The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Nine
A
seething anger simmered just below Ginny’s skin. How disappointing of Maeve—Lady Alymer, she amended. Formality had a way of removing the intimacy of friendship. Ginny had believed her a friend.
Course after course arrived and disappeared. All the while feeding her seething simmer into a full-blown fire that raced through her veins. How dare Brock play with any woman’s affections. And how infuriating to find herself caught in the churning pot of swirling emotional sludge. Having been out of the public eye for a year certainly made it difficult to crawl back into habits she’d long since outgrown.
Being the sudden fascination of two attractive men was unsettling. And she wasn’t even counting Brock. Of course, his interest was as constant as a ship upon the sea in a blustering storm. Ginny had never been prone to lying, especially to herself. The attention from Griston and the new Maudsley was not normal toward someone like her. It wasn’t as if her late husband had left her with a substantial inheritance. Certainly, she was widowed, and still fairly young at nine and twenty. At least she felt young. But she was a widow. With two children. Two girl children. Perhaps she was just a curiosity. Someone they felt inclined to trifle with.
“Will there be dancing, Griston, old boy?” Maudsley asked.
“Of course. My mother insisted upon it, but not until—”
The dowager rose from her seat. “Ladies, shall we?” Ginny could scarcely hide her relief as the seven-course dinner ended with the dowager excusing the ladies to leave the men to their port.
Ginny followed the other women from the dining hall to the large parlor, where card tables had been arranged around the room’s perimeter. As Ginny had never been much good at cards (that inability she had to shield her every thought) and was more proficient at charades, she opted to stay away from the tables.
Lorelei hooked an arm through Ginny’s. “How are you doing?” Her voice was low. “I vow, Shufflebottom is the most annoying fop.”
Ginny grinned. Shufflebottom was an annoying fop, and she had been thrilled to see him seated next to Maeve’s mother who was equally annoying. “Things are well, I suppose. Though, frankly, I forget how much I despise these events.”
Lorelei aimed them toward a private spot near the windows. “Yes, they are quite pretentious, aren’t they?”
She frowned. “It seems too soon to have left the girls behind.”
Lorelei squeezed her arm. “It’s been almost a year, my dear. You would have to sooner or later. Besides, you know they are perfectly safe at my home. I believe Corinne will appreciate having Irene there for company.”
That was likely true. Ginny thought of the quiet girl who was more stoic than Irene, if such a thing were even possible. The melancholy about Corinne was heart-wrenching to witness. Thank heavens Lorelei had taken her and her baby in. Rowena Hollerfield’s death had hit the young woman especially hard. Rowena had been Lord Kimpton’s mistress prior to his marriage to Lorelei. She’d also been companion to Maudsley’s first wife, Hannah. And when the woman died in childbirth, Rowena had spirited the baby away. Corinne had been that baby. It was all very complicated and gave Ginny a headache trying to sort out.
Ginny sighed. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“Don’t you miss dancing?”
Did she? She’d adored her lessons growing up, but Maudsley had been insanely possessive. Even when she’d danced with caution if her partners were too young and attractive. Her husband had been the sort of man to wreak payment on her body with heavy fists for circumstances out of her control. Her unusual height had normally been a determent, as most men came only to her nose. Even Griston was close to her exact height. Everyone but Brock. “I haven’t danced much since the first year of my marriage as you well know,” she said.
“You and Brock would look lovely on the ballroom floor.”
“Would we?” She turned a too-sweet smile on her friend. Of course, Lorelei didn’t take offense. No, Lorelei just returned it with her own cat-that-got-the-cream smile that Ginny wouldn’t trust in a million years. “What is up with Kimpton tonight?”
Kimpton was quiet and watchful. He made Ginny nervous. The undercurrents were as thick as a vat of honey. She couldn’t tell who he was observing as he rarely glanced toward her when she spoke to Griston or anyone else, yet there was no question he was wholly engaged when she and Lorelei conversed.
Lorelei’s expression turned thoughtful. “I’m not certain, but something is on his mind.”
A servant moved about offering flutes of champagne, of which Ginny gladly partook. Maeve, Lady Alymer, sauntered up. “Hello, Lorelei, Ginny. Lovely party, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Ginny muttered.
“I was just saying the same,” Lorelei said. “Sadly, there is no dancing.”
“I heard Lady Griston talking about that very thing. It’s planned for tomorrow night.”
Just as Ginny let out a snort, the door opened, and the men filtered in. Her eyes went straight to the tallest of the pack. Brock. His broad, confident frame, his unruly chestnut hair and piercing eyes, made her knees weak. Blast it, Lorelei was right, she and Brock would fit perfectly together.
Lorelei nudged her. “What are you scowling about?”
Ginny cleared her expression. Why did Lorelei have to put that image in her head? Ginny, more than anyone, knew how well she and Brock fit, and yet they’d never danced with one another. At least not on the dance floor—a trail of thought that led to nowhere.
She shuddered to think how Brock would react to secrets she’d kept from him over the years. The sinking feeling deep in her belly told her that her own sins were the truly unforgivable ones.
“He adores you, you know,” Maeve said softly.
Her words rattled and infuriated Ginny. “He’s confided this to you, has he?”
“He didn’t have to. Anyone with eyes in their heads can see he can’t keep his eyes off of you. That man is a catch, and you should snap him up before someone else beats you to him.” Maeve shook out her skirts, muffling a small groan. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, my mother beckons.”
“Let us know if you need a reprieve,” Lorelei told her, grinning.
“Poor Maeve,” Ginny said, watching her walk up to her mother, then shaking her head. “At least I don’t have to contend with my mother.” In fact, she hadn’t seen her mother in a decade. Maudsley had forbidden it. The one upside in the whole horrifying debacle. Now, with Maudsley dead, she was free to do as she pleased. A truly liberating thought.
Lorelei patted Ginny’s hand. “See? I knew you could find the positive.” She glanced about. “Hmm. I wonder where Griston disappeared to.”
Kimpton answered as he and Brock walked up, “He received a note from his butler and excused himself.”
A look passed between the two most attractive men in the parlor that sent an icy sliver down Ginny’s neck. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s nothing,” Brock said. His brisk tone said differently, however, and she resented the outright lie and disrespect for her intellect.
So now she and Lorelei were simpletons? Her temper frayed. She smirked. “Of course not, my lord. As mere feeble women, Lorelei and I are deaf and blind, as you well know.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Brock bit out under his breath. He took her by the arm. “Kimpton, Lady Kimpton, please accept our pardons.” Unless she made a scene, there was no escape. Brock didn’t stop outside the parlor. Instead, he manhandled her up the stairs and down the hall. Not toward the family wing. His chamber then. At the last door, he shoved it open then pulled her across the threshold.
Surprised flooded her. “What are you doing?” she hissed.
He backed her to the door. “Something I should have done years ago despite you being married to that blackguard. He assumed the worst of us anyway. We should have made good on his accusations.”
His mouth crashed down onto hers in a sensual assault that left her shamelessly clinging to his shoulders. His tongue swept into her mouth, stroking hers until she was helpless with need and giving back as good as she received. She ran her hands through silken hair she hadn’t touched in ten years, and for the life of her, she couldn’t understand how, or why, she’d put him off for so long. He was right. Maudsley had always believed the worst of her. She should have lived up to his recriminations, then at least the beatings would have been worth something.
Ginny breathed in the familiar bay scent that had haunted her dreams, that more times than not had kept her alive, had stoked her desires into a frenzy.
He pulled his mouth from hers with an audible groan. His lips were wet and shiny, his chest heaving with short, rapid breaths. “God, what you do to me,” he growled.
An embarrassing whimper escaped her, and his mouth slanted over hers again. The bodice of her gown sagged, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She wanted his mouth on her, anywhere, everywhere. Each passing second, her need intensified, grew more insatiable. The heat of his hand shaped her breast, and his lips traced her neck, leaving a trail of raised flesh as the cool air touched it.
A flock of hummingbirds had taken up residence in her stomach, their wings batting furiously for escape. Wetness pooled between her legs in a primal need that engulfed her. Still, she forced herself to slow. Moved her hand down to cradle his erection. She rejoiced in the heat emanating from his trousers. An intense hiss whispered against her neck, her chest. Her heart pounded with searing anticipation as he moved lower. His tongue flicked across one nipple, threatening the stability of her knees. She clutched his head to her breast, fearing the emotions overtaking her with the force of a giant sea swell in the eye of a raging storm.
He pressed his hand over hers, the one that cupped the blaze of fire she held. He moved his hand with hers in a hard caress. “I need to be inside you.”
He reared back, pinning her gaze, his eyes begging.
A million things flew through her muddled brain. She couldn’t say no. And why should she? She was widowed, free, available for such a liaison. There was nothing, no one, to stop her. Having Brock was something she’d craved yet buried for years. “Yes. Yes, please.”
In seconds, her feet were off the floor and she was spun about. The myriad of buttons slipped from their tiny holes, and her dress fell from her shoulders. Panic seized her. Her hand flew to her chest, holding it in place. “No!”
Warm lips traced the column of her neck, trailing her exposed shoulder. “What are you afraid of?” he whispered in that rich timbre she hadn’t realized she’d missed. The heat of his hands cupping her shoulders moved down her arms, taking the soft fabric of her dress with them. It dropped in a sea of silk at her feet.
Still clasping her hands, he stepped back, raising her arms out with his as if preparing to take the flight of a bird—no, a dragon. A fire-breathing dragon that stirred the hair at her nape. In a move as graceful as a dance, he circled her around to face him. She dropped her eyes, unable to look at him. But he would have none of that.
He lifted her chin. “Look at me,” he commanded in a request so soft, so firm, she couldn’t refuse. He brought the hand he still held to his lips. Wispy kisses feathered her wrist, moving to each scar her late husband had inflicted. Burns from his cheroots dotted up to the crook of her elbow. “Are these what shame you, my lady? These are badges of honor.”
“Honor,” she said with disgust, trying to snatch back her arm.
He held tight, denying her attempts. “Yes. Honor. Did you stop to think that the horrors you suffered likely saved your children?”
Leave it to Brock to pierce her fears with the precision of a poisoned dart. She slid to the floor, her back against the polished oak door.
He knelt before her. “Did you forget I’d seen your scars before? Every blasted one. Did you think I’d let my valet bathe you when I spirited you away from Maudsley and you lay on your deathbed?”
She blinked and welled-up tears spilled over.
“Christ.” He pulled her into his arms, cradled her like a small child, rocked her against his chest while gusted sobs wracked her body.
God. She’d never be able to hold up her head around him again. And here she was, swathed only in her thin chemise, corset, shoes, and stockings.
“Ginny, darling. Listen to me. None of Maudsley’s doings were your fault. Ever. The fault lay with me. I left you behind. You begged me to take you with me, and I left you behind.”
Why? Why did you leave me? It was horrible, she wanted to rail, but the words couldn’t squeeze past the constriction in her throat. She shook her head at his impassioned plea. He gripped her by the shoulders and shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth, then pulled her tightly against his chest.
Pain etched the creases around his mouth, effectively chipping the ice in her heart into breakable chunks. The shard points pricked her from the inside out. Suddenly, she didn’t care. She reached up and locked her arms behind his neck.
He hesitated for the minutest second before once more crashing his mouth over hers in a volcanic blast. Lips sealed together, he pulled her arms away and stripped her chemise over her head, dismantled her corset, and flung it away.
She sank into his heat. He rose to his feet with what had to be Herculean effort with her still solidly ensconced in his arms. She was not one of those dainty, graceful debutantes who weighed but a feather.
The wood of the door had cooled and was now hard against her back. He lifted one leg of hers and placed it at his waist, then his fingers explored the folds of her sex, preparing her. His mouth moved down, covering one breast, while his trousers somehow fell by the wayside, his erection a hot, jutting throb against her abdomen. “I can’t wait,” he said roughly. He maneuvered himself at her entrance then thrust. No finesse, no delay. “I’m sorry.” She reveled in the growl against her shoulder as he thrust again. “I’m sorry.” He said it three more times before he pulled her other leg around him and buried himself deeper.
The angle scraped against her most sensitive area. The unexpected move sent her sailing over the highest cliff in a freefall of white-hot sparks that exploded behind her tightly shut eyes. His heartfelt cry blasted into her naked shoulder as he pulsed inside her. The muscles in her arms ached from her hold around his shoulders. Perspiration gathered between her breasts as her chest heaved with rapid intakes.
He lifted his head and lapped up the droplets. Still buried deep, he carried her to the bed. “You’re staying.” It was a command, a law he dared her to break.
There was no strength to argue. That was a fight for another day. She nodded.
Brock withdrew from the sheath of Ginny’s body, despising every inch of the separation. It seemed to represent the last ten years of his life, of their lives. Time wasted, every last second. He tore back the counterpane and laid her down, then crawled in beside her. He pulled her body into his, tugging her head onto his shoulder. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Her whisper stroked him like a velvet caress.
The silence was surprisingly comfortable, and for the first time in years, his world righted itself. He laid his lips on the top of her head and let the memories flood him.
He pulled his shirt over his head. It was hopelessly wrinkled. And then he reached for his breeches. The crumpled note fell from his pocket and rolled across the horse blanket, both of them diving for it simultaneously. She was an instant quicker. He brushed aside the hum of foreboding. Ginny was nothing if not sensible.
Her triumphant grin humbled him. Early sunlight glinted off the mahogany of her dark, rumpled hair, creating a crowning halo of sorts. But this angel was a devil when it came to passion. He’d made her his wife in body. He could hardly wait to make her his wife in name. His heart had already claimed the title. He plucked a piece of straw from her hair and tossed it aside. They would have to do something with those flyaway curls before she snuck back in the house.
“What’s this?” Her grin faltered. “You’re leaving?”
He shoved his feet into his pants, aggravated. Not with her. Never with her. With his father. The duke had the unamiable ability to wreak havoc in his world no matter the distance. Brock sought a calming breath as he fastened the flaps, leaned down, and took her chin. Planted a hard kiss on her lips. “I’ll return before you can blink.”
She dropped the paper and gripped his arms. “Don’t leave, John. Please, don’t leave me. You don’t know what my parents are capable of.” She snatched up her chemise. “I-I’ll go with you.”
“Darling, I can’t take you with me.” How did he explain the reaction from the duke upon learning of his son’s intention to marry the daughter of a lowly baron? His father did not anger easy, but in this Brock was unwilling to chance. They had to remain sensible. He just had to clarify things first. “I promise, darling. I’ll be back. Hold your father off for a fortnight. Can you do that? Just a fortnight. I’ll return, come hell or high water.”
“Two weeks! John, please, no. That’s forever,” she whispered.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Ginny said now.
Her soft tone startled the waking nightmare back to the fringes. “And where else should you be?” he said roughly, tugging her closer. He smoothed his hand over her shoulder, down her arm, feeling the rounded rough, scarred burns, to the dip of her waist, and up over her hip.
The truth of why he’d left all those years ago was on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated at ruining the moment. He wanted those long, luscious legs wrapped around him. He rolled on top of her and nuzzled her neck with his nose. Suckled the lobe of her ear. Worked his way down her body, taking her slowly, savoring her like a sip of Henri IV Dudognon Heritage Cognac Grande Champagne. Scars or no, she tasted as outrageously delicious as he remembered.
She writhed beneath his touch, but he held her in place until she begged for release.
His skin burned from need where her fingers clutched his shoulders. Fire erupted, leaving a blazing trail of sensation. Still, he held back his urge to plunge, lashing his tongue over her hip bone, delving into her navel on his downward quest.
One firm press at the crest of her nether curls and she exploded again, her scream muffled by the pillow she’d had sense enough to grab. He moved back up her body and eased in with a slow push. He pulled out and repeated the process, perspiration dripping from his forehead, slicking his back. On his third entry, any control he harbored was relinquished in a climax that roared through him, his shout buried in the pillow she still held.
On shaking arms, he lifted and yanked the pillow away, tossing it aside. No more secrets between them, he vowed. He pulled himself from her body and crawled from the bed. At the basin, he dipped a cloth in the cool water and pressed it to his face and neck. Dipping it again, he then took it to the bed, spread her legs, and gently cleaned her, kissing the inside of each knee as he did so. He dropped the cloth on the floor and reached for the coverlet, blanketing them. “About my father—” he said.
But there was no response. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Sleep had consumed her. He snuggled in. Time enough to talk tomorrow.
