The Wild Marquis Page 22

  “No jokes? Perhaps they had more important things to think about.”

  “I’m beginning to think nothing is so important it can’t be improved by a little levity.”

  “That’s a challenge I can’t resist.” He relaxed back into his seat, surveying her through half-hooded eyelids. “Let me see. There’s one thing you always treat with the utmost gravity. Suppose I were to buy one of those books printed by Caxton. Since I can’t read it, I could take it apart leaf by leaf and use it to wallpaper my library.”

  Her grandfather would have been shocked. To him a great book was a sacred object. As for Joseph, he just wouldn’t have understood the jest.

  A bubble of laughter formed inside her. “Why stop at one?” she asked. “Buy two copies and paste the pages on the wall in order. Then you could use them for decoration and read the book.”

  “What would I do with the bindings?”

  “Fifteenth-century leather makes excellent kindling.”

  “I suppose you know this from personal experience.”

  “It burns beautifully. Though when it comes to starting fires there’s nothing like the classics.”

  “Any particular works?” he asked.

  “I’ve always found an Aldine edition of Horace or Virgil works best.”

  “I would have thought Catullus or Ovid would generate more heat.”

  Although she’d actually read very little classical literature, her knowledge of Latin going little beyond the ability to decipher a title page, Juliana grasped Cain’s allusion to the most amorous of Roman poets. “I’ve never tried them,” she said. “But I’d like to.”

  “Now you’ve shocked me,” Cain rejoined. “Remind me not to let you into my library on a cold day.”

  “Not even if I asked nicely?”

  “Particularly not if you asked nicely.” The words, delivered in Cain’s most gravelly tones, caressed like the velvet of the carriage seats.

  “Just like a man. Always ready to command a woman but never listens to her carefully framed suggestions.”

  “I’m different, remember? I wouldn’t dream of ordering you about. But don’t bother with careful phrasing. Just come straight out and tell me what you want.”

  He continued to lounge against the red backrest, but his eyes were wide open and the intent blue gaze had its customary effect. Every nerve in her body buzzed with sensual anticipation. There was no question what he offered.

  She had only to ask.

  Really, she told herself piously, Cain had just gone through a disturbing confession. It would be a kindness on her part to cheer him up and turn his thoughts to happier activities. She choked back a sputter of laughter at her marvelously selfless justification.

  A vision of their first encounter at the White Hart came to mind. While making love with Cain had been pleasurable every time, there had been something particularly satisfying about that quick, artless coupling.

  The one she had initiated.

  She ran her gaze up the lean, well-sculpted length of his body and he watched her examine him. When her inspection reached his face she met a look of smoldering heat.

  “Whatever you want,” he said softly, “if it’s in my power I shall be happy to provide it.”

  “You’ll do as I wish?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Even if it means I am in charge?”

  “I should enjoy that. Tell me what to do.”

  “I want you to do nothing. Don’t even move. Leave it all to me.”

  Cain held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m all yours.”

  He was all hers, this magnificent male specimen. What, she wondered, was she going to do with him?

  Chapter 22

  This sudden boldness on Juliana’s part fascinated Cain. Not that she wasn’t a brave woman, but her audacity hadn’t shown itself in the bedroom. With her obviously limited experience he was curious about her ability to improvise. He relaxed against the soft yet firm seat cushions in a state of happy anticipation. While by no means the first seduction advanced in this carriage, it was the most eagerly awaited.

  Their knees brushed in the narrow space between the seats, communicating her tension. Her eyes like smoky emeralds sent him an unmistakable invitation, one he yearned to accept. To reach across the divide and take her. His fingers flexed in an involuntary move.

  She frowned. “Keep those hands still.” And held up her own.

  “Yes, madam.”

  Like his, her hands were bare. Both had discarded their gloves earlier. Though it was late in the day, the weather was warm for April and the atmosphere in the carriage comfortable, rising to torrid. He trusted her plans for those delicate little fingers involved touching. His skin tingled at the notion. Soon, he sincerely hoped, she would be removing some of her clothing, and his.

  She bent to unfasten her sensible half boots. Her head nudging his knee threatened the stability of her hairstyle, but to his disappointment the pins held. She kicked off the shoes and rose to her feet. Just then a rough spot in the road shook the carriage, despite its excellent springs. To restore her balance she placed her hands on his shoulders. The posture seemed to give her an idea. She climbed onto his seat, straddling his knees with her own.

  His cock, already stirring, reacted firmly when she lowered herself onto his lap, clasping his hips between her knees. It was immediately aware of its preferred destination only inches away, notwithstanding the barrier of several layers of cloth.

  With a clumsiness he found endearing, she settled herself into a secure position, then enclosed his face in her hands and kissed him with barely open mouth, probing the flesh inside his lips with her delicately questing tongue.

  There was something about her that made even a simple kiss infinitely exciting. An emotional side to their connection set it apart from the countless couplings he’d enjoyed with dozens of women, even though he’d liked all those others and been very fond of a few of them. Juliana’s thoughts and desires were at least as important to him as her actions.

  Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t exceedingly interested in what she was doing, right now.

  “Am I allowed to kiss you back?” he murmured against her lips.

  Her brow creased a little as she drew back and gave his question solemn consideration, looking so delectable he wanted to hug her to him and gobble her up. Keeping his hands to himself wasn’t the plain sailing he’d expected.

  “Yes,” she said, and kissed him again.

  What was the question?

  In a moment he remembered and returned the kiss, gently forcing her to widen to him and engaging his own tongue, exploring the hot cavern of her mouth, tasting her distinct flavor and sharing the sweet air of her breath. She raised herself so her face was slightly above his, wresting back the control he’d threatened to take. Pushing his head against the backrest with the force of her kiss, she freed her hands to work at the knot of his neck cloth. Without thinking he tried to help and she rested back on his knees again.

  “Naughty,” she said. And pressed each of his hands against the seat with her palms.

  “I crave my lady’s pardon. May we continue as we were?”

  “First this needs to come off.” With a look of intense concentration and the tip of her tongue provocatively protruding, she unwound the crisp linen cravat and cast it aside. Carefully she undid the buttons of his shirt to reveal his neck, which she scrutinized with hands, nose, and mouth, caressing, sniffing, nuzzling. She seemed fascinated by his Adam’s apple; he had no idea why. He didn’t believe it was overly prominent, but perhaps her husband’s had been particularly small. He wondered idly if the size of the laryngeal bump was related to sexual prowess, until she stopped examining it with her fingers, placed her mouth on the prominence, and sucked. At which point he ceased to ponder obscure physical hypotheses and thought about all the other parts of his anatomy he’d like to feel her lips on.

  “I need your help,” she said after a few minutes’ groping behind her
own neck. “I can’t undo my gown.”

  At last he was going to get his hands on her. Not that he wasn’t enjoying himself. But some slight assistance on his part would speed them toward the really interesting bits. He unbuttoned the gown with practiced speed and, for good measure, unlaced her stays. She rose, small enough to stand in the carriage without bending, and shrugged the gown to the floor.

  Cain leaned back in his seat and enjoyed the show. Juliana placed her feet firmly and slightly apart and adjusted her balance to the rocking of the carriage. Next to go was the corset, tossed onto the seat behind her. At last, to his great pleasure, she located and removed enough hairpins to send her glorious mane down over her shoulders. She bent her head and gave it a little shake, then looked up, her tumbling locks a fiery aura in the light of the swaying carriage lantern.

  She looked like an angel, but not, thank God, in a saintly way.

  Her simple linen shift, all too decent at the neckline, stopped well above the knee, to reveal a narrow expanse of creamy skin between its hem and the tops of her gartered stockings. Cain felt his mouth go dry at those tantalizing inches of flesh, a coy yet mesmerizing hint of the delights that lay higher, hidden by the no-nonsense undergarment. He actually considered sitting on his hands to stop them reaching out to touch, to feel…to climb those slender limbs.

  Patience, he adjured himself.

  She was contemplating her next move, surveying him lazily from head to Hessian boot. His breeches were much too tight and seemed more so when she fixed her eyes on the evident bulge.

  Undo them, please, he urged silently.

  Instead, in one smooth motion, she whipped the shift over her head and dropped it. Naked from the knees up, she was Venus, perfection itself, the white and gold epitome of feminine beauty.

  Cain was quite prepared to get down on his knees and worship, should his goddess demand it.

  Venus had other ideas.

  It was, Juliana thought, unbearably arousing to stand before him, almost naked and wholly exposed to Cain’s burning, desirous eyes. She climbed back on top of him and started kissing him again. Her bare breasts rubbing against his wool clothes were swollen and aching. Her nipples tingled with pleasurable pain when they caught the cold resistance of brass buttons. And straddling him, her now naked sex touched the bulge of his still confined erection. With a little moan she thrust her hips forward and ground against him.

  “For God’s sake,” he groaned. “Undo my trousers. Please.”

  Immediately she disengaged herself. “Silence!” she ordered. “You may not speak, move, or touch.”

  Juliana returned to her own seat and received a practical demonstration of the sensuous effect of velvet upholstery. As she wriggled, enjoying the soft texture against buttocks and thighs, she caught him staring at her, his mouth slightly agape. After a moment’s hesitation she leaned back and placed her stockinged feet against the opposite seat, on either side of him. His expression at the sight offered between her slightly bent knees was worth the courage she’d drawn on to display it.

  Hot, naked need. But being Cain there was something else too. An undercurrent of amusement mixed with the desire in his azure eyes. He appreciated the drama as much as she enjoyed performing it. Her heart gave a little flip, separate from the physical passion that enveloped her.

  “You’re overdressed,” she said. His eyes gleamed his agreement. “Take off your coat.”

  The dark blue garment joined her gown on the floor with remarkable speed.

  “And your waistcoat.”

  He moved more slowly this time, one by one slipping the shiny brass buttons from their slits, teasing her with the gradual revelation of white linen beneath. As he shrugged the garment off his shoulders, the plackets of his shirt parted, offering a glimpse of muscles and hair beneath.

  Hmmm. There was no reason to keep herself waiting.

  “You may as well remove your shirt while you’re about it.” She issued the command with a smile, and his answering grin was every bit as wicked as hers felt.

  Oh yes oh yes oh yes. Bare to the waist, he sprawled back. She noted the nice contrast of skin against the scarlet background. Whether to keep them from wandering, or because he knew he appeared to advantage thus, he hooked his hands behind his head. The resulting enhancement of chest muscles made her hands itch to wander.

  Her eyes traveled lower, to the waistband of his breeches. And stopped.

  She could take them off and skip to the conclusion. She wanted it, badly. Every inch of her skin yearned for the touch of his. Between her legs she was hot, wet, and aching for fulfillment.

  Yet she hesitated, not because she wasn’t ready, but because she wasn’t ready for it to end. It might be a game, it was only a game. Yet she found the illusion of total power and control immensely enjoyable. She wished to prolong it.

  An image from that book, the French version of Aretino she’d looked at with Cain, shot into her head. Kiss the winged God Priapus. She examined the concept and found it somewhat bizarre, quite embarrassing, and very exciting.

  Did she dare?

  Why not? Somehow she didn’t think he would have any objection.

  Her arms too short to reach the buttons from where she sat, she had to kneel on the floor. An upward glance showed his eyes as blue and wide as a sunlit sky staring down at her. She gave him a pouty little smile, then turned all her attention to the task at hand.

  She stroked his member through the soft cloth. It was hard and twitched at her touch. Cain’s throat emitted a strangled sound, though she couldn’t accuse him of uttering an actual coherent word. Clearly he expressed his dissatisfaction at her progress, so she teased him, releasing each button with agonizing deliberation, enjoying his obvious frustration. As the ninth and last gave way, the “God Priapus” burst forth, knocking away the fall of the breeches and making a linen tent of his white drawers.

  In about a minute she’d pulled off Cain’s boots, breeches, and undergarments, rendering him even more naked than she. From her vantage point on the floor she admired the completed picture: the incised contours of shoulders and chest, the gradual taper to slim, firm waist and hips, the intriguing ridges where hard stomach gave way to muscular thighs.

  And it. Bolt upright against his torso.

  She grasped it gingerly, pulled it forward a few inches, and released it. It jerked right back.

  It seemed very large. It couldn’t possibly fit, not all the way. Perhaps, she imagined wildly, Frenchwomen had bigger mouths. Or Italians. Aretino was Italian, wasn’t he?

  One small Englishwoman was going to have to manage with what she had. Resting her elbows on Cain’s knees, she considered the problem. Then wrapped a hand around the shaft. A quick glance at his face showed no objection so she tightened her grip and moved her fist up and down, working smooth skin over rock-hard muscle. Downward movement uncovered a ridged bulbous head and, after several repetitions, a bead of liquid formed there. Greatly daring, she licked it off with a single stroke of her tongue. It tasted salty, not disagreeable.

  Taking a deep breath, she leaned over and closed her mouth over the head. Combining the use of hands, mouth, and tongue, she tried to establish a rhythm akin to that of intercourse. After a while she ventured to raise her eyes and meet Cain’s, which were fixed on her head and hands. The look of bliss on his face boosted her courage. She felt a surge of exhilaration at her power to give him pleasure, and an answering arousal in her own sexual parts. There was something exciting about being the one to set the pace and control the progress of the encounter. Yet she wasn’t sure whether she could bring him to climax.

  As though aware of her unspoken doubt, Cain disobeyed orders. “Suck.” She could feel the growled word reverberate through his body.

  With that extra stimulation she heard his breathing increase to a steady pant. His shaft began to thrust and she had to tighten her grip to maintain her position and rhythm. It was like a battle, but one in which they were both equally antagonists and allies
. As she sensed him primed for completion, he tried to pull away but she refused to release her grip. She’d started this and, by God, she’d see it to its conclusion.

  She was still there when he released with a hoarse, ecstatic shout and a salty torrent.

  The shudders that racked his body subsided. Cain was wrung out, worn out, wholly depleted. But his mind, blissfully humming, was filled with the woman who had just given him the greatest pleasure of his life. For such a tiny little thing she certainly wielded a punch, figuratively speaking. Without a moment’s further consideration of her “rules,” he pulled her up onto his lap and wrapped her slender body with his own. Using his neck cloth he tenderly wiped her cunning mouth, then kissed those rosy lips. Her avid response and the heat of her skin against him reminded him of unfinished business. While he was more sated than he could ever recall feeling, she wasn’t even halfway there.

  “Darling,” he whispered, tonguing the warm porcelain whorls of her ear. “I’m afraid it’ll be some time before I can rise again. You’ve quite worn me out. But I should be more than delighted to reciprocate your generosity.”

  He pictured her supine on the cushions, open to the ministrations of his tongue. The very idea had things stirring down below.

  “I can wait,” she said, twisting in his arms to face him. “Today I’m in charge. I’m not ready to give that up.”

  He understood at once. The events of the past days had been a journey into her past dominated by men who hadn’t always treated her well. Who had, at the very best, dominated her. George and Frederick Fitterbourne. Joseph Merton. Each of these men had put his own needs and ambitions before hers and she’d had no right to gainsay them, to exert her own wishes.

  It was the way of the world, most men, even most women, would say. A few lone voices of dissent, like Mary Wollstonecraft, who’d written a book on the subject, could do nothing to defeat the overwhelming weight of law and custom that put men “in charge.” Cain realized he came down firmly on the side of the revolutionaries. From his own mother and sister to the meanest whore in the London stews, he’d known too many women oppressed or destroyed by the rule of men.