Hell's Belle

by Annabelle Anders

She shook her head though.

  “What happened? What did you feel?” he goaded her. If she didn’t do something, he just might. He slid one of his hands beneath the sheet and wrapped his fingers around his girth.

  Her eyes followed his motion.

  “It helps to imagine…” He’d help her understand.

  “What are you imagining right now?” Her question drove him to slide his fist downward.

  “I’m not alone.” How had they come to this? How did she do it? “I’m watching you, listening to your voice, wondering how you touched yourself when you were alone. I’m imagining the sounds coming from your lips as you pinch and squeeze your own flesh.”

  One timid hand crept up her night rail, past her belly to her sternum. She’d done nothing yet, but her arousal was more than apparent beneath the thin material of her gown. Her lips parted, and her breath hitched.

  “I’m not touching you. And yet you are stimulated.” Marcus could not remove his eyes from her for anything in the world.

  “It’s different. I’m not alone right now. I’m watching you.” Her voice strained. He could see the battle she waged inside herself. Modesty verses passion.

  “Close your eyes,” he ordered her.

  Her lids fell shut.

  “Passion is in the mind.” He realized that Emily Goodnight had lived most of her life in her mind. “Now.” He slid his own hand upward in a slow, drawn-out motion. “How did it feel, when I took you in my mouth?” Marcus swirled the bead of moisture that had escaped around the tip and then pushed his cock up into his fist.

  “Many believe it is a disease.” She’d opened her eyes again. Thinking. Where would she take them now?

  “But not all cultures have always been of the same mind. The ancient Greeks did not. They had a word for it: anaplan.” She dropped her hand, all her attention now focused on what he was doing.

  “Where would you learn something like that?” Marcus ought to slow his hand. End this oddly seductive discussion, but her curious eyes watching him did little to dampen his arousal.

  Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “I discovered the most amazing collection in Lord Smythe’s library. Books he obtained on his travels,” she explained evenly, as though they were discussing some literary tome, all the while intent upon the motion of his hand. At her words, Marcus imagined her hiding in an altogether different library. He needed to stop, but her hungry eyes drove him further.

  “Can I see it?” she whispered. “May I watch?”

  When had he felt anything like this? God, never. Nothing in all his exploits had come anywhere close to affecting him the same as her simple questions.

  What kind of bastard tossed himself off in front of a lady? In front of an unmarried girl.

  Except she wasn’t just any lady. She’d watched him before. She’d studied the act, read about it, stared at ancient depictions.

  And he’d marry her in a day or so. Was he willing to be her personal, living, breathing exhibit?

  She licked her lips.

  God, yes.

  “Move the coverlet.” He enjoyed pushing her. She hesitated. In response to her hesitation, he slowed his hand. “Unless you’d rather go back to sleep?”

  She pulled the coverlet back.

  Resisting the temptation to take her hand and wrap it around him, Marcus began sliding his fist again.

  He did, however, grasp onto her with his free hand. For some reason, he wanted a connection with her. If he was going to do this, he needed to be touching a part of her. For all his previously brash and blatant behavior, he felt an unusual vulnerability with her staring at him.

  She peered closer, and he almost laughed. Of course, she wasn’t wearing her spectacles. “Lie down beside me.”

  Emily feared he’d change his mind, so she obeyed his command with only the briefest hesitation. When she lay down beside him, the mattress sank, causing her entire length to press up against him. He kept hold of her hand, though, holding it against his bare chest. From where she lay, she could glance up at his face or down to where he worked his mentula.

  All of this was so very different than the drawings she’d seen. Apart from a few drawings, which depicted the male organ as overly large, most artwork showed men’s genitalia as much smaller and passive, like a cluster of grapes, or jewels. This particular mentula had a life of its own. And it was so much larger than what she’d imagined.

  It bobbed and weaved in the moment he’d released it to shift on the bed. It looked angry, purple… It seemed desperate for attention, springing up from his curling black hair.

  Almost as magnificent as the organ itself was the image of his hand grasping it. The muscles in his wrist and arm flexed with each movement.

  Oh, Lord… and the rest of him. The smooth skin of his hips, the corded definition in his abdomen… set butterflies loose within her. She’d seen his chest up close today, but she’d not seen all his torso. The dark hair trailed an enticing path to his groin.

  She tilted her head back to see his face. He watched her with that hint of the devilry she’d always seen in him, but something else flickered in the depths of his gaze. The expression she glimpsed reminded her of what she’d seen when he’d worked himself behind Mrs. Cromwell. It wasn’t pain. She saw a vulnerability, an emptiness.

  She found herself reaching up and smoothing his brow. And then she pressed her lips against his arm, wanting to impart some comfort. Wanting him to know he was safe with her.

  He tightened his fingers around her grip and continued his motions with his other. Emily had thought she could watch him, remaining detached, but as he moved, as his motions became more frantic and his hips pushed upward, she clung to him. A pulsing grew inside of her, throbbing between her legs, urging her to move to the same rhythm of his hand.

  Marcus’ breath hissed between his teeth. He jerked harder, more violently, and then something inside of him released. Semen squirted up in spurts, like a fledgling fountain, some landing onto his taut abdomen and the rest spilling down his hand.

  She remembered the agony she’d seen on his face the night of the ball. When he’d plunged himself into that woman from behind. It had quickly been followed by disgust.

  She didn’t want to see disgust.

  Without thinking, she edged herself up and planted tiny, ridiculous kisses all over his face. She’d erase any anger he held for himself or anyone else. It probably wouldn’t make any difference, but she had to do something.

  And then he surprised her as his lips tilted up in a slow, satisfied smile. She wanted to freeze this moment. Seal it away to remember long after he returned to his traveling ways. Save this moment to recall long after he’d abandoned her to her own devices.

  What was she thinking? She couldn’t fall in love with him. Did she want to live out the remainder of her life with a gigantic and never-ending heartache?

  She left one more kiss along his jaw and then rested her head on the pillow.

  He squeezed her hand again but weakly this time. As though most of his strength had left him. He must have experienced something similar to what had come over her earlier that day. She’d barely been able to hold herself up. And then she’d fallen asleep.

  Perhaps now he could sleep without dreaming.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Miss Goodnight,” he murmured into her hair.

  Often when he spoke to her, he did so with a teasing lilt in his voice. And at first, it had bothered her. It had made her think he didn’t take her very seriously. But it was in his voice now, and it didn’t bother her at all. The playful tone made her feel closer to him. As though the two of them shared a secret joke.

  “I thought you’d fallen asleep,” she whispered. Why had she whispered? Was it because she wanted him to remain sleeping beside her? Because she didn’t want him to return to the small bed near the floor?

  “I need to clean up.” But he didn’t move. He just lay there, clasping her hand against his chest.

  Clean up? Oh… tha
t. She lifted up to examine the white translucent liquid he’d ejaculated. And now his member looked much more like the statues she’d seen. It looked depleted, restful… cute.

  She pushed herself to sit and tugged at her hand. “Stay put,” she ordered him this time. He seemed perfectly willing to oblige.

  She located a washcloth and poured some lavender-scented water onto it. She then squeezed it out and returned to the bed.

  When she dabbed it at his stomach, Marcus jerked awake. “What are you doing?”

  She touched it to him again, and he pushed her hand away. “Are you ticklish?” She knew this was the case. He tried wrestling the cloth from her grip, but she held it behind her back. “You are!” She couldn’t help laughing.

  “Emily,” he growled. “I’m not ticklish.” He drew the word out slowly. “I am sensitive. Especially… after.”

  “After?” she taunted.

  But his arms had wrapped around her, and he was peeling the rag from her fingers. “You little wench.” He took the rag and proceeded to wipe at his nether region. When he moved to climb out of the bed, she pressed her hands against his chest.

  “Just sleep,” she ordered. “This bed is plenty large enough. You needn’t try to sleep on the trundle.” He was an earl, for heaven’s sake, and the trundle was intended for a lady’s maid.

  Marcus surprisingly didn’t argue with her. He did slide over to the other side, however, giving her more than an adequate amount of space. She’d have no excuse for touching him now.

  “I’ll put the candle out, then.” She glanced hesitantly down at him.

  There was that smile again. “I’ll be fine, Emily. You’ve quite taken my mind off my nightmares.”

  Emily blew it out and crawled under the covers.

  She wondered that she’d never been so intimate, so oddly familiar, with any other person. Not Cecily, Sophia, or even Rhoda. How would it feel when all this was over? After they’d married?

  It couldn’t be any worse than she would have felt if she’d been sent to Wales, that was for certain. She turned onto her side and watched his profile in the moonlight.

  “Marcus,” she said timidly.

  “Um-hm?” He sounded as though he were already half asleep.

  “Thank you for being my friend.” And then she couldn’t stifle the yawn that took hold of her.

  Marcus pulled her into him. She curled up against him and absorbed his warmth. He smelled of soap and the lavender water, and something else. Something undefinable and masculine. She tucked one hand under her cheek but had nowhere to put the other but on his chest.

  It somehow fit there perfectly. With her head resting on his arm, she worried she would make him feel uncomfortable. But before she could move, he turned onto his side and trapped her against him.

  “Go to sleep, Miss Goodnight,” he mumbled.

  “Um… Goodnight, Marcus.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  More Than a Bluestocking

  Marcus awoke early. His arm was cramped, and the room felt warm, but he didn’t want to move her away from him just yet.

  The events of the previous night—hell, the events of the previous day—seemed surreal. And not just because of the sensual pleasures, or the sexual aspect of what had happened. Something else was happening.

  Marcus had been acquainted with Miss Emily Goodnight for over a year now, and he’d never considered her anything more than a tiny bluestocking of a woman with more education than sense. Circulating in the ton, as he had since returning to London, their paths had crossed often enough. He’d made a point to make sure she wasn’t completely ignored despite the hours she usually spent sitting with the other wallflowers.

  Not that she’d seemed lonely… rather because he’d wanted to know what she was brewing up behind those spectacles of hers.

  If she’d appeared lonely, he probably wouldn’t have felt so compelled to talk to her. He hadn’t pitied her.

  And now, since spending time with her at Eden’s Court, and now on the road… she aroused his interest even more.

  And other things.

  Her soft curves pressed against his naked chest and damned if he wasn’t tempted to take her this morning. Take her in every way possible. He’d gladly provide her with an abundance of research to enhance her understanding of all that she’d read.

  His fingers itched to slide between her legs. His mouth hungered to taste her all over.

  Alarmed at the strength behind these urges, Marcus gently removed her hand and rolled off the opposite side of the bed.

  If they made very good time today, they could possibly make it to their destination before nightfall.

  He could rent them two rooms, and they could be married early in the morning.

  Then he could have his way with her. Better yet, allow her to have her way with him.

  They could satisfy her curiosity and his urges and then make their way back to London and his father.

  Marcus dressed quietly, washed, passed on a shave, and then packed up his belongings. Determined to keep things from getting out of hand again today, he hardened his features and then touched Emily on the shoulder.

  “Wake up.” He jostled her when she mewled and stretched. She reached her arms above her head, causing her pert breasts to strain against the material of her gown. His lips had tugged at those breasts. His tongue had flicked around the dusky rose skin of her nipples.

  He stepped back.

  “We’ve a long day. Meet me in the yard in half an hour.” Without waiting for her to respond, he pivoted on his heel and strode out of the room.

  She had a way of knocking rational thinking right out of his brain, and he needed to put a halt to it. He’d work her out of his system after they said their vows and that would be the end of it.

  Allowing tender emotions to guide the course of one’s life was not only foolish, but it could be dangerous. He’d been intrigued by women before. He simply had to convince himself that Emily was no different than the others.

  Except he was going to make her his wife.

  Marcus rode most of the following day on the driver’s box, beside John. Emily had sat on such a box in the past and although one could see the landscape better and be refreshed by the breeze, she knew that the seat, lacking a cushion or backrest, failed to provide much comfort.

  He was avoiding her.

  The same as he’d done yesterday, after the first of their… experiments. As though he’d burned himself on a stove and needed to back away and only approach it again with an abundance of caution.

  She wondered if she’d ever see him again after they actually consummated their marriage. Although she chuckled at the thought, her heart skipped a beat.

  That was his plan. She knew it. She wondered if he’d even wait long enough to get her with child before fleeing England again. She blinked away the burning sensation behind her eyes.

  When they stopped for lunch, she’d inquired if he planned on riding in the carriage with her during the afternoon. He’d failed to look her in the eyes and dodged the invitation neatly. Something about not wanting John to miss their turns. It shouldn’t have mattered. She understood… or at least she thought she did. But nonetheless, the rejection stung.

  They’d made very good time and would likely arrive in Gretna Green by nightfall. Tomorrow at this time she’d be married.

  What if his Meggie was still alive? What if he had a child somewhere? Would he forgive his father and feel guilty for marrying her?

  Marrying him was quickly becoming the most selfish, manipulative thing she’d ever done.

  Yes, he ought to have researched the matter himself. He ought to have assured himself of the facts before ostracizing himself from his family. But still…

  She pulled her feet up to the bench and wrapped her arms around her knees.

  Barely a few hours and she missed him. She hated admitting it to herself, but blast and damnation, she missed the miscreant.

  Even if he would prove to be m
ore of just a friend than a husband.

  Friends didn’t treat one another like this.

  At least the friends she knew didn’t. She tried not to think about him, but with hours and hours of nothing to do but ride alone in a carriage ripe with memories of him, it was nearly impossible.

  By the time they pulled into Gretna Green, her good humor with him had vanished.

  He’d checked them into one of the newer, cleaner-looking inns.

  And when they finally arrived at their destination, he made certain they were appropriated with two separate chambers before essentially patting her on the head and disappearing into the darkness.

  Likely, he wanted to enjoy his last night as a bachelor. She wanted to be understanding. She wanted to be uncaring. But, damn his eyes… They were to be married! Some kindness, some charm on his part, would not be remiss.

  Before Emily could change, one of the maids showed up at her door with a tray filled with what promised to be quite savory delights and a bottle of wine. Wonderful. She’d gorge herself with food, get drunk on wine, and pass out alone on the eve of her wedding.

  No friends. No family. She glanced around the room, feeling sorry for herself.

  “Emily!” A quick knock and then the door burst open. “Why don’t you lock this when you’re alone?” Marcus frowned when the door swung open so easily. “Never mind. Good that you’re still dressed. I’ve located the blacksmith and if we are quick about it, he’ll hitch us tonight. If we don’t dally, we can get this over with now.”

  That was where he’d gone? He’d been looking to make the arrangements for their wedding? But she felt a little dazed. “Tonight?” The first complete sentences he said to her all day were to inform her that they could get their ceremony “over with” if she could move quickly enough.

  Over with.

  Emily took a few deep breaths.

  No explanations for his neglect. No apology. He just stood there, utterly confident in her easy acquiescence, a cocksure smile on that blasted handsome face of his.

  She’d never understood the sort of lady who required coddling and compliments. In fact, she’d abhorred that sort of behavior. But at that moment, she wanted to demand more for herself. More kindness. More consideration. And a little bit… the tiniest amount possible… of romance.