When a Marquess Loves a Woman (5 page)

No doubt, Juliet thought she had bested him with her parting words, expecting to take him off guard. And she had. But perhaps it was time he called her bluff by issuing a challenge of his own.

Removing his gloves, he took a serviette and
two
dainty pink cakes before setting off in her direction. Not wanting to give the appearance of pursuit to any of the other guests or to his prey, he ambled about, admiring topiaries and pausing to nod a greeting to those whom he encountered.

Since he'd inherited his title, the
ton
had taken a sudden interest in making his acquaintance. The marquessate was bestowed on him after the death of a fourth cousin, whom Max had never met. In fact, his late father had never spoken of the connection either. Suddenly, however, this tragedy had made Max interesting enough to garner all sorts of invitations, gaining the attention of those who'd peered right through him for years. Then again, the fortune and land he'd inherited had likely helped. Society was nothing if not predictable.

By the time Max reached the fountain, Juliet had parted ways with Dovermere and had strolled down a side path dotted with conical cypress and spirals of juniper. Most of the guests were promenading down the other two paths, either along the shaded arcade or in the opposite direction toward a Grecian folly. Though with nothing more than a large moss-covered urn, a hedgerow cabinet at the end of the alley, and no reprieve from the glaring sun, only he and Juliet walked here.

With every step, the soles of his boots sank into the plush grass, effectively muffling his approach. She wasn't too far ahead of him, her pace slow as she took time to study the gardener's work. Lifting her hand, she brushed her fingertips over the evergreen fronds. A breeze stirred, casting a sweet, piney fragrance in his direction. He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with it.

He'd always enjoyed the outdoors and knew it was something he had in common with her. Yet there were days he wished he could forget those things.

“Lady Granworth,” he said when he was near enough and earned the quick turn of her head. Unfortunately, the shadow beneath the brim of her hat concealed any other reaction that might have slipped through. Though with her next words, he could guess fairly well that it hadn't been a smile of delight.

“Are you determined to spoil my afternoon?” As she squared her shoulders, her chin lifted, exposing a column of creamy skin down her slender throat. And just beneath the edge of that pink netting, her unsmiling lips captured his attention.

As he neared, he could see her narrowed gaze watching him carefully and her quick glance down to the arm he held behind his back.

“How very ungracious of you,” he tutted. Now standing before her, he revealed the prize he carried. “I procured those cakes you mentioned earlier. I must say, you piqued my interest as well, for I cannot wait to sample one.”

Those lips parted on a soundless gasp. “I will not feed you cake, Max. Imagine the spectacle it would cause.”

Then, as she typically did, she turned on her heel to leave. Yet she must have forgotten that there was no escape behind her.

When he saw her steps hesitate, he grinned to himself. “If that is your primary objection, then allow me to point out that we are virtually alone.”

“Which is also enough to put our names in tomorrow's
Standard
.” Once she reached the urn, her head turned, her hat angling to the left and right, as if she were searching for another exit. When she came to the apparent conclusion that there was none, she finally faced him.

“Our names will be there, regardless.” He spread his arms out in a shrug, cakes in one hand, walking stick in the other. “Now, as you can see, I am utterly helpless”—he paused at the sound of her scoff—“and unable to taste the cake that you offered to feed me.”

“I made no such offer.”

“Then I cannot think of what I heard moments ago unless . . . ”—he lowered his voice—“you were
flirting
with me. But you, the ever-composed Lady Granworth, would never do such a thing.”

He wanted to see her color rise, her ire flash, anything. Damn it all, he needed to ruffle her feathers and crawl under her skin. It was the least she owed him.

“I would not even know how to flirt,” she boldly lied and without batting an eye.

Wasn't every nuance of flirtation woven into her being? Every downward sweep of her lashes. Every subtle curl of her lips. Every slash of her tongue. Every single breath!

“Oh, I'm certain that is a false statement,” he said, keeping his tone smooth and even. “All you have to do is admit to flirting with me, and I'll be on my way.”

“I. Admit. Nothing.”

He held out his hand. “Then feed me a cake.”

She stepped forward so suddenly she nearly startled him in the process. “Fine.”

The crisply enunciated word tolled a warning bell within him, advising caution. He had anticipated their continued banter and even her eventual retreat, but not her acquiescence. Instinct told him to be wary. And yet curiosity fixed him to the spot.

Lifting her hand, she slipped the serviette into her delicate palm, the edges draping over fingers. He stared, paying close attention to every movement, noting how her lace mitts left the entire length of her slender fingers exposed. No doubt, like her dress, they were designed for a purpose, bringing to mind thoughts of bared limbs.

Then, with a delicate pinch of her thumb and forefinger, she picked up the first cake.

Anticipation thundered in his chest, neck, and ears simultaneously. She could still balk. Still storm off in a flurry. He was prepared for such a response but no longer assured of it. Perhaps challenging her wasn't the best idea after all.

His gaze shifted from the cake to her eyes, over and again. Her gaze, on the other hand, remained fixed to his as she slowly lifted the cake—

And popped it into her mouth. Then she closed her eyes, a smile curving her lips, while emitting a low murmur of sensual delight.

Max couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move if someone were to set him on fire. The pulse that had pounded so hard an instant ago abruptly dropped to his trousers, banging like a drum as blood engorged his flesh.

The tip of her pert tongue slipped out to tease him further. The taunt transformed into torture when she licked the pink icing from her fingertip and then her thumb. When she finished, her eyes opened, the blue a brighter, deeper hue than the sky overhead. He found himself unable to look away.

“Delicious,” she purred. “So good in fact that I think I'll have another.”

She pinched the second cake, her lips parted. But before she could lift it to her mouth—before he knew what he was doing—he seized her wrist.

He was half-tempted, half-wild with the need to kiss her, to lose himself in the silken texture of her lips once more. To haul her into his arms and feel the curves of her body with his hands.

It took every shred of control he possessed not to give in. At least, not completely.

Watching her all the while, he lowered his head and took the cake into his mouth.

He swallowed it without fanfare or appreciation. The dessert he really wanted was still waiting.

He slipped her finger into his mouth next, the dainty pad at the tip more silken and sweet than marzipan. In slow, searching swipes, he laved her flesh, mapping the route of every fine impression, wicking away every last bit of icing. He would have stopped if he was frightening her. Hell, he was startled by his own actions. But when he saw her pupils dilate, her gaze drifting down to his mouth, and then heard the quickening of her breath, he knew she was not afraid of him.

She was one of two things—either wholly, explosively angry or . . . wholly, explosively
aroused
. And since he'd been the recipient of her temper before, he wagered it was the latter.

A surge of triumph merged with the unleashed desire coursing through him. She could pretend she was cool-headed and aloof all she wanted, but he knew better. Five years ago, that same passion had slipped through the cracks in her composure.

He wanted more. Greedy, he curled his tongue around her, drawing her flesh deeper, and gently grazing the delicate furrows of her knuckle with his teeth.

“Max.”

His name shuddered out of her lungs and past her lips, sending a tremor through him. Yet the tinge of vulnerability in her passion-laden plea swiftly brought him to his senses.

With a quick tug, he pulled her closer. Still holding his walking stick, he touched the handle beneath her chin and tilted it up. “Perhaps you should reconsider flirting with your enemy in the future.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

J
uliet felt as if she'd barely managed to hold herself together since the moment she stormed away from Max. For heaven's sake, she left the Minchons' party without even a word of farewell. And now, as she closed her bedchamber door, she sagged against it, gasping for breath.

The things he did to her! He'd incited her temper on purpose. He'd just kept needling her and needling her until—like one of Professor Faraday's balloons—she'd exploded.

There was no other way to explain her behavior. She'd never flirted so shamelessly in her life!

Then again, she rarely encountered a gentleman who listened to her long enough for her to make an attempt. Men spoke to her but seldom engaged her in conversation. They were all full of charm, much like the clerks at a haberdashery, and eager for her fortune. Either that, or they were like her late husband and merely wanted a pretty object to hang upon their arms.

But not Max. He was her rival in every sense, but he listened intently to what she said—even if solely to find his next argument.

Forcing her to admit to flirting with him? The gall of that man! Was his ego so fragile that he could not stand the notion of her getting the better of him for one single moment?

Apparently so. For he certainly set out to ensure she would think twice before doing so again.

Pushing away from the door, she tossed her hatpin and hat onto the tufted bench at the foot of her bed. Feeling overheated, she went to the washbasin in the corner. She needed to press a cool cloth to her throat and the back of her neck.

Stripping off her mitts on the way, she stopped when she caught sight of a pale pink stain on the white lace. Drawing it closer for examination, however, revealed that it wasn't a stain at all. It was icing.

Juliet covered it with her other hand and closed her eyes, trying to banish the fresh memory that assailed her. But it was no use. She remembered every moment as if it left an indelible mark upon her flesh, seared into the whorls of her fingertip.

For an instant, when Max had taken hold of her wrist to stop her from eating that cake, she'd thought he was going to kiss her. And worse than that was the knowledge that she wouldn't have stopped him.

What he did instead was far more wicked. That mouth of his, that tongue, those teeth . . . were diabolically thorough. Even though he'd only taken one finger into his mouth, she'd felt as if he'd laved her entire body. Of course, she'd never had a man's mouth on her entire person, so the shameful sensation was merely supposition on her part. But now, because of Max, she couldn't stop imagining what it might actually feel like. Hearing conversations from other women, Juliet knew that some men enjoyed the practice. And with the thought, she was suddenly wondering if Max were one of those men . . .

Behind her, a soft knock fell on the door in the same moment that her maid opened it. “Madame, I have finished the alterations to your gown for this evening,” Marguerite said, each word slow and precise but unmistakably accented with her French tongue.

Even though Juliet had given her leave to speak her native language, Marguerite only did so when she was upset. At five and thirty, she was an émigré who was determined to leave her old life behind and wanted, above all else, to be English.

The instant Juliet turned to see the gown, Marguerite made a sound of distress and dropped the lustrous silver garment.

“Oh! But you are
rose
.” Beneath a ruffled cap and a coiffure of raven black hair, a spray of fine lines appeared at the corners of Marguerite's eyes. And currently, her hands were gesturing over her throat and voluptuous bosom before shooing Juliet to the standing mirror.
“Oui, rose.”

Juliet stared at her own reflection. Beneath her jawline and all the way to the beribboned trim of her bodice, her skin was decidedly pink, nearly matching the stripes in her gown. She touched her hand to her flesh, noting the warm temperature. “I must have taken too much sun.”

But in the same moment, she also saw that smear upon her glove again, and gradually the pink of her throat turned to a deeper shade.

Suddenly, she wasn't entirely certain of the cause.

She swallowed. “I must be overheated. Please, help me remove this dress.”

As the garment gradually fell away, however, Juliet had a startling discovery. From the neck down, her skin was pink . . .
everywhere.

Alarmed, she started unlacing her corset. Next came her chemise, even her stockings. Yet still, every inch of her was pink—her slender arms, the globes of her rose-tipped breasts, her ribs and the valley of her stomach, her softly rounded hips, the flesh surrounding the pale downy curls over her sex, and even the tapered length of her legs down to the tops of her feet.

The sun had not done this.

“I do not believe this was caused from the sun, madame,” Marguerite said, mimicking Juliet's thoughts. Then she placed the back of her hand on Juliet's forehead and clucked her tongue in distress.
“Vous êtes très chaleureux. Je devrais appeler le médecin.”

Juliet shook her head. “I do not need a physician. I know perfectly well what has caused this. My temper.”

Moving toward the washbasin, she proceeded to explain the afternoon's events, Max's goading of her, his demand for her to admit she'd been flirting with him . . . but leaving out a few of the details toward the end.

“Ce bâtard!”
Marguerite spat. “What should it matter if you were flirting? A woman has every right. He cannot force you to admit it.”

“Precisely,” Juliet agreed, pressing the flannel over her damp flesh.

Marguerite angrily swiped up the garments from the floor. “I hope you shoved that cake in his face.”

“I ate it.”
At least one of them
, she thought, and drat it all if the memory of what happened to the second one did not sweep over her again.

“Ha! Even better—
Oh
! You are rose again.” This time, Marguerite did not drop all the garments but stared quizzically into Juliet's eyes. “And then . . . what did you do?”

“I, or rather,
he
ate the other cake”—Juliet's voice wavered, and she began to fan herself with the edge of the flannel—“from my fingers.”

A slow grin lifted Marguerite's lips, settling into her dark, dancing eyes. “Ah! Now I begin to understand.”

Juliet shook her head, adamant. “I'm certain you do not.”

“You forget, madame, I know of these things.” In France, Marguerite had worked as a skilled modiste in her aunt's shop, which also operated as a brothel for a select group of gentlemen. Marguerite had never hidden her past from Juliet, nor had she once spoken of any regrets. To her, sexual congress was as basic to men—and women alike—as breathing or eating. In fact, Marguerite had frequently suggested that Juliet take a lover, both during and after her marriage to Lord Granworth. “And I know your husband never once colored your skin.”

Marguerite's statement was even truer than Juliet cared to admit. To anyone. It was her secret that went to the grave with her late husband. When she had married him five years ago, the only thing she had known about the relationship between husband and wife was what her mother had told her in haste.
“Your husband will lie with you the first night, and then you will be his irrevocably.”

Juliet had shyly confessed as much to Lord Granworth the night of their wedding after he inquired about her level of knowledge. And dutifully, he had lain beside her in the same bed for the duration of the night.

It wasn't until it was already too late that Juliet learned of the contract her father had signed with Lord Granworth. Apparently, Lord Granworth's marriage bargain had stipulations. He'd agreed to pay all of Father's debts for as long as Juliet pleased him, but when her beauty inevitably faded, he would abandon her, albeit arranging for a house and property. Always thinking of ways around contracts, Father hoped that Juliet would give Granworth an heir that would bind them together for a longer duration.

So when Juliet had told her mother, the morning after her wedding night, that Lord Granworth had indeed lain with her and that she hadn't slept a wink because of it, she had unknowingly confirmed that the marriage had been consummated.

What a simpleton she had been! It wasn't until months later, upon hearing the wives of Lord Granworth's sycophants speak of their husbands, that she realized the truth—there was more to consummation than simply lying atop a bed at the same time.

When she'd confronted Lord Granworth, he laughed at her, calling her his
empty-headed ninny
—the least of all his insults—and then stated, matter-of-factly, that an imperfect bride held no appeal for him. He only wished to keep her
preserved
so that he could enjoy the sight of her all the more. And every night, he did. He'd come to her room, asking her to undress for him, pose for him, walk for him. Sometimes he would spend hours looking at her, candidly remarking on how jealous other men were of him. Evidently, when having abundant wealth was not enough to fulfill his need to incite envy in others, he had decided to take a bride who would.

Having purchased a barony solely as a matter of feeding his insatiable ego, he had no desire for an heir either but planned to settle the bulk of his fortune on those who fawned over him the most. He firmly believed that all the other people around him were put upon the earth for one purpose alone—to please him.

Lost in his own arrogance, he likely never imagined that his death would happen without fanfare or an audience to remark on the magnificent spectacle. In fact, the physician claimed he had suffered a heart seizure in his sleep and drifted off peacefully.

The reading of Lord Granworth's will drew a crowd of hundreds of sycophants, all vying for a piece of his fortune. Most of them had left disappointed, tearless, and angry for having been forgotten. In truth, there was only one soul who mourned his loss—his beloved valet, who had been his constant companion for two decades.

Aside from Lord Granworth's valet, actors and artists were the primary recipients of cash monies. Juliet too received a sum of sixty thousand pounds, in addition to the entirety of his collection. The wording of his will—read for all of their social circle in Bath—had been his final act of degradation.
And lastly, to Juliet, Lady Granworth, the exquisitely preserved centerpiece of my art collection, I hereby bequeath
. . .

Thinking of Lord Granworth and the miserable years she'd endured, the vibrant color drained from her flesh.

“As I said,” Juliet reminded her maid, “I was flushed because of my temper. Max brings out the worst in me.”

And it was true. Even though Lord Granworth's cruelty had left her feeling hollow, she still had maintained control over her reactions to him. With Max, she felt positively volatile, and that terrified her.

Therefore, as long as she didn't think about this afternoon, her
temper
would not resurface in such dramatic fashion.

Marguerite kept smiling but turned back to her task. “And what should you do if he
brings out the worst in you
at dinner this evening?”

Drat! She hadn't thought of that. Marjorie Harwick had invited both Zinnia and Juliet to dinner again.

And the instant she imagined seeing Max, the color returned.

“J
uliet sends her regrets this evening,” Lady Cosgrove said to Max's mother as Saunders took her fringed wrap. “Too much sun, I'm afraid.”

Max was just heading to the parlor from the study when he'd heard the knock at the door. All afternoon, anticipation had filled him with exhilaration, wondering what Juliet would do to get the better of him. She'd laid the gauntlet down, after all. He'd merely picked it up.

Now it was in her hands again—or at least it had been until the lovely little coward dropped it by refusing to make an appearance. He supposed he should feel somewhat guilty for his part in all this. And yet, he couldn't summon an ounce.

He blamed his lust for competition in addition to his desire to settle matters between them once and for all. Without an adversary, however, his prospects for this evening seemed rather dull.

“You are quiet this evening, Maxwell. Has all that buzzing about you did this afternoon taken its toll?” Mother asked from the settee a short time later.

Standing across the room to refill his glass, he contemplated a suitable response. But then, apparently deciding she did not require an answer, Mother continued.

“Zinnia, he was practically grinning like a madman when he returned from Lord and Lady Minchon's garden party. Usually, I only witness this from him after a rousing argument at the House of Commons. So there must have been some
on dit
, but do you think I could get a peep from him? Not a word, I tell you.”

“Now you have me wondering the same, for Juliet was out of sorts and kept to her rooms,” Lady Cosgrove replied and then continued in a whisper. “However, I believe it must have had something to do with her exposure to the sun, for she issued a peculiar request for Mr. Wick to send for a block of ice.”

“Sunburns can be terrible nuisances. I hope it was not too severe.”

“That's just it, Marjorie. She claims that her hat was a sufficient guard but only that she was overheated.”

Standing at the sideboard with his back to them, Max held back a laugh. She'd had to order a block of ice in order to cool down? Oh, he could not wait to taunt her about this. Again, he wondered if it was because of her lack of parasol, her temper, or something else altogether.

Unfortunately, just like earlier, his mind interrupted, forming several images of just how she would apply the ice to cool her flesh . . .

“Strange, I thought it was rather mild today when I was out in the garden. Though perhaps without a cloud in the sky in such an open park, it felt different.” Mother raised her voice from their hushed exchange. “Max, you were not overheated this afternoon, were you?”