How to Marry a Marble Marquis(40)

“The sounds of your pleasure will spur your betrothed on. There’s no sweeter enticement for a man than the knowledge that he is the one causing those sounds. Silence is for the temple and the tomb, not the bedroom. If you moan for your husband, his cock will be hard for you every waking moment of his existence.”

Pressed into the juncture of her sex just above where his cock filled her, two of his knuckles trapped that little pearl of pleasure, that spot he’d said he wanted to taste with his tongue, rolling it steadily. His knuckles rolled with the same rhythm as his hips, and her back arched. Eleanor was unable to stopper the wanton moan that left her mouth, echoed by his groan at her neck.

“That’s it, lovely. I want to feel your heat squeeze me tight. Now . . . let me hear you sing.” He increased the tempo of his hips, snapping against her, his knot threatening to breach her on every thrust.

When she clenched around him, her hitching gasps had opened to high-pitched moans, each one punctuating the slap of his balls against her. His spine quivered and his cock jerked, knot throbbing at the lips of her sex as he spurted into her. He’d made the mistake of knotting her already, and although it was the most pleasurable sensation he’d ever known, Silas knew it was unwise, and endeavored to control himself as best he could. When he turned her to face him, he leaned in to claim her lips, soft and sweet, wanting to sink into her warmth. Eleanor turned her head, and his mouth grazed her hair instead.

He could tell himself a pretty lie, that she’d simply not anticipated his kiss and moved unthinkingly, but his heart knew it was intentional. It was the first evening since she’d been in residence that he sought to be free of her company. When she made to follow him down the corridor once their clothes were righted, he stopped her.

“Would you like me to escort you back to your chambers, Miss Eastwick? Or are you capable of managing on your own?”

“Oh. I-I thought we might —“

“I have work to attend to, my dear.”

She shrunk at his sharp tone, and he wanted to bite off his cruel tongue. “Yes. Of course, my lord. I’m quite capable of managing on my own.”

When he stalked out of the house shortly before dawn, it was still raining. She was waiting for him at the side door of the conservatory to walk with him to his perch, as she had done every morning since the first one he’d found her on the moon chapel’s roof, with an oiled silk umbrella, wearing her pelisse.

“There’s no sense in you getting wet, Miss Eastwick. I’ll bid you good day.”

He wanted her with him. He wanted to hold her and have her and love her, but she was going to be leaving that week to marry another. He knew he ought to not take his mood out on her, but he was heavy and sad, and the realization, as he walked, that every blade of grass and fragrant flower at his home would now forever remind her of him only compounded his sadness. Every room of his house would smell like her, every shine of the moon upon the lake would mirror the luminous shine of her eyes. He would need to put his plan into effect as soon as she left, he realized, for he could not stay here when she was absent.

The rain was still torrenting down and he’d only just hardened to smooth marble when he felt it. He’d not heard her following him, too wrapped up in his own melancholy to have heard anything, but he felt her hands on his face. It was impossible to differentiate between her tears and gusting rain, but he felt the shudder of her sobs as she pressed her forehead to his. Her soft lips against his unyielding ones, once, twice, three times as her shoulder shook. He wanted to be able to pull her into his arms, to hold her tightly to him and never yield her to another, wanted to tell her loved her . . . but he could not. She was a creature of the daytime world, and he was a worthless slab of stone.





His sister was already in his study when he pulled the door open, bringing Silas up short. Maris didn’t even bother glancing up from the blotter, her quill moving swiftly across the foolscap. When she finished, she scooped the paper up quickly, waving it back and forth to dry the ink in a hurry.

Two can play at that game, darling sister. He pushed past her, moving behind his desk with his nose in the air. Silas kept the silence as he poured himself a glass of the floral ratafia that had been brewed up for his guests. Much like the rainbow prisms cast by the sun across the floors and those blasted swans, Eleanor’s sweet grandmother and her nurse were creatures of the daytime, and they concerned him very little, although he was gratified to hear that the two were clearly enjoying their time in his home. Ratafia was not his preferred drink of choice, but Celestia had made this batch with a healthy slug of steam-distilled violets and lilac, along with a goodly bit of fine gin, and the heady whiff he got from every sip made his cock jerk against his thigh.

Maris rose from the desk imperiously. As her pregnancy progressed, she’d taken to dressing in the style of the deposed French court, like bloody royalty. He’d reminded her of what had happened to that queen, to which she merely rolled her eyes. Crossing the room, she poured herself a finger of the fragrant spirit.

“How exactly is it that you know Miss Eastwick, brother?”

“Do you really think you ought to be drinking that? I thought the accoucheur said nothing too stimulating?”

She waved her hand. “I’m not using that silly man. I’ve already sent him away. Until an accoucheur gives birth, I’ll not be hearing birthing lectures from any of them. A midwife was good enough for all the Strides who came before us, and that’s good enough for me. Perhaps I don’t mean to drink it at all. I was considering just sniffing it, the way you are. Don’t change the subject.”