Simply Wicked

21

“Marguerite, are you all right?”

Anthony went down on his knees beside her chair, and grabbed hold of her hands.

“Why did you do that?” she whispered.

“What?”

“Knock Minshom out. Now he can’t tell me where to find Sir Harry.”

Anthony let go of her hands. She watched distantly as his expression darkened.

“After all that just happened, why the hell are you still worried about Sir Harry?”

Marguerite licked her lips. “I only agreed to stay with Minshom because he promised to tell me where Harry was.”

“And I thought you’d stayed for me.”

“You don’t understand . . .”

Anthony got off the floor and walked away, coming to a stop in front of the fireplace, his back still facing her. “I think I do. I’d assumed you were grieving for a dead man, not pining for another. Minshom had it wrong, didn’t he? You were in love with Sir Harry, not Justin.”

Marguerite blinked as searing color flooded her cheeks, slowly shook her head, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “That’s not true. Lord Minshom deliberately tried to mislead you; are you going to believe him over me?”

Anthony finally swung around, one hand still cupping his groin as if to ease the ache of Minshom’s touch. He sighed and didn’t really look at her. “It doesn’t matter. We can’t choose whom we love, can we?”

Marguerite rose to her feet, advanced toward him and slapped him as hard as she could on the cheek. He grabbed her wrist when she attempted to do it again.

“What the hell was that for?”

“For believing Minshom, for pretending you didn’t care what I’d done and then throwing it in my face.”

“I’m hardly doing that. On the contrary, I just told you I understand!”

She struggled to speak through the tears crowding her throat. “You understand nothing. Perhaps Minshom was right and you only understand pain.” She pushed his hand away from his groin, replaced it with hers. “Perhaps this is all you need from me.”

His expression darkened. “Don’t do that. I’m far too close to coming.”

“Because Minshom made you hard? Is that what you meant about not being able to control whom you love, because you still love Minshom?”

God, she hated what she was saying, hated herself, but the need to hurt, to take the pain howling inside her and hurl it outward consumed her. Anthony knew—he knew what she’d done, and sooner or later he’d realize how unfit she was to be associated with him. Better to end it now, better to send him away before it hurt too much and destroyed her.

“Christ, I loathe Minshom, I never loved him. Don’t you know that? Don’t you understand anything about me at all?” Anthony was yelling, his face flushed, his blue eyes narrowed with anger. “I’m sick of being told what to do and what to think.”

“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m trying to make you listen to me.”

“Then do it without touching me, without . . . Christ, what’s the use? Minshom’s already convinced you I’m a pathetic weakling.”

“No he hasn’t; I’m just trying to . . .”

Anthony held up his hand. “Marguerite, when you touch me, all I want to do is throw you on that bed and shove my cock inside you, use it as I wish, rather than how Minshom thinks I should. I’m sure you don’t want that, so please, get dressed.”

Marguerite retreated to the chair, picked up her dress and petticoats and tried to put them on. Her fingers trembled so badly she could barely get the fine satin over her head.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Anthony muttered. He appeared at her side, his intent gaze fixed on the swell of her breasts, the tightness of her nipples. He placed his hands on her shoulders and the dress fell from her fingers.

“Marguerite . . .” His mouth descended over hers, the savagery of his kiss a challenge she couldn’t resist. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, nipping at his lower lip, his tongue. Exchanging anger for lust seemed almost too natural, the desire to mark him, make him groan and beg not for Minshom but for her.

He angled her back toward the bed, his body heavy and hard on top of hers, his knee parting her thighs. He didn’t stop kissing her, their mouths fused together, heat binding and blinding them, the need insatiable. She gasped as he freed his cock from his breeches and his knuckles grazed her mound. And then he was inside her, his shaft pressing deep, her back arching to take him all in.

“Marguerite, yes . . .”

He pounded into her, his thrusts fast and hard, relentless. She didn’t complain, her body far too busy keeping him close, wrapping her legs around his hips to hold him within the cradle of her thighs. His kiss mirrored his movements, possessing her mouth as he possessed her body, utterly dominant, utterly in control.

His fingers slid between them, found her clit and worked it until she was coming and screaming his name into his mouth. His kiss dissolved into a gasp for air, and he bucked against her as the heat of his cum spurted deep inside her. When he rolled off, he stayed on his stomach, his face buried in the pillows.

Marguerite moved slowly off the bed and bent to retrieve her clothes. Surely now they were done? She’d never imagined allowing a man to take her like that, so completely, so absolutely. Having heard about her marriage, did Anthony now consider her fair game? She stared at her petticoats, fumbling as she attempted to tie them around her waist.

“Let me.” Anthony was beside her again, setting her to rights, tightening her laces, doing up buttons, straightening her bodice. Almost unnoticed, her tears trickled down onto the dark blue satin, staining it black. This was the end; this was the last time he would ever want to touch her. She swallowed hard.

“Are you done now?”

His fingers stilled. “What?”

“Are you done proving to yourself that you can fuck a woman?”

In the silence that followed, she could clearly hear the irregular thump of his heart and his shallow breathing. Anthony stepped away from her and did up his breeches, picked up his gun and stuffed it into his pocket. She raised her chin and tried to make him look at her, but he avoided her gaze.

“My lady, if you wish to leave, I need to check on Minshom.”

He sounded formal, all the anger stripped from his voice. Unable to reply, Marguerite simply nodded and waited by the fire as he opened the door.

“He’s gone.” Anthony sounded as stunned as she felt. “Obviously I didn’t hit the bastard hard enough. I’ll make sure he isn’t loitering in the kitchen, and then you may come down.”

His voice faded as he clattered down the stairs. Marguerite blew out the candles and left the room bathed in the warm glow of the fire, wondered distantly who lived here, who had been forced out to accommodate the selfish desires of Lord Minshom.

“You can come down, my lady.”

Marguerite picked up her skirts and headed down the stairs, found Anthony in the kitchen. He gestured at the table. “I think Minshom left you something.”

She picked up the bundle of parchment tied with the blue ribbon. At least she had that, Sir Harry’s account of the duel, even if she didn’t have him in person. She clutched the papers to her chest as Anthony draped her cloak around her.

“Are you ready to leave?”

She nodded again, still unable to speak, and walked past him into the hallway and out into the cold bleakness of the night. The stable clock chimed once. Was it only an hour since she’d walked into Minshom’s trap? Only an hour since he’d deliberately revealed his own version of her brief marriage to Anthony, the man she’d come to care for? She stopped walking, turned toward his dark shape.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My marriage. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“Marguerite, it really doesn’t matter does it? It’s in the past.”

“Not if Lord Minshom decides to gossip about it.”

There was a long silence as he considered her. “I won’t let that happen. I promise you.”

“Why?”

“Because as I told you, I don’t care what happened between you, Justin and Harry.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Because you are my friend?”

Ah, she’d forgotten that. She’d forgotten that just because she’d come to want him as more than a friend didn’t mean that he had. In truth, after what he’d just heard about her, his diplomatic retreat was all too understandable.

“I will take care of Lord Minshom myself.”

He shifted in the darkness and laid his hand on her arm. “Marguerite, you don’t have to do that. I’m quite capable of taking him on.”

Tears crowded her eyes, falling down her cold cheeks in hot, angry waves. “What are you going to do? Challenge him to a duel?”

“If necessary.”

“And you think I would want that? Another man dead on my account? More gossip?”

“Marguerite . . .”

She pushed past him, picked up her skirts and ran for the house, the tears now pouring down her face. Were all men fools? Was Anthony about to make the same mistake Sir Harry had made and risk everything to save her reputation? She would not let that happen again. She would not; she’d kill Lord Minshom herself before she allowed Anthony within a mile of him.

She realized she was standing in the center of her bedroom, her breathing so loud she couldn’t even hear the clock. She hurried to lock the door between her and Anthony’s suites and checked the main door. He wouldn’t be able to get to her here, not that he would want to . . .

With a sob, she fell to her knees, pressed her hands to her face and let the tears fall. Anthony had protected her from Lord Minshom, offered himself in her stead, refused to allow Minshom to destroy either of them. He’d also shown great courage when his worst secrets were revealed, refusing to allow Minshom to dominate or shame him. She realized she was proud of him. He might have unconventional sexual tastes, but he was no longer enslaved by Minshom.

And even if he’d been shocked by Lord Minshom’s revelations about her, he hadn’t shown it, hadn’t allowed his anger and doubts to surface until after he’d disposed of his nemesis. Marguerite raised her head to stare into the fire. She should be grateful to him for that, even though he seemed to believe she’d really been in love with Harry.

How had he come to that conclusion? It was no more accurate than Minshom’s version of the truth. She glanced at the door to Anthony’s suite. Was it worth trying to tell him how it had really been? She shook her head. No, because he’d probably say that it didn’t matter, that she could’ve fucked a whole regiment of Sir Harry’s and he would still pretend to be fine with it.

All she could do was to arrange to go back to London without having to see either Lord Minshom or Anthony again. Resume the quiet uneventful life she’d envisaged before Anthony had arrived to unsettle her. Despite his promise, once he’d thought about her past, she doubted he’d ever want to see her again.

She stifled a sob and continued to cry silently, a necessary skill learned in the loneliness of the nunnery school when any sound at night would result in a beating. She didn’t want Anthony to hear her, didn’t want anyone to know how bleak her future now looked.

Anthony let himself into his room and took off his clothes, left them lying on the floor in a pile. He walked across to the china wash jug and poured water into the matching cream basin. The coldness of the water suited his mood, shocking his senses much as the events of the evening had.

God, what had he done? Taking Marguerite like that, using her to prove something to himself. No wonder she was disgusted with him. He sighed and dropped down onto the side of the bed. What a mess. Minshom had told Marguerite the worst of his sexual secrets and then shocked him by revealing that Marguerite had secrets of her own.

And despite what he’d tried to say to Marguerite, he had been shocked. Worse still, Marguerite had seen through him and realized it as well. He shoved his wet hair back from his face, shivered as freezing water drops rained on his bare shoulders. What the hell had been going on in that marriage to make Marguerite cuckold her husband with his own lover?

He focused on the rug at his feet and made himself think logically. Much better to think than to dwell on the fact that Marguerite knew the worst about him . . . He forced his thoughts away from his humiliation.

None of the explanations he’d heard about Marguerite’s marriage made sense, not if he factored in what he knew of her, or thought he knew. It was as if Marguerite had decided she was guilty and had deliberately set out to hurt him, to force him away from her. And she’d damned near succeeded. For a moment, he’d been so confused that he had to put some distance between them.

With a shudder, he got under the covers and lay down. Whatever happened, they weren’t done. He would insist on seeing her in London whether she liked it or not. He smiled savagely at the ceiling. He’d finally beaten Minshom, and Marguerite had helped him do that. She might think she was unworthy of him, but he knew better, knew she’d helped him become the man he should’ve been all along.

She now knew the worst about him, but he still wasn’t clear about her past, and he wanted to be. He needed to find out exactly what she had done. He closed his eyes. One thing was clear to him: there was no way in hell he was ever going to lose her again.