by Darcy Burke
She pulled away from him, but kept her hands curled against his cravat. “The table? Don’t you have rules about that?”
He stared down at her, his need pushed to the breaking point. He’d wanted women, tumbled them of course, but he’d never experienced this soul-burning need. He was a man of discipline, of control. Or at least he had been until he’d met her. Now he was a man of implacable ardor and she was the sole object of his desire. “I’d break every one of them for you.”
Her lips parted to emit a whisper-soft gasp. He kissed her again, stroking into her mouth, and clutched at her back, his hands moving over the planes of her shoulders and the arc of her spine.
Her hands dove beneath his coat, her palms gliding across his upper chest, over his waistcoat to the tops of his shoulders so that he could feel her heat through the linen of his shirt. His coat fell back and he shrugged out of the garment, letting it fall to the floor behind him.
Her initiative only fueled his desire. He brought a hand to her bodice and cupped the swell of her breast. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, which he took as encouragement. But with the multitude of garments covering her, he couldn’t feel her the way he wanted. He found the drawstring for the front of her robe and loosened it. The silk gapped at the center and he slid his hand inside, separating the fabric. So much better. He grazed his palm over her breast, trying to detect the nipple nestled beneath three more layers of clothing.
She arched up into him, seeking his hand. He pressed harder, seeking her heat. Her fingers tangled in his cravat and tugged at the fabric. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny voice of reason tried vainly to be heard, but he refused to listen. She stirred him in ways he’d never imagined, and he couldn’t stop the avalanche of sensation.
He tipped her head back, running his thumb along her jaw and kissing the underside of her delectably dimpled chin. He moved his hand back down to her breast, this time seeking the closures holding her gown together. He kissed her neck, using his mouth and tongue to suckle and lick. Her low moan crested over him, urged him to move closer between her thighs, her skirts bunching between them.
She’d successfully loosened his cravat and tugged it free. Cool air rushed over the heated, newly exposed flesh at his collar. Her hands curled around his neck, her fingers threading through the hair at his nape.
Her flesh was so soft, her scent so inviting. He worked the front of her gown open and came upon her stays, which, as a self-sufficient lady such as she would require, laced in the front.
He pulled at the laces, eager to remove this barrier. When her fingers joined his, he abandoned the fight in favor of cupping her as she worked the garment free. At last, the stays parted to reveal the pale linen of her chemise. Better still, he glimpsed the rose-tinted tips of her breasts, which strained at the garment.
He gazed down at her for a moment—again the voice in his head tried to intercede and again he swept it away. Instead, he gently tugged her chemise down and then pushed her breast up. The pale flesh swelled above the fabric, but wouldn’t come free. He kissed her, suckling until he heard her moan low in her throat. He pressed her upward until the nipple grazed his lip, then he closed his mouth over her through the linen.
Cradling her back over the table, he held her breast captive to his tongue. He kneaded and squeezed as he laved and suckled. She gasped and pulled at his hair. Then her hands were at the buttons of his waistcoat, working in a frenzy. Desperate need crashed over him. He eased her onto the table and brought his hand around to her skirts. Tunneling beneath them, he found her knee and then her thigh, her flesh soft and warm.
His waistcoat opened and she pushed it from his shoulders. He had to pull back from her breast and remove his hands from her to strip the garment away. When he put them back, she stilled, her hands falling to her sides.
He looked at her face. Her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.
“Margery?” He’d never used her Christian name before, but “Miss Derrington” seemed inappropriate given the circumstances.
She moved her gaze to his and came up on her elbows. “I’m sorry . . . Rhys.” She tried his name but sounded tentative. “I should go.”
“Of course.” The response was automatic and didn’t reflect the storm raging in his body. He was hard and ready for her, desperate to bury himself inside of her soft heat. At last the voice in his head gained volume. What the hell was I thinking?
He helped her to stand. She immediately pulled her stays together, but didn’t bother tightening the laces. Instead, she refastened her gown and drew the drawstring of her robe. Once she was as rearranged as she was going to be, she offered him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. After deciphering the code, I think it’s fair to say we were swept away by our excitement. But it was . . . nice.”
Nice? Though they hadn’t completed the act, Rhys was likely to remember it as the most erotic sexual experience of his life. He’d never been so consumed, so desperate.
“Forgive me if I characterize it a bit more colorfully than that. Spectacular comes to mind. Or magnificent.” Reluctantly, he scooped up his waistcoat and shrugged it on.
Her cheeks pinked. “I think I’ll go to bed. Good night.”
Before he could answer, she’d hurried from the room, leaving him with the books, the glass, the code, and the simmering remnants of a desire he knew for certain would never be extinguished.
In her chamber, Margery readied herself for bed without calling for the maid to help her. She wasn’t sure she could stand another person to see her body right now, not when it was still so hot and flushed and wanting.
Yes, she still wanted Mr. Bowen—Rhys. Hearing her name on his lips had nearly changed her mind. There was an intimacy to it that reminded her of how it felt to have people close, to allow people to see inside of her.
Dressed for bed, she pulled her already loosened hair from its pins and brushed the waving mass. The mirror at the dressing table showed her kiss-swollen lips and rosy cheeks. Thinking about how they’d gotten that way caused her breasts to tighten and heat to spiral into her core.
She dropped the brush on the table and turned away. The bed took up her vision and reminded her of what she could be doing right now.
Aunt Agnes had shared the specifics of coupling with her. She believed it was better for a young woman to be prepared. She’d also said it was a singularly divine experience, and now Margery knew what she meant. She had no trouble at all understanding why her aunt had chosen to enter into a liaison with the man who’d captured her heart.
But Mr. Bowen—Rhys—hadn’t captured her heart. She did like him, more than she cared to admit, however enjoying his company and his . . . attentions didn’t constitute love.
Feeling overwhelmed, she left her room and stepped into the cool corridor. The maid was just coming toward her. Her dark eyes widened. “I apologize, miss. I didn’t hear you ring.”
Margery offered a smile to ease the young woman’s concern. “I didn’t. It’s fine. I was wondering if you might direct me to young Penn’s chamber?” She hadn’t planned to visit the boy, but decided she needed something to distract her agitated mind.
“At the end of the hall.”
Margery turned her head to glance farther down the corridor.
“No, that’s Mr. Bowen’s suite. Master Penn is at the other end.”
Now she knew where Rhys’s room was located. She turned away from it lest her body decide to overpower her mind and lead her in the opposite direction. “Thank you.” Margery passed the maid and went to the room at the end. She knocked softly. “Penn? It’s Marg—Miss Derrington.”
She heard a muffled sound and let herself in. A single lantern next to the bed cast meager illumination over the chamber, but she could see that while it wasn’t overly large, it was well appointed, with a wide bed and a desk, something she found endearing. Of course Rhys would ensure the boy had a desk. Actually . . . She looked around and wondered if this had been Rh
ys’s boyhood room. She moved closer to the bed, where Penn had propped himself up against a pillow. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said.
He shook his head, his eyes wary.
“I wanted to thank you again for your help tonight. We couldn’t have deciphered the code without you.” The exhilaration of finally solving the code swept through her anew.
He almost smiled. “It was fun. I just wish I could go with you.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “I know, I do too.” He looked at her skeptically. “Truly, I do. I know how you feel. At least, I think I do.”
He cocked his head to the side. “How?”
“I imagine you feel alone, sad, abandoned even.” She watched his features tighten and instinctively touched his hand, which clutched the coverlet to his chest. “My parents died when I was ten.”
“You’re an orphan?” The question carried a tinge of hope, and she knew he was trying to find some elusive connection in a world that seemed grossly unfair to him.
“Yes. I have a pair of great-aunts who took me in and cared for me. I’m luckier than most. As are you.”
He looked down at the patterned coverlet. “I’m not lucky.”
“I think you are. Your mother entrusted you to a good man who will educate you into manhood. Imagine if you were in an orphanage or a workhouse instead.”
His gaze turned abruptly fierce. “My mother is going to come back for me.”
Oh no. Why hadn’t his mother told him the truth? Why would she let him harbor false hope? But was it Margery’s place to tell him that she was dying, that Rhys was going to be the only family he would know? Yes, family because she believed Rhys would offer that. Whatever she felt for him, she could see that he was earnest in caring for this boy. He never would’ve consented to take him in otherwise.
How had she come to be so certain of the man’s motives about Penn when she still doubted his dealings with her and the treasure? Perhaps she wasn’t being very fair. Perhaps she was allowing her own emotions to cloud her judgment—emotions she’d kept at bay for far too long.
Suddenly she felt a rush of longing. Like Penn whose world had been turned asunder, she felt as though things were upside down. She’d had her parents and then her aunts and now she was here, on her own. Her aunts were still there, but for how long? At some point, Margery would be really and truly alone.
She inhaled deeply, casting her fear to the side to focus on Penn. “And if she doesn’t return?”
He looked away, his jaw clenched.
Margery clasped his hand. “It’s all right to be upset. I cried endlessly when my parents died. But then one day I decided not to be sad about it anymore.” At least on the outside. Inside, the pain of losing them still burned her chest, especially now, as she tried to give this boy hope.
“I don’t know if I can do that.” His voice cracked. “I miss her so.”
“I know, and you always will. Penn, do you want . . . Do you want a hug?”
He gripped her hand and nodded, but kept his gaze averted.
Margery leaned forward and slipped her arms around him. He came away from the pillow and hugged her back. She stroked the back of his head and smiled against his dark hair. He needed a bath tomorrow, something she would discuss with Rhys.
When she pulled away, Penn dashed a hand over his eye. She looked discreetly to the side.
“Will you be coming back with Mr. Bowen?” His dark eyes were intense.
“I . . . I don’t know.” She didn’t want to lie to him, but she also hated the flash of disappointment in his gaze. “I will promise to write to you. Will you write me back?”
“Only if you promise to visit.”
How could she do that? She and Rhys—Mr. Bowen—were not going to continue their . . . relationship after they found the treasure. He would eventually marry—wouldn’t he?—and so would she. Or not. If the treasure was sufficient, she wouldn’t have to. But then that left her alone . . . A coldness started to slither over her, but she banished it by looking at Penn, so young, so deserving of people who cared about him. “Yes, I will visit you—right after we find the treasure. You are the first one we should share it with, given your invaluable assistance.”
He brightened at her words, and the sight warmed her heart, reminding her that it was there for people other than her aunts. Could she risk baring it?
She shoved the question aside, finding the events of this night far too troubling to ponder. “I’ve also convinced Mr. Bowen to allow you a pet. Which would you like, a dog or a cat?”
He blinked at her. “Truly? I think . . .” He dropped his head shyly.
“What is it?”
“My mother always spoke of her cat. She said it was orange, and she called it Marzipan.”
Margery smiled. “I had an orange cat too. Though mine was called Fancy, because she hated to get her paws dirty, even as a kitten. She also appreciated table scraps, much to my mother’s dismay. That didn’t stop me and my father from giving them to her.”
“May I have a cat? It needn’t be orange.”
In that moment, Margery might’ve considering trading her precious book for the prospect of an orange cat for Penn. “We’ll see if we can’t find one.”
She let go of his hand and stood. “Sleep well, Penn.”
“Good night, Miss Derrington.”
“You may call me Margery,” she said. “I insist.”
“Good night, Margery.”
“Good night, Penn.” She closed the door gently and started back toward her room. Then passed it and continued to the opposite end of the corridor. Her feet carried her all the way to the door, which she knocked upon before thinking better of it.
After a moment, Rhys—Mr. Bowen—opened the door. He was wearing another banyan, this one in black silk that matched his eyes. “Margery?”
She blinked, trying to ignore the pull she felt toward him. “I’ve promised him an orange cat. You must find him an orange cat. With haste.”
His brow gathered in confusion. “Who, Penn?”
“Yes. I went to see him just now and promised him an orange cat.” She vaguely realized she might sound a little batty. This was just so important and it was vital that he agreed. “You’ll do it, won’t you?”
He ran his hand through his hair, mussing the black strands. “I don’t know—”
She poked her finger into his chest, hard enough that he stepped back. “You will get him an orange cat.”
“Margery, I don’t think—”
She stepped over the threshold and poked him again. “Promise me.”
“All right, yes. But it will live in the barn.”
“That won’t suffice. It will live wherever Penn deems best. He needs this cat, Mr. Bowen.”
A shaft of disappointment muddled his gaze. “You’ve gone back to Mr. Bowening me?”
“Agree to my terms.”
“Margery—Miss Derrington,” he said, with a dose of exasperation heightening his tone. “I will not be held hostage to your demands. I will discuss the cat with Penn when we return from Caerwent.”
“No, you must set Thomas or someone on this task immediately.” She couldn’t explain it, but she felt beholden to this boy now. Someone had to look out for him, to fight for him. “Before we leave tomorrow.”
He wrapped his hand around the finger still pointed into the front of his banyan. “Why is this so important to you?”
“It just . . . is. Penn needs some security. His world is completely different. A cat will soothe him.” It would’ve soothed her. But her aunts had made her find a new home for Fancy because Aunt Eugenie was allergic. The pain of that loss so soon after her parents had crushed her heart in such a way that she wasn’t sure it had ever healed. “Please, just get him the cat.” Her words were soft, broken.
“Yes, I’ll get him the cat—tomorrow—and it can live wherever Penn wants.” He brushed his hand against her dry cheek. “Margery?”
“You shouldn’t call me that.
” She stood on her toes and kissed him. It came from gratitude, but bloomed into something far more devastating. The passion he’d stirred earlier sprang to life within her, and she pulled his head down so she could deepen the embrace.
He returned the kiss, his hands digging into her back and holding her tight against him. His frame was hard and strong, and in contrast she felt light and feminine. There was also next to nothing between them. Her thin nightrail and robe and his banyan. Even her feet were bare.
She swept her tongue with his, reveling in these new sensations that were both surprising and exhilarating. This was madness. She should stop him as she’d done earlier. But something inside her was singing for the first time in so long, maybe ever. It was wrong, but she just knew that if she walked away she’d regret it for the rest of her life.
With a clarity she didn’t know she could possess during such a tumultuous moment, she retraced her steps and closed his door. When she returned to him, she unclasped her dressing gown and dropped it to the floor.
He looked down at her, his eyes impossibly dark in the faint light from the pair of lanterns that flanked his bed. “What are you doing to me?” he rasped.
“Consider it an invitation.”
“It’s a bloody seduction.”
She pulled at the buttons holding his banyan closed.
He gritted his teeth. “I’m not wearing anything under this, Margery.”
“Good.” She let the word embolden her, though her insides were quivering—both from excitement and dread. She was opening a door she could never close again, but she simply had to see what was on the other side.
She pushed the garment from his shoulders and looked at his bare chest. Dark hair sprinkled between his nipples and led a trail downward. She jerked her gaze up before she could reach his arousal.
“Are you certain?” he asked, his hands hovering at her shoulders.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Not trusting herself not to change her mind. No, there would be no regrets.
