Her Protector's Pleasure

by Callaway, Grace

  "Let's not forget about you," she said with a dazed laugh.

  She took him as wholly as she could with her mouth, her hands pumping what could not fit. His groan rumbled against her flesh, and she shuddered, stimulated beyond bearing. She rocked against him with reckless abandon as she gorged on his manhood. She rode toward the summit, needing to take him there as well.

  "I'm close, love," he said in guttural warning.

  She resisted his efforts to dislodge her.

  "Come with me," she gasped, coming up for air. "I want to taste you, too."

  His entire frame shook at her words. His touch roughened, the pace driving and relentless, and she returned his caresses measure for measure. She sucked and fisted him as his fingers rammed into her, his tongue stoking her wildness. When his teeth grazed her pearl, she screamed, the fever breaking, splintering her apart.

  He shouted out at the same time, and she tasted his bliss, drank it in as the perfect accompaniment to her own. His pleasure warmed her inside out, melting her bones. For endless moments, she lay limp against his thighs, cocooned by the music of their labored breaths and the musky fragrance of their loving.

  Somehow he found the energy to move. He gathered her to his chest, pressed a kiss against her forehead. His voice rumbled beneath her ear.

  "A night with you, Marianne … it's more than I expected of a lifetime."

  Her heart too full to speak, she snuggled closer.

  THIRTY

  Later that week, Emma cast her eyes around Madame Rousseau's changing room and whispered, "Are you certain about this, Marianne? I don't need a French dressmaker; I can sew my own dresses. If you take me to the nearest draper's—"

  "When it comes to shopping, I am always certain." Marianne cut off further protest with the wave of her hand. "Do not worry about the cost, dear. Your job is to concentrate on cultivating your style."

  "My style?" The girl's smooth forehead lined as she looked down at her patched and shapeless undergarments. "I am not sure I have one."

  "Precisely. 'Tis the problem we are here to remedy."

  On cue, the modiste bustled back through the curtained doorway, bolts of fabric clasped in her thin arms. "Je les ai trouvés! The muslins that I was telling you about." Setting the lot down on her work table, she unrolled a length of white fabric patterned with china blue stripes. "What do you think of this one?"

  Emma's eyes widened. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

  "Unfortunately, many agree with you. I've seen that print on everyone from milkmaids to dowagers," Marianne said. "We'll need something more unique."

  Amelie gave a brisk nod. "Alors, here is another choice. A sprigged lilac: understated yet with a touch of sophistication."

  "It's the most beautiful thing—" Emma began.

  Marianne wrinkled her nose. "Rather dull, I should say."

  "I have it somewhere—" Rummaging through the pile, Amelie pulled out a bolt. "Voilà. The perfect choice."

  Marianne examined the selection. The eggshell muslin was simple, yet it had a subtle, glowing sheen to it. The effect was both pragmatic and spirited. In the week that she'd spent with Emma, she'd come to admire the girl for just those qualities.

  "Not bad," she conceded. "What do you think, dear?"

  "It's the most beautiful thing ... er, isn't it?" Emma said.

  Marianne exchanged rueful looks with the modiste.

  "Charmant." The modiste's lips twitched. "The girl suits the frock, n'est-ce pas?"

  "We'll start with this one, then. What do you have in mind for the passimeterie, Amelie?"

  "The what?" Emma interjected.

  "The trimmings, dear," Marianne said. "Madame Rousseau is renowned for her cleverness in ornamentation."

  Amelie preened. "We keep it simple, non? Rosettes, composed from the same muslin ... perhaps with a few amethyst beads sewn in the center. And vines embroidered along the hem."

  "Fresh and delightful. Just like Emma," Marianne said, smiling.

  Emma flushed. "'Tis terribly generous of you, my lady. But the expense—"

  "Is not your concern," Marianne said firmly. "Now do hold still for Madame to take your measurements."

  After the fitting, Marianne and Emma left the boutique. They decided to walk the few elm-lined blocks to Gunter's Tea Shop, where they were to meet up with the others. Helena and Percy had volunteered to act as guides for the other Kents whilst Marianne took Emma on the much-needed shopping expedition.

  One thing I can take off my list. Pleased with the results of the morning, Marianne flicked open her parasol. Now that Emma's countrified facade was on its way to becoming a thing of the past, Marianne planned to tackle Harry next. With his fit figure and intelligent wit, the lad had the makings of a proper gentleman—if only he would stop blowing things up. Harry was the scientist of the family, and, as Polly had confided, he went by the philosophy that "every failure is a step toward success."

  Clearly, Harry was taking the long road to triumph when it came to his experiments. Marianne hoped the sacrifice of her Dresden pitcher had been worth it. In truth, she couldn't feel anything but warm amusement toward Harry; his earnest charm reminded her too much of his older brother. Just thinking of Ambrose made her chest go soft like the center of a perfectly boiled egg.

  Her skin prickled as she recalled being awakened by Ambrose's kiss this morning, by the slow, filling thrust of his body. His patience had driven her wild, and nothing she'd done—her pleas, her kisses—had dissuaded him from taking her in the manner of his choice. With a raffish grin, he'd turned her over, and her cheeks heated even now as she recalled how she'd sung her release into the pillow.

  "Are you getting overheated, Marianne? You look flushed."

  Emma's concerned voice reeled her back. Made her face burn even more.

  "'Tis the heat," she said, clearing her throat. "An ice at Gunter's will be most refreshing. Your siblings will enjoy it, I think."

  "I'm certain they will. As will I." A line appeared between Emma's sable brows.

  "You don't look happy about the fact," Marianne observed.

  "Oh, but I am! Please don't think me ungrateful." Beneath the brim of her well-worn bonnet, Emma's lashes flew upward. "It's just that, well, I feel ... guilty."

  "About?"

  The girl chewed her lip. "You've gone to such expense for us. How shall we ever repay—"

  "Emma, dear, do not concern yourself over money," Marianne said. "Your brother is assisting me with a matter, and I assure you if there is any debt involved, it is mine."

  "May I ask what Ambrose is helping you with?"

  "That is private."

  Emma's gaze fell to the paved walk, and Marianne silently cursed herself for her cutting tone, which had emerged on instinct. When would she get over this tendency to push others away? Would she one day be able to remove the walls she'd erected around herself?

  She struggled to find a way to apologize—another skill she lacked.

  Emma spoke first. "I need to ask you a question, my lady. It's impertinent, I'm afraid."

  Seeing the resolute set of the other's shoulders, Marianne said, "I gather you are not asking my permission."

  "If I may be frank, it's about Ambrose," Emma said in that dogged Kent manner, "and your … er, relationship with him." Gathering a deep breath, the girl looked Marianne straight in the eye. "Which we both know is not entirely one of employer and employee."

  "You are concerned that Ambrose and I are lovers?" Marianne said with equal bluntness.

  Emma's terse nod caused a deflating sensation in Marianne's stomach. Even this snippet of a girl questioned such a liaison. Well, Marianne could not fault her. From what she'd observed over the past week, the younger Kents idolized their older brother. No doubt they'd want him to be paired with a different sort of woman—one as steady and good as he.

  Not some notorious widow, certainly.

  "What are your intentions toward him?" Emma said.

  "That is betw
een him and me," Marianne replied tightly.

  "Not when it involves the rest of us. We're staying with you, depending on your generosity," Emma said, her voice quivering, "and it isn't right. Not unless …"

  "Unless?" Marianne cocked a brow.

  "Do you mean to do the honorable thing by him?"

  A choked sound escaped Marianne. "Haven't you got things turned around?"

  "Obviously, you don't know my brother as well as I do. He is a gentleman to the core. He wouldn't dream of asking you to marry him because you're rich and we're … not." Emma shrugged, and Marianne had to give the other points for directness. "Personally, I couldn't give a care about the money. We Kents don't need much to be happy." Emma drew to a halt on the walk, her young face fiercely set. "But I cannot stand by and watch Ambrose get hurt again."

  Aware of the curious gazes of passersby, Marianne took Emma's arm and guided her along. Quietly, she said, "Has he been hurt before?"

  "He hasn't told you about Jane?" Emma blurted.

  "We haven't talked much about his past," Marianne said with a twinge of guilt. We've been too focused on mine.

  "Perhaps I oughtn't have mentioned—"

  "'Tis too late now. One cannot be candid halfway," Marianne said dryly.

  "You do have a point." Sighing, Emma said, "Jane Harrow was the baker's widow. She was only twenty-four when her husband died and very pretty. All the men in our village sniffed at her heels, but she set her sights on Ambrose."

  Jealousy knifed Marianne in the chest. Ridiculous ... but there it was. "He returned Miss Harrow's interest?"

  Emma nodded. "Jane would come by our cottage on the weekends when Ambrose came to visit. She'd bring baked goods—she made the most marvelous cakes—and flirt with him. Soon, my brother started courting her. After a year, they became engaged. I think Ambrose quite fancied the notion of being married. He was saving up to buy a cottage for him and Jane."

  A cottage and a pretty country wife who cooked. Of course that is what Ambrose wanted.

  "What happened?" Marianne said grimly.

  "We did. One tragedy after another struck our family. First Mother died and then Father developed apoplexy and couldn't work any longer. It fell on Ambrose to care for all of us. Truthfully, he'd been supporting us all along, but now he had to use all his earnings just to keep us afloat. He had to put off getting married." With a dark glance, Emma added, "That made Jane angry."

  "But his situation—surely she understood his loyalty to his family."

  "She wanted to have her own comforts," Emma said in flat tones, "and she was tired of waiting. Besides, I don't think she liked us very much."

  "Why ever not?" Marianne said, surprised. Though she'd spent only a week with them, she found the Kents altogether charming. They were undeniably a ragtag bunch, yet there was an innocence to the family, a fierce devotion to one another that made her want to shelter them from the ugliness of the world. For one wistful moment, she let herself imagine what it would be like to belong ... to be a part of such unconditional love.

  "In Chudleigh Crest we were considered a bit ... odd." A look flashed across Emma's face, and she quickly shrugged. "Not that it mattered to us. At any rate, Jane found herself another beau—a wealthy merchant passing through the village. She ran off with him."

  "Dear God."

  Emma nodded grimly. "When Ambrose found out, he went after them. He felt responsible, I think, because he had made Jane wait for him. He caught up with them in Brighton."

  "And?"

  "Jane was living under the merchant's protection. Apparently, he had a wife in London." With a look of disgust, Emma said, "Ambrose offered to take Jane back, to marry her—but she refused. Said it was better to be a rich man's mistress than a poor man's wife."

  Anger smoldered beneath Marianne's breastbone. The heartless bitch.

  "My brother has sacrificed too much for us. I hope you understand why I don't wish for him to be hurt again," Emma said.

  "I'm not planning on hurting him." Yet guilt needled Marianne. She'd offered Ambrose so very little—nothing more than the moment. Whilst he ... he was helping her find her very heart again.

  "Would you consider marrying him?" Emma asked.

  "That has not come up." Discomfited by that inquiring brown gaze, Marianne said with a touch of defensiveness, "He hasn't brought it up, you know."

  "And if he did?"

  "That is between him and me." Thank God they had arrived at Berkeley Square. Marianne spotted Helena's open-air carriage beneath the waving maples, the Kents' heads gleaming in the sunlight as they ate their ices. "Ah, there is your family now. Let us rejoin them."

  Emma chuffed out a breath. "If I may say just one more thing?"

  Marianne raised a brow.

  "I like you," the girl said, her eyes earnest, "and I hope you will consider marrying my brother. He's a good sort—loyal and loving." Her gaze lowered to the scuffed tips of her boots. "And I give you my word, my lady, that I shall do my best to care for my family. We shan't get in your way."

  Marianne's throat thickened. Who knew the power of sincerity? The Kents seem to have it in spades. She tipped the other's chin up.

  "Dearest girl," she said, "no matter how things unfold between Ambrose and me, you and your family are never the problem, do you understand?"

  Emma blinked, her nod uncertain.

  "Now let us join the others—" Marianne began when an urchin dressed in grimy rags came jogging up.

  "Are you Lady Draven?" the boy said.

  "I am," Marianne said, frowning.

  The urchin held out a note. "For you, yer ladyship."

  Marianne exchanged a coin for the sealed note. The urchin scampered off. A feeling of foreboding stole over her as she saw her name written in an unfamiliar hand.

  "Who is that from?" Emma said.

  Marianne forced a smile. "I'm not sure. Run along to Lady Harteford's carriage. I shall join you in a minute."

  Brow furrowed, Emma did as she was told.

  Marianne broke the wax seal. She scanned the single line, and her insides turned to ice.

  Has Kent told you he's being paid by Sir Coyner of Bow Street to investigate you?

  *****

  "You're to wait for Sir Coyner in here, my lady." Blushing to the roots of his fair hair, the clerk led Marianne into a well-appointed office and hurried to pull out one of the chairs facing the desk. "If there's anything I can get you—"

  "That won't be necessary," Marianne said calmly as she sat. Inside, her emotions roiled like a tempest. "Don't let me keep you from your work."

  Bowing, the clerk left the room. The moment the door clicked shut, Marianne rose and circled to the other side of the desk. She wasn't sure what she was looking for—a clue, any reason at all why Bow Street might have an interest in her. She went through the neat stacks and found nothing. At the sound of footsteps, her eyes flitted to the door ... but whoever it was passed by the office. She returned her attention to the desk, eyeing the drawers. Dare she?

  She pulled open the top one.

  Her heart shot into her throat. Bloody hell.

  With a trembling hand, she lifted the gilded invitation from the drawer. A hunting party, this weekend at the Earl of Pendleton's estate. The coincidence sent her thoughts spiraling, the connections ricocheting in her head. The invitation indicated that the magistrate knew Pendleton. And Leach had worked for Pendleton. Had Pendleton hired Bow Street to monitor her—was the earl the one who had Primrose?

  Her head snapped up at the approaching footsteps. She shoved the invitation inside her reticule and closed the drawer. She made it to the window by the desk just before the door opened. Pulse racing, she turned to face the magistrate. The moment she saw Sir Coyner's overly pleasant expression, her heart froze.

  He knows something. He's involved—does that mean Kent is too?

  The notion made her want to weep. Instead she said in cordial tones, "What a lovely view you have, Sir Coyner."

  "Thank
you, my lady." There was no hint of deference in the magistrate's educated accents; she had a faint recollection that he was connected to titles and worked out of fancy rather than necessity. A true believer in justice. The irony made her sick.

  "What do I owe the honor of this visit?" Beneath his neat mustache, his forced smile resembled more of a grimace.

  She'd thought through her strategy on the carriage ride over. She needed answers: the time for dissembling had passed, and the element of surprise would be her greatest ally.

  "Why are you having me followed?" she said.

  Coyner's throat worked, his Adam's apple surfacing over the top of his silk cravat. He recovered quickly. "I don't know what you mean," he said heartily.

  "I think you do," she said, approaching him, "and I want the name of your client. Who hired you to have me watched?"

  The magistrate drew himself up. "Bow Street is a respected institution, my lady. Unlike some,"—Coyner shot her a scathing look—"we at this office believe in law and order. And we uphold client confidentiality to the highest standards."

  "So someone did hire you," she said coldly.

  "I will neither confirm nor deny—"

  "You flaming bastard, did you order Ambrose Kent to monitor me?"

  Coyner blinked rapidly, his eyes shifting. He moistened his lips. Without saying a blessed thing, the magistrate had given her the answer. The last embers of hope snuffed out. Ambrose had betrayed her. From the very start, he'd been lying to her.

  Everything was a sham ... he's no different from the rest. From Draven or Skinner or any other man. And like the veriest fool, I let myself be taken again.

  Her heart began crumbling in her chest. Relentlessly, she held it together—caged it in a wall of ice. Cold and impenetrable, the only way to survive.

  "How much did you pay him for the job?" she said with frosty derision. "Did you give him extra for seducing the suspect to get the truth?"

  "Christ, he bedded you—" As if realizing what he'd admitted, the magistrate cut himself off. He pressed his lips together. "Any compensation we provide to our employees is solely for ethical purposes."