The Marquess (25 page)

At least, it seemed simple the night before when Effingham
had held her in his arms. Now with the cold light of another day shining upon
it, her senses returned. She obviously hadn’t thought this through
clearly. The consequences of surrendering her reputation loomed enormous, but
not so enormous as the physical act itself. She didn’t know if she had
enough courage to go through with it.

Theory was one thing, action, quite another. But Dillian had
learned to take action at an early age. She had roughly trod over all odds,
discarded all doubts, lied, cheated, and generally did whatever necessary to
protect herself and her loved ones. She could do the same now. With
determination, she picked up the robe and returned down the stairs in the direction
of the main bedchamber.

She knew the instant she reached the second-floor hall that
the chamber was occupied. She saw the flickering light beneath the closed door,
sensed a warmth that hadn’t been there before. Wrapping the robe around
her arms and holding it before her like a shield, she tiptoed closer,
listening, hearing nothing.

The old door creaked as she pushed it open. The heat from a
blazing fireplace engulfed her. The heavy scent of roses perfumed the air.
Candles illuminated every corner of the room, decimating the shadows, and
flickering light played rainbows across a crystal decanter beside the bed.

The bed. With widened eyes, Dillian stared at the bed. The
marquess waited there, lounging—fully clothed— upon pillows she had
gathered from all over the house. He had his boots crossed over the wine satin
bedcover she had found in an old trunk. The candlelight didn’t completely
erase the shadows created by his strong cheekbones, but she could see the
glitter of obsidian eyes from beneath dark curls. He had one arm crossed over
his elegant frock coat, propping up the other, which held a fluted glass to his
lips. He appeared as frozen as she felt, and she daringly closed the door
behind her.

“I’m giving you a chance to reconsider your
offer,” he said finally, swinging the glass between his fingers.

* * * *

Gavin attempted to feel as cold as he sounded, but he had
too much wine in him. He blamed it on the wine even though his loins tightened
at just the sight of the seductive sway of the lady’s hips as she took a
hesitant step. In that ancient high-waisted gown, she was all curves instead of
the slender stick of today’s fashion. Some lower part of his mind taunted
him with how those curves would feel in his hands even as his conscience strove
to warn her of the treacherous shoals ahead. There could never be more between
them than lust, and for all he knew, that could all be on his part and the
result of long abstinence.

He had spent this past day and night fighting his ridiculous
urge to protect her, to keep her from throwing herself away on someone as
worthless as himself. He’d finally lost that battle, but still his
conscience demanded he warn her. That she showed no sign of repulsion even
though he’d made certain she could see him fully for the kind of man he
was made him admire her even more. Or desire her even more. He was beyond the
ability to differentiate.

He wanted her with every aching fiber of his body. Something
deep inside his mind continued screaming at him to remember who she was, but it
made no difference any longer. He recognized her as a well-bred English lady
despite her appearance. He also saw her as a woman with the immense generosity
and intelligence to see beyond his scarred face to something in him even he no
longer believed existed. She obviously thought him a man of character, one
worthy of her trust.

He was about to prove her wrong. “I don’t think
you fully understand the consequences of your offer.”

“More than likely not,” she answered.

Her voice sounded slightly huskier than usual. Gavin
couldn’t decide if she looked terrified or delighted. He’d made
certain she could see him, knew fully what she would have to look at when she
woke in the morning, but she didn’t tear her gaze away as other women
did.

“You can turn around and walk out now, or start
removing your clothes,” he answered without any gallantry at all.

These last twenty-four hours had been pure hell. He
couldn’t summon any more gallantry. The fool woman had no clue what she
asked of him. He’d have to make her see it before they went too far or
before either of them developed any more sentimental notions.

Still, the possibility that she accepted this as mere lust
kept the heat rising. Gavin wanted her so much he could taste it. He needed
her. Hell, he needed a woman, period. It just so happened this one appealed to
his more prurient instincts.

Beneath his glare, she hesitated. Then dropping the robe
over a nearby chair, she slowly raised her hand to the bone button at her
low-cut neckline. Gavin watched with fascination as the button slid from its
hole. He turned the empty wineglass to his lips and kept his gaze fastened on
her as she undid the second button.

She’d accepted his challenge and prepared to face him
down. This was one battle he didn’t mind losing. Something in his gut
clenched as the third and fourth buttons fell open, and he glimpsed something
white and lacy beneath.

He could see far more than that from this vantage point. She
didn’t have the winter white skin of so many women in this country. The
flesh rising above those lacy undergarments swelled with a creamy richness he
wanted to lick. He told himself he should have eaten more dinner, that his
always ravenous hunger needed appeasing, but he didn’t have a taste for
roast pork tonight. He wanted cream. Already, she’d won the battle. Or
lost, whichever the case might be. His conscience disappeared entirely beneath
the boiling tide of his desire.

Dillian hesitated again before reaching for the long slender
sleeves, and Gavin heard himself growling with impatience. This time, he
thought he detected uncertainty and a moment’s trepidation before she
rolled off the sleeve. Good. Let the little witch have second thoughts. And
third.

But the moment those sleeves slid off her fingers, he forgot
even those few good intentions. The chemise beneath the bodice barely concealed
the full rising curves of her breasts. Had an artist sculpted a goddess he
could not have created more perfect femininity, and no corset supported all
that wealth of loveliness. It was entirely natural. Gavin’s fingers
itched to touch.

Motionless, he continued watching as she pushed the dress
from her hips. It puddled on the floor, leaving her clad only in the skimpy
chemise and stockings. He could see right through the thin material where the
firelight silhouetted the juncture of her legs. She wore no pantalets. Gavin
reached to unfasten the flap of his breeches before it cut into his straining
flesh.

He had only one last weapon left in his arsenal with which
to halt this charade. In a voice hoarse with lust, he demanded, “Do you
know how to protect yourself?”

He winced inwardly at her look of startlement, followed by a
furious flush from the tips of her ears to the full curves of her breasts, but
he didn’t relent. He gazed mercilessly at the hard points of her nipples
against thin cloth while waiting for her reply.

“I thought you would know.”

The husky sound of her voice surprised Dillian as much as
her reply. As a lady, she shouldn’t know about these things. But
she’d absorbed a great deal from her masculine companions over the years,
more than they’d ever realized she’d understood. Whores had ways of
protecting themselves from the eventual results of their couplings. She’d
just never learned what they were.

The thought of creating a child with this man lying here so
coldly watching her left a chill in her middle, but she supposed these matters
should be attended to. He’d already made it plain he had no wealth to
support her. She couldn’t expect him to support a child.

She cringed at his scowl. Her humiliation deepened with his
growl.

“I didn’t bargain to teach lessons.” He
jerked his head in the direction of the dressing screen in the corner. “I
found vinegar in the pantry, but no sponges. I’ll be careful this first
time. You can use the vinegar to cleanse yourself afterward. Now, take off the
rest of those clothes.”

The heat of his gaze on her skin burned more warmly than the
fire, creating an exquisite sensitivity that scorched her like flame. His words
completed her humiliation.

She hoped the fire’s light concealed her flush as she
reached for the ribbons of her chemise. Her fingers trembled while scraping
across newly sensitive skin, arousing her breasts to a heavy ache as she loosed
the first ribbon. She’d not thought to stand before him like this, in a
full blaze of light. She’d imagined the cover of darkness concealing her
sins.

When she glanced up to see the man in the bed unfastening
his breeches, she thought she might burst into a pyre of embarrassment, but she
couldn’t turn her gaze away.

The part of her mind still functioning told her she must go
through with this. She had come this far, surely she could make herself go
farther. Miraculously, she had gone beyond humiliation already. The bulge
threatening to push the marquess’s breeches open held her fascinated,
much as a snake fascinates its intended victim. She had caused that bulge. He
couldn’t help himself any more than she could. The notion gave her enough
courage to untie the second ribbon and let the chemise fall.

The filmy material caught on her breasts, and she tugged at
it until it dropped to her hips. She watched the involuntary muscle behind his
breeches lurch dangerously, and her hand flew to her throat. The touch of her
own hand against naked flesh caused another nervous jerk. Gritting her teeth,
Dillian tore her gaze away from his breeches and watched the marquess’s
eyes. The blatant need there tore her into tatters. He would never let her stop
now.

Effingham moved more swiftly than Dillian thought possible.
One minute he lay sprawled across the satin covers, the next he unfurled like a
striking snake, catching her about the waist, hauling her down on top of him.
The chemise fell, unnoticed, to the floor.

Fully uncovered, the male part him pressed hot and heavy
between her bare thighs.

The frill of Effingham’s shirtfront bit into
Dillian’s breasts. The buttons of his unfastened breeches pressed into
her thighs. None of those material things had as much effect on her senses as
the heated flesh pushing between her legs. She couldn’t imagine how this
coupling business worked, but this juxtaposition of bodies told her more than
she wanted to know. Her first instinct screamed for her to scramble out of this
bed and flee.

But then the marquess pulled her mouth down to his, and the
sensations of heat and wine and the moist demands of his tongue overpowered all
rationality. His hands clenched her bare waist, but the power of his kiss held
her more surely than his hands. The urgency of his lips made Dillian feel
devoured, needed, desirable. It opened a well of yearning she hadn’t
known existed inside her.

A longing to please consumed her. She wanted to know where
his kisses led. She wanted things she couldn’t put a name to, so she
kissed him back as thoroughly as she knew how, hoping he would teach her,
hoping she could satisfy his cravings as well as her own.

The mortification he had imposed on her earlier faded into
nothingness. Common sense evaporated. The intoxicating man beneath her became
her entire world.

A large hand encompassed her breast, and Dillian gasped at
the sensation of being held there. It almost distracted her from the pressure
between her thighs— almost, but not enough. She opened her legs wider to
kneel more comfortably astride his hips, and his groan matched her own when
they came in contact like that. She froze.

The marquess slid his other hand between them, touching her
where they connected, and her gaze darted to his. His dark eyes watched her
every move, and Dillian suddenly felt very naked, very vulnerable beneath his
gaze. He could see right into her soul, but he still wore all his clothes.

The hard control in his voice as he spoke brought her
swiftly back to earth.

“I’m going to put the candles out before we burn
the house down. If you’re having second thoughts, get out now while you
still can. I won’t stop once I come back to this bed.”

Effingham shifted her to one side and stood gracefully,
tucking his thickened member behind his breeches as he reached for the nearest
candle. Dillian felt cold all over as she watched him walk around the room,
coolly snuffing out flames with his fingers. The shadows of darkness followed
him, filling up the places the light had conquered.

His shadow loomed ever larger as he passed the fire. From
here, he seemed enormous. She had to remember she bedded a monster, a man who
despised the society she knew. She had no idea where this would lead other than
to eventual abandonment. She must be mad. She ought to heed his warnings and
run.

Instead, she pulled the satin covers down and climbed
between the cool sheets, clinging to the memories of a lonely, misunderstood
man who risked his life for a stranger’s children, a man who could turn
back an angry mob without loss of life. Somewhere beneath the guise of beast
existed a man who could teach her the ways of love, even if he could not love
himself.

The marquess left a single lamp burning as he approached the
bed, and Dillian could see he had begun unfastening his shirt. When he drew it
over his head and flung it to the floor, she suppressed a gasp. She
hadn’t noticed the particularly ragged scar decorating his ribs before.

She thought the gleam in his eye might be sardonic as he
reached for the band of his trousers, but she would never totally understand
the moods of this man. When he stepped out of the pants, she realized he had
just made himself naked for her as she had done for him. He didn’t do it
to expose his beauty, however. He did it to expose his ugliness.