by Darcy Burke
He moved one hand to her nape and the other down her side. Sliding to the floor, he knelt beside the settee. Then he moved her legs onto the cushions and eased her back until she reclined.
He ached to touch her breasts, but he didn’t think that was the best place to start. Not after what she’d shared with him. He swept his hand from her nape down over her front, lightly skimming one breast on his way to her belly. Then he moved lower and pressed his hand over her mound.
Drawing back from their kiss, he whispered, “Open your legs. Tell me what you feel here.” He pressed again.
“A…quickening. I want…something.”
He smiled against her mouth and kissed her again, losing himself for a moment in the rapture of her lips and tongue. Then he began to pull at her skirt, gently tugging it up her calves to her knees, where he reached for the hem. Grasping it, he exposed her thighs, eliciting another gasp from her lips.
He pulled away again. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No, it was just a bit cold. Don’t stop, please. I promise I’ll tell you if I want you to.”
Her trust filled him with awe. And maybe apprehension. He needed to get this right for her.
Keeping his gaze on hers, he slid his hand along her thigh. She twitched softly as he moved between her legs. He left the gown over her hips so she was covered. Given how exposed she’d been last time… Fury rippled through him, and he had to shove it away.
Later, there would be a reckoning.
He lightly stroked her flesh as her eyes took on a sheen of wonder. “Open your legs more,” he whispered.
She did as he asked, giving him greater access. He bent his head and kissed her again, softly at first, his lips and tongue mimicking his gentle ministrations on her sex.
Cupping her head, he slanted his mouth over hers as he found her clitoris. She made a noise, and he drank it in, wanting everything she had to give. More than that, he wanted to give her everything.
He went slow, coaxing and teasing her until her hips began to move—slightly at first. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her ear. “Tell me what you feel.”
“I can’t explain it.” Her words were breathless. “Where you’re touching me… It’s like starting a fire. The flames are there, but I need it to catch.”
He grinned. “Let’s see if I can stoke it.” He snagged her earlobe with teeth. She gasped, her body rising slightly from the settee.
Marcus slid his fingers down and felt the moisture there. “You’re wet,” he said against her. “As you should be.”
“Why?”
“To ease the way for my cock when I come inside you. But not today.” He stroked his finger into her, moving slowly. She was tight and hot around him. He let out a ragged breath.
He kissed her neck, licking over her skin. She arched, and he savored the beauty of her face—her eyes closed, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed with desire. He moved down, finding the hollow of her throat.
She had one hand on his shoulder and the other on his nape, her fingers tangling in his hair. Now, as he thrust his finger deep into her, she tugged, moaning softly.
He wanted more of her, all of her, to give her an ecstasy she would never forget. But for now, this was enough. It had to be. He felt her muscles tightening as they searched for release.
“Let go,” he said, trailing his mouth back up her neck and then kissing her once more. He claimed her with a savage intensity. Everywhere he touched her, he poured himself into her.
Withdrawing his finger, he focused on her clitoris once more, pushing her to the edge. “Can you let go?” he asked huskily.
“I don’t…know.” Her voice was tight, coiled, like a hunter about to strike, but the prey was moving very fast.
Her hips arched, and he drove his finger into her pussy again, using his thumb in fast circles on her clitoris. She clenched hard around him, and he worked his hand over her sex with rapid movements to expand her orgasm as much as he could.
She cried out, and he watched her expression dissolve into rapture. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And it was almost enough to make him come too.
He eased her down from release, kissing her again and whispering words of calm and reverence. When at last she opened her eyes, she asked, “Was that normal?”
He grinned. “Quite. At least it should be. Sex is not just for men. In fact, sex is better when a woman not only enjoys it but craves it.”
Her gaze was dark and cloudy with satisfaction, but she fixed it on him nonetheless. “I think I might be one of those women. I didn’t think I was. Thank you.”
He pulled her dress down and sat back on his heels. She came up to a sitting position, swinging her legs off the couch. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest still rising and falling steadily as her pulse worked to right itself.
Marcus’s heart was also working quickly, and his cock positively throbbed. He’d take care of that when he got home. And what a memory he’d have while he did so.
Had that really just happened?
Yes, and she wanted him to come on Saturday. Did he dare take her all the way then? He wanted to go as slowly as she needed.
“That was quite lovely,” she said. “What else can we do that isn’t intercourse?”
He chuckled. “Nothing today.”
“Saturday, then. And I want to prepare for intercourse. I find I’m quite eager to try it. With you.”
He groaned as he got to his feet. “You’re going to kill me, Phoebe. Saturday is two days from now.”
She rose from the settee, calmly smoothing her gown as if she hadn’t just come apart in his arms a short while ago. “Perhaps you should come tomorrow night. I was going to attend a soiree, but that sounds dreadfully dull now.”
“What time will you be home?” he answered so quickly that she laughed.
“Let’s say one o’clock—come then.”
“Done.” He closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms, kissing her hard and fast. When he withdrew, they were both breathless. He rested his forehead against hers. “Dream of me.”
“I couldn’t do anything else.”
Grinning, he caressed her cheek, then turned and left. The butler handed him his coat and gloves on the way out and wished him a good day. Marcus had to think the man knew and gave him credit for acting, convincingly, as though he didn’t.
Outside, his joy ebbed slightly as Sainsbury reinvaded his mind. Rage spilled through Marcus as he thought of what the blackguard had done to her. Yes, there would be a reckoning.
Chapter 9
Dreaming of Marcus had made it difficult to sleep.
Yawning, Phoebe stood from the small table in her sitting room that adjoined her bedchamber and padded back to her room to get dressed. Her maid, Page, had already laid out her gown.
“Actually, I plan to go out.”
Adjusting course, Page brought a different costume and set about helping Phoebe dress. Then Phoebe sat down at her dressing table so Page could style her hair.
As Page worked, which always seemed to lull Phoebe into a state of relaxation, Phoebe’s thoughts turned to the several times she’d awakened in the night, her body warm with desire. She was desperate to know what he had in store. So much so that she was contemplating going in search of a book somewhere. There had to be something that detailed sex.
Telling him about Sainsbury had been easier than she’d imagined. Easier than telling her mother. But then Marcus had been incredibly caring and sensitive. The difference between him and Sainsbury was cavernous. It was as though they were different species.
An idea struck her. Perhaps she could call on Lavinia. As a married woman, and as Phoebe’s friend, she would probably answer her questions. And maybe even tell her where to find such a book. She had to believe Lavinia’s husband, the renowned Duke of Seduction, would know all about the written words of sex.
Phoebe blushed. Marcus had turned her into a complete wanton in the space of a day. And she couldn’t be
more thrilled. This was what it meant to be independent, to be free of stupid rules and expectations. This was what it felt like to be a man.
She snorted.
Page paused in her work. “Miss Lennox? Did I hurt you?” She was young—younger than Phoebe—and sometimes a bit skittish. That trait had drawn Phoebe to hire the young woman as her personal maid after meeting her in her great-aunt’s household. Page had relaxed in the months that she’d been with Phoebe and had started to gain confidence.
“Not at all. My apologies, I was just thinking of something frustrating.”
Nodding, Page finished Phoebe’s hair and went in search of a hat and gloves while Phoebe put on her walking boots. Phoebe glanced outside at the gray day. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”
Not that she truly cared. It could thunder and rain, and she’d still be giddy.
Page brought her accessories as Phoebe stood. “You look lovely, Miss.”
She smiled at the maid. “Only because of you.”
Eager to visit Lavinia, Phoebe hurried downstairs, then came to a hard stop when she arrived at the entry hall. Standing inside as Culpepper closed the door, her mother looked pale and distraught.
“Mama,” Phoebe said, depositing her hat and gloves on a table. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s your father. We had a terrible quarrel.”
So much for visiting Lavinia. Phoebe took her mother’s gloves and hat and set them next to her own. “Culpepper, we’ll have tea in the garden room.” Then she linked her arm through her mother’s and guided her toward the back of the house.
Mama sank down on the settee. The one Marcus had pleasured Phoebe on the day before. Phoebe tried not to think about that. She took a chair nearby and asked what happened.
“He sold the painting.”
Phoebe could see she was upset and sought to soothe her. “That’s all right. I said he could.”
“He’s using the money for another investment.” Mama’s dark brows pitched over her eyes as her mouth tightened. “I asked him not to do that, but he has no concern for my wishes.”
“It might not be so bad,” Phoebe said. “I have investments, and so far, they’ve proven profitable. Papa just suffered a bit of bad luck.”
Mama shook her head. “He’s lost two of them, and I believe they are with this same person. He goes on about ‘him’ when he’s ranting about the losses.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Someone he meets at night—in Leicester Square. I only know where because I asked the coachman.” Mama twisted her hands together and then set them in her lap. Then she abruptly stood and stalked toward the doors that led to the garden. Turning, she gave Phoebe a tentative look. “May I stay with you for a few days?”
“Here?” Phoebe could hardly believe her mother wanted to stay with her when she’d been so displeased that she’d purchased her own house in the first place. But it was more than that. If she stayed here, Phoebe couldn’t very well have Marcus over to conduct an affair.
“If it’s not too much trouble. I’m just so angry with your father. He needs to learn to take me seriously.”
After over thirty years of marriage, and one in which he was most definitely in command, Phoebe wasn’t sure her father was going to learn anything, but she kept her mouth closed.
Culpepper arrived with the tea. He set the tray on a table near the garden doors and asked if he should pour.
“No, thank you,” Phoebe said. The butler turned to go, and Phoebe passed him as she went to sit at the table. “Culpepper, please have the spring bedroom prepared for my mother. She’ll be staying with us for a few days.”
He inclined his head. “Of course.”
“Would you send a footman to fetch my trunk from the coach?” Mama asked.
It was a good thing Phoebe had said yes to her request. Not that she would have said no. She would always provide help and support for her parents. Frustrating as they were, she loved them. She was also keenly aware that she was their only remaining child and that she’d disappointed them gravely. While she didn’t regret her choices—and wouldn’t change them—she supposed she would always want to heal that rift.
Culpepper departed, and they sat down. Phoebe poured the tea.
“I interrupted you on your way out,” Mama said. “I don’t mean to be a bother.”
“It’s quite all right. I’ll still go out—in a bit.” Phoebe dropped sugar into their cups. “You’ll need to get settled.”
“Thank you for understanding, dear.” She stirred her tea, then took a sip. When she looked at Phoebe next, her eyes were clouded. “I’ve thought a great deal about what you told me the other day. It was…difficult to hear.”
And Phoebe hadn’t even revealed the specifics, not as she had with Marcus. “It was more difficult to experience, I assure you.”
Mama flinched. “I wanted to ask if I could tell your father. I think he should know. It would help him understand.” She cocked her head to the side and then straightened it again. “It might also prompt him to violence, so perhaps we’ll keep it between us.”
Phoebe thought of Marcus’s reaction. His anger had been palpable. She’d gloried in its ferocity. Still, she didn’t want him to act on it. “While I would like nothing more than for Sainsbury to suffer, I would prefer to put the entire thing behind me. If you think telling Papa would help do that, then please tell him. I’d rather he stop bringing Sainsbury up.”
“I’ll try to think of how to do it. When I’m no longer angry with him.” Mama scowled at her cup. “Do you still want to go to the soiree tonight?” They’d planned to go together.
“We don’t have to.” Phoebe tried not to sound disinterested, but she was disappointed about her plans with Marcus being ruined. She’d have to send him a note. Or…
Phoebe took another sip of tea, then stood. “I’ll go out now. Please let Culpepper know if you need anything. I’ll see you for dinner.”
Mama reached for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Thank you, Phoebe. I haven’t been as supportive of you as I ought to have been. I will be now.”
“I appreciate that.” Phoebe turned and left, eager to be on her way.
She went into the entry hall and donned her hat. “Culpepper, is the coach still outside?” She realized she hadn’t given any direction in the midst of her mother’s surprise arrival.
“Yes.”
“Excellent, thank you.” Pulling on her gloves, she left the house. Outside, she gave the coachman her direction. “Hanover Square, please.”
It wasn’t very far, but she didn’t want to be seen walking there. She wasn’t going to Lavinia’s.
A short while later, the coach stopped in front of one of the grandest homes in the square. Wide windows flanked the massive door, which stood at the top of a short flight of stone stairs.
The coachman helped her down, and she walked up to the house. She didn’t have to knock, for the door opened to reveal a tall butler with a sharp nose. He was in his middle age and possessed kind eyes. She thought so because of the lines that indicated he smiled often. How peculiar for a butler, since they were often so austere. But then she imagined Marcus might give him ample opportunity to smile.
“Good afternoon. Miss Lennox to see Lord Ripley.”
The butler closed the door as she stepped into the grand entry hall. Stairs climbed each side, meeting in the middle over an archway that led straight back to the rest of the house. A landscape by Joshua Reynolds hung on the right beneath the stairs.
“I’ll show you to the drawing room,” the butler said, gesturing toward the stairs on the right. She followed him up, taking in the paintings on the wall. An alcove halfway up held a tall Wedgwood creamware vase. She glanced across the hall to the other alcove and saw that it held the urn’s twin.
She wondered who’d decorated his house. She would never have guessed the Marquess of Ripley lived in such an elegantly appointed residence.
The butler showed her into the drawing room
to the right of the stairs. The room was massive, quite large enough for a ball if the furniture was moved out. She was left alone and took the opportunity to circuit the room. There were five seating areas, with ample space between each one. Two in front of the windows that overlooked the square, one near the doorway, and a large one that was in the back and center of the room, and finally a cozy gathering in front of the hearth. The space managed to be spectacular and warm at the same time.
“My God, you are here.”
She turned from where she stood near the hearth, and her body reacted to seeing him—turning hot and tight in an instant. “Yes.”
He came into the room, grinning. “Welcome to my home.”
“It’s stunning.” Her gaze swept the room. “Did you select all the furnishings? It’s so…tasteful.”
He stopped just in front of her, his eyes glinting with mischief. “What did you expect, beds stretching from wall to wall?” He laughed at her expression of horrified surprise. “My apologies. I make that jest whenever someone new comes to visit, which isn’t often.” He leaned close. “No one dares.”
Her pulse sped. “I dare.”
“I’m the luckiest man alive.” He took her hand and lifted it, pressing a lingering kiss to her wrist. Then he inhaled. “You smell divine. Always.”
The insistent throb he’d aroused in her sex the day before returned with force, making her tremble. “I came to tell you we have to cancel our plans for this evening.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, tugging the edge of her glove back to kiss the heel of her hand. “Tomorrow, then.”
“No.” Her voice sounded a bit strangled. “No,” she tried again. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible either. My mother has come to stay for a few days.”
His lips froze against her flesh, and he raised his head, frowning. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
