Mary and the Marquis

by Janice Preston

  He eased her breast from the restriction of her dress, trailing his lips down the slender column of her neck and laving the hollow at the base, before kissing his way to his goal. He drew her nipple deep into his mouth, sucking and nibbling and flicking, and Mary cried out, twisting towards him, easing his access with her movement, as she clasped his head to her.

  Her whimpers of pleasure were a rich enough reward, but he longed for more. He must have all of her. He needed everything she had to give. He yearned to hear her screams of ecstasy as he plunged deep inside her moist heat. His hand skimmed down the fabric of her skirts to the hem and lifted, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs to his touch. His hand traced a meandering path, circling and stroking, ever higher, until his fingers brushed against the curls at the apex of her thighs. He stifled a groan as he parted the swollen folds and relished in her sharp intake of breath as he touched the sensitive flesh within.

  His world rocked on its axis as he fought to restrain the powerful urges threatening to overcome his self-control. Mary’s scent, her taste, her silky skin beneath his questing fingers—they enveloped him, pervaded his very being and soothed his soul even as they drove him onwards and upwards to seek ecstasy. He was possessed by her, lost in a glorious swirl of desire. He did not want it to end. Ever. It felt right. But despite his need, although he fought hard to ignore it, the real world impinged, slashing through the intense erotic haze that had invaded him.

  The pain in his thigh had yet again become a red-hot spike of agony. His shoulder throbbed, gradually drowning out the infinitely more pleasurable throbbing in his loins. He was jerked back to reality and, reluctantly, he took his hand from between Mary’s thighs and removed his mouth from her breast. As he smoothed her skirts back in place, he took her lips in a long, soothing kiss, before resting his forehead against hers. He was not ready for this, not yet. He shifted uncomfortably. Mary leaned back to look into his face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ he said. ‘I can’t do this. I...’

  She jumped from his knee as if scalded, tugging at her clothing until she was covered. ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I understand. I should not have kissed you; I don’t know what came over me. It won’t happen again, I promise.’

  ‘No!’ Lucas stretched to take her hand, but she moved sharply away. ‘You don’t understand. It was...’

  ‘Please, Lucas. It doesn’t matter, do not try to explain. It is unnecessary. It will just embarrass us both. We must pretend it never happened...’

  There was a knock at the door and Trant entered.

  ‘I have come to help you to bed, my lord.’

  Chapter Twelve

  In utter turmoil, Mary fled to the sanctuary of her bedchamber, shut the door behind her and leaned back against its solid strength as she tried to make sense of what had happened.

  Her initial relief—for she trembled to think of the consequences had Trant walked in earlier—was soon overtaken by mortification. What on earth had come over her? How had she gone from happiness, to anger, to fear, to desire within such a short time? She could not deny she had instigated that kiss. Nor could she pretend she would have gone no further, for she had been totally, and willingly, enmeshed in a sensual web of her own design.

  When Lucas pulled her on to his lap her imagination had run riot and she had been sure he was about to force a kiss, or more, but his prompt release of her had disarmed her. The feel of his hard thighs and the evidence of his arousal under her buttocks had excited her; his clean, male scent had enticed her; the sheer size and strength of him, holding her close, had made her feel secure.

  How long has it been since someone held me and comforted me?

  She had forgotten the sheer joy of simply being held.

  When he took his arm from her waist she had wanted him to hold her again. She had wanted to feel safe. She frowned. Safe? But, yes. Despite her beliefs about the type of man he was, she trusted his word he would never take anything she was not willing to give.

  Her blood heated as she felt again his mouth at her breast, his questing touch at her most intimate place. She had given more than she meant to, but she had not been rational at the time, whereas Lucas...

  Nausea rose. What must he think of her? Had he kissed and caressed her because she had offered herself to him? He had admitted he wanted to kiss her again and she had felt his arousal under her, so he had wanted her. But he had stopped. What were his words?

  ‘I’m sorry; I can’t do this.’

  How could she face him again?

  Impatient with her circling thoughts, Mary pushed away from the door and sat on the bed, considering her options. There were only two. She must either leave Rothley Hall straight away, without even saying goodbye, or she must accept the humiliation of his rejection and continue to nurse him.

  The former was unthinkable. Having made up her mind, she decided to act. If she hurried, mayhap Trant would still be with him and she could make her peace without even mentioning that disastrous kiss.

  She tapped at Lucas’s door. ‘May I come in?’

  A quick glance around the room ascertained Trant was not present and Rothley was now back in bed. A half-empty glass of amber liquid stood on the bedside table. Mary eyed the glass with misgiving, recalling the stench of alcohol when she had first encountered Lucas in the woods. She had not seen him touch alcohol since he had been shot. Was he reverting to type, now he was on the road to recovery? She glanced around again. A bottle of brandy stood on the table at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Mary.’ The relief in his voice was unmistakable.

  She walked in and stood by the bed, her emotions churning, but she was determined not to behave like a hysterical female, despite the temptation to do so. She was an adult, the kiss was at her instigation and Lucas had every right to stop kissing her any time he wished. She had repeated that mantra time and time again as she had traversed the corridors between her bedchamber and his, in an attempt to ensure she would remain calm and collected. In an attempt, she realised with a wry smile, to be Sensible Mary.

  ‘I have come to apologise for rushing off in such a way, sir.’

  ‘Sir? I thought we had an agreement, you and I, Mary? Did you not agree to call me Lucas?’

  There was a pause as he studied her face and she fought to keep her expression blank.

  ‘Please?’ He cocked his head to one side and raised his brows.

  Mary felt the corners of her mouth tug into a reluctant smile. How could she resist that look? He managed to appear both contrite and seductive at the same time, his allure as strong as ever as his dark eyes cajoled. She longed to cast aside her doubts, to throw herself into his embrace, to kiss his mouth, to run her fingers through his ruffled hair...

  Oh, dear, was I responsible for that? She returned to reality with a jolt as she recalled his freshly washed—and combed—hair when she had come to his room earlier. What must Trant have thought?

  ‘Lucas,’ she acknowledged. It was ridiculous to insist on calling him ‘sir’ when his hand had so recently... Mary felt her cheeks heat. She must not forget Lucas did not want her.

  Lucas picked up his brandy glass and drained the contents in one gulp. Hardly aware she did so, Mary stepped back. Lucas focused on her and frowned.

  ‘Do not run away, Mary. We have some unfinished business.’

  Mary felt her colour flare. He couldn’t mean...?

  A sarcastic bark of laughter stopped her torrent of thoughts in mid-flow. ‘Not that! Are you aware, my sweet Mary, that every thought you have is writ large in those beautiful blue eyes of yours? I shall put your mind at ease. I am devastated to inform you, much as I long to finish what we started earlier, I am afraid my body has other ideas. That is, certain parts of my body—to whit, my cursed thigh, which still pains me, and my shoulder.’

  His voice softened and deepened. ‘Come here, Mary.’

  He held out his hand out, long fingers beckoning. As if in a dream, she moved close enough to put her hand in his. His
gaze caressed her face as his thumb traced lazy circles on the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, setting her pulse racing again. Anticipation smouldered deep within her belly.

  ‘That is the reason I stopped, Mary, not because I did not want you. The rest of my body, I am pleased to report, is eager and ready. In fact,’ he added, wrapping his fingers around her hand and pulling her gently towards him, ‘I am finding it hard to resist trying again, even though I know the same thing will happen.’

  It took all her resolve but Mary pulled her hand from his grasp. ‘You mentioned unfinished business?’

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Transparent as ever, my dear. Yes, we shall change the subject, if you wish.

  ‘I have realised, Mary, despite several attempts on my part to discover your destination when you leave the Hall, you have deliberately diverted my attention. You must have a plan? Some destination in mind? Or am I to believe you intend to wander aimlessly for the remainder of your days?’

  A direct question; one she would struggle to answer honestly, for she would then be forced to reveal her father’s betrayal and the reason for her elopement. She sat on the chair by the bed, fussing over her skirts whilst she tried to order her thoughts. How well did Lucas know her father? He would recognise his name, for certain. Would he send word to her father that she was here, at the Hall? How could she justify her willingness to go back to a man such as her father without revealing the existence of her children? Her mind whirled, but she could think of no way of further diverting Lucas.

  ‘You are inventing a story again. I can see it in your expression. You are wondering what you can say to prevent my probing further. Why the big secret, Mary? What are you ashamed of?’

  ‘I am not ashamed,’ Mary retorted, stung. ‘There is no secret. I am returning to my family home. You are making a mystery where there is none. The reality is humdrum, of no interest to anyone, least of all you.’

  ‘I should like to be the judge of that. Where is your home? How far?’

  Mary chewed her lip. Rothley waited. Finally, she could bear the silence no longer.

  ‘Linburgh.’

  ‘Linburgh? Who is your father? I may know of him—my father had many acquaintances over in that part of the Borders.’

  ‘My father is William Cranston,’ Mary bit out.

  ‘Sir William Cranston? I have not had the pleasure myself, but....’ His voice tailed away and Mary stiffened. How would he react, when he remembered? ‘As I recall, Mary, there was no love lost between our respective sires.’ Rothley’s expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. ‘If I were a suspicious man, I might wonder at your presence on my land at the same time an attempt was being made to steal my sheep.’

  Mary gasped. He could not believe? Surely...?

  She had wondered if Rothley might bear any animosity towards her family from the time his father had accused hers of stealing his cattle—despite having no proof—but it had not occurred to her he might construe her presence in such a way.

  ‘No! You must not—’

  ‘Relax, my dear.’ Lucas laughed, grabbing her hand as she started to rise. ‘I am teasing. Although...if I remember rightly, you did attempt to steal my horse on that occasion. Like father, like daughter, mayhap?’

  Mary eyed him doubtfully. ‘You are still teasing me, Lucas?’

  ‘Do you really need to ask? I hope I am a better judge of character, Mary, than to believe you have a dishonest bone in your body. Tell me, is that old feud the reason you have been so reticent about your past?’

  Mary nodded.

  ‘You silly goose. You are not your father, as I am not.... At least...’ Lucas paused, frowning. Mary wondered what new thought troubled him. His chest rose as he inhaled ‘...at least, I have no interest in perpetuating my father’s old feuds,’ he finished.

  Did that mean he was his father’s son in other ways? There was a faraway look in his dark eyes and Mary wondered what memories stirred, prompted by this talk of their fathers? She longed to smooth his furrowed brow. A few moments passed, then Lucas seemed to shake out of his reverie.

  ‘What I cannot understand is why your father did not send you the means to travel home, Mary?’

  Mary stared down at her clasped hands.

  ‘Is he even aware you are on your way?’ From the corner of her eye, she could see him study her, another frown creasing his brow.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you care to explain why?’

  She would prefer not to, but the stubborn set to his mouth persuaded Mary that Lucas was not to be deflected.

  ‘I married against his wishes.’ He did not need to know the full story of her father’s betrayal of her. ‘I wrote to him after Michael died last year, but I received no reply.’

  ‘And your husband’s family?’

  ‘He had none.’ She looked down at her lap, smoothing the fabric of her dress over her knees. ‘He was working for my father when we met. My father was...my father would never have sanctioned our marriage and we eloped.’

  It had not been, strictly, an elopement. Mary had enlisted Michael’s help to run away, intending to find work and support herself. He had turned up that night with his bags ready packed, full of plans for their future together and she—unworldly, vulnerable and barely seventeen—had bowed to his judgement.

  ‘How very romantic,’ Lucas said.

  Mary flinched at that dry observation. Romantic was the last word she would use to describe that midnight flight, but Lucas did not need to know it had been born out of pure desperation. And for all Michael’s faults in the latter years of their marriage, he had, she was aware, saved her from a far worse fate. For that, and for her beautiful children, she would always hold gratitude in her heart.

  ‘You are clearly a lady and well educated. Why did you not seek further employment in the Newcastle area? Why did you choose to embark on such a long and difficult journey to a place where your welcome is by no means assured?’

  Why indeed?

  He sounded suspicious and she sensed his withdrawal. Mary paused, searching for the right words.

  ‘I wanted to make my peace with my father. I am an only child. I am all he has since my mother died. I thought...’ She trailed into silence, conscious how insincere she sounded. ‘I have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Was your childhood a happy one, Mary?’

  His tone was brusque and she felt her cheeks heat. She concentrated on her hands, fisted in her lap.

  ‘I have heard past tales about your father. They did not flatter the man and they did not—despite what you may think—all originate from my own father’s opinion of him.’

  She could not dispute that. She had no need of tales. She had lived the reality. She pushed herself up from the chair. ‘Please excuse me, Lucas. I am very tired. I wish to go to bed now. Is there anything I can get you before I go?’

  His eyes were distant and he made no attempt to dissuade her from leaving. He indicated the empty glass on the bedside table.

  ‘Please refill that before you go, if you will. Or, better still, pass me the bottle.’

  Mary handed the bottle of brandy to Lucas and he murmured his thanks as he refilled his glass. She shuddered in distaste at the pungent smell.

  ‘You reeked of brandy when I found you in the woods,’ she blurted out.

  Lucas paused in the act of raising the glass to his lips. He raised one brow. ‘And?’

  ‘Were you drunk, when you were shot?’

  He laughed. ‘No, Suspicious Mary, I was not. I poured brandy on my wounds. Hurt like the very devil, too.’

  Mary released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Mayhap Lucas was not as in thrall to the bottle as she had feared. It changed nothing, though. She walked to the door.

  ‘Was Cranston a kind father to you, Mary?’ Lucas asked as she reached for the door handle. ‘Is he likely to prove forgiving?’

  She bit her lip as she considered her reply. ‘Kind? Not in later years. Forgiving? I
doubt it.’ She would not lie.

  ‘And yet still you are going back.’

  She bowed her head. She could offer no further explanation. ‘Goodnight, Lucas. Sleep well.’

  * * *

  Lucas was awoken by Trant early the following morning. He had a thumping headache from lack of sleep and a sour mouth from the brandy he had drunk in an effort to dampen his unfulfilled desire for Mary. He had barely drunk two glasses, but felt more like he’d imbibed a couple of bottles of the stuff. He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced, then winced as Trant opened the curtains, flooding the room with light. Squinting, he watched as the valet rekindled the fire and approached the bed holding a breakfast tray. Lucas sat up, then groaned as the room spun like the whirligigs that inhabited the loughs in the summer.

  ‘Are you in pain, my lord?’ Trant’s eyes flicked towards the bottle and glass on the bedside table.

  Curse the man. Trant had seen him too often in his cups in his wild youth. Lucas did not want him to think he was sliding back into old habits.

  ‘I had but two glasses, Trant. I slept badly, that is all.’

  Going over what he had learned about Mary. Not liking the conclusions he had come to.

  ‘Should I send for the doctor?’

  ‘That will not be necessary, thank you. I will eat breakfast and then try to catch up on my sleep.’

  ‘Very good, my lord, I shall ensure no one disturbs you.’

  He had started to believe Mary might be different, that he could trust her, but the long hours of the night had fuelled his doubts. He could come up with only one explanation for her going back to her father rather than seeking employment and it threw a harsh light on her character.

  He finished his breakfast, then lay down and tried to sleep.

  Mary’s image shimmered on his eyelids: the curve of her cheek; the sweep of her lashes; her collarbone, so delicate under his caress. His heart squeezed in his chest. Could she really be as idle and selfish as Julia? Yesterday he would have said no, but now...

  Lucas rolled over and thumped the pillow that now felt full of lumps.