The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis

by Christina McKnight

  For his indecorous scrutiny of her, Sam should show him exactly what she was reading before he’d interrupted her thoughts—he needn’t know her musings swarmed around his naked form: the curve of his back, the width of his shoulders, the tight, corded muscles his trousers hid, and the firm roundness of his posterior. Even his dimple, hidden if not for his smile.

  Thoughts a proper young miss shouldn’t be pondering alone in a stranger’s study where anyone could stumble upon her. All of Sam screamed she was glad it was Lord Ridgefeld who’d interrupted her highly inappropriate meanderings. She—and her siblings—had never been proper misses. Raised within the walls of a rumored bordello, the Craven House women had been plagued by scandal and ruin since long before their mother’s passing.

  Part of her enjoyed that Lord Ridgefeld knew nothing of her family and her upbringing, especially her unfortunate bastard birth. These new rumors hadn’t taken hold of every London ballroom as yet, and Marce desperately hoped each of her sisters would secure a husband before old gossip came back to haunt them—and make favorable matches impossible.

  He awaited her response.

  Though she didn’t know how to answer. Should she be honest and show him what she’d come for? There was little chance they’d meet again after departing Derbyshire for their respective homes.

  Would he take her for an indecent woman? Would he seek out Lord Cartwright or Lord Cummings to reveal her wicked secret? Would he call attention to her lewd interests?

  All things any gentleman had a right to do, but she feared none of these.

  “I think I would favor a story with passion,” she confided, testing his reaction and saying the word aloud for the first time. It rolled off her tongue like any other, yet it sent a shiver of anticipation through her. “…and adventure.”

  She risked a glance in his direction. He was still inspecting the shelf, but his back had stiffened and his gaze lingered on a single book.

  “Passion and adventure are tightly woven in many stories—for isn’t passion an adventure in and of itself?” His slow inspection resumed, and he moved to the next area. Thankfully, he was on the complete opposite side of the room from In Physica Educationem in Caritate, and his book selection would hopefully be fulfilled long before he rounded the room and found Cummings’ intensely private collection. “And no adventure is complete without the fulfillment of passion—whether it be desire for treasure or the touch of skin to skin.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, and Sam averted her eyes once more. He could not possibly know of Cummings’ risqué novellas, nor that she’d located them and held the first volume to her back. Was she bold enough to show him?

  “Do you think a book can capture both passion for treasure and the touch of skin, my lord?” Sam turned and paced to stand before the fire, needing what little warmth it gave to keep her trembling at bay, though it wasn’t the cold evening draft that sent waves through her. The heat soaked deep through her gown, warming her backside, similar to the way Lord Ridgefeld’s intense stare sent warmth cascading down the front of her. “I consider education a treasure no person should shy away from.”

  She’d sensed his gaze upon her as she moved across the room, likely assessing her question. “I suppose it depends greatly on the subject of the education garnered within the book.”

  “Are you a man who values discussions of the weather and other inconsequential things when women are near?” Sam was uncertain why it mattered so much to know whether he found worth beyond her beauty. She would be the first to admit she hadn’t sought attention using her stellar talents beyond her charm.

  Intellect was Jude’s ability.

  Cunning was Payton’s skill.

  And Marce, her persuasive capabilities were legendary.

  Sam had been given her beauty, and beyond her grace, men did not seek to know if she possessed a wit to rival her exterior exquisiteness. She’d always found it suspect that a man would tie himself to a woman without knowing if she possessed the common sense necessary to find her own way out of a horse stall without assistance.

  Eli sat heavily in the chair Sam had vacated moments before. “I have found meaning and importance in discussions of all topics. I once found myself stranded during a monsoon in South America. I—as well as the other locals—were made to strip naked and press our bodies close to avoid freezing.” Her eyes widened at his words. “Come now, Miss Samantha,” he prodded. “You cannot think that all discussions about the weather hold little…passion.”

  Sam longed to demand he tell her of the passions he experienced during his stay in South America. Had he fallen in love? Had he been made to leave the woman behind and return to England? Why did she care in the first place?

  There was so much she didn’t know about him—far more than she did, in fact.

  What was a man of noble English birth doing in South America, where disease and famine were rumored to run rampant among local villages?

  The thought of another woman sitting somewhere halfway around the world, dreaming of Lord Ridgefeld’s naked body was too much for her to process. Without realizing it, her eyes traveled from his head to the toes of his Hessians, and back again.

  His smirk told her he knew exactly what she was picturing—and he didn’t seem annoyed or put off by it. He only folded his hands across his lap and allowed her to look her fill. While she thought of his time in South America and whether he’d taken a lover, Lord Ridgefeld apparently was not. He seemed solidly in the present, assessing her as she did him.

  “I have shared my outlandish story,” he said, tilting his chin up, and for the first time in their short acquaintance, he looked the arrogant nobleman he was—his eyes challenging her. “Are you prepared to offer a showing of your trust in me?”

  How had their conversation turned to the subject of trust—especially between two people who’d been strangers only hours before?

  However, if she were to obtain more information about his adventures, then she need be a bit more forthcoming. “Certainly, what do you have in mind?”

  Unexpectedly, he stood and took the few steps to stand before her, only stopping when their noses were scant inches apart. “I would see the book you are so overtly hiding behind your back.”

  “I have no book, my lord,” she murmured.

  He could not push. He would not. No man would demand a woman show him what he sought—then again, he was demanding nothing of her. It was merely a request, a show of trust as he’d so adeptly called it.

  “Oh, but we both know that is a falsehood, Miss Samantha.” His warm breath cascaded across her cheek, sending yet another tremble through her. Did the man have any idea how his closeness affected her? Certainly, he would not cause her such discomfort if he did…or maybe this was transpiring exactly as he’d planned. “The book?”

  Blessedly, he stepped back, but held his hand out, waiting for her to set the tome in his hand.

  “My lord,” she breathed. “I cannot.”

  “You cannot, or you will not?” he asked, his voice deepening.

  Yes, he knew the precise effect he had on her…and he enjoyed it immensely.

  “I never pictured you for a scoundrel, my lord.”

  “Call me Elijah,” he countered. “Any woman who dares insinuate I am a scoundrel should call me by my Christian name because, I regret to inform you, you do not know me at all. However, if you insist on using the term, I shall live up to its meaning.”

  He snaked his arms around her waist, grazed her neck with his lips and for a brief moment she feared he’d kiss her. Right there in Cummings’ study, the door open wide for any passerby to see. Instead, he did something she dreaded far more—he snatched the book from her grasp.

  “Let me inspect what you seek so hard to hide.” Elijah took the book and turned from her, pacing back toward the door from which he’d entered. When his steps faltered, she knew he’d opened the cover to the first image—or more than likely, he was fluent in Latin. She wished she could assess his fa
ce when he fully saw the risqué book she’d been about to abscond with. His shoulders stiffened once more, and she feared he’d be repelled by her improper choice of reading material.

  “My lord—“

  A deep rumbling filled the room, and it took a moment to recognize the sound. The blasted man was laughing—at her.

  No one dared laugh at her, just as he intimated no one dare call him a scoundrel.

  Her face flamed with embarrassment—it gnawed at her insides, making trails with knife-like strikes.

  He’d begged her to trust him—and now, he laughed at her.

  “Miss Samantha.” He pivoted to face her. “I must admit, you are full of surprises…surprises so grand, you can make a male of my ilk blush like a freshly introduced debutante.”

  His eyes sparkled with merriment as she turned her glare on him. He certainly was not blushing—not even in the slightest.

  “I have not partaken of anything so…scandalous…outrageous…and enthralling since my time in West Africa. Did you know there is a native tribe which inhabits a part of Ghana that doesn’t wear a stitch of clothing? Not a single loincloth to be had in the entire village. Men, women, and children, alike, walking about as naked as the day they entered the world.”

  The wretched man was teasing her—and all Sam could do was picture him under the blazing desert sun without benefit of clothing to protect his skin from the harshness of the heat. In her mind’s eye, she stood beside him, similarly dressed, or in this scenario, undressed. He reached his hand forward, entwining his fingers in her long hair, her only protection from the scorching sun above. Her throat was dry as sand, and her words stuck, her mouth unable to voice any sound; however, he seemed to understand her discomfort and took her hand, turning her toward a paradise oasis in the distance—why hadn’t she heard the water before? Noticed a sanctuary from the heat lay within walking distance?

  They began their trek toward the tall, shade trees—a waterfall peeking through the foliage.

  The sand burned under her bare feet.

  Again, Elijah came to her rescue, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to safety—their blazing hot bodies pressed close…

  “Miss Samantha?” The whisper was close to her ear—a deep, rich murmur of promise.

  Her eyes sprang open. Elijah stood before her once more. Closer this time. The book long forgotten in favor of the here and now. They were in this moment, together and alone. No need to view such images on paper for they could not compare to the real thing.

  Would Elijah show her the reality if she asked? Begged? Pleaded?

  She barely stopped the question from passing her lips, though a sigh did escape.

  “My lord?” The simple words, barely audible to her own ears, were all he needed to close the distance between them.

  He pressed his lips to hers, demanding but in no way controlling. He sought permission as he allowed her to set the pace of their kiss.

  Sam had not wanted to allow this moment, this gift, to slip away unexplored.

  No book, no picture, no discussion could have prepared her for the glorious feel of his mouth moving against hers. The warmth of his lips sent a current of need pulsing through her.

  Shocking herself—and him judging from the sudden jolt of tension that tightened his back—Sam slipped her arms around Elijah’s waist and stepped closer to him, their bodies now connected from chest to thigh.

  He parted his lips, his tongue blazing a trail across her bottom lip, hotter than the sun in the African safari. It was a welcome heat, and a sensual thrill raced through her and pooled between her thighs at her most intimate spot.

  Sam allowed her hands to explore his back, dipping low to settle on his rounded buttocks.

  Yet another aspect of the male form that could not be adequately conveyed by a mere image on a page.

  Too soon, he pulled back, and emptiness filled the space between them. He moved so quickly, her hands fell to her sides as he paced across the room toward the open door just as a servant entered, his arms laden with seasoned wood to stoke the fire for the night.

  Sam hadn’t heard him approaching, hadn’t sensed anything but her heart beating erratically, Elijah’s matching her rhythm.

  “M’lord. Miss.” The servant nodded as he passed them, likely anxious to have his task completed so he could retire for the evening. “Pardon the intrusion. I will only be a moment.”

  Elijah cleared his throat and nodded to Samantha when the man kneeled before the hearth, his back to them.

  She dared a quick glance at the servant, his attention fully on his task before looking down to discover her two top buttons had become undone. How had that happened?

  The ribbon that held her hair back only moments before now lay at her feet, discarded. She placed her hands against her heated cheeks.

  Her heart beat so loudly, she barely heard Elijah’s words over the heaving of her chest.

  “I will bid you good evening, Miss Samantha.” With a curt bow, he departed the room, leaving her decidedly alone—besides the servant—and highly unfulfilled.

  Sam glanced around the room.

  In Physica Educationem in Caritate: Volumen Unum was gone. Disappeared.

  Stupendous.

  Chapter 5

  Eli took the stairs two at a time, following the sound of voices—female laughter and male chuckles—toward where he assumed a meal was being served. The delicious aroma of salted meats and fresh bread met him as he entered a large room. The massive table was nearly overflowing as men and women ate while a child ran to and fro around the room. A boy, likely less than two, sang at the top of his lungs as a woman reached out and snagged his arm, trying to coax him into taking a bite of the eggs tentatively perched on the fork an inch from his mouth.

  It was utter chaos, yet it appeared only he noticed. Everyone else enjoyed their meals while speaking with other guests—some shouting all the way to the far end of the table.

  He’d spent far too many years with only his grandfather for company.

  The notion of entering the fray that was the breakfast room was scary. The room shrank around the gathering, certainly not large enough to hold everyone gathered. His heartbeat thrashed in his ears. Not loud enough to drown out the noise, but deafening to the point where it made the conversations unintelligible. Eli stood rooted to his spot just beyond the threshold, debating returning to the quiet safety of his chambers and requesting his meal be served there.

  “Lord Ridgefeld!” Cartwright called to him, banishing any hopes of escape—at least until he’d been properly introduced and fed. The beat of his heart doubled, and the room exploded around him with noise and laughter. “Come in. Come in. I have many people for you to meet.”

  His grandfather had always described Simon Montgomery as a quiet, shy, introverted scholar, who shied away from situations unknown. It seemed his pending nuptials had disrupted his norm—for the better.

  Eli stepped into the room as every eye turned to him. Utensils hung in midair, conversations ceased, and even the child stopped struggling against his mother’s hold.

  The sense that everyone knew everyone and he was the only outsider overtook him. Eli took a moment to straighten his already perfect coat and clear his dry throat.

  Plastering a weak smile on his face, Eli continued toward Cartwright where he sat at the head of the table. At least twenty other gentlemen and ladies cluttered the room as servants came and went, delivering food and refilling empty glasses.

  An open seat was pulled out for him next to the bridegroom. As he rounded the table, he noted that a very familiar halo of auburn hair sat across from his intended seat. His smile, a moment ago feeble, now spread wide with certainty.

  The long night had been spent wrapped in dreams of her—his fingers running through her long hair, his mouth exploring hers, his hands slowly unbuttoning her blouse once more as he breathed deeply of her scent of lavender. He’d awoken several times, his body drenched in sweat from his passionate longings fo
r a woman he barely knew. However, in his dream state, she’d whispered promises of banished loneliness and a yearning to be by his side forevermore.

  “Lord Ridgefeld,” Cartwright set his hand on Eli’s shoulder and turned to face the woman who’d invaded and stolen Elijah’s slumber the previous night. “My I introduce my intended, Miss Judith Pengarden.”

  “Pardon?” Eli stammered, his stomach tightened. “Miss Judith Pengarden?”

  “Yes.” Cartwright squeezed his shoulder, but Eli was helpless to look away from the auburn-haired vixen. “This woman is to be my bride.”

  She stood with a welcoming smile, not the coy slant from the study.

  Any further utterance stuck in his throat. Cartwright’s intended? Miss Judith?

  It could not be. No, this woman—her name was Samantha, not Judith.

  “My lord,” she nodded in greeting before resuming her seat. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Simon has told me much about your grandfather. It is an honor to count you among our guests for our special day.”

  He saw no recognition in her eyes; she didn’t betray their association in the slightest, and she nodded to him to take his own seat. This was impossible. Cartwright knew they’d met—he’d greeted them outside the previous day…witnessed his intended departing Eli’s traveling coach. The beat of his heart hurried once more, and a sheen of sweat rippled across his forehead. Unlike the previous night, this was not from erotic dreams of a maiden with a fiery wit to match her long tresses.

  “I am also glad to be here…” His words trailed off, unable to add “Miss Judith.” She was not Judith, or maybe she was, and it was he who’d been lied to.

  “Elijah.” Cartwright regained his seat and made introductions down the line of guests. “Lord and Lady Haversham—with their son, Neill. Mr. Jakeston and his wife, Ruby.”

  He continued down the table until Elijah finally recognized a name.

  “Jude’s siblings, Garrett, Marce, and Payton.”

  The sight of the trio was unexpected. Siblings? Not a single one appeared similar. Garrett and Marce had hair like spun gold, and Payton’s mane was so dark, it verged on ebony while Cartwright’s intended had hair of the deepest auburn. He could almost feel its length between his fingers—soft and bouncy with curls threatening to take over.