Page 32 of A Whisper Of Desire (The Disgraced Lords #4)

Every time she looked at Maitland she got that heated unfurling ache deep in her belly.

When he bestowed upon her one of his infrequent smiles her heart raced and her mouth dried.

When he touched her, even the brush of his elbow against her side, she grew damp between her thighs, wanting his touch there so much she almost combusted with need.

He, it would seem, could leave her bed as easily as you would leave a house marked with the plague. What hurt the most was she lay next to him—naked. Her charms had no effect on him at all.

He desired her when she practically threw herself at him—he could not hide his body’s reaction. He grew hard when she stood before him naked. Obviously he wasn’t consumed with want, like she was, the minute he saw her. Was there something about her body that did not appeal?

She wanted the look that Sebastian gave Beatrice. The look that says “I’m going to combust if I don’t get to taste you, love you, take you . . . right now.”

She wanted to know how to make that heated flare of interest appear in Maitland’s eyes anytime he saw her, when she looked her worst, when she was fully clothed, when they were in polite company, and, oh, definitely when they were alone.

They had so little else in common, but how did she get to know the man if he hid himself from her? This marriage would fail if they did not suit in the bedchamber either.

Rose was a woman almost all men looked at with want and desire. She would know what Marisa was doing wrong. She’d sent a note to Rose first thing, requesting help with an urgent but private problem, and had been surprised to get one back immediately, inviting her to breakfast.

Now that she was here, she didn’t know what she would say to Her Grace.

She squared her shoulders, reminding herself that she too was a duchess, and walked up to the open door.

Rose’s butler stood ready to take her cloak and muff.

The weather had been chilly this morning, but not as chilly as her empty bed, she silently told herself.

As the butler announced her, Marisa thought, How cozy, one duchess chatting amicably to another. Rose’s welcoming smile, full of interest, sympathy, and humor, made her realize she was right in coming here. This woman oozed sensuality, which Marisa longed to replicate.

“Marisa, may I call you Marisa? It would be too funny referring to each other as ‘Your Grace.’” She rose and embraced her, kissing her cheek before offering her a seat.

“I thought we’d have breakfast in the drawing room, as it gets the sun. It’s starting to get colder in the mornings.”

“It’s a beautiful room. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I don’t know what you must be thinking.” Marisa took a seat and drew off her gloves.

“I was thinking that I’d wished I’d had a friend I could talk to when I first married. Portia was still unwed and I didn’t want to scare her. Sexual congress with a man old enough to be my father was not pleasant.”

Marisa suddenly realized her problem seemed so insignificant compared to what Rose must have gone through.

“I feel so silly coming to you when my problem is one you’ll probably laugh at and suggest I’m lucky for it.”

“Before we get too serious, let’s enjoy some food and a good cup of tea. I always find things look less problematic with a strong cup of tea in hand.”

Marisa smiled and accepted a plate with eggs and ham. They chatted as if they had been friends forever, Rose telling her about Portia and Grayson’s wedding ceremony. Slowly Marisa’s muscles relaxed and the tension headache throbbing in her skull diminished.

Once the food had been cleared and they both held a cup of tea in their hands, Rose asked the question Marisa needed to hear. “So, what can I help you with?”

On a sigh she exclaimed, “My wedding is the opposite of yours. I’ve married a man I don’t know, that’s true, but he is handsome, virile, kind, and also a mystery.”

“You’re right. He is nothing like my husband.

My husband was a mean-spirited and miserly, unhappy little man.

So I assume you’re not going to ask me how to make it hurt less when he grunts on top of you.

” Rose’s smile died on her last sentence.

Marisa reached for her hand, but she shook her head.

“I rarely think of those days now. Not when I now choose who grunts on top of me, or under me, or behind me.” She laughed wickedly.

Marisa put down the cup she held and covered her face with her hands. “I don’t abhor the marriage bed.” She hesitated and she peeked at her new friend. Rose’s eyebrows rose. “It’s just—how do you make a man want more of it?” she said in a rush.

Confusion marred Roses face. “More of it? More of . . . sex?”

Marisa couldn’t speak so she merely nodded, her face flaming with embarrassment.

Rose seemed speechless. She took a long sip of tea before asking, “How often does he come to your bed?”

“He’s never come to my bed?—”

“You mean you have not consummated your marriage?”

“Oh, yes, we have.” She looked around the room anywhere but at Rose. “It’s just that I have to initiate our couplings.”

Rose’s mouth hung open. “He doesn’t initiate sex?” At Marisa’s nod, she asked sternly, “Do you want the truth”—she held up her hand before Marisa could answer—“even if it is not what you wish to hear?”

“I need to understand what I’m doing wrong.

I mean, it’s perfect when we are together, at least I think it is.

I really don’t have anything to compare it to, as I’ve not slept with any other man.

Plus, he seems very satisfied afterward, and I .

. .” She swallowed. “I have never experienced anything like—it’s like touching heaven. ”

Rose sat back in her chair and sighed. “You are so right. When a man is good in bed, there is no place I’d rather be.”

“I’d never let Maitland out of bed if I could help it, but he can’t wait to leave. In fact, he avoids my bedchamber as much as possible. When he sees me—that is, when I do make an approach —he . . . well, he springs to attention magnificently, if you get my meaning.”

“Hmmm, perhaps my first assumption is incorrect.”

Marisa leaned forward. “You know of this situation?”

“How many times does he pleasure you when you do entice him?”

She rubbed her temples. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Does he make love to you more than once in an evening?”

“More than once? I—no—when it’s over, he insists that I return to my bedchamber.”

Rose sat chewing her bottom lip while Marisa wished she were drinking something stronger than tea. By the look on Rose’s face, she was likely going to need it.

Rose came and sat beside her, taking her hands in her hers.

“I heard a rumor at Lord Castor’s ball last night that he was seen visiting a club called the Top Hat with a young gentleman in tow.

Not many know of it, but it’s a club for men who prefer sex with men.

I hate to say this, but I’m wondering if your husband prefers men. ”

Marisa blinked and then burst out laughing.

Rose let go of her hands. “I don’t think it’s funny. You admit you have to instigate physical relations, he is not renowned for his affairs, and he visits a Molly club.”

“I’m sorry, but I was the young man with him last night.” At Rose’s look of horror, she added, “We are investigating the woman who is attacking the Libertine Scholars.”

“At a Molly house?”

“The men believe the owner, Angelo, has information they need in order to find this villain, but for some reason Angelo is refusing to give it to them. So Maitland has been sent in, with appropriate friend to fit the role, me, so he can put financial pressure on Angelo.”

“How exciting, but how?—”

“He’s going to win at cards.”

Rose pressed a hand to her chest. “That makes perfect sense. So he doesn’t prefer men?”

Marisa shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Does he love another woman, then?”

“I asked him and he denied it. One thing I am sure of—Maitland doesn’t lie. It’s not in his nature.”

Rose retook her original chair and began to pour more tea. She halted and said, “Perhaps we need something stronger. Champagne or sherry?”

“The former, I feel.”

Once Rose had sent for the maid and they were once again alone in her beautiful drawing room, sipping champagne, Rose said, “I thought helping you would be easy, and that I’d have all the right advice, but I have never encountered this situation.

If I’ve shown the slightest interest in a man, and”—her lips turned down at the corners—“even when I didn’t, I had no trouble enticing them into my bed. ”

“In your experience, why would he not wish to pursue me? Why do I have to initiate our encounters? Is there something wrong with me? The way I look? Did I do something wrong the first night?”

“Men are very visual creatures. A little ankle here, a bare shoulder there, a pert bosom with deep cleavage sends them into a frenzy.” She eyed Marisa’s person. “I would think you had plenty to entice men with.”

“Maitland was very enticed the night our scandal broke. He practically dragged me into an alcove and kissed me senseless.”

“So, you ended up in his bed the night of Dunmire’s ball on purpose.”

She shook her head. “No. That’s what is so strange. It’s as if after our kiss he decided I wasn’t suitable or something.”

“Hmm, I wonder.” She pursed her lips and tapped her finger against her glass, all the while looking Marisa up and down.

“You were the debutante of the season. You are beautiful, graceful, have a body most men would find desirable. You come from a good pedigree and you’re his best friend’s sister.

He would feel most comfortable with you.

Plus, you admit he stands to attention when you initiate sex. I smell big fat stinky fear.”

“Fear? What does he have to be afraid of?”