by Cheryl Bolen
She fumbled his neckcloth loose, and in a few swift moves, he tore off his coats, then drew her up to her feet, and in moments she wore only her chemise and her stockings, and the hot gaze that made her shiver with power and triumph. He truly wanted her.
She ran a hand down his chest.
The hard length of him moved under his tight trousers.
“Marlowe.” He lifted her hand away. “You’ll make me blush.”
That sent heat back to her own cheeks, but she took a step closer and shoved his shirt up, over his head.
She’d seen men without shirts, laborers mostly, but she’d never looked closely, she’d never touched. She pressed her lips there, to the curling hair, and the soft skin over hard muscles.
Then she was floating again, then falling gently onto the counterpane. He stretched out next to her and rolled her to him.
The midday light limned the contours of his strong jaw and lips and forehead. His arm, corded with muscles, settled around her waist.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
Some of her joy ebbed. She didn’t want lies.
“Your eyes always harbor a hint of wariness, of mystery, that makes me want to explore.”
His hand settled upon her breast, making her wriggle.
“And then there are these sensitive mounds. And your lips.”
The kiss he bestowed was gentle, and then firmer.
“Beautiful,” he murmured again kissing his way down her neck.
Desire warred with suspicion. “I’d rather you didn’t lie.”
He pulled back and looked at her, pushing the hair back from her face, blinking. “What?”
“I know I’m plain.”
His gaze went from alarmed to angry. “Who told you that? Your husband?”
“No. It was my…my cousin. She was beautiful and next to her…well, I was plain.”
He fell back and stared up at the canopy. “Men will say things—but that’s not the case here.” He rolled back to her. “The moment I opened the front door to greet you, I was very nearly smitten.” He settled a warm palm upon her left breast. “You’re beautiful here, as well, Filomena Marlowe, here where it counts the most. Surely your husband noticed that.”
“Oh.” Drat. She was weeping again. “No.”
Mr. Marlowe had noticed whether his dinner was hot and his linens were clean.
She stroked his cheek, finding a swathe of whiskers he’d missed when he shaved. “Are we supposed to be talking this much?”
He laughed, and then he blinked, turning back to study her.
Her face heated. Stupid Filomena, you’ve just given yourself away.
Never mind. She wouldn’t give up now. She sent him her most challenging gaze, hoping he found it alluring.
“Marlowe. Dear Marlowe.” He plundered her mouth then, stroking her leg, his fingers inching and circling, each delicate swirl unfurling sweet bursts that resonated between her legs, finally finding his way to her center where the touch of his thumb sent her arching against him.
His finger slid into her. She gasped, and he froze.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Truly, she felt joy, excitement, anticipation, not pain.
“Good.”
His finger, his hand, his lips worked magic, inciting more flurries within her. He inserted a second finger, stretching her.
She jumped and squeaked.
Again, he stilled. “Are you well?”
“Yes, only…only a bit startled.”
She opened her eyes to a tender smile.
“Let me startle you more.”
Then the rhythm of his hand pressing, his fingers moving altered and quickened and sent her arching to meet him, the pleasure building and growing and bursting, sending her over the edge in an explosion of bliss.
The stroke of his finger on her breast brought her around.
“That was…that was astonishing.” She raised her head. He still wore his trousers.
The chill of the room seeped into her. That…whatever that was, that climax of sensations had dazed her but she knew there was more that involved him. She’d seen the drawings.
Her gaze traveled up to his face and the tight, almost angry look there. She gripped a handful of the counterpane, dread pooling inside her, draining the last bits of exhilaration.
“Will you not take off your trousers?”
His mouth firmed, and her heart sank in a flood of shame. He would be another man turning away.
Yes, he wanted to scream the word. He wanted to rip off the blasted trousers and plunge into her again and again, but he’d just summoned the brainpower to puzzle out her secret, and enough willpower to take the honorable path.
Mrs. Marlowe was an innocent. Her husband had treated her shabbily.
He wanted her. She was as taken with romance as many women, but more sensible than most. She was also sweet and responsive, and so lovely. He had things to teach her, mysteries to explore with her.
He didn’t want her to leave, ever, most certainly not because he’d been in her bed. He dearly wanted to spend more time there.
If she would have him, after she knew who he truly was. And if he could do so honorably.
He pushed a lock of hair back and stroked her cheek. “Mrs. Marlowe.”
Would she admit to the truth?
“What was wrong with Marlowe that he didn’t perform his husbandly duties?”
Her mouth formed a mulish pout even while her eyes glistened. “You don’t want me, either.”
“Oh, my love.”
His heart swelled and pounded. It was true. He loved her.
He locked an arm about her. “I wanted you the moment you walked through the castle doorway and chided me about my lack of a neckcloth. Please, tell me. Was there truly a Mr. Marlowe?”
“There was.”
“Was he sickly? Or overly spiritual? Or did he prefer his fellows?”
“He would never discuss the reason for his disinterest.” She squeezed a fistful of blanket. “After his death—which was quite sudden, I found a collection of…er…books.”
“Naughty books?”
“Yes.”
“With pictures?”
She nodded.
“You read them?”
She firmed her lips on a smile, lifted a shoulder, and he wanted to laugh.
“Why did you marry him?”
Her smile faded, and he cursed himself. She married as many women—and men, even dukes—did, to keep a roof over her head.
“His new patron required him to be married, to be an example to his parishioners. I didn’t know until our wedding night that we wouldn’t share a bed, in any sense. He thought that would make me happy.”
“Did it?”
“I was relieved at first. But as the years stretched on, it angered me. I realized that unless I committed adultery, I would never have children.”
And Marlowe liked children, that point was obvious.
“Will you not make love to me? You need not worry I would importune you if…if…I would send word to you. Not to make demands, but only so that you would know.”
“Send word?” She was talking again about leaving.
“If there was a child. Even if the duke doesn’t dismiss me, I fear I c-can’t stay here, seeing you every day.”
The duke. She’d spoken ill of him from the first day. He reached for her hand.
“Why do you hate the duke so?”
“You d-don’t want me.” She sat up and arranged her chemise, covering her breasts.
He rested his chin on her shoulder, inhaling her fragrance. “I do. But honorably.”
If she would have him. And once she discovered who he really was… And he would tell her the truth. In a moment.
“Why, Marlowe? Why do you hate him?”
She pulled out of his embrace and slid from the bed, struggling into her stays. The way they lifted her breasts addled his wits. He had to look away, or he’d lose the battle with his h
onor.
“Why, Marlowe?”
“Andrew MacDonal ruined my life.”
His head snapped up, anger flooding him.
That was a lie, an outright lie. He’d never flirted with virgins, never run off to the gardens with one. He’d never been with a virgin either. Not until now.
Good Lord. He had nearly ruined her.
He managed a breath. “How so?”
She turned away, fastening the front of her gown, and he wondered what emotion she was hiding and whether she was assembling a lie.
He drew on his shirt, waiting.
“He blackened my name with a suitor.”
No. He’d never done that, had he?
“I was seventeen. My godmother arranged a season in London, at great expense, in the hope my cousin and I would both make good matches. A viscount’s son courted me, but something Andrew MacDonal said turned him off me.”
His mind raced, searching for a memory of something he might have said. Those early years in London were a blur of brandy and betting and the occasional brothel. If it had been after Evan’s hasty marriage, he could add rage at his brother and new wife to his mix of befuddlement.
“When was this?”
“Ten years past.”
So, whatever he’d done, it had happened that season when his world fell apart.
“And your marriage to Marlowe?”
“Godmama arranged that just before she passed away.”
When he’d lost his brother to India and the duke to his own stubbornness, he’d grieved as much as when his parents died. But at least he hadn’t been forced to marry in order to survive.
“You had no other family?”
“My parents died long ago.”
“They made no provision for you?”
She sighed. “My father gambled heavily. The little that was left came to me.”
“But you have a cousin. What of your aunt and uncle?”
“Also gone.”
“Good heavens. Your cousin as well? Was she not of an age with you?”
“We are…we are estranged.”
Like him, she had no one.
Except…he had Evan’s children. And he would welcome them because he’d learned to see them as a blessing by looking through Marlowe’s eyes.
If he married Marlowe, they would be her nieces also. But how could he marry her and also take care of his family, his estate?
And if he didn’t marry her, how could he keep her underfoot and stay out of her bed, assuming she would even want him when she learned the truth.
“Do you still harbor a tendre for this viscount’s son?”
“No.” She paused in tying her bootlaces and scoffed. “He married a rich cit’s daughter days after spurning me and locked her away in the country. He would have done the same to me.”
A viscount’s younger son dropping one girl and making a hasty marriage to a cit’s daughter because of something he’d said—that sounded a bit familiar. As she twisted her hair, pinned it, and covered it with the ugly white cap, he sorted through his brandy-fogged memory of the ton’s ancient gossip and drew a blank.
He hastily tied his neckcloth and pulled on his waistcoat. It would come to him later.
Marlowe frowned. “You must think me a wanton, throwing myself at you.” The words sounded tight and painful.
“No. Never. This is not finished between us.”
“It must be. I will leave after the children arrive, unless the duke sends me away sooner.”
The duke. It was time to muster his courage and tell her the truth. He was the worst sort of reprobate and still he couldn’t let her go, not even if she hated him.
After all, she’d come here to serve him as his housekeeper, and…
“Marlowe, if you didn’t need to take employment, if you hate Andrew MacDonal, why did you come to Kinmarty?”
She went to the window and rested her forehead against the wavy glass. He joined her there.
“Someone might see you through the window,” she hissed.
“And so?”
She moved in front of him and stood taller as if that would block the world’s view of them together in her bedchamber.
“What aren’t you telling me, Mrs. Marlowe?”
“Wasn’t there something you were going to confess to me?” she asked.
Oh hell.
He must tell her. Good God, he’d just almost made love to her.
He could tell her later, after the blasted dinner party…except, after the blasted dinner party, she would already know. Strachney and his daughter would be your-gracing him, not George, and Marlowe would hear, flitting about making sure the dinner went smoothly.
Damn, damn, damn.
He took her shoulders and nudged her around. “Mrs. Marlowe, I am n-not the duke’s factor. I am—”
A sharp rap on the door rescued him.
“Visitors on the drive,” Forbes said loudly.
Outside, a rider pounded up the lane, and one of the new servants trotted down the steps to greet him. In the distance, a carriage—no two carriages and a heavily laden wagon tooled along toward the Castle with outriders following.
“Surely those are not the dinner guests.” Marlowe opened the window letting in a blast of cold air that made her shiver. He wrapped her in his arms and peered over her shoulder.
The rider sported a heavy gray beard and a tightly wrapped black turban.
Marlowe gasped. “It’s Penelope.”
Chapter 15
She turned in his arms and looked up. Wonder and something like fear lit her face.
“Whoever you really are, Andrews, you’ve stolen my heart. I’ll never forget you.” She pressed her lips to his cheek.
When she tried to pull away, he bent his head and poured all of what he was feeling into a proper kiss, until she squirmed away, flushed and dazed.
“Marlowe, we must talk.”
She shook her head, and she rushed out the door.
While he yanked on his boots and his coat and hurried out behind her, his addled brain sorted through the facts. “It’s Penelope” she had said, not, “the duke’s sister-in-law is arriving,” or “Mrs. MacDonal and the children are here.”
“It’s Penelope.”
She knew his brother’s wife, Penelope.
Penelope had been an orphan with a guardian and…
She’d had a cousin, a sickly thing. He’d never known her name, and she’d disappeared from society shortly after Evan sailed for India.
Filomena Marlowe was surely that cousin.
She hadn’t come here for revenge on Andrew MacDonal. She’d come here to meet Penelope. She was a liar but not a villain.
He was the villain, and he was about to embarrass her in a very public way, unless he could get to her first.
* * *
He found her in the grand hall where she huddled with Forbes, who raised an eyebrow at him even as he bowed.
“I must speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Marlowe,” Andrew said.
A footman rushed in and she beckoned him. “Go and find the duke,” she said. “Tell him he must come. His sister-in-law is arriving.”
“Marlowe—”
“Not now, Mr. Andrews. What of the nursery, Mr. Forbes?”
“I’ll check on preparations and ye may speak to the…er…gentleman here.”
“No. Mr. Andrews can wait until later.”
The young maid hurried in with the red-headed boot boy.
“What are we to do now, Uncle?” the girl asked.
“We are on duty, my dear. Ye must call me Mr. Forbes.”
“Sorry, sir. What are we to do now, Mr. Forbes, Mrs. Marlowe?”
“Have you laid a fire in the nursery?” Marlowe asked.
“Yes, mum.”
“And…did you say you’d readied the green bedchamber?”
“Yes, mum. It’s aired and cleaned, with fresh bedding, and firewood carried up.”
Forbes sidled closer to him. “Best straighten
yer neck cloth. Would ye like me to assist?”
Andrew let out a sigh. “No.”
“Ye didn’t tell her,” the old butler murmured.
Marlowe glanced back at Forbes. “How much time have we?” she asked.
Forbes sent him a pointed look. “Enough, if ye hurry.”
Andrew stepped up and grasped her elbow. “We must talk, now, Mrs. Marlowe.”
He steered her away from the grouping of servants, which unfortunately brought them closer to the door.
“Don’t ruin this,” she said. “I want all to go well. And you are—”
“I am telling you something important that—”
“You are distracting me now when—”
“Something important that will save you embarrassment when—”
The door swung on creaky hinges, cold air freezing his words and hers.
George stepped up next to them and nodded to Andrew over Marlowe’s head. The turbaned servant helped a lady up the few steps and across the threshold, and he found himself staring into the blue eyes of an old enemy.
Speech momentarily failed him. In the ten years since he’d seen Penelope Grant, she’d aged, and somehow, she was hiding the animosity she felt, not just for his past sins, but for supplanting her late husband as Duke of Kinmarty.
The Castle should have been hers to run. He could never deny her residence here.
Her gaze moved on to the lady next to him and her eyes widened and pooled with tears. She dropped all forbearance and threw herself into Mrs. Marlowe’s arms.
“Oh, Minny,” Penelope sobbed.
Minny? Mrs. Marlowe was Minny?
The duck’s name had been Minny. Minny had been the girl who’d plunged into the burn after another girl.
Tears had begun to fall, buckets of them. Head swimming, his hand went to a pocket where there should have been a handkerchief and came up empty. George silently handed him his.
“What the devil is going on?” George muttered.
Penelope was babbling. “You came,” she said, and “Oh, Minny,” and, “What did I do without you?” all the while Minny—Mrs. Marlowe—made soothing noises and patted Penelope’s back.
Marlowe turned a sheepish glance toward George, and Andrew handed over the handkerchief.