The Naked Marquis

by Sally MacKenzie

  "Do all men have such . . . such appendages?"

  God, he was going to spill his seed just hearing her talk. "Yes, sweetheart. It's an important part of making babies. Would you like to touch it again? I promise you won't hurt me."

  Hurt him, no. Make him insane with lust, definitely.

  Her hand came out again. This time she let her fingers explore, tracing the length of him, circling his width, even fondling the sacks that hung between his legs. He moved to give her more room to explore, spreading his legs slightly. He grabbed the bedpost tightly, biting his lip. Sweat trickled down his back. He was going to spontaneously combust, he had no doubt of it. He only hoped he would get the opportunity to bury himself in Emma's body before he did so.

  "When I do this, it moves by itself," Emma said, stroking him. He did leap in her palm. He clenched his teeth, savoring the waves of pleasure that rippled from her hand.

  "It's so hard and smooth, but the tip is soft and, and damp." Her finger spread his moisture over him and he jerked in her hand again. She giggled, moving her fingers up to the thick nest of curls at his base. "And the hair here is even curlier than the hair on your head."

  He grunted and she pulled her hand back.

  "Are you sure I'm not hurting you?"

  "Yes. I am completely certain." God, did he shudder when he said that? He cleared his throat. "Completely certain."

  "Your voice sounds funny."

  Because he was mindless with lust. His knees were going to give out. He swore he was going to collapse on the bed—a very good idea—but first there was something he had to get from his room.

  "Emma." Charles was delighted his brain was still capable of formulating a coherent thought. "Stay exactly—exactly—where you are. Do not move. At all. I will be back in a moment. Swear to me you will not move."

  "Well. . ." Emma flushed and reached for the bedclothes. Her hand flopped around on the naked bed. "Where are the blankets?"

  "I'll get them—later. You don't need them now. I promise you. They are totally unnecessary. Superfluous. Annoying, even. You are perfect the way you are. Don't move. Please."

  She let out a short little breath. "Very well."

  "Good. Splendid. Wonderful. Stay still."

  Charles backed to the door, keeping his eyes on Emma. She did not move. In fact, she kept her eyes on the most prominent part of him. He could feel it becoming yet more prominent. Surely there was a limit to its growth? He was aching almost unbearably already.

  He took a quick breath. Aching, yes, but not for much longer. Surely he would find relief tonight. If he didn't, he would die. It was the truth. If he didn't slide into her warm, tight body before another day dawned, he would . . . he would . . . he didn't know what he would do, but it would not be good. At the very least he would cry. More like he would run howling through the halls of Knightsdale completely, utterly mad.

  "Remember . . . stay right there," he said as he reached the threshold to his room. "Do not move."

  It would take only a second to get the betrothal ring. He knew exactly where it was. He would have it on her finger in a moment. And then he would have his body in hers—but not in a moment. No. It was her first time. He would take many, many moments. He would wait until she begged him to finish it.

  If he could wait that long. Sadly, he was not certain of his staying power in this particular instance. He had been able to last as long as necessary in every encounter but his first—it was a point of pride. But tonight. . .

  He feared he would be embarrassed tonight. He couldn't—he couldn't fail for Emma's sake, but she affected him so much more than any of the others. It was almost as if he were contemplating an entirely different act, an act he had never performed before.

  "Don't move," he said one last time.

  She raised her hand to push her hair off her face. Her breasts lifted and swayed with the movement. So beautiful.

  "I'll be right back."

  He would die, he would literally expire on the spot, if she suddenly remembered she was a proper English miss.

  Emma watched Charles back toward the door. The, um, pokey part of him was the oddest thing she had ever seen. It stuck straight out from his body and bobbed a bit as he walked. He had clearly wanted her to touch it, but he had acted like he was in pain when she did.

  It had felt so odd—hard and soft, hot and smooth.

  What could he possibly need in his room?

  What was she thinking? He was probably going to get a weapon. He had come in answer to her scream, hadn't he? It was just the shock of seeing her naked . . .

  Lud! She grabbed again for the covers. Where were they? She crawled to the bottom of the bed and saw them lying on the floor.

  'You promised you wouldn't move."

  She jerked her head up. Charles stood in the doorway, just as naked as he'd been when he'd left.

  "But I'm not complaining." He smiled. His eyes glowed. "That is a very fetching pose, sweetheart."

  Lud, she was up on her hands and knees, every inch of her exposed for his examination. She flopped flat on the bed. He chuckled and walked closer.

  'You still don't have any clothes on," she mumbled into the mattress. The cool sheets felt good against her burning cheeks.

  "Correct. I don't foresee a need for clothes in the immediate future. In fact, I'm hoping that they will be very much in the way."

  Mercy. She felt his broad hand stroke down her spine from her neck to her bottom. The mattress shifted, then she felt both his hands move down her back. Her front began to throb. She buried her face deeper in the bed. His hands were skirting her sides now, brushing against her breasts, dipping between her thighs. She spread her legs. She had to fight herself to keep from lifting her body up so his hands could slide underneath her.

  "Where's your weapon?" She gasped as one of his fingers traced the cleft between her buttocks.

  "What weapon?"

  She moaned. His hands skimmed her thighs, so close to where she wanted them.

  "Am I hurting you, sweetheart?"

  She heard the laughter in his voice. "No," she panted. She was not going to let him distract her any longer. "Isn't that why you went back to your room, to get a weapon? You did come in here because I screamed, didn't you?"

  'That's right, I did." His hands left her body. She almost cried. The bed shifted again and he appeared before her. His pokey thing was pointing at her, as if it wanted to be petted again. She grabbed the sheets to keep from reaching for it.

  '"What exactly was I supposed to rescue you from, Emma? I don't see anything threatening."

  She lifted her head. She had to admit that there was nothing in the room at the moment. "I saw something over there." She gestured with her chin. "Something white, coming out of that wall."

  "Coming out of the wall? Can you be a little more specific?"

  Emma flushed. "Well, I didn't have my spectacles on at the time."

  "Ah, another ghost like the one Nanny saw."

  "No. Well, I'm sure I saw something. . . ." Emma was almost certain—but what could it have been?

  "Here?"

  Charles had a very nice back. Muscles flexed and rippled as he ran his hands over the wall.

  "Is this where you thought you saw your ghost, Emma?"

  'Yes." His body tapered from his broad shoulders down to his slim waist and muscled buttocks. She had had her hands on that part of him in the conservatory. He'd had breeches on then. What would his . . . what would those feel like without breeches?

  "I don't see anything, Emma."

  "Um." She was consumed with lust. Her mind was a haze, her entire body throbbed. It was shocking, but she wanted Charles to come back to her bed. She wanted him to show her more of what he had shown her at the lake. She wanted to know everything.

  Even if he didn't love her.

  It didn't matter. She loved him.

  He was the reason she had never felt the slightest interest in any other man. Meg had been right—she had seen eligible
lords as no different from elderly chaperones—except for one eligible lord, that is. Charles had spoiled her for all the others.

  She had loved him from the moment he had dried her eyes in the woods when she was six years old, when he had let her shadow him, even though Robbie and James had teased him. He had been her Lancelot then, her Robin Hood.

  And when she was older, he had been the hero of all the Minerva Press novels she'd read secretly in her room. He'd frequented her dreams, comforting her when she was tired or discouraged, when raising Meg and keeping house for her father had overwhelmed her. At first he'd just draped his arm around her, kissing her forehead. But after she'd seen him with the anonymous woman on the terrace at his brother's wedding ball, he'd wrapped both arms around her, held her tightly, and kissed her on the lips.

  And now? Oh, my. Now her dreams were hot, tantalizing. Frustrating. Some crucial details were still missing.

  Well, she would learn them tonight. God help her, if Charles didn't come to bed right now, she was going to cry. She was twenty-six years old. She had never been with a man. As Mrs. Begley had asked, what was she saving herself for?

  Even if she had to beg Charles, she was not getting out of this bed a virgin.

  He turned, and her eyes dropped to his waist. She smiled. She did not think she would have to beg.

  "No sign of any ghost, sweetheart." "Um."

  God, Emma's eyes had fastened on the part of him that most ached for her. He smiled. Perhaps that was not entirely true. His heart ached more. He had never thought such a feeling possible. If Emma wanted him to, he would just hold her tonight.

  He fervently hoped that she wanted more of him than that. Much, much more. All of him. Every hot inch of him.

  He cleared his throat and tried to clear his mind of his raging need. "I think I'd best stay here with you tonight. To protect you. Don't you think?"

  Her eyes traveled slowly from his groin to his face, stopping along the way to examine his stomach, his chest, his throat. When she finally met his gaze, he was delighted to see innocent need reflected there. 'Yes." Her tongue peeked out to wet her lips. 'Yes, that might be a good idea."

  "Sweetheart, trust me—it is a wonderful idea." He sat on the bed. "And I can think of some things we can do to take your mind off ghosts of any sort."

  "Really?" Emma whispered. "What might those things be?"

  He reached out slowly and stroked the side of one breast. "They involve touching."

  "Mmm." Emma's eyes closed, and her tongue slid out again. "Touching is good."

  He put a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her so she was on her back instead of her belly.

  'Very good." He stroked the other breast, cupped and lifted it. It filled his hand so well, its weight just right. His thumb circled around her nipple, skirting the center.

  Emma made a funny little noise in her throat. She arched her back, thrusting her breast farther into his hold.

  "God, sweetheart, you are perfect."

  "I am. . . I am. . . so . . . hot," she said. He watched her swallow, watched her lovely throat move. "Please. I need you. I need your . . . touch. Everywhere."

  He drew his finger along the inside of her breast up to her neck and rubbed his thumb over the pulse beating there. "Love, you cannot imagine how delighted I am to hear you say so. And I will be even more delighted to accommodate you—in a moment."

  "No. Now."

  "Ah, sweets. So demanding! I see that I am destined to be your slave—which I will be, willingly, on one condition."

  "What?"

  "That you marry me." He took the Knightsdale betrothal ring from the night table where he had put it before he'd gone ghost hunting. "I won't lay another finger—or anything else—on you until you agree to wed me."

  "All right." Emma reached for the ring. Charles held it away.

  "No, no, my impatient little love. This is a choice you are making forever. Think—if you can. Once I slide this ring on your finger, you are committed. You will be my wife, the mother of my children."

  Charles paused, listening to his own words. The sapphire in the family ring caught the candlelight. Giving it to Emma was another tie binding him to Knightsdale. He expected to feel a sinking in the pit of his stomach. He expected to feel trapped. He did not. He felt certain. He knew Emma was the woman for him.

  And he felt anticipation. Great anticipation. Her lovely body was spread before him, every inch glowing in the candlelight. As soon as he had his ring on her finger . . .

  "Say yes, Emma. I need you."

  She looked at the ring and then at him. "But do you love me?"

  He grinned. "Yes, sweetheart, I believe that I do. I know I feel something for you that I have never felt before. Just thinking about you makes me happy— and other things."

  "What other things?"

  Charles laughed. "Hot. Hungry. Hard. Insane with desire."

  "Oh. That sounds a trifle uncomfortable."

  "It is more than a trifle uncomfortable, love. Marriage to you is my only cure, I fear. If you reject me, I shall expire right here in your bed and quite possibly the Draysmith line will die with me. The tide will pass to dear Cousin Aubrey, who, according to Aunt Bea, is disinclined or incapable of fathering an heir."

  "You are being ridiculous, my lord."

  "I am definitely not being ridiculous, Miss Peterson. I am being utterly and completely honest. I am in desperate straits. I am in agony. If you don't consent to wed me right here and now, I will go mad. I am certain of it."

  'That's not possible."

  "It is, sweetheart. Trust me. I feel my sanity slipping as we speak. Say you'll marry me. Please. Say yes."

  Emma grinned. "Yes."

  Charles laughed. "Yes? That's it?"

  "Yes, please."

  "I don't suppose you love me?"

  "I don't suppose I do."

  Charles frowned. He had assumed . . . He had thought if he loved her, she would of course. . . But of course not.

  She rolled over on her side, leaning up on her elbow, and reached out to rub the furrow between his brows. "I don't suppose I love you, you looby— I know I love you. I have loved you since I was six years old, though it didn't feel quite like this then."

  "No, I don't suppose it did." He felt dizzy with relief.

  "I tried to deny it, to ignore it, but it wouldn't go away—even when you would not say you loved me." "I'm sorry. . . ."

  Emma put her fingers on his lips. "Enough talking. I, too, find myself on the verge of madness. You said you would touch me if I agreed to marry you. I've agreed, so . . ."

  "Ah, yes. So gauche of me to delay. Give me your left hand, sweetheart." He slipped his ring on her finger. 'There." He kissed her palm. "Now, I believe you have done your part, haven't you? I can only do mine."

  "Yes. Please. Now."

  "I am your slave to command. Where would you like to be touched first?"

  Emma flushed. "Do I have to say?"

  "Hmm, perhaps I can guess. Your nose? Your eyebrows? Your cheek?" Charles let his lips follow his words, kissing each part of Emma's face in turn, slipping off her spectacles and putting them on the night table.

  "No. Yes. Oh."

  'You are not terribly coherent, Miss Peterson."

  She turned as red as a beet and looked him in the eye. "My breasts, Lord Knightsdale. I should like you to touch my breasts."

  "Ah, your breasts. What a splendid idea. They are very lovely breasts, aren't they? I should be happy to touch them. Ecstatic."

  Charles smiled as Emma arched up when he grazed one of her lovely breasts with the edge of his hand.

  He could see it was going to be a splendid night.

  * * *

  Charles's hands felt wonderful. They were large and warm and they were moving over her. This was much better than the time by the lake. Lovemaking was greatly improved by a soft bed and a closed door. And the absence of clothes. Definitely. She ran her fingers over the hard, curved muscles in his upper arms.
r />   There was one problem. His hands were Scrupulously avoiding the area she most wanted them to touch. She whimpered and arched up, trying to encourage him. He chuckled.

  "So impatient, sweetheart. I will get to every lovely inch of you. We have all night."

  "I want you to get to this particular inch now."

  "Ah, I see I am betrothed to a shrew. A bossy"—he drew one finger up her breast from her rib cage to just below her nipple—"strong-willed"—he circled her nipple, avoiding the aching center—"termagant." His thumb flicked over the hard nub. She squeaked and her hips lifted off the bed.

  "Was that a happy sound?"

  "Yes. Lud, yes. Your mouth. Your tongue. I need them there, like at the lake. Please."

  "Oh? Like this?"

  He bent his head. His tongue rasped over her aching nipple, finally. He sucked, drawing her into his mouth. She felt it all the way to the hot, wet place between her legs. She threaded her fingers through his curls, holding him to her breast. She never wanted him to stop.

  He stroked down to her waist and splayed his hand across her stomach. She squirmed. If his hand would just move an inch or two lower . . .

  "Sweetheart, you can wriggle all you want—I am not hurrying." He grinned down at her. He sounded so self-satisfied, so confident. She raised her hand and cupped his cheek. He turned his face to kiss her palm.

  "It's a game, sweets, a teasing game. Each touch brings you closer to the edge." His thumb brushed over her navel. "Closer and closer, little touch by little touch, until on the last touch, you explode."

  "Hmm. So I should touch you, too?" Emma smoothed the curly hair across his chest, explored his nipples, then started the long journey down the intriguing line over his stomach to his . . .

  He inhaled, jerking back. He wasn't grinning any longer.

  "Don't you want me to touch you?"

  "Emma, I would love it. . . next time. This time I wouldn't last a second. And I want this to be good for you." He frowned slightly, bending toward her breast. "As good as it can be, for a first time."

  "What—oh!" Emma didn't understand, but she stopped caring the moment Charles's lips touched her nipple. He sucked hard as he dipped one finger into the wet heat at her center.