by Brenda Hiatt
Mr. Paxton's smile never wavered, but there was something in his expression that made Quinn shiver. "Perhaps you know more than you realize. At least, that is my hope. But enough of that for now. If you will send word when you have a free hour, I'll call on you at your convenience."
Marcus shrugged. "As you wish. But now, I have promised to show my wife how some of our English games are played. If you will excuse me?"
Mr. Paxton and the others repeated their felicitations on their marriage, and Marcus led Quinn away from the group toward one of the tables just forming.
"You won't help that man catch the Saint of Seven Dials, will you?" she asked him once they were out of earshot.
"As I said, I can't imagine how I could. If I had the means, however, I wouldn't hesitate to assist in the fellow's capture —if only to remove him as competition." He punctuated his words with a wink.
Quinn felt warmed by such evidence of his regard, even if he was only teasing. Then, memories of what had passed between them only a few hours ago made her color and look away, driving all thought of the Saint of Seven Dials from her mind— for the moment.
* * *
Marcus shook his head in wonderment as Quinn took her fourth hand of whist. Either his bride had been less than honest about her experience with the game, or she was a natural card sharp. It was almost a shame the stakes were so low.
"You're quite the quick study, I must say, my dear," he told her as the points were tallied up. "Shall we try something else and give others a chance here?"
Quinn rose with no show of reluctance. "Yes, I would like to learn the other fashionable games as well—if you don't mind?"
"Not at all." He smiled, trying again to shake the sense of foreboding that had hung over him since meeting Mr. Paxton. The man must have questions about Luke, and he hoped he would be able to answer them without putting his friend in any danger.
"Thank you both," Quinn said to the others at the table. "This has been most instructive."
Mr. and Mrs. Heatherton, who had agreed to help in Quinn's instruction, responded graciously, though if their words had a slightly sour edge, Marcus could hardly blame them.
"What would you care to try next?" he asked as they moved among the other widely scattered tables. "Euchre, perhaps? Piquet I can show you at home, as it allows but two players."
"Euchre would be fine," she replied, "though I've played it before, both three- and four-handed. I would like to learn piquet, I confess."
He glanced down, but her eyes were averted, her cheeks a shade pinker than normal. Was she suggesting she'd like to go home? To be alone with him? Certainly he had no objection. He was finding it difficult to focus on the games anyway, between his awareness of Quinn and the looming interview with Mr. Paxton.
"I'd like to teach you," he said after only a slight hesitation. "Shall we take our leave of our hosts, then?"
Her color deepened further, but she smiled. "I have no objection if you do not, my lord."
"No. No objection whatsoever." In fact, he preferred to leave before Peter could put in an appearance. And Quinn— Quinn was more alluring than ever, her dusky curls offering a sensual contrast to her creamy throat and pale peach gown.
With a start, he realized that he was in grave danger of becoming besotted with his own wife. Worse, at the moment he didn't much care, as long as he could have her in his arms, in his bed, again. "Let's find Lord and Lady Tinsdale, then, shall we?"
"No need to apologize for your early departure," Lady Tinsdale assured them a few moments later. "I am flattered that you came at all, so soon after your wedding. What a surprise that announcement was to us all! But an agreeable one, of course."
Her eyes betrayed her curiosity to know the details behind such a hasty wedding, but she was too well bred to ask awkward questions. Marcus was exceedingly grateful that Lady Mountheath was not in attendance tonight, however.
"You are too kind, my lady."
"Indeed," Quinn agreed. "We look forward to seeing you again soon." And on that amiable note, they left for the short carriage ride back to Grosvenor Street.
"That was pleasant," Quinn remarked as she took her place beside him on the seat. "Thank you for suggesting it."
"You are more than welcome, of course. I'm pleased you enjoyed it." Marcus was glad the ride was short. The dark, intimate confines of the carriage made him all the more eager to resume Quinn's introduction to new delights. So eager, in fact, that he found it difficult to sustain a coherent conversation, while her frequent silences made him wonder whether she was similarly preoccupied.
Helping her from the carriage a few minutes later, Marcus was startled at the effect the mere touch of her hand had upon him. He'd been infatuated before in his youth. If that was all this was, he knew only one certain cure—to get his fill of her. A most appealing notion, on several levels.
"Did you wish to play at piquet now, or would you prefer to learn when you are fresh from a night's sleep?" he asked as they entered the house.
Her glance was mischievous. "Well, since you put it that way, I suppose I would learn more quickly when my wits are sharper."
"I was rather hoping you would say that." Already his body was anticipating hers, chafing at any delay.
"I thought perhaps you were."
Absentmindedly handing his hat and coat to a hovering footman, he held her eyes with his and watched as her smile slowly faded, to be replaced by an urgent question, a hunger nearly matching his own. His impatience increased.
"Come. An early night will do us both good."
She swallowed visibly, but nodded, pausing only to put off her bonnet before allowing him to escort her up the stairs. At the door to her chamber, she hesitated. "Should I—?"
"I can help you undress for the night. If that would be—"
"Yes," she said breathlessly. "That would be most . . . kind of you."
He opened the door and with a glance— echoed by a nod from Quinn— dismissed her waiting abigail, who disappeared with a knowing smile. For an instant, Quinn frowned, as though having second thoughts.
"She's French," Marcus reminded her. "I'm sure she approves thoroughly —and will be quite discreet."
Quinn's frown disappeared, and she swayed closer to him. "I suppose so. And even if she is not, we are married."
"Precisely." A week ago, those words would have been profoundly disturbing to him, but now he found them strangely erotic. "Here, let me help you out of your things."
She turned obediently and, slipping his hands beneath her spencer, he stripped it from her, caressing her shoulders and bare arms as he divested her of the thin jacket. "You'll be warm enough without that, I think."
"Yes. I'm feeling . . . very warm indeed. Perhaps too warm."
He needed no further encouragement. "I'll soon remedy that— though perhaps only briefly." Turning her so that she faced away from him, he went to work on the row of tiny buttons down the back of her gown. As the dress parted, inch by inch, he couldn't resist leaning forward to kiss the creamy flesh now revealed above her stays and shift.
She inhaled sharply at the first touch of his lips, but did not protest, and he continued until she was able to step free of the gown. Carefully, just as though he were her servant, he gathered up the peach fabric and laid it across the chest at the foot of the bed. Then he turned back to her with a wink.
"I want to stay in your abigail's good graces, you see. Otherwise she might be unwilling to let me take over her duties again."
Quinn's eyes widened. "Again?"
"One never knows. Now, let's see." Her corset laced down the back, so he again turned her away from him, this time nuzzling her neck while he worked. Her dark curls tickled his nose, tantalizing him with a faint scent of roses.
Once her stays were removed, he knelt to remove her shoes and stockings, one by one. She stood mesmerized, obediently lifting each foot for him. He hadn't had a chance to explore her legs earlier, but now he ran his hands from knee to ankle, apprecia
ting their slim strength. A sudden urgency siezed him, to have those legs again wrapped around him as he buried himself in her.
Standing, he glanced around the room. "I hadn't realized just how oppressive Anthony's tastes are. Would you care to accompany me to my room?"
She nodded. "I do like your room better —at least until I can redecorate." Clad only in her shift, her hair about her shoulders, she looked younger than her twenty years, but he knew the body —and desires —of a woman lay beneath the thin cotton.
"Come, then."
He led her through the dressing room and into his own chamber, where candles had been newly lit and a decanter and pair of glasses stood ready on his desk. It appeared Quinn's abigail had tipped off his valet —or perhaps Clarence had acted on his own initiative.
The candlelight warmed the blues and grays, casting flickering shadows across the beckoning bed. "As I stood in for your maid, perhaps you would care to assist in my valet's absence?" suggested Marcus, turning to Quinn with a smile.
"That seems only fair." With an answering smile, she moved to strip him of his coat, then his waistcoat and shirt, skimming her hands down his arms as he had done, then sliding her palms across his bare chest. "Mmm," she murmured appreciatively.
Did she know what she was doing to him? "I'm still half dressed," he reminded her hoarsely.
Her brows rose in mock surprise. "So you are. How negligent of me." Kneeling, she removed his shoes and stockings, even as he had removed hers, lingering over his legs and feet. Her position put the top of her head in close proximity to the bulge in his breeches, arousing him further, though she seemed oblivious.
When she stood again, they were very close, her breasts nearly brushing against him. She hesitated for a long moment before reaching to unfasten his breeches, now straining over his arousal. When it sprang free, she stepped back, glancing down and then averting her eyes. Nervously, she licked her lips and he felt it as intensely as though her mouth were upon him.
Visibly summoning her courage, she stepped forward again to peel his fashionably tight-fitting knee breeches from his legs, unable to keep her eyes from his erection, only inches away from her face. When she stood again, he was naked as the day he was born, his whole body on fire for this remarkable woman he had married against his will.
"Now you are the one who is overdressed," he told her.
"And whose fault is that?" she whispered.
"Allow me to rectify the matter." In one swift motion, he lifted her shift over her head and tossed it over the back of his desk chair. "Now we are equals."
She blinked at him. "What an extraordinary statement. I like it."
He hadn't really intended a broader meaning than their mutual nudity, but Marcus decided he could live with it. In almost every way except in the eyes of the law, they were equals. And he liked that, too.
"Equal, but still different, of course," he clarified.
She grinned up at him, delighting him with her lack of fear, or even diffidence. "Vive la difference," she said, a wicked glint in her eye.
Then she was in his arms, though he wasn't sure which of them had moved first. He found her mouth with his, probing deeply, claiming and possessing her. She felt so right, molded against him like this. Her arms came around him, smoothing up his back, massaging his shoulders.
In return, he skimmed his hands down to her tiny waist, stroking the feminine swell of her bottom, pulling her more tightly to him. Her smallness made him feel fiercely protective and powerful at the same time. To think that he'd once said he preferred statuesque women . . .
She tangled her fingers in his hair, standing on her tiptoes to deepen the kiss, pressing her belly more firmly against his arousal. He slipped a hand between them to explore her cleft with one finger and found her slick and ready for him. She tightened convulsively around his finger, nearly making him climax on the spot.
With a groan, he grabbed her bottom with both hands and hoisted her up to impale her on his swollen shaft. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around him, his body supporting her. She seemed to weigh nothing at all. Reveling in their size difference, he lifted her up, then lowered her, rhythmically.
When she tightened again, this time around something far more sensitive than his finger, his knees nearly gave way. He took two quick steps and sat on the edge of the bed, still buried deep inside her. Now she had some leverage of her own and moved atop him, while at the same time moving her lips across his jaw to nibble at his earlobe.
"I never guessed England would hold such incredible experiences for me," she breathed, then caught her breath in a gasp as he drove upward. She caught the rhythm at once, rocking on his lap, driving him to the very edge of his tenuous control.
Again he slid a hand between them, wanting her pleasure to equal his own. He found her nubbin with his thumb and stroked in tempo with his thrusts, with her rocking rhythm. Throwing back her head so that her hair streamed down her bare back, she gasped again, gripping and releasing him, faster and faster.
Against his chest, her nipples went suddenly hard and she cried out, then quickly muffled the sound against his shoulder. Freed by her release, he gave himself over to the glory of passion, pounding into her two, three more times, before the world exploded around him and he heard his own voice, panting her name.
She collapsed against him, as spent as he, and he lay back until he was cradling her in his arms, sideways across the wide bed. He felt dazed. Even this afternoon, as far beyond any previous experience as it had been, was nothing to this. He felt as though he had emptied his very soul into her.
It was a long time before either of them spoke, and he wondered whether she had been as shattered by the experience as he. Finally she stirred, tilting her head back to look at him in the flickering candlelight.
"Will our next conversation be as awkward as the one over dinner, do you think?"
He nearly choked on a laugh at such an unexpected question. "Surely not. We can talk about whist now. Or piquet, once I've taught you."
She giggled. "Or horses. Why didn't we think of that at dinner?"
"Distracted, perhaps?" Marcus gave her a squeeze. Far from getting her out of his system, at the moment she felt delicious against him, and completely necessary. He supposed he should hope that the feeling would fade with the afterglow of lovemaking, but he didn't. Why would one wish away happiness?
"Mmm. Perhaps." She nuzzled his neck and he felt himself growing hard again inside her. "You're surprisingly distracting, my lord."
"I'll take that as a compliment, and must say that the same is true of you, my lady."
She must have noticed his arousal, for she squeezed him playfully. "I'm flattered."
Slowly, he began moving within her again, savoring every languorous sensation. He took his time now, exploring her body with his hands, enjoying her doing the same with his.
"Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful legs?" he asked, stroking her from hip to calf.
"No—but then, I've never bared them to anyone but you." Ducking her head, she experimentally licked one of his nipples, sending unexpected sensations straight to his groin. He moved faster inside her.
"Well, you do. And I'm glad."
"That I have beautiful legs?" She licked the other nipple, seeming pleased with the result of her first trial.
He kissed the top of her head. "No, that only I have seen them. Did you never go swimming back in Baltimore?"
"I . . . no. I never had a chance to learn, as there was no suitable place nearby." There were odd pauses between her words, as though she was finding it hard to concentrate. He grinned.
"Then that is something else I will teach you— though not here in London."
"I look forward to it—oh!" He had slid his hand between them to stroke her again and she responded as eagerly as he'd hoped.
In no hurry, since they had the whole night before them, Marcus set about pleasuring his lady as thoroughly as the hours ahead would allow.
* * *
Quinn stirred and stretched, a feeling of well-being permeating her. Her arm touched something solid and warm. Startled, she opened her eyes to see blue bed hangings in the early morning light. Memory rushed back, both sweet and alarming. Had she really done all those things? Had he?
Roused by her touch, Marcus rolled over and greeted her with a sleepy smile, his eyes as blue as the draperies. "Good morning, my lady."
Yes, they really had. Quinn felt herself blushing, though she knew it was rather late for modesty —or regret. "Good morning, my lord," she replied, confused by her conflicting feelings. "I . . . I suppose I should return to my room, to dress. My abigail—"
"Your clothes are there, at any rate. But don't worry about what your maid may think. As you pointed out last night, we are married, after all." His wink unsettled her further.
Everything that had seemed so right, so natural, so . . . necessary last night seemed a species of madness today. How could she have been so very wanton —and enjoyed it so? Even now, his smile had the power to stir her. She sat up, her back to him.
"Yes, you're right of course. I'm being foolish." An understatement, surely! "I'll see you downstairs for breakfast shortly."
Slipping from the bed, she snatched her shift from the back of his desk chair and pulled it over her head before turning to face him, only to find him frowning questioningly.
"There's no hurry, you know. But if you are hungry—"
"Famished," she declared, oddly anxious to remove herself from his influence before she could be sucked back into the magic of the night. She needed to find herself again, to separate what was real from the delusions of fantasy.
"I'll see you downstairs, then."
The question remained in his eyes, but she couldn't answer it right now. Not until she had answered it for herself. With a cheery wave, she headed through the dressing room to her own chamber. There, after a quick wash with the cold water in her basin, she rang for her abigail.
Monette appeared, her expression carefully blank. "Yes, milady. You wish to dress, or would you prefer a tray brought up first?"
