Marcus knocked a second time. Perhaps he had the wrong room? The wrong time? Or perhaps Mrs. Brown had decided not to—
The door opened.
Marcus blinked. The young woman standing in the doorway was not what he’d imagined. She looked like a governess, respectable and dowdy, wearing a gown that had been cut for practicality, not beauty, her hair pulled back from her face. She needed only a cap on her head and a pair of spectacles to be the epitome of spinsterhood.
“Mrs. Brown?” he said, certain that he’d got the wrong room.
The woman stepped back, silently inviting him inside.
Marcus did as she bid. He felt off balance, as if the floor were on an angle. He’d expected a highflyer, an impure who’d seen a way to turn information gleaned between the sheets to good use, not this drab respectability. He turned to face his hostess, perplexed. “Mrs. Brown?” he said again.
“Miss Brown.” The woman closed the door and stood with her back to it. Her face was pale. Freckles stood out clearly on her skin. “It’s not my true name. Forgive me if I don’t give you that, Lord Cosgrove.”
Marcus removed his hat while he considered this answer. “Very well.”
The woman gestured to the table, the chairs. “Please be seated.”
“After you, madam.”
Miss Brown hesitated, then crossed to the table, smoothing her gown with nervous hands.
Marcus took his seat opposite her. He was aware of a bed out of the corner of his eye. Under the circumstances, it was oddly embarrassing. He kept his gaze firmly on Miss Brown’s face. The soft glow of candlelight, the deep shadows in the corners of the room, the bed, made the moment seem too intimate, a lovers’ rendezvous, not a meeting.
“My secretary says you have some information for me, madam.”
“Yes.” A candleholder and tinderbox lay on the table. Miss Brown straightened them, aligning them with one another. “I believe I know the names of the two men who razed your conservatory.”
His pulse gave a skip of excitement. “How did you come by this information?”
She met his eyes for a moment. “I cannot tell you,” she said simply.
Her honesty was oddly refreshing. No lies, no evasions, just bluntness. Marcus decided to be blunt in his turn. “You’d like something from me in exchange.”
“Yes.” Color rose in Miss Brown’s cheeks. She fixed her attention on the tinderbox, moving it so that it no longer lined up with the candleholder, then moved it back into place. “Before I give you their names, there is something I should like you to do for me.”
The blush, the awkward embarrassment, the dowdiness of her gown told Marcus what she wanted. He reached into his pocket and pulled out banknotes.
Miss Brown’s gaze jerked to him. She recoiled slightly in her chair. “Oh, no! I don’t want your money.”
Marcus replaced the banknotes in his pocket. He clasped his hands on the table, surveying her. “What then?”
Miss Brown’s flush deepened. She bit her lip, as if holding words in. Her hands twisted together, white-knuckled.
“Tell me,” he said gently.
Silence stretched between them, and then she inhaled a deep breath. “I’m a virgin,” she blurted. “And I would like not to be.”
Marcus blinked. What? He opened his mouth and then closed it again, at a loss for words. He stared at Miss Brown. She hadn’t said what he thought she had. She couldn’t have said it. And yet his ears told him she had. Her words reverberated in his head.
“I beg your pardon?” he said at last.
“I don’t want to be a virgin anymore,” Miss Brown said, her eyes fixed on his coat buttons, not on his face.
“And you want me to . . . to . . . ?” He couldn’t articulate the words. There was no way in which to politely say, You want me to bed you?
Her gaze flicked to his face and then back to the buttons. Her cheeks became even rosier. “Yes.”
Marcus stared at her while he processed this answer. His brain kept rejecting it. No respectable woman—and she was clearly respectable—would choose to lose her virginity under such circumstances. He tried to find a reason for her extraordinary request. “Do you wish to become a . . . a . . .” He groped for a polite word and failed to find one. “A prostitute?”
Miss Brown jerked back in another recoil. “No!” Her horror was too genuine to be feigned.
“Then why?” Marcus asked, at a loss to understand.
She met his eyes. Her expression was a mixture of embarrassment and defiance. “Because I wish to know what it’s like.”
Marcus shook his head, but even as his head moved, he knew she spoke the truth. Her voice, her face, told him.
She wanted to know what sex was like.
This isn’t real. I’m dreaming.
But it was real: the woman seated across from him, the bed in the corner, her request.
Marcus shook his head again. “I cannot. Of course I cannot! Your reputation, your virtue—”
“My reputation and my virtue are of no matter. I shall never marry.”
The flat, matter-of-fact tone silenced him. He swallowed and tried again. “And if you fall pregnant?”
Her eyes fell to the objects on the table. She reached out and straightened the tinderbox a fraction. “I have taken the precaution of using a sea sponge.”
Her manner struck him as evasive. Did she want a child? Did she intend to blackmail him into supporting her? “Forgive me if I disbelieve you, Miss Brown.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes directly. “I can assure you, Lord Cosgrove, that if you agree to my request, I shall not fall pregnant.” The sincerity in her voice, the certainty, was unmistakable; she meant what she said.
Marcus stared at her, perplexed.
Silence fell between them. Miss Brown’s gaze dropped to the table again. She moved the candleholder an eighth of an inch, then straightened the tinderbox so that it was perfectly in line with it. “If . . . if it is too repugnant for you to consider, then of course you may decline.”
Repugnant? Marcus blinked, and then examined her more closely. She wasn’t as homely as he’d first thought. If she wore a more flattering gown, if her hair was dressed in a style that suited her, then she’d be . . . not beautiful or pretty, but attractive.
She was aware of his observation. The color in her cheeks heightened. She looked up, met his eyes. “If it’s repugnant—”
Marcus shook his head, silencing her. It wasn’t repugnant. The emotion he was most aware of was . . . curiosity.
It was a long time since he’d lain with a woman and enjoyed it. He hadn’t bedded Lavinia for many months before her death—he’d barely been able to look at her, let alone touch her. He’d visited a courtesan once since he’d been widowed, but the experience had been unsatisfactory; for all her beauty and skill, he hadn’t been able to forget that the woman was having sex with him for money, that her eagerness—the kisses, the caresses, the sighing moans—was pretense, just as Lavinia’s had been. He’d not repeated the visit.
If he had sex with Miss Brown, it would be an encounter utterly unlike anything he’d previously experienced. She wasn’t a professional, she wasn’t a bride he was besotted with, she was a stranger whose name he didn’t even know. I can do this, and then walk away and never see her again.
His curiosity became sharper. The beginnings of arousal tingled in his blood. “Why me?”
The question seemed to disconcert Miss Brown. She frowned slightly as if searching for the right words. “Because you are a man who is honorable and . . . and kind. I don’t believe you would deliberately harm me.”
Kind? Where had she got that notion from? “Society generally credits me with hounding my wife to death,” Marcus said dryly.
“Society is wrong.”
Marcus studied her through narrowed eyes. “Do I know you from somewhere? Do you work on one of my estates?” A housemaid, perhaps. The servants had been well aware of the realities of his marriage and the events leading to Lavinia’s death.
“No.”
Kind and honorable. Marcus shook his head, not believing her. “That’s your reason for choosing me?”
Miss Brown flushed. Her gaze fell. She straightened the tinderbox again. “And because I . . . I find you attractive,” she said gruffly.
He couldn’t doubt the veracity of that statement. Her blush told him it was true. “You’ve seen me before?”
She nodded, still not looking at him.
“Where?”
“In London.”
It was an unsatisfactory answer. Marcus leaned back in his chair, baffled and intrigued. He examined Miss Brown again, noting the smoothness of her cheeks, the delicate curves of her earlobes, the soft tendrils of brown hair curling at her temple. The tingle of arousal in his blood became stronger. His gaze dropped to her breasts. What would she look like naked? Very different from Lavinia.
“All right,” he said abruptly, hearing the words with a sense of shock. “I accept your terms.”
Her gaze jerked to his face. “You do?”
He nodded and pulled off his gloves, laying them on the table. A tryst with a stranger. It should wipe away memory of Lavinia.
A flicker of emotion crossed her face; not excitement, but apprehension.
Marcus frowned. “Are you certain you wish to do this, Miss Brown?”
She nodded, her face as pale as it had previously been flushed.
“Forgive me, but . . . you look afraid.”
She swallowed. “I have never done this before. It’s somewhat alarming.”
It was his turn to flush; shame warmed his cheeks. He’d been thinking only of himself, caught up in astonishment and curiosity. He’d forgotten that she’d never lain with a man before. This wasn’t about his own pleasure; she was trusting him to deflower her.
Marcus almost balked as the full significance of what he’d agreed to do struck him. “You are aware that it’s painful for a woman to, er . . . to relinquish her virginity?”
“Yes.”
“Are you expecting a degree of pleasure? Because that may not be possible.”
Miss Brown regarded him seriously for a moment, her eyes steady on his face, and then nodded. “I know.”
The nod didn’t completely reassure him. If he hurt her—
But it was what she wanted. Her choice, not his. Sex, and then she’d give him the names he was after.
Marcus stood, feeling awkward. After a second’s hesitation, so did Miss Brown. She was taller than Lavinia had been, not as fragile, as slender. His curiosity surged again. The tingle of arousal returned. What would she look like unclothed?
I can’t believe I’m going to do this.
Marcus removed his coat and laid it over the back of his chair. He cast his mind back to his own first sexual experience. How had the highflyer who’d done the honors made that encounter so pleasurable?
He unwound his neckcloth, recalling the way she’d teased him with her body, slowly undressing, giving him tantalizing glimpses of her breasts, her buttocks, the triangle of hair between her legs. Then she’d undressed him, skillfully touching him to heighten his arousal, and finally she’d guided his cock inside her and let him take her, a rough and clumsy coupling, during which she had squealed with pleasure.
And I actually believed she was enjoying it.
Marcus sat and took off his top boots. He regarded Miss Brown dubiously across the table. He didn’t want to titillate her by slowly removing his clothes.
Miss Brown undid the buttons at her cuffs. Her face was pale, her expression resolute.
“You look as if you’re preparing to go to the scaffold.”
He bit his tongue as soon as the words were out—now was not the time for clumsy jokes, however ill at ease he felt—but Miss Brown didn’t appear to be offended. She glanced at him, a glimmer of amusement lighting her eyes. “I assure you, I don’t consider it quite as terrible an ordeal as that.”
Marcus was surprised into a small huff of laughter. Some of his discomfort eased. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as awkward as he feared. If she had a sense of humor—
“Let me,” he said, as she reached behind herself to undo the fastenings of her gown.
“Oh, no. I’m used to dressing without a maid.”
Marcus ignored these words. He walked around the table and began unbuttoning her gown. The fabric was more faded than he’d thought. The gown had seen several years’ wear. He tried to place her as he unfastened the buttons. She’d seen him in London. Was she governess to a family in Grosvenor Square?
It felt very intimate to be standing in shirt-sleeves and stockinged feet, unbuttoning her gown. Strands of her hair brushed across his fingers, soft, tickling. Marcus worked lower, exposing the top of her chemise, then her stays. Warmth flushed beneath his skin and gathered in his groin.
He undid the final buttons and stepped back.
“Thank you.”
Marcus cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”
He retreated behind the table and took off his waistcoat and shirt. Yes, heat was definitely building in his loins.
Fabric rustled as Miss Brown stepped out of her gown. He glanced at her, then quickly away. His pulse began to beat a little faster. “Do you need help with your stays?”
“No, thank you.” Her voice was as polite as his had been. “They fasten at the side.”
Marcus nodded. He removed his breeches, his stockings. He kept his gaze on the table and the growing pile of his clothes, yet he was intensely aware of her—each quiet, rustling movement, each item of clothing she removed. She’d taken off her stays and her stockings. All she wore now was her chemise.
When he was naked except for his drawers, he halted and turned to her. Miss Brown hadn’t removed her chemise—but she had let down her hair. It fell in soft waves over her shoulders and down her back. In the candlelight her skin was pale and luminous, her eyes dark. She looked mysterious, almost beautiful. The chemise hung loosely on her, concealing her figure. He saw the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath that she took. Beneath the hem, he glimpsed slim ankles and bare feet.
It was surreal to be standing in this shadowy, candlelit room: two strangers, almost naked, with the bed waiting behind them. I don’t even know her real name.
Miss Brown’s hands were clasped together, the fingers interlocked, nervously twisting. “I did bathe before you arrived.”
For the first time, he noticed the hip bath half-hidden behind a screen. “Uh . . . thank you.”
Lavinia had been apprehensive on their wedding night, but he’d soothed her fears with kisses and endearments. He didn’t feel like doing either of those things with Miss Brown.
Marcus walked across and took her hands, stilling their twisting. “Relax.”
For a moment she stood unmoving, unbreathing, as if his touch had turned her into a statue, then she uttered a faint, nervous laugh. “That is easier said than done, Lord Cosgrove.”
Marcus gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He pulled her gently towards the bed. “Sit.”
Miss Brown sat obediently on the edge of the bed, still tense, still resolute, still with the air that she was about to undergo an ordeal.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “If you don’t want to.”
“Yes, I do.” Her expression became even more resolute. “I can’t tell you why, but it’s important. Very important.”
Marcus stared at her, baffled, and then shrugged. He sat beside her on the bed. “Then, if we’re going to do this, let’s make it as . . . as enjoyable as possible.”
She swallowed nervously. “How?”
“The tenser you are, the more difficult it will be.” Experimentally, he stroked two fingers up the inside of her forearm. Her skin was warm and soft and smooth. Marcus’s pulse began to beat slightly faster. This was what he enjoyed most about women’s bodies: the warmth and the softness, the smoothness.
Miss Brown looked at him, her eyes wide and filled with trepidation.
Marcus smiled and offered her a compliment. “You have lovely hair.”
Her expression changed for a fleeting moment, a twitch of her eyebrows, a twitch of her lips. She didn’t say anything, but he heard her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them aloud: You don’t need to lie to me.
“It’s true,” Marcus said, stung into defending himself, and he raised a hand to stroke her hair and discovered that it was true. Her hair was soft, falling in loose waves. He let one long lock slide between his fingers. His imagination took off, telling him what her hair would feel like against his skin—tickling, teasing, pleasurable.
His arousal hitched up a notch. He wanted to tumble her back on the bed and strip off her chemise.
But not while she was so tense.
Marcus stroked the delicate skin inside her wrist, a feather-light caress. No other man had ever touched her. It was an oddly exciting thought. He trailed his fingers lightly up her arm until he reached the small, capped sleeve of the chemise. Did it make her skin tingle? Did it give her pleasure? He thought it did; a faint flush had risen in her cheeks.
He widened his exploration, stroking her throat, the nape of her neck. Minutes passed, while the flush in Miss Brown’s cheeks deepened and his erection pressed insistently against his drawers.
It was time. Time to bare her body. Time to bed her.