by Darcie Wilde
Ridiculous, she told herself. I want this. I asked for this. I all but begged for it. I will not turn missish now.
It had been three days since she had said yes to Marcus. In that time, she had not seen him even once. There had been several letters received at No. 48, which she read out portions of to her friends and Miss Sewell. Madelene and Adele exclaimed and laughed over everything. Helene had had to be very firm with them, and herself, to keep them focused on their blossoming plans for the ball. The menu was still not in order. There were questions regarding staffing. Mr. Tapswell was going to have to take on extra men to see to the lanterns. Then there was this matter of boats on the pond . . .
“We should not count overmuch on outdoor activities,” she tried to explain to Adele, in particular. “It is sure to rain.”
“It is not going to rain,” she said. “Besides, Marcus likes the gardens, and boating. You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?”
Helene clenched her teeth and let Adele have her little joke. They could not falter now. If anything, their party had taken on an additional importance. If she was going to be the Duchess of Windford, she must prove to all of society she could fulfill the role credibly. This ball was her chance to cut off the doubts before they could begin. If they failed, however, those same doubters would just become convinced they were right all along.
Then, a fresh note arrived. She carried it in her plain reticule. It was quite brief; just an address and a time that the hired carriage could be expected to arrive for her.
It was a much nicer carriage than the ones she could afford.
“Is there anything further, m’lady?” inquired the driver, who was still holding the door open, in case she might need to retreat, she supposed.
“No, thank you.” Her mouth had gone dry. Intolerable. “You need not wait.”
“Very good, m’lady.”
Helene picked up her hems, climbed the stairs, and rang the bell. She then let out the breath she’d been holding.
The door was opened by a man in a plain coat, who bowed with stiff formality. “M’lady?” he inquired. Helene nodded, and he stood back to let her in.
The foyer was small but lovely, with marble tiles on the floor and a marquetry table beside the door.
“His Grace is expecting you upstairs,” she was told. “May I take your things?”
Helene let herself be helped off with bonnet and coat. She unbuttoned her gloves, trying very hard not to remember being in her library at home and having Marcus remove them for her. The associations made her clumsy. The servant retired silently, leaving her facing the narrow but graceful staircase.
Marcus was up there, waiting for her. Helene wiped her perspiring palms against her skirt and started to climb.
The upstairs hallway was likewise small but neatly, if somewhat anonymously, appointed. The door at the far end was open, just a little. Helene’s heart lurched to see it, just a little.
But she made herself assume a firm step as she walked, and she was pleased that her hand did not shake at all as she pushed the door open.
And entered a bedchamber.
Marcus rose from the comfortable-looking armchair he’d been sitting in.
“Helene,” he said. “I was beginning to think you might not come.”
It was Marcus. Her Marcus. Her fiancé. The man who laughed with her and danced with her and could match wits with her in a way she’d seldom enjoyed with anyone. The man who remembered his umbrella and faced down her father and her mother without batting an eye.
The man who could set her heart racing with one anxious glance. Which was exactly what was happening now. And she was alone with him. Absolutely and entirely alone.
“How could I have stayed away?” she answered. Her voice was rough, and she couldn’t do anything about it.
He was smiling. “Would you care to . . . ?” He gestured toward the second chair.
“Yes. Yes, I would.”
She ran into his arms.
He was startled at first, but only for a single heartbeat. In the next, he was answering her kisses with his own. He plastered his palms against her back, pressing her against him. Crushing her against him. She couldn’t breathe and she didn’t care. She just wrapped her arms around him and held on while he plundered her mouth, pressed kisses against her throat, and bent her backward to expose the swell of her bosom above the fairly modest neckline of her walking dress.
Fire. Fire and honey sweetness. A moan from her and an answering murmur from him. She was falling. She was dizzy. She couldn’t stand.
He swept her up into his arms in one smooth motion. She shrieked in surprise, and he spun them both around so she shrieked again and laughed. She kissed him and he kissed her and the next thing she knew, she felt the softness of quilts underneath her as Marcus laid her down on the bed. Or, at least, partly on the bed. Her legs still dangled over the edge. He planted his hands on either side of her head and kissed her, long, slowly, stroking his tongue against hers. He nibbled at her lower lip, and she gasped. He feathered kissed down her throat, to her bosom, to her breast.
Oh.
Marcus nuzzled her left breast, then her right. He didn’t move his hands. He just planted kisses against her, down the swell and side of each breast, and across to her painfully ruched nipple. The peak showed plainly through the fabric of her spring dress, and, completely ignoring that fabric, he took it into his mouth and he lapped.
Oh. She groaned and she squirmed. It was maddening to feel so much pleasure concentrated on such a small point, and he hadn’t even begun to undress her . . .
He lifted his wicked mouth from her, and he grinned. “Well, that worked,” he said.
“You . . . you . . .” she was panting. “You read the books?”
“Yes,” he murmured. “You may be sure I studied each illustration carefully. In fact, I’ve been losing sleep over them.”
“Oh, so have I.”
He was leaning over her and kissing her mouth again. He stepped between her legs, pushing her skirts up so his palms could caress the bare flesh of her thighs and her hips. Helene answered by wrapping her legs around his and pulling him close. Marcus chuckled in surprise but did not break their kiss. Her eager hands found his cravat and the buttons on his waistcoat. He helped, shucking coat and collar as quickly as he could. She managed by some miracle to undo his shirt laces. He pulled that garment over his head and tossed it aside.
“Oh. My,” breathed Helene.
“Do I meet with your approval?”
He did, in fact. She pushed herself up onto her elbows to see better. His chest was a broad, complex plane covered in a light dusting of fair hair. A thicker, darker line trailed down into the waistband of his breeches. Those breeches, she noted, clearly showed the straight, hard outline of his erection.
He was magnificent.
“The rest,” she croaked. “I want to see all of you.”
Marcus swallowed, and she stared at the motion of his Adam’s apple.
“Helene, are you certain about this?”
She nodded. Longing had driven her beyond words, and they had barely begun.
“If you change your mind at any point . . .”
“Marcus,” she cut him off. “If you do not finish what you’ve begun, I think I’m going to scream in frustration.”
His face lit in a wickedly pleased grin. “Well, my dear, that is not the reason I want you screaming.”
And he was kissing her again and this time pressing his weight down against her. Her breasts rubbed against his bare chest, and the line of his erection pressed wickedly, wonderfully against her most private parts. She was swollen, she was weeping, she was moaning with the delight of the friction and the frantic wrestling with the remainder of his clothing and hers. But somehow, it was all got rid of, and he was on the bed with her, rolling her over and laughing
until she came to rest beside him. He propped himself up on one elbow and let his eyes travel down her bared body.
She should, she supposed, have felt shy. But she didn’t. She felt like she had waited her whole life for Marcus to see her like this, with nothing at all between them, with nothing to shame or stop them.
“Do I meet with your approval?” She stretched her arms up over her head.
“Oh yes.”
He closed his hand over her breast, and she closed her eyes as her back arched to press her aching nipple into his palm.
“God,” he breathed as he kneaded her. “Oh, God, Helene.”
“Kiss me,” she ordered. He did, long and slow and openly. He slid one arm under her shoulders and pressed her close, caressing her from her breasts down to her belly, to her damp curls.
“There’s a place,” he murmured against her mouth.
She laid her hand over his but hesitated. Of all times to be uncertain . . .
“Show me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Show me how to please you, Helene.”
She moaned. She couldn’t help it. It was as if his words alone were enough to cause the bliss she’d read about. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it. She licked it and tasted her salt. Their salt. He groaned again as she slid his palm back between her thighs, just as she would have used her own hand had she been alone. Oh, she was wicked, she was wanton and abandoned and she wanted this, all of it.
He seemed to grasp the concept and slid his hand up, higher, to press against her slit.
“Ah!” she cried. Oh, it was rough and strange and good. She guided his finger to the spot, the tight nub that the medical texts called the clitoris.
He pressed. Pure pleasure burst through her, and she cried out.
“Oh,” said Marcus, and he sounded just a little dazed. “There.”
“Yes.”
“And if I rub . . . ?”
“Oh yes! Yes! Like that, please, more, like that!”
He covered her mouth so she was moaning into his, and he was thrusting his tongue into her, and she arched against him, and her questing hand, almost by accident, found his swollen member. It was so hot, so hard and yet velvet soft. Her fingers curled around it, and he hissed and rewarded her by increasing his rhythm.
“So good.”
“So good. Don’t stop. Oh, please don’t stop.”
“Oh no, Helene. My beauty, my dear, not until you scream.”
And she did scream.
She’d thought she was ready for what she’d feel. She’d touched herself before, but it was not like this. It was not a shattered madness of pleasure, shuddering and bucking her body, with Marcus pressing harder, rubbing harder, calling her name, urging her on.
At last, the frenzy eased into a slow, even pulse, a sort of echo of pleasure.
“Helene,” Marcus groaned. “Helene, my beauty, my dear, I need . . . I want . . .”
“Yes,” she answered him, shifting, spreading her legs open. “So do I.”
He rolled himself over so he was on top of her. He was heavy, and she delighted in being strong enough to bear his weight. He’d planted his elbows on either side of her head. He was watching her, his eyes wide with wonder and pleasure.
She lifted her legs and wrapped her thighs around him, arching up until his member pressed into her hot, damp slit. The blunt, broad tip felt even better than his fingers had, and she gasped.
“Are you . . .”
“Yes. Don’t stop.”
They pressed, they angled, they gasped, and they laughed, and he was inside her. Relaxed as she was, she felt nothing but a new shimmer of delight as he stretched her open. Her body knew what it wanted, and she embraced him inside her.
“Oh, God. Helene.”
“More,” she answered him. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and arched her back to rub her breasts against his chest. “More!”
Slowly, panting with his effort at control, he settled more deeply into her. She felt the pain, but it was not much and then it was gone, and he was exactly where she wanted him, had always wanted him, pressed tight inside her, stretching her, filling her.
Moving. Pressing, thrusting, rocking her, rocking them both. Calling her name, lost to the pleasure that they made between them. Her own pleasure sparked again. It rose and it grew and filled the whole of her. And his rhythm grew more frantic. They were both calling out. She was tightening her thighs around his bucking hips, calling his name now, urging him as he had done for her, begging him, because it felt so very good.
And for an instant he stopped, poised, pressed hard against her, and then shattered, the force of his orgasm pounding him against her, and her own body pulsed in fevered echo and answer. They held on to each other, riding the waves, kissing and laughing and crying, letting the pleasure lift them up and twine them together.
“Helene,” Marcus murmured as they finally fell slowly into each other’s arms. “My love. My wife.”
“Yes,” she answered him. “My husband.”
Because it was true. No matter what happened next, this was the moment of their joining. It was real, and it was as sacred as any vow, because she loved him, and he loved her in return.
Helene knew they would never truly be separated again.
XIII
The auction house was full to the brim. The Marquis of Broadheathe strolled with his catalogue between the tagged furniture and porcelains and chests of teak and mahogany. Men and women of varying levels of quality perused their lists and examined the numbered items, while the clerks and the officiators bustled to and fro. The crowd interested Broadheathe as much as the items to be put up for bid. They were his competitors for this day, and he needed to see if there was any reason for concern. Broadheathe was not a man to relish a challenge. He cared only that he got his way.
A single circuit of the room, however, convinced the marquis he could intimidate or outbid anyone he saw here. He nodded with satisfaction.
Then he saw Viscount Anandale.
Lord Anandale stood beside a suite of drawing room furnishings, imported from Paris, the catalogue said, dating from the reign of Louis XIV. Anandale was expounding with his usual pomposity to a fussy little man of no breeding beside him. He also wore a new coat and hat and carried a smart new walking stick.
All of it proclaimed that Anandale had somehow, somewhere acquired a new source of money. How on earth had that happened? Had the man finally sold Anandale House? If that was the case, why would he be here looking at imported furnishings?
Curiosity dug in its spurs, and the marquis strolled over to the man he’d once planned to make his father-in-law.
Anandale spotted him at once. “Well, Broadheathe!” he cried in his boorishly hearty fashion. “I did not expect to meet you here.”
“Nor I you, Anandale.” Broadheathe folded his hands on his own stick to avoid shaking hands. “In fact I wonder at it.”
“Why should you, sir? You know I’ve always had an eye for the finer things.” Anandale gestured one meaty hand toward the white and gilt chairs. “There are some very pretty trinkets up for sale today. Very pretty indeed.”
“Are you buying for yourself today? Or is it something for one of your ladies?”
“Ha-ha! I don’t deny a present or two would be welcome at home. It’s been a while righting the ship. I won’t deny that, either. But from now on, we shall have smooth sailing.”
“A change of fortune, Anandale?”
“You could say so, you could say so.” Anandale touched the side of his nose. “And you may yet feel the sting of it, ha-ha!”
Anger flashed through Broadheathe, but he tamped it down. “Oh, you have nothing but my best wishes, Anandale. You know that.”
“I am glad to hear it. I sometimes feared there might be some ill will between us because of . . .”
“I don’t hold a man responsible for his daughter’s follies,” Broadheathe made himself say. Fortunately, Anandale was so dense, he never heard how the words practically strangled the marquis.
“That’s very handsome of you, sir, very handsome. Not sure if your good humor would survive the news, though, so I think I’d better keep mum. Ha-ha!” Anandale beamed and stuck his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, obviously waiting for Broadheathe to try to pry the news out of him. The attitude was entirely irksome and dull, and Broadheathe couldn’t imagine what Anandale might know that he could possibly care two pins about. Unless . . .
Broadheathe felt a flush creeping up from under his collar. “Why, Anandale, am I to congratulate you?”
Anandale tapped the side of his nose and waggled his finger. “Not yet, not yet, not official yet, but soon, soon. Seems Helene’s had her sights set higher than a marquisate, clever girl that she is!”
The creeping flush burned across Broadheathe’s cheeks. Was it possible that little bitch had somehow managed to make a decent marriage after all? Who in the devil’s name would ever . . . ?
But he knew. It was Windford. He’d come to the title as a boy, and he’d remained as soft hearted and soft headed as a mother’s mollycoddle. Broadheathe had seen it for himself at that woman Wrexford’s party. Windford had all but swooped in and pulled the girl away, the very picture of the gallant knight. But Broadheathe had not for a minute imagined Windford would go so far as to propose marriage. The man could not possibly be fool enough to tie himself to a jilt and a bluestocking.
He could not be about to make Helene Fitzgerald a duchess.
She’d outrank him.
The girl who dared to make a fool of him in public, who caused men to chuckle and smirk when they heard his name. Who’d gotten him barred from entry into a number of homes where he’d formerly been welcome. If she succeeded in marrying Windford, she’d find herself at the pinnacle of society, and she’d become one of the richest women in the kingdom, in one grand stride. She’d have the power to cut him out of the best company, and she’d do it, too, the little bitch. Not a drop of proper humility in her. He touched the spot on his lip where the necklace had cut him, all those years ago. He could still feel the sting of it.