Her Missing Marquess

by Scott, Scarlett

  Surely the hour she had agreed to was over?

  Surely this kiss would quench her voracious hunger for him?

  No. It did not. She straddled him, and beneath her, his cock glided over her folds. Hard and thick and insistent. Silken in the water. Delicious. Her core throbbed. She wanted him inside her. She had missed his mouth. It felt like a lifetime since the folly.

  It had only been hours.

  Dear heavens, she was lost. Because this kiss, this man, were all she wanted. How selfish she was. How greedy. She hated herself. Told herself to stop. And then she kissed him more.

  She moaned and raked her nails over his wet shoulders. She wanted to scratch him, to claw him, to fight him, to mark him, to own him, body and soul. The way he owned her. But she also carried so much anger and pain, so much hurt, betrayal. Not enough to keep her from loving the skim of his fingers, parting her folds beneath the water. Not enough to jerk away from him when he circled her pearl with two knowing fingers.

  Her hips jerked. Blessed angels’ sakes. More of that. Just more.

  He sucked her lower lip, his eyes on hers, burning into her with emerald intensity.

  She closed her eyes to shut him out. To keep him from seeing straight into the depths of her, to the place she had sworn he would never again reach. The place she would never allow him again: her heart.

  He broke the kiss, his hot breath falling over her lips in a tempting veil. “Open your eyes.”

  She kept them closed and sought his mouth with hers. Their kiss turned almost violent. Forceful, a battle for power. He nipped her. She nipped him. Hard. Hard enough it must have stung. Still, she kept her eyes closed.

  He tore his mouth away. “No, Nellie. Open them. Look at me. Look at the man you are kissing.”

  Still, anger simmered inside her, mingling with the overwhelming ferocity of her desire. She wanted to hurt him. To wound him. To cut him in the only way she knew how. And so she kept her eyes tightly closed.

  “If I open them,” she whispered against his lips tauntingly, “I cannot pretend you are Tom.”

  The instant those wretched words left her, she regretted them. But it was too late. They had already been spoken. Jack stilled beneath her, his entire body going tense.

  His hand slid into her hair, and he grasped a handful, moving her head back.

  “Look at me.”

  Defying him heightened her excitement. Perhaps she was perverse. But her pulse was pounding, and so too was the flesh between her legs. Her breasts were heavy and aching. She bit her lower lip. “No.”

  He growled, and the sound rang through the bathing chamber, feral and dangerous. This, too, made her want him more. Had she not already been in the water, she was sure she would have been dripping for him.

  “Damn you, Nell.” His voice was curt, strained. “I am not Sidmouth and you know it. Open your eyes.”

  Still, she would not. This, her power over him, excited her. For the entirety of their union, he had held her in his thrall. He had been the wicked rake, the charmer. The gorgeous heir to a marquessate, the most sought-after viscount in London. She had been a country girl, a baron’s daughter forever in his awe. When she had married him, she had gained all his friends, had easily entered the Marlborough House circle. They had entertained, had been much-loved. Suddenly, she had been someone because of him. Until in his absence, she had become someone despite him.

  But even upon Jack’s return, he had arrived with his sangfroid and his handsome face and his bloody perfect beard and his protestations of innocence. And she had never stopped wanting him. Her attraction to him went to her marrow. Regardless of her determination to resist him, in spite of the pain of three years without him, and although he had brazenly had another woman in his bed before her very own eyes, Nell still longed for him.

  It was infuriating. It made no sense. Here was her chance to regain the power she had lost to him. To make him suffer, just a modicum.

  Eyes still closed, she leaned into him, grazing his chest with her breasts. Her nipples were already hardened into demanding peaks, and the sensation of his damp, masculine flesh against her was enough to make her moan. She slid her right hand between then and grasped his cock.

  He was still hard. Still ready.

  “You could be anyone,” she told him softly. “Do not think that I did not enjoy the company of others in your absence. I may not have welcomed them to my bed, but I still found my pleasure in other ways.”

  His fingers tightened in her hair. The tug at her roots was exquisite. Not painful, but masterful. She already knew he was larger and stronger than she was. He could manhandle her as he wished. But he would not, because though he was a conscienceless Lothario, he was also Jack. His anger incited her desire.

  “Nell.”

  Her eyes were still tightly shut. She smiled for him. Sweetly. Licked her lips, tasting him—salt and hunger and man. Jack. She swayed, brushing her nipples over him once more, and then she stroked his cock until the breath left him in one swift exhalation.

  “Hmm?” she asked, too moved by the headiness of the moment to care for much of anything.

  She had never before felt intoxicated without having consumed a single drop of spirits. But she did now. She was drunk on pleasure. On him.

  “I can make you open your eyes.” He tugged at her hair lightly, as if to prove his point.

  Yes, if he pulled her hair hard enough, it would hurt, and her eyes would instinctively fly open.

  “Do your worst,” she invited.

  After all, this was war between them. Sweet, seductive war.

  And she intended to emerge the victor.

  “Or my best, Nellie.” He tugged on her hair until her head was pulled back, leaving her throat vulnerable to him. The first touch of his velvety lips to her skin was incendiary. He raked his teeth on her, then nipped a sensitive cord. “Only my very best.”

  Damnation.

  Liquid desire washed over her. She could not stifle her sigh of appreciation. Jack’s mouth on her had always been heaven. Time, distance, betrayal, and a change of circumstance had not altered that.

  He sucked her skin. Kissed a path of fire to her shoulder as the fingers on her pearl increased their pressure and pace. She surged against him, thrusting her cunny into his hand as she stroked his cock. Everything around her was dark, leaving her other senses painfully aware. The scent of citrus and Jack rose in the air. The water was warm, gliding over her skin. Beneath her, his body was large and muscled and strong. She ran her thumb over the head of him the way she remembered he liked.

  The answering ache deep within her could not be denied.

  He bit her shoulder. One more clever rotation of her pearl, and she shattered. Her climax was sudden and forceful and undeniable. She shuddered as the force of it thundered through her. The pain was delicious. Exquisite. So, too, the pleasure.

  She gasped but would not say his name or look at him.

  She had every intention of winning this sensual game. Of winning everything.

  One of his fingers slid inside her channel.

  Deep. Knowing. She bit her lip and ground down upon him, dragging him within as the ripples of her spend radiated through her, clenching and holding him just where she wanted him.

  His mouth latched on to her breast now, and he sucked. Hard. Sucked her as he fucked her with his finger. She was close to another climax. Dangerously on the edge. Damn him and what he did to her. Damn his wicked mouth and his long fingers and his big cock and his hard body and his dark hair and bright green eyes. Damn the way he would not allow her to forget about their shared past. Damn him for calling her Nellie, for taking care of her blistered feet, for dropping to his knees before her.

  Damn him for telling her he loved her. For lying about what had happened with Lady Billingsley. For reappearing in her life when she had been on the verge of finding her long-awaited happiness. For lulling her into the false belief she was stronger than the girl he had known, that she could move beyond h
im and forget she had ever known his name.

  Because she could never forget Jack, not as long as she lived. He was a part of her. He knew her better than she wanted to admit. And being with him felt more right than being with anyone else ever had. All those drunken kisses, those foolish flirtations, paled in comparison to the vibrant, decadent attraction she shared with Jack.

  In and out, his finger went. He added a second, thrusting them deep as he teased her pearl with his thumb. She was swollen. Aching. Desperate. He bit down on her nipple, and she saw stars beneath her eyelids. Her release was within reach. Inevitable.

  But she did not want to allow him to make her spend twice while he had yet to find his bliss. No, indeed. She wanted to bring him low in the same way. To undo him. To dismantle his every defensive wall.

  “Suck harder,” she ordered him.

  And then she took his wrist and pulled his fingers from her.

  Her breaths emerged in choppy gasps.

  He released her nipple with a lusty-sounding pop that seemed to reverberate through the stillness of the night.

  She grasped his cock and brought him to her entrance, needing him inside her.

  But he stayed her with a hand clamped on her waist. A low growl. “Not until you open your bloody eyes, Nellie.”

  “I do not want to see you,” she said truthfully.

  Seeing him meant opening herself to all the vulnerabilities she had been doing her utmost to avoid. Seeing him meant losing her control.

  “You need to see me,” he insisted. “Do you want my cock?”

  “Mmm.” A helpless sound of agreement fled her. Of course she did. She was empty. Aching. Desperate. Longing. Starving.

  “Look at me, Nellie. Look at the man who loves you.” His dark order sent a new frisson down her spine. One that would not be contained.

  She could not say what prompted her to open her eyes at last. But she did, blinking them open. Their faces were near. Startlingly so. In such proximity that she could discern the vast array of pigments that made up the green: gold, brown, gray, a hint of blue. Beads of moisture clung to his skin. Their noses almost brushed. His breath was warm, his lips parted.

  In one thrust, he was inside her.

  Deep.

  So deep.

  “Say my name,” he commanded.

  “Jack.” She moaned his name. Could not help it. There was no pretending in this moment of sheer, unadulterated, erotic bliss.

  He kissed her. Only, it was not just a kiss but a conflagration. Her eyes were still open, and he was filling her, and her every sense was honed razor sharp. The lick of the warm water on her skin, the angle of him within, his lips on hers, their breaths mingling and becoming one as their bodies joined. Everything melded all at once, desire rising, his possession of her not just welcomed but overwhelming.

  His hands clamped on her waist, and he lifted her.

  Water splashed around them, spilling over the edges of the tub. He glided through her channel with such ease. And then his hips surged in the same instant he guided her down. She was deliciously stretched once more.

  She held his face in her hands and ravaged his mouth with kisses. Desperation and lust entwined. His gaze was locked on hers, penetrating. She could not look away. Could not stop this madness if she wished.

  And she did not wish.

  They moved together in a wild rhythm, thrusting, kissing. Sounds emerged from her throat. Mewling, breathy, helpless sounds. In and out he thrust, water lapping against their bodies, mouths mating. She sucked his tongue. He growled. More water flew from the tub as their lovemaking grew increasingly unrestrained.

  He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down her throat. As she slammed down upon him once more, he bit her shoulder. It was all she needed to fly over the edge. She clenched on him, drawing him as deep as she could, and trembled with the power of her release. Nell could not choke back her cry of triumphant bliss.

  “Nellie,” he groaned against her skin, rocking beneath her. “God, Nellie you feel so good.”

  She could say the same of him, but she was beyond words. Incapable of thought or speech. She could do nothing but ride the waves of her pinnacle. Nothing but ride him. He moved beneath her, his body tensing, and she knew he was close. Another fierce pump, and a delicious warmth spilled inside her. He came on a ragged cry, biting her shoulder again as he emptied himself within her.

  She clutched him to her, sated and boneless and breathless, wishing this moment would never end.

  Knowing that for her own self-preservation and the sake of her heart, it must.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jack woke just as he had every morning for the past three years.

  Alone.

  Curse it, he should have carried Nell to his bed in the midst of the night when they had finished in the bath. She had been flushed and sleepy and surprisingly compliant. He had suspected persuading her to sleep with him would not have required much coaxing.

  But he was doing his utmost not to rush her. To allow this—whatever it was—between them to proceed at her pace. It was deuced difficult. Because all he wanted to do was to drag her into his arms and kiss the devil out of her. He wanted her in his bed. He wanted her to let him back into her heart. He wanted her belly swelling with his child. Wanted her to choose him.

  He did not fool himself that any of those things would be easy to accomplish. As it was, the old passions flaring between them were the only reason she had allowed him to make love to her. Their attraction had always been undeniable. It was how he had known, the moment he had first seen her at a sailing regatta so long ago, that he was going to make her his wife.

  And he had.

  But then, he had lost her.

  Grimly, he flipped back the bedclothes and rose. He had a chance now to regain what they once had. At first, he had supposed his persistence would be enough. But having her body was not enough. He wanted all of her.

  A new strategy occurred to him, one that would require a return to the past, in a sense. A return to when they had first fallen in love.

  He donned his dressing gown and rang for his valet.

  Denning arrived and guided him through his morning ablutions. But as his man was trimming his beard and Jack sat before his looking glass, another idea occurred to him. If he was going to take Nell back in time, he would have to look the part as well.

  “Shave it off, Denning,” he ordered, with just a moment of sadness that his finely kept whiskers should be so summarily removed. He was not a vane man, but he had grown accustomed to seeing himself bearded.

  His valet paused, frowning. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “The beard,” he elaborated. “No trimming today. I would like a shave. A fresh start now that we are returned to England.”

  Denning had accompanied him in all his travels. He had seen Jack at his lowest and his best, and he was a calm, judicious presence. A trusted companion.

  “You are certain, my lord?” Denning asked.

  “Certain.” He stared at his reflection, thinking it was time. “The whiskers can grow back, should I change my mind.”

  “Of course,” Denning agreed.

  But there was something in his tone which gave Jack pause.

  “Do you think I shall be an unsightly beast without it?” he asked. “I am attempting to impress Lady Needham.”

  Saying the words aloud made him sound rather foolish. He felt like a lad courting his future bride: uncertain, a jittery, ragged bundle of nerves. Hope was a painful splinter in his heart. What man had to impress his wife of over four years?

  A man who had made enough mistakes to almost lose her forever.

  “If your aim is to impress her ladyship, may I also suggest a trim of your hair?” Denning asked, fetching the razor, soap, and brush.

  Jack raised a hand to his hair. Perhaps it was a tad long. “Do you think it necessary?”

  “I do think it would aid your cause, my lord.” Denning was polite as ever. Serious.

&nbs
p; His sense of fashion was impeccable, however.

  Jack tipped his head back, giving the valet better access to his doomed whiskers. “My cause needs all the bloody help it can get, Denning. Do your very best.”

  There was a stranger at the breakfast table.

  A green-eyed god with smoothly shaven cheeks and short, dark hair who looked exactly like the man who had stolen her heart five years ago.

  Nell stopped on the threshold of the dining room as a wave of remembrance assailed her. All the stern warnings she had been issuing to herself from the moment she had risen at dawn with a body that ached in places which had not been brought to life in years vanished. Her heart gave a pang. Jack looked younger without his beard, and though she would not have supposed it possible, even more handsome.

  The gorgeous symmetry of his face was on full display now, complemented by the sensual lips she knew and longed for upon hers.

  He rose at her entrance and offered her an elegant bow. “Good morning, my lady.”

  She forced herself to dip into an answering curtsy and gather her scattered wits. “Lord Needham.”

  He was at her side in a trice, and he smelled as divine as he looked. His gaze was warm as it burned into hers. She could not help but to recall the way he had stared into her eyes last night, when he had been inside her. Their connection had been deeper than the physical. Much to her shame, she had lowered her defenses. But she must gather them up again today.

  How? Asked her heart dejectedly.

  Jack offered her his arm as gallantly as any swain. “Allow me to guide you to your seat and fill your plate, my dear.”

  How indeed?

  Aware of their audience, she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. Beneath her hand, his arm was all reassuring strength. She tried to force herself to think of Tom. But her heart was pounding. And all she could think about was the man at her side.

  Her husband.

  She could not deny the effect he had upon her. In a haze, she allowed him to seat her. She told herself she needed to harden her heart. To ignore this sudden change in his appearance. He was not the Jack she had fallen in love with that charmed August at the sailing regatta. He was the man who had betrayed her.