him, his hand on her shoulder. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to take the one step forward that brought her close enough to lay her palm against his chest, and then, she was not sure how, her forehead was against the cool blue silk of his waistcoat.
He was so solid, so capable, so male. She wanted to touch him, to soak up that strength and certainty. She wanted to be held, to have someone stronger, more powerful than herself say that it would all be well, that she need not fight any longer, that there would be enough money for food and the rent, that there were no mysteries. She wanted someone to tell her that the past was past and could not hurt her any more. To tell her sweet lies, give her comfort. She knew it was fantasy, that she could not rely on anyone but herself and yet…
‘Nell?’ His voice was muffled by her hair, gentler than she had heard it before. Something thrummed through her, bone-deep, like the vibration of a great bell, felt rather than heard.
‘I just want to be held.’ The words spilled out as his arms came round her.
‘Shh.’ He rocked her gently, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other circling her shoulders. ‘Let go of it, Nell. You don’t have to fight all the time.’
He understands. It’s so hard alone, so lonely. So cold. She tipped up her face to look at him, to tell him that and found no need for words as his mouth came down and took hers in a kiss that soothed and stroked and lulled her into a dream of safety and certainty.
Marcus’s lips were warm, oh so warm. They caressed her mouth with a gentle pressure until she opened to him with a sigh that was like coming home and she leaned into the strength and the heat and felt her body turn to silk and flame and still he simply held her and spoke, silently, with his lips and his tongue and his strength while she melted, surrendering. At last, at last.
Gradually his breathing quickened; she felt his body tense against hers, and the hand that had curved protectively around her shoulders moved, urgent, seeking, found the swell of her hip, the dip of her waist, up to the curve of her breast and he became just man, just another male wanting her body, wanting her secrets, wanting her surrender.
‘No!’ She pushed him away, as desperate as she had felt in the carriage, the panic clogging her lungs, the pulse wild in her throat. ‘Stop! Stop now!’
Marcus threw up his hands, stepped back, his eyes dark, his lips parted. They looked swollen. Hers must be too. That kiss, that foolish kiss, had been no simple brush of the lips.
It was insanity to have relaxed, to have trusted, to have dreamt. She could rely on no one but herself. Ever. To believe anything else was a delusion. How could she have let herself become so weak? How could she have let herself trust?
‘Nell?’ He reached for her and she batted his hand away.
‘No. No. I am tired. Tired. I did not mean…How can I trust you? Any of you?’ She turned and ran and knew he stood there watching her go.
Marcus flung himself down onto one of the sofas flanking the fireplace and ran both hands through his hair. His shoulder muscles spasmed with pain, but he ignored it. What had just happened? That had been more than just a kiss and far more than a simple response to a woman who seemed unhappy and confused. Why had he done that? God, he had wanted her. Wanted to comfort her, wanted to protect her and then, compellingly, wanted to take her.
His body was racked with need. Deliberately he set himself to master the reaction, focusing until his breathing levelled off, the ache in his groin subsided, the demand of his body released its hold. Think, he told his intellect. That’s what you are supposed to be good at.
Nell had been moved by that family portrait. You know where you come from, where you belong. So she does not know, any more. Whatever former life had given her the educated speech, the polished manners, the education—that had gone and now she was adrift, fighting every battle alone and aching for comfort.
Comfort, but not the comfort that two bodies entwined together brought each other. He had known, the moment the kiss became more than the desire to soothe her, know her, that he had lost her. That had been outright rejection, not shyness nor the maidenly alarm of a virgin experiencing a man’s passion for the first time.
And yet, he could not believe she was experienced. Those kisses, her reactions, had been instinctive, not tutored. The only explanation that made sense to him was that she was in love with her dark man and to find herself in another man’s arms, responding sexually to him, was a betrayal.
Marcus stretched out his legs towards the fire, ran one hand through his hair and let his head lean onto the back rail of the sofa. Despite his efforts at self-control, he still had an erection that was uncomfortable, his shoulder hurt like hell and he could not decide what to do about Nell. Other than take her to bed. Which was impossible.
He wanted her. He trusted her not at all, but he wanted her. And part of her, a part that she rejected, wanted him. A small hum of satisfied male conceit made him smile mockingly at himself. The smile cooled on his lips, became a twist of wry acceptance. Whoever Nell Latham was, she was steeped in deceit and lies. While he was ignorant of her secrets, she remained a danger to his family—a danger he had brought into their heart, the better to watch. He had to be certain that was the right strategy to have taken.
Four days passed and Nell began to allow herself to relax. She even learned to ignore the footman who was always hovering outside her door, unobtrusively padding along behind her wherever she went.
Lady Narborough became less distant, more natural towards her, and Nell realized with a jolt that perhaps she had worried at first that her son had brought his paramour into the household. Honoria and Verity simply accepted her as another young female friend. When they remembered her circumstances, they were tactful about their allowances and the difference in their circumstances. When they forgot, they lent her gowns and trinkets with total ease, as though she was a guest of their own station whose luggage truly had gone astray.
Marcus avoided any direct contact if he could help it, but she was conscious, constantly, of his regard. He studied her all the time, watching for what, she knew not. When she walked in the garden—well wrapped, her hands thrust into one of Honoria’s fashionably vast muffs—she would look up and see him brooding on the terrace. When she strummed a few notes on the piano, trying to recall far-away lessons, he was there barricaded behind his copy of The Times. And when, defiant, she stared back to let him see she was aware of his scrutiny, his dark eyes held a spark of the heat that haunted her dreams.
In her turn Nell, from a wary distance, watched Lord Narborough. She was reading a few letters a day—all that she felt able to cope with—working back from that last, shattering message. But there were no clues that she could find to what her father’s supposed crime had been, to the identity of his lover or why Lord Narborough had abandoned him. He was in prison for months, it seemed, and the letters held, for the most part, only anxious enquiries about the family and brave attempts to make prison life sound bearable.
Lord Narborough, the man she saw in his own home almost twenty years after the crisis, was kind to his daughters, obviously still deeply in love with his wife and proud of his sons. His attitude to the staff of the big old house was firm, but just, and it was plain that he knew them all, not just by name, but the details of their families too. All qualities that weighed on the right side of the scales with, so far, only his outburst about adulterous husbands on the other side. But most people would echo those sentiments, if perhaps with less heat.
By casual conversation with the girls, Nell discovered that the estates were extensive and prosperous and always had been. Money could not
