Kate Pearce - Simply Wicked

“Christ, I loathe Minshom, I never loved him. Don’t you know that? Don’t you understand anything about me at all?” Anthony was yelling, his face flushed, his blue eyes narrowed with anger. “I’m sick of being told what to do and what to think.”

“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m trying to make you listen to me.”

“Then do it without touching me, without . . . Christ, what’s the use? Minshom’s already convinced you I’m a pathetic weakling.”

“No he hasn’t; I’m just trying to . . .”

Anthony held up his hand. “Marguerite, when you touch me, all I want to do is throw you on that bed and shove my cock inside you, use it as I wish, rather than how Minshom thinks I should. I’m sure you don’t want that, so please, get dressed.”

Marguerite retreated to the chair, picked up her dress and petticoats and tried to put them on. Her fingers trembled so badly she could barely get the fine satin over her head.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Anthony muttered. He appeared at her side, his intent gaze fixed on the swell of her breasts, the tightness of her nipples. He placed his hands on her shoulders and the dress fell from her fingers.

“Marguerite . . .” His mouth descended over hers, the savagery of his kiss a challenge she couldn’t resist. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, nipping at his lower lip, his tongue. Exchanging anger for lust seemed almost too natural, the desire to mark him, make him groan and beg not for Minshom but for her.

He angled her back toward the bed, his body heavy and hard on top of hers, his knee parting her thighs. He didn’t stop kissing her, their mouths fused together, heat binding and blinding them, the need insatiable. She gasped as he freed his cock from his breeches and his knuckles grazed her mound. And then he was inside her, his shaft pressing deep, her back arching to take him all in.

“Marguerite, yes . . .”

He pounded into her, his thrusts fast and hard, relentless. She didn’t complain, her body far too busy keeping him close, wrapping her legs around his hips to hold him within the cradle of her thighs. His kiss mirrored his movements, possessing her mouth as he possessed her body, utterly dominant, utterly in control.

His fingers slid between them, found her clit and worked it until she was coming and screaming his name into his mouth. His kiss dissolved into a gasp for air, and he bucked against her as the heat of his cum spurted deep inside her. When he rolled off, he stayed on his stomach, his face buried in the pillows.

Marguerite moved slowly off the bed and bent to retrieve her clothes. Surely now they were done? She’d never imagined allowing a man to take her like that, so completely, so absolutely. Having heard about her marriage, did Anthony now consider her fair game? She stared at her petticoats, fumbling as she attempted to tie them around her waist.

“Let me.” Anthony was beside her again, setting her to rights, tightening her laces, doing up buttons, straightening her bodice. Almost unnoticed, her tears trickled down onto the dark blue satin, staining it black. This was the end; this was the last time he would ever want to touch her. She swallowed hard.

“Are you done now?”

His fingers stilled. “What?”

“Are you done proving to yourself that you can fuck a woman?”

In the silence that followed, she could clearly hear the irregular thump of his heart and his shallow breathing. Anthony stepped away from her and did up his breeches, picked up his gun and stuffed it into his pocket. She raised her chin and tried to make him look at her, but he avoided her gaze.

“My lady, if you wish to leave, I need to check on Minshom.”

He sounded formal, all the anger stripped from his voice. Unable to reply, Marguerite simply nodded and waited by the fire as he opened the door.

“He’s gone.” Anthony sounded as stunned as she felt. “Obviously I didn’t hit the bastard hard enough. I’ll make sure he isn’t loitering in the kitchen, and then you may come down.”

His voice faded as he clattered down the stairs. Marguerite blew out the candles and left the room bathed in the warm glow of the fire, wondered distantly who lived here, who had been forced out to accommodate the selfish desires of Lord Minshom.

“You can come down, my lady.”

Marguerite picked up her skirts and headed down the stairs, found Anthony in the kitchen. He gestured at the table. “I think Minshom left you something.”

She picked up the bundle of parchment tied with the blue ribbon. At least she had that, Sir Harry’s account of the duel, even if she didn’t have him in person. She clutched the papers to her chest as Anthony draped her cloak around her.

“Are you ready to leave?”

She nodded again, still unable to speak, and walked past him into the hallway and out into the cold bleakness of the night. The stable clock chimed once. Was it only an hour since she’d walked into Minshom’s trap? Only an hour since he’d deliberately revealed his own version of her brief marriage to Anthony, the man she’d come to care for? She stopped walking, turned toward his dark shape.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My marriage. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“Marguerite, it really doesn’t matter does it? It’s in the past.”

“Not if Lord Minshom decides to gossip about it.”

There was a long silence as he considered her. “I won’t let that happen. I promise you.”

“Why?”

“Because as I told you, I don’t care what happened between you, Justin and Harry.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Because you are my friend?”

Ah, she’d forgotten that. She’d forgotten that just because she’d come to want him as more than a friend didn’t mean that he had. In truth, after what he’d just heard about her, his diplomatic retreat was all too understandable.

“I will take care of Lord Minshom myself.”

He shifted in the darkness and laid his hand on her arm. “Marguerite, you don’t have to do that. I’m quite capable of taking him on.”

Tears crowded her eyes, falling down her cold cheeks in hot, angry waves. “What are you going to do? Challenge him to a duel?”

“If necessary.”

“And you think I would want that? Another man dead on my account? More gossip?”

“Marguerite . . .”

She pushed past him, picked up her skirts and ran for the house, the tears now pouring down her face. Were all men fools? Was Anthony about to make the same mistake Sir Harry had made and risk everything to save her reputation? She would not let that happen again. She would not; she’d kill Lord Minshom herself before she allowed Anthony within a mile of him.

She realized she was standing in the center of her bedroom, her breathing so loud she couldn’t even hear the clock. She hurried to lock the door between her and Anthony’s suites and checked the main door. He wouldn’t be able to get to her here, not that he would want to . . .

With a sob, she fell to her knees, pressed her hands to her face and let the tears fall. Anthony had protected her from Lord Minshom, offered himself in her stead, refused to allow Minshom to destroy either of them. He’d also shown great courage when his worst secrets were revealed, refusing to allow Minshom to dominate or shame him. She realized she was proud of him. He might have unconventional sexual tastes, but he was no longer enslaved by Minshom.

And even if he’d been shocked by Lord Minshom’s revelations about her, he hadn’t shown it, hadn’t allowed his anger and doubts to surface until after he’d disposed of his nemesis. Marguerite raised her head to stare into the fire. She should be grateful to him for that, even though he seemed to believe she’d really been in love with Harry.

How had he come to that conclusion? It was no more accurate than Minshom’s version of the truth. She glanced at the door to Anthony’s suite. Was it worth trying to tell him how it had really been? She shook her head. No, because he’d probably say that it didn’t matter, that she could’ve fucked a whole regiment of Sir Harry’s and he would still pretend to be fine with it.

All she could do was to arrange to go back to London without having to see either Lord Minshom or Anthony again. Resume the quiet uneventful life she’d envisaged before Anthony had arrived to unsettle her. Despite his promise, once he’d thought about her past, she doubted he’d ever want to see her again.

She stifled a sob and continued to cry silently, a necessary skill learned in the loneliness of the nunnery school when any sound at night would result in a beating. She didn’t want Anthony to hear her, didn’t want anyone to know how bleak her future now looked.

Anthony let himself into his room and took off his clothes, left them lying on the floor in a pile. He walked across to the china wash jug and poured water into the matching cream basin. The coldness of the water suited his mood, shocking his senses much as the events of the evening had.

God, what had he done? Taking Marguerite like that, using her to prove something to himself. No wonder she was disgusted with him. He sighed and dropped down onto the side of the bed. What a mess. Minshom had told Marguerite the worst of his sexual secrets and then shocked him by revealing that Marguerite had secrets of her own.

And despite what he’d tried to say to Marguerite, he had been shocked. Worse still, Marguerite had seen through him and realized it as well. He shoved his wet hair back from his face, shivered as freezing water drops rained on his bare shoulders. What the hell had been going on in that marriage to make Marguerite cuckold her husband with his own lover?

He focused on the rug at his feet and made himself think logically. Much better to think than to dwell on the fact that Marguerite knew the worst about him . . . He forced his thoughts away from his humiliation.

None of the explanations he’d heard about Marguerite’s marriage made sense, not if he factored in what he knew of her, or thought he knew. It was as if Marguerite had decided she was guilty and had deliberately set out to hurt him, to force him away from her. And she’d damned near succeeded. For a moment, he’d been so confused that he had to put some distance between them.

With a shudder, he got under the covers and lay down. Whatever happened, they weren’t done. He would insist on seeing her in London whether she liked it or not. He smiled savagely at the ceiling. He’d finally beaten Minshom, and Marguerite had helped him do that. She might think she was unworthy of him, but he knew better, knew she’d helped him become the man he should’ve been all along.

She now knew the worst about him, but he still wasn’t clear about her past, and he wanted to be. He needed to find out exactly what she had done. He closed his eyes. One thing was clear to him: there was no way in hell he was ever going to lose her again.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Jones, really I am.” To Marguerite’s dismay, Mrs. Jones continued to flap around her as she tried to climb the stairs. “I’m just fatigued by the journey.”

She entered her bedroom and tried to shut the door behind herself, but she wasn’t quick enough to evict her companion, who was still eying her with every appearance of concern. Marguerite took off her bonnet and rubbed her aching temples. Rather than drive back with Anthony, she’d begged a ride from one of the other couples. Unfortunately, the couple she’d chosen hadn’t enjoyed their weekend together, and she’d been the unwilling witness to a fine display of marital disharmony for the entire three hours of the journey.

“I’ll get them to send you up some tea, shall I?” Mrs. Jones asked.

“That would be nice, and perhaps a tisane for my headache.” She managed to smile. “Thank you, Lily.”

“It’s nothing, my dear.” Mrs. Jones sniffed. “Even though you’ve taken to jaunting off around the countryside without me, I am supposed to be your companion.”

“Indeed you are.” Marguerite closed her eyes as her maid pulled off her boots and unbuttoned her pelisse. “I think I’ll drink my tea and go to bed for a while.”

In truth, she couldn’t wait to be alone in her own bed, to find shelter in the familiar. To try to pretend that she hadn’t been engaged in a torrid affair with the son of a marquis but had simply dreamed it all.

It felt like she had barely closed her eyes before there was a commotion outside her door and a familiar voice demanding to see her. Even though she knew it was no use, she rolled into the far corner of the bed and put her pillow over her head.

“Marguerite, I know you’re in there.”

She opened one eye to glare at her sister Lisette. “I’m asleep. Didn’t Mrs. Jones tell you?”