An Exquisite Marriage (15 page)

He seemed to grasp the concept and slid his hand up, higher, to press against her slit.

“Ah!” she cried. Oh, it was rough and strange and good. She guided his finger to the spot, the tight nub that the medical texts called the clitoris.

He pressed. Pure pleasure burst through her, and she cried out.

“Oh,” said Marcus, and he sounded just a little dazed. “There.”

“Yes.”

“And if I rub . . . ?”

“Oh yes! Yes! Like that, please, more, like that!”

He covered her mouth so she was moaning into his, and he was thrusting his tongue into her, and she arched against him, and her questing hand, almost by accident, found his swollen member. It was so hot, so hard and yet velvet soft. Her fingers curled around it, and he hissed and rewarded her by increasing his rhythm.

“So good.”

“So good. Don't stop. Oh, please don't stop.”

“Oh no, Helene. My beauty, my dear, not until you scream.”

And she did scream.

She'd thought she was ready for what she'd feel. She'd touched herself before, but it was not like this. It was not a shattered madness of pleasure, shuddering and bucking her body, with Marcus pressing harder, rubbing harder, calling her name, urging her on.

At last, the frenzy eased into a slow, even pulse, a sort of echo of pleasure.

“Helene,” Marcus groaned. “Helene, my beauty, my dear, I need . . . I want . . .”

“Yes,” she answered him, shifting, spreading her legs open. “So do I.”

He rolled himself over so he was on top of her. He was heavy, and she delighted in being strong enough to bear his weight. He'd planted his elbows on either side of her head. He was watching her, his eyes wide with wonder and pleasure.

She lifted her legs and wrapped her thighs around him, arching up until his member pressed into her hot, damp slit. The blunt, broad tip felt even better than his fingers had, and she gasped.

“Are you . . .”

“Yes. Don't stop.”

They pressed, they angled, they gasped, and they laughed, and he was inside her. Relaxed as she was, she felt nothing but a new shimmer of delight as he stretched her open. Her body knew what it wanted, and she embraced him inside her.

“Oh, God. Helene.”

“More,” she answered him. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and arched her back to rub her breasts against his chest. “More!”

Slowly, panting with his effort at control, he settled more deeply into her. She felt the pain, but it was not much and then it was gone, and he was exactly where she wanted him, had always wanted him, pressed tight inside her, stretching her, filling her.

Moving. Pressing, thrusting, rocking her, rocking them both. Calling her name, lost to the pleasure that they made between them. Her own pleasure sparked again. It rose and it grew and filled the whole of her. And his rhythm grew more frantic. They were both calling out. She was tightening her thighs around his bucking hips, calling his name now, urging him as he had done for her, begging him, because it felt so very good.

And for an instant he stopped, poised, pressed hard against her, and then shattered, the force of his orgasm pounding him against her, and her own body pulsed in fevered echo and answer. They held on to each other, riding the waves, kissing and laughing and crying, letting the pleasure lift them up and twine them together.

“Helene,” Marcus murmured as they finally fell slowly into each other's arms. “My love. My wife.”

“Yes,” she answered him. “My husband.”

Because it was true. No matter what happened next, this was the moment of their joining. It was real, and it was as sacred as any vow, because she loved him, and he loved her in return.

Helene knew they would never truly be separated again.

The auction house was full to the brim. The Marquis of Broadheathe strolled with his catalogue between the tagged furniture and porcelains and chests of teak and mahogany. Men and women of varying levels of quality perused their lists and examined the numbered items, while the clerks and the officiators bustled to and fro. The crowd interested Broadheathe as much as the items to be put up for bid. They were his competitors for this day, and he needed to see if there was any reason for concern. Broadheathe was not a man to relish a challenge. He cared only that he got his way.

A single circuit of the room, however, convinced the marquis he could intimidate or outbid anyone he saw here. He nodded with satisfaction.

Then he saw Viscount Anandale.

Lord Anandale stood beside a suite of drawing room furnishings, imported from Paris, the catalogue said, dating from the reign of Louis XIV. Anandale was expounding with his usual pomposity to a fussy little man of no breeding beside him. He also wore a new coat and hat and carried a smart new walking stick.

All of it proclaimed that Anandale had somehow, somewhere acquired a new source of money. How on earth had that happened? Had the man finally sold Anandale House? If that was the case, why would he be here looking at imported furnishings?

Curiosity dug in its spurs, and the marquis strolled over to the man he'd once planned to make his father-in-law.

Anandale spotted him at once. “Well, Broadheathe!” he cried in his boorishly hearty fashion. “I did not expect to meet you here.”

“Nor I you, Anandale.” Broadheathe folded his hands on his own stick to avoid shaking hands. “In fact I wonder at it.”

“Why should you, sir? You know I've always had an eye for the finer things.” Anandale gestured one meaty hand toward the white and gilt chairs. “There are some very pretty trinkets up for sale today. Very pretty indeed.”

“Are you buying for yourself today? Or is it something for one of your ladies?”

“Ha-ha! I don't deny a present or two would be welcome at home. It's been a while righting the ship. I won't deny that, either. But from now on, we shall have smooth sailing.”

“A change of fortune, Anandale?”

“You could say so, you could say so.” Anandale touched the side of his nose. “And you may yet feel the sting of it, ha-ha!”

Anger flashed through Broadheathe, but he tamped it down. “Oh, you have nothing but my best wishes, Anandale. You know that.”

“I am glad to hear it. I sometimes feared there might be some ill will between us because of . . .”

“I don't hold a man responsible for his daughter's follies,” Broadheathe made himself say. Fortunately, Anandale was so dense, he never heard how the words practically strangled the marquis.

“That's very handsome of you, sir, very handsome. Not sure if your good humor would survive the news, though, so I think I'd better keep mum. Ha-ha!” Anandale beamed and stuck his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, obviously waiting for Broadheathe to try to pry the news out of him. The attitude was entirely irksome and dull, and Broadheathe couldn't imagine what Anandale might know that he could possibly care two pins about. Unless . . .

Broadheathe felt a flush creeping up from under his collar. “Why, Anandale, am I to congratulate you?”

Anandale tapped the side of his nose and waggled his finger. “Not yet, not yet, not official yet, but soon, soon. Seems Helene's had her sights set higher than a marquisate, clever girl that she is!”

The creeping flush burned across Broadheathe's cheeks. Was it possible that little
bitch
had somehow managed to make a decent marriage after all? Who in the devil's name would ever . . . ?

But he knew. It was Windford. He'd come to the title as a boy, and he'd remained as soft hearted and soft headed as a mother's mollycoddle. Broadheathe had seen it for himself at that woman Wrexford's party. Windford had all but swooped in and pulled the girl away, the very picture of the gallant knight. But Broadheathe had not for a minute imagined Windford would go so far as to propose marriage. The man could not possibly be fool enough to tie himself to a jilt and a bluestocking.

He could not be about to make Helene Fitzgerald a duchess.

She'd outrank him.

The girl who dared to make a fool of him in public, who caused men to chuckle and smirk when they heard his name. Who'd gotten him barred from entry into a number of homes where he'd formerly been welcome. If she succeeded in marrying Windford, she'd find herself at the pinnacle of society, and she'd become one of the richest women in the kingdom, in one grand stride. She'd have the power to cut him out of the best company, and she'd do it, too, the little bitch. Not a drop of proper humility in her. He touched the spot on his lip where the necklace had cut him, all those years ago. He could still feel the sting of it.

No. It was not permissible. Helene Fitzgerald would not marry Windford, or anyone else of rank or worth. She would never prosper by having humiliated him. Not ever.

***

It did not take more than two or three inquiries at his club for Broadheathe to find the address he needed. It was a square that might have been described as having aspirations. The houses were not new, but they'd been freshly made up, rather like aging dames putting on their wigs and their rouge and telling one another they were still as beautiful as ever. Broadheathe trotted up the steps and noted the brass was bright but the area railing was rusted. The overly pretty maid who answered the door did so with a smirk. But she took his card inside to her mistress without more than one impudent glance. He was inclined to ignore that. Today he had much more serious business than chastising other people's servants. Especially people like the woman he'd come to see.

The maid came back quickly and invited him to step through into the drawing room where the mistress of the house rose from her sofa to receive him.

“Mrs. Darington,” he said. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

Like the house, the drawing room was lushly secondhand. The carpets were silk, and the walls were dressed in yet more silk. The windows and the sofas wore velvet, but the colors clashed, and none of the expensive fabrics had been kept up well.

It was a luxurious nest for an aspiring jewel, but she'd better hurry up about it. Broadheathe made sure his smile was nothing but polite as he bowed. She was getting old. Her dark hair was too obviously dyed, and her cheeks too blatantly rouged.

Mrs. Darington curtsied to him, a little too deeply. “I am most honored, my lord. But I cannot imagine what brings the Marquis of Broadheathe to my poor little home.”

“Somehow, Mrs. Darington, I believe you capable of imagining all sorts of things.”

“One could say the same for you, sir. Will you sit? May I offer you a glass of claret?” Even as she spoke, she moved to her sideboard, where the glasses and the bottle stood ready.

“Thank you,” said Broadheathe as he settled into the comfortable chair. “I am told you keep an excellent cellar.”

“One does one best, although it is difficult without a man in the house to judge such things.” She sighed theatrically.

“What, no man? That's not what I've heard.”

“I do not understand your meaning.”

“I was given to understand you had a man, not necessarily in your house it is true . . .”

“If you are going to be insulting, sir, you may get yourself gone.” Mrs. Darington drew herself up. Aging she might be, but she had enough presence to make herself imposing. Another man who knew less might have been impressed.

Broadheathe waved both the words and the gesture away. “Spare me your protestations, madame. I am here as a friend.”

“My friends do not speak to me in such a fashion.”

“As you please, but I have news that you need to hear.”

She turned her face away, giving him a view of her still fresh profile. “I'm sure you have nothing to say that I could need to hear.”

“Not even if it is regarding the Duke of Windford?”

“
What?
”

“There, now I have engaged your interest. Perhaps I may beg that claret now?”

She should not narrow her eyes in that fashion. It would eventually give her lines. Broadheathe crossed his legs and waited while she poured out the claret to hand to him. He took his time, swirling it, inhaling its bouquet and sipping. The reports he'd heard had not exaggerated. It was quite good. He might suggest to Regina they hire away her butler.

“Now, sir,” Mrs. Darington said. “You have had your wine, and you have succeeded in pricking my temper and piquing my interest. If you have news, tell me and go.”

“Very well, straight to the point then. I appreciate a woman who knows when to be direct.” He smiled and let his eyes travel lazily to her bosom, which was much exposed. He wondered who she'd meant to display it for. “It is rumored that Windford has recently cast you adrift.”

If looks could kill, he would have been incinerated. As it was, he felt a trifle warm. Another sip of wine cured that.

“My relationship with the Duke of Windford is none of your business.”

“But it is your business, and your livelihood, or at least the best part of it.” She opened her mouth to take umbrage, but he forestalled her with a sharp gesture. “Spare me your further protests, madame. I do not care for them, or for you. But what you may not know is that the reason his lordship is . . . simplifying his household is that he is soon to be married.”

“No.” She spoke the word flatly and finally. “His lordship will never marry.”

“You are wrong, madame. I expect the announcement to come before the end of the season.”

Mrs. Darington said nothing. She did, however, busy herself with pouring a second glass of wine. She drank this down with unseemly haste.

“If you are so well informed, sir,” she said as she lowered the empty glass, “you will be able to tell me the woman's name.”

“Lady Helene Fitzgerald.”

Mrs. Darington was silent for a long moment. “That would explain your interest in the matter.”

Broadheathe shrugged. “I pay my debts, madame, and I will exact my payment from those who owe me.”

“And what is it you wish? For me to go around to Windford's house and play the bailiff for you? I think not, Lord Broadheathe.”

He finished his own wine. “It will be you, or it will be somebody else.” He set the glass down on the chipped table at his elbow. “I only point it out as a matter of interest, since I believe you also require a payment from his lordship. You are unlikely to get it in cash, so I thought you might be interested in taking it in kind.” He raised his hand. “Do not bother to tell me you don't know what I mean, and don't bother ringing for your maid. I can see myself out. Good day to you, Mrs. Darington. Thank you for hearing me so patiently.”

Broadheathe took himself out of the room, and, pausing only to collect his hat and stick in the hall, he trotted down the house steps, whistling quietly. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Mrs. Darington lift the curtain to regard him through the window. He raised his hat and proceeded down the street, swinging his cane, entirely satisfied.