For the ways she’d been violated, she’d not truly been touched, not in the questing way Marcus unfurled the now mythical secrets of her body, and not in the heat building like a slow conflagration within. Like unwrapping a carefully wrapped gift, Marcus drew her stockings down and laid them on the floor beside him. With the night air cool on her flushed skin, Marcus massaged the muscles of her calf until her eyes slid closed of their own volition at the luxuriousness of that tender touch.
She shot them open once more as he continued to move those questing kisses along the lower portion of her leg. His breath tickled and caressed her skin, and sent shivers of anticipation racing at the point of contact. Eleanor bit the inside of her lip and turned herself over to sensation. “Wh-who would have i-imagined that a l-leg could elicit s-such a response?” she gasped.
A golden curl tumbled over his brow and he paused in his ministrations to favor her with a half-grin that sent her heart skittering.
“W-well, I-I suppose it is not my leg eliciting the response, but rather your l-lips.” Heat rushed to her cheeks. Stop rambling, Eleanor Elaine. Stop rambling. Then, “I-I suspect the ladies you usually take to your bed d-don’t ramble in this manner.” Which only conjured unwanted, insidious images of Marcus with another woman; beautiful and eager in the ways he’d hope, taking him in her arms. And Eleanor hated all those faceless, nameless creatures who’d earned him the reputation as rogue.
The floorboards shifted as Marcus stood. Eleanor lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling overhead, not taking her gaze from the pale blue plaster as Marcus came down beside her. They lay with their shoulders touching, staring up at that same blue paint.
“I love you.” The deep rumble of his gentle baritone went through her. The bed dipped, as he levered himself onto his side. He stroked a hand over her cheek and she leaned into that soft caress. “I’ve only ever loved you,” he continued with an earnestness that sent another round of butterflies dancing in her belly. He brought his lips to hers and she turned her mouth up to receive his kiss, when he froze. Their breaths danced and melded.
She looked questioningly at him.
“I will never hurt you, Eleanor. If you want me to stop, whenever that moment may be, you need just say the word. That control belongs to you and I would never violate that gift.” He touched his nose to hers. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
Love suffused her heart, lifting the organ that had always belonged to him. He would not consummate the marriage unless she ordained that act. Rather, he would wait until she was ready to trust herself to him with this sacred gift. “Oh, Marcus,” she whispered and kissed him.
His body jerked and then he met her mouth in a tender exploration. As he slid his tongue inside, there was no pain or ugliness, but all the glorious desire she’d always known with him. Heat pooled in her belly and spread lower, and an incessant ache built between her legs.
He drew back and she silently cried out at the loss of him but he only moved his mouth, tormenting and tantalizing so that her breath came hard and fast. He worked a path of teasing kisses from her neck, lower, and ever lower to the neckline of her gown. Unhesitant, he placed his lips there and worshiped the skin so the fire grew within, spreading like a fast-building conflagration.
Eyes closed, Eleanor turned herself over to feeling. She breathed in the heady masculine scent that clung to his skin, fixed on his broad, powerful hands as he guided her upright, and then mourned the loss of his questing mouth.
“I want to feel the satiny softness of your skin, to worship you as you should be worshiped,” he said, his whisper a promise.
Tension flickered to life, as he unfastened the pearl row of buttons that ran the back length of her gown. But he placed his hands upon her shoulders and caressed her neck with his lips and desire tamped out all fleeting doubt and fear. Shoving the sleeves of her pink dress down, he slid it past her hips, and Eleanor kicked it aside, exposed, as she’d never been, naked to his gaze.
He studied her through hooded lids and she shifted under the scrutiny. The veiled expression gave no indication of his thoughts and then he spoke in tortured tones. “You are so beautiful, Eleanor. I have longed to know you in this way, in every way, since the moment I saw you smiling on the sidewalk.”
Marcus drew her into his arms and she melted into the hard wall of his chest. Her nipples pebbled against the front of his lawn shirt; the over-sensitized flesh stirred that burning ache between her legs. He cupped her breast in his large, naked hand and she drew in a shuddery breath.
Even in their youth, she’d never known the joy of his hand on her naked person. There was something wicked and wonderful and endlessly beautiful in the intimacy of his touch.
Marcus stilled and peered questioningly at her. He made to withdraw, but Eleanor placed her hand over his and held him close. Their chests moved fast to a matched harmonious beat. Then he leaned down and brushed a faint kiss over the erect nipple and Eleanor drew in a shuddery breath through her teeth.
“M-Marcus…” And lest he do something maddening and foolish like stop, she wound her fingers in the luxuriant, unfashionably long, golden tresses and held him in place, wanting him to continue, needing him to go on forever. And then God help her, he did. He drew the sensitive, swollen tip into his mouth and sucked. Desire mobbed her senses. She undulated against him, desperate to appease the agonizing ache between her thighs. And because Marcus had always known everything there was to know about her, he palmed the soft thatch of curls shielding her womanhood. A long, whimpering moan slipped from her lips, endless, as he delved a finger gently inside, teasing, and caressing so that her whole body was attuned to nothing more than the incessant ache that only Marcus could satisfy. “Marcus, I want…”
Except, she didn’t know what she wanted. For years, she’d believed lovemaking an act of shame and pain, and yet there was only beauty and wonder in Marcus’ touch. In the way he drew her erect nipple between his teeth and tortured that bud, all the while he slid another finger inside. Eleanor’s hips shot off the bed and she cried out.
“That is it, love,” desire hoarsened his voice and there was something heady in rousing that hunger in him.
Emboldened, she began working his shirt up his body.
He groaned and stayed her movements. “Eleanor, what are you doing?”
“It is only fair that I see your body and know you, too,” she whispered, her body flush with desire and her own boldness.
He dropped his neck back and his lips moved silently as though in prayer. In one fluid movement he pulled the garment over his head and threw it to the floor. He shucked off his boots with an ease any valet would have been hard-pressed not to admire. Then his hands went to his breeches and he froze.
Her mouth went dry, as she battled an inner war where desire warred with the logic of a remembered horror. If she gave this moment over to Atbrooke, she would lose. She would lose something that was beautiful and joyous and something she only should have ever known in Marcus’ arms. Eleanor gave a slight nod.
Unhurriedly, Marcus loosened the fastenings on his breeches, his movements exaggerated and deliberate, and his meaning clear. He was allowing her to stop him. But she did not want him to stop. She wanted to know all of him.
Eleanor gasped as he shoved his breeches down, revealing the thick shaft jutting out tall and bold from a sprig of golden curls. She closed her eyes and flopped back on the bed, staring at that pale blue ceiling once more. She could not do this. No wonder there was pain. It was a physical impossibility. The sheer size of him and the shape of her…Eleanor shook her head. No. No. No. It could never work. She stiffened as Marcus lay on his side. He draped an arm over her middle and held her close. Eleanor pressed her eyes shut and absorbed his warmth and strength. “It won’t work, you know,” she said, opening her eyes. “You are too big and I am…” She waved her hand. “Different than you.”
The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips and he grazed his lips across her temple.
&
nbsp; “W-well, of course we have to be different in that way for it to work.” Nervousness made the words tumble out, rolling together. “But it is still not pleasant…and…”
He kissed her and the fear receded. “It will be pleasant,” he breathed against her lips.
“D-do you promise?”
Marcus raised her breast with the reverence of a commoner carrying the king’s crown and drew the nipple into his mouth. He laved and worshiped that bud until desire settled heavy between her legs. Eleanor lifted her hips desperate for more, but seeking, searching, and then Marcus provided.
He delved his finger into her wet warmth, working the slick folds until all conscious thought receded. She pressed herself against his hand. Her rapid breathing matched the franticness of her undulating body, and yet there was no shame in her body’s honest response to his touch. Marcus increased his strokes, moving his fingers in and out on a maddening glide that robbed her of breath. With a panting moan, she wrapped her arms around him and clung tight. It was as though he was lifting her up, higher and higher, and she wanted to continue that climb until she reached the pinnacle of whatever magic he now wove.
He positioned himself over her body, lying between her legs, and she froze as the remembered terror of another—
“Look at me,” Marcus urged with a gentle insistence that carried her gaze to his. “It is me,” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “It is me and you, as it was always meant to be and as it has always truly been.” He dropped a kiss upon her lips and she savored the sweet warmth, meeting his tongue in that gentle union that blotted out all fear.
Eleanor splayed her legs, taking him between her thighs and he positioned himself at the juncture of her womanhood. She braced for his swift entry, but he reached between them and again found her slick center with his searching fingers. A moan stuck in her throat as he continued his earlier torture until she was shoving against his hand, pleading for more.
He drew back his torturous fingers and slipped inside her and Eleanor’s head fell back at the beauty and perfectness of him filling her.
She reached up and caressed his tautly drawn cheeks. Perspiration beaded his brow and dampened his hair. She brushed the too-long tendrils behind his ear. Their gazes held. “I love you,” she whispered.
“And I love you,” he said, his words roughened by desire, then with an agonized groan, Marcus slid deep as though their bodies had been destined for unity and then he began to move. He rocked his hips slowly and she lifted her hips tentatively matching his rhythm.
And with each thrust, he drew her higher and higher up that great climb, to the edge of a precipice and then she stiffened as her body hurtled over the edge and she cried out, exploding into a prism of white light and ecstasy. She dimly registered Marcus’ echoing shout, as with his thrust he touched her very core, and then poured his seed deep inside. He touched her in a way that there was no pain or remembrance of the past, there was just them, as it was always meant to be.
Marcus collapsed above her, capturing his weight on his elbows. He rolled to the side and drew her close. The movement sent rose petals fluttering and dancing about them. Eleanor curled against him, wrapping herself in his warmth. A shy smile turned her lips up. “You kept your promise, Marcus Gray.” He’d shown her with his every touch, his body’s every movement, that lovemaking was a thing of wonder and beauty. He’d awakened her to the truth that nothing had been stolen from her. She was still worthy and capable of desire and feeling.
Marcus studied her through heavy, lazy lids. “And will you make me a promise, love?” He stroked his hand down the small of her back.
A delicious shiver traveled from where his breath tickled her neck. “Oh, and what is that?” she asked, angling to better meet his gaze.
“Promise me forever.”
Eleanor leaned up and received his kiss. “Forever,” she whispered.
The End
The Lure of a Rake
By
Christi Caldwell
Dedication
So much goes into the creation of a book. I often say, it takes a village. From beginning to the literal and figurative end, there is plotting and writing and revising and editing.
To my editorial team, Sandra Sookoo and Scott Moreland.
Thank you for your brilliance. Be it phone calls or emails or late night Facebook messages, when I absolutely must talk to someone about my story, you’re always there. Cedric and Genevieve’s story is for you.
Prologue
London, England
1813
Mayhap they won’t find me here.
Lady Genevieve Farendale sat in the corner of the schoolroom with her knees drawn to her chest. The hum of quiet in the darkened room was faintly calming.
She laid her tear-dampened cheek upon the soft satin fabric of her ivory wedding dress. Mayhap, they’d know the last place to look for an eighteen-year-old young lady on her should-have-been-wedding-night would be in a child’s schoolroom.
The door opened. “Genny?” Her just fourteen-year-old sister, Gillian, stuck her head inside the room and scanned the darkened space. The girl hesitated and Genevieve held her breath, hoping her sister would turn on her heel and leave. “Are you in here?” Gillian called out again and stepped inside. The door closed with a decisive click.
She should have known better. Especially given the rotted turn of events that day where invariably, nothing went right—at least for her, anyway. For one moment born of cowardice, she contemplated saying nothing. But this was Gillian; devoted, loving, and all things kind in a world that had proven how elusive those sentiments were. “I’m here,” she said quietly, discreetly brushing her hands over her tear-stained cheeks.
Squinting in the dark, Gillian located Genevieve with her stare. Then, with an uncharacteristic guardedness, she wandered closer. She came to a stop, hovering beside her older sister. “Are you all right?” There was a singsong, almost haunting quality to her words.
For her sister’s benefit, Genevieve mustered a smile. Or she tried. She really did.
Gillian’s eyes formed round moons. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, sailing to the floor in a noisy ruffle of skirts.
With the hell of the day whirring around her mind, Genevieve wanted to yell for her to leave. She wanted to snap and snarl and hiss and demand Gillian allow her to her misery. “What is it?” Alas, she’d never been able to yell at her loving sibling.
“You are crying.”
“No, I am not.” She had been crying. Well, sobbing, really. The noisy, ugly kind of sobs producing tears that left a lady with a hopelessly red nose and bloodshot eyes. Nothing really pretty about those tears. Now, she’d not a single drop left to shed.
Gillian leaned forward and peered at her. “But you were,” she insisted, worry filled her usually hopeful, cheerful tone.
With a sigh, Genevieve stroked the top of her sister’s head. “But I was.”
Capturing her lower lip between her teeth, Gillian troubled the flesh. “Is it because of your wedding?” The inquiry emerged hesitant.
It was because her heart had been ripped from her chest in the most public of ways. Her honor and virtue had all been thrown into question by the very same man she’d loved. Alas, one couldn’t say all of that to a young girl still untainted by life. Genevieve searched for words.
“I overheard Mother and Father,” the girl supplied.
“Ah.” For really, what else was there to say? What, when she didn’t truly wish to know what, was being discussed between her previously proud mama and papa? Her mother was a leading Society matron, who prided that position above all else. Her Papa loved…well nothing, except his title and power.
“You are not getting married then?” Her sister’s question pulled her back from her useless musings. For even a girl of fourteen, who could not know the precise details, at least registered the ramifications and knew—Genevieve was ruined.
Tears welled once more. Unable to form a reply, Genevieve opened her arms and
Gillian threw herself into them. Closing her eyes, Genevieve took comfort in the slight, reassuring weight of her sister’s small form. She dropped her chin atop her sister’s head and blinked back tears.
“I do not understand why he would not marry you,” Gillian whispered.
“Because…” Because he was a cad. A liar. A blackheart.
But the truth was, she didn’t know why the Duke of Aumere had jilted her. With a missive delivered by his closest friend, no less. That note that had been turned over to her parents.
Her stomach churned. Words that threw aspersions upon her character and marked her a whore. Lies. All of the words, lies. But it mattered not. When a duke whispered, everyone listened, and ladies were ruined.
And Genevieve was well and truly ruined.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and both girls looked up. The door opened and their mother stepped inside. In her fingers, she carried the same damning piece of vellum she’d raged over in the return carriage ride from the church. With sure, determined footsteps, she entered deeper into the room and Gillian hopped quickly to her feet. Genevieve, however, moved with a greater reluctance. “Moth—”
“Gillian,” their mother snapped.
The girl looked back and forth between mother and daughter, indecision in her eyes. Genevieve mustered a smile, gave her sister’s fingers a slight squeeze and said, “Go.”
Eyes lowered, Gillian skirted the seething marchioness and took her leave, shutting mother and daughter alone.
She tried again. “Moth—”
“What have you done?” her mother’s clipped words shook with fury.
What had she done? The more apropos question would have been; what had he done? Or why? How? Anything was surely more appropriate than “what have you done?” Squaring her shoulders, she held her mother’s furious stare. “I did nothing.”
Her mother brandished the page. “You’ve done nothing?” she squeaked. “You lay with the duke—”
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 30