Say Yes to the Marquess

by Tessa Dare

  "Even with all the women you've had."

  "Even with all the women I've had."

  She clutched the loosened gown tight to her chest. She couldn't believe any of this.

  "But you said it was because of Piers. You wanted me because you were envious of him, and it wasn't really anything to do with me."

  "Oh, yes." He returned to stand before her. "That's what I told myself. I told myself a lot of things. I told myself that it just so happened you were my sort." He swept a hungry look down her body. "I was only attracted to you because I'm always attracted to fair-haired, blue-eyed, lushly curved women. That would make sense, wouldn't it?

  "It would make perfect sense."

  His gaze snapped up to hers. "It was a lie."

  "So . . . you're . . . not attracted to fair-haired, blue-eyed, lushly curved women?"

  "Oh, I am," he said. "I am. And it's because they remind me of you."

  Heavens.

  Her knees . . . They weren't working anymore. They might not exist anymore.

  She reeled backward, and her back met the bedpost.

  "Your body"--he closed the distance between them--"is my every raw, lusting, carnal dream. I've spent years wondering what you look like under all that."

  "Well . . ." She uncrossed her arms, and the lace gown slipped to the floor. "Wonder no longer."

  She wasn't quite naked. Even with her gown and corset in a heap at her feet, she still wore her chemise and petticoats. But the delicate, tissue-thin fabric left little to the imagination.

  Rafe didn't say anything. He simply stared at her.

  She grasped the ribbon bow at the neckline of her chemise and pulled it loose.

  He didn't so much as blink.

  Clio's pulse raced. She hadn't come this far just to back down. If he left her here, exposed and rejected, her pride would never survive it.

  In a moment of pure madness, she stretched her arms overhead, gripping the bedpost with both hands. The pose bowed her spine and pushed her breasts to what she hoped was an enticing angle.

  He showed no signs of being enticed.

  Oh, Lord. Perhaps all those confessions of his had merely been lies to soothe her feelings. She'd been a fool to believe he found her irresistible. Here he was, standing within arm's reach, enjoying a view of her half-naked body . . .

  Resisting.

  Her bravery faded, and her gaze dropped to the floor. She started to let her hands drop, too. She needed to cover herself, find somewhere to hide from this humiliation. Perhaps the closet, or a nice crack in the floor.

  "Don't."

  With one big hand he caught both of her wrists. He pressed them back in place and held them there, effectively shackling her to the bedpost.

  "Don't move."

  Well. Now this was more like it.

  The sudden heat and forceful nature of the contact, his unabashed stare, the vulnerability of her posture . . . it all made her writhe with excitement.

  It wasn't just knowing that Rafe found her body attractive.

  It was that she found her body rather attractive, too.

  "Look at you," he breathed.

  She did. She gazed down at herself, admiring the flushed pink of her skin beneath the thin white shift. The sunlight streaming through the windows was warm, and kind to her fair complexion, painting her with a rosy glow. Her peaked nipples strained and chafed against the fabric. Her gently rounded belly and hips made no excuses for themselves.

  This was her body. She had learned to take pleasure in it, even if no man had ever done the same. It was curved and generous and womanly and strong, and it was formed to do more than decorate a drawing room, or transfer wealth from one gentleman to another.

  She was made to tempt, labor, inspire, create, sustain.

  Despite the way Rafe held her bound in his grasp, a sense of power moved through her. For once, she could revel in her femininity and feel it as something other than a disadvantage to be overcome. A quality to be respected, worshipped. Even feared.

  She could do anything in this moment. She felt like a--

  "A goddess," he murmured.

  Dear Lord. Forget sentences. He was finishing her thoughts now.

  "You're sculpted just like a Grecian goddess." His gaze pulled up to catch hers. "And the hell of it is, your body's only the third most attractive thing about you. Right after your clever mind and your lovely heart."

  If he meant to admire her heart, he had better do it quickly. Because she suspected the organ was going to give out at any moment. Her "clever mind" was already a bowl of blancmange.

  "If you were mine to hold and pleasure, I'd . . ."

  She sucked in her breath. "You would what?"

  He leaned forward, and his voice was dark. "Take you in my arms, at first. Hold your heart close to mine and try to let that be enough. But it wouldn't be enough. I'd start to want more. I'd want to make you want more."

  Oh, she already wanted more. Clio reclined against the bedpost to steady herself.

  Don't stop. Please, go on.

  "I'd take down this lovely hair and let it fall through my fingers. I'd run my hands over your arms, your back. And all your tender, softest parts . . . that's where I'd use my mouth. And then . . ." He bent his head, until his words scalded her ear. "And then I'd slide my hand beneath your shift and touch you. Right where we both want it most."

  The room blurred in her vision. A dull, aching pulse began to throb between her thighs.

  "Do it," he said, releasing one of her hands. "Do it for me."

  She startled, but his free hand went to her waist, holding her still.

  "There's no one," he said. "No one will know. No one will see. Do what I can't. Just this once."

  Her heart climbed into her throat. She didn't know if she could do that. Not like this. Not in front of him.

  His temple pressed to hers. "Christ, Clio. I think I'll die of wanting you. If there's any chance you feel it, too . . . Let me know I'm not alone."

  This was madness.

  But she did want this. And she never wanted him to feel alone.

  With trembling fingers, she twisted her petticoat until she could loosen the fastenings--just a touch--and slide her hand inside. The fabric of her chemise still came between her fingertips and her belly, but it was so thin as to be inconsequential.

  As she swept her touch lower, she bit her lip.

  "Yes, that's it," he murmured. "Yes. That's where you want it, isn't it? And where I want it, too. You're so lovely there. Lovely and pink and warm."

  She nodded.

  "And wet. You're so wet for me, aren't you?"

  Clio's pulse raced at the crudeness of his words, but she couldn't deny the truth. As she pushed her fingers between her thighs, the linen softened and grew damp.

  "Here," he said.

  Where his hand covered hers on the bedpost, he drew one fingertip between her second and third fingers, slowly tracing the seam as if he were parting her legs. Or the folds of her sex.

  Then his touch settled right in the sensitive crook where they joined.

  "Touch yourself here," he whispered, moving his fingertip in tight, steady circles that she felt everywhere. "Just like this."

  She was beyond any sense of shame or propriety, and his words had caught her in some sort of trance.

  When her fingers slid into just the right place, her breath caught in a startled gasp.

  "That's it." He kissed her ear. "That's a good girl."

  The words made her smile. For once, she wasn't being a good girl. She was being a wicked, wicked thing, and she loved it.

  He loved it, too.

  The edge of his restraint seemed to be fraying. He traced the shape of her ear with his tongue, then nibbled on her earlobe. Her senses hummed when he gave a husky groan.

  And then his hand--the one that had settled on her waist--began to move. Just a little, at first. His thumb stroked back and forth in a coaxing arc. And then his entire hand began to sweep up and down in a
gentle caress. With every pass, his fingertips brushed a bit lower on her hip, and his thumb grazed a fraction closer to the underside of her breast.

  Please.

  She wanted to encourage him somehow, but she was afraid to say or do anything too bold, for fear he might stop altogether.

  There was a border they were fast approaching. A point of no return.

  At last--with a muttered oath, he tipped them over the edge. His hand slid upward, cupping her breast. When his thumb found her nipple, she went faint with pleasure and relief.

  "Come." His whisper was hot and rough. He ran his tongue down her neck. He lifted and shaped her breast through the softened linen, rolling her nipple under the pad of his thumb. "If it damns my soul, I need to hear you come. And I want it to be for me."

  She touched herself, and he touched her, and the bliss gathered and built, until it loomed before her like a devastating wave.

  She trembled. "Rafe . . ."

  "I'm here. I have you. Just let it happen."

  His mouth captured hers, giving her the shelter she needed. When the bliss crashed through her, she moaned and sobbed and sighed it all into his kiss. Where she was safe.

  And long after it was over, he kissed her still. So sweetly.

  He released her arm from the bedpost, and they held each other close. She sifted her fingers through his hair. He touched her cheek. So lightly, using only the backs of his fingers.

  It was the closest she'd ever felt to being treasured.

  But the look on his face when he broke their kiss . . . Oh, it was like a dagger to her heart. Guilt etched furrows on his brow, and the green of his eyes was the shade of regret. As if he'd robbed her of something, instead of giving her the most beautiful, sensual experience of her life.

  "Rafe, that was--"

  "Clio, we can't--"

  "Miss Whitmore?" A knock sounded at the door. "Miss Whitmore, did you need help with your gown?"

  Anna.

  "Drat drat drat," she muttered.

  Rafe's choice of words was decidedly less genteel.

  "Just a moment," Clio called out. She shimmied, then stepped out of the pool of gown and petticoats at her feet. She took Rafe by the hand. "Quickly. This way."

  He resisted. "You can't mean to hide me. I'm too big. I won't fit in the wardrobe or behind the drapes."

  "You'll fit here." She found a little notch in the paneled wall and slid it open. "This way. Hurry."

  He stepped into the secret room, looking around its single slice of window and kneeling bench. "What is this?"

  "It's an oratory. A private chapel for the mistress of the house to withdraw and reflect." She nodded at the other side. "There's a similar door that leads into my sitting room."

  "You'd never know it was even here." He tilted his head to admire the ceiling. "This castle truly is something."

  "I told you as much." Smiling, she moved to slide the panel shut.

  "Wait." He put his hand in the gap, holding the panel open. "So are you, Clio. You're truly something. Never doubt it."

  He withdrew his hand, and the door slid shut.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We must discuss the ice sculptures," Daphne said later that evening.

  "Must we?"

  The three Whitmore sisters had gathered in Clio's sitting room to dress for dinner. Just like the times when they were younger. Phoebe sat at the dressing table while Clio brushed out her hair. Daphne lay on her side, draped across Clio's bed. With one hand, she flipped the pages of a ladies' magazine, and with the other she plucked raspberries from a bowl.

  Despite Phoebe's trouble in the village and Daphne's insulting trick with the too-small gowns, Clio needed her sisters close this evening. She couldn't explain it except to think that sometimes the devil you knew was easier to face than the devil who'd pressed you to a bedpost and rolled your nipple under his thumb.

  "I was thinking perhaps a sculpted pair of famous lovers," Daphne suggested. "What about Romeo and Juliet?"

  "That ended badly," Phoebe said. "One poisoned, one died by dagger."

  "Cleopatra and Marc Antony?"

  "Even worse. One snakebite, one sword."

  "Lancelot and Guinevere, then."

  "He died a hermit. She became a nun."

  Daphne sighed, exasperated. "You ruin everything."

  "So I'm beginning to understand." Phoebe handed Clio a hairpin. "But this time, it's not my fault. Forbidden love affairs never turn out well in stories."

  Clio held her tongue as she twisted her sister's dark hair into a simple chignon.

  Phoebe was right. Nothing good would come of this . . . this whatever it was between her and Rafe. She couldn't precisely call it a love affair. The word love had never been uttered, and they hadn't done anything so irreversible that it couldn't be brushed aside.

  But she didn't want to brush it aside.

  She wanted to clutch it tight and never let go. The way he'd held her so tenderly . . . The security and exhilaration she felt in his embrace . . . She wanted that. She wanted more. She wanted him to be thinking about her just as often as she thought about him.

  Which was, to estimate it roughly, with each and every breath.

  He had to sign those papers, without delay. He simply must. To ease her conscience, if nothing else. Piers might not have treated her with any particular tenderness, and perhaps their engagement was a mere formality--but it had to be wrong to drop your frock for one man while still officially betrothed to another.

  "If you want famous lovers, there's always Ulysses and Penelope," Phoebe suggested. "She stayed faithful for twenty years while her husband traveled the world to return to her."

  "Swans," Clio blurted out, desperate to change the subject from long-suffering, faithful women. "Aren't these ice sculptures usually swans?"

  "Yes, but everyone has swans," Daphne said. "They're supposed to be romantic because they mate for life."

  In the mirrored reflection, Phoebe arched one slender eyebrow. "So do vultures, wolves, and African termites. I haven't seen any ice sculptures of them."

  Clio was about to remark that a termite mound sounded like just the thing, but there was a knock at the bedchamber door.

  Anna entered, carrying an envelope. "A message has arrived for you, Miss Whitmore. The bearer is downstairs waiting for your reply."

  "At this hour? How mysterious." She broke the seal and opened the letter. "It's an invitation."

  And a welcome change of subject. It couldn't have come at a better time.

  Clio scanned the paper. "We're invited to a ball. Tomorrow evening."

  "Tomorrow evening?" Daphne asked.

  "Apparently Lord and Lady Pennington are in residence at their estate near Tunbridge Wells. They apologize for the short notice, but they only just learned we were in Kent." She lowered the paper. "Well?"

  "We must accept." Daphne perked with excitement. "I haven't been to nearly enough balls as a married lady."

  "Excellent. Then you and Teddy can go. I'll stay home with Phoebe."

  "Clio, you must come, too. There will be gossip if you don't."

  "There will be gossip if I do attend," she said, moving to the escritoire. "That's what I'm keen to avoid."

  "Yes, but this time it will be different," Daphne said. "We can tell everyone about the wedding plans. Then they'll know it's really happening this time."

  Except that it isn't.

  "What about Phoebe?" she asked.

  "Let her come, as well. It's only a small country affair. She won't dance, of course."

  "I don't wish to go," Phoebe said. "I'd be bored and out of place."

  "Yes, but that's why you should come," Daphne said. "So you start learning how to conceal it."

  Clio arrowed a glance at her sister. Not that it did much good.

  "She's sixteen years old," Daphne said. "She needs some exposure to society."

  Even if she expressed it poorly, Clio knew her sister had a point. Sooner or later, Phoebe would have to
develop the skill of interacting with people outside their family.

  "I don't want to go," Phoebe said, turning on the dressing-table bench. "It would be a miserable ordeal. Don't make me."

  "Oh, kitten. Daphne has the right of it. You will need to start moving in society soon, and a small, friendly ball is a good place to begin." She tapped the envelope. "I won't force you, but I hope you'll choose to attend."

  Phoebe considered. "Is Lord Rafe attending? I'll go if he does."

  "No," Daphne objected. "He can't. Montague would be fine. But we can't have Rafe. Surely the Penningtons didn't mean to include him."

  Clio bristled at her sister's words. "The invitation is extended to me and my guests. He's one of my guests."

  "Yes, but they didn't know he's here. Otherwise, they wouldn't have invited us at all. Don't suggest it, Clio. You were kind enough to allow him to stay here at the castle. He's Granville's brother; you haven't a choice. But he's not welcome in polite society anymore."

  An emotion flared in Clio's breast, hot and volatile. She wanted to gather up Daphne's casual disdain, shape it into a tiny ball, and give it a solid whack with a tennis racket.

  It was ridiculous, the idea that a champion prizefighter could possibly need her to defend him. He probably wouldn't care to attend the ball anyhow.

  But it shouldn't be up to Daphne--or anyone else--to shut him out.

  You're truly something, he told her. Never doubt it.

  Rafe shouldn't doubt it, either.

  "Lord Rafe Brandon," she said, "is always welcome where I'm concerned." Clio checked her hair in the mirror and smoothed the front of her gray silk. "If he wishes to join us, that is."

  And with that, she left the room to search out Rafe and ask.

  "Still no ring?" Rafe asked the question without breaking stride.

  "Still . . . no . . . ring," Bruiser replied. Unlike Rafe, he was breathless. "Can't we slow down a touch?"

  "No."

  They'd already completed four laps of the castle wall's perimeter. It wasn't nearly enough. Rafe still felt her softness clinging to his fingertips. He still tasted her on his lips. He still heard her soft moans and sighs echoing in his ears.

  At this rate, he would be running hard all night. Even then, he'd never run far enough to leave his guilt behind.

  What he'd done with Clio this afternoon had been so wrong.

  It had also been beautiful, tender, and sublime.

  But wrong, nonetheless. And entirely his fault.