The Marriage Lesson (9 page)

“And I meant it.” Even as he said the words he knew they were a lie.

“I believe either Pennington or Berkley would be willing to kiss me, and quite thoroughly, I suspect.”

“No doubt. However,” his eyes narrowed, “I cannot allow that.”

“Allow?” She laughed. “I scarcely think you are in a position to allow anything.”

“Oh, but I am. I am in charge here.” He hardened his tone. “I have been given the responsibility for you and your sisters by your brother and I take that charge seriously. You are under my protection and—”

“Piffle.” She smiled and took a drink.

“Piffle? What kind of response is ‘piffle’?”

“Quite appropriate considering the nonsense you’ve been spouting.” Her voice was cool, her manner matter-of-fact. “I am of age. Regardless of any pledge you may have made to my brother, in truth, you have no legitimate say about what I can or cannot do and only the barest of familial relationship with my sisters.”

“I have a moral responsibility.” He groaned to himself. He didn’t sound like Thomas Effington at all. He sounded like he remembered his grandfather sounding. He sounded, well,
stuffy
. And he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “And while you are living under this roof there will be no kissing. Of anyone by anyone. I forbid it.”

“Men like Pennington and Berkley are not known for their discretion. You could end up the center of scandal. Ruined. I will not allow that.”

“And are you more discrete than your friends?”

“I like to think so, but this discussion is not about me.”

“No, it’s about me. However, as I have no intention of marrying, my reputation or lack of it scarcely matters.” Her voice was light but defiance showed in her eyes. “I told you my thoughts on virtue. You must recall my saying—”

“Don’t say it again.”

“Very well. But I do want to experience life—”

With a growing horror he realized exactly what that phrase really meant.

“—and I need someone to, well, experience life with me. Teach me, I suppose.”

Bloody hell.

“And if you forbid me to kiss anyone else—”

“Anyone at all.” He clenched his jaw.

“Anyone
else
, then
you
should kiss me.” The challenge in her eyes belied the prim note in her voice. They were toe to toe, nose to nose. She pulled off her spectacles and tossed them carefully onto the desk. “I think it’s your responsibility.”

“Think of it as a lesson, Thomas.” She leaned forward to brush her lips across his.

Desire battled with duty and he froze.

“A lesson . . . ” her mouth murmured against his, “in life.”

Her touch was tentative yet determined. Bold yet yielding. Innocent yet . . .  inviting.

Her hands slipped around his neck and he forgot to breathe. He wanted her. Wanted this. He should push her away. Now. This minute before all thought of honor and responsibility was swept aside. Before desire overcame good sense.

She lifted her head and stared up at him. “If you’d prefer, Penn—”

“I most certainly do not.” He tossed his glass aside, wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers.

Damnable woman. Very well, if she wanted a kiss he’d give her a kiss. If she wanted a lesson he’d be more than happy to be her teacher. Her only teacher. In this he was an expert. He was, he argued to himself, in fact, protecting her from other men. She was right; this was his responsibility. His duty. Besides, he was indeed in charge and this was an excellent way to make that point.

He angled his mouth across hers and deepened his kiss. Her lips opened slightly and his tongue met hers. Desire surged through him. He pulled her tighter against him and her body melted against his, molded to his. As natural, as right, as the beat of his heart.

His hands caressed her back and lower across the lush curve of her buttocks. He gathered her tighter to him, the heat of her body searing him through his clothes and hers.

The long case clock at the far end of the library chimed the hour, its rich tone reverberating in the quiet night.

Thomas drew back and stared at her, his own shock at the power of their kiss reflected in her eyes.

Still, it would not do to let her know. He forced a calm he did not feel. “I do hope that was to your satisfaction.”

“It was well done, my lord.” Her voice had a curious, breathy quality. “Quite well done.”

He knew he should release her and step back. Yet he was unable to move. Unable to let her go.

“Well, I . . .  um . . .  that is I . . . ” Marianne couldn’t seem to find the right words, or any words at all for that matter. Now who was sputtering? He bit back a satisfied smile.

“It’s late. You should retire for the night,” he said gruffly, his arms still locked around her.

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I should do.” She made no move to leave.

“I think it would be best.” He lowered his lips to hers.

“As do I,” she whispered.

She stepped back. Her hair was more mussed than usual, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with passion and a bemused expression. “Good night, Thomas.”

She turned and walked slowly to the door. Her hips swayed slightly with each step and once again the ethereal vision she’d been on their first meeting in this room popped into his mind. It was a very good thing she hadn’t appeared in her nightclothes tonight. Who knows what would have happened with so little between them?

She reached the door and turned. “Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“I daresay I shall enjoy experiencing life.” She cast him a saucy smile then slipped out the doors.

A wave of foolish delight passed through him and he grinned in what he suspected was a most idiotic way. No, he knew full well what would have happened here tonight if she’d appeared in clothing flimsier and a great deal easier to remove than the gown she’d had on. As it was, another few minutes and he would have torn the dress from her obviously willing body and made love to her here on the library desk. If the chime of the clock hadn’t dragged him back to his senses, he had no doubt what would have happened. What he wanted to happen.

What he wanted to happen?

Dear God, when had his desire to protect her changed to desire of another kind entirely? And what was he to do about it?

Think, blast it, Thomas, think!

He wanted his best friend’s sister. His best friend’s virginal sister. A young woman who had been entrusted to him by both her brother and his mother. His mother! She’d have his head on a platter if Richard didn’t kill him first.

Of course, nothing of any consequence had really occurred with Marianne as of yet. He raised his head and stared unseeing across the room. Surely he could see to it that nothing did. How difficult would it be?

Certainly Marianne was stubborn, and he would not put it past her to seek out someone else to experience life with. Although if he continued with her
lessons in life
she would have no reason to look elsewhere. He would simply have to make sure they were not carried away by passion. He groaned aloud. He was wrong. It would be extremely difficult. Damn near impossible.

He had to concentrate all his effort on the task of finding her a husband as quickly as possible before it was too late. That, and nothing else, was in truth his responsibility.

He blew a long breath and ignored the troubling thought that finding her a husband was not as appealing as it had once been. Nor would it be easy. Still, he was resolved and there was nothing more to say on the subject. And nothing more he could do tonight.

For the moment, he would firmly set aside any further thoughts of stubborn, bespectacled temptresses and spend an hour or two doing what he really enjoyed. His secret vice as it were.

Poetry was Thomas’s private passion but he was smart enough to know his talents did not lie in putting verse to paper. In point of fact, his poetry reeked. He recognized that and, even if he didn’t, the one or two people he’d allowed to see his work through the years had confirmed the inadequacy of his efforts. Still, he did enjoy it and he harbored a secret hope deep within him that one day he would write something that would make ladies fall at his feet and strong men weep with the power of his words.

He picked up a pen and stared at the paper before him. He wanted to write of the kiss he’d shared with Marianne. It was inspirational and unforgettable. Regardless of what happened in the future, the power of that kiss should be recognized, if only in bad poetry.

Especially since he was determined nothing of that nature would pass between them again. Precisely as it should be. Precisely as he wanted it.

Marianne closed the library doors behind her and headed to the bedchamber allotted her. She climbed the stairs and strode down the corridor with an even, steady step as if nothing of major importance had happened in her life and she didn’t have the urgent desire to run while giggling insanely.

She stepped into her room, calmly closed the door, then collapsed back against it and drew a deep breath.

She groaned and crossed the room to her bed, flinging herself across it. He probably thought she was nothing more than a tart. And hadn’t she done everything possible to encourage that belief? Especially given the way they’d kissed.

She rolled over and stared up at the coffered ceiling, candlelight flickering across the raised, intricate pattern. The first time they’d kissed it had been quite pleasant, but tonight—heat flushed up her face—tonight was different. Tonight was, well,
more.

Surely this couldn’t be love. This yearning of one person for another? This odd stirring of the blood? Thrilling and exciting but with no sentimental emotions involved? After all, she was not the type of woman he wanted and he certainly was not the kind of man she would ever be interested in. Of course, he was handsome. And he could be quite charming. And he certainly knew how to kiss, but there was nothing more to it than that. There couldn’t be. Could there?

Not that she hadn’t implied she was interested in much, much more with all that nonsense about experiencing life. How could she?

Not that she intended to drag Thomas to her bed this very minute, if ever. But lessons in life with him needn’t stop, and should they go beyond a kiss . . .  she flushed at the thought. It would be a grand adventure and it certainly would provide excellent material for her country miss stories. The better the stories sold, the better she’d be paid, and she’d be one step closer to being independent. Besides, if she were ruined, her brother might see his way clear to handing over her dowry.

Then her adventures could truly begin.

And she’d have the future Duke of Roxborough to thank.