Rebel Marquess (25 page)

It was beautiful. Unbelievable.

He was still moving within her. The throbbing thrust and retreat of his hard member feeling hotter now with the new sensitivity of her inner flesh. He cradled the back of her head in his palm and his other hand gripped her buttocks as his thrusts grew more rapid and his breathing more ragged. She pulled her knees up under his arms, opening herself to him completely. As she felt him tensing, the amazing pleasure burst again within her and the inner pulsing of her body matched the rhythm of his release.

Chapter Nineteen

Bliss.

That was the word that kept floating through Eliza’s head as her body relaxed by slow degrees and her heart slowed to a reasonable rate. The marquess’s head rested on the pillow beside hers and she lazily trailed her fingertips up and down his back. She was glad his face was tucked against her neck and he couldn’t see the silly grin stretching her lips.

She wondered why she hadn’t heard more about the sex act before now. Oh, she knew how it was done. She had learned the mechanics of it years ago by eavesdropping on her sisters’ conversations. But she could not believe their discussions had not included more of what she had just experienced.

The consuming need, the heat and the ultimate pleasure. The complete, wondrous bliss.

Perhaps it wasn’t always like this, she considered.

It made sense Rutherford would be exceptional in this as he was in so many other ways. Or perhaps they were exceptional together.

The thought gave her a rush of satisfaction.

Lost in her musings, she nearly shrieked when the marquess gave a sudden jerk of his big body.

“What happened?” she asked quickly.

He issued a short series of growling sounds that may have been an attempt at words. Then he stilled again. But a moment later, as her fingertips feathered up the outer curve of his ribs, he jerked again and clamped his arms tight against his sides. This time the sound he made was definitely a growl.

Eliza choked back a laugh, realizing the problem. To test it, she waited until he relaxed again then lightly drew her thumbs up under his arms.

He jumped violently and in a rush of sudden energy lifted himself to crouch over her on his hands and knees. He glared down at her with an expression that should have been fierce if not for the cause of it.

Eliza couldn’t stop the laughter then. “You are ticklish,” she accused, grinning up at him.

He arched a brow. “And that amuses you?”

She shrugged. “Let me see.” And she reached out to wiggle her fingers high against his sides.

His reaction was so fast she barely had a chance to touch his skin before he grasped her wrists and pinned them above her head. “Not a good idea,” he advised in a tone heavy with warning.

Eliza felt a rush of something other than amusement then as she took in the details of their position. They were both still completely nude and her thighs were parted around his hips. His large body was bent over her and the muscles of his chest and arms bunched with the slightest shift of his weight. His sheer physical command was in a perfect juxtaposition to her flushed softness. Rather than making her feel weak or ineffective, she felt infinitely powerful.

She ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth as she lifted her gaze to meet his. “Definitely amusing.” She hadn’t intended for her voice to sound so thick or sultry.

His dark eyes gleamed with haughty arrogance. She bit her cheek to hold back her smile.

“Do you find this funny as well?” he asked as he lowered his head and drew her nipple into the heat of his mouth.

Eliza stretched and arched as his tongue teased the peak of her breast. With her hands secured under his, she could not slide her fingers into his hair as she wished. When he began to withdraw the attention of his mouth, she could only arch her back in an attempt to keep it there.

He lifted his head to look at her dangerously.

“What about this?” Still holding her gaze, he flicked his tongue briefly against her other nipple, causing it to pucker in protest at not receiving the same lavish attention as the first. But the hardened peak only elicited more taunting flicks of his tongue. As Eliza watched, he scored his teeth across the sensitive tip. The whimper that started in her throat turned to a moan as a sharp spear of pleasure traveled swiftly to her sex. She lifted her hips in an instinctive response and felt the subtle brush of his erection against her inner thigh.

At the brief but potent contact, he released her hands and lifted himself away from her, leaving the bed altogether.

Eliza blinked up at the ceiling, the flush of desire heating her skin. She sat and looked around but the marquess was gone. Without a word, he had just left the room.

Realizing he couldn’t have gone far, she slid to the edge of the bed and lifted her chemise from the floor. She pulled the light garment over her head and slid her arms into the short sleeves as she stood.

She walked quietly to an inner door, which had been left open, and peered inside. It was a bathing room. A large bathing tub was already filled with water and the marquess was adding more from pots that were steaming on a small stove in the corner of the room. The floor was the finest Italian marble and the walls were tiled in pure-white porcelain. She glanced up and saw the ceiling was painted with a stunning fresco.

Catching sight of her in the doorway, the marquess nodded his head toward the tub, “I had ordered the bath earlier. The water isn’t terribly cold.”

Eliza felt no shame in giving in to the urge to peruse the sight of his nude body. When she saw his full arousal, desire pooled between her legs and she looked up to meet his gaze.

“Why did you leave me like that?” she asked.

The firm lines of his expression slipped a bit. “You need some time.” Eliza would have denied it—she didn’t need time, she needed him—but he continued without allowing her a chance to interrupt. “Make use of the bath. I will wash in the other room.”

Then he walked stiffly past her, leaving her alone in the steaming wash room.

Eliza gazed at the tub with longing. The idea of sinking into the heated water was too great a temptation. She removed her chemise and lowered herself into the water. She lathered the cake of soap she found in a dish on the edge of the tub. Its scent was all him. That lovely exotic citrus and rich spice. She generously spread the lather over her body. The idea of making her skin smell like his caused an odd little twist in her belly. After a few minutes, that twist grew into an ache.

She glanced to the partially closed door of the wash room. As she thought of the marquess being so close, just in the next room, a rush of need rose up through her throat and before she made an intentional decision to do so, she called out, “Michael.”

She found she liked how it felt to use his given name.

Less than a minute later, his large form filled the doorway. He had put on his breeches but nothing else. His expression showed concern then relief when he caught sight of her sitting in the center of the tub with her knees drawn up against her chest.

“Do you need something?” he asked.

Eliza thought quickly. “I could use a little help washing my hair.”

The look he gave her was long and filled with something unidentifiable. His muscled body appeared stiff with tension as he stood with one foot in the small room and one out. For a moment, she thought he would refuse and a hollow feeling crept into her chest.

Then he rolled his shoulders and stepped forward. “Of course.”

He knelt down and reached for a pitcher set on a low shelf beside the tub. He dipped it in the water and said quietly, “Tip your head back.”

Eliza wrapped her arms around her knees and dropped her head back. She closed her eyes as he poured the water over her head and then began to lather the soap into her hair. His strong fingers massaged her scalp in lavish circles. His movements were unhurried and efficient as he worked the lather through the full length of her hair. The steady rhythm of his breath and the solid warmth of his attention flowed over her, soothing her and easing out any anxiety that had threatened at the return of his distant manner.

With her eyes still closed as she luxuriated under the movement of his hands, she smiled softly. “Do you remember the first time we were in a bathing room together?”

“I do.” His voice was low and thick. “I almost kissed you then.”

“You did?” Eliza opened her eyes and met his gaze, heavy and dark with swirling desire. “Even as angry as you were in discovering who I was?”

The fire in his gaze and the control she saw in every line of his face sent a flash of lust through her center. “Yes,” he answered.

“I wish you would have,” she said in a low murmur. “We could have been doing this so much sooner.”

His pupils dilated and his hands stilled in her hair. The tension between them was potent with the promise of sex and something far more dangerous.

He gave a slow shake of his head and refilled the pitcher with water. “Minx,” he admonished in a tone that was gentle and deep. “Your honesty will get you into trouble.”

She dropped her head back again as he poured the water to rinse away the soap.

“Or it will get me what I want,” Eliza suggested. She lifted her brows in question. “Would you rather I lie and say I did not enjoy what we did in your bed?”

His gaze turned decidedly rakish then, and a burst of wild anticipation erupted in Eliza’s center.

“Of course not.” His lips twisted with a rueful sort of smile. “No man wants to hear that. On the contrary, I hope you will always be honest with me.”

Eliza sighed. “Then I have something to confess. I did not really need any help washing my hair. I just wanted you to touch me again.”

There was a long pause as he looked into her eyes and she felt as though he could surely see to the depths of her heart and soul.

“I know,” he replied.

Then a smile crept across his stern features, softening the harsh lines and curving his lips. She returned his smile as he finished rinsing the soap from her hair and twisted the excess water from its length. She accepted his assistance, feeling more contented in that moment than she could ever remember feeling.

The marquess stood, reached for a large towel and held it open for her.

Experiencing no shame or modesty, Eliza stood from the tub. She kept her eyes locked with his and was pleased to see the flash of desire in his gaze. She smiled and stepped into the circle of his arms, lifting her arms so he could wrap the push cloth around her body.

“I had a discussion with Lady Terribury this morning.”

Eliza blinked and looked up at him as she grasped the end of the towel to tuck it in around her chest. A prickle of trepidation intruded upon her previous languid state. “My mother? Why?”

“A date has been set for the wedding.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the cooling room swept through her body. “Oh?”

“It will be at the end of next month.”

Panic flared. “But that is so soon. It barely gives us much time to find a way out of it.”

He tilted his head and the frown lines appeared again between his brows. “Eliza, you cannot expect to avoid the marriage now.”

She met his gaze with a stiff lift of her chin. “Why not? Nothing has changed.”

A threatening shadow crossed his features. “Everything has changed. Have you forgotten already what happened in the other room?”

“I will never forget…” she began and then shook her head, “but it doesn’t change what I want. I still intend to be an author. I cannot do that if I marry you.”

“You no longer have a choice.”

Eliza laughed. “Of course I do. Surely you have been with other women before me. None of them became your marchioness.”

He huffed in frustration. “None of those women were innocent virgins.”

The bathing room was starting to feel too confining, and Eliza strode back into the bedroom. “What difference does that make? Personally, I think far too much importance is put on a woman’s virtue by men. Shouldn’t it be my choice what I do with my own virginity? I was fully engaged in what we did in that bed.” She gestured toward the imposing piece of furniture and felt a twinge of yearning to be back with him on the rumpled softness of the comforter. “And I would readily do it again, but it should not mean I have to give away my entire future over it.”

She turned back to face the marquess. He had followed her into the bedroom and stood with his arms crossed forbiddingly over his chest and a scowl on his face. “You are being unreasonable.”

“No,” she retorted, “the world is unreasonable.”

A haughty arch of his brow was his only response to that general statement.

She sounded petulant and childish. The exhaustion of being in a fight she feared she could not win weighed her down and she turned to sit on the edge of the bed. She lifted her hands and twisted the damp length of her hair into a bun, needing the mundane task to distract her from the lump of emotion lodged in her throat.

The marquess watched her in silence. He stood so confident and unmovable. His legs strong and solid, his arms a heavy barrier across his chest, his expression firm and unemotional.