No Place for a Lady (17 page)

He was prepared for her answer. The clench of his jaw told her that much. But he still reacted to her bald statement, bringing his glass to his lips with a shaky hand. Even seeing how effected he was, she could not leave it alone.

"Do you not understand my fears? Your loyalty to your country supersedes your feelings for anyone, even your brother. I am less than nothing to you."

His eyes widened in surprise. "My loyalty to England has nothing to do with you."

"Given the choice, you will always choose England. Those I trust will sacrifice everything for me, and I for them. No vague loyalty to king and country interferes with that."

Suddenly she felt the weight of his keen stare. "Do you intend to make me choose? Do you plan to join Boney in France?"

She toyed with the food on her plate. "England has given me precious little to revere. If one is not rich or titled, there is little to respect."

"How can you say that?" he asked. Shock echoed in every line of his face.

"Do not misunderstand," she continued. "I am fond of England. She is the land of my birth. But England also allows Ballast and Hurdy to rule the rookeries, ignores poor girls forced into whoring, and abandons boys to thievery."

"You have other options!"

"As your mistress? Penworthy's salvation? Why must I sell myself to the highest bidder? Why can I not have an education in medicine or shipbuilding?"

"Do you wish to build ships? To be a doctor?" The thought clearly astounded him. "But you are a woman!"

"And why should I be loyal to a country that so limits me?"

He set down his glass with a click. "It is the same the world over, Fantine. You cannot think that England should change just because you wish it."

She nearly laughed. "No, I am not that naive. But you think everything is just as it should be. You and I see the world through very different eyes, my lord."

There. She had explained as clearly as she could. But inside her heart, she wept. She already knew she would regret her choice. She was giving up wealth, comfort, and passion. For what?

"You are throwing everything away because you will not see the world as it is." Marcus's expression was fierce. "You are throwing me away because you wish to be a man."

"I do not want what you offer. I do not trust you." Once again, her words remained firm, but inside she crumbled. Was she so angry to give up, out of pride, everything she could have?

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. "Whom are you trying to convince?" he challenged.

Herself, of course. But she would not admit it to him. So she pushed away from the table, turning her back as she searched for something else to focus her energies on. But there was nothing else, no one except Marcus. Then she felt him behind her, like a flame, heating her body from behind.

"You are right," he whispered, heating her ear. "I should not have pressed you now. Come." He started leading her forward, and she took two steps before she thought to resist.

"Where are we going?"

He turned, a mischievous look on his face. "To teach you that I am not the ogre you have painted me." Then, before she could object, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, impatiently pushing the blankets aside.

Fantine released a surprised squeak, but he silenced her with a swift, fierce kiss on the lips. "Hush. I have no designs on your virtue."

She raised her eyebrows, knowing he lied, but did not have time to object as he settled her down on the bed.

"Come now. Turn over," he said as he pressed her downward.

Fantine tensed, knowing her burgundy negligee was a flimsy barrier at best. "What do you want?"

"Lie on your stomach. Trust me."

His smile was so reassuring that she did as he bade. She told herself it was because she felt too tired to fight, but she knew the real reason was to escape the lazy heat that warmed his eyes. She could not think when he looked at her that way.

"I warn you," she said, her voice muffled by the thick pillows. "I am not defenseless." She was bluffing, of course. The wine, the food, and the stresses of the day were already taking their toll. Lying flat on the bed, she felt too boneless to raise a finger, much less fight him.

Still, he must have taken her comment at face value because he responded sincerely, his voice rich with amusement. "Believe me, I know you have claws."

She smiled. Image was half the battle. Then he did something that forced all thoughts from her head. He put his hands on her shoulders and began kneading the muscles there.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"It is medicinal. My valet learned it in India."

His touch deepened, probing into her flesh, pushing out her pain as easily as if he lifted away a stone. His hands were most thorough as he worked down her spine before easing around her hips, his thumbs pressing deeply into the small of her back. She groaned, feeling both nervous and wonderful.

"Relax," he coaxed. "I will stop any time you wish."

She did not want him to stop. She knew what he intended. He could not seduce her with words, but he could with his touch. She had refused his cold business offer, but she was powerless against the sensuous textures of silk and heated flesh.

So she succumbed. Without even a token objection, she closed her eyes and accepted whatever would come. Before long, time ceased to have any meaning. He rubbed her legs and her feet, his touch firm and assured. When he gently rolled her onto her back, she helped him. When he began rubbing her shoulders, easing the nightgown down her arms, she made no demur. The silk slipped lower and lower until finally her breasts sprang free of the material, seemingly eager for his ministrations.

He continued as he had been doing, focusing on the muscles beneath the skin, using his thumbs to elongate the sinews. But as he worked, his fingers brushed ever closer to her taut nipples, until finally, he stroked over them.

She gasped, but it was only a small sound, lost amid the feelings he stirred. He repeated the motion, this time pinching the tender flesh slightly with his fingers. She moaned and arched her back slightly, hoping he would do it again.

He did. Again and again, his hands becoming firmer, more bold as he caressed her breasts.

Then he slid lower.

Though her breasts ached with longing he kept up the assault, spanning her waist with his hands before completely divesting her of her gown.

He spoke not a word, and neither did she. The only sound was her tiny gasps, her soft whimpers of hunger. Then he pressed his thumbs to the top of her thighs, barely brushing the secret folds between.

She bucked beneath him, feeling as if a spring had been released. Her legs were already open and hungry for his touch, so he leaned down to kiss her, not on her mouth, but on her belly, which trembled beneath his lips. She felt his body, lean and hard, as he stretched up along the left side of her. It was not until she felt the ticklish brush of his chest hairs that she realized he had stripped off his shirt.

Opening her eyes in surprise, she gazed at the broad expanse of his shoulders. The candlelight sculpted his lean form with golden light and shadows. Unable to stop herself, she touched his body gently. His skin was soft beneath the dusting of blond hair, and she gloried in the different textures over the corded strength of his muscles.

She looked up at him then, trying to meet his gaze, but seeing only dark pools of shadow. She moved her hand higher, tracing the coarse line of his chin, the hard lift to his cheek, until finally resting on the dark blush of his lips. Never before had she been able to simply touch a man as she willed.

Then he lowered his head and kissed her mouth.

His kiss was slow, measured, patient, but she could feel the tension that gripped him, the power he restrained for her sake. He wanted more. She felt his desire like a hot brand against her thigh, and without conscious thought, she rubbed against him.

A groan rumbled through his body as his tongue pushed deep within her. She allowed his entrance, absorbing him, reveling in him with a wild abandon completely foreign to her nature.

Then he pulled back. It was a momentary pause, a second or two when he looked down at her, his eyes hungry, his lips curled in a triumphant smile. In that instant, she remembered other looks, other men. The creaking rhythm of her mother's bed echoed in her thoughts. Over and over, night after night, while Fantine hated her. Hated him. Hated every part of that life.

Yet here she was lying naked beneath Marcus, her body still wet and aching. Twenty minutes ago, she'd flatly refused to be his mistress. Twelve hours before, she'd sworn never to let him touch her again. Yet here she lay, a whore just like her mother.

Marcus lowered his lips to her, kissing her neck with tiny bites that sizzled along her skin. But everything was different.

"Now I know why my mother was so eager to sell herself," she said, her voice crude.

He reared backward, his body jerking as if slapped. "Is that what this is to you? Just a..." His words stopped as if choked off.

"A dockside diddle?" she asked in her coarsest accent. "Wot else could it be? Ye ain't about t' offer marriage. Oi suppose ye ain't expecting t' pay, but then ye gave me dinner an' wine. Oi's guessin' this'll make us abo' even."

If she thought he was angry before, it was nothing compared to now. She felt his fist twist on her belly. Never before had she seen such dark and potent anger, and suddenly she was afraid as she never had been around Ballast or Hurdy.

"Marcus?" She hated the tremor in her voice, but she could not stop it.

"Do not cringe from me now," he said softly. "You have stated the rules here, not I." Then he reached forward, grabbing a handful of her hair. "If a dockside diddle is all you want, then it shall be all you get."

She had no time to react as he suddenly threw himself on top of her. She gasped as his weight pushed her into the mattress. His hips were hard, his desire blatant as he unerringly found her center despite the barrier of his clothing.

It was both terrifying and wonderful, and she spread her legs without thought, drawing up her knees to pull him deeper.

He groaned, the sound guttural and anguished. He thrust against her once, hard and fast. She met the motion with a push of her own, unable to stop herself.

Then suddenly, he spun away. He threw himself off of her to land with a thud on his feet, his back to her. She heard his breathing, heavy in the still night, and it was matched by her own shuddering inhalation.

"I want you, Fantine," he said harshly. "I want to bury myself in you every night until you stop haunting my dreams." He slammed his fist against the table, rattling the cutlery. "But I cannot buy you. God help me, I cannot do it that way."

Fantine pulled her legs together, pulling the blanket over her body as she stared at his rigid back. "What is it you want?" Her cockney accent had slipped away, but she did not care. "You cannot wish for marriage. Not with me."

Suddenly he turned around, his expression like that of a wolf, lean and hungry, but he held back, and she saw the muscles in his arms ripple with the effort.

"I already told you. I want you as my mistress, Fantine. Let me find you a place to live. I will shower you with finery, jewels, anything. I will come to you whenever I can."

She looked at him, shaking her head, not in answer, but as she fought to understand. "And that is not buying me? How is that different from tonight? From a tumble against a wet wall in the rookeries?"

"I do not know!" he cried out. "I only know that it is different."

"No," she returned. "It is not." She pushed the hair out of her eyes, ashamed of the tears that wet her fingertips. "Why do you want me so badly, Marcus? You are everywhere I go, touching me, using my body against me like some conqueror. I am not a disease to be purged from your body. Nor am I a salve for your pain. Why can you not just leave me alone?"

"Because I need you. I do not know why, but I do."

She stared at him, blinking away the tears that made her vision hazy. "Why cannot someone want me for just me? I am not Penworthy's passport to heaven or Wilberforce's savior or even your escape from pain. I am merely myself. Until someone can see me as I am, I shall stay in the rookeries and make my own life as my own mistress."

He stepped toward her, dropping to one knee as he grasped her hand. The posture was heartfelt and lover-like, and Fantine flinched at the sight. He looked as if he would propose, and yet she knew the truth.

"You deserve a better life," he urged.

Fantine lifted her chin, her memories of her mother's life clear in her mind. "So I should become your slave, imprisoned in lush finery, dependent upon your beck and call, forced to submit to whatever you wish, whenever you wish?"

"It would not be like that!"

She shrugged, her feelings dying away as she heard the familiar words. Every protector, every man who wished to enter her mother's bed, had said the same words, voiced the same thought. With me, they claimed, it will be different.

Except that it never was different. Unless it was worse.

"I will not be owned by anyone."