Undressed with the Marquess

by Caldwell, Christi

  He’d always known what her body craved, and this moment proved no different. He cupped her buttocks and brought her more flush against him as he guided her down.

  The mattress came up to meet her, and she sank into the deep feather folds.

  All the while, she met each slant of Dare’s mouth over hers. “You are certain,” he rasped between kisses. He would be the voice of reason . . . now, when she didn’t want reason. “I’d not have this change anything—”

  “I’m certain,” she said, her breath coming in soft little puffs. Not allowing him to cast any further doubts on this and what she wanted, Temperance dragged him closer. Wrapping her arms about him, she worked her fingers over his back. She tugged his shirt out and wrestled with his jacket. “Why are there so many buttons?” she moaned.

  Dare’s guttural laugh rumbled his chest as he trailed a path of kisses down the curve of her cheek, and lower.

  She gasped as he lowered her bodice and buried his face against her.

  His cheeks, rough from the day’s growth covering them, scraped and tickled, earning a breathless giggle.

  “Still sensitive as you ever were,” he whispered, his breath a warm sough upon her skin.

  Incapable of words, Temperance’s moan gave way to a gasp as he took the tip of her breast between his lips and sucked deeply.

  Her fingers tightened reflexively, curling into the long, lustrous strands of his hair.

  Then he switched his attention to the previously neglected mound, worshipping the sensitized flesh. He licked at her, flicking his tongue over her aching nipples, and she anchored his head to keep him close, both needing him to stop and wanting the moment to go on forever.

  “Dare.” His name was a ragged entreaty as she rocked her hips, needing all of him.

  “I’ve waited for this moment for five years, Temperance, and I have no intention of bringing us to a quick conclusion.” With that, he tugged her nightdress free at last, and tossed it aside so that she lay naked and fully exposed before him.

  She panted, forcing herself to draw away from his kiss. “I want to feel all of you.” Rolling out from under him, Temperance came up on her knees and resumed her battle with his jacket. Her hands shook as she freed the last of his buttons. Pushing the wool garment from his shoulders, she threw it over the side of the bed. Frantically, she yanked his shirt from the waist of his trousers, moved her hands under the lawn article, and stroked up and down his sweat-slicked, muscular frame. “I want to see you.”

  The smile he flashed was the pained, half-pleasured, half-tortured one he’d always worn at the height of lovemaking. That hadn’t changed. And she reveled in that realization. And the truth that for everything they’d always gotten wrong, this they’d always gotten right.

  Dare pulled his shirt overhead and sent it sailing to join the growing heap of garments at the side of the bed. His trousers followed suit until he was fully naked before her.

  Gasping for breath, her chest rising and falling hard and fast, she took in the sight of him. He’d always been glorious, chiseled perfection. Somehow in the years apart, he’d added muscle to his frame: his whipcord-tight, flat belly, the carefully defined lines of his biceps and triceps. Temperance traced a finger over those hard planes, relearning the feel of him. His was a beauty that defied mere mortals and belonged memorialized in the Guildhall Museum he’d sneaked her into for her birthday as a young woman.

  She shifted her gaze lower to his length jutting out, high and proud.

  Biting the inside of her cheek, she wrapped her fingers around him and stroked as he’d loved . . . and as she’d loved doing.

  He groaned, an animallike sound befitting a wounded beast. “It is too much,” he whispered hoarsely. His mouth covered hers with a greater urgency, with a passion that danced on the edge of violence.

  This time, he lay down and drew her over him so that she straddled him. Temperance sank onto his enormous shaft; her moist channel slicked the way, and closing her eyes, she moaned at the feel of him stretching her, filling her.

  How she’d missed him. How she’d missed these moments of passion between them.

  Temperance leaned back on her haunches, and he hissed noisily when his length filled her to the hilt.

  Then they began to move. She rocked her hips wildly, sliding down and then up. All the while, she stroked her fingers through the damp curls matting his chest. The hair soft and springy against her callused palm. “You are so beautiful,” she whispered.

  Laughter shook his frame; those reverberations she felt all the way inside, and to her soul. “You are beautiful, Temperance Grey.”

  Temperance Grey.

  Oh, God.

  She bit her lower lip. “Y-you stole my compliment, Dare.” Her body trembled as he continued to drive up into her. Sweat beaded at her forehead and worked down her cheeks, dripping onto Dare’s glistening frame.

  All teasing faded under the rising tide of their desire.

  “That’s it,” Dare urged, that high praise he’d always issued whenever they made love. He gripped her hips and guided her through each desperate thrust. Until they were moving in a wild, desperate rhythm; Temperance rose and fell over him, crying out as each stroke touched her to the core.

  A frantic pressure built and built, pulling her onward to a rising crescendo as he drew her up to that glorious precipice she’d never thought to again fall from. They moved as one, their bodies in exquisite tandem. “Daaare.” Her voice came pitched to her own ears, dulled by the rapid thundering of her heartbeat. Their pace grew in frenzy; her moans spilled and mingled with Dare’s guttural groans, an erotic medley that matched their bodies’ dance. The scent of their arousal hung in the air, sweat and musk, evidence of their desire that pulled her closer to a peak of pleasure.

  Temperance dug her fingers into Dare’s biceps as she stiffened and exploded on a glorious climax. She cried out, screaming his name over and over as she rode him. Bucking wildly, she clung to him.

  And then he joined her in her surrender. “Temperance.” Shouting his release, Dare grabbed her hips and arched up. As he guided her through that rhythm he needed, he spilled himself in long rivulets. Temperance moaned, savoring the feel of his length as it pulsed and throbbed, and she took all of him. How she’d missed the feel of him . . . of this.

  With a gasp, Dare collapsed.

  She fell down atop his chest, sprawled upon him with her hair forming a curtain over them.

  “It was good?”

  “Mmm,” she murmured languidly, her eyes shut. Wanting to keep them frozen in this place and moment so that the past and the future could never be. Always. It was always glorious perfection between them—in this.

  Except . . . She rested her cheek against his chest. The moment she opened her eyes . . . pretend ended and reality came rushing in. And she was not ready for that. Dare smoothed a palm in light circles over the small of her back, that tender caress so soothing.

  Alas, make-believe hadn’t ever been for one like her.

  Please, do not let him be triumphant.

  Resisting the urge to groan, she opened her eyes.

  His thick lashes swept low, revealed . . . nothing in his gaze. His features were their usual stoic mask.

  And somehow . . . that restraint was worse than any smugness on his part.

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t wish for this to be . . . awkward.”

  “This?” he drawled lazily, still stroking her back. His touch . . . delicious, quixotic, and distracting.

  Her cheeks warmed. “I don’t wish for this to affect how we are around one another. This, of course, changes nothing in terms of our arrangement.” Or our future.

  “Of course not,” he said, so instantaneous in his response that her heart squeezed in a way that defied logic. Which made no sense. She wanted him to be unaffected by their lovemaking.

  Didn’t she?

  “This was a mistake,” she made herself say . . . for herself, as much as for him.

&nbs
p; “Oh, undoubtedly.”

  Unable to meet his eyes, she reluctantly swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  Dare shot an arm out, catching her around the waist.

  She gasped.

  “But you know I’ve always been one to make the same mistake over and over,” he whispered, placing a kiss against her sweat-dampened shoulder.

  Her breath caught on an audible gasp as he filled his hands with her breasts.

  He flipped her onto her stomach, laying her over the edge of the bed . . . as she’d so loved.

  She closed her eyes and moaned. He remembered.

  “Everything,” he said, his thoughts always so flawlessly following even her silent ones. He slid a hand around her front and between her legs. His fingers slipped through her damp curls, and he stroked her, drawing a low moan from her lips. “I remember everything where you are concerned,” he rasped against her neck, kissing her, trailing his kisses over her. All the while, he stroked her.

  She was wicked and wanton. Her scandalous yearnings likely a product of the commoner’s blood flowing in her veins, and she couldn’t care. The woman he’d been betrothed to, the one he should be married to even now . . . any lady would never be so scandalous. And yet . . . Temperance had never been able to bring herself to care about anything, not when he made love to her.

  With her still under him, Dare slipped a knee between her legs, shoving them farther apart.

  Whimpering, she clung to the sheets and rocked her hips in restless anticipation, waiting for him to fill her. Arching back to look at him, she pleaded with her eyes and words. “Please,” she begged when he still tempted and teased . . . tormenting her.

  He slid the tip of his length in, only drawing out her misery.

  And then, catching her by the hips, he rammed himself high and deep, and she shattered, screaming his name over and over.

  And this time, when she came undone, there was no room for regret. There was nothing but feeling . . . and a perilous longing to live in his arms forever.

  Chapter 14

  The following morn, Temperance came to breakfast all business.

  With her hair drawn back tightly at her nape and her high-necked gown, one would never look at her and imagine the fiery, passionate creature who’d come alive in his arms.

  Nothing different may have transpired between them. Last night may as well have never happened, existing instead as longing thoughts he’d carried for so many years. Only the taste of her on his lips and the feel of her skin on his lingered still. Each cry, whimper, and moan of his name as she’d given voice to her passion had echoed in his ears, and he’d happily surrendered his sleep to those memories.

  No, it had been real and wonderful. And the most alive and joyous he’d been . . . since she’d sent him away.

  A plate of buttered toast forgotten, untouched, and shoved aside in favor of a notepad, Temperance scribbled away. Her pencil flew back and forth frantically over the page, with emphatic clicks of the tip as it struck the page, that same zeal with which she’d always written, and which had always fascinated him.

  “As I see it,” she was saying, “there are certain areas in which we must become proficient. Many of them. There are dancing and discourse and the rules of Polite Society,” she fired off, and he found himself smiling.

  She’d always taken charge, and it was just one of the many reasons he’d been captivated by Temperance Swift.

  “You’re not paying attention,” she charged, not lifting her head from those notes commanding her attention.

  “I am.” Somewhat. That was, when he’d not been woolgathering about her.

  She finally looked up. “There is also the matter of being properly introduced to your sister.”

  “There’ll be time enough for that,” he muttered. Now that was a certain way to bring to an end any wistful thoughts—the sister who’d have been happier to see him hang, and who went out of her way to avoid Dare at any and every cost. The same sister he’d now be responsible for squiring about London, and whom his funds were inextricably linked to. What could possibly go wrong there? he thought wryly. He schooled his features.

  Temperance narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” he said, reaching for his cup of coffee.

  She put a hand over his, forcing the glass back to the table. “What?”

  “One might say she isn’t overly fond of me.”

  “Isn’t . . . ?”

  “She doesn’t like me,” he said flatly.

  “She doesn’t even know you.”

  “She knows me enough to know she doesn’t like me.”

  Temperance pushed aside her notes and fully attended him. And he had an inkling how her younger brother must have felt all these years.

  “She may have taken exception to my not properly appreciating the great Milford line.”

  With a groan, Temperance buried her face in her notepad and knocked her forehead lightly against the page. “You showed the same arrogance you did with your grandparents?”

  “I wouldn’t call it arrogance.”

  She picked her head up. “Call it what you will. You’ve done nothing to make this easier for either of us.” Temperance gave her head a slight but firm shake. “It is done. No good is going to come from dwelling on how you handled the situation before this. We are going to have to begin again.”

  He moved his gaze over her. In his work, Dare had had dealings with many over the years—men. Women. Most of whom had been facing precarious situations with the law or various gang leaders on the streets. Not a single one of them had ever displayed the military-like control Temperance had.

  She blushed. “What?” she asked, a defensive edge lining that question.

  Dare made himself focus on the charcoal smudge upon her forehead. “Here,” he murmured, lightly dusting that remnant away. “You’ve pencil here.”

  Temperance went absolutely still as he brushed the mark from her skin. He stroked his fingers over her brow, caressing her, recalling the night they’d shared.

  She trailed her tongue along the seam of her lips, and hunger flared once more. He’d never have enough of her. “W-we should . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Dare whispered.

  Temperance’s gaze went to the row of servants stationed along the wall, and with that look, she found the restraint he lacked. Clearing her throat, she angled slightly away, putting a discernible space between them. “I took the liberty of compiling this list.” She turned it out for him to read. “And I shall defer to you which matter we might begin with.”

  1. Proper forms of address

  2. Proper forms of dress

  3. Curtsying and bowing

  4. Dancing

  “I feel quite confident in my curtsying abilities—” Temperance punched him lightly on his arm. “Oomph.”

  “Dare.”

  “Oh, fine,” he muttered. “Always serious, you are.”

  “And not serious enough, you are.”

  “Fair enough.” He grabbed her pencil, circled the item at the very bottom of her list, and went back to his coffee.

  She leaned over his shoulder. “Daaancing?”

  “It is on your list.” If he was going to have to suffer through the miseries of Polite Society’s norms, he’d begin by enjoying the feel of Temperance in his arms. “By your response, one would think you weren’t the one to write it as an option,” he said with a wink. Dare made another attempt for his drink.

  She again swatted at his fingers. “You promised to take this seriously, Dare.”

  “I am.” Where his motives were concerned, she’d every reason to her doubts and suspicions.

  “I’m not making light of this, Temperance,” he said quietly.

  She appeared wholly unmoved by his solemnity. “Given my work, I’ve some knowledge of the peerage,” she said, her attention trained once more on her meticulous notes. “My experience isn’t extensive; however, there was a baroness in the Cotswolds who frequented t
he shop I was employed at. As a result, I and the other seamstresses were instructed as to how one should and should not speak to lords and ladies.”

  As a marchioness, Temperance outranked most of the ladies and lords they’d come into contact with. He knew her enough, however, to withhold that particular detail, as it would only unsettle her.

  “We shall begin there,” she said, placing a little star next to item one on her list.

  He frowned. “But I chose this.” Wrestling the pencil and notepad away, he made another circle over the last item. This time, as she grabbed for the pencil, Dare held it beyond her reach.

  From over her shoulder, he caught the small smiles from the servants stationed there.

  And had they been alone, he’d no doubt she would have stamped her foot as she did when annoyed. “Dare, we have to begin with something we have some knowledge of. We’ll need to find dance instructors. In fact, I suspect your grandparents will have the names of gentlemen who might assist in that area, and they’ll also likely approve of the evidence you are try—”

  “I know how to dance.”

  Her jaw slipped as her mouth fell open. “What?”

  This time, he picked up his coffee, free of interruption. “I know how to dance,” he repeated, blowing on the hot contents of his glass.

  She continued to stare gape-mouthed at him. Unnerved by that look—the one that made him out to be more oddity than man—he took a sip of the bitter black brew. When Temperance still didn’t say anything, Dare winged an eyebrow up.

  “I . . .” Temperance looked down at her page. “Oh.”

  “The nobility does not waste time. They start early in instructing their children on life’s most important lessons and skills,” he said, unable to keep the cynical amusement out of his voice. “Though I’d argue my parents would have been best served in having seen me taught how to handle a knife or throw a punch.” Instead, they’d given him no talents of any real use or value for surviving in the streets. Everything he had learned, every meaningful skill, he’d either taught himself or learned from Avery.

  Temperance lowered her book. “Oh, Dare.” Her expression softened.