Page 33 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

“ C hrist, Melissande,” Rivendale rasped as he finally met her gaze, his voice rough with spent passion. “You taste so good. I couldn’t… I couldn’t control myself.”

Melissande smiled, a surge of feminine satisfaction coursing through her.

She loved that she could reduce this composed, reserved man to such base need.

He became hard for her in moments and had climaxed simply from bringing her pleasure.

If she kissed him now, she knew he would swell with desire again.

To test her theory, she leaned over him and pressed her lips to his, tasting her own essence on his tongue. His groan vibrated against her mouth.

“I need to clean myself before we continue,” he said, his breathing still uneven.

She chuckled softly. “As do I. And I need to… prepare myself properly.”

“Prepare yourself?”

She bit her lip. “The sponge for… um… you understand.”

He looked puzzled for a moment before understanding dawned. “Oh. Right. Of course. You should… we should… It’s a good idea.”

She laughed outright at his stammering. How she adored the way she could reduce the marquess’s articulate speech to half-finished sentences.

This was the same man who had once sent chills down her spine with his curt dismissals, who rarely smiled, and who maintained rigid control over every aspect of his life.

They separated to attend to their ablutions, and when Melissande returned to the bedchamber, she immediately draped herself over his body. He responded instantly, his mouth finding her neck, teeth grazing her collarbone with gentle pressure.

“You smell so good,” he murmured against her throat. “Your perfume is intoxicating.”

She stilled. “I’m not wearing perfume.”

“No?”

She inhaled deeply, for she too could detect the sweet, heady fragrance filling the air. Where could it be coming from?

“Good God,” Rivendale sat up abruptly, and Melissande followed his amazed gaze. “Look.”

The plant she had given him—the one he had carefully transported from England—had burst into magnificent bloom.

What had been an unremarkable collection of flat, broad leaves now displayed a single extraordinary flower. The bloom was enormous, nearly eight inches across, with pristine white petals that seemed to glow in the firelight. The flower’s beauty was almost ethereal, otherworldly.

And the fragrance—sweet and exotic—filled the entire room. And the scent indeed reminded her of her perfume.

“I didn’t think it would ever bloom,” Melissande breathed, staring at the magnificent sight.

Rivendale’s grin was boyish, transforming his entire face. “I didn’t think I was capable of making anything bloom.”

She threw him a wicked glance, trailing her fingers down his chest. “Oh, you make plenty of things bloom, my lord.”

Then she kissed him deeply. He chuckled, lowering her to the bed.

“As long as I make you bloom,” he whispered against her lips, “that’s all that matters.”

* * *

The next morning, Melissande lay awake beside Rivendale, studying the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her hair was tangled across his shoulder, and his sleeping face held an expression of such contentment that her heart clenched painfully.

This was dangerous territory.

She had sworn never to let herself be undone by a man of his world—titled, wealthy, powerful.

Nothing good ever came from falling for a man of a different world. It only led to pain and sorrow.

Yet here she was, in his bed, in his arms, forgetting every protective vow she had ever made.

But he was different from other men of his class, she told herself. Wasn’t he?

Or perhaps it was her feelings that were different this time.

She drew a careful breath, still detecting traces of the exotic fragrance mingling with the earthier scents of their lovemaking.

She turned her head toward the plant, expecting to see the glorious bloom of the night before.

Instead, the flower had already begun to wither.

Even as she watched, one petal detached and drifted to the floor like a discarded handkerchief.

Her chest tightened with unexpected sadness. A flower of the Queen of the Night bloomed for a single night, she remembered the botanist telling her.

She hadn’t believed him then. Of course, that was when her plant refused to bloom at all.

One night’s bloom, and then by morning light, there was nothing but memory.

It seemed symbolic of the liaison between her and Rivendale—no, Nathaniel.

It wouldn’t last just one night, she told herself firmly. They had days yet, maybe weeks, before circumstances forced them back to their separate worlds. She had to believe that was enough time to… to what? To make him love her enough to change everything about his life?

To convince herself she could be happy in his world?

That was impossible.

Just like the flower, their bloom was destined to be intense and short-lived. Unlike the flower, they would never bloom together again.