The Marquess of Cake

by Heather Hiestand

  Hatbrook had rallied his staff to assist and he had visited each day at teatime to read to Rose from magazines. His aunt had sent soothing messages as well as one of her afghans. Still, Alys had insisted on doing most of the work herself, feeling guilty for ever putting thoughts of her cakes over her sister’s fragile health.

  Eyes closed, she undid the buttons from neck to waist and let it fall off her shoulders. Then she reached behind and undid the laces of her stays. Even that seemed too much work, but eventually she was down to her combinations. Yawning, she reached for the taps.

  The door squeaked open. Expecting a housemaid, or even Greataunt Mary’s maid, she didn’t look up, but turned on the cold water, then the hot.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The male voice had her rearing back, hands over her breasts. Hatbrook held up his hands and apologized again.

  “The door wasn’t locked.” His gaze drifted to her bosom, then back to her face.

  She blushed. “I didn’t think it needed to be.” She couldn’t bring herself to order him out, like a proper maiden would.

  Instead, she noticed Hatbrook wore a dressing gown over some kind of loose, silky trouser. His feet were bare. She liked the look of them, long and wide with narrow toes, the masculinity enhanced by the tuft of hair on each big toe.

  He put a hand to his hair, scratched his ear, and shifted his stance.

  “You look exhausted. But Rose is better?”

  “Yes. Marian said she’d sit with her while she slept. Do you always wake so early?”

  “Earlier, very often.” His toes dug into the carpet.

  She turned to check the water and heard an audible pop in her neck. “Ouch.” She rubbed the kinked spot.

  “Here, let me.”

  Michael moved closer and sat on the stool, then pulled her onto his knee. She wanted to protest, but then his warm hands molded to her neck and he began to knead her flesh. It felt so good, she could have let her head drop to his shoulder.

  She could have fallen asleep like that, warm from the steamy water, relaxed from his hands and the scent of sandalwood and scones. Her sense of propriety had become dangerously relaxed, from seeing him in Rose’s bedroom every day.

  “You don’t smell like cake,” he murmured against her ear.

  “More like chest rub and spilled tea. But you smell like scones.”

  She looked up at him.

  He licked the corner of his mouth. “I think I left a speck of honey.

  Want to taste?”

  She did, and felt a little less tired when she touched his mouth with her fingertip, then licked it. “No, you got it all.”

  “Where is that orange flower soap you use?”

  “You know my soap?”

  “I love how you smell,” he said simply. “I’ll wash your hair for you.”

  “Hatbrook! How indecent.” She faltered when she saw how he stared.

  That hungry look she’d seen in his eyes before was back. “I have a beautiful woman in my arms. I feel very indecent.”

  Swirls of sandy hair decorated his chest between the lapels of his robe. She let her fingers sample the textures there. The wiry hair, the hard, warm chest, the soft wool. His lips found her temple, her cheek, her neck.

  “Do you want to undo my buttons?” she whispered. Was the heat from the boiler the reason her inner thighs had moistened, for the languorous feeling in her limbs?

  “Do you want me to?” His voice had developed a rasp she found endearing. “I’d better lock the door.”

  When she didn’t protest, he picked her up and stepped to the door, then turned the key. She put her arms around his neck and he let her slide down his body. Then, he undid the buttons of her combinations to the tops of her hip bones. She gasped, a tiny sound magnified by the high ceiling, but didn’t protest.

  His fingers danced down her breastbone. “You have beautiful curves.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, your breasts are high and perfect, and your hips have such a delicate flare.” He shrugged out of his robe and let it pool on the floor.

  She sat back on the stool, drinking in the virile stretch of his chest and back muscles, as he turned off the taps and found her soap.

  “Come and lean your head over the tub.”

  She slid off the stool and allowed him to lean her back so her head rested on the lip. Gently, his fingers found her pins and dismantled her braid. She’d never thought washing had such allure.

  “Now I can smell flowers,” he said, running his nose along the outside of her ear.

  He let her hair sink into the water, then dipped a pitcher into the tub and poured the warm water over her scalp. She moaned with pleasure as it trickled over sore spots caused by having pins in for too long. When it was damp enough for his purposes, his deft fingers began to work in the soap.

  “You’ve done this before,” she ventured.

  “I’ve washed horses,” he said.

  She closed her eyes. “I’m no horse.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do this to a horse.”

  She felt a damp hand on her thigh, then, shockingly, he was spreading the fabric open between her legs. “You’re going to wash the hair there too?”

  “In a bit.” Instead, his fingers moistened the seam between her legs, then spread her lips and dipped in.

  Her thighs jerked. She was hot there, and damper than she realized. His fingers slipped easily, rubbing, creating little fires under her skin. Her eyes widened when he found her channel and pressed his finger in. Why wasn’t she stopping him? She couldn’t. She was so tired and it felt so nice, and he smelled so good.

  “Do you like that?”

  She couldn’t answer, just moved restlessly.

  “Keep your head back. It’s covered with soap.”

  Her fingers found his silk-covered thigh and her nails bit into the fabric when he caressed her again, higher this time. He found a little hood of flesh and pressed there. She squirmed.

  “I could tell you liked that.”

  She panted. “What are you doing?”

  “Haven’t you ever done this to yourself before?”

  “No.” She was positive that if she touched herself like this, it would not have the same effect.

  “Then there is much I can teach you.”

  But would she survive the teaching? She felt as coiled as a snake, and just as ready to strike, but at what?

  Chapter Twelve

  Alys desperately wanted to be a fast learner, to move ahead of Michael’s insistent touch, to understand. His fingers plucked at the small pearl of flesh at the juncture of her thighs, then dipped back between her legs. Her breasts felt full and tight and she wanted to touch herself there, but felt like if she let go of his leg she’d spiral into the heavens with nothing to anchor her to earth.

  Gently, he increased the tempo, spreading the moisture that her body created in response to his sensuous movements. Her hips bucked against his hand.

  “You’re so responsive,” he whispered.

  A noise of protest came from her lips. She moved her head and soap dripped onto her shoulder. How could she be anything else with his touch against her body? She heard a loud click behind her and tried to turn, but his fingers did something miraculous that made her reach, just a little bit higher, but how?

  “Shhh, let it come.”

  She didn’t know what he meant exactly, just that his fingers were creating a tight, hot need for her to break free from her own skin. She felt her chest bloom with heated blotches when his lips found her neck, then drifted lower. His breath enflamed the tips of her breasts and she lost her grip on reality.

  She arched backward, riding the hardness of his finger inside her tight sheath. Stars burst behind her closed eyelids and she finally took a gasping breath. He kept rubbing her slowly, until she found another breath.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, soothing her with soft pats.

  “I’ve never felt like that before,” she whispered.

  �
��I hope it is far from the last time.” He kissed her temple. “Stay in the moment.”

  She could feel her pulse beating under his lips. Her entire body felt alive but languorous at the same time. He moved away, then she heard something in the tub and warm water caressed her scalp again, taking away the fragrant soap.

  He turned the pitcher over her head twice more, then rubbed strands of her hair between his fingers. “I removed it all, I think.”

  “I’ve never been so relaxed in all my life,” she murmured.

  He dabbed her face with the towel. “Let’s get you into the tub.”

  She didn’t protest as he took her arms out of her combinations and pulled the fabric down her legs. Her eyes were closed so she heard, rather than saw, him take off his trousers. Then he bent, picked her up, and stepped into the tub, lowering them both.

  Feeling boneless, she sagged against his chest, as though she’d never have energy to move again. His chest hair gently abraded her back, constantly reminding her of his presence.

  He proved her idea wrong, however, when he began to wash her with the cake of soap. He slid it along her collarbone, raising tiny bubbles, then swirled it between her breasts. When it moved over her feminine patch of hair she still felt languid, but when it slid between her thighs, she recharged as if a bolt of lightning had struck there.

  She turned to him, meaning to say something, but then he dropped the soap and took her hips between slippery fingers and pulled her to him, belly to belly.

  How could they be so similar yet so different? Even his skin was shaded differently, with his darkened patch at throat and lower arms, a tan that must be permanently burned in from working outdoors.

  She might have breasts, but he had firm rectangles of muscle surrounding nipples that tightened into tiny peaks when she touched them. He was beautiful and alien and breathtaking and frightening all at once.

  “Sensitive?” she whispered.

  “Oh, yes.”

  A line of hair began below his breastbone, widening into a thatch like hers, only chocolate brown instead of her fire red. And fire described her perfectly, the way she felt when he caressed her breasts and hips. He burst her into flame. Without thinking, she let her thighs slip over his. She was completely open to him, completely desiring.

  His erection bobbed in the water, pointing toward her belly. She only needed to move a little closer, a little upward, to take him into herself. Could she steal this moment of pleasure from the world, discover what the novels claimed lovemaking could be like?

  “This isn’t how a virgin should be taken,” he said, gripping her thighs.

  “I’m not a virgin.” She touched the tip of his penis, then slid her fingers over the flared head. She heard his harsh swallow and took him in both hands.

  “Nearly so.”

  “I’m not some tender aristocratic miss. I’m twenty-six.” She touched him as if she was kneading scone dough, though of course this experience was nothing like that. Instead of becoming more pliant, his penis became harder, thicker, hotter, with each stroke of her fists.

  “You’re still a special woman and I want to treat you as such.”

  She rotated her shoulders. “You are thinking too much. I must not be doing this right.”

  “Do you want this to be over quickly?”

  “Yes,” she said, surprised. “This is a stolen moment from our responsibilities. We don’t have long.”

  “If you can think of responsibility I’m not seducing you effectively.” He tilted his head and found her lips with his, and pushed his fingers into her hair, twisting it into a thick plait.

  Her rhythm faltered and her hands fell to his thighs. “Is this a seduction?”

  With a grunt of domination, he took his hands from her hair and reached for her hips. She felt a nudge against her slippery woman’s place and his erection slid inside.

  “Or a bewitching.”

  The sensation bore no resemblance to that experience, best forgotten, of eleven years before. Her body coiled tightly around him.

  She squeezed and moved her hips instinctively. He seemed to touch some place inside her she’d never been aware of, and every time he surged inside he sent her burning higher.

  His tongue thrust deeply into her mouth with each pistoning of his hips. Water splashed to the lip of the tub and washed over the edge. She devoured his mouth eagerly, her hands sliding up and down his heavily muscled arms. When she needed to be even closer, she pressed her torso against his, feeling his chest hair abrade her tender breasts. Her arms clasped around his neck. The water was warm but he was incandescent.

  “Can’t hold on,” he gasped.

  She licked his lips. “Michael, oh Michael.”

  “Alys, are you ready? Be ready, sweet, be ready.”

  He moved his hand. She protested, wanting to fit herself to him, but then she realized he was doing something with his fingers, like he had before, something she liked. Eagerly, she moved not just against his penis, but his fingers. Her body broke around him.

  He pressed his face into her hair and thrust fast, so deep he’d have hurt her if he’d moved like this before, though now it felt exquisite as aftershocks clenched her around him. He cried out hoarsely and shuddered. She felt him relax. His hands cupped her shoulders as he breathed heavily.

  The water level in the tub had dropped. After a moment Alys realized she felt cold air on her back. She pressed her torso tightly to his.

  Michael did not yet seem capable of speech. He pulled her head to his shoulder and nuzzled her wet hair. She sighed and relaxed against him. When would an opportunity come like this again? Soon his family or hers would arrive at the Farm and they’d never have an opportunity to steal a moment, unless she blatantly became his mistress, with some kind of arrangement. Her family would cut her from their lives. But she couldn’t think of that right now, with her brain fogged by newfound pleasure. The novels had it right. How foolish attraction could make a woman. And to think she hadn’t wanted to come to the country.

  “I had thought leaving London meant leaving you,” she whispered.

  “Not when your home here is so convenient to mine,” he said, yawning.

  “I didn’t know. So much has changed in my life. I cannot wrap my thoughts around it.”

  His muscles bunched underneath her. She was shocked by the power he demonstrated as he stood in the tub, holding her, not a small woman. Her legs locked around his waist as he stepped to the floor and wrapped a towel around her. He kissed her forehead, then set her back on the stool and secured the towel.

  “You need a good rest,” he said. “I should not have taken advantage of your exhaustion so. I’ve not been a good host.”

  She could do nothing but blink at him. Her passionate lover dissolved into a mere host? Did he often treat guests so? She’d heard of such things at country estates but had never considered the truth of them before. Perhaps it was common to have relations with visiting ladies, at least those who did not arrive as virgins.

  “I am tired, but most pleasurably so.”

  He smiled. The hunger in his gaze had faded, and his expression was uncommonly sweet. “As am I. I cannot express how pleasant this has been.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. But was that all it had been to him?

  “Do you need help dressing?”

  “No. I will be fine.” She watched limply as he dressed, then unlocked the door and opened it a crack to check the passage.

  “I’ll duck out now.”

  She stayed on her stool until he was gone. Her life suddenly seemed like a carriage with a broken wheel. Some level of certainty had been lost to her and she didn’t know how to restore equilibrium.

  At least she had a memory of heat to carry her through long, dark nights.

  Early the next afternoon she was wondering if Michael was purposely avoiding her when a note was delivered to Rose’s room, inviting them to a dinner at a neighboring farm.

  “How exciting,” Rose said, from the chaise
where she lounged by the fire. “I think I’ll wear my pink.”

  “Are you sure you are ready to leave the room, much less go outside in the cold?”

  “I have been trapped here for days,” Rose declared. “This is our chance to be a part of the best society in the area. We cannot miss such an opportunity. Guests of Hatbrook Farm will have a greater entry than daughters of Redcake Manor.”

  “I don’t wish you to relapse, Rose.”

  “I came here because the air was healthier,” she said with a little dance of her slippered heel against the chair. “It will be fine.”

  “At least you have a few days more to rest before we enter society,” Alys said, noting the dinner was three days away. Though she knew society would not accept her if they knew the truth about her relationship with Hatbrook.

  Three days had never been spent in such dull occupation. Rose continued to struggle with her breathing, so all of their meals were served in their room. Michael did no more than look in late in the evening, after days spent with his tenants. Alys noticed his waistcoat did not fit as tightly as it had, so he was taking brisk exercise. Rose’s cough worsened at night, so Alys found herself napping next to the fire in the afternoons. At least naps passed the time. But Michael appeared in every dream, making her feel hot and restless.

  Otherwise, her primary occupation was making repairs to a gray sateen evening gown for herself, and helping Rose take in her favorite pink gown, since she’d lost enough weight for it to be noticeable.

  Finally, the evening came and they were dressed in their finery.

  Rose’s cough had improved or she was hiding it better.

  “At least I no longer sound like a farm animal braying,” Rose said. “If I can drink tea I should do quite well.”

  “I’ll make sure you have it,” Alys agreed. “I’ll tell the marquess that wine makes your wheezing worse. I’m sure he’ll know who to tell.”