Just Like Heaven

Chapter Twenty-one

Marcus could not remember the last time he had been moved to violence, but as he stood there, staring into Colin Bridgerton’s smirky face, he was sorely tempted.

“Lord Chatteris,” Bridgerton murmured, greeting him with a polite nod. A polite nod and a look. If Marcus had been in a better mood, he might have been able to articulate just what it was about that look that so irritated him, but Marcus wasn’t in a good mood.

He had been in a good mood. He’d been in a very good mood, as a matter of fact, despite having just endured what was possibly the worst rendition of Mozart ever known to man.

It did not matter that some tragic portion of his ears had died tonight; the rest of him had been awash with happiness. He’d sat in his seat and watched Honoria. If she’d been a grim warrior during her final rehearsal, then she was a happy member of the corps for the concert. She’d smiled all the way through, and he’d known that she hadn’t been smiling for the audience, or even for the music.

She’d been smiling for the people she loved. And he could, for however brief a moment, imagine that he was one of those people.

In his heart, she’d been smiling for him.

But now she was smiling at Colin Bridgerton, he of the famous charm and sparkling green eyes. That had been almost tolerable, but when Colin Bridgerton had started smiling at her . . .

Some things could not be borne.

But before he could intercede, he had to extricate himself from his conversation with Felicity Featherington—or, rather, Felicity Featherington’s mother, who had him in the verbal equivalent of a vise. He had probably been impolite; no, he had certainly been impolite, but escape from the Featheringtons was not something one accomplished with tact or subtlety.

Finally, after literally wrenching his arm from Mrs.

Featherington’s grasp, he made his way over to Honoria, who was all aglow, laughing merrily with Mr. Bridgerton.

He had every intention of being polite. He really did. But just as he approached, Honoria took a little step to the side, and he saw, peeking out from the hem of her skirt, a flash of red satin.

Her lucky red shoes.

And suddenly he was on fire.

He didn’t want another man seeing those shoes. He didn’t want another man even knowing about them.

He watched as she stepped into place, the seductive little scrap of red hiding itself back beneath her skirt. He stepped forward and said, in perhaps a frostier voice than he’d intended, “Lady Honoria."

“Lord Chatteris,” she replied.

He hated when she called him Lord Chatteris.

“How lovely to see you.” Her tone was that of a polite acquaintance, or perhaps a very distant cousin. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Bridgerton?"

“I am,” was Marcus’s succinct reply.

Bridgerton nodded, then Marcus nodded, and that, it seemed, was the extent of the conversation the two men wished to share.

Marcus waited for Bridgerton to make up some excuse to leave, because surely he would understand that that was what was expected of him. But the annoying sod just stood there grinning, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Mr. Bridgerton was just saying—” Honoria began, at the precise time that Marcus said, “If you will excuse us. I require a private word with Lady Honoria.” But Marcus was louder, and more to the point, he actually finished his sentence. Honoria clamped her mouth shut and retreated into stony silence.

Mr. Bridgerton gave him an assessing stare, holding his ground for just long enough to make Marcus’s jaw clench, and then, as if the moment had never occurred, he turned charming in the space of a second, executed a jaunty bow, and said, “But of course. I was just thinking that I should like a glass of lemonade above all things.” He bowed, he smiled, and he was gone.

Honoria waited until he was out of earshot, then she turned to Marcus with an angry scowl. “That was incredibly rude of you."

He gave her a stern look. “Unlike the younger Mr. Bridgerton, this one is not wet behind the ears."

“What are you talking about?"

“You should not be flirting with him."

Honoria’s mouth fell open. “I wasn’t!"

“Of course you were,” he retorted. “I was watching you.” “No, you weren’t,” she shot back. “You were talking with Felicity Featherington!"

“Who stands a full head shorter than I am. I could see right over her."

“If you must know,” Honoria ground out, quite unable to believe that he was acting like the aggrieved party, “your aunt called him over. Do you expect me to be rude and cut him here in my own home? At an event to which, I might add, he possesses an invitation?"

The last she was not strictly positive about, but she couldn’t imagine that her mother wouldn’t have invited one of the Bridgertons.

“My aunt?” he asked.

“Lady Danbury. Your great-great-great-great . . ."

He glared at her.

“Great-great-great-great . . .” she continued, just to be annoying.

Marcus said something under his breath, then said, in only a slightly more appropriate tone, “She is a menace."

“I like her,” Honoria said defiantly.

He didn’t say anything, but he looked furious. And all Honoria could think was, Why? What on earth did he have to be so angry about? She was the one who was in love with a man who clearly thought of her as a burden. A burden with whom he had a pleasant friendship, but still, a burden. Even now he was still guided by his stupid promise to Daniel, scaring away gentlemen whom he deemed inappropriate.

If he wasn’t going to love her, then at least he could stop ruining her chances with everyone else.

“I’m leaving,” she declared, because she simply could not take it any longer. She didn’t want to see him, and she didn’t want to see Daisy, or Iris, or her mother, or even Mr. Bridgerton, who was off in the corner with his lemonade, being charming to Felicity Featherington’s older sister.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t see that it was any of his business.

She left the room without a backward glance.

Bloody hell.

Marcus would have liked to have chased Honoria right out of the room, but nothing would have caused a bigger scene. He would also like to have thought that no one had noticed their argument, but Colin Bridgerton was smirking in the corner over his glass of lemonade, and Lady Danbury had that I-am-all-knowing-and-all- powerful look on her face that Marcus normally disregarded.

This time, however, he had a sinking suspicion that she had somehow orchestrated his downfall.

Finally, when the annoying Mr. Bridgerton raised his bandaged paw in mock salute, Marcus decided he had had enough, and he strode out the same door through which Honoria had exited. To hell with the gossips. If anyone noticed that they had both left and wanted to make a fuss over it, they could bloody well demand that Marcus propose marriage.

He had no problem with that.

After searching the garden, the drawing room, the music room, the library, and even the kitchens, he finally found Honoria in her bedroom, a location he forced his mind to disregard. But he’d spent enough time at Winstead House to know where the private apartments were, and after he’d gone through every other bloody room in the house, well, did she really expect that he wouldn’t find her there?

“Marcus!” she nearly shrieked. “What are you doing here?"

Apparently, she had expected that he wouldn’t find her here.

The first words out of his mouth were the absolutely ill-advised “What is wrong with you?"

“What is wrong with me?” She sat up quickly on her bed, scooching her body toward the headboard rather like a crab.

“What is wrong with you?"

“I’m not the one who stormed out of the party to go sulk in a corner."

“It’s not a party. It’s a musicale.” “It’s your musicale."

“And I’ll sulk if I want to,” she muttered.

“What?"

“Nothing.” She glared at him, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “You shouldn’t be here."

He flicked his hand palm up through the air as if to say (with great sarcasm), Oh, really? She looked at his hand, and then at his face. “What is that supposed to mean?"

“You just spent the better part of a week in my bedroom."

“You were almost dead!"

She had a rather good point, but he was not prepared to admit it. “Now see here,” he said, getting back to the point that actually mattered, “I was doing you a favor when I asked Bridgerton to leave."

Her mouth fell open in outrage. “You—"

“He is not the sort of person with whom you should be associating,” he said, cutting her off. “What?” “Will you keep your voice down?” he hissed.

“I wasn’t making noise until you came in,” she hissed right back.

He took a step forward, unable to keep his body entirely in check. “He is not the right man for you.” “I never said he was! Lady Danbury brought him over."

“She is a menace."

“You said that already."

“It bears repeating.” She scrambled—finally!—off the bed. “What on earth is so ‘menacing’ about introducing me to Colin Bridgerton?"

“Because she was trying to make me jealous!” he fairly yelled.

They both went absolutely silent, and then, after a quick look toward the open door, he hastily went over and shut it.

When he turned back to Honoria, she was standing so still he could see her swallow. Her eyes were huge in her face—that owlish stare of hers that had always unnerved him. In the flickering candlelight, they glowed nearly silver, and he felt himself almost mesmerized.

She was beautiful. He knew that already, but it hit him again, with a force that nearly knocked him to his knees.

“Why would she want to do that?” she asked softly.

He clamped his teeth together in an attempt not to answer, but finally he said, “I don’t know."

“Why would she think she could do it?” Honoria pressed.

“Because she thinks she can do anything,” Marcus said desperately. Anything to avoid telling the truth. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell her he loved her, but this wasn’t the time. This wasn’t the way he wanted to do it.

She swallowed again, the movement painfully exaggerated by the stillness of the rest of her. “And why do you think it’s your job to select which men I do and do not associate with?"

He didn’t say anything. “Why, Marcus?"

“Daniel asked me to,” he said in a tight, even voice. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He wasn’t even ashamed of not having told her. But he did not appreciate being backed into a corner.

Honoria took a long, shaky breath, then let it back out. She brought one hand to her mouth, capturing the last puff of air, and then squeezed her eyes shut. For a moment, he thought she might cry, but then he realized she was just doing what she needed to contain her emotions. Sorrow? Fury? He couldn’t tell, and for some reason this struck a stake in his heart.

He wanted to know her. He wanted to know her completely.

“Well,” she finally said, “he’s coming back shortly, so you are absolved of your responsibilities."

“No.” The word came from him like an oath, emerging from the very core of his being.

She looked at him in impatient confusion. “What do you mean?” He stepped forward. He wasn’t sure what he was doing. He knew only that he couldn’t stop. “I mean no. I don’t want to be absolved."

Her lips parted.

He took another step. His heart was pounding, and something within him had gone hot, and greedy, and if there was anything in the world besides her, besides him—he did not know it.

“I want you,” he said, the words blunt, and almost harsh, but absolutely, indelibly true.

“I want you,” he said again, and he reached out and took her hand. “I want you."

“Marcus, I—"

“I want to kiss you,” he said, and he touched one finger to her lips. “I want to hold you.” And then, because he couldn’t have kept it inside for one second longer, he said, “I burn for you."

He took her face in his hands and he kissed her. He kissed her with everything that had been building within him, every last aching, hungry burst of desire. Since the moment he had realized he loved her, this passion had been growing within him. It had probably been there all along, just waiting for him to realize it.

He loved her.

He wanted her.

He needed her.

And he needed her now.

He’d spent his life being a perfect gentleman. He’d never been a flirt. He’d never been a rogue. He hated being the center of attention, but by God, he wanted to be the center of her attention.

He wanted to do the wrong thing, the bad thing. He wanted to pull her into his arms and carry her to her bed. He wanted to peel every last inch of her clothing from her body, and then he wanted to worship her. He wanted to show her all the things he wasn’t sure he knew how to say.

“Honoria,” he said, because he could at least say her name. And maybe she’d hear what he felt in his voice.

“I . . . I . . .” She touched his cheek, her eyes moving searchingly across his face. Her lips were parted, just enough so that he could see the pink tip of her tongue darting out to moisten them.

And then he couldn’t bear it. He had to kiss her again. He needed to hold her, to feel her body pressed against his. If she’d said no, if she’d shaken her head or made any indication that she didn’t want this, he would have turned and walked out of the room.

But she didn’t. She just stared at him, her eyes wide and full of wonder, and so he pulled her forward, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her again, this time allowing himself to let go of the last thread of restraint he’d been holding so tightly.

He pulled her against him, reveling in the curves and hollows of her body. She let out a little moan—of pleasure? of desire?—and it set the flame within him ablaze.

“Honoria,” he moaned, his hands moving frantically along her back, down to the delicious curve of her bottom. He squeezed, and then he pressed, forcing the gentle softness of her belly against his arousal. She let out a little gasp of surprise at the contact, but he didn’t have it in him to pull away and explain. She was an innocent, he knew that, and she probably had no idea what it meant when his body reacted like this.

He should go more slowly, guide her through this, but he couldn’t. There were limits to a man’s control, and he had passed his the moment she’d reached out and touched his cheek.

She was soft and pliant in his embrace, her untutored mouth eagerly returning his kisses, and he swept her up into his arms, carrying her swiftly to the bed. He laid her down with as much tenderness as he could manage, and then, still fully clothed, he came down atop her, nearly exploding at the sensation of her body beneath his.

Her gown had those little puffed sleeves that ladies seemed to prefer, and Marcus soon found that they settled against her skin rather loosely when she was lying down. His fingers found the edge and slid underneath, baring one of her milky shoulders.

With a ragged breath he drew back and looked down at her.

“Honoria,” he said, and if he hadn’t been wound so tightly, he might have laughed. Her name was the only sound he seemed to be able to make.

Maybe it was the only word that mattered.

She looked up at him, her lips full and swollen with intimacy.

She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, her eyes glowing with desire, her chest rising and falling with each quickening breath.

“Honoria,” he said again, and this time it was a question, or maybe a plea. He sat up to pull off his coat and shirt. He needed the feel of the air on his skin; he needed the feel of her on his skin.

When his clothing hit the floor, she reached up and touched him, laying one soft hand on his chest. She whispered his name, and he was undone.

Honoria wasn’t sure when she’d made her decision to give herself to him. Maybe it was when he had said her name, and she’d reached out and touched his cheek. Or maybe it was when he’d looked at her, his eyes hot and hungry, and said, “I burn for you."

But she had a feeling it was the moment he’d burst into the room. Right then, something within her had known that this would happen, that if he did anything to indicate that he loved her, or even just that he wanted her, she would be lost. She’d been sitting on her bed, trying to figure out how the evening had gone so inexplicably awry, and then all of a sudden he was there, as if she’d conjured him.

They had argued, and if anyone had been there to ask, she would have insisted that her only aim had been to boot him from the room and bar the door, but deep within, something inside of her was beginning to kindle and glow. They were in her room. She was on her bed. And the intimacy of the moment was overwhelming.

And so when he closed the distance between them and said, “I burn for you,” she could no more deny her desire than she could her own breath. When he laid her back upon the bed, she could only think that this was where she belonged, and he belonged there with her.

He was hers. It was as simple as that.

He pulled off his shirt, baring his firmly muscled chest. She’d seen it before, of course, but not like this. Not with him looming over her, his eyes full of a primitive need to claim her.

And she wanted that. Oh, how she wanted it. If he was hers, then she would gladly be his. Forever.

She reached out and touched him, marveling in the heat of his body. She could feel his heart leap within him, and she heard herself whisper his name. He was so handsome, so serious, and so . . . good. He was good. He was a good man, with a good heart. And dear God, whatever it was he was doing with his lips at the base of her neck . . . he was very good at that, too.

She’d kicked off her slippers before he’d even arrived in her room, and with her stockinged feet, she ran her toes along his— She burst out laughing.

Marcus drew back. His eyes were questioning but also very, very amused.

“Your boots,” she sputtered.

He went still, then turned his head slowly toward his feet. And then: “Damn it.” She started laughing even harder.

“It’s not funny,” he muttered. “It’s . . ."

She somehow held her breath.

“. . . funny,” he admitted.

She started laughing so hard the entire bed was shaking. “Can you get them off?” she gasped.

He gave her a supercilious look and pushed himself to a sitting position at the edge of the bed.

After taking a few breaths, she managed to say, “Under no circumstances am I taking a knife to you to remove them."

His reply was a loud thunk as his right boot hit the floor. And then: “No knife will be necessary."

She tried for a serious expression. “I am very pleased to hear it."

He dropped his other boot and turned back to her with a heavy- lidded stare that made her insides melt. “So am I,” he murmured, stretching out alongside her. “So am I."

His fingers found the small row of buttons at the back of her gown, and the blush-colored silk seemed to melt away, falling from her body like a whisper. Honoria’s hands came instinctively to cover her breasts. He didn’t argue, he didn’t try to pull them away.

Instead he just kissed her again, his mouth hot and passionate against hers. And with every deepening moment, she grew more relaxed in his arms until suddenly she realized it wasn’t her hand at her breast, it was his.

And she loved it.

She hadn’t realized that her body—any part of her body—could feel so sensitive, so needy. “Marcus!” she gasped, her back arching in shock as his fingers found the rosy tip.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, and she felt beautiful.

When he looked at her, when he touched her, she felt like the most beautiful woman ever created.

His mouth replaced his fingers, and she let out a quiet moan of surprise, her legs stretching straight and hard as she dug her fingers into his hair. She had to grab something. She had to. Otherwise she would quite simply fall off the face of the earth. Or float away. Or just disappear, exploding from the heat and energy coursing within her.

Her body felt so foreign, so completely unlike anything she’d ever imagined. And at the same time, it all felt so natural. Her hands seemed to know exactly where to go, and her hips knew how to move, and when his lips moved down her belly, trailing along after the edge of her dress that he was so assiduously peeling from her skin, she knew that it was right, and it was good, and she didn’t just want it, she wanted more. And straightaway, please.

His hands grasped her thighs and gently prodded them open, and she melted into position, moaning, “Yes,” and, “Please,” and, “Marcus!"

And then he kissed her. This she had not expected, and she thought she might die from the pleasure. When he parted her, she had held her breath, preparing herself for his intimate invasion. But instead he worshipped her with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, until she was a writhing, panting, incoherent bundle of need.

“Please, Marcus,” she begged, and she wished she knew exactly what she was begging for. But whatever it was, she knew he could give it to her. He would know how to quench the exquisite ache within her. He could send her to heaven, and he could bring her back down to earth so she could spend a lifetime in his arms.

He pulled away from her for a moment, and she nearly cried from the loss of his touch. He was practically tearing off his breeches, and when he returned, they were matched up lengthwise, his face near hers, his hand in hers, and his hips settling urgently between her legs.

Her lips parted as she tried to breathe evenly. When she looked at him, his eyes were on her face, and all he said was, “Take me.” The tip of him pressed against her, then opened her, and she understood. It was so difficult, because all she wanted was to clench every muscle in her body, but somehow she made herself relax enough so that with each stroke, he entered her more deeply, until with a gasp of surprise she realized that he was fully sheathed within her.

He shuddered with pleasure, and he began to move in a new rhythm, sliding back and forth within her. She started saying things, she didn’t know what. Maybe she was begging him, or pleading, or trying to make some sort of deal so that he would see this through, and bring her with him, and make it end, and make it never stop, and— Something happened.

Every speck of her being pulled together into a tight little ball and then shot apart, like one of those firecrackers she’d seen set off over Vauxhall. Marcus, too, cried out and surged forward one last time, spilling himself within her, before collapsing completely.

For several minutes, Honoria could do nothing but lie there, marveling in the warmth of his body next to hers. Marcus had pulled a soft blanket over them, and together they had made their own little heaven. His hand was on hers, their fingers entwined, and she could not imagine a more peaceful, lovely moment.

It would be hers. This. For the rest of her life. He had not mentioned marriage, but this didn’t concern her. This was Marcus.

He would never abandon a woman after a moment like this. And he was probably just waiting for the right way to propose. He liked to do things properly, her Marcus. Her Marcus.

She liked the way that sounded.

Of course, she thought with a gleam in her eye, he had not been the least bit proper this evening. So maybe . . .

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she lied. “Why do you ask?"

He shifted position so that he could lean on his elbow and look down upon her. “You have a terrifying look on your face."

“Terrifying?"

“Devious,” he amended.

“I’m not sure which I prefer."

He chuckled, a low, hearty rumble that echoed from his body to hers. Then his face sobered. “We will have to be getting back."

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “We will be missed."

“I won’t, but you will."

“I can always tell my mother that I took ill. I’ll say I caught whatever it was that afflicted Sarah. Which is to say, nothing, but nobody knows that but Sarah.” She pressed her mouth together in a peevish line. “And me. And Iris. And probably Miss Wynter, too.

Still."

He laughed again, then leaned down and kissed her lightly on the nose. “If I could, I would stay here forever.” She smiled as the warmth of his words slid through her like a kiss. “I was just thinking that this is just like heaven."

He was silent for a moment, and then, so softly she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly, he whispered, “Heaven couldn’t possibly compare."