by Brenda Hiatt
"Let's move back into the drawing room, then, where we can be more at ease," he suggested. "Or even the library."
She felt as though she'd been granted a welcome—it was welcome, wasn't it?— reprieve. "If the library is where you would normally sit after dinner, I have no objection to it."
"It's the most comfortable room, I think. You can tell me whether you agree." He stood, helped her to her feet and extended an arm to escort her across the hall.
Such formality amused her, and that amusement steadied her nerves enough that she could place her hand on his arm without trembling at his nearness. Of course, he would not find formality amusing at all, traditionalist that he was— though the smile she saw playing about his lips when she dared to glance up at him made her wonder.
Quinn had only peeped into the library earlier, but now she was able to see that it was indeed furnished with deep leather armchairs, matching footrests and conveniently placed small tables. In cooler weather, when a fire would be burning, it would be cozy and even more welcoming, she decided, as he went to the sideboard to pour two small measures of brandy.
"You're right. This is a more comfortable room," she said, taking the snifter he proferred. For the barest moment their fingers brushed, but she managed not to flinch or, she hoped, to betray by her expression that she had even noticed.
To cover her sudden confusion, she quickly moved to one of the chairs opposite the empty hearth.
Marcus hid a smile as he took the other chair. The girl was putting on a brave front, he had to admit. He'd caught more than one flicker of awareness from her during dinner, when he'd deliberately caught her eye or slipped a double entendre into the conversation. And just now, though she'd colored at his touch, she hadn't pulled away.
Looking at her now, he had to remind himself that she was a woman of twenty and not the sixteen she appeared. Still, though she was no child, she was clearly an innocent in matters of the flesh. If he wanted a marriage in more than name —and over the past hour he had become more and more convinced that he did—he would have to win her trust.
He was willing to be patient, however. Somehow he was certain the rewards would be worth any wait.
"Try the brandy," he suggested. "It's the best France has to offer— though I warn you that it has a bit more bite than sherry."
She took a sip before he finished speaking, and now she sputtered, glaring at him accusingly. "You did that on purpose," she gasped, her eyes tearing slightly from the strength of the liquor.
"I didn't, I swear it," he exclaimed, holding up a hand in self defense. He couldn't suppress a chuckle, however, which no doubt undermined his show of sincerity. "I'm sorry, though. It's been a long time since I've offered brandy to a novice —not since my school days, in fact. You'll want to take very tiny sips until you're used to it."
It was dangerously reminiscent of their earlier conversation over the sherry, he realized belatedly, bracing himself for a similar ending. But though a delicately quirked eyebrow showed that she caught the similarity as well, she took another, very cautious sip, this time without coughing.
"You did promise me new experiences," she said with a half smile, "though I confess brandy wasn't what I expected." Then, suddenly conscious, she colored again and dropped her eyes.
Marcus took the chance to grin unseen, quickly schooling his face to a semblance of seriousness before she gathered her courage to look at him again. Perhaps he wouldn't have to be so very patient after all.
"What did you expect?" he asked, resisting the urge to use a suggestive tone. He didn't want to frighten her back into her prickly shell.
But now she met his eye squarely. "Drives about London, a tour of the Tower, that sort of thing. I would love to see a balloon ascension, if they are performed at this time of year."
"Ah." His body had already responded to what he'd imagined, but he tried to quell it. "I'll do a bit of research and see what sorts of amusements are to be had about Town. Perhaps you would care to see other parts of England as well?" Traveling with her, staying overnight at quaint inns where they would be required to share a room, could be—
"Later, perhaps. For now, London will be sufficient. I'd prefer to learn more of it before . . . before the majority of Society returns in the autumn." Though she still faced him unflinchingly, he detected a tiny quaver in her voice.
"Society can't hurt you now, you know," he said gently. It seemed necessary to reassure her, to erase that quaver, to protect her. "You're a respectable married woman."
She gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Respectable? Surely, that is for others to decide —and pass judgement on? To listen to Lady Claridge, twenty-five years of marriage did not make my mother respectable. Not that respectability was ever a particular aim of mine, of course," she added, almost as an afterthought.
"No, you've made that quite clear," he said, smiling. The smile seemed to surprise her, and he suddenly remembered his plan to appear stuffy.
Forcing a more formal note into his voice, he continued. "If you can manage to refrain from doing anything shocking for a few months, the gossips will move on to other prey. When I offered you the protection of my name, it was more than a figure of speech, you know." Stodgy act aside, he meant that.
"And I've done little but rail against you for it. I'm sorry for that."
Marcus leaned forward, taking her hands in his. Her eyes went wide, a deep and mysterious green by the failing daylight filtering in through the long windows, but she did not pull away.
"I know this marriage was not what you wanted, Quinn, but I'm very much hoping you won't entirely regret it. I'll do what I can to ensure that."
He tried to define the emotions assaulting him. No more than simple lust for this very attractive woman who was his wife, surely. That, and a perfectly human desire to protect someone he perceived as vulnerable, just as he would protect one of his street urchins. Yes, that must be it.
She smiled tremulously at him and that smile stirred strange longings that weren't precisely the same as lust, with which he was quite familiar.
"Thank you," she said with apparent sincerity. "And I will try not to make you regret your gallantry too terribly much, though, knowing myself as I do, I don't dare promise that you won't." Her smile was now self-deprecating, which somehow attracted him as much as her shy tentativeness had.
"If this past week is a fair measure, I can see your point." He smiled again, to take the sting from his words. "I'll simply have to make your life interesting enough that you won't feel the need to go looking for adventure, I suppose."
"You see adventure as something to be avoided, then? Perhaps you will develop a taste for it over time," she said hopefully, even playfully.
"Perhaps," he responded, resisting the urge to contradict her. "But I trust you will not consider it your duty to instill in me a thirst for excitement." His life should offer adventure to spare, given his new mission —but it was a mission Quinn mustn't suspect.
He thought she looked vaguely disappointed, but she only said, "Of course not, my lord. I realize that would go against your nature, and it is not for me to change your nature."
"Marcus, remember? And I can enjoy a balloon ascension with the best of them, I assure you. I'm not a complete dullard."
He still had no idea how she had formed that opinion of him, but it was clearly entrenched enough to work to his advantage, making her more unlikely to suspect the truth. A glance at the mantelpiece clock showed that he still had nearly four hours before his meeting at the crimp's house, but there were certain things he needed to do before returning there.
And other things he would like to do.
"It has been a full and rather trying day for you, I know. Perhaps you would prefer to retire early tonight?" he suggested.
Alarm flared in her eyes, then was quickly shielded. "I, ah, yes, I am rather tired, I suppose. Nor have I yet become entirely used to London hours, I confess. At home I was used to an earlier start to each day, as well as an ea
rlier end."
"Understandable." Marcus himself preferred Town hours, generally feeling far more alert at midnight than at noon, but did not say so. "Shall I escort you upstairs, then?"
"Escort—? I can find my— That is . . . If you wish." She alternately flushed scarlet, then went rather pale. Luckily, she didn't seem the fainting sort.
"It seems the, ah, polite thing to do, on your first night here." Polite was not at all what he wanted, but she was nervous enough already. And indeed, his choice of words did seem to calm her. Standing, he held out his arm and she rose to take it.
They mounted the stairs in a silence that was becoming awkward before she spoke again. "Which . . . which room is yours?"
He tried to take some hope from the question, though she could simply want to be forewarned, he supposed. "The next one along. Your room and mine are separated by a dressing room, but you can always lock that door from your side if you wish to."
He meant it as a jest, but she frowned. "I suppose that would be considered rather irregular, would it not? Not that I am afraid of you, of course," she added hastily.
"Irregular or not, I thought you might like to know." They had halted outside her door now, and he watched her, waiting for any sort of signal that she might welcome his company within.
"Thank you. You're . . . being very kind. I confess I did not expect that."
"Because you had convinced yourself I was some sort of ogre, apparently. I'm by no means perfect, but I'm not a bully."
She appeared fascinated by his shirt front, not meeting his eyes. "I realize that now. I goaded you earlier with my foolish rantings, and it is not surprising that you lost patience with me. I'd likely have done the same in your place."
With one finger under her chin, he tipped her face up so that she had to look at him. "Don't try to take all of the blame yourself. I was rather insufferable myself, and did my own share of goading. Pax?"
Quinn nodded, almost imperceptibly. The tip of her tongue slipped out to wet her lips—a nervous gesture, but it sent fire straight to his vitals. Without thinking, prompted by instinct —or need —he lowered his own lips to hers.
Amazingly, she tilted her head back for his kiss, her eyes drifting closed as their lips touched. Drawing on reserves of self control he hadn't known he possessed, Marcus lightly pressed his lips to hers, gentle rather than demanding, though he ached to clasp her to him, to take possession of her mouth, her body.
It was the sweetest kiss he had ever experienced.
And all too brief. He drew away before his body could rule his mind, desire already surging insistently through him despite the innocence of that kiss.
Quinn's eyes flew open, her expression startled and questioning. Then, tentatively, she reached up with one hand to touch his cheek, a tremulous smile playing about her lips.
His control broke. With an incoherent exclamation, he gathered her into his arms for another kiss. No pristine sealing of their marriage vows this time, but a claiming of rights, his need demanding an answering need from her.
And answer she did. Her arms went around his neck, drawing him closer, her whole length pressed against him as she returned his kiss with a passion he'd barely dared to guess she possessed. He slid his hands up and down her back, exploring her curves as he'd longed to do for hours. Mine, he exulted, the only thought to penetrate his swirling desire.
Moving his lips from her mouth to her throat, he tasted her skin, explored the mysterious hollow behind her ear. She responded with a tiny, throaty growl, her own lips fluttering at his temple, urging him on. With an answering growl, he brought his mouth back to hers, plundering it with his tongue, stroking, seeking. She pressed even tighter to him, her breasts firm against his chest, her hands massaging his back.
With one hand, he reached behind her for the door handle and turned it. He had a disorienting moment when the door swung open to reveal Anthony's room, its greens and browns somber by candlelight. Somehow, his mind had been primed for satin and lace. Not that it mattered.
Quinn felt the door open behind her with that one small part of her that was not totally immersed in Marcus, in her overwelming, unsuspected need for him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he would come in, join her on that big bed, and that they would become one in body as they had earlier become one in the eyes of the law and the world.
Why had she even questioned it?
Abruptly, her mind returned, battling with her body for supremacy. What was she doing? What was she allowing him to do? Was she mad? Though it took far more effort than she'd have thought possible, she pulled herself away from his intoxicating kiss.
In the dimness of the corridor, shadows emphasizing the planes of his face, he looked more handsome than ever— devilishly handsome, and not stodgy at all. His eyes were dark, smoky with a desire that nearly plunged her back into the madness with him. And it had to be madness!
"I— We—" she began, not at all sure what she meant to say, only certain that she needed to put things on a more rational footing before she was lost entirely.
"Yes, let's," he responded, his hands on her back moving again, threatening to snap her tenuous hold on reality. Then, in a deeper voice, "Quinn."
Though her name on his lips was incredibly erotic, it also helped to remind her of who she was and how she came to be here. In sudden panic, afraid more of herself than of him, she backed away, shaking her head. "No! We . . . I can't . . . Goodnight, my lord."
Before she could weaken again and fling herself back into his arms, she took two quick steps backward and closed the door, then turned to lean against it— not to prevent his entry, but to lessen the temptation to open it again just as quickly. What had she done? Almost done . . .
Breathing heavily, her body still quivering its response to his touch, Quinn forced herself to calmness. She had wanted to let him make love to her! In fact, she still wanted it. Never in her imaginings of what marriage might be like had she expected that. Did that make her wicked?
But no, lovemaking between husband and wife was not sinful. Not even when they were virtual strangers? Marcus didn't feel quite like a stranger, though. Not any longer.
Thoroughly bewildered by her conflicting emotions, Quinn moved away from the door to advance into the room— alone. Had she perhaps been wicked to make him stop? After all, it was a husband's prerogative to— But no, that was merely an excuse. The truth was that she had wanted —still wanted —him as much as he wanted her. Perhaps more.
Impulsively, she turned back toward the door, only to hear a click that must surely be Marcus entering his own room, right next to hers. She stared at the dressing room door, then took a step toward it. No, she didn't have the courage for that.
Her blood was slowly cooling, her capacity for thought returning. There was no rush. Marcus had said so himself after the wedding breakfast. She would do better to master this fever of the flesh until she decided what direction she wished her life to take. For her choice, once made, would be irrevocable.
With a sigh, she rang for her maid, who appeared a moment later to help her prepare for bed.
But all too soon she was alone again, between the sheets of the large, strange bed, regret still gnawing at her. Would there be another opportunity like this one? Marcus might have interpreted her panic as a rejection, a sign that she had no interest in him as a man. But— wasn't that what she wanted him to believe?
Remembering that last, fevered embrace, she had to smile to herself, even as the heat of embarrassment washed over her. He knew. Unless he was as innocent as she— which she very much doubted —he knew. But what would come next, she had no idea.
CHAPTER 10
Physically frustrated though he was at the moment, Marcus could not say he was completely disappointed. Quinn's response to him had been most gratifying, even if she had lost her nerve at the last. Still, he needed a distraction just now, with her getting ready for bed only a few yards away. All too easy to imagine her maid helping her out of
her gown, corset, shift . . .
With a mental shake, he moved to his desk and pulled out the stack of blank calling cards he had purchased several days ago.
Working from memory, he inked a numeral seven in the center, then pulled out another pen and inkpot, this one filled with the gold ink normally reserved for the fanciest of invitations —again, bought solely for this purpose. With this, he drew an oval "halo" above the seven, then grinned at his handiwork. It was indistinguishable from the card Luke had given him on his wedding day two weeks since.
That memory stirred another, of his own thoughts about marriage at the time—was it really only two weeks ago? How his world had changed since then! Then, he'd had scarcely a care in the world, beyond what a given night's entertainments would hold. His life had been simple, unfettered . . . and empty.
No, he didn't wish to turn back the clock, even if he could. His life had purpose now— more than one purpose, in fact. But with purpose came responsibility. And work.
Quickly, he inked several more cards, spreading them across his writing desk to dry, then pushed his chair back to consider the evening ahead as well as the tasks he had set himself for the days to come. His life wasn't empty anymore, but the things that filled it pulled his loyalties in different directions.
Shaking his head at such foolish philosophizing, he rose and stripped off his finery to don the subdued, nondescript clothing that was better suited to tonight's activities.
It lacked only a few minutes to midnight when Marcus again stood opposite the narrow house on Swallow Street where Tig was being held. The first and second floors were dark, the only light emanating from the sunken kitchen windows and one attic window above. He hoped that meant the owner of the house was either out or already abed.
"'Ere you are then, milord," came a voice at his elbow. Turning, he saw Renny, a painfully thin boy of eleven or twelve, second oldest in Stilt's gang and one of those Marcus had accosted that first day— the day he had first met Quinn.
