To Pleasure a Lady (18 page)

Marcus returned to the box at that moment, in time to catch his sister's statement. He frowned slightly as he offered his aunt and then Arabella each a glass of wine.

Still vexed at the viscountess, Arabella avoided looking at him as she accepted the glass. “Oh, I agree, Lady Eleanor,” she murmured. “I quite envy Miss Irwin her freedom. She is her own woman, in charge of her life. She needn't fret about a guardian controlling her every action.”

Casting an arch glance at Marcus, Arabella expected him to respond to her gibe, but Lady Beldon evidently was not finished with her chastisement. She spoke again just as Marcus's two friends resumed their seats behind them. “It is unseemly for a prospective countess to fraternize with lightskirts, Miss Loring. If you mean to have any future with my nephew, you will have to sever the connection with your friend, no matter how close you were.”

Although enraged by now, Arabella managed a false smile. “Forgive me, my lady, but I have no intention of severing my connection with Miss Irwin. Instead, I will be severing all connection with your nephew. After next week, he will no longer be my guardian, and I certainly won't continue our relationship by becoming his countess.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marcus's brows snap together. The other occupants of the box had gone silent.

Glancing over her shoulder, Arabella offered the Duke of Arden a brilliant smile. “Does that not relieve you, your grace? You don't wish me to marry Lord Danvers, I imagine.”

The duke responded with a repressive arch of one eyebrow. “In truth, I don't,” he responded coolly.

The Marquess of Claybourne, on the other hand, looked amused. “I am not yet certain how I feel about Marcus leg-shackling himself to you, Miss Loring. I think I should withhold judgment until I come to know you better.”

“Arabella,” Marcus interjected brusquely, “we will discuss this later in private.”

Her chin rose at his commanding tone, but she could feel his vexation. He had crossed his arms over his chest and was eyeing her piercingly.

“Of course, my lord,” she said with feigned sweetness. Leaning toward Marcus, however, she lowered her voice to a harsh murmur. “I don't know what you told your aunt about us, or why she thinks I am eager to wed you—”

His terse reply cut into her reproval. “I told her I had proposed because I didn't want her hearing the rumors from anyone else. I didn't say you had accepted.”

“Then you should disabuse her of the notion at once,” Arabella hissed before directing her attention forward again, ignoring how his sister Eleanor was looking between the two of them, clearly aware of the sudden tension in the air.

To Arabella's relief, the play resumed a moment later. She sat through the last three acts, determinedly ignoring the ache in her heart while longing for the evening to be over. All she wanted to do was to go home and indulge in a long bout of waterworks. Except that she suddenly recalled a memory from her youth, of her mother sobbing disconsolately into her pillow after another of her father's infamous indiscretions.

The painful remembrance renewed Arabella's resolve. She would
not
be marrying Marcus when their wager ended. And she most certainly would not be offering her heart to him to be trampled upon.

Her head was throbbing as painfully as her heart by the time the play ended. A disdainful Lady Beldon took her leave with bare civility before sweeping from the box. Eleanor, though, offered Arabella a fond smile and expressed the hope that they might meet again soon.

Marcus's friends differed in their leavetaking as well; the duke treated Arabella with formal reserve, the marquess with good-natured charm.

When half an hour later, Marcus handed Arabella into his carriage, she sank back against the squabs and closed her eyes, wishing she didn't have to speak to him for the rest of the evening.

Winifred apparently sensed the tension between them. Ordinarily she would have nodded off during the journey home, but tonight she kept up a brisk chatter for the entire drive, an evident attempt to defuse the strain. When eventually the carriage drew up before her mansion, Winifred hesitated to get out. “Will you be all right, my dear?”

“Certainly, it is only a short drive home,” Arabella answered, even though reluctant to be alone with Marcus, knowing he meant to grill her about her altercation with his aunt.

As soon as the door had been closed by a footman and the coach began moving again, Marcus spoke. “I trust you mean to explain that little outburst of yours?”

Arabella lifted her chin stubbornly. “It was hardly an outburst. And I had sufficient cause to be angry at your aunt's disparagement of my friend Fanny.”

Marcus appraised her with a measuring gaze. “She is right, you know. It would be better for you and your sisters to have no further association with Fanny Irwin.”

Arabella bristled at that. “Perhaps so, but I will tell you the same thing I told Lady Beldon: I have no intention of cutting the connection. And you cannot forbid me to see her.”

“I wouldn't try,” Marcus replied curtly.

She was still fuming, however. “Your aunt's attitude galls me. It seems the height of hypocrisy that single ladies are denounced for their sins when married ladies like your former paramour can have countless lovers and even commit adultery but are still received in society.”

He regarded her a long moment before finally exhaling. “I suppose you saw Julia.”

Arabella forced a taut smile. “If by ‘Julia,' you mean Lady Eberly, then yes. I could hardly miss her.”

His expression was more sympathetic than defensive. “You needn't concern yourself with her. I broke off our liaison three months ago.”

“Oh, indeed, that long ago?” Arabella commented sarcastically.

Marcus's mouth tightened. “I am not a saint, Arabella. I never claimed to be. I'm a man with a healthy sexual appetite.”

She gave him an icy look. “I never supposed you to be a saint, but you claimed you were nothing like my father.”

“I am not like him.”

“No? Then why do you consort with married women, without any consideration for holy wedding vows, just as he did?”

Marcus was silent for a long moment. “My affair with her was a mistake,” he said quietly.

“So you say now, when you are trying to persuade me to accept your offer of marriage.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I intend to remain faithful to our wedding vows, Arabella. I would not take a mistress once we are married.”

“It makes no difference to me either way,” she lied. She turned to gaze out the window, trying to ignore the burning in her eyes. She couldn't trust herself to believe Marcus's promises.

Oh, he desired her physically, she knew that much. But carnal desire before marriage was a far cry from fidelity afterward. Their wager was all a game to him. As soon as he won, as soon as the chase was over and he had legally made her his countess, his interests could very well shift elsewhere. And she would be trapped in a loveless, heartless marriage just as her parents had been.

“You needn't be jealous of Lady Eberly,” Marcus asserted when she remained silent.

Arabella's tumultuous emotions reached a boiling point and she turned back to stare at him. “Jealous! I am not in the least bit jealous. I don't care if you take a hundred lovers. Your affairs and infidelities are of no consequence to me, since I have absolutely no intention of accepting your proposal.”

“Arabella…” Marcus said, striving to contain his impatience. “Listen to me carefully, for I will only repeat this once. I won't take any lovers after our marriage.”

Her expression remained obdurate. “Well,
I
would! If I did wed you, Marcus, I would certainly have a lover—perhaps more than one. I wouldn't be content to remain at home like a dutiful wife while you catted about all over England.”

She saw him go rigid; her brazen declaration had apparently made him nearly as angry as she was.

“You are not taking any lover but me,” he said through gritted teeth.

Her chin jutted out furiously. “If I wished to, you couldn't stop me!”

“You don't want to test that theory, sweeting. I could and I would stop you.”

Seething now, Arabella clenched her own teeth and tore her gaze away from him. There was no question now of her losing to Marcus, she promised herself. She would play out the rest of their wager as promised, for she intended to win freedom for herself and her sisters. But once it was over, she would never even speak to him again!

Marcus, too, fell into a simmering silence. It was an effort to keep control of his temper, but he forced himself to wait until they were both calmer to discuss the explosive issue of lovers any further.

The moment the carriage drew to halt in the drive, Arabella opened the door and jumped down before the footman could even lower the step.

Marcus watched darkly as she ran up the front stairs to the house. He followed in time to hear her being greeted by the butler, Simpkin, who was waiting for his mistress's return in the entrance hall, despite the lateness of the hour. When Simpkin offered to fetch her abigail, Arabella shook her head.

“No, don't disturb Nan's rest,” she said tightly, throwing a wrathful glance over her shoulder at Marcus. “I can manage alone. I have done so for years.”

Without another word, she hurried up the staircase and disappeared down the corridor. A moment later, Marcus heard her bedchamber door slam with enough force to startle the very proper butler into an expression of alarm.

Chapter Eleven

How does a woman keep her heart safe?

—Arabella to Fanny

His own mood fierce, Marcus went directly to the study, where he poured himself a generous brandy in order to calm down.

He could understand Arabella's dismay at learning of his past relationship with his former mistress. After her bitter experience with her libertine father and adulterous mother, fidelity in marriage was a monumental issue for her. But he intended to remain faithful to her once they were wed, and the fact that she doubted his word rankled badly.

It was, however, her vow to take other lovers after they married that enraged him. The thought of Arabella with another lover made Marcus see red.

Gulping a long, burning swallow of brandy, he forced himself to contain his ire. Arabella was not the kind of woman to forswear her marriage vows, and he was far too possessive to ever allow her to. He would keep her so busy in his own bed that she would never even think about wanting another lover.

Meanwhile, though, his campaign to win her had suffered a serious setback. He would have to intensify his efforts, Marcus knew.

Even so, he could be more tolerant of Arabella's perspective. Her loathing of convenient marriages was based on fear. She was afraid of being hurt again, of being betrayed by a fickle suitor, of making herself too vulnerable to the pain and misery married couples could cause each other. He would have to show her that a union between them would be far, far different than her fatalistic expectations.

He wanted Arabella, had wanted her from the very first, and he would have her. As his countess, his wife, his lover.

Vowing not to be deterred, Marcus drained the last of his brandy and made his way upstairs to his bedchamber. The house was silent since the servants were long abed, but a wall sconce in the corridor had been left alight for his convenience, and so had a lamp in his room.

He shrugged out of his evening clothes, leaving them draped over a chair in his dressing room for his valet to care for in the morning. Not bothering to don a nightshirt since the spring night was only pleasantly cool, Marcus returned to his bedchamber and strode over to the bed, only to come to an abrupt halt.

The covers had been turned down as expected, but a large pile of clothing lay on top, including the rose silk gown Arabella had worn to the theater this evening.

When he caught the sparkle of rubies and the gleam of pearls among the silks and sarcenets, a heavy frown descended on his brow. Arabella had returned all the gowns and jewelry he had bought her!

A folded sheet of vellum rested on the pile. Ripping it open, Marcus read the terse message inside:

My Lord Danvers, you may give these to your paramour. I do not require them any longer.

Your eldest ward, Miss Loring

Knotting his jaw, Marcus threw on a dressing gown, gathered up her gowns and jewels, flung open his door, and stalked down the corridor to the opposite wing of the manor, where Arabella's bedchamber was located.

He had been extremely patient until now. He had resolved to woo her with tenderness and passion in order to win her surrender.

But since his strategy was obviously getting him nowhere, more drastic measures were called for.

         

When her bedchamber door flew open, Arabella was sitting at her dressing table, making a desultory effort to brush her hair.

She felt utterly wretched. As a girl, she'd hated witnessing her parents' fights, but she hated fighting with Marcus even more.

Arabella bit down on her quivering lower lip. Her turmoil just now was only more evidence that she'd allowed her emotions to become too involved with Marcus. She had lied earlier when she'd claimed she wasn't jealous of his beautiful mistress. She'd been eaten up with jealousy, proving she was in over her head. She couldn't let it continue—

Marcus's startling entrance made her leap up from her dressing table and whirl to face him.

When she spied him standing there, looking dark and irate, holding her beautiful gowns, Arabella swallowed. She had known he wouldn't be happy that she'd returned her new wardrobe as a symbolic severing of their guardian-ward relationship, but she hadn't expected Marcus to barge into her bedchamber while she was preparing for bed.

As she eyed him warily, his gaze raked over her, taking in her long-sleeved nightshift, her unbound hair, her bare feet. Even though the white cambric covered her completely, Arabella still felt defenseless, so she hurriedly took refuge behind her dressing table chair, using it as a shield.

“Marcus, what do you mean, invading my rooms this way?”

“You misplaced your wardrobe, sweeting.”

“No, I didn't. I intended to give everything back to you.”

“Well, I won't accept. These garments and jewels belong to you, and you are keeping them.” His eyes bored into hers, brightly blue, beautiful, as he strode forward and flung the pile on her bed.

Her hands moving to her hips, Arabella stared back defiantly at him—a defiance that turned to alarm when he advanced on her.

“Marcus, leave my bedchamber at once!”

“I intend to. And you are coming with me.”

She tried to elude him, scurrying to the other side of the bed, but he reached her in three determined strides. Bending, Marcus caught one arm behind her knees, the other at her back, and swung her up in his embrace, ignoring her shocked gasp of outrage.

Disregarding her fiercely whispered demands to put her down, he carried Arabella along the dim corridor, past the main staircase.

“Where are you taking me?” she exclaimed when she realized he was heading toward the far wing, which traditionally belonged to the earls of Danvers.

“To my rooms. I'm wooing you, just as we agreed.”

“I never agreed to this!”

“Spare your breath, love. I intend to show you what our marriage bed will be like.”

Her heart thudding wildly at his declaration, Arabella renewed her efforts to break free, but she couldn't make Marcus release his tight hold.

Moments later, he entered his bedchamber with her, kicked the door shut behind him with his bare foot, and strode over to the massive bed, where he unceremoniously dropped her.

With a sputter of indignation, Arabella came up swinging, intent on boxing his ears.

Before her hand could strike, though, he caught her and dragged her hard against him. The abrupt contact startled her, making her body go rigid.

Arabella drew a sharp breath as she stared up at Marcus. His midnight blue eyes had sparked and darkened with something far different than anger as he held her closely, her breasts pressed against his broad chest, her thighs nestled against his muscular ones.

When he next spoke, his voice suddenly lowered to a husky murmur. “I plan to prove to you that you don't want any lovers but me, Arabella.”

She tried to pull back, but Marcus wouldn't let her go. “I do not want you for a lover,” she declared in a shaky voice.

“Yes, you do.”

“Of all the unmitigated arrogance—”

His mouth came down on hers then, capturing, seizing, his tongue probing deep to duel with hers.

His stunning kiss, however, lasted only a moment before he broke it off.

“You want me, Arabella. You can't deny it.”

She did want him, she admitted as Marcus held her even closer. She wanted him desperately. Her breath fled as the fiercest longing swept through her…heat and desire and need.

Marcus felt the same longing, she knew, for he had gone completely still. Time suddenly seemed to halt, the very air vibrating with a blazing tension that had nothing to do with their battle of wills. His eyes seemed to burn as they stared down into hers.

Her gaze trapped by his, Arabella stood unmoving.

His expression softening, Marcus reached up to brush her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “I mean to satisfy you, Arabella. To pleasure you. To show you delights you've never dreamed of.”

Passion throbbed between them; her pulse thudded in her ears.

Abandoning any pretense of resistance then, Arabella raised her face to his. “Stop talking and kiss me,” she said hoarsely.

That was all it took. Bending, Marcus seized her mouth again, savagely ravishing, and Arabella responded just as fervently. They kissed violently as days of pent-up frustration exploded between them.

In some dim corner of her mind, she felt him guiding her backward toward the high bed. Without breaking the kiss, Marcus urged her down but at the last moment turned and fell back so that she sprawled over him, her hair forming a red-gold curtain around them.

Their mouths remaining locked, he ravaged hers with pleasure. Arabella returned his ardor with all her might, her breath coming in panting gasps. She couldn't get enough of his kisses, couldn't deny the desire and hunger surging through her veins, through every nerve and sinew in her body. She felt frantic, an urgent clamoring need that wouldn't be satisfied by only his mouth. She wanted much, much more from him.

Whimpering, she pressed herself desperately against the strong, muscular male body lying beneath her, suddenly aware that his dressing gown had fallen open to expose his hot, bare skin, his naked loins…his swollen hardness that jutted upward to press against her abdomen. Instinctively, her hips ground against him, seeking to get closer.

With a strangled groan, Marcus tore away his mouth from hers. His hands tangled in her hair as he stared up at her. “If you don't want this, then tell me
now
.”

She knew what he was asking. Her throat dry, her breath rasping, her heart pounding, Arabella nodded slowly. “I want this…. I want you.”

Fire flared in his eyes. Marcus rolled over her, pinning her beneath his weight. Then reaching up, he grasped the delicate collar of her nightdress and ripped the thin cambric to her waist, baring the ripe fullness of her breasts. Before her surprised gasp could even escape her throat, his head dipped to her breasts and he took a taut nipple in his mouth, sucking hard. Arabella nearly came up off the bed at the delicious sensation.

Squeezing the firm mounds together, he lavished attention on her throbbing nipples until she was moaning hoarsely for him. “Marcus…please…”

His hand reached down between their bodies then, dragging up the hem of her torn nightshift, slipping between her thighs to stroke her pulsing cleft. “Not yet. You're not ready for me yet.”

“I am…this fire…” She was burning with need for him, her very core aching with flaming hunger.

Lifting himself up, he tore her nightdress the rest of the way, then shrugged out of his dressing gown and threw it to the carpet, baring his magnificent, powerful body. Kneeling between her spread thighs, he took her hips in his hands and bent to her.

When his magic mouth found her feminine center, her response was half scream, half sob—a helpless, pleading sound that turned to a keening cry as he ravished her with his sensual expertise, his lips stroking, his tongue plunging in deep. Her hands clenched in his hair as the fire built to a raging inferno, then finally erupted inside her.

When eventually she regained her senses, Marcus was kneeling over her, watching her, his eyes tender, his face taut and flushed with his effort at control.

“Please, don't stop….” Arabella managed to begin a hoarse whisper.

He went utterly still. For a long moment they remained staring at each other, their gazes locked, time frozen in a moment so sharp, so raw, she could hear his heartbeat, feel the turbulent rhythm echo her own. She knew what caused his hesitation. He was her first lover, her only lover. The next step would be irrevocable.

“Marcus,” she whispered again, reaching for him.

His smile was solemn and enchanting, his voice low and hoarse as he replied, “I won't stop.”

He lowered his body to hers, covering her, and eased her thighs wider with his. The tenderness in his eyes deepening, he bent to kiss her again. His mouth, which had been fierce and hungry before, gentled from ravishment to tantalizing seduction.

She could feel his hard length probing for entrance. As he pushed inside her a fraction of an inch, Arabella froze, but he brushed her temple with his lips. “Try to relax, Belle. I will be as careful as I can.”

With exquisite care, he pressed forward, gliding in slowly, slowly…his huge, swollen arousal stretching her flesh, filling her. There was a moment of pain, but it quickly subsided. Arabella felt only a throbbing fullness as at last he sank in the entire way.

Marcus held completely still so she could grow accustomed to his alien hardness, feathering light kisses over her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

After another moment, he began to move, withdrawing the slightest measure, then pressing in again. Meanwhile his hands were stimulating her breasts, softly kneading, his thumbs stroking the sensitive buds. Arabella trembled, then gasped as another streak of fire ignited deep and low inside her.