The Youngest Dowager_A Regency romance Page 12

  ‘I will, but I would appreciate it if you could spare me a towel, otherwise it will take me rather a long time to get dressed, given that I’m soaking wet.’ The anger had left his voice, leaving only a trace of faint, slightly breathless, amusement.

  Without turning Marissa held out the smaller towel, conscious of just how close behind her he must be as he took it.

  Seconds later, right at her back, he said, ‘Will you not get dressed? You are shivering.’

  ‘Go away, then! How can I get dressed with you here?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Marissa, stop acting the prude. You have been a married woman, when all’s said and done.’

  ‘But not to you,’ she snapped. Suddenly, incredibly, she felt the weight of her sodden hair lifted and strong hands gently wringing the water out of it. Then Marcus began to rub the damp mass with the towel he held, working down from the scalp to the finest tendrils lying on her shoulder-blades.

  ‘Stop it,’ she demanded. If Marcus was drying her hair with the towel then he was not wearing it himself.

  ‘Stand still.’ He carried on the rhythmic stroking. ‘If you will not dry yourself, I will do it for you.’

  His hands touched her shoulders and Marissa whipped round, lifting her hands to fend him off. They flattened onto the planes of his chest, but she did not push, only stood there feeling the cold skin against her palms, the beat of his heart under her fingers. Marcus looked down at her for a long moment, then pulled her tight against him. She felt the heat of him under the cold skin, the hard strength of him, the frightening, arousing, maleness against her. His mouth came down slowly on hers and he kissed her as if asking a question. Her response seemed to give him the answer he was looking for as he deepened the kiss, his mouth moving sensuously against hers, his tongue probing gently into the softness of her mouth.

  Her lord had never kissed her, except formally on the cheek, Marissa tentatively let her own tongue-tip taste his. The sensation made her knees feel weak, but she was rewarded by the soft groan in the back of his throat as Marcus moved his hand in a sweeping caress down her spine. The towel, swept away by his impatient fingers, fell unheeded to the sand as his hands, cupping her buttocks, moulded her to him.

  The heat of him was a shock, then a thrill as she caught fire too. Speechless she clung to him as he dipped his head to graze a long kiss from her earlobe down her neck to the swell of her breast.

  Marissa gasped out loud as his sharp teeth found one peaking nipple and fastened gently on the aroused tip. His tongue teased and tasted her salty skin and Marissa whimpered as it circled and licked the tight bud.

  Through her shock and sensuous delight Marissa struggled to understand what was happening to her. Her husband had performed his marital duties on her shrinking body with a haste – and distaste – which had shown only too clearly how she had displeased and disappointed him. Never had she expected that a man could give her so much pleasure – this must be what they did with their mistresses…

  But underneath this tide of unfamiliar pleasure there was something else, a building yearning, a feeling of expectation that there was more to come, a goal to be reached, to be striven for.

  Marcus pulled her down gently onto the fallen towel, his hands never leaving her body, his mouth returning to hers for a long kiss that sapped her will and sent a frisson of delight pulsating through her. It was there again, this sense of building pleasure, of expectation. Her body arched under his hands and she whispered, ‘What are you doing to me?’

  ‘Making love to you, I had rather hoped,’ Marcus answered huskily, his voice sounding slightly amused. His breath was warm on her chin, then his tongue was trailing insidiously down the curve of her breast to the other nipple to recommence its teasing.

  Marissa drew in a shuddering breath, hardly able to wait for whatever it was that was coming to sweep her away. Marcus’s fingers strayed downwards over the swell of her hip to the softness of her inner thighs, gently parting and exploring her secret core with stroking caresses.

  The wave of sensation swept over Marissa, shaking her in every part of her body. She cried out, arching into his embrace, then fell back, lights exploding against her closed lids. As the pleasure ebbed, leaving her quivering in his arms, shudders shook her.

  After an age she opened her eyes to meet his, smiling down at her. Marissa smiled tremulously back, reached up her hand to stroke his cheek. Marcus closed his eyes at the caress, then groaned. ‘Sweetheart, I really do not think that I can wait any longer…’

  Her eyes closed again as his mouth fastened on hers, hard and demanding, then his weight was on her, pressing her down into the yielding sand, his long legs twining with hers, separating them, easing them apart.

  Marissa opened her eyes, startled out of her sensual dream. The man above, the familiar weight on her flinching body, the water-darkened hair and the Southwood features lit coldly by the moonlight. It was horribly familiar and something slipped – time, perhaps – as Marissa did what she had always done to allow her body to be used. She lay still and passive, not preventing, not welcoming the invasion, her eyes open and unfocused.

  Marcus froze as he realised the change in Marissa’s response to him, then rolled off her body and onto his feet in one swift movement. Something had happened, had gone horribly wrong, but he was not going to demand answers or explanations. Never in his life had he taken an unwilling woman and he was not about to start with this one.

  He ran down the short beach and plunged beneath the cold water, feeling its cold kiss dousing his heated arousal. He swam hard for two minutes, killing the fire in his veins, before turning back to the shore. As he swam he did not allow himself to think. To feel. As he strode ashore he saw Marissa had pulled on her clothes and was standing with her back to him beside her horse.

  ‘The towels are by your clothes,’ she said, her voice expressionless, as she heard him splash ashore.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, keeping his voice neutral as he searched for words. She walked away, leading Tempest to where a tree stump protruded from the sand at a convenient height for a mounting block. Her skin would still be damp and her breeches clung tightly as she bent her knee to mount. He should help her but she would not want him touching her, so he turned, pulling on his clothes over his wet skin. After a moment she managed to mount and gathered up the reins to turn the horse homeward and Marcus caught a glimpse of her face in the moonlight.

  He ran to put a restraining hand on the bridle. ‘Wait, please. Marissa, you must believe that I intend to marry you.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord? It is doubtless very honourable of you to make the offer after your actions tonight. However, I have no more desire to marry you than you have shown up to now to marry me.’ She gazed down at him with an expression he could not read.

  ‘Desire?’ He laughed without humour. ‘If we are to talk about desire, Marissa, might I remind you that yours appeared to at least match mine. And certainly, unless you are a very good actress, you have obtained more pleasure from this night’s encounter than I.’

  The words were out before he could stop them, call them back. She jerked at the reins, sending Tempest plunging away into the dunes, but not before he glimpsed the hurt twist of her mouth, the pain in her eyes.

  But she was gone, and after one hasty step towards his hunter he checked himself. There was nothing he could do tonight to make things any better. After a night’s reflection Marissa would realise that she had to marry him. For himself, he reflected as he swung up into the saddle, the night’s escapade had made up his mind, his cousin’s widow would make an admirable wife. Provided she could forgive him for his crass words just then.

  The rhythm of Tempest’s hoof-beats changed abruptly as she plunged down the bank from the saltings and onto the hard-packed surface of the coast road. It was enough to shake Marissa out of her mindless, headlong flight from the beach, from Marcus. She reined the mare in and trotted more gently up the carriage drive until a path led off towards the Dower H
ouse through the trees fringing the park.

  The moon had disappeared behind a bank of high cloud and Marissa slowed Tempest to a walk to allow the horse to pick its way across the tussocky grass of the park. Now that her instinctive flight had ended she found she was acutely aware of every sensation, every sound. Her wet hair clung to her coat, soaking through the cloth between her shoulder blades, sand gritted between her toes inside the leather boots and her eyelashes felt salt-sticky. Yet despite these discomforts she felt alive, tingling with the consciousness of her body. For the first time she was truly aware of herself, of her skin, of her lips, of her breasts, of the caress of the night air on her cheeks.

  She held her face up to the breeze as it sighed through the beeches and allowed her mind, at last, to be free, to think about what had just happened, what Marcus had done to her.

  Through the stillness hoof-beats sounded, loud on the still night air. Marissa drew Tempest back farther into the shadows as Marcus’s hunter galloped by, his master low on its neck. Marissa let Tempest move forward to the edge of the copse and watched as the big horse vanished under the arch of the stable block.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marcus was angry with her. She had spurned him, not once, but twice. He could never guess – and she could never tell him – why in the end she had rejected his lovemaking when he must have realised that she wanted him. Wanted him…

  Marissa rubbed her forehead in perplexity. It had never occurred to her before that a woman could want, could welcome, a man in that way. With Charles she had feared it, forced herself to do her duty, endured what happened, prayed for it to be over swiftly.

  But Marcus… Marcus had said he wanted to make love to her. He had intended that she should feel pleasure, had done everything to ensure it, been patient with her. Tempest, sensing her mistress’s distraction, began to walk slowly across the park, retracing her earlier route past the front of the big house.

  Marissa shivered as she remembered the sensations that had awakened her body, and her mind. It had never occurred to her that a man would care for a woman’s pleasure, would actively incite it, revel in it, enjoy it as much as she did.

  The realisation, when it came, hit her with the force of a blow. This was how it should be. It had been Charles whose warped view of the world had dominated her mind and body in the two years of their marriage. What she had accepted as normal was anything but. Suddenly the pattern of his behaviour was revealed to her as a whole: his demand for perfection in everything, his coldness, his cruelty. There, she had thought the word, for Charles had been cruel to her; she could see it now.

  He had been unfeeling, self-centred, critical, frozen at the core, incapable of love, or even of caring for another person. He had made much of her childlessness, yet if she had produced an heir for him Marissa sensed that he would have found something else to punish her for.

  Now he had gone, but he had left a legacy of fear. Tonight Marcus had unlocked the door to the prison of her mind and emotions, shown her the daylight, the freedom beyond. But she was afraid of stepping out into the air, she knew that. When Marcus had sought to consummate their lovemaking she had panicked, frozen, rejected him. And just as the sight of Charles’s portrait could reduce her to trembling fear, so his shadow would always fall across her bed.

  Candlelight shone from a window in the front of the house and a shadow moved across the uncurtained casement. It was Marcus, back in his bedchamber. Marissa gathered up the reins and turned Tempest towards the house, drawn by the light and the thought of Marcus.

  His figure loomed at the window, staring out blindly from the lit room across the darkened landscape outside. She drew closer, so close that she had to tip up her head to watch him as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it from his broad shoulders. The candlelight glanced off his unruly blond hair and the recollection of the feel of it beneath her fingers sent a frisson down her spine. She wanted to be there with him, her palms flattened against the strong, satiny planes of his chest, drawing in his warmth, his vitality.

  But when he led her to the big bed it would happen all over again, she knew it. The fear would overwhelm her desire for him. And she could not risk that, she realised now, loving him as she did. A man who loved her would be cruelly hurt by the rejection and a man who wanted her would not tolerate her rejection of him. Marcus had not spoken of love, she reminded herself, only of his intention to marry her, to make things right after their scandalous behaviour together on the beach.

  Marissa turned her horse’s head and rode steadily away. No, loving Marcus, being with him, was a fantasy. She was irretrievably marked by the past and there was no future for her with him. Or any man.

  A light burned in the stable loft as she slipped wearily out of the saddle. Despite her orders, Tom had waited up for her. Even as she put her hand on the door latch it opened and the lad emerged, tousled and sleepy, hay sticking to his coat.

  ‘There you are, my lady. It’s getting cold out. Let me take her now.’

  Marissa handed him the reins with a smile. ‘Thank you, Tom, but I did say not to wait up.’

  ‘I’ve been asleep right and tight in the hay, my lady. Mr Peters would have my guts for garters if I had gone back to bed with you out. ’Night, my lady.’

  Back in her chamber Marissa peeled off her damp clothes and dropped them on the floor, too tired and drained to do more than get into her bed and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Jackson placed a dish of eggs on the buffet. Marcus could feel his gaze on him, sense the caution with which he was keeping quiet. Normally breakfast was a good time to discuss the household’s domestic affairs because Nicci never stirred from her room before ten and peace could be guaranteed.

  ‘Out with it. I can feel you thinking from here.’

  ‘I apologise if my thoughts were loud, my lord. I noticed you were looking a trifle heavy-eyed and preoccupied. I therefore decided this was not the time to raise the matter of the under-footman who was found last night asleep on the pantry floor clutching an empty bottle of your lordship’s best port.’

  ‘No, definitely not the time. I trust you to deal with it.’

  Jackson lowered the lids of the chafing dishes silently and moved to take up position by the buffet as one of the double doors opened and James peered round. Jackson raised his eyebrows in silent reproof but the footman ignored the look and beckoned urgently.

  ‘Excuse me, my lord,’ Jackson murmured, and left the room.

  Marcus watched him go. The footman had been not so much discreet as positively furtive. He stood up and walked silently to the door, which was just ajar.

  Through the gap Jackson’s low voice was just audible. ‘What are you about, James? You know his lordship doesn’t like being disturbed at breakfast and he is not in the best of moods today. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Jackson. It’s her ladyship, you see.’

  ‘Lady Nicole?’

  ‘No, her ladyship, the Countess. She’s here, pacing up and down the hall – and she’s in an odd mood too, I can tell you.’

  ‘I’ll come – and don’t go gossiping about your betters, lad. Doubtless her ladyship is experiencing some problem with the travel arrangements up to Town.’

  Marcus opened the door and followed them on silent feet along to the point where the corridor opened out onto the landing. As Jackson neared the head of the stairs Marcus could hear the swish of long skirts on the marble floor of the hall.

  ‘Good morning, Jackson.’

  ‘Good morning, your ladyship. I hope you have had a pleasant ride. Lady Nicole is in her room. Would you like me to send up a cup of chocolate for you?’

  Marcus could make nothing out from Marissa’s tone of voice and from where he stood he could not see her.

  ‘Thank you, no. I have come to see his lordship, not Lady Nicole.’

  ‘His lordship is at breakfast, my lady. Will you wait in the Blue Salon and I will let him know you are here?’

 
; ‘Is he breakfasting in his chamber?’

  ‘Why, no, my lady, he is in the morning room…’

  ‘Then I shall go up.’ She was clearly in no mood to be kept waiting. ‘You need not announce me, Jackson.’

  Marcus turned and strode back to the morning room. He still had not come to terms with last night, had no idea what he was going to say to Marissa and had no desire to try until he had thought this through.

  Marcus looked up as the doors opened and Jackson, looking uncharacteristically flustered, announced, ‘The Countess of Longminster, my lord.’

  ‘I am not at home, Jackson.’

  Marissa swept past the butler. ‘I doubt I am hallucinating you. Thank you, Jackson. I can pour myself some chocolate.’

  Without risking a glance at Marcus Jackson effaced himself, closing the doors behind him.

  ‘Good morning, Marissa,’ Marcus said coolly. He resumed his seat as she sat at the other end of the table, cup of chocolate before her. He raised one eyebrow and waited.

  Marissa was beginning to regret the impulse which had brought her here. A night’s sleep had not changed either her feelings for Marcus or her belief that they had no future together. Whenever she closed her eyes it was Charles’s face she saw, Charles’s weight she had felt as Marcus’s body moved over hers. And then the fear had come, as it always had before. And in the shifting shadows of the moonlight Marcus had looked so much like his cousin.

  The overwhelming, wonderful, unfamiliar sensations she had experienced in Marcus’s arms, and her own instinctive responses to him, had shaken her to the core and made it difficult to face him. Marcus was watching her now, his deep blue eyes steady on her face. Under his scrutiny Marissa could feel the colour start to rise up the column of her throat, up her cheeks. until it reached the curls on her forehead.