Ask for It

  Sunlight sparkled in the puddles left by the early morning’s light rain. The day was momentous, the day of his wedding, and Marcus turned from the window to finish dressing. He had ordered the creation of a jacket and breeches in a pearl grey with a silver waistcoat heavily embroidered with silk thread. From the top of his wigged head down to his diamond-studded heels, his valet took great pains to make Marcus’s appearance perfect, and the act of dressing took well over an hour.

  Once finished, he walked through the adjoining sitting room, then beyond into the lady’s chamber. Most of Elizabeth’s personal belongings had already arrived, and he’d scattered them about the room in an effort to make her feel welcome and less alienated. Touching her things had seemed so intimate, he hadn’t allowed the servants to do it. He would keep his emotional distance as he had the last fortnight, but he had rights now and after all he’d been through for her, he would damn well enjoy them.

  Glancing around the room one last time, Marcus made certain everything was where it should be. His gaze came to rest on the escritoire, where a small likeness of Lord Hawthorne sat. Marcus picked it up, the image bothering him as it always did. Not because of jealousy or misplaced possessiveness: No, the image disturbed him because of the niggling sense that he should be seeing something he was missing.

  As often happened in recent days, his mood turned pensive. How different his future would have been had the handsome viscount lived. When Elizabeth married, Marcus had thought she would be forever out of his reach. Seduction had crossed his mind. Despite the Hawthorne title, he’d always thought of her as his, but when he’d returned to England she was already widowed, negating that course of action.

  He returned the image to the escritoire, where it joined likenesses of William, Margaret, and Randall Chesterfield. The past was gone and best forgotten. Today, a great injustice that had been done to him would be righted, and then his life would return to some semblance of the normalcy he’d known before Elizabeth.

  Moving downstairs, Marcus collected his hat and gloves before vaulting into his coach. He was one of the first people to arrive at the church and he breathed a sigh of relief to learn Elizabeth was already in the bride’s ready room preparing for the ceremony. Truth was, he’d half feared she would fail to appear. Until she spoke her vows, he couldn’t quite allow himself the satisfaction he longed to revel in.

  Smiling, he spoke with family, friends, and important members of society as they arrived. With safety paramount, agents were spread out liberally among the guests. Aside from Talbot and James, who sat together, he was unaware of who they were, he knew only that they were there.

  A curious sort by nature, he couldn’t help cataloging the personages in the pews, wondering who amongst them lived an agent’s life like he did. He also noted the marked reticence between peers and their wives, and wished he also felt such detachment from Elizabeth.

  Would they have lost their minds, as he nearly had, if their spouses had been threatened? Was their every breath contingent upon the safety of their wives? He doubted it. It was unnatural, this fascination. Without its curse, his failure to protect Elizabeth would never have occurred, and he would not feel as restless as a caged animal.

  Oddly, the only way he could conceive of finding peace was to wed himself to his torment. For four years, the loss of Elizabeth had been the thorn in his side. Now, he could pull it free. Now, he would be rid of the ache that plagued him. From this moment on, his mission and his own sanity could take precedence. Elizabeth would be his, and the world would know it. Those who thought to harm her would know it. She would know it.

  There would be no more running, no more chasing, no more frustration. He’d wanted closure.

  Today he would have it.

  Chapter 16

  “You’re trembling,” Margaret murmured.

  “It’s cold.”

  “Then why are you perspiring?”

  Glaring, Elizabeth met her sister-in-law’s sympathetic gaze in the mirror.

  Unperturbed, Margaret smiled. “You look beautiful.”

  Lowering her eyes, Elizabeth examined her appearance in the mirror. She’d chosen pale blue silk taffeta with elbow-length sleeves, matching skirt and open overskirt. The result was serene, an emotion she wished she felt at the moment.

  She sucked in a shuddering breath and grimaced. Having sworn this day would never come, she was completely unprepared for the reality of it.

  “Your spirits will improve once you stand with him,” Margaret promised.

  “Perhaps I’ll feel worse,” she muttered.

  But a quarter hour later, as Elizabeth walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, the sight of Marcus arrested her, lifted her, just as Margaret had predicted. He was resplendent in his finery and gazed at her so intensely she could see the emerald color of his irises even from a substantial distance.

  There was more between them than just this physical space. Marcus’s reputation and his work with Eldridge were great obstacles she wondered if they could surmount. He’d hinted at fidelity and agreed to consider leaving the agency, but he’d made no promises. If he failed to change his course on either account, she could grow to detest him. And if he married her for revenge, their arrangement was doomed before starting. She couldn’t help but worry, couldn’t help but be very afraid of the future.

  “Are you certain this is the path you choose to take?” her father asked in a low tone.

  Startled, Elizabeth glanced at him with wide eyes. He stared straight ahead, as aloof as ever, in much the same way Marcus had adopted in the last few weeks. “Why?” was all she could manage to say.

  His lips pursed as he stared at the altar and the man who waited there. “I had hoped you would consider marrying for happiness.”

  If not for the multitude of observers she might have gaped. “I would not have expected such a statement from you.”

  He sighed and shot her a sidelong glance. “I would gladly suffer a thousand torments for the privilege of having your mother as long as I did.”

  Her heart ached for him and the emptiness she glimpsed in his eyes. “Father—”

  “We can turn about, Elizabeth,” he said gruffly. “Westfield’s motives concern me.”

  As the doubts began to churn her stomach, she turned her head to study her groom. Marcus’s mouth curved with blatant charm, a silent encouragement, and her heart stopped.

  “Think of the scandal,” she whispered.

  He slowed his steps. “I care for nothing other than your well-being.”

  Her breath caught for a moment and her steps faltered. How long had she waited for some sign that she mattered at all to her pater? Long enough that she’d thought it an impossible dream. The unexpected support for a hasty retreat was not only astonishing, but very tempting. She studied him and the occupants of the church, then she looked at Marcus again. She saw the tiny step forward he took and the clenching of his fists, barely noticeable warnings that he would give chase should she flee.

  It should have frightened her further, that almost imperceptible threat. Instead, she remembered how the sound of his voice in the garden had filled her with relief. She remembered the way he’d held her after the stabbing, and how the trembling of his arms and voice had betrayed the depths of his concern. And the nights in his arms, how she craved them. Her heart started to race, but it was not the urge to run that moved her.

  She lifted her chin. “Thank you, Father. But I’m certain of my course.”

  Marcus glanced at his younger brother, who stood with him at the altar. Paul grinned, his brow arching in silent query. Any doubts? his look seemed to ask.

  Marcus opened his mouth to whisper back when the sudden hush in the church drew his attention. Elizabeth entered beside her father and the sight of her took his breath away. Paul’s low whistle just before the music swelled said his unspoken question had been answered.

  Marcus had never seen a more beautiful bride.

  His bride.

  Muffl
ed weeping moved his attention to his mother who sat tearfully in the front row. His youngest brother, Robert, held her fragile hand carefully in his and gazed at Marcus through gold-rimmed spectacles with a reassuring smile.

  The soon-to-be Dowager Countess of Westfield was beside herself with joy. She’d adored Elizabeth upon their first meeting so many years ago, and now said that any woman who could move her eldest son to matrimony must be extraordinary indeed. Marcus had never quite managed to explain that he was dragging his fiancée to the altar, and not the reverse.

  Even as he thought it, Elizabeth’s steady steps faltered. She glanced around the church like a frightened doe. He stepped forward. She would not run. Not again. His heart raced with something akin to panic. Then she met his gaze, lifted her chin, and continued to approach him.

  The ceremony began. And it was long. Too bloody long.

  Eager to hasten the process, he repeated his vows with strength and conviction, his deep voice carrying across the packed pews. Elizabeth repeated her vows slowly and with great care, as if she were afraid to stumble over the words. He could see her trembling, felt how cold her hand was in his, and knew she was terrified. He squeezed her hand gently, reassuringly, but with unmistakable claim.

  And then the deed was finally done.

  Pulling her close, he kissed her, and was surprised at the ardor with which she kissed him back. Her taste flooded his mouth, intoxicated his senses, made him mad with desire. His forced abstinence weighed heavily between his legs, demanding the rights that were now his alone.

  It was horribly scandalous.

  He didn’t care.

  Marcus felt an anxious, unrestrained emotion well up inside of him as he stared at his wife. It was almost too much.

  So he crushed it and looked away.

  Elizabeth tried not to think too much while she prepared for her wedding night. Taking her time with her toilette, she glanced around the room, content to be surrounded by her own things even in a strange place. The chamber was beautiful and expansive, the walls lined with soft pink damask. Only two doors separated her from the room where she’d first made love to Marcus. The remembrance made her skin hot and her stomach clench. It had been so long since he’d taken her, just thought of the night to come made her shiver in anticipation.

  Despite the endless desire she’d become accustomed to, it was still terrifying to have married a man whose will was greater than her own. A man so determined to achieve the realization of his goals that nothing was allowed to stand in his way. Could she influence such a man? Convince him to change his ways? Perhaps change was not even possible and she was foolish to hope.

  When she finished bathing, she instructed Meg to leave her hair down, then she excused her abigail for the night. Elizabeth walked to her bed where her night rail and robe awaited her. Both garments had been especially ordered for her trousseau. Admiring them, she brushed her fingertips over the gossamer-thin fabric and costly lace.

  She paused as her wedding ring caught the candlelight. It was so different from the much simpler set chosen by Hawthorne. Marcus had given her a massive diamond ring, the large center stone surrounded by a multitude of rubies. It was impossible to ignore, a blatant claim to her, and if that was not enough, the Westfield crest was etched upon the band.

  There was a quick rap at her bedroom door and Elizabeth moved to pick up the night rail, then thought better of it. Her husband was a man of voracious sexual appetite and his interest lately had been less than warm. If she hoped to keep him engaged, she would have to be more daring. She didn’t have the experience his many lovers had, but she had enthusiasm. One could only hope that would be enough.

  Disregarding the garments, she called for him to enter. She took a fortifying breath and turned around. Marcus opened the door and then came to a halt just inside. Dressed in a thick black satin robe, his body visibly tensed at the sight of her. Frozen on the threshold, his emerald eyes smoldered and a tingling awareness flared over her skin. Elizabeth fought back the urge to cover herself with her hands, lifting her chin in a display of courage she didn’t feel.

  His low and husky voice brought goose bumps to her skin. “Wearing no more than my ring, you are beyond beautiful.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door, his movements deceptively casual. But she was not deceived. She sensed the fine, taut alertness about him. She watched in fascination as the front of his robe twitched and then rose with his erection. Her mouth watered, her nails digging into her palms as she waited for the halves of the robe to part and reveal that part of him she coveted.

  “You’re staring, love.”

  His robe swirled gently around his legs as he crossed the room to her, his body drawing close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. His scent of sandalwood and citrus surrounded her, and her nipples peaked tight and hard, spreading sharp tendrils of desire from her breasts to her sex. She bit back a moan. Her desire for him increased by the day, aggravated by the forced celibacy of the last month.

  When had she become such a wanton?

  “I—I’ve missed you,” she exhaled, waiting desperately for his touch.

  “Have you?” He stared down at her with a rapt expression and she returned the scrutiny, noting the rigidness of his jaw that belied the heat of his gaze. He’d grown so distant, a charming stranger. Then his hand was between her legs, his long middle finger slipping through the lips of her sex to glide through her cream. “Yes, I see you have.”

  She whimpered when he pulled away and Marcus soothed her with a soft murmur.

  His hands moved without haste to the belt of his robe. He tugged the trailing ends free and parted the edges, revealing the rippling power of his abdomen and the hard, pulsing length of his cock. Framed by the ebony lining of his robe, his lean body was stunning.

  Elizabeth tore her gaze upward and met his. She said what she needed him to know, needed him to understand. “You belong to me.”

  Wanting to break through the sudden chill in his features, she lifted her hand, her fingertips drifting along the side of his throat and farther down his chest. He sucked in a breath, his skin heating under her touch.

  Her mouth curved as she relished the power she held over him. She’d never known it could be like this, had never really wanted it to be like this, but he was hers now. That fact altered everything.

  Marcus lifted her by the waist and took the one step to the bed. “Lady Westfield,” he growled, setting her down on the very lip and surging forward, his cock piercing deep into her with a single heavy thrust.

  Elizabeth cried out, writhing away from the unexpected and painful intrusion, but he held her fast. He forced himself over her, pressing her into the bed, his robe a silken cage around their joined bodies. His mouth captured hers in a devastating kiss, his tongue thrusting in a blatant rhythm that robbed her of her senses.

  This was no careful, coaxing seduction, as their previous encounters had been. This was a claiming of the basest kind, one that left her momentarily stunned and confused. She knew his touch, her senses recognized his scent and the feel of his body, but the man himself was a stranger to her. So intent and brutally possessive, throbbing hot and hard inside her.

  One large hand found her breast and squeezed roughly, breaking her temporary paralysis. His thighs tightened against hers as he slid a fraction deeper. She struggled beneath him, turning her head to gasp for air. His lips moved on, trailing down her cheek, his teeth nipping sharply at her earlobe.

  “You belong to me,” he said gruffly.

  A threat. She stilled as realization hit.

  He wanted her submission. The ring, his name, her desire . . . it was not enough to soothe him.

  “Why take what I would give freely?” she whispered, wondering if perhaps it was the only way he could have her, the only way she’d ever given herself. She thought back, trying to remember a time when she’d tendered herself without duress.

  He groaned and buried his face in her neck. “You’ve
given me nothing freely. I’ve paid with blood for all that I have of you.”

  Elizabeth’s hands slipped beneath his robe and caressed the rippling cords of his back. He arched into her touch, sweating in his need, grinding his hips desperately against hers until she soothed him with her voice. “Let me give you what you want.”

  Marcus clasped Elizabeth to his chest with a crushing grip, biting the top of her shoulder as her cunt rippled along his cock in a teasing caress. “Witch,” he whispered, laving the indentions left by his teeth.

  He’d come to her room with a singular purpose, to slake their mutual need and consummate the marriage so long in coming. It was meant to be a dance, one of which he knew all the steps, a carefully planned encounter without the unwanted abandoned intimacy. But she’d met him naked, gilded by firelight, hair tumbled about her shoulders and chin lifted with a Jezebel’s pride. She’d stood there and said he belonged to her. All these years she’d cared nothing for him, and now, now, after all he’d suffered, she claimed the victory.

  And she had won. He was ensnared, gripped tight by her lithe thighs and creamy depths, her fingers kneading and drifting across his back.

  Lost in her embrace, he arched his spine upward and kissed a fiery trail down her throat to her breasts. He licked and savored the pale skin, stroking the sides with his hands, cupping their weight as they become heavy and taut. Her nipples peaked tight, an irresistible lure, and he bit one crest, worrying it with his teeth before laving the hardened flesh with leisurely laps of his tongue. Marking her. As he would mark her everywhere.

  Only when she begged did his mouth open and engulf her completely. He suckled her with slow, deep, rhythmic pulls of his tongue and lips, shuddering as the sensation traveled through her body to milk his cock. He could come like this, just from the measured clench and release of her silky tissues. Enflamed by the thought, he hollowed his cheeks, increasing the suction. His eyes drifted closed, his body shuddered as his sac drew up. He swiveled his hips, rubbing her clitoris, and then groaned with her orgasm, releasing his need in burning hot streams of semen.