The Marquess (28 page)

He didn’t want any part of the stable relationship she
craved. Dillian’s fantasies snapped back to the dark corners of her mind,
where they belonged.

The marquess thought of her only as a vessel to ease his
needs. He had made that more than clear. The sponge offered concrete proof of
his intent. Its presence sickened her. If she thought too long about it, her
own cooperation in this charade would sicken her.

She shoved Gavin’s leg away and felt him stir, but she
rolled from the bed before he could reach for her again. For her own peace of
mind, they would have to establish some rules here. He couldn’t just haul
her into any available room and attack her like that again.

She slipped behind the dressing screen and rid herself of
the abomination before scrubbing thoroughly, using the vinegar douche. She
wished desperately for some of Blanche’s perfumed water, then vowed to
have it before she committed this act again.

Gavin sat bare-chested with his back against the pillows
when Dillian emerged from behind the screen, fully dressed. His powerful
shoulders silhouetted against the white linen made her pulse race madly but she
fought her more primitive instincts—a trifle difficult while her gaze
kept straying to the dark trail of fur on his chest.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” she
warned. “Even a whore deserves more respect than that.”

She saw nothing in his eyes, only the mocking expression of
his scarred features as he carefully regarded her.

“What does respect have to do with anything?” he
asked coldly. “We both had an itch, and we satisfied it. Or is that the
problem? Did I not satisfy you enough?”

Dillian reached for the first thing that came to hand—
the vase of roses on the dresser. Water drenched the rug as both vase and
petals splattered dead center on his chest. Before he could even react to the
first volley, she followed it with the brass candlestick, the ivory hairbrush,
the Dresden figurine, and a half-dozen crystal, nearly empty perfume decanters.
All bounced near or on the pillows and bed as her target
leapt—roaring— from the sheets.

Dillian didn’t linger to hear his furious diatribe.
Pulling back the chair blocking her exit, she escaped to the hall, slamming the
door behind her. The satisfying crash rattled any remaining pictures on the
wall.

“If Dillian is to go about in society, she must have
gowns,” Blanche announced decisively. “She will protest, but you
must see that she goes to my modiste. Madame will accept my credit.”

“I would rather see her strung to the rafters,”
Gavin muttered, pacing the room with fists clenched, occasionally glancing out
the window at the rapidly fading day.

“We must find a tailor for you, and you will need the
carriage,” Michael added, apparently enjoying the sight of his
brother’s discomfort. “A marquess cannot walk to society functions.”

“The carriage is little more than a rattling heap of
junk,” Gavin fumed.

“Where will you stay?” Blanche asked. “Dillian
must stay in my townhouse, but that would not be at all appropriate for you.”

“I have friends.” Still growling, Gavin paced
the length of the chamber once more. He bristled with energy and frustration.

“Mellon,” Michael said knowingly. “The
earl never uses his house. Excellent idea. Gives you credibility.”

“I don’t want credibility. I want this over. I
detest this invasion of my privacy. I have no inclination for skulking about
glittering ballrooms for the amusement of London.”

Blanche drifted from her seat and placed a placating hand on
his chest. “You have been more than kind, my lord. I cannot begin to
offer you all the gratitude I feel. I know this is a tremendous imposition. If
I could think of any other way around it, I would gladly do so. But
people’s lives may depend on your actions. I cannot jeopardize my
households by appearing in public. Dillian is very clever. She will find a way
to complete this mission quickly.”

Gavin’s eyes blazed at this mention of the dragon lady
who blew hot and cold and sometimes both at the same time. “She’d
best, or I’ll trade her to the duke for the papers.”

Blanche smiled and patted him lightly. “Dillian is
difficult, but she will grow on you, you’ll see.”

“It’s almost dark. Where is the fair lady?”
Michael raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Pulling wings off butterflies, I expect. I’ll
tell Mac to bring the carriage around. If she doesn’t appear, I’ll
let her find her own way.”

The marquess stormed out, obviously relieved to escape the
box they held him in. Michael and Blanche exchanged glances as she removed her
scarf.

“Is he always so temperamental?” she asked
hesitantly.

“Only when he’s frothing at the bit. Your cousin
must be keeping him on a tight rein.”

“Dillian? She most always avoids men. The marquess
isn’t one to molest a lady, is he? Upon occasion some of my friends have
tried, and she’s cut them extremely cruelly. If there is any chance that...”

Michael waved her to silence. “Let them fight their
own battles. Gavin’s avoided women these last few years. No doubt any
woman makes him uncomfortable.”

Blanche blinked and regarded him carefully. “And you?
Do you avoid women, too? You only linger long enough in my company to teach me
amusing tricks, then you disappear again.”

He dug his hands into his pockets and shifted uncomfortably
as he stared at the window instead of at her. “A footman has no business
in a lady’s chamber. I’ll see that our hero and the she-devil get
off properly.”

Blanche’s grimaced as O’Toole quickly followed
the marquess, leaving her to her own devices.

Biting her bottom lip, she gazed consideringly at the
wardrobe hiding the secret passage. Idleness did not become her. She could see
in the dark. Her hands had healed enough to use them a little. Why should she
be the only one left sitting here?

* * * *

With Mac driving the ancient barouche, Gavin clung to the
overhead strap inside and glared at the woman on the bench across from him. She
had wrapped herself thoroughly in an old shawl and pointedly gazed out the
window, although darkness made all but the most distinctive shapes impossible
to discern.

Before the war—before a pointless fight had turned his
handsome visage into a caricature of itself—Gavin would have coaxed and
wheedled Dillian into laughing. He knew how to turn a lady up sweet.

Heaven only knew, he and Michael had survived on the
kindnesses of ladies often enough. He couldn’t do that anymore. Perhaps
he had grown rusty. Perhaps whatever charm he had once possessed grew hard from
lack of use.

He saw himself back then as a feckless, useless piece of
baggage. He didn’t consider himself much more these days, but he
didn’t pretend to be more than he was, either. He didn’t have it in
him to offer sweet words, charm, or tenderness.

But Dillian’s silence disturbed him. Her senseless
attack earlier had infuriated him, but life was too short for holding grudges.
He had said something, done something, that had gone against the grain. He
understood that much, even if he didn’t quite understand what he had said
or done.

Women had odd principles. Gavin could accept that. But he
couldn’t accept this stony silence between them.

Admittedly, now that she had released his ruthlessly
suppressed desires, his main interest centered on getting her back in his bed
again. He wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t think of the immense
pleasure she had brought him and crave more of it.

He didn’t think he’d ever felt anything quite so
good in all his days of philandering. But part of the joy had come from the
fact that he knew he had given her the same pleasure she had given him.
He’d thought they’d actually had an understanding of sorts. Dillian’s
withdrawal now displeased him if only because it proved him wrong.

The carriage hit a particularly rough rut, jostling them
both in their seats. Dillian grabbed for the strap but made no comment. She
released the edge of her shawl to hold on, and the heavy material sagged,
revealing her lovely breasts straining against the ridiculously out-of-fashion
gown. Gavin had some fond memories of those creamy globes. He had no desire to
be denied access to them.

“I understand making love in a moving carriage is a
provocative experience,” he suggested idly. Just saying the words aroused
him. He could imagine her kneeling over his lap with her skirts pulled up
around her. He bit back a groan as his flesh grew stiff against his trouser
seam.

“You wish to retrieve the vinegar and sponges from the
valise?” she asked icily.

Since the valise rode on the outside of the carriage, it
would require stopping Mac and answering a great number of ridiculous
questions. Just the thought dampened Gavin’s ardor.

“You would have to rely on me to withdraw.” The
cold-blooded discussion of such a topic drained the pleasure from it. This
business of keeping a mistress took away a great deal of the spontaneity and
pleasure he remembered from his younger days. He found himself craving just a
little bit of her affection, a spark of her wit. He didn’t want it like
this, coldly businesslike. He was at a loss as to how to change it.

She finally looked in his direction, but the look was so
icy, Gavin would have preferred it if she’d kept her gaze on the window.

“I have learned the hard way not to trust any man. No,
thank you. Unless this is an order?” she asked with such heavy sarcasm
that he almost called her bluff.

Now that they reached the toll road, Gavin released the
strap and rested his hands on the knob of his cane. He held her gaze as best as
he could under the circumstances. “Is that what it will require from now
on? Direct orders? Shall I make appointments?”

She had the grace to blush and turn away. “I do not
know how these things are commonly done. If a man wishes an assignation, doesn’t
he make the arrangements?”

“I know extremely little about your rarefied London
society. I prefer some semblance of naturalness myself. I would like to take
you on my lap right now and unfasten some of those buttons and progress from
there.”

Gavin smiled grimly when he detected a deepening of her
blush in the dim light from the carriage lantern. The carriage halted to pay
the toll, so he heard her reply clearly.

“I’m not a whore,” she murmured, clenching
her hands into fists in her lap.

He ignored Mac’s discussion with the toll taker
outside as he formulated his answer. “No, you’re an extremely
responsive woman who enjoys the physical pleasures of her body. Not many women
are so fortunate. If I thought you did not like what I do to you, I would not
bother you again. As it is, we could find some enjoyment in what would
otherwise be a tedious journey.” The carriage jolted back to motion as he
spoke.

“I still feel like a whore.” She didn’t
speak loudly, but she kept her fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned
white.

Gavin considered her words, looking for some way to ease her
natural reaction. Men had little difficulty falling into bed with any woman who
offered. Why, in blazes, did women insist on carrying around all the guilt?

Groping for the right words, he asked, “Are you saying
the only way you won’t feel like a whore is if I force you? You would
feel better if I order you over here and pull you into my arms against your
wishes?”

Gavin admitted to himself that he wasn’t adverse to
doing that at this point. He wanted her, and he didn’t have patience for
playing games. He would take her in whatever way she preferred. It just would
have relieved his conscience and bolstered his pride if he thought she wanted
him also.

He should know better by now, he thought grimly. What woman
would want a monster like himself?

With fascination, Gavin watched as Dillian’s eyes
widened and fastened on him as she contemplated his words. He could almost see
her thoughts as they played across her face. He’d give her credit for
that much: she wasn’t unintelligent. She caught on quickly.

“That’s what I’m asking, isn’t it?”
she asked. “I’m asking you to take all the responsibility so I can
continue playing injured maiden. I’m sorry.”

Gavin heard her reply with amazement. He had never expected
such an admission and certainly not an apology. After all, she
was
an
injured maiden. He had all the experience on his side, and he had taken
advantage of her. By accepting equal responsibility, she placed herself in the
same position with him. He didn’t know if he liked that idea or not.

“Does that mean you’ll come sit beside me of
your own accord, or do I still need to pursue you?” he asked with
interest.

She knitted her hands together and studied his face a moment,
then obligingly dropped the shawl, picked up her skirts, and rearranged herself
on the sagging seat beside him. The narrow carriage bench barely held two, and
he sat nearly in the middle. He could feel the heat of her thigh squeezed
against his.

Gavin met her upturned gaze as he pulled down the window
shade. “Would you prefer it if I doused the lantern?”

She traced the ridges of his scarred jaw, and he flinched,
but she didn’t seem particularly revolted by the irregularities. “It
took a particularly vicious person to do this to you. I didn’t think men
in battle had time for such things.”

Gavin caught her slender waist and with relief and
gratitude, hauled her on to his lap. He began unfastening her bodice buttons as
he spoke. “I never claimed sainthood. That set of scars didn’t come
from battle. It came from a man who thought I’d seduced his betrothed. At
the time, I was better at pistols than rapiers,”

She inhaled sharply as his fingers slid beneath her bodice
to cup her breast. He sighed with contentment at the heavy warmth of her
against his palm. He needed this, though he didn’t analyze the reason
why. He just needed the soft warmth of human flesh and the rhythm of her
pounding heart. Gavin relaxed and stroked the malleable peak, finding it already
aroused.