Marcus took a bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses to the Earnoch Hotel.
“Are you celebrating something, sir?” Miss Brown asked as he opened the bottle.
Marcus shook his head. “Today has been . . . a trial.” And he needed a drink. Several drinks.
“Did you have any luck finding the Smiths, sir?”
“No. They’ve left London.” The Smiths and Phillip were minor problems; the letters were his most pressing concern. His hand paused in its pouring. “You’ve heard about the letters? Did your employer receive one?”
“I heard about them. I’m sorry, sir.”
His grip on the champagne bottle tightened. “Do you know the details of what I’m supposed to have done?” Did Miss Brown think him a rapist?
“I do. And I know it’s untrue.”
Marcus finished pouring. Rage was building in him again—and he didn’t want to be angry tonight. He wanted to be relaxed. He handed Miss Brown a glass. “To your health.”
“To yours, sir.”
He swallowed a mouthful of champagne. It was cool, the bubbles popping and fizzing on his tongue. It wouldn’t dull his rage as fast as brandy would, but if he drank another couple of glasses, it should do the trick.
A hip bath stood half-hidden behind a screen. The water steamed faintly.
Miss Brown’s skin would be warm, clean, soft, smooth.
Marcus transferred his gaze to her, standing in her faded blue gown, with her hair pulled back from her face. He’d thought her plain the first time he’d set eyes on her, dowdy and drab. How could I have been so blind? Miss Brown wasn’t as beautiful as Lavinia, but she was more attractive than Lavinia had ever been. It was the freckles, he decided, and the candid brown of her eyes. Lavinia had looked like an angel; Miss Brown looked like a real woman. He wanted to kiss her mouth, unpin her hair, strip off her clothes and bare her skin.
The lingering remnants of rage evaporated, and with it, his need for alcohol. Arousal stirred in his blood. Marcus put down the glass. He stepped closer to Miss Brown, tilted up her chin, and laid his lips on hers.
Miss Brown shyly kissed him back. She tasted of champagne.
Marcus unpinned her hair. It tumbled down her back, just as he’d imagined. He gathered her closer, deepening the kiss, burying his hands in warm, silky hair.
Long, heated minutes passed. His arousal built, his body demanding that he do more than merely kiss Miss Brown. Reluctantly, he released her. They were both breathing raggedly.
Marcus set to work unfastening her gown. He kissed Miss Brown’s cheek as he undid the buttons, kissed the curve of her jaw, kissed her throat as the gown fell away from her shoulders. Petticoat and stays rapidly followed the gown. When she was dressed only in her chemise, he halted.
He stripped off his own clothes until he was naked except for the bandage at his throat. She glanced at his erection, not boldly as a whore would, but shyly.
Marcus took her hand and drew her to the bed. Slow, he told himself as he lifted the chemise over her head. Don’t hurry.
But even so, it went quickly. Her body welcomed him eagerly inside and once he’d started he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Their lovemaking was rushed and intense, his orgasm a brief, savage release of tension. “I apologize,” Marcus said afterwards, ashamed of his lack of control. He eased himself off her. “Did I hurt you?”
Miss Brown shook her head and smiled at him. “No.” She lifted a hand, as if to stroke the hair back from his brow, and then hesitated, her fingers curling into her palm. “May I touch you, sir?”
The words were like a slap across his face. Did she feel she needed to ask permission to touch him?
Marcus frowned and thought back over the times they’d lain together. Had she never stroked his skin? Never caressed him?
No. He’d done the touching, not her.
His sense of shame deepened. He’d taken Miss Brown’s virginity, bedded her four nights running—and yet she didn’t feel free to touch him.
“Of course you may.” Their positions in society might be poles apart, but while they lay naked together, they were equals. He took her hand and placed it on his chest, looked her in the eyes. “Touch me as much as you like.”
“Are you certain, sir?”
Marcus found himself unable to look away, unable to speak, almost unable to breathe. Her hand was warm on his skin, but it wasn’t her touch that held him frozen, it was the directness of her eyes, that searching gaze, as if she looked inside him, as if there were no need for words because she could see his answer before he uttered it. Yes, I’m certain.
Silence stretched between them—her hand on his chest, her eyes holding his, his tongue frozen in his mouth—and then perhaps she truly did see his answer, because she looked away.
Marcus dragged a deep breath into his lungs, feeling winded. What the devil had just happened? And then his attention was caught by what Miss Brown was doing, the path she traced across his torso with her fingertips.
Her touch was light, skimming over his skin—down his ribcage, across his abdomen, and up again. She outlined the faint, pink line Jeremiah Smith’s knife had made across his heart. The blade had cut through coat and waistcoat and shirt, but barely marked his skin.
Her gaze lifted, her eyes catching his again. “Your throat, how bad is it?”
“Shallow. No stitches. This—” he touched the bandage, “is at my valet’s insistence.” To preserve the whiteness of his neckcloths, should the cut leak blood. Another day or two and he’d stop wearing it, however much Leggatt fussed.
Miss Brown nodded. Her gaze lowered. She stroked the faint, scored line across his chest again—from collarbone to ribcage—then her fingers slid sideways. She outlined his pectoral muscle. The path she made was hot and tingling on his skin.
Her fingertip traced decreasing circles. Marcus’s skin tightened, became hotter. His breath was shallow, his pulse quickening, arousal rising inside him.
Miss Brown circled his nipple, light, tickling. Anticipation shivered through him. “Pinch it,” Marcus said. His voice was low, almost a whisper.
Their eyes locked for another long, breathless moment, and then she did as he bid, her fingers closing around his nipple, pinching.
Arousal spiked through him. He couldn’t control the twitch of his body.
A smile lit Miss Brown’s eyes. She turned her attention to his right nipple, repeating the light, teasing circles, the pinch, and his body gave another helpless twitch.
From his nipple, she moved higher, tracing the line of his collarbone, then the muscles of his shoulder and arm. Her shy curiosity was oddly arousing. Wherever her fingers moved, heat followed.
Miss Brown’s exploration grew bolder. She returned to his torso, moving lower, circling his belly button with tiny, tickling circles, stroking down his abdomen. She halted at the crisp black curls at his groin, at the semi-erect length of his cock.
“You may touch me there, too. If you wish.” Marcus gently took her hand, let her cup his testicles in her palm, let her feel their weight and heat, and then curved her fingers around his cock. Arousal pulsed through him.
Miss Brown’s gaze jerked to his face.
It felt incredibly intimate: her hand on him, his gaze holding hers. “Like this,” he whispered, guiding her hand, letting her stroke him. Pleasure shivered over his skin, ran like quicksilver through his veins, pooled in his groin, stiffened his cock.
It would be easy to let her continue, easy to let himself come to completion—but that wasn’t what he wanted with her. Marcus removed her hand. “Now it’s my turn.” He sat up and pointed to where he’d been reclining. “Lie down.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Miss Brown obeyed.
Marcus gazed at her. Candlelight gilded the pale curves of her breasts and made shadows pool between her legs. Anticipation gathered inside him. Where to touch her first? His gaze rose to her dark eyes, her soft mouth. A blush colored her cheeks; she was embarrassed by his perusal.
Marcus leaned down and kissed her. “Relax,” he whispered against her lips, and then he bent his head and kissed her jaw, her throat, the beating pulse at the hollow of her collarbone.
Slow, delicious minutes passed as he moved down Miss Brown’s body, kissing, tasting her skin with his tongue, nipping lightly with his teeth, teasing. She was soft, womanly, beautiful. He explored her breasts, her belly, the silken skin of her inner thighs.
Her feminine scent came to him, a light, erotic fragrance that seemed to reach inside him and wrap itself around his bones, to pulse in his veins.
Marcus stroked his fingers up her inner thigh, drawing shivers of response from her, then parted the curls of hair and slid a finger inside her. She was hot and slick and tempting.
He wanted to taste her.
For a long moment he hesitated—and then he gave in to temptation, parting the soft folds with his fingers, bending his head, licking her.
Arousal jolted through him.
Miss Brown inhaled sharply.
Marcus explored, caressing with his tongue, teasing with his teeth, learning what made her tremble, what made the breath catch in her throat. Her scent and taste were intoxicating, heightening his arousal. His cock grew harder, hotter.
Miss Brown’s body began to shift helplessly. Marcus held her hips down as she climaxed. Satisfaction surged inside him. He lifted his head and laughed, a soft, triumphant sound.
Miss Brown was flushed and breathless.
Marcus laughed again. He rose to hands and knees and kissed her, tasting her mouth as he’d tasted her body. Miss Brown clutched him, her fingers digging into his arms, and kissed him back deeply. He almost groaned aloud when she broke the kiss.
Sex. Now.
He shifted his weight, ready to bed her, ready to sink himself into her.
“Sir . . . may I touch you again?”
Marcus hesitated, the word No on his tongue. He wanted sex, not titillation. But what happened in this bed was as much about Miss Brown as it was about him. He dragged a breath into his lungs. “If you wish.” He could wait a few more minutes for his release.
He let her sit up, let her place her hand on his chest and push him back onto the pillows. Her face was shadowed by the fall of her hair.
Two minutes, he told himself. He could wait that long.
Miss Brown bent forward and pressed her mouth to his shoulder.
Marcus closed his eyes. Heat and pleasure rose in him as she traced his collarbone with light kisses, as she tasted the pulse at the base of his throat with her tongue. Soft hair spilled over his chest, tickling.
Miss Brown took his nipple between her teeth, nipping lightly, making his body shiver. She licked his belly. Her mouth moved lower, lower . . .
Marcus opened his eyes and stared up at the shadowy ceiling. Was she going to taste his cock? Anticipation tied itself into a tight knot in his belly. She wasn’t a whore, he couldn’t expect it of her—
Her fingers lightly touched his erection, halting his ability to think for a moment. “May I?”
His throat was so tight he could barely speak. “If you wish.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched the sheet in his hands, willed his body not to move.
Her lips touched the head of his cock. Marcus stopped breathing. He lay motionless, trembling. And then, he felt her tongue. A groan came from his throat.
Miss Brown explored with her tongue, hesitantly at first, and then more boldly, learning his shape. Arousal pulsed through Marcus, growing more urgent. When she took him into her mouth it took all his self-control to hold still, to stop his hips from bucking off the bed.
Marcus inhaled a shuddering breath. Women had pleasured him like this before. The expensive courtesans whose services he’d used before his marriage had sucked him expertly, had brought him to climax—but it had never felt so intimate as it did now, so erotic.
Finally, Marcus could bear it no longer. The heat of Miss Brown’s mouth, the caress of her tongue, were driving him wild. His cock ached to be inside her. “Enough,” he said, hoarsely.
He rolled her beneath him, settled between her legs, bent his head to kiss her, and thrust deeply into her.
He’d needed to be inside her so much that he closed his eyes and held on to the moment, motionless, drinking in the sensations: the heat, the delicious tightness, the beginnings of an orgasm rippling through her—and then he opened his eyes and took hold of her hips and eased into a slow rhythm. Miss Brown climaxed almost immediately, her fingers gripping his arms, a cry coming from her lips. Marcus gritted his teeth and held on to his self-control; he wanted this to last.
Time slowed. Reality faded. He was unaware of the hotel room, unaware of the bed. His universe narrowed to Miss Brown and the exquisite pleasure of being inside her, the exquisite pleasure of each deep thrust, the exquisite pleasure of her body moving beneath him as she climaxed again. His arousal spiraled tighter and tighter until it felt as if his skin would burst from the pressure—then the orgasm engulfed him, pulsing through him in vast, endless waves.
Reality slowly returned: the bed with its plain hangings, the folded screen in the corner, his clothes piled on the table. He gathered Miss Brown in his arms and rolled onto his side, but he didn’t withdraw from her body; he wanted to stay inside her as long as possible. He felt her warm breath against his skin, felt her heartbeat.
Miss Brown didn’t try to pull away. She lay relaxed in his embrace. She trusts me. She feels safe with me. The thought made his throat tighten.
His skin gradually cooled. Miss Brown shivered when he released her, when he withdrew from her body. Marcus pulled the covers up over her shoulders. He was as hungry as he’d been that morning. Ravenous. “Shall I send for food?”
Miss Brown’s expression became anxious. “I’d rather not, sir. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” He mentally kicked himself. Miss Brown had a position in a respectable household. She wouldn’t want anyone—even a servant—to witness what was clearly a sexual liaison.
They dressed in front of the small fireplace. Marcus fastened Miss Brown’s gown. The nape of her neck tempted him. He wanted to press his lips to her skin, inhale her scent, taste her.
His fingers slowed as he did up the buttons. He’d been more intimate with Miss Brown than he’d been with any other woman, but he didn’t know her name. She’d held his cock in her mouth, he’d tasted her with his tongue—and yet they were still Lord Cosgrove and Miss Brown to each other.
A sense of wrongness grew inside him as he pulled on his boots. He and Miss Brown were too intimate for Sir and Miss.
But knowing her name would alter their relationship, take it from tryst with a stranger to something more personal. Did he want personal? While she was Miss Brown, he could walk away, never see her again, forget about her.
Marcus uttered a silent snort. Who was he trying to fool? He couldn’t walk away from Miss Brown. He wanted to visit her again. Wanted to kiss her again. Taste her. Bed her.
Marcus cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “Miss Brown . . . will you please tell me your Christian name?”
Miss Brown’s eyes lost their smile, became wary. “My name?”
“Yes.” He felt gauche and awkward, a callow youth, not a man of thirty-one. “Mine is Marcus. I’d like it if you used it.”
Miss Brown hesitated. She moistened her lips. “My name is Charlotte.”
“Your real name?”
She nodded.
It felt significant to know her name, as if they were no longer strangers, but lovers. Significant—and disconcerting.
Marcus picked up his coat and shrugged into it. Had he done the right thing, asking for her name, giving his? “May I see you tomorrow evening?”
“If you wish.”
I do. He didn’t want to leave now. If he weren’t so hungry he’d take her back to bed and spend the evening with her.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring a picnic,” he said. “Would you like that?”
A smile lit her face. “Yes.”
Marcus picked up his hat and gloves from the table. He wanted to kiss her, to lay a tender goodnight upon her lips.
The tenderness disturbed him. Lust, he was fine with. Desire, he was fine with. But tenderness was dangerous. Tenderness was a precursor to love, and he didn’t want to love her. He took a step back, away from her. “Good night, Charlotte.”
“Good night.”
He walked to the door.
“Sir . . . Marcus, please be careful. Don’t walk home. Take a hackney.”
Reality impinged. From the moment he’d first kissed her this evening, he’d not thought of the Smiths, or Phillip, or the letters. “I’ll be fine.”
Miss Brown crossed to him, anxiety creasing her brow. “It’s not safe for you to walk alone.” She laid her hand lightly on his arm. “Please.”
Marcus grunted a laugh. She reminded him of Albin. “I’ll take a hackney. I promise.”
Her face relaxed. “Thank you, sir.”
“Marcus.”
She bit her lip and lowered her gaze, blushed. “Marcus.”
He gave in to temptation, took her chin in his hand, and kissed her. Her lips were soft, warm, sweet.
Tenderness is dangerous.
Marcus released her. He jammed his hat on his head and opened the door. “Good night.”