He withdrew his touch, and she almost protested aloud at the loss of him. But she held her tongue, wishing to cling to whatever shred of dignity yet remaining her own, and watched his hands disappear from sight. The rustling of his dressing gown broke the silence that had fallen between them as she presumed, he delved into a pocket secreted in the robe.
His countenance was grave when he extracted something glittering and shining with red and gold. A necklace, she realized, as he settled it upon her neck and fastened the clasp at her nape.
But not just any necklace. This piece was heavy, cold where it settled upon her skin. Fashioned of thick golden flowers with ruby cabochons at their centers, its grand statement was a massive golden bloom bearing an equally large, faceted ruby nestled amongst its petals. She stared in awe at the magnificent piece, stunned by the extravagance of his gift.
“It is the Searle rubies,” he said softly. “A fitting gift now that you are the Marchioness.”
She swallowed, a tremor passing through her at not just the opulence of the gift but the meaning behind it. How incredible a gesture it seemed, coming from this austere man who kept himself so closely guarded. “I cannot possibly accept such an extravagance,” she said, raising a hand to gently stroke the intricately fashioned golden flowers and the immense ruby at the centerpiece in spite of herself.
It was the most stunning necklace she had ever seen, and it seemed to fit upon her neck as if fashioned for that very purpose. Good heavens, she did not even particularly care for jewelry, but this piece was so lovely, she could not help but to admire it.
“You can accept it, and you will,” Searle countered, his tone brooking no opposition. “These belonged to my mother before you, though my father had them reset into this necklace after her death. I confess I cannot fault him for his choice even if I do not like his reasons. She never did care to wear them anyhow. Do they please you?”
Of course they pleased her. How could they not? But there was a story there, hovering in the air, going untold, and she wanted answers. Why had his father reset the necklace after his mother’s death? Had the former marquess been too morose, so swept up in his grief he had lashed out against a family heirloom?
It seemed unlikely.
Through his reflection in the glass, she noted the frown gathering at her husband’s brows and compressing his sensual lips. This necklace troubled him, she thought. Or perhaps not the necklace itself, but the details behind it.
“It is lovely, my lord,” she said softly, realizing belatedly her fingers were still stroking the painstaking craftsmanship evident in the golden flowers.
Now that he had told her they were the Searle family rubies, she knew they were traditionally kept by the marchioness. She could not deny the gift, and neither was it a true gift either, but in contrast, more of an expectation. A burden, perhaps. She wondered again at the story he had not offered to share, the reason why his father had seen the rubies placed in an entirely new setting following the death of his mother. Therein, perhaps, lay the true burden.
“You do not like it,” he said flatly.
“I love the necklace.” Her disavowal came instantly, without thought. But neither could her curiosity be squelched. “Why did your father have it reset?”
“He despised my mother as one would a mortal enemy. She had chosen the setting for the stones herself, having them reworked into something more suited to her taste from the original piece, and he did not wish to be reminded of her in any fashion.”
Her eyes sought his in the glass. This admission seemed torn from him, but she was grateful he had given it to her. “Why did he despise her?”
His lips took on a sardonic twist. “Theirs was an arranged marriage. My mother loved another. My father loved only himself. They wedded to suit their families. He needed her dowry, and her family wished to secure a tract of largely untillable marshland.”
“It seems an untenable trade,” she offered lamely. From his tone and the precious, little information he had shared regarding either of his parents, she could only assume he had not been privileged enough to possess a happy childhood.
Though her mother had been her father’s fifth wife, Papa had been kind and loving toward Leonora. Her parents’ marriage had not possessed any rancor, though Mama had been a good two decades Papa’s junior.
“Far more untenable than one would suppose, given the exchange.” Her husband’s deep voice interrupted her ruminations once more. So, too, his touch, for his fingers were upon the central ruby in the necklace now, stroking as he spoke. “She hated him as well, so do not think her an innocent. The fire and anger between them burned brightly on both their parts.”
“Your mother and father lived in enmity for the entirety of their union?” she asked, though she knew he likely did not wish to speak of his distant past any more than he wished to discuss his far more recent one.
“They lived in bitter hatred,” he said calmly. “Enmity seems far too polite a descriptor.”
She wondered now if part of the reason for his detached manner lay in his childhood, as well. Surely a home in which two people hated each other with such ferocity could not be a happy home for that couple’s children.
“It must have been difficult for you,” she said softly, treading with care. Her eyes met his in the glass, and she held her breath, awaiting his reaction.
“Do not fret for me, madam.” His tone was cool. “There is no difficulty I cannot face.”
She believed his assertion. The Marquess of Searle was a strong man, a living, breathing fortress. But she wanted inside his walls. “Still, a child ought not to bear the weight of his parents’ quarrels.”
“I had my brother,” he said then, his fingers gliding over the necklace before he settled his entire hand there, cupping her throat gently. “We provided each other with comfort, of sorts.”
She knew from Mama—who possessed an almost uncanny ability to recite Debrett’s—Searle’s elder brother had died shortly after their father’s death. But this was Searle’s first reference to his brother. Progress, perhaps.
“You and your brother enjoyed a friendship, then?” she asked, prodding him because she knew she must. He would give her crumbs when she longed for a laden table.
“We did. George was a good man. A gentleman.” Searle paused, his jaw clenching. “He made an excellent marquess. I was not raised to the task, though Father loved to remind me of my duties to the line, often in the form of a switch. The old marquess was adept at caning. Perhaps it was one of the reasons my mother hated him so. I expect he may have exercised his anger upon her as well. I do recall seeing bruises upon her that her lady’s maid attempted to cover with powder. As a lad, I thought her clumsy. As a man, I have wondered.”
A chill swept through her at the thought of not just what Searle had endured but what his mother had possibly, also. And here, at last, was a revelation from him, but a horrifying, heartbreaking one all the same. “I am sorry, my lord. Sorry for the loss of your brother and the suffering of your past.”
His smile was grim, his hand tightening slightly on her throat. Just a subtle flex, enough to remind her how very much she was at his mercy. “As we have already established, I do not want your sympathy.”
She knew precisely what he wanted from her, and the flesh between her thighs was slick and aching with the same want. But she longed for more from her husband than just passion. She also wanted to know him. To dismantle his defenses.
“Whether or not you want it matters naught,” she told him, resolute. “You have it. I am your wife, my lord. It is my duty to concern myself with you.”
“No,” he said, dipping his head to press a kiss to the left side of her neck. His hand remained on the opposite side, his warmth seeping into her flesh. “It is not your duty to concern yourself with me. Your duties are to bear my children and refrain from cuckolding or embarrassing me publicly. But that is not enough for you, is it? Caring for others is merely in your nature, is it not, my sweet Leo
nie?” He kissed his way to her ear, sending a trill straight through her. “You are an angel. So perfect, so sweet, caring when you should not, giving when you ought to keep for yourself. You are so good, wife. Too good. Far too good.”
His words seemed somehow couched in warning. But she could not question them now, not when his mouth was moving over her bare skin, and his left hand had found her thigh, caressing her there. She struggled to maintain control of her faculties as he wreaked havoc upon her ability to both think and resist him.
Because why would she resist this gorgeous, breathtaking man? Why would she want anything other than his complete domination of her body, his annihilation of her defenses in every way?
The Marquess of Searle was her weakness. He was cold and dark and bitter, scarred and mysterious and remote, and yet, he called to her more than any man ever had. It was not merely that he was her husband. Another could have sufficed for the role. She had wanted children of her own, and that was all. But this man was different. He crawled beneath her skin and made his home somewhere within the fragile boundaries of her heart.
“I am not an angel,” she told him, “and you do not expect enough of your wife if your only requirements consist of no embarrassment and no cuckolding. While it may be useful to convey, I have no wish of committing either of those sins against you, I do feel compelled to suggest my position in your life is far more useful than the duties you have mentioned.”
His hand found the knot at the belt on her dressing gown, plucking it open. The twain ends of her wrapper fell apart, revealing her transparent nightgown. In the looking glass, she saw herself as she supposed Searle may, unbound, white-blonde hair, full lips, wide eyes, breasts too heavy and round, nipples poking through the fabric, a soft belly, and the shadow of the apex of her thighs. Where she hungered for him most.
“I would agree on the last, darling.” His breath was hot in her ear as he spoke. “I do have far more useful tasks for you in mind.”
His gaze was unyielding in the glass, holding her captive, sending a fresh blossom of want straight to her core. She knew what he wanted. Desire altered his expression. Never had she been looked upon with such aggressive possession. The man staring back at her did not just want her. He wanted to devour her.
And she wanted nothing more. Her breath hitched in her throat, her pulse pounding. “What tasks, my lord?”
He pressed a hot kiss to her ear then, enough for her to sense the need building within him, a fire to match the one already burning inside her.
“Is your leg paining you, Leonie?” he asked, taking her by surprise with his thought for her comfort.
The diminutive still felt strange, almost as if it belonged to someone else, yet somehow right. Once again, he was an enigma to her, this man who was cold and aloof yet oddly concerned for her wellbeing. Telling her he did not want her sympathy yet caressing her, holding her throat and yet kissing her ear. He was the juxtaposition of hard and soft.
But she did not require his comfort. Not now, for she bore most of her weight on her uninjured, right limb, helping to alleviate the stiffness and aches. It was a crutch, of sorts, and she used it often. Over the years, she had even discovered how best to stand so the skirts of her gown shielded her weakness. It was only too much walking, standing, and dancing that made the old injury flare.
“My leg does not pain me,” she said finally, forcing herself to speak. Her eyes remained trained to his, lost in those dark, emerald depths. But something else pained her. Rather, it was an ache. An emptiness. A longing. “But I do thank you for your concern for my wellbeing, my lord.”
Suddenly, she could no longer bear the detachment of staring into their reflections. While its novelty inspired a certain hunger within her, she was also tormented by a persistent longing for something more, for something deeper. Perhaps, she thought, this was his way of once more putting a distance between them. After all, it was emotion he did not want—her caring for him, any tender feelings she may possess, were shunned with equal vigor.
“If your leg does not pain you, then why…”
His query trailed off when she abruptly spun in his arms.
“Why what, my lord?” she asked.
“Why did your breath catch?” His question was issued in a deliciously deep timbre that sluiced down her spine, spreading tingles in its wake.
She swallowed. Excellent question, and how to answer without betraying herself? Without making her susceptibility to him apparent?
“My breath did nothing of the sort,” she lied, gazing into the glorious vibrancy of his eyes. How unusual it was for a man to have been blessed with such loveliness. She was sure she had never seen another gentleman with eyes that could compare. Or perhaps it was merely that she had not cared to look closely enough before now.
Which was rather an arresting—and astounding—realization.
“It did,” he countered, sounding pleased with himself. “Your breath caught in your throat, and you seemed to tense.” He kissed the bare swath of her neck. Once, twice, thrice. His tongue darted over her flesh, and then he sucked. Gently at first, then with greater pressure.
Until she knew without question his fervor would leave yet another mark to join the rest he had already visited upon her flesh, a constellation of the ways in which he was her greatest weakness. All of it rendering her so painfully vulnerable to his touch.
To him.
She swallowed as he continued to devour her neck. “Is there a danger, then, in wanting one’s husband?”
He inhaled deeply, and then he kissed her throat again, open mouthed. Ravenous. She tilted her head back, enjoying his consumption. Reveling in it, in fact.
“There is every danger when I am the husband in question,” he said, startling her. His mouth continued its stinging path. Down her throat, straight to her collarbone. “Do you dare trust me, Leonie?”
Nay, she did not.
But something else inside her, something deep and elemental, said she did. And it was that voice which answered him now, rather than her own. “Yes. I trust you, Morgan.”
He tugged her dressing gown with one hand, and she helped him, shrugging it to the carpet. His other hand slid from her throat, his fingers tunneling into her nape where her hair hung in heavy waves.
“Sweet fool,” he said without heat, and then his mouth was upon hers.
*
She trusted him.
He had heard the honesty in her dulcet voice. And he tasted it now in her kiss, felt it in her responsiveness, the way all the tension and fight drained from her in his arms. He wanted to thank her, and he wanted to punish her all at once for being so naïve, for believing in him so easily when he was the last man she ought to gift with her unconditional faith.
His fingers tightened in her hair as he kissed her, his tongue plundering her mouth, hoping she would whimper, beg to be set free, push him away. Instead, she only clutched him closer, a moan of surrender coming from her. He swallowed the sound as he consumed her mouth, telling her his secrets with every movement of his lips on hers.
You should not trust me.
I am your enemy, my sweet.
But see how prettily you let me own you…
Damnation, her capitulation, her willingness to submit to whatever he wished of her, stoked the white-hot fires of desire burning within him. His cock was ready for her, the need to be inside her an almost palpable thing.
Still kissing her, he guided them both in the direction of her bed. He had kept her in his bed all night the first time, but he recognized the precedent was a dangerous one to set for himself, as much as for her. He could ill afford to develop a fondness for her beyond his need for her body. Tonight, he would have her in her own bed, and he could discreetly leave after he had his fill of her.
He whisked away her nightdress, and discarded his own robe. They fell onto the mattress as one, mouths joined, hands everywhere. Her heady, floral scent enveloped him as he filled his hands with her voluptuous curves.
&n
bsp; He told himself he would make love to her more slowly this time. He would savor her. Torture her with pleasure until she was screaming for him, pleading for her release. And when the Earl of Rayne finally arrived back in London once more, Morgan would relish every moment of informing the bastard how easy it had been to make his innocent sister beg for his cock.
He tore his mouth from hers and kissed down her body, stopping to admire her creamy flesh beneath him. Her breasts were so damn beautiful. Her belly was soft, and the thought of planting his seed within her, of watching her swell with his child, made his cock twitch.
Damn. He was meant to prolong the pleasure. To make this last.
He cupped her breasts and then lowered his head to suck a nipple into his mouth, earning a moan from her. He wanted his name on her lips as she cried out her release. He wanted her to spend on his tongue.
Morgan suckled her other nipple, giving her another gentle nip. She was more decadent than any dessert. His to pleasure. His to torture.
Down her belly he went, trailing kisses, worshiping her with his mouth. He did not stop until he reached the prize he sought, the apex of her thighs. He kissed the top of her mound, his hands on her thighs, urging them apart.
“My lord,” she protested breathlessly.
“Hush,” he told her gently, soothing her with slow caresses as she opened for him. Her cunny was glistening, pink and perfect. “I want to kiss you.”
“Where?” she almost yelped. “Surely not…”
He would not argue the point with her, for he could not go another heartbeat without having the taste of her in his mouth. Instead, he dipped his head, showing her. He traced his tongue over her seam, up and down, slowly and tantalizingly. She tasted musky with a hint of sweetness. He found her pearl and flicked his tongue over it, gratified when she jolted beneath him.
Yes, there was his wanton wife.
So wicked for him.
Marquess of Mayhem (Sins & Scoundrels Book 3) Page 12
