The Ruin Of A Rogue (21 page)

He picked up on her pleasure. “You like that? You’ll like this more.” It was even better this time. Who would have thought the graze of teeth would feel so good?

Her eyes shut tight and she floated in a starry sky, lost to terra firma. Her head fell back, and her body, so she lay supine with her legs parted in mindless invitation.

His hand covered the entrance to her sex. It was too much and not nearly enough. She’d never known anything better or felt such urgency for something more. She was filled with joy and maddeningly empty.

More
. Whether she said it aloud or not, Marcus understood. Clever fingers soothed the slippery cradle and it felt right, not embarrassing, for him to penetrate the most private part of her body. He found the little knob of flesh that she’d occasionally shamefully explored. Finally she was certain of its purpose. His male member, grown hard and hot, knocked against her thigh.

“Aren’t you going to . . . ?” Eager for his ultimate possession, she hadn’t the words to complete the question.

“Hush,” he murmured against her breast. “You’ll enjoy it more this way.”

A languorous lick of her nipple calmed her and she sank back trustfully, letting him lead the way with a rhythmic stroke that concentrated all her nerves, her entire existence, into one little spot until she felt herself let go and her limbs collapsed into a lyrical, boneless state of total relaxation.

“Goodness,” she said when she emerged from her ecstatic haze. His arms were about her, one leg entwined with hers, his lips on her temple.

“That was beautiful,” he said, and took her mouth in a shallow, tender kiss, a long mingling of breaths. “You’re beautiful. I’ll try not to hurt you too much.”

“Will it hurt?” She found it hard to believe and wanted desperately to find out.

“Only the first time, so I’m told.”

“I don’t mind. I want to belong to you. I love you.” She’d never have dared say it in the light.

His breath caught sharply. She was glad she couldn’t see his face, in case it showed discomfort, or worse still cold triumph that he’d finally conquered her. She relished her submission, her final surrender. Later she might regret it but now she wished to make him happy, even if only by the selfless giving of her body to his pleasure. It was a novel idea and one that stirred a new excitement in her.

“Please, Marcus. Take me.”

It did hurt a little. Not a sharp pain so much as a relentless stretching of her never breached passage, followed by a glow of satisfaction as he slid all the way in.

“All right?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

“Liar,” he said with a little laugh, and started to move.

The sensation was too odd to take her out of herself again. Instead she concentrated on him and his reactions: the bunching of muscles beneath her hands, the quickening of his breath, the increasing pace of his thrusts. When instinct told her to wind her legs around him she felt the connection deepen. Raising herself to meet his forward drives drew growls of approval. His obvious satisfaction when she clenched her inner muscles more than made up for her own lingering discomfort, which gradually faded, leaving only a lovely intimacy. “I love you,” she told him again, and was rewarded with an unruly kiss. That he was carefree, uncontrolled, lost in his own gratification, brought her fierce satisfaction. When he sped up and raised his head for an incoherent shout, nothing had ever brought her greater joy. She felt a warm gush inside her, the loosening of tension, and a delicious weight as she sensed him drift to earth and lay his head on her breast.

Wide-eyed in the darkness, she stroked his hair, heard his breathing calm, sensed his chest rising and falling against her skin and his perspiration cooling in the chilly air. She drew up the disordered blankets and tucked them over his shoulders. She would swear he was smiling.

Chapter 21

M
arcus smiled into Anne’s collarbone, her skin silk beneath his cheek. He wished he could stay silent and replete, entwined with her like a pair of wintering creatures, forgetting the world outside. But he’d done what he swore he would not and the piper needed to be paid. It would be easier for him if he were the one who would be doing the paying.

Reluctantly he withdrew from his happy berth, sliding onto his side and keeping Anne soft and warm in his arms. She’d told him she loved him. Twice. It made him feel ten feet tall and the world’s worst villain. And painfully, ludicrously hopeful.

“Anne,” he said, loving the sound of her name, drawing out the syllable to a semibreve. “How do you feel?” He’d tried to be considerate, introduce her to love the way a virgin required, not that he had any experience in the matter, unless he counted his own initiation at the hands of an Oxford barmaid. That had not been gentle, though he’d enjoyed it in a terrified kind of way.

“Wonderful. You’re wonderful.” Her unshadowed trust made his heart thud. It would be so easy just to declare love and leave it at that. It wouldn’t be an utter lie but neither would it be the whole story. He owed her the truth.

“No, Anne, I am not. I’m a villain to have taken you like this.”

“I think it was my idea.”

“I should have resisted you.”

“You find me irresistible?” She sounded adorably pleased with herself.

“Completely. I can refuse you nothing.”

“How powerful I am. I wonder what I should ask for.”

He procrastinated by finding a breast and conjuring up the vision communicated by his slow, questing hand. He couldn’t wait to see her in the light. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And this?” He’d noticed that her rib cage was particularly susceptible.

“Oh . . . yes.”

He kept his strokes long and languorous, intended to soothe rather than arouse. She stretched like a cat in the sun, her breath deepening as unconsciousness approached. Dropping a shallow kiss on her lips, he found them smiling as she drifted into sleep.

He shouldn’t have waited. An offer of marriage was essential, he was quite clear about that. Even an unprincipled adventurer knew that one did not bed a virgin without offering to do the right thing. Except in his case it was the wrong thing. He still believed—knew—that she was better off without him.

Better off? Without him she was the wealthiest woman in England; with him she had nothing. Perhaps she would be wise enough to turn him down. She said she loved him, but it wasn’t as though love and marriage always went together. She could enjoy a romantic interlude with a rogue, then return to her real life and marry some idiot like Lord Algernon Tiverton. The thought was extraordinarily painful.

Y
et when he eased out of a dreamless state, a surge of optimism made him light of limb and heart. After a long drought he’d satisfied his desires, and something more. The reason for what felt perilously like happiness stretched out in an abandoned sleep, her breath tickling his chest. He stroked her head, fingering the lustrous hair. She pressed into his touch with an incoherent murmur but didn’t awake. Apparently no longer able to sleep late, he reluctantly ignored the throb of morning lust. She must be sore and needed her rest. He dropped a kiss on her forehead and slid to the floor.

He cracked open the curtains so that he could relish the sight of Anne in his bed, her pale face in lovely repose amid masses of dark hair. His chest tightened and an involuntary smile tugged at his lips. How rare not to be using them to coax, cozen, or deceive. Before restraint melted he turned to the window to find chill sunlight gleaming on the icy fields beyond the unkempt garden. He threw on some clothes without the help of Travis. Not that he had ever needed a valet, but Travis was meticulous about presenting himself for service. Marcus suspected the man had already been there and tactfully withdrawn. Without dispelling his good mood, the fact brought him down to earth. Shoals lay ahead, especially for Anne.

He’d never cared much for the strictures of polite society, one of the advantages of living outside it. She’d blithely claimed not to mind being “ruined,” but it took a certain fortitude not to care what people thought of one. She wasn’t used to it. While she claimed indifference to the position her birth brought her, if she agreed to marry him the scorn of aristocratic ladies, not to mention the wrath of her guardian and the loss of her fortune, would be harder to bear than she thought.

If she accepted him, selling Hinton for what he could get and resuming his wandering was no longer in the cards. He had to turn the estate around, and his best hope was to find whatever it was that his ghostly intruder was seeking, whether it came from his father or not.

In the kitchen he found the enticing scent of fresh bread and Travis, in conversation with Mrs. Burt.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said. “Thought I’d better come and milk the cow.”

“Thank you.” It hadn’t occurred to him, though he’d checked on the small farmyard since the storm, making sure the livestock had food. “Was it—er—she all right?”

“After three days without milking she should have been glad to see me but she didn’t show it. Tried to knock over the pail.”

“I’m happy she didn’t. We need milk. And do I see you’ve brought bread?” He bent over the large round loaf on the table and inhaled. “Still warm! You are a true heroine.”

Mrs. Burt looked much less harassed than she had the previous day. “It was no trouble to make extra. Burt and I reckoned you’d be tired of stale and we weren’t sure if your man was a baker.”

“Not as far as I know. Do you know how to make bread, Travis?”

“It has never been one of my duties, my lord.”

“How’s the roof holding up, Mrs. Burt?”

“Very well, thanks to you, my lord. And I’ve almost got the house back in order. If it would suit, I’d be glad to come and work up at the manor for an hour or two a day. My sister’s two girls in the next village are looking for places. I’ll take the liberty of mentioning it in case you were looking for maids.”

It was good news that the local embargo on employment at Hinton was about to be lifted. Servants required wages but maidservants didn’t make much. “By all means. Send them up to see me as soon as the bridge is repaired.”

“Burt said to tell you he’ll take the horse around the long way to the village later today and I’m to tell him anything you’ll need.”

“I’ll make a list, but most important is timber and labor for the bridge. Do you suppose the other tenants would help?”

“They’ll be wanting to get out too.”

“Has this happened before, the estate being cut off by the river?”

“Burt’s grandfather heard of a time, in the time of old King Charles.” Country memories were long. “Squire’s lady drowned when her horse went through rotten planks. Horse was killed too.”

“It looked as though it hadn’t been replaced since then. My uncle was guilty of negligence.”

Mrs. Burt was too respectful to agree. “Mr. Hooke got a little funny. Didn’t like anyone telling him his business, and he didn’t care to tell them either. Very closemouthed gentleman. Kept his secrets.”

“Secrets, eh?” He betrayed nothing but idle curiosity. “What kind of secrets? A skeleton in the cellar? Or buried treasure perhaps.”

“Only
treasure
round these parts was that Roman rubbish.”

“I understood he gave that up some years back and the place was left to molder until Miss Brotherton resumed the excavation.”

“A few times I saw him up on the hill and thought he might be starting that tomfoolery again.”

Marcus tucked away the thought for further examination. The Roman villa offered plenty of hiding places.

He walked down to the river, which remained in spate. In his judgment, not that he knew anything about the matter, it would still be a day or two before work could commence on a new crossing. A stone bridge that would withstand the elements would be more practical. And costly. Calls on his other tenants confirmed their willingness to help, also their willingness to suggest a variety of expensive improvements to their land and dwellings.

He came home by way of the villa, on the chance he’d see something. For the first time he appreciated the size of the site. He paced out the main building and guessed it to be about eighty feet wide and forty deep. In addition there was a smaller attached building, which Anne called the kitchen, and the partially uncovered second villa that might well be twice the size. Completing the search could take months, even if it wasn’t winter and he wasn’t hampered by the finicky digging methods of his bride-to-be. There’d be hell to pay if he tore in with a team of laborers wielding shovels.

He peered into Anne’s recent prison, keeping his distance from the crumbling edge. There wasn’t much to be seen except a layer of ice, encasing anything that might be on the floor. Once the thaw set in he’d take another look.

Glancing back, he spotted a man in the middle distance, walking briskly toward the downs. One of the tenants, perhaps, but something in his garments and stance suggested a gentleman. Marcus had a feeling he knew him, though, Bufton aside, he’d met none of the local gentry. Strange that. Could be that fellow Anne had mentioned. A curiosity about the mysterious Mr. Bentley stirred in his gut.

“A
re you awake? I’ve brought you breakfast.”

Anne undulated back into the pillows and blushed. In fact she felt pink all over and exceedingly well. The sight of Marcus, framed by the open curtains, made her smile inside. This was much better than being brought her morning chocolate by Maldon.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Strictly you should say good afternoon. It’s a little past midday.”

“No wonder I’m hungry.”

“I bring fresh bread and butter, courtesy of Mrs. Burt. And Travis has contributed a nice cup of tea, his words not mine.”

Beneath his cheerfulness she saw wariness. She’d come to his bed last night without any commitment on his part, or mention of marriage. He knew that wedding her did not necessarily bring wealth. Her heart told her, contrary to her experience and his own testimony, that Marcus was a gentleman. Her brain half expected him to bolt. A nasty weight in the pit of her stomach was listening to her head.

He’d moved a small table next to the bed to hold the tray. He’d used the best china, a pretty blue and white Chelsea service kept in a pantry cabinet. A spray of dried honesty in a blue vase completed the appealing arrangement.

“Pretty,” she said, touching the translucent ivory disks.

“I would have brought you roses, but Hinton unaccountably lacks a hothouse. This is the best I could find in my poor excuse for a garden.” He lifted her chin and dropped a light kiss on her lips.

She nestled her cheek into his palm. “Your hands are cold.”

“That’s because I’ve been out and about this morning, visiting tenants, checking on Frederick, picking dead flowers. I even almost milked a cow.”

“Almost?”

“Luckily Mrs. Burt got to her first. I’m afraid cold hands are a hazard of life as a farmer. Could you get used to it?”

“Will I have to learn to milk cows?” she asked, tamping down a rising exhilaration.

“If you marry me, I promise not to make you.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

How sweet of him to observe the formalities. “I am honored by your offer and yes, Marcus, I would be proud to be your wife.” Spoiling the solemnity of the moment, she shoved back the blankets, just managing not to knock over any china, and flung her arms about his neck. His arms came about her but the embrace was perfunctory and all too brief.

This was not how it was supposed to go. Felix’s formal offer, long awaited, had been unexciting but comfortable. She had expected the same—with less comfort—from whichever suitable man Morrissey chose for her. But from a highly unsuitable man with whom she was madly in love, she would have liked more . . . rapture. To be enfolded, passionately kissed, seduced. To hear words of love.

Instead he handed her a cup of tea.

“Drink it while it’s hot,” he said. Then he cut buttered bread into tidy strips and handed them to her one by one, as though she was a small child and he her nurse.

“I’m surprised you’re not dipping it in milk,” she said peevishly.

“Would you like that?”

“No I would not. I am neither a child nor an invalid and I do not need to be fed pap.”

“Two days ago you nearly died.”

“And yesterday I strode around in breeches. Clearly I have recovered.” She gave him what she was fairly sure was a seductive smile. “And if you’re in any further doubt about the state of my health, may I remind you that last night I did not behave like a child and you didn’t treat me like one.”

The smile wasn’t working. “No. I owe you an apology. I am sorry for it.” He sounded strained and not at all seduced.

“I am not. It’s true that it’s not quite proper to do
that
before we are wed but no one need know. And now we are betrothed so what does it matter?”