When a Marquess Loves a Woman

by Vivienne Lorret

  She couldn’t stand the thought of him ruining someone else’s life. She wanted to be the only one.

  Her steps faltered on the top tread as she realized that—drat it all—she was jealous.

  A frustrated growl left her throat. She stormed up another set of stairs to the second floor, angry with herself for feeling this way and even angrier with Max for causing it. How dare he constantly mention his need for a wife! Couldn’t he be happy without one, at least until she got used to the idea?

  Her irritation hadn’t dissipated at all by the time she saw the gaping hole in the plaster at the end of the hall on the second floor. It was as big as a chair, revealing rows of grayish, broken lath behind it. With a glance around, she saw more of the same, along with some holes even larger and providing a clear view of the room beyond it.

  She felt as if the blows he’d inflicted on the house were a personal attack. “What has that blasted man done to my house?”

  “It is my house,” Max said from behind her, startling her within an inch of her life.

  “Oh!” She jumped, whirring around, her hand to her heart, pulse racing in her throat.

  “And I can do whatever I like,” he declared, casually leaning a shoulder against the doorway, arms and ankles crossed, as if he’d been watching her for some time.

  He wore a pair of black trousers and was in his shirtsleeves, the neck gaping open as if he were in the middle of dressing. As if he’d slept here last night.

  And seeing that he was standing in the bedchamber doorway that had once been her own, she was incensed. Her outrage came back full force.

  “That has always been your problem, Max,” she hissed, rounding the banister and storming toward him, armed with a pointed finger. “You’ve always believed you could do whatever you wanted and damn the consequences. Well, I’m not allowing it this time.” She stopped within poking distance and did just that, her fingertip meeting the taut muscle beneath the fine lawn. “I expect you to have this completely repaired, or you can forget the fair price I was willing to pay.”

  He straightened. Uncrossing his arms, he leaned toward her as if he didn’t even feel her assault. “Perhaps you don’t recall, but I have always been fully prepared to face the consequences of my actions. You were the one who ran.”

  She scoffed and jabbed him again. “I was right! All along, this has been about what happened between us five years ago. Oh, I apologize for wounding your poor ego when I left, though it seems you’ve managed to recover, as you are busy narrowing down your list of bridal candidates.”

  “Ego?” He took her by the shoulders, his grip firm but not cruel, as contempt burned in his dark gaze. “I wanted to marry you. There was more than ego involved.”

  “That kiss happened because you were consoling me, and we both know it.”

  “Do we, Lady Granworth? Or is that something you told yourself to validate running away to marry a rich old man?” Gritting his teeth, seething as much as she was, he spun her around and pressed her back against the wall just inside the bedchamber. “And if you think for one instant that I’m going to sit back and watch you bring your next husband here to live, not four doors down from my mother’s house, then you are sorely mistaken.”

  Then, without warning, he crushed his mouth to hers.

  The shock of it made her grow still, her eyes still open, even as his closed and a groan tore from his throat. The sound of it woke her, startling her into a new awareness. Max was kissing her, his lips firm and familiar, his tongue bold and commanding, daring her to retaliate.

  And she did, slanting her mouth beneath his, parrying with his tongue while clutching handfuls of his shirt in her fists. He groaned again, and the vibration of it had the strangest effect on her eyelids, for they drifted closed. Her head tilted, lips parting, allowing him deeper. She wasn’t sure if this was part of a battle or a strange sort of truce.

  Then again, weren’t truces civilized affairs between warring factions with cooler heads? That was certainly nothing like her and Max and this heated skirmish of mouths and hands.

  She didn’t know what possessed her, but she pulled the hem of his shirt free of his trousers, and now her palms were pressed against the hard plane of his abdomen, her fingertips grazing a soft dusting of hair. It seemed the sensible thing to do—explore the terrain of her opponent’s territory—and she refused to overthink her actions.

  The clasp of her cloak slipped free from her neck, the garment falling away as Max’s hands skimmed over her back, down the row of buttons descending to her derriere, then swept upward past the scalloped lace and to the bare flesh between her shoulder blades. His touch sent a shiver down her body, making her arch like a bow against him, poised to strike. Every inch of her skin suddenly felt taut, her breasts heavy, tingling. Her stomach dropped lower, weighted, emitting a sweet clenching sensation that seemed to deplete the air in her lungs.

  She broke away from the kiss, turning her head, breathing hard now. Max did not cease his onslaught. He was battle ready, always, and far more skilled in this manner of warfare.

  Even so, Juliet had no intention of surrendering. “You destroyed the walls because you’re afraid that I will win our wager and bring another man here? My, my, Max, that sounds rather like a jealous man.”

  His attention shifted to the column of her throat, where his wet, open-mouthed kisses called attention to the steady throb at the apex of her thighs. She wanted to close her legs against it and squeeze tightly, but Max was there, the hard length of him pushing against her, driving her back against the wall. Her hips rocked against his in retaliation—or perhaps because she wanted to feel him once more. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure that a battle was supposed to feel this good. But with Max, it was difficult to tell the difference. Part of her loved fighting with him. Every argument felt like a prelude to something more, something so near and yet still out of reach.

  Her frustration mounted when he did not answer her taunt, and so she slipped her hands free of his shirt, took his face in her hands, and kissed him again. Yes, that would show him that she was in control. This time, her tongue swept into his mouth, and her hips rolled slowly against his. And because she wasn’t finished proving it, she continued, even as he lifted her off the ground, his hands clasped over her hips and lower still, until he was cupping her bottom.

  She found purchase on a demilune console, Max between her thighs, his position edging her skirts upward. But now the muslin was bunched between them. Parting her knees did nothing to bring him back to where he was a moment ago, to ease that insistent pulse. It was just like Max to give her a taste of something, only to leave her without. But she wasn’t going to let him do that to her again. So just like in many battles, she took him prisoner, locking her legs around him.

  Max set his hands over her wrists and slowly drew them down from his face, his gaze fierce. “I am not going to be the one to stop this, Juliet. Do you understand? It will be you, like always.” He shook his head, pressing his forehead to hers. “I have reached my limit, and this game of ours must conclude, one way or the other.”

  Her first impulse was to challenge him in return, but when she read his expression, she couldn’t. The edgy mockery she typically saw was no longer there. He searched her gaze, his dark eyes seeming vulnerable, and the furrows between his brows no longer angry but pained. He was open and exposed, revealing a raw desire so potent that it almost frightened her. Mostly because she felt it too.

  She realized this was no longer about the house or any of their arguments. In fact, she wasn’t sure if it ever was. No, this was about something more, that tangible thing between them that she couldn’t shake loose.

  If she chose to leave, she sensed that things would never be the same between them again. And if she stayed . . . things would never be the same between them again.

  But she’d come this far, and running away was not an option. She’d had five years to think about Max’s kiss. Five years of wondering what it might have been like if she�
��d made a different choice.

  “I haven’t once looked at the door, Max.” And then she tipped her chin and pressed her mouth to his.

  The battle lines disintegrated in that next kiss. He released her wrists, his arms engulfing her, his hands pulling her flush against him. The strength and sureness of his embrace made her breathless and hot.

  In tune with her, as Max had always been, he worked the buttons free at the back of her gown, bringing the cool morning air through her chemise. Then, with one swift tug, he pulled down her sleeves and tapes, baring her breasts. He broke from the kiss, breathing hard, his mouth open, his gaze on the round swells of flesh bathed partly in the shadow of his body and partly in the golden light that filled the room. And with one single sweep of his thumbs over the dusky tips, they budded for him, sending a cascade of tingles through her.

  She held her breath as his head dipped to claim her. The wet heat of his mouth covered her, his tongue a swirling sweep over the tip, right before she felt that first decadent tug.

  His name left her throat in a rasp as her hands dove through his hair, drawing him closer. She hadn’t even known how much she’d craved this, needed this. And when his hand slipped beneath her skirts and unerringly found the heart of her, she knew that Max had known all along. He proved it in the way that he touched her, stroking down the seam of her, drawing out the slickness that—up until this moment—she had been the only one to find.

  But his ministrations weren’t the hurried, frustrated fumblings of her own fingers. He knew exactly where and how to touch her, intermixing small decadent circles with sinuous caresses, and—oh—the sinfully slow slide into the undiscovered swollen tissue.

  He lifted his head, seeking her mouth with urgent, demanding kisses. His hand was still between them, where the fall of his trousers touched her inner thighs, his knuckles brushing against her most sensitive flesh.

  Seeking more, she spread her legs wider, tilting her hips toward him, a mewl of unabashed desire rising in her throat. What she wouldn’t give just to tell him “Yes . . . there . . . ” with confidence born of experience, and knowing the answer. But this was all new to her.

  Even so, he answered her plea immediately, coming closer, stroking her slippery folds again, nudging that intimate opening. Instantly, she knew this was not his finger. This flesh was hotter, larger . . . much larger, already stretching her. A fleeting moment of panic struck her, making her wonder if she should say something about—

  Max drove into her, impaling her, his hardness unforgiving.

  A soundless gasp stalled in her throat. Clutching his shoulders, Juliet instinctively tried to lift away from the shocking invasion. Away from the stinging burn. How was she to know that it would feel like this? That he would fill her completely, forcing her to stretch around him? None of Marguerite’s stories had prepared her.

  Max released a low, gravelly curse, his face buried in her neck, his arms cinched around her, his body stiff and wedged deeply. Other than his heavy breathing, he went still but remained fully seated inside her.

  She panicked, not knowing what to do next. Thus far, everything had been rather instinctual, with Max touching her in ways that made her respond. But now, he wasn’t doing anything. Surely this was not the desired end result. There had to be more.

  “Is this terrible for you?” she asked, feeling tears prick her eyes. How could she face him after such a failure? Perhaps she never should have crossed that battle line after all.

  “You are perfect,” he rasped. “Even more than I imagined.”

  Perfect? She’d heard the word before, countless times, referring to her outward appearance. But never for this. And this was quite something else entirely. With a small smile tugging at her lips, she pressed them to his shoulder, where the open neck of his shirtsleeves had shifted to one side, baring the tight cording of his muscles. Relaxing ever so slightly, her body gripped his as it pulsed, cinching around him.

  Beneath her hands, she felt him tremble, revealing his restraint. He began to move in slow upward thrusts. He murmured against her neck, her ear, her temple—indistinct words that formed an intimately erotic lexicon.

  She’d read about the particulars of the act, had seen lurid etchings and romantic paintings, but nothing had prepared her for the overwhelming intimacy. How there was a difference in his eyes now—a tender but untamed intensity that darkened his pupils. The way his arms held her with utter possession, made her want to offer more of herself. His scent filled her lungs, every breath hot and tantalizingly musky in the combined essence of their joined bodies. Those intimate whispers of how it felt to be inside her were like another caress, stroking her mind, permeating every thought.

  This was far more than mere sexual congress. It was a life-altering, wholly necessary, completion of her being. In this moment, she felt as if she was born solely for him. This was the reason she had lips—so that Max could kiss them. She had breasts for him to taste, to tease, and to suck. And Max had arms so that he could hold her. Firm buttocks so that he could thrust, again and again. And her flesh was soft and yielding, solely for Max’s hardness to plunge inside, filling her.

  “Let go, Juliet,” Max growled, a hoarse plea more than a command, the friction faster with each upward thrust.

  “I am,” she said, holding on tighter. Didn’t he know that she’d let go of everything the instant he kissed her? She’d abandoned every part of her being, every minute of her past, as well as her future, solely for this present moment.

  But the more she clung to him, and the more he thrust into her, the more she felt as if she were losing control. Something inside of her was building, coiling, tensing. That scream of frustration she always sensed inside her threatened to escape.

  Unable to release it, she held fast to him, sinking her teeth into the crest of his shoulder.

  He cursed again, a loud echo reverberating as he wrenched free of her body, and a torrent of hot fluid sluiced against her thigh. His breathing was hard, like a bellows, rasping out of his lungs.

  And she couldn’t help but smile. She loved the sound of Max coming undone.

  “I did try, you know,” Juliet said after a moment and with a kiss against his shoulder where her teeth had left an impression. An eager, buoyant thrill still throbbed where they had just been joined, and she closed her eyes to savor it.

  Max brushed the hair from her face as he kissed the corner of her mouth. “No. You fought it the whole way. I could feel how close you were, and it drove me mad.”

  Only now did she realize that he was referring to le petit mort, what the French referred to as the small death, pleasure beyond one’s control. Marguerite had explained that men who considered themselves good lovers paid careful attention to a woman’s pleasure.

  “Oh.” She looked away, suddenly feeling shy. If she would have known how to let go, she would have. For him. Yet she wondered if she was so used to keeping herself in control that she would never be able to experience more.

  He turned her face back to his and pressed his lips to hers in something far too tender to be called a kiss. “I was a brute with you. Can you forgive me?”

  “Do not apologize for treating me like a woman made of flesh and blood.” She swallowed down the sudden swell of emotion, her voice growing quiet. “You are the only one who has ever done so . . . as you likely know very well by now.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The only one? Surely not, but yet . . . that would explain so much.

  A pleased puff of air left Max’s lips as he shook his head. He was doing his best not to grin from ear to ear, but it was difficult to hide the bewildered elation zipping through him. Therefore, to conceal it, he simply gathered her in his arms and carried her to the washbasin in the corner of the room. And what he enjoyed most of all was the way her head naturally fell into the nook of his shoulder.

  Setting her on her feet, he let her dress fall to the floor. He took special care to cleanse her, not only her thigh and her sex but her breasts a
s well. He noted that with each brush of the cloth, her flesh responded, the dusky rose of her nipples drawing taut, each of her breaths becoming shallow, her flesh turning pink.

  “Were you married to Lord Granworth in name only?” He had to ask.

  “In the end, I suppose that is correct,” Juliet answered, watching his ministrations with obvious fascination. “I was more of an objet d’art than a wife—his Flawless Representation of Woman. And there were times when I’d wished he’d found a flaw.”

  “He never touched you, desired you?” Max could not imagine that. Even now, he was making quick work of her stays and chemise, planning to make amends immediately for not having seen to her pleasure first.

  “As you know, some men are driven by power, some by greed, jealousy, passion, or . . . ” She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug, seemingly unaffected by her enthralling nudity. “Lord Granworth was obsessed with inciting envy in other men. He’d made it clear, nearly every day, that when I failed to do that, he would abandon me.”

  Max had spent years hating Granworth but apparently not enough. He almost wished the old blackguard were alive, simply so that he could throttle him within an inch of his life. “And none of those other men ever attempted to claim you?”

  As he asked the question, he pulled her back into his arms, nibbling the silken flesh of her neck as he removed the pins from her hair and left them to fall heedlessly to the floor.

  Her hands skimmed over his back, her body pressed intimately against him where his flesh was already thick and eager. “I wanted to take a lover, just to spite him. But there was always something missing, a void that I couldn’t force myself to fill.”

  “I find that hard to believe. That night in the library you were so full of passion.” Even now she touched and caressed constantly, brushing her fingers over his skin, gripping the muscles of his arms and chest. In turn, she seemed to thoroughly enjoy being petted, kissed, and fondled. And if he didn’t get her to bed soon, he would take her standing up again.