McCalpin tried to concentrate on the rotunda ceiling and the intricate mural painting above, but the woman lying beside him on the plush carpet captured all his interest. March insisted they lay on the floor of the small but airy room on the main floor of the townhouse. Large windows surrounded them and allowed enough light to enter the room without the need for any candlelight.
“Tell me what you see.” The brightness in her voice reminded him of winsome wind chimes dancing in a breeze and betrayed her excitement.
He tilted slightly on his side so he could better comprehend what she wanted him to look at. It lent another benefit—he could watch her expressive face. Today after he’d whisked her away from Langham Hall, he’d somehow managed to tease and talk her out of her earlier mood. Her brown eyes reminded him of the deepest copper mixed with bronze. They cast such a glint of pure joy that he lost his breath for a moment. She was so glorious in her passion for life and not afraid of being herself with him. He found everything about her intoxicating.
She pointed to the center of the mural, and he followed the elegant line of her arm, the strong but feminine bones of her wrist, and the long length of her hand. When he’d reached the end of her index finger, he exhaled and gazed at the ceiling.
He’d much rather admire her form as the ceiling before him looked like utter chaos. There were roses, angels, and nautilus shells with no clear connection among them. Usually such murals featured some mythical battle between opposing gods or biblical scenes. Here there was no clear story to the artist’s work. His eyes darted to the decorative border of the mural. The design featured the Parthenon, much like the wood molding found in Bennett’s study at Lawson Court.
“You see? It’s the Fibonacci series.” The triumph in her voice had to be one of the sweetest and seductive sounds he’d ever heard.
“Fibonacci series,” he repeated, not knowing what the bloody hell she was talking about, but hoping he sounded convincing.
“It’s a mathematical sequence where each number is the sum of the two preceding numbers: zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight, and so on.” She lifted her head and turned toward him. “Some call it the Fibonacci sequence, the golden spiral, or the golden ratio. Some say da Vinci’s Divine Proportion is based upon the number sequence.”
Obviously, he hadn’t succeeded if she felt the need to explain it again. Still he didn’t understand, but he was familiar with Luca Pacioli’s book that da Vinci illustrated. “Ah, you’re referring to De Divina Proportione.”
Her eyes widened.
Secretly, he sighed in relief. He’d distracted her enough that she’d forgotten what she’d been discussing.
She lay back again and studied the ceiling. “My grandfather loved mathematics. You’ll find all sorts of hidden secrets of theorems and geometric patterns throughout Lawson Court and here.”
Silently, he groaned. Not numbers, anything but numbers. He’d not allow anything to ruin this perfect day. He lay back on the carpet and closed his eyes.
“Michael.” The whisper of his name rivaled the ardent calls of a bewitching siren.
Thankfully, he had no defense against her sweetness. As if he were the tide to her moon, he turned to her. Her eyes were like warm, dark pools welcoming him, tempting him to lose himself in their depths.
“Look at the petals of the roses. They represent the sequence, too.” She took his hand in hers and tried to point to the center petals of one flower. “See how they spiral outward in a perfect pattern?”
He intertwined their fingers together and kissed her hand. In one movement, he flipped his body until he leaned above her blocking the view of the ceiling.
She gasped and her eyes searched his.
He narrowed the distance between them until her sweet breath brushed his lips. “I’ve found a pattern, too. In petals,” he whispered, then recited his favorite poem.
Her closed eyes, like
Weapons sheadth’d,
Were seal’d in soft repose;
Her lip, still as she fragrant
Breath’d,
It richer dyed the rose;
He gently touched his nose to hers.
“‘On a Bank of Flowers’ by Robert Burns,” she whispered in awe. “How did you know he’s my favorite?”
“I didn’t. He’s my favorite.”
That was the irony of it all. He could recite sonnets and poems to her perfect nose ad nauseam in Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and even Greek. Yet, he couldn’t share one algebraic formula or geometric series or theorem with her. It was as if she was talking gibberish when she discussed any of this. In order to protect his secret, not to mention his sanity, he had to take matters into his own hands. Literally.
He brushed his lips against hers. “I want to talk about the pattern I’ve found here. Two soft lips that would make a rose jealous.” He kissed her again. Only this time he demanded more. He angled his mouth over hers, and on a soft sigh, she parted her lips in invitation.
Gently, he moved his tongue alongside hers. Tentative at first, she matched his movements. With a growl, he explored every sweet inch of her mouth. Her moan vibrated against his chest and set his pulse pounding. Desperate to get closer, he pulled her tight into his embrace. In response, she twisted her fingers into his hair.
Everything within him combusted into a white-hot flame. He wanted to devour her—every inch of her. He wanted to consume her goodness. He wanted to inhale her passion. She made the most delightful frantic whimpers into his mouth. There was no denying she desired him as much as he wanted her.
He gave her no quarter as he continued to possess everything she was. His cock pulsed with need, and he threw one leg over hers as if capturing her, then ground himself into her hip.
His March didn’t shy away in shock. She turned her luscious curves toward him allowing his cock to nestle close to her center. He could feel her frantic need, one that begged him for relief. “Please,” she whispered. “I don’t know.… Tell me what to do.”
God, she was so lovely in her desire to please him. “Shh, sweetheart. Let me,” he answered. He trailed his lips up her jaw to the tender skin behind her ear where her scent was faint but still drew him near.
Her skirts had twisted around her legs, and one knee pointed to the ceiling. For a moment, he lost his breath at the sight. The pale lilac of her silk stockings rivaled the flower’s loveliness, but the shape of her leg was a masterpiece. She’d taken off her half boots earlier, revealing a high-arched foot that met a delicate ankle. “Feminine” was too bland a word to describe the vision. His gaze moved to her calf, and desire blazed until he thought it a physical burn, one that only she could soothe. Perfectly formed, the lines that defined her leg were as if a master had drawn them just for him.
“How would da Vinci have painted this perfection?” he whispered. With his hand, he caressed her ankle to her calf, the hard muscle a testament to the daily physical work she performed on the farm.
She tried to rise and pushed his hand away. “Stop. I look like—”
He silenced her with another kiss, one that possessed her and every negative thought she could summon forth. “Don’t you dare,” he growled as he pinned her down. “You’re beautiful, and I’m going to show you.”
Her sharp eyes met his with a bright disbelief.
“Trust me,” he whispered against her lips.
After a second, she nodded as if not at all certain. With every fiber of his being, he’d show her how stunning she was to him.
He slid his hand up her thigh, and he wasn’t disappointed at the firm flesh beneath his palm inviting to explore further. His heart beat like a drum calling him to battle. A battle where he’d worship every inch of her, claim her, and make her surrender the fear and insecurity that she lacked true beauty.
She moaned and pushed against his cock, hard and unyielding. He swallowed her moan and prepared her for his next onslaught. He caressed her soft skin until his fingers met her springy curls. She gasped, and he grasped her hip and pulled her close. “Please let me,” he whispered.
She buried her head against his neck and nodded. Her sweet and simple gesture caused him to shudder. He petted her curls, then slipped his hand lower. Immediately, he stilled. She was drench with an arresting desire that he’d stirred. He wanted to shout to the heavens.
She whispered his name, and her divine lips against his neck almost undid him. He took a deep breath to gain control. An overwhelming need to please her took over all thought. He trailed his fingers over her slick folds until he found her swollen peak. He circled the tender center gently, and she whimpered. With his other hand, he angled her face and kissed her.
She bucked and pushed against him as he continued to please her. His March responded as if perfectly made for him. He slipped one finger inside of her and pushed until he could go no further. She moaned her approval. He slipped a second finger into her wet, tight sheath. He curled his fingers slightly and moved in and out. She squirmed until he found the spot he was looking for. He lifted his head to watch her and found his reward, a most amazing sight. She pressed her eyes closed and canted her hips as if offering herself to him. He’d give everything including his soul to take her gift and lose himself within her.
“How incredible you look,” he whispered as his lips traced the fine lines of her cheek. “Desire becomes you. I wish I had a mirror so you could witness the beauty I see beneath me.”
With his thumb, he continued to stroke her peak as he slowly continued to pump his fingers. Desperate, she pulled him by the hair and brought his mouth to hers. She thrust her tongue into his mouth as if he were her salvation. It felt perfect. She felt perfect.
They felt perfect.
Suddenly, she stilled in his arms with her muscles taunt. Her body clamped down hard on his fingers. Her face transformed, and her innocent amazement melted into pleasure.
Her sounds, the whimpers and the sharp breaths, hit him like bolts of lightning. Her supple body relaxed against him. She was gorgeous in the afterglow of her climax. His thoughts scattered as his cock demanded its own release.
Quickly, he unbuttoned the fall of his breeches and took himself in hand. He lay on his side and clenched his length. He pressed his face against her cheek. Her scent of arousal caused his to strengthen. Hunger for completion took control as his cock pulsed. His climax exploded from him, and he willingly surrendered.
The exquisite pleasure lasted for what seemed like minutes. He found her lips and made love to her mouth again as if possessed. Then as his heartbeat slowed, he kissed her gently, with more tenderness. He wanted all of her. It was madness, but he never wanted to let her go.
He’d just come in his hand like an adolescent. Never had he been this beguiled and so out of control with a woman. He wanted to see her come again and witness how passion made her flush a brilliant pink. He wanted to take her and make her his in every way.
More importantly, what had she done to him? For God’s sake, she was a virgin. He’d made her come as she lay on the floor fully dressed. He hadn’t even taken her to bed. It was as if an avalanche had fallen and captured them both in the swirl of their uncontrollable need for each other.
He pulled away and made quick work of finding a handkerchief to clean the evidence of his climax. With a glance, he saw her slight pant, the desperate effort to gather her sanity from the madness they’d created.
He turned on his side and rested his head in his hand. Magnificent. There was no other word to describe her. She lay before him like a feast he could spend days devouring.
March blinked away her remaining bemusement, then shifted to meet his gaze. “Why?”
“Why?” he mimicked. It was the only thing that had popped into his muddled brain.
She turned the rest of her body so they lay facing each other. “What we shared. Why did you do it?”
“I wanted to spend the time pleasing you.” He released a careful breath as he knew exactly why he had done it. At first, he could attribute his desire as a way to hide his anxiety over her numbers-and-patterns discourse.
However, that was a lie.
When he’d taken her in his arms, the truth had slowly unfurled. She was so beautiful to him and he wanted her—wanted to seduce her and prove how special she was. Only, he didn’t realize she could shake his very foundations. Gazing across at her tempting mouth and warm eyes, he wanted her again. “And I’m fond of you. I want more with you.”
The utterance should have terrified him. Surprisingly, it didn’t. It was the truth.
Her brow crinkled as she considered his answer. “Your brother doesn’t care for me. Please don’t misunderstand. I enjoyed what we did.” She closed her eyes as if to hide, but a perfect blush colored her cheeks betraying her unease.
He leaned closer until a scant inch separated them. “I truly care for you. If I’ve offended you—”
Her fingers touched his mouth to quiet him. Instinctively, he pressed his lips against her fingers.
Her gaze was fierce. “I wanted this. I know if I would have said no, you’d have stopped. It was amazing.”
Some part of him, the hidden primeval beast, made him want to pound his chest and grunt in approval. He reached to embrace her again and prove to her how much she meant to him.
“But…” she whispered. A hint of pain shadowed the confusion in her voice.
The word made him stop cold. What they had shared had been beyond his comprehension until he held her in his arms and experienced her affection and desire. There would be no “buts” about the passion storm they’d created between them.
“March—” He took her hand in his and raised it to his mouth. There was no kiss on the top of her hand, but something more intimate. He rubbed his lips against her skin as he spoke and met her gaze as he continued to caress her. “Tell me what William said to you. What did that reprobate do?”
She met his chuckle with a loud sigh. She appeared tired, and sorrow lined her pretty face.
“Nothing that would deserve your wrath.” She spoke calmly but her brightness had dimmed. “He doubted my family’s circumstances and my reasons for bringing my family to London. I’m surprised he didn’t discuss the conversation with you. Emma caught the last tails of the conversation and took him to task.”
“William is too skeptical for his own good.” McCalpin shook his head. “Those two can fight over what day of the week it is.”
She smiled in answer, then asked, “Why does William spend so much time with you?”
His heart jolted to a dead stop, or at least it felt like it. To explain that his brother helped him with the financial aspects of the estate would be akin to admitting his failure. A haunting misery like a familiar jealous lover wrapped itself around him. So acute, he felt as if he were drowning.
Before, when anyone talked of numbers, money—for heaven’s sake, even the odds on a particular horse in a race—he could skirt around the issue with some quip or haughty look. But this was March, and she deserved an answer. As the seconds ticked by, he broke into a cold sweat.
“The estates are so vast, he’s proven valuable in their management.” He cleared his throat and dropped her hand. The silent distance between them grew so great it felt as if an iceberg had wedged itself there. “He’s my brother.”
The explanation sounded lame even to his own ears, but it was all he could drudge up after the shock of her question.
As he waited for her response, a flash of loneliness tore through him, not only for himself but for March, too. She had borne the responsibility of an estate and raising her siblings at the age of sixteen. She’d never experienced the frivolities of a Season or explored the world of young ladies who were carefully groomed for their introductions to society. While most women her age had been shopping for gowns, March had been shearing sheep and delivering lambs. God, she must have wanted to run away from it all. It was a testament to her character that she shouldered all the responsibility with nary a complaint.
Guilt stole through him. She shared her fears. If he confided his weakness to her, she wouldn’t judge him. It might provide a bridge to help them both trust each other better. Could he dare risk it? He’d held everything in perfect balance for so long, he couldn’t find the words to start his confession.
She was a remarkable person—intelligent, quick-witted, dedicated, with a common sense that put the majority of the ton to shame, and beautiful to boot. He wanted to take her burden from her shoulders and allow her to experience some of life’s pleasures, even if they were as dull as society events. “March?”
She sat up and clasped her arms around her knees as if protecting herself. It racked him with guilt that she felt vulnerable and alone. Was it because of this afternoon or her meeting with William?
“How do I get you to trust me?” Earnest, he wanted more from her than this tenuous place they seemed to be stuck in. “You have my word I won’t hurt you.”
She rested her head against her knees and regarded him. “I could ask the same question. How do I get you to trust me?”
“I think sharing ourselves with each other and spending time alone helps, don’t you?” he gently queried. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
He lost himself in the fire of her eyes. It reminded him of sunshine passing through a glass of brandy. He wanted to drink every drop of her until he quenched his thirst. Inside, he knew he’d never have that particular thirst satisfied, nor was he sure he wanted to.
Like dawn gradually breaking the night’s hold on the sky, his mind cleared. He wanted her in his life permanently. He would make himself learn to trust her.
“Have you changed your mind about marriage?” It was a bold question, but he wanted her to know that he wanted more.
She shook her head.
“I could see you married with children tugging on your skirts. Blissfully happy with a husband who adores you.” He narrowed his eyes and growled low in his throat. “And I don’t like it one bit.”
“Is it because you don’t want to be burdened with the business of approving the settlements?” Her sparkling laugh showered the room in light. “Don’t worry. No one has expressed any interest in me, and I haven’t received any gentleman callers.”
He could bask in her brightness all day and all night if she’d let him.
“Are you sure about that?” He drew close and whispered in her ear, “I might have somebody in mind for you.”
Slowly she pulled away and stared at him. The moment she deduced what he was implying, her eyes widened, the shock evident on her face.
“After tomorrow’s night ball, we’re going to have a discussion about your future.” He stood and extended his hand to hers. As if she expected his touch would burn her, she tentatively took his hand for assistance. With one pull, he had her on her feet.
In an efficient manner, she bent her head, exposing her glorious crown of ebony hair, then briskly brushed her skirts.
He was definitely attracted to her physically. Her attitude regarding family and the Lawson estate perfectly matched his toward his own family and the huge responsibility he felt for the entire duchy.
He caught her gaze. The flush of her cheeks, the remnants of their intimate interlude, brought a lovely vibrancy to her face. Indeed, she was nothing at all like the other society chits. If he’d dabbled with one of those, they’d be screaming for his offer of marriage. As an honorable man, he should marry March for what transpired. However, there was no expectation in her demeanor. She observed him with such candid honesty that her regard humbled him.
“Miss Lawson, it’s chilly here, and I think we should return to Langham House. I can’t have you catching cold.” He wrapped her arm around his and led her out of the numbers room.
If he were truthful, he rather liked the odd, little room. In the future, every time he stepped in here, he’d finally have a happy, if not salacious, memory of numbers—his first time with March as she fell apart in his arms.
In addition, a more important memory—the day he decided they would marry.
* * *
Sleep had never been elusive to March until she’d arrived in London. The late nights attending social events, the shopping, the numerous callers who dropped by during the day, not to mention the hectic schedule of events the duchess insisted March and her sisters attend during the day, should have ensured she fell asleep quickly and deeply.
Tonight was no exception, but it differed from her other sleepless nights. Michael had taken control of all her thoughts. She rose from her comfortable bed and slipped on her silk dressing gown. Generous to a fault, the duchess insisted that Mademoiselle Mignon make one for each of the Lawson sisters. Both Faith and Julia had received a delicate pink silk dressing gown. The duchess had chosen a deep-gold silk trimmed with ermine for March.
Decadent but providing little warmth, the wrap was perfect since her room was toasty. She collapsed onto the small sofa that faced the fire and allowed Michael full reign over her thoughts.
Gently, she stroked her fingers over her still-tender lips as she recalled his mouth on hers. Tantalizing and taunting her at the same time, he’d masterfully taught her how to kiss in a way she’d never fathomed. When he’d touched her so intimately there, she should have been shocked. Instead, she had begged for more. Her body shivered in response as she recalled the startling release he’d given her. He’d made her feel like an instrument, one he tenderly had tuned then played like a virtuoso.
Then when he’d found his own climax, she’d been enthralled by the act. Unable to look away, she’d stared at his thick and engorged length. All the while, she imagined how gentle he would be when he made love to her.
She closed her eyes and dismissed the thought. At least, she tried to banish such an outrageous thought. Her behavior should bring a mortifying heat to her face. No well-bred young woman should engage in such outrageous and bold behavior prior to marriage. Her parents had raised her to believe such acts would banish her from her society.
Even though she was a viscount’s daughter, inside beat the heart of a sheep farmer. After a month, the hard callouses that marred her hands had softened. However, the scars from her work would always remain whether prettily disguised by elegant gloves or not.
There was no marriage in her future, and Michael’s teasing when he left her townhome was nothing more than an attempt to bolster her confidence. What rational man, let alone a ducal heir, would be interested in marrying her, especially with the responsibility of caring for three siblings? Perhaps someday, with a little luck, she might find some gentleman farmer or a widower to marry. Her money would certainly convince the poor fellow to overlook her height and size.
Well, she’d discovered something profound about herself over the last several weeks. Whatever attention the Marquess of McCalpin bestowed upon her, she would steal, then preserve the memories for the lonely times she faced in her future. Bennett would likely spend years at school. Her sisters would marry and have families and fulfilling lives—all the usual consequences of being a viscount’s daughter.
March wouldn’t have such high expectations for herself. She’d accepted her responsibilities. Furthermore, she’d see them finished. It was a promise she intended to keep.
After she settled into bed, the reality she faced tomorrow brought bittersweet thoughts. It was one day closer to her lovely sisters finding their true loves, and one day closer to leaving London and Michael. Life’s inevitable passing of time continued its race forward no matter how much she longed for it to slow its progression.
It also brought closure to what her future held. There would be no love or strong arms to hold her at night. Nor would there be that enticing scent of pine and a particular man that she longed for.
Finally, the elusive sleep claimed her, and her dreams took command with her David center stage.