It was an easy enough matter to find a reverend. They were all about town, happy to perform a hasty wedding for a fee.
The silence gave him more than enough time to think, to ponder what he had done.
She was wrong. The regret didn’t come.
He didn’t care what brought them together. He didn’t care that she had wanted him only as an instructor in the finer points of seduction. He didn’t care that he’d ever made that idiotic bet with Pearson. He didn’t care that he had vowed to never marry again.
None of that was relevant. He only cared that she would be his.
His one regret would have been if he’d stood by and allowed her to be forced into marriage.
Aren’t you forcing her?
He shoved the silent query aside. She’d already agreed to be his mistress. He was offering her marriage now. Lifelong security—not just for herself but for her siblings. He would not be lumped into the same category as the bastard who was threatening to ruin her.
He was a duke, damn it! Mamas had been attempting to manipulate him into marriage ever since Mary Beth died.
Marian should be pleased. Thrilled, even!
Still, he felt guilt over her lack of real choice in the matter. It was Lawrence or ruin or Nate. He was the obvious choice, but he felt regret that she had no real power in her life.
He returned to their rented room to find her staring out the window and down at the bustling street, her fingers tapping against her lips pensively.
“I’ve found a reverend. He will take care of acquiring the proper witnesses. We’ve an hour.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Why are you doing this?”
“It was this or let you marry Lawrence.” He shrugged. “A simple enough decision.”
“You didn’t even want me to be your mistress. How can—”
“I asked you to be my mistress, did I not?” he countered. “I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t want to.” He advanced on her near the window.
“But you didn’t want a mistress. Not really.”
“I asked you—”
“And you don’t want a wife.” She laughed mirthlessly and flung up her hands. “I know this. You said that. You most assuredly do not want a wife. You claimed that, too.”
He frowned as he closed the distance between them. “Listen to me, you vexing woman. I do nothing I don’t want to do. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I didn’t—”
“What? Pity me? Or is it some other motivation I’ve missed?” She eyed him up and down. “You have some dark need in you where you can’t be denied or rejected. Is that it? You feel like you would be losing if you let me marry Lawrence.” She snorted. “You won’t feel that way for long. One morning you will wake up and whatever you feel for me will be gone. You will feel trapped. Imprisoned in your marriage to someone so beneath your station.”
“Enough,” he growled, reaching for her. “You talk too much.”
Her eyes sparked. “Perhaps you don’t talk enough. The entire way here you didn’t say a word. I waited . . . I waited and hoped you were going to give me some explanation as to why you’re doing this.”
“Isn’t it clear why I am doing this?” His hand crept behind her neck to haul her against him. He kissed her to silence her and himself. So neither one of them had to talk.
And then he was kissing her because it was all that mattered. All he wanted to do.
Once his lips met hers everything else faded.
Chapter 22
Marian knew kissing him ran counter to everything—primarily the words she had hoped they would finally speak. She had hoped to have an actual conversation with him that might reveal what had prompted him to steal her away in the first place.
But that didn’t happen.
The kiss became another kiss and another and another.
The partial removal of their clothing followed.
His hands on her breasts. His hands everywhere. He broke away only to yank shut the curtains—they probably should have done that prior to the removal of their clothing.
Then they backed up and fell together on the bed.
He pressed against her, over her, his bigger body fitting against hers so perfectly that she had the sudden thought they were made for each other. It was a ridiculous fancy, but it intruded nonetheless.
The ache was back, slamming into her with rocking intensity. It still felt new even as it was familiar.
His hips pushed into her and she felt him there, between their hampering garments, his hardness nudging where she most needed him.
She shook her head even as a current of heat raced down her spine to pool in her core.
His fingers went to the hems of her dress and petticoat, tugging them up hastily.
“Always too many bloody clothes,” he muttered.
She nodded, incoherently . . . impatient.
There was a rip and then she was free of her drawers.
“I’ll buy you more,” he growled.
A bubble of laughter escaped her.
He looked at her in surprise and then he chuckled, too.
Cool air caressed her exposed flesh, but he warmed her, dragging his fingers in a fiery path that made her squirm and arch under him.
With her skirts bunched and gathered around her waist, his big hands slid down her bare hips and around to her derriere. “Do you know?” he growled. “You have the most delicious bottom?”
She shook her head almost violently, dazed by his touch and his mesmerizing voice.
“I nearly spent myself the first time I saw it, and touching it, having it in my hands.” He groaned and gently flexed his hands over her cheeks. The act sent a rush of moisture between her legs and she moaned. She thrust her pelvis and reached behind her to find his hands, to guide them.
“I won’t break. You can squeeze me harder.”
His eyes glittered and he obliged, squeezing and kneading her bare backside while she simultaneously ground herself into his hardness.
“Oh!” She cried out as something burst inside her. She shuddered.
His eyes widened. “Did you just . . .” His voice sounded hoarse and she choked out a whimper, nodding. She’d just climaxed.
He kissed her. “So sweet, so responsive,” he said against her mouth.
Still nodding, she gasped as he brought one hand between them, unerringly finding and landing directly on that little bud between her thighs that throbbed and ached for him.
He rolled expert fingers over her slowly in dragging strokes that reignited the pressure between her thighs until she was crying out and surging against his hand.
“That’s it,” he spoke against her ear.
He slid a finger inside her and curled it, hitting some invisible place that he seemed to know existed.
Again, she shuddered and came apart, flying into pieces under him.
Her hands grabbed hold of his shoulders, hanging on for dear life.
Waves of sensation eddied through her. He pulled away and she whimpered at the loss. She heard him stripping his clothes, but it didn’t matter. She writhed, impatient.
He came back and guided her to roll over, positioning her on all fours, keeping her skirts still shoved to her waist.
“What—”
“Trust me,” he said. “Let me pleasure you.”
He smoothed his hands over her bottom in worshipful strokes.
She moaned, her core clenching and aching, desperate to be filled with him.
“Marian,” he breathed, kissing down her spine as he kneaded and massaged her round cheeks. “This sweet ass . . .” His mouth moved lower, kissing each cheek.
Moaning, shaking, she sank down to her elbows on the bed and looked over her shoulder.
His heavy-lidded eyes, dark as night, met hers over the curve of her hip. He splayed a big hand over the small of her back and she shuddered anew. Never had she felt like this—so deliciously possessed, claimed.
He lowered his head and she suddenly felt his te
eth. The light scoring edge bit into her, the barest nip of teeth against her tender skin.
“Oh,” she gasped and adjusted herself on the bed, instinctively parting her legs wider in invitation. “Take me, please.”
He rubbed against her, the swollen crown of him nudging against her womanhood. She pushed back into his hard cock and he tsked at her, keeping himself from fully entering her.
“Nathaniel!” she begged. “Please, now.”
His hands seized her hips, fingers digging deep into her skin, positioning her, gripping her, holding her for the perfect thrust.
He drove into her and she tossed back her head with an exultant shout, the force of his body against hers, in hers . . . paradise.
He rode her, and she reveled in it.
The force of his thrusts, the sliding friction of his cock, left her breathless and dizzy, her limbs as substantial as pudding.
She felt stretched, full in the best way. He hit that magical spot hidden deep inside her. Over and over, he unraveled her. She wouldn’t have been able to stay upright or in place if not for his hands on her hips.
She shot a look over her shoulder at him, feeling brazen and alive. Not herself. Not Marian Langley. Daughter to the honorable Dr. Langley. Former governess to the Duke of Autenberry’s daughter. Responsible older sister.
Saliva pooled in her mouth as her gaze locked on his face, so fierce and savage.
He gave a strangled cry as he pounded into her. Groaning her name, he continued pumping his hips. Their bodies came together with loud smacks. All the blood rushed to her head . . . and other parts of her.
She pushed her bottom back up to meet his thrusts . . . seeking, needing . . .
Her mind danced toward the thought that he was to be hers. Her husband.
She could have this . . . him, always.
Then there was no more thinking.
His body bowed over hers, his thrusts slowing, becoming more leisurely, deep and grinding.
He kissed her nape. Her neck. Her shoulder. He dragged his lips over her skin and she shivered uncontrollably. Her hands clenched in the bedding.
She blabbered, unaware of what she was saying.
She fisted the counterpane, pushing back into him, meeting his every plunge, racing toward the end.
She was close. Her vision went fuzzy as she shook all over.
“That’s it.” He panted against her ear. “Let go.”
She tottered on the edge and finally broke. Shattered. Splintered to tiny pieces, fragments of herself.
With a cry, she slumped beneath him. He pumped once, two more times, and then stilled, his hands tight on her hips, clinging. She felt his cock twitch and give a final jerk inside her.
He sighed her name and slid out from her body. “Are you . . . was that . . .”
“I’m fine. It was . . .” Brilliant. Splendid. She was overcome. All things she would never reveal to him. It gave away too much. She already felt vulnerable. He didn’t need to think she was in love with him.
In love with him . . .
Oh. God. Had it come to that?
No. No. No. It hadn’t come to that. Please, no. She didn’t want or need to love the man she was to marry.
His weight lifted, and he rolled off her and pulled her close. She curled against his side, trying to catch her breath. His hand stroked up and down her spine, and she wished they could stay just this way.
Perhaps he was right and no words were for the best. Unfortunately, she couldn’t turn off her brain. Her thoughts continued to spin as she lay there on that bed with a naked man curled around her.
“Tell me about your family.” The words dropped into the silence between them. An unsubtle attempt at conversation. His family seemed a good place to begin. She was to be his wife. His family would become hers—or at the very least, they would be people floating about her life.
Wife. They were to be married. It still seemed too incredible.
“This is where we talk, then?” he inquired lightly. Light enough that she did not think he was resistant.
“We’re to marry,” she reminded. “Should we not talk . . . and know things? About each other?” She should know some things about him. She should know more than the rumors that abounded or tidbits she picked up from Mrs. Pratt. None of that information could be deemed reliable.
He was silent for some moments. She began to suspect he would ignore her attempt at conversation, and then: “Very well. Shall we start with my family then?” He nodded as though turning that over in his mind . . . as though he wasn’t even certain he understood the question. As though the word family was a foreign word on his tongue.
Of course, that was strange to her. Family was everything. It motivated so many of her decisions. “Yes, your family. You’ve met all of mine. Well, except for my brother, but you’ll meet Phillip when he comes home for holiday. What of your family?”
“I haven’t any. Not really.”
She knew his father was gone. Clearly he was in possession of the title. It occurred to her that they had that in common. Fathers lost.
She didn’t talk about Papa very much with her sisters. Especially not with Nora. She had been the closest to him, often working side by side with him in his lab and visiting patients.
Glancing at Nate, feeling the stroke of his hand along her spine, she felt a loosening in her chest. She had not realized all of his family was gone. How terrible that must be . . . to be alone. He’s not alone anymore. He has you.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not realize you had no other family.”
“Oh, I have relations. My mother and a stepfather.” He shrugged. “I’m forced into their company now and then. There’s even a stepbrother, my stepfather’s by-blow. He surfaces occasionally. Thankfully, only that. But they are not family as you think of it. You will rarely ever see them.”
Forced? That was not a word she thought of when she thought of her family.
“Why don’t you see them more often?”
She had so many questions. It was a bewildering thing . . . to have a family and not have a family.
He released a huff of breath. “My mother and her husband are currently abroad. Not sure where my reprobate of a stepbrother is at the moment. I don’t keep track of him. I usually only have to endure him when my mother and her husband drop on my doorstep . . . and that happens once a year or so when they remember my existence.”
Marian shook her head. It was unfathomable to her that a family could be like this. She didn’t know what to say.
“You’re speechless,” he correctly surmised.
“A little.”
“What you have with your family, it is not in my experience. I was shipped off to school at a very early age, where I was not coddled or shown affection.”
Her heart broke a little, imagining him as that little boy, a child without anyone to nurture him. Her hand started a slow circling stroke against his chest.
“I’m not saying this to solicit your pity. It’s simply best you know. Don’t expect me to be capable of warmth and affection.” Her hand stopped its motion on his chest. “You’re my wife. I’ll give you all the respect due a wife, but . . .”
But he would not give her love. He was saying “but” without saying that.
Hopefully he wouldn’t finish his sentence. She did not want to hear it spoken aloud. She did not want to suffer the sound of those words coming from his lips.
“I understand,” she supplied, hoping to stop him from elaborating.
He fell silent and she was grateful for that. Grateful for the silence once again between them.
Now she knew there were worse things than silence.
She wished she didn’t have to think about what was to come or what she meant to him—if anything.
She wished she didn’t have to wonder if she was making the greatest mistake of her life.
In one year, in five, in ten . . . where would they be? She couldn’t see it and that terrified her.
; She couldn’t see it.
But she knew she wanted it to not be a mistake.
She wanted it to be good.
Living together without conversation, without the warmth and affection he just claimed himself lacking, did not bode well.
Even if he continued to touch her and fulfill all her most ardent physical needs . . . that did not seem enough. She wanted more than that in her future with him.
His voice rumbled beneath her ear. “We should probably dress. The reverend will be waiting.”
She hesitated a moment and then stood up from the bed. They dressed in silence. Of course.
He escorted her from the room and from their lodging house.
As they strolled down the sidewalk, she glanced down at herself. It was her wedding day and she wore a faded blue muslin riding habit. Not the elegant piece she had imagined wearing on her wedding day.
Yes, in a less practical era, when she was a girl, she had imagined such things.
In fact, nothing about this fit with what she had imagined.
She had imagined a beautiful gown, fresh flowers, her family and guests surrounding her. And love. There had been love.
Standing before an elderly, doddering reverend with a drunkard and a tavern wench serving as their witnesses did not come close to her imaginings.
But then, this was her reality, where dignity remained as elusive as ever, and Marian had long ago resigned herself to the trappings of reality.
Chapter 23
The return home was an improvement on the journey north.
They talked, at any rate.
Not that they spoke of anything significant. Not of the future, not their futures, which were now indelibly and forever entwined.
The carriage pulled to a stop before the massive double doors of Haverston Hall and woke her from her surprisingly comfortable nap.
Traveling by carriage always tired her. She had traveled great distances before. Distances much farther than Gretna. She had escorted Clara all the way to the Black Isle close to two years ago. Was it only two years ago? It felt like a lifetime ago. She had been so much younger then. So hopeful . . . with no idea of all that was to come.
One could not go much more north than the Black Isle. It had been a cold and arduous journey. She and Clara had huddled for warmth, with heated bricks at their feet.
The Duke's Stolen Bride Page 19