by Darcy Burke
Marcus took a step toward him and didn’t bother to mask the malice in his gaze. “Do what you must.” Please, do it. He held his breath.
Rather than demand satisfaction, Sainsbury came forward and put his fist in Marcus’s cheek. Marcus lifted his arm in defense and turned his head, but Sainsbury was fast, and he connected with Marcus’s flesh, landing a blow near his eye.
Spinning about, Marcus took the offensive and drove his fist into Sainsbury’s gut, then followed with a punch to his jaw. Sainsbury tried to deflect, but Marcus was faster.
The men around them fell back, giving them a wide space. With a cry, Sainsbury flew at Marcus, wrapping his arms around his middle and taking him down to the floor.
Marcus, larger and stronger, rolled so that he was atop Sainsbury. A bulky shape beneath the man’s coat pressed into Marcus’s leg. Was that a bloody pistol?
Caught off guard, Marcus didn’t block Sainsbury’s blow. He planted his fist in Marcus’s side. Grunting, Marcus slid off him, and Sainsbury took the opportunity to land another hit on Marcus’s temple.
Fury pulsed through Marcus. Baring his teeth, he pivoted and struck Sainsbury’s nose. A satisfying pop sounded, and blood gushed from the man’s face.
Hands hauled Marcus to his feet.
“Come on.” The voice was familiar. Marcus turned his head to see Anthony staring at him grimly. He steered Marcus through the throng and out of the club. “I’m not usually the one rescuing you.”
Breathing heavily, Marcus fought to regain his equilibrium as they walked up St. James’s away from White’s. That hadn’t gone quite the way he’d planned, but he felt a sense of euphoric satisfaction. For a moment, he thought he might be fighting a duel come dawn. He was slightly disappointed that he wasn’t.
“I’m glad you’re speaking to me again,” Marcus said. “Have I rescued you often?”
“There was the masquerade, and yes at least a couple of other occasions where you removed me from a situation that could have deteriorated.”
Yes, when he’d been too far in his cups. “Seems it’s your turn, then,” Marcus said.
“I’m delighted to return the favor. Can I see you home?”
“No. I do need a hack, however.”
“I’ll fetch one.” Anthony did just that, then looked to Marcus. “Where are you going?”
“Cavendish Square.”
Anthony gave the direction to the driver, then climbed into the vehicle after Marcus.
“Why are you coming?” Marcus asked.
Anthony shrugged as he settled back against the seat. “I’m curious where you’re going. Not really, well, yes, I am. But that’s not why I’m here. What the hell was that all about?”
“Sainsbury attacked me.”
“Because you maligned his masculinity. Most men would have attacked you.”
The places Sainsbury had hit him began to ache, particularly the first blow near his eye. He reached up and touched the spot, wincing slightly.
“Careful, you’re bleeding.”
He was? Damn. Phoebe would have to tend him again. That brought back memories of when they’d met and how enchanted he’d been by her even then.
“It was just an odd thing for you to do,” Anthony said, drawing Marcus’s focus back to the altercation. “Actually, it’s odd that you were at White’s at all.”
“You don’t usually go there either,” Marcus noted.
“Not usually, but once in a while I do.” He appeared as though he might say something more, but looked out the window instead.
White’s had been Anthony’s father’s club. Perhaps that was why he still went on occasion. Marcus wasn’t going to ask—they did a good job skirting any meaningful discussion of his parents.
As they drove up Bond Street, Anthony said, “Sainsbury was bleeding far more than you. You must have broken his nose.”
“I did. He deserved it.” And more.
Anthony flicked him a provoking glance. “Does this have anything to do with Miss Phoebe Lennox, who was formerly betrothed to Sainsbury?” When Marcus didn’t answer, he added, “Who lives in Cavendish Square?”
Marcus focused on the shops out the window as the hackney rolled along.
“And with whom you drove to Richmond for a picnic?” Anthony asked.
“Who says we did that?”
“You really don’t pay attention to gossip, do you? Perhaps you should. Everyone knows you did that.”
Everyone? Hell, if everyone knew that, they needed to be extra careful about their affair. Otherwise, everyone would know about that too. He fixed a demanding stare on Anthony. “Don’t tell anyone where I’m going tonight.”
“I would never. Are you having an affair?”
Marcus ignored the question and stared out the window.
“I won’t say a word,” Anthony said. “I do hope you haven’t made an enemy of Sainsbury. He has a nasty temper. I saw him lose at cards a while back. It was ugly. He actually brandished a pistol before one of his chums dragged him away.”
He’d had a pistol then too? The man was a menace. “He’s already made an enemy of me. And since I broke his nose, I expect he’ll steer quite clear of me.” The coach drew to a halt in Cavendish Square. “He will if he possesses even an ounce of intelligence.”
“You may be overestimating him, sadly.”
Marcus opened the door of the hackney. “I can take care of myself.” Once on the street, he looked up at Anthony. “Thank you for your discretion.”
Anthony inclined his head, and Marcus closed the door. He heard the hackney drive away as he walked toward the mews that would lead him to the back of Phoebe’s house.
As arranged, the door from the garden was not bolted. He slipped inside and closed it behind himself. He picked up a candle from atop a table and crept to the stairs, moving as silently as possible. He climbed up to the second floor and easily found her chamber, the door of which was slightly ajar, as he expected it to be.
He stepped over the threshold, and she met him immediately, her face lighting up with a brilliant smile. It fell from her face the moment she came near.
She drew in a breath and frowned, her gaze on his temple. “Why are you bleeding again?”
Blood trickled from a small cut on his head. Or had trickled. It seemed mostly dry now.
“Come and sit.” She took his hand and led him through the sitting room into her bedchamber.
“This is very…pink,” he said, looking around.
“It’s my favorite color.” She gently pushed him down into a chair near the hearth, where a few coals burned. Then she turned and went to the dresser that held a ewer of water and a basin. Grabbing a cloth from the top drawer, she wet it in the ewer and returned to him.
“Whom did you fight with now?” she asked, cleaning the dried blood away.
“No one. I hit my head getting into a hackney.”
She drew back and stared at him for a moment as if she were trying to divine whether he spoke the truth. Saying nothing, she went back to tending his head.
She pressed hard, and he winced. “It started to bleed again,” she said softly. “I’ll just hold it here for a bit.”
“You’re an excellent nurse.”
“You bleed too much.”
He laughed. “Maybe I wound myself on purpose in order to receive your attention.”
“That’s preposterous, so I shan’t even justify it with a response.” She pulled the cloth away and surveyed his head.
“How does it look?” he asked.
“Not nearly as awful as the first time.”
“Excellent. Not that I had any intention of allowing it to inhibit me this evening.”
She took the cloth back to the dresser and set it beside the basin. Turning, she watched him remove his boots and set them next to the chair. His stockings followed, and she was rewarded with his bare, rather large, feet. Her pink bedchamber grew suddenly smaller. And warmer.
He stood and removed his coat, draping
it over the back of the chair. Next, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, his gaze lingering on hers as he stripped the garment away and set it atop the coat. Lifting his hands, he untied his cravat, his long fingers moving with expert speed and precision. He pulled the silk off with a whoosh as it slid along the fabric of his shirt. It joined the garments on the chair.
His shirt gapped open at the neck, exposing an alluring V of his upper chest. Phoebe licked her lower lip.
“Do that again,” he said. “Slower.”
She did as he asked and watched his eyes narrow. Her body tingled with a heightened awareness, a hunger for the pleasure she knew he could give her.
“You said you wanted me to remove my shirt this time. Would you like to do it?”
She was before him in a trice. “Yes, please.” Pulling the hem from his breeches, she pushed the fabric up his abdomen, baring inch after inch of his hard flesh. Muscles rippled beneath his taut skin, and she dragged her thumb across one.
He sucked in a breath and then tore his shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it carelessly to the floor. She lifted her hands to his chest and flattened her palms against him, exploring his heat and strength. She traced her fingers along his collarbones and down to the hollow of his throat. Continuing downward, she swiped her fingertips over his nipples, feeling them harden beneath her touch. Feeling bold, she leaned forward and licked one, earning a gasp from him.
With a smile, she pulled him away from the chair so she could walk around him and look at his back. His wide shoulders pitched down to sharp blades, then tapered to his waist. Below that, she admired the curve of his backside. So much so that she caressed him before continuing her orbit.
“Like what you see?” he asked, his voice warm and deep.
“Yes. Very much.”
“My turn,” he said, reaching for the tie to her dressing gown.
Phoebe tried not to blush. But he was about to see—
“You aren’t wearing anything.”
The dressing gown opened, and no, she wasn’t wearing anything beneath it. “I didn’t think there was a point.”
He pushed the garment off her shoulders and stared at her as it slipped to the floor, pooling around her feet. His dark blue gaze feasted on her, heating her along with the warmth of the hearth.
He reached for her, his fingers tangling in her hair, which she’d left loose around her shoulders. He claimed her mouth with a searing kiss. Desire leapt within her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d longed for this moment, how desperately she’d craved his touch.
She clutched at him as he did with her. Hands and fingers, their bodies touching with wild abandon.
Abruptly, he stepped back, his breath coming fast and hard.
“Why are you stopping?”
“I just—” He took a deep breath. “I need a moment.”
She moved toward him and reached for the fall of his breeches. “I need you to be as naked as I am.”
He groaned. “Phoebe, you’re going to kill me, truly. I am a man of closely held control, of balanced composure. But you threaten my very sanity.”
She finished unbuttoning his fall, his words thrilling her and making her tremble with want. “I hope this means that tonight, we will finally come together.” She pushed his breeches down over his hips and reached for his cock. She wrapped her fingers around him and stood on her toes to kiss his neck. “Or do you have some other step planned?”
He tipped his head back as he clasped her to him, his hands moving around her waist and one sliding down to cup her backside. He pressed her pelvis to his, bringing his shaft against her sex. She rotated her hips, hungry for the release she knew would come and curious as to how it would feel with him inside her.
He brought his hand up to her nape and twined his fingers in her hair, gently pulling her head back so he could look into her eyes. “No more steps. Tonight, you’re mine, and I am yours.”
“Just tonight?” she teased.
A shadow stole over his gaze. He answered with his mouth, kissing her until she couldn’t think straight. Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, carefully laying her atop the coverlet.
He glanced toward the bedside table. “I see you soaked the French letter.”
“As directed,” she said. “The sponge is there too—in the other bowl—soaked and ready.”
“I think it’s best to use the letter for your first time.” He bent his head and took her breast in his mouth. She arched up with a moan as sensation swelled through her.
While he laved one breast, he caressed the other, his fingers rolling her nipple and then pinching slightly. She cast her head back, eyes closed, and surrendered to his control. The more he touched her, the sharper the pleasure, driving straight to her sex. He skimmed his hand down her abdomen, building the anticipation in her core. When his hand pressed against her mound at last, she bucked up, desperate for him.
“Please,” she moaned.
He drew on her nipple, tugging hard before leaving her entirely. He pressed her thighs apart, exposing her, which only fed her desire. Then she felt both of his hands on her sex, one pressing and massaging her clitoris while the other explored her folds, his finger ultimately sliding inside her.
She had no idea what he was actually doing, only that each caress, each stroke, each thrust felt better than the last. She opened her eyes and looked down at him just as he lowered his head and licked along her flesh, focusing his tongue on her clitoris while he pumped his finger—fingers, probably—inside her. She came up off the bed, meeting his mouth and hands, her body speeding toward release.
The storm crashed over her, and she cried out his name, closing her eyes once more. She pulled at his head, tugging his hair and pressing up into him as her muscles clenched in desperation. He guided her over the edge and down into the comforting abyss, but then he was gone.
She looked to see him kneeling between her legs as he reached for the bedside table. Fascinated, she watched as he donned the French letter, tying it around the base of his shaft. He bent down and kissed her as his fingers stroked her sex once more.
Her body still quivered from her release, and the familiar hunger he aroused in her still pulsed in her core, sparking again as she felt his sex nudge her opening. He pulled his mouth from hers and looked into her eyes. “Ready?”
She nodded. He didn’t blink, holding her gaze steady with his as he moved slowly inside her. This was nothing like what they’d done before and yet similar too. He filled her, stretching her muscles and causing a bit of pain. She winced slightly, and he kissed her brow.
He stroked his thumb along her cheekbone. “My brave, beautiful Phoebe.”
His.
She liked how that sounded.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he whispered near her ear, his lips grazing her flesh.
She did what he asked, and the movement brought him more deeply inside her, her pelvis tipping. She gasped at the sensation, feeling a bead of pleasure amidst the discomfort.
He began to move, slowly rocking in and out of her. “Next time,” he said softly, “it will feel much better. Next time, I will let go and drive so hard inside you, you’ll cry out with the ecstasy of it. Next time, I’ll go slow and fast and then slow again until we’re both at the end of our wits. Next time, you’ll explode so furiously that it will take me all night, and maybe the next day, to put you back together again.”
His words thrilled her, heightening her passion. “But I want all of that now.”
He chuckled softly and thrust into her. “Patience. The time after that, you may ride me, if you like, and then you can control every stroke. Fast or slow, hard or soft. Entirely your discretion.” He snagged his teeth on her earlobe and began to move faster.
Phoebe moaned, her discomfort all but gone as her pleasure intensified. She tightened her legs around his hips and moved with him, clutching at his back.
Reaching between them, he pressed against her clitoris, dragging his thumb over he
r and sending her into a spiral of rapture. Light swirled behind her eyes as she arched up into him, her legs and muscles squeezing around him. He continued to move relentlessly, until he shouted his release. Then he kissed her again, their ragged breaths mingling as they floated from the heavens.
When they were still, Marcus rolled from her and left the bed. His back was to her, but she imagined he was removing the French letter.
She sat up against the headboard and slid under the bedclothes. “I spoke to my father today about his investment,” she said as Marcus disposed of the French letter. “He is not going to invest with the same person again. In fact, there was another man there today—a tall man with a walking stick.”
Marcus, who was on his way back to the bed, froze. He stared at her, his eyes glinting. “That’s Osborne.”
“Is it? I wondered. Papa wouldn’t answer except to say he wasn’t Drobbit. I worried he was perhaps not being completely honest regarding his plans, so I went into his study tonight.”
Marcus climbed into the other side of the bed, sitting up with the coverlet around his hips. He angled himself toward her. “Did you find anything?”
“I think so. He’d written something down—Tuesday evening, the Horn Tavern, Russell Street, and a name: Tibbord.” She’d frowned upon seeing it. “I couldn’t help noticing that is Drobbit spelled backward.”
He cupped her face and kissed her, grinning. “You are brilliant, of course. Yes, that is my cousin. He’s been using the name Tibbord.”
“He’s not exceptionally clever, is he?”
Marcus sat back from her and snorted. “Clever enough to have fleeced several people.” He kissed her again, swiftly. “Thank you. Now I know where to find him—and when.”
“And you can stop my father from making another doomed investment.” Phoebe shook her head. “Maybe he won’t go. I told him Drobbit is a swindler.”
“How did he react to that?” Marcus asked, sitting back against the headboard of her bed and drawing her into the crook of his arm.
Phoebe thought back. “He didn’t, actually. He seemed uncomfortable, but I suspect that’s because he was embarrassed. He doesn’t like my knowing he lost money, and if he lost it due to being swindled? His pride would be woefully crushed.”
