When she finished bathing, she instructed Meg to leave her hair down, then she excused her abigail for the night. Elizabeth walked to her bed where her night rail and robe awaited her. Both garments had been especially ordered for her trousseau. Admiring them, she brushed her fingertips over the gossamer-thin fabric and costly lace.

She paused as her wedding ring caught the candlelight. It was so different from the much simpler set chosen by Hawthorne. Marcus had given her a massive diamond ring, the large center stone surrounded by a multitude of rubies. It was impossible to ignore, a blatant claim to her, and if that was not enough, the Westfield crest was etched upon the band.

There was a quick rap at her bedroom door and Elizabeth moved to pick up the night rail, then thought better of it. Her husband was a man of voracious sexual appetite and his interest lately had been less than warm. If she hoped to keep him engaged, she would have to be more daring. She didn’t have the experience his many lovers had, but she had enthusiasm. One could only hope that would be enough.

Disregarding the garments, she called for him to enter. She took a fortifying breath and turned around. Marcus opened the door and then came to a halt just inside. Dressed in a thick black satin robe, his body visibly tensed at the sight of her. Frozen on the threshold, his emerald eyes smoldered and a tingling awareness flared over her skin. Elizabeth fought back the urge to cover herself with her hands, lifting her chin in a display of courage she didn’t feel.

His low and husky voice brought goose bumps to her skin. “Wearing no more than my ring, you are beyond beautiful.”

He stepped inside and closed the door, his movements deceptively casual. But she was not deceived. She sensed the fine, taut alertness about him. She watched in fascination as the front of his robe twitched and then rose with his erection. Her mouth watered, her nails digging into her palms as she waited for the halves of the robe to part and reveal that part of him she coveted.

“You’re staring, love.”

His robe swirled gently around his legs as he crossed the room to her, his body drawing close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. His scent of sandalwood and citrus surrounded her, and her nipples peaked tight and hard, spreading sharp tendrils of desire from her breasts to her sex. She bit back a moan. Her desire for him increased by the day, aggravated by the forced celibacy of the last month.

When had she become such a wanton?

“I—I’ve missed you,” she exhaled, waiting desperately for his touch.

“Have you?” He stared down at her with a rapt expression and she returned the scrutiny, noting the rigidness of his jaw that belied the heat of his gaze. He’d grown so distant, a charming stranger. Then his hand was between her legs, his long middle finger slipping through the lips of her sex to glide through her cream. “Yes, I see you have.”

She whimpered when he pulled away and Marcus soothed her with a soft murmur.

His hands moved without haste to the belt of his robe. He tugged the trailing ends free and parted the edges, revealing the rippling power of his abdomen and the hard, pulsing length of his cock. Framed by the ebony lining of his robe, his lean body was stunning.

Elizabeth tore her gaze upward and met his. She said what she needed him to know, needed him to understand. “You belong to me.”

Wanting to break through the sudden chill in his features, she lifted her hand, her fingertips drifting along the side of his throat and farther down his chest. He sucked in a breath, his skin heating under her touch.

Her mouth curved as she relished the power she held over him. She’d never known it could be like this, had never really wanted it to be like this, but he was hers now. That fact altered everything.

Marcus lifted her by the waist and took the one step to the bed. “Lady Westfield,” he growled, setting her down on the very lip and surging forward, his cock piercing deep into her with a single heavy thrust.

Elizabeth cried out, writhing away from the unexpected and painful intrusion, but he held her fast. He forced himself over her, pressing her into the bed, his robe a silken cage around their joined bodies. His mouth captured hers in a devastating kiss, his tongue thrusting in a blatant rhythm that robbed her of her senses.

This was no careful, coaxing seduction, as their previous encounters had been. This was a claiming of the basest kind, one that left her momentarily stunned and confused. She knew his touch, her senses recognized his scent and the feel of his body, but the man himself was a stranger to her. So intent and brutally possessive, throbbing hot and hard inside her.

One large hand found her breast and squeezed roughly, breaking her temporary paralysis. His thighs tightened against hers as he slid a fraction deeper. She struggled beneath him, turning her head to gasp for air. His lips moved on, trailing down her cheek, his teeth nipping sharply at her earlobe.

“You belong to me,” he said gruffly.

A threat. She stilled as realization hit.

He wanted her submission. The ring, his name, her desire … it was not enough to soothe him.

“Why take what I would give freely?” she whispered, wondering if perhaps it was the only way he could have her, the only way she’d ever given herself. She thought back, trying to remember a time when she’d tendered herself without duress.

He groaned and buried his face in her neck. “You’ve given me nothing freely. I’ve paid with blood for all that I have of you.”

Elizabeth’s hands slipped beneath his robe and caressed the rippling cords of his back. He arched into her touch, sweating in his need, grinding his hips desperately against hers until she soothed him with her voice. “Let me give you what you want.”

Marcus clasped Elizabeth to his chest with a crushing grip, biting the top of her shoulder as her cunt rippled along his cock in a teasing caress. “Witch,” he whispered, laving the indentions left by his teeth.

He’d come to her room with a singular purpose, to slake their mutual need and consummate the marriage so long in coming. It was meant to be a dance, one of which he knew all the steps, a carefully planned encounter without the unwanted abandoned intimacy. But she’d met him naked, gilded by firelight, hair tumbled about her shoulders and chin lifted with a Jezebel’s pride. She’d stood there and said he belonged to her. All these years she’d cared nothing for him, and now, now, after all he’d suffered, she claimed the victory.

And she had won. He was ensnared, gripped tight by her lithe thighs and creamy depths, her fingers kneading and drifting across his back.

Lost in her embrace, he arched his spine upward and kissed a fiery trail down her throat to her breasts. He licked and savored the pale skin, stroking the sides with his hands, cupping their weight as they become heavy and taut. Her nipples peaked tight, an irresistible lure, and he bit one crest, worrying it with his teeth before laving the hardened flesh with leisurely laps of his tongue. Marking her. As he would mark her everywhere.

Only when she begged did his mouth open and engulf her completely. He suckled her with slow, deep, rhythmic pulls of his tongue and lips, shuddering as the sensation traveled through her body to milk his cock. He could come like this, just from the measured clench and release of her silky tissues. Enflamed by the thought, he hollowed his cheeks, increasing the suction. His eyes drifted closed, his body shuddered as his sac drew up. He swiveled his hips, rubbing her clitoris, and then groaned with her orgasm, releasing his need in burning hot streams of semen.

Gasping and only partially sated, he released her breast and rested his head upon it, wondering if he would ever have enough of her.

Her fingers drifted into his hair. “Marcus …”

He rose above her, his arms on either side of her shoulders, and Elizabeth stared up at her husband, attempting to gauge his odd mood. His handsome face was so austere, his eyes searching hers. And she quivered, almost afraid. He looked angry, with his narrowed emerald gaze and harshly drawn mouth. Then he pulled away, the warmth of his body leaving hers, and she was bereft. How could he be equally absorbed and distant?

Marcus stood above his wife, taking in the sight of her sprawled and flushed pink, her thighs spread wantonly, revealing all that he coveted. His erection, covered in her cream, grew cold, but didn’t diminish. He watched, arrested, as his seed dribbled from between her legs. His hand reached forward, collected it on his fingertips, and spread it around the lips of her cunt, massaging the clitoris that peeped from its hood.

Mine, mine, mine … all mine …

Half mad with relief and pleasure and desire, he spread his semen around her sex, watching her arch and writhe, listening to her beg and plead with a detachment that was not detached at all.

Every inch of satin skin belonged to him, every raven hair on her head, every breath she took. For the rest of their lives he could touch her like this, own her like this.

All mine …

The thought made him hard as stone, swollen and heavy as if he hadn’t just spent himself in her. He stepped forward again, took his cock in hand, and massaged her with the tip. “Take me inside you.”

Half expecting her reticence, he groaned when she lifted her hips immediately, engulfing the sensitive head of his cock in liquid, burning heat. He arched his hips and filled her, falling onto his outstretched arms as he sank into the heart of her. It was heaven, the blazing clasp of her cunt around his cooled shaft. If only he could remain like this forever. But he couldn’t. Despite how right it felt, it was all wrong.

Gripping her shoulders to pin her in place, Marcus pressed his face against the side of her neck and began to fuck her, his strokes fierce with his hunger, skin slapping against skin. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she rose to meet his every thrust, returning his ardor, holding nothing in reserve, shamelessly crying out on every downward plunge. He battered her with his lust, and she took it, accepted it as she’d promised she would.

“Yes,” she cried, her nails in his back. “Marcus … Yes!”

It was like drowning, being sucked into a whirlpool, and he grit his teeth and fought against it. Yanking out of her encircling arms, he stood, feet flat on the rugged floor. One hand gripping the bed post, he withdrew from her body until only the tip remained encased, every nerve ending in his body screaming its protest.

Elizabeth burned. Everything burned—her skin, her sex, the roots of her hair. Frustrated tears wept from her eyes. “Don’t deny me!”

“I should,” he bit out. “For years I was denied.”

Rising to brace on her elbows, she stared at the place where they joined, where she ached. She had no power in this, none. And she would acknowledge that if she must. “You feel so good,” she choked out. “I will do anything—”

“Anything?” He rewarded her with a scant inch.

“Yes. For God’s sake, Marcus.”

He thrust deep and withdrew. Swiveled his hips and plunged. A shallow dip and then gone. Teasing her. And she watched the erotic display, the rippling of his abdomen as he fucked with such skill, the tensing of his thighs as he used his thick, beautiful cock to drive her mad.

She wanted to scream. Her skin was damp with sweat, her limbs trembling, her sex weeping. “What do you want from me?”

Continuing to vary the pace and depth of his fucking, his eyes never left her face. “Everything.”

“You have it! I have nothing left.”

He took her then, like a ravening beast, gripping the bedpost with white-knuckled force for leverage, the thrusts powerful enough to move her up the bed. He followed, pumping hard and deep with little care for her comfort.

Unable and unwilling to deny him, Elizabeth gave herself up to the turbulence of her husband’s passion, her orgasm breaking with a cry of relief.

Marcus held himself above her, watching her abandon, absorbing her trembling, feeling her body tighten exquisitely around him even as he continued to take her.

He could not remember any time when he had been more caught up in the sexual act. His entire body was covered in a slick sheen of sweat, his hips working tirelessly to prolong her pleasure and hurtle himself toward his own. He growled with the sheer animal enjoyment of making love to his wife, a fiercely passionate woman who goaded his desire and then met it with her own.

Feeling, emotion, need—they both worked together to take him to a level of sensation he had never experienced before. His heart aching, he gasped her name as he poured himself into her, wishing desperately for it to be enough, but knowing it would never be. The bottomless well of his need was terrifying. Even now, spewing into her, clutching her desperately, gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, he still wanted more.

Would always want more, even when there was no more to be had.

He rolled from her as if she burned him. His chest heaving, he stared at the canopy, waiting for his eyes to focus, waiting for the room to cease its spinning. The moment it did, he left his wife’s bed.

Her scent on his skin, her soft protest behind him, Marcus belted his robe and left her room.

He didn’t look back.

Chapter 17

Elizabeth woke to a bright ray of sunshine that snuck between the tiny gap in the curtains and slanted across her face. Stretching, she became aware of the soreness between her legs, a pressing reminder of her husband’s rough lovemaking and even rougher departure.

She slid out of bed slowly and stood for a moment contemplating what she now knew to be true. Marcus had married her for his vengeance and he’d gotten it from her tenfold, because some time between the horrendous evening in the Chesterfield garden and yesterday, she’d grown to care for him. A foolish, painful error.

Resigned to the fate she’d walked into with eyes wide open, she called for Meg and the footmen to bring up hot water for her bath, determined to scrub her husband’s scent from her skin.

She’d cried the first and last time over Marcus Ashford. Why she’d thought their marriage would be a deeper union was something she couldn’t recollect in the bright light of day. She imagined it was the sex. Too many orgasms had rattled her brain. In all fairness, his boredom had been obvious for weeks. Marcus had made no effort to hide it. Still, he’d been solicitous and courteous up until the night previous, and she had no expectation that he would change now that he’d exacted his revenge. She would afford him the same courtesy in return. So her second marriage would be much like her first, distant personages sharing a name and roof. It was not unusual.

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