He had to grin at that, but it was difficult. He had her undressed and flat on her back in a matter of moments. He stood over her, pulling off his boots and his buckskin trousers, looking at her face all the while he jerked off his clothes, and she lay there on her back, her riding clothes spread out beneath her, watching him, excitement rippling through her as he removed each piece of clothing. When he tossed his trousers aside and stood over her, his legs slightly spread, his sex free of his clothes, full and heavy, she said, “Please hurry, Marcus.” She stretched out her arms to him, her eyes darkening. “Oh goodness, you’re more beautiful than your stallion.”
He cocked an eyebrow at that and came
down on his knees beside her. “Stanley would hurt a mare when he took her. I would never hurt you. And I won’t hurry, Duchess, at least I’ll try my damnedest not to.”
He leaned down as he spoke and his last words were a whisper against her breast.
She cried out, arching up against his mouth.
“Easy,” he said, pushing her back, his hand flat on her belly. “Easy. It will be all right. Just be open for me, Duchess. Just open.”
He wanted her mouth immediately and she gave him her warmth as she parted her lips and he touched her tongue. She arched again and she felt him trembling against her, his hand now moving from her breasts to her belly, kneading her, spanning her with splayed fingers, gently caressing her pelvic bones, then going lower, circling her, lightly touching the warm flesh of her thighs, then finally cupping her, his fingers caressing and so very gentle until he found her and began to move in a rhythm that made her forget everything but him and those fingers of his and his mouth on hers and the heat of him as he moved over her. This time, though, his mouth never left hers, and it was his fingers that brought her to a tension that threatened to shatter her, so intense it was. And just at that instant when she knew, just knew there could be no more for her, he came into her, hard and deep, and her body exploded into blazing light, sparking a pleasure so strong, so urgent, she screamed, her hands clutching at his arms, at his back. It was too much.
He was driving into her, drawing her upward to meet him again, when she managed to look up into his face, harsh in the dim light of the tack room, his eyes glazed, and suddenly, it seemed that he was in immense pain. His jaw was locked, his cheeks flushed, the flesh taut over his bones. He grew still. She could feel him deep inside her, heavy, jerking slightly. Then, in the next instant, he wrenched away from her, heaving, groaning as if he were in pain, cursing, his hands digging into her hips to support himself, and she didn’t understand, couldn’t begin to realize what he was doing until she felt the wet of his seed on her belly, felt him jerking over her until finally, he was on his knees between her legs, his head bowed, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged.
She said nothing, merely stared at him, the pleasure from such a short time before now as cold as ashes on a summer grate. She felt nothing but a vast emptiness that would consume her, she knew it as certainly as she now understood him and what he had planned the previous night but had failed to carry out.
She saw his seed on her belly. She held perfectly still. If she remained perfectly still, said naught, not a single word, maybe the pain would diminish, maybe he would say something that wouldn’t tear her apart.
He rose, standing naked over her. “I’ll get my handkerchief.” She closed her eyes and turned onto her side, drawing her legs up. She didn’t care that she was naked, that he would look at her, it just didn’t matter. She felt him coming back down on his knees, felt his hands on her shoulder and hip, turning her back to him. She felt the handkerchief wiping his seed from her.
“Don’t you dare cry, Duchess,” he said low, his face bending close to her head. “Don’t you dare weep your damned woman’s tears and say that I abused you, that you didn’t gain pleasure from me. You had great pleasure if your screams were any measure, and believe me, they were. I didn’t cheat you out of anything save my seed, but you know I intended to do that. If you didn’t understand what I meant, you do now. I told you that you won’t bear any child of mine to follow in that bastard’s footsteps. It is done. Get up now and get dressed.”
He tossed the handkerchief beside her on her riding skirt. She watched him as he dressed, his movements as graceful as they always were, oblivious of her now, as if she had been naught but a receptacle for his man’s lust, and since he was through with her, why bother then regarding her anymore. Then she saw his hands, hard and large, yet when they touched her, they . . . she closed her eyes. He was in full control, both of himself and of her. She had no control at all, indeed, at that moment, she had nothing.
Slowly, she sat up, drawing her now wrinkled chemise over her head. She stared at a beautiful Spanish saddle as she said, “Badger is preparing dinner himself tonight.”
Marcus eyed her with some surprise. He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought, no tears for the Duchess, no sign of anything, except when she wanted him to pleasure her. No, no sign of anything because emotion was too messy, it would reduce her in her own eyes to show anyone anything save her immense calm, that damnable aloofness of hers. He said, “What is he preparing?”
“Roasted lamb with apricot sauce. He says it takes too long a time to hash a shoulder of mutton properly so instead he has marinated the mutton all day.”
Marcus grunted as he pulled on his coat. He walked to a chair, sat down, and pulled on his boots.
“He is also making a cherry and almond cake. It was always one of my mother’s favorites. And cassia biscuits. They have castor sugar and currants in them.”
He rose then and looked down at her sitting cross-legged on her riding skirt, his damp wadded-up handkerchief beside her, her chemise pulled over her head to fall only to her thighs, those white legs of hers so beautifully shaped. Her hair was tumbled about her head. She looked so lovely and yet so desperate in her calmness, he felt a stab of alarm. He shook his head. No, not the Duchess, she wouldn’t feel anything that would interfere with the smoothness of her breath, save when he took her and stroked her. And that gave him power over her. That pleased him. He could shatter her calm in those precious minutes. He took a step toward her, then stopped suddenly, frowning. “Do you not think it a bit odd to speak about Badger’s recipes so soon after having sex with me?”
“Would you prefer that I said nothing?”
“It is what you usually say. Holding cold and detached is your specialty. It is what I expected.”
“I spoke about food to break the silence, to give you background noise while you dressed again. Would you rather I had spoken of something else?”
“Yes. Of me and what I did to you, of what I gave to you. Of yourself, and what I will teach you to do to me. Right now you are taking, Duchess, naught but taking. Are you willing to give as well?”
She looked beyond his right shoulder. “Do you know how pippins and plums are candied?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“You mustn’t forget that a good cook, which Badger is, also knows how to use foods to prepare remedies for illnesses.”
He hunkered down beside her. He took her chin in his palm. “Shut up.”
She became still as a stone.
He kissed her, forcing her mouth open, but he didn’t savage her, no, not at all. She felt his tongue gently come into her mouth, lightly touching hers, demanding nothing. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to ignore the burgeoning warmth deep in her belly. It was humiliating, that damned warmth that he drew so effortlessly from her.
Then he was gone, rising to stand over her. “Dress yourself. I imagine that all our stable lads know exactly what we’ve been doing. Come, I’ll help you. There is straw in your hair. I suppose I should take that handkerchief. It smells of me and of you and I wouldn’t want to make you remember that you are as wild as a mare when a stallion comes over her.”