Page 16 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

R ivendale returned an hour later, feeling tired, aching, and in desperate need of sleep. But as he stepped into the room, every other thought fled his mind.

Melissande sat on the bed, her damp hair cascading around her shoulders like spilled silk.

The candlelight caught the moisture still glistening on her skin, making her glow like something from a painter’s most fevered imagination.

Her silk robe was perfectly modest yet utterly devastating, clinging in ways that made his mouth go dry.

She was absolutely gorgeous.

Damn her.

She looked up as he entered, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. He felt frozen, caught between the urge to stare and the impulse to flee again. The scent of lavender soap hung in the air, intoxicating and entirely too intimate.

He crossed to the chair by the fire, trying to maintain as much composure as he could muster, but his body betrayed him with an involuntary groan as he lowered himself down. The sound echoed in the charged silence.

“What is it?” Her voice was sharp with genuine concern. “You’re in pain.”

“It will pass,” he said, though they both knew it was a lie.

“Does it always hurt like this?”

“No. But after a long day atop a horse and several trips up and down the stairs, it’s worse. But it shall pass.”

“When?”

“Not soon. Usually, I take long baths and then rub some salve into my muscles. It helps.”

She gestured toward the tub. “Please, proceed. I’m sure the innkeeper can bring another steaming bucket so you can relax in the tub for a few minutes.” She added, at his hesitation, “Unless you intend to be stubborn for the sake of it.”

She was right. There was no need to prolong the pain. They had already broken all the rules of propriety by spending the night in the same room. What was one more?

“Very well.”

* * *

Melissande looked away as Rivendale stripped down.

The innkeeper had brought in another bucket of steaming water, fogging the windows.

So, she focused her gaze on the glass, watching the mist bead and run, all the while imagining his skin revealed inch by inch: broad shoulders gleaming in the firelight, a chest dusted with dark hair, the hard plane of his stomach—

She heard his breeches drop to the floor, and it took everything in her not to steal a glance. What was wrong with her? She had never been so curious about a man’s body.

But it wasn’t simple curiosity, was it? It was want… need.

An ache pooled low in her belly—no, not in her belly. Lower. Between her legs—when she thought of him bare.

She had nearly caught him once, breeches half down. Rather, she had seen only the hurried tuck as he fastened himself away, unashamed in her presence, but she had missed the actual act.

And she had wondered ever since: who did he think of when he pleasured himself? His lost love? Some nameless woman? She hated the thought of either.

What if he thought of her ? Just the idea of it thrilled her.

She wished he ached for her as much as she ached for him—craved to taste her lips, to touch her skin.

Her fingers twitched with the sudden need to touch herself.

She imagined his cock, hard and thick, standing to attention, waiting for her touch. And all she wanted was to wrap her fingers around it. To caress it, feel it… feel the heat in her hand, wrap her lips around its girth.

She shook her head sharply, snapping herself free from the reverie, and climbed onto the bed. She needed a distraction.

She picked up the book Theo had given her before she left for France.

Melissande hadn’t read it properly yet. She had meant to in the carriage, but travel sickness had stopped her after only a few pages.

Now she opened it, determined to appear casual, sophisticated even, while he bathed mere feet away.

But as her eyes skimmed the page, she realized her mistake.

She should have done her due diligence about the literature she carried with her.

The book recounted the life of a woman who wasted no time in describing her amorous encounters in vivid, unblushing detail.

Heat crept up Melissande’s throat as she stumbled over a passage describing the woman’s first experience. And with another woman, no less. The words blurred as awareness of Rivendale’s presence filled the room.

She could not read such provocative words while he was mere feet away.

She could hear every drop of water hitting the floor or lapping against the tub, the rhythm of his quiet breath, the knowledge that he was naked just beyond her line of sight. Fire spread through her veins, scorching her from the inside out.

If he only knew what she was reading. Would he recoil in horror? Or would he ask for a spare copy so he could indulge himself?

Her eyes slid lower on the page. Instead of picturing the paragraph from the book, she imagined Rivendale’s fingers tracing her skin, his lips at her throat, his cock—

Focus, she snapped at herself, blinking hard to chase the image away.

“Does the heat of the bath bother you?” Rivendale’s voice cut through her thoughts.

Her head jerked up to find his gaze fixed on her, dark and unflinching. His hair was wet, slicked to his forehead, droplets trailing down the hard planes of his face. But her attention strayed lower, to the massive arms braced against the rim of the tub. How did he ever fit those into a coat?

He spoke again, but the words flew past her ears as she was far too busy staring at the taut muscles of his forearms, the wet hair clinging to his olive skin, and the long fingers she had just imagined gripping her thighs.

“Melissande?”

Her name, uttered for the first time from his lips, snapped her attention back.

“Hm?”

Amusement tugged at his mouth. “I asked if the heat of the bath bothered you.”

“Oh. No, not at all.” Her voice came out squeakier than usual.

“Strange,” he murmured. “You look quite… warm.”

Her hand flew to her cheek. Scalding. And not from the steam. The realization only deepened the flush.

“No, no. Please, continue… um… enjoying your bath.” She swallowed, her eyes betraying her as they slid once more over the ridges of his shoulders.

“Oh, I will,” he said with a tone she hadn’t heard from him before. Playful? Taunting? Was he teasing her?

She risked a sidelong glance. He leaned against the back of the tub, throwing his head back, exposing his throat to her view.

Her pulse stuttered.

It took every ounce of restraint not to walk up to him and lick the beads of steam from his skin.

Good Lord, what am I thinking?

She turned a few desperate pages, hoping to land on a less scandalous paragraph. Instead, the heroine was extolling the virtues of a man’s… machine, as the author so delicately put it.

Melissande’s breath caught. Though the prose itself was hardly enticing, her imagination immediately conjured the man across from her, wondering what his machine might look like when fully erect.

With a sharp snap, she slammed the book shut and shoved it beneath her pillow, as though that could silence her thoughts.

She lay back stiffly, eyes glued to the canopy overhead, body thrumming though she willed herself into stillness.

This is ridiculous. Utterly and completely ridiculous.

Water sloshed as Rivendale shifted in the tub. A pause. Then his voice came, low and rough, tinged with something that might have been amusement.

“Is your book not as tantalizing as you hoped?”

He emphasized tantalizing in a way that made her stomach flutter. If he only knew.

Did he know? She glanced at him and caught the glint of mirth in his eyes.

“What do you find so amusing?” she asked.

“Nothing. You seemed so engrossed in your novel, only to shove it aside in haste. Did it disappoint?”

“No, I am just tired,” she lied.

To her surprise, a short chuckle escaped his lips.

Was this the first time she had heard him laugh? It was a brief, low sound that sent shivers up her arms… but also rough and rusty, as if from disuse. As if he himself was startled to hear it.

“I have to admit,” she said, “the sound is so unfamiliar as to be unrecognizable. Did you just laugh?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. I am quite serious. I am merely… bored. Perhaps you could read from your book to me. Unless it is poetry—I abhor poetry.”

He was teasing her. What a cad. Could he have seen the title and known what she was really reading?

“No, not poetry,” Melissande said quickly. “It’s a lady’s book of etiquette.”

He chuckled again, the sound becoming warmer, more familiar to her ears. “I rather doubt it. Nobody blushes so when reading a book on etiquette.”

Melissande narrowed her eyes. He did know what she was reading! And he had decided to embarrass her. Well, two could play at that game.

“Fine. You want me to read my book to you? With pleasure,” she announced, pulling the volume from beneath her pillow.

She flipped the pages, seeking one of the more lascivious passages.

Reading aloud, she began, “I lay then silently before him, my thighs spread wide and open, waiting for his touch, trembling in anticipation of the pleasure I had not felt before. My breasts, round and plump—”

“That’s enough,” he croaked.

“Are you certain?” Her eyes flicked to him. “I can continue.” She returned to the text. She had lost her spot, but it didn’t matter. Her purpose was to rile him up. “…his fiery touches reignited the heat within me. With my thighs wrapped around his neck—”

“Yes, I am quite certain.”

“—he moved to kiss my furnace mouth.”

“Please, stop,” he choked out. A pause. “A furnace mouth?”

Melissande laughed, delighting in his confusion over the peculiar euphemism. “I can continue,” she offered, blinking innocently.

Rivendale shook his head. “No. I think that was a perfect ending to the story. I can only imagine the poor fellow burned down for his effort at kissing the…” he cleared his throat.

“The furnace. Now, if you would turn away, I wish to attempt exiting the bath. And I would not wish to offend your womanly sensibilities. You may read as much as you like about mouths of the furnace, but you are not going to see mine.”

Melissande erupted in laughter. She had not expected him to be so sharp-witted.

“No, no, no, good sir. Furnace mouth is used exclusively for the female anatomy.”

“Hmm…” A low rumble left his chest. “What would a male anatomy be called then? A hot poker?”

She clapped a hand over her mouth, laughing at the absurdity.

She could not imagine it being described as a hot poker.

That didn’t sound titillating at all. Though neither was a furnace mouth.

And the book’s euphemism for a cock, machine , didn’t exactly sound arousing either.

At least then she could imagine its formidable size and girth, while the hot poker… well. She could not help but chuckle.

Now the book was ruined forever. She would never read it without picturing a man’s cock as a sharp metal stick. Unless, perhaps, he meant the handle…

She turned away, a smile tugging at her lips. “Feel free to proceed,” she said.

He grunted loudly, the water sloshing over the bath’s edges as he attempted to climb out.

“Do you need any help?”

He huffed. “God, no.”

“You could cover yourself with a towel. I don’t need to see your… poker at all.”

He laughed, and a loud clatter followed. Melissande flinched. “Are you—”

“Don’t worry, it’s not me, it’s the chair,” he said, amusement lacing his voice. “And it’s your fault it fell.”

Melissande grinned. She was chipping away at his defenses, and she thoroughly enjoyed it.

After a long while, Rivendale finally climbed into bed, pulling a sheet around him.

“Good night,” he murmured.

Melissande didn’t dare move. If she turned to look at him, she feared she would be unable to resist throwing her arms around him and kissing him.

He lay still, barely breathing as well.

Tension crackled between them. Usually, she could dispel any tension with a joke or a playful quip. But now her mind was void of any humor, utterly consumed by the fact that a large, naked marquess lay beside her, heat radiating from his body.

Was he naked? No, he couldn’t be. Surely he wore some hideous nightshirt. Yet she didn’t dare confirm her suspicions. Because what if he was naked?

What then?

This was not how the journey was supposed to go. She should have been in control—teasing him, flirting, making him fall for her wit and boldness. Not lying here like some blushing debutante.

Yet her body felt heavy with lead, and her mind was completely blank.

It was going to be a very long night indeed.