No reasoning as to why she should. Only that bald statement of his own intentions, and the day and time of his departure.

  Sally had agonized for hours as to whether the inclusion of the latter was an ambiguous invitation for her to join him? She finally decided that it was. What other reason could Oxbridge possibly have for informing her of his plans?