The Lord and the Wayward Lady (13 page)

‘Marcus,’ she repeated, and he pulled up the pair, turned and looked down into her face. Neither of them spoke. But the vapour in the air betrayed the sharp breath he had taken and the look in his eyes stopped her heart for one dizzying moment.

They were at a fork in the road. Without speaking, he turned uphill, the pair working hard in the traces to manage the slope of the rutted track. After a few minutes they emerged into a clearing with a view down through the trees to the vale below. With its back to the woods stood a strange tower built of split flints, its battlements crumbling, its one window and door facing west.

‘The folly,’ Marcus said, driving the team into an open-fronted shack by its side. ‘We picnic here, almost all the year round.’

Without explanation, he helped her down from her
seat, threw rugs over the horses and reached up to take a key from on top of a beam. Heart pounding, Nell followed him through the fake medieval door into a charming but chilly room in the Gothic taste with a stone floor, arched ceiling and a fireplace. Tin trunks and rustic tables and chairs made up all the furnishing.

Nell went to the window and rubbed at the small panes. ‘It is very clean and tidy.’ She had to say something, anything.

‘As I said, we use it a lot.’ Marcus was on his knees on the hearth, stacking kindling and wood shavings from the pile standing ready. The fire flamed into life as he added more wood. She stood watching him as he worked—his kneeling figure, his bent head, the vulnerable skin between his hair line and his collar that she wanted to touch so much—and felt the room grow warmer, far warmer than the blaze he was kindling justified.

When he stood, turned to face her, she found there were no words, not even a question. She knew why she wanted to be there, why Marcus had brought her there, and she knew, if she turned and walked away, he would let her go.

Nell laid the muff and hat on the table and unwrapped the scarf from round her neck. Her hands, as she peeled off her gloves, were suddenly quite steady. She loved him. She wanted him, and she was so tired, so very, very tired, of being alone. This would not be for long, she knew that; he would not want her again, once he had taken her. She had no arts, no experience of lovemaking to hold a sophisticated man of the world. What had happened to her would make her stiff and awkward in his arms
however hard she tried to relax. But she would know, just once, what it meant to lie with a man in mutual desire and passion, and that memory would last for a lifetime of loneliness.

Marcus lifted the lid of one of the trunks and brought out blankets and cushions which he spread and heaped before the hearth into a makeshift bed and then slowly, his eyes on her face, he began to unbutton his greatcoat.

She followed his actions, her coat joining his on a chair, her fingers fumbling with the laces on her stout shoes as he sat and pulled off his glossy brown boots. He had more garments than she, but his were easier to remove—coat, waistcoat and neckcloth discarded while she was still undoing the buttons on her spencer.

And then he did move, stepping round the bed to draw her to the fire, holding her close, stilling her fingers on the fastenings of her plain wool gown.

There was cold air at her back and heat from the fire in front. She did not know whether she was hot or chilled until she felt the warmth of his body and slid her arms round him, holding him close, suddenly too shy to look up into his face.

‘Nell.’ Marcus knelt, bringing her with him, pulling a blanket up around her shoulders. ‘Don’t be frightened.’

She shook her head in denial that she could fear him. Her hands found his shirt, pushed it open, the buttons slipping free easily, and then she was inside the linen, her palms skimming the hot, smooth skin over his ribs, and he caught his breath with a sound that was almost a sob.

Impatient, she pushed the shirt back to reveal the muscled torso she had glimpsed on that nightmare carriage ride after she had shot him. There was a light
dressing still on his shoulder; the bruises had faded, but the scars over his ribs still gleamed white.

‘What happened?’ Wanting to understand his body, she touched them lightly with her fingertips.

‘A riding accident when I was eighteen. I took a header into a freshly cut and laid hedge. I was lucky nothing went straight in—there were enough spikes and sharp stakes.’

‘Oh.’ She pressed her palms to the marks as though she could sooth the long-ago pain. She brushed her fingers over the dark hair, shying round his nipples. She traced the line of his collarbone, the hint of a cleft in his chin, lifting her hand to stroke between his brows. ‘You are not frowning now.’

‘No.’ Marcus smiled at her with his eyes, unmoving as she explored, daring to touch, too uncertain to caress. It was as though he understood that she needed to reassure herself that it was him, not that other man from her nightmares.

‘May I?’ He touched the buttons of her gown and she nodded sharply, feeling her body jerky with nerves and desire. ‘Oh, Nell.’ He seemed to find the sight of her bare shoulders, the curve of her breasts, in some way remarkable, for his hand remained where it was, a fraction above her skin, his gaze intent.

Nell tugged at the plain, worn chemise, suddenly conscious that he would be used to smoothing the fragility of silk and lawn from the pampered skin of his mistress, not much-washed cotton that was regrettably now less than snow-white.

‘Nell,’ Marcus murmured, catching her nervous hand in his. ‘You could be dressed in sackcloth and you would still be lovely.’

‘Oh.’ She could feel herself blushing, but it was with pleasure now, her confidence building. Nell took hold of the ends of the tape that gathered the neckline together and pulled. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘I do,’ he said, smiling as he pushed the loosened straps from her shoulders. ‘Trust me, Nell.’

With my body?
‘Yes,’ she murmured to the top of his dark head as he bent and kissed along the line where her corset ended. ‘Oh!’ His tongue slid between skin and boning, grazing the top of her nipple. ‘Oh,
yes.’

I
t seemed Marcus required no encouragement, which was fortunate, for Nell had no clear idea what she wanted, or what to do, only that she needed what Marcus was doing to her, and more of it, and for ever.

She found herself lying back on the heaped cushions, her skin tingling from the radiant heat of the fire, the chill of the draughts, the touch of his skin and the unpredictable caress of his fingers.

His weight came down over her and she fought the momentary panic. Then, as his mouth sought hers, she gave herself usp with a little shiver of relief. It was all right; this was Marcus. She was learning his mouth now, the taste of him, the teasing nips of his teeth, the arrogant thrust of his tongue. She became bold, nipping at his lower lip in her turn, letting her tongue roam into the hot, intimate secrets of his mouth.

He had raised himself on one elbow. As she emerged, slightly dazed from his kiss, she found his free hand sliding up, bunching her petticoat skirts until he could
glide his palm over her naked thigh, up, nudging gently into the intimate heat between her legs.

Nell gasped. ‘Marcus?’

‘You want me to stop?’ His hand stilled, fingers still laced into the moist curls.

‘No! Only I—you—
Oh!’
The finger slid deeper, parted the folds, slipped inside her and she felt her hips lift in involuntary supplication, pressing the aching mound against his palm as her head fell back, helpless.

Instinctively her hand sought him, frustrated by his closed breeches, spreading impatiently over the hard swell.
‘Nell.’
It was a groan as he shifted to sit up, one hand still on her while the other tore at the fastenings to free himself.

And then she could circle the heat and length of his erection. She was tentative, afraid to grip until he closed his hand over hers and showed her what he needed with almost desperate strokes, and she opened to him, arching and aching until he slid between her thighs. Her petticoat skirts ripped, unheeded, in the tangle of limbs and half-shed clothing and then she felt him nudge at her entrance. She drew in a shuddering breath of anticipation. And he stopped.

‘Marcus?’ She opened her eyes. He was looking down at her, his face intent, his eyes dark, his lips parted. He was rigidly still. Nell watched his Adam’s apple move convulsively as he swallowed, a trickle of sweat running down the tendons of his throat.

‘No,’ he gritted out between clenched teeth. ‘No.’ He rolled off her, sitting up, knees bent, his forehead on his crossed arms. ‘Damn it, I can’t do this, not with you.’

Somehow Nell managed to sit up. Marcus shifted
sharply away as she laid a hand on his forearm. ‘What is wrong? Did I—’

‘You did nothing. Nothing. I want you and I would have taken you and that is wrong. You are a lady, Nell, and I would have made you a courtesan.’

‘Once, if things had been different, I would have been a lady. But now I am a milliner and I am already ruined,’ she said, managing to keep her voice from shaking as she hauled a blanket around her shoulders and tried to tell herself it was the cold that was making her shiver.

‘Ruined?’ He looked up at that, his smile twisted. ‘No, you aren’t ruined, Nell. You were assaulted, forced. What
I
was about to do would have ruined you. I would have made you my mistress. There is no way back from that.’

So, he had not been jesting when he had said he might take her as his paramour. He desired her that much—and he cared enough about her not to give in to the passion that was riding him so hard. If he felt like that—

‘What do you feel for me, then?’ she whispered.

Marcus met her eyes, his own dark, stormy and filled, it seemed to her, with a kind of frustrated anger. ‘Feel? I want you, desire you. Are you in any doubt of that?’

‘No,’ Nell murmured, her spirits sinking. What had she expected him to say? That he was about to propose to her instead? That he loved her? As far as Marcus Carlow, Viscount Stanegate, was concerned, she was a fallen—in all senses—lady. Of course he could offer her nothing more than his protection for a while.

And what if he discovered who she was, that her birth, at least, was the equal of his? What would happen then? Nothing would change except that he would realize what
a lucky escape he had had from a scandalous connection with the daughter of a man convicted of treachery and murder. And he would know the extent of the secret she had been keeping from him.

‘I’m sorry.’ Marcus got to his feet, stuffing his shirt back into his breeches. ‘I should never have let this get so far. You are in no state to gainsay me, I know that.’

Nell looked down at her disordered clothing, the cold beginning to vanquish both the heat in her blood and from the fire. And with the chill came anger, a good deal of it directed at herself and none of it that she could explain out loud.

As Marcus turned away to pick up his boots, she scrambled to her feet, shaking out her skirts, pulling up her gown, forcing buttons into buttonholes with vehement jabs.

‘I suppose you expect me to be grateful?’ she enquired, making him turn sharply, one boot in hand.

‘Grateful? No. I suppose one of us needed to be thinking straight and it should be me,’ he said harshly.

‘What if I would have enjoyed being your mistress?’ Nell demanded, fighting with the recalcitrant sleeves of her spencer which had turned themselves inside out. Marcus, looking grim, did not answer her, but sat down and began to pull on his boots. ‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘the genteel thing for someone of gentle birth fallen on hard times to do would be to simply dwindle to death without any form of occupation. That would be the respectable fate.’

‘Damn it!’ Marcus grounded his right foot with a slam onto the flagged floor. ‘Are you saying that you really would have become my mistress? If I had asked
you in cold blood as a business proposition instead of the pair of us getting carried away just now?’

‘Perhaps I would.’ Nell buttoned the spencer up to her chin. ‘You appear to make love very nicely, which must be a benefit—not that I have much basis for comparison, of course, so I am really not a good judge.’

‘Thank you.’ Marcus ran his neckcloth through his hand with a snap. ‘I rarely get any complaints.’

‘How gratifying for you. Practice makes perfect, no doubt.’ Where were her shoes? Nell spotted them under the table, sat down with more force than elegance and began to lace them up. ‘I am sure that earning my living by submitting to your embraces would be considerably more pleasurable than getting eye strain and backache for pennies making hats.’

‘I do not require my mistresses to submit! Damn this thing!’ Marcus tied the neckcloth into a rough knot and thrust the ends into his waistcoat. ‘And I might remind you that mistresses come to bad ends when their looks fade.’

‘Not if they are prudent,’ she retorted. ‘It appears to be like any other form of business. One takes care of one’s assets, charges a good price for them and invests the proceeds wisely.’ Suddenly, shockingly, it seemed a not unattractive way of life. Provided one never let oneself fall in love, of course.

‘Stop talking such damned nonsense.’ Marcus lost his precarious hold on his temper, threw down his coat and grabbed her by both arms. ‘You will do no such thing.’ They glared at each other ‘You have no idea what you are talking about or what the dangers are.’

‘Balderdash.’

‘Very well then. I will set you up in your own busi
ness. Millinery, a dress shop. Haberdashery or some such. That, at least, will be safe.’

‘Why should you?’ Nell demanded. ‘You do not owe me anything, and that would simply make me your pensioner. At least, as a mistress, I would give something in return. I have my pride, believe it or not.’

‘You have damn little else,’ he ground out.

They were both furious now and Nell had very little recollection of quite why, except that her body thrummed and ached with unsatisfied desire and the man she had fallen in love with was lecturing her. He was probably right, which did nothing to soothe her hurt feelings.

‘I am going back to London and then I will set about finding a protector. It will require a small outlay in clothes, I suppose, but I have my savings.’

‘If you expect to find yourself a wealthy protector you will need more than a sewing girl’s savings,’ Marcus said, his lip curling in a way that had her longing to hit him. ‘Clothes, shoes, fans, perfume. A coiffeuse, a maid…you must be seen in the right places, drive in the parks.’

‘You know so much about it, you are just the person to advise me,’ Nell said sweetly. ‘Perhaps you would like to invest in me?’

Marcus let go of her arms as if he had been bitten. ‘That, my dear, would make me your pimp,’ he said, his voice icy. ‘And, given that you need some lessons in lovemaking before you will be a worthwhile investment, I think I will not risk my social standing by a descent into trade just yet.’

‘You—’ Nell swept up her coat, crammed her hat painfully on her head and, fumbling with gloves, muff and scarf, stormed out of the door.

‘Nell, come back here!’

‘No! I am going to walk,’ she threw over her shoulder, making for a narrow path through the trees that led in the direction of the house and ignoring the colourful language that followed her.

For a moment she thought he would pursue her, but after a few minutes she heard the sound of hooves on the hard ground and caught a glimpse through the trees of the curricle being driven away at a speed that could only be described as reckless in the icy conditions.

There was something hot on her cheeks. Nell dumped the muff and scarf on a tree stump, found her handkerchief and blew her nose. Anyone’s eyes would stream in this cold, she told herself, pulling on her gloves, winding the scarf around her neck and beating the frost and twigs off the muff. Anyone’s.

By the time she got back to the house, she could feel her face was red with exertion and the cold air, her feet were like ice and her hair was escaping from the fur hat she had bundled it into, but she was at least feeling calmer. It seemed that brisk exercise was a remedy for both sexual frustration and bad temper. But what she was going to say to Marcus when she saw him again, she had no idea.

‘Thank you, Andrewes.’ There seemed to be a new arrival. The footman ushered her into the hall which was encumbered with a trunk and a number of valises. A greatcoat was thrown over a chair and she could hear Verity’s voice raised in excited speech.

‘A new guest?’ she hazarded.

‘It’s Lieutenant Carlow,’ the footman said with a grin.
‘Master Hal. Sent home on leave from the Peninsula now his wound’s healing.’ There was a feminine shriek of laughter from the drawing room and his smile widened. ‘Their ladyships are very pleased to see him, as you might imagine, miss.’

‘I’ll go up and change,’ Nell said with a glance through the window. No sign of a curricle. ‘The family will want some time to talk together. Could you have some tea sent up please, Andrewes?’

Less than a fortnight ago, I was filling my kettle from a bucket on the landing and now I am airily requesting a tea tray from a liveried footman,
she thought, trudging up the stairs. Had she really contemplated becoming a fallen woman in order to continue in such luxury? It seemed she had, which was a lowering thought. But somehow she could not regret the impulse, not if the man in question was Marcus.

Luxury seemed even more tempting when a tap on the door brought not just the maid with the tea tray, but footmen with hot-water pails. ‘Andrewes thought you looked a bit chilled, miss,’ Miriam said, shaking out Nell’s coat while the sound of water being emptied into the tub came from the dressing room. ‘Shall we wash your hair? Lady Verity’s given me a bottle of her camomile hair lotion for you.’

‘Oh yes, why not?’ Nell drank her tea and contemplated the soft towels, the rose-scented soap, the fire in the dressing room. Sinless indulgencies for a guest. But, when she went home, the only way she could enjoy them was by committing the gravest sin for a lady: the sacrifice of her already tarnished honour.

Nell put down her cup and stood up, wondering if to
choose the life of a courtesan would be to take power or to lose it utterly.

Sliding into the warm embrace of the tub did nothing to banish the memories of how pleasurable some of the duties of a mistress might be. Idly Nell soaped her arms, squeezed the big sponge so that water flowed over her breasts, felt again Marcus’s lips on her heated skin.

But she had fallen in love with him, maddening, suspicious man that he was. Was that why his love-making stirred her so? Could she give herself to another man, feeling like this? No, of course she couldn’t. She would be disgusted at herself. It was Marcus’s caresses she wanted and only his. She should be grateful that his scruples stopped him before they had done anything irrevocable. Which meant returning to a life of respectable, humble drudgery and the sooner she resigned herself to it, the better.

The gloom that these thoughts provoked half-tempted Nell into taking her drab gown from the clothes press and bundling her hair into a net. Stubborn self-respect made her submit to Miriam’s best efforts with her hair, to the pot of flower-scented hand cream and the suggestion that she wear the prettiest of the afternoon gowns Honoria had lent her.

The effect, as she caught a glimpse of herself in the long glass in the hallway, was a shock. Her eyes were wide, intense. Her hair gleamed, there was colour in her cheeks, her skin was creamy above the elegantly modest neckline and her lips—her lips were curved into a provocative pout. Startled, Nell tightened them, to no avail. It must have been Marcus’s kisses, she thought, won
dering if she appeared to others quite as comprehensively abandoned as she felt.

The hall had been cleared of Lieutenant Carlow’s baggage, but voices and laughter were still coming from the drawing room. Nell opened the door and hesitated, uncertain whether she should be intruding. But it was well past the usual hour for luncheon.

‘Nell!’ Verity, of course, was the first on her feet, bubbling with excitement. ‘Come and meet Hal. Hal, this is Miss Latham.’