by Liz Tyner
‘You have thought ahead.’
‘Not far.’
‘I would agree.’
‘I would like the world to accept that a man could be carried away by passion for me.’ She put her palms together. ‘I know it is farfetched.’
‘Less farfetched than a man who might not be carried away by passion at the sight of you.’
His voice caused more vibrations inside her than any thunder that had ever shaken her, and added a swirl of warmth she’d never experienced before.
‘I did not believe you to be so kind.’
‘How could I not? Seeing all those books earlier in the day gave me a new appreciation for art and the people who pursue it. This discussion intrigues me.’
He bowed. ‘It would be an honour for me to compromise you, Miss Catesby.’
She shifted, recognising only the opportunity of never again having the feeling of needing another person to accept her. No man would, and she’d be freed from the marriage mart. ‘That is indeed sympathetic of you to say, but would you be willing for the world to know?’
‘I have a reputation as well. It would certainly fit with my plans. Besides, my father is rather urging me much like your mother is impelling you. He’s threatening to get a solicitor to break my grandfather’s will and delay the funds I receive annually. Father had the impression that I would marry if I bought a town house. A conversation in which I concurred, but I did not set an end date.’
He negotiated around the billiards table, decreasing the distance between them. ‘And there is the worst threat of all. If I do not marry soon, he is saying that he will move in with me.’
She raised her hand so that the side of her glove brushed his chest. ‘I understand.’
‘Yes, he wants the big wedding breakfast with the banns being read and the proper details all being put in place. And he’d rather presumed I’d marry a daughter of one of London’s peers.’
‘Well, my uncle is a duke. But I have lived outside London and I don’t do well in society.’
He touched the small of her back, pressing her nearer. ‘That’s close enough.’
‘A wedding wouldn’t suit me. I’m afraid a husband will not respect my necessities after we marry. To be ruined is perhaps the safest course.’
He remained silent.
She warmed as if he held her in a close embrace.
‘Will tonight work for you...to be compromised?’ he asked.
She didn’t acquiesce or disagree, hardly believing Marcus was willing to grant her such a favour.
His fingers trickled down her back as he increased the distance between them, stopping an arm’s length away. ‘I worried about you last night.’
The softness in his eyes penetrated her and silenced the world. ‘You know where I am now.’
He kept his voice low, the rumbles of it caressing her from the inside out. ‘Jump off the cliff and fall into my arms, and see where it will take us.’
‘What if you get more than you bargained for and less than you hope for?’
‘You have raised the stakes. That always makes the gamble more enticing.’ His smile could have been straight from the wickedest man in London. ‘I’ve never gambled in a high-risk game, until I met you.’
‘I’ve never wagered with funds,’ she said, glimpsing at him from beneath her lashes. ‘But I’ve already lost what is near and dear to me—the purpose I have. The true reason for living.’
‘That is a lot to lose.’
‘Should we have more light in the room?’
He shook his head. ‘We can see well enough to know what we’re doing.’ He unbuttoned his waistcoat, starting from the bottom and working his way to the top.
She didn’t speak, but her contemplation didn’t leave his hands.
Then he slipped the waistcoat away.
He touched the cravat and slid the length of the linen from the knot, and tossed it to the table. He grasped at his shirt and pulled the hem from his trousers, letting it dangle at his hips. His shirt collar fell open and so did her mouth.
He paused.
‘In the interest of my lack of experience,’ she whispered, ‘might, for a second, you continue?’
He didn’t move. He really did not want to be naked when Lady Semple barged in.
She raised her brows, questioning him again. ‘The shirt? Only the shirt. It’s a lot to ask. And I will tell no one.’
She bit her lip. ‘I understand if it is an inconvenience for you to take off your shirt in front of me. I didn’t mean any disrespect. But I may never, ever get a chance like this again. I’m fairly certain I won’t.’
He reached up and grabbed his shirt by the tails and pulled it over his head.
She squeaked as he put the shirt aside.
She had fisted her hands and pumped them upwards, gloves covering the length of her arms, and she laughed to the heavens.
‘Oh, my word. Michelangelo got Moses’s shoulders right.’ She fanned herself. ‘It was not imagination. It was accuracy. You are a cross between David and Moses, with the best parts of each.’
He moved closer and saw tears forming.
She sniffed. ‘Thank you. You may put your shirt back on. And again, thank you. Some day I will find a way to get a plaster cast of shoulders like yours.’
Instantly, he slipped his shirt back on.
‘You may leave,’ he said. ‘Or stay and face the consequences. I’d prefer you to remain.’
She pressed her lips together and marched closer.
‘I am here to be compromised, without benefit of marriage. It’s marriage or ruin, for me. Just ruin me and we will always be...well, we will be much friendlier than we have been in the past. You do have an exceptionally nice build.’
‘If that happened, and you were to leave, your family would not let you stay in London. I’d never see you again.’
‘It’s not that I want you to actually ruin...ruin me—’ Emilie cleared her throat. ‘I require the appearance of it. You will refuse to marry me. I will be disgraced. I will be happy. No one will ever ask me to wed. And you will have your reputation as a careless scoundrel enhanced.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t imagine you would like being married to me. And it might prevent your father from pushing you, if he sees how close you came to making a mistake with me as a future partner. Bringing an artist—a female one—into the family might cause consternation. It does with my relatives.’
He had been so right about Emilie and so wrong. His soul collapsed from the weight of a thousand flickers of light joining together to slam him to the cold ground. She didn’t want him for his title or his money, but would have happily accepted a plaster cast of his shoulders.
‘That is unacceptable. Not the proposal for me. I need a wife. I thought we had decided at Hatchards that you needed a book to keep at hand—when not shoved into the shelf gathering dust.’
‘But me?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Marcus. I have just studied a man’s chest and asked for the room to be brightened first. I am not a future countess. I am an artist and it is closer to a courtesan than a countess.’
‘Leave or marriage. Those are my terms.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I will explain it.’ He contemplated her and moved his gaze across her lips.
He moved forward. ‘Might I give you one small kiss?’
‘Most certainly. I would be crushed if you did not.’ She touched her glove above the row of lace that edged the top of her bodice, her fingertips nestling near her neck.
Marcus closed the distance between them without feeling his own movement. He took her glove as if to bring it to his lips for a kiss, but instead, he moved, as if in a waltz, and slowly twirled her in a half-pirouette, turning her away from him, and stopped her with the back of her head at his chin. His hand held hers, resting below her collarbone.
She swept her left hand up and rested it beside his clasp.
The delicate hint of soap and the warmth of Emilie surrounded him. He savoured the feel of her back against him. Their hands so close above her breasts. His arms around her.
He slid his hand down the length of her arm and stopped at her elbow, his fingers resting at the edge of doeskin and lingering on her. He slid the glove away and tossed it to the table, aware of the soft sound as it landed on the wood.
The warmth of her against him ignited his senses, hardening him.
For a moment his arm rested over her, holding her closer, and his touch lingered on her hand, before releasing it, and she rested her palm at her side.
‘One kiss,’ he whispered, his breath moving the tendrils that had escaped. ‘One small kiss.’
Then with the barest movement, he brought his lips close to her neck and inhaled the bouquet of her, letting his lips touch her as he exhaled, and he gave a tender kiss to her skin, tasting beauty, and he lifted his mouth away, but remained so close that his cheek caressed hers and he could scent her rosewater perfume.
Her skin reminded him of passion and pushed her femininity into the deepest recesses of his being. His knees weakened, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need them to stand. With her in his arms, he could keep aloft merely from the hint of her hair brushing him.
Then he used his opposite hand to slowly remove her other glove and he tossed it to the table.
‘Perhaps marriage is a solution,’ he said and his hands slid to the small of her waist, holding the fabric, but not feeling any cloth at all.
She felt delicious.
He no longer needed anything if he could keep her in his arms.
She rested in his hands and he held her against him, his skin responding with a heat that didn’t burn, but urged.
Marcus edged back, forcing as much control as he could manage. At least he could still command his voice. ‘Emilie,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps we should reassess. A proper courtship. The usual route.’
‘In the light of day, a courtship will not happen,’ she whispered. ‘My father is a cleric. He will whisk me out of London if he realises I am in contact with you because he will say that you’re Avondale’s eldest son and far above me. He has gout or he would have brought me to London himself. He insisted Mother watch me close.’
She pleaded with him, ‘You do not understand my life at all. I must have the daylight and this is the night. My father will disapprove.’
‘Then... You need to be dishevelled.’
He reached for her hair with one hand and took out a pin, flicking it to the floor, and then another, and with utmost delicacy, he slipped his fingers between a silken strand and wove it free, placing it along her neck, fanning the hair into even more tendrils and caressing the skin beneath.
He led her to the far side of the table, then lifted her by the waist so that she sat on top of it. He moved closer, bending, his lips near hers, hands still holding her.
‘Pardon me,’ he whispered. ‘It will be more convincing this way.’ He moved the fabric of her skirt up, stopping when the fabric reached her knees. He put his cheek against hers.
She gripped the muscles of his upper arms and her mind ceased working. The thin shirt was no barrier. The flood of sensations halted everything but the raging feelings caused by their contact.
He tasted her lips and dipped his tongue inside, tasting and savouring, because he couldn’t help himself and then he pulled back slightly and rested his forehead on her shoulder, his eyes tightly closed. She should not taste sweeter than any confection—warm as the sunshine on a summer’s day and yet with the freshness of raindrops cooling the skies. But she did.
‘Marcus,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘This is enchanting.’
‘It’s hell,’ he said, bumping his head against her shoulder. ‘There is no other description I know.’
‘You must refuse to marry me when the chaperon enters,’ she said.
‘You must not count on that. I could not do such a thing to anyone discovered in such a way as we will be. Miss Catesby, we are going to regret this.’
She ran her fingers through his hair. ‘Not all of it.’
‘No. Not all of it.’ He caressed her closer. ‘This is insanity,’ he whispered, ‘and you are fully aware of it.’
‘I know,’ she said. She wound her arms around his neck. She whispered, ‘You find me desirable, after all. I would never have guessed.’ She hugged him close and he ran his fingers up the buttons of her dress, feeling the woman beneath, and his fingers twisted over the top button, flicking it open before he could stop himself.
The door opened. Inwardly he pronounced them married and he pulled her protectively into his arms. He kissed his bride’s hair.
‘Emilie.’ He heard the feminine voice and turned. But it wasn’t Lady Semple, but Lady Beatrice. So much for the careful plans he’d made.
‘My innocent Emilie,’ Beatrice stated again, increasing the drama in her voice. ‘I have failed you.’
The woman continued as if she could see a grand audience. She raised her chin high and orated, ‘And, when I tell her father, sir, you will be aware that you must ask him for her hand in marriage.’
He still didn’t speak.
‘I am sorry,’ Emilie whispered. ‘But we have been discovered.’
He didn’t speak, but gazed at Emilie.
‘Mr Westbrook. Are you prepared to do the right thing?’ Beatrice shouted at him.
Marcus swore to himself. He cleared his throat and turned slightly, staring at the woman.
‘Mr Westbrook. You will be searching out her father in the morning, asking for Emilie’s hand in marriage.’
He didn’t speak. Patiently waiting. He didn’t favour his brother that much. The woman needed to open her eyes. He moved away, discreetly whisking Emilie’s skirt in place.
Soon he might have to introduce himself. He should have carried a calling card.
Marcus coughed, trying to pull her attention to him. Blast it, Robert wandered in behind her, with one of those drunken grins he’d so perfected.
Then Beatrice paused and he heard the door open wider.
‘Emilie,’ she commanded. ‘Come with me now. And you, Mr Westbrook, will have to explain this to her father.’
Emilie sniffed. ‘This is Lord Grayson.’
Beatrice stared. ‘It’s Mr Westbrook.’
‘No,’ Emilie whispered. ‘I mentioned Mr Westbrook yesterday. When I told you of the change of date, I forgot to tell you of the change in persons.’
Lady Semple moved into view and elbowed her way to Lady Beatrice. She handed the woman a lamp, gave her a push and Lady Beatrice tumbled inside, holding the light aloft.
‘It is Lord Grayson.’ Lady Semple spoke from behind.
Puzzlement was in Lady Beatrice’s voice. ‘Are you sure? They are hard to distinguish.’
Emilie put one hand on the table and turned a sideways squint at Lady Beatrice. ‘Lord Grayson.’
He heard more feminine murmurs from beyond the door. ‘Yes. It is Lord Grayson.’
She turned to Lady Beatrice. ‘But you can forget all about the wedding. I am compromised. Ruined. Finished in society.’
Emilie put her fingertips to her forehead, raised her chin and recited, ‘I shall die alone. A spinster.’
‘Not a chance,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘You’re going to be married.’
Marcus reached out, snagged Emilie by the waist and propped her on her feet. ‘I have the special licence under the lamp. A stableman will collect the cleric. He has been alerted to await a visit.’
Lady Beatrice clasped both hands together at her breast. ‘Emilie, he is so organised.’
‘I am to be compromised, not organised,’ Emilie hissed to Lady Beatrice. ‘We discussed it. You are betraying me.�
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‘I do not remember any discussion at all,’ Lady Beatrice said, lips firming after she spoke. ‘And I am so fortunate I happened to see you leave and so very unfortunate that I could not stop you.’ She mimicked Emilie’s earlier downcast air. ‘Lord Grayson is the one to reap the rewards in marriage to you.’
‘I will be unmarried all of my days. That’s for the best.’
‘Not so quick, Emilie. My dear, you have managed to catch the eye of one of the most confirmed bachelors I have ever come across. And, forgive me...’ Lady Beatrice cornered Emilie ‘...he is not without pleasant features—and has an inheritance due him. You could do worse and I could not see how anyone could do better.’
Then she turned and waved an arm in a grand gesture, saying to Lady Semple, ‘Can you please bring the lamp closer? Lord Grayson has his shirt on inside out. Does that convince everyone here that virtuous Emilie has been compromised and is to be married?’
Lady Semple’s friends murmured in harmony.
‘You are a traitor.’ Emilie faced Lady Beatrice. ‘I am not to be given to the highest bidder.’
‘No, my dear,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘You are going to the bidder you captured. You should not have changed affections so easily,’ she scolded. She turned to glare at him. ‘You are positive you are not Mr Westbrook?’
‘I am not Nathaniel.’
Blast it. Nate was taller than him. And even in the shadows it should be apparent they were not the same.
‘One man will have Emilie and I will be that man.’ He closed the distance between Emilie and himself. ‘We are betrothed.’
‘You don’t understand.’ She shifted away from him. ‘I need to be alone to paint. A wife is not what suits me. I’m an artist. Nothing will come before that.’
Like a sea parting in front of him and giving him the choice to stand for ever and risk drowning under the waves, he paused and considered his words. Considered what he would be agreeing to in order to have her as a partner for life. ‘I give you my word, you will not be prevented from painting.’