From Justine’s rather blunt explanation of biology, a good portion of it was an autonomic process. Once begun, it did not require thinking. And soon after that, it would be over. But how to get to that state? Clearly, one part did not leap to meet the other like a spawning trout. Fanworth lay beneath her, his arms folded behind his head and a sly smile upon his lips, enjoying her discomfort.
She closed her eyes and reached out and held the organ in front of her, which seemed even larger with proximity. For a moment, she lost her nerve again. Smooth. Or was it ridged? Soft. No, hard. Could a thing be both? What she was feeling was full of interesting contradictions. It was growing slippery. She tilted it towards her own body, tipping her hips trying to discover some way that two could become one.
‘Stop.’
She froze, looking up at him. Fanworth was staring at her with a most odd expression. ‘Am I hurting you?’
‘No,’ he admitted with a sigh. ‘You are more likely to hurt yourself. Let me.’ He reached forward, detached her grip and pulled her down to lay on top of him. Then he stroked her hair and kissed her. First, lightly, on the side of the head. His tongue traced her an ear, nuzzling her jaw line.
Her breathing was shallow, shaky. ‘I do not need this. Just finish.’
‘No,’ he said softly and found her lips.
It was like it had been in the shop, when she had felt her reserve slip, and her will leave her. Only this time, it was better.
No, worse.
No. Better. Their mouths were sealed together, sharing life and breath. And while he might find speech difficult, his tongue was more than clever enough for kissing. He licked. He thrust. He teased. She would give him anything he asked, just for another kiss like this.
Her breasts were touching his chest. It felt good. Now, his hands were touching them, and it felt amazing. It was even better than it had been last night, when the gown had been in the way. Now she was free of her clothing, he could do whatever he liked to her. First he stroked, with just a fingertip. But then he pinched. The rougher he was with her, the more she wanted his touch. After a few moments of play, she slid up his body.
Slid.
She was growing wet, as he had. Her body was melting, longing to be one with him. She slid up his body and rested on her elbows, thrusting her bosom towards his mouth until he realised what she wanted and took the nipples, one after the other, between his lips, circling them with his tongue.
It was glorious.
And positioned thus, a most intimate part of her body was resting on top of his. He had been right. It had been too soon, before. Now, it was as if her body wanted to open like a mouth and swallow him whole. Yes. His hand had found the spot. Fingers inside her. Stretching. Good. But not enough. More. She wanted more. She needed more. And then, his hands were on her bottom, and…
It hurt. Why did it have to hurt? And why, even though it hurt, did she still want more? His hand was back between them again, touching somewhere close to where they joined. He was moving in her, groaning. Had he called her name? The sound was distant, as if he’d shouted into a storm. A few gentle, soothing strokes of his thumb had struck the core of her body like lightning. She shook, trembling not with cold but with heat. And he did as well, inside her, in a wet shuddering release.
It was over. And to her surprise, she wanted to remain in his arms, still joined to him, holding the moment for ever, hoping that the future might never come.
Chapter Six
Three.
It was the first thought in his head, on waking. And decidedly odd. It could not have been the chiming of the clock, for it was full daylight. He was quite sure he’d heard ten bells.
Then he remembered the night before and threw an arm to his side, searching for the body that should be lying next to his. He was alone in bed and the fine linen sheets were cold. He had fallen into an exhausted sleep after their love making, not so much from strenuous activity as the release of a month’s eager anticipation, in one orgasmic rush.
As he’d drifted away, he’d imagined a lazy morning tempting her with morsels from his own breakfast plate and a bath scented with rose and lavender to ease any aches she had from the previous evening. He would scrub her back, rub her shoulders and comb out her hair. Perhaps she would end wrapped in his dressing gown, as he had discovered her the night before.
Apparently, she’d had no such plans. She had escaped while he’d slept. He could see the smear of blood on the bed beside him, a source of pride and anguish. No matter what sins she might be guilty of, she had not deceived him about her innocence.
Of course, that innocence was gone now. He had taken it.
Three.
He had promised her four nights only. One of those was already spent. If their first encounter was indicative of the rest, he had been a fool to agree to her bargain. Three was not nearly enough.
When he had not found her waiting penitent in her closed shop, he had been positive she’d betrayed him. He had been thinking in anger, wishing to punish. And then, she had been there, waiting for him, trying to turn the tables and control a situation she had not the least experience with.
It was shock enough to see her, in full naked glory, without any kind of preparation. The anger in him had evaporated, leaving the awe he’d felt when he’d first looked in her shop window and seen her smiling back at him. And when she had sat upon him and taken him in her inexpert hands…
What had he been thinking to suggest this at all?
But he had not been the one to suggest it. He might have implied, of course. She was the one who had made the offer of her body and set the boundaries of their association. It was he who was being tortured over this. He was to be given a taste of heaven and then yanked viciously back to earth in three more nights.
Assuming she allowed him that. She was a thief and not to be trusted. She had likely used the same skills that got her the necklace to creep past his defences and conceal herself in his own room. But that had not mattered, once they had gone to bed.
It was even less important, this morning. The theft of the rubies was settled to his satisfaction. He had the necklace back again and the setting. The money spent on the replacement was back in his bank. He had found the culprit and she was far too pretty to be turned over to the rough hands of justice. To send her to the gallows would have been like smashing a priceless artwork.
But he would not go so far as to forgive her for making a fool of him. If was probably for the best that she had overreached herself by selling him the rubies. Otherwise, he might have married her and ruined the rest of his life. Now, she would be what she should have been from the first: a temporary amusement.
Three times more.
Or longer, if he wished it. Why did he need to honour the agreement that he’d made to such a person?
He sighed. Because he was a gentleman. He had given his word. How stupid had that been? He would lose her long before he had tired of her, unless he could convince her to extend the arrangement. Until he discovered what he might offer to convince her, he must be miserly with the time he was promised.
He leapt from the bed and hurried naked to the writing desk to scribble a note. Then he rang for a footman.
Thank you for a delightful evening.
Since you left so soon after, you are likely fatigued. Wait a week’s time before coming again, that we might renew our acquaintance when you are fully recovered.
Yours,
Fanworth
Damn him.
Margot crumpled the note, then noted the alarmed but curious look from the nearest shop girl and smoothed it again, folded it and tucked it into her bodice. It burned against her skin like a shameful kiss.
Yours, indeed. He was not hers, and she wouldn’t have wanted him if he was. He did not like her. He did not trust her. He had tricked her into his bed. Now he meant to draw the agreement out.
She had hoped to be free and clear of him, with her peace of mind returned, in less than a week. With too much ti
me to brood on what had already occurred between them, she might never have a calm thought again. She glanced into the mirror kept on the counter, so that customers might admire the wares that they modelled. Did she look as changed as she felt?
She was tired, of course. She had left his room before the sun was fully up, taking the servants’ stairs, as she had when she’d arrived. From there, it was home to wash, grab a few hours’ sleep and be back downstairs in time to open the shop for the first customers.
She was hungry as well. She had missed supper, being too nervous to eat. Breakfast had been a hurried affair of cold tea and toast. Now she was coveting the Bath bun that Jasper was munching in the back room.
And she ached in strange places.
She yawned and caught another surprised glance from the girl polishing the class of the showcase.
Could she see something more than just fatigue? Worse yet, did Mr Pratchet suspect? Today, he kept looking at her with a vaguely disappointed glare, as though he had any right to concern himself over what she did after the shop closed.
Suppose that worldly poise she had admired in her older sister was actually the result of knowledge? The same light shining in the eyes of Eve as she had held out the apple to her husband.
She’d have preferred age-old wisdom to this feeling of smug satisfaction and the irrational desire to smile for no reason. She could not shake the feeling that there was something about her behaviour that signalled to the people around her what she had done.
Perhaps Fanworth was right. She would not have been able to stand another night like the previous one. If the first morning left her smiling, the next might make her laugh. By the fourth time, she would greet the dawn crowing like a rooster.
Oh, no, she would not. She shook her head to reinforce the thought, drawing a surprised look from the girl at the opposite counter. If she took to nodding and talking to herself, the employees would think she’d gone mad.
But that would be better than if they suspected the truth. She had lost her innocence. It was a disaster, not a cause for celebration. It was a good thing she had no desire to marry, for what man would want her now?
There was one, of course. Nothing about last night, made her think that Fanworth’s desire was abating. And even after learning his true character, she still wanted him, as well. Lord Fanworth was most decidedly not the man of her dreams. But he still had the face and body of her beloved Mr Standish. He might have tricked her into his bed, but once there his touch had been as sweet and gentle as she’d dreamt it would be.
The girl next to her was staring again and Margot frowned at her, then gave her a quick scold to send her across the room to dust the rings and polish the bracelets.
Her effort to contain herself came not a moment too soon. As soon as she was gone, Pratchet took the girls’ place. He leaned towards her, far too close to be proper, so that he might speak in a whisper. ‘I know what you have done.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ She managed the proper level of confused outrage, but was sure it was spoiled by the crimson flush that must be spilling across her hot cheeks.
He went on, as though she had confirmed his suspicions with a full confession. ‘I warned you, from the first, that the Marquess of Fanworth was a dangerous man. Now he has confirmed it with his actions.’
‘A receiver of stolen goods has no right to speak to me of honour,’ she said, hoping that it did not sound too much like a confession. ‘If you no longer like the working conditions here, I suggest you take your things and leave.’
‘And abandon you in the busiest season, with so much unfinished work on the bench?’ He glanced back towards his table which was heaped with orders. ‘It is almost as unwise for you to threaten me as it was to become involved with the marquess.’
His recriminations were almost as annoying as the amount of truth in them. She would have been better off had she never met Lord Fanworth. Not any happier, certainly. But her life would be far less complicated. She gave Pratchet a pointed stare. ‘While I know that you are capable of mending a broken watch, I have yet to see you successfully turn back time. Without that particular skill, what good can further conversation on the subject do either of us?’
He cleared his throat and straightened as though it were possible to present himself in a more impressive way. ‘I come to you as a friend, Miss de Bryun. I am not trying to censure you, no matter how it might sound. I understand and sympathise. Although you have run this shop successfully, it was inevitable that you would be bound by the limitations of your gender. The same qualities which are the virtues of the female sex, your softness and sweet nature, make you easily led.’
‘Do they, now?’ she said, in a tone that should have given him warning, had he known her as well as he claimed to.
‘You have fallen into the clutches of a devious and evil man. When it goes wrong, as it most assuredly will, you must come to me.’
‘And exactly what will you do to help?’ She tried to imagine Pratchet facing her seducer on the field of honour, only to be cut down like the weed he was.
‘I could give an unexpected child my name,’ he said, glancing around to be sure that no one was near enough to hear. ‘You and your family are far too well known in Bath to pretend that there was a legitimate marriage and a husband lost to sea or war.’
She had not thought of this. There must be ways to prevent pregnancy, or her sister would have fallen into that unfortunate state long before she had found a husband. But who did she dare ask about them?
Mr Pratchet continued to stare at her with an earnest, fatherly expression. ‘You mock me. You think me old and foolish. I know you do. But surely a hasty marriage to a man who will care for you would be better than facing the disgrace of mothering a bastard.’
And here they were, back to her losing control of her own life to a man who knew what was best for her. When it had happened with Fanworth, at least there had been some pleasure gained in her mistake. But to enter into an empty marriage with a man she barely respected, for the sake of her reputation, was a punishment she did not deserve.
She turned to him then, giving him her most firm, professional smile. ‘We have already discussed the matter of marriage and I have no intention of entering into that state with you or anyone else. As for the rest of it?’ She gave a vague wave of her hand meant to encompass her loss of innocence and any child that might have resulted from her carelessness on the previous evening. ‘I have no idea what you are hinting at, Mr Pratchet. And I do not wish to be enlightened. I fear you are suggesting something that would be a grave insult to my character. Now, as you say, there is a considerable pile of work that you must attend to. I suggest you apply yourself in the way you were hired to do.’
The man gave her one last disapproving look, before returning to his work station.
Margot closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to regain her calm. Even if it was already too late, she was not yet ready to brood upon the worst possible outcome of her current course of action. She needed food and rest before she could even consider what she would do if there was a child. And if there was not, she must find a way to take precautions in the future.
But it seemed she was to have no peace at all today. At the door were Justine and Daphne, doing up their parasols and smiling at her.
Margot smiled back, adjusting the position of the note in her bodice with a tug at the neckline of her gown.
Justine froze, staring back at her in shock. Her big sister knew her too well. With a single glance, she had uncovered every last secret. Then she relaxed, choosing to pretend that she had not. Her manner was all blissful ignorance as she said, ‘Tea, Sister? Or have you no time for us today?’
‘There is always time.’ Margot gestured to the private salon. ‘I am most unexpectedly hungry and could eat a plate of Sally Lunns all by myself.’
‘I see,’ Justine said. And now Daphne was looking at her with the same, overly curious expression.
‘Or not,’ Margot amend
ed, trying to decide what was so shocking about wanting a bun with her tea. ‘They would not be good for me, after all.’
‘Indulging one’s sweet tooth never is,’ Daphne said. ‘It leads to a thickening waist.’
Justine glared at her with such vehemence that Daphne took a large bit of the first bun offered, giving her reason to remain silent.
Justine glanced around her again. ‘No visit from the marquess this morning?’
‘No,’ Margot said, relieved to be able to answer truthfully. ‘He has not been to the shop in almost a week.’ Not in daylight, at least. She tried not to think about what they had been doing, on this very spot, two nights ago.
Justine gave an audible sigh of relief. ‘That is good to know. You might have considered him a friend, love. But the true motives of such a man are often hard to predict. There is a rumour that he has taken up some new scandalous affair…’
‘Really?’ Margot said, taking a very deliberate sip of her tea. ‘What concern is that of ours?’
‘Simply that I would not want you to be hurt by his actions. Since you are fond of him—’
‘Not really,’ Margot inserted.
‘That is good,’ her sister said, doubtfully, setting aside her cup and reaching out to touch her sister’s hand. ‘Because there is no guarantee as to the permanence of his affections towards you or anyone else.’
Margot took another sip of tea. Any illusions she’d had about his motives had died with the discovery of the necklace. Strange how long ago that seemed and how little it seemed to matter. ‘Do not worry about me, dear. I shall be fine. And I most assuredly will not allow myself to be hurt by the Marquess of Fanworth.’
Justine allowed herself to be comforted by the words. And then the three of them chatted of ordinary things for nearly an hour, before the two guests rose to leave.
Margot escorted them as far as the front door, only to see them step into the path of a gentleman walking by the shop. He was near enough so Margot could hear the polite greeting, ‘Ladies’, which was accompanied by a bow and a gesture permitting them to pass.
A Ring From a Marquess Page 7
