The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Now his lips began to move as well, first exploring the edges of her mouth, then the curves of her face, nuzzling her neck, sweeping back up to tease her ear lobe, and then her lips again —but only briefly. He began to trace the path his hand had followed, nipping at her collarbone, making her twitch, while his thumb traced circles around her breast, ever smaller circles that centered on her sensitive nipple.

  Again she caught her breath, startled by the intensity of the sensations he was producing. His mouth continued its exploration, kissing, nibbling, until his tongue took over his thumb's activity. She arched further, thrusting her breasts shamelessly up at him, reveling in the way he captured one in his mouth, suckling her, massaging her with his tongue. His left hand slid lower, while the right now cupped her other breast, teasing it as he had the left one.

  At first his left hand, trailing fire down her rib cage toward her belly, was a mere distraction, her senses focused on what he was doing to her breasts. Never had she realized her body was capable of such sensory abandon, such wanton pleasure! Then his hand moved lower still, tracing her navel, brushing the top of the curls below.

  Quinn shuddered, but it was a shudder of delight, though mingled with vague alarm. For a fire was growing, an inch or two lower than his questing fingers —a hungry fire that clamored for feeding. Though her breasts still strained toward his touch, his tongue, now she pressed upward with her hips, urging on the progress of his hand.

  Heedless of her urging, he took his time, burying his fingers in her curls, inching toward the goal that cried out for his touch. She felt as though every nerve in her body was alight, alive, almost —but not quite— overwhelmed. She wanted to be overwhelmed. A faint whimpering distracted her, then she realized with a small shock that it had come from her own throat.

  He lifted his head, releasing her breast, and she had to fight the urge to cry out in protest before he shifted his attention to her other breast, renewing the exquisite sensations there even as his left hand moved lower still.

  Quinn swallowed convulsively, not sure how much more of this sweet torture she could endure. She clasped his head to her breast, twining her fingers through his hair, though her focus now was more on his hand than his head, the hunger for his touch reaching unbearable heights.

  Then, one quick finger stroked the cleft, the heart of her desire, making her gasp aloud. Releasing her breast again, he now covered her mouth with his own, even as he stroked again. And again.

  Each touch intensified her pleasure, her longing, to previously unimaginable levels. Was there a limit to how much pleasure a person could experience? She hoped not, even as she suspected she might die of it. Thrusting her hips higher, she opened herself to his touch, inviting him to do whatever he wished, to take her to whatever brink awaited.

  She felt him shifting above her, moving into a position that gave him better access, and she welcomed it. Still stroking with a rhythm that sent flame licking all the way to her toes, he slipped one finger inside of her, then withdrew it. Then again, and again, while he mimicked the rhythm below with his kiss.

  Arching ever upward, she felt something hard between them, something hot and smooth. Sliding her arms around his back, she pulled Marcus down to her, encouraging him to press his whole length against her, wanting to feel more of him against more of her. Lifting his head, he smiled down at her, his eyes dark and smoky. She suspected hers were the same.

  "Enjoying your new experiences so far?" he murmured, never stopping his rhythmic stroking.

  The power of speech completely beyond her, she nodded. His smile broadened for an instant, and then he was kissing her again, his body moving with the same rhythm his hand had established.

  His shaft, which had seemed impossibly large when she first beheld it, now slid along her belly, teasing and tormenting her while his fingers continued to spur on her desire. Wriggling a bit, she shifted under his warm weight until his shaft pressed against her cleft, nudging his hand out of the way, its tip moving against her most sensitive spot.

  She opened to him, and gradually, gradually, he moved lower, until he was entering her, barely entering her. She wanted more. Breaking her own mouth free of his, she frantically covered his face with kisses, pulling him tight against her, trying to show him with her body what she needed, though she herself wasn't entirely sure what that was.

  But he seemed to know. Growling deep in his throat, he slid deeper and deeper into her, though she could tell that he was still holding back. She wanted all of him. Now.

  Wrapping her legs around him, she drove him home, all the way home. Her body protested with a slight stretching, pulling ache, but it was nothing to the triumph she felt at engulfing him fully, taking him completely into herself. Now he plunged ahead, needing no more urging, taking what he needed from her even as she took what she needed from him.

  Just when Quinn was sure her body could take no more of this ecstasy without exploding or dissolving, she reached a new pinnacle and all thought was left behind, drowned in a wave of pure sensation that tossed her in its mighty grip. As if from a distance, she heard her own voice and his, crying out in unison.

  He thrust once, twice more, then lay still atop her, while she felt as though her body had turned to liquid —warm, sweet liquid, like the sherry she had drunk on her wedding day. Never had she felt more fulfilled, more physically sated.

  Gradually her body stopped thrumming, allowing thought back in. Slowly her mind regained control, analyzing what had just happened with a sort of surprise. Who could have guessed she possessed such wanton desires? That she could abandon herself to them so completely? Had such wickedness always been a part of her?

  It hadn't felt wicked, however. Nor could she bring herself to regret what had been the most intense experience of her life— though what it might mean for her future she had not yet had time to contemplate.

  Above her, Marcus stirred.

  Belatedly realizing that his full weight lay on Quinn's small frame, he propped himself up on his arms, gazing down at her beneath him. Her eyes drifted open to meet his, passion still visible in their green depths, though now a question flickered there as well.

  "That was . . . remarkable," he whispered. "Thank you."

  Now her eyes widened, one eyebrow quirking upward. "Surely that was my line?"

  He chuckled, relieved. Though she had clearly enjoyed his lovemaking, he hadn't been at all sure how she would react once it was over. Their budding friendship still seemed to be intact —a fact that mattered far more to him than he'd expected.

  "That's two experiences I've shared with you today," he said, managing a teasing tone despite the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

  "Three, if we count riding in the Park." Though still slightly breathless, her own voice was light as well. "I can't help but wonder what else you may have in store for me."

  Unable to help himself, he captured her lips, still swollen and ripe, for a quick kiss before replying. "Even a balloon ascension will seem tame after this. At least, I hope it will."

  "Do you mean this wasn't the balloon ascension?" she teased. "I could have sworn I was high in the air a moment ago." Then she blushed deeply, as though suddenly realizing what she'd said.

  Laughing again, he rolled off of her, though he'd have preferred to lie there with her—in her—for hours. He felt a sudden need to distance himself, emotionally as well as physically. To figure out just what this was she was doing to him. Facing away from her, he sat on the edge of the bed.

  "I suppose we should dress for dinner soon— unless you would prefer to have it sent up to us here?" He glanced over his shoulder at her and winked.

  She stared at him for a moment, then frowned. "That's tempting, but I suppose we should go down— particularly if we mean to attend that card party afterward."

  Marcus bit back an oath. He'd forgotten all about the invitation to the Tinsdales' house. "It will be an opportunity to show the world that all is well— and perfectly respectable —with
our marriage," he said. "Advisable, therefore, for the sake of your reputation."

  Just now, however, he'd have preferred to spend the evening alone with her, just as they were now— which was dangerous for reasons having nothing to do with her reputation.

  "If you think it advisable, then I suppose we should go— though I confess I feel anything but respectable at the moment." She smiled up at him, glorious in her nudity, and he felt his heart twist within him. How had she become so precious to him so quickly?

  Clearing his throat, he stood and reached for his clothing. "You can go through the dressing room to your own chamber if you'd prefer. Then you won't have to dress to go out into the hallway."

  He heard her sitting up behind him, but didn't turn, afraid that one more glimpse of her luscious body would catapult him right back into bed with her.

  "Yes. Yes, I'll do that." Her voice sounded odd, so he risked a glance over his shoulder. She had retrieved her gown from the floor and now held it before her, screening her dainty charms from his view. Such belated modesty should have been funny, but he felt no inclination to laugh.

  She slipped from the bed and gathered up the rest of her things and, with a last, tentative smile, disappeared through the dressing room door. A few moments later he heard her ringing for her maid, and belatedly rang for his own valet.

  No doubt he would feel more like himself once he was dressed, once he'd had a chance to consider everything rationally. But as Clarence appeared to help him into his evening clothes, he suspected he would never be quite the same again.

  * * *

  Dinner was a strange meal. Oh, the fillet of sole was light and flaky and the pheasant done to a turn, doing great credit to Mrs. McKay's skill. But what on earth did one talk about after a passionate bout of lovemaking with a man one scarcely knew?

  Quinn was only slightly comforted by the observation that Marcus seemed nearly as much at a loss as she in finding suitable topics for conversation. She was certain this had not been his first experience with a woman, as it had hers with a man—but perhaps he had not been in the habit of dining with his paramours afterward?

  "What time are we expected at the Tinsdales'?" she asked, realizing even as the words left her mouth that she had asked the same question five minutes earlier —not that she had attended to Marcus's reply.

  "People will be arriving throughout the evening," he responded, reminding her why she hadn't recalled his previous answer. There hadn't really been one. "We can arrive when we choose, and leave when we choose, except in the very unlikely event that one of the royal dukes should make an appearance."

  "Of course." His words faded from her mind—again—as she watched his hand move from his plate to his mouth. What remarkable hands he had . . .

  "Would you care for more turnips?" he asked then, apparently noting her interest in the motions of his eating. "Not one of my favorite vegetables, but McKay makes them quite edible."

  She blinked, focusing again on her own plate, trying not to dwell on how those remarkable hands had made her feel. "I . . . I seem to have plenty still, but thank you." She was not overfond of turnips herself, so she cut a small piece of pheasant and brought it to her lips.

  Glancing up, she saw him watching her lips with an odd half-smile before he noticed her gaze and attended again to his food. Now she was able to watch his lips in turn, envying his fork with each bite he took.

  But this was absurd! She could not let mere animal passions —for surely, that was all this could be— overset her reason and subvert her goals.

  Could she?

  "What games do you think will likely be played tonight?" she asked, in another attempt to divert her mind from the rebellious channels it persisted in taking.

  He blinked, then frowned slightly, his eyes losing the oddly distant expression they'd held for much of the meal. "Whist, of course, and likely a table or two of piquet and perhaps vingt-et-un. It will depend on what the guests fancy. If you've a particular favorite, I've no doubt you'll find others to make up a table. Have you?"

  "Have I what?" She'd been watching his lips again, losing track of what they were saying.

  "A favorite game."

  Oh. "A, er, a card game? No, not really." Had she left all of her wits upstairs in his bedchamber? It seemed so. "I have played whist a few times."

  He was regarding her rather strangely, she thought, and no wonder. "Well. That's good, then." For a moment he looked as though he were about to say something more, but then his eyes seemed to lose focus again, and he absentmindedly took another bite of pheasant.

  A very sensual bite.

  Oh, stop it! she scolded herself. Determinedly, she turned her full attention to her own plate. If he felt the need for any more conversation, he could select a topic. She refused to make a fool of herself by opening her mouth again until she had herself firmly in hand.

  He appeared to feel no burning need to chat, however, so they passed the remainder of the meal in awkward silence. "Shall we go, then?" Marcus asked, rising as the last course was finally removed.

  Quinn stood, relieved to be finished with what had surely been the longest meal of her life. "Certainly. Let me just ring for my maid to bring down my spencer and bonnet."

  Her abigail brought the lightweight short jacket of salmon cambric to wear over her pale peach evening gown —all she would need, as the evening was yet warm. When Monette would have slipped it over Quinn's shoulders, however, Marcus stepped forward and took the spencer from her to do that office himself.

  The light brush of his hands on her upper arms sent a most outrageous thrill through her—one she tried unsuccessfully to subdue, though she was fairly certain she hid it well. "Thank you, my lord," she said lightly, flashing him a quick, bright smile.

  He smiled back, a vague puzzlement in his eyes, and extended his arm to lead her to their waiting carriage.

  * * *

  The crowd at the Tinsdales' was not large, as the Season was essentially over, but still there were more people in attendance than Marcus would have preferred. Odd, considering that he'd always felt perfectly at home in social situations. Looking about at the assemblage, some of whom were already congregating at the tables scattered about the small ballroom and anterooms, he wished for nothing more than to be back home —with Quinn.

  "Marcus! I confess, I didn't expect to see you here, after reading word of your marriage mere days ago!" Lord Fernworth, with a few others of his social set converged upon him. "This is our new Lady Marcus, I perceive?"

  His grin was not quite a leer, but Marcus felt an irrational urge to plant him a facer nonetheless. As usual, Ferny had quite clearly been drinking more than was good for him.

  "My lady, may I present Lord Fernworth." The introduction was stiff, so he attempted a lighter tone as he turned to the others. "I believe you met Sir Cyril Weathers at the Trumballs' last week, and this is Mr. Thatcher. Is Peter about, Harry?"

  Harry Thatcher made a show of kissing Quinn's hand— probably because he'd noticed Marcus's reaction to Ferny's words— then shook his head. "He may turn up later on, but he had some business or other to attend to first. But you know me—I hate to be late to a party."

  "Hate to miss any chance of someone else's wine," Marcus retorted, but then he grinned, taking the edge from his words. Harry could keep pace with Ferny and then some, and often did, but he was Peter's closest friend —and he himself had always liked the fellow. Why was he so touchy this evening?

  "Oh, almost forgot," Lord Fernworth said then. "Here's a fellow who particularly wanted to make your acquaintance. His father and mine were friends, though I haven't seen much of him since our school days. Been in the country the past year or two, ain't you, Noel? Lord Marcus Northrup, Lady Marcus, let me make known to you Mr. Noel Paxton."

  The gentleman named stepped forward with a pleasant smile that nevertheless hinted at a steely purpose. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord, my lady," he said, bowing. "I hadn't realized you were newly wed wh
en I asked Lord Fernworth to introduce me. I've no wish to intrude, of course."

  "No intrusion, Mr. Paxton," said Quinn graciously, offering her hand. "We are here to socialize, after all."

  Marcus nodded. "Always delighted to meet a friend of Ferny's, of course."

  "I'm glad to hear that," Mr. Paxton replied. "At some point, when it is convenient for you, of course, I'd like to have a private word with you, Lord Marcus."

  Fernworth chuckled. "Oh, yes, I should have mentioned that Noel is come to Town at Sir Nathaniel's request to act as a sort of special consultant for the Bow Street Runners. He spent some time during the war gathering intelligence, and the Runners thought to put his skills to peacetime use."

  Marcus managed to look only mildly interested. "Oh?"

  Mr. Paxton nodded. "With the war over, I confess I've rather missed a challenge. But now I believe I may have found a fresh one in this legendary Saint of Seven Dials."

  CHAPTER 13

  Quinn smiled up at the newcomer, though she wondered at Marcus's sudden stillness beside her. "An admirable pursuit no doubt, Mr. Paxton, but I'm not sure I can bring myself to wish you luck," she said. "I only became aware of the Saint's existence yesterday, upon reading about him in the paper, but he seems quite a heroic figure to me."

  "To you and to most other ladies, from what I have heard," Mr. Paxton replied. "But there is no denying that the man is a thief, and one of the most worthy adversaries I've faced. I'll pursue him with proper respect for his prowess, if that is of any comfort to you."

  The gentlemen all chuckled, though Quinn thought Marcus's laugh sounded rather forced. Clearly his disapproval of the Saint went even deeper than she had realized.

  "But why would you wish to talk to me about him?" Marcus asked then. "I certainly know no more of the man than anyone here— probably less than most."