How to Manage a Marquess (30 page)

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Authors: Sally MacKenzie

BOOK: How to Manage a Marquess
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Music filled the small room with beauty and passion and grace.
Anne curled up on the window seat to listen, and in a few minutes Poppy came in and hopped up next to her. She even allowed Anne to stroke her.
Oh, lud. Silly tears welled up.
It was only because of the music. She had nothing to cry about. She was the new Spinster House spinster. She was independent. She was free.
She was lonely.
No, that wasn't it. She liked being alone. She didn't need people around her to be happy.
She just needed this person. Lord Haywood. Nate.
Poppy butted against her hand, and she started petting her again.
She wanted Nate's fingers to move over her the way they did over the harpsichord's keyboard, with confidence and skill, to play her body just as he had at Banningly Manor. More, she wanted him to feel for her what he clearly felt for the music—passion, dedication, desire—yet tenderness, too.
She felt all those things for him.
She loved him. Not for the silly things so many Society girls looked for in a husband—wealth, title, social power. Not even for his handsome face and strong body, though those attributes were certainly appealing.
No, she loved him for his gentleness with Stephen and Edward; his friendship with Eleanor; his loyalty to—no, his
love
for the Duke of Hart, whom he'd tried so long to protect and whose marriage he'd come to witness even though he thought the union was tantamount to suicide.
But most of all she loved him for his kindness to her. He could have laughed at her and mocked her when she'd been so frightened during those thunderstorms, but instead he'd comforted her.
Well, he'd done rather more than comfort her that night at the Manor.
She loved him—but did he love her? And would he consider marriage now that his cousin had wed?
Nate's fingers finally stopped. The resulting silence was not calm and companionable, but tense with longing, at least on her part.
Poppy looked up at her as if to say,
Go ahead. Tell him you love him
.
Anne looked at Nate and her heart twisted. What did a cat know about the human soul? Nate was suffering. Of course he was. He thought Marcus was going to die. He didn't need to be burdened with her declaration of love.
But she had to say something. The silence was getting rather oppressive.
“Do you still blame me for your cousin's marriage?”
Poppy yowled in an odd, almost-disgusted sort of way, jumped down, and, tail high, walked out of the room.
* * *
“Hmm?” The music had done what the sun could not—begun to dispel the heavy darkness in his heart and allow him to feel again.
“I said, do you blame me for your cousin's marriage?”
That's right—he'd meant to apologize to Miss Davenport for his rudeness when he'd arrived in Loves Bridge.
“No. I did blame you, but I was wrong to do so.” He glanced up at her briefly. “You didn't force Marcus into Catherine's bed.”
The curse did.
His fingers jerked, filling the air with a dissonant chord.
He stared back down at the keyboard. Pain, and yes, fear coiled inside him.
Perhaps being numb was better.
“I only wish . . .”
Anne was at his side, one hand resting on his shoulder. “Don't worry. Perhaps marrying for love
will
break the curse. And I do think the duke loves Cat.”
“Yes.” He clenched his teeth, his eyes still on the keyboard, though what he saw was Marcus's face. “I wish I knew now what was going to happen . . . then.” Waiting was going to be hell, and the closer the duchess got to delivering her child, the harder it would be.
He felt so bloody powerless.
He
was
so bloody powerless.
Anne's fingers tightened on his shoulder and he looked up.
She was biting her lip. Was she worrying about him?
Something warm threaded through him, causing a bit more of his frozen, dead heart to come back to life. Worry meant caring, and caring meant a connection.
He wasn't completely alone.
She looked away. “Would you like to see the rest of the house, Lord Haywood?” she asked, rather too brightly. “I should point out, though, that Poppy has moved on. It might be safe to slip off if you'd rather.”
No. He didn't want to be alone again so soon.
“I'm quite sure the cat will hunt me down if I even consider departing without its explicit approval, Miss Davenport, so I'd better take the tour. I value my boots and my skin too much to risk further enraging your feline friend.”
Anne laughed. “Very well. This way.”
She showed him the sitting room with its tired, outdated furniture and its hideous picture of a hunting dog carrying a dead bird. She showed him the kitchen. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and looked into a small bedchamber and a cluttered storage room. There wasn't much of interest.
Or perhaps the problem was he was far too interested in her swaying hips, slim waist, and soft, golden hair.
His heart might not be back to life, but his cock certainly was. Not that he would act on the heat rising in him, but he cherished it anyway. It meant he was alive.
“And this was Isabelle Dorring's room,” Anne said.
They'd found the cat. It was sprawled in the middle of the bed.
Where Anne would sleep.
His cock went from pleasantly interested to hard and stiff. It urged him to scoop Anne up, toss her down on the bed, and have his wicked, wonderful way with her.
The cat stared at his crotch, sneezed, and then proceeded to thoroughly lick its own private parts.
“That's all there is to see, Lord Haywood,” Anne said, smiling. “I'm certain Poppy will excuse you now”—she turned to look at the cat—“won't you, Poppy?”
He had no idea how the animal managed it, but it looked at him with utter disdain, as if he were the most annoying, idiotic creature ever placed on this earth.
Perhaps he was.
Was Stephen right?
Had
Anne missed him?
More to the point, should I ask her to marry me?
She might say yes.
Or she might say no. He wasn't certain he could bear it if she did.
The cat yawned so wide, it looked as if it risked dislocating its jaw.
The animal was right. Fear served no purpose here. He truly had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Anne laughed. “See? Poppy doesn't care if you leave.”
Do
you
care?
He must have said the words aloud, because her eyes widened.
“Ah.” She bit her lip. He watched her lovely throat move as she swallowed. “N-no. I mean y-yes. That is . . .”
Her voice trailed away as he cupped her jaw. He should ask her father's permission first. That would be proper.
To hell with propriety. The only permission that mattered was Anne's.
And perhaps the cat's, but it must have approved, because it jumped off the bed, though only to leap up on the chest of drawers nearby. It blinked at him. One wrong move on his part would likely earn him a pair of clawed boots.
He looked back down at Anne. She was waiting.
He gathered his courage.
“Will you marry me?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anne's eyes widened. He thought he saw her begin to smile, but her expression turned serious so quickly, he couldn't be certain. She stepped back out of his hold.
He'd hoped she'd say yes and fall into his arms—and then they could fall into that lovely bed. He'd dreaded she'd say no and send him away.
Of course Anne did neither. Instead she asked a question he wasn't ready to answer.
“Why?”
Tell her you love her.
Did
he love her? Was that what this painful thawing of his heart was about? Or was it merely lust or infatuation or desire for a family, because he felt those, too.
He cleared his throat. “I've compromised you.”
Idiot.
She shook her head sharply. “No, you didn't.”
He would plow on with it, adding stupidity to stupidity. “Yes, I did. I spent that night at the inn alone in a room with you.”
Tell her you love her.
I need her. I want her. But do I
love
her? I can't lie about such a thing.
“Not alone. Remember Stephen and Edward?”
“But the gossip—”
“There isn't any gossip.” Her eyes narrowed. The air between them was charged, but with annoyance and exasperation, not the sexual desire he'd hoped for. “And even if there was, it won't matter. I'm the Spinster House spinster. I don't need a husband.”
She'd gestured to the house, but his focus remained on the bed.
“A house can't give you what I can.”
She snorted. “What? Wealth and position? I don't need—or want—those.”
He believed her. But he could give her passion. Children.
But love? Can I give her that?
She'd want love.
She was strong and independent. She had everything she needed: the Spinster House, her father, her friends, even the boys.
She said she loved me.
Of course she'd said that. He'd just given her her first sexual orgasm. It had been her body speaking, not her heart.
“Very well. Then I suppose there's nothing more to say, is there?” He turned to leave—
The cat flashed past him to block the doorway.
“Get out of the marquess's way, Poppy.”
Did he hear a catch in Anne's voice?
She stepped past him to encourage her pet to move.
“Merrow!”
The creature hissed, arching its back. Its tail fluffed up to twice its size.
“Ack!”
Startled, Anne took a quick, disastrous step back, caught her heel in her skirt, and lost her balance, tumbling into him.
His hands shot out to catch her, but he hadn't braced himself to take her weight. He fell backward, too. Fortunately, they had a soft landing on the side of the high bed.
Hmm. A
very
soft landing. Anne's delightful derriere was cradling his cock.
“Oh!” She must have noticed his wayward organ's enthusiasm, because she started to thrash, putting his poor member in imminent danger.
He held her more tightly against him. Her soft bottom felt very, very good—
But she'd misunderstood when he'd held her still in the Spinster House garden. He didn't want her to feel manhandled again.
He started to lift her away, but she managed to wriggle free and twist around, putting her hands on his chest to brace herself.
She was straddling him.
Dear Lord, please give me some self-control.
He pressed his arse against the bed to keep from pressing his cock into her warmth.
Warmth that might thaw the rest of his heart . . .
No. He could only allow himself to take that path if he was going in love and not in lust.
“So, is your male instinct governing your actions again, Lord Haywood?”
He forced a smile. “It would like to, but as you can see, you have the upper hand. I am at your mercy.”
Her eyes widened, and she flushed. And then—
Zeus!
—she pressed against him, briefly, tentatively.
His cock pleaded with him to take control.
His brain was still functioning enough to deny that petition. Instead, he removed his hands from her arse and gripped the bedclothes. He
had
to let her take the lead.
But keeping his hips still was a Herculean effort.
“I don't need a husband.”
“I know. But would you like one?” Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Could you unbutton my waistcoat, Miss Davenport? It is very warm in here.”
Passion—and lust—were melting his heart. Feelings raged in him like a river rushing high with snowmelt.
But were any of them love?
She looked at him suspiciously, but then she leaned forward to reach his top button—which pushed the juncture of her thighs against his cock.
His eyes almost rolled back in his head with ecstasy.
She worked her way down his waistcoat. Sadly she had to retreat a bit to reach the last button, taking away the lovely pressure.
But her eyes were still trained on his waist. She
must
see the sizable bulge that had appeared there.
“
Would
you like a husband, Anne?” He moistened his lips. “Would you like
me
for a husband?” He swallowed. “Please?”
Her hands stilled, her head snapped up, and she stared at him. “Do you want a wife?”
“I want
you
.” Her hands were
so
close to his poor, pleading cock. “I
need
you.”
“Because of your male instinct?” The jade traced a fingertip over his bulge.
Where had she learned such a trick?
Who the hell cared? He just wanted her to do it again. And again.
“Yes.” He swallowed and tried not to pant. He wouldn't be able to keep still much longer. But he
had
to keep still. He didn't want to do anything that might make Anne move away from him.
Oh, Lord, she stepped back. He wanted to cry.
“Show me how to help you.”
“W-what?” He blinked at her. His powers of thought were admittedly compromised. “What do you mean?”
She leaned forward to run her finger over his bulge again. “I know you are tortured by the duke's marriage. That's what this is about, isn't it?”
“N-no.” Marcus's marriage certainly had caused him pain, but his current pain had nothing to do with his cousin and everything to do with this beautiful, maddening,
caring
woman.
“Let me help you forget.” She touched his fall again. “Show me how to make you feel what you made me feel at the Manor.” And then she started to undo
those
buttons.
It was heaven.
No, it was wrong, but only because it wasn't truthful. Her courage—her generosity—shone a light through the darkness in his heart—and the lust governing another organ. He finally saw things clearly.
He straightened, pulling her hands away from his cock to press them flat against his chest so she could feel his heart beating.
She might be able to see it, too, it was thudding so.
Ah. And he heard a low rumble of thunder in the distance. The clouds he'd seen earlier had come this way.
But Anne hadn't heard it yet. She was looking up at him, a mix of confusion and determination in her eyes.
I'd better say this now, before the storm comes.
“Anne, I have far more experience with duty and obligation than I do with love, but I do think I love you. You make my heart”—he flexed his hips to press his eager cock against her briefly—“and other organs leap with joy when I see you, and I miss you terribly when you aren't nearby. I want to go to bed”—
especially that—
Shut up, Cock!
“—and wake up every morning beside you. If that's not love, then I want to spend the rest of my days learning how to love you.”
“Oh, Nate.” Anne smiled up at him.
He heard another rumble. The storm was coming closer, but Anne still gave no sign she was aware of it. He needed to get her promise before all hell broke loose.
“So will you marry me, Anne?” He smiled. “Even though it means you must give up this lovely house?”
She laughed. “It's hardly lovely. I almost gave it to Jane after I'd won because she wanted it so badly and I . . .” She threw her arms around his neck. “And I want you, Nate. I love you quite, quite desperately.”
He moved to kiss her—and that was when she finally heard the thunder.
She stiffened, her eyes widening with the beginnings of panic. “Is there a storm coming?”
Her answer was the sound of rain hitting the roof.
“It appears I'm stuck here alone with you, Miss Davenport.” Nate glanced over at the door—good. The cat must have approved of him, because it had taken itself off. “And as you are now my betrothed—you have agreed to marry me, haven't you?”
“Yes.” She threw a fearful look at the window. “I hope it blows over.”
“And I hope it lasts for a while. No one will come visiting you in the rain, and I have some things of a very private nature I wish to do with you.”
That distracted her from the weather. “Oh?”
“Remember that storm the last night at Banningly?” he asked, beginning to pull the pins from her hair. “Remember what we did?”
“Oh. Yes.” She flushed. “I've dreamed of that rather often.”
“So have I.” It was a tune playing always in the back of his thoughts. “Shall we see if we can do it again, except with rather more detail and without the annoyance of clothes?”
* * *
“Y-yes.” The room flickered with lightning. She tensed.
The thunder will come soon—
Oh! Nate was kissing her jaw as his nimble fingers moved down the back of her dress, opening the buttons. The cool air hitting her skin made her gasp, just as she heard the thunder. It was still off in the distance.
With luck it would stay to the north—
Lightning lit the room.
She sucked in her breath and beat back the terror.
I'm inside. I'm safe. The storm might not come any closer.
Nate stripped off the rest of their clothing and gathered her into his arms. Mmm. She felt safe here, so close to Nate. And he smelled wonderful. She pressed her cheek against his chest.
The lightning was brighter this time, and the thunder followed much more quickly. She gasped. Fear tried to seize her heart.
Nate's strong hands lifted her onto the bed. She burrowed under the covers, curling up into a tight ball.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Make the storm pass. Please. Make it pass quickly.
Someone was sobbing.
It wasn't Nate.
“I'm here, Anne.”
A warm body pressed against her back, and warm, strong arms wrapped round her. She turned and pressed against him, hooking her leg over his hip—which brought something long and hard and warm up against her woman's part.
She could take him in. He could be
inside
her. Maybe that would be close enough to keep her safe.
She pushed against him—
“Not yet, Anne. You aren't ready.”
“When?” If she pressed her face against his chest, she couldn't see the lightning.
“Soon.”
And then he shifted so he was on top of her, his weight pushing her into the mattress. She couldn't move. She could barely breathe—and she loved it.
Lightning lit the room again, but Nate was there, between her and the danger. Thunder followed soon after, and rain pelted the windows.
Nate's mouth was on hers, his tongue filling her as he shifted again, his hands roaming from her breasts to her waist, down to the secret place between her legs.
Ah. Her body remembered him and arched up in welcome. A wildness grew in her, stronger and stronger....
“Anne. So beautiful.” His finger slid over and around the small point at her center. “Shall I come to you now?”
Lightning flashed, thunder crashing over her before the brightness faded, but she wasn't certain if the storm was outside or inside her. “Yes.”
She opened her legs and he nudged against her, slipping in—
Oh!
Just the tip of him sliding inside triggered a storm of pleasure. She clung to him as it roared through her—interrupted by the briefest hint of pain as he slid all the way in. And then, as that pleasure ebbed, she felt a new, quieter delight—Nate's warm seed pulsing deep inside, finding a home in her womb.
Perhaps making a child.
He collapsed onto her while the storm continued to rage outside.
She didn't care. She was safe now in Nate's arms.
* * *
Nate's heart was thundering almost as loudly as the storm outside. No, louder. The external storm was moving off. His personal storm . . .
God.
He'd taken his fair share of women to bed, but he'd never experienced anything like this. Far more than his cock had been involved—his mind, his heart, maybe even his soul had been part of this joining. And he was still sheathed in Anne's tight passage, her lovely warm, soft body pressed under his. Every breath he drew was filled with her scent.
I'm heavy. It must be hard for
her
to breathe.
He began to lift himself away.
She growled a little in protest and tightened her hold, trying to keep him with her. “Don't go.”

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