The Ruin Of A Rogue (24 page)

Chapter 23

I
t felt like the end of an idyll. Marcus was helping a team of workmen rebuild the bridge and Anne was wearing a gown. Later today, tomorrow at the latest, she would have to cross the river and return to a censorious world that would not approve of her chosen husband. She minded more for him than for herself, though dealing with Morrissey was never pleasant. Still, she was prepared to stand up to her guardian and salvage some kind of income. She honestly didn’t care where their money came from, but it was important to Marcus that he should be able to provide for them himself. She respected the pride that made him think that way, understood it as part of his path to an honest life.

So she kept telling herself every time she dismissed the queasiness in her stomach at the thought of the diamonds. The gems were a blot on her happiness that she refused to allow to grow. She assuaged the niggles of her conscience by telling herself that they were safe for the moment and the issue would resolve itself, one way or another. While trapped at Hinton there was nothing to be done, and she doubted they could be disposed of in Wiltshire.

Since she was going to be the bride of a man of modest means she had better further her acquaintance with the arts of housewifery, so she collected her polish and rags from the broom cupboard. Next door in the laundry Travis was muttering about the damage she’d done to Marcus’s best breeches. He’d greeted their return from the villa with horror, removed them from her room in the middle of the night, and left her gown in its place. Not by so much as a sideways look or a raised eyebrow had he indicated that he knew she and Marcus shared a bed.

During her weeks of servitude she’d swept and dusted the smaller parlor but otherwise spent little time there. With plastered walls instead of the paneling found in much of the house, it was both light and cozy. She would make it her own sitting room, leaving the bookroom to Marcus, who would doubtless be glad to see to estate business without being surrounded by Roman remains. There wasn’t room for them in here either. One of the spare bedrooms would make an excellent museum, until their family grew too large. She hoped it would happen soon. If she was with child it would put an end to Morrissey’s hopes of finding her a different husband.

As she applied her rag to the spiral legs of a pretty little table, she beguiled the time imagining herself in this very room, writing letters, speaking to the cook and housekeeper and nursemaids, cataloguing her finds on days when it was too cold or wet to work outside. And then Marcus would come home and find her here, perhaps in the middle of the day when he wasn’t expected.

When Anne dressed that morning she’d missed her men’s attire, felt the loss of freedom when her legs were no longer free from the constraints of two petticoats and the heavy skirts of her woolen winter gown. The stays and high neck seemed almost choking after days in a man’s shirt.

There was something about woman’s garb that hadn’t ever occurred to her before. Beneath the layers of kerseymere, flannel, and linen, she was bare. Accessible. Marcus had only to flip up her skirts and he could take her, without ceremony or the bother of undressing. Breeches, as she now knew, needed nothing more than a few loosened buttons and the male organ was ready for business.

She clenched her thighs together to trap the wet heat that gathered down below. She’d have to see about getting a comfortable divan for her parlor. Meanwhile, the carpet was in fair condition, its pink roses faded but with plenty of pile. Dizzy with longing, she enclosed the table leg in her fist, rubbing it up and down without troubling about the fiddly little crevices. Then she realized what she was doing and laughed. Who would ever have suspected that Anne Brotherton was capable of such lascivious thoughts?

T
he bridge wasn’t finished but it now spanned the river and could carry a man, or a horse, or a man on a horse, but not a carriage. Marcus inspected the work, reluctant to let the world intrude on the island of Hinton Manor. Gritting his teeth, he set boots to wood and walked to the village.

He returned with a pile of mail and the news that Jasper would return soon, along with a couple of maidservants. He should be glad, he supposed, but he wouldn’t have minded another day or week making free of the house with Anne. Servants could be devilishly in the way, except for Travis, who possessed preternatural tact. She wasn’t going to be pleased with one particular piece of news. Or perhaps she would.

“Anne!” he called as he entered the hall and wiped his boots.

“In here.”

A lovely sight awaited him in the small parlor. Anne on her hands and knees, her lovely bottom all the more enticing for its veil of dark blue cloth. Desire arose quickly and he wanted to fall on her without ceremony. Not the right way to treat a lady and his wife. Except she’d said something once, something about wanting to be taken without regard for her own satisfaction. Taken selfishly for his pleasure alone.

“Are you all right?’ he asked.

“I dropped the button box.” Buttons were scattered over the carpet. Buttons that had previously lived in a drawer in the drawing room and had no reason to have migrated to the parlor.

“I’d better help you pick them up.”

Looking over her shoulder, she batted her eyelashes at him. “I’d be grateful.”

She plucked a small pearl button that decorated the center of a carpet rose and placed it in the box, giving her bottom an almost imperceptible and entirely unnecessary wiggle as she did so. His hands accepted the unspoken invitation, kneading the voluptuous globes through thick material. They pressed back into his palms. It was the work of seconds to push up her skirts, leaving them naked to his eyes and the urgent demand of his cock. A little gasp was her only audible response, in time with further undulation of her glorious rear. With both hands he unbuttoned the fall of his breeches and released his aching organ.

Settling himself in place he leaned over to speak softly. “I’m going to plow into you without regard for your pleasure.”

A further gasp told him he’d read her correctly. Without more ado he opened her with his fingers and surged in. She was hot and wet and completely ready.

“You’re a wicked girl and deserve what you get,” he said, and other words unsuitable to be addressed to a lady. Judging from the noisy groans that arose at each thrust, each lewd phrase, she didn’t mind. She dropped onto her elbows, the better to accommodate his entrance. So he took her at her word and thought only of himself, of the unctuous grip on his cock as he worked her slick passage, slamming into her to the hilt of his shaft so his balls banged against her bottom. “Don’t dare move,” he ordered, grasping her hips. Instantly obedient, the only movement was that of her inner muscles, driving him rapidly to his peak.

It was quick, it was messy, and it was probably the best single act of coitus he’d ever experienced. He didn’t bother to try and make it last, just let himself be driven by his own lust until he came with a great shout, calling out her name a dozen times as he released into her. Amazingly, as his orgasm subsided he felt her own begin. Waves of satisfaction accompanied by the world’s most beautiful words.

“I love you, Marcus! I love you.”

He collapsed onto the carpet, taking her with him, turning so they panted face to face. He stroked her ecstatic face and covered it with frantic kisses. “Oh God, Anne! That was extraordinary. You are extraordinary. It was what you wanted, wasn’t it? I didn’t hurt you?”

Her smile dazzled him. “I planned it just like that and you knew. You were perfect.”

“You’re perfect and we are perfect together.”

Then he kissed her, endlessly and so deeply that he felt he was taking her into his body and she him. If he died tomorrow, at least he had experienced greater happiness than anyone in history.

“I don’t like this gown,” he said idly, five minutes or an hour later. Anne lay on her back smiling while, resting on his elbow, he feasted his eyes on her and caressed her well-covered breasts. “I want to feel your skin.”

“I think it’s quite convenient. You didn’t have any trouble finding a different part of my body.”

“I hope you possess many others with low bodices.”

“One or two. But sometimes it might be fun to have you hunt for your pleasure.”

“I am the luckiest man in the world.”

“I’m glad you think so, Marcus. I never expected anyone would feel that about me.”

His heart missed a beat. “If they don’t that’s because all men are idiots.”

“Even you?”

“I’m a clever idiot.”

They started kissing again and might have spent the rest of the day on the parlor carpet had his inconvenient conscience not intervened.

“I need to get back to the bridge. We need every pair of available hands.”

“Must you? I don’t want to leave here. I wish we could be cut off forever, on our own island.”

He snatched one last kiss and stood, pulling her up with him. “I came back to bring you news, but you distracted me. Don’t smile like that or it’ll happen again. Lady Windermere is no longer at Hinton. She left you a letter.”

“Cynthia has left?” She accepted the letter. “I hope nothing is wrong. What about Maldon?”

“Your maid is at the inn. She gave me your mail.”

“Why didn’t you bring her with you? Though I must say she would have been very much in the way for the last half hour.”

“As I already knew, she does not care for long walks. However, Travis seems very anxious to see her. He’s no walker himself, but he has braved the mud. I expect they’ll find a cart to bring them part of the way.”

“So we’re completely alone in the house for the last time.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Leafing through his own letters, he selected one of particular interest. Anne interrupted him before he’d removed the seal.

“How odd! Cynthia had word that Windermere is on his way back to England. She has returned to London to meet him.”

“I thought they were estranged.”

“I’m not sure that is the exact word. She hasn’t confided the whole story to me but she is very angry with him. Her flirtation with Denford was designed to . . . I don’t know . . . annoy him.”

“A dangerous game to play with a man like Julian Fortescue. I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

“I hope so too. When we left London she was already out of her depths. I wonder if I should go to her.”

“Better leave them to sort it out for themselves. I’ve seen little of Windermere in recent years, and nothing at all since he came into his title. He was by far the most sensible of our group, never given to rash action. He cut off all contact after a big loss at the gaming tables.” She looked up quickly with grave eyes. “No, he didn’t lose to me. I never play high with my friends and I wasn’t even in the country at the time.”

“Yet you feel responsible.” He was amazed at her instinctive understanding and the comfort of her fleeting touch on his hand.

“I suppose I do. For Robert too, and his losses were far greater and more disastrous. I taught them how to play.”

“Did you force them?”

“No. Everyone games.”

“So you merely shared your skills with them?” He nodded. “If you hadn’t, things might have been even worse. Larger fortunes have been lost gaming. You should have heard my grandfather on the subject of Charles James Fox. He cost Lord Holland hundreds of thousands of pounds. It isn’t your fault they were fools.”

“Thank you for your faith in me.”

“Cynthia and I were both expected for Christmas at Castleton, but she writes that she will likely remain in London. Will you come with me?”

This was perilous terrain. “I won’t be welcome.”

“Caro is my closest relation and dearest friend. If only for my sake she will forgive you, and persuade the duke to do so. There’s no reason the two of you cannot get past a childish quarrel. What happened anyway?”

Damn. Reentering the outside world reminded him of all the reasons he should have left Anne alone. They’d been living in a fool’s paradise. “He blamed me for an injury to a horse during a visit to Castleton House with my father.” That was the short version of an old tale that Marcus had always believed to be the truth. Castleton had given Caro a different account, one that did Lewis no credit at all. Marcus had his own reasons to postpone the full explanation.

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

Anne cast her eyes upward and shook her head. “You will both have to get over it, and Caro and I will make sure of it.”

Marcus had a tempting vision of being forgiven by Caro and tolerated by Castleton. Of Anne and Caro exerting their joint cousinly persuasion to force their husbands to reconcile. Pure fantasy. It would never happen.

Meanwhile, he had another matter to tackle. “My letter is from Sir William Hamilton. You may recall that I knew him well in Naples. He and Lady Hamilton have returned to England with Nelson and will be spending Christmas with William Beckford at Fonthill, scarcely fifteen miles away. I thought I’d ride over and pay my respects, to Beckford too. I was acquainted with him in Paris.”

What he didn’t mention was that Beckford’s friends were the kind of people who would buy valuable jewelry of doubtful provenance. Perhaps Beckford himself, a collector of fabled wealth, would be interested.