Page 22 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

W hen Melissande touched Rivendale’s skin, it took all his self-control not to groan out loud.

He was still hurting. Badly. But her warm, soft touch brought immense pleasure.

He needed to distract himself from her touch, from the vision of her crouching before him, her hair spilling from her tight chignon, her beautiful emerald silk dressing gown hugging her body like a second skin, the candlelight casting golden highlights across the smooth column of her throat.

“See?” she asked, her voice slightly breathless as she worked on a particularly stubborn knot in his calf. “Isn’t it better that I do this for you?”

“I suppose,” he grumbled, because he wasn’t certain it was.

Her fingers pressing into the twisted knots of his limb brought him relief, yes. But this was the first time she had touched him willingly. The first contact of her bare skin against his—that stolen kiss on the ship notwithstanding—and it had to be here, on the most misshapen part of him.

He watched her face carefully for any sign of revulsion, any wince that would indicate disgust, but found only focused concentration.

He wished he could spare her the contact, but the ache was too fierce, and her touch too soothing.

Adding to the already confusing emotions roiling inside him, along came desire. The awareness of her hands, her closeness, and her scent awakened his body in ways that were easy to notice.

She shifted slightly, leaning closer to work the salve deeper into his muscles, and her breast brushed against his knee.

The contact was fleeting, accidental, but it sent lightning through his entire body.

He tugged on the hem of his nightshirt, pretending to give her more access to his leg, baring his knee while carefully bunching the nightshirt over his lap to cover his erect manhood.

“You suppose?” She raised her brow, her lips lifting in a half-smile.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, praying she couldn’t see his aroused state. “It’s just not proper for a lady to touch a man so intimately.”

“Good thing I am not a lady, then.” She moved her hands higher, kneading the muscles just beneath his knee.

Rivendale held his breath. Her movements were confident; there was no hesitation as she worked on his knotted muscles.

“Otherwise, you would have suffered greatly, if only to avoid impropriety.”

He winced as she touched a particularly sore spot, though whether from pain or pleasure, he could no longer distinguish.

“It’s not just that it’s improper and frowned upon.

If a gentlebred, unmarried lady were to see me with my breeches off, let alone touch my bare skin, I would be required to wed her.

” And if Melissande were a gentlebred lady, he would have probably proposed on the spot just so she would continue touching him.

“Even if no one knew about this?” she asked, not pausing her ministrations. Her fingers worked higher, finding the junction where his calf met his knee, and he had to grip the arms of the chair to keep from arching into her touch.

He thought for a moment, trying to focus on anything other than the way her hands moved on his skin.

“I suppose not if it stayed a secret. But I doubt I would have found myself in such circumstances with an unmarried lady to begin with. Even traveling with her would result in a scandal. It would ruin her. While being caught in a scandal with you will probably help improve your reputation.”

She smiled, her eyes still on his leg, her sure fingers working his aching muscles, providing much-needed relief.

“Scandal does have a way of improving one’s business.

Good thing it’s not enough to ensnare me,” she agreed, then glanced up at him with sparkling eyes.

“Though I see you haven’t been ensnared yet, either. ”

He let out a snort, his tone bitter. “I don’t see women trying very hard to entrap me. On the contrary.”

Her expression turned incredulous. “I find that hard to believe.”

And he found it hard to believe she doubted his words. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” She ducked her head, applying more pressure to his already aching limb.

He stifled a groan; it felt good—her hands seemed to know exactly where to press and how much pressure to apply, as if she were reading his body’s needs through her fingertips.

She continued, “You are rich, titled, and handsome. I don’t see many ladies finding better matches. ”

He let out a bark of laughter. “Rich and titled, sure. But you’d be the first ever to call me handsome.”

Her fingers froze on his muscles as she cocked her head to the side, studying his features. Her gaze traveled over his face, lingering on his mouth, his eyes, and the line of his jaw. Rivendale struggled not to fidget under her intense scrutiny.

“They must be too intimidated by your cold, grim stare to call you handsome to your face. They probably think you’d hurl something at them if they did.”

Rivendale pursed his lips to suppress a laugh.

Was that how she saw him? Cold and intimidating, yet also…

handsome? She must have been teasing him.

He owned a mirror. At best, he was plain, and at worst, he was hideous.

Yet the way she looked at him now, with genuine warmth in her eyes, made him believe he was handsome.

“Trust me. Nobody says it behind my back, either.”

She shrugged. “I suppose you can seem menacing when you bark orders and speak so curtly. You don’t waste time on empty pleasantries or flattering lies. Perhaps that is the real reason women flee from you.”

Rivendale opened his mouth to retort, but found he had no words. He wasn’t even sure whether her comment was meant as a compliment or an insult.

“Even if you were hideous,” she continued, “I don’t think that would deter marriage. I’ve seen rather repulsive-looking, old, and unkempt gentlemen marry beautiful, young ladies. When you have riches and a title, people are willing to overlook a lot.”

“I suppose that much is true,” he said, nodding.

“And you’re right. It would be easy to find a match if all I wanted was a marchioness.

But I live a rather solitary life. If I decided to marry, I’d want someone I wouldn’t mind waking up to every morning, and more importantly, someone who wouldn’t mind waking up to me by her side. ”

“Ah. So you are looking for a love match, then.” Her lips twitched in a sardonic smile. Did she not believe in love, or did she not believe in love for him?

“No,” he answered quickly. “But I don’t want an arranged affair either.” He paused, acutely aware of her hands resting on his knee, her thumbs tracing small, absent circles that drove him to distraction.

“Why not? I’m sure you could arrange a house party announcing a search for a bride, and you’d have dozens of debutantes knocking on your door.”

He let out a sigh. “My parents tried that. Except they didn’t invite all the debutantes. They picked out one they deemed suitable and invited her and her parents to our estate for a few weeks.” The memory still stung, even after all these years.

She lowered her gaze back to his limb. Her hands resumed their work, but now her touch felt softer, more reverent.

She moved her hands higher, pushing his nightshirt out of the way.

Her fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of his lower thigh, and the sensation was so intense he nearly came undone right there.

“What are you doing?” He caught her hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb.

She blinked innocently, though he could see awareness in her eyes, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to him. “Kneading your muscles. Your whole leg is affected, no?”

She glanced down, indicating with her gaze the extent of his knotted cords, but he could only think about his erect cock that hadn’t yet subsided.

The way she was positioned between his legs, her hands on his thigh, was the most erotic thing he had ever experienced, and he was certain she must be aware of his state of arousal.

“Yes, but I can reach my thigh quite well,” he said, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control.

“Come now, my lord.” A smile touched her lips as she leaned forward slightly, giving him a glimpse of her décolletage above the neckline of her dressing gown.

Good Lord. His cock jumped at the mere sight.

What would happen if he managed to touch her there?

His fingers tightened around her wrist, but she pulled her hand out of his grasp.

“It’s clear I am better at this than you. It’s just easier to let me finish.”

Come. Yes. He’d love to. And he’d love to see her finish, too. But in a completely different way. He gritted his teeth. “Fine. Finish.”

She grinned saucily, as if she had won some kind of prize. Did she truly want to touch the most misshapen part of him?

She continued rubbing his thigh as he tugged up his nightshirt, bunching it even more at his groin.

Her hands were warm on his skin, working his tight muscles with a thoroughness that was both healing and torturous.

Each stroke of her fingers sent heat racing through his veins, and he had to bite his lip to keep from making sounds that would embarrass them both.

“And?” she prompted, her voice slightly breathless now, as if her ministrations were affecting her as well.

He swallowed, his mind reeling from her touch. “And what?” The words came out rough, his voice thick with desire he couldn’t quite hide.

“What happened to the lady your parents brought to your estate as your potential bride?”