The Spinster Bride (15 page)

Marjorie gave him a sympathetic look. “You've never been tongue-tied around me,” she said, then held up her hand because she knew what he was going to say. He wasn't courting her so it was entirely different. “Can you not pretend you are not courting her? That she is just a person you want to get to know, not a potential bride?”

“No. I cannot. I
am
courting her. And she
is
a potential bride.”

Marjorie colored slightly, annoyed that he should draw such a distinction. “I don't understand your fascination with marriage in any case. You don't need an heir. Why can't you just live your life happily alone? As long as George is at home, I've no wish to marry. And despite what my mother says, I fear I will not marry. Ever.”

He let out a sound that was very much like a snarl. “I want a wife. I want to wake up to the same happy face every morning. I want a pile of children waking me up before the sun rises and clambering down the stairs on Christmas day. I want to teach my sons how to fish and watch my daughters braid their hair.”

Marjorie turned away from him, clasping her arms around her midriff. She wanted all those things, too, with a longing that was nearly painful. She rarely allowed herself to think of such happy scenes, had conditioned herself against it. “I think,” she said, glad that her voice was strong and clear, “that Lady Caroline would be perfect for you.” She turned, and her brow furrowed, for something had happened to his drawers. There was something rather large poking inside them. Even as it dawned on her what she was looking at, Marjorie continued to stare, fascinated. And as horrified as she was that she was so fascinated, she simply could not drag her eyes from the sight.

“Hell,” Charles said, adjusting himself. “I think I need my trousers on.”

 

As she continued to stare, Charles became even more agitated—and felt himself grow harder. What the hell was she doing, staring at him like that?

“Does that always happen?” she asked, her eyes still glued to his obvious erection.

“Only when . . . no.” Only when a lovely woman was in the same room as he. This lovely woman, he corrected silently. He'd been distinctly unaroused when he was with Lady Caroline. He swept his hand through his hair and sought out his trousers, which were draped across a chair on the opposite side of the room. “Would you mind getting my trousers for me? I'm afraid my leg will not allow a trip across the room.”

She turned to look at his trousers, for all the world as if she were determining what they were. “May I see it?” She looked a bit shocked with herself, but now, thankfully, kept her gaze steady on his face.

It took a moment before he realized what she was asking. If she had the smallest inkling of what she was doing to him, how he felt, she would not have asked such a thing. He was heavy with need, in agony for her touch, and there she stood calmly asking if she might see him. “Lady Marjorie, I do not think that is a good idea,” he said, trying to sound formal.

“I shall never have the opportunity again. As I said, I fear I will not marry and, well,
it
is here. And
I
am here.”

“
It
is attached to me and I don't believe we should be having this conversation,” he said, aghast. What had gotten into her?

“Very well,” Marjorie said, turning and retrieving his trousers. But she held herself away from him, holding them out as if they were bait. She had the most charmingly evil glimmer in her eye. “One peek, then I shall deliver your trousers posthaste.”

He steeled his jaw, and in a flash had pulled down, then pulled up, his drawers. “There, you saw.”

“That was too fast. I hardly got a glimpse,” she said with affront.

“What has gotten into you?”

Something desperate and sad flashed in her eyes so quickly, he was momentarily stunned. And then she smiled and it was gone and he wondered if he'd seen anything at all. “The devil, it seems.” She shook her head slightly and handed over his trousers.

He took them, holding them against his chest. “Thank you.” Her cheeks were flushed, and she wouldn't meet his eyes. “I do apologize,” she said miserably. “I really don't know—”

“There. Take your look.”

She looked at his face first, stunned, then slowly moved down his body to the object of her curiosity, her eyes growing wide when they took in his rather impressive erection. She moved a step closer, and by God, he grew impossibly harder as his body reacted to her closeness. She didn't understand what she was doing to him, how every nerve seemed to be on fire and aching.

“Do you,” he swallowed heavily, “want to touch it?”

Her eyes darted to his and she let out a small gasp. “Would that be all right?”

“No,” he said on a groan. “But if you wanted . . .”

“Perhaps a bit?”

God, yes. “Only a bit.” It was beginning to be difficult to breathe and his brain was shutting down. This was wrong, wrong, wrong. He should be turning his back and pulling on his trousers. He should be screaming at her to get out of his study. Instead, he stood there leaning against his desk, pain long forgotten, watching as she approached him, one hand extended and about to touch him. She hesitated just before her delicate fingers grazed the tip and he couldn't stop himself. He gently took her hand and wrapped her fingers around his shaft, shuddering as he did so. He could feel himself swell beneath her warm hand, could feel himself tighten, and he thrust his hips toward her unconsciously.

“Marjorie, move your hand,” he whispered.

And then she wasn't touching him and he nearly cried out. “Not
re
move, move. Let me show you.” He was long past the point of being the gentleman he should be, so he took her hand and placed it back, showing her how to please him. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But she felt so good and he'd wanted her for so long now. It couldn't go further, he knew that. He couldn't do what he longed to do. He couldn't bury his cock deep inside her, couldn't feel her surround him, couldn't come inside her. “Feels so good.” All coherent thought was gone. All he knew was that Marjorie's hand was on him, squeezing gently, moving up and down, making him so close to finding release it was unmanning.

He wasn't touching her. Couldn't touch her lest he lose any control he had. But then she leaned forward, her hand still working him, and kissed his jaw. And that was the end of his resistance. He brought his hands to her shoulders and pulled her against him, finding her mouth and kissing her long and hard, pressing his erection between them, her hand now trapped. He kissed her, devoured her, ached for her.

“I want to make love to you,” he said against her neck, his body screaming for sweet release. “I want to show you how.”

She stiffened slightly, and he said, “No, not like that. I want to give you pleasure. I want to make you come.”

“I don't understand.”

“You will. Let me show you.”

He kissed her, moving his hips against her, and her grip on his arousal tightened slightly. Had anything ever felt this good before? He put his hands on her firm bottom and pulled her center against his erection, moving rhythmically, making her feel a small amount of what he was feeling.

“Oh.” She breathed this into his mouth and he knew she was beginning to understand that something more, something wondrous was coming.

“I'm going to touch you. I'm going to make you feel the way you're making me feel.” As he said these words, his hands worked to bunch up her skirts, endless amounts of fabric that hid her from him. When finally his hand skimmed the slit of her drawers, he let out a groan of relief. And when he brought his hand to her center to find her wet and deeply aroused, he nearly found release.

 

Marjorie was lost in the sensations he was building in her. If she thought about what he was doing, where he was touching her, the words he was saying, she would have fled from the room and never returned. But she'd stopped thinking some time ago. Now it was all feeling. How could something, anything, feel as wonderful as what he was doing to her? Her entire body sang with new sensations, a need she'd only had the barest hints of in the past. Now, as he moved his finger back and forth on her, she could not contain herself. She moved against him, glorying in every new sensation, of the building of something, of this delicious experiment. As he touched her, she touched him, his long, velvety shaft that strained against her hand. If what she was doing to him was anything like what he was doing to her, what a wonderful thing all this touching was.

He suddenly increased his rhythm, both against her hand and between her legs, and she clung to him, gasping, reveling in every movement, thrusting against him and then . . . bliss. Oh, it was positively the single most wonderful thing she'd ever felt in her life.

As she let out a rather unladylike grunt, he turned away from her. Her hand still clung to him and she felt a pulsing surge as he found his own release.

She dropped her hand, and he collapsed a bit against his desk and she collapsed a bit against him. “Oh, my,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“Oh, my, indeed,” he said, chuckling. He took a deep breath and then another. He was silent for a long moment until he finally said, “While I did not intend for that to happen, I'm damned glad it did.” He gave her a devilish smile. “May I put on my trousers now?” he asked, lifting one brow.

Despite the intimacy they'd just shared, Marjorie blushed hotly. “Of course. I'm so sorry.” Now she was simply mortified. What had she been thinking? What sort of woman did what she'd just done? And what sort of woman did Charles—she could no longer think of him as Mr. Norris—think she was? Had she gone mad?

“I'll have none of that,” Charles said sternly. “We are two adults and there's no harm done. Your virtue is intact. My conscience, not quite so, but there you have it. Now that we've gotten that out of our systems, we can get on with our business.”

Of course. How foolish to think for one moment that what they'd done meant anything other than some animalistic release. She was so mortified, she didn't see the look of longing on his face, the deep regret, and that was probably a good thing. For Marjorie needed a reminder that no matter what, they were to remain friends, business partners. Charles needed help courting another woman. He might desire her, but he didn't love her. And even if he did, it wouldn't matter. Her mother would never allow her to marry him.

“You must allow that you have never acted that way with another business partner.” She sounded decidedly sophisticated, as if what had just happened wasn't the most wonderfully devastating experience she'd ever had. She was still keenly aware of how wet she was between her legs.

As she'd hoped, he laughed. “You are correct. And I suppose it shouldn't happen again. I will try not to allow our deep mutual attraction from blinding us to our goal—and that is to find me a bride. And you a husband. Despite what you say, I think you will find one.”

Marjorie smiled gamely, even though his words were a bit crushing. It was impossible, she knew that. For as much as she'd like to think she could stand up to her mother, she knew, when it came down to it, she would not. Twenty-three years of being a good and obedient daughter was a habit that would be difficult to break. Still . . .

If he loved her—if Charles told her he loved her and begged for her hand, she'd do it. She'd go against her mother, she'd walk out the door, never to return. It would break her heart, yes, but if he asked . . . would she? Did she love him that much? Or was her heart being muddled by lust?

“We did get a bit sidetracked. So, you'll help me with Lady Caroline? I'm planning a trip to the zoo and perhaps you could come with George.”

Marjorie smiled, even as his words caused her breath to stop. Foolish, foolish girl, to think she would give up everything for him. If Charles loved her, would he be discussing courting another girl? And asking for her assistance? Men were such odd creatures. A few kisses, a great passion, and she was ready to leave everything she'd ever known behind. Those same kisses were not nearly as meaningful to him.

“Of course. That was our deal, was it not?”

 

She turned away, and as he watched her walk out the door, Charles frowned at her back. He didn't like their deal anymore. Not one bit.

He already felt a deep regret for what he'd allowed to happen. It would do no good to apologize, though his instincts told him he should. His biggest fear was that he would never be able to hold her in his arms again, never truly make love to her the way he longed to. Hours and hours of lovemaking, days and days. And so, he let her go without another word.

She'd surprised him. Indeed, he was flummoxed. Why had she come, anyway, without inquiring first? May I see it, she'd asked.
May I see it?
He would have wagered his life that Marjorie would never have uttered such words. He struggled to put on his pants, cursing his leg, cursing his lack of title, cursing his weakness when it came to beautiful women with curly, black-brown hair.

She was no doubt mortified by what had just happened. He could see it in her face just before she'd turned away from him. And he, cad that he was, had done nothing to make her feel better. He hadn't held her or kissed her or told her that he was falling in love with her. Which, if he tried very, very hard, he would be able to prevent. He would not, ever again, fall in love with a woman he could not have.

Charles was most thankful when Prajit knocked on his door and entered without awaiting an answer.

“You called, my lord.”