Surrender to the Marquess Page 23

  Most ladies used a flannel ‘case’, a shapeless flannel shift, to be dunked in. But that was useless for swimming. Maude fetched her the light calico trousers and simple shirt that she used. It was thick enough fabric not to cling and become transparent in the water, but light enough and free enough for her to swim strongly. She pulled on shoes to protect her feet on the way down, threw a cloak around her shoulders and hung a door key around her neck on a cord.

  ‘Don’t wait up for me, Maude. You deserve some sleep after tonight’s disturbances.’

  *

  It was a beautiful night. Sara leaned on the promenade rail and watched the moonlight on the water and wondered why she could not weep now that she was alone. Perhaps the loss was too deep for tears.

  She made her way to the upturned boat to leave her clothes, puzzled by the bump on its usually smooth silhouette. Then she saw it was clothes. As she held them up she recognised the gleam of jet buttons on the waistcoat, the silver buckles in the shape of snakes on his evening shoes. Lucian’s clothes.

  The panic lasted long enough for her to find she was sitting on the boat, clutching his shirt and staring out to sea, a cry of horror on her lips. Then she got it under control. Lucian was not a man to walk out into the sea and drown himself because of a broken engagement. He did not care that much and he had responsibilities he would never abandon. No, like her, he had not been able to sleep and the sea had tempted him.

  She should turn back, she thought, but stayed where she was. The shirt held the scent of Lucian in its folds, a subtle counterpoint to the salt smell on the breeze. Why had he tried to persuade her to marry him regardless of that awful scene? Now she thought about it she was puzzled when before she had simply been too upset to wonder.

  Could it be possessiveness, desire or a reluctance to be seen to have been jilted? No, Lucian was not a man to condemn himself to an unhappy marriage for the sake of his pride and what people might say.

  What was it that he had said when she had stated with such assurance that she would know when a man was in love with her?

  ‘Your belief in your ability to tell a man’s deepest feelings may be misplaced. We may not wear our hearts on our sleeves… You believe that men want to give a hostage to fortune in that way, by admitting to love when they do not think it will be returned?’

  Surely that did not mean that he loved her? Why ask her about romance? Was he trying to read her deeper feelings?

  His shirt slipped out of her grasp as she stood up. He loves me? Perhaps he did, or perhaps she was indulging in the worst kind of wishful thinking. Lucian had never said one word about love, but then neither had she. Coward, she chided herself. You did not dare to risk rejection so you settled for what was safe, what was easy.

  I must tell him.

  Even if he did not love her, even if it was far too late for them, she would be honest. She scanned the calm, moonlit sea, but could see nothing breaking the surface of the gentle swell. From what he had said before he was a strong swimmer so he could be either east or west. But he had found the next bay last time, perhaps he had returned there. Sara kicked off her shoes, tossed her cloak on to the pile of Lucian’s clothes and ran down the beach.

  The water was like silk, cool and slick over her skin. Sara put her head down and struck out strongly for the headland she had walked around with Marguerite, now jutting out into deep water. The very act of swimming was soothing and helped her think. That first, abrupt proposal in the punt—that had not been the considered act of a rational man and Lucian was not insensitive or unfeeling. No, he had realised something suddenly, that he wanted to marry her for reasons that were not rational, not considered, and he had spoken his thoughts aloud before he had time to consider them.

  And I gave him no encouragement to speak about his feelings, she realised as she trod water to check her bearings, then angled in towards the beach in the little bay. Their lovemaking had come from a mutual physical attraction, not because they had fallen in love first which meant—

  ‘Ugh!’ She collided with something very solid, coming towards her. For a moment she was gripped by alarm, then, as hands met hers and her flailing arms hit warm, sleek muscle, she realised what she had collided with. ‘Lucian!’

  ‘Sara?’

  They clung together in the water, rocked by the swell, then his arms were tight around her and his mouth was on hers and the kiss was hot and demanding and a possession that she returned as fiercely. She was drowning in him, sinking into him, and came back to herself to find that Lucian was hauling her to the surface.

  ‘Damn it, we nearly drowned. Back to the beach.’ He turned, waiting for her.

  ‘I thought it was just your kisses,’ she told him, and he laughed and her heart sang.

  Side by side they swam to the little beach and splashed ashore before sinking on to the edge of the dry sand. Lucian put his arm around her and pulled her tight. ‘We should have gone back to the main beach, you’ll catch your death.’

  ‘Just for a few moments. We need to talk. Lucian, you still wanted to marry me? Why?’ When he hesitated she murmured, ‘I did not think you would be afraid of anything, even of wearing your heart on your sleeve.’

  ‘Perhaps I am a coward when it comes to risking something I fear losing so much.’

  ‘Your heart?’

  ‘Your love. If I have it. I have lost my heart many days past. I love you, Sara, but I thought you did not love me. I thought that you were so frank, so open, that you would have told me if you did.’

  ‘And I thought you would be repelled by that emotion, by the demands that love makes.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘If it is not returned. You felt it, too, or you would have told me how you felt. I love you, Lucian. I didn’t want to, I thought you were so wrong for me, that I would be impossible for you.’

  ‘After this evening do you not fear I would be impossible to live with?’ he asked and the lightness of his tone could not mask the urgency of the question.

  ‘And me. Can you live with me? I get into scrapes, led there by my feelings, not my sense of what is proper,’ she confessed.

  ‘We can compromise as long as we can talk. Talk and make love.’

  She realised that he was leaning back, that in a second they would be flat on the beach. ‘Lucian, darling man, have you ever made love on a beach before?’

  ‘No. How do I get you out of this shirt?’

  ‘Sand. Sand gets everywhere. We need a… Oh…’

  ‘Rug?’ he asked from somewhere under her shirt. ‘Ah, I see, it just pulls up and over. And these trousers, two buttons. Lift, wriggle.’

  ‘Lucian, I think I am sitting on a crab! Oh, yes, that is…perfect.’ He picked her up and moved her astride him as he knelt in the soft sand. ‘Love me, Lucian.’

  ‘I will…I do.’ He bit gently on her neck as he lifted her, lowered her, took her in one slow, strong thrust that had her shuddering into an instant orgasm. ‘I can’t… Oh, God, Sara.’

  He fell back, taking her with him, and thrust once, twice before he shouted aloud and she collapsed forward on to his chest, gasping with reaction and surprise.

  *

  ‘Lucian,’ Sara murmured in his ear. ‘My feet are wet, the tide is coming in.’

  ‘How long have we been here?’ he asked, almost nose to nose with her. His face was in moonshadow, but she could see the whiteness of his smile.

  ‘I do not have the brainpower to work it out. What on earth happened just then?’

  ‘An explosion of joy, of relief, of love?’ he suggested. ‘I confess to needing to do it all over again, very slowly, on a bed.’ He shifted under her. ‘Without sand.’

  ‘The swim will rinse most of it off,’ she promised, rolling over and searching for her shirt and trousers. ‘For an awful moment when I found your clothes on the boat I thought…’

  ‘That I had walked out into the waves and oblivion?’ Lucian stood up, silvered by the moonlight, more beautiful than a man had any r
ight to be. ‘How could I leave a world that has you in it?’ He held out his hand and she put hers into it and walked with him into the sea, too moved for words.

  *

  ‘Admit it, you are feeling all soft and sentimental and romantic,’ the Marchioness of Cannock whispered into the ear of the Marquess of Cannock who was sitting next to her in the front pew of St George’s, Hanover Square.

  Before them, at the altar, Gregory Farnsworth was reverently kissing Marguerite, his new bride, and the sound of happy sighs and sniffles rose from every pew where a lady was sitting.

  ‘I will admit to sentimental and romantic, Lady Cannock,’ Lucian murmured in return, making her shiver as his breath teased her ear. ‘But soft, no. Anything but. It makes me think of our wedding day and that makes me—’

  ‘Shh!’ She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘I am on my best behaviour as The Perfect Marchioness today.’

  ‘I have plans for that,’ her husband muttered as the happy couple turned and began to walk down the aisle.

  ‘Marguerite looks so poised and beautiful and Gregory looks so happy. It was good of you to find him that post at the Foreign Office, I think he will do very well there.’

  ‘I think so, too. And my little sister has grown up faster than I can imagine with the prospect of married life and his career to support.’

  Sara looked up at her husband, loving the pride in his voice, on his face, as he looked at Marguerite and Gregory. She followed him out of the pew and took his arm as they led the guests out on to the steps of the church so that everyone could throw rose petals. Marguerite stood up in the open carriage and tossed her bouquet straight into the arms of her oldest bridesmaid and then sat down with a bump and fell laughing into Gregory’s arms as the carriage set off for the wedding breakfast at the family town house in Cavendish Square.

  ‘Oh, that makes me feel so middle aged and sensible,’ Sara said, clinging to Lucian’s arm as the jostling to find carriages began.

  ‘I have a cure for that.’ He guided her down the steps and round the corner. ‘Here is our carriage.’ He stopped and looked up to the driver. ‘Pearson, I want you to take us back to Cavendish Square the long way round, if you understand me. There’s no hurry,’ he said as he helped Sara into the carriage and reached to draw down the blinds. ‘It will be an age before everyone gets there.’

  ‘Lucian, what are you doing?’ The last word came out as a squeak as he tossed aside his hat and gloves and began to struggle out of his coat.

  ‘I never did get to make love to you in a closed carriage, if you recall. I had such a vivid image of it when we were in that confounded chaise and now…’

  ‘Now I am all dressed up and wearing the famous Cannock yellow diamonds and the world’s tightest corset and—ooh!’

  Lucian vanished under the froth of her skirts. ‘And some very wicked garters, I am happy to discover.’ His long, clever fingers were already doing sinful things and his lips and tongue were not far behind. He knew her so well now, after only a month of marriage. He knew her body and her responses and he knew her emotions and feelings, too, and used them to keep her almost constantly either at a pitch of arousal or totally sated, it seemed to Sara as she locked her fingers into his beautifully barbered hair and wrecked a very fine Brutus.

  Sara pulled off her new lemon-kid gloves and bit down on them so her cries of pleasure did not escape as Lucian sent her tumbling into bliss. When she recovered her senses he was kissing her lips, her bodice was around her waist and she could not, frustratingly get his shirt out of his trousers—at which point the carriage lurched against the kerb and they both fell off the seat and on to the floor with Sara underneath.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Lucian peered down at her, his neckcloth askew, his hair rumpled. He looked, to her, perfect, wild, sinful and on the edge of out of control.

  ‘Absolutely.’ And even more perfect when, with a wriggle of his hips and a tug at her skirts, he was inside her. ‘I am making a careful note of the date,’ she gasped against the damp heat of his mouth. ‘If our firstborn arrives as a result of this I shall call him Barouche.’

  ‘Better still, we could call him Hansom,’ Lucian said with a chuckle that became a gasp when Sara lifted her hips to meet him. ‘I never thought I could make love to a woman who fills me with such delight and can make me laugh at the same time. But then I never imagined falling in love and marrying a deliciously Imperfect Marchioness.’

  They fell over the edge together, laughing and kissing and came to themselves to find the carriage at a standstill. Lucian struggled up on to the seat and pulled Sara up beside him.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, look at us!’ she gasped. ‘There are over a hundred people waiting for us to make an entrance in there.’

  Lucian cracked open the window. ‘Once more round the square, Pearson. Slowly. Come on, my delightfully unconventional Marchioness, we have about five minutes to return ourselves to perfect order. Do you have a comb in the reticule I have just trodden on, my love?’

  *

  They descended the steps of the carriage in almost perfect order, although Sara found an earring dangling in the folds of Lucian’s neckcloth and tweaked it out just in time. He took it from her and fixed it in her earlobe with perfect solemnity in front of an intrigued audience. Then he caught her up in his arms, kissed her right on the lips and twirled her round before setting her on her feet again.

  ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said with an elegant bow. ‘But when a man loves his wife as much as I love mine, occasionally he has to show it. And now, let us proceed to celebrate another happy marriage in the making.’

  Amidst laughter, and some tears, they led the way into the great dining room. As Lucian pulled out a chair to seat her at Gregory’s side she turned and whispered, ‘Love me always?’

  ‘For always and a day,’ he whispered back. ‘Always, until the tides cease to flow. Always, until the moon no longer shines on the waves.’

  ‘You have become a romantic.’

  ‘You made me one, my love. Only you could.’

  *

  If you enjoyed this story,

  you won’t want to miss the daring

  LORDS OF DISGRACE quartet

  from Louise Allen

  HIS HOUSEKEEPER’S CHRISTMAS WISH

  HIS CHRISTMAS COUNTESS

  THE MANY SINS OF CRIS DE FEAUX

  THE UNEXPECTED MARRIAGE OF GABRIEL STONE

  Keep reading for an excerpt from CONVENIENT PROPOSAL TO THE LADY by Julia Justiss.

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cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010001

  Convenient Proposal to the Lady

  by Julia Justiss

  Chapter One

  The things one does to soothe one’s conscience.

  With that rueful thought, Benedict Tawny led his horse stealthily along the grassy verge of the drive curving through a pretty wood to Dornton Manor, early-morning October sunlight just beginning to dapple the few leaves overhead. A gust of wind tugged loose his hat and he jumped to catch it.

  If his fellow Hellions could see him now! he thought with a grin, jamming the cap back on his head. Not that he was the delight of his tailor, but in his worn jacket, serviceable breeches and scuffed boots, he hardly looked like a respectable Member of Parliament, one of the leaders of the Reform movement and a rising force in government. Surprising how easily he’d fallen back into the role of intelligence-gatherer he’d performed for the army in India.

  All to safeguard the virtue of a female he’d never even met.

  But with the Parliamentary session over until Grey could convene a new one later in the year and the other Hellions out of London, he had time on his hands.

  He might as well use it to perform a good deed.

  A flicker of light in the woods up ahead caught his eye. Through the slender tree trunks, he could just make out the figure of a young female. Shifting his position to get a better view, he saw that she was short, her dark hair thrust up under a sadly out-of-date straw bonnet—and that her entire attention was focused on the sketch pad balanced on her knee.

  Though the gown was as outdated as the bonnet, the cut and cloth were of good quality—the garment too unfashionable a cast-off to tempt a lady’s maid and too fine to be passed on to a housemaid—so she must be Quality. And only a lady of quality passionate about her art would be out sketching this early in the morning.

  Petite, unfashionable, avid artist—the description fit to perfection the lady he sought. Delighted to have been handed the solution to the problem of how an unrelated male would find a way to speak alone with a gently bred virgin, Ben approached quietly, not wanting to alarm her.

  But even as he reached the clearing where she sat on a felled log, she remained so absorbed in her drawing that she didn’t seem to notice him. Finally, clearing his throat loudly, he said, ‘Lady Alyssa Lambornne, I presume?’