A Ring from a Marquess. Christine Merrill

‘Four, then.’

      ‘Four times,’ she said, staring coldly back at him. ‘After that, swear that I need never see or hear from you or your family, ever again. Swear on your honour as a gentleman. For all that is worth,’ she added, throwing his own insult back at him.

      Never to see her again. For a moment, something stirred in him, like an eel in deep water. He’d had such hope for their future. But that had been lost the moment he’d walked into this shop and seen her holding what was left of the pride of the Larchmonts. The sweet girl he’d wanted was an illusion, just as his easy speeches to her had been. ‘I swear,’ he said, ‘you will never see me again.’

      He reached for the gold setting in her hand, took it and slipped it into his pocket. Then, he reached for her. Women were all alike. Four times would be enough to rid himself of this madness. She was as beautiful in candlelight as she was in daylight. He had lain with beauties before and their company became tiresome after the excitement of courtship was through.

      But those women had not been as dangerous as this one. It would be safer to sleep with a viper than to be with a woman capable of such duplicity. The risk held its own sort of excitement.

      He was standing so close to her now that his skin tingled in awareness of their first kiss. She stared back at him, defiant. Good. He did not want a weeping virgin trying to make him guilty for a reparation that was far gentler than the punishment she deserved.

      He closed the last inch between them and their lips met. The kiss was exquisite. Not cherries or strawberries. They were both too sweet. Blackcurrant, perhaps. Tart, complex as wine, her lips closed around his tongue, her teeth grazed it as if she wished to bite.

      His balls tightened in his breeches.

      How long had he been dreaming of taking her, right here on the white-velvet divan? His fantasies had been innocent compared to this. He had not imagined this helpless feeling of abandon as her body touched his. She fit perfectly against him, the curve of her hip in his hand, her belly cradling his erection. He ran his hand over the bare skin of her shoulder, circling to the back of her neck so that he might press her mouth to his. Such a delicate nape, fringed with the soft hair he had longed to stroke. He rubbed it with his knuckle and her lips opened even wider, eager for him.

      One kiss, and she was driving him mad. He wanted to ravish her with his mouth, mark her with his kisses, to claim her body as his own.

      If he felt so about an innocent touch, how would he survive a more intimate one? He experimented, sliding a fingertip inside her bodice to seek her nipple. Finding, pinching, kneading the whole breast, a match for his cupped palm.

      Her throat arched and her breath caught, and she whimpered like a hungry kitten. She wanted more.

      The response flashed through him like heat lightning. He’d been mistaken. Four times would not be enough. Not four hundred, or four thousand. What she had done did not matter, compared to the need he felt for her after a few simple touches. He kissed his way down her throat, making her arch backward in his arms, easing her to the couch so he might kiss his way down the graceful hollows of her neck and shoulders.

      Her legs spread wide. One rested on the floor, the other bent at the knee, foot resting on the upholstery. He knelt between them, pushing her skirt up and out of the way. He leaned over her, his mouth suckling an exposed breast, his hand on her calf. Smooth curves, a seemingly endless expanse of silk-encased flesh. He was an explorer on his way to an undiscovered country.

      ‘No.’ Suddenly she shuddered under him, pushed away, and rolled off on to the floor, scrambling to be free of him.

      * * *

      It was the most wonderful mistake she had ever made.

      When she had seen him, staring at her from the front of the shop, she had known their innocent flirtation was at an end. All that was left was the reckoning that had been predicted by everyone around her.

      Had he ever felt anything for her, other than lust? It did not seem so, tonight. In return, she would feel nothing.

      She refused to feel fear, if that was what he wanted from her. And hatred was too much like passion. She felt nothing. And she spoke from the emptiness, with her offer.

      It amused him. He responded. She negotiated. He accepted.

      Then he approached.

      If what he was doing with her was a punishment, then perhaps she was one of those poor souls who thrived on abuse. His touch had been like a feather stroke, awakening her appetite.

      But cravings could be resisted. She would yield her body, but not her mind. And not her heart.

      Then his lips touched hers.

      A taste was not enough. She was starving for him, desperate for the kiss. To feel nothing was impossible, with his lips on hers. Anger, then. Hatred. But the rage fed the flames and she raked his tongue with her teeth.

      His finger played at the top of her gown.

      She pushed her breast into his hand and was rewarded for her boldness. Her dress was open, his hands on her breasts, and then his lips. He was possessing her, making her body his own.

      And she wanted him to do it. She was on her back, spreading her legs to make it easier as he gripped her ankle and raised her skirt. Her nipples grew between his teeth. Her legs were wet. And everything inside her ached and trembled, begging for him to hurry, to finish, to take her.

      Justine had explained the process of joining with a man, like some kind of unpleasant warning. There would be blood and pain. But God help her, why did she want to be hurt?

      Justine had been wrong. It would be different with Fanworth than it had been for Justine. She had been forced into a liaison, with Mr Montague in this very shop.

      ‘No!’ She pushed him away, scrambling for safety. She had changed the look of the room, but she could not change the past. And at the thought of her poor, helpless sister, she wanted to be sick.

      ‘No?’ She could not look at him. But the frustration and anger were plain in his voice. ‘You agreed.’

      ‘Not here,’ she said, breathing deeply until her stomach settled. Then she gave a hasty swipe at the tears on her cheeks. When she looked up at him, her gaze was every bit as unwavering as it had been when she’d bargained away her honour. ‘It cannot be here. I cannot explain it to you. I will abide by our agreement. Anywhere but here.’

      He pulled himself to a sitting position and stared at her. At the feel of his eyes on her body, she tugged the bodice of her gown up to cover breasts still wet from his kisses.

      ‘Not here, then,’ he said, without emotion.

      The brief passion that had flashed between them was a pale imitation of the easy communion she thought they’d shared. It had been an illusion. He was as distant now as when he spoke to her sister. ‘Tomorrow. In my rooms. And then, no running. No more excuses, or I will send for Mr Smith.’

      She responded with a single nod.

      He nodded back, as though he could no longer trust his voice. He stood, turning away from her and running a shaky hand through his chestnut hair. Then he was gone, the front door of the shop slamming behind him.