The Wild Marquis Read online

  She felt a surge of power and issued a little moue of complaint when he pulled back from her, until his fingers slipped between her lower curls and started to caress her there.

  She’d never felt anything like it in her life. She could feel herself warm and wet as he stroked with unerring precision, finding a place that aroused the most extraordinary tension. She settled onto her back to give him easier access and maintained her own attentions to his shoulders and arms. With a corner of her mind she knew she wasn’t giving him equal measure, but every fiber of her being was concentrated on the sensations he generated at her very core. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it another moment, would burst, go mad if something—she didn’t know what—didn’t happen, he removed his hand, came on top of her, and entered her.

  He was long and hard and she felt stretched to the breaking point. Yet when he began to pump she found she was wet enough to accommodate him without discomfort. Curling her legs about his thighs she shifted herself up to meet him. Somehow, though she enjoyed the feeling of being filled, it wasn’t quite the same as when he’d used his hand. That bursting sensation returned but with less intensity and she felt further from that nameless conclusion.

  Cain had raised himself onto his elbows as he thrust and continued to kiss her and murmur encouragement. He worked in her a long time and there were moments when that feeling crested again, then retreated.

  Suddenly he withdrew and lay beside her, continuing to hold her close.

  “It’s not going to work, is it?” he said softly.

  “No,” she said, feeling a wave of inadequacy, though not sure exactly how she was lacking.

  “We’ll do it this way.”

  It took minutes, perhaps only seconds. His fingers found that spot again and she tumbled into bliss, waves of heat emanating from her core up through her torso and down every limb to the tips of her fingers and toes.

  She cried out, probably senselessly.

  “That’s it,” he said and came into her again with a few hard, accelerating thrusts. He collapsed with a hoarse shout as she felt his seed gush inside her.

  She was boneless, didn’t believe she could ever move again. The waves of heat subsided to a hum, and as the humming sensation abated a delicious well-being continued to pervade her mind and body. She thought she’d happily remain buried in the warm cocoon of her bed, in Cain’s arms, forever.

  “Hey,” Cain said, his voice teasing and amazingly strong. “It’s rude to go to sleep afterward.” He rolled off her, sat up, and started arranging the pillows, including the one beneath her head, which he pulled out despite her muttered grumble.

  By that standard Joseph must have been the rudest man in England. He always went straight to sleep.

  Cain hauled her up beside him and settled them back against the pillows, tugging the blankets up under their chins. She protested a little but let him tuck her in his arm, her head nestled in his shoulder.

  “This mattress has a lump in it,” he complained.

  “That’s why I sleep on this side.”

  “Don’t you think you should let a guest have the comfortable side?”

  “I’m not much in the habit of entertaining.” Her wits were returning, just.

  “I’m honored to receive your hospitality. I enjoyed myself immensely.” The caress in his deep voice was followed by a lingering closemouthed kiss. She felt herself melting back into a state of semi-somnolence.

  Cain had other ideas. “Tell me how you learned about books.”

  “Do you want to talk? Now?”

  “It’s the best bit. Well, perhaps not the best, but I’ve had some excellent conversations after lovemaking. And it fills the time till we can do it again.”

  “Again?”

  “Give me a few minutes.”

  “A few minutes?” She seemed to have turned into an echo, but the concepts of postcoital conversation and a repeat of the main event were new to her. But not unwelcome, she found. It was rather cozy tucked up in bed with Cain’s lovely warm body. Her sleepiness faded away.

  “How did you learn the difference between calf and vellum?” he asked.

  “I was six years old when my g—grandfather showed me my first rare book. It was a first edition of Montaigne’s Essays.”

  “Advanced reading for such a little thing.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be read.” She rolled her eyes and punched him in the chest playfully. “As a matter of fact he showed it to me because I told him about the book I was reading. Perrault’s Fairy Tales. He’d never shown much interest in me before that. My nurse would take me to his library for ten minutes every evening and I remember it was always awkward. After he discovered I liked books, things changed. He taught me a game. I had to identify the kind of leather in a book binding and when I got it right he gave me a peppermint drop.”

  “I can see your childhood was one dissipation after another.”

  “I enjoyed it.”

  “Actually I envy you. I never did anything half as amusing with my parents. Did you go on reading fairy tales?”

  “I did,” Juliana said softly. She’d read them so often the volume fell apart like a pack of cards. She was sorry for it. The Perrault had belonged to Cassandra.

  “Did you dream one of those princes would ride up on a white horse and carry you away?”

  “I got over that.” She didn’t tell him her real dream was that her mother, of whose identity she was then unaware, would come and rescue her from the loneliness of Fernley Court.

  “Very wise,” he said. “Men are never princes.”

  Juliana didn’t want to talk about her disappointed dreams. “As I grew older,” she said, “I had to guess the age of the binding as well.”

  “Let me try one,” he said. A pile of books tottered on the small table that filled the space between the bed and the wall. “What about that big one?”

  He had to reach across her to get to the volume but stopped halfway. He tugged the blankets down to expose one of her breasts.

  “Smooth,” he murmured, stroking it with the tips of his fingers. The breast tingled happily. “Soft as silk.” He closed his eyes with a look of deep concentration. “Some kind of skin is my guess.”

  “Idiot,” she said. “All leather is some kind of skin.”

  To her regret he removed his hand and pulled up the cover again. “Thanks, Juliana, for spoiling that moment. Before I start associating breasts with old boots, hand over that book.”

  “It’s heavy. Can’t you feel it from where you are?”

  As she hoped, Cain almost rolled on top of her. His lovely firm chest rubbed against her, setting up a renewed tingling and an enhanced appreciation of the concept of “doing it again.”

  “Interesting texture,” he said, stroking the worn cover. “A male beast, I believe, but not entirely virile. A rather shy badger? Am I right? Is it badger skin?”

  “No.”

  “A bashful beaver? No?”

  He rested his head on her chest, which was heaving with laughter, and appeared to be lost in deep thought.

  “I’m on the wrong track,” he mused. “I know! It’s a smaller animal but a strong one. A stout stoat? A rapacious rat? A very vigorous vole?”

  She couldn’t speak, only shake her head.

  “Give me a hint. Is it a small animal? No? A big one then?” She nodded. “An elephant? I don’t believe you. Another hint, please.”

  The sound disintegrated into giggles but Cain managed to recognize a “mooo.”

  “A cow!” he cried in disgust, rolling off her and sitting up. “All the time the creature was a female. How could I have got it wrong? I may have to retire to a monastery.”

  “The book is bound in calf,” she said. “The sex of the animal is not specified.”

  “What is it? A rare tome, I suppose, too precious to be sullied by a common eye.”

  “Actually it’s not very valuable and extremely dull. A collection of documents and newspaper extracts relating
to the recent history of the Church of England.”

  “And how do you come to possess such a fascinating miscellany?”

  “I wish I knew. It was one of the last things my husband bought before his murder. The whole lot was rubbish.”

  “Your husband was murdered?” Cain appeared shocked. It hadn’t occurred to her he didn’t know. “My God! Did it happen here?”

  “Not here.” She shuddered. “At an inn in Salisbury.”

  “Did they catch the murderer?”

  “No. The magistrate said it was a common robbery and the killer escaped.”

  Cain put an arm around her and gathered her close. “I’m sorry. You must miss him very much?”

  “Yes,” she answered baldly. As usual she felt guilty for not missing her husband more.

  “Are you lonely living all by yourself here?”

  “Sometimes,” she confided. “And lately I think it’s made me a little mad. I hear noises in the night, downstairs.”

  “What kind of noises?”

  “I don’t know. It’s more of a feeling really. A couple of times I’ve woken with the sense there’s someone in the shop. It happened last night. But nothing seems to be missing, or even disturbed.”

  “Under the circumstances I’m not surprised you’re afraid of robbery.”

  His tightening embrace comforted her. “I think I must be imagining things. Perhaps I am upset by the approaching anniversary of Joseph’s death.”

  It seemed wrong to be discussing her late husband while she lay in bed with another man. Perhaps Cain felt the same restraint.

  “I admire you for continuing your business alone,” he said finally.

  “What else could I do? Besides, it’s what I wanted. I can’t imagine a life without books. And thanks to you, my lord, I am about to become more successful. It was a very lucky occurrence that brought you to my shop.”

  “I think so too.” He squeezed her breast. “Happy to be of service, but I have the feeling you would have managed to meet a few people tonight without me. Mr. Gilbert, I am sure, would have been glad to oblige.”

  There was an edge in his voice. “Perhaps he’d like to buy that volume. My mother would probably find it fascinating. Ironic really, that we should both have become book collectors. At least I can be sure we won’t be rivals for the same things. Our tastes could hardly be more different.”

  She tried to turn aside his bitterness with a joke. “I’m not so sure about that. You must be aware that the Book of Hours is a prayer book.”

  “Yes,” he said shortly.

  “By the way, I looked into the history of the Burgundy manuscript. It was a gift from the King of France to Henry VIII. Then it disappeared from the royal inventory without any record of its disposal. Most unusual for such a treasure. One history surmises that the king gave it to someone, a favorite perhaps.”

  She was about to add that she had another source to pursue when Cain interrupted.

  “He did. My many-times-great-grandmother.”

  “You know! And you had me spend hours looking. Wait a minute. Did it belong to your family? Is that why you want it?”

  “You’d be forgiven for doubting I had much familial reverence.” His voice was at its most derisive, yet Juliana had the feeling he’d confided something important.

  “I don’t understand why no one knew where the manuscript was,” she said. “Your family is famous.”

  “That’s the point. Famous for its piety. But the original Godfrey title was granted because the recipient’s wife was Henry’s mistress. None of my reverend forebears wished it to be known they owe their fortune to a woman sharing the bed of a king. My father showed me the manuscript and told me the dark family secret when I was eleven years old and about to leave for Eton. He made me swear I’d never reveal to anyone outside the family that my ancestress was a whore.

  “Whores are some of my favorite people. I would have liked that grandmother,” he said with a smile, but Juliana noticed the humor didn’t reach his eyes. Cain was up to his usual trick of saying something shocking to deflect criticism or questions. She refused to be distracted.

  “You kept the family secret.”

  “I don’t know why. You are the first person I’ve ever told.”

  “I won’t tell a soul.”

  Cain relapsed into uncharacteristic silence. All his insouciance had fled while they spoke of his family. She had no idea how to console him.

  “It’s more important than ever not to let anyone know you want the manuscript,” she said briskly, retreating to her own area of comfort. “The other bidders will run you up to the heavens.”

  “Perhaps I should just let it go. Iverley wants it.”

  “For the binding I suppose. What an idiot to want a Limbourg masterpiece and only care about the cover.”

  She’d love to defeat the woman-hating bibliophile in the auction room. Not to mention that she wanted the commission from buying such an expensive treasure.

  “Iverley’s reason might be better than mine.” He worried his lower lip with his teeth. “God only knows why I should care about a family tradition.”

  “Or you could buy it and reveal the truth to the world. Secrets can be unhealthy.”

  She spoke from her own experience. And had far greater reason than he to hide the truth about her past. An ancestor’s three-hundred-year-old indiscretion, especially one involving royalty, was almost something to boast about.

  “You mustn’t let such a masterpiece go,” she said firmly. “And your information about Iverley is very useful. By the time it sells we’ll make it our business to know every interested bidder.”

  The prospect of an auction room fight failed to revive Cain’s enthusiasm. He slumped back against the pillow looking depressed. She feared the conversation about his parents had dampened his fervor in other areas.

  Well, she might not know much about bed sports, but she had been married and knew a sure way to cheer up a despondent male.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “For once I have food in the house.”

  Chapter 8

  Cain loved morning sex.

  Of course he loved sex at just about any time: languorous afternoons in a boudoir; a hasty stolen coupling in an anteroom at a ball or a hidden garden alley; a way to break the tedium of a long carriage journey; long energetic nights in bed.

  But nothing said “good morning” like a sleeping woman, just waiting to be awoken and aroused to desire.

  Juliana’s glorious hair spread over her pillow, catching the gray morning light from the small window and brightening the room. Her head rested on one curved arm and she slept deeply.

  How extraordinary that their conversation—perhaps the thought of his mother—had effectively killed his lust for the evening. A simple but oddly fulfilling impromptu meal of crusty bread, butter, and honey washed down with milk had nourished his spirit but failed otherwise to revive him. Instead it brought back memories of innocent days in his nursery. Afterward they’d fallen asleep, curled up together like babes in the wood.

  He’d found her attempt to raise his mood with food touching. He was sorry it hadn’t raised anything else—if indeed that was her desired effect. It was hard to know. Unaccustomed as he was to sexual novices, Juliana’s inexperienced enthusiasm in bed, her astonished awakening to pleasure, was utterly satisfying. Why, then, had he not been ready to repeat the performance the night before?

  He was most certainly ready to repeat it now.

  He detected a warm hip, sweetly curved under his caressing hand. Small but perfectly shaped and like silk to his touch. She shifted onto her back and parted her thighs. Still asleep, she knew by instinct what she wanted, and he was most willing to oblige. Tracing the shapely lines of her legs, the petal-soft skin between her thighs, he felt his morning erection swell.

  “Good morning,” he murmured against her lips, which issued a responsive murmur of approval. Her eyes remained closed but he could sense her ascent from the arms of M
orpheus, her relaxed pleasure at his touch.

  He ventured a kiss, his tongue running over the seam of her lips requesting entry, an invitation accepted with a sigh. She still tasted of honey.

  Beautiful. This was not a moment to hurry. They had all morning. Perhaps all afternoon too. He had energy to spare and was prepared to lavish every care developing her sensuality. With practice his little bookseller promised to be a mistress of more than usual reward. Who would have thought it?

  Propped on one elbow he gazed at his sleeping beauty. Her lips curved a little. He knew just how to turn that faint smile into cries of delight. His fingers parted soft curls to discover wet warmth. He’d take it slowly, ensure her complete readiness, suppress his own urge to mount without delay. A wriggle of her hips communicated her enjoyment.

  Playing with her gently, with enormous care, he postponed the moment when his thumb found that certain sweet spot. He could feel her becoming warmer and wetter. Her body was coming to life and his own tightened with anticipation.

  Suddenly she bolted upright.

  “What time is it?” she demanded, looking around in bewilderment and clutching the covers to her chin.

  “Time to enjoy ourselves. It’s early. We have hours.”

  He tried to embrace her but she shook him off.

  “Oh Lord!” she wailed.

  This was not going as planned.

  She thrust both hands through her hair. “I must know what time it is. Do you have a watch?”

  Hoping it was still early, he leaned over, found his waistcoat on the floor, and groped for the timepiece in the fob pocket.

  “Only half past eight.” Very early for him.

  She slid off the bed, dragging the blankets with her and leaving him chilled, in more ways than one.

  “You have to leave. At once.”

  “Why?”

  “I have an appointment, in the shop.”

  Accustomed as he was to the company of working women—he’d kept a succession of actresses and opera singers since gaining his inheritance—he’d never spent the night with one whose profession entailed early rising. It was most inconvenient.