Page 11 of Marquess of Mistletoe
“Within an inch of my sanity. Your father was always busy, Leo. He knew every acre of his holdings, knew his mares by name, and consulted with every tenant regularly. You were frequently at his side, and shared his sense of responsibility. Would you mind rubbing my shoulders?”
“You promise not to fall asleep?”
“With you prodding me in the backside, I’m not likely to fall asleep.”
Leo was aroused, gloriously so, and yet, he didn’t seem compelled to do anything about it… yet. He’d asked Marielle not to rush him, and dashing through this encounter as if it were some silly tryst was the last thing she wanted.
He kneaded her shoulders slowly and firmly, as he had on many occasions, and tension flowed out of her. Leo was a toucher, affectionate by nature, and given to using his hands. He’d often whiled away an afternoon whittling beside her on a blanket while she’d read or embroidered.
“I’ve missed this,” he said, some moments later. “Missed being with you, touching you, hearing you argue against slavery and war and factories.”
She’d been so young, with opinions about everything.
“I lost a baby.” The words were a surprise to Marielle even as she spoke them, but of course, she could tell Leo anything.
He wrapped her in a hug and kissed her shoulder. “Ellie, I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t far along, not even showing, but I knew, Leo. I was different. It was spring, and I couldn’t stand the smell of flowers. I’d always loved flowers.”
“And now you wear the fragrance of spices.”
Well, yes. She hadn’t connected the miscarriage and discarding the perfumes she’d preferred as a debutante. Leo was good at that too—at putting puzzle pieces together.
God, she’d missed him. Marielle sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head. “Does this count as being impetuous?”
“It counts as being lovely and brave.”
She lay on her back, took Leo’s hand, and settled it over her breast. He’d loved her breasts, and thus she’d been pleased with them as well.
“Do you still like this?” he asked, leaning over and putting his mouth to her nipple.
She’d forgotten the sensations he could provoke—hot, needy, and lovely. Her reply was to arch into his touch, to pull his hair and sigh and wiggle, knowing he enjoyed her responses. She didn’t have to worry about what behavior suited a proper wife…
“Leo?”
“Hmm?”
“I wasn’t supposed to rush you, but might Iencourageyou?”
“Ellie, if I were any more encouraged I’d risk making a mess of the sheets.”
So one did mention it. With Leo. “Bother the sheets, Leo Drake. It’s not as if I’ll send you back to your own bed at the first opportunity.”
He bit her, gently, delightfully. “But back to my own bed, I will go. Your reputation matters to me, Ellie.”
“My sanity matters to me, and if you don’t bestir yourself—”
He rose over her, and situated himself between her legs. “Did it ever occur to you, that when you scold me, thatbestirsme in the most intimate sense?”
She’d scolded him frequently, long ago. For not combing his hair, for forgetting to scrape the mud off his boots, for bringing her flowers from his mama’s garden, for winking at her in church.
“You provoked me on purpose,” she said, wrapping her legs about his flanks. The feel of him was perfect, all male, all over. Warm, strong, healthy, and hers.
For now.
“We provoked each other,” he said, bracing himself on his forearms. “Kiss me, Ellie.”
He was a fiend, orchestrating a kiss that counterpointed slow, careful thrusts, a deft caress to her breasts, and an embrace of infinite intimacy. Marielle rubbed her breasts against his chest, sank her fingernails into his backside, and mourned for the years they’d lost.
