Wicked Nights With a Lover

Her fingers flew to his breeches, moving feverishly, her need a desperate, hungry thing. Dark and feral, coppery-rich in her mouth. She closed around the silken length of him. They shuddered together, unified in their desire, their need for each other.

Her blanket fell to the side as he swung her around, planting her on his lap. Her night rail billowed out around her as her thighs slipped down on each side of his hips. He found her heat and she felt the bare tip of him prodding, seeking, pushing up inside her.

And then he was there. Filling her.

She surged at the sudden thrust of him inside her, clutching his shoulders as if he was her lifeline, as if she would never let go.

And she wouldn’t, she realized.

Not if she could help it. Not as long as she drew breath.

Gasping, sated, still shuddering from the power of his release, Ash flexed his hands over her sleek hips, loving the sensation of her satiny skin in his hands. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her honey and milk scent, knowing this was the aroma he wanted to wake to every morning.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “A bed would have been more comfortable, I know. With you, I just can’t help myself.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m just as guilty.”

He lifted his head and stared at the dim shadow of her face. “Why did you leave with him?” His chest clenched as he recalled his feelings when he first found Marguerite gone from their bed. In that moment, his sense of loss had outweighed any fears he’d ever had of turning into his father, of losing all he’d built with Jack.

“He was insistent, and I didn’t want to drag Mrs. Harkens or any of the other servants into harm’s way—”

“It’s their duty to protect you, Marguerite.” He winced. It was his duty. He’d do better by her from now on. “You must believe you’re worth that protection.” Worth everything. He held her tighter. “Say I’ll never come home to find you gone. Never leave me,” he murmured. He would never again thrust her from him because he was too afraid of turning into his father.

When she said nothing, he lowered his forehead to hers. tasting her warm breath on his lips. He closed his eyes as a slight tremor passed through her and bled into him. Still, she said nothing.

Chapter 21

Marguerite woke the following morning to find Ash still in their bed. A first, to be certain. He had not crept from their bed like a thief in the night while she slept. He’d stayed. Warmth suffused her chest, spreading through her.

Her mind drifted to last night and his whispered request that she promise never to leave him. She had tried to speak, but could not summon the words. Not when she couldn’t yet believe them herself.

She glanced around the curtained bed, letting it sink in that this was her life. With him. No more genteel servitude, holding the hands of the dying as they faded from earth. This was her life for however long it lasted. A month or half a century.

Her hand crossed the space that separated them, covering his fingers where they curled on the bed beside her. She lay still for several moments, perfectly content, sated at this simple connection. She watched him in sleep, the dark gold of his hair tossed wildly about his head. She loved to run her fingers through the silken strands. His face appeared relaxed, the angles and hollows unguarded, less severe.

He’d carried her inside the house carriage as if she were fragile and treasured. Loved.

She wanted that. Wanted his love. Wanted to love him with no fearful specter hanging over her. She bit her bottom lip and eased up on one elbow, lightly stroking the back of his hand, trailing up his arm, tracing the corded muscle.

Before being dragged off to her father’s house, she had been in the process of venturing to see Madame Foster. She would not delay another day. She could not. She must see the diviner, must find hope that all she’d found with Ash would not vanish in an instant.

She could put it off no longer. How could she look at Ash, her heart full yet aching, without having done all she could? Without having done everything in her power? She could not be with him in earnest, with all freedom of heart, knowing she had not tried to safeguard her survival for as long as possible.

Slipping her hand from Ash, she eased from the bed, moving quietly about the room, dressing herself with one eye on her sleeping husband.

No matter what she learned from Madame Foster, she would have peace knowing she’d exhausted every avenue available. Following that, come what may, she would live each day to the fullest. Loving life. Loving Ash.

Dressed, she snatched a fistful of pins from her dressing table and took a final lingering glance at him before departing the room, hope brimming in her heart.

She’d found something with Ash. Something she’d never had before. Something she never knew to hope for. For the first time, her life was about more than caring for the needs of others. Her life was about … living. He woke her, made her feel alive. Ironic, considering she might soon be dead.

Her pace quickened down the corridor. She squeezed her eyes in a tight blink, fighting the burn at the backs of her eyes. God would not be so unkind to take her from him. Not now. Not yet.

Dawn scarcely tinged the air, filtering through the windows she passed. Her shadow stretched long before as she strode ahead, her hands lifted to her head, working the pins into her hair. Her clumsy efforts would have to suffice. She could not risk ringing for a maid. She’d never needed a maid to assist her before, after all. Calling for a carriage was out of the question, too. She could not leave a trail for Ash. Later, she would fabricate an excuse. Anything but the truth.

“Mrs. Courtland?” She practically jumped free of her skin at the voice.

Marguerite donned a falsely cheerful smile for the housekeeper. “Mrs. Harkens,” she breathed.

The craggy-faced woman looked Marguerite over, her thick brows lifting. Clearly, the sight of her walking boots peeping beneath her skirts and the cloak draped over her shoulders signified that she was venturing out.

Marguerite held her breath, convinced the housekeeper was on the verge of inquiring where she was going at this early hour. Instead, she said, “You’ve a caller. A lady awaits you in the drawing room. I told her it was too early, but she’s quite determined.”

“I’ll see her,” Marguerite quickly said, beyond curious who had called upon her.

Upon entering the drawing room, she located Grier’s willowy figure standing near the window.

“Marguerite,” she greeted, striding forward. “You are well? I slept not a wink last night for worry. Jack is quite convinced this Ash fellow has seduced your thinking—”

“I’m unharmed and here quite willingly. Didn’t you notice that I left of my own accord yesterday?”

She waved a hand. “I said as much to Jack, but he claims you are too frightened—”

Marguerite snorted. “He merely wishes so. Do I appear frightened? Jack simply cannot abide that I’ve chosen a man he doesn’t approve.”

Grier nodded. “Oh, he simply can’t abide anyone marrying a daughter he seeks to sell off like chattel to an earl or a duke … or even a bloody prince,” this last she uttered with such heat that Marguerite wondered if there was not one such odious prince in Grier’s life, however far-fetched the notion.

The brown freckles on Grier’s cheeks stood out more than customary. She inhaled through her nose as though groping for composure. “Forgive me for calling so early, I merely wanted to assure myself that you are not being mistreated and sincerely here of your own will. Cleo will be greatly relieved, too. She thought your husband a veritable brute yesterday.”

Marguerite smiled. “She’s not too far off the mark.”

“Well,” Grier said a bit gruffly, “I hope he makes you happy.”

Marguerite smiled, then frowned, her thoughts drifting as ever to her uncertain future.

“Did I say something to offend you?” Grier touched her hand, her warm eyes full of concern.

And that was all it took to completely undo her.

Marguerite crumbled, sank down on the sofa, hot tears dripping down her cheeks. Grier followed her down and wrapped her in her arms. Mortifying as it was to lose her composure to tears, the embrace comforted her. Her sister was warm and yielding and smelled of chocolate. “There now.” Grier’s hand smoothed slow circles on Marguerite’s shuddering back. “Don’t cry.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me.”

Releasing a deep breath, Marguerite did. Like a dam opened, everything poured out, the words a burning rush. Even as incredible as it sounded to her ears, she told her wide-eyed half sister all. She didn’t stop once or come up for air until she had unburdened herself.

“Holy hellfire,” Grier breathed at the end of it all.

Marguerite swiped at her sniffling nose and nodded grimly. “And now you think I’m mad—straight for Bedlam.”

Grier shook her head long and slow. “No. In your shoes, I’m sure I would find myself quite convinced as well.” She gazed at Marguerite, her eyes intense beneath her fine, dark brows. With a decisive nod, she announced, “You must go back to this Madame Foster.”

Marguerite gave a wobbly smile. “I was on my way to do that very thing this morning.”

Grier rose swiftly. “Then I shan’t stop you. Go, Marguerite, at once. Press this woman for more information, for every detail about this accident. Glean any clues that you may—”

“I know, I know.” Nodding, Marguerite moved toward the door, heartened to know she’d decided on the right course.

“I shall call again tomorrow.” Grier followed her, taking Marguerite’s hand in her own. “I will help you in any way I can. You need only ask.”

“Thank you.” Marguerite inhaled, her chest lighter, less tight now that she had told someone. “I think I shall enjoy this.”

“What?” Grier shook her head faintly.

“Having a sister.”

“Oh.” Grier’s face flushed warmly beneath her tanned skin. “Me, too.”

They walked arm in arm through the grand foyer out into the sleeting morning. Tucking her face inside her hood to avoid the icy wet, Marguerite issued a brief prayer, grateful that Grier had paid call, grateful that Ash had not yet woken and investigated her disappearance from their bed.

With luck, she would be back home before he even noticed she’d left the house. Home and armed with the information to ensure her future.

Ash pounded up the steps of Jack’s Mayfair home. He hadn’t expected to be back so soon, to be sure, but waking to an empty bed, his wife nowhere in sight, he’d reached only one furious conclusion. Jack had stolen his wife again.

Without bothering to knock, he charged into the house. Storming through the foyer, he grasped the bottom balustrade, and bellowed Marguerite’s name, much in the manner of yesterday.

She didn’t appear, but several footmen did. He struggled against their grasping hands as they tried to drag him back out the front door. A bitter sense of déjà vu washed over him. “Marguerite!” Did Jack have her locked in some room? He’d tear apart this mausoleum in his search for her.

Jack appeared, the color riding high in his already ruddy face. “You again?”

“I warned you yesterday … Marguerite is mine!”

“Lost her already, have you?” His father-in-law sneered. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Where is she?” he ground out.

“I don’t know,” Jack snapped, waving a hand angrily. “Why don’t you keep better tabs on your wife?”

“Don’t lie to me. I know you sent one of your other daughters for her.” He recalled the housekeeper’s description. “The tall freckled one.”

“Grier?” Jack scowled. “What’s she got to do with this?”