How to Manage a Marquess (22 page)

She felt safe.

“I won't take your virginity.”

She almost said he could have it.

Then he bent his head, his mouth finding her breast. His lips dampened the thin cotton over her nipple. He sucked and licked, and she felt it all the way to the damp place between her legs, as if there were a cord running between the two places.

Sacrilegious as it might be, she thought she'd found heaven.

Though it would be even more heavenly without the nightshift.

“Nate.” She threaded her fingers through his hair to hold him where he was. “Oh, Nate.”

But he moved anyway—to attend to her other breast, turning both nipples into hard, aching peaks.

The small point between her legs ached, too. Her hips rocked. She needed him there.

“What do you want, Anne?” he whispered.

“You. I want you, Nate.”

There was another flash of lightning, a louder rumble, but she hardly noticed.

“And I want you, Anne, but I can't have you.”

She suddenly hated Isabelle Dorring, too.

And then Nate's broad hand slid up her leg, taking the skirt of her nightshift with it, and she had no room in her heart for anything but pleasure.

And love.

She gasped.

“Are you all right, Anne?”

No, she was not all right. She was panting and moaning and her body was about to burst into flames.

“Shall I stop?”

“No! Don't stop.” She twisted her hips. “Higher.”

He smiled and obligingly slid his hand higher. His fingers brushed over her curls.

“Ohh. Yes.”

The storm could be breaking right over her head and she'd not hear it, her heart was thundering so loudly. She tried to arch up so his fingers would go where she wanted them, but he flattened his hand and held her still.

He was so much stronger than she was, but she wasn't afraid. “Don't tease me.”

He brushed a kiss over her mouth. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

Why, indeed? Nate was here. Surely he wouldn't bring her to this place and not finish what he'd begun. She should savor this. Who knew if it would ever happen again?

No. Nate had been very clear about that. He wouldn't marry as long as he had Marcus to protect.

Something long and warm was lying along her hip. She reached for it—

But Nate moved. She tried to wriggle closer.

“No. Not this time.”

“Another time?”

He kissed her instead of answering, and the hand that was holding her hips down finally moved, fingers curling between her legs, cupping, but not touching. Not quite.

She moaned. “Please. Now.”

His fingers didn't move. “Don't be so impatient.” But his voice was strained. He was almost panting himself. “There's no hurry. We have hours—”

“Hours?” It came out as a croak. “I can't wait hours.”

He laughed, a short, tight sound. “You have a point.” He moved his middle finger just slightly, enough to graze her—

“Ohh!” It was the smallest touch, but it shot through her like an arrow.

The small voice of reason told her she should be embarrassed.

But she had no room for embarrassment. His clever finger was pulling her tighter and tighter, like a bowstring. She spread her legs wider, arching higher in welcome.

His finger moved again, probing, sliding. “You're so wet, Anne. So ready. I wish . . .”

“You . . . you w-wish?” She could barely get the words out.

“Nothing.”

“Oh!” Her thoughts scattered as his finger moved faster.

Tighter and tighter—

“Nate. Oh, Nate.” She clung to him so she might leave bruises, but she had no choice. She was going to fly apart at any moment.

“That's it, love. That's it.”

She was panting, every muscle so tight it hurt. Her world had shrunk to Nate's touch and his voice.

“Come, Anne. Let it come. Don't fight it.”

And then his finger slid over her one last time and she came apart.

“Ohh,” she said several minutes later, when her breathing and her heart had slowed and she could talk again. She buried her face in his neck. “Oh, Nate.”

She stiffened. Had she said that last out loud? Surely not.

But she rather feared she had.

No, she must not have, because Nate said nothing. He just held her.

And he was still tense....

She slipped her hand down his stomach—

“No.” He caught her fingers before they could reach their goal.

“Why not?” She kissed his chest. “You can show me how to touch you. I want you to.”

“No.” Nate slipped out of her hold, out of her bed. His poor male organ looked huge. It stuck straight out from his body. “We can't.”

“Why can't we?”

“We aren't married.”

“That didn't stop you a minute ago. Now it's my turn. Come back to bed.” She patted the mattress encouragingly. He couldn't be comfortable, swollen like that.

“Anne, I
can't
marry you.” He sounded rather desperate. “I can't marry anyone. Not now. I have Marcus to look after.”

“But—”

All the lovely feelings she'd had evaporated. She bit her tongue and watched him flee through a door she'd thought led only to a dressing room.

Chapter Fifteen

 

Nate looked at the rain streaming down the traveling coach's window. He was supposed to be outside, driving his curricle, but the blasted storm had prevented that.

Davenport must have left London before the sun was up because he'd got to the Manor with his special license . . . well, Nate wasn't certain when the man had arrived. He'd been asleep, having not dropped off until just before dawn.

He'd had the devil of a time, er,
relaxing
after leaving Anne.

The wedding had been held in the drawing room at ten—Huntley had fetched his vestments and prayer book yesterday so he'd be ready—with the wedding breakfast following immediately after. By noon the newly married couple had waved good-bye.

Leaving Nate to escort the boys and Miss Davenport to Loves Bridge.

He'd give the baron credit. The man had
not
known about the honeymoon plan. The moment he learned of it, he asked Anne if it met with her approval. Nate got the distinct impression that if Anne had wanted her father's escort on this journey, the baron would have offered it.

Yet it had been equally clear Eleanor was very anxious to have a short time away with her new husband. And the boys, usually so cautious, seemed excited at the opportunity to travel with Nate and Anne. So Anne had acquiesced.

Eleanor had had the grace to thank her profusely.

He shifted position.
If only it weren't raining.

The bloody rain had started shortly before their departure, and Banningly had insisted Nate ride inside the coach.

But he could tell Anne was nervous about the weather. So he'd joined her in here, where every breath teased him with her scent.

And now he wouldn't be able to deposit her and the boys at Davenport Hall and leave at once for London. He'd be stuck in Loves Bridge until the weather cleared and Banningly sent along his curricle. With his current run of bad luck, it would rain all week. Hell, all month.

The rain came down harder. He
should
have suggested they put the journey off a day.

He knew the limits of his control.

“Are we there yet?” Edward asked, bouncing on the seat and making Nate feel rather ill.

Anne, sitting across from Edward, smiled, though her expression was a bit strained. “No, Edward. It will be several more hours before we reach Loves Bridge.”

What had got into him last night? He should have just sat next to her—
in a chair
—and held her hand until the storm passed. Zeus, he
should
have put on his bloody breeches before he'd entered her room. Why in God's name hadn't he? They'd been right there on the floor. It would have taken no time at all to scramble into them.

“Oh.” Edward bounced on the seat again.

Nate braced himself against the carriage's wall.

And he should
not
have drunk so much brandy after he'd left her. His stomach was distinctly unsettled, a situation that was not helped by Edward's bouncing nor by the rocking and jolting of the carriage. The road was rather rough and would only be made worse by the relentless rain.

His head throbbed in time with his stomach.

Yes, he should not have drunk so much, but alcoholic oblivion was the only way he'd had of getting any sleep at all. As it was, every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd seen Anne's face as he'd played with her, heard her pants and moans, felt her sweet, slick—

Do
not
think about that.

Thank God he'd had the sense to have her keep her shift on. If he'd seen her body, touched more of her skin than he had, he'd never sleep again.

Oh, God. He couldn't think about that either.

“How many hours?”

And he also couldn't snap at Edward
.
“If this rain keeps up, forever.”

Oh, hell. He
had
snapped. He tried to smile at the boys and An—
Miss Davenport
. “My apologies. I didn't sleep well last night.”

Miss Davenport's face bloomed—he'd never seen anyone turn so red so quickly. She made a small noise that sounded like a cross between a gasp and a moan and turned abruptly to look out the window.

Thank God there was no one else to witness that besides the boys. Stephen did look worried—he was far too attuned to the emotions of the adults around him not to notice something was amiss—but he was too young to guess the problem.

“Really, Uncle Nate? Forever?” Edward asked.

Nate laughed. “No, not really.” Though it seemed like forever. And if the rain kept falling like this, the road would become impassable. Then they'd have to find an inn and wait it out. Though he prayed that wouldn't happen.

The Almighty wasn't listening—or perhaps He wished to punish Nate for his many sins, most of which he'd committed last night—because the words were barely out of his mouth before the carriage slid ominously several feet to the right.

“Oh!” Anne looked at him, clearly alarmed yet trying to appear calm for the boys' sake.

“What happened, Uncle Nate?” Edward peered out the window, but there was little to be seen through the rain.

“Are we going to end in a ditch?” Stephen's voice was strained.

“No. If that was going to happen, we'd be there now. See? The carriage has stopped.” And likely their progress toward Loves Bridge as well.

He was not surprised when the door opened a crack and the coachman peered in.

“Milord? If I might have a word with ye?” He glanced nervously in Miss Davenport's direction as he opened the door a bit wider. “Private like?”

“Nonsense,” Miss Davenport said at once. “Lord Haywood will get drenched if he steps outside. Say what you have to say here, if you please.”

The coachman looked back at Nate—as did Miss Davenport and the boys.

“You may as well say it.” Nate tried to suppress his sigh, but wasn't entirely successful. “I assume we can't continue?”

The coachman nodded. “Not today, milord. The road is that awful, and I'm thinking the bridge over the stream up ahead must be flooded. The water does come up there quick when it storms.”

“Very well. Is there a place where we can put up for the night?”

The coachman's eyes slid toward Miss Davenport again.

“A-Aye, milord.”

“But?”

“But the Three Legged Dog isn't for the lady and young'uns, milord. It's a bit, er, rough, if ye know what I mean.”

He was afraid he knew
exactly
what the man meant.

“I'm thinking it'll be crowded due to the weather.” He glanced at Miss Davenport again and then spoke all in one breath. “The lady and the boys might not be safe alone.” He swallowed. “Milord.”

“Thank you for the warning. I will deal with the situation. Now please continue to the Three Legged Dog since it seems to be our only port in this storm.”

The coachman sighed with relief, tugged on his cap, and closed the door. In a few moments, the coach lurched back into motion.

The boys looked at him with large, anxious eyes, but Miss Davenport seemed merely annoyed.

“How are you going to ‘deal with the situation'?” she asked.

They had just turned into the drive. He looked out the window to see the disreputable establishment in front of them. From the noise that came through even the closed windows—the noise of many drunken male voices—he thought the coachman had been very astute.

“I'm going to procure a bedchamber.”

Miss Davenport was no idiot. She, too, looked out the window. “You'll never find two bedchambers unoccupied.”

“I'm afraid you are probably right about that. I will try, but I'll be happy if I can get one.”

Her brows shot up, but she had the good sense not to argue. This was clearly a situation of the lesser of two evils.

“But you can't stay in the same room with Miss Anne, Uncle Nate,” Stephen said. “That will ruin her reputation.”

Edward kicked his heels against the carriage seat, making Nate's head throb with each whack. “No, it won't. I won't let it.”

“You can't do anything about it, Edward,” Stephen said. “It's a grown-up thing.”

“I'll be fine,” Miss Davenport said firmly. “For people to talk, I'd have to encounter someone who knows me. I'm sure that won't happen.”

“And to help ensure there's no talk,” Nate said, “we shall do some pretending. We shall say that Miss Davenport and I are married”—he ignored Anne's sharp inhalation—“and you are our sons.”

Edward bounced. “I like that.”

But Stephen frowned. “That's lying, Uncle Nate.”

“Yes, it is, Stephen. On rare occasions like this, I believe telling an untruth that harms no one is necessary for a greater good.”

“But it's
not
necessary, Lord Haywood,” Miss Davenport said. “As I mentioned just a moment ago, no one here will recognize me.”

“Ah, but will they recognize
me
?”

“Oh.” Apparently that thought hadn't occurred to her.

“I doubt we'll encounter any of my friends”—at least he
hoped
none of his friends frequented such a low form of hostelry. “My title, however, will definitely cause comment. And putting that aside, if the innkeeper thinks we're not married, Anne, he will treat you with disrespect.”

Her face paled, but her voice didn't waver when she spoke. “Yes. I see your point.”

“Good.” The coach had stopped. They needed to get this settled at once. He looked at Anne and each of the boys in turn while he explained his plan.

“We shall pretend to be Mr. and Mrs. Winston and their two sons. Stay here while I go in and arrange matters. Then I'll come back and whisk you up to the room. You'll stay there until we leave, I hope at first light. Don't say a word to anyone. Understood?”

“But I'm hungry, Uncle Nate,” Edward said.

“Once I have you settled, I'll bring you up some supper.”

“Let Lord Haywood go now, Edward.” Anne gently pulled the boy to sit next to her and Stephen. “The sooner he gets us a room, the sooner we can all get something to eat.”

Nate paused with his hand on the door. “No more Lord Haywood, Miss Davenport. It will have to be Mr. Winston or Nate, and I imagine Nate will be easier to remember.”

She flushed, likely remembering the last time she'd called him Nate. “Yes. Of course. N-Nate.”

He grinned. “That's it, Anne.” He vaulted out of the coach, closing the door firmly behind him.

The ostler had come over to take the horses' heads and was looking over their equipage while talking to their coachman. Thank God the coach didn't have Banningly's crest emblazoned on its side.

“Mapes here says the place is full up,” the coachman told him. “There was a mill nearby, and the men got caught here by the storm.”

He nodded. “Perhaps the innkeeper can find us something. In the meantime my
wife
, Mrs.
Winston,
and the boys will stay in the coach.”

“Very good, m-sir.” The coachman caught himself just in time.

“Slip Bauer enough of the ready and he'll kick his own mother out of a room for ye,” Mapes called after him.

Thank God he'd thought to bring a heavy purse. Mere Mr. Winston had a much harder time getting the innkeeper's attention than the Marquess of Haywood would have had, especially as the taproom was full of drunken men who kept calling out for more ale. And at first Bauer maintained that he was sorry, but the inn was full. However, once he saw the color of Nate's money, the fellow managed to recollect that there was indeed a small room at the back of the establishment that he'd quite forgotten about for a moment.

Nate took the key and went out to collect his charges.

“Hurry along now,” he said, ushering them through the front door.

A shout from the taproom, followed by a particularly raucous laugh, made Anne jump. She and the boys almost ran up the three flights of stairs and down the dark, narrow corridor to their room at the end.

“Stand back,” Nate said, fitting the key into the keyhole.

“Is there a monster in there?” Edward said from behind Anne's skirt.

“Monsters aren't real,” Stephen said, also from behind Anne.

“What worries you, Nate?” Anne asked quietly.

“Since the innkeeper first told me the inn was full, I want to be certain this room isn't already occupied.”

He pushed the door open to reveal a cramped space. The ceiling was low—and got lower as it slanted down to the eaves on one side. There was a small fireplace, a single window that let in little light and no air, and one narrow bed with the thinnest excuse for a mattress Nate had ever seen.

But at least the room was empty.

“All right, then—in with you. Lock the door behind me, Anne, and keep it locked until I return. I'm off to get some food.”