Her Protector's Pleasure (27 page)

His throat grew dry as she moved onto his waistcoat. "Why are you doing all this?"

Rising on her knees, she kissed his jaw, murmuring, "I should think my intentions rather obvious."

"I don't mean this. I mean,"—his voice went raspy as she investigated his ear with soft nibbles and licks—"why are you being so kind to my family?"

She drew back, smiled at him. "I like them."

"You do, truly?" he said.

"Why do you sound surprised?"

Because my ex-fiancée called them a raggedy, ill-bred lot.
Shame crept over him to realize that Jane's words had somehow stuck in his memory. Shrugging, he searched for the right words.

"We aren't what one would call a conventional family. My siblings are spirited and bright—probably too much so for their own good. And my father isn't well. 'Twas the apoplexy that changed him. Before that he was the most intelligent man I knew."

"The physicians told you the changes were due to apoplexy?"

Ambrose frowned. "Do you doubt it?"

"I'm no medical expert. But Samuel seemed quite lucid over dinner."

"He had you to flirt with," Ambrose said wryly. "That'll get any man's attention right quick."

"Precisely. He reacted as any other man would in that situation. Ergo, he seems perfectly rational to me."

Ambrose considered that observation. "His confusion ... it comes and goes."

"Perhaps it comes on more when he is lonely and lessens when he has a distraction." Marianne paused. "I've seen grief masquerade as confusion. Your father's symptoms began after your stepmother's death, did they not?"

Ambrose blinked. "Aye."

"He loved her very much, I think. Such a loss could befuddle a sensitive man."

Why had this not occurred to him before? If Samuel's muddled state was due to grieving, then perhaps one day he would heal, return to his old self … Feeling an odd pressure behind his eyes, Ambrose blinked and reached for Marianne's hand. He linked his fingers through hers.

"Thank you," he said, his tone husky. "It is good to talk—to hear another's advice."

"You are helping me," she replied softly. "Can I not return the favor?"

Guilt lanced him. The
last
thing he wished was for her to feel indebted to him. "I will help you no matter what. I'm making progress with the investigation. There is no obligation—"

Her lips silenced him. Stole his thoughts, his breath. He fell back with her against the satin sheets and, rolling atop, he kissed her neck, the supple dip above her collarbones. She tugged at his shirt, and he yanked the rough linen over his head. Fumbling with the tie of her robe, he pushed aside the gossamer panels. His heart stuttered; no matter how many times he saw those flawless curves, they would always stun him. Because she was beautiful—too damned beautiful for the likes of him. And because ...

Because he was falling in love with her.

The truth drummed in his chest, the rhythm one of panic. Beyond the fact that their relationship was built upon a lie, he could not ask the woman he loved to sacrifice a life of privilege for him. A temporary affair was all—more—than he had right to.

He tried to shut out the cold surge of desolation. To focus instead on the sweet heat of the enchantress in his arms. To take what the moment offered ... save it up for the long years ahead.

"What is it?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" Heat crept up his neck.

Her celadon eyes narrowed. "What are you thinking about, Ambrose? And before you say
nothing
, let me remind you that I am not a fool."

"Of course you aren't." He twirled one pale curl around his finger, buying himself time. Devil and damn, why couldn't he just take his pleasures like other men? For him, why did lust have to mingle with longings far more complicated? He was not ready to have this conversation. Unbridled lovemaking seemed a safer alternative.

"I was thinking ..."
Let it go, man.
The strand unraveled from his finger, and he heard himself say, "About the future."

"The future." A pause. "Between ... you and me?"

The incredulity of her tone provoked him. Was the notion so very absurd to her? Though he understood—and would never ask her to forgo her status and life of luxury for him—her astonishment nonetheless stung. He rolled off of her, rising to sit at the edge of the bed.

"Forget it." He reached for his shirt. "I should go."

"What? Why? Look at me, Ambrose."

He was a man unused to making a fool of himself. To wanting what was beyond his means. Humiliation washed over him.

Meeting her vivid gaze, he said stiffly, "I can't risk my family seeing me in here. They are not accustomed to the workings of high society. We Kents lack such sophistication."

A shadow flickered in the clear depths of her eyes. Anger? Hurt? What did she have to be hurt about? He was the one so below her estimation that the mere idea of a relationship with him shocked her.

"Is that how you see me? Sophisticated and jaded? A dissolute widow out for a good fuck?"

Her sharp tone drew him back. Why was
she
attacking
him
?

"I never said that," he said tersely.

"You didn't have to. Your actions speak volumes." She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, and for a brief second, he was distracted by those heaving white globes, the taut rosy peaks. "Are you even listening to me?"

He snapped his eyes up. "Of course I am. But I have no idea what you're talking about. To what actions do you refer?" he said, matching his tone to hers.

"Oh, I don't know ... how about the fact that you
lied
?"

His stomach slammed into his throat. Had she somehow discovered the contract with Bow Street ...?

"Are you so ashamed of me, Ambrose"—her voice caught for a fraction of a second—"that you cannot tell your family the truth?"

He frowned. "I'm afraid you've lost me."

"You lied to your family about our relationship," she said succinctly, "and you've got Emma lying, too. I heard you both at supper telling everyone I'm providing a roof over their heads because I'm your patron. The altruistic widow who took pity on her employee's family."

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe I called you altruistic. Nor that we Kents were on the receiving end of pity. That aside, what would you have me tell my family?"

"How about the truth?" she shot back. "Unless, of course, it is too debased for your high moral standards."

He stared at her, stupefied. "You think I am misleading my family about the nature of our relationship because of
morality
?"

"Why else would you hide the fact that we are lovers?" Flags of color appeared on her high cheekbones. "I am not an idiot, Ambrose. I know what my reputation is." Despite the quaver in her voice, her chin angled upward. "I'd hoped that you saw me differently."

Understanding dawned. Incredible as it seemed, could this magnificent creature be insecure about …
herself
? "You
are
an idiot," he said.

"How dare you—"

He didn't give her a chance to finish. Dodging her slap, he caged her against the mattress. Kissed her until she melted against him, her lips pliant against his once more.

"We're both idiots," he murmured, "you for thinking I could be ashamed of you. And me ... for being ashamed of myself."

"You?" She stared up at him from the pillows. "What have you to be ashamed about?"

He found it surprisingly difficult to meet her gaze. "You and I both know I'm not the kind of man you typically consort with."

"Typically
consort with
?" For some reason, that got her going again. She glared at him and pushed at his shoulders. "How many men do you think I've been with?"

He sensed a trap. "Er, I haven't ... that is ..."

"Two, Kent. And that
includes
you," she said acidly.

He hadn't thought he could smile at so perilous a moment. From their previous lovemaking, he'd guessed she was inexperienced. The fact that she'd known only one other lover filled him with primitive satisfaction. Less memories to compete with. More firsts to give her—

"Why must men be so asinine?" she sputtered, apparently catching wind of his thoughts. "Just get off me, you lummox. Get off—and get out."

He didn't budge. Instead, he blew out a breath and said, "I'm sorry. Forgive me, sweetheart?"

Her lashes formed lush crescents against her porcelain skin. "You're apologizing?"

"'Tis what one does when one is at wrong. I should not have assumed that you'd want to keep our affair a secret," he said. "That is why I kept it from my family: I wanted to protect your reputation."

"You did it for
me
?"

Her surprise struck a chord of tenderness this time. So strong yet so fragile, his
selkie
. He cupped her cheek. "It certainly wasn't for my own sake." Sobering, he forced himself to address the reality of their situation. "I haven't a reputation to lose, Marianne. I'm not rich or titled—no one gives a damn what I do or whom I sleep with. But you ... any man would count himself blessed to be your lover." Gruffly, he admitted, "I suppose I don't know why you've chosen me."

"You're right—you are an
idiot.
" She tugged down on his head until his nose nearly touched hers. "Haven't you heard anything I've said to you? I've never met another man like you, Ambrose. Not a single one."

He shook his head. "I'm a simple man. An ordinary one."

One with too many troubles. His ex-betrothed's voice played in his head:
I won't go down with a sinking ship.
Compared to Jane, Marianne had far more to lose in terms of status and opportunity. How could he ask such a sacrifice of her?

"I've told you before. You do know what your problem is, don't you?" she said.

His father's debts? His motherless siblings? Or perhaps the fact that in order to protect the woman he loved, he was lying to her like the veriest scoundrel?

"You've told me before: you think I'm a prig," he said dully. "A moralistic snob."

Hell, he agreed with her. His foolish pride had been his downfall. If only he could go back, do things differently …

"No, I think you're a man who takes too much on his shoulders." Her hand came to rest against his jaw, and her touch was tender, so very good. To his shame, he could not bring himself to part from it. "Why must you go at everything alone?"

She'd exposed it: the cold, solitary truth.

"Because," he said, his voice raw, "there's no one to go at it with."

Sea-green depths glimmered up at him. "I've long stopped trusting in the future. In making promises when I've yet to fulfill the one vow that matters most—the one that I made to Primrose the day she was taken." Her voice hitching, Marianne said, "I haven't much to offer. But what I have—this moment—I give gladly to you. Tonight I am yours, if you'll have me."

"It's more than I deserve," he said roughly.

So much more—but I can't let you go. God help me, I can't.

Before she could respond, he took her lips, drank in the cinnamon succor of her kiss. For however long this fantasy—this
now
—lasted, she was his. He'd be a fool to waste a single moment of it. Leveraging onto his side, he explored the delights before him. Her full, firm breasts, those lovely nipples which he had to taste again. He bent his head ... blinking when he suddenly found himself pushed onto his back.

Marianne climbed over him, straddling his hips. Her hair cascaded to her waist, offering peek-a-boo views of her creamy skin. When her dewy thatch brushed against his abdomen, his cock rose in an immediate salute beneath his smalls.

"I want to try something different tonight," she whispered. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," he managed. "Just tell me what you want, and I'll—" He bit out a groan as she gently raked her nails over one of his nipples.

"I want you to lie there and let me explore as I wish. Could you do that?" His shaft turned harder than an iron pike, ready to tear through his trousers as she murmured, "Can you let me take charge, Ambrose?"

God Almighty, he'd never been asked such a thing. In the past, he'd always focused on his partner's needs. It had been a point of pride, in fact. He knew he was neither handsome nor rich, but he had the desire and the skill to see to his bedmate's satisfaction. Marianne's request, however, turned the tables. No woman had wanted to take the reins from him before. No woman had looked at him with such hunger in her eyes—with such sweet, wicked desire.

By Jove, what was Marianne capable of? Flames of anticipation licked his spine, made hotter by the spark of uncertainty. Could he relinquish control, put himself at the mercy of this naughty, unpredictable
selkie
? She wetted her lips, a small nervous motion, and he realized
she
was nervous too. Within that alluring skin lay vulnerability: this was about seduction, yes, but also something else. Something deeper she wanted to show him.

His reply emerged, thick and guttural. "Do as you wish, sweetheart."

TWENTY-NINE

A thrill tingled over Marianne's skin.
He trusts me. He's letting me take control.

She hadn't realized until that moment how very badly she wanted him to have faith in her. Perhaps it was her own sense of honor that demanded
quid pro quo
: after all, she had yielded more to him than she had to any man. Was it any surprise that she expected his trust in return? Yet this was about more than equality. Or even trust. What she truly wanted was to ... ease his pain. To take away this proud, self-reliant man's solitude, if only for the night.

Recalling instructions he'd once given her, she said, "Put your hands on the headboard, then. And don't move them until I say so."

His amber eyes watchful, he reached behind his head, his long fingers curling around two wooden spindles. Eyeing the lean, delicious stretch of him, she felt a warm flutter in her belly.

"Like that?" he said gravely.