Page 19 of A Tempest of Desire
He dropped down onto the sofa, poured the remainder of her scotch into his glass, and took a healthy swallow. There was the slightest change in its flavor, and he wondered if it was her. Good Lord, what was wrong with him? He never entertained such fanciful musings. But something about Marlowe captured a man’s imagination.
Young swells often used her as the epitome of what they searched for in a fallen woman—whether she was to warm a gent’s bed for only a night or serve as his mistress for an unlimited number. He even knew lords who had tried to lure her away from Hollingsworth, but her loyalty was as steadfast as the Rock of Gibraltar. Oh, she might flirt, tease, and give a man hope, but somehow it all seemed innocent, playful. She never gave the impression she was seriously considering anyone else.
While she’d claimed weariness tonight, tomorrow he would insist she keep her promise and tell him how she’d come to be Hollingsworth’s mistress. And if she was still too exhausted to tell the tale, then he’d be like Charon and the answer would serve as payment for transporting her back to the mainland. He almost laughed as he envisioned the pique with which she might react to that.
While it was truly none of his business, he was keen to know some of her past. The earl was only a few years older than Langdon. Unmarried. When he did take a wife, would he let Marlowe go? She didn’t strike him as the sort who was willing to share.
His search for a mistress last May had been for naught. Jamie Swindler had accused him of being too particular. But if he was going to go to the bother and expense of keeping a mistress happy, he wanted to ensure he would be content to spend swaths of time with her. That she’d keep him interested. That he would do the same for her. He saw it as a commitment of a sort. Not just sex, but companionship. However, not someone with whom he’d become too invested because their relationship would end when he married. He wouldn’t be disloyal to his viscountess, to the woman who honored him by becoming his wife.
If he married.
It wasn’t only nightmares that battered him since the railway accident. He hoped Marlowe would never discover that other aspect of his ordeal, for surely she would think he was mad. But she’d be here only a couple of days. In that time, he would be safe.
He tossed back the remainder of the scotch, welcomed its burning on the way down. Reaching out, he snatched the blanket she’d left behind. It smelled of her. Even though she’d used his soap, he could detect a lingering subtle fragrance unique to her. How was it that in such a short time, he already knew the scent of her? He had the unsettling thought that these rooms would always smell of her.
Ridiculous. She’d be gone once the rain stopped. He’d open windows and doors so the breeze that blew across the sea would chase away every aspect of her and leave behind the smell of salt water, brine, and fish. Within a short period, it would be as if she’d never been here. He could return to his introspection and shore himself up to face the Season.
On occasion their paths might cross. He would deliver a polite greeting... and imagine her flouncing about in his damned shirt. Which, truth be told, was much more enticing when it adorned her rather than him.
Grabbing his glass, he shot to his feet, began marching toward the bottles of liquor—
Her cry, sending shivers down his spine, momentarily stopped him in his tracks. Then he spun around, tossed the glass onto the sofa as he rushed by it, and hastened up the stairs. Very little light was coming from his bedchamber. His heart racing, he slowed his pace and glanced inside. Only the fire—and the occasional zag of lightning—provided light. The lamps and candles had all been doused. He’d never bothered to hang draperies around the bed, because when sleep eluded him, he liked to look out on the night. Therefore, he easily saw the lump that represented her curled beneath the covers. She was still, so very still.
He should have taken comfort in the affirmation she was sleeping, not in distress.
A fissure of concern slid through him with the realization that with her injuries, perhaps heshouldn’t have allowed her to sleep. She’d obviously taken at least one if not several blows about the head. She might also have some internal damage. He should have at least stayed with her in order to more closely monitor her and to perhaps help her to hold the nightmares at bay.
Stealthily he padded toward the bed, his cold bare feet grateful when they landed on the large rug. As he neared, he could hear her soft soughing as she breathed. Finally, she was visible. Her head on one of his pillows, one hand beneath her cheek, the other fisted near the dip where her collarbones met, just above where the first button on his shirt was secured. For some reason he was surprised, albeit perhaps a bit disappointed, not to find her in the nude.
He wondered if she slept in a nightdress within her own residence. It seemed too innocent a thing for her. If she did, he imagined something gossamer that revealed without exposing completely. That teased and taunted, the way her smile did. That lured a man in as her knowing gaze did.
He shook off those thoughts. She appeared sound. Not fitful or frightened. If she’d been locked in the throes of a nightmare, she’d found the key to escape. Not that he was surprised. He was beginning to recognize that this woman found nothing daunting. Not Society’s condemnation. Not her lover exhibiting her in public or his using her to shore up his wager. Not a raging storm. Not a turbulent sea. Not a lord who was idiotically annoyed that she’d wandered into his sanctuary. Because demonstrating annoyance was less dangerous thanrevealing that he was grateful for her company and the opportunity it afforded him to decipher all the intriguing aspects of her.
Her eyes, slumberous and heavy lidded, opened and a jolt of awareness shot through him. It was the look of a well-sated woman.
She didn’t seem bothered by the fact he was standing there, but he felt compelled to explain his presence. “I heard you cry out.”
“I was back in the storm, but the frightening dream faded away.” She studied him a moment before purring, “Come to bed.”
Dear Lord, she’d mistaken him for her lover, even if they looked nothing alike. Hollingsworth was fair, his hair so blond as to be nearly white. “I’m not Hollingsworth.”
“I know.” The fingers near her throat unfurled and she patted a spot beside her on the mattress. “Join me. Keep the horrid memories from returning.”
Her hand stilled, her eyes closed. Had she been cognizant of the invitation she’d been proposing? Although truly, what had she offered? A place to sleep. No more than that. She did have the right of it. His bed was so large that they need not even touch. He might not even feel the warmth radiating from her body.
He probably should stay near. In case she needed him or took a turn for the worse. He was no physician. He didn’t truly know how badly she might be hurt.
Looking over his shoulder, he studied the settee. That would suffice. It was near. But it wouldn’t easily accommodate his length. Ah, but the bedwas so much more comfortable. There were blankets to keep him warm. A pillow for his head. And he’d received an invitation—possibly clouded by slumber. He had the wherewithal, the strength of will, to resist temptation. He’d keep on his trousers.
The decision made, he tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it at the foot of the bed. Then slowly, ever so slowly, in case she awoke and objected, he lifted the covers and slid beneath them.
And was greeted with heavenly warmth. She was inches away, hadn’t moved, and yet her heat seeped into his skin as though she was part and parcel of him. He couldn’t recall ever feeling so... touched. Even though they weren’t joined in any way.
He wondered if she’d learned this technique at a school for mistresses. Was there such a thing? How did a woman learn all the various ways of pleasure? By having a multitude of lovers, he supposed. How many had she had? He’d only ever heard of her being with Hollingsworth. She wasn’t that old. Early twenties if he had to guess. How much experience could she have? Although with the age of consent for marriage only recently being raised from twelve to thirteen, he supposed she could have had a good bit.
However, her manner of speaking, while she claimed not to be one, was that of a lady. He shouldn’t be so curious about her, and yet he was.
She shifted nearer to him, her hand curling around his upper arm, her cheek coming to rest against his skin.
