Her eyes sought his in the glass. This admission seemed torn from him, but she was grateful he had given it to her. “Why did he despise her?”
His lips took on a sardonic twist. “Theirs was an arranged marriage. My mother loved another. My father loved only himself. They wedded to suit their families. He needed her dowry, and her family wished to secure a tract of largely untillable marshland.”
“It seems an untenable trade,” she offered lamely. From his tone and the precious, little information he had shared regarding either of his parents, she could only assume he had not been privileged enough to possess a happy childhood.
Though her mother had been her father’s fifth wife, Papa had been kind and loving toward Leonora. Her parents’ marriage had not possessed any rancor, though Mama had been a good two decades Papa’s junior.
“Far more untenable than one would suppose, given the exchange.” Her husband’s deep voice interrupted her ruminations once more. So, too, his touch, for his fingers were upon the central ruby in the necklace now, stroking as he spoke. “She hated him as well, so do not think her an innocent. The fire and anger between them burned brightly on both their parts.”
“Your mother and father lived in enmity for the entirety of their union?” she asked, though she knew he likely did not wish to speak of his distant past any more than he wished to discuss his far more recent one.
“They lived in bitter hatred,” he said calmly. “Enmity seems far too polite a descriptor.”
She wondered now if part of the reason for his detached manner lay in his childhood, as well. Surely a home in which two people hated each other with such ferocity could not be a happy home for that couple’s children.
“It must have been difficult for you,” she said softly, treading with care. Her eyes met his in the glass, and she held her breath, awaiting his reaction.
“Do not fret for me, madam.” His tone was cool. “There is no difficulty I cannot face.”
She believed his assertion. The Marquess of Searle was a strong man, a living, breathing fortress. But she wanted inside his walls. “Still, a child ought not to bear the weight of his parents’ quarrels.”
“I had my brother,” he said then, his fingers gliding over the necklace before he settled his entire hand there, cupping her throat gently. “We provided each other with comfort, of sorts.”
She knew from Mama—who possessed an almost uncanny ability to recite Debrett’s—Searle’s elder brother had died shortly after their father’s death. But this was Searle’s first reference to his brother. Progress, perhaps.
“You and your brother enjoyed a friendship, then?” she asked, prodding him because she knew she must. He would give her crumbs when she longed for a laden table.
“We did. George was a good man. A gentleman.” Searle paused, his jaw clenching. “He made an excellent marquess. I was not raised to the task, though Father loved to remind me of my duties to the line, often in the form of a switch. The old marquess was adept at caning. Perhaps it was one of the reasons my mother hated him so. I expect he may have exercised his anger upon her as well. I do recall seeing bruises upon her that her lady’s maid attempted to cover with powder. As a lad, I thought her clumsy. As a man, I have wondered.”
A chill swept through her at the thought of not just what Searle had endured but what his mother had possibly, also. And here, at last, was a revelation from him, but a horrifying, heartbreaking one all the same. “I am sorry, my lord. Sorry for the loss of your brother and the suffering of your past.”
His smile was grim, his hand tightening slightly on her throat. Just a subtle flex, enough to remind her how very much she was at his mercy. “As we have already established, I do not want your sympathy.”
She knew precisely what he wanted from her, and the flesh between her thighs was slick and aching with the same want. But she longed for more from her husband than just passion. She also wanted to know him. To dismantle his defenses.
“Whether or not you want it matters naught,” she told him, resolute. “You have it. I am your wife, my lord. It is my duty to concern myself with you.”
“No,” he said, dipping his head to press a kiss to the left side of her neck. His hand remained on the opposite side, his warmth seeping into her flesh. “It is not your duty to concern yourself with me. Your duties are to bear my children and refrain from cuckolding or embarrassing me publicly. But that is not enough for you, is it? Caring for others is merely in your nature, is it not, my sweet Leonie?” He kissed his way to her ear, sending a trill straight through her. “You are an angel. So perfect, so sweet, caring when you should not, giving when you ought to keep for yourself. You are so good, wife. Too good. Far too good.”
His words seemed somehow couched in warning. But she could not question them now, not when his mouth was moving over her bare skin, and his left hand had found her thigh, caressing her there. She struggled to maintain control of her faculties as he wreaked havoc upon her ability to both think and resist him.
Because why would she resist this gorgeous, breathtaking man? Why would she want anything other than his complete domination of her body, his annihilation of her defenses in every way?
The Marquess of Searle was her weakness. He was cold and dark and bitter, scarred and mysterious and remote, and yet, he called to her more than any man ever had. It was not merely that he was her husband. Another could have sufficed for the role. She had wanted children of her own, and that was all. But this man was different. He crawled beneath her skin and made his home somewhere within the fragile boundaries of her heart.
“I am not an angel,” she told him, “and you do not expect enough of your wife if your only requirements consist of no embarrassment and no cuckolding. While it may be useful to convey, I have no wish of committing either of those sins against you, I do feel compelled to suggest my position in your life is far more useful than the duties you have mentioned.”
His hand found the knot at the belt on her dressing gown, plucking it open. The twain ends of her wrapper fell apart, revealing her transparent nightgown. In the looking glass, she saw herself as she supposed Searle may, unbound, white-blonde hair, full lips, wide eyes, breasts too heavy and round, nipples poking through the fabric, a soft belly, and the shadow of the apex of her thighs. Where she hungered for him most.
“I would agree on the last, darling.” His breath was hot in her ear as he spoke. “I do have far more useful tasks for you in mind.”
His gaze was unyielding in the glass, holding her captive, sending a fresh blossom of want straight to her core. She knew what he wanted. Desire altered his expression. Never had she been looked upon with such aggressive possession. The man staring back at her did not just want her. He wanted to devour her.
And she wanted nothing more. Her breath hitched in her throat, her pulse pounding. “What tasks, my lord?”
He pressed a hot kiss to her ear then, enough for her to sense the need building within him, a fire to match the one already burning inside her.
“Is your leg paining you, Leonie?” he asked, taking her by surprise with his thought for her comfort.
The diminutive still felt strange, almost as if it belonged to someone else, yet somehow right. Once again, he was an enigma to her, this man who was cold and aloof yet oddly concerned for her wellbeing. Telling her he did not want her sympathy yet caressing her, holding her throat and yet kissing her ear. He was the juxtaposition of hard and soft.
But she did not require his comfort. Not now, for she bore most of her weight on her uninjured, right limb, helping to alleviate the stiffness and aches. It was a crutch, of sorts, and she used it often. Over the years, she had even discovered how best to stand so the skirts of her gown shielded her weakness. It was only too much walking, standing, and dancing that made the old injury flare.
“My leg does not pain me,” she said finally, forcing herself to speak. Her eyes remained trained to his, lost in those dark, emerald depths. But something else pained he
r. Rather, it was an ache. An emptiness. A longing. “But I do thank you for your concern for my wellbeing, my lord.”
Suddenly, she could no longer bear the detachment of staring into their reflections. While its novelty inspired a certain hunger within her, she was also tormented by a persistent longing for something more, for something deeper. Perhaps, she thought, this was his way of once more putting a distance between them. After all, it was emotion he did not want—her caring for him, any tender feelings she may possess, were shunned with equal vigor.
“If your leg does not pain you, then why…”
His query trailed off when she abruptly spun in his arms.
“Why what, my lord?” she asked.
“Why did your breath catch?” His question was issued in a deliciously deep timbre that sluiced down her spine, spreading tingles in its wake.
She swallowed. Excellent question, and how to answer without betraying herself? Without making her susceptibility to him apparent?
“My breath did nothing of the sort,” she lied, gazing into the glorious vibrancy of his eyes. How unusual it was for a man to have been blessed with such loveliness. She was sure she had never seen another gentleman with eyes that could compare. Or perhaps it was merely that she had not cared to look closely enough before now.
Which was rather an arresting—and astounding—realization.
“It did,” he countered, sounding pleased with himself. “Your breath caught in your throat, and you seemed to tense.” He kissed the bare swath of her neck. Once, twice, thrice. His tongue darted over her flesh, and then he sucked. Gently at first, then with greater pressure.
Until she knew without question his fervor would leave yet another mark to join the rest he had already visited upon her flesh, a constellation of the ways in which he was her greatest weakness. All of it rendering her so painfully vulnerable to his touch.
To him.
She swallowed as he continued to devour her neck. “Is there a danger, then, in wanting one’s husband?”
He inhaled deeply, and then he kissed her throat again, open mouthed. Ravenous. She tilted her head back, enjoying his consumption. Reveling in it, in fact.
“There is every danger when I am the husband in question,” he said, startling her. His mouth continued its stinging path. Down her throat, straight to her collarbone. “Do you dare trust me, Leonie?”
Nay, she did not.
But something else inside her, something deep and elemental, said she did. And it was that voice which answered him now, rather than her own. “Yes. I trust you, Morgan.”
He tugged her dressing gown with one hand, and she helped him, shrugging it to the carpet. His other hand slid from her throat, his fingers tunneling into her nape where her hair hung in heavy waves.
“Sweet fool,” he said without heat, and then his mouth was upon hers.
*
She trusted him.
He had heard the honesty in her dulcet voice. And he tasted it now in her kiss, felt it in her responsiveness, the way all the tension and fight drained from her in his arms. He wanted to thank her, and he wanted to punish her all at once for being so naïve, for believing in him so easily when he was the last man she ought to gift with her unconditional faith.
His fingers tightened in her hair as he kissed her, his tongue plundering her mouth, hoping she would whimper, beg to be set free, push him away. Instead, she only clutched him closer, a moan of surrender coming from her. He swallowed the sound as he consumed her mouth, telling her his secrets with every movement of his lips on hers.
You should not trust me.
I am your enemy, my sweet.
But see how prettily you let me own you…
Damnation, her capitulation, her willingness to submit to whatever he wished of her, stoked the white-hot fires of desire burning within him. His cock was ready for her, the need to be inside her an almost palpable thing.
Still kissing her, he guided them both in the direction of her bed. He had kept her in his bed all night the first time, but he recognized the precedent was a dangerous one to set for himself, as much as for her. He could ill afford to develop a fondness for her beyond his need for her body. Tonight, he would have her in her own bed, and he could discreetly leave after he had his fill of her.
He whisked away her nightdress, and discarded his own robe. They fell onto the mattress as one, mouths joined, hands everywhere. Her heady, floral scent enveloped him as he filled his hands with her voluptuous curves.
He told himself he would make love to her more slowly this time. He would savor her. Torture her with pleasure until she was screaming for him, pleading for her release. And when the Earl of Rayne finally arrived back in London once more, Morgan would relish every moment of informing the bastard how easy it had been to make his innocent sister beg for his cock.
He tore his mouth from hers and kissed down her body, stopping to admire her creamy flesh beneath him. Her breasts were so damn beautiful. Her belly was soft, and the thought of planting his seed within her, of watching her swell with his child, made his cock twitch.
Damn. He was meant to prolong the pleasure. To make this last.
He cupped her breasts and then lowered his head to suck a nipple into his mouth, earning a moan from her. He wanted his name on her lips as she cried out her release. He wanted her to spend on his tongue.
Morgan suckled her other nipple, giving her another gentle nip. She was more decadent than any dessert. His to pleasure. His to torture.
Down her belly he went, trailing kisses, worshiping her with his mouth. He did not stop until he reached the prize he sought, the apex of her thighs. He kissed the top of her mound, his hands on her thighs, urging them apart.
“My lord,” she protested breathlessly.
“Hush,” he told her gently, soothing her with slow caresses as she opened for him. Her cunny was glistening, pink and perfect. “I want to kiss you.”
“Where?” she almost yelped. “Surely not…”
He would not argue the point with her, for he could not go another heartbeat without having the taste of her in his mouth. Instead, he dipped his head, showing her. He traced his tongue over her seam, up and down, slowly and tantalizingly. She tasted musky with a hint of sweetness. He found her pearl and flicked his tongue over it, gratified when she jolted beneath him.
Yes, there was his wanton wife.
So wicked for him.
He would take great pleasure in making her come this way.
She whimpered something indistinguishable. Perhaps it was his name. He could not be certain over the rushing of blood in his own ears. She was closer now, he could sense it, the need in her building to a towering crescendo.
Damnation, she was slick, her heat bathing him, her muscles gripping him. She came on a deep, husky moan, her release pouring from her. For a moment, he reveled in it, glorying in her complete helplessness to her pleasure. He felt her splinter into pieces, and he knew how delirious she must feel, as if the brilliance of the sun shone within her. He had made her body tremble and sing for him. And he felt a thrilling surge of triumph, as if he had just conquered his enemy upon the field of battle. Followed swiftly by a crippling bolt of lust. He had to be inside her.
Now.
Morgan rose over her as the last of her tremors subsided, taking in the decadent sight of her, at his mercy and wearing nothing save the gold and ruby necklace around her throat. Here was his revenge, and how delicious it was. How intoxicating she was.
He positioned himself at her entrance and then sank home in one full thrust. She cried out at the suddenness of his invasion, and for a moment, he feared he had hurt her, but then she moved, rolling her hips, urging him onward. Morgan kissed her as he surged inside her again and again, making her taste herself on his lips and tongue.
How good it felt to debauch her. To introduce her to all the sinful pleasures of the flesh. He would enjoy having her as his prize. He would make her come a thousand different ways. Surely this—she�
��was the relief granted him after the suffering he had endured in captivity, all the days when he had wished he would die rather than to endure one more minute of degradation.
But he would not think of those dark times now. Not when he was here, Leonora beneath him. Not when he had come so far to where he stood on the precipice of gaining everything he wanted.
He reached between their bodies, finding her pearl and working it until she came again, tightening on him so violently, he could not keep his own release at bay any longer. He spent inside her, his lips never leaving hers, and he knew in that instant not even vengeance would be more satisfying than making this woman his.
Chapter Nine
“You certainly look a great deal happier than when last you paid me a call,” Freddy observed with a teasing smile, as Leonora settled herself on the settee in her friend’s gold salon.
Leonora’s face was surely as scarlet as the color of Freddy’s bold day gown. Even with child and suffering from wretched bouts of sickness each morning as she had confided to Leonora in her daily missives, Freddy was as beautiful and bold as a butterfly. Nothing could detract from her loveliness, even if she did appear a trifle pale.
“I am…” she paused, searching for the correct word to describe the feelings that had burst forth within her over the sennight since she had last seen her. Happy seemed too mundane, woefully inadequate. Surely there was a word more apt, more precise?
“Besotted,” Freddy concluded for her, clapping her hands with girlish delight. “Oh, my darling. You must tell me everything.”
“I am not besotted,” she denied, her flush growing hotter still, even though it was true. She was besotted with Searle. That had been precisely the word she was searching for.
“Your countenance suggests otherwise,” her friend noted wisely. “You have been wearing the smile of a woman who has newly fallen in love ever since you crossed the threshold. Even now, though you try to dispel it, the smile remains.”
Drat her observant friend. Of course, Leonora might have guessed that someone as adept at conveying the emotions of her fictional characters would also be gifted at observing them in those around her. Freddy, in addition to being blindingly lovely, steadfast of heart, giving and caring and all things wonderful, was also a talented author. Her novel, The Silent Duke, had recently been published to a whirlwind of praise and clamor.
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