“Yes, Marcus,” she whispered against his neck. “I want to do what you did to me—kiss you, taste you, take you in my mouth. Please tell me how, show me what to do.”
With a guttural sound, Marcus pulled her to his mouth, kissing her deeply. He released her. She feathered kisses over his face, his neck, his chest, the flat plane of his stomach. He guided her slowly downward, following the trail of coarse, dark hair to the hot, jutting member that jolted and throbbed in her hand. Trembling with apprehension and anticipation, Lydia shifted her gaze to its purplish head moistened by fluid. She darted a gaze to his face. His eyes were shut tight, the lines of his face drawn taut. “Do you get wet too?” she asked, brushing a thumb over the tip of his verge, spreading the liquid over the top.
“Only a small amount now to ease the way, love. Much more when I come.”
“Come?”
“Spend. Spill. Ejaculate.”
Her lips formed a silent “O”. “Do you wish me to kiss you there now, Marcus?”
His jaw clenched. “Yes, love. I do. Very much.”
She drew her lips softly over the top of the satiny head and traced the rim with her bottom lip. His fingers curled in her hair. He trembled. Experimentally, she licked the saltiness of him from her lips. She flicked a gaze back to his face to find him watching her, his expression guarded but sharpened with want.
“Does that repulse you, Lydia? You need go no further if it does.” Deep indigo eyes searched her face.
“No,” she said. “It’s just strange. I didn’t know what to expect. Do you like it?” She kissed him again, dragging her lips across the silky-smooth crown.
“God, yes.” His answer was deep and hoarse. “Grasp me lower. Use your tongue.” He released her hair to slide her hand down to the root of his staff. She trailed with her tongue, with tentative licks tracing his length along the purple vein back to the crown. She circled the head, licking, probing the slit, her movements growing more confident at his sounds of pleasure, the caress of his hands in her hair and along her cheek. A slight smile curved his mouth now, but no sign of the sweet agony, of the frenzy of want he had invoked in her. She had bucked and trembled with need, had pled for release. She wondered what it would take to inspire the same desperate need in him. Emboldened Lydia parted her lips and drew him slowly into her mouth.
Marcus held himself rigid under her ministrations, his self-control on thin threads as she delicately lapped and rasped at his cock. While he never would have dreamt she’d be so bold, the sensations she inspired teased and frustrated more than appeasing his need. Every tender stroke of her pink tongue tempted him to prod her mouth. His entire body was coiled taut while she unknowingly tortured him, yet filling her mouth with his staff was something he could never force upon her. Subconsciously, he shut his eyes, his fingers stretched to cup her head.
Open your mouth. Please take me. Give me blessed release.
Hot, wet heat answered him, engulfing the head of his cock, her tongue caressing as she slowly descended, inching down his shaft, racking his body with a shudder and sending sparks of light behind his closed lids.
His fingers splayed across her nape, guiding her gently, encouraging her deeper, steadying her erratic efforts into a smooth rhythm. Marcus threw back his head and lost himself in the carnal pleasure of her mouth.
His flesh was smooth, hot and heavy, his thick length filling her mouth. At first she was frightened and thought she might gag but his trembling body spoke to her, encouraging her efforts, his gentle hands and quiet words soothed and relaxed her.
“Yes, love,” his voice was a hoarse rasp. “Relax. Breathe deeply. Take me in. Use your mouth the way you used your hand.”
Lydia remembered how he had suckled her breasts and how the drag and pull on her nipples had send ripples of rapture to her womb. Taking him deeper, she tightened her lips around him and drew harder on her ascent, pulling with her mouth until nearly releasing, swirling her tongue around his crown and then taking him in again.
He responded with a guttural sound, his reaction filling her with dark delight. His knees buckling, he braced one arm on the door. She increased the pressure and pace. He groaned. His hips jerked. His head was back, his lashes shadowing his cheeks, his chest heaved. Lydia’s belly tightened and liquid heat pooled between her thighs at the evidence of his passion. She clasped his buttocks, pulling him in to her, relaxing her throat, drawing him in, dragging him out, working her mouth and tongue, encouraging his shallow thrust. Concentrating on nothing more than giving him pleasure.
Marcus’ mind was a dark and dizzy void, his body a conflagration of sensation. His legs weakened, he leaned heavily against the door. He raised his lids to half-mast, slanting a gaze down at this incredible woman, this wickedly wanton virgin who threatened to possess his soul. Her eyes closed, her lush lips enveloping him. His ragged breaths mingled with the sultry sucking sounds of her mouth. God, how he could lose himself forever in that wet, velvet heat.
Every muscle tautly coiled, his sac grew heavy and tight, his breath seized. He was going to explode. But God help him, not now—not in her mouth. Clenching his jaw, fighting for every ounce of control, he reached for Lydia, palming her head, slowly withdrawing. She looked up at him, lips swollen, eyes drifting to his still-turgid shaft. Her face fell.
Marcus endeavored to explain. “A gentleman doesn’t spend in a lady’s mouth…not uninvited anyway.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “But you have not…released.”
He pressed his back to the door and fisted himself, hissing through his teeth. “May we continue this conversation later?”
She watched in fascination the hard jerking motion of his hand as he vigorously pumped, the contortion of his face, the seized breath, the harsh spasms of his body that followed in concert with spurts of milky fluid from his member. The low groan as he sank back against the panel. The long moments before his breathing and the throbbing pulse in his neck regulated. He gazed at her through hooded lids and she felt as deflated as his erection.
“You finished alone,” she said.
His mouth turned up dryly. “It wasn’t by preference, I assure you. Have you a towel or handkerchief in this chamber?” he asked.
Lydia’s gaze dropped to the thick liquid that covered his hand. She retrieved a basin, pitcher and towel from the dressing table. He reached for it.
“Allow me,” she said, dipping the cloth in the water and slowly wiping away the slick residue. “It looks nothing like I thought.”
Marcus raised a brow.
“A man’s seed. A rather messy business really,” she observed with surprising pragmatism. “Nothing like its namesake.”
Marcus took the cloth from her with a laugh. “No. I daresay it’s an allegorical description.” He finished wiping himself and seized her wrist, bringing it to his lips and planting a tender lingering kiss on the inside. “You continue to amaze me, Lydia. Truth be told, you take my breath away.”
She pulled her hand from his to slide it along his bristled cheek. “I assure you the feeling is mutual.”
He tented both brows. “Then in the carriage…why did you…”
Her lip quivered. “I-I was afraid to trust you, don’t you see?”
He frowned. “You didn’t give me a chance.”
“I was wrong not to after what you have shown me, shared with me. I have known your patience and your generosity. You have revealed so much more than what I expected and what you pretend to be.”
“So you like me in spite of yourself?”
“Much to my chagrin,” she confessed.
“Lydia, is not liking the basis of friendship?”
“Indeed, it is.”
“And what of respect? Do I command even a modicum of your respect?”
She searched his impassive face. “Only a week ago, I wanted to believe you nothing more substantial than some conceited, Continental fribble.”
“Me, a fribble?” He made a stabbing gesture to his heart but his mocking smile abruptly disp
elled, replaced by a look of utter gravity. “And now? What do you think of me now, Lydia?”
“After having worked by your side, I no longer regard you in that light. I can appreciate your many talents and see how important it is for you to make your own mark in the world. Yes, I respect you.”
Marcus’ lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. “Capital. What now was your third concern? Ah, yes. Hope of genuine affection.” He kissed her long, lush and deep and released her with a devilish gleam. “I do believe we have that requisite covered as well. Then it seems we have a foundation of friendship, mutual respect and affection to build upon.” He ticked the items off on his fingers. “But there was more, wasn’t there? The last issue was trust, was it not?” His smile died. “You expressed fear that I would stray from the marital bed.”
“We were betrothed,” she said. “Yet you have been with other women.”
“I’m sorry, Lydia. I can’t deny that, but can we not forget the past? Our engagement was too soon. We were neither of us ready, but I won’t hurt you again. Please believe that while I greatly enjoy bed sport, I am not a promiscuous man. I have kept few mistresses and never more than one at a time, which I hope begins to speak to my capacity for fidelity. I believe I could be well content with just one woman—if she were the right woman.”
Apprehension filled her eyes. “Do you really think that is me?”
“Aye.” He nodded.
“Then you still want me, Marcus?”
“As much as my next breath. And I’d wager my life that I will continue to do so until the last breath leaves my body.” Words that stole her breath away.
“Do you think you can you trust me now, Lydia? Have I begun to restore your faith in my integrity?” His blue gaze riveted to hers. “Please consider your answer carefully.”
She gave a convulsive swallow, knowing what she needed to say, what he needed to hear. “Yes, Marcus. I believe in you. I trust you.”
His eyes lit up. His lips curved slowly into a roguish smile. “Then it appears only one barrier yet remains between us, my love.”
She gave him a puzzled frown. “And what is that?”
“Your maidenhead,” he chuckled. “A matter I will delight in attending to anon.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “What are you saying, Marcus?”
He answered by dropping to one knee and placing her hand on his chest, over his heart and covering it with his own. “I ask again, Lydia. Would you do me the inestimable honor of becoming my partner, my lover, my wife?”
Her heart contracted with mixed apprehension, hope and love. She answered on a gush of breath. “Yes, Marcus. Yes, I will marry you.”
“A very wise choice.” He grinned and kissed her palm before he pulled her onto his knee to kiss her long and full on the mouth. Upon releasing her, he retrieved their cast-off clothing and handed her her shift and stays. He advanced to the window and threw open the shutters to shout instructions to the postillion in the courtyard.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Redirecting the vehicle to Mayfair, of course.”
Her jaw dropped. “To Mayfair?”
“Aye. At St. George’s Chapel in Mayfair there is a certain Dr. Keith who, for the paltry sum of one guinea, would be quite willing to perform our nuptials.”
“Now? It is so sudden!”
“Carpe diem, my love. Or would you rather wait another six years?”
“But what about Woburn Abbey?” she asked in disbelief. “You can’t sacrifice your future like this!”
He took her in his arms. “You led me a merry chase, my dearest heart. I’m not about to let you get away.”
She smiled impishly. “But we have three hours ahead of us, ample time for me to come to my senses.”
He spoke into the hollow of her neck, taking her earlobe gently between his teeth. “Then I’ll apply all within my power to induce you otherwise.”
“Induce me?” she repeated breathlessly. “Are you sure that’s quite the word you had in mind?”
Chapter Eight
Lydia was fast asleep, curled against Marcus’ chest when the chaise finally rolled into the U-shaped courtyard of Woburn Abbey, the Duke of Bedford’s country seat. It was well past midnight with the few lights that still blazed emanating from the second-story bedchambers.
At the jarring halt of the chaise, her lids fluttered open. “Are we arrived, Marcus?”
“Indeed we are, my love.”
The carriage door opened as he spoke, the steps lowered by a bleary-eyed, liveried footman. Marcus preceded her and handed Lydia out of the vehicle where she stood gaping in the courtyard. Marcus tilted his head. “Welcome to Woburn Abbey, Lydia.”
“Good heavens,” she caught her breath on a gasp. Even in darkness, its splendor in the flickering light of torches was daunting beyond description.
“Good heavens indeed,” Marcus laughed. “It was once a Cistercian monastery, you know, until confiscated by our good King Henry and awarded to my ancestor Sir John Russell for services to the crown. The original structure dates back to the twelfth century, though I don’t know how much remains, as my uncle has largely rebuilt it in the neo-Palladian style.”
“I had no idea,” she murmured.
“That you are now so well-connected?” he asked with a grin. “My uncle is one of the most powerful men in the country, Lydia.” His smiled dimmed. “And the thought of facing His Grace in the morning nigh strikes terror in my heart.”
“Is he that bad, the Duke of Bedford?”
Marcus replied with a great sigh. “I fear I don’t exaggerate in saying my uncle is known for two things apart from his love of this monstrosity.”
“What are the other two?” She was almost afraid to ask.
“His hot temper and his cold heart.”
Lydia cringed. “I can hardly imagine a more unpleasant combination.”
“Indeed. He has been a formidable patron, as nearly all bow to his will for fear of incurring disfavor.”
She was struck with a keen awareness of what Marcus’ actions may truly have cost him. “Yet you chose to return to Westminster when he expected you? Oh, Marcus, how foolish you are!” The thought weighed heavily on her heart.
“If I am a fool, it is all for love.” He smiled and kissed her. “I could have done no differently, you know. One more day and I would have died in my want of you.”
As the chaise set off to the carriage house, two more footmen appeared to flank their progress to the massive double doors.
His eyes grew dark with desire. “I’ll instruct Sally to have your things moved to my bedchamber.”
“Is that done, Marcus?” she asked. “Would it not be scandalous for us to share a bedchamber here?”
“I don’t care. I’ll be hanged before I sneak through the halls like a thief to claim my own bride.” His words made her shiver in anticipation.
The doors opened into a marbled foyer with soaring ceiling and silk-covered walls adorned with old masters. It was a struggle not to gape at such opulence.
Marcus followed her gaze and shrugged. “The Dukes of Bedford are renowned for their art collection.”
They had only been divested of hats and cloaks before Nicholas and Mariah descended the stairs, looking sleepily disheveled. Lydia noted curiously how they avoided each other’s gaze.
“Where the devil have you been?” Nick cried. “I don’t envy your position at the moment. Bedford is in a thunderous temper over your absence and your mother has spent the night in a near swoon, certain you’d been set upon by brigands. She only retired after taking a sleeping tonic.”
“She did not receive my missive? I dispatched a messenger from the coaching inn before we turned back for London.”
“Why the devil would you have done that? Turned back to London?”
“Let us say I discovered an urgent need, a matter I was certain would allow me no rest until satisfied.”
“Given the circumstances, you could not trust your
errand to me?”
“No, dear boy. This was a business requiring my own delicate touch.”
Marcus struggled to maintain a straight face and Lydia’s burned white-hot from his blatant innuendo.
“Shall we continue this discussion in the morning, Nick? It has been a long day and will assuredly be an even longer night.” His meaningful look sent a bolt of heat to Lydia’s belly as well as her cheeks.
“You must be exhausted, Lyddie,” Mariah said. “I’ll show you to your chamber. It’s adjacent to mine.”
Lydia looked to Marcus who interceded. “My wife will retire with me.”
“Your wife?” Nick and Mariah exclaimed in unison.
“Aye,” Marcus laughed. “For that’s the true cause of our delay and the crime for which I must plead clemency in the morning.”
“You mean to say you really—”
Marcus gave Nick a quelling look and turned back to the maid. “Sally, please see that Lady Russell is properly settled.” He took Lydia’s hand. “I’ll repair to the library with Nick for a short while and give you time to…refresh yourself.”
“Of course,” she breathed. “You won’t be long?”
“I assure you, I won’t be long.” He brushed his lips across her fingers and Lydia’s heart fluttered at the dark and decadent promise in his eyes.
* * * * *
Sally helped Lydia to undress and took down her hair, all the while nursing a smug smile that Lydia did her best to ignore. Dismissing the maid, Lydia examined her reflection with dissatisfaction. In the cotton night rail and lace-trimmed wrapper, with her long braid falling over one shoulder, she appeared modest, demure, and far closer to the young girl of their betrothal night than the siren she wished to be when her new husband entered the bedchamber.
Letting loose her hair, she discarded the night rail for the wrapper alone and then cast her anxious gaze about the room, wondering where she should await him. Would he expect her in the bed? She was still deliberating when his soft knock sounded upon the door. As promised, he hadn’t kept her waiting long. With hammering heart, she opened the door. He entered silently, closing it behind him with a soft click. He stood back for a long moment, drinking her into the indigo depths of his eyes.
A Breach of Promise Page 8