Her continued poise stretched him to the brink. He rounded the elaborately carved table—a relic of his mother’s, and a table his father had subsequently refused to dine at—wanting no more barriers between them. No more table, no more linens, no more china and chicken fricassee. No more pretense.
She was being cool and aloof, and he did not like it, damn it. Not one whit. Her eyes widened, brows arched in surprise as he caught her elbows and lifted her from her chair with scarcely any effort. The chair in question toppled over behind her under the swiftness of his action.
“I do not want your mutt,” he informed her coldly.
“Julius Caesar is not my mutt,” she corrected him, unassailable as ever. “He is yours.”
“A lofty name for a furred creature who stinks and hides beneath my desk,” he snapped. And then, the temptation to touch her face proved too great to resist. His fingers rested upon her soft, smooth chin, tipping it up. Tilting her waiting, delicious mouth toward his. “Furthermore, I do not now, nor have I ever desired, a creature to tend to.”
“Perhaps not,” A lone, neat brow rose, taunting him. “But perhaps you may long for companionship. Dogs are very loyal creatures, quite comforting, or so I am told by Freddy.”
Jealousy surged through him, bitter and sharp and stinging. He did not like the way it felt. His brows snapped together as he pinned her with his most ferocious frown. “Who the devil is Freddy?” he growled.
Whoever the fellow was, Morgan would make him swallow his teeth. At the very least, he would leave the bastard wishing he had never importuned the Marchioness of Searle. Devil take it, was Freddy a former suitor of hers? His ears were growing hotter by the moment as he contemplated all the possible reasons for his wife being acquainted with a cursed Freddy who fancied he could speak on behalf of all canines.
She flushed, and by God, the delicious pink tinge swept over her cheeks, down her throat, and all across her delectable décolletage. She resembled nothing in that moment so much as a confection he would devour in small bites.
Christ, he could consume her whole. Lift her skirts…would the sainted Freddy perform any of those feats? He rather doubted it. If Freddy even so much as dared, Morgan would plant him a facer so vicious that it would send him into next Wednesday.
“Freddy is Lady Frederica Isling, mayhap better known to you as Mrs. Duncan Kirkwood.” Her frown overtook her entire face then, anchoring the corners of her lush lips into a perfect frown, leaving her looking joyless and empty and ferocious all at once.
His foolish jealousy dissipated with the suddenness of a summer thunderstorm chased by the sun. It would seem the bloodlust he had felt toward the mysterious Freddy was wholly unwarranted. Oddly, his chest felt lighter.
He cleared his throat. “Indeed. Pray explain why you had occasion to discuss canines with Mrs. Kirkwood.”
Her countenance softened. “Do not fear, my lord. I did not divulge your nightmares to Freddy.”
Irritation thundered through him once more, replacing the relief. “I do not have nightmares.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. But he detested this weakness within him, a frailty he could not shake or control. He stared at her, daring her to contradict him.
To his relief, she did not. Instead, she rose at last. “If you do not want Julius Caesar, I will keep him for myself. I never had a pet dog of my own, though I wholeheartedly longed for one. Mama’s constitution did not allow such a possibility, for she claims they make her sneeze. She finds furred creatures grotesque, you know. Even felines.”
The memory of those brown eyes returned to him once more. Sad, pathetic little pup, really. And what ailed him was he saw himself in it.
“Where did you find the mongrel?” he asked in spite of himself.
She smiled as if he had pleased her, and he felt the effects of that sweet quirk of her lips in a place where he was supposed to feel nothing, his heart.
“The Duchess of Whitley aided me,” she said softly. “Her Grace has recently acquired a pug for His Grace.”
“You accomplished all this while I was gone today?”
“Yes.” Her smile deepened, and for the first time, he spied a charming dimple in her right cheek. “For you.”
For him.
Her words took him aback. No one had done something for him in…he could not even recall how long it had been. Surely one of his nurses or his old governesses had shown him kindness, but that was a long time ago now, and if they had, he could not recall it. He knew without a doubt neither his mother nor his father ever had. They had been too preoccupied with venting their mutual hatred upon each other that there had been little room for anyone else in their lives. Especially not their sons, reminders of the bloodless sense of duty which had drawn them together in matrimony.
“But it would seem you are displeased with Julius Caesar, and that was not my intention,” she continued. “I shall see him returned if you would prefer, my lord.”
Brown, blinking eyes taunted him.
“A ridiculous name for a dog,” he said instead of answering her, offering her his arm to escort her from the dining room.
Her hand slid neatly into the crook of his elbow, as if that was where it had always been meant to sit. As if their bodies had each been fashioned for the other. “You may call him Caesar instead, if you prefer, my lord.”
He made a noncommittal sound in his throat. It would seem the mutt was staying after all. “We shall see, madam.”
Chapter Eight
“There you are, my lady.” Hill finished brushing out Leonora’s curls. “Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?”
“Thank you, Hill.” Leonora, seated before a looking glass in her dressing area, contemplated her reflection. She wore nothing beneath her dressing gown but a nightdress so fine it was transparent, and she felt as if she were entirely nude, her body acutely conscious Searle would soon make his evening visit. “That will be all.”
Hill quietly slipped from the chamber, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Not much time had passed since her husband’s return that evening and his subsequent discovery of her little furred gift for him. She had been distraught when she had taken tea with Freddy for the second time in as many days, but fortunately, the Duchess of Whitley had been present.
Though she had not revealed to the other ladies that Searle had suffered a nightmare, they had instantly noted her morose countenance. And, as lady friends were wont to do, they dug for the source. It did not take them long to realize precisely who was to blame. While she had related to them her husband’s cool nature and easily changeable moods, she had, just as she had promised him, kept the marquess’s nightmares to herself. However, the duchess, whose own husband had fought alongside Searle in Spain, relayed Whitley’s joy in the dog she had recently acquired for his companionship. Whitley took the adorable pug everywhere, according to the duchess.
The seed of an idea had instantly been planted within Leonora, and it took root when the duchess casually mentioned there remained a lone male from the litter which the duchess had taken under her wing, but who could not be kept with his sister, who Whitley had grown such a fondness for.
Leonora had instantly known what she must do. And when she had taken one look at the sweet brown eyes of Julius Caesar, she had known no heart, regardless of how hardened and withered it may be, could resist the innocent allure of a puppy. She had not quite anticipated the violence of his displeasure, but she was pleased with herself for remaining firm.
She was slowly growing to understand how best to approach the man she now called husband. Extraordinarily slowly, perhaps, but she did consider it a victory, albeit a minor one, that her clash with him at dinner had ended not just with him choosing to keep little Caesar on his own, but with him escorting her from the dining room and spending an hour with her and the pup in the drawing room.
The Duke and Duchess of Whitley had already taught Caesar a fair number of tricks. Searle’s delight at
the pup offering up his paw upon command had not been feigned. Indeed, it had been so real, so sudden, the sting of tears had burned her eyes, and she had been forced to blink rapidly to dispel them, lest he see them fall.
A subtle knock sounded at the door joining their chambers.
So subtle, in fact, Leonora almost failed to hear it. Rather the opposite of the brusque manner in which he had stormed into her chamber the day before, as if he were an invading army, intent upon conquering. And conquer her, he had. Oh, how he had.
Her cheeks warmed, her body tingling in pleasant remembrance and delighted anticipation. “Enter,” she called.
The door opened to reveal him, the magnificently handsome, utterly vexing enigma who was somehow hers. He wore a dressing gown belted at the waist, firm calves and bare feet peeking from beneath the hem. She had never imagined a gentleman’s feet could interest her, nor his bare limbs. But when it came to the Marquess of Searle, everything interested her.
Far more than was decent.
“Good evening, my lord,” she greeted him hesitantly, an odd, unwanted shyness falling over her now that they were alone again, with precious few layers between them and space that decreased upon each confident stride of his long legs.
“Good evening, Leonora,” he said in return, a slight smile curving his well-molded mouth.
Her name in the decadent rumble of his deep baritone sent a frisson down her spine as he stopped before her. The delicious scent of his cologne hit her senses next. And then she drank in the beauty of the sharp, masculine angles of his face. He exuded a dark, dangerous elegance this evening, his aloof air once more firmly in place. She could not shake the impression he was half lord, half weapon. If he were a blade, he could slice her cleanly in two, and she would still somehow revel in her own destruction.
Understanding hit her, not with the subtlety of a butterfly’s wings, gently beating in the air, but with the trampling rage of a stallion gone wild, intent upon galloping over everything in its path.
She was a fool for this man.
Leonora wet her suddenly dry lips with her tongue. Anticipation and nervousness warred within her. She wanted to say something. He was staring at her with an expression of anticipation. Indeed, it was her turn to offer something to their dialogue. And yet, her mind failed her. It was empty. Cavernous.
Shaken.
“I have something for you,” he said into the silence, taking her by surprise.
His words startled her tongue into belatedly functioning. “I do not require a gift, Searle. The gift I gave you this evening was intended for your comfort alone, not with the hope you would reciprocate.”
His smile deepened, fine lines appearing alongside his vibrant eyes that suggested while he no longer smiled readily now, he had done so enough in his past for his happiness to have left its mark upon his skin. “No one has given me a gift in as long as I can recall. It was remiss of me not to thank you for your consideration.”
Leonora blinked, wondering if her ears had deceived her. If she was delusional. Had the Marquess of Searle developed a fever? She barely thwarted the urge to press her fingers to his brow and ascertain whether or not it was hot to the touch.
He laughed before she could respond, the sound laden with bitterness. “You need not look so surprised by my gratitude, my dear. I behaved in an abominable, ungentlemanly fashion to you earlier, and I know it.”
How very confusing he was. Though he had not offered an apology, she supposed this was Searle’s version of one. Very well, since they were dabbling in the art of honesty, she would meet him halfway.
“You left me this morning.” On a rush, she said the words. Not in an accusatory tone, but a mere stating of fact. “And you did not return until dinner. Your abrupt departure was more ungentlemanly than your reaction to Julius Caesar.”
His lips thinned, his jaw clenching.
She had displeased him with her honesty, but she did not regret it.
“I had matters which required my attention.”
“The same matters which required your attention on the day of our wedding?” she could not resist asking.
For the first time, it occurred to her that he may have a mistress. That she may be sharing him with another woman without even knowing it. The notion made her stomach clench and her mouth go dry. Of course, she ought to have expected it before now. In their circle, it was not just customary but expected for a gentleman to have a wife and a mistress at once.
The wife was forced to pretend the other woman did not exist. Mama had warned her. After all, her father had kept at least as many mistresses as wives. Her brother Alessandro’s Spanish mother had been Father’s mistress before becoming his third wife. Mama had been his fifth.
“Come,” Searle demanded then, cutting through her concerns by gently clasping her elbow and guiding her to stand before the looking glass she had so recently abandoned.
He stood behind her, exuding heat and his own potent magnetism at her back. She stared at their reflections wordlessly, taking him in first, tall, strong, and so handsome, she ached. Their gazes met. His hands settled upon her waist, anchoring her there, drawing her snugly back against his body.
“What are you doing?” she asked, cursing the breathlessness in her voice. The hardness of his shaft was unmistakable, a ridge prodding the curve of her lower back. He had not answered her question, and her weakness for him nettled her.
Was this his means of avoidance? His way of distracting her so she could forget the questions crowding her mind? And curse her, why was she allowing him to succeed?
His gaze challenged hers in the glass. “What do you think I am doing, wife?”
“Distracting me,” she answered without hesitation.
A grin kicked up the corners of his mouth. “Is it working, darling?”
Darling.
Oh, how she hated the simmering, sinful burst of longing that lone word sent though her. If she had thought him a blade, she was wrong. This man was a cavalry sword, mowing down anything in his path without mercy.
But how sweetly he mowed.
And neither was she certain she wished for his mercy in this particular circumstance.
“Of course it is working,” she answered honestly. Her own tone held a note of flirtation she had not even known she possessed. “You are a handsome devil, and you know it.”
“Am I?” His head dipped, that divine mouth of his pressing a kiss to the whorl of her ear.
“Yes,” she whispered, for his hands had roamed from her waist, sliding over the dressing gown until he cupped her breasts.
His fingers tightened, grasping her with the same debilitating confidence he had visited upon her the previous night. He bit her ear gently, then kissed behind it, his tongue tracing over the shallow dip. “Tell me. How am I distracting you?”
She shivered, her knees going weak. A twinge of pain rocked through her leg, but she ignored it. “You know.”
“But what if I do not know?” he countered.
He pinched her nipples through the silk of her wrapper and nightdress. Between her thighs, her flesh pulsed and throbbed with awareness, with possibility. Yes, indeed. No mercy was preferable.
“Touching me,” she admitted at last. “Kissing me. Standing so near I can feel you pressed against me. I cannot think with your hands or your lips upon my body, and you know it.”
“I do now, sweet Leonie.” He kissed down her throat, finding the curve where her shoulder and neck met. And there, he bit into her skin with more tender ferocity.
This, too, would leave a mark. Another love bite to add to her collection. Traces of him she could wear upon her skin. This should not thrill her. Perhaps something was wrong with her to feel such a desperate need for him.
To want him as much as she did.
But she would not worry about any of that now. She was like a drunkard, but lost in desire rather than liquor, eager for her next taste of passion. Of whatever he would show her, whatever he would give her.
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br /> “No one has ever called me Leonie,” she said as his thumbs and forefingers rolled her nipples. Dear heavens, how weak he made her. His tongue flitted against her racing pulse, his fingers working their magic.
“Do you like it?” he asked, tugging at her nipples once more.
She was not even certain what he referred to—his lovemaking, his diminutive for her name, the way he felt against her—but the answer was the same regardless. “Yes. Yes, of course I do.”
“It seems somehow fitting, for you are now my lioness,” he said, murmuring against her bare skin, against the flat blade of her collarbone. “I do not have a mistress. Was that your question before I began…distracting you?”
Relief swelled within her, along with a great, bursting tide of want, which she had been keeping at bay until now. She relaxed, her head falling back upon his shoulder, the admission escaping her. “Yes.”
He nipped her overly sensitized flesh as he gave her nipples another delicious pinch. “Do you want your gift now, darling?”
She wanted anything. Everything. Him, his touch, his mouth, his lips, his cock…good heavens, she was awash in sensation, lost. Helpless, her desire overcoming everything.
She stared at their reflections in the glass, a fresh wave of heat overtaking her. The flesh between her thighs was already wet without him even needing to touch her there. “You need not give me a gift because I gave you Caesar. My intention was to please you, not to cozen you into gifting me something in return.”
“This gift has nothing to do with the hound,” he said coolly, but she did not think she mistook the hint of fondness in his voice when he referred to Caesar. “Indeed, I am remiss in not offering it sooner, as it is something which should have been done on our wedding night, in accordance with familial tradition.”
She thought she knew why he had not offered it on their wedding night—first, he had been absent, and then she had been reluctant to allow a wedding night at all to a new husband who had disappeared on the day of their nuptials. But she felt no guilt as she continued to meet his assessing gaze in the glass. Only curiosity. What sort of gift could it be? He had nothing in his hands save her body.
Marquess of Mayhem (Sins & Scoundrels Book 3) Page 11