Chapter Twenty-Two
“He won’t mind,” Winifred said as she stood outside her husband’s bedchamber with her fist hovering in the air.
After reluctantly leaving Marcus to rest the previous night, she’d returned several times but couldn’t seem to gather the courage to knock.
Which was absurd, given he’d clearly expressed a desire for them to continue what they’d started.
She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on his door.
She was eager to resume their activities, but more than that, she wanted his company.
The castle was lonelier than she’d realized, and Marcus slept at the most unusual times.
She had been married for mere weeks, but the life she’d imagined after she’d accepted his proposal had been nothing like reality.
Her research would have to be enough. She turned around and walked back to the library. When she arrived and sat down at the same table as she had the previous afternoon, there was an envelope waiting atop the stack of books. She squealed as she tore it open.
Dearest Winifred,
Anastasia delivered your most clever letter. Please understand how much I regret not standing up on your behalf, although I am glad to hear you are getting along well with the earl. When I come of age, it would be my pleasure to become your companion.
As to news, there is not much to tell. Our uncle is eager to see me wed, but I have yet to find a man who I feel would make an appropriate husband. Most of the men Uncle Ethan introduces are terrible bores.
Please write again soon so that I know you received this.
Sincerely,
Felicity
Winifred felt a combination of bubbling happiness for her friend’s success and a churning in her gut for Felicity’s difficulty with their uncle.
Uncle Ethan obviously wanted his ward married and out of his house.
If that happened, Winifred wasn’t sure if it would be easier or harder to contact her cousin.
She grabbed a sheet of paper and began compiling her response, in which she mentioned her new avenue of occult research.
That would be sure to excite Felicity. She finished her letter, sealed it, then gave it to a maid.
When the young maid had vanished with her letter and a promise to have it mailed as soon as possible, Winifred leaned back in her chair and looked out the window.
The sun was not quite below the horizon.
According to Marcus’s nocturnal schedule that she was still not accustomed to, he would be awakening soon, and she had many things she wanted to discuss.
She could have waited for him to find her, but she was too restless to sit back and watch the minute hand on the clock on her mantel tick past. She rose out of her chair and walked as quickly as she could into the hallway and then to his room, even though she internally quaked.
When she’d reached his door and knocked, it creaked open.
That was odd. She gently touched her fingers to the wood and pushed.
The room was dark, and there was a sound of shuffling sheets and moaning.
“Marcus?” she whispered.
No response.
She stepped forward, arms outstretched to keep from bumping into anything. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out a desk and a four-poster bed with the curtains drawn shut.
She should have turned and left, but the soft sound coming from the bed drew her forward, until she stood with one hand clasping the edge of a curtain. Then she peeked inside, and what she saw sent a throb of heat through her.
Marcus was lying on his back, wearing only a nightshirt and a strip of fabric around his eyes like a blindfold.
Her gaze traveled down his wide shoulders and chest to his slim waist and his hand clasped tightly around his engorged cock.
He lifted his hips as he worked himself.
His face was flushed and there were beads of moisture on his forehead.
She could not look away, even as her spectacles fogged.
“Marcus,” she finally whispered.
His body spasmed, and a milky substance spurted from his cock and dripped down his knuckles. He snatched the blindfold away, grabbed a sheet from where it was bunched by his hips, and flung it over his body.
“Winifred,” he said in a voice so husky, it made the skin of her arms erupt into gooseflesh. “Is something wrong?”
She clutched the edge of the curtain. It was impossible not to look at him. His body was lean and muscular, completely different from hers, with fine, black hair covering his shockingly pale abdomen.
“I… I…” She’d seen the nude male form in the books she’d kept hidden deep within her parents’ library, but those sketches were in black and white and entirely clinical. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have entered without permission.”
“You are always welcome.” He patted the mattress. “Sit.”
She shifted her skirts and carefully perched on the edge of his bed, fully aware that there were only a few layers of fabric between them. She covered her face with her hands. Admitting her desire was tremendously embarrassing.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Tell me.”
She leaned against him and said, all in a rush, “I want to continue where we left off last night.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.” She slid her hand to his bare thigh. “May I touch you?”
He whisked the sheet away faster than she’d thought possible.