Lady in Red

  After a moment Marcus said, “You look tired. Is something wrong? Other than this mess, of course.”

  Her heart sank. It was a mess, wasn’t it? A horrid, horrid mess. She wasn’t sure, but hearing him say it, in that particular tone of voice, made tears rise to her eyes. She forced herself to swallow. She was sure she looked tired, but…Blast it, she hadn’t seen the lout in four days and that was all he could say? “I daresay I do look tired. I’ve been here, all alone, trying to decide how to deal with things and—”

  “I’ve written you every day.”

  “Oh yes! Two sentence notes saying, ‘Do you wish orchids or lilies for the wedding?’and, ‘Do you have a church preference?’ It was so kind of you to think of me.”

  He frowned, eyeing her for a long moment. “I apologize if I’ve done something wrong, but I’ve had to get all of the details straightened out and—”

  “Oh. Is that why you have not visited me in four days? Not one time since that day have you spent so much as ten minutes in my presence.” Honoria almost grimaced at her own waspish tone. Good heavens, they weren’t even married yet and already she sounded like a fishwife. But she couldn’t seem to help it; everything was so confusing, so…astounding, so…sad.

  Suddenly, the strain of the last four days tumbled down on her. Her eyes grew moist and her lip began to quiver. Her chest ached and burned and it was all she could do not to sob aloud.

  Ye gods, no. She did not want to cry. Not now. Not in front of Marcus.

  But there was no stopping it. One moment she was sitting beside him, so angry that her toes curled, and the next, tears were welling and threatening to spill down her cheeks. She gasped out a sob, then another. And before she knew it, she’d dropped her face into her hands and gave in to a hearty bout of tears.

  Marcus sighed and reached for her, pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly. Thank God he’d had a sister or he might have been cowed by such a reaction. Instead, he rubbed her shoulder and rested his cheek against her hair, letting the sobs pour out.

  She was overwhelmed and perhaps a little frightened. So was he. He’d never thought to marry in such a fashion, under a potential cloud of scandal. And he’d certainly never thought his own behavior would be so risky as to cause such a thing to happen. But it had.

  There was something about Honoria that sent his mind and body reeling to the detriment of his usual good, common sense. That was why he’d stayed away. Because he’d known that the moment he was with her again, he could very well lose what little control he had.

  It had been that way from the start, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. There was some sort of connection, some sort of physical pull that interfered with his usual orderly way of conducting his life. It had been pure madness to kiss Honoria in public in the middle of the park. But somehow, at the time, the gesture had made perfect sense. It was a staggering realization that, had he to do it over again, he would have. Even knowing the outcome, the taste of her lips at that precise moment was worth every bit of the nonsense and trouble he had to go through now.

  It was confusing and damned irritating. How had he gotten so illogical? So bereft of common sense and calm thinking? What was it about her?

  Blast it, he didn’t want to marry anymore than she, not this way, forced by society and the snide laughter of Lady Percival.

  Yet he sighed, releasing some of his anger as he rested his cheek against Honoria’s silken hair, the soothing scent of lemon and roses rising to meet him. Her form was warm and pliant against his, and he bit off a curse as his own body reacted to her nearness. It had been this way since the first day he’d come here to demand his mother’s ring, and he would be damned if he would succumb to it again.

  And therein lay the greatest quandary of all…If he was tempted by Honoria when she lived far away, how would he resist her when she lived under his own roof? Could he? Was it possible that damned ring had something to do with this? That he was suffering from a curse of some sort?

  Bloody hell, but he’d been right. It was a mess.

  Slowly, her tears dried. And soon she pressed her hands against his chest and sat upright. The feel of her hands on his chest made his loins tighten even more, and he was glad he still had on the greatcoat to hide his reaction. He looked at her; she was blinking back tears, her long lashes spiked about her eyes, eyes that seemed the pure green of a new leaf after a rain.

  She sniffed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Nonsense.” He found his handkerchief and put it into her hand, solemnly admonishing her to blow her nose or he’d blow it for her.

  That made her give a watery giggle. “You cannot blow my nose for me.”

  “Oh?” He took the handkerchief and held it over her nose. “Now blow.”

  She yanked the scrap of linen from his hand and obediently blew her nose before managing a shaky smile. “My mother used to do that.”

  A faint smile touched his mouth. “So did mine.” He leaned back against the sofa and watched as she dried her eyes and put herself to rights. She tilted forward to smooth her skirts, and his gaze found that streak of white at her temple. He lifted a hand and lazily traced it to her braid. She was overwrought, and it was no wonder. He was feeling a bit worn himself. He should have come to see her. He knew he should have. But he’d been afraid—He frowned. Afraid of what? Of this? Of an outpouring of emotion?

  Or the realization that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t real emotion at all, but the effects of the talisman ring? He glanced at her hand, the silver band seeming to glint brighter. His jaw tightened. By God, he would not let a common ring make a mockery of him. If he was to marry, he’d make the best of it. To that end, he blurted out, “We have a lot in common, we two.”

  “Oh?” She folded the handkerchief and slipped it into a pocket hidden in her skirts. “Other than mothers who used to threaten to blow our noses for us?”

  He chuckled. “Much more than that. Think about it, Honoria.”

  She pursed her lips, her eyes shimmery bright from her cry. “Well…we do share an interest in antiquities. Of course, that has frequently caused us to cross swords at various auctions and procurement houses.”

  “Ah, but if we were on the same side…” He raised a brow.

  She smiled suddenly, her teeth a glimpse of white between her full, soft lips. “Imagine what we could do then.”

  Damn but her lips were lush. He pictured those lips touching his, moving over his skin, capturing his—

  Bloody hell, he was rattled beyond thought. With difficulty he forced his attention back to her words. “Of course, a general appreciation for antiquities is hardly a basis for a solid marriage. What else do we have in common?”

  She considered this a moment, regarding her slippered toes. “Well…we both like to win.”

  “That is, unfortunately, true.” He had to grin a bit. “I fear that similarity would make us far more likely to murder one another than to have a peaceful marriage.”

  “Possibly.” She tilted her head to one side, a faint quiver of a smile passing over her face. “What is worse is that we are both proud and unyielding.”

  “What?” he said, sitting a little straighter. “Surely not both of us.”

  “And arrogant and obstinate when it comes to things we believe in.”

  Bloody hell. The chit had the audacity of an invading army. She insulted with each breath, all the while looking at him with laughing eyes and a damnably sensual smile. He eyed her with a warning gaze, daring her to say more. Yet somehow, in the moment, he realized that he was fighting the oddest desire to smile. To grin back at her. To laugh at them both. “You may be proud and unyielding, but I vow upon my dead mother’s grave that I am neither.”

  She glanced at him, then at the ceiling as if addressing a spirit of some sort. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just angry we have to marry. And it’s all because of this damned ring.”

  In all of Marcus’s dealings, never had anyone offered to speak to the heavens in
his name. Nor had anyone called him proud and unyielding, arrogant and obstinate. And never, ever, had anyone left him with such a ridiculous desire to laugh.

  Damn the ring to hell and back.

  He tried not to look directly at Honoria, who managed to appear very kissable even with her reddened nose and shining hazel eyes. He wondered why it was that in all the times he’d bid against her in various auctions in the years before, he’d never one time spoken directly to her. All he’d ever done was bow ironically whenever they happened to cross paths.

  Was it possible…had it been pride? Or something else? Maybe even then he’d been aware of the attraction between them and had avoided her because of that. Surely that made more sense than a cursed ring.

  To be honest, Honoria interested him. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation with a woman who hadn’t bored him to tears within the first fifteen minutes. Yet she presented such a lively turn of mind, such a warm and naturally friendly manner, that whenever he was with her, things seemed more…alive somehow.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the pillowed softness of the sofa. “I must protest being called prideful and arrogant, especially since you claim those same faults yourself.”

  “Ah, well…I had a chef once who served the tenderest Beef Wellington. I had the audacity to compliment him on it, to which he replied that the secret was thoroughly tenderizing the meat using a very hard, wooden mallet.”

  His lips twitched. “And you would be the wooden mallet to tenderize my character?”

  “Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “With great pleasure. It’s quite possible that together, the rougher aspects of our characters might well rub themselves smooth.”

  “Like stones in a grinding box.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I must say, that sounds very…unpleasant.”

  She frowned, a sad look entering her eyes. “Indeed. That is what I fear. I do not know that we suit.”

  “Balderdash. Of course we shall suit. We have similar interests, similar tastes, and we both love a good argument.” He shrugged. “It’s more than many couples have.”

  She tilted her head to one side as if considering this. “I suppose it could work, if we made an effort to compromise on things. Do you think you could change things if you needed to?”

  He frowned. Change? Him? Why did she ask him that question? “What do you think I need to change?”

  “Well…yourself, I suppose. Your manners and things. If it became necessary, of course.”

  “Honoria, I have no wish for either of us to change.”

  “You don’t wish to improve.” A faint curl of disapprobation lingered in her eyes.

  That was the trouble with marriage. Women immediately felt they had a right to improve you, like a weedy garden or an unpolished doorknob. He scowled. “Improvement is a matter of opinion.”

  “Improvement is our duty to ourselves and those around us,” she retorted loftily. “I always try to improve.”

  “Perhaps you have more to improve upon.”

  Her brows rose. “Apparently not.”

  That put him in his place. Despite his irritation, a faint smile itched to touch his mouth. “You are spirited, aren’t you?”

  “And you are impertinent.”

  “Sometimes,” he agreed with alacrity, suddenly aware that he was hugely enjoying himself despite his doubts. “So tell me, for what other reasons shall we deal well together?”

  “Well, in addition to sharing some common interests—”

  “One.”

  “—one common interest and serving to smooth each other’s character flaws, it’s possible that this marriage could serve our respective positions well.”

  “Positions?”

  “Yes. Mine as head of this household.” She paused a moment, her brow creasing ever so slightly. “I will not hide from you that the greatest appeal from this union is the financial security and social benefits that it will provide my family, especially my sisters.”

  The words had stung his pride the tiniest bit. He was a man used to being feted and courted by his peers, and her comment made sense. He was, after all, head of the wealthiest family in England. But still, it was not pleasant to hear from one’s prospective bride that one’s fiscal strength was one’s most endearing quality. Which was why he said in a rather rough voice, “It is plain to see the benefits gained by your family. But what of mine?”

  That lit the fires. Her faint flush deepened and her violet eyes flashed. “I do not believe you need to be reminded of the Baker-Sneed lineage. We can trace our lineage from the time of William the Conqueror.”

  Marcus quirked a brow. “That would be important if I wished to improve the St. John claim to the throne, which is a ludicrous idea.”

  She blinked, a slow questioning blink that made her luxurious lashes tangle at the corners. “You don’t care about lineage.”

  No, he didn’t. But what he did care about was the woman at his side. The thought took him unawares and he almost stood.

  He cared about Honoria. Oh, he wasn’t in love, far from it. But he did respect her and he was coming to genuinely like her. There was not a line of artifice in her body, not a single false note. She was gentle and serenely beautiful with a sharp wit and a genuine appreciation for life. As wives went, he could do much, much worse.

  If only he’d chosen her, and not fate. His earlier irritation surged and a slow heat rose in him. In fact…His gaze roamed across her, noting the fresh curve of her cheek, the lush turns of her body, the delicate line of her lips. The heat simmered beneath his skin, through his blood, and somehow he found himself moving slightly closer. And then closer still.

  Her gaze widened, but she did not move an inch. Instead she sat, watching him approach, her hands nervously threaded in her skirts.

  He moved again, this time slipping an arm about her waist. He lifted her and set her in his lap, his hands moving over her, caressing and touching. She gasped, and then suddenly her eyes flared and she reached up and twined her arms about his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.

  He kissed her passionately, all of the energies and worries of the last few days disappearing in an onslaught of pure lust. She fit inside his arms and life all too well. Somewhere deep inside, he knew he was as afraid as she, as worried that this marriage might, at some point, cause them both pain. But at the moment, with his arms about her, her warm ass pressed against his lap, her arms linked about his neck as he plundered and ravaged her kissable lips…at the moment he didn’t care about anything except making the delectable Miss Honoria Baker-Sneed his.

  The kiss deepened and lengthened. Marcus ran his hands over her back, across her stomach, down her hips. She was firm and curved, filling his hands and then some. He stroked the outside of her thighs, never breaking the onslaught of his mouth over hers. God, but how he wanted her. How he craved to lift her skirts and lay between her velvet thighs. He wanted her like no other—

  The door to the sitting room banged open. “Honoria, tell Portia that I—”

  Honoria’s eyes flew open, and for a startled moment she and Marcus just sat there, looking at one another, lips still locked, their arms still tightly in place.

  “Heavens! I—We—I never knew you—Sorry!” With that, whoever it was slammed the door and left.

  Honoria moaned and broke the kiss. “It was Juliet, my sister. She’ll tell the others and—Ye gods, what must she think?” She pushed herself upright and stood, arranging her skirts into a semblance of order. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, and she appeared to be thoroughly embarrassed.

  Despite the interruption, Marcus’s blood was still boiling. But he knew that now was not the time to press his attentions. Besides, in a few days she would be his for the taking whenever and wherever he pleased. The thought lingered and then took hold. Yes, by God, once they were married, things would indeed change, and only for the better. He’d make certain of that.

&n
bsp; “My lord—Treymount—”

  “Marcus,” he said smoothly, rising from the sofa as well and adjusting his cravat. “We might as well start with that.”

  “Of course. I just—” She bit her lip. “Is there any other way we could fix this? I’m not saying I don’t wish to marry you, but…must we?”

  Damn yes, she was going to marry him. One way or the other. “We have no choice; I’ve considered everything. There is no other solution, especially since Lady Percival made it her business to spread the word as quickly as she could. In fact, she had no compunction about exaggerating bits of it, although that has worked to our benefit since people have discovered discrepancies in her stories and wonder about the whole.”

  Honoria sighed, rubbing her neck as if tired. “Yes, well…I don’t really care about my reputation except for how it affects my sisters. I cannot allow my mistakes to damage their good name.”

  “They would be outcasts before they even began the season, unless, of course, we marry.” Marcus wasn’t sure why he wanted to be certain Honoria knew this, but he did. Perhaps he could sense a seed of doubt in her voice, a hint of sadness that for some reason tugged at him all the harder.

  He picked up his hat and adjusted the brim. “I arranged to get a special license from the archbishop. We are to be married by week’s end.”

  She nodded, then turned and walked with unseeing eyes to the front window. “I—I suppose there is nothing I can say.” She rested her temple against the window trim and watched the tilburies and carts wobble by. “Saturday it will be, then.”

  Marcus wanted nothing more than to cross the room and take her in his arms, but he dared not. What flared between them was hot and unruly and had already overcome his good sense more times than he’d liked. He would not succumb again. Not until he had the right to make her fully his own, to possess her in the way he burned to. Perhaps that would return his usual strength of comportment.

  Grinding his teeth, he bowed abruptly. “Good day, then. I will continue to keep you informed of events.”