Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

S hortly after Frances had utterly trounced the marquess at his own challenge, the skies turned dark with one of those springtime storms that blew in with a fury, taking everyone by surprise. They huddled inside, quickly finding that parlor games were not nearly as enjoyable when one was forced to be inside as when one was choosing to be awake into the wee hours.

So, the group dissipated, each member floating off to find their own amusements, not even attention-hungry Lady Southgate bothering to dream up another communal activity.

Frances, working on instinct more than anything else, wandered to the library, where she enjoyed a pleasant quarter hour reading while Mrs. Westford knitted quietly near the fire.

Frances would have enjoyed much longer than a quarter hour with her book—she could while away entire days with something good to read—if she hadn't heard it. A hiss.

"Frances."

With a confused frown, she looked up. Mrs. Westford was no longer knitting; she was asleep, her head lolling against her chest.

Strange.

"Frances."

Frances' head jerked up again. What on earth? She looked at her collection of ghost stories accusingly. They were evidently making her imagine things.

It was the third time, however, when she realized what was truly going on.

"Frances." This final call was no ghostly whisper. Instead, it was teasing, imploring.

And familiar.

She bit back a smile just in case he could see her and pasted on her most disapproving look.

"You," she said quietly enough to leave Mrs. Westford undisturbed, "are dreadful."

"And you," murmured the marquess, "are curious."

"I am not," she scoffed, even as she started looking.

"Not over there." The voice was fainter as she moved towards the doorway to the library. She moved toward the rear wall. "Better…but not quite."

Ears piqued, she continued until she saw it, tucked behind a shelf full of books on philosophy. Another hidden door, this one ajar.

"What lunatic built this house?" she wondered, even as she reached for the doorknob. She stepped through into darkness.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, doing her best to sound cross. The door wasn't in direct line of the fire; the dim illumination in the space wasn't enough for Frances to see, not without her eyes adjusting.

When the marquess' voice came from behind her, she jumped. "I've changed my mind," he said, sounding unconscionably pleased with himself.

"About what?" she asked tartly. She turned in the direction that his voice had come from but felt rather than saw the whisper of movement that meant he was no longer standing in the same place.

She bit her lip, smiling gently. They were playing Blind Man's Bluff once more, it seemed. Only this time it was she left in the dark.

"My forfeit," he said from her left. She took a cautious step in that direction, hand extended before her.

"You lured me into the dark to tell me you're no longer going to give me a forfeit?" Her voice was no longer sharp. She sounded breathless with anticipation.

"Hm, no." The marquess was behind her again, but closer this time. She didn't turn, nor did she reach. She should, but…

She wanted him to catch her.

"No?" she prodded.

"No," he agreed. "I lured you into the dark to claim my forfeit."

She did turn at that, but only her head, peering into the darkness behind her. She could see the shadow of him, that was all, the pale line of his jaw against his midnight hair.

"Your forfeit? You don't have one; you lost ."

"I deserve a forfeit for saving you during last night's game," he returned so readily that he had to have anticipated her objection. "Everyone knows that, for goodness' sake."

It was her own words, thrown back at her in a gentle, teasing lob.

"I am not sure you're correct about that at all," she said, but she didn't move away. Not even when his hand came out and slowly, lightly at first, landed on her waist.

She sucked in a breath. It had felt decadent, nearly indecent, when he'd helped her up into the saddle that morning; she'd barely stifled her protest when he'd moved away. If not for the presence of the groom, she might have even voiced that objection.

There was no groom here now. But neither did he give her cause to protest. He left his hand there, warm and sure.

"I'm correct," he said confidently. "I've decided."

If someone had asked Frances that morning how she felt about men who were confident in their own power, she'd have insisted that she could happily go the rest of her life without encountering even one more. Men, as a whole, she'd found, were far too confident in themselves.

But something about the marquess' declaration, that unquestionable I've decided , made her knees go weak.

"And," she said after a long moment, needing the time to ensure her voice came out steady, "you intend to collect now?"

He could not mistake the invitation in the words. It was an invitation that she was insane for giving, no doubt. But part of this didn't even feel real, as if this quiet, dark room in this stolen afternoon while the storm raged around them was somehow entirely disconnected from real life.

And the version of Frances that was here and now wanted to let him take that forfeit however he saw fit.

His other hand came to her shoulder, only his thumb touching bare skin, the rest atop the fabric of the day dress she'd donned after their race.

"I do," he agreed.

And then came the longest, most excruciating wait of Frances' life.

It could have only lasted a few seconds, and were she being generous, she might have supposed he waited to ensure that she truly meant her invitation, not that he waited merely to torture her.

But she could not even breathe , she was so tightly wound with anticipation.

It was fire and relief, the feeling of his pressing his lips to the side of her throat. Her whimper cut through the soft darkness of the room.

"Shh," he whispered against her skin. "Be patient."

"I—" Her protest cut off when he nipped at the place he'd been kissing.

"Do be good, Frances," he chided, and something inside her melted. "I am taking my forfeit."

He took the longest time, kissing that one spot on her neck with aching slowness, pressing his hot mouth there and punctuating it with the occasional dart from his tongue or painless rasp of his teeth. He continued, neither hands nor lips wandering, until Frances' entire world was focused on that one inch of skin, until she was molten and drunk with the pleasure and the wanting.

"Please," she breathed, the word agonized.

And then, as if all he'd needed was for her to ask, he spun her around, his hands insultingly capable compared to how the entire of Frances body had become as wobbly as blancmange. He moved one hand behind her head, the other against her shoulder, cushioning her against injury as he pressed her firmly against the wall. She had only an endless instant longer to wait before his mouth was on hers.

Finally . It rang through the whole of her being.

Kissing him in the garden had been wonderful. It had been unexpected and strange. What she felt now was the same, multiplied by a thousand, as he kissed and licked and sucked and took , until she felt that she could melt entirely into him.

Her hands worked their way up his arms, starting at his elbows and traveling to his shoulders, pausing to caress every divot of muscle along the way. When she reached the collar of his shirt, she scratched her nails against his skin, though those first few strands of hair.

She felt his approving rumble where his breasts were crushed so delightfully against him.

"You are the most devious woman in the world," he told her as she wound her fingers through his hair, clutching and clinging and not bothering to be gentle.

She moaned in response, annoyed that he could still form words when her mind could not conjure anything besides feeling. He licked her lower lip, then caressed his tongue against hers.

"The feel of you," he said.

"Yes." That was a word—she managed that much. "More." Then, remembering what had worked last time, "Please."

He pulled her away from the wall long enough to band an arm around her waist, using the grip as leverage to hike her higher. Her feet left the ground and she hung suspended, pressed against his chest and the hard wall behind her, his one hard thigh between hers, trapped by her skirts.

It should have felt precarious. She should have feared falling.

But she already was falling, in a way, the dizzying, drugging sensation of his kisses having left her destabilized long before her feet officially left the ground.

Besides, she could reach him better this way. She liked that.

So, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with every ounce of fervor she possessed.

She didn't know how long they stayed like that. Time, like language, was beyond her reach. But even though there was more to be had—something she sensed, a form of knowledge she could not quite pin down—eventually their fevered kisses slowed, grew languid. And then, at long last, when the fiery passion had become a banked fire, one controlled for now but easily roused again into a blaze, the marquess lowered here gently.

He pressed a few more lingering kisses, first to her mouth, then to her cheek, her jaw. And then he stepped back, reaching out only to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

She looked at him. Her eyes had long adjusted to the dark, and she could recognize the beautiful lines of him, his strong nose, his stubborn chin. He was unfathomable—this whole thing was unfathomable.

She swallowed hard. "Was this—was it real?" she asked. The question was nonsensical, but he seemed to understand.

He reached out once more to brush a featherlight caress against her cheek.

"No," he said. "Just a dream."

She nodded. She'd thought as much, too.

He backed slowly toward the door, its outline glowing lightly. As he moved away, her wits returned, as did her pride.

"You still owe me a forfeit," she reminded him.

His teeth flashed white in the dim room as he grinned.

"Indeed, I do, Lady Frances," he said. "But do not think our competitions are at an end."

She chuckled at that. No, she'd not thought he would give in so easily.

He reached for the doorknob, then shot her a playful look over her shoulder.

"And Frances? Next time, I do intend to win."

He slipped out the door, leaving a smiling Frances behind him. She had greatly enjoyed her own victories, but…she couldn't help but hope that the marquess' parting words would prove true.