Thirty-two

The closed door mocked her: Enter at your own peril. Genevieve stalled in the dark hallway, a box of cheroots in one hand, a book in the other. A well-traveled, salacious book. The kind she was certain her husband would read locked away with a female companion. Light flickered under the door. Liquid splattered its faint swish inside his chamber. This hesitation put a vise grip on her ribs. Or was that fear?

Rolling her eyes, she tucked the book under her arm and knocked. “Marcus.”

“Please leave.”

His flat voice haunted her. Tipping her forehead against the door, she tried again. “Please…I…”

I…what?

She wasn’t equipped to understand a man like him. Perhaps silence was best. The day had passed with plenty of quiet after Mr. Beckworth had laid out his latest plan.

“Offer Khan as collateral” had been Mr. Beckworth’s answer.

She had cried out at the suggestion, but Marcus had promised to think it over. Mr. Beckworth went home, and her husband promptly cleaned every corner of the barn, tended every horse, and chopped wood outside the cottage. He’d attacked his work, soldiering on in silence. His labor had ended when the ax slipped, narrowly missing his foot because nightfall made outdoor tasks impossible.

Now she stood, ear to the door, another splash sounding inside his chamber.

Was he drinking?

A peek. To check on his welfare. She pushed on the door. Light cracked through the opening.

Firelight glimmered on watery beads clinging to a bare male torso. One determined drop slipped over his ribs, up and over the bones that knit his side until the droplet stopped above his breech’s waistband.

The washstand’s pitcher clinked. “You’re lurking.”

His stare speared her from the looking glass. Primitive. Forceful.

Her shoes could have been nailed to the floor. The man across the room wouldn’t be managed. His reflection showed a jaw darker, rougher from another day without the razor. Dark, windswept hair framed his face. Damp curls plastered his nape. But his eyes. One could say her woodsman husband dared her to come in…all the better to devour her.

“I brought these for you.” She hefted the cheroot box, and the door arced wide.

“And a book.”

Which she couldn’t hide fast enough.

“It’s nothing.” She juggled to put the slender volume out of sight, but it slipped and landed with a thud.

She dropped to her knees, her wool skirts hiding the book. Marcus strode across the room in stockinged feet and breeches to crouch before her. His nearness sucked the air. She sat back on her heels, her legs folded beneath her.

There was no graceful way to recover the book pinched between her knees.

She tried scooting back, but his knee pinned her skirt to the floor.

“I shouldn’t have come. Forgive me.” She froze, riveted on his hand rooting under her hem.

“Our nightly reading,” he intoned, grasping the book under her skirt. “How thoughtless of me to forget.”

She pressed her legs together. “There are other things on your mind.”

“You mean my latest downfall. Horses, money, and a woman.” The corner of his mouth tilted in the cool, lazy smile she equated with the man she’d first met, not the man she’d come to know.

It was the setback and the demoralizing position of having to beg a loan from his peers, men who’d belittled the business venture. Or was it the thought of putting up Khan for collateral? The beloved horse could be lost if anything went wrong…if the horses didn’t recover over winter…if they couldn’t find a suitable stallion to cover the mares…if, if, if…

Her spine tingled a warning. This man had a bite, and she was the morsel he was considering. Russet wool frothed around her, save the spot under his knee. What a fool she had been to think she could maneuver him. His mood was far more dangerous than if he’d given over to the drink.

“I should go.”

“Running away again?” he taunted, dragging the book free. “You have a penchant for it.”

She flinched, her gaze darting to the fireplace’s crackling blaze.

“What? No retort?” He held the book to the light. “Venus and Adonis. My, how your tastes have changed.”

Hazel eyes mocked her. Sitting on her heels with her legs folded beneath her, they were at eye level, yet she was out of her depth with her husband, a man of experience and position. Never had she been made to feel their difference, not until this moment.

“This was a mistake.” She pushed the cheroot box across the floor. “I thought these would make you happy.”

Ignoring the box, he flipped through the book. “Where did you get this?”

Yanking her skirts did nothing. “Let. Me. Go.”

His knee wouldn’t budge.

“Not until you tell me how you got the book.” He scowled and glanced up from the page. “Did he give it to you?”

“Herr Wolf? No. An actress gave it to me. When I was learning to read.”

Her cheeks flamed red when he paused on a nude print. He studied the picture, not particularly engrossed, yet not turning the page. “And you thought to check on me…with this.”

“I was worried. I knew you were angry with Mr. Beckworth talking about Khan, and I was…well, afraid you might—”

“Drink again.” He snapped the book shut.

“Yes. Now give it back.”

“You have that little faith in me?”

He was too close, filling her vision. A patch of hair sprinkled his chest. Two faint birthmarks, the size of pebbles, stained his skin high on his shoulder. How had she missed them?

“It’s the pressure. Why you’re here in Northumberland…your venture with Mr. Beckworth. Because of me, Herr Wolf singled you out.” Words spilled fast. “You could lose Khan, the horses—”

“And you.”

Air huffed from her lungs. During her impassioned argument, he’d set the book down and caressed her knee. The touch singed her. Sent messages to more sensitive places. Oh, he knew how to rub. The pad of his thumb teased her inner thigh with whisper-soft contact. Her legs folded under her body opened wider to give him better access. Her hems inched up her thighs, nudged by his tattooed arm.

Anticipation flooded her cleft. “H-have you figured out what you’re going to do?”

“About you? I’m close to a solution. One that sends the Wolf from our door.”

His voice rasped as though he’d spent all night in a smoky tavern. The effect tantalized, the same as his hand stroking her stocking-covered knee. Men had touched her knee before, but his touch turned her on end.

“I don’t despise you for what’s happened,” he said, one finger twirling her garter bow. “I despise myself. The setback at Atal’s made me more determined to change my life.” His laugh was dry as rust. “Ironically, I had to lose to win.”

Grim honesty pricked her heart. The loathing she witnessed wasn’t for her or his circumstances. It was for himself. Hazel eyes perused her while he played with her garter. Tiredness sketched thin lines under his eyes. He was in control, yet with his lips parted, the angle of his head near hers… He sought a kiss, but he didn’t.

He craved intimacy. He craved her.

She could be balancing atop a narrow fence. The fall would break her. In her mind, she teetered on, one foot in front of the other. His churlishness wouldn’t stop her. This was about being with Marcus, meeting need for need and not looking back.

“What will you do?”

Skilled hands rucked up one side of her skirt to her hip. Cold air kissed molten skin between her legs. Marcus smoothed his palm from her hip to knee, the fire’s hot orange glow bouncing off his skin. She was still sitting on her heels with her legs folded beneath her.

A little pressure from his hand and her skirts were at her hips. She was open to him.

Her breath caught.

Fine male lips curved with satisfaction. “No need to worry about what I’ll do,” he said, untying her garter. “The better question is, what if you stayed here? Permanently.”

Air fought its way in and out of her lungs. Her quim pulsed, swollen and wet. Though fully dressed, she was on display.

“As your housekeeper?”

His satyr’s smile spread. “As my wife.”

Soft pink lips opened wider. So did her knees. She grabbed handfuls of her skirts as her folded legs opened wider. Her wool stockings snagged on the floor, the little ripping sounds banking the fire in his eyes staring into hers.

She wanted him to look down.

“We’re not cut from the same cloth,” she argued, her voice hoarse. “You need to think about your fut—”

His finger grazed the hot, wet line between her legs. “Don’t think. Feel.”

She tilted forward, a slave to his finger stroking her cleft. Hot, dizzying, carnal sensations shocked her body. It was Marcus.

He knew how and where, even when, to touch.

* * *

Genevieve had come to him for sex. He’d known it as soon as he heard footsteps dithering outside his door. He’d give it, because he wanted her. Needed her. But would she stay? In the short time since she stepped inside his chamber, he’d coaxed and he’d bullied. He’d touched and teased to bring her to his bidding. One finger slowly stroked her quim the way he’d drag his finger through a dish of clotted cream.

In one weak moment, he’d almost given himself away—when she listed what he might lose.

Khan…the horses…her…

Lust battled love, the higher emotion nearly winning, but Genevieve’s eyes widening moments ago told him she was scared.

Of what?

He hated the other look he’d seen in her eyes: the one that feared he’d drink again, as if she saw a man of no substance. Whatever her fears, they’d passed. Her pink tongue dampened her upper lip. With the slim novel beside her, and intimate flesh bared, Genevieve was his to do with as he pleased.

His poor wife. She came up to scratch an itch, and he suggested something permanent.

“You’ll want to…marry a-a wealthy woman.” Her eyelids drooped. “At least someone near your station.”

He toyed with the garter before again brushing the crease between her naked thighs…all the better to keep her from talking about marrying another woman. “Planning my life for me, are you?”

She squeezed his wrist. “Please. I can’t think when you touch me.”

“That’s the idea.”

Cogs and wheels ticked behind her half-masked eyes. Young as she was, Genevieve had seen much, been used, and probably used others right back. She was no innocent, nor was she jaded by life. Practical. Clever, though poorly educated. And more than a little tenderhearted.

She released him, and one brow arched. “Undress for me.”

A frisson of delight got him in the smalls. He braced both hands on his knees, grinning. “Aren’t you a surprise?”

His skirted sergeant was back.

“I want to see you. All of you.” Her chin tilted up. “I didn’t get a good look before.”

“Do I get anything?”

“We’ll both get what we want.” She looped a finger in her shift’s cambric bow hanging over her bodice. A thin, blue line streaked her breast. She’d been painting again while he mulled over decisions in his bedchamber. The parlor’s mural, her sweet gift for him. His wife’s cool outer shell hid the best prize—her heart.

“Stay with me tonight.”

“You mean sleep with you.”

Silence was his answer. He’d not beg.

Her solemn mouth opened, and she nodded slowly. “I can do that. For this one night.”

“I forgot. I face a formidable negotiator.”

Amber hair undone and pale thighs exposed, she’d come far, opening up to him with her secrets and wants. What other bread crumbs must he leave to entice her?

“Undress for me,” she repeated, her eyes level with his.

A low, lusty laugh rolled up his chest. In the gentle combat between the sexes, he and his wife had just squared off in a duel. He stood, the chamber’s fire heating his back. One hand freed a button on his placket.

She locked onto his hand lingering on the second button.

“Now it’s your turn. Do something for me,” he said.

Her mild pout was worth the challenge. It pleased him to have the upper hand, if only to surrender at the right moment. Sex was as much a game as a revelation.

“Read to me, and I’ll undress.”

The familiar flush crept up her bodice to her neck and cheeks. “But I read slowly, and if there’s a difficult word…”

“Don’t play scared with me. I’ve seen your courage.” He tugged free another button, his gaze falling on the book. “Open it. Read anything. The more you read, the more I’ll undress.”

Genevieve’s mouth spread with a knowing feminine smile. She shook her head and, warming to the game, thumbed the pages. Her lush pink mouth opened and she started reading, the exact words lost on him. It was her alto voice he wanted, a balm to his battered spirit.

He eased off one stocking and tossed it aside. And the other stocking. One hand flicked another button free. Shakespeare likely never expected this: a woman with a paint-smeared breast sitting on the floor, her skirt around her waist, reading his poem aloud.

“‘She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, / He red for shame, but frosty in desire.’” Genevieve primly checked his placket. “You’re certainly not frosty.”

Smirking at her own commentary, she dove back into the text. He laughed and released two more buttons. Her confidence pleased him as much as her quip. She was beautiful. Perfect. He released the last button, and his breeches landed in a heap.

“Your smalls, Marcus.” Dark eyes glimpsed him over the book. “Take them off.”

Desire stiffened his phallus. The round head pressed against linen. “As you wish.”

His voice grew thicker. Time dripped like honey. He took his time untying his smalls, watching her a singular pleasure. If he inspected his undergarment, he was certain he’d find a damp spot wetting the front. Nor was he alone in his discomfort. The more she read, the more a flush darkened his wife’s cleavage.

“‘…and even now / To tie the rider she begins to prove: / Backward she pushed him as she would be thrust...’” She squirmed. Her tongue darted over her lips. Genevieve concealed a hand in her bunched-up skirts at the juncture of her thighs.

The vixen was trying to touch herself.

“‘And governed him…in strength”—her voice slowed—“‘though not in lust…’”

Dark eyes flirted over the book. Heat nicked the back of his legs. Genevieve’s scrutiny, just as hot, sent a featherlight shiver across his skin.

He hooked a thumb in his smalls. “You want these off? Now?”

She nodded, a smile playing on her lips. “All the way.”

He pushed them down, and his erection sprang free, the tip glistening. As he kicked his clothes away, the urgency was killing him. He couldn’t wait. Grabbing the mantel with one hand, he stroked himself with the other, spreading the milky drops over the crown.

The book slumped to her lap. “What are you doing?”

“Pleasuring myself.”

Groaning, he rubbed his shaft up and down. His hips jerked. The hunger was sharp. Pressure spread in his abdomen. He cupped his cock’s round tip, playing with it, watching Genevieve watch him. The ache felt painfully good.

“Wait.” Genevieve scrambled upright, dropping the book. She stayed his hand, bumping into him. Her hand, her arms shook. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Please.”

If he touched her, what would happen?

She reached up and lightly traced his shoulder. So intent. Shudders darted through his body. The birthmarks. He’d forgotten about them. Staring at the ceiling, he gulped a mouthful of air.

Get ahold of yourself.

Her other hand rubbed his hip before sliding to his buttocks. She spread her fingers over his backside, her caresses lingering as if she measured its size.

“Finding something to your liking, Lady Bowles?”

She gave him a squeeze. “You have the finest bottom, Lord Bowles. And an even better heart,” she whispered, searching his face. “Whatever you decide, I believe in you. More than I ever thought I could with a man.”

Something melted inside him. Her lustrous eyes glowed, and from their depths, her sensual nature twined with deeper emotions. He touched the side of her mouth. So pretty. So sensible, his Genevieve. Gently his fingers slid over her bottom lip, opening her to him. Her lashes fluttered low. Her pink tongue darted out, grazing his fingertip.

He needed his wife, her taste, her warmth.

Opening his mouth, he bent low. His erection rubbed her skirt, the friction sublime. He brushed her lips. Slowly. Reverently. Their mouths closed together, the bond pure.

The kiss was flawless. And hot.

Pulling apart, they savored the silence. Hands linked, they kissed softly. Again and again, drowning in each other. He couldn’t be sure who, but one of them led the other to his bed. Genevieve reached behind her, untying the tapes of her underskirt. He pulled her shift’s bow flopping over her bodice and drew a line across tempting, ample flesh.

He lingered on the blue streak on her breast. “You’re my Pictish warrior, painting yourself with woad.”

Her skirt slid down. “Explain Pictish to me later. My clothes,” she huffed. “I shouldn’t have let you get undressed first.”

As she tugged on her front lacing, her body jostled from fast undressing. The clothes. They needed to come off. Hands behind her back, Genevieve leaned in to him, stealing a kiss. Once the connection was made, neither wanted to stop. Their hungry mouths locked; he worked her gown’s front cinches. Frantic fingers worked the laces too fast. The tie snapped. Her bodice drooped, and in a flurry, his hands and hers pushed the gray, patched gown over her head, pulling away from their kiss a moment before their mouths connected again.

A piece of the black tie was in hand. He mumbled an apology against her mouth and dropped it.

Genevieve stroked his erection, her lips moving over his. “Doesn’t matter.”

Hot sparks gathered in his abdomen. Pressure and want throbbed with her hand’s up-and-down rhythm. Lips and tongues touched. The inferno was building, and he was helpless to slow it.

He growled a profane word. “You feel so good, and I’m not inside you yet.”

She laughed against his lips, the sound deep and lusty, heating his skin better than the hearth. Her shift was the final barrier. Genevieve rubbed against him. Under the cambric, her breasts jostled.

Both hands gripped the wide neckline and pulled the shift down fast over her breasts. The garment caught on her elbows, stopping her busy hands. But her breasts…the sight of them made up for his cock’s loss.

His eyes feasted on round, pearled skin and one light-colored nipple, beading to a tight point. She was larger than the average woman. Two hands cupped one breast. Amber locks draped his hands holding her. Her dark eyes glinted with a sultry plea.

“Suckle me.”

Genevieve had full command tonight. He could deny her nothing. His mouth covered her nipple, spreading wider. She gasped, arching into him. Soft sucks. A little harder. Her tight nipple tickled the flat of his tongue as did the little bumps on her areola.

She moaned and wiggled. Her fingers raked his scalp. He kissed her cleavage and sucked her other breast, frenzied and hot, desperate to taste every inch of her. Her shift bunching at her waist was the final barrier between his skin and hers. Genevieve wiggled against him. Her heat, the cloth antagonized him. Under the cambric, her hips writhed as their kisses turned frantic.

In the tangle, their bodies dipped and tumbled onto the bed. The counterpane was cool to scorching skin. Genevieve wrapped around him, her body grinding his. He braced himself over her, working his way to her mouth, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses on her arm, her neck, her ear.

Never had he lacked such finesse. Or patience.

“Gen,” he panted. “I can’t…”

Her mouth silenced his. Feminine fingernails scraped his chest, his nipples.

“Ahhhuuuhhh,” he cried.

“You feel…so good,” she said between feverish kisses on his jaw.

“No.” He buckled, the crown of his penis touching her slick inner folds covered by her shift.

Her bare foot rubbed his calf. “Now, Marcus. Now.”

His erection throbbed enough to hurt. He yanked up the hem and bunched the shift around her waist. Amber hair spread across his bed. Genevieve watched him from under thick blunt lashes, a woman waiting to be pleasured. Her chin was rosy red. His whiskers.

He positioned himself between her legs and kissed the stubborn chin he adored. “My whiskers…I’m sorry.”

Arching into him, Genevieve raked her fingers through his hair again. “I’m not.”

And she gave him a lusty smile. It said service me.

Her legs fell open. With her hands in his hair, she’d not guide him in. The tip of his erection landed in her slick folds. He sucked air between clenched teeth. A quiver skimmed his spine. Her nether lips were warm and wet. Genevieve’s body bowed to accept him. He fumbled the insertion the first time. The crown of his penis bumped her a second time. He’d lost all finesse to the craze of lust. Her hips writhed beneath him. The imperfect rubbing. The yearning to be inside her. He pushed again for her entry, and slid deep inside Genevieve to the music of her moans.

His back arched. Every inch of his skin tingled.

Being inside Genevieve was primal.

This was what he came north for. For her. For a lifetime of happiness if she’d stay.

Seated inside her body, he waited. He was losing what little control he had.

“I can’t…be…smooth,” he huffed when her inner muscles gloved his cock. His fingertips dug into the sheets.

“Don’t be.” Her breath came in starts and stops against his neck.

She bit the sinew connecting his shoulder and neck, and he felt the mark all the way to his ass.

Grinning, he pushed up higher. “If you’re playing that way.”

He pushed in and out. He wanted to tease her…slow strokes at her entrance with artfully timed deep thrusts. But a second deep slide inside Genevieve, and he was lost. There’d be no practiced sex. This was elemental. Thirst after a long drought.

In and out. Harder and faster. He set his hand behind her knee and pushed her knee up to her ribs. Genevieve was wide open to him. His thrusts were wild, imperfect. She pumped hard against him, her heavy breaths turning to cries and moans beneath him.

Her eyes shut.

“Look at me.” His voice was ragged. Sweat trickled down his back.

Genevieve opened her lids halfway. The bed creaked violently. Skin slapped skin. Her breasts jostled in time to the slick honeyed sounds where their bodies joined. Dampness sheened her skin.

“Marcus,” she cried, her arms falling wide.

Hot, wet feminine muscles pulsed around him. Dark. Intense. Craving him. Genevieve clutched the sheets. Her face crumpled. The tendons on her neck stood out in full relief. A blush stole over her skin before easing…setting her free, her pleasure peaking with a tortured moan this time.

He pushed once, twice. Every muscle in his body tightened before his seed released inside her. Quakes racked his body. A second wave rolled down his spine, and more seed spurted deep in her womb, taking sound reasoning with it.

Lungs billowing, Marcus collapsed. Still inside Genevieve, he rolled sideways, holding her, tucking her close.

Genevieve’s mouth pressed his collarbone, each breath fast and hot against him. “Please,” she whispered. “Tell me the story of Venus and Adonis.”

Blankets and pillows bunched around them. Firelight danced across Genevieve’s pale skin, all bare save the one black stocking drooping at her knee and her shift still bunched around her waist. She curled closer for warmth.

Their coupling had exhausted him, yet Marcus lay wide-eyed, his senses pulsing with life.

He was made for her.

Head on the pillow, he stared at the canopy above. Soft-skinned limbs twined with his, anchoring him to her, to Pallinsburn. He couldn’t leave if he tried.

Did the humble miss from Tavistock Street know she’d won him for life?

Genevieve’s cheek mashed his chest. “The story. Tell me what happens.”

“Venus and Adonis? You are a lusty wench.”

She scratched his ribs, her sleepy laughter prodding him.

“Well, let me see. There is Adonis on his horse about to go hunting. Fair Venus is taken with him…” Marcus began, his smile fading.

He’d give his version of the tale and let Genevieve fall asleep. She didn’t need to hear how the tragic love story ended.

It could be their own.