The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

“Don’t ever again wear a gown like the one you wore tonight,” he said in her ear. “It’s beautiful and obviously expensive, but it’s still a tart’s gown.”

“You mean it is a gown my mother would wear?”

He paused a moment. “I didn’t say that.”

“You’re afraid I will be a tart, that it’s in my blood, that it’s already beginning to come out, at least in my clothes.”

“Perhaps, I don’t know. Hold still now.” He leaned over her and her breasts were pressed against his chest. He closed his eyes a moment at the feel of her. His hand fell to her face, his fingers tracing over her cheekbones, her nose, smoothing her eyebrows, then moving to stroke her throat. “You are so white,” he said, leaned down and kissed the pulse in her neck. Then his mouth was on hers, hot and pressing, and she gave no more thought to Lisette or to Celeste; she gave it no thought at all. She opened her mouth and gave him her own warmth and her excitement that was building deep inside her, pounding in her, wanting to be free, to shout, but she tried to hold it down, tried and tried.

His hand was caressing her breast now, tugging gently, making that pounding go deeper and deeper until she didn’t think she could bear it. She slid her arms around his back, fascinated by the warmth of his flesh. He was now hers, this man who was also her husband, and at least now, in these few moments, he held no contempt or anger for her, just wanting and need, and it was enough, it had to be enough.

He raised his head and stared down at her. He saw the flush on her cheeks, saw the pulse pounding in her throat. Her arms were tight around his back, her hands stroking downward to his flanks.

“Duchess,” he said and came over her.

She moaned words that wouldn’t speak themselves, she couldn’t hold it in, at the feel of him against her, the heat of him, and she opened her legs for him.

She heard him suck in his breath, she saw him rise over her, looking down at her body, his breathing harsh and raw now, and then he was touching her with his fingers. Suddenly he shook his head. He stared at her until she was trembling with the excitement of it, then he lifted her hips and then his mouth was touching her belly, his tongue harsh and wet and hot on her flesh, and she didn’t understand, but she didn’t care, for the pounding was building and building and there was no stopping it now. She knew if it did stop, she would shatter somehow.

She cried out, her hands now on his shoulders, wildly kneading his flesh, then in his hair, tugging, and he went lower then and sealed his mouth against her and she screamed with the shock of it, the immense power of it. Screamed and moaned and lurched wildly, her head thrashing on the pillows.

The feelings were beyond shattering. Never had she believed such a thing possible, but it was and she was in the midst of it, and it went on and on and she let those feelings fill her, knowing somehow they would overwhelm her and she wanted that. She reveled in the nearly painful sensations that rocked her deep, expanding to enclose all of her, not just her body, but her mind and her hearing and her smelling and it was hard to breathe even. The wildness controlled all of her senses, and for those moments she was naught but feeling, naught but mad frenzy, willingly trapped in those wondrous sensations that shook her and made her cry out. His mouth burned into her flesh, so very hot, pulling on her, then soothing her, and slowly, very slowly and gently as the feelings retreated, softening now, but they were still there, deep yet easing now, but somehow waiting still, and he reared up, and she saw him staring down at himself and at her, saw his hand on himself, then move to open her for himself, and he came into her fully and deeply.

She screamed, bucking upward, nearly heaving him off her, grabbed him around his neck and brought his mouth down to hers. She felt the weight of him, the strength of him and she felt his tongue deep in her mouth just as his sex was deep inside her belly. It didn’t last long, just a few moments and she felt him tense and drive even more deeply, even more fiercely, and then she took his moans in her mouth and she held him against her. She never wanted to let him go, never.

15

IT WAS HE who left her, pulling away to stand beside the bed, his big chest heaving with the power of his release, a sheen of sweat making his flesh glisten, just standing there, staring at her, and she wanted desperately to touch him, just to touch her fingertips to his flesh, to slide them through the thick hair on his chest, to trac

e the contours of the deep muscles that shaped his arms and shoulders and his belly. She’d never known, never even considered that a man’s body could be so very beautiful, so pure and strong, such an instrument of pleasure for her. She forced her eyes upward.

She started to hold out her arms to him, wanting desperately to bring him back to her, to feel the heaviness of him on top of her, to feel his warm breath against her cheek, her ear, but knowing now, realizing now as her brain cleared, that he was well and far away from her now. She was utterly alone. Slowly, saying nothing, for there was nothing to say, after all, she pulled the covers to her chin. She wanted to cover herself, to sink down under the protection of those covers, for he was gone now, almost as if he’d never been driving into her, making her quake and scream and heave like a madwoman.

He said, “Dammit.”

That was odd, she thought, and frowned. “Why do you curse? Did I do something wrong?”

His eyes narrowed even more on her face. “I hadn’t meant that to happen.” She heard it now, the disgust in his voice.

Oh God, he was regretting all of it now. But she wasn’t a shy tongue-tied maiden to be devastated. She had pride, but still it was difficult to keep her voice steady and calm, but she managed it, saying, “You didn’t mean what to happen? You didn’t want to stay with me?”

He shrugged then, and grabbed up his dressing gown. “Oh, I wanted to stay with you, Duchess, and that was my downfall, but it won’t be again. Next time, I’ll do what I must. Surely this one time won’t matter, surely.”

“What are you talking about, Marcus?”

“You’ll see,” he said, then grinned painfully. “Doubtless you’ll see even before this bloody night is over.”

She’d expected—she didn’t know what she’d expected. Perhaps some new sign of closeness from him, for what he’d made her feel had been more than she could ever have imagined. It had been glorious and beyond wonderful, and she’d been part of him even though he was a man, a being so utterly different from her in thought and strength and body. Unlike her, he hadn’t seemed to care or notice or feel anything other than his man’s release. She could have been Lisette or Celeste or any of the now faceless women who would probably be in his future. She couldn’t bear it. She was nothing to him—a wife, a convenience. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She turned her head away from him.

Marcus stared at her as his heart finally began to slow. He’d never experienced such untidy surges of raw feeling before with any woman in his life. And now with her, the bloodless Duchess, who was cold and contained and frigid and . . . what bloody nonsense. When he’d caressed her with his mouth she’d been more frantic, more uninhibited, than any woman he’d known in his adult life. And when he’d come into her, she’d become frenzied again, pulling him deep, bucking and yelling and it had made him into a savage, grunting over her, wanting to devour her, to absorb her into himself. Fool that he was, he’d been a part of her frenzied pleasure and he’d lost control. By God, he didn’t like that, didn’t like what she’d made him do, didn’t like what she’d made him feel.

He was lying to himself. He’d more than liked what she’d done to him then. But not now, not now that his brain had returned to functioning properly.

He said, as he flicked a fleck of lint from the sleeve of his dressing gown, not looking at her for he was going to lie to her now, not just to himself, “You surprised me, Duchess. You didn’t just lie there and endure me. You didn’t whimper or moan. Well, you moaned, but it was with pleasure not sufferance.”

Actually she’d screamed like the most lascivious woman ever born. She said nothing. She’d pressed her fist into her mouth.

“You were willing. You were more than willing. You appeared to want me more than the most skilled harlot—” He broke off, then continued more slowly now, his speech measured, “I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. What I meant was that you were not pretending. I know women well and I know when a woman feigns pleasure. No, you weren’t dissembling. I find that vastly incredible.”