Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

H e was kissing her. Marissa was aware of how soft his lips were and yet how firm, as they moved over hers. He seemed to know what he was doing and she wound her arms around his neck. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, her fingers tugged at the wiry curls of hair that grew at his nape. He bent his head and began to press his open mouth to her throat, making her hot and trembly, and when her head fell back helplessly, he kissed the scant bit of bare flesh that showed above her bodice.

Pleasure brought goose bumps to her skin, and when he rested one hand in the hollow of her waist she was certain she could feel his touch burning like a hot coal through her clothing. His other hand was gathering up her tangled locks of hair and when he buried his face in the heavy mass, groaning with pleasure, she felt a tremor of passion ripple through her.

He lifted his head slightly, and she saw that his eyes were closed. She bent to kiss his eyelids, and then his lips, feeling his breath mingling with hers. It was like a dream, except it was too vividly real to be part of a dream. Marissa felt as if she was taking her first steps in some unexplored Amazonian jungle, a place no one had ever been before, and she was full of trepidation and excitement, but she had no intention of stopping or turning back.

Now he was kissing her more deeply, his arms tightening their grip about her body. She made a sound but it wasn't a protest, and then she was pressing closer to him, too. She couldn't seem to get enough of him. Her hands slid over his shoulder blades, down to the moving muscles of his back. Her nails were long enough to scrape gently against his skin, and he gasped, nuzzling against her throat.

He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes so brilliant she felt like blinking.

"I want . . ." he began, but then couldn't seem to finish it.

"What do you want?" she said shakily.

He reached up and rested his fingers on the tiny pearl buttons that ran down the front of her bodice, holding it modestly in place. Marissa could feel a tingle in her breasts; they felt almost painful. She nodded her head jerkily, eagerly, and watched, holding her breath, as he began to unfasten the tiny buttons, one by one.

Her tight corset cut in under her bosom and had the effect of pushing her breasts up, while her chemise covered her to the neckline of her riding jacket. Once he had opened her bodice to the waist, he slid his fingers under one of the chemise straps and tugged it down over her shoulder. The swell of her breast was exposed to his gaze, her nipple peaking dark red and swollen. He took his time looking while she waited, hardly able to bear it. And then he stroked his finger over her, down, down, brushing over her hard nipple, and back again.

Marissa jumped at the contact on such a sensitive point, but she made no move to stop him. He smiled, and swooping forward, took her in his mouth.

She cried out. She couldn't help it. The hot wet-ness of his tongue and his mouth against her aching breast was pleasure almost beyond bearing. She cupped his head in her hands, unconsciously holding him to her.

Perhaps you should stop him now, said a voice in her head. But the voice was faint, and easily ignored.

He was exploring her other breast, and giving it the same treatment. The ache in her breasts was intense, but so was the throbbing between her legs. And it was worse because although she knew a little of what it meant to have connection with a man, she didn't know the full details. Or perhaps it was just as well she didn't know, because then she might throw him back on the ground and put her knowledge into practice.

She squirmed on his lap, trying to relieve the need growing inside her, and felt him hard against her stockinged thigh, like a rod of iron. Was this the bulge she'd seen in his breeches earlier? Surprised, curious, she reached down beneath the folds of her skirts and closed her hand about him.

He jerked like a man shot and she felt the rod in her hand twitch. She tightened her grip and he caught his breath, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. He reached down, fumbling his way through her skirts, and covered her hand with his.

"Valentine?" she whispered, confused, afraid she'd done something wrong.

He seemed to recognize her emotions. "Your hand on me makes me feel good," he said bluntly. "Too good."

She wasn't certain what he meant, but she understood enough. She loosened her grip but did not let go entirely.

"May I touch you there, Valentine?" she said seriously.

He gave a shaken laugh. "Not right now, Marissa.

But I am going to touch you, because I think you want me to, don't you?"

"I—"

"I promise if you don't like it then I'll stop."

She hesitated, but he must have taken that for a yes, because she felt his hand on her thigh, sliding up over her warm bare flesh and finding the lacy edge of her pantaloons.

You are not behaving like a respectable and well-brought-up young lady, the voice in her head told her.

No, but if I don't practice my feminine wiles then how will I be able to use them with any accomplishment?

The voice had nothing to say to that.

Or maybe she'd stopped listening, because now his fingers had found the opening between the legs of her pantaloons and slid inside. At the first brush of his fingers over the swollen, damp folds of her flesh she whimpered. Then he touched her again, more firmly, finding a particularly sensitive place and exploring it with a thoroughness that made her tremble and gasp.

"If I had time," he said, as he stroked her, "I would use my tongue."

"Your tongue? How . . ." she moaned.

He smiled.

After a moment she said, "I feel—I feel . . ."

He pressed the heel of his hand against her, sliding his fingers inside, and a bolt of such pleasure went through her she arched upward, her body rigid, unable to speak or breathe. A moment later waves of warm release washed over her, and she collapsed against him, breathing hard against his bare shoulder.

He was murmuring endearments, but she hardly heard him. As soon as the intense feeling of pleasure began to fade the voice in her head was back, and it wasn't saying anything nice.

"What must you think of me?" she said to Valentine, her voice stiff and formal, and out of place after what had just happened.

He lifted her face and smoothed back her hair, gazing into her eyes, no doubt reading the turmoil within them. "I think you are the most beautiful thing I've seen in years. But you are an innocent, Marissa. This isn't what your grandmother meant when she told me to take care of you."

"Valentine, I assure you I do not expect you to take blame for what just happened. I am quite capable—"

But he wouldn't allow her to finish. She could see the self-disgust in the twist of his mouth. "You are no compliant widow or Covent Garden slut. You are an innocent young lady from a respectable family. You are my brother's . . . friend." His gaze dropped from hers and he sighed.

George. She'd forgotten all about George. How could she do that? How could the man she loved and wanted to marry slip her mind so conveniently?

Nevertheless she had been in full possession of her senses when she made the decision to cavort with Valentine, even if those senses had led her seriously astray.

"I liked what we did," she said. "You asked me and I said yes. There's no need to apologize. We are equally to blame."

"Nevertheless . . ."

She climbed off him and began to button up her bodice, feeling hot and flushed, her fingers trembling. "This was between you and me," she said gruffly, "and has nothing to do with anyone else. We will not mention it ever again."

He snorted. "That just shows how innocent you are."

"Oh rot!" she burst out, her eyes flashing with anger.

"My behavior is more than reprehensible," he went on, rising to his feet and standing over her. "I deserve to be flogged."

She stared at him a moment and then she began to laugh. His reaction was such a contrast to a moment ago, from one extreme to the other. Her laughter only seemed to antagonize him and angrily he untangled his coat, before pulling it back on.

"I think when you have considered the matter you will see that the only option left open to us is for me to ask—"

"Don't you dare!" she burst out. "Don't you dare propose to me!"

He stared at her, openmouthed.

"I don't want to marry you," she said in a low, shaking voice. "We'd both be miserable, forced into an intolerable situation. We'd end up hating each other. Besides, I would refuse you, so don't even bother putting the question."

"Marissa—"

"No." She was searching around for her hat.

He reached down and picked it up and presented it to her with a formal bow.

"Thank you. I am returning to the inn now. I think you should finish your business with Mr.

Jensen, and then we can all ride back to Abbey Thorne Manor."

"When your grandmother hears what has happened—"

She sighed, and then she smiled. Then she came up to him, stood on her toes, and kissed his lips, gently, without any trace of their earlier passion.

"Don't be so foolish, Valentine."

And then she walked away.

Marissa could feel his eyes on her, puzzled, angry, probably wishing he could strangle her and hide her body in the long grass. Everything was a mess, but she could hardly blame Valentine for that. She had played a big part in the wild encounter they'd just shared.

She needed time to think, to order her scattered thoughts, and to work out exactly what she was going to do to make things right.