To Pleasure a Lady (9 page)

“Dinner, then?”

Arabella exhaled an exaggerated sigh for his benefit. “Very well. I will join you for dinner. Just now I want to confer with Mrs. Simpkin regarding redecorating the house.”

Marcus watched her walk away, admiring the slight sway of her hips beneath the skirts of her riding habit while he mulled over her startling effect on him.

He had to acknowledge that his feelings for Arabella were more potent than desire, and much more complex. He felt a gut-deep exhilaration when he was with her. An excitement that he hadn't known in years. She was all woman, intensely vital and alive, and she made him feel just as vitally alive.

After her confession about her former betrothed, though, Marcus realized more clearly what he was up against. Her suitor's cowardly defection had only compounded her devastation at losing her parents and her home. The bastard's betrayal, even more than her parents' matrimonial battles, had left Arabella painfully gun-shy about betrothals and marriage.

Marcus blew out a slow breath. He hated to think of the hurt and mortification she'd endured at the desertion. But most assuredly he had his work cut out for him if he intended to make Arabella want him as her husband. She would try to foil his courtship every step of the way, just as she'd done this morning when she'd publicly rejected his romantic gesture, giving away his flowers to her pupils. The memory made him smile.

But he wouldn't be deterred, Marcus resolved. He intended to chip away steadily at her defensive armor until she changed her mind about wedding him—beginning tonight. It was time he took the intimacy of his wooing a step further by introducing Arabella to the secrets of sensuality.

A corner of his mouth curved in anticipation. Romancing a reluctant young lady might not exactly be his forte, but the sensual game was one he would win.

         

Arabella went in search of Mrs. Simpkin to discuss her latest plans for refurbishing the house. Before they began, she asked for a bath in the dressing room she shared with Roslyn, so that by the time she went upstairs a half hour later, a copper tub had been filled with hot water for her.

Undressing, Arabella sank into the tub and sighed at the pleasure. It had been quite a while since she had indulged in the luxury of a long soak.

By the time she finished washing her hair, the water had grown tepid. After toweling off, she put on a wrapper and left her damp hair down to dry. When she came out of her dressing room, Arabella stopped short. Someone had strewn crimson rose petals over the ivory coverlet of her bed.

Marcus,
was her immediate thought. The devil must have entered her bedchamber while she was bathing.

It was a novel use of rose petals, Arabella conceded, unable to quell a laugh. The entrance hall had been devoid of flowers when they returned from their ride, but evidently he had saved some of the roses for this latest salvo of his courtship.

She had to admire his inventiveness, and yet…he could have been seen by one of the servants, Arabella realized. She glanced at the closed door to the corridor. Their bedchambers were separated by the entire width of the house, since Marcus was occupying the lord's apartments. There could be no reason for him to be on this end of the floor unless it was to visit the music room next door.

Stifling her amusement, Arabella decided that she had to have a cautionary word with him. When she had dressed and come downstairs, she found Marcus in the drawing room.

“Did you leave rose petals on my bed?” she asked as he offered her a glass of wine.

“Guilty as charged. I am wooing you, remember?” When she gave him a measured look, his eyebrow rose. “So you don't appreciate my romantic gesture?”

“Not that particular gesture. It is much too intimate.”

He flashed a smile that came close to taking her breath away. “Arabella, darling, we haven't
begun
to become intimate.”

Firmly disciplining her senses, she ignored his provocative comment. “But you might have been seen by a servant.”

“No. I always take great care to be discreet.”

“Marcus…you cannot simply enter my bedchamber any time you please.”

“I know. But one day soon you will invite me there of your own accord. I like your hair down like that, by the way.”

Her expression turned exasperated. “I am not wearing it this way to suit you, but so it will dry.”

“I know that, too. Now taste your wine. You'll find it much more palatable than last night's vinegar. It's claret from my own cellars.”

The wine was indeed excellent, and Marcus refrained from making any more provocative remarks. Since they kept the conversation to impersonal matters about the neighborhood, Arabella found the interval before dinner rather pleasant. She actually was enjoying being with Marcus by the time Simpkin came to announce that dinner was served.

The meal was delicious—creamed artichoke soup, turbot in lobster sauce, stuffed partridges, braised veal, cauliflower, and currant pudding for dessert.

As the footmen cleared away the dishes, Marcus addressed the butler. “Simpkin, pray send my compliments to Mrs. Simpkin. My London chef could not have done better.”

“Thank you, my lord. She will be pleased to know you approve.”

When the servants had been dismissed, Arabella glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel and rose. “This was delightful, my lord, but I believe I have fulfilled my obligation to share your company for today.”

“Not quite, love.” Reaching up, he gently caught her wrist in his fingers.

She stared down into his blue eyes. “Surely our four hours are up.”

“I still have a quarter hour left. Time enough to begin your education.”

“My education?”

“To show you what you will be missing if you insist on remaining a spinster.”

Her heart started fluttering. “I do not need educating, Marcus.”

“You do, Arabella. You badly need a taste of physical pleasure. I want you to understand the connubial bliss you can expect when we are wed. How else can you make such an important decision about your future?”

The suggestiveness of his question momentarily rendered her speechless. When she remained mute, Marcus stood, still holding her wrist. “Come take a stroll on the grounds with me. The gardens should be pleasant, now that they are no longer a jungle.”

Arabella glanced at the French doors and swallowed. Dusk had fallen, and a half moon hung low over the horizon, silvering the trees that lined the river. “It is dark outside.”

“Dark is perfect for wooing.”

“Marcus, I won't go outside with you. Whatever you intend, you can do right here.”

“I could, but I don't think you want Simpkin witnessing my advances.” When she gave a huff of exasperation, Marcus added cajolingly, “I won't kiss you this time. If I try, you can box my ears again.”

“Don't tempt me,” she muttered.

He smiled. “Do I tempt you, sweet Arabella?
You
tempt
me
.”

“I certainly don't mean to.” Pulling her hand away, she strode to the door and drew it open.

Marcus followed her outside to the terraced gardens and then caught her arm. “Let's walk down to the river. It will give us more privacy.”

Arabella felt her pulse quicken as he led her down the terrace steps to the sloping lawn. It was unwise to allow Marcus the kind of privacy he demanded, but in all fairness to the wager, she had to provide him the opportunity to woo her. She would have to summon more willpower than she'd shown thus far, however, if she intended to make his seduction difficult.

She could hear the soft ripple of water as they neared the river. When they reached the bank, Marcus drew her behind a chestnut tree. Enough moonlight shafted through the lattice of branches that she could see his handsome face and the midnight blue of his eyes simmering in the dark.

He stood watching her thoughtfully, though, until she finally broke the silence. “What do you intend to do, if not to kiss me?”

He dragged his sensual gaze over her in a lazy caress. “To show you the power of touch.”

She didn't like the sound of that. “Marcus…”

“I mean only to touch you this time. I want to show you how merely the brush of a fingertip can arouse powerful sensations between a man and a woman.”

“I am perfectly willing to believe you. I don't need a demonstration.”

Marcus smiled knowingly. “You aren't turning craven again, surely.”

His deep gaze had become a dare, which only heightened the quivery little feelings that were rioting deep in her body. “No, I am not craven. I just wish you would hurry and be done with it.”

“Patience, sweet Arabella. A proper wooing takes time.”

“You only have five more minutes by my calculation.”

“Five minutes should be ample time to teach you this lesson.”

Arabella tensed as he took her right hand and turned it faceup, yet she couldn't help watching with fascination as Marcus began to trace small patterns on her palm with his fingertip.

When he reached the most sensitive curves, the simple caress made her shiver with awareness.

If she was wise, she would pull away, Arabella knew. Yet she stood immobile with her back to the tree trunk, with Marcus blocking her way. Then he pushed up the long sleeve of her gown an inch to expose her wrist and stroked the delicate flesh there, raising a flush to her skin.

Unnerved, Arabella tried to draw her hand away.

“Be still,” Marcus commanded.

“That tickles.”

“It does much more than tickle.” He lifted his head, his gaze locking with hers, his eyes containing a gleam of wickedness. He knew precisely how his skilled caresses affected her, the devil.

Arabella clenched her teeth, determined to resist his beguiling touch. The man was too arrogant for his own good.

He left her wrist then and slowly skimmed his fingertips up her arm, over the silk fabric of her sleeve and along her shoulder in a trailing, seductive caress. She sensed the raw power even in this light touch, and when he found her bare collarbone above the high edge of her gown's neckline, she shuddered at the heated rush of feeling assaulting her. The heat only increased when he drew a line down the silky hollow between her breasts.

“Arabella…” Marcus warned again when she made to move away.

She swallowed hard, finding it nearly impossible to remain still as he resumed. The truth was, she wanted to be touched this way, wanted him to touch her.

His hand glided upward over her skin, along the column of her throat. “Can you deny how pleasurable this feels?” His voice stroked her senses like velvet, just as his fingers were doing.

No, she couldn't deny the pleasure. His arousing caresses vibrated through her, thrumming at all her nerve endings.

When she didn't answer, Marcus put a languid finger beneath her chin and made her lift her gaze. As she met his dark eyes, her heart thudded erratically, beating a wild pulse in her throat.

He touched her there, pressing faintly against the vulnerable hollow. Then moving higher, he grazed her jawline with his thumb. Arabella quivered at the alluring feel.

His thumb brushed her jaw twice more, his touch lingering and provocative, before wandering with tantalizing slowness to her cheek.

His blue gaze engulfed her as his fingers teased her flushed skin. Arabella couldn't look away. She was too enraptured by his expression and the tender assault of his fingers. She could scarcely breathe as his thumb traced her moist, parted lips, then dipped to penetrate the corner of her mouth.

Her heart beat painfully hard, and for a moment, she wondered if Marcus intended to kiss her. But his hand left her cheek to roam down her throat again, his palm skimming with feathery, delicious sensations, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.

When he drew a seductive finger along the line of her collarbone, her skin burned. Yet he stopped just as he reached the swells of her breasts. Instead, his hands settled with warm possessiveness on her shoulders, and he stepped closer.

Arabella inhaled sharply when he drew her fully against him. His body was warm, hard, strong.

“You said you only meant to touch me,” she said breathlessly.

“Holding is part of touching. Don't you like the feel of our bodies pressing together?”

There was an insidious delight in being held against his hard, sheltering body. She could feel the rush of her own blood, could feel the tremors shivering through her. “No, I don't, Marcus.”

“Liar,” he murmured softly.

To her surprise and disappointment, he released her. Yet he didn't step back. He merely raised his hand to her bodice and feathered the tips of her breasts with the backs of his fingers, making Arabella gasp at the sparks that shot through her. “If you don't like it, then why have your nipples grown so hard?”

It was true, Arabella realized. Her nipples had instantly hardened, betraying her arousal, while her breasts felt heavy and swollen.

And Marcus was doing his best to increase her desire, his knuckles slowly gliding over the silk-covered peaks. Then boldly he cupped one ripe swell, making her knees go weak. Fire radiated from the hand that held her throbbing breast, bloomed between her thighs, shocking her. Fanny had described such powerful feminine feelings as this, but Arabella had never expected to experience them for herself.

She closed her eyes against the pleasure. It was maddening the way Marcus drew out each brazen caress, yet she didn't want him to stop. His touch was so tender, so wicked…so right. The sensations left her shaking inside, kindling a heavy ache deep in her lower body…

It was some time before she realized his demonstration had ceased.

“Do you understand now?” Marcus asked, his voice husky and low.

Dazed, Arabella opened her eyes. Oh, she understood perfectly. Marcus had intended to show her the power of a man's touch—of
his
touch—and he had thoroughly succeeded. She was aching with nameless longing…aching for
him
.