The Wild Marquis (17 page)

“Are you mad? When there may be an assassin out there waiting to attack you?”

“Nothing happened.” Her voice was quite without expression. She sounded almost dazed.

“For God’s sake, let’s get you out of that coat before you take a chill and die.”

She said nothing, merely staring at him with a look of wonder in her face, as though she’d never truly seen him before.

His fingers trembled as he worked the buttons of the pelisse and ended up ripping one clean out of the fabric before he was able to throw the garment to the floor.

“Your shoes and stockings are soaked,” he scolded. “Off with them.” Down on one knee he unbuttoned her half boots, tugged them off, and threw them over his shoulder. Her hosiery suffered the same fate. He didn’t ask himself why her exposure to a simple rain shower urged him to such frenzied action. As a lifelong resident of England she’d survived many such wettings. Instead he snatched a towel from the washstand in the corner and used it to give her head a vigorous rub. And all the time she merely stood, ac
quiescent, watching him, not uttering a single word.

Then, easing off his attention to her wet hair, he stared back into her face and noticed something for the first time.

“You’ve been crying.” The hitch in his voice matched a jog in his heartbeat. He examined her face intently, running his thumbs gently over the soft, slightly swollen skin beneath her eyes. “Did someone frighten you?”

She parted her lips, and his gaze was captivated by the perfectly formed raspberry pink bow. Instead of answering him with words the mouth parted further. Her eyes changed from cool green moss to smoldering golden embers. She reached up, grasped his head between small, capable hands, and pulled it down to kiss.

All thoughts of murder, injustice, or the dangers posed by a head cold fled his mind.

He tasted cool rain and warm honey on lips that clung to his with a force echoing the strength of his own desire.

At last.
He’d been waiting for this forever.

Mouths and tongues clashed in voracious kisses. His arms enclosed her slight body; hands clasped her behind through her skirts and tugged her against him. The evidence of his desire had reached rigidity with a speed that recalled, but didn’t surpass, his most desperate adolescent fantasies.

Only a few feet behind them was a bed, a large, tall, and comfortable bed. To Cain’s great joy he had no need to push Juliana in that direction. He was pulled. Her hands dropped to his shoulders and, without re
leasing him from their kiss, she stepped backward, taking him with her, until she hit the mattress.

Acting by instinct he grasped her hips and lifted her to sit on the edge. Cain was sure he’d never needed anyone or anything as much as he needed Juliana at this moment. Miraculously her fervor seemed to match his own. Even as her mouth and tongue clashed and melded with his, her hands shoved at his coat, fruitlessly since his arms were firmly around her, his expert fingers unhooking the back of her gown. She gave up and clasped his head instead as though she’d never let him go, never stop kissing him.

Her legs parted and, as much as was possible when covered with slightly damp skirts and petticoats, wrapped themselves around his hips. She rubbed herself against him in a frenzy of desire he was only too eager to satisfy.

“To hell with it,” he growled, abandoning his bedroom manners and forgetting all about undressing or foreplay. Instead he wrenched at her skirts in a manner that made up in force what it lacked in finesse.

She encouraged him with noises from the back of her throat, perhaps some coherent words that he was too excited to make out, and by shifting her weight to assist him in lifting her gown and pulling off her drawers. And as she perched on the edge of the mattress, her sex in its nest of golden curls sweetly exposed to him, her fingers plucked at the buttons of his breeches.

“Hey,” he managed to say, half desperate with lust, half laughing at her impatience. “Are you sure you don’t want to take just a little time about this?”

“No,” she said, and undid the last button. His breeches fell and she reached for his cock.

Grasping her firmly by the bottom, he entered her in one smooth thrust.

With the force of their union, they fell backward onto the bed, and the soft feather tick fluffed up on either side of them. Their legs still hung over the side. To prevent their sliding off he grabbed hold of her hands and stretched them up over her head, then seized her lips in a fervent kiss, thrusting tongue echoing the movement of his loins. She groaned her pleasure, sucking on his tongue and folding her legs about him so he felt the cool skin of her calves against his buttocks, even through the fine linen of his drawers.

They were both almost fully dressed. Aside from their hands and mouths, only their groins actually touched flesh to flesh. The muting of every other point of contact by the presence of garments enhanced the sensations where they joined.

She felt so good, so hot and tight. It had been far too long since their night together in St. Martin’s Lane.

But he knew it wasn’t just a couple of weeks’ celibacy that made this joining especially good. It was Juliana herself. Through the blissful slaking of his body’s urges and the familiar crescendo of pleasure in the act of sex, he recognized something important. This wasn’t just any woman to share his pleasure, and God knew there had been enough of them in eight years.

This was
the
woman.

As he pumped into her, relishing the clasp of her tender passage about his cock, he had a strange feel
ing that he was home at last and there wouldn’t ever be another.

Surely nothing could be better than Juliana’s gasps of pleasure, the way she gloved him in wet heat with increased force as his pace quickened. He sensed his bollocks ache and his own imminent explosion. Never, since he’d learned to become a lover who always pleased his bedmate, had he experienced such difficulty holding off the end. Yet in this, the most important coupling of his life, his easy confidence vanished. He feared the ultimate humiliation of leaving his lover unsatisfied.

With a supreme effort he adjusted the angle of his thrusts to increase the rhythm and pressure against the places that would give her the greatest pleasure. Her accelerating breath was music of the heavens to his ears, matching the thud of his own heart.

“Come, come with me,” he rasped against her lips, with no idea whether he’d actually managed to articulate the words.

Hear them or not, she appeared to respond. Suddenly her entire body became rigid. Her head tilted back into the mattress and her mouth opened to emit a strangled scream. Her inner muscles clamped around his shaft with a power that shattered his control. With a few last thrusts he joined her climax and emptied himself into her quivering womb. The joy of release seared every nerve and he felt his senses scatter to the four winds as he collapsed on top of her.

So he lay, mindless, for some time, he had no idea how long, his head resting on her chest. They were still joined.

It was her heartbeat he noticed first, slowing to a steady pace beneath the wool cloth of her gown. Gradually Cain regained a sense of time and place. He raised his head from her bosom and met Juliana’s eyes just inches from his own. Their expression was wary, guarded. He might have experienced an epiphany in their lovemaking, but he had no idea what was in Juliana’s head. She had initiated the encounter but he didn’t know why.

Did he dare ask or should he accept the gift without question?

C
ain’s head rested on her bosom when Juliana returned to her senses.

Well, almost to her senses. Every limb still buzzed with a vigor that made her feel more alive than ever before. At the same time, by some odd contradiction, she was certain she would never move again. These remarkable sensations emanated from her private parts, which seemed to be literally humming with subdued bliss. And which were, good Lord, still occupied by Cain’s.

She found herself torn between conflicting urges: ask him to do it again, or disengage herself and hide in the nearest closet. The latter plan seemed like a good one when she recalled that she’d virtually forced him to make love to her.

It wasn’t as though he’d shown any eagerness the previous night. When she awoke and found herself curled up next to his warm, hard, sleeping body, she’d felt humiliated. He’d been interested only in a comfortable berth and not in the least overcome by her charms. Clearly he hadn’t wanted to make love to her or he would have done something about it.

And now she’d thrown herself at him and given him precious little choice.

He stirred and raised his head from her breast. She looked at him warily and he stared back, his blue eyes steady and without a hint of laughter or mockery.

“Juliana,” he began. The rumble of his voice, so close to her breasts, sent shivers through them and she felt them tighten. “Perhaps I shouldn’t ask. That was, after all, one of the more delicious…periods of time…I’ve ever spent. But why?”

Cain was a kind man with much better manners than he’d ever own up to. But surely he wouldn’t have used the word
delicious
if he didn’t mean it at least a little bit. She decided to trust him with the truth, or attempt it.

“You see,” she said, “I went to the Haunch of Venison, the inn where Joseph was killed.”

Instantly she felt a chill as the lovely warm blanket of Cain’s body was removed, leaving her covered by a slightly damp gown above the waist and nothing at all below.

“What?” he shouted. He was on his feet, looking most unfairly elegant, considering his coat and neck cloth were rumpled and his breeches halfway to his knees. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wanted to see where he died.”

She felt slightly resentful. How did he manage to rebutton his breeches gracefully? Give him a minute or two and he’d be neat as a pin. She struggled to sit upright, no easy matter when flat on her back on a soft bed, her legs dangling helplessly over the edge. She tugged at her gown, much of which had bunched
up under her. When her private parts, at least, were covered, she held out a hand.

“Will you help me up, please.”

Once she was on her feet Cain completely disarmed her by taking her into his arms, laying her head against his chest, and stroking her hair.

“Don’t do that again,” he said hoarsely. She heard the steady thump of his heart. “Don’t go out alone. You might have been killed.”

She gave a little humorless laugh. “Not likely. The Haunch is a reputable hostelry. The landlord was most apologetic, and indignant. He insists nothing like Joseph’s murder has happened there in the last fifty years.”

“You were crying. I thought someone had scared you, perhaps attacked you.”

“Nothing like that.”

He was silent for a moment. She sensed a stiffening in his stance. “Of course,” he said. “You went to see where your husband died. You were weeping for him.”

“Yes.”

“Very understandable.” He took her chin in one hand and raised her head so he could study her face. “Why then? Why this afternoon?” He jerked his own head toward the bed.

How could she explain why mourning her late husband should entail making passionate love to another man? She wasn’t sure she understood it herself. She’d walked into the bedroom, seen Cain standing there looking alive and strong and more gorgeous than
anything she’d seen in her life, and she’d had to have him. Immediately.

“When Joseph died,” she began tentatively. “When Joseph died I was…shocked.”

“I imagine you might have been,” he said dryly. She winced at the sarcasm in his tone, drawing a murmured apology and a kiss on her brow. “Go on,” he said gently, and rested her head back against his chest.

She played with a button on his waistcoat, twisting the brass circle this way and that. She found it easier to continue her story without looking at him. “I was shocked and then life became…difficult.” She sighed. “We were supposed to be partners but he was sometimes secretive about things. I found the business in worse case than I’d expected. He left debts that had to be met.”

“That must have been distressing.”

“As I’ve told you before, things got worse because so many of our customers didn’t care to do business with a woman alone.”

“You were angry,” he said.

“Yes. Angry at them, and very angry at Joseph. I blamed him. Both for dying and for leaving me in such straits.”

“And now I suppose you feel remorse for blaming him?”

Cain understood, she realized. She’d never met another soul so adept at comprehending her feelings.

“Exactly,” she said. “I did. Terrible remorse.”

“Did?”

“Did,” she agreed. “No longer. Today I saw the
shabby little room where he died and I wept for him. I realized I had never truly done so before. And now I’ve cried for him, given him the mourning he deserved, I no longer feel ashamed.”

She stopped fiddling with the button and gave the waistcoat an absentminded pat.

“And then I came back here.” She stopped. She simply didn’t know how to account for irrepressible lust. And certainly not how to explain it in words, out loud, to the object of that lust.

And then he said it for her. “You felt you had to thrust aside death by celebrating life. And what better celebration of life is there than lovemaking?”

“That’s right!” she said. “How did you know?”

“I’ve heard of such response to death before.” He turned her to face him and cupped her face in both his hands. “May I say that I am honored to have been your chosen partner in the festivity?” He gave her closed lips a light but lingering kiss. “Of course, I did happen to be the only candidate at hand. Unless you asked the hall porter and he turned you down.”

She gasped when she realized he was jesting. And saw that this was a splendid moment for a joke. A laugh emerged from her lower vocal register, full-bodied and in its way as satisfying as her earlier tears. Cain joined her and for several minutes they clung together, shaking with mirth.

“What now?” she asked after a while.

“Well, Mrs. Johnson. I think we should investigate the dining room and cellar of this excellent inn.”

Suddenly ravenously hungry, Juliana could find no fault with this plan.

“I shall acquaint you with the particulars of what I learned this afternoon.”

“At Fernley!” she cried. His visit to her childhood home had completely slipped her mind.

“And after dinner, Mrs. Johnson—“

Somehow Juliana suspected it was no accident that Cain kept addressing her by the name he’d bestowed upon her as his supposed wife. She turned out to be correct.

“And then, Mrs. Johnson, I propose we continue our celebration of life.”

If she had any sense she’d object. It meant she was truly becoming the Marquis of Chase’s mistress and likely opening herself up to a wealth of future grief. But somehow she could no longer summon the strength to resist him.

The first thing Juliana noticed on entering the book room of Fernley Court was the Persian carpet near the hearth. How many hours she’d spent sitting on that rug, reading, collating a volume, or merely listening to her guardian talk.

Only when she took in the rest of the room as it was now, under the occupation of Mr. Frederick Fitterbourne, did it strike Juliana how much her own living quarters, on a much smaller scale, resembled the big room in her grandfather’s day: books everywhere and a lack of concern for the presence of dust. Nowadays the place was spotlessly clean, every surface sporting a beeswax shine. The smell of furniture polish had driven out the odor of old leather and book dust. There were still books, several neat shelves of volumes, ar
ranged according to size and binding as though they were decorative objects. But some shelves actually displayed ornaments: vases, Dresden shepherdesses, a few china animals, and a handsome clock.

Along one whole wall a pair of giant breakfront bookcases with gilt trellis doors had disappeared. She wondered if Tarleton had bought them, along with the books they’d housed. She couldn’t count the times she’d heard collectors remark that it was so much easier to acquire books than bookshelves, a complaint that passed as grand wit in bookish circles.

She wished she could share the thought with Cain, who would appreciate just how odd bookmen were to find this feeble jest so intensely humorous. She realized with some surprise that in her head she aligned herself with Cain in mild derision against the bibliophiles, her own people.

Not so odd perhaps, given how much she’d enjoyed the previous night: a superior dinner followed by two more bouts of excellent lovemaking and a good night’s sleep. She could grow to adore the White Hart Inn’s feather bed.

The butler announced them to Frederick, who rose from a familiar wing chair beside the fire. The worn brown leather had been replaced with upholstery in a tasteful maroon, just as Frederick had replaced her grandfather.

“Mrs. Merton.” He bowed stiffly. “I understand this gentleman is to be your next husband.”

“John Johnson at your service, sir,” Cain said, returning Fitterbourne’s courtesy. “I do indeed have that ineffable joy.” Juliana could tell by the gleam in
his eye and a slightly curling lip that Cain was enjoying himself.

She hoped he could maintain the guise of a highly reputable and slightly dull gentleman, the kind of man Frederick would feel able to confide in without concern.

“It is good of you to receive us,” Cain went on. “I have wanted to see the house where my dear Juliana grew up. She has spoken so much of her happy years at Fernley.”

Frederick looked a trifle uncomfortable, as well he might since he’d ejected her from her childhood home.

“How few books there are now,” she remarked. “One could scarcely call this a library anymore.” Her sense of injury was rising to the surface.

Their host leveled a reproving look at her. “You know, Mrs. Merton, why my late uncle’s collection had to be sold. There’s no point revisiting ancient history.”

“For goodness’ sake, Frederick, stop calling me Mrs. Merton. We’ve known each other for twenty years.” She pointed scornfully at the shelves of curios. “There’s a china cat in the natural history section! Your uncle would turn over in his grave to see what his book room has been reduced to.”

“Nothing to what his insane lust for books reduced his estate.”

“But to sell them to Tarleton! His worst enemy.”

“I did what was necessary. There can’t have been a bookseller in England to whom he didn’t owe money. There were legacies to the servants to pay. And let’s
not forget your thousand pounds, Juliana. I was happy to receive an offer to raise enough money, and quickly, to meet obligations and begin to put the estate back onto a profitable footing.”

She felt a touch on her arm. “You must forgive Juliana, Mr. Fitterbourne,” Cain said. “Returning to the scene of so many happy memories has quite overset her.”

His condescending words were intended to lull Frederick into seeing Cain as a man of reason, in contrast to the foolish and sentimental female he called his betrothed. A squeeze of his hand reassured her it wasn’t his own opinion.

Yet rationally she could see she
was
behaving like a foolish and sentimental woman. Somehow, since coming to Salisbury, her feelings had been spilling over, out of control.

Juliana tucked her emotions in her breast as she retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket. She dabbed at an illusory tear. It was time to return to the text of the play she and Cain had constructed.

“I’m sorry, Frederick,” she said, leaning on Cain’s arm as though overcome with sensibility. “It’s just that I am so distressed about the
Romeo and Juliet
quarto.”

She peered at him through her lashes but could see no reaction but bafflement. “The Shakespeare quarto that belonged to Cassandra,” she prompted.

“I remember now. That was one of the books you wanted.” Frederick paced back and forth a few steps. “Perhaps I should have let you have it,” he said gruffly. “I had received an offer from Tarleton for the whole collection and I wasn’t in a position to negotiate. But I
daresay I could have excepted that one volume.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Cain interposed. “I’d buy it for Juliana as a wedding present.”

“Well that’s all right, then,” Frederick said, brightening up.

“But it disappeared from Sotheby’s auction rooms. It appears that someone has stolen it from the Tarleton collection.”

Cain could read nothing but polite surprise in Fitterbourne’s reaction. Either Frederick was an excellent actor, or he knew nothing about the adventures of
Romeo and Juliet
.

There hadn’t been much hope in Cain’s mind that he did. He already knew from his questions at the Pen and Pheasant that the master of Fernley hadn’t left home in months. Of course he could have employed an agent. Cain wasn’t yet prepared to absolve Frederick of all guilt. But he was prepared to keep his feelings to himself in the interests of acquiring information. Juliana, he thought fondly, was having a little difficulty in that direction. If he splashed her with water now she’d hiss steam.

“Might I ask the reason for your call?” Fitterbourne inquired.

“Mrs. Merton is anxious to discover all there is to know about her parentage. It seems to be no secret that Juliana’s mother was Cassandra Fitterbourne.”

Fitterbourne’s lips narrowed in distaste. “Unfortunately our family disgrace was widely suspected, no matter how much we tried to keep it secret. My cousin bore a child out of wedlock.”

“Do you know who the father was?” Cain could
feel the muscles of Juliana’s arm tense. He placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and covered it with his own.