Chapter 3
Three
The Marchioness of Painswick was already naked, save for glittering ear bobs, bejeweled rings, a plain locket round her neck, and her dark locks cascading over her shoulders.
She reclined across her bed, luxuriating in the feel of her skin against the silk counterpane as she admired the smooth golden back of the young man across the room.
She stroked her own breasts, up the sides and across the nipples, which hardened in response to the flick of her nails.
When she had begun this flirtation at Lady Huxley’s ball half a year ago, she had had no idea it would take so long for a tryst to come to fruition.
She had waited a considerable time, and now she was going to enjoy herself. Immensely.
Her husband was away on a shooting trip at their country seat, she was in the midst of a tiff with her occasional and highly august lover, and, after months of heated looks and whispered promises and gropes in alcoves, she had finally convinced James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry, to consummate their dalliance.
James was an absolutely delicious young rogue and well-known to be one of the most devilish of the London rakes. And so amusing.
But he was supposed to be stripping off his own clothes, and he was taking far too long.
“Lord Daventry,” she called to him. “Come to bed. I’ve promised you a night you’ll always remember, and, for good or ill, I always keep my promises.”
James drained his glass of claret and absent shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and tailcoat, staggered across the room. She caught a glimpse of his youthful and tightly muscled torso at the foot of the bed before he obligingly crawled onto the mattress and over her body and began kissing her navel.
She grabbed two handfuls of his thick hair and lifted his head up. “No, not with your breeches and boots still on. Silly boy.”
He glared at her and growled. “I’m no silly boy.” He seized both her wrists and lunged upwards to pin them on the pillow above her head, his face inches from hers. His breath was heavy with fumes of wine.
“And if I want to ravish you with my boots and breeches on, Marshens.” His tongue was thick, and he seemed to have to force himself to speak clearly. “Marchioness, I damn well will, what? And that will be,'' he hiccoughed, “a night you will always rebember.”
James kissed her then, fiercely sucking and biting at her lips, and she responded eagerly to his savage and messy kiss, straining up to meet him, pressing her breasts to his smooth chest, pushing her hips against his groin.
“Stay still,” James commanded, his voice harsh and raw. No doubt from the wine, the late hour, and his desire.
She obeyed him, panting in her excitement, small high-pitched moans escaping from her mouth. This was just the kind of play she liked.
He gathered both her wrists into just one of his surprisingly large hands, still keeping them pinned to the satin pillows above her head.
As he covered her mouth again with his, he began to range his other hand freely over her body, kneading her breasts and pinching her nipples before roughly pushing her legs apart and tightly trapping one of her thighs between his own legs.
She whimpered in encouragement as he pawed at her sex, but it was a clumsy touch, never quite locating where her petite mort lived.
The marchioness was finding it harder and harder to obey James and to stay still.
She wanted, she needed, she desired in no uncertain terms that he touch her in the right place.
She had guided boorish young men before, taking their fingers and putting them on her hooded pearl, teaching them the rhythm, the stroke, the pressure of the finger or tongue that brought her the greatest pleasure.
But an infamous lothario like Lord Daventry should not need her tutelage.
It must be the drink. However, her hands were still pinned above her head, and James had again covered her mouth with his so she could not instruct or demonstrate.
Her confinement—at first, so arousing, so dangerous—was becoming tedious.
His hand fumbled over her sex more and more slowly.
His body, leaning on her side, became more and more heavy and more and more slack.
His head and mouth fell away from hers, his eyes closed, and his grip on her wrists relaxed.
His fumbling hand stopped moving completely.
He took in a deep breath, and he . . . snored.
Unbelievable.
She lurched to get out from under James, but he moved his hand from her mound to around her waist, snugging her into him.
He was quite strong for a drunken, dozing, useless lordling.
She tried to break free again, batting at him with her hands, and again he squeezed her tightly, nuzzling into her, covering her with his body.
She could not call for help. The servants would tell her husband about the young man in her bed. She was trapped.
Sounds in the house. A dog barking. Her husband’s dog. Her husband had returned to London. Early.
Her eyes flew open. She was alone, thank God. She heard her bedchamber door begin to open, and she groped, trying to find a dressing gown, a shawl, anything to cover herself.
“My dear,” the Marquess of Painswick said from the doorway. “Your lady’s maid would be shocked, if not horrified, to discover you slept naked atop the coverlet. Can we agree never again?”
The marchioness finally seized a dressing gown and threw it over her shoulders. As she did so, she felt bare skin between her breasts. She grabbed at her neck, and her hands came up empty. The locket was gone. She looked at her hands. A sapphire ring was gone as well.
Lord Painswick strode to the bed and plucked off a piece of paper that had been pinned to the brocade canopy.
“A note left by whom, I wonder? Just helping you rebember—surely, remember, yes?—turnabout is fair play. What’s this nonsense?”
The marchioness snatched the paper from her husband’s hands.
The note was signed with the letter J.