Tempting the Marquess

by Sara Lindsey

  “I told you I would,” she responded breathlessly.

  He smiled and inclined his head. “So you did.”

  Silence filled the space between them.

  Livvy fought the urge to burst out in nervous chatter. She didn’t think inane babble was going to make her more alluring, but if he didn’t say something in five seconds, she wasn’t going to be able to stop herself.

  Five . . . four . . . three . . .

  “Lock the door, Olivia.”

  The sound of his voice, low and rough, did something funny to her insides. She turned around and fumbled with the lock, her hands shaking, and when she heard the bolt slide home, she knew her fate was sealed.

  She turned back to Jason and froze. He had shed his banyan and was now totally, gloriously nude.

  And he was perfect.

  Far more beautiful than the prints of classical sculptures she’d discovered in her father’s library. He was hairier, too. And the male part of him—the part that was proof of his desire for her—did not look as if it could possibly be covered by a fig leaf.

  Breathing became difficult. She stumbled her way to one of the settees, never taking her eyes from him.

  He placed one hand on his hip. “How shall I pose for you?”

  “I—” She licked her lips. “I’m afraid I forgot to bring my drawing materials.”

  He dropped his arm. “And here I was set on having my glorious male self immortalized,” he teased.

  Olivia gave him a shy smile, beginning to get into the spirit of the game. “I can work from memory, but I’ll need to perform a close study.” She rose somewhat unsteadily, leaving her shawl behind. How had she ever thought this room draughty?

  Jason held out his hand to her and she grasped it, needing his warmth. She might be prepared to embark on an adventure, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a little bit afraid.

  “It’s still me, Livvy,” he said, as if he sensed what she was thinking.

  “More of you than I’m used to.”

  “We can take as long as you need. The last thing I want to do is pressure you into something you’re not ready for.” He bent down to reach for the robe pooled around his feet, but she stopped him.

  “I’m ready, Jason. I want this. I want you.”

  He reached up with his free hand and cupped her cheek in his palm. “Then I’m yours.”

  Chapter 13

  “O! what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip.”

  Twelfth Night, Act III, Scene 1

  I’m yours . . .

  Livvy’s heart clenched. If only it was true. It was true, she told herself. In that moment, for this night, he was hers and, though he didn’t know it, she was his.

  She nestled her face into his hand. “Will you kiss me? I know I didn’t like it much before, but—”

  He placed a finger against her lips, quieting her. “It will be different this time.”

  He threaded his other hand through her loose hair to cradle the back of her head. With a gentle tug he tilted her head back, angling her to receive his kiss.

  Her eyes fluttered closed.

  She gasped in surprise when he pressed his lips to the base of her throat, right in the curve where her neck met her shoulder. The next kiss fell on her forehead. The one after that in the sensitive hollow just below her left ear. On and on he went with these surprise kisses, never quite landing where she wanted him.

  Her lips parted of their own volition.

  “Jason,” she pleaded.

  Her knees didn’t feel weak; they felt as though they had turned to liquid. And she wouldn’t be surprised if she swooned, as she was having a difficult time remembering to draw breath. She clutched at his arms, needing support but not wanting to open her eyes for fear this was all a dream.

  His lips brushed over hers in a feather-soft caress, so tender and reverent, tears stung beneath her closed eyes. He kissed her like she was made of porcelain, delicate and fragile. She took a step closer to him, twining her arms around his neck.

  He ran one of his hands down her back until it was resting lightly on her bottom. She gasped in surprise and he seized the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth.

  Oh, my. She had never imagined anything like this. She tentatively touched her tongue to his, trying to learn him as he was learning her. He tasted of the wassail, that delicious hot mixture of winter ale, apples, cinnamon, and cloves, which had been served in keeping with the holiday spirit.

  Alongside the wassail was a dark, masculine flavor that she knew was Jason. She wanted more. She pressed herself up against him, reveling in his heat and his strength. And in the urgency of his desire, which she could feel clearly against her belly.

  He groaned, and she wriggled her hips, trying to get closer still. She wanted to melt into him, into his skin—into his very soul. So this was the reason people risked everything for love. This was the divine madness that obliterated all sense and logic.

  He kissed her the way she had dreamed of being kissed. Like she was extraordinary. Like he couldn’t live without her. Like she was a heroine—his heroine.

  His hand came up to cup her breast, and her head fell back. He pressed hot, openmouthed kisses along the column of her throat as he gently squeezed and kneaded first one breast, then the other, through the thin lawn of her chemise. He lightly nipped her earlobe with his teeth as he pinched the hard bud of one nipple.

  “Jason!” she gasped, her knees buckling under the onslaught of such intense pleasure.

  He sank down to the floor with her.

  “Livvy, are you all right?”

  “Again,” she commanded.

  He laughed and toppled her onto her back.

  “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

  She arched her hips up against him. “Oh, I think I have some idea,” she purred, peering up at him through lowered lashes.

  He regarded her with amazement.

  She didn’t know how, but she knew just what to do and say. Perhaps she had always had this seductress inside her, lying dormant, waiting for a man like him. A man who would encourage her to act on her every last naughty desire. A man who would want her to be a little more wicked.

  He had shocked her with his nakedness. For all her bold talk about drawing him in the nude, she had never expected him to actually allow it. But he had somehow known what she needed before she did. She had been touched that he had offered himself up to her and made himself vulnerable, perhaps the only way he knew how.

  She had been freed by his gesture as well, because by doing something so totally unexpected he had wiped away any preconceived ideas she’d had about the way things ought to be. She wasn’t overthinking and fretting that this wasn’t the way things were done in her books. She was free to give herself over to feeling.

  “What is that smile for?” Jason asked, tracing the curve of her bottom lip with his index finger.

  “I was just thinking that nothing like this ever happens in my books.”

  “Thank God,” he teased her. “The last time I was weighed against that standard I came up sorely lacking.”

  She lifted her head and bit the tip of his finger. “You have redeemed yourself. I am actually beginning to feel a little sorry for all those heroines. They have no idea what they are missing.”

  He gave her a light, tender kiss. “There’s still plenty more to come. But this is better than your books, then?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  He gave her a lazy, mischievous smile. “And you’re certain you never read about this?” He tweaked her other nipple.

  Her back arched up off the floor. “No, never. Blast you, don’t stop.”

  His smile deepened. “Then I feel fairly positive they never did this, either.”

  He untied the drawstring of her chemise and pulled at the fabric until her breasts were bared to him. “So beautiful,” he murmured appreciatively.

  Was that the sort of compliment one was supposed to respond to?
It didn’t make much sense. Breasts were breasts. Every other person had a pair—more if you counted portly men like Sir George. If hers pleased Jason, she supposed it was all to the good, but she really wished he would stop staring at them and go back to touching them.

  Before she could voice her request, Jason bent his head and licked her breast, circling his tongue around her nipple.

  Oh.

  Then he gently worried the aching, hardened nub of flesh between his teeth.

  Ohhhhhhhh.

  When he began to suckle, she dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his shoulders.

  “Oh. My. God.” The words emerged on a strangled moan as pleasure rocketed through her body.

  He raised his head. A lock of hair fell forward onto his brow, making him look particularly roguish. Or maybe that was the extremely satisfied grin he was sporting.

  “Again?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Forever,” she told him, drawing his head back down. She felt his smothered laughter against her breast, and then there was only the pull of his mouth stirring up the most wicked, wanton, wonderful sensations.

  She couldn’t stop touching him. Her hands roamed restlessly over the smooth, broad planes of his back. She had never imagined what immense joy could be derived from the simple act of touching and being touched.

  But it wasn’t enough. With every new height he roused her to came the growing need for something more. She felt empty and achy inside, and she craved the fulfillment she sensed he could give her. Her hips rocked instinctively beneath him as if trying to direct him to the part of her that throbbed, demanding attention.

  He took her mouth again, his kiss hard and passionate and frantic, as if he wanted to consume her. She understood. She wanted to devour him. To bind him to her. To drive him as insane as he was making her.

  “God, Livvy,” he groaned, raining kisses over her face. “I want to be inside you so badly.”

  His hips bucked against hers and she shifted, spreading her legs, guided by some knowledge as old as time.

  He ran one hand along her side, tracing her curves. He didn’t stop until he reached the hem of her chemise.

  “Shall I show you what else is missing from these books of yours, Olivia Jane?”

  Her eager nod was all the incentive Jason needed.

  Lord, he had guessed she would be passionate, but her response to him was beyond his wildest imaginings. And when it came to Livvy, his imaginings had been wild indeed.

  He eased one hand beneath the hem of her chemise and slowly trailed his fingers up her calf. He felt his way around her garter, seeking the ribbon ties, and then wrenched his hand away at the sharp pain the action caused. He looked at his finger and saw a bead of blood welling up.

  She rose up on her elbows. “What’s the matter?”

  “You stabbed me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He showed her the blood on his finger, and then popped it into his mouth to soothe the hurt. Even though his lips were nowhere near her, Olivia’s entire body arched up as though he were sucking on her.

  His eyes darkened in response.

  “There must be a bloody pin somewhere. Come, let me find it and take it out before you hurt yourself on it.”

  Olivia scrambled up, shaking her head. “No, you tend your finger. I’ll get it.”

  She looked almost . . . afraid?

  “I am quite able to remove a pin, you know. And I shall take care not to prick my finger a second time.”

  “I really think it would be best if I did it,” she said.

  What the devil was she hiding?

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he told her. “I’ll have done in a moment.”

  When she saw that he was quite determined, she laid back and flung an arm over her eyes.

  In a moment, he understood why.

  Though he hadn’t seen it since he’d hidden it away all those years ago, Jason knew the brooch at once. He’d have to be blind not to, since the damned thing held his profile.

  “Where did you get this?” he demanded angrily.

  She scrambled away from him, fumbling to draw her chemise back over her breasts.

  “Come, Miss Weston, don’t you think it is a bit late for maidenly modesty? Now answer me!”

  “I found it when I was in Scotland. W-when I was organizing the library. I took all the books off the shelves and your note fell out. I knew it was wrong, but I had to find where the clues led. I can’t be sorry that they led me to you.”

  “And you said nothing, not a single word the whole bloody time you’ve been here. It’s all been a lie.”

  “No!” she protested. “Please, Jason, you must listen to me. I wanted to tell you, honestly I did.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “When? You weren’t exactly a model of understanding and compassion when I arrived. If I had told you then, you would have tossed me out on my ear. And then . . . Then, I just couldn’t. I was too scared you would hate me,” she whispered.

  “What makes you think I don’t?”

  “Don’t say that,” she begged. “I know it seems like I’ve trespassed on your marriage. I never meant to try to take Laura’s place. I only wanted you to be happy again. I know you loved her, but how long will you punish yourself with this unending grief?”

  Jason rose slowly and donned his banyan in silence. He wanted to rant and rage, but doing so would allow her to win. He called on his former icy reserve. “I fear you’ve been laboring under a misapprehension, my dear. I am not mourning my late wife.”

  Her brows drew together in puzzlement. “You—You’re not?”

  “Women aren’t worth grieving after. As you and Callista have both so thoughtfully reminded me this evening, you’re all lying, manipulative bitches.”

  She gasped and took a step back as if he had hit her. Her eyes were huge in her face, bewildered and bright with tears. Despite knowing she had lied to him from the start, Jason wanted to draw her close and kiss her until that look was once again one of dazed passion. Until she was lost to anything and everything but his touch and the passion that flared between them.

  But more than anything he wanted to punish her for making him feel all those tender, protective feelings, even though she had betrayed him . . . just as Laura had betrayed him.

  “Do you know where my wife was going the morning she was killed?” he demanded. “She was leaving me.”

  “What?”

  It was his turn to nod, and he took no little delight in her complete horror at his revelation. The bitter truth had been bottled up inside him so long that he took a sick pleasure in releasing it, in spewing the acid venom at someone else.

  “It was no accident that Lord Verney found her body. He was supposed to meet her in the park that morning. They were lovers.”

  She stared at him, totally aghast. “I believe you’re mad.”

  “Cursed is the more popular theory, though I must confess it’s their brides, rather than the Trahernes themselves, who seem cursed. They’re the ones who wind up dead, after all.”

  The anger in her eyes astounded him. She was livid.

  “Does that not suit your romantic longings? It’s the sort of tripe that might have come out of one of those gothic novels you’re so enamored of.”

  “What proof can you give me that your wife was involved with Lord Verney?” she demanded furiously.

  Jason crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t need to defend myself to you, though I must admit to being surprised by your belief in my wife’s innocence. I thought women were always eager to think the worst of each other. Of course, I suppose it must be galling to hear that another of your gender failed to uphold her marriage vows, but you may as well come to terms with the matter. Women simply can’t help themselves. Eve herself was too weak to resist the serpent’s temptation.”

  “I—You—” she spluttered.

  His eyes narrowed. “Miss Weston, did you ever meet my wife? Is there some past connection th
at I am unaware of?”

  For a moment he thought she was going to answer in the affirmative, but she shook her head.

  “No . . .” she said slowly. “I may not have known your wife, but my aunt knew her. The staff here and at Haile Castle knew her. Servants talk, and I have never heard a hint of gossip about your wife to suggest she was anything other than loving and devoted to you and your son.” She braced her hands on her hips. “You wonder why I am so ready to believe in your wife’s innocence? I wonder why, as the husband who loved her, you are so quick to find her guilty?”

  Something inside Jason snapped. He grabbed her shoulders. “Do you think any of this makes me happy? Do you think I was pleased to realize my wife was leaving me? To learn that even if she no longer cared for me she didn’t love our son enough to stay and be a mother to him?”

  He punctuated each question with a small shake.

  “But this is life, Miss Weston, and facts have to be faced, even if they don’t work out into the happy ending you wish them to.” He let go of her. “I advise you to stick to your books. No relationship will ever measure up to the pretty portrait of perfection you’ve painted in your head. But I think you’ll find books to be cold comfort when you lie awake at night, remembering the pleasure I gave you tonight—”

  She slapped him.

  The little hellcat had actually slapped him.

  “I want you out of here,” he told her.

  “I don’t particularly want to be here,” she spat, “but I don’t see another alternative.”

  “Then look harder. I don’t care what lies you have to tell Katherine, but you are no longer welcome to reside under this roof. I have some business to attend to in Cardiff. I was planning on putting it off until you left, but I’ll leave in the morning. I will be away for two nights, possibly more. I expect you to be gone by the time I return. Is that clear?”

  She shook her head, swiping the back of her hand at the tears coursing freely down her cheeks. “Nothing is clear anymore.” She gave him one last searching look and then bolted from the room.

  He watched her go, unable to shake the feeling that he had somehow failed her.