by Sara Bennett
Perhaps you should stop him now, said a voice in her head. But the voice was faint, and easily ignored.
He was exploring her other breast, and giving it the same treatment. The ache in her breasts was intense, but so was the throbbing between her legs. And it was worse because although she knew a little of what it meant to have connection with a man, she didn’t know the full details. Or perhaps it was just as well she didn’t know, because then she might throw him back on the ground and put her knowledge into practice.
She squirmed on his lap, trying to relieve the need growing inside her, and felt him hard against her stockinged thigh, like a rod of iron. Was this the bulge she’d seen in his breeches earlier? Surprised, curious, she reached down beneath the folds of her skirts and closed her hand about him.
He jerked like a man shot and she felt the rod in her hand twitch. She tightened her grip and he caught his breath, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. He reached down, fumbling his way through her skirts, and covered her hand with his.
“Valentine?” she whispered, confused, afraid she’d done something wrong.
He seemed to recognize her emotions. “Your hand on me makes me feel good,” he said bluntly. “Too good.”
She wasn’t certain what he meant, but she understood enough. She loosened her grip but did not let go entirely.
“May I touch you there, Valentine?” she said seriously.
He gave a shaken laugh. “Not right now, Marissa. But I am going to touch you, because I think you want me to, don’t you?”
“I—”
“I promise if you don’t like it then I’ll stop.”
She hesitated, but he must have taken that for a yes, because she felt his hand on her thigh, sliding up over her warm bare flesh and finding the lacy edge of her pantaloons.
You are not behaving like a respectable and well-brought-up young lady, the voice in her head told her.
No, but if I don’t practice my feminine wiles then how will I be able to use them with any accomplishment?
The voice had nothing to say to that.
Or maybe she’d stopped listening, because now his fingers had found the opening between the legs of her pantaloons and slid inside. At the first brush of his fingers over the swollen, damp folds of her flesh she whimpered. Then he touched her again, more firmly, finding a particularly sensitive place and exploring it with a thoroughness that made her tremble and gasp.
“If I had time,” he said, as he stroked her, “I would use my tongue.”
“Your tongue? How…” she moaned.
He smiled.
After a moment she said, “I feel—I feel…”
He pressed the heel of his hand against her, sliding his fingers inside, and a bolt of such pleasure went through her she arched upward, her body rigid, unable to speak or breathe. A moment later waves of warm release washed over her, and she collapsed against him, breathing hard against his bare shoulder.
He was murmuring endearments, but she hardly heard him. As soon as the intense feeling of pleasure began to fade the voice in her head was back, and it wasn’t saying anything nice.
“What must you think of me?” she said to Valentine, her voice stiff and formal, and out of place after what had just happened.
He lifted her face and smoothed back her hair, gazing into her eyes, no doubt reading the turmoil within them. “I think you are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years. But you are an innocent, Marissa. This isn’t what your grandmother meant when she told me to take care of you.”
“Valentine, I assure you I do not expect you to take blame for what just happened. I am quite capable—”
But he wouldn’t allow her to finish. She could see the self-disgust in the twist of his mouth. “You are no compliant widow or Covent Garden slut. You are an innocent young lady from a respectable family. You are my brother’s…friend.” His gaze dropped from hers and he sighed.
George. She’d forgotten all about George. How could she do that? How could the man she loved and wanted to marry slip her mind so conveniently?
Nevertheless she had been in full possession of her senses when she made the decision to cavort with Valentine, even if those senses had led her seriously astray.
“I liked what we did,” she said. “You asked me and I said yes. There’s no need to apologize. We are equally to blame.”
“Nevertheless…”
She climbed off him and began to button up her bodice, feeling hot and flushed, her fingers trembling. “This was between you and me,” she said gruffly, “and has nothing to do with anyone else. We will not mention it ever again.”
He snorted. “That just shows how innocent you are.”
“Oh rot!” she burst out, her eyes flashing with anger.
“My behavior is more than reprehensible,” he went on, rising to his feet and standing over her. “I deserve to be flogged.”
She stared at him a moment and then she began to laugh. His reaction was such a contrast to a moment ago, from one extreme to the other. Her laughter only seemed to antagonize him and angrily he untangled his coat, before pulling it back on.
“I think when you have considered the matter you will see that the only option left open to us is for me to ask—”
“Don’t you dare!” she burst out. “Don’t you dare propose to me!”
He stared at her, openmouthed.
“I don’t want to marry you,” she said in a low, shaking voice. “We’d both be miserable, forced into an intolerable situation. We’d end up hating each other. Besides, I would refuse you, so don’t even bother putting the question.”
“Marissa—”
“No.” She was searching around for her hat.
He reached down and picked it up and presented it to her with a formal bow.
“Thank you. I am returning to the inn now. I think you should finish your business with Mr. Jensen, and then we can all ride back to Abbey Thorne Manor.”
“When your grandmother hears what has happened—”
She sighed, and then she smiled. Then she came up to him, stood on her toes, and kissed his lips, gently, without any trace of their earlier passion. “Don’t be so foolish, Valentine.”
And then she walked away.
Marissa could feel his eyes on her, puzzled, angry, probably wishing he could strangle her and hide her body in the long grass. Everything was a mess, but she could hardly blame Valentine for that. She had played a big part in the wild encounter they’d just shared.
She needed time to think, to order her scattered thoughts, and to work out exactly what she was going to do to make things right.
Chapter 9
Moodily, Valentine watched her go. She appeared to be unaffected by what they’d just done. The fact that his body was still agonizingly hard didn’t help. He’d given her a climax she wouldn’t soon forget—he’d wager the first she’d ever had—and now he had to suffer in solitary frustration.
Well, it was his fault. He didn’t blame her for what had happened. He’d let her innocent dimpled smiles and her clear dark gaze, not to mention her luscious figure, confuse and bamboozle him, and before he knew it he was in too deep. And then, despite it being the very last thing he wanted, he’d done the only thing an honorable gentleman could do. He’d gritted his teeth and put his own feelings to one side and had been about to propose to her.
She’d refused him.
He supposed he should be relieved he had been rejected. Instead he was uneasy and not a little depressed. In their world, marriage was really the only option in such circumstances, unless one was a complete bounder, but despite her lack of experience, she’d rejected any thought of marrying him. And that could only be because the thought of tying herself to him was so appalling she’d rather be ruined than contemplate it.
You are a beast, Valentine.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and mooched through the long grass toward his tethered horse.
One thing he knew for sure, if she asked him if
she could touch him again he was definitely going to say no!
By the time Valentine returned to the inn Marissa was settled calmly in the room with Jasper and Lady Bethany. He glanced at her, noting her serene expression, and that her hair was once more neatly fastened up beneath her hat. In every way she was the perfectly innocent young lady. In fact, if he hadn’t seen her with his own eyes, half-naked and gasping with the pleasure he was giving her, he wouldn’t have believed it.
The beautiful minx.
Jasper was explaining how the local constable had visited them for an explanation of the shooting at the church, and Valentine forced himself to concentrate. He found if he turned his back slightly to Marissa and couldn’t see her then it was easier to put her out of his mind. Jasper went on to say he’d had no choice but to tell the truth, the vicar knew anyway, but it seemed as if there was little that could be done unless Von Hautt was found.
“Not much chance of that,” Valentine said. “He’s vanished back into whatever bolt-hole he came out of.”
He then gave them a shortened version of his visit to Mr. Jensen, and what the local historian was able to tell him.
“The Montfitchets died out in the sixteenth century and the castle was sold. Eventually it was abandoned.”
“So no good news,” Jasper muttered, sinking back against his pillows with a dispirited air.
“There was one thing. Jensen knew another of the names on the list. Henry Fortescue. The Fortescues still live in the village of Magna Midcombe…in some form or another.”
“That sounds very mysterious,” Lady Bethany said.
“Well, Mr. Jensen did warn me they are no longer of the same social station as they once were.”
“And Von Hautt?” Jasper demanded. “Has he seen anything of him?”
“No sign of him, yet. But I did warn Jensen to keep this new information to himself. Besides, now the constable is looking for him he’ll be afraid to show his face in Montfitchet again.”
“Baron Von Hautt doesn’t seem to be afraid of much,” Marissa said thoughtfully.
Valentine met her eyes and she stared back, a faint flush in her cheeks. He was glad when there was no return of his wild, reckless lust. Perhaps he had given himself such a fright that he was already cured? He hoped so. He knew one thing for certain, he was going to stick to his roses from now on and leave women to his brother, George.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t unsettle the lovely Marissa, just a little, in revenge for the pain she’d caused him.
“I expect Miss Rotherhild has told you about the ruins of the castle,” he said, with a glance at Lady Bethany.
“Only that the Crusader’s Rose was not there,” the older lady answered. “Is there anything else to tell?”
He hesitated, then lifted an eyebrow at Marissa. “Was there anything else, Miss Rotherhild?”
A spark lit her eyes but she dropped her eyelids to hide it before he could decide whether she was angry or afraid. “No, nothing else. Unless you can think of something, my lord?”
Was she daring him to tell? To ruin her reputation in front of her grandmother and Jasper? He would never do it, of course, but the fact that she would risk it said much of her character. Marissa was a gambler, masquerading beneath the façade of a respectable young lady.
Satisfied he had her measure, Valentine turned back to his friend, examining his features closely for signs of pain, but although Jasper appeared a little pale and drawn, his eyes were clear and alert. “Are you able to travel, Jasper?”
“Yes, of course, old boy. As long as you take it slowly, I’ll be more than happy to return to Abbey Thorne Manor and the ministrations of Morris and your excellent Mrs. Beaumaris.”
Valentine went to arrange the carriage. In the end it was necessary to bolster Jasper with rugs and blankets and pillows, to prevent him from being jolted about too much, and Lady Bethany sat with him to keep a watch over him. Valentine drove the carriage and Marissa rode her horse, while Valentine’s mount was fixed behind the carriage.
But, as usual when it came to Marissa, nothing went as he’d expected. Instead of riding timidly beside him, she rode some way in front, and he found his treacherous gaze fixed on the sway of her hips beneath her skirts, or the bounce of her jaunty hat atop her dark curls. For a time he struggled, and succeeded, in keeping his mind focused on what Jasper and Lady Bethany were saying, but then his thoughts would drift again. All too soon he was remembering the moment in the long grass when Marissa had reached down and closed her hand around his cock. Her warm fingers squeezing, while his face was buried in her lush flesh, in her scent, and she was rising above him like a pagan goddess…
A tremble started in his belly and traveled all the way up to his throat, causing him to catch his breath and tighten his hands involuntarily on the reins. The next thing he knew the carriage came to a violent and jerky stop.
“I say, Kent!” Jasper cried out in complaint.
“Why are we stopping?” Lady Bethany demanded, her hat over one eye as she tried to return the cushions to their proper positions around Jasper.
Marissa had trotted back to join them. “Is there a problem?” she inquired anxiously.
“No, I…It was nothing.” Valentine’s voice was rigid and he couldn’t meet her eyes. “My apologies, Jasper.”
“Well…no harm done, Kent,” Jasper said in a puzzled tone. “Just don’t do it again, eh, old boy?”
“Can we get on?” Lady Bethany said impatiently.
Marissa moved to one side to let him pass and Valentine set the horses in motion again. This time he meant to keep his eyes to the front, but his gaze wasn’t as obedient as he’d hoped. It fastened on her riding boot, and then her trim stocking-covered calf, quickly skimming over the folds of her green riding habit and up, to her gloved hands resting lightly on the reins, and came to a stop on the tiny pearl buttons that enclosed her bodice. Before he could stop himself, he was remembering her breasts under his hands, and his tongue sweeping over her nipples before drawing their succulent sweetness into his mouth.
One of her hands rose and pressed to her throat, and as he met her eyes, Valentine realized she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Because she was thinking it, too.
Marissa Rotherhild was disturbing his peace of mind by simply being here. What madness had made him want to bring her on his quest to find the rose? And how was he going to keep his hands off her delectable person next time they were alone? It was an impossible situation and it couldn’t go on.
Valentine was going to have to find some way to send her back to London, and the sooner the better.
By the time Marissa reached the manor she was more than grateful to climb the stairs to her room and close the door. She needed to think and it was difficult when Valentine was glaring at her back, as she was certain he’d done all the way from Montfitchet.
Did he blame her for what had happened between them at Montfitchet? She thought it more likely he was cross with himself because he’d lacked the will-power to resist her, and was then forced into a marriage proposal. Just as she was cross with herself for the same reason.
And confused. And guilty.
She’d come here to hunt George, after all, not fall in lust with his brother.
And yet she could not deny those moments with Valentine had been wonderfully exciting, empowering, and special. She wanted more. Like one of those laudanum addicts she’d always despised, she couldn’t stop at one draught.
With a groan she tossed her hat onto her bed and sat down to remove her riding boots, throwing first one and then the other across the room, hoping the violence would release some of her pent-up emotion.
Marissa could honestly say she’d never done anything like she did today at Montfitchet. And she’d never felt such a thrilling, dark pleasure as she had when Valentine kissed her and touched her. Her hand rested lightly on her breast, remembering. She’d never thought of herself as a sensual woman, but Valentine had shown her the t
ruth. Was it awful to admit she wanted more? And there was more, she was certain of it, a great deal more he could teach her about herself and physical pleasure. Wasn’t that what husband hunting was all about?
But he’s the wrong man!
It was all very well her friends from Miss Debenham’s urging her to use her feminine wiles, but what would they think when they discovered she’d used them on the wrong man? And while she was using them she’d not given dear George a single thought.
“It’s all his fault for not being here,” she muttered, and then jumped when there was a rap on her door.
“Marissa?” Her grandmother entered, looking about the chamber suspiciously. “Were you speaking to someone?”
“No, Grandmamma. Only myself.” Marissa was glad to be interrupted.
Lady Bethany had changed from her traveling dress into something less restrictive, wrapping a cashmere shawl around her shoulders. With her hair loosened, softening the lines of her face, she looked younger and strangely vulnerable.
“How is Lord Jasper?” Marissa asked, as her grandmother came to sit beside her on the bed.
“Sleeping, and hopefully no worse for his experience.” She hesitated, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “What do you think of him, my dear?”
“I think him a very nice man,” Marissa said promptly. “Much nicer than Mr. Garfield.”
Lady Bethany waved her hand impatiently at the mention of her previous beau. “Garfield is gone and forgotten.” Another pause, more fiddling with her rings. “He is a little younger than me, you know.”
“Is he?”
“Ten years,” Lady Bethany said heavily.
“But you are so very youthful in your ways, Grandmamma,” Marissa assured her. “Everyone says so.”
Her grandmother brightened. “I am, aren’t I?”
“An older man would have trouble keeping up with you.”
“I do believe you’re right.”
Marissa placed her hand on her grandmother’s. “But then again…You don’t think it is a little soon to be considering Lord Jasper in such an…an intimate light, Grandmamma?”