No Place for a Lady (36 page)

Looking back at Marcus, she shook her head. "Have Lottie say that I have been called home unexpectedly. That my great-aunt is ill."

"But why?"

"Hurdy is going to act soon. I should stay close to Wilberforce. Act as his bodyguard."

Marcus shook his head. She could barely see him in the darkness, but his movements were as definite as his words. "Absolutely not. It is too dangerous. Hurdy will be furious at what you did to his men."

Fantine almost laughed. "Yes, but I can smooth that over. After all, it is a matter of pride with me that no one, not even Hurdy, can keep me locked up for long. Friend or foe, he no doubt expected me to try to escape."

"It is still too dangerous."

"It is all we can do until we learn Teggie's identity." She sighed and let her head drop back against the cushion. "If only you had let me follow him."

"Not as you were dressed."

Fantine knew he was right. Still, all she wanted was one glimpse of the man. "I have spoken with him. I know it. Did you recognize his voice at all?"

He hesitated a moment, but his answer was definite. "No. Not at all."

"I thought not. You would have said something by now." Then she shook her head. "I have handled this very badly."

"You have handled this excellently," he admonished her. "You cannot do everything, Fantine. I thought you understood that."

Fantine sighed. "I do. Indeed, I feel more vulnerable every day." Vulnerable to Marcus's husky voice surrounding her in the dark, warm carriage.

"You shall have a hot bath and fresh clothes. Then we can address other matters."

Fantine smiled and let herself relax. "I rely upon you, my lord." It was amazing how easy it was to say those words. She did trust Marcus. Completely. Throughout all their misadventures, despite their animosity and the insults to his dignity, he had always behaved with her best interest at heart. Certainly, he could be domineering and opinionated, but she never doubted his true intentions.

He might not love her, but he certainly cared about her. Perhaps that was enough. Not for a lifelong commitment. Not for her to become his mistress. But enough to warm her through and through on this cold night of failures. And in that moment, she allowed herself to feel the tension that crackled through the darkness, setting her skin and her heart to tingling.

She could barely make out his figure across from her, but she need not see it to picture him. Handsome as the devil with broad shoulders and a wicked smile, his features were often stiff and autocratic. But with her, he softened, his expression mellowing until he surprised her with a smile so enchanting it made her toes curl.

She thought of Mr. Thompson and his earnest defense of her. Certainly she cared for him. In fact, she still intended to marry him should he offer. But compared to Marcus, he was merely a sweet young man. She could make a life with Mr. Thompson, but her heart longed for Marcus.

The carriage stopped, and Marcus pulled aside the curtain to look outside, scanning the street. "There is someone out there. We will have to wait a moment."

Fantine nodded, grabbing hold of her skirt in preparation.

"Keep your head down," he continued, "and walk quickly inside. Go straight upstairs and do not reveal yourself until you have closed the door to the upstairs bedroom."

Fantine frowned. "Can your servants be trusted?"

"Of course," he said stiffly. "But I try not to tempt their loyalty." Then suddenly he grinned. "Besides, I have just raised all their wages. Pray do not give them an excuse to demand even more."

"Perhaps you could give them another holiday," she said, responding easily to his teasing tone. "That was what you did last time, is it not?"

"Yes, but you cannot believe how much my fellow MPs hated it. Once one lord's servants receive time off, they all want it. Harris even claimed I was undermining England's social fabric."

"Goodness," she gasped in mock outrage. "How dreadful of you."

"Yes. So dreadful that I think I shall do it again."

Their entire conversation was nonsensical. It was merely play talk, used to dispel the growing tension between them. Unfortunately, it did not work.

She could see his face, outlined by the moonlight. His eyes were dark pools focused on her and her alone. She saw him swallow, his jaw clenched, and she knew he held himself in check.

Suddenly, desire rushed over her. She felt a hunger beyond reason. Her skin felt scorched, and her lips painfully dry. She licked them, and heard his sharp inhale.

"Fantine..." he said, his words a low groan.

She did not know how to answer, did not know what to think. So she ran. She pushed past him out the door, rushing up his steps as the door opened before her. She heard his heavy footfalls behind her as she rushed into his home.

Then she was up the stairs and into her room, the one she had used so many nights before. The one where they had almost...

She shut the door fast, leaned against it, and closed her eyes tight. Downstairs, she heard Marcus speak with his butler. His voice was indistinct, but her body seemed to hum with the sound of his low tones.

She did not want this, did not want to respond this way to him, to think about him, to remember the feel of his body alongside hers. But she did. She wanted him.

Then a troubling thought came to her. It was a soft whisper in her mind, but its effect was like thunder. Two simple words:

Why not?

Why not give in to Marcus, why not welcome him into her bed this one night? The answer was clear. She was a virgin. In fact, she had guarded her virginity as closely as she would have guarded a hundred bars of gold. It was the one proof that she was nothing like her mother and never would be.

She looked up, seeing her moonlit reflection in the mirror. Her dress was in tatters, her face dirty, and a half-crumpled leaf stuck out from her hair. The very sight made her grin, not because she enjoyed being filthy, but because her mother would have been horrified by the sight.

Her mother had cared for nothing except herself. She became an actress so that people would look at her. She became a courtesan for the jewels and beautiful clothing she could wear. Her greatest dream was to live in a big house with a carriage to drive her around Hyde Park where everyone would say how beautiful and rich she was.

But Fantine cared nothing for those thing and never had. She wanted an easier life than the rookeries offered. She wanted a man to love her, one who would never, ever abandon her.

So she was nothing like her mother. The thought was so liberating that she nearly laughed out loud. She was not her mother! Marcus was right. No matter what she did, she was herself. And she was in love with Marcus.

Why not finally express that love for one night? For one precious moment before committing herself to a loveless marriage with Mr. Thompson?

Why not?

There was no reason not to. She knew how to prevent pregnancy. For that matter, she knew how to simulate virginity for her wedding night. So when she heard Marcus's measured tread outside the door, she opened it willingly, quickly, and allowed him to come in.

He looked nervous, his hands fumbling and his eyes dark and hungry. "My servants will bring a bath as soon as the water is heated."

She shook her head, the implications of her decision still too new for her to act on just yet. "N-no. A small pot and a cloth will do. There is no need to wake the entire staff."

Marcus nodded. "I have sent a message to Wilberforce, so there is no need to be uneasy about that. He will not go to White's tomorrow."

"Good, good," Fantine answered, her hands twisting uneasily in the remains of her skirt.

"And I sent a message to Lottie telling her you are safe. I said you were visiting a sick friend."

"Good, good."

They stared at each other a moment; then Marcus abruptly turned and left. Fantine could hear his curt tones through the door as he gave instructions to his servant.

Chastising herself for her nerves, Fantine quickly lit a small fire. Though it was spring, the night was chill, and the mundane task occupied her hands.

But it was not enough to occupy her thoughts, so when Marcus returned, she still felt jittery, anxious, unprepared. But then she saw something she had never thought to witness in her life. Marcus came in carrying a large pot of water.

Fantine gaped at the strange sight. "Marcus?"

"As you said, there was no need to wake the staff." His words were breathless as he set down the large cooking pot of hot water. "I think my sister left some gowns in the wardrobe."

Fantine glanced at the huge armoire. "Yes. Several." Her words came out in a breathless whisper.

"She sometimes stays here when I am away. Shopping trips, you know. Easier to stay here than rent a house."

"Of course."

Their conversation was awkward, their words stilted as they stood and stared at each other. Then suddenly Marcus frowned and looked down at the cloth in his hand. "Oh, and here is this." He handed it to her as she reached for it.

She would have touched him just then, but he dropped it in her hand and drew abruptly away. Then he ducked his head and made to leave.

"Marcus?" she asked, confused by his new, awkward side.

He stopped moving, his back to her. She could see how his shoulders bunched, the muscles of his back shifting beneath the linen shirt.

"I cannot stay, Fantine," he said, his voice hoarse. "I want you more than life itself right now. I will do anything, risk anything to have you in my bed this night."

She felt her breath catch. Could he feel the same hunger as she? Was it as strange for him—both exhilarating and terrifying all at once?

There was only one way to find out.

She stepped forward and gently laid her hand on his shoulder. She felt his muscles ripple beneath her touch, felt the tension he restrained for her sake.

"I am not used to gowns," she said, her voice husky and low. "Could you not stay and help me change?"

He whirled around, his expression fierce. "Damn it, Fantine, can you not understand? I am trying to keep my promise!"

He would have said more, but she reached up and pressed her fingers to his lips. His skin felt hot, his mouth even more so.

"I understand," she whispered. "But do you?"

She moved her fingers into a long caress of his face, starting with his mouth, curving across his roughened cheek, then brushing downward until she passed over his shoulder.

Then she stepped away.

She saw his dumbfounded expression and smiled. What power this was to so completely flabbergast a man!

She turned around, showing him her back as she pulled her hair across one shoulder. Then, as she walked toward the heated water and the fire, she released the last of the catches on her torn bodice, shrugging so that both gown and shift slipped off her shoulders. With each step she took, her clothing fell away until she stood naked, outlined by the fire.

Behind her, Marcus groaned. She turned her head slightly and peeked at him. He stood as if rooted to the spot, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side.

Then she did the most blatantly sexual thing she could think of. She slowly extended one leg, raising it up until it rested on a chest. She made sure Marcus had a full view in profile of her limb. Then she leaned down, wet the cloth, and slowly began washing herself. She started at her foot, dripping water across her ankle and toes. Then began the long slide up her leg to the top of her thigh.

She stopped and glanced coyly at him before leaning down and wetting the cloth again. She took her time, stretching and twisting so that she presented a variety of profiles. And all the while, he just stood there, his breath a low rasp.

When she was done with her legs, she once again reached down and wet the cloth. She stood up, arching her back and raising the fabric until water dripped across her breasts.

His groan reverberated in the still room.

Suddenly he was behind her, his large frame surrounding her as he reached around and gently pulled her backward. His touch sizzled across her skin, and for the first time she noticed that her own breathing was none too steady.

"Here," he said, "allow me to help."

He pulled her backward until she leaned against his chest. He wore no coat. Instead, she felt the silken swatch of his cravat, and beneath that, the cool press of each one of his pearl buttons. But the fabric could not mask the heat of his body or the fire in his touch.

He took the cloth from her, his palms large and powerful as he brushed against the back of her hands. Then, drip, drip, he allowed the water to slide onto her chest, slipping in long, wet rivulets over her breasts.

She gasped at the sensation. She felt her nipples tighten, and her body arch in response.

It took him a long time before he lowered his hand, brushing the cloth over her collarbone, circling around a breast, then leisurely stroking across a nipple. His touch was feather soft at first, then firmer, then torturous as he teased her peaks with the softest of strokes. She moaned, shocked by what they were doing, yet thrilled as well.