Promise Me Tomorrow (23 page)

“Show me,” she whispered.

He was eager to oblige. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, rousing them to hard points, and circled the aureoles, the soft, rhythmic movements setting off pulses of pleasure down into her loins. Marianne swung around to face him, seating herself between his legs, her own legs wrapped around him, and pulled her chemise down and off, exposing her torso to him. With a low groan, he put his hands on her buttocks and shoved her tightly against him. He bent his head and began to feast upon her breast.

His mouth was hot and silken, pulling her nipple in and gently sucking on it. His tongue rasped over it slowly, then quickly, lashing and stroking and circling until Marianne was panting and moaning softly. She moved her hips against him as thick moisture flooded between her legs. His breath shuddered out, fiery upon her skin, but he did not stop what he was doing, only switched to the other nipple, arousing it to the same pointing hardness. Marianne’s fingers clenched on his shoulders, digging into the muscles, and her hips circled in an age-old pattern.

Justin slipped his hand beneath her skirts and up her legs, finding the hot, wet center of her desire. The cloth of her undergarment lay between them, frustrating him, and with a low curse, he brought his other hand up and ripped the thin cotton garment apart. She was open to his fingers, hot and slick, the delicate nether lips engorged. As his mouth moved on her breast, his fingers stroked the tender folds, caressing and teasing, one moment soft and brushing, the next firm and urgent.

Marianne groaned his name, moving against his hand, seeking release. She had never imagined that anything could feel like this, that the world could roll and tumble around her and such heat consume her body that she thought surely she must go up like a torch at any moment. She could feel his manhood surging against her through the barrier of his trousers, and she set upon the buttons with fingers that shook. When she slid her hand inside and took him delicately in her fingers, he shuddered, letting out a low, animal noise.

Frantically, he tore off his shirt, popping the last few buttons, and laid it upon the ground, then bore her back onto the fabric. He could hold back no longer, and he moved between her legs, his maleness probing, then sliding into her slowly. He savored each increment as her femininity closed around him with almost unbearable heat and softness. A moan escaped him, and he began to stroke in and out, moving in a primitive rhythm that grew harder and faster. His heart was pounding, his breath rasping, as he drove into her and pulled back. Marianne sobbed, the pleasure so intense it was almost painful, and her nails scored his back. She released a cry as the pleasure exploded in her loins and rolled through her in a great wave. Justin smothered her cry with a kiss as his own climax seized him, and together they tumbled into a dark, whirling abyss of pleasure.

T
HEY LAY AFTERWARD IN LAZY CONTENT
,
arms around each other, blissfully drained. Marianne had never felt such closeness; she knew now that whatever happened, she would always be connected to this man, that he knew her in a way that no one else ever could or would again. She knew, too, that she could no longer allow any dishonesty between them. It was as if her soul had opened up, and it would permit no barrier.

“I was not always a thief.”

“No?” He twined one of her curls around his finger. “What did you do before that?”

Marianne tensed. This was harder than admitting to thievery, as she had done yesterday. Anyone, even a person of genteel birth, could fall on hard times and steal things. Being a servant put her irretrievably in the lower classes, as far from a duke’s son as she could possibly be.

“I was an upstairs maid,” she said. “I worked for a family named Quartermaine. I went to work there when I was fourteen. I came from St. Anselm’s, an orphanage. I am an orphan. I don’t even know what my name is.”

His arm tightened around her. “I’m sorry.” Again his lips brushed her hair. “You never knew your family?”

“No. I went there when I was very young. I don’t even remember arriving at St. Anselm’s, except for some vague sense of being terrified. I sneaked into the office once and looked at my papers. It said under parents—
unknown.
I think the matron gave me a name. So you see, I have made myself up entirely. Even my name. I chose Marianne Cotterwood.”

Justin smoothed his hand down her hair. “But what about your husband? The supposed Mr. Cotterwood.”

“I had no husband. Rosalind is—” She paused, feeling the tears gathering.

“A love child,” he finished for her.

“No. There was no love involved.” Marianne turned on her side, curling up facing away from him. Her voice was so low that he had to strain to hear it. “Her father is the Quartermaines’ oldest son.”

“And he made no provision for her?” Justin’s lips curled in disdain.

“He did not acknowledge her. He—I thought he loved me. At first he flirted with me and said sweet things. I fancied myself in love with him, too, and I daydreamed—oh, idiotic things. I naively believed that he would elope with me. But he grew more and more…demanding, and when I continued to deny him, he got very angry. He said I was a tease. I told him that I was not that sort of girl, that I was good. He laughed—such an awful, nasty laugh—and said that I was good for one thing only. I began to cry. I said I thought he loved me, that he wanted to marry me. That afforded him great amusement. I was heartbroken, and I turned to run away. But he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back. He said I would not deny him any longer, and he began to pull and tear at my clothes.”

“Oh, Marianne…” Justin turned, cuddling her to him, and kissed the side of her face. “I am so sorry. He took you by force?”

Marianne nodded, her voice too choked with tears to speak. The remembered pain and shame flooded her, and she began to cry softly. Justin held her tenderly, stroking her and kissing her hair, until her sobs subsided.

“I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “It’s been so long. I didn’t think it hurt anymore.”

“He was a scoundrel,” Justin told her, his voice rough with fury. “He deserved to be whipped. What was his first name?”

Marianne let out a watery chuckle. “Why? Do you mean to defend my honor ten years later?”

“I wouldn’t mind teaching him a lesson. It’s no wonder that you distrust gentlemen, but I can tell you that he is not deserving of the name.”

“I was fired when I began to show. I told the housekeeper what had happened, but she said that it was no use. I must go. I was so furious that I confronted his mother. That got me turned out without even a recommendation. I told her what her son had done, and she said that I had tempted him. That I was too showy in my looks, my hair too bright, that anyone could tell by looking at me that I was not virtuous. As if the color of my hair had caused him to rape me!”

“Stupid bitch.” He squeezed her tightly to him. “I am sorry, so sorry. I wish there were some way I could change it, make it up to you.”

Marianne smiled and turned into him, snuggling once again against his chest. “There’s not, but thank you for wishing it. Perhaps you can see why I felt little compunction from stealing from such people as they.”

“Yes. What did you do, take some of the plate and flee?”

She laughed. “No. I wasn’t clever enough to think of it. I left, all right, but with only the clothes on my back and the few miserable coins I had managed to save up over the three years that I had been there—and the savings of my good friend Winny, another maid. I made my way to London, thinking that there somehow I would find a job. Of course no one was interested in a pregnant maid, even to work in the scullery. I would be a bad influence on the other scullery maids, you see. I was starving, no place to live, scared. Then I met Harrison and Della. They saved me—and Rosalind.”

She told him about her first attempt at theft and how her future friends had rescued her from the fruit seller, then took her in. “I owe everything to them,” she said quietly. “They fed me and clothed me, taught me how to talk and act. I can never repay them. They—I guess they are the closest thing I have to a family.”

“Probably better,” Justin commented wryly. “I think I would prefer to choose my family, if I could.”

“Oh, easy to say when you can trace your ancestors back to the Conquest!” Marianne retorted, chuckling.

“Before that!” he protested with mock indignation. “Just ask my grandmother—she will be happy to tell you.”

“Tell me about your grandmother. What is she like? Tell me about all your family.”

He shrugged. “They are dead bores, frankly. My grandmother married a duke, and that was her defining moment in life. Everything she did before that led up to it, and everything since has been as a consequence of it. She walked and talked and ate like a duchess. She did not laugh loudly nor scream with rage nor walk fast, because all those things would have been unbecoming to the dignity of a duchess. She could trace all her ancestors, too, but she was prouder of my grandfather’s, of course, since they were dukes. Everyone in the household, including my father, went in terror of her. Every week the family had to go to pay their respects to her at the Dower House—one of the primary reasons, I think, that my parents always spent half the year in London, where Grandmother rarely set foot.”

“Oh my.”

“I never saw my parents much. They were in London for the Season, and for much of the winter, too. Mother, particularly, hated the country. The children, on the other hand, always stayed at the home seat. Mother was a beauty—they say that is how she managed to snag a duke. Her birth was good, of course, but they were not wealthy. I can remember Nurse usually took us in to see her while she was engaged in her toilette before dinner. I can remember thinking that she was as beautiful as an angel, but I preferred Nurse, who would hold me when I hurt myself and light a candle for me at night if I had a nightmare.”

Marianne smiled. “There was one of the women at the orphanage who was kind like that. She would come and soothe you when you had nightmares. But usually it was my friend Winny who did that.”

“You had nightmares often?”

“When I was little. I don’t remember them anymore. I think it was when I was first at St. Anselm’s.”

They were silent for a moment. Then Justin said thoughtfully, “This man who was trying to find you…do you think he knew you before you were given to the orphanage?”

“I suppose. If he had gone to the orphanage, they would have sent him to the Quartermaines. They knew I went into service there when I left. They would have had no knowledge of me afterward. But why would he want to kill me? And how could someone who knew me then be the sort of person who would be at Lord Buckminster’s party?”

“Well,
you
are at the party,” Justin pointed out. “He could have risen in life, too. Besides, why do you assume that everyone who was connected with you was not genteel?”

“A gentleman’s child is not thrown into an orphanage. There would be a relative who could afford to take care of them. Provision would be made for it.”

“Ah, but might not a gentleman’s
illegitimate
child be put in one?”

Marianne stiffened. “I had never thought of that.”

“Say her mother died, and he did not want the responsibility of her. Did not even want to acknowledge that he had an illegitimate child. There are men who would do that.”

“I’m certain of that.”

“Or, perhaps even more likely, a young woman of good birth had a child out of wedlock. The family might very well have wanted to get rid of the evidence of her ‘dishonor.’ Several possible gentlemen could be involved there—the young lady’s father, her brother, even the father of the child. It could even be that the woman—or man—of good birth married someone of whom the family did not approve, and he or she was cut off from the family. Then the parents died, the child was left, and the arrogant, stubborn relatives still refused to acknowledge it. There are any number of ‘gentlemen’ who could be involved there—brothers, fathers, cousins.”

“You could be right.” Marianne sat up. She had dismissed her former daydreams of highborn parents as folly. But when looked at in the light that Justin had shown her, it would not be that unlikely for a child, at least a bastard child, of some member of the upper class to be shunted off into an orphanage. “But why would any of those persons wish to kill that child when she was grown? Years and years after she was gotten rid of?”

“Perhaps you are somehow a threat to him. He might fear that you could figure out who he is and denounce him as a lecher, a seducer.”

“How? I have no memory of my life before St. Anselm’s.”

“He couldn’t be sure of that.”

“Besides, even if it were known that he had an illegitimate child or seduced some innocent girl, would it be important enough to kill for it? Surely it would be a relatively small scandal in Society—illegitimate children are not uncommon among so-called gentlemen,” Marianne pointed out scornfully.

“A man would not be ostracized for having an illegitimate child,” Justin admitted. “But if he had acted dishonorably, it would be a scandal. It might be enough to throw real fear into a man standing for election to Parliament, say.”

Marianne’s eyes widened. “Mr. Thurston!”

“Or it might be enough to earn the enmity of one’s very wealthy wife,” Justin went on.