The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(59)
Marissa felt dazed as Marcus swept her out of the Enclosure into the press of other racegoers. They were soon seated in the barouche and with a word of explanation to the groom and coachman the carriage began wending its way slowly out against the press of vehicles still flooding onto the course.
‘Marcus,’ Marissa whispered. ‘We should not be doing this.’
‘Yes, we should,’ he murmured back. ‘I am going to make you mine, and then we will name the day.’
The journey back to the Lodge seemed frighteningly short to Marissa. She loved Marcus, she wanted him – far too much to even think about impropriety. Yet she dreaded the moment he discovered that she could not respond to him as a lover, as his wife should do. But for the moment it was enough to be with him and one corner of her mind told her that it was better he discovered the truth now rather than when they were married.
They sat close together, outwardly totally proper in the open carriage, the footman standing behind. But through the fabric of her skirts Marissa could feel the heat of his hard thigh pressed against hers. Her mouth still burned with the intensity of that last kiss, of the sweet invasion of his tongue. Despite her apprehensions she was tingling with anticipation and longing.
As the footman let down the folding steps Marcus said, ‘Take the rest of the day off, both of you.’
‘But, my lord, all the servants are at the races, there’s only the watchman left in the gate cottage. Who will wait on you?’
‘We will wait on ourselves. Today is a festival – go and enjoy it.’
Marissa saw the glint of gold pass from hand to hand before they took the barouche round to the stable.
‘Now, my lady,’ Marcus said as he bent and lifted her up into his arms, shouldering open the door and kicking it closed behind him. Marissa was conscious of the strength of him as he carried her up the stairs and into the master bedroom. She could hardly breathe as he laid her on the bed, hat, parasol and all. Crossing to the windows, he threw them open, then tugged the billowing white drapes closed, filtering the hot sunlight across the polished boards.
He shrugged off his coat and tugged loose his neckcloth then stilled as he stood looking down at her. For a long moment neither moved, then Marcus tossed her reticule and parasol to one side and eased off her hat, releasing her hair to tumble down across the snowy white pillows. Marissa lay still and watched as he unbuttoned and pushed off her pelisse. His hands found the ribbons tying her kid pumps and his fingertips tickled her ankles as he untied each one and tossed the shoes off the bed.
Her heart was thudding so hard she could hardly breathe. She wanted him to hurry and yet for every moment to last for ever. Now he raised her in his arms so he could reach the row of little buttons securing her gown and with surprising skill he removed it, and the petticoats under it, to join the rest of her clothing on the floor. Left naked except for her stockings, tied by their ribbon garters above the knee, Marissa was swept by self-consciousness and tried to pull the sheet over to cover herself.
‘No,’ Marcus said with gentle insistence, removing the sheet from her nerveless fingers. ‘Never be shy, not with me. You have a beautiful body. Every night I dream of seeing it in daylight.’
He feels like that about me? Marissa watching as Marcus shrugged off his shirt impatiently. Then he joined her on the big bed, bent over her, traced hot kisses from her mouth to the tip of her aching nipples, catching them between his lips and teasing, tantalising, the swollen peaks.
She moaned, catching his head in her hands, pressing his mouth against her yielding flesh. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tasting it with her fingertips, alive to every texture of his body.
Marcus released her nipple, shifting against her to reach her mouth, kissing her slowly, deeply, marvellously. When she thought she would surely drown in sensation he broke the kiss to look down into her face. ‘You taste of wine and strawberries – even better than the sea-salt.’
The reference to their moonlight encounter brought the colour flooding up under her skin. She buried her face in his shoulder, licking his skin with the tip of her tongue, letting her fingertips trace the muscles under the smoothness of his back until they encountered the waistband of his breeches.
In response to her impatient fingers he groaned, rolled over on his back to release the fastening and discard the final garment. Marissa gasped at the sight of him, naked and aroused, then shut her eyes as his weight came over her and the warmth of him heated her skin. His lips sought hers blindly, and he kissed her again, the invasive pressure of his tongue echoing the urging of his body. It was the moment she was dreading and, despite Marcus’s skilful lovemaking, his attention to her pleasure, she felt the paralysis creeping through her limbs, the fear rising in her breast.
It was enough to give him pause. ‘Marissa? You do want this, do you not? Because, if not, you have only to say.’
Yes, she wanted to cry. Yes, I want you. Instead the old words, the old pleas tumbled out. ‘Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me…’
He ran the back of his hand gently down the soft curve of her cheek. ‘Hurt you? I would never hurt you, Marissa darling.’
The endearment gave her the courage to wrap her arms around his neck, pull his head down to hers and kiss him as she had never kissed him before.
Chapter Twenty
Marcus groaned and entered her, and realised, even as the pleasure wrapped around him, that the yielding, passionate woman had turned to stone in his arms.