Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess

by Renee Ann Miller

  As though he understood her dilemma—the scorching warmth within her—he withdrew his tongue. Yet, only a heartbeat later, it entered her mouth again. One of his large hands skimmed upward over her ribs, stopping before reaching her breast.

  He made a noise, low and deep, and stepped back, his breathing jagged and shallow. “Enough, Caroline. You’ve had a kiss; now I hope it halts your reckless curiosity.”

  Halts it? No. Her body smoldered. Burned. She suddenly understood why couples sought privacy during balls. Why they planned clandestine meetings away from prying eyes. She wanted to experience just a bit more before returning to London, to her writing pursuits and a life that didn’t include Lord Huntington, but might include some wretch her father wished her to marry.

  “It’s just a kiss,” she whispered, unsure how she drew forth the words when her chest felt too tight to draw air into her lungs.

  He gave a humorless bark of laughter. “You don’t realize what might happen. The further we take this, the harder it is to stop. Run back to the house.”

  Perhaps he was right. Already something primal uncoiled within her. She should go, yet she slid her palms up his shirt, testing the contours of hard muscle underneath the thin fabric.

  The dancing flame of the lamp played against his angular face. Beneath her hand his heartbeat escalated—a quick staccato that kept time with her own heart. Uttering a curse, he tangled his hand in her hair and tipped her head back. His lips caressed the sensitive skin of her throat.

  The touch made her toes curl, and she moaned.

  “Do you like that?” he asked in a low voice, his mouth at her ear.

  “Yes.” She forced the succinct answer out.

  His mouth met hers again.

  A kiss that consumed her. Her body drifted backward, propelled by his. The backs of her knees pressed against a soft mass, and she tumbled onto the daybed.

  The weight of his body followed. Shifting so he lay beside her, he kissed her for long, endless minutes, his tongue exploring the recesses of her mouth. His hand moved to her waist and skimmed upward, but this time it didn’t stop. It molded to her breast. His thumb swayed back and forth over her nipple.

  The wicked contact made her breathless.

  His fingers unbuttoned her bodice.

  Like her petticoat and stockings, her corset remained in her bedchamber, leaving only the thin barrier of her chemise. Over the linen, his index finger stroked one nipple, then the other until they were pebble hard and straining against the thin material. She writhed and bit her lower lip. Wanting to touch him, to feel his skin against her palms, she flicked open the top buttons on his shirt.

  With hurried hands, he unfastened the remaining buttons and tossed the garment aside, exposing every inch of his glorious chest with skin pulled taut over muscle. While she skimmed her hands over him, his fingers toyed with the satin tie that held her chemise closed. Was an inner battle raging within him on whether he should pull the ribbon? The thought of his palm on her bare skin made the core of her body warm. Please, she silently begged, reluctant to give voice to her scandalous desires.

  He averted his face, seemed to study a dark corner of the room. The moonlight streaming through the glass roof highlighted his tanned skin and a nerve that pulsed in his jaw. He looked back at her, and she knew he was going to deny her. With little forethought to the tempest she might unleash, Caroline splayed her fingers through his dark, silky hair and brought his lips down to hers.

  His mouth moved against hers, fierce and unrestrained. Then everything happened so fast. Her gown and chemise were dragged low to her waist, baring her arms, her breasts, and the plane of her belly, and his mouth was paying homage to her exposed skin. Nipping, biting, sucking, while his strong, calloused hand glided up the back of her calf, lifting her skirt.

  She gasped as his thigh shifted to settle between her legs. The firm pressure caused an odd sensation, and the place between her legs grew wet. She arched her hips, hoping the contact would build the sensation already growing within her. Her body trembled with need. “I want—”

  His mouth silenced her.

  A pulse beat where his thigh rocked against her, then something exploded, sending undulating currents of the most glorious physical pleasure she’d ever experienced shooting through her body like liquid fire.

  * * *

  James righted Caroline’s skirt, drawing the fabric over her pale thighs and shapely calves. With her long brown hair flowing over her bare shoulders and the pink tips of her breasts, she looked like a siren sent here to lead him astray. She’d nearly succeeded. He shifted, trying to adjust the bulge straining against his trousers.

  What had they both been thinking?

  A minute ago, her breathing had slowed to an even cadence and her lashes had drifted closed, but he doubted she slept.

  What was going through her mind? He reached for the small wool blanket draped over the back of the daybed and covered her naked breasts.

  Her eyes flicked open. They still looked glassy with the residual effect of her heightened state.

  James shifted again as his cockstand twitched.

  “That was . . .” She tilted her head as if searching for a word to describe what had happened.

  He’d describe it as torture. It had taken every ounce of fortitude he possessed not to make love to her. But they would have regretted their actions in the morning after the euphoria of lust faded.

  Her eyes drifted closed again. Was she embarrassed? Or just too tired and sated to stay awake? He couldn’t tell. He should help her get dressed, then walk her back to her bedchamber.

  No. What he should do is accompany her to that sisterhood she’s spoken of and tell them to lock her in a room.

  He released a silent sigh. Perhaps the blame for what just happened should rest on his shoulders. He’d all but challenged her to let him tutor her. And he could tell, with her strong resolve, the way she tilted up her chin as if she’d not back down, she wouldn’t walk away.

  He gazed at her face. She looked as innocent as one of Titian’s cherubs and as sultry as his Venus of Urbino.

  Her breathing was an even rhythm. She appeared to have drifted asleep. Gently, so as not to wake her, he lowered the blanket and slipped her arms into the sleeves of her chemise and tied the blue satin ribbon, obscuring her lovely breasts from his view.

  When he’d first set his tongue to one perfect pink tip, then the other, he’d nearly spilled himself. He stifled a groan and covered her with the blanket. Folding his arms behind his head, he stared through the glass roof at the stars scattered in the sky. Perhaps if he searched for constellations he’d be able to distract himself.

  Yes, and pigs could fly!

  What seemed like an eternity later, the small clock on a table announced the hours again. Three o’clock. And he still lay awake. A few minutes ago, the sleeping enchantress, with the deceptively angelic face, had rolled her back to him and nudged her shapely bum up against his manhood. Now his cock stood at attention like a starving dog with a bone held above his snout.

  He took several deep breaths, tried to pretend Caroline looked like an old toothless hag, but her exquisite buttocks made her hard to ignore.

  She rolled back toward him and slipped her fingers over his naked chest, stopping above his heart. Uttering a soft sigh, she placed a bent leg over his hips, and stroked her calf up and down his thighs like a cat trying to mark him with her scent.

  He was tempted to give her a push off the daybed. That would wake her and stop her leg from grinding against him. But waking her might be more dangerous than letting her sleep. He shifted, hoping to alleviate the discomfort in his trousers.

  A nun? Ha! He’d bet his last shilling Caroline was no more destined for a convent than he was the vicarage. He doubted even a vestige of what she’d told him was true. In the morning, he would demand the truth from her.

  He closed his eyes, and instead of counting sheep, he thought of swimming in a lake, one cold enough to shrivel
his bollocks and turn him limp.

  * * *

  Warmth cocooned Caroline. Snuggling closer to the source, she breathed in the scent of spicy soap and man.

  Man?

  Her eyes popped open.

  Her body, from head to toe, was tucked tightly against Lord Huntington’s tall, sculpted, sleeping form. Holding her breath, she removed her bare leg, which was flung over the man’s hips as if she wished to pin him down and hold him captive.

  The bodice of her gown rested at her waist, leaving only the thin cotton of her chemise over her breasts. Her cheeks burned. Emotions wrangled for precedence. Embarrassment, guilt, pleasure, more embarrassment. Oh, but the pleasure she’d experienced . . . She’d never imagined the magnitude of sensations one could experience.

  With great care, she braced herself up on an elbow and pulled herself out of the crook of his arm. Her gaze drifted over him. In slumber he looked less fierce. She studied the bristles that shadowed his jaw. She remembered the coarse texture brushing across her skin as his mouth had nipped and kissed her. The memory made her breasts tingle.

  She eased off the daybed.

  Still asleep, Huntington flung his forearm over his eyes as if the light edging over the horizon was intrusive.

  Caroline tugged up her bodice, fastened the buttons, and ran a hand over the fabric in a useless attempt to smooth out the wrinkles.

  On silent feet, she moved to the door and placed her fingers on the handle. She didn’t want to look back, fearful if she did, she might do something even more foolish than last night, but she couldn’t help herself from peering over her shoulder.

  The sight of Lord Huntington’s male body sprawled out on the bed made her chest tighten. She stifled the urge to move back to him and crawl back into his embrace, wake him, and ask him his dreams, his desires, and tell him of hers. What would he think if she admitted she wanted to one day be a journalist who could use her own name, or possibly an editor of a newspaper?

  Quietly, she slipped out of the folly.

  After making her way up the dim path, Caroline opened one of the French doors and retraced her steps to her bedchamber.

  Relieved she’d not seen a servant, she leaned against the door and released a sigh.

  “Hello,” a small voice said.

  Heartbeat picking up tempo, her gaze darted to the doorway that connected this bedchamber to the sitting room. A small boy with tousled brown hair, wearing a white nightgown, peered at her. The same child she’d watched from the bedroom window as he’d played with a dog.

  “Hello.” She smiled and strode to where he stood. “Is something the matter?”

  He rubbed a fisted hand over one of his heavily lidded eyes. “I cannot find James. And I believe someone, or something is under my bed.”

  “Ah, I understand.” She crouched before him. “I’m Caroline. I bet you’re Master George.”

  He nodded.

  “Would you like me to come and look?”

  He nodded again.

  Standing, she held out her hand for him to hold. “Will you lead the way?”

  His small fingers grasped hers.

  Caroline opened the bedchamber door, and they strode down the long corridor to the opposite wing. As they passed a door, he whispered, “Nina sleeps in there.” He motioned to another door. “And that is Anthony’s room.”

  Interesting that George had not asked one of his other siblings, whose rooms were much closer, to check under his bed, but she remembered Lord Huntington’s words that he felt this child was almost like his son. The child’s actions attested to the bond between Huntington and his youngest sibling.

  Inside George’s room, he pointed to a bed with a massive walnut headboard and intricate carvings. “Under there,” he whispered, as if frightened to wake whatever lay underneath.

  She padded to the bed and got on her hands and knees. Nothing hid under there, but she knew what it was like to experience scary dreams as a child. If she told him it was only his imagination, he’d doubt her words.

  “Is it still there?” George nibbled his lower lip.

  “No, all clear.” She patted the bed. “Get back under the covers, and I’ll tell you a way to make sure whatever was there never returns.”

  Hesitantly, the child moved to the bed. When a few feet from it, he leapt onto the mattress as if frightened a hand would reach out and snatch his toes.

  “When I was small,” Caroline said, tucking the blankets around his small form, “my mother told me a secret incantation to keep scary things out of my room. And it worked.”

  George’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

  “Yes. All you must do is say, Huffetty boo, I’m not afraid of you. I used to like to say the words in a loud voice. Do you wish to give it a try?”

  “Will it work if I don’t say them too loud?” He glanced at a doorway. “Miss Markham, my nanny, might awake if I speak too loud.”

  “Oh, indeed. You may whisper them, as well. You can even say them to yourself.”

  He repeated the saying.

  Caroline got back on her knees and looked under the bed again. “Nothing is there. And whatever it was, it will not return tonight.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m positive.”

  He smiled.

  She placed her hand on his hair and stroked the unruly mass. “Are you fine if I go now?”

  He burrowed farther under the blankets. “Yes. Thank you.”

  She walked to the door. “Good night, George.”

  * * *

  James opened his eyes and flinched at the bright light cutting through the glass roof of the summerhouse. He rubbed a hand over his rough morning beard. Memories from last night flooded back.

  His gaze shot to the empty space next to him.

  Where was Caroline? The little minx had a good bit of explaining to do. Starting with who the hell she was.

  He bounded from the bed. Anger coursed through him. Why? Perhaps it was because Caroline’s scent still lingered on his clothes, or that he’d suffered a hellish night, or that he’d dreamed of her once sleep finally overtook him.

  Of course, he’d dreamed of her. She’d left his manhood firm enough to hammer nails.

  He slipped his wrinkled shirt on and shoved the tails into his trousers. He stepped out of the summerhouse and stormed up the gravel path. As he neared the upper terrace, two gardeners pruning evergreens stared at him before quickly averting their gazes. James couldn’t imagine what he looked like. Yes, he could, and it wasn’t a pretty picture.

  He tore through the house. Several servants peeked about doors and corners to stare at him as his heels landed heavily on the floor.

  Langley came toward him, a concerned look on the butler’s usually bland countenance.

  James held up a hand, forestalling whatever the old retainer wished to say, then he took the stairs two at a time and charged down the corridor of the west wing.

  “Caroline!” he snapped, flinging the door open. He glanced around. Not here.

  He marched into the adjacent sitting room. Empty, as well. He peered at the mantel clock. Nine o’clock. Most likely she’d ventured to the dining room in search of breakfast. He rubbed his hand over his bristled jaw. He needed to bathe before he went downstairs to confront her. He’d already garnered too much attention, looking the way he did. Stepping into his bedchamber, he stripped off his shirt, tossed it on a chair, and kicked off his shoes.

  A grinning Reilly stepped out of the dressing room holding James’s riding coat. “I see you forwent horseback riding this morning.” The valet motioned to the still made bed. “Also sleep, at least in your own room.”

  James narrowed his eyes at the man. “I don’t believe you and I have engaged in fisticuffs since we were lads; however, if you say one disparaging word, I might level you.”

  The gleam in Reilly’s eyes betrayed he contemplated saying something else, but he nodded stiffly and stood straighter. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord.”

 
; “Sorry, I’m a bit out of sorts. Will you go ask Langley if he’s seen Miss Armoire?” James rubbed the muscles in the back of his neck.

  The shift in Reilly’s expression from reverent servant to concerned friend was unmistakable. “She’s gone. Left this morning. Just after cockcrow.”

  James’s chest grew tight. “What?”

  “She took one of your carriages to the train station in Helmsford.”

  He would bring her back! He had questions she needed to answer. He plucked his wrinkled shirt off the chair and pulled the linen over his shoulders as he headed down the corridor.

  Langley still stood in the entry hall with a look of unease on his face.

  Whatever bothered the butler would have to wait. James needed to get to the station. He moved to the door and glared down at the empty boot mat. He turned and eyed Reilly, who was descending the stairs. “Where are my boots?”

  A baffled expression settled on Reilly’s countenance.

  The butler cleared his throat. “That’s what I wished to tell you, my lord. It appears you harbored a thief. They were there this morning, but after Miss Armoire left, I noticed they were gone. I’ve counted the silverware and not a piece is missing. I’m quite baffled by it all. I believe the only thing the woman stole were your boots.”

  That little minx!

  When he got to the train station he would bring his boots and her back.

  Chapter Eight

  James swallowed a bite of egg and grimaced. His breakfast tasted worse than jellied eel. Not Cook’s fault. He was sure even the Queen’s chef couldn’t satisfy him this morning. After finding Caroline gone, he’d saddled Thor and ridden at breakneck speed to the railroad station, only to find the train to London had already departed.

  Nina sighed and glanced at the dining room’s doorway. For the third consecutive morning, his sister and Anthony had roused themselves from bed to join him and Georgie for breakfast.

  “Is Miss Armoire finally going to join us?” Nina asked with a note of impatience.