No Place for a Lady (12 page)

"Hurry," he whispered as he scanned the room for an escape. He found none. The library windows were old and narrow. They would creak abominably when opened. The only other exit was through the door, but the unknown couple's voices were growing louder by the second.

"Done!"

She shot up from the chair while he reached for her wrist. Together, they dove into the only hiding place he could see—behind a leather couch, partially hidden by the curtains. It was a painful squeeze between the furniture and the wall, especially as Fantine had landed beneath Marcus, half twisted on her side, half turned face-up toward him. He did his best to keep his weight off her, but there was no room, and at that moment, the noisy couple entered.

"Why, this is scandalous!" said the woman, her voice breathy with excitement.

"Nonsense," returned the man. "You have been driving me mad since this morning."

It took a moment for Marcus to recognize the voices, but when he did, he felt his jaw drop. Good Lord, it was Harris and his wife!

Certainly, the man was prone to emotional displays. His political speeches alone exhibited more sentiment than refinement. But how vulgar to sneak off during one's own ball to cavort with one's wife!

And what cavorting it was.

Harris's ardor clearly outstripped his reason as he lowered his wife to the floor. She landed with a soft thud and the whisper of silk skirts, her slightly drunken giggles swiftly silenced by his kisses.

Marcus cringed, silently cursing the lecherous old man. Why must he take his wife now? And why on the floor, for God's sake, where the slightest turn of his head would reveal Marcus and Fantine? Sweet heaven, did not the man have the simplest decency to do the deed on the couch instead of beside it?

But there was no help for it. Marcus and Fantine were trapped for the duration, listening to soft moans that could not fail to arouse. The same dismay colored Fantine's eyes, but Marcus was more interested in the bright spots of color heating her cheeks and the soft curve of her breast against his arm.

The thoughts that heated his blood were inevitable, especially as he had only to turn his head slightly to see them acted out by another couple. But he did not turn his head. Instead, he let his gaze wander over Fantine's face, seeing moonlight spill across her pert nose and rosy cheek. Her dark lips parted and she shifted slightly, clearly aware of his arousal pressing against her thigh.

"Kiss me," Lady Harris moaned.

How could he resist?

With a shudder that came from deep within, he lowered his head to her mouth. He tasted refinement on her lips. The faint brush of champagne, the rich whisper of chocolate. He felt her body soften beneath him, shifting slightly as she clung to his kiss. On the other side of the couch, Lady Harris gasped in delight, while Marcus felt a shiver tremble through Fantine.

"I love the smell of you," mumbled Lord Harris, and Marcus lowered his face to Fantine's neck, inhaling the heavy fragrances of the ton, as well as the scent that was uniquely hers.

"Touch my breast," whispered Lady Harris. Marcus obeyed, shifting his hand to Fantine's soft bosom. He found the peak already erect, pushing into his fingers. He flicked his thumb over the hard nub, his nail scraping across the rough fabric that separated them. Beneath him, he heard Fantine gasp.

"Oh, yes," gasped Lady Harris. "Do that again. Harder."

The fabric was in his way, so he eased open the buttons of her maid's gown and slipped his hand beneath to hold her naked flesh. She was warm and soft, and Marcus thought he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse as she arched into him, both fitting herself better into his hand and tormenting him below.

"Oh, blimey," whispered Fantine, the words both a cry of distress and a plea, her breath hot and moist against his cheek.

He raised his head to trail his tongue over the curve of her ear, desperately wishing they had more room. There were so many things he wished to do to her, to explore with her. He had but one hand to tease and stroke her nipple, while he felt tension rise within her. He pulled, and she gasped. He circled, and she moaned.

Then he whispered, ever so softly. "You are perfect. So very, very perfect." And he pinched her nipple.

She cried out suddenly, and her hips pulsed upward in the most exquisitely torturous rhythm. Marcus groaned, his blood on fire despite the layers of fabric that separated them. All he could do was kiss her flushed cheeks, her dark red lips, her neck, her breast.

Then, a chance movement to his left drew his attention. He did not want to acknowledge it, but a cold dread began forming in his stomach. Turning his head, he encountered the accusing gazes of Lord and Lady Harris.

Chapter 6

Fantine noticed the change in Marcus immediately, but it was some moments before she could react. Never before had she felt so wonderfully strange, so encompassed and liberated all at once.

Always before, a man's touch repulsed her, pushing her to escape in any way possible. But not with Marcus. His touch warmed her, set her skin to tingling, and her heart to skipping with excitement. It was terrifying and consuming, but she had no time to absorb or even understand what was happening. Because as soon as she opened her eyes, she saw Marcus, his face set in rigid lines, his gaze fixed on the center of the room.

Turning her head, she encountered the horrified stares of Lord and Lady Harris. "Gawd almighty," she whispered, a mortifying blush burning in her face.

Marcus shifted his gaze to her, his expression both chagrined and apologetic as he buttoned up her bodice.

"My dear," said Lord Harris to his wife, "perhaps you had best return to our guests."

The plump woman nodded and pushed to her feet. She had already readjusted her clothing, and after a final reassuring smile from her husband, she left the room.

"You might as well come out of there, Chadwick. I cannot imagine your position is all that comfortable."

"On the contrary," drawled Marcus with a rueful glance at Fantine. "It has its advantages." Despite his words, Marcus gingerly struggled off of her. Unfortunately, Fantine's nerves seemed to have developed a hypersensitivity to the slightest touch. His movements left her quivering, gasping for breath, wanting nothing more than to curl into her side and die.

"Come along, miss. You, too," came her employer's gravelly voice.

"Give her a minute, Harris," returned Marcus, his tone almost bland. "I am somewhat heavy. No doubt it will take some time for the feeling to return to her legs."

Fantine stared at Marcus, stunned by his attitude. His face was the perfect aristocrat's mask of boredom. He looked as sated and as uninterested in her as the worst satyr in her mother's court. He cared nothing for her and even less for what feelings he had created in her. He used her!

Betrayal burned like acid within her. How dare he? How could he? And how could she have allowed him—with one single kiss—to turn her into her mother? She had no illusions about what would have happened if they had had more time and more privacy. She would have done anything for him, been anything for him, allowed him to do whatever he willed with her.

Suddenly everything she believed about herself was in doubt. Called into question by him. She could not hate him more if he had chained her around the neck and driven her naked through Hyde Park.

And at that precise moment Marcus leaned down, extending his hand with an expression of sympathy. "Come on out. There is no use hiding now."

She gaped at him. Hiding! Did he think she was hiding, when in truth she was fighting the urge to drive a knife straight into his lascivious heart?

He saw her expression and hesitated, clearly confused. Behind him, she caught a glimpse of Lord Harris, frowning at her, and realized that she did not need a dagger. She had a much more potent weapon at hand.

Above all things, the peerage prided themselves on the appearance of propriety, the show of poker-up-the-arse decency. She now had the opportunity to rip that veneer away, wounding Marcus in the most important aspect of his entire personality: his respectability.

Her lip began to tremble, and she drew away from Marcus's outstretched hand as if he were evil incarnate. She released a pitiful whimper akin to a tortured kitten. Then she turned pleading eyes toward Lord Harris.

"Don't let 'im touch me, guv. Please!"

"Fantine!" gasped Marcus, clearly angered by her reaction, but she pressed on, relishing his every squirming expression.

"He made me, an' it were sinful!" She knew she could not claim she had been completely forced. She had too obviously enjoyed what had happened. The memory of what she had done, what she had allowed him to do to her, spurred on her theatrics. "Please," she cried to Lord Harris. "Send me away. I won't cause no trouble. Let me go t' church an' pray for my soul."

"Fantine!" cried Marcus. "There was nothing sinful in what we did, and well you know it."

"Oh, no!" she responded, her eyes tearing as she pleaded with Lord Harris. "I'm a good girl. I swear it. I never—"

"This is outside of enough!" bellowed Marcus as he bodily hauled her out of the corner. But she was ready, using his motion to help her scramble away to cower behind Lord Harris.

"Save me," she cried. "He is evil! The things 'e said 'e'd do if I cried out."

Marcus planted his fists on his hips as he glared at her. "I threatened nothing, Fantine, but I do now. I swear to God—"

"Enough, Chadwick," cut in Lord Harris.

"What!" he exploded, suddenly turning on his host. "You cannot believe what she is saying!"

"What I believe," he said slowly, "is that Miss—"

"Fanny Smith, yer lordship," she offered in a trembling voice.

"That Miss Smith would be better off as far away from here as possible. I shall pay her wages and see her home."

"Oh, no!" Fantine gasped. She did not want anyone knowing where she lived. Not even Penworthy knew that. "Jes me wages, yer lordship. I can find a 'ackney t' take me 'ome."

Apparently seizing on anything to discomfit her, Marcus stepped forward, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, no, Fanny, not after the trauma you have just sustained. I insist that my own coachman drive you."

She shook her head vehemently, not needing to act her distress. "Do not let 'im know where I live," she cried.

"Why would I wish to visit you, Fanny?" Marcus's voice was cold, but his eyes fairly glittered with emotion. Though he pretended absolute disgust with her, she knew he would come see her at his first opportunity. Then he would exact his revenge.

The thought was as thrilling as it was terrifying, and for a moment she felt paralyzed with fear. Everything was happening so fast! She turned one last pleading eye to Lord Harris. "Please, yer lordship. I be sore afraid."

"Very well," Harris said with a sigh as he paid her triple wages. "Get your hackney."

She smiled gratefully, though she knew her relief would be short-lived. One look at Marcus told her that he had just made finding her home a priority. She had no doubt he would succeed, eventually. But for this moment, she need only leave without having him follow her. If only one of those society ladies would discover—

A piercing wail split the air, coming from the ballroom. It was an older lady, Fantine guessed. Probably the matron who had somehow lost a diamond and emerald bracelet. The very same bracelet that currently rested in Marcus's pocket.

She grinned, knowing she could now escape. "Thank ye, yer lordship. An' may God bless ye," she said as she bobbed her curtsey.

Harris barely noticed, his attention already shifted to the ballroom and the mayhem beginning there. Marcus, however, easily caught her arm.

"What have you done?" he demanded, his grip tightening as Harris pushed past them out the library door.

"It is just a distraction in case of trouble." Then she abruptly twisted out of his grip and made for the hall. At the last possible moment, though, she glanced backward. "Of course, you might want to check your pockets." With that parting shot, she made her escape, running as fast as her legs could carry her.

Marcus watched her leave, knowing he could catch her if he wanted. But there was no need. Slipping outside, he signaled to his own coachman, who was loitering nearby. He simply pointed at Fantine's retreating form, and Jacob nodded in complete understanding. Quick as a wink, Jacob's son, Giles, slipped into the darkness, following Fantine.