My Merry Marquess (Wallflowers Christmas Wish Book 3)

by Annabelle Anders

  Her.

  “I figured that I might as well. Being in London was too—” His mouth turned down and then his gaze narrowed as he stared down at her feet. “You walked over here wearing slippers?” He lowered himself to his knees and untied the lace wrapped around her ankle. “These are soaked.” His warm hands embraced one foot and then the other.

  Her heart cracked at his tender touch. “How long after my departure before you left?”

  He lifted his head and held her gaze, revealing pain she’d not seen in his eyes before. “Two days.” His hand crept up her ankle, to her knee.

  She would have asked him why he’d given up on her so easily if she wasn’t already so very flustered by the sensations ignited by his hands. Oh, how she’d missed this.

  “Do you still wear those pretty lace garters with little bows? What color were they? Green?” His voice, not to mention the stroking of his thumb, sent heat rushing to her center.

  She swam through the fog of her brain to answer his question. “Mint.” She cleared her throat. “Pastel.” She barely managed to get the words out.

  “Ah, yes. How could I forget?” Both hands were under her skirts now. “These stockings are damp as well. Mustn’t have you catching cold.” He held her gaze even as he untied the lace just above her knee and then slowly slid the silk garment off her leg.

  “You remember?” she whispered. She had always allowed him more liberty than she ought. There had been days she cursed herself for doing so, thinking it must be the reason she couldn’t stop missing him.

  “I remember everything.” He went to work on her other garter. Once both her stockings were removed, he rose and then hung them on the chair with his coat. Was she limp with relief or disappointment?

  It ought to feel wrong, watching a man handle her undergarments. Only he wasn’t just any man. Had he cared for her at all? Did he care still?

  He was Nicholas.

  She expected him to return to his seat near the chest and took a breath to explain everything to him. She would ask him to open the letters. He would realize she hadn’t been the one to leave him. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Only, he didn’t return to his seat but dropped before her again.

  “Eve.” His hands renewed their exploration of her leg.

  “Nicholas,” she whispered, watching him from beneath suddenly heavy lids. His hands, which had felt warm holding her feet, felt cool as they urged her thighs open. She slumped and offered no resistance when he pulled her to the edge of the seat.

  She shouldn’t have come.

  “No pantaloons, Eve?”

  She rarely wore them. As his fingers brushed the soft tufts of hair near her entrance, she doubted they would have deterred him.

  He stroked along her seam, softly at first and then easing inside. She gasped.

  It was daylight. She was an unmarried woman in a gentleman’s chamber. They had no promises between the two of them and yet none of that mattered.

  “You’re wet for me here too.” He penetrated her with one finger, and she couldn’t keep her hips from jerking. “God, Eve, you’re so beautiful.” She felt his eyes on her but couldn’t open her own.

  He had not read her letters. He hadn’t even realized she’d written him. Could she forgive him so easily? She didn’t know the answer, and yet she did nothing to stop him. After the numbness she’d endured since his betrayal, her mother’s death, and then her father’s fall into despair, she’d ignored emotions that dared to creep up on her.

  She’d done her best to stop feeling.

  But she had been lonely—so very lonely.

  She uttered a shameless cry of need, and he added a second finger, increasing the depth as well as the rhythm of his touch.

  “Let go, love. You want this. Just take it.”

  She clutched the sides of the chair tightly, and a hiss escaped past her lips.

  “I’ve got you, beautiful, let go.”

  And just like that, Eve threw back her head, forgetting that she’d ever considered herself a modest lady as she panted and moaned until she crested and then descended to the other side of this, oh, so lovely journey.

  A spark popped in the fire, jerking her out of her stupor. His hand remained covering her, protectively almost. She felt claimed and almost hopeful. Was love still a possibility?

  “I told you love wasn’t necessary for this to be good.” He withdrew that same hand from beneath her skirts and proceeded to smooth her gown.

  Eve opened her eyes and in a storm of shame, spiraled into a depth of emptiness she’d not been prepared for.

  Passion, lust, and something Nick didn’t wish to consider too closely, had swept through him as he watched her come alive at his touch. The cauldron of emotions was more than he’d felt in months.

  She’d come here to talk, she’d said. She’d come for tea. And at the first opportunity, he had his hand up her skirts.

  Hadn’t he just promised himself he’d not allow this to happen?

  In a moment of self-preservation, he’d uttered words that had her staring at him as though he’d just slapped her.

  Her face was flushed and her eyes bright. The urge to take her into his arms nearly had him begging forgiveness, but he did not. He could not—would not—allow himself to go through that again.

  He’d all but fallen apart when she’d betrayed him before. If not for the adrenaline from his anger, he doubted he could have remained upright when he boarded the ship for the channel crossing. And then once in Brussels, he’d drank to the extent that even in the mornings, he was never quite sober. He barely recalled the few women who had been fool enough to attempt to share his bed. It had been humiliating. He’d been so besotted, so bloody heartbroken from Eve’s treatment of him, that he’d been unable to assuage his desire with even the comeliest of lovelies.

  Disgusted, he’d traveled on to Paris and begun an unnatural bout of self-imposed abstinence. Upon entering his state of self-denial, he’d couldn’t seem to break it.

  If Dash and Jack had even an inkling as to the manner in which he’d lived the past nineteen months, they’d never let him hear the end of it. The Christmas house party had presented the perfect opportunity to break his atypical streak. He’d been ready to slake his lust mindlessly.

  And now this.

  The blizzard had obviously been sent from hell. Why else had it landed him in godforsaken Maybridge Falls?

  Unless…

  He raised his fingers to his upper lip and inhaled. “Just think of all the fun we could have, Eve, until the snow melts.”

  She flinched, and her bottom lip trembled. She would run from him a fourth time. This ruse was his last hope for sanity.

  And then she lifted her chin and glowered at him before flicking her gaze toward the window. Snowflakes swirled outside, occasionally striking the window soundlessly. “How long do you think that will take? Long enough for you to read through your correspondence?”

  “God, I hope not,” he answered, taken aback by her question.

  She met his gaze with an unreadable one and then rose to stand. Nick swallowed hard while she crossed the room, retrieved her stockings, and then returned to the table and chairs. She tucked a few long strands of hair behind one ear with shaking hands and then licked her lips.

  Surely, she wasn’t going to take him up on his suggestion? She lifted one bare foot to the chair and after painstakingly gathering the garment into her fingertips, slid dainty toes inside. The garment unrolled slowly as she drew it over her ankles, calves, and past her knees to the lower half of her thighs.

  He’d thrilled to see his hands on her pale skin only moments before. What was it about seeing Eve’s more delicate ones trailing up that same skin that aroused him even more? The urge to stroke his already engorged cock was nearly too much to resist.

  “My garter, please? Will you hand it to me?” Her voice jolted him out of the dreamlike state. His throat too thick to speak, he retrieved the ribbon and placed it into her outst
retched hand.

  She slid her skirts even higher to secure the garter and then tortured him all over again with the second one. By the time she’d lowered herself to the chair to lace her slipper around her ankles, he could barely remember why she wasn’t in his arms and why he wasn’t on his knees begging for her forgiveness.

  “Boots would have been more practical.” His voice came out sounding garbled as he attempted to restore his equilibrium.

  She shrugged. “I was anxious to speak with you.”

  Only after she’d taken up her coat did he move forward to assist her.

  Why had she been anxious to speak with him before? Enough of his blood ought to have returned to his brain for him to make some sense of her words, and yet he felt as befuddled as ever.

  “You agree then, that we ought to enjoy one another while I’m stranded in Maybridge Falls?” He’d have clarity on this one thing, if nothing else.

  Moving past him, she dropped unexpectedly to her haunches and began rifling through his correspondence. When she rose and turned to face him again, she had picked out a handful of identical-looking envelopes. She chose one of them and held it up, just under his nose.

  For the first time since she’d arrived, she stared at him candidly. “Start with this one first.”

  He stared at the elegant handwriting on the front as she tossed the others onto the desk behind him but didn’t move until she started toward the door.

  “I’ll walk you.” He held out a hand to halt her, glancing around for his boots.

  She shook her head. “Read the letters, Nicholas.”

  And then she was gone.

  Nick wasn’t sure how long he stared at the door behind her before he could bring himself to face the letters. Dread had his heart skipping a beat. Because even though he’d never seen her handwriting, he was in no doubt they had been written by her. The realization of what that meant had him frozen in disbelief.

  And shame. And sickening regret.

  She’d written him? How had he bloody not realized that? What answers would those notes hold? Had he been carrying the answers to all those questions swirling in his head all along?

  He traced the letters with his fingertips. Of course, her writing would be neat and clean but also elegant. Lady Eve Bailey was not one to affect unnecessary embellishments. There were no markings in the seal of wax, of course. She would not have wanted to advertise the fact that she, an unmarried lady, was corresponding with an unmarried gentleman who was not a relation.

  He padded to the window and stared out into the snow at the same time he broke the wax, which had grown dry over time, and withdrew the letter.

  My Dearest Nicholas,

  You cannot know the torment I am in that I cannot speak with you before my father removes us from London. I’m so sorry I cannot say goodbye in person. My mother’s cough has worsened, and it is imperative that we remove her to the country air without delay…

  Yours Affectionately,

  Eve

  Nick’s eyes scanned the single paragraph a second time and after checking the date, he quickly opened the subsequent letter.

  My Dearest Nicholas,

  You cannot imagine how different my days are from the ones I experienced with you in London. And the nights! The flowers, the balls, the candlelight, the long walks alone whenever we could sneak away. Is it possible that they were only a dream?

  Although my father believes Mother is much improved, I do not think that is the case. She is coughing up more and more blood and I am doing my best to keep her comfortable…

  The letter went on, but his heart roared in his ears, making any sort of reasoning difficult. Feeling sick inside, he opened the others.

  Nicholas,

  I’m writing this by candlelight, very late at night, doing my best to convince myself that something very important is keeping you from returning my letters. When I am feeling desolate or inconsolable, I remind myself of the day you declared your love…

  Nicholas,

  Mother told me I should not have been writing to you. She told me that five days ago…

  Nicholas,

  Mother has died. It is nearly Christmastide. I can’t begin to tell you how much it hurts that you’ve not responded to me at all. I will not send any more letters.

  Most Sincerely,

  Eve B.

  Nick reread each letter multiple times, slowly drowning in regret and self-loathing with every pass. The onslaught of emotion was paralyzing and by the time a series of heavy thumps sounded on his chamber door, he was startled to realize he was sitting in near darkness.

  “Open up, you bloody bastard.” Jack’s voice, along with another solid bout of pounding, forced Nick to move for the first time in what felt like hours.

  Schooling his features, he opened the door, allowing light from the wall sconces to allow Tidemore’s shadow to flood his chamber.

  “I’m beginning to think Dash might have taken a blow to the head after wandering into the blizzard last night—either that or the fair maidens across the square have all but robbed him of his manhood. If we’re to hold our heads up in London this spring, it’ll be up to you and me to stand firm.” He lifted a half-full tumbler into the air. “A toast to the Duke of Dashlington. May his loss of manhood be nothing more than a temporary affliction.”

  Shaking his head, Nick opened the door wide for Jack to enter. With a bottle tucked under one arm, and a second glass wedged between his fingers, Nick could only assume that Jack did not intend to drink alone.

  Swaying ever so slightly, the bastard dropped into the chair vacated by Eve earlier, spilling a splash of liquor onto the carpet.

  “By all means, make yourself at home,” Nick commented sarcastically before lighting a flint from the remaining embers in the hearth and igniting several candles.

  “We need to get the hell out of Maybridge Falls before this emasculating village castrates all three of us.” Jack handed a drink across the table. “Or makes us fat. Damned vanilla cakes.”

  “Apple pie,” Nick corrected as he tipped back a healthy swallow of scotch.

  Reclining, Jack eyed him and crossed one ankle over his knee. “Although.” A rather unsettling smile tugged at the corner of the blasted earl’s lips. “The maidens of Maybridge Falls are as sweet as their baked goods.”

  As ridiculous of a statement as this was, Nick could not disagree outright. His gaze fell on the letters that had laid claim to his attention all afternoon and released a heavy sigh.

  “What’s the most damning mistake you’ve made?” Perhaps Jack had done something that could make Nick feel less of a villain. Or less of an idiot.

  If anyone had, it would have to be Jack.

  “I don’t consider them mistakes, Nick old man.” Jack hiccupped and then leaned forward to pour himself another drink. “Perhaps a few miscalculations… better yet, regrets. Any particular reason why?”

  Nick flicked a finger at his own empty glass and, hardly spilling any this time, Jack obligingly filled it.

  “Because I am hoping mine would pale in comparison.” He tossed back the liquid, and it went down considerably easier this time. “Nicholas St. Hope, the Marquess of Miscalculation, at your service.”

  Jack slapped his thigh and held up the bottle. “To Nick St. Blunder.”

  “The Muddling Marquess.”

  The bottle was empty in no time, and yet it wasn’t enough. Perhaps he had more in common with Jack after all. Because despite the copious drink he consumed that night, he wondered how many more miscalculations awaited him in the near future. Because he’d be damned if he was going to walk away from Eve so easily this time.

  He might regret his decision in the long run, he might be sent away nursing yet another broken heart, spending another two years getting over her. But as he drifted off, one thought reminded him of the obvious.

  Winning her back was worth the risk.

  Chapter 5

  Eve stomped along the path between her aunt’s home and t
he Crowing Cock, burning with a multitude of unfamiliar emotions.

  He hadn’t opened them! He hadn’t bothered to consider that she would write him with some sort of explanation. He’d given up on her without even trying!

  There seemed to be two very different Nicholas St. Hopes. One of them had once professed to love her and stared at her with tenderness in unguarded moments. And now there seemed to be this second one. This male person who would tell her that physical attraction was all that remained between them. Deep in her heart, she suspected the former was his true self, but what if she was wrong?

  Eve nodded at Mr. Clark as he opened the door and then allowed him to assist her out of her coat.

  “Lord Blitzencreek will be joining all of you for the evening meal,” he informed her casually. But Eve caught the butler’s meaning all too well.

  “So, we need to keep an eye on Cook then.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll tell my sisters.”

  Once inside her room, Eve stared down at her slippers, wondering if they could be salvaged.

  Nicholas was not wrong in that the sexual aspect between the two of them was powerful. Good heavens, just thinking about it sent an unexpected heat rushing through her entire body. She’d allowed him similar intimacies in London, and it had been part of why she’d felt so horrid when the jug-bitten, hair-brained, idiot of a marquess hadn’t cared enough to open even one of her letters—letters she’d poured her heart into.

  She removed both slippers and her stockings and then went to stare out the window at the two-story building across the square. Was he reading them now? Would their contents make any difference to him at this point?

  “We need to have a meeting.” Noelle entered without knocking, Holly dragging her feet behind her.

  “I hope you intend to make this quick. Not all of us spend our days sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves.” Her youngest sister slid Eve a meaningful glance.