A Virgin for the Rakish Marquess (In War and Love #3)

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Punching Bag

I t had been days. Days. And James still couldn’t forget how she felt against him, how beautiful she looked against the velvet pillows, how intoxicating the way she trusted him to touch her where no one ever had.

And yet there was no way that he could get her out of his head. All his mind could do was replay that night, bring forth every curve of her body, the way her feminine and sweet scent filled the air, the softness of her skin.

All he could feel was her wet core, aching for his touch. All he could hear was how she gasped his name. And all he could taste was her skin, her juices. It was as if she was haunting him.

“Get out of my head, Diana,” he whispered.

Even now, in his copper bathtub, with steam swirling around, she was still in his mind. He had a hellish day, neck-deep in inspections and work, obligations and receipts. But she found a way to creep into his thoughts constantly. And now, as he almost drifted off from exhaustion in the hot water, she was there. Breathless and open for him. Her head dipped back, sighing his name. Her hands tangled in his hair, trembling as she unraveled against his mouth.

James exhaled sharply through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. It was maddening. But no matter how hard he fought it, he could still feel her.

“Blast it!”

He closed his eyes and threw his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His breath hitched as his hips shifted beneath the water—an unconscious movement, instinct taking over. His fingers twitched at his sides. His thighs tensed. His own body was betraying him.

A hand moved and touched his torso and then lower. Lower, where he was painfully hard. One touch, just one. His fingers wrapped around his length. His hips arched into his touch, his whole body thrumming with need.

His grip tightened. One stroke. Sharp pleasure shot through him. Another stroke and his mouth fell open. Harder now. A ragged groan tore from his throat.

His eyes snapped open. No! Not like this. His hand shot away, slamming into the side of the tub. He almost lost himself again. Like on that night with her. Control was slipping away from him when it came to her.

He had known desire before. Of course, he had. He had taken lovers, he had indulged. He had walked away from each one sated and detached, his appetite satisfied, his emotions unscathed. But this… this was something else. No woman had ever done this to him.

“Oh, Diana,” he snarled.

No. He would not find release alone, in the dark, haunted by memories of her. It would be with her, wrapped around her, inside her.

“Is the new recipe not to your liking, James?” Euphemia asked when she saw him playing with his food the next morning.

He didn’t even care what the thing on his plate tasted like. He managed to muster a smile for her and took a bite.

“I think it’s too sweet for my taste,” he muttered.

“And here I was thinking you have a soft spot for sweet things,” Euphemia teased.

“When they are overly sweet, they just spoil the taste.”

Euphemia shook her head at his wickedness. “Did I ever thank you for accompanying your father to the ball the other day?”

“Multiple times.”

Again, as if summoned, his father entered the room. James looked up at him, and his body tensed.

“Mother.” Solomon seemed almost happy. “Good morning, James.”

James only nodded at him.

“I have been wanting to check in on the Richerton ledgers and prepare them—” Solomon started.

“I have done that already,” James cut in.

“I was invited to the party’s talks to discuss the position on the latest legislature?—”

“The secretary has been informed of my position. When the legislature is out, we can have a more educated position. Do not listen to a word that man says.”

Solomon was taken aback by the cold way James addressed him. Even so, there was a slight look of pride on his face.

Which pissed James even more.

His father had no right to be proud. James’s being in such a position was all his doing.

“And the proposed reforms on land taxation?”

James looked over his coffee cup slowly, blinking as if bored. “I’ve already ensured that our interests are protected. The matter has been handled, Your Grace .”

There was no mistaking the bite in his words. Not ‘Father.’ Not ‘Solomon.’ But ‘Your Grace.’ A title. A formality. A reminder.

Solomon stilled, his eyes flicking up to his son. James met his gaze, unflinching.

“Oh, our James is so capable,” Euphemia chimed in.

“Politics and money he can manage fairly well, it seems,” Solomon acknowledged. “It’s his personal life he has a hard time to put in order.”

James’s jaw ticked in irritation. His fingers curled into a fist at his side, but his voice remained level, cold. “I was not aware you had taken an interest in my personal life, Your Grace.”

“I take an interest in anything that threatens the legacy of this family.”

James’s face contorted into such a thunderous expression that Euphemia coughed to make him rethink the words she saw brewing in his mind.

“I am simply carrying the legacy that was given to me.”

Solomon reared back at the open blow. He inhaled and tried to regain his composure. James was still surprised at how difficult it was for his father to see that he was no longer a boy.

“I am merely observing that you have cultivated a reputation that no respectable family in England would wish to be associated with.”

James chuckled cruelly. “Ah, the libertine rake. Mothers have been weeping in terror at the thought of their delicate daughters being in my presence.”

Solomon was not amused. His blue eyes, the same ones James had, turned icy cold. “No father with any sense would consider you a respectable match.”

James arched an eyebrow. “What a tragedy.”

His father’s jaw tightened. “You are thirty-two years old, James. You have squandered years of opportunity. You need a wife.”

“Need? I do not need anything. Perhaps you can stop meddling with my affairs.”

“You need an heir, or else all we have worked hard for?—”

“All I have worked hard for,” James bit out.

Solomon raised his hands. “You haven’t shirked your duties, son. I never said that.”

The moment that word— son— left his lips, James got up, ready to storm out.

“You have done well, James,” Solomon said slowly. “But you are still alone.”

James inhaled sharply. He clenched his jaw and straightened his shirt to keep his hands from doing something utterly stupid. Then, with a cold look, he regarded his father.

“I have always been alone, Your Grace .”

He kissed his grandmother and left the room, but Solomon had the audacity to follow him into the hallway.

“James.” His father’s voice carried across the hallway. “The amusements fade, the scandals grow old. What then? Build something, that is all I am saying.”

James didn’t even dignify that with an answer and rushed out of the house.

When in this state, there was only one place James could go. The ring. The only place he could unleash all this energy, the frustration, the anger. And that was what he did.

The moment he stepped into the Gentleman Boxing Saloon, he felt at ease.

The air was thick with the smell of sweat and the steady thud of skin against skin. The spacious, open room that was lined with weights, training equipment, and photos was familiar to him. Here, he could take out all his wrath in a manner that wouldn’t end in disaster or a scandal worthy of exile.

“It is never good news when you send word to meet here.” Richard came to his side.

James said nothing, just removed his coat and waistcoat and almost tore off his cravat. He rolled his sleeves up, and just like that, he had shed all the polished, civilized look of a gentleman.

“Are we sparring or what?”

“Like I would allow you to murder anyone else tonight.”

James exhaled, rolling back his shoulders, his breath coming sharp and controlled.

Richard moved first. Fast. Efficient. A quick jab that James easily dodged.

“Still quick, I see.” He grinned.

“While you got slow.” James circled him. “Marriage has made you soft.”

Richard shrugged off the comment with a strict look. But his eyes were sharper now. Focused. “Well, if I win, I can go to Selina and celebrate.”

A sharp uppercut that nearly knocked James off balance. Nearly. James avoided it and landed a punch to Richard’s ribs.

Richard bounced away with that infuriating smile of his. “If I lose, I can play the wounded husband and have my wife take care of me.”

Another hit. Another dodge. Perfect rhythm.

Richard was cold, tactical energy. James was fiery fury. Soon, all the gentlemen gathered to watch them fight.

“While you, my friend,” Richard said between jabs, “will spend the rest of the night alone.”

James’s next punch came too fast, too forceful. Richard barely dodged, stepping just out of reach. But James was even faster, and another punch connected with his friend’s ribs.

“Oh, I touched a nerve, James?” Richard said casually. “Can it be that a woman has the mighty Crawford wound up?”

James landed a brutal, well-placed blow that sent Richard stumbling back. A ripple of murmurs from the audience echoed through the room.

James stepped back, rolling back his shoulders. “This match is over.”

Richard, still grinning despite the pain, clutched his ribs and exhaled sharply. “Did I just live to see the day, James?”

“Go on and see how long you will live.”

James grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off his face. He moved to the lounge and ordered brandy before he flopped down onto a leather chair. Not long after, Richard joined him.

“You are really in a foul mood, my friend,” Richard noted.

“It is in your best interest to keep your mouth shut, Seymour.”

“So, you just invited me here to be your punching bag, that’s what it is? Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Richard scoffed, taking a long sip of whiskey.

James said nothing. Because his mind wasn’t there. It was elsewhere. On the woman he refused to think about. The way he felt, the way she felt when he was between her ivory thighs. He downed the brandy and asked for another.

Richard, ever the damn nuisance, studied him with that sharp, knowing look. James had always been grateful to have a friend like him, but right now James hated the way Richard knew that something was gnawing at him.

“You’re thinking too much,” Richard observed, swirling his drink.

“You are assuming I have time for idle thoughts,” James said curtly.

“James, talk to me. This is why you called me here. Unless I did something I am not aware of that deserved such a beating.”

James looked at him sideways. Richard was frowning, studying him. As if he knew. As if he was starting to understand that the casual banter about a woman wasn’t just teasing. As if he could see what the mere thought of Diana did to him.

“Solomon seems to think that I have failed.”

Richard’s face contorted with wrath. He was privy to everything going on in James’s life, and James felt comfortable enough to talk to him about some of them.

“That is unfair.” Richard leaned forward. “You’ve done admirably. Your fortune is almost doubled. You’re a ruthless bastard in Parliament, and many people respect you for that. And you’ve been doing it since you were a boy. I hope you are not taking all this nonsense seriously.”

“He thinks I failed as a man.”

“Ah.” Richard sipped on his drink.

James clenched his jaw. “He is wrong.”

“Is he?” Richard studied him.

James’s bloodied knuckles tightened. “I do not care what he thinks.”

“Forget about Solomon, James. Do you feel you have failed as a man?”

James got up and shot his friend a baleful look. “Perhaps I hit you too hard. Go to your wife, Seymour.”

Then, he turned his back and left.

He stepped out into the cool night air, rolling back his shoulders and exhaling sharply. The fight should have left him satisfied. The brandy should have drowned the unease in his chest. But neither had. His mind was still too full, too loud, caught between desire and rage.

Without conscious thought, he made a decision about what to focus on. He would see her soon. Diana.