Page 9 of A Tempest of Desire
“I thought perhaps you were bluffing,” Hollie said, as he tossed down his pair of jacks.
Only Langdon hadn’t been. He’d been holding four aces. She was certain she’d seen four aces.
Tapping a finger on the table, Langdon continued to look at her. “Fortune doesn’t seem to be with me tonight.” Then he stood and presented her with a shallow bow, that almost came across as a salute. She simply couldn’t determine if he was mocking her. “Madam, enjoy the remainder of your evening.”
He ambled away, leaving her with a riot of emotions roiling through her. Anger, hurt, doubt, confusion. Her value resided in being wanted, desired, craved. And she’d never felt so discarded in her entire life. God, she wished she’d one day have an opportunity to make him feel the same.
Chapter 5
Off the Cornish Coast
April 1879
Langdon had needed to escape the bedchamber. More specifically the nearness of Marlowe. Stretched out on his settee with nothing adorning her except a blanket, while the glow from the nearby flames danced over her, lighting upon and caressing her skin. He’d wanted to march over, take her in his arms, and warm every inch of her with his own flesh gliding over hers.
While initially the thought had been innocent enough, a result of taking pity on her because of her bloodless pallor and her minute trembling, her tart tongue had soon shifted his musings toward the direction of a more sensual basking in heat, one that would keep cauldrons burning for centuries, oil continually boiling for defense. More than once with acerbic wit she’d made him want to laugh, and it had been far too long since he’d been amused by anything.
He’d heard her speak on fewer than half a dozen occasions, but he’d always been taken with herconfidence. Not to mention the slow manner in which words rolled out of her mouth in the same lethargic way that a sated woman rolled out of bed. Nothing about her didn’t scream with sexuality, wasn’t calculated to arouse the senses to their maximum heights.
Even now with her bruises, scrapes, and tangled mess of hair, she appealed. God help him for viewing her as anything other than an injured woman in need of care. Hell’s teeth. She’d crashed into the sea, for bloody sake. What did it say of a man’s character if he was the least bit enticed when he should be focused only on bringing about an end to her torment?
Even if it added to his.
He’d wanted her from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, and his desire had only increased that evening nearly a year ago when she’d been offered to him. He’d actually admired her for the horror that had crossed her lovely features when Hollingsworth had made the inappropriate risqué suggestion. That her protector would share her as though she were a bottle of scotch to be enjoyed between friends had sickened Langdon. Her reaction had assured him that it was the first time Hollingsworth had ever made such a dastardly proposal. Still he hadn’t been of a mind to take advantage of it because to do so would have made him no better than a thief. Stealing what wasn’t rightfully his to take, no matter that permission was being granted by Hollingsworth. But it wasn’t being granted by her, and that was all that had mattered to him.
That night he’d been unable to take his gazefrom her because he’d found every aspect of her intriguing. She didn’t walk through a room. She glided in a sensual manner that involved the entirety of her body. She looked at a man straight on as though her power was equal to his. In any situation she could hold her own against him. When she studied a man, she left the impression that all his secrets had become hers, and she would guard them with her life.
And now having her here, knowing she belonged to another, was pure torture. Being stretched out on a medieval rack would have been preferable.
His mood souring, he stomped the rest of the way down the stairs. Not that he made much noise since he had failed to put on his boots. When he’d been drawing on his trousers, he’d felt a strange sensation of being watched—no, of being admired—traveling up and down his spine. After dragging on his shirt, when he’d turned and caught her staring at him, he’d had the absurd need to puff out his chest, like some randy peacock. He hadn’t, but then neither had he secured any buttons. He knew women found no fault with his physique.
It was ridiculous to want to preen for her. She was spoken for. Had been for a few years now. He liked Hollingsworth. He certainly had no intention of cuckolding her benefactor. He didn’t think she would either. He’d never heard a whisper of her being unfaithful to him. As a matter of fact, her loyalty was one of her more redeeming qualities.
With a resounding curse as he finally reached the kitchen and began warming water, he wondered if perhaps he should dump a pot of coldwater over his head in an effort to douse the fever striving to take hold of him and convince him to surrender to his animalistic desires. He needed to turn his thoughts elsewhere.
He walked over to the large wooden table he used more for preparing food than eating it, pulled what remained of the loaf of bread his mother had brought over a few days earlier, and sliced off some pieces. He began slathering butter on them. She had to be starving after her ordeal. He could take her something to eat while she waited for the tub to be filled.
The weather was fierce, demanded that a body remain indoors. Earlier, he should have stayed confined, but he’d been fighting his demons and had thought that, somehow, he could face them in the storm. He didn’t want to contemplate what might have happened to her if he’d not been out there—if he hadn’t spotted her. Deuced silly woman. To go off on her own, into the sky.
He didn’t find fault with that sort of independence. He’d grown up surrounded by strong-minded women who never hesitated to voice their opinions or preferences. He had a feeling Marlowe would fit right in with them—if not for her... unusual choices in life. To not hide the fact she was having relations with a man out of wedlock, her actions unsanctioned by the church. Most people considered her sort of indulgences sordid. But he wasn’t so much of a hypocrite as to enjoy the pleasure a woman provided and then judge her poorly for delivering it.
But she wouldn’t be delivering anything to him. As long as the storm raged, she’d be his guest. Withher bruised and swollen bottom lip, she should probably limit speaking, which shouldn’t be a problem because he couldn’t imagine they would have much of anything to say to each other.
Fortunately, the first things he always packed when planning his journey here were books. An avid reader, he enjoyed a wide assortment of material: philosophy, history, mystery, even the occasional romantic tale. He wondered how Marlowe’s tastes in reading ran. But at least reading could occupy her. Although he suspected she was skilled at occupying herself.
He was in awe of her fortitude. And her not backing down from verbally sparring with him was actually more thrilling and enjoyable then he cared to admit. Few women had ever dared to be anything other than incredibly polite and congenial where he was concerned. Marriage to him would one day make some lucky woman a countess. Even if she wasn’t interested in marriage, a lady never seemed to want to do anything that would make her fall out of his favor. Marlowe Whatever-the-Deuce-Her-Surname-Was didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He respected her speaking her mind.
Even more, he admired that after the ordeal she’d survived, she wasn’t cowering or weeping or giving the tempest any sort of victory over her. He’d once attended an afternoon soiree in a garden, where a woman, screeching as she was being chased by one of the owner’s peacocks, had swooned into Langdon’s arms once she was safe from attack when another gent distracted the fowl. He couldn’t imagine Marlowe screeching as the storm had tossed herabout. Good Lord, she’d maintained the presence of mind to discard any clothing that might have dragged her beneath the waves. She’d sacrificed her modesty, and he suspected she’d done it with nary a thought except for survival.
He wondered if survival had been at the root of her decision to become a courtesan. She struck him as being willing to do whatever necessary when faced with difficult choices, even if it meant traveling the more difficult path.
After placing the bread on a plate, he filled a pail with the water he’d warmed and put more on to boil. With sustenance in one hand and the handle of the pail in the other, he headed up the stairs.
Strange how it felt as though it had been eons since he’d seen her, how his legs picked up their tempo as though delivering him to her in haste was of prime importance. As though each moment not in her presence was intolerable for them both. Which was utter poppycock. Based on the way she’d looked at him in horror with the realization she might be spending the remainder of the night with him if his hand had been better than Hollingsworth’s, he suspected even now she was dreading his return. He could well imagine that if he so much as glided a finger along her cheek, she’d scratch out his eyes.
He would just have to convince her that she appealed to him not in the least and was perfectly safe from his advances—poor girl. Not to experience what he could deliver.
He strode into the bedchamber, came to an abrupt halt, and felt the agony of air backing up inhis lungs. She’d donned one of his shirts. It fairly swallowed her arms and torso.
