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They sat close together, outwardly totally proper in the open carriage, the footman standing behind. But through the fabric of her skirts Marissa could feel the heat of his hard thigh pressed against hers. Her mouth still burned with the intensity of that last kiss, of the sweet invasion of his tongue. Despite her apprehensions she was tingling with anticipation and longing.
As the footman let down the folding steps Marcus said, ‘Take the rest of the day off, both of you.’
‘But, my lord, all the servants are at the races, there’s only the watchman left in the gate cottage. Who will wait on you?’
‘We will wait on ourselves. Today is a festival – go and enjoy it.’
Marissa saw the glint of gold pass from hand to hand before they took the barouche round to the stable.
‘Now, my lady,’ Marcus said as he bent and lifted her up into his arms, shouldering open the door and kicking it closed behind him. Marissa was conscious of the strength of him as he carried her up the stairs and into the master bedroom. She could hardly breathe as he laid her on the bed, hat, parasol and all. Crossing to the windows, he threw them open, then tugged the billowing white drapes closed, filtering the hot sunlight across the polished boards.
He shrugged off his coat and tugged loose his neckcloth then stilled as he stood looking down at her. For a long moment neither moved, then Marcus tossed her reticule and parasol to one side and eased off her hat, releasing her hair to tumble down across the snowy white pillows. Marissa lay still and watched as he unbuttoned and pushed off her pelisse. His hands found the ribbons tying her kid pumps and his fingertips tickled her ankles as he untied each one and tossed the shoes off the bed.
Her heart was thudding so hard she could hardly breathe. She wanted him to hurry and yet for every moment to last for ever. Now he raised her in his arms so he could reach the row of little buttons securing her gown and with surprising skill he removed it, and the petticoats under it, to join the rest of her clothing on the floor. Left naked except for her stockings, tied by their ribbon garters above the knee, Marissa was swept by self-consciousness and tried to pull the sheet over to cover herself.
‘No,’ Marcus said with gentle insistence, removing the sheet from her nerveless fingers. ‘Never be shy, not with me. You have a beautiful body. Every night I dream of seeing it in daylight.’
He feels like that about me? Marissa watching as Marcus shrugged off his shirt impatiently. Then he joined her on the big bed, bent over her, traced hot kisses from her mouth to the tip of her aching nipples, catching them between his lips and teasing, tantalising, the swollen peaks.
She moaned, catching his head in her hands, pressing his mouth against her yielding flesh. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tasting it with her fingertips, alive to every texture of his body.
Marcus released her nipple, shifting against her to reach her mouth, kissing her slowly, deeply, marvellously. When she thought she would surely drown in sensation he broke the kiss to look down into her face. ‘You taste of wine and strawberries – even better than the sea-salt.’
The reference to their moonlight encounter brought the colour flooding up under her skin. She buried her face in his shoulder, licking his skin with the tip of her tongue, letting her fingertips trace the muscles under the smoothness of his back until they encountered the waistband of his breeches.
In response to her impatient fingers he groaned, rolled over on his back to release the fastening and discard the final garment. Marissa gasped at the sight of him, naked and aroused, then shut her eyes as his weight came over her and the warmth of him heated her skin. His lips sought hers blindly, and he kissed her again, the invasive pressure of his tongue echoing the urging of his body. It was the moment she was dreading and, despite Marcus’s skilful lovemaking, his attention to her pleasure, she felt the paralysis creeping through her limbs, the fear rising in her breast.
It was enough to give him pause. ‘Marissa? You do want this, do you not? Because, if not, you have only to say.’
Yes, she wanted to cry. Yes, I want you. Instead the old words, the old pleas tumbled out. ‘Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me…’
He ran the back of his hand gently down the soft curve of her cheek. ‘Hurt you? I would never hurt you, Marissa darling.’
The endearment gave her the courage to wrap her arms around his neck, pull his head down to hers and kiss him as she had never kissed him before.
Chapter Twenty
Marcus groaned and entered her, and realised, even as the pleasure wrapped around him, that the yielding, passionate woman had turned to stone in his arms.
He withdrew abruptly, gathered her into his arms and stroked her quivering body, forehead and then her eyelids as soft sobs that she was trying to choke back shook her.
‘Marissa? Marissa – don’t cry. You must tell me what is wrong. What have I done?’
He could almost feel the effort it took her to answer, to compose herself. ‘Nothing. It is only that it has been such a long time, and I was shy… I am quite all right, Marcus, believe me.’
But he could not. That was a lie, a brave one, but a lie. He had never taken an unwilling woman, nor would he ever. But although she had hidden it so much better than she had on the beach, hidden it to the point that he had, for the moment, been totally deceived, Marissa had been afraid at the moment he had entered her.
They lay together quietly, Marcus nuzzling her hair, stroking the white slope of her shoulder until Marissa dozed. When he was sure she was settled he eased his encircling arm from under her and pulled the sheet over her body. Then he lay back on the pillows, hands behind his head, gazing up at the ceiling as though the moulding could furnish him with a clue.
She had wanted him, had responded to him with an ardour and passion he had never experienced before. And the thought came to him again, as it had done after the night on the beach, that her responses had an edge of innocence which did not square with her married state. If he had not known better he would have sworn she had never been kissed before.
He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. It was not his lovemaking that had frightened her, but the act of possession itself. She had begged him not to hurt her, but it was not her heart she feared for as he had thought, but her body. What sort of man had his cousin been, for heaven’s sake, to frighten his beautiful young wife so? He felt uneasy, remembering the odd hint he had picked up in the clubs that the late Earl had had… unusual tastes. He recalled the chilly perfection and discipline of Southwood Hall, the reticence of the staff and estate workers to say anything about their late master, good or bad.
Marcus shifted restlessly. Could he talk to Marissa about this? He instantly dismissed the idea. If she was capable of speaking of it she would have done so – she had been so reluctant to allow him to make public their betrothal yet she had given him no good reason – this had to be it. No, he could not talk to Marissa, but he needed a woman’s viewpoint. Miss Venables was obviously out of the question, but he could discuss anything with Diane. Friendship had always been more important to them than their physical affair.
He had just come to this conclusion when Marissa murmured and stirred. Then she opened her eyes. As soon as she saw him watching her she blushed and drew the sheet up to her chin. ‘I must get dressed before the others get home and the servants return,’ she stammered.
She was so obviously embarrassed he made no move to stop her, or to talk. Instead he handed her his dressing gown and tactfully turning his back as she gathered up her scattered clothing and slipped quietly from the room.
