Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (51 page)

“Good. Have a pleasant journey, Mr. Talent. I don’t expect we’ll be seeing you again. Ever. Good day.” And with that he turned his back upon the door, and waited until he heard the latch firmly close, before he turned to his wife. “And that, I will wager you, is the last we shall ever see of the bad Reverend Talent.

His darling, disreputable wife launched herself into his arms. “Oh, Alasdair. You were magnificent. Truly. And I am the luckiest lass in all of the land.” She buried her face against his neck, but he could still hear her words. “Because I get to make my home with you, and keep you by me for all the time I have in this life. And that is full fair marvelous.”

“My darling brat.” He wrapped his arms around her, and nothing had ever felt so good, and so right.
 

Quince decided to order a simple supper for two laid out in the dining room.

She dressed carefully for her husband’s company. A marchioness has to be seen to be believed, her Mama had once said, and Quince would give Alasdair something to believe in.
 

She chose one of the more opulent of her borrowed gowns—an old-fashioned, narrow-waisted confection of white satin with decorative lacing—that was neither too grand, nor too ordinary, but did show her décolletage off to best advantage.

“That is a lovely gown you’re almost wearing,” was her husband’s marvelously predictable greeting as he came to her dressing table and kissed her on the shoulder. “You look a treat.”

“Thank you, Alasdair. So do you. That crimson velvet is my absolute favorite. Even without the buttons.”

“I’m glad you approve.” But his eyes were all for her. “As do I—that gown does wonderful things to your manifest charms. It makes me damn glad I forced you to marry me.”

He was teasing her, so she could not help but laugh. “You forced
me
? Alasdair, we both know that’s not how it was. And you should know enough of me by now to ken that I can’t ever be forced to do something I don’t want to.”

“Nonetheless, I arranged it.” He moved in front of her to prop himself on the edge of her dressing table, partially blocking her view of the mirror. Not that she particularly minded, as the mirror showed off his trim backside to all kinds of perfection. “Don’t forget I went to all the trouble of shooting you, just to make sure you couldn’t escape me. Aye. ” He lowered his voice to that deep Scots rumble she so liked. “From the very moment I pictured you stuffing my buttons down between your very lovely, very white breasts, everything I have done has been to the single purpose of being able to see more of those very lovely white breasts. More of you.” He looked her in the eye. “All of you.”

His words hit her like a soft blow—she staggered just a bit. Or would have, had she not already been sitting. But still, she was moved enough that he could see she was not as immune to him as she wanted him to think. “Stop it. You’ll make us miss our supper.”

“Perhaps I have something else in mind?” He leaned back against the edge of the table, and let her think. And more importantly feel. What his hands might feel like if his fingers were caressing her as intimately as his eyes.
 

Until he frowned at her. “Something, I fear, is missing.”

“What?” she leaned around to peer at herself in the looking glass. “I don’t like to powder my hair, and I can’t stand wearing feathers. Or—”

Alasdair stopped her by placing a very old-looking, flat, rectangular, blue leather box in front of her.

“Alasdair,” she said when she had found her voice. “Please tell me you are not tempting me with jewels.”

“I am.” He flipped open the box. “The Strathcairn emeralds.”

“Oh, by jimble,” she whispered. She had seen such a demi-parure of matching stones before, and even been tempted to steal them. But she never had. And she had never, not once in all her years of magpie larceny, ever thought she would ever be gifted with such incomparable jewels.

“My mother never wore them, I’m told, nor did my grandmother, who felt the green stones didn’t favor her complexion. But you”—he shook his head as he smiled—“I’ll wager your fortune they will favor you.”

“Alasdair, they’re beautiful.” Her voice was low and quiet and rough—full of the most wretched gratitude. “They must be worth a fortune.”

“Why does it matter what they are worth?” he asked just as quietly.

“Because,” was her only answer.

“I had wondered if you might like them better if you got to steal them? I could leave them lying about for you to find.” His voice was full of warmth, and he was smiling, so she knew he was teasing. “Or are you instead tempted to pack them off to Amsterdam and pawn them?”

“Alasdair, be serious. They are too precious, and too old, and too stunning to do something as ridiculous as pawn. You had best not to give them to me. Don’t tempt me beyond endurance.”

“My poor, darling brat.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Most women would be tempted to steal such jewels to keep for themselves. But you are tempted to sell them away.” He stood and walked behind her. “But they are your jewels now, and you may do with them as you please. Sell them or not, it is up to you.”

“You can’t mean it.” Her eyes burned with the most wretched gratitude.

“I do mean it, Quince. You are the Marchioness of Cairn now.”

“Aye, I know, and I’ve given you a sorry excuse for one.”

“You misunderstand. Do you not see and understand that instead of stealing your bits and bobs from ballrooms, and pressing pound after pound into the poor box, you might harness the power of society to what is both good and right? Did you never think that as Marchioness of Cairn, you could take all your hidden scruples and bring them out into the light and make real change? Not spare florins and pennies change, but real change that will amount to far more than the cost of an old set of jewels. Use them as you like—as a start. They are yours. And you are far more valuable to me than their cost.”

“Oh, Alasdair.” Quince didn’t know when she had felt so completely, entirely, peacefully happy. “You really are the most wonderful mon, scruples and all.” Heat and gratitude and love and ridiculous need to laugh all piled up behind her eyes. “Don’t you dare make me cry. I’ll look a wreck at dinner.”
 

“I will not notice your red eyes if you wear these. Here.” He plucked the heavy necklace out of its satin lined nest, and placed it about her neck. “I was right. They do look as if they were made for you.”

The green jewels looked warm and glowing against the white of her skin. “Oh, Alasdair, the jewels are beautiful.”

“Are they? I was talking about your rather magnificent breasts,” he clarified.
 

“Alasdair.” She lowered her chin and looked up at him from under her lashes just the way he liked. “You’re only saying that so I’ll let you—“

“Take greater liberties? Make you late for supper?” He bent to kiss and warm her neck just above the cool stones. “Aye. Aye, I am. But I also aim to let you take greater liberties with me, as well. As many as you’d like. But as you’ve become such a shy, demure type, I reckon you need encouragement in your liberties. Instruction, even. And opportunity.”

She stood and turned to him, leaning into the solid strength of his chest. “I’m neither shy, nor demure, and well you know it.”

Alasdair wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her tight against him. “No,” he breathed his agreement, “you’re all blistering cheek and bravado.”

She made her tone full of the aforementioned cheek. “Is this to be another one of your lessons in kissing?”

“I reckon this just might be rather more than kissing.” And to demonstrate exactly what he was talking about, he traced a finger along the top of her bodice, across the sensitive swells of her breasts, protected only by layers of cotton and lace and satin, like so much armor. “In fact, I think there might not be very much kissing at all.”

“But I like kissing.”

He smudged his thumb along the ripe ridge of her lip. “And so you do. And so do I. But let us see if you might like something…else as well as you do kissing.”

“Something else?” Her voice had gone soft and slightly breathless.

“Something more intimate,” he whispered. His breath fanned along her temple, disarranging her artfully arranged curls. “Something much more personal.”

She went up on tiptoe until his lips were mere inches from his. “More personal than kissing?”
 

“Oh, I don’t know.” He let his hands skim down the column of her neck and across the delicate sensitive skin of her collarbone. His voice was gently chiding. Teasing her softly. “How intimate is this?”
 

The ripe, pink tip of her breast just barely crested above the lace and fine lawn of her chemise. He let his clever fingers skim over her once, twice, until she was arching into the weight of his palm, digging her fists into his velvet sleeve.
 

Her breath came shallow and fast as he cupped her more firmly, and thumbed the sweet peak into a tight furl of pleasure. “Well. I was wrong.” His voice was distracted, and vaguely wondrous. “I think there’s bound to be some kissing after all.”

He set his lips to her breast, and pleasure blossomed under her skin, speeding heat and heady bliss. Hunger for something other than soup had her in its greedy grip. And she really didn’t mind. “I think I’ve had quite enough lessons on kissing.” She began to fist up the yards and yards of fabric that made up her skirts.

“I disagree. Quite passionately. We’ve only just begun to skim the surface of what goes on in the business of kissing. Although you’re coming along quite nicely. Very nicely if I may say so.” He crushed her against his chest. “Come.”

“Where?”

“To bed.”

“Too far.” She swept her brushes off the table and onto the floor, although she was a bit more careful with the powder—she only wanted to make love to her husband, not ruin the carpets—sliding the box well out of the way. “This mahogany looks sturdy enough.”

“I want to make love to you properly, Quince. In a bed, like a goddamned lady.”

She shrieked with laughter. “We both know I’m not much of a lady.”

“You’re enough, brat. More than enough. Even if you’re not lady, you’re my wife.”

He hooked a finger beneath her neckline, and found the tight peak of her breast. The sound she made was as exuberant as it was unrestrained. “And you are wearing a dress that gives me an absolutely spectacular view of your magnificent breasts—”

“I choose it with just such a view in mind.”

“Clever, clever lass.” He kissed the sass off her lips. “And as a reward, I’ll have to ravish my wife upon her dressing table, in the most impetuous, heedless manner—” He tugged at the bodice. “Are you sewn into this thing?”

“I am. But I’ve my wee dirk”—she slid her old ring knife out of the side of her bodice—“that I used to use to steal buttons, to make it that much easier for you.”

“Oh, Lady Cairn.” He could feel his grin slide straight across his face. “Extra points for being prepared.”

“Thank you, Alasdair.” Her hands were at the ribbon of his queue. “I try to have a sense of occasion.”

She laughed and laughed as he picked her up and sat her on the table amid the profusion of her skirts, like an exquisite bloom. She leaned back and gripped the edge of the table in inviting readiness. Everything within her encouraged him—her lips, her hands urgent at his hips, her voice. “Shall we break all the china?”

“All.” And he was looking at her in that way that was so intent it was embarrassing and mesmerizing and angelic and wicked all at the same time. He looked at her as if she were a puzzle he had no hope of solving, but was enjoying anyway. He looked at her as if there were nothing else and no one upon the earth at which to direct his focused gaze. He looked at her as if, despite her many and spectacular faults, she mattered to him. Just as much as he mattered to her.

“I love you, Alasdair.” He was perfect. Perfectly flawed. Perfectly human. And most perfectly hers.

“I know, brat. And I love you, too. In all the world, you’re the only temptation I can’t resist.”

And that was exactly how she liked it.

Read on for an excerpt of the introduction to the Highland Brides, Mad for Love.

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MAD FOR LOVE

London, Early Spring 1790