The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (18 page)

But she obeyed his command. She did not close her eyes.

The gold was nearly swallowed by black, the green a vibrant ring. For him, the only light was her face. The only smell was her scent—white flowers and green fruit and salt and sea and a trace of sharp, feminine spice. The only sound was her gasping whimpers of pleasure, her throaty voice repeating his name.

“Do you like having my cock inside you, love?” He did not know why he asked. The words came not from his mind. They were springing forth from a place inside him he’d long thought empty. He shoved deeper, lifting her up on her toes, stretching her thighs wider. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It is so much, Chatham. I—I cannot take any more.”

“Oh, but you can. I will show you, shall I?” He thrust firmly, his buttocks squeezing with the need to give her everything. Not yet. She was too tight. It was too soon.

Her gasp told him how close she hovered between pleasure and pain. He would let her accustom herself to him again. It had been hours, after all, since he was last inside her.

“Have I told you how your nipples please me?”

She shook her head, rocking it back and forth against the wall. Her eyes remained with his, following his earlier command perfectly.

“They do.” He carefully slid two of his fingers, still damp with her juices, between one cup of her corset and the sweet bud that it contained. Using the leverage of his palm on the edge of her bodice, he gently peeled away the covering until a berry-ripe nub peeked over the edge of apple-green ribbon.

He loved that she was tall enough to rest her thigh upon his hip. He loved that she was the perfect height for his cock to sink almost entirely inside her. Most of all, he loved that he could dip his head and suckle that sweet, strawberry nipple as he felt the responding pulses of pleasure and easing inside her sheath.

But that was not all he loved. His body savored every detail—the jerk and shudder of her torso as he laved the pebbled tip, now red and swollen from his mouth. The deep, grinding moan from her chest as he gave her his last few inches, stretching the mouth of her, feeling her rippling welcome along the entire length, her heat drowning him until he breathed steam and sweat and her. Just her. Charlotte.

Normally, he could make this last. He could go for hours living inside her and making her come over and over. But what he felt now was not normal. The urgency to finish took hold. Forced his hips to retreat and thrust deep, jarring her. He did it again. Looked into her eyes. Still open. Giving him everything.

And he gave her what he could. Again. And again. The coil tightened, her flesh squeezing, the need and heat and his obsession with her roiling and gathering and burning.

Harder, he thrust. Faster. Pounding at her more harshly than he should.

She took him beautifully. Eagerly. She stroked his face, raked his hair, her teeth gritting on her screams now. Her sheath clenching like a vise as her pleasure exploded upon him and his cock lost all control.

He
lost all control.

And the geyser of his own rapture loosed inside her, his hips pumping helplessly, mercilessly. His seed filled her as immaculate pleasure sizzled out into his veins, bursting every part of him wide open—ribs and heart and skull and flesh.

His lips were open against her throat now, her name a benediction.

Repeating. Repeating.

Charlotte. Charlotte.

She had shattered him, fired the pieces, and forged a new man.

She was his wife. His Charlotte.

And he could not bear to let her go. Not now.

Not ever.

*~*~*

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“On the contrary, I sleep like a babe. When one is always right, one may rest soundly, plagued by not a whit of indecision or regret.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Earl of Tannenbrook during a discussion of Miss Viola Darling’s lack of a proper chaperone.

Beside him in their bed, Charlotte’s soft, even breaths joined an orchestra of midnight sounds—the howl of wind off the sea, the pelting of rain against the windows, the crackle of a dying fire, and the distant creak of a centuries-old house bearing up stoically against another Northumberland storm.

Chatham eyed Charlotte’s naked form, her long, freckled arms splayed wide where she lay on her belly, her face turned toward him, her lower half covered in gold velvet. After taking her in the drawing room, he had not been able to let her go. So he had coaxed her to their bed, where he’d spent the afternoon and evening exploring every freckle, every layer of her scent, every sweet petal of her body.

Twice more he had spent himself inside her. It was wrong. He did not know what had come over him.

Yes, you do. You want to keep her.

Stroking a red curl near his hand, he savored the softness. She was all fire, his Charlotte. Contained and self-directed like a furnace, of course. But she made him burn. He’d never felt anything like it. And she had little sense of how deeply she affected him.

Where he sat against the pillows, he let his head fall back to the wood of their ridiculous bed. The frame of the canopy, shadowed and carved, resembled the sea during a storm. A shy mermaid peeked out from between the waves.

He could not sleep. Though his body was sated and his muscles lax, his mind was spinning again, disconnected thoughts scrambling for purchase.

Should the northwest section be left fallow another year, or should it be planted in grass?

Who persuaded Rutherford to commission a bed of such ostentation? The man possessed not a single drop of whimsy. Puzzling.

She will leave you unless you give her a reason to stay.

If you continue releasing inside her, she will bear your babe, and she will be trapped here.

You are a selfish blackguard. You should let her go.

Perhaps Rutherford’s first wife was the fanciful, seafaring sort. Perhaps he had wished to please her with an enormous, silly, mermaid bed. If you could make Charlotte glowingly happy by such simple means, you would not hesitate for a moment.

A decision should be made regarding the northwest acreage. Planting for winter wheat begins soon after the harvest.

His hands cupped over his eyes, trying to quiet the bloody spinning. The problem was this lull in the pace of tending his crops. Plants must simply grow and ripen. And he must wait.

Always before, he’d been able to muffle and slow his thoughts with the pleasant, dulling blanket of liquor. It had formed a cushion between him and giving a damn about anything. An insidious voice whispered that perhaps he should … no. That way lay madness. He could not bury this again. He must find a way to cope with it.

His eyes burned. He wanted to sleep. Wanted to curl his body around Charlotte’s and let her soft sighs lull him. Strangely, when he’d been working on the wall, forging his way through the southeast corner and the new challenge of learning to farm, his only reason for sleeplessness had been the hard, grinding need for Charlotte. Otherwise, his slumber had been deep and undisturbed.

Shaking his head, he sighed. Perhaps a distraction was in order, something for his mind to focus on until it settled. He threw aside the blankets and tugged on his breeches and shirt, then lifted the lit candle from the bedside table, bent to lay a kiss upon Charlotte’s soft cheek, and made his way down the corridor to the library.

He’d relocated his father’s journals there so he would have a place to go when the temptations of Charlotte lying next to him overwhelmed his control. He had regularly retreated here, to the room paneled in golden mahogany and lined with bookshelves. Those were empty at present. He was glad of it. Charlotte had already spent far more than he’d anticipated refurnishing the house. Doubtful he could repay the sum from this year’s profits.

Only a concern if she leaves. Another sound reason to persuade her to stay.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he drove the thought away. Every time the notion of her leaving entered his mind, a wrenching ache settled between his heart and stomach, like a fist was taking hold of his insides and twisting maniacally.

Moving to the chair beside the cold fireplace, he used his candle to light a trio of tapers on the mantel. Next to the chair was the basket of journals. He sank down and plucked up two of them, thumbing through quickly to find references to the northwest acreage. After a few minutes of scanning through tedious entries, he discovered the one he had recalled.

September 14, 1778. Strong northerly gale flooded northeast pasture. Spoke with tenant Mr. Culverton regarding new drainage scheme. In southwest acreage, began sowing wheat seed purchased in county Durham Aug. 8; doubt remains whether reputed hardiness shall be realized. Meg is certain it will produce 70 bushels. We shall see. Rec’d amiable reply from Mr. G. Culley describing the Dishley breed of sheep. Shall purchase twelve when next in Alnwick. Meg favors the long-wooled breeds.

Chatham quickly turned pages until he reached the entry for the following summer, when the winter wheat would be harvested. Finding only one for June and another for October, both of which merely described the weather, he frowned, curious about the gap. He traced the dates again, this time reading his father’s entries more closely.

September 20, 1778. Mr. Culver set four hands to work on new drainage scheme; work stopped when an outcropping of rock impeded progress during digging. Consider blasting or revised route for drainage. Wheat planting complete. Meg returned from visit to Grimsgate early with lung complaint. I suggested she must recover forthwith, as I shall require her company on my journey to Alnwick.

The next entry was shorter, more stark.

October 5, 1778. Delayed departure to Alnwick. Physician was less than helpful.

The final entry for the year was only a single sentence.

December 21, 1778. Snowed today.

Then, there was nothing until June. No obsessively detailed entries, not even a mention of the passing days.

It must have been the period in which his first wife, Margaret, had fallen ill. As Chatham recalled, she had died in the spring of 1779. They had shared a great affection, it was said. Nearly a decade later, Rutherford had married Lady Catherine.

A decade.

He flicked through the subsequent pages, noting the sporadic nature of his father’s entries, the diffident randomness of his observations. Even the penmanship altered, growing lighter, more spidery and slanted, as though he could not be bothered to keep his letters upright any longer.

For the first time, Chatham wondered about his father’s grief. Not from the perspective of a forgotten son, but from the perspective of a man. A husband.

One who loved a woman too deeply to lose her.

One who lost her anyway.

And then lost himself.

Suddenly, the grief felt familiar. These entries could be
his
entries—notes about sheep and wheat and drainage schemes. And if Meg were instead Charlotte …

No. The very thought seized his guts, tore and wrenched and raged. Even if she left him, at least she would be alive. If he was forced to watch her waste away and then …

No. God, no. He would submerge himself in liquor. He would drown himself in it, just so he could join her.

How had Rutherford borne it?

Absently, Chatham’s hand scraped over his mouth and chin. He stared down at the December entry.
Snowed today.

As though there was nothing left to say.

Chatham wanted Charlotte to have America. He wanted her to be happy.

But, equally, he refused to let her go. Perhaps he was selfish. So be it. He wanted to wake up with her long fingers tangled in his hair and her long legs wrapped around his waist. He wanted to see her eyes dance when she spied him in the dressing room doorway. He wanted to plant his seed inside her and watch her grow round and lush with his babe. He wanted to watch her feed and nurture and read to the babe from her bloody economic treatises.

He must find a way to keep her. Surely she could be persuaded. Seduced.

He must. Because, unlike his father, he was not strong enough to survive her loss.

And there was nothing left to say.

*~*~*

A dark dream awakened Charlotte. It was snowing and frozen and she could not find her way inside the house. She reached automatically for Chatham and found his side of the bed cool. Frowning, she stretched, noting how the rain continued beating the windows, the wind moaning through the blackness outside. The fire was low, but it cast a faint light.

She sat up, her inner thighs protesting the previous hours’ unaccustomed activities. A helpless smile curled her lips, and warmth settled in her belly. Chatham was … indescribable. Tireless, certainly. Deliciously focused. An astoundingly adept lover, not that she had much to compare him to. But he was more than that. His eyes had adored her face and body as surely as had his hands and lips and … other relevant portions of his anatomy. He touched her both with intensity and reverence. It was transporting.

Swallowing, she bit her lip at the memories, her body empty and sore and wanting.

Where is he when I need him?

Chuckling at the demanding thought, she dragged the coverlet around her nakedness and searched the room for her gown. Outside of their canopied haven, the air was chilled enough to make her shiver. She rushed into the dressing room and located one of her white gowns, then threw a dressing gown over it, adding a shawl for good measure. It really was quite cold. She must persuade Chatham to warm her.

Grinning in anticipation, she donned a pair of slippers and lit a taper before venturing out into the corridor. There were only two places he could be—and she had just come from the dressing room. That left the library.

Flickering light shone beneath the door, which creaked as she entered. “Ah ha,” she murmured, seeing her husband lounging with one elbow propped on the arm of his chair, his fingers splayed over his lips. “It seems you are impervious to the dratted chill. I have decided it is your duty to warm me, husband.”

Turquoise eyes flew up to greet her. They nearly stopped her heart.

“Chatham,” she whispered. “What is it?”

“Come here.” His voice was hoarse, the muscles in his jaw flexed and strained.

She went, partly because he needed her and partly because she craved his warmth, his nearness. His arms reached out for her hips and pulled her down onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her nose in his hair and kissing her way down his face to his lips. “Something is wrong. Tell me,” she insisted.

His arms were iron, rigid where they clutched and pressed her into his body. Hot breaths panted against her skin. The longer they sat, holding and stroking each other, the calmer he grew. Perhaps he’d had a nightmare, as she had.

He leaned his forehead against hers. “Stay with me,” he whispered.

“Of course I will. As long as you need. But won’t we be more comfortable in bed?”

His lips quirked, the first sign of emergence from the stark despair that had shone in his eyes upon her arrival. “I could not sleep,” he said. “My mind, it … spins, leaping from one thought to another. Has done since I was a boy. Enough to drive a man mad.”

She stroked his sable hair, the cool silk of it a pleasure to her fingers. “What makes it better?”

“Drink dulls the thoughts. Slows them down. Otherwise, the only effective measure I have found is to focus upon a singular problem, a challenge of sufficient complexity to occupy my mind for longer than a moment.”

Nodding, she ran one knuckle gently over his brow. “Such as learning to farm.”

“Mmm. That challenge has waned a bit, I fear.”

“You were reading your father’s journals again.”

“I must decide what to do with the northwestern section. It is currently fallow, and the farm has no tenant.”

Tucking her legs up until they draped over the arm of the chair, she wriggled closer to his warmth, feeling an answering hardness swell against her backside. “Perhaps it could be pasture.” She laid a gentle kiss on his ear, then another on his jaw. The bristles of his whiskers chafed her lips, making them tingle.

His hand stroked up along her calf, tickled behind her knee, then squeezed her outer thigh before he answered. “Perhaps. There are drainage problems, according to the journal. Additionally, the River Fenn winds through the center of it, dividing it in two.” His clever hand slid up beneath her shawl to settle over her breast. “You understand center, do you not, Charlotte?” He plucked at her distended nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger, causing her to gasp and work her hips against him. “This is the center. Though, if one wishes to be perfectly accurate”—his hand left her breast to reach for the hem of her gown, deftly finding his way to the apex of her thighs within seconds—“this, too, is a center. And, it seems, a river, as well.”