“Cornwall I think. My mother’s house. At least that still belongs to me. I’ll live there.”
“Max—”
“The house is called Blackwood
,” he went on, as if he knew she was going to gush sympathy and he didn’t want to listen. “It’s built of stone and sits on a cliff looking out to the sea, and it has stood there for centuries. I visited when I was a little boy, so I don’t remember it well, but I am sure it will suit me in my current straitened circumstances. Perhaps I can do some smuggling, to supplement my income.”
Marietta forced a laugh, although she had tears in her eyes again. What was it about Max’s bravery in the face of despair that made her want to weep? “Are there still such things as smugglers?” she said.
“I doubt it. But maybe I can start up one of the gangs again. It would give me something to do during the long nights.”
This time her laugh was more genuine. He turned his head to look up at her, his dark gaze languorous. And dangerous. There was something suddenly so compelling about him, so mesmerizing, that before she knew what she was doing, Marietta had lowered her head and placed her lips against his.
She surprised him, but only for an instant. His lips opened slightly, moved, and then she was in his arms and he was kissing her with a depth and a thoroughness that turned her world topsy-turvy.
Shock held her still briefly, and then she was doing her best to kiss him back. His mouth was warm and she felt the stirring of something low in her belly, a pleasurable ache. He turned his head and nuzzled against her neck, his lips teasing, making her squirm.
Was this the man who had been protesting so vehemently only moments before? She could hardly believe it. Tentatively, not wanting to let a chance pass her by, Marietta stroked his throat, sliding her fingers around to his nape. His skin was warm, just as it had been last night—she remembered now his nakedness and how it had intrigued her.
“Can I take off your shirt?” she asked him impulsively.
Startled, Max pulled away from her, collapsing back on the pillows. For a moment he seemed quite speechless, and Marietta could only think that his head was hurting him again. She checked to see if his wound was bleeding, but it wasn’t.
“Is this part of learning to be a courtesan?” he asked her at last.
“Of course,” she said, but she knew she had not been thinking of practicing when she first kissed him; she had not been thinking of anything apart from the fact that she wanted to.
“Why do you want to take off my shirt?”
He watched her with a combination of irritation and curiosity, but he didn’t seem about to grant her request unless she explained.
“I was with you last night, remember. You had no clothes on and your chest was…” She felt her face getting hotter—she would really have to learn how to control her blushes. Aphrodite never blushed. “You and I are very different, physically,” she said bluntly. “Although I have been with a man, I cannot say I spent much time looking at him. When I am a courtesan I don’t want to be surprised when a man takes off his shirt.”
He blinked up at her, his eyes dark and warm, his mouth quirking into a smile. Oh Lord, he is gorgeous, she found herself thinking. Not at all as I imagined him that first moment, when I saw him in the balloon. How could I have been so silly as to imagine I didn’t like him?
“You want to see my chest because it’s different from yours?” he repeated evenly. “Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
He was insane, he supposed, but since Marietta had come into his life he’d lost the will to be his usual cautious self. There seemed to be so little these days to cheer him up—why the hell couldn’t he enjoy himself? What English law decreed that he must now be the most miserable man in the land?
He began to shrug himself out of the quilted jacket, ignoring the throb in his temples. She helped him, murmuring so solicitously that he laughed aloud, and then groaned when his head hurt even more. His shirt had to come over his head, and after she had untied his neckcloth, she helped him tug at the sleeves, removing it in one quick movement.
He wondered what she would say, or think, and felt strangely self-conscious for a man who had been naked many times with many women. But she didn’t say anything. She simply looked at him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide, her expression rapt.
“Max,” she murmured. “You’re very handsome.” She reached out and then stopped, her gaze flickering sideways to meet his. “Can I touch you?”
“Be my guest,” he said matter-of-factly. He wondered if she was really going to run her hands over his skin, or whether this was part of a fantasy he had invented in his delirium. In a moment he’d wake up and it would all be a dream.
Her hands closed on his shoulders, her palms soft and warm. He tried not to show any reaction, but he was hot—fever-hot, and the fever was called Marietta. His body reacted despite his present condition, and he quickly checked that the bedcoverings were discreetly placed to hide his erection. No need to educate her quite that much.
She was smoothing her hands up over his upper arms. Max wasn’t vain, but he knew he was a reasonable specimen of a man—an active life had seen to that. She seemed to be fascinated with the dark hair on his chest, and brushed her fingers through it several times, enjoying the coarse feel of it. Her nail scraped his nipple and he winced, but when she apologized she didn’t even lift her eyes from what she was doing.
His nipples fascinated her. She touched them again, watching as they hardened, and the heat inside him grew.
“That happens when I’m cold,” he said, thinking some sort of explanation was necessary. “Or…eh, sexually aroused. It is the same with you.”
Now she did look at him, and he could see she was quite amazed.