Chapter Seventeen
‘After all, we do loathe each other.’
Precisely what had possessed her to say such a thing, Calliope did not know. The trouble was, what she did know was far too scandalous to even admit to.
That she wanted him.
That she desired him.
That she had thought of little else but getting the man alone all day, the thoughts so distracting she had found it most challenging to concentrate on anything but him.
Montague Donovan, Marquess of Laidley. Her husband.
The man who made her feel…whole. Feel seen, wanted, desired.
Dear God, there was such desire in his eyes. Did he know?
‘I suppose there is a great deal of loathing between us,’ Montague said with a teasing smile. ‘Though I admit, I’m not entirely sure how such loathing should be expressed between a married couple.’
A married couple. Calliope could hardly breathe for delight at the sound of those words.
She had not come to Brighton in search of a husband and yet here she was, standing in the impressive hallway of the Laidley townhouse…a marchioness.
Calliope swallowed. The décor of the place would take some getting accustomed to.
Marble floors, chequered in black and white.
A luscious red carpet spiralling up the stairs.
Gold gilt frames and a Japan cabinet with ebony and ivory twisted with gold.
Ferns either side of the front door in ornate vases on plinths, and a suit of armour in the corner that would surely look far more at home in a castle than in a fashionable townhouse in Brighton.
And it was hers, now. Her home.
‘Calliope?’
It was the way Montague said her name, all care and interest in her thoughts, that was what made Calliope shiver.
This man. He was everything she had thought she reviled and everything she knew she wanted. He had annoyed her into matrimony, somehow, and she could not be gladder.
Well, she rather hoped she would soon be far more ecstatic.
‘You know,’ Calliope said quietly, her gaze flickering up to the patterned ceiling and then down to the shiny floor, ‘a portrait taken in this hallway would be impressive indeed.’
Montague’s eyes shimmered with something she did not quite understand. ‘I quite agree, you suit it perfectly. Well—that is, not quite.’
A flicker of uncertainty soared through her. ‘Not quite?’
Exactly what a marchioness was supposed to look like was a question which had danced upon Calliope’s lips since their wild engagement, but she had not known how to ask it. It was not as though she had a great deal of experience in encountering marchionesses, after all.
Was she not attired correctly? Was her gown not flamboyant enough, her jewellery not exquisite enough—not expensive enough?
Calliope shifted on her feet as her new husband said, ‘Well, you are a little overdressed.’
Her gaze snapped up to him. ‘Overdressed?’
The day had been so sweltering, her excitement so high, Calliope had foregone the chemise under her gown and was not even wearing stockings. There was no shawl covering her shoulders, no bonnet on her head—she could hardly be accused of being overdressed, surely?
Only when Calliope caught her husband’s eye did she spot the mischief within. ‘Montague.’
‘Yes, overdressed is the word I would use. Why, you’re wearing a gown in your own home, on your own wedding night,’ her handsome husband murmured, trailing a finger along her collarbone and sparking tingles of need. ‘Very overdressed, say I.’
Calliope’s breath hitched as his errant finger slipped under the hem of her gown and slid it most scandalously off her shoulder. ‘Montague!’
‘What? We are in our own home, aren’t we?’ Montague said quietly with a questioning eyebrow raised. ‘If I cannot undress my own wife in my own home, then things have gone very wrong somewhere in England.’
Her breath was short now, the very idea at which he was hinting hardly appropriate to even think, let alone say.
It was only therefore as Montague lowered his head to press a kiss on her now bare shoulder that Calliope permitted herself to whisper, ‘But you can’t—you can’t undress me here, in the hallway!’
Montague’s chuckle was low as he pressed another kiss onto her shoulder. ‘And why not?’
‘Because—because—’ Surely the man did not need this explaining to him? ‘Because anyone could come upon us!’
The thought indeed was rather thrilling, though Calliope was not about to admit that. Nice young ladies did not feel a jolt of heat between their thighs at the idea of being found being thoroughly kissed, even if it were by their husbands.
Montague straightened and as he met his wife’s eyes, she was shocked to see the heady lust within them. ‘No one will come upon us.’
‘But—but the servants, Draveham—’
‘Draveham has already told us he is going to bed and he is always the last servant up,’ Montague interrupted with a wicked smile as his fingers brushed past her décolletage and slid her gown off her other shoulder.
Calliope grasped at the rapidly slipping material and glared up at her husband. ‘Montague.’
‘Calliope,’ he said seriously.
And she hesitated.
Well…he was right, was he not? After all, the master of a house would be the one who knew the habits of his servants. And this was their home, not a boarding house or lodgings or anything like that. They were hardly going to accept guests at this hour, not on their wedding night.
And he was so handsome. And his fingers were so clever…
Calliope gasped as Montague leaned forward swiftly and pressed a heady kiss on her lips, his desire evidently unable—or unwilling—to wait any further.
She did not want him to. Parting her lips and immediately welcoming him in, Calliope gasped with the pleasure of it and the weight of his ardour, her legs somehow unable to hold her so the two of them careered across the hall, her hands around his shoulders as she clung on.
Her back hit the door but Calliope did not care, there was too much bliss, too much decadence roaring through her as Montague’s tongue teased pleasure through her mouth, shuddering through her as his hands scrabbled at her gown.
‘Calliope,’ he moaned, his need palpable.
Somehow her legs had parted and her husband was nestled between them, and Calliope was relieved the sturdy oak door was behind her for she was not certain how she would stand without its support. Her legs were wobbling and her mind was spinning as Montague’s hands pinned her hips to the door.
Dear God, he was wonderful, he was—
The kiss ended. Calliope blinked blearily up at him and glared. ‘Why did you stop?’
Montague’s hair was mussed and his eyes looked vague, until a sharpness returned along with a roguish grin. ‘Stop what?’
‘Kissing me, of course,’ she shot back, a wry laugh tugged out of her throat. ‘Please, Montague—kiss me again.’
‘Oh, I will,’ he murmured, tugging off his jacket without breaking their gaze. ‘I will.’
It was all very well for him to say that, Calliope thought mussily, but the man was not kissing her—and worse, he was now farther away from kissing her because he was no longer nestled between her legs and pressing his delicious mouth onto hers, but kneeling.
Kneeling?
‘If this is a third proposal,’ Calliope teased under her breath, ‘I feel obliged to tell you I got married this morning. To a complete rogue.’
Montague’s eyes glittered. ‘Sounds like a charmer.’
‘I don’t even like him really,’ she whispered, her body aching to be touched by him again. ‘I just married him because—What are you doing?’
The man was indeed most strange. Of all things he could be doing right now, he seemed very interested in the hemline of her gown. Montague had picked up it as though examining the design.
‘What are you—? Montague!’
The man was designed to vex her, Calliope was certain. Why else would he have suddenly whipped up the hem of her gown, making her skirts fly, then ducked underneath it.
Her buttocks and shoulder blades still pressed against the front door, Calliope hissed to the man who was inexplicably hiding underneath her gown, ‘Montague Donovan, you come up here right now and kiss me!’
‘Why would I?’ came the quiet reply as Montague shifted forward, shuffling on his knees. ‘When I can kiss you here?’
Calliope blinked down at the mound underneath her skirts. ‘Kiss me—’
Further words were impossible. Few women, Calliope vaguely thought as she grabbed the doorhandle and held on for dear life, would be able to speak with their husbands’ lips upon their secret place.
‘M-Montague,’ she breathed.
That was all she could manage. His response was only to grasp her hips—his fingertips scalding upon her flesh—and slowly lick his tongue up her slit.
Calliope moaned, her head tilting back, her gratitude to the presence of the door spiralling out of control as her knees wobbled.
How was it possible she could feel such pleasure, such aching need, such delightful bliss as Montague slipped his tongue into her and twisted it around?
Her free hand grabbed onto what had surely to be Montague’s head underneath her skirts but instead of pulling him away, as her first instinct had been, Calliope found herself pushing him deeper, widening her hips, begging him closer in movements, not words.
Words were quite out of the question.
Montague appeared to be quite enjoying himself, after all, his kisses and licks and sucking threatening to end her very life, and who was she to forbid her new husband from doing something he so clearly relished?
‘Montague,’ Calliope moaned, unable to help herself, vision darkening in the corners of her eyes as the sensual pleasure threatened to push her beyond endurance. ‘Yes—yes. Oh, God, yes—’
It was fortunate indeed that the servants’ bedchambers were three floors up and at the back of the house.
That way, only a passerby on the other side of the heavy door might have heard the unbridled cry of Calliope as her climax ripped through her, threatening to take sanity, voice and certainly the steadiness in her legs as it cascaded through her, drowning her in ecstasy as Montague’s merciless tongue swirled around her nub of pleasure.