He studied her, and his features softened. “No.” Running his knuckles over his jaw, he scratched the growth of his beard. “Sit.”
Didn’t Marcus consider her a traitor? Was she?
She took her seat. Marcus motioned for her to resume eating. She wasn’t hungry anymore. He filled her glass. “You are too kind to me.”
“Hardly.” Marcus rolled his shoulders to ease tension.
How effortless it was for him. Everything but reading, anyway. Everything but reading came at a great cost to her.
Like falling in and out of love in the space of a night.
“You wouldn’t let that ruin our friendship?” She needed to understand his position. If he were at odds with her, she needed to know.
“I’ve witnessed enough to appreciate how it is.”
Words failed to form in response. He was the most patient, most kind and reasonable man she knew. He was tender when he could have so easily been cruel. Like a starved person, a taste wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted, she realized, something she knew she shouldn’t ask for.
It had been too long since she’d felt something other than anger or grief or fear. She needed to feel alive, and Marcus, for all his faults, could do that. She was sure of it.
Henrietta slipped her hands under the table. She balled them into fists to feel her strength. And then she sought Marcus’s calm blue eyes. “Could you, do you think you could fall in love with me for one night?”
Chapter 13
Marcus cleared his throat. He should clear his ears to make sure he heard her right. Her face was a tumble of innocence and determination. Pink dusted the faint freckles on her cheeks. She said it and meant it, but that didn’t change the fact he was so far out of his depth with her. She might think his silence was a rejection if he didn’t answer her soon.
It wasn’t that he didn’t believe she only wanted one night from him, but he was pretty sure one night wouldn’t be enough for either of them.
“Hetty Betty, I could fall in love with you for a week, and it wouldn’t fix the hurt or desperation you feel. Then, you’ll not only hate me, but you’ll hate yourself too. I couldn’t live with that.”
She blinked rapidly, her eyes shining too brightly. “A week? I thought . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Tell me. What did you think?”
She pressed her lips and looked away. “I don’t expect… I mean, I wouldn’t hate you. I know I’ve never been desirable. Not unless a dowry was attached. Forget I asked.” Henrietta stood and collected her bowl and their glasses. She sniffled, lifting her chin, and put on a brave face with a forced smile. “I’ve embarrassed myself.”
Marcus caught her arm. Her fork slid and clattered to the floor.
“Put the plates down.” His voice was lower than he meant, rougher too. Not like before when he was angry. Like recklessness and lust.
She stood motionless, frozen in confusion, until he tugged her onto his lap.
He needed her to look at him. He needed her to see what she did to him because he didn’t have the words to say it himself. She dismantled him. She knew him in ways he never let others see. And her lack of guile, her artless attempts at flirting, her easy acceptance of who he was, took the strings of his heart and played them.
“That’s better.” He set the dishes on the table and pushed them aside. He brought his arms around her in a loose embrace.
“You know, Hetty Betty, I might ask the same of you.”
She lifted her head. Confusion worked across her brow. “Ask me what?”
“Could you fall in love with me for a night?”
Impatience reinforced her rigid posture. He took it as a challenge. “Yes.”
“That means tomorrow morning, you and I are friends again.”
She nodded, eyes a little too wide. Was it fear? He’d guess it was because she didn’t fully understand what he was asking.
“And you shall go back to courting that fop of yours.”
She choked. “Marcus.”
Her skin flushed a deep red. With his finger, he traced the tide of it along her neck and jaw, feeling her muscles give with each heated inch.
“Even though I shall know you from the inside out.”
Her mouth opened and closed. Understanding dropped into her pretty brown eyes. “Yes.”
He captured her cheeks in his hands, holding her face before his. “And you’ll know me.”
“Yes.” Her breath was a puff against his lips. He brought her closer and took her mouth for a serious kiss. There was nothing playful or tentative about it. This was business, sealing a deal. Christ, he could seal a deal with her all night, the way her mouth fit to his.
Her fingers skimmed his forearms, leaving a trail of goosebumps before reaching for his hands and weaving her fingers through his still holding her face.
She drew back, serious again. “Just one night. I don’t have more in me.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath feathering against her wet lips. “Doubtful.” Then he kissed her again, thinking he’d take his time, shower her with patience. But he had it all wrong. Henrietta returned his kisses like a ship desperate for wind. As if she’d sailed around the equator for years with nothing but the sweltering sun on her back and hardtack in her belly, and now she was offered northerly winds and greedily took them. He had that to give. Of the few things he was good at, woodworking, sedition, and loyalty, he could add comfort.
There was no hiding the fact that he was hard beneath her round bottom. She tasted like wine, and she made him drunk with want. She would make a meal of him too, before this was over.
“Bedroom,” he groaned in her ear, catching the curved shell between his teeth. A gasp escaped her throat, a shudder down her spine. “Did you think we would do this here, where we might be interrupted? You might find that exciting, but Shrupp is the last image I want in my mind while I’m—”
She leaped from his lap. “Fine. Yes.” She looked around as if expecting to find Shrupp sitting by the hearth taking notes.
Marcus wanted to rise from his chair and carry her to her room, lay her on the bed, and work his way from her hair all the way to her toes, giving her all the tenderness she required to feel cherished and adored. He pushed his chair back with a squeak. This was going to be a challenge.
Good thing creativity came easily to him.
Henrietta had a head start on him to the bedroom. He followed slowly, nudging the chair along the short hall. By the time he’d make it to her room, she should have calmed down enough to rethink this plan. She could still send him away. It was her choice. From now on, it would always be her choice. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
He squeaked into her doorway. A single candle burned within, flickering soft orange light in a glass lantern on a desk. She sat on her high bed, tracing a pattern in the rug with her toe.
“Second thoughts?”
Her head popped up. “No.”
“If you did, I wouldn’t be angry. Just because we started . . .” He let his words trail off.
“Come in. Turn the key, please.” Her voice wavered as she strove for control.
Marcus did as she asked. She’d removed her silly cap. Candlelight danced on the tight ringlets of her hair, the curls threatening to riot from their pins. He wanted to dig his fingers into her tresses and find out for himself how soft they were, how riotous, how tight.
Henrietta eased off the bed and stood, smoothing the front of her skirts. Her hands trembled over the layers. She found the center of her stays where the laces tied and worked at it until they gaped, like Marcus’s mouth. He realized a moment later and shut it, swallowing.
Marcus watched this guileless disrobing. He leaned forward, wanting to discover every detail, commit this to memo
ry because he was sure he’d never get the chance for this again. This bravery, this sorcery.
She untied her pocket. It joined the pool on the floor. She untied her skirts. They pooled with the rest.
Only her shift remained.
In the low flickering light, her nipples were dark circles against the white of her shift. He rolled closer, drawn to the gilding of her curves through the thin fabric.
“Take down your hair.”
Her hands rose, uncertain. Was it the command that unsettled her, or the realization of how far she’d come? He saw the moment of her decision when the set of her jaw softened from defiance to desire.
One by one, her curls sprang loose. She turned to set the pins on the desk, and when she did, the candlelight glowed through her shift, silhouetting her body in gold. She dug her fingers into her hair. It was the most natural thing, something she probably did every night without thinking, lifting her curls from her scalp, and sighing from her own ministrations. Marcus had never seen anything more alluring.
He shifted in his seat, palming his erection through the tightness of his breeches.
Her eyes widened in surprise, transfixed by his arousal.
“Did you think I’d be unaffected?”
The shadow of her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. He wanted to lick that spot, savor her restlessness.
“I can see everything. I told you, my eyes work fine.” He rolled his chair closer. “My hands work fine too. Come here.”
She gave a shy laugh and came to him, settling on his lap as she had in the kitchen.
Spooling a handful of her thick curls around his fingers, he brought it to his nose and moaned at the floral scent, the lavender and rose that had become a beacon for him. The rhythm of her breath hitched. He drew back and smiled at her.
“I like how your hair smells.”
Her smile was slow, her eyes curious. She reached for a lock of his hair, plucking it from the leather cord that bound it, and did the same. “Sawdust. You always smell like sawdust.” She sniffed again, and her nose wriggled. “And salt.” She stroked his cheek where his beard grew, tilting his face up to meet hers. “Like the sea. How is that?”
He traced the length of her spine. She shivered, making him very aware of her curves pressed against his body, the heat of her round arse nestled on top of his cock. There were far too many layers of clothes between them.
“The ropes.” He didn’t want to talk. He was busy drawing his fingertips across the smooth, warm flesh of her back above the neckline of her shift. There wasn’t a patch of skin he didn’t want to touch with his mouth, his nose, his fingers. All of it. He wanted all of her. “Kiss me.”
Her eyes closed as she brought her mouth to his. There was nothing tentative about the way she cradled his face, holding him right where she needed him. He let her play, nibbling at the edge of his lips, running her nose against the textures of his cheek. Everything tightened inside of him. There was nothing he wouldn’t let her do.
“I can shave you tomorrow,” she said against his ear, stroking his beard.
He breathed his amusement. “No, you won’t.” He nipped at her jaw. This was the problem with friendship and passion. She was blurring the lines. “Friends don’t shave each other.”
She laughed, louder than she intended by the way her hand flew to her mouth. “Women don’t shave.”
“Ladies don’t shave.” He winced. Was he a complete, bumbling oaf? Had he never taken a woman to bed before?
Henrietta regarded him. Her eyes slipped from his, making a study of his pouting lips. “What do some women shave that ladies don’t?”
He took her chin between his fingers and kissed her mouth hungrily, hoping she’d forget this conversation. Her mouth opened for him, and he stole inside, seeking refuge. Desire flared like a white-hot fire. He was half-mad with want for her. He ignored the other half, telling him this was a bad idea.
Gasping for breath, she said, “Tell me. I want to know.”
No, she didn’t. He was a fool, but he couldn’t deny her.
His fingers traveled down her shift, between the valley of her breasts where he planned to return and spend hours exploring. Then lower, over the curve of her soft belly, to the thatch of curls at the juncture of her thighs.
“This,” he whispered in her ear at the same time as giving a tuft a tug. She whimpered.
He cupped her there, absorbing her heat with his palm, lost in her womanly, musky scent, and her low moan of frustration coming up against the sharp edge of his own desire.
Breathless, she said, “Why?”
He set his forehead against her cheek. This was the worst seduction of his life, and yet, despite it, it was working. “Cleanliness.”
She placed her hand over his, between her thighs. “I’m clean.”
“I have no doubt.” He angled to kiss her neck.
She stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Do you go often to those women?”
Before he could answer, she pressed her fingers to his mouth. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
He grabbed her wrist, kissing her fingers. “Sure it is. If we are to be lovers, even for one night, you should know.”
Her brow crinkled. He kissed her there, smoothing the spot between her eyes.
“Why? So I can feel jealous?” Her fingers wove into his hair, setting off a cascade of exquisite chills. “You know I have little experience beyond what it takes to get with child. A situation I beg you not to leave me with.”
He tightened his hold on her. “I’ll not leave you with child. I promise. Nor shame or jealousy. I don’t go to prostitutes. I did once, a long time ago. ’Twas not for me. I didn’t enjoy the drama of it.”
“I kissed a boy once. A long time ago. Apparently, I brought too much drama.”
“Not drama, Henrietta. Surprise. You surprised me.” He gathered her up and kissed her soundly, as he should have all those years ago. Tangling his tongue with hers, he showed her what he would have done had he known what he was about. He would have kissed her until they were both breathless.
He cradled her face. “I couldn’t believe Henrietta Smith chose me. I still can’t believe it. Convince me.”
“Touch me. Please.”
He didn’t mind taking instruction. If she knew what she wanted, he’d gladly give it all to her. His hands cupped her full breasts, pressing them together, his thumbs rolling over her nipples, peaking like sweet, hard pastilles. He brought his mouth to one, then the other. Through the soft fabric of her shift, they tasted just as sweet.
~ ~ ~
Henrietta sighed. Her mind emptied. Nothing but feeling remained, stirring her up from her breasts to the damp heat between her legs. “More,” she pleaded. “There must be more.” She’d never had less control over her mouth as she did now.
“There’s so much more,” Marcus promised with a ragged breath, working his way back to her throat.
Letting her head slip to her shoulders, she gave more of herself to him, and he took. The light trail of his fingers on her ankle glided up her calf. Instead of tickling her, it set her afire. His thumbnail notched a line behind her knee, damp with sweat. She took leave of her inhibitions and writhed over his hardness, taking for herself what she’d never dared before.
It felt good. Better than good. She was alive.
His hand under her shift urged her thighs apart.
This was a new dance for her, one where the steps weren’t agreed upon first, and she had to trust him to lead her around the ballroom. In the past, she’d been a wallflower, watching as if from a distance, but never like this, with her whole body in attendance, the attention entirely on herself, and her skin ablaze with passion.
He turned her around, resting her back against his chest, legs straddli
ng his. One hand toyed with a breast while the other skimmed along the curve of her bare thigh, her shift rucked to her hips. Her hands gripped the armrests. It was too much to relax into his touch and not do something in return. Shouldn’t she touch him? She could stroke his legs or reach behind to grasp the back of his head, tangle her fingers in his hair.
“Shhhh, I can hear you thinking.” The hand from her breast gathered her hair, twisting it, raising it off her neck where his nose skimmed her skin. “You’ll like this.”
“I do.”
“Not this. This.”
He nipped the skin of her neck between his teeth, causing a deep ache to echo between her legs.
Giving in, surrendering to him, she delighted in the feel of his hands moving over her body.
His hands met between her thighs, sifting through the tight coils of her mound to her wet heat. He waited for her to grow accustomed to his intimate touch. Moving his palm in a slow circle, he caressed her. Her breathing grew erratic, her head slipping back onto his shoulder. Marcus slid his fingers through the wet contours of her folds, inside her slickness, and filling her.
“Oh.” Her insides tightened, trying to catch him sliding in and out.
“You do like this.”
She was a rush of emotion, a surge of desire. She absolutely liked this. Sounds she never imagined making rose from her throat and she didn’t care. He withdrew and thrust again, gathering her wetness, favoring a sensitive bundle of nerves at the top. He circled and circled as her arousal surged.
She needed his hand on her breast. Needed to feel the squeeze and roll on her nipple to counter the growing ache and emptiness between her thighs. She took his idle hand and guided him, moaning her pleasure, twisting, reaching for his mouth to kiss him senseless. Her body swayed and twitched, tightening in turn.
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 12