The Training of a Marquess

by Sandra Owens

Several times tonight, he had caught her watching him, the desire in her eyes obvious. If he knew women—and he did—she didn’t understand what was happening to her. That alone would unsettle her, but add the loss of her son and home into the mix, and it was not surprising she was easily riled.

  What had her marriage been like? He didn’t think she grieved for Derebourne, so he guessed it had been a loveless union. Even so, why hadn’t the man made any arrangements for her? Chase had carefully read the will and the marquess had made no provisions for his wife. What kind of husband left his wife’s wellbeing to the whims of another?

  “Bloody bastard,” he told the dead Derebourne.

  The clock struck twelve. Sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon and with a sigh, he slid his legs over the side of the mattress and stood. Restless, he slipped on breeches and a shirt. He remembered seeing an inner courtyard during his tour of the abbey. With a brandy and cheroot in hand, he slipped out of the room and made his way barefoot through the quiet house.

  The abbey was U-shaped, wrapped around a slate courtyard, the main feature being a bubbling water fountain. The moon was half-full, providing enough light for him to find his way to a four-foot-tall stone wall. He placed the brandy on the ledge and hoisted himself up. When his eyes became accustomed to the pale light, he surveyed his surroundings.

  The stone wall he sat on ran from one side of the open U to the other, sealing in the courtyard. A tree on the outside of the wall rose above him, draping him in shadows. A comfortable breeze blew in, ruffling his hair. Benches and lounges were scattered about, and blooming flowers scented the air.

  If he wasn’t feeling lazy, he might retrieve his pillow and counterpane to make a bed on one of the lounges. With a flick of the flint, he lighted his cheroot, and then cradled the glass in his hand to warm the brandy.

  His thoughts returned to Claire.

  As if he’d conjured her up, the lady wandered into the courtyard. Lowering the cheroot, he rested his hand behind the wall so she wouldn’t see the glowing tip. She aimlessly roamed the courtyard, stopping now and then to smell a flower. Occasionally, she sipped from the glass of wine in her hand.

  She wore a white silk dressing gown over her nightdress, the moonlight giving it a silvery sheen. Her hair fell straight and long down her back. Like him, she was barefoot. The breeze picked up, fluttering the silk around her legs and her hair moved in shimmering waves. She raised her face to the stars, lifted her arms as if a partner stood with her and began the steps of a waltz.

  An angel danced under the stars just for him. God save him from beautiful moonlit women dressed in sheer silk.

  Her dance over, she ambled his way. He supposed it would be impolite to continue to allow her to think herself alone. Bringing the cheroot to his mouth, he took a deep drag causing the tip to glow brightly. She stilled and squinted into the shadows.

  “Lord Derebourne?”

  “I am he, although I thought we agreed you would stop lording me.”

  Her mouth curved in a smile. “So I did. What are you doing here, Derebourne?”

  “Chase,” he said. “The same as you, I suppose. Couldn’t sleep and thought to enjoy some fresh air.” He held the cheroot out for her inspection. “And to enjoy a smoke.”

  She inhaled. “I have always liked the smell of them.”

  Who could resist a woman who danced under the stars and liked the smell of a cheroot? But he must. She stepped closer. If he were smart, he’d warn her off, tell her to run away as fast as she could.

  She leaned her head to the side and peered at him. “If I asked you to kiss me, would you?”

  No. Yes. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”

  “Because I have never been kissed and just once in my life, I would like to know how it feels to have a man kiss me.”

  His traitorous cock stirred with talk of kissing her. “How is that possible? You were married for how long?”

  “Four years.”

  Mother of God, what kind of fool had Derebourne been? “Why me?” he asked in desperation.

  She lifted her face as if the answer might be written on the moon. Her eyes drifted back to him. “Because it seems to me you would be good at kissing.”

  Yes, he would. “How old are you?”

  “I recently turned one and twenty.”

  He sucked in a breath. “You were married at seven and ten? Good God, you were a child.”

  “True, I was a child then but I’m a woman now, married four years, yet never kissed. Does that not sound pathetic? I want you to give me my first kiss.”

  He crushed the end of the cheroot on the wall. God save him from himself. “Claire.”

  “Yes?”

  “Come here.”

  Her eyes trained on his, she moved forward, stopping when she reached his knees.

  “Claire.”

  “Yes?”

  He spread his knees. “Two more steps if you want to be kissed. But you should walk away. No. Run. To your room and lock the door. Your choice.”

  Two steps put her between his legs. He was doomed. She leaned against him and placed her glass on the wall next to his. The scent of violets filled the air. If he licked the skin below her ear, would she taste as good as she smelled?

  He held out his hands, palms up. “Place your hands in mine.”

  She did as he asked, and he placed them on the sides of his waist, then cradled her face with his palms.

  “Close your eyes, Claire.”

  Her lashes lowered as he touched his lips to hers. She tasted of berries from the wine, and he had clearly lost his mind.

  Chapter Six

  This was how Claire had imagined a kiss—like the soft wings of a butterfly fluttering over her mouth. She sighed in pleasure. Chase groaned and the kiss changed, his mouth descending over hers in a firm and consuming possession.

  Sweet heavens. This she had never dreamed—had never known a kiss could cause her to forget her name or make her legs tremble. She pushed her hands under his shirt, and when her palms touched his heated skin she thought she might swoon for the first time in her life. He wrapped her hair around his fist and gently tugged.

  “Open for me, Claire,” he said against her lips.

  When she opened her mouth to ask what he meant, he slid his tongue inside. If not for his legs pressed against her waist she would have gone down in a boneless heap. She hadn’t known a man’s kiss—this man’s kiss—could sear her down to her toes. His tongue explored the inside of her mouth and she shyly touched her tongue to his. He tasted of brandy and his cheroot. A low noise came from his throat and she grew bolder, teasing him with her tongue while her hands roamed over his chest.

  “Chase,” she whispered.

  Abruptly, he pulled away and let go of her hair. “Go to bed, Claire. You’ve had your kiss and you need to leave now.”

  If his chest wasn’t heaving, she would have thought the kiss hadn’t affected him. She stepped away from the warmth of his legs.

  “Good night, Chase.” She was halfway across the courtyard when he spoke.

  “Claire.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Lock your door.”

  Chase picked up his brandy and drained it in one swallow, then picked up the wine she had left behind and finished it. If the lake were closer, he would go and jump in. Perhaps the water would be cold enough to put out the fire in his loins.

  Just one kiss, she said. Ha! Naïve girl. She had almost gotten more than she’d asked for.

  When her tongue touched his and her soft, delicate fingers trailed over his chest, he came close to climaxing like a green boy. If he were in London, he would slip out and go straight to the Pink Slipper. Unfortunately, the only thing available to him tonight was his hand.

  He slid off the wall, picked up the two glasses and returned to his room. He would not kiss her again—would avoid her as much as possible until he could put his plan for her in motion. Resolved and feeling better because of it, he remov
ed his clothing and climbed into bed.

  The taste of Claire lingered on his lips as he fell into a restless sleep.

  ****

  Claire stared at the canopy of her bed and relived the moment Chase’s mouth touched hers. She slid a finger over her lips and smiled. Her first kiss had been beyond her wildest imagination. She was glad now that Thomas had never kissed her. If he had, she would have never asked Chase to do so.

  Chase. His name struck a chord in her heart. Would he kiss her again? Claire grinned. How foolish to think one time would satisfy her. She fell asleep and dreamed of kissing an angel.

  When the early morning sun on her face woke her, she rang the bell for her maid, performing her absolutions and dressing with a bounce in her step. Not wanting to wear her black bombazine, she settled on a lavender day dress suitable for half mourning.

  She arrived in the dining room and, ravenous, piled her plate high with food. As she ate, she watched the door. When Chase hadn’t appeared by the time she finished breakfast, she went searching for Mrs. Smithfield. Claire found the housekeeper in the kitchen.

  “Has Lord Derebourne come down to breakfast, yet?”

  “No, my lady, he asked that a tray be sent up to him and the boys.”

  Disappointed, she went to the stables and spent several hours closed up in her office with Gordon. When she returned to the house for luncheon and there was still no sign of him, she asked Smithfield if he had seen the marquess.

  “Yes, my lady, he left not long ago to take the twins to the lake for a swimming lesson.”

  Alone for luncheon, she nibbled on her food, her excitement waning. Was he avoiding her? No, he had promised the twins he would take them to the lake today. Harry’s question from yesterday popped into her head. Chase would be swimming in his drawers. The thought refused to leave her mind and she gave up trying to eat. Returning to the stables, she learned he had saddled Mischief and Victory, and had rigged up the pony cart for Bensey.

  The marquess was at the lake wearing only his drawers. There was a spot where she could go and see him swimming, and he would never know she was there. No, she mustn’t. Even as she swore to herself she wouldn’t do it, she returned to her room and changed into a green riding habit that would blend in with the trees.

  Claire tied Amira to a branch and made her way through the woods. When she arrived at the place from where she could see the lake, she stopped. The most amazing view of a man she had ever seen stood before her. Chase walked out of the water wearing only his drawers. His hair was wet, and water ran down his muscled chest and long legs. He laughed and said something over his shoulder to the boys, but she was too far away to hear.

  Sweet heavens, he was beautiful. She chewed on her bottom lip as a battle waged in her mind. She should leave. It wasn’t proper to spy on a near naked man. Oh, but she wanted to see more. And she might never have another chance to see a man’s body as beautiful as this one. If she slipped through the trees just a few more feet, she’d have a closer view. He would never know.

  ****

  Chase stood at the edge of the boulder preparing to dive into the lake. The twin’s lessons had gone well, both of them taking to the water like baby fish. They had learned to stay afloat by paddling their feet and thought it grand fun to hold their noses and sink under. As their reward, he’d agreed to jump off the boulder. Just as he lifted off, he saw a flash of moonlight-colored hair before it disappeared behind a nearby tree.

  The minx!

  The surprise of catching her spying almost caused him to hit the water on his belly. At the last second, he pulled up his knees, wrapped his arms around them and made such a big splash that when he came to the surface the boys yelled their approval.

  “Jolly good, Father,” Harry yelled.

  “Do it again,” Bensey said.

  So, she wanted a show. Well, he would give her one. He sauntered out of the water and climbed back onto the rock. This time, instead of jumping, he dived—his legs together, his toes pointed and his arms held straight out from his sides. When he neared the water, he swung his arms forward and followed his hands into the lake with the barest of ripples. When he surfaced, the twins madly clapped their hands.

  “That was the most splendid of things,” Harry said. “Will you teach us how to do it?”

  “When I’m confident you’re good swimmers I’ll teach you how to jump first, then how to dive.”

  Satisfied, Harry and Bensey started a splash war. Chase glanced up at the trees from the corner of his eye and caught a sliver of pale hair flash in the sun. He grinned. Prepare yourself, my sneaky little minx, you haven’t seen anything, yet.

  He waded out of the lake and picked up a drying cloth. Turning his back to her, he leisurely rubbed it over his body. When he bent over to dry his legs, he stole a peek from under his arm. Claire leaned out from behind the tree, her eyes wide and staring. He stifled a laugh and called to the boys to come dry off. She disappeared into the forest.

  “Happy to oblige,” he murmured.

  Riding back to Hillcrest Abbey, his mind was full of Claire Tremaine. Again. He couldn’t help but to be amused by her antics today. Had she never seen a man’s body? She had been married four years, for God’s sake. How could one be married that long, yet never been kissed or seen a man without his clothes?

  Clearly, Derebourne had bedded her as she had given birth to a son. Chase had heard there were men who bedded their wives in the dark, only lifting their nightdress enough to do the thing. He might understand if she was hard to look on, but Claire was far from unsightly. You were a fool, he told the dead Derebourne.

  If she were his wife...he ruthlessly shut the thought down. He’d avoided her for most of the day for his own peace of mind. Kissing her had been a monumental mistake, even if it had been a kiss he couldn’t stop thinking about.

  ****

  Claire rushed into her room, closed and locked the door. Sweet heavens. When Chase had bent over with his back to her, she hadn’t been able to look away. Even though she should have, because what kind of woman spied on a naked man? His lean, muscled body was a piece of art and should be in a museum on display. Although the mere idea of other women looking at him in appreciation didn’t settle well.

  And oh, the sight of his buttocks outlined by the wet linen of his drawers—all firm and rounded—and his powerful legs had caused her mouth to dry.

  She would die if he knew she had been hiding in the trees and watching him. This couldn’t continue. She had her kiss. Now, she needed to concentrate on her goal of convincing him to give her the horses, or make an arrangement to purchase them.

  She rang the bell for her maid and unlocked her door. Maggie arrived and helped her into her widow’s weeds and white lace cap. The sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive floated up. Claire glanced out the window and groaned at seeing Mrs. Fisherman, the vicar’s wife, and her daughter step out. She pushed the last strands of hair under her cap and waited for Smithfield to send word she had visitors.

  In the drawing room, Mrs. Fisherman droned on as she importantly disclosed the latest village gossip. Claire’s thoughts strayed to Chase and the way his wet body had looked when he emerged from the lake—the droplets of water on his skin glistening in the sun. She had touched that muscle-hard chest and wanted to do it again.

  “Lady Derebourne!”

  Claire blinked. “My apologies. I just recalled something I need to tell my housekeeper. You were saying?”

  Mrs. Fisherman gave a small tsk. “I was saying, if you had been listening, my lady, that I understand the new marquess is in residence. Is he available for introductions? I’m quite certain he would wish to make the acquaintance of my dear Rhonda. As soon as I heard he had arrived, I knew we must have an assembly to welcome him. The ladies planning committee agreed and we have set aside a week from Saturday.”

  Oh, no. Mrs. Fisherman couldn’t possibly think Chase would be interested in her daughter. Rhonda was one and twenty, and for the past two years
, Mrs. Fisherman had desperately tried to find her a husband. The unfortunate girl was horse faced with teeth a rabbit would envy, as thin as a stick and as shy as a mouse. Her overbearing mother constantly pushed men at her.

  Once, Claire had found the girl in the lady’s retiring room in tears. When Claire comforted her, Rhonda had admitted she had feelings for Bobby, the blacksmith’s son, confiding that Bobby had asked Mr. Fisherman for her hand. Mrs. Fisherman had refused the offer as she expected her daughter to make a better match than the son of a blacksmith.

  Between sobs, Rhonda said she couldn’t bear the embarrassment of her mother’s matchmaking efforts with men who would never consider her for a wife. In Claire’s opinion, Rhonda and Bobby were a perfect match. He was homely and as shy as Rhonda. It likely took years for the two to get up the courage to greet each other, but they suited so well.

  Chase would give the poor girl the vapors. Already, Rhonda was shrinking into the sofa as if she could become invisible. Claire wanted to slap some sense into Mrs. Fisherman.

  “Lady Claire, Bensey would like—forgive me, my lady. I didn’t realize you had guests.”

  His golden hair still damp from his swim, Chase stood in the doorway alongside Harry and Bensey.

  “Mrs. Fisherman, Miss Fisherman, the Marquess of Derebourne and his sons, Harry and Bensey. My lord, allow me to introduce Mrs. Fisherman and her daughter, Miss Fisherman.”

  Chase pushed the twins into the room ahead of him and bowed, Harry and Bensey following his example. “A pleasure, Mrs. Fisherman, Miss Fisherman.”

  “My Lord Derebourne, it is such an honor to make your acquaintance,” Mrs. Fisherman gushed. She gave the boys a dismissive glance. “I didn’t know you were married, my lord.”

  “I am a widower, madam.”

  “Oh, well good. I was just telling my darling Rhonda it was our Christian duty to pay a call and welcome you. In your honor, my lord, we are holding an assembly a week from Saturday. My daughter’s dance card fills up quickly, Lord Derebourne, but I’m certain she will save you a dance.”

  Claire cringed at Mrs. Fisherman’s reply to Chase being a widower. By how his eyes turned to ice at the woman’s tactless response, Mrs. Fisherman was not endearing herself to the marquess.