Say Yes to the Marquess

by Tessa Dare

  "I don't blame you for leaving." She touched his shoulder. "I wanted to escape, too."

  Her words set alarms ringing through his brain, but he was lost for a response. Rendered speechless by the sensation of her fingertips caressing his bare skin. He'd wanted her for so damned long. She was so beautiful. So beautiful, and so here. With him.

  With him.

  The wrong man. The worst man.

  "Clio . . ." His voice was strangled.

  "Hush." She rose onto her knees and closed the distance between them. "Just stop fighting and let something wonderful happen."

  And something wonderful did happen.

  She tilted her head, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his.

  Sweet heaven.

  He'd kissed her several times now, and each kiss had been better than the last. But being kissed by Clio? This was new, uncharted territory.

  Rafe thought it just might be Paradise.

  Her mouth brushed against his, her lips parting wider with each pass. Her tongue teased the corner of his lips, then made a shy sweep between them.

  He moaned into her mouth, helpless to resist. Of their own accord, his arms went around her, hauling her close, helping her straddle his thighs.

  But her words kept niggling at his brain.

  I wanted to escape, too.

  With women, Rafe knew he was usually just an escape. When they came to his bed, women were running from something. Expectations, propriety, boredom, an unhappy marriage . . . sometimes all of the above. That was why he'd cut off any liaisons well before his last fight. He'd outgrown the fun of being some kind of sexual stallion the ladies came to for a wild, reckless ride. The next time he began an affaire, he'd told himself, it would be with a woman who wasn't running from anything. He wanted a woman who was running to him.

  He rolled her onto her back and broke their kiss, gazing down at her. Searching her face for reassurance. "Tell me why you're here with me. Why are we doing this?"

  She drew a breath to respond--an act that lifted her bosom.

  "Never mind," he said, hooking a finger under the lacy neckline of her shift. "Don't answer. I don't want to know."

  There weren't so many buttons this time. Only five or so. He didn't count, and he couldn't be bothered to undo them all. As soon as he'd reached the level of her sternum, he slid his fingers underneath one panel, easing it over her shoulder and down her arm . . . exposing the pale, exquisite swell of her breast. One teasing, tempting inch at a time. Then the other.

  For a long moment, he couldn't do anything but stare.

  "I hope I live up to all those years of fantasies."

  She sounded nervous, and he hated himself for making her doubt, for even one moment. An eloquent, sophisticated sort of man would compose an ode to her beauty.

  He could only scrape out, "Better. You're so much better."

  Fantasies weren't warm. Or soft. They didn't make his head buzz with the scent of violets.

  And they weren't here.

  He found a tiny freckle on the underside of her left breast, and he treasured it, stroking lightly with his thumb. It let him know this was real.

  She shivered when he cupped her with his hand. Good. Then maybe she didn't notice him trembling.

  He couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. Her skin was so smooth beneath his fingertips. Softer than petals, milkweed, clouds, dreams. And amid all this dreamy softness, her nipple drew to a tight, tawny knot, just begging for attention.

  Who was he to refuse?

  He bent his head and drew the peak into his mouth.

  "Rafe," she gasped. "Yes."

  Yes.

  She weaved her fingers into his hair, holding him close, and his cock . . . God, his cock was just where it wanted to be, cradled against her cleft. He nudged her thighs farther apart, settling his hips between them. And then he moved against her in a slow rhythm, mimicking the act of lovemaking as he lifted and suckled her breasts.

  She was quiet, but not silent. Her soft, sweet moans of pleasure slid down his back like fingernails, drawing his every nerve to awareness.

  Soon she began to move with him, riding the hard ridge of his arousal. The layers of linen shift and bedsheets warmed and glided between them, adding to the friction.

  And Holy God, it felt good.

  So.

  Damned.

  Good.

  Still, those words wouldn't stop haunting him.

  I wanted to escape, too.

  He lifted his head. Whatever restraint he'd cultivated over the years--every shred of the discipline that had taken him from hotheaded rebel to champion--he drew on it now.

  "I changed my mind," he said. "I want to know. I need to know. Why are you here with me right now?"

  "Because I want you. I want this." She arched her neck to press a kiss to his cheek, then his lips. And as she did, she shifted beneath him, rubbing against the full length of his cock.

  His mind was wiped blank as a slate.

  Objections? What objections? Was there some scruple he was supposed to remember? Some issue of duty or loyalty involved? Unless it lay hidden beneath the curve of her breast, he wasn't likely to remember.

  His mind could only hold one thought: Clio wanted him. And what she wanted, she would have. Here. Now. No one else mattered. No one else had ever given a damn about him, anyway.

  "Rafe. I've wanted this for so long."

  When she whispered his name, something feral took hold of him. Pushing her thighs wider, he lowered his body to hers, needing her soft, abundant heat to cushion his pounding heart. Otherwise, the damned thing just might burst out of his chest.

  He pressed his brow to hers. Touched her hair, her lovely cheek.

  And then she kissed him with a sweetness that made him want to weep.

  One of her legs wrapped around his, smooth and strong. Her fingers laced tight in his hair. She was holding him as though he belonged nowhere else. As though everything in his dark, needing, desperate soul was hers.

  And maybe that was the truth.

  This was everything he'd dreamed about since the age of fifteen. She was so passionate, so responsive to his touch. And as much as he wanted to get inside her and spend all that long-frustrated lust, he wanted what would come afterward even more.

  Closeness. Affection. Perhaps even . . .

  Oh, devil take it.

  Perhaps even love.

  "You understand what this means, for us to lie together." He worked a hand between them, gathering the gauzy hem of her shift and hiking it upward. "You do know what will happen."

  "Yes."

  "Don't be frightened. I'll be careful. I'm going to be so good to you."

  The murmured words sounded trite even to his own ears, but Rafe meant every syllable. Few would suspect a man built like a brute to be capable of gentleness. And in the past, women hadn't wanted that from him anyway. But he had a great deal of tenderness he'd been saving. Whole years' worth of it.

  Tonight, he was going to lavish it all on her.

  "I'm not frightened in the least," she whispered. "But you must let me go, just for a moment."

  He licked and nibbled his way up her neck, treasuring each inch. "Not a chance."

  Now that he had her in his arms this way, he would never let her go.

  "I need to go to my chamber. It will only take a moment. They're in the top drawer."

  The top drawer.

  If this were another woman, he would have thought she was referring to sheaths. Or a sponge. But he had been her first kiss. She was an innocent. He knew she'd been making strides toward independence, but surely Clio wasn't so modern as that.

  "What's in the top drawer, love? Surely it can wait." He slid his hand up her leg, and his touch met the silken slope of her inner thigh.

  Good God. He was inches from the heart of her. All that sweet, tight heat.

  "It can't," she gasped. "It's the papers."

  Chapter Seventeen

  The papers," he echoed.

>   Clio nodded. She was so breathless with excitement, she could scarcely speak. The wicked magic of his tongue had driven her wild. The hard heat and weight of him atop her, so fiercely comforting. So dangerously safe.

  Now his hand was on her thigh, and the pad of his thumb was . . .

  Oh, so close.

  She wriggled beneath him, craving friction. Pressure. Anything. She would have never expected herself to be such a wanton, but Rafe made her feel so cherished. He'd stripped her of any shame.

  "Please," she begged. "Just sign them first. Then I'm free, and there won't be any doubts or regrets."

  "Right." He withdrew his hand from her shift.

  Despite the temporary loss of his caress, Clio rejoiced.

  This was finally going to happen. They were finally going to happen, she and Rafe. Clio felt as though she'd been waiting for this moment--not for days or years, but all her life.

  She twisted to a sitting position, fumbling to button her shift. A giddy laugh escaped her. "It won't take but a moment. I'll be right back."

  "Don't bother coming back."

  His sharp tone startled her. "What?"

  "I'm not signing."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you don't want this." He gestured at the space between them. "You just know that I want this. What you want is to escape."

  Clio didn't understand. Just a moment ago, he'd been pressing passionate kisses to her breasts, and now he seemed . . . upset. Almost angry.

  Or was he feeling hurt?

  "This has been your plan the whole week, hasn't it? It's the reason you let me stay." He turned away from her, reaching to gather his trousers from a nearby chair. "You know my reputation. If I won't sign the papers you put in front of me, surely I'll seduce you. And that would work just as well. I'd have no choice but to sever the engagement."

  "No," she hastened to assure him. "No, that wasn't my plan at all. I promise. Rafe, you're misunderstanding."

  He stood, hiking his trousers. "This is why you came to me in Southwark. It's why you've let me kiss you, see you, touch you . . . You're too timid to confront him yourself, and I make a convenient villain."

  "You are not a villain," she said.

  "Of course I am. You've followed my career. You know my reputation. I'm the Devil's Own. In your eyes, I'm useful for one thing--destruction. Dissolving your engagement. Ruining you for marriage. Punching holes in tavern walls to sell beer." He threw her an angry glare. "You don't want me. You just want a way out."

  Now Clio was growing angry, too.

  "I am not timid. Not anymore." Her hands balled in fists. "All my life, I've been raised to believe that I am worthless on my own. I'm nothing but a dutiful gentleman's daughter on her way to becoming an aristocrat's compliant bride. Even at that, I haven't been successful. You have no idea how much bravery it took to even conceive of breaking this engagement."

  "Then find the courage to tell Piers yourself," he said. "I won't sign your papers. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever."

  Not ever?

  Her stomach lurched. "You can't refuse. You promised me."

  "You made promises of your own to Piers."

  "I was a child."

  "You aren't a child any longer." He loomed over her, bracing his hands on the mattress. One hand on either side of her hips. "You're a woman. Twenty-five years old, a lady of property and fortune. You could have broken this engagement at any time. Written him a letter ages ago. But you didn't. You've put your family through this weeklong charade of wedding plans just to spare yourself one uncomfortable conversation."

  His accusations poked at her, pushing her toward a dark, unpleasant corner--but the cage of his arms left her nowhere to hide.

  She said, "I just want the chance to make my own choices, define my own life. You must understand. I know you want that, too."

  "I know who I am. I'm a prizefighter. I'm not a hired brute. If you want to deal a man a sucker punch after eight years, make a fist and do it yourself."

  Clio didn't know a thing about sucker punches. But she knew she couldn't let the conversation end this way.

  Concentrate. Anticipate. React.

  She shot both hands forward and tickled him in the rib cage. He yelped in surprise. When his arms buckled at the elbow, she grabbed his neck and tackled him onto the bed, turning him flat on his back.

  Before he could recover from the shock, she straddled his chest. "You're not getting away from me that easily."

  Lord. His rigid abdominal muscles were mortared bricks beneath her sprawled thighs, and his nostrils flared like those of an enraged bull. She had the best of him for this one moment, but he would have no difficulty flipping their positions if he wished.

  "We had a bargain," she whispered. "I trusted you. I did everything you asked. I tried on those humiliating gowns. I . . . I bared myself to you, in every way."

  His gaze made a bold sweep of her body, then settled on her breasts. "You did, didn't you? You let me put my big, rough hands all over you."

  "Yes. And all I've been able to think about is letting you do it again. I want you, Rafe." She pounded the flat of her fist on his chest. "How can I make you see? I dream about your touch. I feel a pang in my heart whenever you're near. It only gets worse when you're far away. And I don't . . ."

  Her words trailed off. In her mind, she heard her own voice echoing. It was a chorus of one word, over and over: I . . . I . . . I . . . With the occasional trill of Me-me-me.

  Could she be any more selfish? She was here confessing her feelings about Rafe, but she wasn't giving a thought to Rafe's emotions at all.

  "And I don't love Piers," she continued, feeling a heavy realization fall in place. "But you do."

  His chest rose and fell.

  "You love him, don't you?"

  He didn't say yes. She didn't expect he would. He had too much of the Granville disposition for that.

  Instead, he released a gruff sigh and said, "He's my only brother." As if that explained everything.

  And it did.

  She was a fool not to have seen it earlier. That's what this week was about. Not Rafe's career. Not his convenience.

  No matter how much had happened, no matter how he tried to disclaim society, the bonds of blood still meant something to him. Judging by his expression, they meant a great deal.

  "Why didn't you just say so?" She gave his chest a playful push. "Men. I have to come into your room, seduce you in your sleep, tackle you to the mattress . . . and only then will you admit to caring for your own brother."

  He relented. "I just can't take his bride from him. Not after everything else."

  "Everything else?" She moved to the side, releasing his arms. "What else did you take? Even if you've made some bad investment or lost a part of the fortune, I doubt that Piers will blame you."

  "If only it were that simple." He struggled up on his elbows. "I took his father, Clio. I was responsible for the marquess's death."

  It was clear they needed to talk.

  But if Rafe was going to manage this conversation, it needed to happen somewhere less bedlike. And they needed to be wearing more clothes.

  By the time he stumbled into the kitchen a quarter hour later, dressed in an open-necked shirt and loose trousers, Clio was waiting for him.

  She'd plaited her hair, cinched her dressing gown tight, and laid the counter with candles and a few refreshments. A midnight picnic for two.

  Were the circumstances different, it would have been romantic. Tonight, he felt like a condemned man settling down for his last meal.

  He surveyed the table. "Cake. And beer."

  "Thanks to you, we'll be eating cake for a month or more." She dipped her finger in the icing and tasted it. "This one's gooseberry. The tartness should complement the anise notes in the porter."

  The anise notes? In the porter?

  "Who taught you all this?"

  "I learned on my own. When I first started considering the brewery plan, I asked the cook to orde
r in a firkin of every beer, porter, ale, and stout available. My 'finishing' included instruction on selecting wines. I took to it. It turns out, beer isn't that different." She pulled an inch of reddish brown porter into her glass and held it to her nose. "This one's nice and malty. A hint of cocoa. Here, try."

  She handed it to Rafe, and he took a sip. It tasted like porter. Excellent porter, but . . . porter. Malty, to be sure. All porter was malty. Whatever hints of cocoa and notes of anise were in it, they eluded his detection.

  "I don't know how you taste those things."

  "I think we're all attuned to detail somehow, we Whitmore girls. Phoebe's a marvel with anything mathematic. Daphne could tell you who made a bit of lace, and where and during what season, just by glancing at a three-inch sample." She shrugged and sipped. "I can taste the lavender border that grew next to the hops."

  "Daphne and Phoebe don't hide their talents, though."

  She filled the rest of the glass. "I'm already the dumpling of the family, and I'm the one with a knack for tasting? You can imagine the teasing I'd suffer. From my brother-in-law alone." She slid him his beer. "But we're not here to talk about me."

  No, they weren't. Rafe drew up a stool. "It's a long story."

  "It's a large cake." She pushed a fork in his direction. "And before we begin, I should like one thing noted. I knew you had Secret Pain."

  His chest lifted with a humorless chuckle. "After tonight, it won't be so secret anymore."

  "Well. At least that's something I can claim. None of your other women ever came this far."

  She had no idea. No other woman had even come close.

  She poked at the cake with her fork, teasing berries out of the filling and popping one into her mouth. As she swallowed, her eyes closed involuntarily.

  When she opened them, she caught him staring at her.

  "You're doing it again," he said.

  "Doing what?" she asked, her mouth still partly full.

  "Cake sounds."

  "Sorry." She swallowed. "I didn't even notice."

  "I noticed. I always noticed. I'm a bastard that way."

  "I wish you'd stop saying that." She set down her fork and stacked her arms on the table. "No, I mean this, Rafe. You throw that word about so casually, and I've been wrong not to object before now. I think a great deal of you, and . . . And it hurts to hear you disparaged that way, by anyone."

  Sweet girl.

  "It fits, though. I always felt fatherless. From boyhood, I was always the odd one out. Piers was cast from my father's mold, and I . . . I just wasn't. I was a miserable student. I didn't excel at their gentlemanly pursuits. I didn't have the right upper-crust friends. I was big and rough, not handsome and refined." He took a draught of his porter. "Piers could sneeze, and the old man would beam with pride. I was always the mistake. Sometimes I wondered if I was even his natural son."