in his chin, lifting her hand to stroke between his brows. ‘You are not frowning now.’
‘No.’ Marcus smiled at her with his eyes, unmoving as she explored, daring to touch, too uncertain to caress. It was as though he understood that she needed to reassure herself that it was him, not that other man from her nightmares.
‘May I?’ He touched the buttons of her gown and she nodded sharply, feeling her body jerky with nerves and desire. ‘Oh, Nell.’ He seemed to find the sight of her bare shoulders, the curve of her breasts, in some way remarkable, for his hand remained where it was, a fraction above her skin, his gaze intent.
Nell tugged at the plain, worn chemise, suddenly conscious that he would be used to smoothing the fragility of silk and lawn from the pampered skin of his mistress, not much-washed cotton that was regrettably now less than snow-white.
‘Nell,’ Marcus murmured, catching her nervous hand in his. ‘You could be dressed in sackcloth and you would still be lovely.’
‘Oh.’ She could feel herself blushing, but it was with pleasure now, her confidence building. Nell took hold of the ends of the tape that gathered the neckline together and pulled. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘I do,’ he said, smiling as he pushed the loosened straps from her shoulders. ‘Trust me, Nell.’
With my body? ‘Yes,’ she murmured to the top of his dark head as he bent and kissed along the line where her corset ended. ‘Oh!’ His tongue slid between skin and boning, grazing the top of her nipple. ‘Oh, yes.’
Chapter Thirteen
It seemed Marcus required no encouragement, which was fortunate, for Nell had no clear idea what she wanted, or what to do, only that she needed what Marcus was doing to her, and more of it, and for ever.
She found herself lying back on the heaped cushions, her skin tingling from the radiant heat of the fire, the chill of the draughts, the touch of his skin and the unpredictable caress of his fingers.
His weight came down over her and she fought the momentary panic. Then, as his mouth sought hers, she gave herself usp with a little shiver of relief. It was all right; this was Marcus. She was learning his mouth now, the taste of him, the teasing nips of his teeth, the arrogant thrust of his tongue. She became bold, nipping at his lower lip in her turn, letting her tongue roam into the hot, intimate secrets of his mouth.
He had raised himself on one elbow. As she emerged, slightly dazed from his kiss, she found his free hand sliding up, bunching her petticoat skirts until he could glide his palm over her naked thigh, up, nudging gently into the intimate heat between her legs.
Nell gasped. ‘Marcus?’
‘You want me to stop?’ His hand stilled, fingers still laced into the moist curls.
‘No! Only I—you—Oh!‘ The finger slid deeper, parted the folds, slipped inside her and she felt her hips lift in involuntary supplication, pressing the aching mound against his palm as her head fell back, helpless.
Instinctively her hand sought him, frustrated by his closed breeches, spreading impatiently over the hard swell. ‘Nell.‘ It was a groan as he shifted to sit up, one hand still on her while the other tore at the fastenings to free himself.
And then she could circle the heat and length of his erection. She was tentative, afraid to grip until he closed his hand over hers and showed her what he needed with almost desperate strokes, and she opened to him, arching and aching until he slid between her thighs. Her petticoat skirts ripped, unheeded, in the tangle of limbs and half-shed clothing and then she felt him nudge at her entrance. She drew in a shuddering breath of anticipation. And he stopped.
‘Marcus?’ She opened her eyes. He was looking down at her, his face intent, his eyes dark, his lips parted. He was rigidly still. Nell watched his Adam’s apple move convulsively as he swallowed, a trickle of sweat running down the tendons of his throat.
‘No,’ he gritted out between clenched teeth. ‘No.’ He rolled off her, sitting up, knees bent, his forehead on his crossed arms. ‘Damn it, I can’t do this, not with you.’
Somehow Nell managed to sit up. Marcus shifted sharply away as she laid a hand on his forearm. ‘What is wrong? Did I—’
‘You did nothing. Nothing. I want you and I would have taken you and that is wrong. You are a lady, Nell, and I would have made you a courtesan.’
‘Once, if things had been different, I would have been a lady. But now I am a milliner and I am already ruined,’ she said, managing to keep her voice from shaking as she hauled a blanket around her shoulders and tried to tell herself it was the cold that was making her shiver.
‘Ruined?’ He looked up at that, his smile twisted. ‘No, you aren’t ruined, Nell. You were assaulted, forced. What I was about to do would have ruined you. I would have made you my mistress. There is no way back from that.’
So, he had not been jesting when he had said he might take her as his paramour. He desired her that much—and he cared enough about her not to give in to the passion that was riding him so hard. If he felt like that—
‘What do you feel for me, then?’ she whispered.
Marcus met her eyes, his own dark, stormy and filled, it seemed to her, with a kind of frustrated anger. ‘Feel? I want you, desire you. Are you in any doubt of that?’
‘No,’ Nell murmured, her spirits sinking. What had she expected him to say? That he was about to propose to her instead? That he loved her? As far as Marcus Carlow, Viscount Stanegate, was concerned, she was a fallen—in all senses—lady. Of course he could offer her nothing more than his protection for a while.
And what if he discovered who she was, that her birth, at least, was the equal of his? What would happen then? Nothing would change except that he would realize what a lucky escape he had had from a scandalous connection with the daughter of a man convicted of treachery and murder. And he would know the extent of the secret she had been keeping from him.
‘I’m sorry.’ Marcus got to his feet, stuffing his shirt back into his breeches. ‘I should never have let this get so far. You are in no state to gainsay me, I know that.’
Nell looked down at her disordered clothing, the cold beginning to vanquish both the heat in her blood and from the fire. And with the chill came anger, a good deal of it directed at herself and none of it that she could explain out loud.
As Marcus turned away to pick up his boots, she scrambled to her feet, shaking out her skirts, pulling up her gown, forcing buttons into buttonholes with vehement jabs.
‘I suppose you expect me to be grateful?’ she enquired, making him turn sharply, one boot in hand.
‘Grateful? No. I suppose one of us needed to be thinking straight and it should be me,’ he said harshly.
‘What if I would have enjoyed being your mistress?’ Nell demanded, fighting with the recalcitrant sleeves of her spencer which had turned themselves inside out. Marcus, looking grim, did not answer her, but sat down and began to pull on his boots. ‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘the genteel thing for someone of gentle birth fallen on hard times to do would be to simply dwindle to death without any form of occupation. That would be the respectable fate.’
