She turned to face him once inside the room, her chin raised in challenge. “I only agreed to come here today to appease the duchess’s concern. As I told you last night, I am not in need of a doctor.”
Martin closed the door behind him. “I believe you should allow me to be the judge of that.”
Her eyes flashed a deep blue. “I assure you, I know my own body better than anyone else, and I am well on the mend.”
Martin bit back the retort he wished to make, which was that he wished to know her body intimately. And not from a professional point of view.
He had been feeling unsettled when he returned home the previous evening, and he knew that disquiet to be entirely due to meeting the young woman standing in front of him.
Several glasses of brandy in the privacy of his study had not eased the ache and throb of his erection, and he had necessarily to unfasten his evening breeches and take himself in hand. Closing his eyes, he had imagined it was Monique’s slender and warm fingers wrapped about his cock, stroking up and down, slowly at first and then harder and faster until he shot his cum all over his desktop and the carpet beneath. Entirely sated, he cursed as he then had to remove all evidence of his release before Mrs. Hodges came in to clean his study in the morning.
One glance at Monique today as she hesitated at the end of his garden path, and that erection had returned with full force.
He moved to sit behind his desk to hide the bulge now tenting the front of his pantaloons. “Physically, perhaps,” he allowed tersely. “But your combative conversation implies an emotional disquiet, and there is also the question as to the reason for your migraines. Take a seat, please.” He indicated the chair opposite his own when she continued to stand.
Monique stared at him rebelliously for several more seconds before sighing as she sat on the edge of the high-backed chair in front of his desk. “I hope this will not take long? I promised the duchess I would help amuse the children today.”
Martin studied her through narrowed lids. The gold of her hair was once again pinned at her crown in a fashionable style, her beautiful face flushed with her temper. The dark blue velvet gown she wore added the same depth of color to her eyes and gave the swell of her breasts a deliciously creamy appearance.
Her bearing and delicacy of appearance were at complete odds with the servant he knew she had once been in the Duke and Duchess of Stonewell’s household.
Martin leaned back in his leather chair. “Who was your father?”
Chapter 6
“Are you disappointed that we are not yet expecting nor have our first child in the nursery here with all the others?” Jocey, the Marchioness of Wessex, gave her husband a searching glance as the two of them ate a late breakfast together in front of the window in their bedchamber.
“Not in the least.” Jericho’s smile was one of doting indulgence. “When we first married you were still recovering from having been shot, and in the months since, I admit to having grown to like having you completely to myself.”
“Apart from Cousin Gwendoline,” she teased, the older woman having once been Jocey’s chaperone and now a much loved member of their household. Gwendoline had chosen to spend Christmas this year with an old school friend.
Jericho’s smile carried the same affection for the elderly lady. “Apart from Cousin Gwendoline.”
Jocey chuckled. “I admit to a certain partiality in the regard of having you to myself too.” She sobered. “But all your close friends are fathers or about to become so.”
“Which is absolutely no reason for the two of us to have a child,” Jericho dismissed briskly. “You are still only one and twenty—”
“And if I should like to conceive and have your child?”
“That is a different matter entirely,” he drawled. “Would you like to do that?” he prompted gently.
“Very much,” she acknowledged warmly.
Jericho rose to his feet and moved to stand behind her chair. “Then I suggest, if you are willing, we instantly begin working on this mythical child.”
Jocey smiled up at him warmly. “I am more than willing.”
Jericho had not believed he could possibly love Jocey any more than he already did, but the thought of her growing large with their child filled his heart, and cock, to bursting.
Monique frowned across the desk at Martin Easton. “I do not believe who my father is to be any of your business or relevance to this examination. Unless, of course, you intend to reciprocate and tell me who your own father is?” She arched mocking brows.
Martin’s mouth thinned. “Was. And I think not,” he answered predictably.
She gave an acknowledging nod. “Then could we proceed? As I said, I have other things in need of my attention today.”
Martin did not enjoy being dismissed, most especially so by a young woman to whom he was so attracted. “First, I need to know the reason for the injuries you recently suffered.” He picked up his pen in preparation for writing down the notes onto the pad in front of him.
Her lashes lowered. “I was set upon by…by ruffians, a week ago.”
Martin knew by the way she avoided looking at him that he was hearing only a half-truth. “In what way, set upon?” The extent of her bruises a week later implied it had been a vicious attack.
She shrugged slender shoulders. “Kicked. Punched. Scratched. Bitten.”
Martin believed scratches and bites were usually a woman’s choice of weapon rather than a man’s. “Where?”
She avoided meeting his gaze. “In London.”
“By how many people?”
She raised her lids to glare at him. “Does it matter by how many?”
Only in regard to the fact that Martin was filled with a desire to beat each and every one of those attackers to within an inch of their lives for having dared lay a finger on this delicate creature.
Which, he freely acknowledged, was taking him onto dangerous ground. One of the first things he had learned was paramount as a physician was to emotionally distance himself from his patients. Something he found was becoming increasingly difficult to do in regard to Monique Dupre.
How could anyone attack such a fragile beauty, let alone in such a brutal fashion?
“No,” he conceded abruptly. “How long have you suffered with migraines?”
Monique was again thrown momentarily off balance by the sudden change in subject. As she was supposed to be? She was starting to believe this was Martin Easton’s way of getting the most honest answers from his patients. Which he obviously now considered her to be.
She felt the warmth of color in her cheeks. “Since I began my— Once I became a woman,” she substituted for the more personal explanation.
The doctor wrote several notes on the pad in front of him. “Do they occur every month?” The question revealed he knew exactly to what she was referring.
“No.”
“Did you have one this month?”
Perhaps she should not have refused to have the housekeeper present. Although Monique sincerely doubted that would have made the doctor’s questions any less personal but only caused her more embarrassment because they were asked in front of a third person. “No,” she answered tightly, watching as the doctor wrote down several more notes before glancing up at her.
“I should like to examine you now.” He rose to his feet. “Would you like me to ask Mrs. Hodges to join us?”
Monique remained seated. “Is it necessary to when you are only going to examine my eyes?”
“I already know what is wrong with your eyes.”
Her brows rose. “You do?”
He nodded. “It is not related to your monthlies, otherwise you would have them every month, which you have said you do not. Puberty might have been the reason for the change in your eyes—”
“Change? What change?” As far as Monique was aware, her eyes had always been the clear blue they were now.
“The pupils of one of your eyes contracts to a pinpoint when you attempt to
look into the distance, and the other almost obliterates your iris when you gaze at things close to you.”
“Meaning?”
“In laymen’s terms, you are in need of a pair of spectacles to correct the fact that one of your eyes is nearsighted and the other longsighted. This differences in vision is enough to bring on your migraines.”
Spectacles? Those unattractive contraptions she occasionally saw other women wearing? “You can tell all that by simply looking at my eyes?”
“I will need to do a more in-depth examination to ascertain the level of correction needed for each eye, but I believe that is the root of the problem, yes,” he dismissed. “It would be better for you to wear the spectacles all the time, but if you do not wish to do so, then they must be worn when you are reading, sewing, or doing any close work.”
Monique gave a shake of her head. “Then what examination do you intend to carry out now?”
“A physical one.”
Monique balked at the idea of removing her borrowed gown, or any other item of her clothing, so as to allow this man to examine her body.
This man?
Yes. Because, much as she wished it was not the case, Martin Easton brought out a yearning inside her to know him as a man rather than a physician. She certainly had not felt this fluttering in her stomach or the pounding of her heart when the much older doctor had examined her in London.
Martin easily detected the reluctance in Monique’s expression. “I will call Mrs. Hodges—”
“No! No,” she answered in a calmer voice. “That will not be necessary.” She turned her back toward him. “If you could unfasten my gown, I believe I can manage to remove the rest of my clothes without assistance.”
She might be able to manage alone, Martin acknowledged as his cock throbbed inside his pantaloons, but he had no doubt he would find far more enjoyment in helping her to remove her clothing.
It disturbed him to realize his fingers were shaking slightly as he unfastened the back of Monique’s gown. Perhaps he should call Mrs. Hodges, after all, to act as—
Good God!
Martin’s breath caught in his throat as Monique’s gown fell to her ankles, leaving her wearing only a white silk chemise and drawers. The revealed flesh was every bit as smooth and creamy as he had imagined it might be, even marred by those discolored bruises.
He drew in a sharp breath as she turned to face him, the thin silk material doing little to hide the tempting swell of breasts tipped by deep rose nipples and the darker thatch of curls covering her mound.
“Her Grace gave me these to wear as I did not bring any of my own things with me. She tends to favor wearing silk undergarments.” Monique felt pressured to defend the elegance and richness of these borrowed garments. Although she doubted the duchess would want the undergarments returned to her when it came time for Monique to leave.
She also had to admit the silk material of the chemise and drawers felt deliciously wicked against her bare flesh. Which was perhaps the reason the duchess bought such pretty undergarments? It was impossible to be in the company of the duke and duchess and not be aware of the depth of intimacy shared between them.
“There is no reason to remove any more clothing,” Martin Easton instructed abruptly as Monique’s hands moved to the bottom of the chemise. “Lie down on the chaise, and I will examine you.”
Monique did so awkwardly, wondering if they should not have called for the housekeeper after all.
But surely she was imagining the heat in Martin Easton’s hooded gaze as he watched her every move?
Such a cold and arrogant gentleman would not be affected simply by the sight of a half-clothed woman, moreover one who was temporarily his patient.
Would he…?
Chapter 7
“This bruise is…interesting,” Martin murmured, his fingertips caressing the discoloration across Monique’s collarbone.
She glanced down. “I believe that one was caused by a bite,” she dismissed.
Piquing Martin’s interest to know the details of that injury. Details he already knew Monique had no intention of sharing with him. Would the duchess— No, he would not go behind Monique’s back and question the duchess regarding these injuries; either Monique told him herself, or he would continue to remain in ignorance as to what, or who, had caused them. Monique’s story of being set upon by ruffians did not quite add up. Unless those ruffians had been female.
“A punch,” she provided as he lifted her chemise to view and examine the discoloration of her abdomen.
Martin palpated the silky flesh for any sign of internal injury, and thankfully found none.
“A kick,” she supplied as he gently touched the blackened bruise on one of her thighs. “To add insult to injury, I believe it might have been made with one of my own shoes,” she added dryly.
Martin’s curiosity grew deeper with each of Monique’s comments.
How could someone kick her with her own shoe?
Unless the other person had been wearing it at the time…
“Monique—”
“Have you now seen enough to assure the duchess I am healing well?”
Martin looked up to find himself the focus of those blue eyes. “Checking on your physical injuries is for my own peace of mind,” he bit out. “I believe the duchess is more concerned regarding your emotional welfare.”
Blonde brows rose. “To have been physically attacked was not pleasant, but I believe I am dealing with that as well as can be expected.”
“Monique—”
“Might I put my gown back on now?”
His mouth thinned. “This lack of emotion is exactly what the duchess is concerned about. She told me that in the past, you were much more…vivacious than this.”
Monique gave a snort as she sat up. “A year has passed since the duchess and I last knew each other, and a great deal can happen in a year. I was lady’s maid to the duchess and her mother. Did you know that?”
Martin’s eyes narrowed at what he believed to be a deliberate ploy on her part to denigrate herself and her injuries, as being of any real importance to the duchess or the duke. “And what occupation do you have now?”
“Is it not enough to know I was a lady’s maid?” She once again avoided giving a direct answer to his questions.
“Not when knowing it in no way lessens the attraction I feel toward you.”
Monique’s eyes widened. Martin Easton was admitting to being attracted to her? She would never have guessed such a thing was possible. Yes, he had been a little flirtatious the previous evening, but his behavior toward her today was one of professional detachment. Wasn’t it?
She found herself unable to move back or forward as that dark gaze held hers captive and Martin’s head lowered toward her, firm lips slightly parted, as if he intended to kiss her.
“I am so pleased we decided to join the other Sinners here for Christmas.” Alys Trentham, Marchioness of Deveril, smiled warmly at her husband, Sebastian, once she had finished feeding their three-month-old son and heir and handed him back to his nanny. That kindly lady now left their bedchamber to return their offspring to the nursery. “I have been kept so busy with the mothers and children now residing at Newcomb Manor, and looking after our own son. I freely admit I did not feel in the least like arranging Christmas for us at Deveril Park this year.”
Alys had inherited Newcomb Manor from her father, but as Deveril already owned more than enough estates, she had turned her own family home into a place where mothers and their children might seek refuge and live together safely.
“Leave it,” Sebastian instructed gruffly as Alys would have straightened and refastened the bodice of her gown, his dark gaze fixated on the full swell of her breasts. His hand moved so that one of his fingers might gather up a tiny pearl drop of milk leaking from the nipple before lifting and then sucking that digit into his mouth. “No wonder Peter enjoys his food so much,” he murmured appreciatively. Their baby son had been named for his deceased gra
ndfather, Alys’s father, whom she had loved very much and was a man Sebastian had called friend.
Alys’s cheeks turned pink as she folded back the bodice of her gown and bared her breasts to him completely. “They are still slightly swollen with milk.”
Sebastian’s gaze felt heated. “Enough to cause you discomfort?”
“A little.” She arched her back, pushing her breasts upward in invitation.
He pulled lightly on one of Alys’s swollen nipples and was rewarded with a gush of fresh milk into his palm. “I have absolutely no idea whether my mother breastfed me as a baby, but I doubt it. If she did, it could never have been as delicious as this.” He lapped the excess of milk from his palm and fingers.
Alys held her arms out in invitation. “Come to bed, and you may feast until you are sated.”
He drew his breath in sharply. “God, Alys, how I love you!”
She gave him a glowing smile. “And I love you.”
Sebastian gathered her up into his arms and kissed her long and deeply. “You and Peter are everything to me,” he eventually said emotionally.
“As you are everything to us,” Alys assured huskily as she drew him down to her breasts, gasping her pleasure as he latched on to one of the turgid and full nipples and began to suck.
It never ceased to amaze her how, when Peter suckled, she only felt fulfillment in providing him with sustenance, but when Sebastian sucked her nipples, her response was completely sexual.
As it was now.
As it would always be.
Monique had been kissed in the past, clumsily, by a footman or two. But there was nothing in the least boyish or inexperienced about the passionate way in which Martin’s lips took possession of hers. Or the thrusting heat of his tongue into her mouth, between lips that had initially parted in surprise, but now deliberately widened to allow Martin greater access so his marauding tongue could claim and then conquer.
She had believed this man to be cold and dispassionate, but the heat of his kisses and the warm caress of his hands as they roamed expertly over her body, dragging down the front of her chemise to tweak and pull on her nipples and stroking the dampness between her thighs, showed he was anything but that. That beneath Martin Easton’s cool exterior, he possessed a volcano of passions just waiting to be released.
Wicked Christmas (Regency Sinners 8) Page 4