Streaks of pinks and purples began to lighten the sky as Liz watched through the back parlor’s wide picture windows. She’d settled her sister in one of the town house’s guest bedrooms hours ago, but had been unwilling to close her own eyes while Marcus remained out searching for Westmore. He could take care of himself. But still.
Smacking the needlepoint pillow that rested between her shoulder and her cheek, she tried to plump it up for the best support. She wished she could strike something more solid, jealous of the men who could go to Gentleman Jack’s to beat out their aggressions.
Her sister had barely spoken to her, looking more scared to be out of Newgate than she ever had in prison. The man she loved was doing God knew what in service to the Crown. And when he returned and this nightmare was finally over, she still didn’t know where she belonged. Mistress or maid?
She pulled out the pins that held up her chignon and rubbed the ache from her scalp. She’d spent a year playing in deceptions and half-truths, but it was time to be completely honest, especially with herself. If all Marcus could offer her was a position as his mistress she would accept. Half a life with him was better than none at all.
Perhaps in the future she’d grow strong enough to make a break with him, to search for a complete life, but that time wasn’t now. He’d been gone only hours and yet she ached for him. Not just his body and what he could make her feel, although those were more wonderful than she could imagine. But his presence by her side, the steadiness in his eyes, the strength in his character. He was a man she could depend upon. She was no longer making her way through life alone. Until Mandy made a full recovery, she needed that emotional support.
The door swung open and banged against the wall, bouncing back with a quiver. Liz twisted in the chair, the pillow falling to the floor. Marcus’s form was outlined in the doorway. The candles in the hallway cast harsh shadows on his face.
“What are you doing in here in the dark? And why aren’t you in my bed?” He strode up to her, frowning. “I went to my rooms first and didn’t find you.”
She greedily drank in everything the dusky light revealed. His hair was disheveled, wild, and his face and clothes covered with a sheen of dust from the road. He was beautiful.
She leaped from her seat and threw her arms around his neck. “Marcus!” His chest muffled her words. “You’re all right.”
“Of course I am.” He dropped a swift kiss to the top of head and unwound her arms from his body. Gripping her hand firmly, he started from the room, pulling her behind him like a child leading a pony. “You’re still in yesterday’s dress. You’ve not gone to bed at all.”
She had to run up the stairs after him, his long strides eating up two steps at a time. “Who cares”—she sucked in a lungful of air, out of breath from the pace—“about that? Tell me what’s happened.”
He kicked open the door to his room, swung around, and grabbed her by the waist. His mouth claimed hers, insistent, demanding. Liz rolled up onto her toes before her feet left the ground, as Marcus lifted her body into his and staggered backwards into the room. Over the pounding of the blood in her ears, she heard the door slam shut.
She pulled away, gasping for breath. Her head spun, but it always did around Marcus. He nibbled along her jawbone, his fingers busy at the back of her gown. Her dress loosened and sagged around her.
“Marcus.” He sucked the lobe of her ear into his hot mouth. “Oh God. Wait. I want to know . . . oh, that feels good . . . what happened with Westmore.”
He spun her around, his hands at her shoulders holding her upright as her world tilted. He yanked the dress down to her ankles. “Westmore is no longer a problem. You don’t have to worry about him.”
Her shift pulled tight against her breasts, rubbing against the hardened nubs, before a loud rending sound told her he’d ripped the delicate fabric. “I know you have more money than God, but really, Marcus, must you be so wasteful? Could you not have removed that over my head like a normal man?”
Like a top, he spun her back to face him. He drew the torn garment down, dragging her petticoats and drawers down with it until she stood bare before him. “Do you really want to discuss my extravagance now?” Bending down, he pressed a soft kiss to the tip of each breast, her nipples puckering up to greet him. “Isn’t there something else you’d rather do?”
Like there was a cord running the length of her body, sparks shot from each place his lips met to her core, her inner walls softening in anticipation. What had he said? “Uh . . . wait, yes. Westmore.” She tugged on his thick hair, pulling his head up. “What happened?”
Marcus sighed. He shucked off his coat, reached for his cravat. “Westmore is dead. He took his own life when he knew he was caught.” He reached behind his neck and pulled his shirt over his head. “The world will never know he was a traitor and a spy for France.” Sitting on the edge of his bed, he pulled her down next to him. Working off his boots and socks, he asked, “Are you all right with that?”
Was she? A different sort of justice had been achieved, but she felt cheated that he got to end things on his terms. But what were the alternatives? A public trial where her sister’s name would get dragged through the mud and Liz’s own actions would be subject to prosecution? Or worse, Marcus having to take the man’s life? No, she could live with this result.
“I’m fine.” She stood up and helped Marcus with his remaining boot as he tried to toe it off. She tossed it into the pile of clothes they’d made. Marcus sat in his breeches, watching her carefully. The muscles in his stomach rippled with each breath he took.
He drew her in to stand between his spread knees. “He can never hurt you again.” He ran his hands up and down her back. “No one will ever hurt you again. I won’t let them.”
Liz laughed, and leaned down to brush her lips against his. “That’s a promise no one can make, but thank you for wishing it.” She placed her hands on his shoulders, enjoying the heat beneath her fingers. She took a deep breath. “I love you.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. Now he knew. That he owned her completely, heart and soul. That he was the one man most capable of hurting her, if he didn’t return her feelings. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. Would he want such sentimentality from his mistress?
She couldn’t read his eyes, the dark granite as unfathomable as ever. Pain feathered from her heart. She started to step back, but he jerked her forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, tight as a python. His breath shuddered against her stomach, his head pillowed by her breasts.
She brushed her fingers through his hair. “Does this mean you’ll want to continue seeing me? Even though this is all over?”
He set her back an inch, and tipped his head back, brows lowered. “Continue seeing you? What in blazes do you mean by that?”
She curled an errant lock of hair behind one of his ears. “I mean that after Mandy and I find a place to live and move out, I hope to spend some evenings with you.” Her throat squeezed tight. “I will spend as much time with you as you are willing to give me,” she whispered.
He rose to his feet, making her crane her neck backwards to look at him. He gripped her shoulders and gave her a tiny shake. “Now let’s get this straight right now. You and your sister will not be moving out of my home. This is your home now, and your sister’s for as long as she wants it. Do you understand?”
She pursed her lips. “Ah, no, not really. How will it look having your mistress living under your roof? Even if I returned to being your maid the appearances—”
“Woman! I do not want you for my mistress. I want you for my wife.” He coiled his hand in her hair and tugged lightly. “Now do you understand?”
Her skin flared with heat, then turned clammy. Married. To a duke. She licked her lips. “That’s not possible. You’re a duke, thirteenth in line to the crown. I am the daughter of a murdered second son. It’s not possible.”
He growled, and lowered his face until it was inches from her own. “As you say, I am a duke. If I want to make it possible it will be so.”
The edges of her lips quirked up. “Are you asking me to marry you or ordering me?”
“Whatever works, little bird.” He rubbed his nose against hers. “Before you say yes”—he lifted his head, raised that damned eyebrow—“and you will say yes, I want you to know that it won’t be easy. But I’ll make you happy. I promise.” He caressed the soft swell of her belly. “I will spend my life making you and all the children we’ll have very happy.” He bent down and took her lips, the kiss tender. “Say yes,” he whispered.
“Yes.” She nodded until he recaptured her mouth. She slid her hands down his back, under the waistband of his breeches. She gave herself to his kiss completely, feeling so light she didn’t know if her feet even touched the ground. Joy burbled out of her, unable to be contained, her laughter breaking their kiss.
“Are you laughing at your future husband already?” Sliding his hands up her waist, he brushed his thumbs against the sides of her breasts. Shivers danced down her spine.
She stepped out of his grasp. Liz took in his large hands, admired his muscled form, his proud bearing. This man would be her husband. She wanted to laugh until the heavens shook down. But perhaps she could do something even better.
“And if I were laughing at you?” She intentionally placed her lower lip between her teeth, bit down. Edging away from Marcus, she hopped up on the bed, placing her knees near the edge and dropping down to her elbows. “Is there some punishment you want to give me?”
A broad grin split his face, a smile so rare and beautiful it stopped her heart. She would make it her life’s mission to see that smile as often as possible.
His eyes hardened, his expression turned stern. Her mouth dried, and moisture gathered at her core. He disappeared behind her and Liz dropped her head to the bed, the anticipation almost as delicious as the act. Almost.
Marcus placed a firm hand on her lower back, that simple touch making her moan. Yes, this man would be her husband.
What a magnificent marriage it would be.