The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (21 page)

The impact of her words was the same—solid earth cracking beneath his feet.

He stood in their dressing room with his arms around his wife while freezing water engulfed him, stealing his breath and stopping his heart.

She still plans to leave you. Even now, as she confesses her desire, her first thought is leaving.

Skin was numb, legs were weak, mind was slow.

You are a fool. A bloody fool.

Chest was squeezing until the air inside hardened and burned.

No one has ever loved you. Why should she?

“Chatham?”

What have you been playing at? Farmer. Husband. Father, even.

“What is … what is wrong?”

The height of absurdity, all. You are none of those things. You know nothing of how to keep a woman like Charlotte.

“You are dreadfully pale.” Her palm plastered over his forehead. “Hmm. No fever. Perhaps you should lie down.”

He circled her wrist with his fingers, peeled her away, pushing until she was fully separated from him. “Leave me,” he rasped, his voice as cold as his skin.

“I most certainly will not. Now, tell me what is going on.” Her hands braced on her hips. “It is all that dratted mud you’ve been slogging through, isn’t it? You’ve fallen ill and did not want to say anything. Well, that is silliness. I shall ask Cook to boil you some broth—”

Unable to bear another moment of her mothering, he simply turned and strode from the dressing room, glancing around for another shirt. Fortunately, one had been laid out on their bed. Charlotte again. He snatched it up and threw it over his head.

A drink. That was what he needed. The burning slide, golden and relieving, painting his throat and stomach. The rush of dizziness, sweet lifting of his thoughts, numbing of his brain. Anything to feel something else. Or nothing at all.

Particularly this excruciating pain.

He could not even say he’d lost her. Because he’d never really had her.
She will always leave you. Everyone does.

“Chatham? Stop. Where are you going?”

He fled their bedchamber, throwing the door open, uncaring of the loud crack as it knocked against the wall. His father’s cellar could not be completely bare. The cook had used wine in some of their meals. He took the stairs two at a time, heading straight down the corridor to the kitchens at a near run.

“Chatham!” She was far behind, her voice echoing faintly.

He rounded the corner and nearly collided with Esther.

“Watch where ye’re goin’,” she barked, her bucket sloshing.

Ignoring her, he brushed past the burly maid in the narrow passageway, finding his way to the kitchen and then to the arched opening opposite the larder, where stone steps led to the barrel-vaulted wine cellar. Pausing only long enough to retrieve a lantern, he descended the worn, stone steps, noting the walls had been cleared of cobwebs. Ducking his head, he entered the chamber, holding the lantern high to get a look around. Three long, wooden racks were lined up in the center. Empty. Behind them, however, was one against the stone wall. It held at least ten bottles.

Sighing with satisfaction, he hurried toward it, set the lantern on the uneven floor, and grasped one of the bottles by the neck. French, it appeared from the seal. Bordeaux. His heart beat steadily now, though it felt sluggish. The glass weighed like ice in his hand. He must remove the cork.

“Chatham,” his wife gasped from the bottom of the stone steps. She followed the lantern’s light and stopped, swaying in place four feet away, her white gown glowing bright in the dim cellar, her hem brushing the dusty floor.

“Get out.” He could barely look at her, the cold at war with the pain.

She panted, brushing her hair from her cheek. “Whatever has happened, you must not do this.”

Esther came behind Charlotte, a deep glower of contempt upon her rough features. “Told ye,” she said. “Couldn’t last the summer. Drunkards never change. Worthless lot.”

Without turning her eyes from his, Charlotte tossed a command at Esther. “Go back to the kitchen. Now.”

“Oh, I’ll go. I’ll be writin’ Mr. Lancaster, as well.”

“Esther,” Charlotte said warningly. “He will not drink. You have my word.”

“Ain’t yer hand on that bottle.”

“He will listen to me. Just … leave us alone. Please.”

Esther grunted and stomped away, slamming the door on her way out with a creaking groan and a loud thud. The sound made Charlotte wince. She never turned from him, however. Not for one moment did she release him from her green-and-gold grip.

She licked her lips. “Chatham.”

“I don’t want you here, wife.”

“Please tell me what is wrong.”

He smiled. “I am thirsty.”

She moved toward him, stopping two feet away. Her hand reached out in a fruitless demand. “Give it to me.”

“Are you thirsty as well? I’ll wager you’d not like the price of this particular bottle.”

Dropping her arm, she stood breathing, holding him captive. Why could he not simply push past her? It should be easy. She was going to leave him. She was going to fuck him for nine more bloody months and draw every ounce of pleasure from it, and then she was going to board a ship and sail to a different fucking continent. And leave him standing up to the tops of his Hessians in fucking Northumberland mud.

“You are furious with me,” she whispered. “I can see it. But I do not know why.”

He was. It had come upon him unexpectedly, a volcanic blast spewing fire that hardened black. Like most women, Charlotte wished to use him. For her pleasure. For her projects. For her purposes. The same as Mrs. Knightley. The same as his mother. The same as every last conniving one of them. He’d thought her different, but she was not. She was the same.

Perhaps he should treat her accordingly. Perhaps that had been his mistake.

“Chatham, please. I cannot help if I do not know what is wrong.”

He tilted his head and stared at her from beneath his brows. “You wish to help, do you? Darling Charlotte. Always the fixer.” His chuckle held a thread of menace, a mere fraction of what he felt. “If you want this bottle”—he raised it by the neck—“you may have it. But I shall require compensation.”

She frowned. “I—I have some coins, I suppose.”

“Not coins, wife.” He grinned. “You.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“One need not speak of the devil for him to appear, my dear. One need only wait, for he cannot resist the temptation to reveal himself and spoil a perfectly lovely evening.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Gattingford upon said lady’s further musings about the scandalous Marquess of Rutherford.

Charlotte’s stomach churned and foamed like the sea among rocks. She swallowed hard, trying to calm herself.

It is the same Chatham. The same man who, only minutes ago, held your heart in his hands and breathed life upon it. The same man who let you feel how you make his heart pound with unlikely desire.

But, in truth, this was not the same Chatham. This was
Lord
Chatham. The ruthless, manipulative devil she’d thought never to see again.

“You already have me,” she observed in answer to his blatant provocation. “There, now, that was a fine negotiation. Perhaps you’d like to return the bottle so we may resume our conversation upstairs. Where it is warm. And there is a bed.”

“You, Charlotte,” he said, his voice low and silken. “Here. Now. That is my offer.”

Her feet were cold on the stone, and her skin was not faring much better. Additionally, all of her earlier feelings of warmth and closeness with him had disappeared. Now, she simply felt alarmed. And nervous. And—oh, very well—the way he was staring at her bodice with that hungering gaze, she supposed made her a little tingly. But it was a minimal effect. Nothing at all, really.

She sighed. “I don’t know why it matters what room we are in.”

He leaned forward and set the bottle on the ground, his movements fluid. “Because this is the room of
my
choosing. You may do as you like with the bottle. I may do as I like with you. Those are the terms. Either accept them or leave.”

If she left, he would drink the cellar dry. She could see it in his face. Something had pushed him hard enough to break. It must have been her, but she did not know what she’d said to infuriate him so.

No matter. She could never again watch him suffer as he had while ridding his body of his poisonous demon. He’d barely survived it. She refused to lose him, even if she must bind him to her to keep him safe.

“I accept,” she said hoarsely. Gathering her courage, she tipped up her chin and closed the distance between them. Bent and snatched the bottle from the floor, quickly sidestepping the wolf currently confined in a cellar with her. Plunked the dratted wine back on the rack where it belonged, savoring the resounding thud.

Arms, strong and heavily muscled, braced on either side of her. He had her caged against the wall, his heat washing her back. “Where shall I sip first, hmm?” His bristled jaw nuzzled her hair, catching on the strands.

“Are you asking my preference?” She wrapped her hand around his wrist and yanked his hand down to lay it upon her breast. “I like when you touch me here.”

He grunted, his breath quickening as his fingers squeezed reflexively. “You are my prize,” he gritted. “It is what I want that matters.”

“Well, then,” she murmured, turning her head so that her lips hovered near his. “Take your pleasure, my lord husband.”

His arm slid down to band her waist, pulling her backside hard into his hips. He was aroused. She could feel his hardness pressing along the crease of her buttocks, and her body answered by melting, softening, readying.

“You do not tell me what to do, is that clear? If I choose to give you pleasure, it will be because I wish to do so.”

“Hmm. Of course,” she replied, her blood beginning to heat at his nearness. The man could make her want him even when he was being beastly. “By all means, proceed.”

“I can turn your pleasure into a torment, wife. And your torment into pleasure.”

“Duly noted. I am at your service. Torment away.”

The hand that remained braced on the wall lifted and slammed the stone. “Do not say that,” he growled, the arm around her waist tightening. “Have you lost your senses, woman?”

Ah, there was her Chatham. The man who laid tender kisses upon her cheek when he thought her asleep. The man whose heart pounded almost as frantically as hers when he wanted her. The man who listened as she rambled on about plaster and carpentry. Her friend. She had trusted that man to emerge. Thank heaven she’d been proven right, or this might have gone horribly awry.

Breathing deeply of the cold air, Charlotte slowly reached back to cup his cheek. “My senses are quite well attuned, as it happens. I can feel the heat of your skin on mine, for example. The strength of your arm around my waist. The beat of your heart against my back. You make me feel safe, Chatham. Always.”

“Safe. I could damage you easily—”

“But you won’t.” She used pressure on his cheek to turn his mouth to hers, kissing his lips tenderly.

He pulled his mouth away to murmur, “Such faith in my better nature. Sadly misguided, however.”

“Hardly faith. I know who you are. We are friends. That is not misguided.”

The arm around her waist loosened and slid, his hand flattening upon her belly, subtly kneading. “I had a friend once. Lucien. We were inseparable at Eton. He thought he knew me, as well. He was wrong.”

His palm was heating her belly, palpating gently and rhythmically, stoking a strange fire. She struggled to control her breathing. “How so?”

He ran his tongue along the side of her neck, leaving a cooling streak in his wake. “He was older, and when he left Eton, we lost touch, I fear. Our friendship cannot have been very important, I suppose, at least to him. Years later, he came to London. Spoke to me as though everything remained the same, as though he knew me well enough to save me from myself.” Chatham laughed, the sound tinged with bitterness. “I made his wife believe he’d been unfaithful. A masterful play, if I do say so. Lucien was sick with love for her.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To demonstrate what I shall now show you, my darling.” The heel of his palm pressed more firmly against her belly, stroking lower and deeper, while his fingers hovered playfully above her sex. “You underestimate me at your own peril.”

She moaned as his fingers slid deliciously down, pushing the fabric of her gown between her folds and applying pressure in just … the right … oh, the most diabolical way. She gripped a handful of his hair, her hips grinding against him as she sought to both escape and increase the pleasure.

She felt his teeth nibble and tease her earlobe, then his hot breath bloomed just beneath it. His hand continued its slow, kneading motions, his fingers swirling and pressing firmly, then softly, then firmly again. “You have let me release inside you over and over, Charlotte.” His palm rotated deep, causing her spiraling pleasure to expand until she wanted to claw at his neck, demand that he do it again. “You should not have. My child might already be growing here, and yet you continue to spread your legs for me, even knowing a babe will surely complicate your plans for America.” He tsked mockingly. “Careless of you.”

She whimpered, the pleasure nearly unbearable now. She needed him inside her, filling the emptiness and stretching her just so. Even now, she wanted to hold him deep and tight while he released his pleasure yet again. He was right, she supposed. It was careless. But she could not help herself. During those moments, they merged into one. All her life, she had felt alone. Nothing else had ever erased the emptiness. Only him.

Panting, she gave him a passable explanation, one she’d been repeating to herself when she could think clearly. “It took four years of marriage for my mother to conceive. I was her only child, and she never conceived again, even though my father desperately wanted a son. I calculated the risk and deemed it minimal.”

Given the way his hand paused and his frame stiffened, this did not appear to please him. Which was odd, because she’d begun to think he was angry over the possibility of becoming a father. His childhood had been lonely and miserable, if she didn’t miss her guess. Perhaps fatherhood frightened him.

Or perhaps he is worried you will attach yourself to him and remain in England. That would surely play havoc with any plans he may have to return to his previous life of debauchery and vice.

In their earlier conversation, she recalled, just before he’d gone cold and silent, she had been confessing her intense preoccupation with him.

Ah, there you are, then. He is not frightened by fatherhood. He is angry because he senses you are in love with him.

Despair, frigid and grinding, settled around her heart at the thought, leaching out the warm, burgeoning hope that she’d found her proper home with him.
He may desire your body, Charlotte, but that is a far cry from wanting you forever in his life.

“Brace your arms against the wall,” he commanded, his hand still working upon her pleasure. His citrus-and-sunwarmed-skin scent surrounded her, as did his heat.

Biting her lip, she complied, the stones cold and gritty against her palms. She had agreed to this, after all. He had never lied to her—she had done that to herself.

He nuzzled her neck, sending helpless shivers down her spine. “Very good. Now arch your back. Just a bit. Perfect.” While one of his hands continued to stroke and press on her belly and between her legs, the other left the wall to gather the fabric of her skirt, raising and fisting it until the cold air kissed her bare backside. “Spread your legs. Wider, there’s a good girl.”

Her heart pounded. She wished she could see his face. “Chatham,” she whispered. “Let us go upstairs. Please.”

One of his thighs wedged between hers, now rubbing in conjunction with his hand. She felt his other arm working against the small of her back, presumably loosening his fall. “Do you know what pleases me about your naked body, Charlotte? Hmm?”

She swallowed and shook her head, the rhythmic pressure of his hand on her belly generating a powerful heat.

“Ah, I have neglected you, then. Allow me to explain. Let’s begin with your nipples.” His free hand left his buttons to delve beneath the bunched hem of her loose gown and circle around to find her breast.

She jerked as he grasped the aforementioned nub firmly between his thumb and forefinger, twisting with the sweetest pressure, sending fiery sparks exploding outward over her flesh.

“They are extraordinarily sensitive, you see. I watch them harden for me before I have even touched you. When I suckle them, as I very much like to do, they turn the deepest shade of red, like fully ripened strawberries. Have I mentioned that strawberries are among my favorite foods?”

Her hips were writhing now, the coil of pleasures at her core and her breast meeting and heightening one another.

His hand left her nipple with a final stroke of his thumb across the tip. His other hand controlled the helpless undulations of her belly, forced her hips to stillness.

“I also favor the curve of your hips,” he continued, trailing his fingers along the top of her hipbone. “And your backside.” His hand cupped one of her buttocks, squeezing experimentally. “I noticed those curves first, naturally. They are flagrantly lush, inviting a man to settle in for a very long ride, indeed.”

She grunted, her fingers curling against rough stone. “Chatham.” His name was a warning and a plea.

“Now, then, that brings me to my favorite part of all.” His thigh retreated. Then she felt the heat of his long, thick cock slide naked and silky down the length of her crease until the tip notched against the mouth of her needy, wet core. “This, love.” He stroked her feminine folds teasingly with the tip, spreading her juices and inflaming her need. “This is pure heaven.” He speared past the opening suddenly, sinking fully inside her with one sharp, upward thrust of his hips.

Her cry was both pleasure and shock, her neck and back arching as his unyielding hand controlled the gyrations of her lower body. His fingers did not stop their motions, soaking the muslin of her gown where he rubbed and stroked and circled at her center. His palm pressed even harder, creating explosive pressure inside her as the thick stalk invaded and stretched.

“It is like being surrounded by liquid fire. I am burned alive each time I put myself inside you.”

She gasped as he forged deeper, the hair of his groin brushing her backside. He was so deep, so huge inside her, she could scarcely breathe. “Chatham,” she gasped. “Please. It is … you are … too much.”

He answered by slowly, inch by inch, retreating, only to reverse course and slide back inside. He repeated the motions again. And again. And again. Each time, the hard, dragging friction ratcheted her pleasure higher, the pressure and the heat blooming and aching and unbearable.

Her body trembled uncontrollably, her arms shaking where they braced against the stone. Her sex gripped him hard with every thrust, attempting to keep him inside her, where she could attain satisfaction. But he refused her summons, maintaining his maddeningly even strokes.

He kept her dancing upon the precipice between torturous pleasure and agonizing tension. He would not permit her release. Every time she drew close, the ripples of her sheath tightening around him, he withdrew all but the tip, easing the pressure of his palm until she calmed. Then, he began again, saying nothing.

It was, as he’d warned, torment by way of pleasure.