The Reluctant Marquess

by Maggi Andersen

  “Oh ... that feels ...” Charity gasped as he took hold of her bottom and thrust up hard, loving every inch of her.

  The sensation was devastatingly wonderful. Charity threw back her head as she felt herself sliding into heaven and chewed her bottom lip to bite off a scream.

  “Not yet, my love,” Robert said, his breath coming in gasps.

  “Touch yourself.”

  “Oh, no,” Charity giggled.

  He took her hand and placed it there.

  Blushing furiously, Charity caressed the sensitive nub as he moved within her. It tightened and throbbed beneath her fingers and produced such waves of pleasure that she lost all sense of where she was. She could only see Robert’s dear face as she cast off all decorum and screamed.

  Robert delighted in her total abandonment. “Good girl,” he uttered through clenched teeth.

  A few minutes later, he gave a loud groan and pulled away, panting. Charity kissed his chest, tasting salt and clean sweat. She fell back feeling deliciously languid, almost boneless. Between her legs throbbed pleasantly. Robert tucked his hand there and nestled his face against her curls at her neck. They lay quietly until their breathing eased.

  Charity sat up. “Does your shoulder hurt?”

  He stroked a lazy hand over her back. “No, darling.” He wasn’t about to admit that it ached like the very devil.

  She gazed at the broken frame lying on the floor. It was a painting of a very unhappy looking man and woman.

  “I don’t like that Hogarth much anyway,” Robert said, drawing her down to kiss the delicious curve between her neck and shoulder. “One of his Marriage à-la-mode works.” He moved on to a nipple which firmed under his tongue. “A satirical look at arranged marriages, which he obviously didn’t believe were successful.” He drew back to look at her, his gaze frank. “Some are though, are they not? Very good, in fact.” He gave a gentle bite to the nipple, sending a delicious shiver through her.

  Charity gave a breathy giggle.

  After a wet autumn, and the following winter had been dry and surprisingly mild. Robert and Charity had spent it in long walks through the woods with Felix and in the library. She read a book by the fire, while Robert sorted through paperwork at his desk. Although he now had a secretary, a Mr Grey, and more staff, he stilled involved himself in the businesses. Charity could see he enjoyed it, and obviously had more aptitude than his uncle, for the businesses ran smoothly. Even the poetry factory was flourishing under his attention.

  Today the sun was warmer, and there were signs of spring in the soft green buds appearing on the bare branches of the trees. Daffodils and crocuses pushed their heads through the earth. Charity turned from her rocky perch at the water’s edge, where she searched for driftwood along with Felix who was sniffing at some small crustacean, to check on Robert as he sat on the lawn in a chair, reading The Tatler.

  He had rarely complained about his enforced convalescence except when banned from riding, and grumbled about reading news after it was a month old. He was so much better, having recovered from the wound far quicker than the doctor forecast, but that doctor was a dour fellow. She would arrange for a new doctor to attend her when her time came. She put her hand to her rounded belly; soon she would feel the baby move. Life was so wonderful. She had been surprised and grateful when Robert agreed to spend time here and showed no inclination to rush back to London. He would have to go eventually, they both knew, for he must take his place in Parliament.

  Charity did not mind the thought of returning to London. Now she was happy she welcomed the chance to see her friends again. Robert wished her to accompany him when he travelled, and sought her advice about the pottery factory.

  Robert even invited his mother to visit. She, Clare and Frederick had spent a pleasant sennight with them and would return for the christening. Merry was also with child. She and her new husband planned to visit when they could. The house would be filled with members of the family. How much Charity looked forward to it.

  She smiled and picked up an interesting piece of flotsam. Tossing it away, she bent to another. Robert had changed so much.

  She didn’t think it was just that he came so close to death, more that he’d come to terms with the issues in the past that tormented him. None of his fiery passion had disappeared from the bedchamber, however. She shivered with delight. He looked up to watch her as she walked towards him, and she wondered if he read her thoughts.

  This condition seemed to make all her senses alert, she was aware of the salt-laden breeze stroking her face, the smell of damp leaves on the ground, the rustle of her petticoats against her legs as she walked. Her body pulsed with life. Did her need for him show on her face? Would he continue to desire her?

  Surely not when she grew as large as Mary, the farmer’s wife, who still delivered the milk even though her time was near. She chewed on her lip.

  “Do you know what that does to me?” he asked when she reached his side. “Nibbling that plump bottom lip of yours?”

  She stroked a hand over his shoulder to the nape of his neck. She couldn’t be near and not touch him. “No. What does it do to you?” He skirted an arm around her hips and pulled her down onto his lap.

  “Perhaps you know now?”

  Charity felt him hard against her derrière and giggled. She struggled to rise, but he held her fast. “Robert! The servants will see us.”

  “Then come to the bedchamber.”

  “You can’t still desire me in this state.” She put her hand on her stomach. “I seem to have filled out in the last few days!”

  He tucked a tendril of her hair behind her ear. “You are even more lovely now, Charity. Your hair is lustrous, your eyes bright, your peachy skin so soft …” His hand lightly grazed her breasts, swollen and straining against the fabric of her gown. “If you don’t come with me now, I shall disgrace us both.”

  She pouted. “Then I must come, I suppose. And I did plan to find another piece of driftwood before dusk.” She gave him an impish smile as she climbed off his lap and was smacked on the derrière for her pains.

  “I declare you are a tease, wife.” His newspaper fluttered onto the ground as he rose and drew her away, out of sight of the house behind the broad, nubby trunk of an aged oak. He tilted her chin up, his eyes turning smoky as they did when he desired her. “You want me too. Say it.” He ran a finger over her bottom lip and bent to kiss it, ending with a small bite. “Say it,” he whispered, his fingers working to free her hair, his body urgent and hard against her.

  “Oh yes, Robert, I do. I love you so.”

  With one eye on a servant sweeping the path, he took her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”

  Charity squirmed out of his grasp. She straightened her bodice. “My lord, please behave. I declare I shall never make a marquess out of you.”

  Robert gave a loud hoot of laughter.

  TO TAKE HER PRIDE

  ANNE BREAR

  KNOX ROBINSON

  PUBLISHING

  LONDON • New York

  CHAPTER ONE

  Yorkshire, 1898

  Aurora sipped the delicately perfumed tea. Over the rim, she watched their neighbor, Julia Sinclair, chat idly to her mother, Winnie. Despite the outward appearances of two older women enjoying a high tea, Aurora felt the undercurrents simmering in the room.

  For the past three years, most Tuesdays she and her mother took a leisurely walk through the gardens and across the lawns dividing the two properties of the Sinclairs and Pettigrews. And on each visit, Mrs Sinclair did her best to assert her prominence over her “lower” neighbor. Aurora wished her mother would stand up to her, but it wasn’t in her nature. Winifred Pettigrew was as affable as a puppy and as kind as an elderly grandmother to anyone who ever gained her acquaintance. But with each Tuesday tea, Aurora grew more and more attuned to Mrs Sinclair’s belief that the Pettigrews were beneath her.

  Years of living side by side, thei
r families’ children growing into adulthood together, the shared events and celebrations did nothing in Mrs Sinclair’s eyes to close the social gap. The Sinclairs were old money, the Pettigrews were new. That was the difference. It was a difference which could never be ignored by Mrs Sinclair and suddenly, or at least in the last year or so, she had made it clear that the gap was widening as her boys started looking for wives. Aurora and her two younger sisters, Bettina and Harriet, were not for the Sinclair boys, the heir and spares to a large and impressive fortune.

  Aurora gazed around the room, noting the new Chippendale piece on the far wall and above it a recently bought painting, a Constable perhaps? If it had been anyone else’s house she would have gone to study it more closely but she hated adding to Julia Sinclair’s conceit. Over the years Mrs Sinclair had redecorated and removed nearly all traces of the previous mistress’ touches in the Hall. It was, in fact, a shrine to her own taste and judgment, which Aurora grudgingly admitted was rather fine, but Mrs Sinclair’s attitude was such that she knew it and therefore her boasting ruined all pleasure of visiting the Hall.

  Her mother nibbled a small triangle of light pastry filled with lemon curd and almonds. “Your cook has outdone herself today, Julia.”

  Mrs Sinclair briefly touched her immaculate hair, the color of coal and gathered up in wind-defying twists. As always she wore the finest of gowns, designed by the best Paris designers had to offer. “My cook has gone. In her place I’ve employed an Italian chef, Moretti, a wonderful man I found working in one of London’s best restaurants.”

  Aurora smothered a giggle. “You lured an Italian to the countryside near Leeds?”

  “I think lured is a somewhat extreme word, my dear.” Julia’s mouth thinned in irritation. “He is an older man, who found the fast pace of a busy restaurant no longer suited him.”

  “An Italian chef? How very interesting.” Mother peered at the pastry in her hand. “Though I did think your previous cook was a rare talent, too. Hadn’t she been at the Hall for many years?”

  “A simple cook is not enough, Winnie. One must have the best and my chef is exactly that. You could improve in that area yourself, I’m sure. Shall I look into the situation for you?”

  Aurora stiffened at the slight, giving the older woman a direct look. “Mrs Pringle suits us rather well.”

  “Indeed.” Mrs Sinclair gave a subtle sniff and raised a slender finger to the hovering maid to pour more tea. “You do know, dear Winnie, that Reid is currently home from London?”

  “He’s home?” Aurora’s eyes widened. She hadn’t known and stared at the doorway as if she expected him to walk through it. Quickly looking down at her teacup, she hid a smile. He was home.

  “He’s been dreadfully busy. You know how industrious he is.” Mrs Sinclair paused to select a petite finger length cucumber sandwich. “Of course, he’s never too busy for our circle of friends in London.” She ate carefully, delicately. “Naturally he is much sought after…” She gave Aurora a subtle glance. “Many a debutante desires the Sinclair heir as a husband.”

  “And has he settled on one?” her mother asked innocently, unaware of Aurora’s intake of breath.

  “I do believe there is a special lady who has caught his eye. Always a closed one is my darling Reid. I suppose being the eldest of four sons has taught him to be careful with his secrets in case the boys tease him.”

  “Someone tease Reid?” Her mother’s eyes widened at the absurdity of the idea.

  “Is-is Reid at home today or out riding?” Aurora grimaced as her voice squeaked. She listened for any evidence he might be close by. Why hadn’t he been to see her?

  “He’s probably with his father and occupied with estate business.” Julia’s guileless smirk didn’t hide the coldness of her manner. “He has no need to waste his time sipping tea with the ladies. You know how he is. I do fear business will overtake his life. He has such a passion for it.” She frowned. “I do wish he wouldn’t be so zealous about things.”

  “He is a dear boy.” Winnie took a macaroon. “Dreadfully polite and so interesting. He once spoke to me on matters of some trade he was overseeing that quite confused me.” She chuckled at her own limitations. “He now knows I have no head for commerce.”

  “No self-respecting lady should, Winnie dear.” Mrs Sinclair tutted.

  “I don’t believe that.” Aurora couldn’t help but speak out. “Many women, high ranking women, run estates and properties. If their husbands have died they must learn to guard their children’s inheritance.”

  “Surely that task should be left to trustees.”

  “Why? Why shouldn’t a wife or mother control her own destiny?” Aurora glanced from her mother, who blinked rapidly, to Mrs Sinclair, whose eyes narrowed with distaste.

  “Did you hear that Amelia Williams from Grange Way is to be married in June?” Winnie broke the strained silence. “The groom is from Manchester would you believe. I do so like summer weddings.”

  “I did hear, yes. We are invited, as I expect you are. I think this coming year will see many weddings.” Their hostess preened. “I expect an engagement announcement from Reid any day now. Obviously, it won’t be to someone in this district. No doubt she will be a London beauty, perhaps even linked to nobility. He mixes in those circles, you see, so it would be suitably natural for him to choose from such exalted society.”

  Aurora tensed, the blow hitting her hard between the breastbone. She wanted to block her ears. None of it was true. Reid was hers. The fragile porcelain handle of the teacup snapped in her hand and the last few drops of her tea spilled down her sprigged gown and to the Turkish rug on the floor.

  “Oh!” Mrs Sinclair jumped up as though the hounds of Hell had been let through the door, while Aurora’s mother quickly used a napkin to dab at the stain.

  “Has it burnt you, my dear?” Her mother’s worried tone brought Aurora back from the jolt Julia’s words had caused.

  “No. I’m fine, Mother.” She stared at her hostess. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Sinclair, for breaking your piece.”

  “Please, think nothing of it. It wasn’t a favorite set at all.” Julia Sinclair was all smiles, though her ice blue eyes were hard as marble as she directed a maid to clean up the mess.

  No, we don’t deserve to drink from a favorite set, Aurora fumed. Unable to take any more of their neighbor, she reached for her mother’s elbow. “We must go, Mother. I need to change.”

  With apologies and promises to see each other at the harvest festival on Saturday, they departed from the magnificent Sinclair Hall, its sandstone brick mellow from years of weather. Aurora escaped across the wide flat lawns skirted by well-tended garden beds flowering in a late rush summer bloom. A male peacock strutted out from beneath a large sycamore tree, opening his beautiful fanned tail for the hens to notice and Aurora grimaced. Julia even had regal birds to show off.

  “Aurora, do slow down, my dear.”

  “Sorry, Mother.” Once through the wooden gate leading to their own less illustrious grounds, Aurora let out breath, not realizing she had held it. Her head pounded and it wasn’t caused by the evening storm building in the distance. She vowed that this would be the last Tuesday tea she would attend. Bettina and Harriet at sixteen and fifteen were old enough to go, she’d done her penance. But it wasn’t the afternoon tea, or even Mrs Sinclair’s superior attitude that plagued her. It was the news that Reid was looking for a wife that had shattered her world as easily as a spoon shattered the top of an egg.

  Reid married. How would she bear it?

  “As you know I do not like being uncharitable, but I do believe Julia was rather smug today.” Winnie sighed as they entered the front entrance of their warm red brick house, which although only half the size of Sinclair Hall, was filled to the brim with love and laughter. It may not have the expensive items Julia boasted, or the years of history the Hall claimed, but the house was comforting, like a warm blanket on cold winter’s night.

  “Mother, she is always
smug. It is her character.” Aurora gave her hat and gloves to Tibbleton, their butler. How could she act normally after today? She wanted to go hide somewhere and think and grieve and try to imagine Reid, her tall handsome Reid, standing with another on his arm. No, surely not. He wouldn’t do it to her. He knew her feelings.

  “Now, darling, that is not nice.”

  “And neither is she,” Aurora snapped, pouring her anger into Reid’s mother, a worthy recipient. “I cannot stand how-” She turned as her sisters came rushing down the staircase.

  “Mother! Aurora!” They chorused as one.

  “Really, girls. Do not shout.” Mother smiled her thanks to Tibbleton and sailed forth into the withdrawing room, which had none of the formality the Hall possessed, but instead was haphazardly arranged with bits of furniture. Many a visitor has had to remove a bonnet, a newspaper, or sewing from a chair before sitting down. Winnie waited for her two younger daughters to be seated with a patience her family adored. “Now, what is your news?”

  “We’ve been invited to Captain Lee’s harvest ball next week.” Bettina gushed. “It’s been hastily arranged.”

  “Why yes, he only returned home from the continent last week.” Their mother quickly went to her small mahogany secretary on the far wall and sat down on the plush red velvet chair placed before it. “I’ll check my diary. Really, the Captain should know better…”

  “The Captain is without a female to guide him in such matters, Mother.” Aurora smiled, liking the genial old army captain, who, since the death of his wife and more recently his widowed daughter, lived alone at Sommervale Lodge a few miles to the south of them.

  “We will go, of course,” their mother muttered, writing in her diary. “Your father greatly admires the Captain.”

  “Talking about me again?” Josiah Pettigrew strolled through the doorway, his tall thin frame commanding the room.