Page 10 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

P ick your forfeit.

The three words still rang in Rivendale’s mind even days after his last meeting with Miss Melissande Monroe.

What was he thinking? Challenging her about her ability to find his locket.

First of all, he genuinely hoped she would find it. She had all the right connections to the auction houses and the criminal element.

Second, if she did succeed, he would owe her a forfeit. And whatever that forfeit entailed, it was likely to ruin him or his life, or probably both.

But blood seemed to flow faster in his veins when she was around, and he could not help but challenge her in the same way she challenged him.

She teased him, poked, and prodded him like no one ever had before.

He had to admit that, despite acting like a brute, he enjoyed the feeling.

In fact, it was precisely why he was behaving so harshly.

He hoped to discourage her antics, wishing she would go away and leave him alone because she was bound to do so sooner or later. If it wasn’t sooner, he feared he would become too dependent on her. Too engulfed in her intoxicating charm to let her go that easily.

As it was, he couldn’t help his mind from wandering away from his work and toward thoughts of the enigmatic Miss Monroe.

He looked out the window of his study. It was dark.

He glanced at the plant on his desk and reached out to touch one long, prickly leaf. Was that what it was called—a leaf? Or was it a stem?

He shook his head. He knew nothing about plants in general and even less about this one in particular.

He wondered how often he needed to water it. So far, he had done so only once, on a whim. He didn’t even know what the plant was called.

He hadn’t asked Miss Monroe when she gave it to him, nor did he think to ask the one time he saw her afterward.

It had been a week since he last heard from the insufferable woman.

She had promised to find his locket, challenged him to a wager, and then disappeared.

He had half a mind to go looking for her.

Surely, it wouldn’t be difficult to find her. She was probably sitting in Hades’ Hell, in her office… or entertaining some other lord.

Something twisted in his gut at the thought.

Perhaps she had grown tired of him and his rude behavior. After all, hadn’t he told her on one previous occasion that he wished never to see her again?

Well, he’d gotten his wish.

So why did his skin heat every time he thought of her? Why did every fiber of his being come alive at the mere image of her face? And why was his cock hard and swollen right now?

She was undeniably a beautiful woman, but he had met plenty of beautiful women before.

He had attended a ball a few nights ago to begin reintroducing himself to society.

It was a painful ordeal, and he hadn’t spent much time there, but he had encountered dozens of women, each more beautiful than the last. All of them were great conversationalists—well-mannered and polite.

But none of them ignited the fire in his veins the way Miss Monroe did.

Something about her tugged at his very being.

Was it her defiance of every rule he had tried so hard to obey? Was it the easy confidence with which she moved throughout the world—no, not just one world but both their worlds? Or was it simply the way she managed to irritate him with every word she spoke and every step she took?

She was like a storm that swept into his life on a quiet day, turning it completely upside down.

He had to admit that, as much as it annoyed him, he liked that she inspired such strong emotions in him.

She introduced chaos into his quiet, orderly life, and he welcomed it.

It took her disappearance for him to finally realize that.

Of course, he still didn’t understand why she had sought him out in the first place. Why had she decided to stroll up to his house on a rainy morning and present him with credit to her gaming hell?

She was eccentric, and perhaps that was simply her nature, scandalizing the ton with her uncouth behavior.

He had grown accustomed to seeing her weekly and wished he could see her more often. They didn’t need to speak; he could simply watch her walk the length of her gaming hell, engaging with patrons and doing whatever else she did there.

Or he could ride alongside her around the Serpentine. In silence.

He let out a chuckle.

He doubted she spent much time in silence. She was too animated, too loud for that. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would find solace in quiet.

Well, then, she could talk, and he would listen. He could watch her lush lips move, her tongue darting out to wet them…

If only he could feel those lips, taste that tongue.

He threw back his head and closed his eyes.

In his mind, he envisioned her striding into his study as if she owned it—the way she always entered his domain—with her cloak billowing behind her.

With one flick of her wrist, she loosened the tie at her throat, letting the cloak spill to the floor and baring her body to his gaze. Because, of course, in his illusion, she was completely naked.

Glorious. Dazzling. His undoing.

Her hips swung seductively as she moved closer, each step a torment until she reached him. He seized her, pulling her into his lap, her thighs clamping around him, her heat settling over the rigid length straining beneath his breeches.

He imagined the low rasp of her breath, the soft perfume of her skin mingling with leather and candle smoke.

Their mouths collided in a desperate kiss.

He imagined her lips tasting of crushed berries or perhaps wine, sweet and intoxicating against his tongue. In his vision, her fingers explored him greedily, slipping beneath his banyan, tracing the taut lines of his chest, his abdomen, lower…

He would respond in kind, cupping the swell of her breasts, weighing them, molding them, rolling her nipples until she shivered against him.

He undid the falls of his breeches, his hands shaking, his cock surging into the cool air, thick and pulsing. In his mind, it was her hand that closed around him, her fist gliding, stroking, squeezing him at the base, milking him with deliberate slowness until he thought he might shatter.

He could almost hear her laugh, low and wicked in his ear, as his body betrayed him, pulsing with need for a woman who existed only in his fevered imagination.

With a rough groan, he fisted himself harder, envisioning her sinking onto him, her silken heat enveloping him inch by inch. In his mind, his hands ghosted up her thighs, gripping and bruising, forcing her hips to grind down, riding him until every thrust left him more desperate.

Her hair came loose, dark waves tumbling over her breasts, her head falling back as broken cries spilled from her parted lips, giving him access to her neck.

He could almost taste her skin.

Salt. Sweetness. Sin…

He pumped into his fist with sharp jerks, imagining her clenching around him, clutching at his shoulders, sobbing out his name.

His body coiled tight, every muscle straining toward release.

He bucked into his hand, hard and fast, chasing the rhythm of her imagined body slamming down on him.

His thrusts grew frantic, his cock sliding through his fist as his fantasy turned feral. She was wild in his arms, clutching him, grinding down harder, desperate to take every ounce of him inside her. His body tightened, the climax rushing up, brutal and unstoppable.

Pleasure clawed up his spine, and he groaned through clenched teeth.

He was right there… on the edge. So close to spilling over that his body trembled, his breath catching in ragged bursts. Every muscle coiled, every nerve lit with pleasure. One more stroke, one more imagined touch, and he would shatter.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Footsteps.

Someone moved toward his door, their footsteps growing louder with each step, tearing him out of his fevered daydream.

His eyes flew open, his head snapping down just in time to hear the familiar knock. Two raps, and the door screeched open.

Bloody hell.

He yanked his banyan over his lap and sat up ramrod straight in his chair, his heart thundering loudly against his chest.

The desk shielded him mercifully from the waist down, but he could feel the betraying throb beneath the silk.

If his butler noticed, he gave no flicker of acknowledgment.

“Miss Melissande Monroe,” the man intoned solemnly, bowed, and withdrew.

Damn it all.

After a week of absence, of course, this had to be the moment she decided to grace him with her visit. Because fate had a vicious sense of humor, the very woman who had just driven him to the brink of madness in his mind had to be the one to interrupt his imagined tryst.

She swept into the room like a vision, her cloak whispering around her feet. She raised her hand and tugged on the tie under her chin.

Rivendale’s cheeks burned. He fully expected her cloak to fall to the floor and her to be completely naked before him, just like in his dream.

Instead, she gently pushed the corners of her cloak aside, revealing a beautiful deep blue gown—almost as seductive as his imagined vision of her naked form.

She cleared her throat.

He raised his eyes, suddenly realizing he had been staring at her breasts.

His cock, which had softened after the rude interruption, now surged back to life.

Rivendale shifted uncomfortably, keeping his banyan carefully over his bulge.

“I found your—” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.

What was she looking at? He shifted under her intense perusal. Could she see the evidence of what had transpired in this room just moments before her arrival? Or had she deduced what his heated cheeks and fevered eyes communicated?

“You look rather flushed,” she noted. “Are you feeling well?”

Oh, God. He was flushed. And no, he didn’t feel well. He would have felt much better had she arrived a few seconds later, allowing him to finish.

He pulled at his banyan, ensuring his cock was fully covered. “I am—” His voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat. “I am quite well. Thank you. Why are you here?”