Ask For It
Page 12“You know what you can do.”
She swallowed hard, and stared up at him. He was so tall, so broad of shoulder that he dwarfed her until she could see nothing around him. But her fear did not come from that. In fact, it was only when she was with Marcus that she felt truly safe. No, her fear came from inside, from a cold and lonely place she preferred to forget existed. And there he stood, so damn confident and predatory. He felt none of the uncertainty that she felt. Libertines never did, shielded as they were by the knowledge of their undeniable charm and appeal. If only she could boast such assured sexuality.
A slow smile curved her lips as the solution to her dilemma presented itself in a flash of comprehension. How could she have missed the obvious? Here she’d been floundering and unsure how to respond in the face of such an overwhelming sensual onslaught when she’d grown up with the best examples of how to manage these situations in her own household. She would simply do what William or her father or Marcus himself would do.
“Very well, then. You can meet me in the bachelor quarters of Chesterfield Hall for your fuck.” The crude word stumbled over her tongue and she lifted her chin to hide her discomfort.
He blinked. “Beg your pardon?”
She arched a brow. “That’s what I can do, correct? Spread my legs until you sate your lust? Then you’ll tire of me and leave me in peace.” Just speaking the words reignited the heat in her veins. Images from the afternoon filled her mind, and she bit her lower lip against the sudden rush of desire.
The intense predatory look of his features softened. “Christ, when you present it in that manner—” His brows drew together in a rueful frown. “What an ogre I must seem to you at times. I cannot remember the last time I felt so chastened.”
The faintest trace of a smile touched her lips. She took a step closer, her hand coming up to press against the elaborately embroidered silk of his waistcoat before drifting down, caressing the rippling expanse of his stomach beneath. Her hand tingled through her glove, reminding her of how delicate the balance of power was.
Marcus caught her wandering fingertips and tugged her closer. Staring down into her face, he shook his head. “I presume you’ve conceived of some mischief.”
“Not at all,” she murmured, stroking his palm with her fingers and watching his gaze darken. “I intend to give you what you want. Surely you won’t complain about that?”
“Hmmm. Tonight then?”
Her eyes widened. “Good heavens. Again today?”
Laughing, he relented, his mouth curving in a smile that made her breathless. The change in him was startling. Gone was the brutish arrogance, replaced by a boyish allure she found hard to resist. “Very well then.” He stepped back, and offered his arm. “And you are correct, I surely won’t complain.”
Chapter 8
Marcus paced before the fire in the Chesterfield guesthouse and tried to recollect his first sexual encounter. It had happened a long time ago and the rushed tumble in the Westfield stables had passed in a blur of sweaty skin, prickly hay, and gasping relief. Still, despite the less than clear remembrance of that afternoon, he was certain he’d never been as anxious as he was at the present moment.
Having escorted Elizabeth home from the Dempsey Ball over an hour ago, he’d rushed home and changed, only to return on horseback. He’d been waiting ever since.
Doubt twisted his stomach into knots, a sensation wholly unfamiliar to him. Would Elizabeth come to him, as she’d promised? Or would he wait here all night, desperate to taste her and feel her beneath his hands?
Standing, Marcus tossed more coals into the grate before glancing around the beautifully appointed bachelor quarters. While he would have preferred to have Elizabeth once again in his own bed, he would take what he could get and gladly.
The Aubusson rug was soft under his bare feet as he moved back to the chair facing the fire. He’d removed every garment but his breeches, astonished and not a little disconcerted by his haste to press his bare skin to Elizabeth’s.
The outer door opened, and then shut quietly. Marcus stood, and moved to the hallway, lounging against the jamb in an effort to appear nonchalant and less needy than he felt. Then Elizabeth turned the corner and his breath caught. Against his will, his feet moved, one in front of the other. She paused, her luscious bottom lip caught between her teeth. Dressed in simple muslin, her hair free of its previous evening elaborateness, her face scrubbed clean of both powder and patch, she was a vision of casual youthful beauty.
“Where have you been?” he growled as he reached her, his hands gripping her waist and lifting her against him.
“I—”
He crushed her response with a kiss. She stiffened at first, and then suddenly she opened for him. A groan escaped, as the heady taste of her flooded his mouth. Fierce but sweet, her kisses had always driven him to madness.
A loud thump momentarily distracted him, and he pulled back to discern the source of the sound. Lying at their feet was a small volume covered in red leather.
“Your returning Hawthorne’s journal?”
“Yes,” she said, in the breathy voice that betrayed her arousal.
As he gazed at the book on the floor, Marcus was surprised at the jealousy that rose up within him. Elizabeth carried another man’s name. She had once been physically joined to someone else. He still stung from the pain of it, much to his chagrin. He was not some foolishly besotted lad, selfish in his desire for the affection of a fair maid.
But he felt like one.
Marcus linked his fingers with hers, and tugged her into the bedroom.
“I came as quickly as I could,” she said softly.
“Liar. You debated internally for a moment, at least.”
She smiled, and his entire body hardened. “Maybe a moment,” she conceded.
“But you came, regardless.” He wrapped his arms around her, and fell back into the bed.
She laughed, the cold wariness of her features instantly transformed. “Only because I knew if I didn’t, you would probably come up and collect me yourself.”
Burying his face in her neck, he chuckled and groaned at the same time. Under other circumstances, as painfully aroused as he was, he would have rolled his lover over and mounted her. In this instance, however, he was determined to find a way past Elizabeth’s defenses. Sexual satisfaction was not his only aim.
Not any longer.
“You are correct.” He stared up at her. “I would have fetched you.”
Her hand touched the side of his face, one of the rare tender gestures she bestowed on him. Any touch of hers, any melting look, stunned him and moved him.
“You are far too arrogant. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Elizabeth licked her bottom lip and her lashes lowered, hiding her gaze as she accepted the libation. “You are half naked. It’s … disconcerting.”
“Perhaps if you disrobed it would be less so,” he suggested.
“Marcus …”
“Or drink. That should relax you.” It was why he’d brought two bottles with him. He remembered her giddy on champagne during their courtship, laughing and mischievous. He was eager to see her that way again.
As if she thought the same, Elizabeth lifted the goblet to her lips and took a large swallow. Normally, he’d chastise such an abuse of excellent vintage, but in this case he was pleased. A small droplet clung to the corner of her lips and he leaned forward and licked it away, closing his eyes briefly in contentment. He was startled when she turned her head and pressed her lips more fully to his.
Eyes wide, she pulled back and drank the rest of the wine down. She thrust the empty glass at him. “More, please.”
Marcus smiled. “Your wish is my command.” He studied her furtively as he poured, noting the way her fingers brushed restlessly over her thighs. “Why are you so nervous, love?”
“You are accustomed to this sort of … arrangement. For me, however, sitting here with you half-dressed and knowing the entire purpose of being here is for … for …”
“Sex?”
“Yes.” She opened her mouth and then closed it, shrugging delicate shoulders. “It makes me nervous.”
“That’s not the only reason we are here.”
Elizabeth frowned, and took another large drink. “It’s not?”
“No. I’d like to talk with you as well.”
“Is that how these things are normally done?”
He chuckled ruefully. “Nothing about this is like anything in my experience.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged just a little.
Catching her free hand, he laced his fingers with hers. Her cheeks were already flushed, betraying the effects of the wine. “Could you grant me one small favor?” he asked, even though he had promised himself he wouldn’t.
She waited expectantly.
Tamping down the sudden apprehension he felt, he rushed ahead. “Could you find it in your heart to tell me what happened the night you left me?”
Her gaze lowered to stare into the contents of her glass. “Must I?”
“If you would be so kind, love.”
“I’d really rather not.”
“Is it so dreadful?” he coaxed softly. “The deed is done and cannot be undone. I ask only to be relieved of my confusion.”
Elizabeth released a deep breath. “I suppose I owe you that much.”
When her silence stretched out he prodded, “Go on.” “The tale starts with William. One night, about a month before the start of my first Season, I couldn’t sleep. I often had that trouble over the years after my mother died. Whenever I was restless I would visit my father’s study and sit in the dark. It smells like old books and my father’s tobacco—I find the combination soothing.
“William entered shortly after, but he failed to see me lying on the settee. I was curious so I remained quiet. It was very late and he was dressed in dark clothing, he’d even covered his golden hair. It was obvious he was going somewhere where he didn’t wish to be seen or recognized. He carried himself so strangely, all chained up-ferocity and energy. He left and did not return until dawn. That was when I first suspected he was involved in something dangerous.”
Elizabeth paused to take another drink. “I began to watch him when we were out. I studied his activities. I noticed he sought out Lord Hawthorne with regularity. The two of them would detach themselves from the gathering and have heated discussions in quiet corners, sometimes trading papers or other items.”
Marcus sprawled across the counterpane and rested his head on his hand. “I never noticed. Eldridge’s expertise at subterfuge never ceases to amaze me. I certainly never suspected William was an agent.”
“Why would you?” she asked simply. “Had I not been watching them so closely, I would never have suspected anything either. But eventually William began to look exhausted, drawn. I was worried about him. When I asked him outright to tell me what he was doing, he refused. I knew I needed help.” She glanced at him then, her violet gaze tortured.
“That is why you came to me that night.” The bitter irony was not lost on him. He took the glass of wine from her fingers and washed the taste of it from his mouth. “Eldridge keeps the identities of his agents a closely guarded secret. In the event one of us is captured or compromised we have little information to share. I personally know very few.”
The tight line of her normally lush mouth betrayed her distaste for the agency. Right now he was not feeling too charitable toward Eldridge himself. William’s assignment, as well as his own, had contrived to bring his engagement to such a tragic end.
Elizabeth breathed a forlorn sigh. “When I returned from your home I was too upset to retire, so I went to my father’s study. Nigel called for William later that morning and he was shown into the room, unaware I was there. I vented my rage on him. I accused him of leading William on a path to destruction. I threatened to tell my father.”
Marcus smiled, imagining the scene. “I have learned to respect your temper, sweet. You become a veritable termagant when angered.”
She returned a weak smile, devoid of life or humor. “I had assumed their activities were degenerate. I was shocked when Nigel explained that he and William were agents for the Crown.” Her eyes shone with withheld tears. “And it was all suddenly too much … what I thought you had done, the danger William was in. I told Hawthorne about your infidelity in a moment of weakness. He said marriages of high passion were not the stuff of longevity or true happiness. I would have been discontented eventually, he said. Best I learned your true nature when I did, rather than after it was too late. He was so kind, so gentle in my distress. He provided an anchor at a time when I was adrift.”
Marcus rolled onto his back and stared at the red velvet canopy above him. After her mother’s death and her father’s decline into emotional apathy, Hawthorne’s words must have sounded like the veriest wisdom to Elizabeth. Tense and frustrated, his anger toward a dead man had no outlet. It should have been he who was her anchor, not Hawthorne. “Damn you,” he swore vehemently.
“When I returned from Scotland I inquired about you.”
“I had left the country by then.” His voice was distant, lost in the past. “I called on you that morning, once I’d settled the widow. I wanted to explain, and make things right between us. Instead, William met me at the door and threw your note in my face. He blamed me for your rashness. I blamed him for not going after you.”
“You could have come after me.”
Marcus turned his head to meet her gaze. “Is that what you wanted?”
When Elizabeth shrank back into the pillows, he knew his rage and pain must be evident on his face.