by Jane Goodger
“Marjorie, move your hand,” he whispered.
And then she wasn’t touching him and he nearly cried out. “Not remove, move. Let me show you.” He was long past the point of being the gentleman he should be, so he took her hand and placed it back, showing her how to please him. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But she felt so good and he’d wanted her for so long now. It couldn’t go further, he knew that. He couldn’t do what he longed to do. He couldn’t bury his cock deep inside her, couldn’t feel her surround him, couldn’t come inside her. “Feels so good.” All coherent thought was gone. All he knew was that Marjorie’s hand was on him, squeezing gently, moving up and down, making him so close to finding release it was unmanning.
He wasn’t touching her. Couldn’t touch her lest he lose any control he had. But then she leaned forward, her hand still working him, and kissed his jaw. And that was the end of his resistance. He brought his hands to her shoulders and pulled her against him, finding her mouth and kissing her long and hard, pressing his erection between them, her hand now trapped. He kissed her, devoured her, ached for her.
“I want to make love to you,” he said against her neck, his body screaming for sweet release. “I want to show you how.”
She stiffened slightly, and he said, “No, not like that. I want to give you pleasure. I want to make you come.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. Let me show you.”
He kissed her, moving his hips against her, and her grip on his arousal tightened slightly. Had anything ever felt this good before? He put his hands on her firm bottom and pulled her center against his erection, moving rhythmically, making her feel a small amount of what he was feeling.
“Oh.” She breathed this into his mouth and he knew she was beginning to understand that something more, something wondrous was coming.
“I’m going to touch you. I’m going to make you feel the way you’re making me feel.” As he said these words, his hands worked to bunch up her skirts, endless amounts of fabric that hid her from him. When finally his hand skimmed the slit of her drawers, he let out a groan of relief. And when he brought his hand to her center to find her wet and deeply aroused, he nearly found release.
Marjorie was lost in the sensations he was building in her. If she thought about what he was doing, where he was touching her, the words he was saying, she would have fled from the room and never returned. But she’d stopped thinking some time ago. Now it was all feeling. How could something, anything, feel as wonderful as what he was doing to her? Her entire body sang with new sensations, a need she’d only had the barest hints of in the past. Now, as he moved his finger back and forth on her, she could not contain herself. She moved against him, glorying in every new sensation, of the building of something, of this delicious experiment. As he touched her, she touched him, his long, velvety shaft that strained against her hand. If what she was doing to him was anything like what he was doing to her, what a wonderful thing all this touching was.
He suddenly increased his rhythm, both against her hand and between her legs, and she clung to him, gasping, reveling in every movement, thrusting against him and then . . . bliss. Oh, it was positively the single most wonderful thing she’d ever felt in her life.
As she let out a rather unladylike grunt, he turned away from her. Her hand still clung to him and she felt a pulsing surge as he found his own release.
She dropped her hand, and he collapsed a bit against his desk and she collapsed a bit against him. “Oh, my,” she said, trying to catch her breath.
“Oh, my, indeed,” he said, chuckling. He took a deep breath and then another. He was silent for a long moment until he finally said, “While I did not intend for that to happen, I’m damned glad it did.” He gave her a devilish smile. “May I put on my trousers now?” he asked, lifting one brow.
Despite the intimacy they’d just shared, Marjorie blushed hotly. “Of course. I’m so sorry.” Now she was simply mortified. What had she been thinking? What sort of woman did what she’d just done? And what sort of woman did Charles—she could no longer think of him as Mr. Norris—think she was? Had she gone mad?
“I’ll have none of that,” Charles said sternly. “We are two adults and there’s no harm done. Your virtue is intact. My conscience, not quite so, but there you have it. Now that we’ve gotten that out of our systems, we can get on with our business.”
Of course. How foolish to think for one moment that what they’d done meant anything other than some animalistic release. She was so mortified, she didn’t see the look of longing on his face, the deep regret, and that was probably a good thing. For Marjorie needed a reminder that no matter what, they were to remain friends, business partners. Charles needed help courting another woman. He might desire her, but he didn’t love her. And even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. Her mother would never allow her to marry him.
“You must allow that you have never acted that way with another business partner.” She sounded decidedly sophisticated, as if what had just happened wasn’t the most wonderfully devastating experience she’d ever had. She was still keenly aware of how wet she was between her legs.
As she’d hoped, he laughed. “You are correct. And I suppose it shouldn’t happen again. I will try not to allow our deep mutual attraction from blinding us to our goal—and that is to find me a bride. And you a husband. Despite what you say, I think you will find one.”
Marjorie smiled gamely, even though his words were a bit crushing. It was impossible, she knew that. For as much as she’d like to think she could stand up to her mother, she knew, when it came down to it, she would not. Twenty-three years of being a good and obedient daughter was a habit that would be difficult to break. Still . . .
If he loved her—if Charles told her he loved her and begged for her hand, she’d do it. She’d go against her mother, she’d walk out the door, never to return. It would break her heart, yes, but if he asked . . . would she? Did she love him that much? Or was her heart being muddled by lust?
“We did get a bit sidetracked. So, you’ll help me with Lady Caroline? I’m planning a trip to the zoo and perhaps you could come with George.”
Marjorie smiled, even as his words caused her breath to stop. Foolish, foolish girl, to think she would give up everything for him. If Charles loved her, would he be discussing courting another girl? And asking for her assistance? Men were such odd creatures. A few kisses, a great passion, and she was ready to leave everything she’d ever known behind. Those same kisses were not nearly as meaningful to him.
“Of course. That was our deal, was it not?”
She turned away, and as he watched her walk out the door, Charles frowned at her back. He didn’t like their deal anymore. Not one bit.
He already felt a deep regret for what he’d allowed to happen. It would do no good to apologize, though his instincts told him he should. His biggest fear was that he would never be able to hold her in his arms again, never truly make love to her the way he longed to. Hours and hours of lovemaking, days and days. And so, he let her go without another word.
She’d surprised him. Indeed, he was flummoxed. Why had she come, anyway, without inquiring first? May I see it, she’d asked. May I see it? He would have wagered his life that Marjorie would never have uttered such words. He struggled to put on his pants, cursing his leg, cursing his lack of title, cursing his weakness when it came to beautiful women with curly, black-brown hair.
She was no doubt mortified by what had just happened. He could see it in her face just before she’d turned away from him. And he, cad that he was, had done nothing to make her feel better. He hadn’t held her or kissed her or told her that he was falling in love with her. Which, if he tried very, very hard, he would be able to prevent. He would not, ever again, fall in love with a woman he could not have.
Charles was most thankful when Prajit knocked on his door and entered without awaiting an answer.
“You called, my lord.”
Charles gave his
servant and friend a withering look. “No, I did not. And what the hell were you thinking, bringing Lady Marjorie in here when you knew I was unclothed?”
“You were unclothed, sir?” Prajit raised one eyebrow, but otherwise his expression remained deceptively submissive.
“And you damn well knew I was.”
“Yes. Perhaps.” Prajit went about straightening the room, placing a book back upon a shelf, picking up an empty teacup. “You seem in better spirits.”
“I’m not in better spirits,” he said, even as he knew he was. Having a woman bring one to heaven would likely help any man’s mood. “It was not well done of you to leave her in here with me. I know you are unused to English society, Prajit, but if we were discovered together alone, with me half-dressed, it could have ended very badly.”
Prajit raised his brows in question.
“She would have been compromised. She’s an unmarried woman and unmarried women should not be alone with half-dressed men. Hell, they shouldn’t be alone with fully dressed men.” Charles looked at Prajit’s carefully blank expression. “Which I am certain you know. Why am I telling you this? Just don’t do it again.”
Of course, Charles would have to ask for her hand, a prospect he found a bit daunting. He’d been in battle, he’d debated with generals, he’d nearly died. But he was, frankly, terrified to meet Marjorie’s mother. Something about that woman made his blood freeze.
Chapter 9
Forty years earlier
The Ascot races were the highlight of the season. Five days of races attended by the highest levels of British society, including the king and queen. Dorothea had been to many Ascot races, but never had she so looked forward to this one—and appreciated being part of a great family. Because her father was a marquess, she and her family were allowed the privilege of sitting in the Royal Enclosure, an area along the racetrack reserved for the titled. It was one of the few times each year when they were all together, though this year only her parents and Dorothea were present. Her sisters, all married, had begged off.
She and her mother were staying with their dear friends, Lord and Lady Chesterfield, for the week. They lived just outside Berkshire, where the races were held, and had the most lovely carriage to arrive in. Dorothea was friends with their daughter, Esther, though she was now living in Cambridge with her husband and three children.
Soon, Dorothea thought, she herself would be a married lady and too busy to attend the event.
The morning of the first race, Tillie smiled in satisfaction as she placed the final hatpin into her coif. “Lovely, my lady, truly.”
“My dear, it’s true. I have never seen you look so pretty.” Her mother stood in the doorway, contemplating her daughter as if she’d never seen her before.
Dorothea gazed at her reflection in near wonder. How could a hat transform her so? Of course, she had lost some weight and her hair was perfection, but Dorothea gave most of the credit to the hat. It was almost as if it were magical.
They arrived at Ascot at one in the afternoon, a full hour before the Royal Procession, and gathered in the garden to await the king and queen. Dorothea, feeling a wonderful new confidence, found herself chatting easily with old acquaintances, gaining looks of approval from her mother. But no matter whom she spoke with, she was always keenly aware of Lord Smythe.
He wore a dark gray morning suit and top hat, and once in a while she could hear his laugh, deep and masculine. Dorothea was desperate for him to notice her, to look at her with widened eyes, to finally see her. She tried to stay facing in his direction, and when it appeared he might be looking her way, she smiled brilliantly at whatever was being said. Nearly an hour of smiling brilliantly was beginning to take its toll, and Dorothea was beginning to think he would never notice her.
And then, as if by some divine providence, the crowd separated between the two of them, and he looked at her. There was that stunned and puzzled look she’d dreamt of. There was that smile that made her want to throw herself at him and make a total fool of herself.
Instead, she smiled serenely back at him and nodded her head. He took a step toward her and her heart nearly burst. It was happening, just as she’d prayed it would. Oh, it was happening!
“That’s my hat. Where did you get it? Where?”
Startled, Dorothea turned to see a girl—for she was no older than seventeen—glaring at her hat beneath a hat that was the mirror of the one on Dorothea’s own head.
“That is my hat. My design. How dare you!”
“Yours doesn’t suit your coloring at any rate,” Dorothea said, looking at the child with derision.
The girl’s eyes widened, her cheeks turned a deep red, and then, without warning, she reached up and pulled Dorothea’s hat from her head, flung it to the ground. And stepped on it, ruining it entirely.
Twenty-eight years of proper behavior, of remembering to do everything with dainty grace, of never losing her temper in public, were crushed along with her beautiful, beautiful hat. She hardly remembered doing it, but Dorothea launched herself at the girl, and before she knew what was happening, they were both on the ground, tumbling and hitting and pulling as the crowd of spectators grew.
“Anne,” a man’s sharp voice called out. Within seconds, it was over. A man, likely the young girl’s outraged father, was removing the girl from atop Dorothea.
Dorothea sat up, stunned, in dawning horror of what had just happened. She heard a giggle, and looked down to see one breast fully exposed.
“Oh!” she cried, trying in vain to pull up her tattered dress and cover herself.
Hot tears filled her eyes as she struggled to gain her feet. A pair of strong hands helped her up, and she felt herself being wrapped in a man’s coat. When she got the strength to look up, she saw the lovely blue eyes of Lord Smythe looking at her pityingly. “No one saw,” he said softly.
By his side was Lady Matilda, the girl her mother had told her Lord Smythe was courting. “I think the hat looked lovely on you,” Lady Matilda said with a tentative smile.
Dorothea looked at her and burst into tears. She wanted to hate Lady Matilda, but how could she when she was so kind?
Her mother arrived, wrapped her arm around her, and drew her quickly to their carriage. Dorothea sat back, her hands still clutching Lord Smythe’s coat to her, desperately aware of the scent it carried, of him, of all her lost dreams.
“It’s just as well you’re going,” her mother said softly. “People will forget, my dear. At least I hope they do.”
People might forget, Dorothea realized as the carriage brought them back to the Chesterfield estate. But she never would.
“Who was that girl, mother? I don’t even know her.”
“Lady Anne Wadsworth. She’s the daughter of Lord and Lady Dunlop. What a disgrace she must be to her parents.”
Anne Wadsworth. No, she would never forget.
Chapter 10
“No.” The word was as sharp and final as the crack of a rifle.
While Charles was not surprised by Lady Summerfield’s response to his question, he was surprised by the jagged slice of disappointment he felt. It hurt. Quite a bit. Did he care for Marjorie more than he’d realized? Good God, he was a bloody fool. It was clear he loved her and just as clear, standing in this ugly parlor facing a frowning Lady Summerfield, that he would not be able to marry her.
“I love her, my lady. And I do believe Lady Marjorie loves me.”
Lady Summerfield lifted her chin. “Unless there is a reason other than love for a marriage between the two of you, my answer remains the same.”
“I don’t understand. I know I don’t have a title, but my father is a viscount. I come from the finest of families—”
She held up a hand to stop him. “Your family is none of my concern. My daughter, however, is my concern. And she will not marry you. Most importantly, she will not know of this conversation. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good day, sir.”
“But—”
“John,” she snapped, and a large footman appeared almost instantly. “Please escort Mr. Norris to the door.”
Stunned and feeling a bit numb, Charles followed the footman out. Not five minutes after he’d arrived, Charles found himself standing on the steps of the townhouse, staring at his carriage. He closed his eyes and tried to release this awful ache. It would do no good to wallow in it. Wallowing had never worked before. He had to move on, to dismiss Marjorie from his mind and pray he could as easily dismiss her from his heart.
“Here, could you post this for me?” Not thirty minutes after his conversation with Lady Summerfield, Charles handed Prajit the note to Lady Caroline asking her to accompany him to the zoo. He wanted to take a look at Jumbo the elephant.
In truth, he hoped Lady Caroline was frightened of the animal so she would sidle close to him. Or perhaps a lion would roar and she would press against his side. That had been the idea, but now it seemed silly and he really didn’t want her pressed up against his side. Not with Marjorie there.
Prajit glanced at the address posted on the sealed note and frowned.
“Lady Marjorie and her brother are also coming along.”
“Ah, that is good.”
“Lord Summerfield is a good chap,” Charles said, ignoring the true reason Prajit thought the idea good. Somehow, Prajit had taken a liking to Marjorie. Maybe he’d been impressed with her bravery, entering a gentleman’s home in the middle of the night that first time. Prajit would never say anything aloud to him, but he sensed his disapproval of any woman other than Marjorie.