M Is for Marquess (4 page)

“Kent and Associates could help,” Emma said with predictable eagerness. “We specialize in difficult cases.”

Last year, Em had gotten involved in the private enquiry firm owned by their brother Ambrose and his partners. It was during the course of her first investigation that she’d met Strathaven. After their marriage, the duke had supported her work as long as he accompanied her and the cases weren’t too dangerous. Thea suspected that he’d chosen the path of least resistance. Trying to stop Emma from her pursuing her desired goal was like jumping in front of a runaway carriage.

“Thank you, no. I have my own resources,” Tremont said.

“Yes but finding criminals is our bread and butter—”

“I am in your debt as it is, Your Grace. For the accommodations as well as the protection of the footmen you’ve posted outside. On the morrow, I shall look into retaining my own guards.”

“All the more reason to hire Kent and Associates,” Emma persisted. “Strathaven’s brother, Mr. McLeod, oversees the firm’s security cases, and he was once part of the 95
th
Rifles—”

“It isn’t
comme il faut
to badger one’s guest, darling,” Strathaven said mildly.

Thea had to agree with the duke. She knew that Em’s perseverance would achieve nothing other than friction with Tremont.

“Why don’t we check in on Olivia?” she suggested before her sister could argue further. “We haven’t seen the poppet for hours, and she’s probably wondering where everyone’s gone.”

If there anything Emma couldn’t resist, it was the pull of her infant daughter.

“Oh, all right. I was only trying to help.” Emma rose to her feet, Strathaven politely following suit. “Tremont, talk to the duke here if you won’t take my word for it. My brother Ambrose and his partners are the best investigators in the business.”

“I do not doubt it, your grace,” Tremont said with a bow.

Thea followed her sister out. As she passed Tremont, she made the mistake of looking him straight in the eyes. The flash of yearning she saw—the white-hot of molten steel—made her stumble. He caught her, steadying her against him. His subtle scent pervaded her senses; he wore no perfume, smelling of clean soap and his own male musk, an ineffably arousing combination. His heat and sinewy strength melted her insides. Their gazes held.

Heart thumping, she said, “I—I beg your pardon.”

“No need, Miss Kent. ’Tis my pleasure to be of assistance.”

The raw edge to his voice heightened her giddiness.

“Coming, Thea?” Her sister’s voice broke the moment.

Immediately, Tremont released her, the warmth vanishing like quicksilver from his eyes. Making her wonder if she’d imagined it—if those cool grey depths had ever held anything more than polite regard for her.

Don’t mistake kindness for more. He’s already rejected you once.

Dash it all… why?

Swallowing, she said, “Good afternoon, my lord.”

She walked away before she did something else to regret.

Chapter Four

Half-past midnight, Thea gave up on trying to sleep. Donning a chintz wrapper over her night rail, she took a lamp and left her bedchamber, heading to the stairwell. There she paused, her gaze drawn down the flickering corridor that led to the wing of guest rooms. An image flashed in her head of Tremont in bed…

Awareness shivered over her. ’Twas this type of thinking that had led to her insomnia in the first place. Tremont’s proximity was tinder to her senses, inflaming them and clouding her judgment. Thankfully, he’d taken supper on a tray in his son’s room, and she hadn’t seen him all evening.

As she descended the wide, curving steps, however, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of trouble Tremont was mired in. She sensed that there was more to the attempted kidnapping than he was letting on. What secrets was he harboring?

Don’t meddle. His business doesn’t concern you. He’s made that clear enough.

In search of distraction, she entered the dimly lit library. The duke’s collection of books occupied shelves spanning from the floor to the high ceiling; one could spend a lifetime exploring the literary hedgerows. Plush seating clustered around the hearth flickering at the center of the room, and, at the far end, tall bow windows overlooked the moonlit gardens. The scent of wood smoke and vellum stirred up memories of the cozy cottage where Thea had grown up. Papa had been the village schoolmaster and a dedicated scholar; although her family had known lean times, the one thing she and her siblings had never lacked for was books.

She recalled coming down with a head cold at age eleven, which had led to yet another relapse of her lungs. Weak and listless, she’d been forced to remain in bed; from the window, she’d watched with longing as her siblings worked and chattered away in the garden. How she’d wanted to share in the travails. To carry her own weight, be a full participant in the family.

When her mama had asked what the matter was, she’d blurted, “Why can’t I be like Emma and the others? Why am I so weak?”

“Everyone has different strengths, dear,” Mama had said. “You simply have to find yours.”

That night, Papa had given Thea a leather volume, his blue eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. “The mind can explore even when the body cannot, my girl.”

Thanks to the adventures of Captain Gulliver, Thea’s convalescence had passed more quickly. Wistfully, she wished her parents were alive to see how the family was thriving—even her, the runt of the litter. She’d never scale a tree like Violet or manage a household with Emma’s alacrity, but thanks to Dr. Abernathy’s treatments she could now practice at the pianoforte for hours without tiring.

She had enough energy to pursue what she truly wanted: passion and love. The kind she’d read about in novels when she’d been too ill to leave her room. She wanted to experience those vital feelings for herself before it was too late—which meant that she had to get over Tremont. Her best years were already behind her, and she couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

With a frustrated sigh, she browsed the shelves for a sensation novel and went to curl up by the fire. She saw a tea tray and an empty snifter of brandy on the coffee table in front of her. Odd. The staff was typically relentless in their efficiency.

“Good evening, Miss Kent.”

Her head jerked up. Heart thudding, she found herself staring up at Tremont’s austere face. He’d emerged noiselessly from the shelves.

“Goodness,” she said, “you startled me. You move like a ghost.”

“An unfortunate habit.” His mouth lifted at the corners—to some inner source of amusement? “I apologize for treading too lightly.”

“Fools rush in where The Angel fears to tread?”

His smile deepened at her quip, transforming him from his celestial namesake to a flesh and blood man. Indeed, in his shirtsleeves and sans cravat, he was even more disturbingly masculine than usual. His lean cheeks bore the shadow of bronze scruff, which accented the sensual line of his lips. Against the snowy linen of his shirt, his throat was strong and bronzed, the open collar offering a tantalizing glimpse of his muscled, hair-dusted chest…

“What are you doing up at this hour, Miss Kent?” he asked.

Hastily, she pulled her gaze up. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I. All the excitement, I suppose.”

She did not reply. Not because she couldn’t think of anything to say but because of the abundance of words suddenly cluttering her brain.
Did I imagine the attraction between us? Why did you leave without a word? Was my kiss that repugnant?
Yet she’d never been one to confront, and so she sat there, steeped in silent tension.

Logs crackled in the fireplace. Tremont ran a hand through his hair, a sign of his own unease perhaps. It
was
an improper situation; when he opened his mouth, she fully expected him to take his leave.

Instead, he gestured to the adjacent wingchair. “May I?”

She blinked. “If you like. It seems you were here first.”

He settled his long, lean frame against the leather. With the ankle of one boot propped against the opposite knee, he regarded her. Master of the house, even if he was only a guest. Power, understated yet palpable, emanated from him. She wished she didn’t find his natural air of command and self-assurance so very attractive.

“I am in your debt,” he said, “for rescuing Frederick today.”

“I did as anyone would have done in those circumstances.”

“I disagree. Your actions showed uncommon courage, particularly given your constitution.”

The qualification burst the bubble of pleasure that his praise had given rise to. An edge crept into her tone. “I’m not as delicate as I appear.”

“I know few ladies, delicate or otherwise, who would have dared to intervene with a kidnapping.”

Obviously, he was not well acquainted with the females of her family.

“How is Lord Frederick faring?” she said politely.

“He was sound asleep when I checked in on him. The doctor’s potion seems to be working.” Lines deepened around his mouth. “I can only hope today’s trauma has no lasting effects.”

“How often does Lord Frederick have falling spells?”

She asked without thinking: it was a natural question, after all. Yet Tremont’s eyes turned steely, as hard as a blade. It was an impenetrable barrier, the kind only a foolish miss would try to overcome. She’d deluded herself once; she didn’t fancy repeating the experience.

“I didn’t mean to pry.” She rose. “If you’ll excuse me—”

He was on his feet in an instant, his hand circling her wrist. “No, please. Don’t go.”

The heat of his touch jolted her. His fingers were strong, callused against the sensitive underside of her wrist. Awareness spread from the point of contact, goose pimples tingling over her skin, the tips of her breasts stiffening, rising beneath her nightclothes. Warmth liquefied and pooled in her belly. Her heart thumping, she forced herself to meet his gaze.

“I don’t enjoy games, my lord,” she said.

“Games?”

“Mixed messages. Uncertainty.” Her voice trembled. “Hot and cold leaves me lukewarm.”

His hold on her tightened subtly. “I find you anything but lukewarm, Miss Kent.”

“I’m not the problem.” Frustration strung her nerves as tautly as piano strings. “
You
are.”

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “Meaning?”

Like a catapult cut loose, suppressed emotions surged from her. “You toyed with my affections for months, and I never knew if you were courting me or merely passing the time. You were never clear with your intentions. If you didn’t want me to kiss you, then you should have just said so instead of leaving without a word.” Her breath surged in agitated waves. “And now you are back and your behavior is more confusing than ever. I don’t know why you left. I have no idea what you want now—”

“I know what I want, Thea,” he rasped. “What I have
always
wanted from you.”

He yanked her against him. A shocking collision of softness against hardness. Before she could gather her wits, his mouth sealed over hers, his kiss stealing her breath.

***

She tasted exactly as he remembered.

Sweetness with a hint of spice. The addicting essence that had fueled his fantasies since he’d last sampled temptation in her arms.

Even through the haze of brandy and desire, he knew that this was foolish. Reckless in the extreme. His mentor had been killed, his son nearly kidnapped, the fog of mayhem and murder growing thicker with each passing moment. Even if it weren’t for the dangers, he had no right to start this. No right to feel her mouth blossoming beneath his, her tongue a silken petal that made the dark needs in him quiver and burgeon.

Desire blazed through his veins like wildfire.

At the same time, Sylvia’s trembling voice slashed through him.
I’ve given you an heir.
I love you, and if you love me in return, you’ll do as I ask. Spare my sensibilities, I beg of you.

What the hell was he doing? He was no husband for a virginal miss. And she would not be able to give him what he needed… what he craved. He’d vowed never again to place himself in the torturous state of wanting someone who didn’t want him back. Of loving someone who couldn’t stand his touch.

He dragged his mouth away. Yet he couldn’t tear his gaze from Thea’s upturned face: her kiss-ripened lips, her golden hazel eyes both sultry and pure… and he registered that she didn’t look afraid. No, she looked
desirous
.

Then her hands darted out. Gripped the back of his head.

Lord Almighty, she
tugged
on his hair to bring his mouth back to hers.

Her sweet, feminine aggression snapped his restraint. A growl rose in his throat, and then he was kissing her again. His hand knotted in the fine silk of her hair, holding her steady as he plundered her mouth. He drove his tongue into the honeyed cove. Her taste infused his senses, fed his hunger, the need to take more of her. When her hand slipped inside his collar, his vision blurred at the edges.

Before he knew it, he had her in his arms, on his lap on the settee. His kiss was hard, demanding, yet she didn’t push him away. Her fingernails grazed gently against the rigid muscles of his chest, and the beast in him reared in startled delight. Beneath her soft bottom, his cock was harder than steel, throbbing with an intensity that bordered on pain. When she squirmed, he knew an agonizing pleasure.

The warning bells of his conscience faded to the roar of his blood. His hands roved with a marauder’s touch, parting the panels of her robe to reveal the voluminous shift beneath. Swathed in snowy linen, she was the quintessence of femininity. He traced the elegant slope of her collarbone beneath the thin fabric, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird beneath his palm. When he cradled one perfect breast, his thumb whispering over its stiffened peak, her gasp heated his lips.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he rasped. “Of touching you.”

Her thick golden lashes swept up. She whispered, “Do it again. Please.”

The innocent longing in her eyes shook him to the core. He repeated the caress, strumming her nipple through the linen, arousal scorching him as her neck arched over his other arm. The graceful curve tempted him beyond bearing. He bent and nuzzled her throat. Lust became the scent of honeysuckle and soap, the sweep of his tongue over the softest, smoothest skin.