Simply Wicked

11

Marguerite woke up slowly with a sense that something was different. The thud of another heartbeat under her cheek and the feel of a warm masculine body sprawled beneath her made her open her eyes wide.

“Anthony?”

“Hmm . . . ?” He touched her face, trailed his finger down to her throat. It was still dark, and although no light penetrated the thick blue velvet curtains, the birds had started singing into the stillness.

“You should go home.”

“Hmm . . .”

His hand moved lower, slid down her back to cup her buttocks and squeezed hard. She squirmed against him, felt his erect cock jerk against her stomach.

“Anthony . . .”

“I need to be inside you.” He rolled her onto her back and kneed her legs apart, slid his shaft deep inside her and started to thrust. Marguerite could do nothing but grab his wide shoulders and hang on, answer his kisses with her own, demand answers and replenish needs she’d almost forgotten existed. She lifted her hips to meet each hard stroke, gloried in the sensation of him moving over her, taking her, fucking her.

He groaned and rocked harder, ground himself against her sex until she wanted to scream and writhe, bite and scratch. Her climax caught her by surprise, forced him to stiffen too and come inside her. He sank down, his body covering hers completely.

She lay still and let his weight settle over her like a heavy living blanket. He suddenly rolled off her.

“Did I hurt you?”

His quiet question made her turn her head to look at him. “Non.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why would you even think that?”

He stared at her, his face a pale outline in the darkness. “Because I’m more used to being with men, and they aren’t quite as delicate as you are.”

He moved to the side of the bed, groaned as his feet thumped onto the wooden floorboards. Marguerite rose up on one elbow to watch him gather his clothes and put them on, his movements jerky and unsure in the dim light.

“Anthony, are you all right?”

“Of course I am. You told me it was time to go, and I’m leaving.”

Marguerite gathered the sheets tightly around her breasts. Although he sounded quite amiable, he was hardly exhibiting the loverlike behavior she had unconsciously expected. She bit down on her lip.

“Is this how you treat your male lovers?”

He paused, his hands at his throat as he wrapped his cravat around his shirt collar. “What?”

She waved her fingers toward the door. “You just get out of bed and walk away without a word?”

“Usually, yes.”

“Oh.” She lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Good-bye, then.”

He came back to the bed and sat on the edge, reaching out to touch her hunched shoulder. “Marguerite?”

“Go away.”

She refused to look at him; obviously the experience they had just shared meant nothing more to him than any of his other, no doubt varied, sexual conquests.

“Marguerite . . . there is something I want to say to you, but I refuse to talk to a pillow.”

She opened her eyes and stared into his face. His smile was so tender it made her want to cry. “What?”

“You are right: men don’t make polite bedfellows, but you . . .” He swallowed hard, traced the line of her cheekbone with his fingertip. “I’m not sure I even have the right words. You honor me by accepting me into your bed.” He kissed her nose. “Over you, inside you . . .”

Now she felt foolish for having snapped at him. She turned her head and kissed his finger. “All right. You can go now.”

“Are you sure?” He slid his thumb along her lower lip, and she tasted herself, him and something metallic. She sighed as he bent to kiss her.

“May I take you out tonight?”

“If you promise not to be late again.”

His quiet chuckle made her feel both treasured and appreciated. “If I’m late, don’t let me in. I don’t deserve to be forgiven twice and in such an intimate and, quite frankly, such an encouraging manner.”

“Go away, Anthony.”

He retreated to the door, kissed his fingers to her and left. Her body felt different; muscles she’d forgotten she owned pulled at her and made her ache. She slid her hand down to her belly and then lower, to where she was still wet and open from his lovemaking. She must remember to take the sponge out . . .

With a contented smile she turned onto her side and closed her eyes. There was plenty of time for the practicalities of life. For the moment, she just wanted to luxuriate in the fascinating physical effects of being bedded by a man.

Anthony was still smiling as he walked quietly across the marble floor of his father’s grand house and toward the servants’ stairs. It appeared his mother had gone to bed, so he had nothing to fear from her. And it was unlikely that even the servants would be up at four in the morning.

Making love to Marguerite had been a revelation. Her fierce natural response to him was as arousing as any of the calculated beatings or sexual toys Minshom used. He shuddered as he remembered how powerful he’d felt when he put Marguerite on her back and shoved his cock deep . . .

Alerted by the flickering glow of a candle, he paused by his father’s half-open study door. Had someone forgotten to snuff out the lights? He pushed at the door, squinting into the sudden glare.

“Anthony?”

He stiffened as he realized his father sat behind his ornate mahogany desk, a quill pen in his hand, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. For some reason, the harshness of the setting made him look older, more careworn and infinitely more human.

“Father.” Anthony tried to appear relaxed, feeling like his ten-year-old self caught in some mischief. “What are you doing up so late?”

“I might ask the same of you.”

Anthony shrugged. “I thought I was expected to behave like a young man about town. Isn’t this what you wanted? Me staggering home late and in my cups?”

His father’s expression tightened. “Come in and shut the door.”

“Actually, Father, I’m rather tired. I was heading for bed.”

“I said come in and sit down.”

Anthony straightened and did what he was told. The grim set of his father’s mouth made it impossible to refuse. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“You can stop working at Valentin’s place of business, for one.”

Anthony gripped the arms of the chair. “We’ve already had this discussion. You’d prefer me to racket about town like a fool rather than seek honest employment. I don’t agree.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You might not have used those exact words, but that is what you implied.”

“There are other ways to be employed rather than in trade.”

Anthony laughed. “You make it sound like I’m whoring down at the docks rather than working in a respectable shipping company.”

The marquis whipped off his spectacles. “I’m glad you mentioned whoring. I’ve heard you like to play with the mollies and the sadists on the top floor at Madame Helene’s.”

Anthony hoped his shock didn’t show on his face. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not dead, Anthony—I do venture out into society, and I hear the gossip about you in the clubs.”

“And you believe it?”

“You wouldn’t be the first of my sons to make a name for himself as a libertine.”

“A libertine is a far cry from calling me a male prostitute, sir.”

The marquis fixed him with a hard stare, which reminded Anthony forcibly of Valentin. “If you allow others to use you as they will, what else should I call you?”

“A man who likes sex?”

“Not the kind of sex a man should be proud of.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows. “And who made you the judge of what is acceptable? If I was out fucking ten different women a night like Val used to, would that make it better?”

“Of course it wouldn’t, but it would be better than the choices you make now.”

Anthony bit back his next answer and forced himself to relax in his chair. He would not allow his father to ruin his evening with Marguerite with insinuations about his past.

“The rumors about me are no longer correct, sir. Recently I have seen the error of my ways.” Ruthlessly, Anthony buried the erotic memory of his evening with David Gray and stared right into his father’s eyes. “So you have nothing to worry about.” He half-rose from his chair. “If there is nothing else you wish to say to me, I’ll go to bed.”

His father’s fist thumped onto the desk. “Anthony, will you please listen to me? Why do you think I’m sitting here at this time in the morning?”

“Because you wanted to talk to me about my lack of morals and responsibility?”

“I did want to talk to you, but I’m also trying to run an estate that includes five dwellings, two farms, three villages and approximately two thousand tenants.”

Anthony sat back down. “But you have staff to do that for you.”

“It is a foolish man who allows his servants to run his business completely for him. I like to oversee the details. It stops sloppiness, deceit and incompetence.”

“Well, that’s highly commendable, but I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Anthony.”

Anthony sighed. “I apologize, but I really don’t know what you are getting at.”

“I need help.”

“To run the estates? Then why not hire more people?”

“I need more involvement from my family, dammit, not strangers.” The marquis slammed the book in front of him shut and glared at Anthony. “I need you.”

A coldness settled low in Anthony’s gut as he stared at his father. “Valentin is your heir.”

“I know that, but you are his brother. You are perfectly capable of running the estates if you choose to.”

Anger threaded through the ice in his veins, and Anthony sat forward. “And why aren’t you having this conversation with Valentin? He’s the eldest son; surely he is the one who should take care of his own damned inheritance?”

“Valentin is . . . difficult.”

Anthony realized he was standing, shoved back his chair. “He certainly is ‘difficult.’ And you won’t ask him to do anything he doesn’t care to, will you? Are you worried he’ll disappear on you again? That’s why you’re asking me to step into his shoes.”

“My relationship with Valentin is no concern of yours.”

“Isn’t it? How strange, it seems like it has everything to do with me. Val gets to do what he likes because he’s the prodigal son, and I . . .” Anthony stopped talking, realized what he’d said and simply glared at his father. “I’m supposed to roll over, take whatever the pair of you decide to hand out to me and be grateful.”

The marquis stood too, his still-handsome face cold. “I didn’t realize how jealous you were of your brother—considering all he suffered, how can you be so cruel?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? When he came back, he took everything from me.”

God, had he really said that out loud—had he really felt that? He ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect his scattered emotions. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean that. I’m obviously overtired.”

His father stared at him. “Anthony . . . Valentin could never . . .”

“It’s all right, sir. I understand.” He managed to dredge up a smile and a bow. “I’ll certainly think about what you have suggested, although I’m not sure how Valentin will react to the idea of losing me.”

The marquis dropped his gaze to the papers on his desk and shuffled them around. Anthony let out his breath. “Valentin’s already agreed, hasn’t he?”

“Actually, he was the one who suggested it.”

“Of course he did. What a masterful piece of manipulation. He not only gets me out of his business, but ensures I’m stuck serving his needs in another capacity for as long as I live. And he doesn’t even have to pay me any more.”

“As to that, I would, of course, increase your allowance to cover all your additional costs.”

“I expect you’d both like me to rusticate in the countryside far from temptation as well, wouldn’t you? So much for me prostituting myself for trade or for sex; you’ll allow it only if I keep it in the family!”

“For God’s sake, Anthony, whatever is the matter with you? I’m only asking you to display some loyalty. This isn’t like you at all.” The marquis strode to the window and pulled open the drapes. Thin dawn light filtered through the grimy window panes. “Perhaps we’ll have this discussion again when you are sober.”

“I’m completely sober, Father.” Anthony walked across to the door and grabbed the handle. “And don’t worry: I’ll certainly think about what you’ve said.”

“Where the devil did you say you were tonight?” The marquis’s harsh question made Anthony turn back.

“I didn’t.”

“From the state of you, I’d assume you were at Madame’s.” His mouth twisted. “So much for changing your ways.”

“I haven’t been to Madame’s.”

“Then why is there blood all over your pantaloons and on your hand?”

Anthony glanced down at his white satin pantaloons, saw the splashes of red seeping through the fabric and went cold. God, he had hurt Marguerite, and she’d denied it. Hell and damnation! She must have been too afraid to tell him. He flung open the door as his stomach threatened to rebel.

“Anthony . . .”

He couldn’t bear to speak to his father, not now, not when he knew what he’d done. With a curse he hurried upstairs to his room, stripped off his clothes and quickly splashed himself with cold water. He had to get back to Marguerite, to see if she was all right and to promise her that he’d never touch her again.

Marguerite opened her eyes. Something was preventing her from going back to sleep, and it wasn’t the noisy sparrows congregating on the roof of the mews below her window. Idly, she allowed her mind to float, hoped whatever it was that was worrying her would surface and become clear. Her hand drifted down to her stomach again and she winced. Anthony had been extremely careful with her, so there was no reason for her to feel so . . .

She sat up so quickly she felt dizzy. Now she knew what that strange pressure meant. She carefully pulled back the covers, saw the faint red stain on the sheets and between her thighs and let out her breath. Her courses had begun, that’s why she felt so peculiar.

She carefully moved to the edge of the high bed and felt for the floor with her toes. Shivering in the cold, she managed to fumble across to her dressing table and find the rags and bindings she needed. There was just enough water left in the jug to wash with. Then she returned to bed and cuddled back into the warmth she and Anthony had created.

She wrapped her arms around her aching stomach and curled up into a tight ball. If her mother’s information was correct, there would be no child to mar the perfection of her night with Anthony. Another thought prevented Marguerite from falling back to sleep. Had Anthony noticed her courses had begun? And if so, was he offended? Maybe that was why he had left so abruptly. Justin had been horrified at her even mentioning she bled and had refused to share the same bed. Perhaps her French pragmatism about such things was not appreciated in England by any man.

Marguerite smiled into the half darkness. Hopefully Anthony was made of sterner stuff and had gone home to rest without a care in the world.

“You don’t understand, I need to see her.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but my lady isn’t receiving visitors at this hour of the morning.”

Anthony glared into the unresponsive face of Marguerite’s butler. True, it was barely light and he’d had to bang on the kitchen door for at least ten minutes to get anyone to pay attention to him over the morning clatter, but he had to see if Marguerite was all right.

“Is my lady’s maid here?”

“She is, sir, but . . .”

Anthony took a guinea out of his pocket and pressed it into the butler’s unresisting hand. “Perhaps she might be able to check on her mistress and ask if she wants to see me. Tell her it is extremely important.”

The butler pocketed the coin and turned back into the kitchen. “Mary, come here.”

A pretty black-haired young woman dressed in crisp pink muslin and an apron rushed over, her expression full of curiosity.

“Yes, Mr. Jarvis?”

“Go and see if her ladyship is awake, and ask her when it would be convenient for her to see Lord Anthony, here.”

“Yes, sir!”

Mary bobbed a curtsey and hurried off, looking thrilled to be involved in such early morning drama. Anthony shivered as the wind came up and buttoned the neck of his coat.

“Can I at least come inside and keep warm?”

The butler grudgingly stepped back. “All right, my lord, but don’t try any funny business. I’ll have you know, her ladyship is a respectable woman.”

“I know. I’m the last person in the world who’d argue with that.”

“Then you just sit here and wait quietly, sir.”

Anthony sat at the big oak table and stretched his hands toward the fire. It appeared that every older male he encountered today was intent on making him feel like an inadequate boy.

“Here you go, sir.”

The cook set an earthenware mug in front of him and poured some weak tea from a pot into it. He smiled his thanks. He was too cold to care about the quality of the beverage, just grateful to have something warm inside him after his hasty flight out of his parents’ house and back into the streets.

He looked over his shoulder as the kitchen door opened to reveal a smiling Mary.

“Her ladyship says she’ll see you, sir.”

Anthony got up, aware of the disapproval emanating from the kitchen staff around him. It seemed they all cared for their mistress, which he supposed was a good thing. He bowed at the cook and the butler.

“Thank you for your help. I promise I won’t keep her long.”

He ran up the stairs two at a time and found his way back to her bedroom, hesitated outside the door long enough for Mary to catch up with him.

“She’s still in bed, sir, and not feeling quite the thing, so please be quiet.”

Anthony let himself into the shadowed room and stopped several feet from the bed. Marguerite lay back against a mound of pillows, her face a pale shadow against the darkness of her unbound hair. He swallowed hard.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m a little tired, but that is to be expected.” She frowned. “Why did you come back? Did you forget something?”

He ignored her questions, concentrated on her face. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry?”

He glanced behind him, made sure that Mary had left them alone and advanced on the bed. “As I said, I’m used to bedding men.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I only hope you can forgive me and I assure you I will never trouble you again.”

“Anthony, what are you talking about?”

“I’m here to apologize for . . . injuring you.”

“You didn’t . . .”

“I beg to disagree, I hurt you. I saw the blood.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, “Mon Dieu. I didn’t think about that.”

He sat on the side of the bed, still holding her hand, watched her concern change to something more difficult to interpret. He swallowed hard, tried to find the right words to comfort her. “I should never have touched you. I’m obviously not capable of bedding a woman.” An even more appalling thought crossed his mind. “Unless, I was your first . . . unless Justin didn’t, couldn’t . . .”

“Justin could and he did. You didn’t take my virginity, Anthony, I’m quite certain of that.” Marguerite let go of his hand. “Did you really come back because you thought you’d injured me with your lovemaking?”

He managed to nod. To his astonishment she started to blush.

“I thought, perhaps you wanted to . . . chastise me.”

“For what?”

She held his gaze, her blue eyes full of unexpected awkwardness. “For allowing you into my bed when I was expecting my monthly courses.”

Anthony stared at her. What the hell did that mean? He vaguely recollected some feminine conversations between his mother and sisters that always stopped the moment they realized he was in the room. He felt a blush creep up his cheeks.

“Oh, that . . .”

“Yes, that . . .” She grimaced. “Justin felt the same way. He refused to come near me when I bled. I forget that the English can be a little more fastidious about these things than the French.”

Anthony stared at her clenched hands, taking them back into his. “I didn’t realize. I thought I’d hurt you.”

“But you didn’t.”

He leaned in toward her until their foreheads touched. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I thought . . .”

“Ssh.” She pushed a lock of his hair back from his face. “You would never hurt me. You should know by now that women are a lot stronger than they look.”

“I know that,” he whispered. “But, God . . .” He closed his eyes, allowed her sweet scent to surround him, to heal his ragged nerves. After a long moment, he took a deep breath and kissed her nose. “I should go.”

“Yes, you should. My staff will be gossiping about this for days. Let’s just hope my mama-in-law doesn’t get to hear about it.”

He moved off the bed and looked back at her. “Stay well, Marguerite.”

“I will.” She blew him a kiss. “Now go, or you will be late for work.”

Anthony bowed and headed for the door. At her mention of his current employment, the tension returned to his gut. At least he’d settled the most important problem. Now he just had to find the nerve to face Valentin.