It Happened One Autumn (37 page)

Panting, Marcus lowered his body over hers, his mouth at the nape of her neck, his sex still buried inside her.

Resting passively beneath him, licking her swollen lips, Lillian mumbled, “And you calledme a savage.”

She caught her breath as he chuckled, the hair on his chest rubbing like rough-napped velvet against her back.

Although Lillian was pleasantly tired from their love-making, the last thing she wanted to do was sleep.

She was filled with wonder at the discoveries she was making about the man she had once disdained as stodgy and boring, who had turned out to be neither. She was beginning to recognize that Marcus possessed a softer side that few people were ever allowed to see. And she sensed that he cared about her, though she was afraid to speculate on that, as the feelings that seemed to be pouring from her own heart had become alarmingly intense.

After Marcus had wiped her perspiring body with a cool, damp cloth, he dressed her in his discarded shirt, which held the scent of his skin. He brought her a plate containing a poached pear, and a glass of sweet wine, and even allowed her to feed him a few bites of the silky-soft fruit. When her appetite was sated, Lillian set aside the empty plate and spoon, and turned to snuggle against him. He rose on one elbow and looked down at her, his fingers playing idly in her hair.

“Are you sorry that I wouldn’t let St. Vincent have you?”

She gave him a puzzled smile. “Why would you ask such a thing? Surely you’re not having pangs of conscience.”

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Marcus shook his head. “I am merely wondering if you had any regrets.”

Surprised and touched by his need for reassurance, Lillian toyed with the dark curls on his chest. “No,”

she said frankly. “He is attractive, and I do like him …but I didn’t want him.”

“You did consider marrying him, however.”

“Well,” she admitted, “it did cross my mind that I would like to be a duchess—but only to spite you.”

A smile flashed across his face. He retaliated with a punishing nip at her breast, causing her to yelp. “I couldn’t have borne it,” he admitted, “seeing you married to anyone but me.”

“I don’t think Lord St. Vincent will have any difficulty finding another heiress to suit his purposes.”

“Perhaps. But there aren’t many women with fortunes comparable to yours…and none with your beauty.”

Smiling at the compliment, Lillian crawled halfway over him and hitched one leg over his. “Tell me more.

I want to hear you wax lyrical about my charms.”

Levering himself to a sitting position, Marcus lifted her with an ease that made her gasp, and settled her until she straddled his hips. He stroked a fingertip along the pale skin that was exposed at the open vee of the shirt. “I never wax lyrical,” he said. “Marsdens are not a poetic sort. However…” He paused to admire the sight of the long-limbed young woman who sat astride him while her hair trailed to her waist in tangled streamers. “I could at least tell you that you look like a pagan princess, with your tangled black hair and your bright, dark eyes.”

“And?” Lillian encouraged, linking her arms loosely around his neck.

He set his hands at her slender waist and moved them down to grasp her strong, sleek thighs. “And that every erotic dream I’ve ever had about your magnificent legs pales in comparison to the reality.”

“You’ve dreamed about my legs?” Lillian wriggled as she felt his palms slide up her inner thighs in a lazy, teasing path.

“Oh yes.” His hands disappeared beneath the drooping hem of the shirt. “Wrapped around me,” he murmured, his tone deepening. “Gripping tightly as you rode me…”

Lillian’s eyes widened as she felt his thumbs stroking the fragile outer folds of her sex. “What?” she asked faintly, and drew a ragged breath as she felt him open her with gentle massaging strokes. His fingers were doing something wicked, their artful movements concealed by the shirt. She shivered and watched his intent face as he used both hands to toy with her, some fingers filling her, others flirting skillfully with the sensitive little crest that seemed to burn at his touch. “But women don’t…” she said in breathless confusion. “Not that way. At least…oh …ah … I’ve never heard…”

“Some do,” he murmured, teasing her in a way that caused her to moan. “My reckless angel …I think I’ll have to show you.”

In her innocence, she didn’t comprehend until he lifted her again, and positioned her, and helped her to slide along the rigid, engorged length of his arousal until she was fully impaled on him. Shocked beyond
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words, Lillian made a few tentative movements, obeying the low murmur of his voice and the patient guidance of his hands on her hips. After a while she found a rhythm. “That’s it,” Marcus said, now sounding breathless. “That’s the way…” Reaching beneath the shirt once more, he found the aching nub beneath the hood of her sex. He circled it with his thumb in an electrifying counterpoint to her downward thrusts, with a soft pressure that sent new heat dancing across her nerves. His steady gaze held hers, drinking in the sight of her pleasure, and the realization of how utterly focused he was on her caused the ecstasy to ripen until she shuddered in hard, deep-seated spasms, her body and heart and mind filled with him. Gripping her waist, Marcus held her firmly as he ground upward, letting his own pleasure pump and surge through her.

Feeling witless and utterly drained, Lillian let herself collapse over him, her head coming to rest on the center of his chest. His heart pounded and thundered beneath her ear for long minutes before it eased into something approaching a normal rhythm. “My God,” he muttered, his arms sliding around her, then falling away as if even that required too much effort. “Lillian. Lillian.”

“Mmm?” She blinked drowsily, experiencing an overwhelming need to sleep.

“I’ve changed my mind about negotiating. You can have whatever you want. Any conditions, anything that’s in my power to accomplish. Just put my mind at ease and say you’ll be my wife.”

Lillian managed to lift her head and stare into his heavy-lidded eyes. “If this is an example of your bargaining ability,” she said, “I’m rather worried about your corporate affairs. You don’t surrender this easily to your business partners’ demands, I hope.”

“No. Nor do I sleep with them.”

A slow grin spread across her face. If Marcus was willing to take a leap of faith, then she would do no less. “Then to put your mind at ease, Westcliff… yes, I’ll be your wife. Though I warn you…you may be sorry you didn’t negotiate when you learn my conditions later. I may want a board position on the soap company, for example…”

“God help me,” he muttered, and with a deep sigh of contentment, he fell asleep.

Lillian stayed in Marcus’s bed for most of the night. She woke up now and then to find herself enveloped in the heat of his body and the soft layers of linen and silk and wool. Marcus must have been exhausted from their lovemaking, for there was no sound and little movement from him. As morning approached, however, he was the first to awaken. Lost in a contented slumber, Lillian protested as he roused her.

“It’s almost daybreak,” Marcus whispered in her ear. “Open your eyes. I have to take you to your room.”

“No,” she said groggily. “In a few minutes. Later.” She tried to burrow back into his arms. The bed was so warm, and the air was cold, and she knew that the floor would feel like ice beneath her feet.

Marcus kissed the top of her head and eased her to a sitting position. “Now,” he insisted gently, rubbing circles on her back. “The maid will be up to light the grate…and many of the guests will go shooting this morning, which means they will rise soon.”

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“Someday,” Lillian said grumpily, huddling against his powerful chest, “you’ll have to explain why men find it such an unholy joy to go outside before it’s light, and wander through muddy fields to kill small animals.”

“Because we like to test ourselves against nature. And more importantly, it gives us an excuse to drink before noon.”

She smiled and nuzzled into his shoulder, rubbing her lips against the sleek male skin. “I’m cold,” she whispered. “Lie with me under the covers.”

Marcus groaned at the temptation she offered, and forced himself to leave the bed. Lillian immediately tunneled beneath the covers, clutching the soft folds of Marcus’s shirt more tightly around herself.

However, he returned soon, fully dressed, and he dug her out of the bedclothes. “There’s no use complaining,” he said, wrapping her in one of his robes. “You’re going back to your room. You can’t be seen with me at this hour.”

“Are you afraid of scandal?” Lillian asked.

“No. However, it is in my nature to behave with discretion whenever possible.”

“Such a gentleman,” she mocked, holding her arms up as he tied the belt of the robe. “You should marry a girl of equal discretion.”

“Ah, but they’re not half so entertaining as the wicked ones.”

“Is that what I am?” she asked, draping her arms around his shoulders. “A wicked girl?”

“Oh yes,” Marcus said softly, and covered her mouth with his.

Daisy awakened to a scratching sound at the door. Squinting her eyes open, she saw by the color of the light that it was still early morning, and that her sister was busy at the dressing table, brushing snarls from her hair. Sitting up and pushing her own hair from her eyes, she asked, “Who could that be?”

“I’ll see.” Already dressed in a dark red corded-silk day gown, Lillian went to the door and opened it a few inches. From what Daisy could see, a housemaid had come to deliver a message. A murmured conversation ensued, and though Daisy could not quite hear their words, she heard the mild surprise in her sister’s voice, followed by an edge of annoyance. “Very well,” Lillian said crisply. “Tell her I will.

Though I hardly see the need for all this skulking about.”

The housemaid disappeared, and Lillian closed the door, frowning.

“What?” Daisy asked. “What did she tell you? Who sent her?”

“It was nothing,” Lillian replied, and added with heavy irony, “I’m not supposed to say.”

“I overheard something about skulking.”

“Oh, it’s just a bothersome piece of business that I have to take care of. I’ll explain it later this afternoon— no doubt I’ll have some highly entertaining and colorful story to tell.”

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“Does it involve Lord Westcliff?”

“Indirectly.” Lillian’s frown cleared, and suddenly she looked radiantly happy. Perhaps more so than Daisy had ever seen her. “Oh, Daisy, it’s revolting, the way I want to fawn all over him. I’m afraid that I’m going to do something dreadfully silly today. Burst into song or something. For God’s sake, don’t let me.”

“I won’t,” Daisy promised, smiling back at her. “Are you in love, then?”

“That word is not to be mentioned,” Lillian said swiftly. “Even if I were—and I am not admitting anything—I would never be the first to say it. It’s a matter of pride. And there’s every chance that he won’t say it back, but just respond with a polite ‘thank you,’ in which case I would have to murder him.

Or myself.”

“I hope the earl is not equally as stubborn as you,” Daisy commented.

“He isn’t,” Lillian assured her. “Although he thinks he is.” Some private memory caused her to chortle, clasping a hand to her forehead. “Oh, Daisy,” she said with devilish glee, “I’m going to be such an abominable countess.”

“Let’s not put it that way,” Daisy said diplomatically. “Rather, we’ll say ‘unconventional countess.’ ”

“I can be any kind of countess I want,” Lillian said, half in delight, half in wonder. “Westcliff said so. And what’s more…I actually think he means it.”

After a light breakfast of tea and toast, Lillian went out to the back terrace of the manor. Resting her elbows on the balcony, she stared at their extensive gardens with their carefully edged paths, and broad margins of low box hedges lavished with roses, and ancient manicured yews that provided so many delightful hidden places to explore. Her smile faded as she reflected that at this moment, the countess was waiting for her at Butterfly Court, after having sent one of the housemaids to deliver her summons.

The countess desired a private talk with Lillian… and it was not a good sign that she wished to meet at such a distance from the manor. Since the countess often had difficulty walking, and either used a cane or chose on occasion to be pushed about in a wheeled chair, going to the hidden garden was an arduous undertaking. It would have been far simpler and more sensible if she had wanted to meet in the upstairs Marsden parlor. But perhaps what the countess wished to say was so private—or so loud—that she did not want to risk the possibility of being overheard. Lillian knew exactly why the countess had requested that she tell no one about their meeting. If Marcus found out, he would insist on delving thoroughly into the matter afterward—something that neither woman wanted. Besides, Lillian had no intention of hiding behind Marcus. She could face the countess on her own.

She fully expected a tirade, of course. Her acquaintance with the woman had taught her that the countess had a sharp tongue and did not seem to set any limit as to how wounding her words might be.

But that didn’t matter. Every syllable the countess uttered would roll off Lillian like raindrops down a window, because she was secure in the knowledge that nothing could stop her marriage to Marcus. And the countess would have to realize that it was in her own best interest to have a cordial relationship with her daughter-in-law. Otherwise, they were capable of making life equally unpleasant for each other.

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Lillian smiled grimly as she descended the long flight of steps that led to the gardens, and walked out into the cool morning air. “I’m coming, you old witch,” she muttered. “Do your worst.”