An Exquisite Marriage (14 page)

“Paris?” Marcus scrubbed at his face, his habitual gesture when he was trying to hide his anger, or, as in this case, trying very hard not to laugh. “As in the fellow who won Helen of Troy?”

“And had a weakness for beautiful women. Yes. The clerk saw the masculine name and sent the volumes I requested.”

“You do realize most people would consider it indecent for an unmarried girl to be acquiring such material.”

She shrugged. “I could not count on my mother telling me anything useful on my wedding night or at any other time, so I took matters into my own hands.”

He lifted her hands, both together, and kissed the palms, one at a time. “I think I'm glad that you did.”

“Then you would be . . . interested . . . willing, perhaps, before we . . .”

He was kissing her again, and she was glad. The sentence was unbearably silly. Certainly it was nowhere near as interesting as the fresh burst of delight that came from tasting and exploring his mouth, his stubbled jaw and corded neck. She slid her hands beneath his coat and around his waist, admiring the shape of him afresh.

“I think,” he murmured against her ear, “we may assume that I am. In fact, I think we must, or I am going to die of pure need before I reach the altar.”

“Oh,” she murmured, and her body melted against his. “Oh good, I was afraid it was just me.”

***

It was some time later before they both remembered they were supposed to be elsewhere this evening. They both laughed and kissed and laughed again as they attempted to smooth down each other's disordered hair. Helene did her best to straighten Marcus's cravat, and he remembered to return her glove.

Fortunately, the light in the house was so poor that neither Mother nor Father noticed anything amiss as she walked Marcus back to the claret parlor to make his farewells. Of course, it hardly would have mattered. Marcus could have declared he was Catholic, or a cannibal, or Father Christmas, and it wouldn't have mattered, as long as he still agreed to marry her and pay the bills.

Marcus shook Father's hand and politely cut off his flow of enthusiastic exclamations. He bowed to Mother and let her plant a soppy kiss on his brow and did not grimace at it. No one said a word when Helene offered to show him to the door.

There in the darkened foyer, he took her hand and bowed over it. “Shall I write?” he murmured.

“To No. 48, if you please,” she answered. “The mail here is . . . not quite private.”

He nodded and kissed her hand. “We are observed,” he said.

Helene glanced over her shoulder. Susannah stood at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide with shock. She whisked away as soon as she realized Helene had caught her.

Marcus's fingers tightened around hers. “It's all right,” Helene assured him, although she was not entirely sure. “I'll see you later at the concert.”

Marcus agreed and took his leave, and Helene hurried up the stairs to their bedroom. She found Suza sitting at the dressing table, staring into the mirror.

“Susannah?” Helene said as she closed the door to the hallway. “Are you all right?”

“You need to be quiet,” Suza answered. “I've already put Annie to bed.”

“Suza . . .” began Helene again, but her sister just pressed her face into both her hands. Whatever Helene had been about to say died in her throat, and she ran across the room to enfold Susannah in an embrace.

“Oh, Helene!” Suza turned her face away, and fear clenched at Helene's throat. “What . . . what have you done?”

“Nothing, Suza, I promise. Lord Windford asked me to marry him this morning, and I said yes.”

“You did it to save me!”

“Yes, I did,” Helene admitted. “But I also did it because I've fallen very much in love.”

Susannah paused. Slowly, she looked up and blinked back her tears. “You love him? Really?”

Helene nodded. “It is very surprising, but it is true. And you mustn't worry, Suza. Lord Windford entirely understands our . . . circumstances. You'll be coming to live with us directly after the wedding. You and all the others. Mother and Father will have their own establishment. It will be arranged and . . .”

“Helene!” Suza spun, and to Helene's surprise, her eyes were shining and her face was alight with a broad smile. “I'm not worried, not about that! If you have fallen in love with him, then he's certain to be perfect.” Before Helene could correct this extreme exaggeration, Suza seized both her hands. “Just, please, please swear to me that I can be there when you tell Lord Crispin!”

“No, Marcus,” said Aunt Kearsely. “I categorically refuse to hear you. You did not propose marriage to Helene Fitzgerald.”

The family had gathered for breakfast. Marcus found he had an unusually hearty appetite and helped himself liberally from the dishes on the sideboard. His immediate response to Aunt Kearsely's disbelief was to smile and continue spreading butter across his toast.

“But I did propose,” Marcus told her.

“He did,” said Adele.

Aunt Kearsely looked at Patience as her last and only hope. Patience looked at the ceiling.

“I have also spoken with Lord Fitzgerald,” Marcus went on, around a mouthful of toast. “And he has given his consent.”

Aunt Kearsely set down her fork. She neglected, however, to close her mouth.

“But . . . but . . . how
could
you!” she cried. “The girl is a harridan, an hysteric, friendless, and her family a laughingstock. She's . . .”

“One of my best friends,” Adele reminded her quietly.

“And soon to be the Duchess of Windford,” added Marcus.

“Heaven help us all,” muttered Patience.

“With this kind of reception maybe that's what Helene should be saying,” suggested Adele.

“Stop! Stop!” cried Aunt Kearsely. “You're making my head swim! I . . . oh . . . I can't think. I'm going to lie down. I need some violet water. I . . .” Still exclaiming, Aunt Kearsely left the table and hurried from the room.

“Well, the Fitzgerald was right about one thing,” said Patience, primly breaking off a bite of her own muffin. “She did say there would be vapors.”

“Aunt Kearsely will get used to the idea,” said Marcus. “She just needs some time.”

“Well, I don't. I think it's marvelous,” said Adele. “When will you make the announcement?”

Before Marcus could answer that, the footman entered with the morning post on the tray. Among the usual stack of letters, there was a rectangular parcel of plain brown paper tied in white string.

Marcus distributed the appropriate cards and letters to Adele and Patience. Then, he opened the card that came with the parcel.

It contained a brief note, written in a firm, tidy hand.

For your private consideration.

Yrs. Faithfully, Mr. P. FitzGibbons

“Excuse me, won't you?” Marcus said to his sisters, but he left the table and the room before they said whether they did or not.

Marcus went into his private study. He locked the door and carried the package to his desk. Extracting his paper knife from the drawer, he slit the twine. He could picture Helene carefully wrapping these volumes, making sure the paper was folded just so, that the knot was centered and not tied too tightly as to damage the books.

And such books. There were three. The first was in French, the second, an Italian translation, the third he could not read at all. It looked to be written in Hindustani or some such, but the illustrations . . .

The illustrations were perfectly comprehensible and remarkably explicit.

He turned the pages slowly. He pictured Helene, bent over these volumes, her brows drawn in serious contemplation of the erotic illustrations. He pictured her holding the book up to him, pointing out the positioning of the man and of the woman. Somehow in his imagining, she was suddenly quite nude and pressed up against him in a very large bed, with plenty of pillows. And then she was not pointing at a page anymore, she was stretched out on the quilts, running her hands down her thighs, waiting for him to come to her, to stroke her and spread her open, like the woman in the diaphanous veil on the page, only Helene would not look so calm or coquettish. She would be ardent, demanding, direct.

Fire and pain lanced right through him, as his cock attempted to stand up straight.

He cursed. He also closed the book and stood up, staring at the volume's plain brown cover until he had his breathing under control again.

“She's going to kill me,” he murmured. “She is absolutely going to kill me.”

Then, absurdly, he smiled. Because he knew he would at least die happy.

Clearly, he was going to have a busy day. There was an entire series of arrangements to be made, and he would have to write to Helene as soon as possible. First, however . . .

Marcus loosened his neck cloth and carried the book over to the armchair, where the light was better. He would not want Helene to think he was the sort to neglect his studies.

***

Absurd.

Helene climbed out of the hired carriage in the new and unexceptional square on the western edge of May's Fair. Helene paused as she looked up at the neat, new terraced house through the thick lace veil she had decided it would be prudent to adopt. Most uncharacteristically, she felt something approaching a whole series of qualms.

Ridiculous
, she told herself.
I want this. I asked for this. I all but begged for it. I will
not
turn missish now.

It had been three days since she had said yes to Marcus. In that time, she had not seen him even once. There had been several letters received at No. 48, which she read out portions of to her friends and Miss Sewell. Madelene and Adele exclaimed and laughed over everything. Helene had had to be very firm with them, and herself, to keep them focused on their blossoming plans for the ball. The menu was still not in order. There were questions regarding staffing. Mr. Tapswell was going to have to take on extra men to see to the lanterns. Then there was this matter of boats on the pond . . .

“We should not count overmuch on outdoor activities,” she tried to explain to Adele, in particular. “It is sure to rain.”

“It is not going to rain,” she said. “Besides, Marcus likes the gardens, and boating. You don't want to disappoint him, do you?”

Helene clenched her teeth and let Adele have her little joke. They could not falter now. If anything, their party had taken on an additional importance. If she was going to be the Duchess of Windford, she must prove to all of society she could fulfill the role credibly. This ball was her chance to cut off the doubts before they could begin. If they failed, however, those same doubters would just become convinced they were right all along.

Then, a fresh note arrived. She carried it in her plain reticule. It was quite brief; just an address and a time that the hired carriage could be expected to arrive for her.

It was a much nicer carriage than the ones she could afford.

“Is there anything further, m'lady?” inquired the driver, who was still holding the door open, in case she might need to retreat, she supposed.

“No, thank you.” Her mouth had gone dry.
Intolerable.
“You need not wait.”

“Very good, m'lady.”

Helene picked up her hems, climbed the stairs, and rang the bell. She then let out the breath she'd been holding.

The door was opened by a man in a plain coat, who bowed with stiff formality. “M'lady?” he inquired. Helene nodded, and he stood back to let her in.

The foyer was small but lovely, with marble tiles on the floor and a marquetry table beside the door.

“His Grace is expecting you upstairs,” she was told. “May I take your things?”

Helene let herself be helped off with bonnet and coat. She unbuttoned her gloves, trying very hard not to remember being in her library at home and having Marcus remove them for her. The associations made her clumsy. The servant retired silently, leaving her facing the narrow but graceful staircase.

Marcus was up there, waiting for her. Helene wiped her perspiring palms against her skirt and started to climb.

The upstairs hallway was likewise small but neatly, if somewhat anonymously, appointed. The door at the far end was open, just a little. Helene's heart lurched to see it, just a little.

But she made herself assume a firm step as she walked, and she was pleased that her hand did not shake at all as she pushed the door open.

And entered a bedchamber.

Marcus rose from the comfortable-looking armchair he'd been sitting in.

“Helene,” he said. “I was beginning to think you might not come.”

It was Marcus. Her Marcus. Her fiancé. The man who laughed with her and danced with her and could match wits with her in a way she'd seldom enjoyed with anyone. The man who remembered his umbrella and faced down her father and her mother without batting an eye.

The man who could set her heart racing with one anxious glance. Which was exactly what was happening now. And she was alone with him. Absolutely and entirely alone.

“How could I have stayed away?” she answered. Her voice was rough, and she couldn't do anything about it.

He was smiling. “Would you care to . . . ?” He gestured toward the second chair.

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

She ran into his arms.

He was startled at first, but only for a single heartbeat. In the next, he was answering her kisses with his own. He plastered his palms against her back, pressing her against him. Crushing her against him. She couldn't breathe and she didn't care. She just wrapped her arms around him and held on while he plundered her mouth, pressed kisses against her throat, and bent her backward to expose the swell of her bosom above the fairly modest neckline of her walking dress.

Fire. Fire and honey sweetness. A moan from her and an answering murmur from him. She was falling. She was dizzy. She couldn't stand.

He swept her up into his arms in one smooth motion. She shrieked in surprise, and he spun them both around so she shrieked again and laughed. She kissed him and he kissed her and the next thing she knew, she felt the softness of quilts underneath her as Marcus laid her down on the bed. Or, at least, partly on the bed. Her legs still dangled over the edge. He planted his hands on either side of her head and kissed her, long, slowly, stroking his tongue against hers. He nibbled at her lower lip, and she gasped. He feathered kissed down her throat, to her bosom, to her breast.

Oh.

Marcus nuzzled her left breast, then her right. He didn't move his hands. He just planted kisses against her, down the swell and side of each breast, and across to her painfully ruched nipple. The peak showed plainly through the fabric of her spring dress, and, completely ignoring that fabric, he took it into his mouth and he lapped.

Oh. She groaned and she squirmed. It was maddening to feel so much pleasure concentrated on such a small point, and he hadn't even begun to undress her . . .

He lifted his wicked mouth from her, and he grinned. “Well, that worked,” he said.

“You . . . you . . .” she was panting. “You read the books?”

“Yes,” he murmured. “You may be sure I studied each illustration carefully. In fact, I've been losing sleep over them.”

“Oh, so have I.”

He was leaning over her and kissing her mouth again. He stepped between her legs, pushing her skirts up so his palms could caress the bare flesh of her thighs and her hips. Helene answered by wrapping her legs around his and pulling him close. Marcus chuckled in surprise but did not break their kiss. Her eager hands found his cravat and the buttons on his waistcoat. He helped, shucking coat and collar as quickly as he could. She managed by some miracle to undo his shirt laces. He pulled that garment over his head and tossed it aside.

“Oh. My,” breathed Helene.

“Do I meet with your approval?”

He did, in fact. She pushed herself up onto her elbows to see better. His chest was a broad, complex plane covered in a light dusting of fair hair. A thicker, darker line trailed down into the waistband of his breeches. Those breeches, she noted, clearly showed the straight, hard outline of his erection.

He was magnificent.

“The rest,” she croaked. “I want to see all of you.”

Marcus swallowed, and she stared at the motion of his Adam's apple.

“Helene, are you certain about this?”

She nodded. Longing had driven her beyond words, and they had barely begun.

“If you change your mind at any point . . .”

“Marcus,” she cut him off. “If you do not finish what you've begun, I think I'm going to scream in frustration.”

His face lit in a wickedly pleased grin. “Well, my dear, that is not the reason I want you screaming.”

And he was kissing her again and this time pressing his weight down against her. Her breasts rubbed against his bare chest, and the line of his erection pressed wickedly, wonderfully against her most private parts. She was swollen, she was weeping, she was moaning with the delight of the friction and the frantic wrestling with the remainder of his clothing and hers. But somehow, it was all got rid of, and he was on the bed with her, rolling her over and laughing until she came to rest beside him. He propped himself up on one elbow and let his eyes travel down her bared body.

She should, she supposed, have felt shy. But she didn't. She felt like she had waited her whole life for Marcus to see her like this, with nothing at all between them, with nothing to shame or stop them.

“Do I meet with your approval?” She stretched her arms up over her head.

“Oh yes.”

He closed his hand over her breast, and she closed her eyes as her back arched to press her aching nipple into his palm.

“God,” he breathed as he kneaded her. “Oh, God, Helene.”

“Kiss me,” she ordered. He did, long and slow and openly. He slid one arm under her shoulders and pressed her close, caressing her from her breasts down to her belly, to her damp curls.

“There's a place,” he murmured against her mouth.

She laid her hand over his but hesitated. Of all times to be uncertain . . .

“Show me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Show me how to please you, Helene.”

She moaned. She couldn't help it. It was as if his words alone were enough to cause the bliss she'd read about. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it. She licked it and tasted her salt. Their salt. He groaned again as she slid his palm back between her thighs, just as she would have used her own hand had she been alone. Oh, she was wicked, she was wanton and abandoned and she wanted this, all of it.