Her Missing Marquess

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Not adept at everything,” he said carefully, studying her. “I have yet to win back my wife, for instance.”

  “That is an impossibility anyway.” Her chin went up.

  “Is it?” He covered her hand with his. “Leave a man his hope, will you not?”

  “Why are you doing this, Jack?” She did not move her hand away from his, but her countenance was closed as ever. “Why can you not simply let me free?”

  “Because I cannot,” he admitted with raw honesty. “You are mine, Nellie. You have always been mine.”

  “I am not a possession. I am a woman.” She paused, turning away from him, her gaze going back to the stream. “I have a heart, Jack. Feelings. Needs and wants. Let me go, I beg of you. This madness cannot continue between us. It hurts too much.”

  Her words cut him. They were not what he wanted to hear.

  His fingers tightened on hers. “Do you truly mean to tell me that you choose Sidmouth over me? That you would prefer to endure the scandal of a divorce and marry another man than remain my wife? Even after everything we have shared? After all these years? After the way we are together?”

  “I already told you.” She glanced back at him, resolute. “I cannot remain married to a man I do not trust. The rest of it…it is not enough.”

  “Desire is not enough?” he pressed. “My love for you is not enough?”

  “It was not enough three years ago.” Her voice was grim.

  He refused to believe she was immovable. “Mayhap we needed those three years, Nellie. Have you ever thought of that? We were young and wild when we married. But that time apart, time to learn who we are, to grow…perhaps it made us stronger. Perhaps it can bring us back together rather than tearing us apart.”

  For a long time, she was silent, her hand still beneath his, their fingers laced without her participation. “Did you mean what you said this morning?”

  He squeezed her fingers. “I have always meant everything I say to you.”

  “That you saw me in your travels,” she elaborated, her bright eyes intent upon him. “That you thought you saw me in Paris.”

  Jack gave her a sad smile. “Yes.” Pathetic arse that he was.

  “For the first few months you were gone, I kept waiting for you to return. I was convinced you would. I would think I heard your voice in a room. I saw you everywhere. Even in my dreams. But you were never there, Jack.” Tears glittered in her eyes, clinging to her long lashes.

  She blinked, fighting them.

  Always fighting, his Nellie.

  He admired that about her. But he hated it, too. Because she was fighting him. Fighting them.

  “I am here now,” he said, all the urgency within him trembling in his voice.

  She shook her head. “It is not enough.”

  Damn her.

  Jack clenched his jaw. “Give me a chance, Nellie. You owe me that much.”

  He sounded desperate. But he was. He could not lose her. He refused to contemplate it. And yet, as he read the sorrow in her expression, the pain in her eyes, he knew she was a woman on the edge.

  “You ask too much,” she whispered. “Let me go, Jack. The time has come.”

  “A fortnight,” he tried again. “Give me a fortnight to win you back. If you still feel the same way at the end of that time, I will agree to the divorce.”

  The words were crushing. Devastating. Necessary, however. He could not spend the rest of his life trying to win her. His love for her was stronger than his need; if remaining his wife would bring her too much misery, he would have to love her enough to set her free.

  Even if losing her was akin to a death knell for him.

  “Do you mean it, Jack?” Her gaze plumbed his. “At the end of the fortnight, you will agree to the divorce?”

  All the breath felt as if it had been sucked from his lungs. But he nodded. “Yes. If you still want the divorce at the end of the fortnight, I promise it will be yours.”

  Nell nodded once, the motion jerky. “One fortnight. No more. And I will not be sharing your bed.”

  “Sharing my bed is not a requirement. I can win you in other ways.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. “All I need is for you to lay aside your weapons.”

  A small, sad smile tugged at her lips. “I have never had any weapons against you, Jack, and that is the problem.”

  How wrong she was. No one could slice him to his very marrow the way she could.

  A fortnight.

  Dear God, what had she agreed to?

  Fourteen days. Fourteen days of seeing Jack, of him spouting off about all the memories they shared, of him looking at her with those emerald bedchamber eyes and making her melt.

  Nell’s hands trembled as she descended the staircase later that night on her way to dinner. It was the first time she was not taking a tray in her apartments. She had taken care with her dress—it was somber and black, an old mourning gown she still had from after her mother’s death. High-necked and prim, buttoned to her throat with a line of jet beads and a net of lace falling over its somber silhouette.

  While her lady’s maid had aided her in her toilette, she had devised a battle plan for the evening. She was going to get soused. It was the only way to make it through a dinner of Jack’s clever taunts and teasing charm.

  Jack sauntered into view. He was dressed beautifully, his short hair brushed back from his high forehead, his maroon waistcoat a vibrant contrast to his black coat and trousers and the crisp whiteness of his shirt. He watched her descend, a curious expression on his handsome face.

  When she reached the last step, he offered her an elegant bow.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. John Reginald Ainsworth, Marquess of Needham, Earl of Marbury, Viscount Pelham, etcetera. But all my familiars call me Jack.” His signature half grin curved his sensual mouth.

  She wanted to kiss those lips, curse him.

  Nell dipped into an abbreviated curtsy, determined to steel herself against his charm. “What game are you playing now, Jack?”

  “No game.” His grin faded as he met her gaze, the intensity of those verdant orbs searing her. “I thought perhaps we could begin anew tonight. Start again.”

  “It will do nothing to further your cause,” she warned him, taking the arm he offered her.

  “But surely worth a try.” His voice was smooth. Unaffected.

  He did not resemble the man who had come to her at the stream. That Jack had been raw, without his polish, almost desperate. He had been worried about her. And in spite of herself, she had been touched.

  His words returned to her as they made their way to the dining room.

  You are mine, Nellie. You have always been mine.

  Dear God, if he only knew. Resisting him, fighting him, cost her every modicum of resolve she possessed.

  Dinner began without a great deal of fanfare.

  She was seated far nearer to him than she would have preferred, but she was not going to make a fuss before the servants or her husband. The less anyone—especially Jack—realized how greatly he affected her, the better. She seated herself primly, all too aware of his presence and stare.

  “Tell me, my lady,” he said as the first course arrived, “what brings you to the country?”

  “Why do you insist upon this nonsensical pretext?” she muttered.

  “I beg your pardon.” He fluttered his eyelashes at her as if he were a coquette. “What was that you said, Lady Needham?”

  She bit her lip to contain her laughter. Even when he looked ridiculous, he was gorgeous in a way no mere mortal ought to be. Unfair. So very unfair. She waited until the servants removed themselves to the perimeter of the room, where they were not as apt to overhear their conversation.

  “If you must know, my lord, I was celebrating,” she told him pointedly.

  “Do tell? The happy occasion of the return of your husband, was it?” He grinned at her.

  He was enjoying this, the bounder. “Not precisely.”

&n
bsp; She turned her attention to the potage à la prince in her bowl. She did not recall approving this rich partridge and chestnut soup—one of her favorites.

  “This soup is delicious is it not?” he asked, as if reading her mind. “A lady I admire holds it one of the very best.”

  She ignored the implication of his words, taking a delicate sip of the soup. “I cannot think why she would recommend it. It seems the sort of dish for which one’s enthusiasm would inevitably wane. Much like an unwanted husband.”

  The last was unnecessarily cutting, but if she was going to suffer through fourteen more such dinners, she needed to build the bloody walls high.

  She needed to build a damned fortress.

  “Or,” he suggested after a lengthy silence, “it is the sort of dish which leaves one’s palate forever changed. Regardless of the time that has passed or the other soups one has tasted, potage à la prince retains its allure.”

  She skewered him with a look. “You are outdoing yourself with silly metaphors, my lord.”

  He raised a dark brow. “I was merely speaking of the soup course, my dear.”

  Gritting her teeth, she turned her attention back to the food before her. And to her wine. She was on her second glass by the time the rissoles à la reine arrived. The earthiness of the truffles was a delight to her senses, for this, too, was another favorite of hers. Unless she missed her guess, her clever husband had rewritten the evening’s menu to make certain it would appeal to her.

  “I shudder to think what is coming next,” she grumbled, forking up a delicate bite smothered with béchamel sauce and fried parsley. “I shall not fit into any of my gowns by tomorrow morning.”

  “If I had my way, you would not need gowns for the next fortnight at least, Lady Needham,” her scoundrel of a husband told her, sotto voce.

  Longing swept through her. Desire throbbed to life in her core, the ache so intense she nearly emitted a groan of frustration, right there at the dinner table before a pair of footmen. As it was, she choked upon a bite of her food.

  She attempted to recover by pouring the rest of her wine down her throat.

  “Nellie?” The playfulness had vanished from his expression and tone. In its place was stark concern.

  She gulped frantically at her wine until it was gone and then sputtered while she waited for a footman to refill her glass. “Perfectly well,” she gasped.

  “That was not quite the reaction I was hoping for.” His tone was wry.

  Nell drank some more wine, noting he had none at his place setting. She had not seen him imbibe, nor tasted it on his lips, since his return. Perhaps that bit of what he had told her was true. Still, his stand was too little, too late.

  And as for herself? She had no stand save one: divorce. Preserving her heart as well. Make that two.

  She hiccupped into her wine. Lovely. Just what she needed. First she had nearly choked, and now she was hiccupping. Would her humiliation know no bounds?

  Nell cast him a glare and gulped some more wine, then held her breath for good measure.

  “That does not work, you know.” His tone was knowing. “There was only one way you could ever get rid of your hiccups, my love.”

  She intensified the force of her glare and released the breath she had been holding. “If my nearly choking was what it required you to cease playing your silly games, I suppose I ought to be—hiccup—grateful.”

  Blast.

  “Shall I prove the veracity of my claim?” he asked calmly, his gaze dipping to her mouth.

  Her lips tingled. So did the place between her thighs. To her mortification, she was wet. From the memory of his mouth on hers. From that green stare. Her pulse was pounding in her pearl. She needed more wine, clearly.

  She gave him her most ferocious frown. “No, thank you. Hiccup.”

  Unbidden, memories of the ways he had once cured her hiccups returned. With kisses, always. And sometimes, with more. Once, they had been at a ball and they had both drunk themselves silly. She had hiccupped through a waltz, and he had led her to a darkened chamber, bent her over a chair, and slid deep inside her.

  She hiccupped again, her cheeks going hot at the memory. Jack’s stare on her said he remembered, too. He jerked his gaze from hers.

  “Leave us to enjoy the remainder of this course,” he instructed the footmen.

  They were gone in a moment, the door closing at their backs.

  Jack rose from his seat.

  She shook her head. “No! Hiccup.”

  But her husband did not listen. Of course not. He never listened. Not when it came to her desire to maintain distance between them. He took her hands in his and helped her to stand, pulling her chair away.

  “You are still hiccupping, my love,” he observed, pulling her into his chest.

  She went. Yes, she did. Later, she would blame it on the wine. She would tell herself she had been in her cups. But for now, she pressed herself into his big, strong body. She was wanton and eager. A lamb for the slaughter. Forgetting all the reasons why she must keep her distance.

  “I am—hiccup—not,” she protested breathlessly, her hands on his chest.

  Tenderly, he swept a curl from her cheek. He cupped her face in his big, warm hands. “You have just proven yourself wrong. I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy the irony, just a bit.”

  She should push away from him. Return to her chair. Eat her dinner in peace.

  Instead, she found herself melting into him. He was so sturdy, so muscular. He had never failed to make her feel safe. Protected. Wanted. Always wanted. Until the day he had not.

  But somehow, she could not think about that now as another hiccup fled her lips.

  “If you think I am going to allow you to cure my hiccups in the same fashion as the Desborough ball, you are wrong,” she told him, punctuating her sentence with yet another hiccup.

  His thumbs swept over her cheekbones. “Do you want me to fuck you on the dining room table in the midst of dinner, Nellie? Say the word, and I’ll be eating your sweet cunny for the next course instead of the mutton pie.”

  His vulgarity only made her want him more. There was something wrong with her, surely. Only a fool would find herself so desperate with lust for a man who had proven himself untrustworthy in the most dastardly fashion possible. But the ache was there. Undeniable.

  She licked her lower lip. “Mutton pie is the next course?” she asked, just to taunt him.

  Because the truth was, she was out of her mind with wanting him. Just from his nearness, his touch, his scent, his green eyes locked on her lips, his wicked, wicked words. How long had it been since he had pleasured her thus? Years. Too long. Far, far too long.

  The mere mentioning of it had her pearl swelling. Ready. Dear God, the sensual feats he had once performed upon her with his lips, teeth, and tongue.

  “I will make you forget about the damned mutton pie,” he vowed.

  His mouth was on hers in the next breath, hot, insistent. Demanding.

  Making her forget everything, including all the reasons why she ought to resist. And especially all the reasons why she should not kiss him back. His tongue slid into her mouth. She welcomed it.

  They were moving, then. Moving as he kissed her. Moving as he owned her mouth. He guided her backward. His hands fell to her waist, clutching her, and in the next moment, she was being lifted to the table. She had just enough wits about her to catch herself on her palms, feeling frantically for crockery and silverware.

  Her hands met with nothing but cool, polished wood.

  Jack jerked back, ending the kiss, staring down at her with an inscrutable expression, his chest heaving with the force of his breasts. His mouth was dark from their shared kisses. “Lift your skirts.”

  She could deny him. She knew it. She could put an end to this.

  But she was too far gone. She did not want to put an end to this. She wanted his tongue on her, in her. Once more, she was weak, so very weak, for him.

  She caught fis
tfuls of black silk, and she raised them. But because she could not allow him to take full control, she kept her knees together. Her skirts were crumpled about her waist, her stocking-clad legs on display. She had not worn drawers this evening because she found them cumbersome. Her garters were pink, her hose a brilliant red, in stark contrast to her mournful dress. She had not supposed he would see either when she had dressed.

  But that had been three glasses of wine and a half-dozen potent kisses with Jack ago.

  “No drawers. Fuck, I love your legs,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Open them. I’m going to suck your sweet pearl until you scream.”

  Good God.

  She bit her lip. Hard. Fought against the potent, heady wave of need. And kept her knees clamped tightly together. “Only if you ask politely.”

  “Please.” His response was instant.

  But it was her turn to tease. Her turn to be the one in control. Her hiccups were long gone already, and she could not even pretend that was what this was about. No, indeed. This stolen moment was about her pleasure.

  “You need to be more specific, my lord,” she told him. “What do you want?”

  His hands were on her thighs, coasting up and down in delicious friction. His cock was hard and long, pressed against the fall of his trousers. There was no denying how much he wanted her. The knowledge was gratifying.

  “I want to bury my face between your pretty thighs and lick your pearl,” he told her, his voice low. Decadent. It sent a dark trill down her spine. “I want to fuck you with my tongue. I want you bucking beneath me. I will not stop until you are shaking and desperate and wild.”

  Still, it was not enough.

  “Beg me,” she told him. “Get on your knees and beg.”

  He caressed her thighs. “Nellie.”

  She was asking a great deal from a man like him, she knew. But it was what she wanted—nay—what she needed from him. He had hurt her so badly. Had brought her so very low. And if he wanted to bring her pleasure this time, he was going to have to earn it, damn him.

  “On your knees,” she repeated. “Beg me to lick my cunny.”

  He muttered a string of curses, but he did as she asked, kneeling there in the dining room, hands on her knees. “Please, Nellie. I am begging. Come on my tongue.”