The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Instinctively, Sarah wriggled, trying to fit more tightly against his hips. In desperation, she rose to tiptoe, and then hitched one knee around his waist, nearly groaning in relief when the new position pressed him deeper between her thighs. He shifted and began to move rhythmically back and forth, applying pressure exactly where her body most needed it. Heat built, fire racing through her veins and centering low in her abdomen.

  She wanted to touch him. Lost to all reason or propriety, she tugged at his cravat and pulled it loose. Marcus helped her, making swift work of the buttons on his shirt.

  Too impatient to wait for him to finish, she slipped her hands between the loosened edges of linen and flattened her palms on warm bare skin. He was marvelously made, with tanned skin that was supple and satiny beneath her sensitive fingertips. Powerful muscles curved over his shoulders, padded his ribs, and tapered to a trim waist.

  She pressed herself against him, the feel of his skin on hers magical.

  She wanted more.

  “Please,” she murmured, not knowing what it was that she needed so desperately.

  He leaned into her, his mouth reclaiming hers in a deep kiss. One hand closed over her calf and urged her leg a fraction higher around his waist. Then he smoothed his hand beneath her skirts, stroking up her outer thigh until he reached her bottom. His hand lingered, tested, savored, then he pressed her hips tighter against his.

  His other hand pushed her skirt higher and he flattened his hand on the slight curve of her belly, his thumb testing the shallow indent of her navel. Then he stroked lower and she gasped, clutching at him.

  One finger brushed lightly against her curls and Sarah started with surprise.

  His hand stilled at her response.

  But Sarah was desperate, poised on the knife’s edge of desire, and she pulled him closer, pressing her mouth and body tighter against his.

  His finger resumed the teasing torture, until it slipped in between the wet folds and continued with a slow flicking motion.

  It was the most exquisite feeling of frustration and need that she’d ever experienced.

  The delicious tension built until Sarah was sure she would die. The fire of sense and satisfaction finally exploded within her, and she cried out for what felt to be an exquisite eternity. Then she sagged against the tree, her body pulsing with hypersensation.

  She opened her eyes, to find him looking down at her, his breath coming hard as he stared into her eyes.

  And then, just as Sarah’s senses were returning, a dog barked.

  “Aye, now he barks,” Marcus growled.

  His hand smoothed down her thigh and reluctantly lowered Sarah’s leg, gently rearranging her gown until the hem covered her ankles. He stood, tugged her bodice into place once more, and then bent his knees to look into her face. He brushed an errant curl from her brow, his hands gentle, fingers lingering to trace the curve of her ear.

  “Marcus,” she whispered. “I—”

  “Hush.” He silenced her with the tip of his forefinger laid gently over her lips. “Come meet your new dog,” he urged, taking her hand in his and pulling her toward the road.

  Sarah was confused. Having never before been so intimately engaged with a man, she knew not what would be considered normal behavior—though she was fairly sure that, under most circumstances, a dog was not involved.

  “I’m sorry, but, what?”

  “Your new dog,” he repeated, stopping once they’d arrived at Pokey’s side. He released Sarah’s hand and reached into the saddlebag to pull out a smallish dog. The little canine looked as confused as Sarah felt.

  Her mind was reeling. “Where did you find him?”

  “He’s Fordham’s, I’m afraid. Which,” Marcus paused, setting the slim dog into Sarah’s arms, “explains his need for a new home.”

  The dog settled in against Sarah’s chest, his muzzle coming to rest on her arm.

  “Oh, poor little, little …”

  “Bones.”

  “Poor little Bones,” Sarah cooed, distracted for a moment by the soft dog and its pathetic state.

  Marcus turned to Pokey, buckling the bag closed once again. The movement pulled her attention back to earlier events.

  “I hate to belabor the point, but what was that?” Sarah demanded, her gaze flicking to the tree and back to Marcus.

  “You don’t know?” he asked, clearly either genuinely surprised or entertained, Sarah could not decide which.

  She could see no advantage, at this point, in evasion. She’d offered her body to the man—or he’d taken it, though she was glad either way—and she’d little left to lose.

  “Lord Weston.” She set Bones on the ground, stepping around him to stand directly in front of Marcus. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, her gaze meeting his without evasion. “I like you—in fact, I may love you, though having never been in love, I can’t say for sure. I’ve no idea what to expect, no clue as to what will come. I’m not even certain of what I ultimately want. But there’s no point in lying to you—not after that anyway.”

  She reached out, placing the flat of her palm on his chest. “I know I’m not what men like you want … or necessarily need. But I want to help you, to love you, if you’ll have me.”

  Sarah suddenly felt exhausted. “Think on it,” she commanded, then turned on her heel. “Bones,” she called, waiting until she heard the patter of the dog’s paws. With the little canine at her side, she walked steadily away from Marcus, leaving him to stare after her as she entered the welcome darkness of the forest.

  “That woman will be the death of me,” Marcus muttered, thrashing about in an attempt to rid himself of his cursed coat. Tailored to fit perfectly across his shoulders, the damned thing refused to peel off and Marcus was too impatient to wait for Sully to remove it.

  A footman and an upstairs maid who’d made the mistake of crossing the expansive foyer at that precise moment scurried quickly out of sight, their gazes averted and focused steadfastly on the marble tiles.

  Sully waited patiently for Marcus to stop moving, then deftly pulled on one coat sleeve and tugged the offending garment from his master’s back. “What has Miss Tisdale done now?”

  Marcus strode toward the kitchen in search of wine.

  He was not about to tell Sully that he’d damn near taken the woman against an oak tree.

  It was barbaric.

  Foolish.

  And so unbelievably sensual that his balls ached with the memory.

  He stalked down the length of the hall. “How did she find out I’d gone to find Fordham in the first place?” he demanded, his sudden presence as he turned into the kitchen startling Cook and the kitchen girls.

  The woman looked ready to reprimand Marcus for his intrusion, but thought better of it when Sully rushed into the room and placed himself between the two of them.

  “Everyone out,” Sully instructed, giving Cook a reassuring look before shooing her away.

  Marcus made a circuit of the kitchen, gathering two bottles of wine, a loaf of crusty bread, a plate of butter, half a roasted chicken, and a wedge of cheddar. He set the food down on the scarred wooden table, pulled out a chair, and sat.

  Sully reached for a knife and began to slice the bread. Marcus impatiently snagged the loaf from him and tore it in two.

  “I may have mentioned to Cook that you’d be in Bournemouth for the day,” Sully said, pushing the dish with the slab of butter toward Marcus. “I’m sure I never said anything about Fordham, though.”

  Marcus spread a thick layer of freshly churned butter on the bread and bit into it.

  “If I may, my lord,” Sully said mildly. “Whatever it is that the girl’s done, I can’t say that I mind the effect it’s having on you.”

  Marcus frowned blackly, ripped another bite of bread from the buttered chunk and chewed vigorously. Sully had never been shy about sharing his opinions. As far as the valet was concerned, the cool, charming, reserved Lord Weston who moved efficiently through Londo
n’s ton with debonair elegance was a complete sham.

  And Marcus had to agree. Unfortunately, the fashionable, elegant version was what the ton wanted—and what the ton wanted was a gentleman.

  He swallowed, gesturing toward a bottle of wine.

  Sully reached for it. “She brings out the best in you,” he said with a wink, pulling the cork from the bottle before handing it over.

  Marcus washed down the fresh, crusty bread with a long, cleansing drink. “You mean the beast, I believe,” he growled.

  “Fair enough—perhaps not the ‘best.’ But certainly something authentic.”

  Marcus chose not to admit the truth of his comment. “Marlowe’s attempting to identify and track down whoever drew Fordham to the Cock’s Crow,” he said. “What about you? What are you doing?”

  Sully gestured for the bottle. Marcus handed it to him.

  “Preparing for the arrival of our guest,” the valet answered simply, downing nearly half the remaining wine.

  Marcus sliced off a chunk of cheese. “And who might that be?”

  “Put down the knife and I’ll tell you.”

  Marcus’s fingers tightened their grip on the knife handle. “Who?”

  Sully finished off the bottle. “Carmichael.”

  Marcus sent the knife flying through the air. “Goddammit all to hell!”

  The knife cut through the air, narrowly missing Sully’s head and coming to land in the larder door.

  Marcus looked at the knife.

  Sully looked at the knife.

  The wooden handle quivered.

  “I told you to put the knife down,” Sully said with a long-suffering look. “You nearly took my ear off that time.”

  Marcus ripped into a chicken leg with his teeth. “Do you know why he’s coming?” he said around the mouthful of poultry.

  “I think the man misses you,” Sully answered, completely straight-faced. “Look, you’re in the wilds of Lulworth, Clairemont’s on his honeymoon—Carmichael’s lonely. He’d do well to get himself a bit of muslin, that one,” he added with conviction.

  Marcus set the half-gnawed chicken leg on a plate and grabbed the second bottle of wine. “You’re testing my patience, Sully,” he ground out, yanking out the cork and tipping up the bottle to take a long swig.

  “Well, of course I know why the man’s coming, just thought I’d dress it up a bit,” he replied, looking longingly at the bottle in Marcus’s hand. “He doesn’t leave London unless he suspects that something’s wrong.”

  “And he’d be right this time,” Marcus added grimly.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Sully protested.

  Marcus slammed his fist on the table, rattling the wine bottle and making the chicken leg jump. “I would. We’ve got a dead boy and a treasure that for all we know is making its way to France at this very moment.”

  “And Miss Sarah Tisdale, do not forget her,” Sully added, looking as though he instantly wished he had.

  As if I could, Marcus thought, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

  Sarah Tisdale had wormed her way into his heart. Actually, she’d done nothing of the sort. “Worming” implied stealth and skill—two attributes that the wee lass did not possess.

  No, she’d tripped and fumbled her way beneath his defenses, the honesty with which she handled everything both shocking and irritatingly endearing.

  But for all of her heart she gave to him, how much was out of pity? Was he just another stray animal for her to help?

  That wasn’t love.

  “Any more news?” he asked, eyeing Sully.

  “Well,” Sully began, “the Tisdale boy swears that he knows nothing more. Dixon has been spending a fair amount of time at the manor, though that’s likely to do with his designs on Miss Tisdale.”

  “Dixon?” Marcus asked incredulously.

  Sully gave another longing look at the bottle and Marcus obliged, handing it to him wordlessly.

  The valet took a long pull. “Not as pertains to the case, no. But the man’s had his eye on the girl for quite some time. Seems she won’t commit either way—nor will her father.”

  Marcus thought back to when he’d found Sarah hiding in the grass just to avoid speaking with Dixon. If he had to guess, her mercurial attitude toward the man had everything to do with his animals and nothing to do with any real feelings on her part.

  Of course, his guess may have had everything to do with the fact that he’d kissed her breasts less than two hours before.

  And felt her hot, wet release on his fingers.

  Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Reliable source?”

  “I couldn’t get much closer to the source if I tried,” Sully answered, wriggling his eyebrows for effect.

  Marcus rose from his chair, the day’s physical activity beginning to catch up with him as the ache in his leg returned. “Keep an eye on Nigel and be sure that Marlowe continues to watch Dixon closely,” he said curtly, limping slowly to the doorway. “But Sully, no more conversations with Cook, ye ken?”

  The valet lowered the bottle, wiping his damp lips with the back of his hand. “Yes.”

  “Then he took his finger and—”

  “Stop. Right there. Now,” Claire begged, her eyes growing to twice their size.

  “Are you quite all right?” Sarah asked dramatically, laying her hand on Claire’s brow.

  Her friend yanked Sarah’s hand away and placed it in her own, shepherding her toward a patch of wildflowers. “Am I all right?” she hissed, incredulous. “You … you … And to speak of it here, in the middle of the Colbys’ annual picnic. You … you …”

  “Claire, you seem incapable of finishing a sentence,” Sarah pointed out. “And besides—”

  “Whisper!” she insisted, urgently straightening the skirt of her primrose-colored gown about her growing stomach in a desperate attempt to secure at least a modicum of propriety.

  “And besides,” Sarah murmured, her voice low and dramatically theatrical, “I thought you would be happy for me.”

  Claire’s eyes somehow widened even more. “Happy for you? Happy for you?”

  Sarah patted her on the back.

  “What was that for?” Claire demanded, forgetting herself for a moment and speaking in an audible tone.

  “You appeared stuck, my dear.”

  The two smiled politely as the vicar and his wife walked past, nodding and murmuring polite agreement when the man commented on the spectacular nature of the day.

  “Did Weston make an offer of marriage?” Claire questioned once the two were out of hearing.

  “Well, no,” Sarah answered, the bubble of happy anticipation she’d felt at the thought of sharing her news with Claire quickly vanishing.

  “Did he declare his feelings for you?” Claire pressed, smiling at her husband, who stood with Marcus across the meadow.

  It occurred to Sarah that she could lie, but doing so would give credence to Claire’s obvious concern. “No, he did not. But I declared mine. Does that count?”

  “I vow,” Claire said in a strangled voice, “I’m going to scream.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Oh no, you are not. Here, take my arm,” she replied, slipping her friend’s hand through the crook of her elbow. “Did you really believe I would ever do things as they’re meant to be done?”

  Claire’s eyebrows knit together as she considered the question. “I suppose not,” she said with obvious reluctance.

  “There,” Sarah said reassuringly, patting her dear friend’s hand.

  “But did he give you any indication of his feelings?”

  “Well …” Sarah hemmed, hesitant to answer.

  “One word? A look? An impression?” Claire suggested, hope in her voice.

  Sarah again thought to lie to her anxious friend, but decided against it. “A dog. Marcus gave me a dog.”

  Claire blinked rapidly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A dog,” Sarah repeated, “named Bones. He looks to be a g
reyhound, though he’s terribly small—”

  “You called him Marcus,” Claire squeaked.

  Sarah blinked once, then twice. “I did?”

  Claire squeaked a second time, making Sarah wonder whether she was truly going to scream. “You did.”

  “Well,” Sarah began, “I suppose it’s only natural after we … Well, what would one call it exactly?”

  “Oh, heavens,” Claire said, and then promptly let out a shrill scream.

  “Bugger,” Sarah muttered.

  Gregory ran toward them, Marcus following closely behind.

  “Claire!” Bennington said urgently, coming to stand next to his wife.

  Marcus looked to Sarah, concern in his eyes. “What happened?”

  “I shocked her, ’tis all,” Sarah answered, vigorously fanning her friend with a lace-trimmed linen handkerchief. “It has happened before—and, I daresay, it will happen again.”

  Marcus’s amused, faintly indulgent smile appeared. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes, actually,” Sarah answered, pointing across the lush grass to where the Colbys’ servants had set out the picnic. “Go and fetch a pickled herring for me.”

  Brows lifting in surprise, Marcus appeared ready to question her, then thought better of it and set out across the meadow.

  Claire squeaked, a scream clearly building in her throat. Gregory swore under his breath and fixed Sarah with a stern, irritated glare.

  “What did you tell her this time, Sarah?” he asked as the picnic guests began to gather.

  “I can hardly tell you here, now can I?” Sarah answered, looking about her at the curious faces.

  Marcus returned with a small dish of the herring in hand. “Is this what you requested?”

  Sarah gestured for him to hand her the serving dish, then offered it to Claire.

  The woman licked her lips as though she were desperate to devour every last morsel.

  “Get the gel something to drink!” Lady Colby barked, poking her husband in the arm with her parasol.

  The round little man moved as quickly as his sixty-plus-year-old legs would allow, waddling toward a servant and waving his arms.

  “My dear girl,” Lady Colby continued, “a woman in your condition is prone to all sorts of odd behavior. Please, come and sit with me in the shade.”