He Said Yes Page 22

  "You were right. She needed to reminisce," Evelyn said, ignoring the reference to matchmaking. She didn't want to think about all the husband-hunting young ladies who were due to swoop down on the estate like a horde of well-mannered locusts.

  "Reminisce?" Marshall mused pulling the cork from the small, round-bottomed bottle. "I lost count of the times I tried to talk to her about Father. She always found a way to change the subject."

  "You wanted to talk about your father; she needed to talk about her husband."

  Marshall gave her a questioning glance as he stripped off his socks. It was easy to see that he was settling in for a long night.

  Evelyn sat down, holding out the two glasses. Marshall tipped up the bottle, pouring a small amount of liquor into each one. After setting the bottle on the floor, he took one of the glasses, then using his free hand tugged Evelyn close to his side. She rested her head against his shoulder. He smelled like rain and wind and musky cologne.

  "She needed another woman to talk to," Evelyn ex­plained knowing his male mind hadn't quite grasped the concept of her previous remark. She stared into the fire. "Lady Waltham loved your father very much. More than I think any of you realized. When you love someone as deeply as that, their death isn't just a loss, it's a loneliness that goes all the way to your soul. She didn't know how to express that loss, so she held it inside, clinging to it because she thought letting go of the grief meant letting go of your father's mem­ory."

  Marshall didn't comment because he wasn't sure what to say. Once again he was amazed by Evelyn's natural insight.

  He knew that Constance and his father had had a good mar­riage, one based on mutual affection. He had never ques­tioned his father's happiness; it had showed on his face. As for love . . . It wasn't a topic he'd ever discussed with a woman. He didn't feel comfortable discussing it with Evelyn, though God knew they'd talked about everything else in their lives. But discussing the love a man felt for a woman, or a woman for a man, was opening a door he'd rather keep closed for the time period.

  He'd spent a great many hours thinking about Evelyn dur­ing his trip to Norwich. Thinking about her, missing her, wanting her. There was no exactness in his emotions, but rather a jumbled confusion that he credited to her decision to leave at summer's end. Evelyn enjoyed being his lover; her response was too open, too honest, for him to believe other­wise. Yet, she refused to speak of anything more than a sum­mer affair.

  Confident that he still had time to change her mind Marshall reassumed the conversation about his stepmother. "I sup­pose it would be difficult for Constance to talk about the per­sonal side of her marriage to anyone in the family," Marshall conceded. He took a sip of cognac before asking, "Just how personal have your conversations been?"

  Evelyn laughed. "Not that personal."

  He shrugged then shifted his weight so she sank back into the crook of his arm. "How am I to know what women discuss when they're behind closed doors?"

  "What do men discuss?" she prompted curiously.

  "Now you're changing the subject." He kissed the top of her head. "Whatever was said it seems to have had the de­sired effect. Constance is smiling again, and for that I thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  She lifted a hand and placed it over his bare chest. His skin was warm, his heart beating strongly under her open palm. As the storm continued to rage outside, Evelyn couldn't keep herself from snuggling closer to the reassuring warmth of Marshall's body. He hadn't kissed her yet, not the way she longed for him to kiss her, but resting in his arms was very nice. She sipped the cognac, liking its rich taste, the way it warmed her stomach while the fire warmed her bare feet.

  She lifted her face to him, and for a moment they smiled at each other, silently recognizing and acknowledging their mutual desire. Marshall kissed her, drawing her fully against him.

  "I missed you," he whispered taking the glass of cognac from her hand and putting it aside.

  "I missed you, too," she whispered attempting a light smile that belied the depths of her feelings. It was so easy to imagine that they were like other couples, snuggling in front of a fire during a storm, content to hold each other while the rain swept up and down the coastline. But then, wasn't that what she had promised herself—a fairy-tale summer, months of imagining that the marquis actually loved her?

  Putting her arms around his neck, Evelyn refused to let the future intrude on the present. She wasn't going to pre­tend that she didn't want Marshall, that she wasn't eager for the lovemaking that was soon to come. Outside the storm raged on, its wildness keeping the world away. Inside, there was the warmth of the fire and the man.

  Marshall kissed her again, tasting the cognac on her lips and the sweet flavor that was uniquely Evelyn. He had missed her. More than he liked to admit, more than he was willing to admit. It still pricked his pride to think that she was going to leave him at the end of summer. Of course, he was still determined to change her mind. If it could be changed. There were still so many things about her that he didn't understand. Her unexpected decision to become his lover, the sympathetic way she had brought Constance out of a shell of grief, the unique pleasure he took from simply being in her company. She was unselfish in her giving, open and honest, vibrant and passionate.

  He stared at her face for a moment. It was a dreamer's face, soft featured and still strangely innocent.

  With a muffled sound of appreciation, he kissed her again. His hand found the ribbons at the front of her dressing gown, then the small buttons on the garment beneath it. He slid his hand inside, finding the soft weight of her breast, feeling its flushed heat as he ran his thumb across her nipple.

  Evelyn gave herself freely to the pleasure, enjoying the touch of his hand as it moved over her breast, cupping and stroking, his fingertips pinching lightly. There was little warning. One moment she was being cradled in his arms; the next she was spread out on the rug in front of the hearth like a meal for feasting.

  "Too many clothes," he said roughly. "I want the woman underneath them."

  Evelyn's blood heated at the words. She said his name in a deep, heavy whisper.

  Marshall looked at her, measuring the passion in her voice, the desire shining in her eyes, and knew that he'd never been wanted the way Evelyn wanted him at this very moment. No hesitation, no doubts, no flirtatious motives, just pure desire. He could see himself reflected in her eyes, see himself as she saw him—not a marquis, but a man. The knowledge forced the air from his lungs in a deep, satisfying breath.

  The breath turned into a groan as Evelyn's hands moved slowly over his upper body. When she ran her hands over his chest, her nails raking his nipples, the tormenting pleasure made him shudder. He stirred hungrily, pressing her down onto the rug, covering her body with his larger one, claiming her mouth in a deep, hungry kiss.

  The fire on the hearth burned on, but not as hot as the woman in his arms.

  Her hands moved over him, their touch a silky caress. But it, wasn't enough.

  Marshall came to his knees, straddling her legs. He smiled. Then slowly, very slowly, he began to undress her, removing the cloth barriers that kept him from feeling her heat, from seeing the way her body was responding to his touch, his whispered words. Her nipples became tight, vel­vety peaks that begged for his mouth. Her stomach clenched when he ran his fingertips from the valley between her breasts to the indentation of her navel, then lower, brushing her private curls.

  Evelyn closed her eyes as she felt Marshall's mouth on her breasts and his hands gently encouraging her legs to part. She was already on fire for him, her blood running sleek and hot, her body hungry. When his mouth moved from her lips to the taut peaks of her breasts, then slowly downward she sucked in her breath and held it.

  "No," she said finding the strength to push him away. "I want. . . I want to . . ."

  "What?" Marshall asked his breath coming in a rush as he looked down at her. He wanted to part her legs even more, to move between them, to bury himself in h
er sultry heat. He wanted it so badly, he was aching.

  "I want to touch you all the ways you touch me," Evelyn whispered. She sat up, curling her arms around his neck. Kissing him gently, then with all the desire she felt.

  When Marshall stretched her out on the rug again, he was on the bottom. "Then touch me," he whispered feverishly. "Do whatever you want to me, sweetheart. But do it fast. I'm dying."

  Evelyn laughed. "I don't know how."

  Marshall's voice was deep, husky. "Follow your in­stincts."

  Evelyn wasn't sure about her instincts, so she followed her fantasies instead.

  Marshall's hands clenched as he felt Evelyn fulfilling those fantasies. Her warm mouth caressed his skin. He closed his eyes and felt her loving him, felt the hesitant way her lips and teeth and hands explored his body. When her hair skimmed over his blunt arousal, he made a tormented sound that brought a smile to her face.

  "You're so strong," she said in a light whisper. "It's a shame you have to wear clothes. They hide just how much of a man you are."

  "Are you saying you'll share me with the women of the world?" he asked fighting the urge to finish what she was starting.

  "Never, my lord." Her breath was a hot caress over his aroused flesh. "You belong to me for the summer, and I'm a very selfish woman."

  "You couldn't be selfish if you wanted to," he replied praying for control. It was slipping away, splintering with each touch of her mouth and hands. "Your heart is too big. Too generous."

  Marshall gritted his teeth as she continued exploring his body, learning it as intimately as he had once learned hers. Her hands were fire, burning him wherever they touched. Her mouth was even more tormenting. He shivered and held back a groan as her mouth moved over him, tasting, learn­ing, torturing him until he thought he might burst.

  "No more!" he said knowing his self-control had reached its limit. "You can tease me later. Right now, I want you too badly to be playful about it."

  He dragged her up his body, burying his tongue in her mouth. He rolled putting her beneath him again. Another shudder racked his body as he eased inside her moist, supple channel, into the very heat of her.

  Evelyn felt her body unraveling, her senses whirling as Marshall pushed deep inside her. Pleasure ebbed and flowed as his hips rocked back and forth in hard deep thrusts. He took her more deeply, more forcefully than he'd ever taken her before, and Evelyn reveled in the wonder of it, the pure, pulsating pleasure of belonging to him in the only way she could.

  He slid his arms under her hips, raising her up, forcing her body to accept the pounding of his own, hard and deep, so deeply she could feel him touching her womb. Their bod­ies glistened with sweat, gleaming in the light of the fire, and still he drove into her, pushing her higher and higher, deeper and deeper into the passionate fire. The pleasure was so in­tense, so savage, Evelyn thought she would die. Then she did a short, hot death that left her gasping for breath.

  Marshall felt her release, felt the wet, hot pulse of her cli­max, and thrust even deeper, wanting the same thing for himself. When he found it, he groaned deep in his chest. The pleasure was like nothing he'd felt before. His body tight­ened then exploded as he willingly surrendered to his own passionate death.

  Much later, after they retired to the comfort of the bed he held her close while the storm moved down the coast and into the Atlantic. Rain still splattered against the windows, but it was a soft rain, a gentle remnant of nature's previous fury.

  "Constance said you told her about wanting a dress shop of your own," Marshall said. In the dark, his expression changed taking on a more pensive look. His gaze swept over Evelyn as she lay naked in his arms, her head resting against his shoulders, her hair a tangled array of golden brown curls. "She wanted to make sure your salary was adequate, that you'd have the money you need when the time comes. You made quite an impression on her. And on Catherine."

  "But not Winnifred" Evelyn said. "It's too much to ask of her to forget what she saw that day. God knows, I'll never forget it."

  "It's in the past. Over and done." He pulled her close, en­joying the feel of her naked skin against him. "Has Winnie been rude? If she has, I'll make sure she doesn't forget her manners again."

  "It isn't a question of manners," she told him. "Your sister finds my presence puzzling, and reasonably so. Don't scold her for disliking me. It wouldn't be fair. I don't want to come between you and your family. I've made no greater impres­sion on them than they have on me."

  "Regardless, I won't have you treated disrespectfully."

  "She hasn't been rude, not really," Evelyn insisted. "Please let it pass. The regatta guests will be arriving soon, and I'm sure she's anxious over Lord Lansdowne being one of them. Her future could be decided this summer. She's consumed with her own thoughts and worries."

  Marshall disagreed but before he could say anything, she distracted him with a kiss.

  Evelyn didn't want to talk about the future because all it held now was a barren dream, years with nothing to fill the emptiness but the memories she could gather and hold on to after a brief summer in the arms of a marquis. But reality had to be faced no matter how displeasing. "Winnifred is young and in love for the first time in her life. She needs your support, not your criticism. Catherine is a joy, and Lady Waltham is a good person. I can only imagine how much happiness she gave your father. He died knowing he was loved. God blessed him with three wonderful children, a life of material comfort, a title that brought respect and admira­tion from his peers, a wife that loved him beyond question. What more could a man want?"

  She turned in his arms, folding her hands over his chest and resting her chin upon them. "As for my salary, it is overly generous, as well you know. By the time you return to London, I shall have more than enough to find a nice build­ing and hang out a shingle."

  "And where will you hang this shingle?" he asked curi­

  ous as to how she saw the summer ending. He'd worried about her for so long, protected her, cared for her, that it was hard to imagine she didn't need him to continue those things. It was also another thorn in his pride, a stinging re­minder that she would still be on Bond Street, working to­ward her dream, if Lady Monfrey hadn't jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  "I'm not sure," Evelyn replied. "England has hundreds of villages and towns. I'm sure I can find one that needs a good dressmaker."

  It wasn't a lie. She had no idea where she would go when the time came to leave her kindhearted passionate marquis behind. As far from London and Ipswich as possible, she thought, making sure her face didn't reflect her feelings.

  "I don't suppose you'd consider—"

  She pressed a finger to his mouth, knowing what he was going to say. She'd heard it before, his wish for her to return to the house on Lambeth Road the passionate nights they'd share together if only she'd stop being stubborn. "Summer is a short season," she said. "Don't waste it. Love me again. Make me feel alive and beautiful and wanted."

  "You are," he breathed heavily, pulling her beneath him again.

  Their joining was another burst of flames, a passion that burned them all the way to their souls. It was gentle this time. Marshall wanted to possess her, to make her realize that she was running away from something grand and won­derful.

  Evelyn arched against him, taking him inside, needing him in more ways than he could ever imagine. The lure of summer nights and memories still to be made filled her mind while Marshall filled her body. When the fire exploded this time, it left her feeling renewed and consumed sated but sad.

  Marshall's breathing was deep and steady as he slept.

  Evelyn looked at the ceiling, her body exhausted from his lovemaking, her mind wide awake and filled with a hodge­podge of thoughts and feelings. She closed her eyes as a note of unhappiness came with the thoughts, the knowledge that the marquis wasn't interested in sharing his heart. Yet no matter how much she wanted to hang on to the hope that he might envision her as more than a mistress, the truth was im­possibl
e to ignore. The bridge of mutual desire forged the gap between them, but they were still from two different worlds.

  Determinedly, Evelyn shook her black thoughts aside. The summer had only just begun. She had weeks to gather the memories she would take with her before her pride forced her to leave Bedford Hall.

  Sixteen

  The summer moved on. Evelyn's days were spent in the company of Lady Waltham, but her nights belonged to the lord of the manor. She stored every moment she and the marquis shared in her memory, the rainy evenings spent in front of a fire, the sultry nights that took them for long walks on a moon­lit beach, early mornings filled with smiles and gentle love-making. Each day brought a new memory.

  It was on one of those mornings that the guests for the re­gatta festivities began to arrive at Bedford Hall. The world was alight with sunshine, the breeze balmy as it swept over the Channel and onto the shore, bringing the scent of the sea with it. Evelyn was in the second-floor library, seeking a book that might lend itself to a leisurely afternoon spent reading, when she heard the sound of carriage wheels. She watched from the oriel windows that overlooked the circular drive fronting the manor house.

  A gentleman stepped down from the carriage. Evelyn knew the visitor was the Earl of Granby. Marshall had told her that his closest friend would be the first guest to arrive. She studied the man for a moment, although there was little she could see from the library window. He was superbly dressed, his jacket cut from the best broadcloth, his vest from dark gray silk, his shirt undoubtedly purchased from Grieves. He moved with the same confident air that had first drawn her eyes to the marquis. She knew the two men had a lot in common; both were only sons, educated at Eton, then Cambridge. Like the marquis, the earl was in his early thir­ties, a wealthy, contented bachelor.

  The sound of a footman rushing up the steps to inform the marquis of the earl's arrival forced Evelyn away from the window. She didn't want to be caught gawking at one of the guests, nor did she want to appear overly curious about the marquis's personal friends. Their acquaintance had nothing to do with her, nor did she covet an introduction when noth­ing could come of it but uplifted brows as to why the mar­quis would care to introduce a member of the staff to his honored guests. Discretion was a necessity. She might be ig­norant of many of society's rules, but she knew enough to know that a gentleman didn't keep his lover this close to his family. The marquis had the rank to disregard opinion, if he chose to do so, but he also had two sisters and a stepmother. Any scandal attached to his name would soon adhere itself to them as well.