In the Arms of a Marquess(57)

He drew away and lay back onto the mattress.

“English schoolboys can occasionally be astounding brutes,” he murmured.

Tavy’s nostrils flared, her heartbeat suddenly fast again.

“What did your brothers do to the boys, to punish them?”

“Nothing.”

Her eyes widened. “Nothing?”

“They never knew.”

“You never—” She needn’t finish. Clearly he had never told them.

She stared at him—at the handsome man who must have been a beautiful boy, at his graceful hands that played so lyrically surmounted by the fearsome fanged tiger, at his sensitive mouth and fathomless eyes like the deepest secrets of the continent where he had been born—and awe and sorrow crept into her heart so steadily she ceased breathing to allow them room.

She laid her cheek upon his chest, her hand on his waist. Soon, it seemed, he slept. But Tavy, her heart stalled, remained awake for a long time, feeling his breathing and the even rhythm of his heart and suspecting that she had just made the greatest mistake of her life.

She awoke alone in his big bed, on her side, linens tucked about her. Embers in the hearth touched the darkness with the faintest glow. Her gown and underclothes hung on the back of a chair.

She drew her hands from beneath her cheek and pushed up to sit, scanning the chamber. But he was behind her. She could feel his gaze upon her like a touch.

She looked over her shoulder. He sat by the curtained window, garbed in a dark dressing gown. Locks of satiny black hair fell over his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks defined by the dim light. As always, he was watching her.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Her throat was dry and her voice sounded scratchy.

“I am engaged in a much more satisfying activity.”

“Watching me sleep? That is ridiculous.”

His delicious lips curved into a half smile. He stood and the dressing gown parted, the silk sliding over his glorious physique as he moved to the bed. Tavy drew in a quick, silent breath as he sat down beside her. The bedsheet had fallen to her waist. She knew it made her a goosecap at this point, but she felt exposed. He took her hand and stroked her palm with the pad of his thumb, and her nerves dissolved, replaced by another sensation entirely.

“It is nearly dawn.” His voice remained quiet, enveloped in the dark.

“I do not see a clock.”

“I do not require a clock.”

“Why? Are you one of Lord Byron’s vampyres?”

“Merchant ships depart early. I am often at the docks by this hour.” His eyes glinted. “But if you prefer creatures of the night, I could look into it.”

“Thank you, but that will not be necessary.” She smiled, tingles besetting her belly, then—as his warm gaze dipped to her mouth—somewhat lower.

“The servants will soon be abroad.” He did not move, nor did his gaze shift.

“Then I should dress and go.” She threaded her fingers through his, bringing them palm-to-palm.

“Yes.” His voice sounded quite low.

“But perhaps,” she whispered, “you could kiss me first.”

“I think that would be unwise. There isn’t time.”

“For a kiss?”

He lifted his gaze to hers. “Octavia, you are naked in my bed. I cannot simply kiss you and leave it at that.”

For a moment she struggled for air.

She threw her arms about his neck, pressed her open mouth to his and let him bear her back into the mattress. Their mouths locked, Ben pushed the linens away and dragged her hips beneath his while she tore the dressing gown from his shoulders. Arms free, he banded them about her and his tongue swept between her lips. She twined her legs about him and reached between them, a wanton since the moment he first kissed her, for his touch alone. Her fingers wrapped around his spectacularly firm and silky man part.

He groaned, broke the kiss, and grabbed her hand.

“No.” His voice was husky. “We cannot do this.”

She shifted her needy flesh against his knuckles. “We can be quick. In fact I rather think I cannot be otherwise.” The hot tension was already coiling inside her from his hand brushing the place where she was wonderfully sore.

His perfect lips hovered over hers for an instant. Then he released her and pulled away, off the bed. He drew on his dressing gown, tying the sash about his waist.

“Discovery is not the only consequence of concern here.” He moved to the chair by the fireplace and withdrew her garments.

Tavy stared, uncovered and cold, her stomach sinking and pleasure dying to ash.

“What other consequence could there be?” She managed a credibly even tone.

“Come now.” He laid her clothing upon the bed beside her. “Do not tell me that Imene Stack failed to educate her niece in all matters pertaining to adulthood.”

Tavy fought to clear the hard lump from her throat. He sounded unlike him. She’d heard desire, laughter, anger, and scorn in his rich voice before. But never bitterness.

“Forgive me for stating the obvious,” she did not touch her clothes, “but isn’t it a bit late to be anxious on that particular account?”

His eyes were unreadable. “It is never too late for caution, and I should have taken greater care last night.”

He could not have spoken words more surely calculated to devastate her. And she had been a much greater fool than she even anticipated. Tavy pressed down on the pain, years of practice at damping her unruly emotions coming to her aid. She reached for her shift.