Chapter Fifteen
A pleasant warmth settled over Marcus. He liked this, liked doting upon her. Perhaps he might even make a routine of it, assisting with her hair only to muss it all up when he later had his way with her upon the bed. It was an enjoyable thought.
And then, drawing him out of his reverie, Evelyn cleared her throat and said, “And how fares Mr. Reed?”
The words hit Marcus like a bucket of cold water, and he fumbled, the sections of hair he’d separated falling back together.
“Mr. Reed?” He scoffed, irritated, and reached for the brush again.
“Yes,” she managed, sitting up straighter as she composed herself. “He called today, remember,” she said.
“I am aware, as I was present for the entire miserable visit. To my regret.”
Damn it.Marcus did not want Evelyn composed. He wanted her undone. He wanted her now, bent over the dressing table, her skirts rucked up over her ample bottom.
What he definitely did not want was to speak of Mr. Reed and his regurgitated Tory reasoning.
“I had meant to ask after the wedding breakfast, but, well.” She sighed, a pretty little sound if not for the words that followed. “And then today, Mr. Reed must have spied us. His gaze was quite judgmental, if you will recall.”
Marcus frowned, looking about her dressing table for a ribbon or something.
“There,” Evelyn said, pointing to a small drawer with a dainty cut glass knob.
It slid open without so much as a squeak. Inside he expected to find a jumbled nest of fripperies quite like a viper pit. Instead, the drawer was cleverly divided, containing little glass jars with decorative pewter lids holding various bits and bobs. Pulling it out further he discovered at the back a section containing ribbons, all of them laid out as neat as a pin. As if someone had ironed them.
Of course. He smiled, selected the topmost ribbon, and shut the drawer.
“What had you meant to ask?” Marcus tied off the plait, wondering if he ought to fasten it more securely somehow. He decided to leave it. Perhaps it would fall off as she slept, allowing the plait to unravel. “After the wedding breakfast?” He fiddled with the tail, smiling at the idea of her hair hanging loose.
“You are not fond of Mr. Reed,” she stated.
“Well, that’s quite underselling it,” he said, letting the plait fall. Especially now, he added to himself.
Evelyn turned around, away from her dressing mirror, facing him from her low perch on the stool.
“He is respected,” she said, her voice flat.
Marcus snorted in derision. “By whom? He scorns the common man and their institutions. He fancies himself a sage philosopher, but in truth he’s nothing but a dithering muttonhead. Oh, he dreams a rosy dream, he does—of a country and people that never existed.”
Evelyn glanced away, considering his words. Damn it, Marcus had come here hoping to escape from thoughts of the dull and odious Mr. Reed, not to discuss him at length. He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair.
“I have a tendency to agree. Why, he’s never been interested in anything the Preservation Society puts forth.” Evelyn tilted her head as she studied him. “But you have.”
“Ah yes, our venerable goat willow.” Marcus smiled even as shame pricked at him; he had not been interested himself until today.
Until she’d expressed her desire for his physical attentions.
It was appalling. How quickly he’d adapted to this game, this quid pro quo, the leveraging of one service against another. He hated it.
All his life, Marcus had set out to be an upstanding man. Someone who wrought justice. Someone his father would be proud of. But here he was, paying for a tree’s four-hundredth birthday party because he wanted to fuck his noble-born wife.
“I was unable to express my gratitude earlier. I’m afraid I was caught off guard.” Evelyn said shyly, looking down as if she were engrossed with the pattern on the carpet. “But the other ladies will be thrilled when I tell them.”
Now she looked up at him from under her eyelashes.
“Thank you.”
“No need,” Marcus swallowed hard, trying to will his anger and humiliation away. He added in a raspy voice, “It’s long overdue, I assure you.”
Also long overdue, and now competing for attention in his mind, were swaths of constituents whose needs he’d not heard, several unvisited farms, and numerous other untended issues, all scolding him for his absence. Even as he’d meant to set the world right, it seems that world had been limited to London as of late.
Evelyn stood.
“What do you mean?”
“Pah, nothing. Pay it no mind.” He shook his head.
If only he could shake away the self-doubt and worry that had plagued him over the years, ever since his father had died.
He closed the distance between them, and gently took her hand in his. She did not react.
“Tomorrow,” he began, forcing a much livelier tone, “we shall be off to Birmingham. You’ve had your maid pack, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” Marcus said. He still felt cold.
He stared at her hand, caressing it with a thumb. And then his gaze rose, to the lace of her nightgown’s neckline. He dropped her hand and reached up to fiddle with the pretty trim, rubbing it between his fingers. Perhaps he imagined it, but it seemed her chest was rising and falling quicker with each breath.
His fingers followed the frilly adornment, tracing a line down the nightgown’s front, pausing to finger the mother-of-pearl buttons lying against her breast. When he looked up and saw her eyes, wide and excited, his body tightened.
“Are you still sore?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
She flushed and shook her head.
“Good.”
Before she could speak again, Marcus yanked her against him.
Evelyn’s gasp was cut off as he took her mouth with a punishing kiss. He was desperate, needing her response as much as his own. At first she went rigid in surprise, but after a moment she melted into him, her lips moving against his.
Christ, she felt so warm. His arms were full of her, but it was not enough. His hands groped, squeezing her soft flesh. His cock hardened; he needed more. He needed everything she deigned to give him. Needed the approval, the supplication implicit in every whimper, every gasp, every jerk of her body against his.
Grasping her gown by the neck, he pushed her away just as quickly as he’d pulled her to him moments before.
“Get this… thing off,” he growled, his hands gathering up handfuls of the nightgown, lifting it to her waist.
“What?” Evelyn gasped, eyes wide.
Standing there with her hair already half undone, her lips wet and swollen, Marcus wanted nothing more than to ravish her on the spot, up against her dressing table. His erection throbbed. He didn’t recognize this fervor, this wildness within him.
It felt good.
“This,” he hissed, reaching up to the neckline with one hand, the other holding the length of the gown rucked up at her thighs. He attempted to work the buttons, but the frenzy of his movements achieved the opposite of their intent, slowing him down.
“Fuck,” he cursed, and dropped the skirts.
Using two hands now, the work was still unbearably slow; he had only two buttons undone.
“Be careful,” Evelyn chided. “If you’ll only allow me—”
Do it, his body insisted. Marcus grabbed the neckline with both hands and pulled.
The mother-of-pearl buttons hit the floor with delicate plinks before rolling away.
Evelyn exclaimed in protest, exasperation on her face. But he didn’t care. For now the gown hung open, exposing her to him. Marcus pulled it aside, baring one lovely breast in its entirety.
“Mr. Hartley!” Evelyn scolded, her voice halting.
But when he reached for her and caressed her, she moaned, forgetting to be angry. Marcus chuckled and kneaded her breast, rougher now as his mouth returned to hers, possessing it greedily. He pushed the gown off her shoulders. She was intoxicating like this. Wanton. Needy. Desirous of him, and him alone. He teased at her nipple with two fingers, swept his tongue through her mouth and she bucked against him, pressing into his cock.
Now it was Marcus’s turn to moan, breaking their kiss.
“The bed… shall I? Should we?” Evelyn said, her voice breathy as she gasped for air.
“No.”
He took her by the hips, far from gently, and turned her about so she was backed up against him. He dragged kisses along her shoulder, then her neck. With one hand upon her hip he pulled her lush bottom harder against his cock, and was rewarded with an absolutely maddening groan from that prim and polished mouth of hers. Her hair fell loose, the ribbon lost somewhere upon the floor. With his other hand he combed it out, long and shining, smelling so clean and feminine. His center seized in pleasure.
He was going to have her like this, untamed and desperate, up against the looking glass. The cold, removed princess of Methering Manor, the spinster who’d refused the warmth and pleasure of the marriage bed.
But she hadn’t refused him. She wanted him.
And he’d have her like this, her hair loose, breasts swinging, nightgown falling from her shoulders as he drove into her from behind. And all while he watched her in the mirror.
With a gentle kiss at her neck he walked them both forward, then eased her down, her knees atop the cushioned ottoman she’d been sitting upon only minutes earlier as he’d brushed her hair.
“Brace yourself on this,” he murmured, placing her hands atop the dressing table so that she was in a penitent position, as if she begged for succor from her own reflection.
“What—” she started, but cut herself off with a startled gasp when he lifted the hem of her nightgown, depositing the swaths of fabric at her waist.
“Hold that,” Marcus grunted.
“I thought I was to brace myself!” she huffed.
Marcus leaned forward, covering her body with his.
“I thought you wished for more frequent assignations?” he teased, his lips brushing her ear.
She shuddered and sighed, her eyes fluttering closed as she dropped the gown. It pooled atop the dressing table. Her reflection was exquisite: her face and neck both bright red, fading into pink as the flush dissipated somewhere near the tops of her heavy breasts.
Marcus took that as assent.
“I’m quite pleased with that,” he crooned, his touch slowing as he drew the moment out, stroking the small of her back, her plump bottom, her thick thighs. “The notion only just came to me as I was brushing your hair. Suddenly I knew I must have you like this, watching me in the glass. Watching me have my way with you.”
He grabbed her rear harshly, underlining his point. She cried out.
In his frenetic state the sound was so delicious he couldn’t bear it, he had to lift his own nightshirt and dressing gown to take himself in hand.
Evelyn watched him, her reflection intent upon his. She bit her lip.
“And so now, dear wife…” He slid his hand between her legs, feeling her wetness. “Or should I say, dearest Evelyn, whenever you sit here for your morning toilette, you shall not be able to think of anything else.”
Something lit in her eyes, a ferocity to match his, and she stared at him in the mirror, willing him to get on with it.
Marcus positioned himself against her, teasing her as he slid along her slick entrance.
She sucked in a breath, her eyelashes fluttering.
“I think we can do better than that,” he tutted. “Were you not gently bred?”
She wet her lips, but did not quaver, holding his gaze. By god. Marcus would never have dreamed she’d meet him in her bed with equal force of will. It was maddening. He tightened his hold on his cock, stroking with ease now that he was wet with her arousal.
“Please,” she whispered, the red in her cheeks the only evidence of her usual sensibilities. When Marcus did not move, she shut her eyes and whimpered, “Please, I beg you!”
He thrust into her with a groan, finding no resistance this time. He pulled back and thrust again, then again. Evelyn’s breath quickened and she moved back against him, driving all logical thought from his head. Soon they discovered their rhythm together, as anticipation twisted and built within him until he finally caught sense enough to lean forward and reach for her.
For she deserved her pleasure as well. And Marcus needed to hear it, needed to feel her cunny warm around him as her body shook with ecstasy.
She called out when he touched her, and began writhing upon his cock as he stroked her. It didn’t take long; she rammed back into him, a long, desperate moan escaping her lips.
Marcus felt her growing heat, felt her body quiver. Instinct took over, and he grasped her hips, pushing deep into her, watching her pretty features in the mirror, watching her face loosen and her eyes lose focus as she rode out her climax.
And then he found his own. He called out her name as he finished, then collapsed upon her, their nightclothes damp with perspiration.
And for a few glorious moments, he forgot himself and his failures. He felt warm and sated. Complete.
For now, at least.