The Dutiful Rake (14 page)

He shrugged. ‘There is quite a collection of family jewellery. I selected the pearls because I thought they were bound to go with whatever you chose to wear tonight. The rest all needs cleaning, it hasn’t been worn in years.’

Not since his mother had died, in fact. He flinched inwardly as he thought of the lovely, laughing creature who had gone from his life so unexpectedly…He tried not to think of her too often, but seeing Meg decked in those pearls, thinking of her sleeping in that silken apartment, bathing in that outrageous bathroom…
suddenly his mother’s piquant, laughing face was before him and would not be banished. What would she have thought of her daughter-in-law? Another question struck at him brutally: What would she have thought of her son?

Not for several minutes did Marcus become aware that Meg had set down her empty glass and stepped away from him to the fireplace, where she was examining the painting of Alston Court, his principal country residence, that hung above it. He flushed slightly. How very rude of him to just ignore her like that so that she felt obliged to occupy herself! And if she had finished her wine, he must have been in a brown study for some time.

Before he could apologise the door opened and Delafield announced, ‘Dinner is served, my lord and lady.’

Dinner, as Meg found, was a very formal and nerve-racking affair. Marcus described it as a neat, plain dinner, but Meg could think of no two adjectives more completely inappropriate for a meal that consisted of two courses of at least half a dozen dishes each. She found it quite bizarre to be seated at the same table as her husband with twenty feet of highly polished mahogany between them and to have a footman at her elbow every time she showed the least interest in one of the dishes before her.

This, however, was what Marcus expected of her, so she assumed an air of enjoyment and bravely lifted her voice in order to be heard when she replied to her husband’s polite conversation. She wondered what he would say if she suggested removing some of the leaves from the table when they dined alone. Perhaps it might
be better to wait until she was more familiar with the household before embarking upon such radical reform.

Had she but known it, Marcus was not enjoying it in the least. It had always been his custom when dining alone, or with one or two close friends, to have dinner set out on a table in the library where they could serve themselves. He had been quite taken aback when he had realised that his staff had quite different ideas now he had taken a wife. Plainly they were set on doing the thing properly with the maximum of pomp.

It was on the tip of his tongue to inform Delafield that he had no intention of changing his habits just because he had married, when it occurred to him that a seemingly endless expanse of polished mahogany was one way to keep a polite distance from his wife. If they dined intimately tête à tête in the library, it would be very much harder to hold her at arm’s length.

So he held his tongue and resigned himself to the tedium of dining formally every night. He supposed ruefully that he could not expect to maintain all his bachelor habits now that he was married. Which reminded him that he had yet to make a decision about Althea Hartleigh.

Thoughtfully he accepted a helping of syllabub as he pondered this ticklish question. Should he maintain the connection or…? A slight movement at the far end of the table caught his eye. Delafield was refilling Meg’s glass. She turned to him with a slight smile and soft word of thanks. The pearls at her throat shone softly in the candlelight…He had nearly asked Althea to marry him…how would she have looked in those pearls? With a shock he realised that he could not imagine her in them. He would not have even thought of giving them to her.

Conscious of his gaze, Meg looked up from her syllabub. He was frowning slightly and she lifted her chin proudly. She would not flinch before his glare. If she was doing something wrong then he should not have half a mile of dining table between them, preventing him from tactfully pointing it out to her!

Defiantly she finished her sweet and her wine and watched as the footmen began to remove the dishes from the table. She knew exactly what she had to do and rose from her seat gracefully.

‘I shall leave you to the enjoyment of your wine, my lord.’

Her voice rang out clearly, taking Marcus by surprise. He hurried to his feet and went to open the door for her. She looked absolutely lovely, but so reserved, remote.

‘Goodnight, my lady,’ he said quietly. ‘I shall leave you to your rest tonight.’ It was said very softly, for her ears only. Her eyes flew to his face. For one split second he thought he saw hurt there, but it was gone instantly.

Her voice, cool and unconcerned, ‘You are always considerate, my lord.’

She was gone and Marcus went back to his chair to confront an array of decanters. He stared at them unseeingly. Considerate?
Considerate?
He didn’t feel remotely considerate. What he felt like was following her upstairs and showing her just how
in
considerate he could be! He heaved a sigh of resignation. He wanted a cool, uninvolved relationship with his wife. He could hardly complain when she obliged. If she had taken the hint so readily, it would save him having to explain it to her. Somehow he thought the task might have proved difficult.

After leaving the dining room, Meg pondered her op
tions. It was far too early for bed, even if his lordship had dismissed her for the night. She had only just eaten and she didn’t feel in the least bit sleepy after her nap. She would go and find a book in the library, retire to her bedchamber and read for a while, then she would have a long, luxurious soak in that bath. She might even read in it. There were all sorts of possibilities that didn’t involve her infuriating husband. And why the devil should he get to sit in solitary state over his wine? Why could she not have a glass with him and chat? All these rules and formalities gave her a headache!

She had no difficulty finding a book in the library. There were several shelves devoted to novels and she selected quite a few before turning her attention to the poetry. Here she browsed happily, finding old friends and meeting new ones. Almost the only alleviating feature of her residence at Fenby House had been its library, which she had been permitted to visit weekly to select reading matter. Novels, however, had not previously come in her way and she could hardly wait to get back upstairs and open one.

Marcus spent a solitary and lengthy evening by the fire in the library, attempting to read. Never had his cosy, welcoming library seemed so utterly bereft of comfort, so empty. He wandered along the bookshelves, seeking something more entertaining than Carey’s translation of the
Inferno,
noting Meg’s depredations as he did so. What had she taken? Mostly poetry, but a few of his mother’s novels as well. He smiled. No doubt she would enjoy Hatchard’s and Hookham’s. He must take her to both…He caught himself up sharply. Meg would be quite capable of finding her own way around…he was not going to sit in her pocket.

He glanced frequently at his watch and eventually, realising that he had not turned a page for the past ten minutes and that it was half-past ten, decided to retire. After all, he had been driving all day. An early night would not hurt him. He thrust away the thought that, despite retiring early for the last two nights, he was a trifle short on sleep.

In his bedchamber he found his nightshirt laid out ready, the bed turned down, everything as it should be. Yet he hesitated. The bed was enormous. A huge, old-fashioned four poster. The Earls of Rutherford had slept in it and bedded their brides in it for generations. No matter what else might be brought up to date and modernised in the London house, the Earl’s bed remained, a monument to generations of feudal privilege. Unfortunately it was empty and it looked damned chilly and uninviting. Which was ridiculous, since he knew perfectly well that his valet would have passed a warming pan through it as soon as he knew his master was on his way to bed.

Marcus swore fluently. The only thing that was going to warm that bed to his satisfaction in the foreseeable future was Meg. And the thought infuriated him. He did not wish to be held in thrall by his wife’s charms. Surely he could control his desire for at least one night! He had shared her bed for the last
two
nights, for heaven’s sake. What more did he want? And she had seemed happy enough with his intimation that he did not wish to avail himself of his…rights—he found the word
rights
rather unpleasant…as though he could take her when and as he pleased without any regard to her wishes. No doubt Winterbourne had thought he had the
right
to force himself on an unknown girl.

He should at least check that she was comfortable
and happy in her room, and know that he was within call. No doubt she was sound asleep by now, but if she wasn’t, he could just tell her that…that he was near by, would come if she needed anything.

He pulled on his dressing gown and padded on bare, silent feet to the bathroom door, finding it slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stopped dead, his eyes almost popping out of his head in shock.

It was not dark as he had expected. A brass oil lamp set on a stand cast a golden glow over the chamber, creating mysterious shadows within the sofa-bed and glinting on the gilded mouldings. But that was not all. It shone with a tender radiance on something much softer, something infinitely alluring and utterly desirable…

His bride was lazing in the bath with her back to him, her hair tucked up on top of her head with a tortoiseshell comb, one ivory arm outstretched as she languidly soaped it. Her head was resting on the edge of the bath as she half-sat, half-floated in the water. Her breasts gleamed as the lamplight slid over her wet skin, which shimmered between pink-tinged ivory and gold. Steam drifted upward from the surface of the water, catching the light as it twisted and wreathed in the draught from the door.

Marcus found that he was scarcely breathing and he would not have been at all surprised to find steam escaping from his ears. Never in his entire life had he been confronted by anything so incredibly, so deliciously erotic. He watched in something approaching agony as Meg, all unknowing, soaped her breasts, her stomach and then lifted one slender leg out of the water and casually soaped that.

His mouth was absolutely dry, his tongue practically
cleaving to the roof as his body registered what he was seeing. All his noble and unconvincing waffle about leaving her to sleep peacefully was incinerated in the volcano of desire that erupted inside him.

He licked his lips and, striving to sound matter of fact, said, ‘May I join you, Meg?’

She spun around with a shocked exclamation, sending water swirling across the floor. Her dark eyes were wide and the blush on her cheeks did not stop there, he noted with wicked satisfaction.

‘J…join me? In the bath, do you mean?’ Her voice was a breathless squeak.

‘Mmm,’ said Marcus with a lazy smile. ‘I understand that was what my mother had in mind when she persuaded my father to have it installed…’ His smile held her captive as he shrugged off his dressing gown and tossed it on to one of the benches.

Meg could not tear her eyes away as he slowly removed his nightshirt. Even though he had shared her bed for two nights, she still caught her breath at the sight of his magnificent, naked body. It seemed so impossible that such strength could be allied to such gentleness, such tender skill. And his desire was so obvious, so flagrantly and potently obvious! She trembled as he lowered himself into the water beside her. Somehow this was far more frightening than the intimacy of bed. There at least she knew roughly what to expect now!

He was reaching for the soap and sponge. She watched him nervously. Was he just going to wash himself? She relaxed slightly and then gasped as he reached for her, a seductive twinkle in his eyes.

‘But I…I washed already…’ she faltered as she felt him begin to soap her arm. Surely he wasn’t going to…he couldn’t be!

‘Did you?’ he asked politely. ‘Are you sure you washed…everywhere?’ The sponge slid over her breasts, his fingers teased over the rosy peaks as his free arm slipped around her to draw her closer, silencing her half-hearted murmur of protest with a gentle kiss. Meg shut her eyes and gave herself up to the exquisite sensations he aroused as he washed her with intimate thoroughness. First her breasts, with slow, circling strokes, grazing over the suddenly taut nipples with agonising delicacy, then her shoulders and arms and back across her breasts to the gentle swell of her stomach, sensuous, sweeping motions that left her gasping and dizzy.

She felt him ease her across his lap and lay unresisting in the curve of his arm as he reached down and began to soap her legs. So lightly, so possessively, in some strange way she felt that he was cleansing the last faint traces of Winterbourne’s vile touch from her body. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted and she could only marvel at the riot of sensation he was evoking in her body. Her mind had long since ceased to function.

Marcus gazed down at his wife’s blissful face resting against his shoulder, the dark, curling lashes lay softly on her cheek and damp curls clung to her brow. He kissed them away. God, she was so lovely! The lamplight gleamed on her soap-slicked body, gilding it rose-gold. He rinsed the soap off and, with a groan of pleasure, lowered his lips to her waiting mouth.

His senses seemed to explode as he tasted her sweetness, felt the soft lips part in willing surrender. He deepened the kiss as he tangled his fingers in the wet curls at the base of her stomach, teasing, probing her melting warmth in possessive intimacy. Her body arched in
shuddering response, leaving him in no doubt of her desire.

Controlling his immediate, instinctive response with difficulty, Marcus continued to tantalise and caress until she writhed in his embrace, turning in his arms to cling to him, her body pressed against his in flagrant need. Her small hands moved over his heavily muscled shoulders and back in shy exploration, tangled in his hair as she gave way to the inferno he had ignited within her.