Page 28 of When the Marquess Needed Me (The Rake Chronicles #4)

Chapter Twenty-Six

W ith sinking dread, the Marquess of Leith realized that he had fallen in love with Beatrice Salisbury.

On his own, outside of the influence of his friends, Leith was sure that the thought would not have occurred to him, even given the obvious intensity of his feelings for her.

But when he saw Beatrice in the context of two of his best friends and their wives, the parallels were unmistakable.

He had never before understood the impulses that led his friends to want to be so near their wives at all times. How they seemed to derive life itself from these women.

But when he had been sitting in John’s drawing room, a place that he had sat countless times, and had looked at Beatrice from across the room, a deep, primal urge had compelled him to cross the room and sit next to her.

To take her hand.

He saw the glance exchanged between Trem and John when he did so.

And, then, with a jagged, terrified feeling, he knew.

The problem with this reality was manifold, he reflected, as he and Beatrice drove back to his town house that evening.

First, their liaison was only to be two weeks long. He had no notion of whether she would be open to a more lasting arrangement.

Second, his best friend thought that he hadn’t touched the woman.

And third, and most importantly, she showed no sign of harboring such intense feelings for him.

In short, he had no earthly idea what to do with this revelation. No solution appeared readily available.

Worse, when they returned home—a place that now seemed, after a manner of days, as much hers as his own—she wanted to bed him.

And there was no way he could resist her.

Even though he knew, with a startling clarity, that the one threshold they had not yet crossed would only make his situation worse.

But how was he to stop it? When Beatrice padded into his room in her shift and robe, then removed them both, and climbed into bed beside him?

“Would you undress for me?” she asked, her deep, dark eyes full of lust.

Would he?

Yesterday, he had had an aversion to doing so because he had feared she would scoff at his deficits. Now, she knew all, and so that no longer worried him.

No, now he was afraid of what such undressing would do to his feelings.

And yet he longed to feel her skin against his own, to feel no barriers between them, and she evidentially wanted the same.

“Yes,” he said. He stood, quickly, and pulled his nightshirt over his head.

“You’re very handsome, you know,” Beatrice said, as he climbed back into bed.

“I am not paying you to flatter me,” he said, turning towards her. “But to let me tup you.”

She shook her head. “I am merely telling you how I feel.”

And then she embraced him. And he bit back a moan at the sensation.

Had he ever had this? With any woman?

Maybe once or twice. In the dark. When he had been young and lonely and full of drink and had been able to forget his inhibitions for a moment.

But even in those instances he had been too anxious to enjoy it.

Now, tears sprung to his eyes, and so he pulled her closer so that she wouldn’t see. The silky pull of her skin on his own was a wonder. It was truly like nothing he had ever experienced before.

And his cock was hard, of course.

But it was more than that. He felt completely exposed to her—and he liked it.

She pulled back and looked into his face.

He blinked back the tears that had welled there, trying to steady himself.

“I do not mind if you are emotional,” she said, to his vexation, as if she could read his damned mind. “You have deprived yourself for so long.”

He dragged his hand over her shoulder blade and then down to her breast, cupping her with his fingers. She gave out a satisfying little sigh as he did so.

“In a way, I suppose. I doubt many would feel too badly for me.”

She was right, of course, but he didn’t want to admit it.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “But I would call it deprivation. Bedding is not just about cock in quim. It is about this particular kind of closeness.”

With those words, she pressed herself to him, lining herself up with him so that their bodies were completely flush.

He felt that intense emotion threatening again. His eyes filled once more with tears, and he was glad that she could not see his face.

“With you,” he said, in a constricted voice, “it is that way.”

She made no movement away from him. Instead, he realized, she was just letting him hold her, like this. How could she know, he thought, that it was what he needed? He hoped that his need wasn’t coming off of him in waves. That it wasn’t painfully obvious how much he needed to hold her this closely.

He gloried in her nearness, the sweet scent of her hair, and the smoothness of her skin. He reached around and cupped her arse, pulling her closer to himself and holding her there.

He had been ignoring the demands of his body, the hardness of his cock, even though his blood was fairly screaming.

“Mmm, that’s nice,” she said. “I like being so close to you.”

“Beatrice,” he groaned, because he didn’t know what else to say. She made him desperate in ways that he was unable to articulate.

Still, he held off, merely holding her to him, and she let him.

His cock slid against the smoothness of her belly, raging at him for his lack of action.

“Fuck,” he said, “I need you.”

“Then take me.”

In one motion, he rolled on top of her, so that she was underneath him. He kissed her softly, reveling in the feel of her tongue in his mouth while he pressed his body into hers.

She pulled herself closer to him, aligning his cock with her core.

His cock brushed against her quim. And he swore when he felt how wet she was.

For a moment, he was sorely tempted to enter her.

But he knew only madness led that way.

“I need a letter,” he said.

“Oh, yes, I’d nearly forgotten.”

Ignoring that tempting, dangerous intimation, he quickly found a letter and tied the ribbons.

The experience of being away from her at such a moment, when he wanted her so badly, was a physical pain.

He pressed himself over her, so that they were touching as much as they had been when he had been merely holding her. She opened her legs so that he could enter her.

But Leith wanted to feel her. To touch her.

He adjusted himself so that his fingers grasped at her wetness.

She moaned as he stroked her there.

“You have the most beautiful pussy in the world, Beatrice. Do you know that?”

She laughed. “That’s very good. What you’re doing. And I’ve had compliments in the past, I will admit.”

“I hate thinking of your former lovers.”

He parted her with his fingers and she gasped. “I do not have to speak of them, if it bothers you.”

“A deranged part of me wants to hunt down each one and kill him. For getting to you before I did.”

“How very primitive,” she gasped, because he was still stroking her.

“I cannot help it. And yet I am so curious about your past experiences, I don’t think I could command you to stop speaking of them.”

“Then I won’t.”

“But you should be aware that it makes me terribly jealous.”

He thrust two fingers inside of her and she arched her back.

“Ah, I will keep that in mind.”

“You are so lovely. I want to give you everything. I want you to be all mine,” he said, as he fucked her with his fingers. Apparently, when he was with Beatrice, he couldn’t stop all manner of nonsense from pouring out of his mouth.

She moaned, seemingly unable to answer him for a moment.

“I am yours,” she finally responded.

“Yes, for now, you are.”

“Yes, I’m all yours.”

He groaned at the words. “God, I like that.”

No, the truth was that he loved it. But he couldn’t say that. He had retained some sense, even with her cunt on his fingers.

Inside of her, he stroked the spot that he knew was so sensitive.

“Will you come for me, my love?”

“Ah, yes, I will, if you keep doing that.”

So he did. And soon she was crying out, her core clenching around his fingers.

He held her while she caught her breath.

“Will you fuck me now?” she whispered in his ear.

“Are you ready so soon?”

“Very,” she laughed.

He covered her once more with his body and entered her.

“Oh, that’s good,” she panted.

“No, it’s fucking heaven,” he corrected.

The feeling of being inside of her while having his bare skin on hers—it was incredible. Wonderful beyond description. As if he had searched his entire life for what he should do, where he should be, and he had finally found it here with her.

“I have to move,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Please.”

He did, but only slowly. He wanted to make it last—for her and for himself.

But there was no preventing the inevitable. Not when she was so tight around him, not when her muscles stroked his cock with every thrust.

“You’re so fucking good, Beatrice,” he found himself unable to keep from saying. “Do you know what you do to me?”

“I think…I have…an idea,” she said, between pants.

“No, I don’t think you do,” he said, his cock surging. “You destroy me, Beatrice.”

He thrust into her again and she gave an incoherent moan.

“You ruin me for anything and anyone else,” he said, unable, it seemed, to stop speaking.

He sank deep into her and found his spend building. He knew he could not hold off for much longer. But, in some primal place in himself, he needed her to understand how he felt for her.

“I need you,” he said. “I need you so much.”

“Oh God,” she said, and he realized that she was coming again, so quickly after her last spend.

That sent him over the edge. He came on a cry, filling—he knew—the French letter to the brink.

When he was spent, he withdrew from her, and she pulled him close to her.

He removed the letter and—to the horror of his past self—merely deposited it on the floor. But he couldn’t tolerate being away from her. Not now.

He gathered her up in his arms and she settled there. Her eyes were already closed.

He kissed her hair, fighting off the mortifying urge to tell her about his feelings for her. He wanted, very badly, to tell her that he loved her.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because that would be very stupid indeed.

Just because he had lost control of his emotions didn’t mean that she had. In fact, just earlier today, she had been reassuring him that she hadn’t meant anything by that little endearment that he could now not stop using.

She had made clear that her emotions had not been overset by their relationship.

No, he thought, if he must love her—and love her, he was aware, he did—then he would do so in secret.

She, of all people, never had to know.

And it would be enough to just have her like this. For however long she would have him.

Maybe she would agree to a longer arrangement.

He could pay for it, he thought.

Even if it was financially imprudent.

He would drain his coffers to the last if it meant more time with her.

He began to drift off with that strangely comforting thought in his head.

“Leith,” Beatrice said, into his chest, and he startled awake. He had thought she was sleeping.

“Yes, Beatrice?” he said.

Yes, my love , he ached to say. Outside of intercourse, however, he found it too vulnerable to mutter such a thing.

“May I ask you a question?”

He stiffened. Such lines of inquiry made him nervous. But he wanted to be honest with her.

“Anything.”

“Tonight, Lady Tremberley—well, she let something fall.”

He grunted. “Of course she did.”

He had not been granted an irritating little sister in the natural way. It appeared, however, as usual, that Henrietta Breminster would gladly fill that role.

“Pray tell me what horror she revealed to you.”

Beatrice let out a small laugh. “She said that you were the reason Lord Montaigne and his wife were parted. The first time they fell in love.”

Even her saying the word— love —sent a strange bolt of awareness through him.

He sighed. He couldn’t glory in her finding out such unflattering details about his conduct.

“It is one of the great shames of my life. I was twenty—a rather young twenty—but that is no excuse. I reduced myself to a terrible subterfuge because I thought I knew better than Monty and, in doing so, caused great pain for him and Olivia.”

“He was heartbroken when she left?”

Leith’s chest seized, just a little, at the memory.

“It was horrible. I realized very quickly that I had erred terribly. For a year, I do not think he was sober for twenty-four hours straight. We were all gravely concerned about him. And the scandal sheets were vicious. Not that he cared.”

“How dreadful. Did you tell him what you had done?”

“No. I should have. I see that now. I even tried to find out where Olivia had gone, but there was no trace of her. As it turned out, she had left England altogether.”

“Was it terrible for you? Keeping such a secret from him?”

No one, of course, had ever asked Leith that question. He hadn’t reflected on it much himself. After all, he was not a victim in this matter.

Nevertheless, there was only one possible answer to the question.

“Yes. Monty and I had always had this perfect intimacy. John and Trem were the same. The four of us, together, we are all best friends. But there was always a special sympathy, between me and Monty and between John and Trem.”

“You and Lord Montaigne seem like two very different personalities.”

He nodded. “We are. It’s one of those curiosities of life, I warrant. In temperament, I am, perhaps, most like John. He has a tendency towards resentment, just like myself, and he likes order, as well, although in his own way.”

“ He was a proper rake before his marriage, according to the scandal sheets.”

“Well, so was Monty, but that ended up being far from the truth. In John’s case, though, the scandal sheets were right. He was wild. Like Monty with Olivia, he fell in love with Catherine years before he married her. But, when they first met, he thought he would never be able to marry her, that he could never have her—her family had nearly destroyed his. And so he dealt with it by glowering and bedding his way across England.”

“Lady Edington is very kind.”

He gave a soft laugh, remembering John before he married Catherine. Sometimes, he forgot how unhappy that man had been. “She is the only one who has ever been able to make him listen.”

“So why is John not your best friend? And Trem and Monty—with their easy natures, they seem more suited.”

“I—” he began, and then was unsure of what he was going to say. It was a good question that she asked him. He had to consider it. “I am not sure.”

She said nothing, however, and he appreciated her silence.

“Trem has a very generous nature,” he began, “and he does not easily take offense. He and John only ever truly quarreled over Henrietta. John never means to be unkind, but he can be. Trem never is affronted in the way that Monty and I can be by John. In truth, John has always needed a best friend who wouldn’t be knocked back by his surly nature.

“Monty, though, he is more than generous. He is extraordinarily kind. He always was. And I—I needed that. I was always anxious. Frightened of things. Myself most of all. And my desires.”

She laughed beside him. “Your desires?”

“My friends always seemed so at home with what they wanted. But what I wanted scared me half out of my wits.”

“Does it scare you still?”

He pulled her closer, placing his lips against her hairline. I love you , he thought.

But he couldn’t say that. So instead he settled for a lesser truth.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“I think I now understand why you agreed to keep me as your mistress. I knew Lord Montaigne had something over you, but I didn’t know what. I knew you wanted his good opinion. I wasn’t sure how deep the quarrel went.”

“Ah, yes, when you threatened me.”

“You didn’t want him to think you a degenerate.”

“Well, in that, I’ve failed. Monty would be furious if he knew what I have done.”

“Do you really believe it?”

He turned so that he could see her face.

“Of course. He made it very clear I wasn’t to touch you.”

“I wonder if he might be more forgiving on that score than you think.”

Leith shook his head. “I am sure he thinks I’m completely without feeling. And he has every right to think so. I wanted to win back his trust—and I’ve just violated it once more.”

“Is that all that I am?” Beatrice said, looking up at him, a teasing expression on her face. “A broken promise?”

“No,” he said, kissing her. “I mourn what Monty would think of me, if he knew. But being with you, Beatrice, like this, is worth the consequences a thousandfold.”

“Why, Lord Leith,” she said, “that is a most ardent declaration.”

He kissed her again at that, deeply.

“Well, my affections are very sincere indeed,” he said, keeping his tone light and ironic, even as he could feel his heart thudding in his chest.

Then another knock sounded. This time, it did not emanate from him.

Someone was rapping on the door, breaking the perfect privacy of their room.

He raised up his head and realized it was coming from the one that adjoined his room to Beatrice’s.

She quickly stood and put on her robe. “It must be Sally,” she whispered, moving to the door.

Beatrice opened it.

“Oh, Bea, I’ve just gotten the most dreadful letter from Parkhorne.”

“Give it to me.”

He watched as she took the letter from her sister. Her eyes moved over it at pace.

“Very well,” she said. “We leave tomorrow. At first light. I will come and help you ready our things.”

“Wait,” Leith said, grabbing his nightshirt from the floor and pulling it over his head. Usually, the prospect of being unclothed in front of a near stranger would horrify him, but Leith couldn’t care when Beatrice was talking about leaving London. “You cannot leave, Beatrice.”

Beatrice looked up at him with a pensive, intense expression.

“I will be in soon, Sally. Just give me a moment.”

The girl nodded and left.

“I must go,” she said quietly. “My mother has sent a letter—”

“Is she ill? Or your brother?”

Beatrice shook her head.

“No, it’s not that. Thank God. But I am gravely concerned. My father’s creditor, the man we owe the money to, he has shown up at Parkhorne. He is an unscrupulous man, and I fear what he will do to my mother if given the chance. She cannot ask him to leave for fear that he will call in the debt. But she is a gentle woman and he is—I do not trust him.”

Leith thought of his own mother, of how he would feel if she were in such a situation. Of course, he would want to fly to her aid.

“Who is he? This creditor?”

“A Mr. Gordstone. I am sure you’d know nothing of him.”

Leith stowed away that name carefully, knowing, very soon, he would come back to it. But that was not what she needed to hear now. He didn’t want to overset her at present with the solutions he could offer. Instead, he said the only thing that made any sense to him.

“I am coming with you.”

“To Somerset?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot ask that of you.”

“You aren’t asking. I am insisting.”

“But it will take three days to get there. At least. And our two weeks—”

“Forget the two weeks. Beatrice, I’ll be your protector for as long as you’ll allow me. I’ll pay you another one thousand pounds for another fortnight.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it.

That was all the acquiescence he needed.

“There, we’ve settled it, then. We’ll take my carriage to Somerset. You have no conveyance of your own and I will not have you or Sally on a stagecoach. The thought is unbearable to me. I cannot abide by it.”

“Thomas! I cannot accept—”

“Why not?” he said, trying to keep the emotion in his voice at bay. “I know I am far from a perfect man, but just another two weeks—”

She put her hands up to his shoulders. “I would be very happy to extend our arrangement. But I don’t want you to do so out of pity. I cannot ask that of you.”

“Beatrice,” he said, pulling her closer. “I assure you I am only being selfish. I cannot lose you now. Not when we’ve only begun.”

She looked up at him and he could see tears in her eyes. Of course, she would be overset by such a missive from home.

“I suppose you still have much to learn from me.”

“Yes,” he said, knowing that it was far more complicated than that, but taking the easy explanation she provided. He put his hands on either side of her face. “So much. Please. Let me do this for you. For us.”

“All right,” she said, quietly. “You are too kind.”

“No, no, I’m not,” Leith said, pulling her towards him once more, desperately grateful that he would be able to keep her for a little while longer.