Chapter 3

Off the Cornish Coast

April 1879

Upon opening her eyes, Marlowe’s first thought was that demons—for surely her sins would prevent her from being welcomed into

heaven—had the most gorgeous bare buttocks. Firm, round, and... begging to be squeezed. Or at least the devil standing

near the wardrobe with his back to her did. A quick image raced through her mind of how his butt cheeks would flex, tighten,

and loosen with each powerful thrust he delivered. He would move with such grace and beauty that she would be mesmerized.

Her second thought as she watched him cover up that lovely backside with a pair of black trousers was that she might not be

dead. For surely, once released from this mortal coil she would experience no pain. However, she ached in places she didn’t

even know a person could ache. Her face hurt most of all. And her head. Now she knew how a piece of iron felt when the blacksmith’s

hammer banged away, forging it into something useful.

Just as she’d been forged.

As the devil drew on a shirt, she couldn’t help but admire his broad shoulders as well as the way his back tapered down to

a narrow waist and slim hips. He really was lovely, should pose for a statue. Then he turned and silently she cursed. Damn it all to hell.

She knew him. Indeed, he was the very last person she wanted to set eyes upon, much less be in his lofty and irritating presence

in such close quarters. Her hands tightened on a blanket draped over her, and she was hit with the sudden realization that

she was naked beneath it. How she had come to be in that revealing state was cause for some consternation. She remembered

divesting herself of her pelisse, frock, and shoes when the prospect of going into the water was looming before her. But the

remainder of her clothing... Oh, Lord. She had her suspicions, and she drew the warm woolen blanket more closely around

her, even as she pushed herself upright to a sitting position so she wouldn’t be at a disadvantage for what was certain to

become a confrontation.

He lifted a dark brow that rested over incredible silver eyes, eyes she’d always feared saw far too much. “Back to the land

of the living, I see. Marlowe, as I recall.”

Irritated with the snide tone of his voice, she saw no point in confirming what she suspected he knew to be true. All of London identified her by only a single name, so famous was she. Whether it was her first or her last remained a mystery, and she preferred it that way. It prevented her from being truly known, even though she was a regular in the gossip columns, disliked by wives, unmarried lasses, and widows who feared she might snatch away their husbands, betrotheds, or lovers. Although why in the world she would want a disloyal scapegrace in her bed was beyond her reckoning. “Viscount Langdon, as I recall .”

A muscle in his cheek ticked. Apparently, he didn’t like her haughtily using his words or his tone. Neither did he fancy her

any more than she fancied him. As though she gave a tinker’s curse regarding his opinion of her. He was not hers to please.

She could irritate him as much as she liked, and she was going to like doing so very much. She glanced around. “How did I come to be in what is apparently a bedchamber?”

“You washed up on my shore.”

Ah, that would explain the gritty sand that clung to her the way some men wanted to. But she had a protector who didn’t tolerate

any such foolishness. Although she’d never had a problem putting a man in his place when his hands wandered to where they

ought not. But then she’d never had to deal with anyone who bothered her as much as Langdon did, in ways she didn’t quite

understand. From the moment she’d first seen him—

She shook off the thought. Now was not the time to let the past intrude. Now was for dealing with the present, and a lord

who believed he could own pieces of the earth that were impossible to cordon off. God, the arrogance. “ Your shore?”

“This tiny island is part of my family’s holdings. The main estate is across the way, along the Cor nish coast. You muttered that there were no others.” With his brow deeply furrowed, he looked to the window. Blinding lightning briefly blocked the darkness beyond. A second or so later, the thunder roared its anger.

A shudder of fear rolled through her with the reminder she’d been out in it. She tightened her arms around herself, knowing

she’d been blessed to survive. In all of her twenty-two years, she’d never been caught in a tempest such as the one she’d

encountered earlier. While being tossed madly about, she had believed down to the depths of her soul that she was doomed.

Had anyone else, even a drunk, odorous stranger been standing there, she might have asked to be held so she could weep for

a few seconds and bask in the knowledge that she was alive to do so. But she wanted Langdon no nearer than he already was.

Besides, she very much doubted he’d offer any sort of comfort.

“Are you certain no one else went overboard from the ship?” he asked, suspiciously, as though she’d have no interest in saving

anyone who had. As though she was selfish, thinking only of herself and her own needs. Although she really couldn’t blame

him for having that opinion when she’d spent the past few years cultivating such a persona, when in truth she was no more

than a sow’s ear determined to be mistaken for a silk purse.

“I wasn’t on a ship.” Not a classic one anyway, not what she suspected he was envisioning. She shouldn’t take any sort of pleasure in proving that he had the wrong of things, and yet she did. He thought he knew her. All of London thought they knew her but all they truly knew was what the ink in the gossip columns revealed and it was shaped by those who resented her.

He swung his gaze back to her. “Hollingsworth’s yacht, then.”

With that, it became evident he knew her protector quite well. Not that she was surprised. It certainly wasn’t a secret that

the Earl of Hollingsworth saw to her care. Nor was it a secret that he possessed a yacht. “I wasn’t in any sort of boat.”

“Then how the devil did you get here? You’re certainly no angel with wings.”

She smiled, or tried to, but her mouth protested and when she touched her tongue to the corner of her lower lip, she felt

the small laceration and tasted the slightest tang of blood. “But I am an angel with a hot-air balloon.”

He looked as if he wanted to protest at her daring to refer to herself as an angel. A bit of sarcasm had threaded through

the word when he’d used it. Before he could object or say something else to irritate her, she rushed to continue. “Hung on

for dear life. Swells took it under, me with it. I don’t remember much after that, I’m afraid.” Which she suspected, all in

all, might be a blessing.

He narrowed his eyes and a deep crease appeared in his forehead. “But you wouldn’t have been alone. A pilot would have been

flying it. I should be out looking for him.”

His assumption annoyed her beyond reason. She thought him young enough to be more enlightened. On the other hand, it wasn’t uncommon for people to believe the worst of a woman in her position—or her inability to do anything except lie on her back. “I was flying the thing myself. I’m an aeronaut.”

“You’re a woman.”

“I’ve always heard you’re brilliant, and it’s a challenge to get anything past you.” Inwardly, she cursed. She was accustomed

to flirting, but now was not the time and he most certainly was not the man. “Ballooning is a rather common hobby among women.”

And had been for almost a century now. The sky was the one place where a woman could be completely free of societal constraints.

Where she wasn’t chattel. Where she wasn’t dependent upon the kindness—or in most cases the tolerance—of men. Where she could

go her own way, do as she damned well pleased. Not that she felt a need to educate him regarding the craft’s history. In fact,

she wanted as little conversation between them as possible.

“Daft women apparently,” he stated succinctly. “Did you not notice a storm was afoot?”

He stared at her as if she hadn’t a sharp knife in her cutlery drawer. Perhaps she hadn’t. She’d seen the darkening sky but hadn’t cared. She’d wanted to be someplace where she had more control. Where she was the mistress, the queen, the ruler. Where she could think. Where perhaps she could recapture those dreams she’d clung to when she was a young girl and her father would take her up in his balloon. She longed to reclaim the peace and absence of doubts she’d held then. When she’d believed her future was hers for the taking, could be anything she desired. Instead, it had been fashioned by circumstances beyond her control. And of late, she was simply so damned weary of disappointments.

“Sometimes battling it out with a storm is the better choice.” It looked as though he was going to make another point about

her dunderheadedness, but she cut him off before he could form a word. “I appreciate the rescue, Lord Langdon, but I’m certain

I’ve been enough of a bother. Perhaps you’d be good enough to direct me to the village where I might be able to secure a room

in a tavern until the storm passes.”

“There is no village. No tavern.” He spread his arms wide. “This is the only dwelling on this small stretch of rock, so until

the storm passes, madam, I am afraid you are quite trapped here.”

He didn’t say with me , but then he didn’t have to. She blinked three times, studying him intently, striving to determine if he was having a laugh

at her expense or outright lying in an attempt to keep her within easy reach. He wouldn’t be the first man to do so, although

he had been the first to indicate he had no interest in her whatsoever. The cur. It had come as a blow to her pride. Utter

nonsense. The man obviously had questionable taste when it came to women. Or perhaps he objected to fallen women being out

in public instead of hidden away.

Obviously, someone had removed her clothing, which was presently draped over a short screen and drying near the fire. As no woman was in the room, serving as chaperone and seeing to her needs, she did hope it hadn’t been him, hating that a tiny part of her was hoping that it had been him. Teach him to reject her, would she? God, pride was an awful thing, responsible for her current predicament. However, if he had done the honors of stripping her bare and meant her ill, he probably wouldn’t have taken such care with her camisole and drawers.

He must have noted where she was looking because he asked, “You always travel in the sky in only your underclothes?”

She was so tempted to reply in the affirmative, to fuel whatever fantasies he might harbor about women in balloons, but she

didn’t want to add to his less than favorable opinion of her. “When I realized I was in a spot of bother, I began shedding

what I could because I knew if I did indeed land in the water, the weight of the drenched clothing would drag me under. I

don’t suppose you noticed if anything made it to shore.”

“My attention was on you.” He didn’t seem comfortable admitting that, as if he found fault with himself for focusing on her.

“Don’t fret. I shan’t send word to the Illustrated London News announcing your devotion to me.”

He grimaced, after which his eyes narrowed, and she wondered if he was considering tossing her back out into the storm. She

didn’t know why she was striving to taunt him.

While they’d had few interactions, she knew his reputation. The ton viewed him as trustworthy and, according to gossips rags, mamas were always shoving their daughters in front of him. Debutantes

no doubt swooned if he gave them so much as a passing glance. Not that she blamed them. He was truly too deuced gorgeous.

Especially as he stood there in a shirt he had yet to button or tuck. Such a lovely and wide V of smooth skin was visible. Around his neck he wore a pewter chain. Attached to it and dangling a few inches below his throat was a pewter disk she couldn’t quite make out. She’d never seen a man wearing a necklace. Somehow it made him look all the more masculine, made her want to get up, cross over to him, and slide her fingers between the pewter and his skin. She was convinced both would be equally warm.

Needing a distraction from those disturbing thoughts, she glanced about at her surroundings. Nearby was an incredibly large

bed that had to have been custom-made. A wardrobe across from it. A cupboard. A washbowl on a stand. A small square mirror

hanging above it. The settee upon which she reclined. Beside it, a narrow table that sported several remnants from glasses,

the contents of which had, on multiple occasions, spilled over and dried into messy rings. Something a servant wouldn’t be

allowed to let stand, which left her with suspicions regarding his staff. That perhaps it was minimal at best, nonexistent

at worst. Scattered throughout the room, hither and yon, were stacks of books, many of them appearing ready to topple over

at any minute. She cleared her throat. “Am I to assume then that this is the guest bedchamber?”

“The only bedchamber.”

His, then. Where he slept. In that massive bed. Which she’d suspected, considering she’d watched him draw on his trousers

and shirt.

“And staff?”

“You’re looking at him.”

She nearly laughed. No respectable lord would refer to himself as staff. Perhaps he was more disreputable than she—or the

gossips—had been led to believe. “No spare servants’ quarters languishing about in case they might be needed?” He leveled

a stare at her. She nodded, with the understanding that her options for escaping him were becoming quite limited. “Am I to

assume, then, that you had no assistance in getting me out of my clothing?”

In spite of the distance separating them, she could have sworn he was blushing. “You were like ice, trembling. I dared not

leave you in it. Are you still cold?”

She couldn’t quite stop quaking, tiny little tremors, but irritating all the same. Perhaps the frigid sea had worked its way

into her very core, and she’d never know warmth again. She drew the blanket more closely around her. “The fire’s helping.

Pity you don’t have servants. I think a bath would do me wonders.”

“Then a bath you shall have.” Abruptly, he headed for the door.

“Wait! What? No.”

He stopped and turned back toward her.

She shook her head. “I’ve inconvenienced you enough already.”

“I’ll be more inconvenienced if you die.”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “The gossips whisper you’re a silver-tongued devil, able to charm even the most cantankerous

of women. I’m teetering on the edge of swooning at your concern for my health.”

One corner of his mouth eased up and the motion did strange things to her stomach, caused it to tighten and tumble. The same way it had felt just before her balloon began hurtling toward the sea. It would be best not to tease him, not to give any aspect of her person a reason to be more aware of him.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the doorjamb. “I once saw two young girls fanning you while you were spread

over a chaise longue.”

It had been at a scandalous soiree attended by men and their paramours. The theme had been ancient Greece. For the two hours

the young women had been with her, she’d paid them more than most servants earned in a month. She lifted a shoulder. “I enjoy

being spoiled. Rather deserve it, I think.”

“Yet, you don’t want me warming water?”

“I don’t want you deciding I’m too much of a bother and tossing me back out into the storm.”

“It would just toss you back, and I’d once more have to deal with a drenched female.”

She didn’t want to consider that she might enjoy sparring with him. Most men fawned over her, hoping to receive favors, or

to be considered for the position of her next paramour.

“Marlowe is an unusual name,” he said slowly, in a manner that reminded her of savoring a bit of chocolate.

What had prompted his statement? And what did it matter? “My father admired the writings of Christopher Marlowe.” That much was true. As a matter of fact, he’d gone about boasting he was a descendent of the Elizabethan playwright. That tale, however, she’d never believed. A pity she and her mother had believed others.

“So you admit Marlowe is your first name. I shall collect my winnings at White’s.”

She couldn’t imagine him caring enough about her to place a bet on her name. No doubt he simply enjoyed wagering. With the

lifting of a shoulder, she gave him a sly look. “I admit nothing, my lord, except that my father admired the writings of Christopher

Marlowe.”

She couldn’t decide if the sound he made was a scoff or a bitter laugh, but regardless, she felt as though she’d somehow won.

With a nod, he unfolded his arms and took a step into the hallway. “You’re welcome to make use of anything here.”

With that, he disappeared.

To her everlasting disappointment, she rather wished she’d been awake to enjoy his hands roaming over her as he’d swept away

the cotton, silk, and lace. Wouldn’t she have a story to tell, then? She’d elaborate, of course. Embellish. After all, in

her circles, many a woman took pride in boasting about having her attire removed by Lord Langdon. And much to her chagrin,

on occasion, he dwelled in her fantasies.

It was more than his handsome features. It was the manner in which he looked at a woman as though, if given the chance, he’d

devour her and leave her ever so grateful he had.