Chapter Twenty-Four
It was after dark by the time the three of them returned home. Supper had long since passed, and Leonora had been sent to bed.
Evelyn relinquished care of Selina to Mrs. Hartley, whom she’d come to respect a great deal in the brief duration of her marriage thus far. Exhausted, she ate a heaping assortment from the cold tray that was sent up to her room, then dragged herself into a warm tub. Milburga, appearing equally spent due to the bath that had been inflicted upon her, curled up on her cushion before the fire.
Evelyn sighed deeply as she slipped into the water. She felt as though she’d been caked in grime for days, even though it had only been for the past handful of hours. She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d managed to get through the day, but she had—they all had—and now, she hoped, the entire ordeal was finally over. And Mr. Hartley had returned to Knockton, where he belonged.
Her stomach flipped at that thought, and her eyes shifted to the small package he’d brought her, lying upon her dressing table. Her spectacles. The dressing table where he’d…
Her cheeks burned. She reached for the cake of soap.
She somehow managed to set aside thoughts of him as she dried off and allowed Dutton to assist her into her nightdress. Unfortunately, Evelyn had a little more difficulty meeting her own eye in the looking glass as Dutton brushed out her wet hair and plaited it. Instead of fighting it and forcing herself to instead think of the poem selection for the monumental tree celebration, or of what she might say to the housekeeper at Methering Manor about Wright’s departure, or that they ought to purchase another horse that was decent for riding, she allowed him—Marcus—to fill her thoughts.
How strange to think that only last summer she’d found him odious and his house intolerable. Well, his London house, at any rate. As she lay in her bed, unable to sleep, bolstered by several pillows and with her hands folded across her middle, she appraised the many comforts of her room. Platt Lodge, while smaller and less storied than Methering Manor, had been perfectly acceptable; by now it very nearly felt like home. Perhaps it soon would completely, now that he’d returned. But he would only leave again, eventually. She frowned at the ceiling, lacing and unlacing her fingers, unsure of what to do.
Evelyn had thought she’d understood all that passed between a husband and wife. But then she witnessed Selina’s hollow, tear-streaked face on the floor of the Methering Manor kitchen, and the way Selina whispered Edmund’s name. Then there was the way Marcus had looked at her as she held her sister-in-law. Now Evelyn was starting to think she knew nothing at all about any of it.
She thought of the girl on the platform at the station in Blackburn, who now owned her old handkerchief—the only other soul she’d ever seen cry the way Selina did. Did that girl possess knowledge hitherto unknown to Evelyn?
She sighed. It made no sense, trying to puzzle this out now. Her husband had married her for her family’s reputation, whose worth after the events of the day was questionable. Not one to feel maudlin, Evelyn shut her eyes tight. She would have to rise tomorrow and set to work making herself a better helpmeet, a better bargain for him in the end.
No sooner had she closed her eyes than she heard a soft, yet sharp rap on her door. Her eyes shot open and her heart took off, beating fast and heavy. Before she could speak, the door swung open and Mr. Hartley entered, mumbling soothing platitudes to Milburga, who approached him with a wary swish of her tail after an initial warning bark.
“It seems you’ve taken to her, then?” Mr. Hartley said cheerfully, stooping over to pat the uncertain collie.
Evelyn wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or her pet. It did not matter, though, for he didn’t seem to be looking for a response. Milburga finally decided it was acceptable for him to be there, and she jumped up on him, placing her front paws upon his legs. He murmured a few endearments to the dog before ruffling her ears and righting himself.
“And what of those, then?” He nodded to the unopened package on her dressing table.
Her spectacles. She nearly pulled a face.
“Oh, those?” Evelyn sniffed, then plucked at the hem of the bedlinens stretched over her. Suddenly she felt overheated. “With our evening having been as such…” She let her words disappear, preferring not to give voice to all the questions and horrid little feelings that had flooded her mind in the silence of her room.
When he didn’t answer, she looked up to find him watching her, that same queer look he had given her at Methering Manor upon his face, gentling his stern brow.
“May I?”
He asked so softly, in his deep, rumbling voice. How unfair.
“Of course.”
Any refusal would sound pathetically immature just now, with him in her room, standing before her dressing table once more. Evelyn swallowed. It had only been slightly more than two weeks, but everything between them had changed; the very ground they stood on had shifted. Before they’d left for Birmingham, he’d been Mr. Hartley, her husband who had married her for practical purposes, who had done nothing more than tup her in an enjoyable manner. But since then she’d quarreled with him, missed him, chased after him on an ill-tempered horse. Seen him deliver a blow to one of her former household staff. Now she’d called him by his Christian name. And it felt different on her lips. No longer was his name a reprimand, a chastisement; now it was a breath of relief. A soothing prayer. A comfort.
The crinkling of the paper from the package gave way to his soft chuckle.
He turned about, holding the spectacles aloft, squinting as though he were attempting to peer through them.
“They seem sound.” He turned them over as he examined them, his large hands delicate upon the wire frames.
Evelyn threw the blankets off and twisted about, but he strolled over toward her so she need not get out of bed. He paused before her, forcing her to tilt her head back and look him in the eye. Without speaking, he lowered the frames to her face and slowly slid them into place, pausing to tuck her hair behind one ear.
Her dratted heart was still beating forcefully in her chest, skipping along even more rapidly now, and she looked away. She could feel his gaze upon her, but she resisted its draw. For every look, every gesture seemed thick with meaning. If she met his eyes now, she might find herself tangled up in an emotional affair she’d never anticipated or sought.
She had once vowed never to marry. But also, without explicitly telling herself so, she’d locked her heart away. That is, if she’d ever had one.
His hand remained on her jaw, one thumb caressing her cheekbone. Evelyn closed her eyes and sighed into his touch. She reached up and placed her own tentative hand atop his. Not to still him, but to acknowledge the gesture. Thank you. I—
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, interrupting whatever terrifying emotion she’d almost acknowledged to herself.
She opened her eyes to find him staring ardently into hers. And in that moment, she knew she’d ceded far too much. His lips moved ever so slightly, as if he meant to speak again, but no words came forth. His gaze fell to her mouth. Evelyn’s center tightened. She’d missed his affection, the way he touched her. Ever so slowly he knelt before her, his hand sliding to the nape of her neck.
“I had a thought today,” she said hurriedly. “An insight, an idea… something that might assist you once the election draws near.”
He froze momentarily, a mix of emotions playing out across his face. But whatever it was quickly flitted away, and the lazy grin on his lips and intense heat of his gaze returned.
“Oh, is that so?” His fingers fanned out around her throat, his grip light but just enough to send a shock of pleasure through her.
Evelyn’s breath hitched, but she managed to continue.
“I encountered Mr. Davies—his farm abuts the manor’s land—and we spoke briefly of your career.”
He eased her toward him and dipped his head, his mouth meeting the nape of her neck with an alarming heat. Evelyn gasped softly, but checked herself, biting her lower lip lest she release that mad, lustful creature that lived inside her. She knew all too well how easily her baser nature took over when he handled her like this.
“Did you, now?” he purred against her skin.
Evelyn silently uttered the crudest curse she could think of, which did nothing to curb the twisting, knotting anticipation within her.
His other hand was now upon her thigh, grazing the cambric linen of her nightgown ever so lightly as it trailed upward.
“And what did you tell Mr. Davies?”
His hand paused at the generous curve of her hip, squeezing her flesh just shy of painfully. A wordless moan rose in her throat, but she would not part her lips. Not yet. Evelyn shut her eyes again.
“Did you tell him how dearly you missed me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She jerked back, her eyes snapping open, but his hold upon her kept her near to him.
Now he chuckled, sardonically lifting one corner of his mouth.
“My little wife,” he rumbled. “Did you explain how forlorn you were, left alone in this house with no husband to tend to your…” He buried his face into her shoulder and neck once more, inhaling deeply. When he pulled back he licked his upper lip, a gesture that Evelyn felt deep within her. “Needs?”
“What?!” Evelyn gaped at him, confused and shocked. “To Mr. Davies? Under what circumstances would I speak to Mr. Davies of something so… so…”
Her heart raced even faster at the mere thought of such tawdriness, and she barely resisted when her husband slid a hand underneath her rump and pulled her toward him again—her legs spread, her most intimate area flush against the hard lines of his torso, the fabric of her nightgown pulled taut against her thighs as they wrapped around him.
“Marcus,” she breathed.
“Something so what?” he growled, his tone now positively feral. “Something so intoxicating as our marriage bed?”
He pressed hard kisses into her shoulder, her neck. Her body tightened.
“Someone so unapproachable and indestructible as you?”
She sucked in a shaky breath, the throbbing between her legs now nearly as insistent as the drumbeat of her heart.
“Your regal bearing, your… Christ,” he gasped as his hand closed around her breast. “Your tits, your legs—they’re all I can think of, some days.”
He dug his fingers into her, and Evelyn cried out, pushing her body against him. Whatever control he’d exerted up until that point suddenly fled, and his mouth became fervent, lathering her with harsh, insistent kisses down her collarbone, along the wide neckline of her gown. Wet kisses against the fabric upon her breast, until he found the pebbled nipple underneath and sucked it, teasing it out with his teeth.
Evelyn scraped her fingers along his back, wishing his coat gone, his shirt gone, everything gone. She wanted nothing between them. Her diversionary anecdote about Mr. Davies had escaped her mind; all that was left were thoughts of him, her husband, Marcus.
He pulled back, his breathing ragged. He locked eyes with her, boring into her soul, and began bunching up her skirts with one hand.
“And your cunt, Evelyn, fuck.”
She lifted herself from the bed and hitched up the back of her gown, exposing herself to him. Serving herself up to him, to do with what he would.
His movements slowed now as he lowered his face between her legs, his hot breath teasing at her curls, his fingers tracing lines along the inside of her thighs.
“Your exquisite cunt,” he murmured, his lips nearly upon hers.
Evelyn felt herself clench. And then he buried his face in her.
She was so close, right on the brink. Marcus’s eyes smiled up at her as he kept at his task. He pressed his tongue flat against her bud, pushing one hand gently down above her thatch of curls, with the other inside her, two fingers curling rhythmically back toward him, beckoning her to finish. Her breath came in short, harried gasps now, her body wriggling outside of her control.
“Say my name,” he breathed quickly; he dared not remove his tongue for more than a moment before going back to work, resuming the rhythm he had been maintaining.
His two fingers within her could feel her heat intensify. Christ, he wanted to take hold of his cock. But he kept on, coaxing her to the precipice. And then she went over.
“Marcus,” she rasped, her fingers sliding up and down his neck, digging into his scalp. “Ohhh…” she keened, her fingers twisting his hair painfully.
He didn’t care. He felt her body retreat, but he held fast.
She gasped again, convulsed again. He felt incredible, more powerful than he ever had before. As if his wife could not live without him. And he pressed down further, intensifying the ministrations of his tongue and his fingers.
“No,” she gasped, smacking his hands away, scooting herself backward. “It’s too much! I can’t, not anymore, I…”
Marcus reluctantly sat back on his heels, his chest heaving. She sat above him, flushed and wet. Her usual aloofness was nowhere to be seen; his wife had been replaced by a lazy, satiated, bespectacled goddess.
His hand, still slick with her desire, went to the fall of his trousers, working it open until his erect cock sprung free. Her light eyes followed from behind those lenses, watching intently as he took hold of himself. A cold young lady undone by his filthy mouth. His anticipation tightened along with his fist.
“Mr. Hartley,” she purred, tracing a desultory hand along her mussed nightgown, across her breasts, along the exposed skin of her throat.
“No,” he hissed, letting go of his cock and reaching for her, pulling her down to the floor atop him. “Never that. Never again.”
Evelyn stared at him, stunned. But then she licked her lips and nodded.
“Marcus,” she murmured, her hands feeling at his trousers, trying to pull them down even as she lay against them.
“Yes,” he cooed, kissing her cheek, catching her lips. Kissing her insistently, opening his mouth, sweeping his tongue inside her, that she might taste the subtle tang of herself. “That’s better.”
And then he was up, lifting her against him, depositing her back upon the bed. She immediately rose up on her knees, reaching for him, but he shook his head with a grin.
“Not yet,” he scolded, pushing his trousers and drawers down, then kicking them both off. “Divest yourself, please.”
Evelyn flushed prettily, then reached for her spectacles. He went to her, stilling her hand.
“No darling, leave them on.” He pulled her in, kissing her softly along her jawline. “I desire that you should see.”
She watched him, something playing behind her eyes, as if she expected him to take back the command and insist she take them off. But he didn’t, only caressed her cheek once more before pulling his shirt over his head, along with his woolen vest. Still she perched there, up on her knees, watching him, and Marcus made short work of her nightgown, pulling it gently over her head so as not to disturb her spectacles.
He drew in his breath before joining her atop the bed and pulling her back into him, skin against skin, as they were meant to be. His hands skidded along her lush curves, her hard nipples, her damp curls.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured into her ear.
She melted back into him with a sigh.
Marcus thought it the most blessed benediction of his life. She felt safe with him. Sated. Wet with desire for him. With one hand on her shoulder, he lowered his lips to the nape of her neck. He could not be without her. Not again. Not anymore. From this moment forward, Marcus knew, he would always be hers, always at her beck and call. Hers to order about. Hers to punish, hers to praise.
She reached behind her with an elegant hand, taking hold of him. Sliding along his length with a gentle squeeze.
He groaned.
Fuck it, but he loved her. And he never wanted to be without her again.
So be it.