The Marker

by Connors, Meggan

  He caught his lower lip with his teeth, the action drawing her eyes to his mouth, and he said in his most seductive tone, “What, were you perchance jealous? I never would’ve thought you had cause.” His tongue darted out, and he licked his lips, tempting her to taste him.

  “Bah!” she responded, even as the memory of his taste in her mouth flooded her. She tried to push it away, but the alcohol she had consumed emboldened her, made her brash. Practical Lexie had ceased to exist, replaced by a flirtatious, brazen woman who knew exactly what she wanted. And what she wanted, for tonight anyway, was Nicholas and his all-too-familiar attentions.

  He escorted her to the front, retrieved her wrapper and placed it on her shoulders. He graced her with such a sweetly boyish look she had to laugh, her laughter ringing out in the empty foyer. He smiled, tweaked her chin, and her eyes rose to his mouth again, her lips parting softly, awaiting his touch. She caught him looking, but he merely tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and walked her to the waiting carriage.

  Assisting her into the carriage, he took a seat next to her, his large body brushing up against her thigh, entirely too close. The low lighting of the carriage, the closeness, the enforced proximity to him felt intimate.

  She should have moved away. She should have rejected him when he took her hand, threaded his fingers through hers, and rested it on his thigh. She should have kept her gaze lowered, been demure and appropriate. She should have done a lot of things, would have done the right thing if she had been thinking about propriety, her reputation or her future. But she wasn’t.

  She was thinking of Nicholas’s mouth and wanting it on hers.

  So when she looked up at him, her eyes rose to his full, lush mouth, and those lips curved into a seductively sensual smile. Something fluttered in her stomach, desire uncoiling. Her breathing quickened, her lips parted, and her tongue snaked out to wet her lips, a call as old as time.

  Nicholas knew enough of the ways of women to recognize it for what it was.

  Even as he saw her subconscious call, he wondered if she would ever be his. Something had happened between her and Buchanan—he only had to take one look at the horrified expression on Lexie’s face to know something unpleasant had occurred—but she had kept her silence. What kind of woman would allow a man like Buchanan to get away with whatever he’d done? How could maintaining her vow of silence mean more to her than speaking the truth? The woman had fortitude. If she wouldn’t talk to him then, not even to punish the man who hurt her, if her pride meant more to her than justice, nothing he could do would bring her back to her voice.

  He had to concede defeat and let her go.

  Tilting her chin, he pressed his lips to hers. He meant to end it there, but Lexie’s body melted into his, her lips parting as she welcomed him. Unable to resist the desire to taste her, he slid his tongue into her mouth, gliding deep, running his tongue against hers. He could have stopped then, but she began to suck gently, tugging him so deep inside the moist heat of her mouth he nearly came undone.

  Nicholas broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck, and she tilted her head to give him better access. Clutching him, she slid from the bench and on to the floor with him, kneeling as he was kneeling, pushing her body into his, her body swaying with the movement of the carriage, but she was so damn graceful that what would have been jarring for any other woman became a sinewy, seductive dance.

  He laughed, delighted by her aggressiveness, knowing she wanted him in the same way he wanted her. He relinquished the sweetness of her neck to study her. Her eyes were closed, and as he studied her face, his breath caught in his throat. Her mouth was slicked from his kisses, her face flushed from their love-play. Those creamy breasts heaved with every breath she took, drawing his eyes. She was black and rose and cream, and so beautiful she made his heart ache.

  She opened dark eyes hooded with lust. Circling her body with his arms, his hands found the buttons of her bodice. Dropping his head, he kissed the tops of her firm, white breasts while his hands worked the buttons at the back. She groaned and held his head there, as if she couldn’t get enough. He loved the sound of her voice, the breathy, sexually charged moan that made his cock, already hard and aching, jerk in response. He would never be able to get enough of her. Even if he were able to bed her tonight, he would want to bed her tomorrow, and the night after that. The woman couldn’t have been more perfect.

  A perfect match for him.

  He pushed the thought away as he slid his hands down her shoulder, her bodice sliding from her body. She opened her eyes, and for a moment he wondered if she would stop him now that her bodice hung limply from her. He groaned when he saw her corset and the satin chemise beneath. He had wondered what she wore beneath her corset—simple linen or a more delicate satin, pale and soft. Like her. He was pleased by her choice.

  As she regarded him with those dark, impenetrable eyes, he was certain she would back down. Although he had been intent on courting her, here he was, undressing her like the womanizer he was. She had every right to stop him. She should stop him.

  He should stop himself.

  So what she did next surprised him.

  Her gaze holding his, she shrugged her way out of her bodice, set it aside, and reached for him again.

  He could not refuse her. Taking her into his arms, he kissed her lips, his tongue sliding into her mouth to couple with hers. His hands found the straps of her chemise, pushed them off of her shoulders, stroking and teasing her breasts where they were exposed. God, she was lovely.

  He should stop himself.

  But she didn’t protest when his hands moved to the busque of her corset, undid the top several hooks, and exposed her breasts. He ran his hands over her nipples, which hardened beneath his palms, and circled his thumbs around the taut buds. She moaned and arched into him, fanning the flames of his desire, so beautiful and perfect and exquisite. Though his honor protested he should stop, he was unable to deny her, unable to turn away from the passion in her eyes and the heat of her touch.

  In this moment, she was his, and he was hers in a way he had never belonged to woman. He was locked in her thrall and powerless against it.

  He leaned back to look at her. Her gown askew, her lips slicked and swollen from his kisses, her rosy breasts exposed, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He cupped her soft flesh in his big hands, kneading softly, but kept his eyes locked on her face and the passion he’d put there. “You’re so beautiful, Lexie,” he groaned.

  He bent his head and took a hardened nipple into his mouth.

  She gasped in a voice rough with passion, and he knew he had her right where he wanted her. He licked and suckled and kissed the soft flesh, and she threaded her fingers through his hair and held him fast. He ached to touch her soft skin, ached to be inside her. Imagined her stretched out on the bench of his carriage and welcoming him into the haven of her body. Such a gift...such a gift would mean more to him than all the gold in the world.

  He’d give his entire fortune to have it.

  He should take what she offered.

  The carriage gave a rough, unexpected lurch, and she crashed into Nicholas’s body. When they regained their equilibrium, he gave a breath of laughter and helped her right herself. He leaned in to kiss her gently, but that one interruption had given him pause. They had to be nearly at his home. While Nicholas’s footman would never interrupt, for the man knew enough of Nicholas’s habits to understand when it was permissible to open doors—which, when Nicholas had a beautiful woman in his coach, was, precisely, never—he also realized he could never do such a thing to Lexie.

  If she didn’t immediately descend upon their arrival, his servants would speculate. She was an honorable woman and an innocent. What kind of cad would take her in the back of a carriage on the way home from what was likely her first ball? She’d had quite a lot to drink tonight. He still smelled it on her breath. When he took Lexie to his bed—and he would—he wanted her to be as present as he, to
wake in the morning with no regrets. He feared if he bedded Lexie tonight, she would regret it. Again, he imagined her stretched out on the bench of his coach, naked and glistening, her legs gloriously spread as she welcomed him, and his shaft ached. He closed his eyes and pushed the thought away. He would never have Lexie regret her time with him. Selfishly, he admitted it was because one taste of Lexie would never be enough.

  He assisted her on to the bench, righted her gown, covered those delicious, perfect breasts with her chemise, and began fastening the hooks and eyes of the busque of her corset. He was surprised his hands shook like a lad’s when he placed her chemise back in place. And when he put her bodice back over her shoulders, he noticed she didn’t move to help him. Rather, she looked up at him with her long-lashed dark eyes glittering with hurt.

  As he caressed her bare shoulders with the tips of his fingers, he whispered, “We’re almost home, Lexie. You need to get dressed.”

  Her body ached for more of his touch. A strange pressure in the pit of her stomach and at the juncture of her thighs cried out for more of him. She’d never experienced anything like this before. When he touched her, her heart danced in her chest, her skin tingled, and shivers ran down her spine. Yet he turned from her? Had she been so pathetic he didn’t want her? Could it be the notorious womanizer was refusing the favors of a woman, freely given? How could that be? She didn’t want to stop. Why did he?

  His fingers skimmed over her shoulders, righting the bodice, and she shivered at his touch, the sensation of his skin against hers. He turned her body and began fastening the buttons. Bending close to her ear, he whispered, “You are so beautiful.”

  The feel of his breath against the delicate skin of her neck made her shiver. She swiveled to look at him over her shoulder, and he leaned in to kiss her, took her lower lip between his teeth, and sucked gently.

  “God, I want you, Lexie.”

  If that were so, why didn’t he take her? It wasn’t as if she wasn’t willing.

  It hit her then. He may have the reputation of a disreputable rake, but he was being honorable with her. He fumbled with the buttons of her bodice, his hands shaking as he assisted her with her dress. He was as affected by their interlude as she. Only, rather than taking his pleasures, he thought of her. Her needs. Her reputation. Her heart.

  Her heart was warmed by his actions. Mrs. Ferguson had been right about him: he was an honorable man despite himself, capable of so much more than his reputation implied. And, as the coach stopped, he smiled at her and descended immediately. Taking her hand, he assisted her into his house as if nothing had happened between them.

  Standing in his foyer, he released her hand, and she turned to go to her room near the kitchen.

  “Miss Markland.”

  His voice drew her attention. Without him touching her, she felt cold. She missed his touch already.

  He strode to her purposefully, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her on the mouth. By the time she had the chance to respond, he had pulled away. A part of her—a large part—was disappointed.

  Lowering his hands to his sides, he took a step away from her. His turquoise eyes glittered when he said, “This isn’t finished between us, Lexie.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he had already turned from her, leaving her looking at his back as he ascended the great, curving staircase leading to his bedroom.

  She stared up those stairs long after he'd disappeared.

  She pressed a hand to her forehead, silently cursing herself. Despite everything that had happened tonight, somehow she'd let Nicholas get away without telling him the truth.

  That in their little battle of wills, he'd won.

  Chapter 8

  Lexie woke with the worst headache of her life. Memories of Nicholas’s kisses flooded her, and her body ached, hot and hungry.

  Rising, Lexie rummaged through in her compact wardrobe. She considered putting on her maid uniform, but after last night, she wasn’t sure she wanted Nicholas to view her as his servant, so she put on the faded red dress she had worn the day he had come to claim her.

  Her battle with Nicholas Wetherby was over.

  Oh, she still hadn’t talked to him, had somehow managed to remain silent. She struck that thought: it hadn’t been fortitude so much as simple chance that she hadn’t spoken to him. She’d been so stunned by the passion in his touch she’d been rendered speechless, and once he had stopped kissing her, she’d been afraid her voice would betray her and so held her tongue. So when she spoke to him this afternoon—and she planned to—she didn’t want him thinking of her position in his household. She wanted him thinking of her.

  She made her way out to the kitchen and fixed herself some tea, hoping that would settle her roiling stomach, ease her aching head. Too much wine and too many of Nicholas’s kisses, she thought wryly as her tea steeped, could do that to a girl.

  So when the time came to do her chores, Lexie was almost grateful when Mrs. Ferguson insisted Lexie attend her while she ran her errands, taking her to market. It got her out of the house, and would give her something to think about other than the sensation of Nicholas’s mouth on hers, his hands on her body. She pushed thoughts of Nicholas away as she and Mrs. Ferguson began their tasks.

  Scorchingly hot at barely ten in the morning, Lexie was already sweating under her corset. Her head throbbed, and the bright sun glinting off the water of the river burned her eyes and only served to make her headache worse. But she had signed on as Mrs. Ferguson’s assistant, and what Mrs. Ferguson wanted, she got. Lexie suspected that what Mrs. Ferguson wanted more than anything were details on Lexie’s evening with Nicholas, but Lexie wasn’t feeling inclined to share. She hardly knew what she thought of what had passed between her and Nicholas. She wasn’t sure she wanted to add the opinions of others.

  She should want to forget the sensation of Nicholas’s lips against hers, forget how his hands had caressed her bare arms, how the faint stubble on his cheeks had felt against her skin. She should want to forget about how those strong arms had encircled her, what it had been like as he held her in his fine coach. Looking down at her dress, she sighed heavily: she should have worn her maid’s uniform. She should try to maintain her distance, pretend what happened the night before was the result of too much to drink and forget about it. If she could forget, the memories wouldn’t torture her in the future.

  She sighed again. There were a lot of things she should do she knew she wouldn’t.

  For too long, she had remained true to her word in not speaking to him. Over the past weeks, she had thought that by not speaking to him, he would be deterred, but he hadn’t been. She had thought silence and distance would protect her heart, and she was fair certain it hadn’t.

  After what happened last night, despite every precaution, she somehow had managed to fall for the charms of her employer. Like every other woman he’d ever met. She’d always thought herself immune to such things. She didn’t believe in love or passion. She’d marry for money and comfort and was above such foolish ideas.

  How Fate must have laughed. A few weeks being in the presence of Nicholas Wetherby, and her notions of passion were reduced to nothing but ash.

  Lexie shielded her eyes from the blinding sun and trudged after the ever-chatty Mrs. Ferguson. As they entered the butcher shop, the scent of the meat assailed her, and her stomach, still touchy from last night’s revelry, clenched. Turning to Mrs. Ferguson, Lexie said,

  “I think I’ll go stand outside.”

  Mrs. Ferguson fixed Lexie with her steely, blue-eyed glare and put a worried hand to her forehead. “Are ye all right? Ye look a bit flushed.”

  Lexie shook her head dismissively, smiling at the older woman for her show of compassion. It had been a long time since anyone had shown her such concern and, for some reason, Mrs. Ferguson’s kindness reminded Lexie of what life had been like before her mother had died and her father fully succumbed to the lure of the drink and the game. She blinked back sudden tears.
r />   “I’m all right. I think I need some air.”

  “You’re sure?” Mrs. Ferguson asked, disbelief evident in her tone. Lexie nodded, and the older woman furrowed her brow but gave her a congenial pat on the shoulder. “I just need to pick up a few things and then I’ll be out. You’ll be all right?”

  Lexie’s lips turned up in the shadow of a smile. “Of course. It’s my own fault, to be sure. But I’d be much obliged if we kept this short.”

  “Och, lass, ye should’ve told me you’re not well. I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  “I’m fine,” Lexie protested weakly. “I’ll be right outside.”

  The heat was oppressive, but she felt better here in the shade than inside the butcher shop, where the scent of meat and men mingled to form a rather unappealing aroma. Despite the temperature, at least out here a mild breeze blew off of the river, carrying a hint of cool moisture, along with the faint smell of fertile soil and fish. Wiping her brow, the sound of a woman’s voice, angry and loud, assaulted her.

  “You good-for-nothing child! You wretched, wicked thing!”

  Lexie glanced over and saw a golden-haired woman pulling a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy by the arm. He wasn’t more than six, and he clutched a wriggling bullfrog to his chest. The boy glared up at the woman, his mouth set in a stubborn line, and his hand loosened its hold on the frog. The animal leapt from his hand and hit the woman in the skirts.

  She did a spastic jig in the middle of the street as she batted the creature away from her skirts, screaming the whole while, and the sound grated to Lexie’s sensitive ears. She was about to turn away from the domestic squabble when the woman lifted her hand and struck the boy. Even as her blow landed with a loud crack, he maintained a stony silence—not a whimper, not a cry, no tears.

  Without thought, Lexie acted. Her father had hit her often enough, though never as such a small child—the beatings had only started in earnest after Lexie’s mother had died. Every time he’d beaten her, Lexie had wished someone would come to her rescue. No one ever had, not until the day Nicholas came to her door and took her away, and that could hardly be termed a rescue, since she was, in theory, little more than an indentured servant. Surely the crime of collecting a bullfrog did not warrant such treatment.