The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (14 page)

“W-we share a bed. Er—that is … oh, drat. We sleep in the same bed.” Oh, dear. Her face felt positively sun-scorched.

A skeptical brow rose and Emma’s lips quirked. “If sleepin’ is all you do, little wonder he’s out o’ sorts.”

She could not explain the circumstances of her marriage to Emma and wasn’t certain she wished to. Admitting that his being “out of sorts” had nothing to do with her, and that, like most men, he found her less than enticing, was one humiliation she was not keen to share. However, perhaps his restlessness and ill temper
was
due to a lack of … activity … in certain areas.

And perhaps if she offered to alleviate his discomfort—purely as a friend, mind—then he would resume their prior amity, and they could spend the remainder of the year in happy accord. She did not wish him to suffer, and from all she had learned of his amorous past, she should have realized that depriving himself in that way might result in difficulty. Really, she was surprised he had not broached the subject with her sooner; but, then, that could be a measure of his lack of interest. She would have to present her solution carefully so as not to imply their intimacy would be anything other than a remedy to his problem.

After some thought, she smiled and squeezed Emma’s hand. “Thank you for your directness. You have given me much to consider, and I am grateful.”

Just then, Lucy returned with Charlotte’s bonnet, and Charlotte bid them farewell before returning to Chatwick Hall. On her long walk back to the house and all through the day, she mulled the idea of offering Chatham … well,
comfort,
she supposed.

As she looked out over the fields of the Chatwick estate, she marveled that he had managed to secure leases for all but one small portion, that those now-occupied farms were planted with wheat and barley and oats and potatoes, that green pasture lands were now running thick with sheep and cattle. He had fulfilled his part of their bargain at no small cost. The man she had viewed as indolent and privileged and—yes—rather useless had worked tirelessly at a task no lord would entertain.

Now, he was suffering, and she had not even realized. What sort of friend was she?

As she listened to the irritable Esther complain about the new cook’s “chatterin’ manner,” Charlotte nodded as though she was listening, but in truth, she could not tear her mind away from Chatham.

He needed her, she decided. He might not want her, particularly, but he required manly relief, and she was his wife. Her decision to offer herself was an act of compassion, really. A practical measure. Nothing to do with how her body flushed and yearned when his eyes raked over her and settled upon her bosom, or her eyes consumed his newly broadened shoulders and thickening arms.

Nothing whatever.

As she reviewed budgets and meal plans with the cook, Mrs. Quigley, she had to admit a lack of focus upon their conversation. Instead, her thoughts strayed repeatedly to her husband and what she might say to him when he arrived home that night.

How, precisely, did one offer oneself? Especially to a man like Chatham, who must surely be accustomed to sophistication in his amorous partners. In the end, after much disagreement with herself, she settled on forthrightness. There was no sense in pretending experience she did not have, nor in acting as though this were some sort of seduction. It would be an offer of comfort. Simple and direct.

As dusk approached, she arranged for a full bath, the fluttering in her belly intensifying until she had to press her hands over her abdomen to still the sensations. She and the two maids and a grumbling Esther carried steaming water up reconstructed stairs to the dressing room, where the metal tub had been laid beside the chair and washstand.

Her only concern was that he might respond with disgust. She hoped he would take the offer in the spirit it was given, and that if he chose to reject her, he would do so gently.
Perhaps he will simply laugh,
she thought.
Come to that, perhaps you should, too.

As she disrobed—all except her chemise—and stepped into the steaming water, she took up her soap and scrubbed her hair and her skin, letting her chemise get a thorough washing at the same time. The water, hot and shallow, rose as she folded her body and sank in up to her hips.

Preparations must be made, she decided. He would want a bath of his own, so she would arrange to have fresh water heated and ready, along with a tray of pasties and a pitcher of honey tea. Then, once he had refreshed himself, she would calmly present her offer, making clear that he was under no obligation to accept. Also, she would stipulate that their intimacy did not imply a commitment on his part or hers.

She carefully combed through her wet hair and winced at the tangles before plaiting it over her shoulder. Then, she removed her chemise, wrung it dry and draped it over the back of the chair before drying herself and donning her gown: a diaphanous layer of apricot muslin embroidered with white leaves and vines at the bodice and hem. She was naked beneath, her nipples peaked in the chill of the room, although she did not feel cold in the slightest.

This would be an extension of their friendship, she decided, running trembling hands over her hips and down the sides of her thighs.

That was all.

Really.

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Offer a starving man his favorite meal or a night of sin, and you will quickly discover which organ does his thinking.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duchess of Blackmore upon hearing said lady’s plans for a late supper with the Duke of Blackmore.

Even after his bath, Chatham’s skin felt tight, flushed, and too sensitive. He drank two cups of the honey tea Charlotte had left for him on the dressing room washstand, then plucked another pasty from the plate and took a hearty bite before entering the bedchamber.

He halted mid-stride and mid-chew.

She was there—awake—sitting up in the ridiculous bed rife with sea creatures and kelp, a book in her hands and the coverlet tucked beneath her arms. The blue brocade canopy and coverlet had been replaced weeks ago with lighter velvets and silks in shades of gold. The colors suited her. Her flame-red hair was, as always, draped over her shoulder in a neat plait. However, her shoulders were covered in what appeared to be peach-colored muslin rather than white. Her freckled collarbone was exposed by a low-scooping bodice, not hidden by a row of modest buttons. Disappointingly, her breasts were obscured by silk velvet bedclothes. Although it was agony, he had grown fond of glimpsing those nipples peaking against thin muslin as though pouting that he had not yet given them proper attention. To be fair, he had not.

Swallowing the bite in his suddenly dry mouth, he nearly choked. The beef pasty now tasted like the plaster used to repair the walls in the entrance hall.

Green-gold eyes darted up, and a faint strawberry flush bloomed in her cheeks. “Chatham,” she breathed. Her book closed and was set neatly aside. “I missed you when you came in. Did you have enough to eat?”

He looked down at the half-pasty in his hand. He was hungry, but not for food. “Yes.” Hoarse and raw, the one word revealed more than he would like. “I am not yet tired, however. I shall be in the library.” Without looking at her, he started for the door.

“Husband.”

He stopped.

“I—I would like to speak with you.”

A refusal hovered on the edge of his lips.

“Please.”

Sighing, he tossed the remainder of the pasty in the fireplace and turned to face her, his hands braced lightly on his hips. “Yes?”

She licked her lips, visibly uncertain. “I would like to apologize.”

The woman was baffling. She’d shown him nothing but kindness. “For what?”

“You have been in some … distress, and as your friend, I should have noticed.” She swallowed and licked her lips again.

What the devil was she saying? And why could she not keep her pink, wet tongue in her bloody mouth?

Apparently noting his glower, she rushed onward. “It has become clear that certain of my father’s stipulations for our marriage have led to your discomfort. Your
dissatisfaction
. In certain. Areas.”

He did not understand what she was trying to say, but her lips were damp and glistening, as strawberry pink as her blush. “I’ve not had a drop since the night before our wedding, if that is what you are fretting about. Occasionally, I am tempted to imbibe, but I have no wish to ever again endure the agonies I suffered thereafter.”

She shook her head and, strangely, avoided his gaze. Then, she began fidgeting with the coverlet, plucking at it. Most peculiar. “That is … not what I meant.” Her cheeks fired and flared, the flush spreading until it swarmed her freckles. “You are bound to remain faithful to me for the year.”

Blinking rapidly, he struggled to control his dawning reaction. His fingers clenched then loosened deliberately. “And so I have.”

Her eyes came back to his filled with a torrent of emotions—compassion, regret, and a feverish spark. It reminded him of how she looked when she had the bit between her teeth on a new project. “Chatham, I know. I am sorry it has taken me so long to realize your distress.” Shaking her head, she chuckled lightly, the sound an aphrodisiac. “My only excuse is that I am not … experienced … in these areas.”

Oh, good God. She was referring to his sexual frustration. Evidently, he had not concealed it as well as he’d hoped.

“I must leave now,” he gritted, turning.

Behind him, the rustling of bedclothes and the softly muttered “drat” preceded a series of disasters. First, she stumbled, her feet clodding out of rhythm upon the wooden floors. Which necessitated his turning toward her. Which revealed her long-limbed form reeling toward him in a gown that might as well be water for all it concealed. He caught her arms before she slammed into his chest, but the damage was done. Semi-hardness became furnace-fired steel inside of a second.

“Oh! Beg pardon. Thank you. For catching me.”

Tiny, inconsequential breasts tipped with strawberry-pink nipples flirted teasingly with sheer peach muslin. He wanted to engulf one of them in his mouth, suckle until she screamed for him. Then he would lavish the other. He preferred to distribute his attentions evenly so as not to offer any slight.

“Er, Chatham.”

He could see a thatch of fire between her thighs. She wore nothing beneath the gown. Not her chemise. Not anything. He could tear it from her body with one firm yank and slake his hunger over every inch of her.

“You may let go. I am steady now, I promise.”

The mystery of whether her freckles tasted like cinnamon and that fiery thatch tasted like ripe pears or something stronger, spicier, could be solved easily. She was there, scarcely covered at all.

“Honestly. You appear a bit flushed. Was the water too hot? I told Esther it would need more time to cool, but she insisted—”

He forced his hands to release her arms. They did not want to. The flesh beneath his palms was firm and long, the skin as soft as he remembered. But he could not have this conversation with her, and certainly not while stroking her like a favorite pet. “Go back to bed.” He scarcely knew his own voice, so ragged was it.

Her arms, suddenly released, folded across her middle. The posture thrust her dainty breasts together, plumping them and highlighting the hard-budded nipples. Her deep breath only enhanced the effect. “Perhaps
we
should go to bed,” she said.

“I do not wish to sleep.”

“I did not mention sleep.”

“Then, what the bloody hell are you on about, Charlotte? Because I must tell you, my patience is at an end.”

She cleared her throat delicately. “I know you do not especially
want
me in the way a man wants a woman.”

The statement was so preposterous he could not devise a response, only a disbelieving snort.

Her chin tilted upward. “However, I have no wish to see you suffer, as has been the unfortunate consequence of our arrangement.” She moved toward him, and he backed away. A small crinkle of hurt creased her brow then smoothed almost immediately. “If—if you are to have relief, I am your sole option. As your friend, I would like to offer myself.”

For fully three seconds, his mind paused as though suspended in midair. Then, the explosion inside him ballooned and stretched his skin tighter, throbbed and boomed and concussed in his bloodstream until he thought he was dying.

Her throat—that lovely, freckled column—rippled on another nervous swallow. He followed each movement of her skin, every pulse beat, the trembling lift and fall of her breasts.

“Purely without obligation, of course. If you cannot bring yourself to it, I—I will understand.”

“Will you, now?” He dragged his eyes to hers. “I doubt that. It is abundantly clear you understand nothing whatever.” Then, to emphasize his point, he moved slowly, deliberately toward her, closing the distance he had earlier created, stalking her like a wolf with its prey. His intention was partly to intimidate, but mostly the move was instinctive. He felt wholly predatory at the moment.

“Well,” she said breathlessly, one hand settling along her collarbone. “I admit to some ignorance of marital relations.”

Now within inches of her, he felt a curious satisfaction at the subtle signs of arousal and feminine caution. “Are you ignorant of the consequences, as well, Lady Rutherford?”

“I—I presumed you would know something of preventing a child.”

“I do. There are devices—of which I presently have none in my possession—and techniques which may reduce your chances of conceiving. But no method is a certainty.” He tilted his head and moved closer, now hovering near enough to feel her breath on his chin. On his mouth. “Would you risk America, Charlotte, simply to offer me release?”

She gave a long blink. Then, her brow crinkled again, this time not with hurt but with tenderness. Long, slender fingers drifted up to stroke his jaw. “That you would ask such a question demonstrates why my answer is yes,” she murmured.

He trapped her hand against his face, savoring her touch for a moment before peeling her away.
“My
answer is no.”

“Because you do not want me?”

His sigh was a hiss. “Bloody hell, Charlotte.”

“If that is the reason, then perhaps we can simply perform the necessary acts in the darkness. I have some knowledge of anatomy.”

“Charlotte.”

“I know your flesh must harden. Perhaps you could envision one of your former paramours whilst I relieve you with my hand. Would that suffice?”

“This is a bloody nightmare. No, it would not suffice. That is the everlasting
problem.”

“Oh. Well, then, perhaps we could try kissing again. I must tell you, I found it quite enjoyable. I had never before contemplated having another person’s tongue inside my mouth, but—”

“Stop. Talking. I cannot …” He ran both hands over his face. “You are killing me.”

“Don’t be silly. I am trying to help.”

There was no other remedy. He must give her a disgust of him. It appeared nothing else would dissuade her. Dropping his hands to his sides, he ignored his fierce arousal and met her gaze. Her lips—those finely edged, soft, pink lips—were pursed in consternation.

“Charlotte, do you know how I acquired funds before our marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Do you, really?”

She nodded. “Gaming, primarily, although some reports indicated you were also adept at gathering and selling secrets.”

“Those were not my only sources of income.”

A blush emerged, and she blinked. “No. I do know that.”

“And do you know why those women were willing to pay for my services?”

The red strengthened until her freckles disappeared. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. “P-presumably it is much like any other transaction—they felt you offered a s-service of greater value than—”

“Do not give me your tradesman’s claptrap.” If he was harsh, it was because she had pushed him until no cushion of politeness remained. “I fucked those women for money.”

Her lower lip trembled. “I know,” she whispered.

“I kissed them and pleasured them and performed acts that would send you running for your smelling salts at the merest mention—”

Lips now tight and flat, she raised a hand to stop him. “Details are unnecessary. I know of your benefactresses—Mrs. Knightley and the rest. I am certain you are quite a skilled lover, Chatham, and while I cannot say the same for myself, my offer stands.”

It was not working. He was all but spitting vile epithets in her face, and it was not bloody well working. Running a hand through his hair, he felt frustration burn through his gut. “You vex me greatly.”

She rolled her eyes. “That much is obvious, although I fail to understand why. I offer you a solution to your difficulties, and you regale me with descriptions of your past. A past, by the by, in which I have no interest.”

“My past is relevant.”

“I do not see how.”

“You need to withdraw your offer, Charlotte, and never mention it again.”

“Why?”

He edged closer and lowered his head until their noses were nearly touching. “Because once will never suffice.”

Her lashes fluttered. Her breathing quickened. “No limits upon quantity were mentioned, as I recall.”

“Every time will be a risk. And my appetites are difficult to assuage, wife. Why do you suppose I fetched such generous sums?”

Lips parting on a sigh, she uttered a tiny moan that went straight to his cock. “Chatham,” she murmured. “If this is intended to deter me, I must tell you it is having quite the opposite effect.”

Reading the truth in her dilated eyes and panting breaths, he gritted his teeth and pulled away, taking several staggering steps backward. His hand went up automatically to steady himself against the mantel. He tried to focus on something other than her long, luscious body. Anything would do.

His eyes landed on their bed—their ridiculous, massive, welcoming bed, which she had refreshed with new linens and draperies. She had not yet, however, purchased a second bed so that they might sleep separately. Until that moment, he had accustomed himself to sleeping beside her and had not bothered to ask about it, assuming her reason to be shortage of funds. Now, however, the longing he’d glimpsed in her eyes begged the question.