The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(36)

‘You will, will you? How dare you try to control my life?’ Marissa suddenly, and very satisfyingly, lost her temper. ‘I am neither your sister nor, thank heavens, your wife. You cannot command me, my lord. Take Tempest back if you wish to be so petty-minded. I will buy my own horse. And Tom – who, if you need to be reminded, is my groom – will look after it for me. I ride when and how and where I please.’

It was as if two years of subservience, of fearful obedience to her lord, had dissolved in a flash of anger. All her life men had controlled her. Well, now she was free, independent, able to do what she liked. She was so exhilarated by the thought that she stood up, forgetting her nakedness.

Marcus’s eyes widened as his gaze travelled down her body and he became, suddenly, very still. Marissa gulped, lifting her hands to cover as much of her chilled body as she could. ‘I have had quite enough of this nonsense. Turn away. I want to go back to the shore.’

As though her words had released him Marcus moved slowly to present her with a view of broad shoulders, a long, supple back tapering to narrow hips and taut buttocks. Marissa swallowed hard and turned away as abruptly herself. Too abruptly. Her foot caught one of the rare stones on that sandy shore and she stumbled, falling with a cry back into the cold water.

Instantly he was beside her, lifting her up in his arms and holding her tight against his chest. ‘You are frozen. You foolish woman, are you trying to catch pneumonia?’

Marissa could only shiver in response. Now she was out of the water, her wet skin fully exposed to the breeze, she was colder than ever. But it was not only the cold that was making her shiver, it was the nearness of this man, the strength of him, his obvious concern for her that had generated that outburst.

And there was something else, something that was dangerous insanity: she was falling in love with him. So this was what it was like, she thought as he made his way through the water, slowly, hampered by his burden and the dragging shallows. She had heard about love but had never felt it, never expected it, and now she recognised the months of thinking, dreaming about Marcus for what they were.

Instinctively Marissa snuggled closer into his arms, and was rewarded by a tightening of his grip. The, as they neared the beach, she began to think more clearly. This was a fatally stupid thing to do, to fall in love with this man. He was her husband’s cousin, so like him to look at that they could be twins, one dark, the other blond. And, however different his behaviour appeared to be on the surface, all men were driven by the same urges, the same dark passions, she had no doubt of that.

Marcus had made it quite plain that he was going to look for a wife in London. And men did not expect love in marriage, she knew that too. They sought duty, a good alliance, obedience and subservience. If he even guessed she was falling in love with him he would be embarrassed at best, appalled at worst.

As soon as Marcus’s feet touched dry sand Marissa wrenched from his arms and ran to where she had left her clothes and towels piled under a bush at the foot of the dunes. She snatched the largest rectangle of linen and swathed it round her shivering body, keeping her back turned to him. Between chattering teeth, she said, ‘Will you please go away?’

‘I will, but I would appreciate it if you could spare me a towel, otherwise it will take me rather a long time to get dressed, given that I’m soaking wet.’ The anger had left his voice, leaving only a trace of faint, slightly breathless, amusement.

Without turning Marissa held out the smaller towel, conscious of just how close behind her he must be as he took it.

Seconds later, right at her back, he said, ‘Will you not get dressed? You are shivering.’

‘Go away, then! How can I get dressed with you here?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Marissa, stop acting the prude. You have been a married woman, when all’s said and done.’

‘But not to you,’ she snapped. Suddenly, incredibly, she felt the weight of her sodden hair lifted and strong hands gently wringing the water out of it. Then Marcus began to rub the damp mass with the towel he held, working down from the scalp to the finest tendrils lying on her shoulder-blades.

‘Stop it,’ she demanded. If Marcus was drying her hair with the towel then he was not wearing it himself.

‘Stand still.’ He carried on the rhythmic stroking. ‘If you will not dry yourself, I will do it for you.’

His hands touched her shoulders and Marissa whipped round, lifting her hands to fend him off. They flattened onto the planes of his chest, but she did not push, only stood there feeling the cold skin against her palms, the beat of his heart under her fingers. Marcus looked down at her for a long moment, then pulled her tight against him. She felt the heat of him under the cold skin, the hard strength of him, the frightening, arousing, maleness against her. His mouth came down slowly on hers and he kissed her as if asking a question. Her response seemed to give him the answer he was looking for as he deepened the kiss, his mouth moving sensuously against hers, his tongue probing gently into the softness of her mouth.

Her lord had never kissed her, except formally on the cheek, Marissa tentatively let her own tongue-tip taste his. The sensation made her knees feel weak, but she was rewarded by the soft groan in the back of his throat as Marcus moved his hand in a sweeping caress down her spine. The towel, swept away by his impatient fingers, fell unheeded to the sand as his hands, cupping her buttocks, moulded her to him.

The heat of him was a shock, then a thrill as she caught fire too. Speechless she clung to him as he dipped his head to graze a long kiss from her earlobe down her neck to the swell of her breast.