ell, good sweet Christ. He was going to have to court his wife. Simon hadn’t anticipated that. He had expected—foolishly, he acknowledged—a warm homecoming, a happy wife who threw her arms about him and took him promptly to bed. Instead, he’d been met with a rigid spitfire who refused to bend even after he’d kissed the bloody hell out of her.
She hadn’t been unmoved, of course. He’d felt it in her response to him, the way her body had melted ever so slightly into his. He had seen her determination wavering in her eyes. But she had remained firm in her resolve to keep him at a distance. In the end, she’d walked out of Nell’s study, slamming the door at her back and leaving him in her dust with nothing more than a hard cock and a battered heart.
But he certainly wasn’t defeated. His gracious hostess had given him a chamber, and he’d had a bath and change of clothes. Admittedly, he should have seen to the two latter items before striding into Nell’s drawing room in a frenzy of fury. But he had been desperate, his mind whirling with the implications of Maggie leaving Denver House for Nell’s den of iniquity, and he hadn’t stopped to think about the vagaries of polite society. It had been foolishness fueled by a lack of sleep, he realized. He’d been stupid and cruel to her, ass that he was.
Now it was a new day, and he was prepared to undo his first disastrous attempt at winning back his wife. He stopped before her chamber door and delivered a series of loud knocks. He’d learned from Nell that Maggie had been hiding herself away from the company since his arrival the previous day. She hadn’t been to breakfast. It was time for her to emerge from her cocoon.
The door opened to reveal her lady’s maid’s plain, frowning visage. “My lord?”
“Is Lady Sandhurst within?” he asked, trying not to allow his irritation to show. He felt as if the woman were acting the part of a guard at the castle doors.
The maid blinked. “I’m afraid Lady Sandhurst isn’t receiving visitors.”
Giving her a frown of his own, he caught the door in his hand lest she attempt to close it on him. “I’m afraid that I’m not a visitor. I’m her husband, and I require an audience with her at once.”
“I’m sorry, my lord.” The woman’s expression went from displeased to anxious. “She’s given me express instructions not to allow anyone to enter.”
“Well, where the devil is she?” Christ, this was bordering on ridiculous. He didn’t appreciate being treated like a vagabond at his wife’s bloody chamber door.
“She’s at her bath,” the maid responded.
The simple sentence brought a host of sensual images to mind. Maggie sleek and glistening, her breasts bare, her glorious red hair down about her creamy shoulders. He imagined her soaping herself with a cloth, his hand replacing hers, imagined rubbing her stiff nipples. Oh bloody hell. He was getting hard already. He forced his mind back to the moment.
“Excellent,” he snapped, putting his shoulder to the door and creating enough leverage to push the unwanted female aside. He stepped over the threshold and into Maggie’s chamber.
“But my lord—”
“Your services are no longer needed,” he interrupted her smoothly. “Her ladyship shall ring if you’re required.”
He could tell the instant she knew she’d been thoroughly routed, for her eyes lowered to the floor and her face went ashen. She had been torn between loyalty to her mistress and the knowledge that he was her employer, he knew. He had won. She dipped into a curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”
Simon waited for her to hastily exit the chamber before turning to the closed door that undoubtedly led to a bathing chamber. And his naked wife. His cock twitched. He forced himself to rein in his desire for her. She needed time. Wooing. He had hurt her again, and he understood that. He damn well couldn’t rush into the room, pull her warm, slippery body from the tub, bend her over, and sink deep inside her sweet cunny. No matter how much he wanted to.
No.
Winning Maggie back would require far more tact and control than that. If he even could win her back. The unwanted thought struck him like a lead ball to the gut. He’d meant what he said. He couldn’t lose her. He hadn’t managed to make sense of much in the time he’d been gone other than to realize that he couldn’t be without her. He needed her smile, her silliness, her passion, her poetry, and every other dizzying American bit of her.
He crossed the chamber and opened the door keeping him from her, taking care to be as quiet as possible. The tub was large and deep, dominating the small tiled room. Her back was to him, her hair not unbound as he had imagined but piled high atop her head. He took in the graceful sweep of her neck and shoulders. Her bare arms stretched over the lip of the tub on either side of her. In the silence, he recognized the hushed sound of her breathing.
She was asleep. Simon crossed the threshold, thinking perhaps it was a boon. After all, if he took her by surprise, she wouldn’t have the chance to throw her soap at his head. When he reached the tub, he sank to his knees behind her. The delicious, floral scent of her bathwater reached him. Roses. He pressed his face into her hair, inhaling. He’d never get tired of her sweet scent. Unable to stop himself, he ran his palms over her bare shoulders, down her arms, stopping when he reached her hands. He tangled his fingers in hers as he kissed her ear. No one had ever made him feel as passionately as Maggie did.
No one would.
She shifted suddenly, jolted awake by the contact, and turned to face him. Water sloshed over the side of the tub, some of it landing on his boots, but he didn’t care. The expression on her face flitted from frightened to taken aback.
“Simon?” She sounded breathless as she eyed him with undisguised trepidation. “Where is Osborn? What are you doing in here?”
He almost smiled at her quick round of questions. The lady was not immune, that much was apparent. Good. His gaze traveled hungrily over her face, appreciating the undeniable beauty she possessed. She was rare, his Maggie, like a wildflower bright and defiant amongst the weeds.
“That’s rather a lot of questions,” he remarked slowly, wanting to touch her again but not wishing to make her retreat any farther than she’d already gone, to the opposite end of the tub.
“It’s only two,” she said, licking her luscious lips in her obvious nervousness.
“Three.” He ignored his knees as they began to ache from remaining so long upon the hard floor.
Her brows snapped together. “Did you come here to quibble over arithmetic?”
Ever stubborn, his Maggie. “Of course not.”
“Then perhaps you’d care to answer one of my three questions,” she rejoined.
And ever the quick wit, even nude and gorgeous, attempting to shield her breasts from his gaze. Too late. He’d already caught a mouthwatering glimpse of her pretty nipples. “I came here to ask you if you’d like to accompany me on a ride,” he said honestly. “But when I arrived, you were at your bath.”
“I haven’t any idea why Osborn would allow you in here.” Her vibrant eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What have you done with her?”
He would have smiled were the tension between them not so deep. “I’ve dismissed her.”
“You had no right to do so. I still have need of her assistance.” Twin patches of red marred her cheeks as her ire grew.
“I’ll assist you,” he said helpfully. “I shall do a most thorough job of applying soap to your breasts.”
She stared. “Are you making a jest?”
Well, Christ, he supposed he was. Fancy that. Being back in her presence did things to him. Warmed his cold heart. Made him feel as if he weren’t so unbearably alone in this life of his. He cleared his throat, wondering if he’d truly gone mad in the wake of Eleanor’s death or if it was that Maggie somehow cast aside everything he’d ever thought he’d known about himself. Perhaps a bit of both, he decided.
What the devil had she said? He was having difficulty focusing with her breasts barely shielded by her arms and her luscious legs visible beneath the water. Ah, yes. “I would be happy to help you,” he offered again.
“That’s not necessary,” she denied quickly. “I can do for myself.”
She didn’t want him to touch her, he realized. He hoped that it was because she couldn’t trust herself and not because she despised him. He knew he had never treated her with the respect and consideration she deserved. He had hurt her too many times to hope she could forgive him, but he was a selfish bastard and he was willing to try to earn her forgiveness anyway.
“Nonsense,” he countered. “Tell me what assistance you need, and I shall but give it.”
She pursed her lips together, looking as if she smelled something rotten in the chamber. “I need you to leave.”
Certainly not the answer he’d been seeking. He’d had enough of the peculiar game they played. He stood, deciding to press his advantage after all, and then walked to the opposite end of the tub. She stared up at him with wide eyes, but didn’t slide away from him immediately as he’d thought she might. A small victory. He sank to his knees so that they were once more gaze to gaze. She was near to him, close enough to kiss.
“I’m not leaving,” he said at last. “It would seem I’ve done rather enough of that.”
“Yes,” she agreed softly, “you have.”
If he’d felt like a bastard before, he felt like a criminal now. He needed to explain to her, if he could. He didn’t entirely understand himself, but he couldn’t bear for her to think the awful muddle he’d created of his life was in any way her fault. “It was never because of you.”
She studied him in that way she had, seeing straight through him. “Thank you for admitting that.”
“I don’t deny that I’ve been a horrid husband to you,” he continued, knowing that he would have to lose his pride to regain her. He was at fault, and he bloody well knew it. “I should never have abandoned you when we first wed. If I hadn’t, I would have seen that what I’d been seeking was right before me.”
“You were seeking Lady Billingsley,” she reminded him tartly.
He inclined his head, acknowledging that he deserved her every bitter barb and more. “I thought I’d found a woman I could love. But I’d found a broken woman with a shallow soul, a woman who couldn’t love me because she’d never loved herself first.”
Maggie remained unmoved, her face impassive. “What has this to do with me?”
“It has everything to do with you.” He couldn’t restrain himself any longer then, reaching out to brush a fallen curl from her cheek. His fingers lingered on her soft, warm skin. She didn’t shrug away as he’d expected her to. He forced himself to continue. “When Eleanor decided to return to Billingsley, I thought I’d lost the only woman I could ever love. But then I trounced the train of a beautiful woman at Nell’s ball, and I realized I was wrong.”
He stopped, almost afraid to continue. He hadn’t allowed himself to think it, to ponder the notion during his month away. But now that he was back in her presence, it was all too clear to him. He loved Maggie. He loved the poet, the temptress, the violet-eyed, flame-haired wanton who brought him to his knees and made him dance in the rain. He loved that she’d been kind to him when she shouldn’t have, that she’d cared enough to want to hear his laughter, that she was without artifice, at home in her skin.
Damn it all, he hadn’t intended to do things this way, to kneel before her on a floor that was surely a form of torture, to open himself for scorn or rejection. He’d wanted to take her riding, flirt with her, perhaps steal a kiss. But she was naked in the bath, more glorious than he’d imagined, and he couldn’t seem to stop from making a complete fool of himself. He stared at her, afraid to say more, afraid not to.
Her eyes were wide, trained upon him. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” he began, only to pause and take a steadying breath. Christ, he’d never intended to reveal so much to her. Not today, perhaps not ever. “I’m saying that I love you, Maggie.”
Once again, she didn’t produce the sort of response he may have hoped. She shook her head, her expression turning sad. “No you don’t. I’m not certain you know what love is.”
The bloody hell he didn’t. He stiffened. “Of course I know what love is.”
“You think you know what love is,” she countered. “Love most certainly doesn’t involve flitting from woman to woman and disappearing for an entire month, leaving the woman you profess to love to suppose you’ve gone forever.”
They were back to his leaving. A stalemate. Devil take it, didn’t she see he’d had no choice? When she’d fallen to the floor in his study, he’d been disgusted with himself. It had been as if he’d transformed into a monster before his eyes. He’d been out of his mind with guilt, drink, and grief, and he hadn’t been certain of what he’d do. Given time and distance, his sanity had returned. He was in a far better place now. He’d even shaved, by God.
“I had to leave,” he repeated. “I couldn’t trust myself.”
Her lips compressed in a stern line that told him she was vastly displeased. “You could have left word. You could have returned the next day. You did neither.”
He supposed he shouldn’t expect her to understand. Christ, he didn’t understand himself. All he knew was that he’d been lost in his grief and his guilt. “I’m sorry. I cannot say it any other way. I was not myself.”
Her expression softened ever so slightly, but she maintained her defensive pose, her arms crossed over her delicious breasts. “I know it was difficult for you, losing the woman you loved.”
“It was a tragedy.” He repeated the only answer he’d been able to find in his self-imposed search. “It never should have happened.”
“No, it should not have,” she said quietly. “But it did, and we must now forever live with its mark on our hearts. On yours especially.”
It was time, he realized, to tell her the truth he’d only recently uncovered himself. “Maggie, I haven’t loved Eleanor in some time. In truth, I’m not certain I ever did. She was a way to keep from feeling so bloody alone.” He paused, trying to find the proper words. If there were any.
“Then what was I?” she asked, her voice hushed, eyes watching him.
He wanted to look away but could not. Maggie was so much more to him, more than he ever could have imagined she would be. More, certainly, than he had ever wanted her to be. Hell, he’d never intended to consummate their marriage, and now he bloody well couldn’t live without her.
He swallowed. “Initially, you were a necessity. Then, you were a beautiful stranger I couldn’t help but make love to. Finally, you became something intoxicating, something I knew I ought not to have but that I couldn’t resist. Like whisky. But in all the time we spent together, you were one thing above all others.”
“What?”
“The woman I love,” he told her again, more determined now that he’d already said it to her once. And he meant the words, damn it. Meant them as he’d never meant them in his life. “My wife. A woman who made me dance in the rain, who made me laugh, who taught me that life need not be so very serious after all or so very lonely.” He reached out to her again, cupping her cheek. He was heartened when she didn’t shrug away. The scented water of her bath clung to the air between them, teasing his senses. “Tell me you feel nothing at all for me, Maggie. I asked you yesterday, and now I ask you again.”
She was silent for a beat, still staring at him as if she couldn’t be sure what to expect. “You know I cannot tell you that. Of course I have feelings for you. It is simply that I can’t afford to have them. The price is too great.”
Relief blossomed in his chest. She couldn’t deny she still cared. He had hope, then, that if he pressed her, the wall she’d been doing her best to build between them could be broken.
“What is the price of love?” he asked, sliding his hand to the nape of her neck and drawing her face closer to his ever so slowly.
“Dear.” She shook her head. “Please don’t, Simon. It hurts too much.”
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t shake the feeling that stopping now would cost him the one thing he wanted most. Her. And he couldn’t bear that great a loss. Not now, not ever. “I can’t stop,” he said honestly. “Push me away if you must.”
He knew instinctively that she would not, that she couldn’t resist him any more than he could her. It was there in her eyes. She was at the edge of a cliff, needing just another tiny nudge to throw her off balance. He had to win her back, by God. There could be no losing her. And how better to win Maggie the poet than with words?
“‘Ask nothing more of me, sweet’.” He recited the lines of the poem that had been plaguing him for days. “‘All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, more would be laid at your feet’.”
Unshed tears glistened in her vivid eyes. “‘Love that should help you to live, song that should spur you to soar’,” she returned, her voice rather shaky. “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”
He inclined his head, a small smile quirking his lips. He was aware he’d never possessed a great deal of levity. But Maggie had changed him. She made him smile, made him laugh, brightened his dreary life with her fiery hair and stubborn nature, her beautiful body and equally beautiful soul.
“You know the poem as well,” he remarked, shaken by the powerful emotions churning through him. He had never expected to feel so much, to be moved by the simple act of a poem’s recitation.
A small, answering smile blossomed on her luscious mouth. “I do.”
“I’m giving you all I can,” he told her. “I’m not an angel by any man’s standards, but I do love you. I want to make amends for everything.” He didn’t know what else to do, save drag her from the bath and take her to bed. That particular idea held increasing appeal. He shifted as the thought of a naked, wet Maggie beneath him sent a wave of hunger to his rigid cock. No, this time was different. As much as he wanted to seduce her, he also wanted her to believe him. While their passion was undeniable, she meant far more to him than lovemaking ever could. She had become a necessary part of his life, and he’d be damned to hell rather than give her over to some slobbering rake like Tobin.
Maggie’s mind was as jumbled as a seamstress’s back room after a fire. She thought of another of Swinburne’s poems, this one decidedly dark. Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark. She felt stark, trapped between the equal thralls of protecting herself and giving herself to Simon. She stared at him, his handsome face so unbearably near to hers, falling into the compelling green of his eyes. She wanted him with a fervency that shook her even now.
“You can make amends by ringing for my lady’s maid,” she told him, clinging to her battle defenses as best she could.
“Damn it, woman,” he growled, “why must you insist on being so bloody stubborn?”
He was difficult to resist ordinarily, but for some reason, when he grew blustery, he melted her heart. She loved him, after all. Had never stopped. “I’m afraid,” she admitted quietly, aware that her bath had long since grown cold and that she was naked and vulnerable before him. He could easily whisk her from the tub, lay her on the bed and persuade her with his clever hands and mouth. But he had not, and she rather admired his restraint.
“Afraid?” He appeared genuinely puzzled at her response. “Afraid of what, darling?”
She hesitated, fearing she was about to reveal too much to him and yet unwilling not to say the words clamoring to be heard. “Afraid that you shall leave me again.”
“I’m not leaving,” he vowed. “Not today or ever again. You’re bloody well stuck with me, my love.”
His love. Was she? She thought back over the time they’d had together. He had indulged her whims, had comforted her, listened to her, had shown her pleasure. He had chased after her that fateful day too. She realized suddenly that she had to know something now before she could proceed any further.
“I must know something, Simon,” she said, almost hating to ask for what the answer might be.
He caressed her cheek with the pad of his thumb, warming her with the simple touch. “What is it?”
“You told me that you regretted chasing after me the day Lady Billingsley died.” Perhaps it was selfish of her to broach the topic. Certainly, it was selfish of her to need to know. But she couldn’t help it. “Do you still? Do you wish you had allowed me to leave you had it meant sparing Lady Billingsley?”
He stared at her, and she knew he had not expected the question. His expression was unreadable. She wished at once that she could redo the moment, that she had not dared to ask when she likely didn’t want to hear the answer. And then came the deep rumble of his voice, one word only.
“No.”
She blinked, certain at first that she’d misheard him. Her foolish heart swelled with hope. “You don’t?”
“No,” he said again. “Eleanor made her choice, and I’ve made mine. ’Tis you, Maggie. It will always be you.”
Always.
The admission was what she needed to hear from him, and once again she supposed it was down to the poet in her. Words were ever the most potent lure. Perhaps she was a fool for believing in him, but she did. His expression was unguarded, his feelings for her worn on his expensive sleeve. There was no doubt he meant what he said. After all, Simon wasn’t a devil-tongued charmer. He was serious, blunt to a fault, and hopelessly arrogant.
But he could humble himself before the wife he’d never wanted. He had loved her enough to return to her, even after the horrors of Lady Billingsley’s death. He had followed her, again and again. And she loved him all the more for it.
Before she could contemplate the wisdom of her actions, she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him to her for a kiss. Water sloshed all over his riding clothes, splashing on his boots and the floor about him. She didn’t care. His mouth on hers was heaven.
It had been far too long, and this unfettered embrace was like coming home after a difficult journey. She melted into him with a sigh, opening to his claiming tongue. He broke their kiss to scoop her from the tub with an unabashed whoop. She was nude and dripping, completely soaking his riding clothes. He didn’t seem to mind as he stalked back into her chamber to lower her gently to the bed.
She waited for him, watching as he hastily discarded his wet garments. How she loved him, she thought as her gaze traveled over his dark hair to his beautifully masculine face to his broad chest. She almost didn’t dare believe that this time he was well and truly hers. That he loved her.
But it was there in the glittering brilliance of his gaze, and the realization quite took her breath. As impossible as it seemed, the Marquis of Sandhurst, the man whose heart had infamously belonged to another, was lovestruck.
By her.
This time, his love was for his unwanted American bride, plain old Margaret Emilia Desmond.
Maggie smiled, opening her arms to him as he joined her on the bed. His body was hard and delicious, pressing into her soft curves precisely where she wanted him. His large, knowing hand swept over her waist, stopping at her hip. With his other arm, he propped himself up, looking down upon her.
“Do you forgive me, Maggie?”
His wicked fingers dipped into her slick folds then, momentarily robbing her of breath as a spike of desire shot through her. She arched into him, wanting more. “Of course I do.” How could she not, when he had so plainly bared the darkest part of himself for her to see? She thought again of the glimpses she’d seen of the lonely boy he’d been, and her heart ached. She wanted to make him whole, to erase that part of his past. To fill his life with so much love and laughter that he no longer felt alone.
He lowered his head so that their foreheads nearly touched, his hot breath fanning her lips. “Bloody hell, woman. You’ll be the undoing of me.”
Feeling bold, she reached between them to where his cock was rigid and insistent against her belly. She curled her fingers around his length, stroking him as she’d come to learn he liked. “I certainly hope so,” she returned, gratified when she heard his sharp intake of breath. She ran her thumb slowly over the head of his cock. “For you have already become the undoing of me.”
“Have I, my love?” He dropped a lingering kiss on her ready mouth.
When he would have pulled away, she pressed him to her with her free hand, opening her mouth for his tongue. An answering surge of pleasure hit her, making her hungry for more. To claim him. To be claimed by him. She was undeniably his, and she wanted him to take her hard and fast, to make her explode with her climax and wash away the last remnants of pain between them.
To make a fresh beginning.
She wanted to show him just how much she wanted him, how deeply she cared. Maggie broke away from the kiss and pushed at his shoulders, urging him gently to his back. He stared at her, comprehension dawning in his vivid eyes.
“Maggie, you needn’t.”
She smiled at him before lowering her head to press a path of kisses down over his chest, to his lean stomach. When she reached his cock, she kissed slowly down his length. His strained groan told her she was giving him the same pleasure he so freely gave her.
“But I must.” She took the tip of him into her mouth.
Her jerked against her, his hand settling into her hair as another moan left him. She licked, sucked, loving the taste of him, the musky scent that was innately his. At his guidance, she took him deep into her throat.
“Enough.” He gripped her arms to pull her back up against him. “I want to come inside you, darling, not in your mouth.”
His words sent a wave of desire over her. He caught her to him for another ravenous kiss. Their tongues tangled. He rolled her to her back, his hands sliding down to her cunny. He played a lazy rhythm over her sensitive nub, working her into a frenzy. She gripped his cock again, imagining it inside her, wanting him so badly she ached with it. He sank a finger deep inside her, the small invasion a decadent tease for the one she truly longed for.
Simon broke the kiss, his breathing as ragged as hers. “Are you ready for me, darling?”
“Yes,” she hissed on a quick exhalation. When he removed his fingers, she guided him to her. A tip of her hips and one swift thrust from him, and he was inside her. She reveled in the sensation, the overwhelming pleasure of it all.
He hooked her legs around his waist, and they both gave in to the abandon of their desire, straining against each other, hands in each other’s hair. He thrust into her repeatedly, lowering his head to suck a nipple into his mouth. She was mindless, heedless to anything now but having more of him, all of him, faster, harder. She climaxed suddenly and violently, clenching down on his cock in a series of shuddering spasms.
He groaned, rocked into her and spent his seed. The hot spurt of him within her was enough to have her shuddering again. He lowered himself over her completely, his big body pinning hers to the bed as he gave her another lingering kiss. As the world slowly returned to normal, she clutched him to her, holding on to the love she’d never thought she’d find. He was unbearably precious to her, this stranger she’d crossed an ocean to marry. At long last, he was truly hers.
She realized that in the flurry of their lovemaking, she’d forgotten to tell him. It struck her that he hadn’t required it of her, that he had been willing to love her without her loving him in return. The selfish lord she’d married had somehow become a selfless husband. The words she’d withheld from him rose past the lump of happy tears in her throat.
“I love you,” she said into the sated silence that had fallen between them.
He raised his head to look down at her, cupping her face with a hand. “You do?”
The unadulterated hope in his voice was enough to make her inner dam burst. The tears broke free, slipping down her cheeks as she smiled up at him. “I do.”
“Then why the bloody hell are you crying, my darling?” he demanded in typical, blustery Simon fashion.
She laughed then, marveling at the wonderful way life had of working out for the best when she’d least expected it. “Because you’ve made me a very happy woman.”
“And you’ve made me the happiest man in England.” He dropped another swift kiss on her mouth before rolling to his side and holding her tightly against him.
Sated and overwhelmed with love and joy, Maggie snuggled back against him, folding her arms over his. His heart thrummed deep and steady against her back, his cock nestled against her derriere. This, she thought to herself, was surely heaven.
The rumble of his voice startled her. “Maggie?”
She looked down at his possessive embrace over her bare midriff, finally feeling free from all the ghosts of their pasts. “Yes?”
“Do you think you would mind terribly saying it just one more time?”
She grinned. Yes, her blustery marquis had been tamed indeed. “I love you.”
“By God.” An answering smile was in his tone. “I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of hearing that. I love you, my wild and wonderful American. And if you ever leave me again, I’ll bloody well chase you down and tie you to my bed.”
Maggie turned in his arms, giving him another long kiss. “I’ll hold you to that promise, my lord. For if you ever leave me again, I shall do exactly the same.”
He threw back his head and laughed as she’d never heard him laugh before. “I wouldn’t expect anything different, my love.”