The man froze, his expression amused and curious rather than afraid.
Magnus looked away from his leering smirk. “Melissa, please, I wish to speak with you. Alone.”
“You are not the master of me, Magnus.” Melissa deliberately took the man’s hand, which had been hovering just above her body, and slid it to her mound, spreading her legs to give him access to the most private part of her, and then she paused, meeting his gaze.
She cut him a smug, hateful smirk. “I fuck who I want, how I want, when I want. And if you continue to stay, you are going to have a front row seat.”
Magnus flinched as though she’d kicked him in the face, his body frozen, his fists clenched at his sides, his mind reeling.
“I think you shocked him, Mel.”
Again, they chuckled, the man’s hand beginning a rhythmic stroking, his long, thin finger tracing the darker outline of her cleft, which was visible beneath the silk. Melissa’s eyes were heavy, her hips gently thrusting.
“Look, darling, we’re making him hard.”
Magnus felt like a prisoner inside his own body—over which he’d lost all control. The other man, as hateful as he was, wasn’t lying. Magnus was as hard as pig iron from watching another man fondle the woman he loved. He was—he must be—
His brain stuttered, unable to process what he was seeing, feeling. Was he a deviant? What the hell was wrong with him? How could he—
“Perhaps he’d like to join us?” his tormentor murmured, his hand slid from Melissa’s sex up her belly, to her mouth. Melissa was waiting and she sucked a long, masculine finger between her lips.
Magnus couldn’t have said what shocked him more: the other man’s words, or his own body’s response. Because suddenly he saw them in his mind’s eye—the three of them—spread across that lounge, their bodies naked and writhing and—
Magnus shook his head hard enough make him nauseous and dislodge the horribly erotic image. It was this place—it was like a disease, like a black creeping mold that infected everything that came into contact with it. It was infecting him and Melissa was caught in its thrall as well.
“Melissa. I want five minutes of your time—alone.” It was not a request—she could accommodate him, or he would begin to dismantle things: starting with the man touching her.
Her lips curved around the man’s finger, which she’d been sucking like a pornographic sweet, sliding her hand around his wrist and removing his hand. “What do you think, Hugo?”
The man eyed Magnus with open amusement, the moment stretching forever before he finally shrugged. “Why not?” He slid from behind her, his movements sinuous as he rose from the chaise, turned, and helped Melissa to her feet.
“Thank you, darling.” She offered her lips to him and he claimed them with brutal swiftness.
Magnus swallowed hard and jerked his head away, but not before he saw her hand lower to the obscene bulge in the man’s black buckskins and give him a possessive squeeze.
Hugo strolled toward Magnus and stopped.
He was perhaps two or three inches shorter than Magnus, who stood just at six feet, but the other man was as lean and hard as the snake he resembled and probably weighed a good three stone less.
In addition to leather breeches that fit him like a second skin he wore tall black boots of supple leather that molded to his long calves and a shirt of whisper-thin black lawn that did nothing to hide the slender but muscular torso beneath. He wore no waistcoat or coat and his appearance was that of a man who’d been interrupted in the middle of sensual pleasure. The look he gave Magnus was not one he’d ever received from another man. His eyes smoldered, his expression of raw lust creating pictures in Magnus’s head of things he never would have believed he was capable imagining. The graphic, erotic thoughts left him breathless, hard, and terrified: what if this stranger just released primitive desires within Magnus’s mind that had always lurked beneath the surface?
The other man’s harsh face—so angular and hard it was actually ugly—leaned closer to his and his thin lips twisted into a sneer, his irises so dark in color they were indistinguishable from his pupils.
“I’ll give you a quarter of an hour before I return.”
It was a threat and a promise and Magnus did not bother telling him what was really going to transpire. He waited until the door clicked behind him before turning to the chaise.
Melissa’s eyes snapped open, her sensual smile disappeared, and she crossed her arms. “You wanted to talk. So, talk.”
“Is that man your lover?” It was the very last thing he wanted to say, but the seething hatred and jealousy inside him could no longer be suppressed.
“Was that what you wanted to talk about?” She sneered. “Then, yes, he is. Although we are not exclusive. I have lots of lovers, Magnus.”
“Why are you saying these things to me? To drive me away?”
“Is it working?”
His rage and jealousy subsided as he looked at her beloved face, so twisted and angry—with him.
“I love you, Melissa, don’t you understand?”
Her laughter was like an acid that made his face burn. “I would have thought that leaving without telling you who I was or where I was going would be answer enough for you. But instead you have somehow tracked me down, in spite of my very obvious wishes.”
He shook his head. “Why are you behaving so cruelly?”
“Because I’m not interested in your love or your way of life. Go back to your little village—to where all your female worshippers believe you are without sin—to where you are perfect. To your flock who would never believe their precious curate could fuck a whore in the middle of her sitting room. Don’t worry, I shan’t tell anyone you slipped, Reverend.”
The fact that her words were true only hurt more. “You have every right to think badly of me, Melissa.”
“Why, thank you so much for telling me what I am allowed to think, my lord.”
He took a deep breath and reminded himself he had no right to the anger he was currently feeling. She was right that he had stalked her and come here without her permission. He had also used her body outside the holy bounds of marriage just as surely as any of the men who’d paid her for the privilege. The fact that he loved her hardly changed that.
He met her angry gaze. “Mrs. Tisdale died two nights ago.” He knew it wasn’t fair, but it did disarm her—enough that they might be able to speak rationally.
Her eyes widened in surprise and flickered around the room restlessly, on anything but him. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she finally said.
He nodded, his silence forcing her to look at him.
“I’m saddened to hear that,” she repeated. Her expression changed as quickly as a flash of lightning. “Surely you didn’t come all this way to tell me that?”
“No. I came to renew my offer of marriage.”
She blinked and her jaw dropped. “What?”
His face heated at her disbelief and scorn; he should have expected that. “I want you to be my wife.”
“Are you mad?” She bolted to the small writing desk and snatched something up—his card, he saw. “Who are you? Who is your father?”
Magnus sighed. “The Marquess of Darlington.”
Her green eyes bulged. “Darlington! A bloody marquess. You are mad,” she yelled.
The door opened a crack. “Is anything amiss, darling?”
“Shut the door, Hugo,” she shouted at the cracked door and then whirled on Magnus. “I can guess how you found out my whereabouts.”
Magnus opened his mouth to tell her that Mrs. Tisdale had only given up her identity because she’d been feverish with pain and delirium.
But Melissa held up a staying hand. “No, shut up—I don’t care what you have to say. You have no business following me, Magnus.”
“I beg to disagree.”
“Beg all you like—I happened to enjoy the sound of men begging.” She flung the card toward the desk but it fluttered to the ground.
She stalked toward him, her movements certain and dangerous, not stopping until she was so near that he felt the heat of her body. “Listen carefully. You’d better take your kind offer of marriage and go back to New Bickford and give it to some innocent young virgin. If you don’t, I will contact Lord Darlington myself. How do you think your mother—who loves you so much, and whom you adore—would react to hearing her most favored son has been cavorting with a whore?”
Magnus shook his head in horrified amazement. “I know this is not really you, Melissa—to make such ugly threats.”
“This is exactly who I am and you don’t know a thing about me. I’m giving you a chance to leave, to get as far away from me and our unfortunate night together as you can.”
Magnus didn’t fool himself that he saw love lurking on her face. She was looking at him with raw . . . something. Fury? Anger? Hatred? She was so committed to her goal—that of driving him away—that he felt pity for her. He knew it was his fault that she underestimated his tenacity and believed him to be nothing but gentle and kind. Magnus had only ever shown her one side of himself. She didn’t know about the rest of him—about the willful, spoiled parts of his character that he fought so hard to keep at bay.
Magnus almost felt bad about what he was about to unleash. Almost.
∞∞∞
Melissa died a little more with every second he stared at her and ugliness poured out of her mouth.
Please go, Magnus. Please don’t make me say all these ugly, horrid words. Please . . .
But he was as pale, white, and unmoving as a statue. His anger—jealousy, she supposed—at Hugo had drained away and all she saw now was compassion and understanding and—she didn’t think she was mistaking it: pity.
He took her hands and she jumped. When she would have yanked them away his grip tightened. His hands were like a gentle, iron vise. “I’m going to leave this place, Melissa.” He paused and her heart stuttered.
He is leaving you! a voice inside her head shrieked.
Magnus’s lips curved into a sad smile. “But I will return by six o’clock. At that time, I will collect you and whatever possessions you care to bring with you. I will arrange for us to be married by a friend who is the vicar at St. Olav’s. It is an unusually hasty request, but he will make an exception for me.”
Mel felt her jaw sag open but couldn’t summon the strength to pull it closed.
“Afterward, we shall stay a night in London, at my family’s house. After that we will go to Yorkshire, where I will introduce you to my family. We will stay for two weeks before returning to New Bickford. The curate house is small, but we shall manage until I either find something more appropriate in the area, or perhaps I might take a living I’ve been offered in East Anglia.” He gave her hands a squeeze. “It is something we can discuss and decide together.” He released her. “But for now, pack your possessions and be waiting for me when I return.” His voice was still soft and kind, but there was something else. Something beneath his words that she’d never heard before—something she never in a lifetime could have imagined: it was iron. Pure, inflexible, unbreakable iron. She could only stare.
He lowered his mouth to her forehead and kissed her before turning away and heading for the door.
“You are insane,” she managed, her voice weedy and weak.
He turned and cocked his head.
“You are,” she insisted, as though he’d argued. “I won’t be waiting for you, and you won’t gain entry to my house again. This is the last time we will speak.”
His expression was one of sadness mingled with regret. “Please, Melissa. Don’t make me insist.”
She laughed and was horrified to hear a tinge of hysteria in the sound. “Insist all you want, just don’t do it here. Your fifteen minutes are almost over. I suggest you leave before Hugo comes back.”
He took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled, his expression that of a tolerant father who must—although he was reluctant—punish his recalcitrant child.
Melissa stared: who was this man? This stern, commanding Magnus standing before her? An unwanted—and unexpected—spike of lust struck her as she took in the confident, commanding expression on his beautiful face.
“If you do not leave with me and marry me, I will destroy this place.” His mouth pulled into an almost embarrassed half-smile.
Melissa’s heart stuttered. “You are talking like a lunatic.”
He continued, undeterred. “I don’t mean I will physically destroy it; I mean I will see that the entire enterprise is brought down. I don’t intend to harm any of the unfortunate people who are employed here, but I would imagine lives, futures, and prospects will be damaged in the process. The men who make use of your business will not gather round to save you, quite the opposite. I would never incite such chaos and leave lives in a shambles; I will be around afterward to help those who want it, but it will be an unpleasant business for all involved. But you—”
He took a step toward her, his eyes suddenly on fire, like the burning blue gaze she’d seen in a Renaissance painting once, some martyr who’d been lashed to a post and was about to face a fiery death with an expression of eagerness that was almost erotic.
“You.” He slid a warm hand beneath her jaw, his size and restrained power making her feel small and vulnerable, just as she suspected he intended. “Suffice it to say you will not be able to resume this type of work anywhere in England. And if you leave the country, I will follow you.”
She shuddered, awestruck at the quiet finality in is voice, the inevitability. His hand slid down her cheek to her throat, his fingers at the back of her neck flexing as he pulled her close. He didn’t kiss her; he just held her lightly against him while he spoke.
“I come from a wealthy and influential family, Melissa.” His words were warm puffs of air on her temple, but they sent chills throughout her body. “I know aristocrats do not wield the power they did even a half a century ago. But I think you know the displeasure of a marquess—especially one who has the King’s ear—can be heavy, indeed. I think you know I am not the kind of man to issue idle threats. I told you that I loved you the night we were together and you answered in kind. I asked you to marry me that night and you accepted. Based on your words and my expectations we came together as man and wife.” He made a sound of frustration. “What could you expect would happen? I told you that you were my first and only lover; surely you must have guessed such an action meant a great deal to me.” He paused. “But you lied to me so that I would abandon my convictions and lie with you. You lied to get what you want, and now you will marry me.” He kissed her temple, the gesture less like a benediction and more like a seal. “And you will do so because you gave me your word.”
Mel closed her eyes.
If he had yelled and blustered, she would have disbelieved him—and she would have yelled and blustered in response. But this . . . this declaration of his, an almost reluctant willingness to go to such lengths to keep her to her word—his iron-clad resolve to go to war. No, he was not lying.
The fight, which had kept her upright since she’d first glanced at his card, left her body in a rush. She told herself it was the inevitability which caused her to capitulate, but the raw truth was that she wanted him so very, very much. Even though she knew they would both suffer dearly for their wants.
He must have sensed her submission because he stepped back, his hands gripping her shoulders to steady her, his face once again the kind, gentle, and concerned face of the man she loved.
“I’ve been fortunate enough to be granted an audience with His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury. I will need your full name for the special license.”
Melissa met his clear, honest gaze and opened her mouth, curious as to what name would come out. “Melissa Griffin, no middle name.”
He smiled and nodded and a leaden sickness settled in her stomach at the ease with which he accepted her lie. “Thank you, my dear. You will be waiting when I return?”
He co
uld have ordered her to be waiting, they both knew that. But he’d asked instead.
She swallowed, and then nodded. “Yes, Magnus, I’ll be waiting.”
Chapter Fourteen
Magnus was concerned for his wife of less than two hours. As he’d asked—very well, ordered—she had been waiting for him when he returned with the carriage his father kept at the London house.
Acquiring the special license had been far easier than he’d expected. Deciding to hew as closely to the truth as possible, Magnus had confessed his lapse to the archbishop, whom Magnus knew only slightly but believed would be sympathetic to his situation given his history of scandalizing his family by eloping with his own bride.
License in hand, he’d dropped in on his very surprised friend, Thomas Wilkins, who had—after some rather intense persuasion—agreed to marry them that evening.
He’d next gone to Darlington House. Although the knocker was off the door he’d gone around to the servants’ entrance.
Mr. and Mrs. Dawks, who’d worked for his father since before Magnus was born, appeared genuinely thrilled to see him, although he could see they were curious as to why he was not wearing his blacks and had brought so little with him—nothing other than one small traveling bag.
But when he told them he would be bringing his new bride to stay they were ecstatic. And, like the good servants they were, began to make the house ready, although he’d told them they needn’t go to any great bother. They prepared a meal, removed the Holland covers, and stoked fires in the best adjoining guest chambers.
He’d gone down to the kitchen to help with the bath he’d requested, putting aside their protests that the ancient Dawks could transport the required hot water.
Clean and dressed in a suit of clothing he’d found in the bedroom he kept, he set out to collect Melissa.
He’d been shocked at his own behavior after he’d her standing in the middle of her room, almost too shocked to notice the lurking Hugo as he’d left.
“Hugo.”
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 17