“I dearly hope so.” The words were little more than a sigh.
He nuzzled the curve between neck and shoulder, then gently pushed her head forward to taste the base of her neck. His hands slipped to her sides and his mouth trailed lower, sliding down her spine in a slow, sensuous journey. She held her breath in an agony of waiting.
She heard him drop to his knees. He kissed the small of her back and his hands danced down her hips and her legs to the tops of her stockings, then around and, slowly, agonizingly slowly, crept upward. She arched her back and folded her arms over her head and stared up at the sky. She was moist with wanting and waiting and couldn’t so much as breathe.
His hands reached the curls between her thighs and his fingers parted her flesh.
“Thomas.” She shuddered, wondering if indeed she would die with yearning.
His fingers grazed over her and she gasped with the exquisite sensation. His lips caressed her backside and his fingers slipped inside her and out in an ever increasing rhythm and she moaned with the pleasure of it.
Abruptly, he stopped and stood up, quickly turning her around to face him. Impatiently, he swept champagne, glasses and flowers from the tabletop.
“Thomas, what are you—”
“Quiet.” His voice was harsh with desire. He met her lips with his and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
He picked her up and set her on the edge of the table, spreading her legs on either side of him, and lowered her backward until she was lying on the white linen. Like a sacrificial offering to the sky above. Or a feast for the gods of the heavens. Or for a man.
Thomas’s lips trailed down her neck to the valley between her breasts. He suckled one, then the next. Her hands grabbed at the linen on the table. His mouth moved lower and caressed the flat of her stomach, and lower still. She tensed with apprehension. Or anticipation.
He pushed her legs wider and dipped his head between them and she stilled.
“Thomas?”
“Do you want to know what I’m doing now?” he growled softly.
“I don’t think so.”
A moment later, she didn’t care. He teased and toyed with lips and teeth and tongue, and delight cascaded through her body. Her world narrowed. She existed only in the feel of his mouth on her. In the throbbing pleasure coursing through her. In the ever-tightening spiral of tension within.
She clutched at his shoulders and without warning her body exploded beneath him in a glorious burst of sheer sensation. Her back arched and she jerked and uttered a short scream.
At once he stood and shucked off his breeches.
She panted for breath. “Thomas, you’ve never . . . that is, I never . . . I mean . . . ”
“I love it when you sputter.”
He pulled her upright to balance on the edge of the table and wrapped her legs around him. He cupped her buttocks, pulled her tight against him and entered her in one swift, easy thrust. He filled her and she pushed against him, needing him deeper and deeper within her. They moved together faster and faster and the wrought-iron table rocked beneath them. Once more, delirious anticipation built inside her. Growing, yearning toward release.
Until at last, when she thought she could know no greater joy, no greater delirium, her body again erupted in release. He clamped his mouth over hers and she screamed into it and felt his own release throb through her. His groan echoed deep in her throat.
She buried her head in his chest and clung to him for a long moment. Finally, he lowered her back to lie on the table, braced one hand on either side of her and grinned down at her. She gazed up at him with a satisfied smile and traced a line down the center of his chest.
“That was most intriguing, Thomas. You’ve never done that before.”
“I was saving it.” He laughed. Then abruptly his eyes widened. He yelped and jerked back. “Yow!”
She propped herself up on her elbows. “Whatever is the matter now?”
“Bloody hell, I’ve been stung!” He twisted and turned trying to see over his shoulder.
“Stung?” She sat up. “You mean by a bee?”
“No, by a blasted hawk,” he snapped. “Of course by a bee.”
“Let me see.”
“I will not,” he said, his level of indignation far more appropriate to a man in formal attire than one completely naked.
“Come, now, Thomas.” She stifled a grin. “Turn around.”
“Very well.” He huffed and presented his backside to her. She’d never seen it in such excellent light before and she couldn’t help but admire the firm, well-shaped buttocks. Not unlike the marble statues at the British Museum. Of course, they weren’t marred by a large, red welt.
“Oh dear.” She prodded the edge of the reddened area gently and he sucked in a sharp breath. She winced in sympathy. “Sorry. It does look rather nasty.”
“It feels rather nasty.”
“Still, it doesn’t seem to be swelling abnormally. All you need is a good poultice . . . ” She slid off the table and looked around for her clothes.
“Oh?” He turned and raised a brow suggestively. “And just who is going to apply it?”
She picked up her dress and shook her shift free. “I’m certain your valet—”
“If I had a wife,” he said pointedly.
“If you had a wife, she would probably be a nice, proper woman who would never agree to an adventure like this. Therefore you would not be in this position in the first place and would never have a bee sting on your bottom.” She pulled her shift on over her head.
“What are you doing?” He frowned.
“I’m getting dressed.” She slipped into her gown, turned her back to him and lifted her hair off her neck. “Would you help me?”
“I most certainly will not.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Why not?”
“The adventure isn’t over.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against him. She relaxed in the warmth of his embrace. “I have no intention of letting something as minor as a bee sting deter me and no intention of allowing you to leave.”
“You are scarcely able to continue.”
“Oh, I daresay I can bravely carry on.” He kissed the side of her neck. “I am wounded, not dead.”
“I’m well aware of that.” A delightful thrill shivered through her. Perhaps he could carry on.
“However, I have heard of people who have perished from bee stings.” His lips murmured against the curve between neck and shoulder, the length of his body pressed against her. “If I were dying, you would have to marry me.”
“Would I?”
“Indeed. It would be the least you could do for a dying man.”
“However, you are very much alive.” And obviously growing more alive by the moment. She laughed. “I suspect you have many years ahead of you.”
“With you?” His tone was abruptly serious. The question hung in the air.
Yes, with me. Only and always with me. She wanted to say the words aloud. Longed to say exactly how she felt but the words wouldn’t come. If he loved her, she wouldn’t hesitate for so much as a moment. But honor alone prompted his insistence on marriage. And she refused to build a lifetime from nothing more than obligation. At once the lightness of her mood vanished.
She ignored his question, untangled herself from his arms and stepped away, doing her best to fasten her dress as securely as possible without assistance. “You’re not dying. However, this particular adventure is at an end.”
“Untimely,” he muttered.
“Nonetheless,” she picked up her glasses and settled them on her nose, “put on your clothes and direct me out of here.”
“If you insist. However, this is not the outcome I had in mind.” He heaved a resigned sigh, picked up his shirt and put it on. “For one thing, you haven’t agreed to marry me. For another—”
“For another, you have a bit of a problem.”
“Aside from the fact that I wish to marry you and you
want nothing of the sort?” He huffed in frustration. “I am well aware of that problem.”
“You have a more immediate difficulty. How do you plan to get back to the house?”
His brows pulled together quizzically. “The same way I came.”
“Let me rephrase that.” She tried not to smile. “How will you get your breeches on?”
He stared in confusion then grimaced. “Damnation, it’s going to hurt like hell.”
“I imagine it will.”
He looked more vexed at the idea than anything else but just the thought of his forcing his breeches on over his wounds . . . she winced. “Perhaps I should go ahead and—”
“Why won’t you marry me?” he said abruptly.
“We’ve been over this again and again. I do not wish to marry and I’m not the type of woman you want.”
“I want you.”
“And?” She couldn’t hide the note of hope in her voice.
“And . . . what?” Frustration rang in his voice.
Her heart sank and she stared at him for a disbelieving moment. “And nothing, I suppose. Nothing at all.” She couldn’t bear another minute. She stepped away, turned the key in the lock and drew a deep breath. “It’s been great fun, Thomas, and I have quite enjoyed every bit of it, but our adventures together are nearly at an end. I have a bit of money set aside and when the season is over I plan to travel to—”
“Marianne.” His shocked voice twisted something inside her. “You can’t possibly—”
“I can, Thomas. And I shall. It’s what I have always wanted and nothing has happened to change my mind.” She drew a deep breath, pulled open the gate and glanced back at him. “I shall miss you.”
She stepped into the passageway.
“Surely you’re not serious? How can you leave now?” he called after her. “Marianne!”
She ignored him, his voice fading with every step.
Marianne made her way back though the maze with surprisingly few false turns. Her success due perhaps to the fact that her mind was occupied with a far more important puzzle.
It was time to accept the reality of her feelings. Whether she liked it or not, she wanted nothing more than to be Thomas’s wife. For that she’d give up the life she’d always dreamed of and give it up gladly. And the longer she was with him, the more difficult it was to refuse him.
She found the entry to maze, poked her head out cautiously and glanced around. Thomas was right: There was no one about. She drew a relieved breath and started toward the hall.
More and more lately she’d accepted what an odd person she was. No woman in her right mind would wish to live her life without a husband, let alone refuse a man like Thomas over something as minor as love. Besides, for any number of people love came not before marriage but only grew after through years together sharing hardship and delights, triumph and tragedy. And it seemed these days she wanted nothing more than to share those years with Thomas.
But to agree to marry him without his love would be a betrayal of her very soul. Of who she was.
She’d give up her dreams for him and she wanted only one thing in return.
The one thing he apparently could not give her.
Blasted woman. Thomas stared after her. What did she want from him? He was giving her the best adventures he could come up with. Granted, they no doubt paled in comparison with the stories she’d grown up with, but damnation, he was doing his best. Didn’t that count for something?
He gingerly pulled on his breeches, yelping now and again with the pain of the fabric rubbing across his tender buttocks. He left the breeches loose, with his long shirt hanging free to cover the fact. It would be dark in another few minutes and he hoped he could make his way back to the house unnoticed.
He’d gone to far greater lengths for her than he’d ever so much as considered with another female. And he’d never before asked any woman to be his wife. But apparently that wasn’t enough. He ran his hand through his hair and started to pace. Pain shot through him and he groaned. Apparently pacing was out. He dared not attempt to sit.
Not only were these adventures of hers—he ignored the fact that they’d been his own inventions—causing him a great deal of physical pain, but they didn’t seem to be doing any good. Blast it all, he was bruised, battered and now bit. Or more accurately stung, but the result was the same. Adding insult to injury, she now had another man in her life. Perhaps more than one.
And worse, he could no longer even conceive of marrying anyone but her. When he looked at his life stretching out before him, it was with Marianne at the center. By his side, bearing his children, growing old with him.
Admittedly the confidence he’d felt when he’d first begun his efforts to win her hand had faded. But he’d no sooner quit than he’d abandon his poetry. Bad as it may be, he’d never give up writing. And he’d never give up Marianne. Whether she wanted him or not.
It was no longer a question of obligation or honor. It was a quest. A mission, driving and unrelenting. He’d pursue her to the ends of the earth, if need be. For the rest of his days, if he had to. Until she wed him or they were both dead in their graves.
He brushed aside the thought that one more adventure could very well kill him.
Chapter 18
. . . and I have sensed a change in Lord W’s attitude toward me of late. He is much more aloof than usual and his offers of marriage have grown fewer. I am at once relieved and disappointed.
Leopard continues to seek my presence. I believe I have misjudged him based on little more than rumor and gossip. He has done nothing that can be considered improper as of yet and is, in fact, amusing company. He distracts my mind from Lord W and fills my empty hours.
Could he fill my heart as well . . . ?
The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London
The dowager’s ball was indeed as grand as Marianne had expected. Impeccably attired gentlemen vied for the attention of elegantly dressed ladies. The scene pulsed with vibrant colors and flashing jewels and there was scarcely room to move. The crush in the Effington Hall ballroom was every bit as great as anything she’d seen in London.
She’d already met any number of Effingtons—two sets of aunts and uncles and numerous cousins. And of course the dowager duchess herself, the matriarch of the Effington family.
At the moment the dowager sat at one end of the ballroom, in a small recessed alcove, engaged in conversation with Aunt Louella as well as Thomas’s aunts, the Ladies Edward and William. Yet even now, as Marianne moved effortlessly through the steps of a waltz in Pennington’s arms, she had the distinctly uneasy feeling that the dowager was watching her every move.
“You seem somewhat pensive tonight,” Pennington said when the music ended. “Is something amiss?”
Yes, my lord, I am in love with a man who does not love me and I’m really rather miserable.
“Not at all,” she lied, favoring him with a lighthearted smile. “It is a lovely evening, is it not?”
His smile matched hers. “Well said, my dear, but I don’t believe you for a moment.”
“It is a lovely evening.”
“Indeed it is. However, what preys on your mind has nothing whatsoever to do with the merits of the night.” He studied her carefully. “This is our second dance together and you have scarce said more than three words to me. It is most unusual.”
She laughed. “You have my apologies. However, I would think you’d be delighted to have me keep silent for once.”
“Not at all.” He chuckled and escorted her off the floor. Pennington flagged a passing waiter, handed her a glass of champagne and took one for himself. “Were you aware that Helmsley cannot keep his eyes off us?” He took a sip. “Or rather, you.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” She had, of course, and had taken great pains not to look at him.
“Indeed,” he murmured and she realized he didn’t believe her now, either. “Although I have noticed Helmsley’s attention is no more apparen
t than Berkley’s.”
“Berkley?” She widened her eyes in surprise. She’d danced with him but hadn’t noted anything out of the ordinary. Still, she’d been preoccupied.
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing, really.” She took a sip and thought for a moment. “Oh, I did encourage him to give up his mad search for this unknown woman he’s apparently quite taken with and turn his attentions towards someone who might return his affections.”
“That explains it, then,” he said thoughtfully.
She frowned. “Explains what?”
“The look in his eye.” Pennington’s gaze shifted to a point behind her. “You’ll see it yourself in a moment.”
She turned to see Berkley approaching with a determined step. Unease stabbed her. “Surely you don’t think he . . . I mean, he doesn’t—”
“Surely I do, and I am fairly certain he does,” Pennington said wryly.
“Good Lord,” she said under her breath and quickly swallowed the last of her wine.
“Pennington.” Berkley nodded. “Lady Marianne, I believe this next dance is ours.”
“I fear not, my lord,” a feminine voice sounded and she turned. Ladies William and Edward stood behind her.
“The next dance is mine.” Lady Edward smiled brightly.
“I . . . er . . . ” Berkley’s gaze jumped from Lady Edward to Marianne and back. “Delighted, I’m sure,” he said, vainly trying to hide his disappointment. He held out his arm and led Lady Edward to the dance floor.
Pennington snorted. “Well done.”
“I am glad to find you so appreciative,” Lady William said. “As your next dance belongs to me.”
Pennington laughed and swept a bow. “At your service.”
Lady William leaned toward Marianne and spoke in a low voice. “Her Grace requests that you join her.”
“Why?” Marianne blurted, then cringed.
Lady William laughed softly. “My dear, she is not nearly as formidable as you may think. You have nothing to fear.”
“No doubt,” Marianne said weakly, her stomach churning with apprehension.
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