Chapter Ten

Ophelia had told herself to turn around and go home at least fifty times before she’d actually come face-to-face with the infamous Marquess of Guilford.

There were countless reasons why she should.

But every time, she reminded herself that not once had she ever allowed herself to experience one of life’s pleasures. And knowing that she was the subject of pity and even scorn of the young ladies whom she’d always assumed respected, even admired her had kept her feet moving.

It was too late now, in any case. She’d shown her face to him. And while she thought it nigh on impossible that he’d ever be in the same circles as an impoverished tutor from a ladies’ finishing school, there was always a slight chance.

She was counting on the fact that he’d lose interest in her the second she walked out the door and would likely not think of her again. Certainly, he wouldn’t remember one face out of many.

Ophelia had seen with her own eyes the sort of woman who usually frequented this house and the activities they engaged in, though it was surprisingly quiet this evening. An inexperienced governess sort would never make an impression and so in that regard, she determined she was quite out of danger.

She hadn’t lied when she’d told Lord Guilford that she doubted the act of lovemaking [JS13] was all that wonderful, but she supposed she was about to find out.

Certainly, there were women of her acquaintance who were very much un impressed with it. The fact that she was a spinster meant that the few widows and wives of her acquaintance didn’t hold their tongues around her as much as they would a marriageable young lady, and they were quite vocal about it being an unsavoury duty and nothing more. But then there were others, women who happily risked everything. Men who waged wars. Poets who spoke of almost dying without romance and physical love.

So, she reasoned there was at least a fifty-fifty [JS14] chance that it was pleasant.

It followed therefore, that the sensible thing to do was to seek out someone who was by all accounts a veritable expert on the subject.

That was the reason she was here.

Well, that and the fact that nobody else had ever offered. At least, nobody she would feel even remotely safe with.

And strangely enough, for all the stories about him, for all the iniquities she’d read about and even witnessed with her own eyes, she felt safe with the marquess.

But only in the sense that she didn’t think he’d ever hurt her or force her.

When it came to her self-control, or the ability to think coherently, the man was the most dangerous she’d ever encountered.

He pulled her close and the second her body connected with his, all doubts, fears, and rationale scattered.

All that was left was a desire, nay, a desperation to feel his mouth against her own.

His kiss ignited a raging fire in her. A fire that made her start to understand why lives were ruined and wars were waged.

She felt the gentle nip of teeth against her bottom lip, and the ache that exploded at her core was so strong she gasped in response.

The marquess took the opportunity to delve his tongue inside her mouth, and Ophelia couldn’t contain a whimper as so many wicked, delicious feelings collided inside her.

Reaching up, she gripped the surprisingly soft strands of his hair to tentatively pull him even closer, to keep herself from falling to a puddle at his feet.

His groan in response to her actions sent gooseflesh along her skin as her mind blanked and an instinct she hadn’t known she possessed, an instinct as old as time, took over.

She found herself pressing her hips against him, revelling in the evidence of his desire, feeling somewhat satisfied and yet somehow frustrated.

She wanted something from him. Something to ease the aching, something she couldn’t name.

The truth was that Ophelia had gained her meagre education on the act of coupling through listening to unimpressed women and reading methodical, factual biology books. She knew the mechanics of this, but no book she’d ever read had prepared her for the feelings that were coursing through her. No whispered euphemism over tea had even come close to describing how her body would go up in flames from a mere kiss.

But before she fainted clean away from wanting, he suddenly wrenched his lips from hers and stumbled back.

They faced each other, silent but for the harshness of their laboured breathing.

His first kiss had been earth-shattering.

This? This had been beyond that. Indescribable. Life-altering.

The marquess looked almost as shocked as Ophelia felt by the fire that had raged between them.

But of course, that could not be. She was an innocent. He was very much not.

The silence was suddenly broken by the marquess’s black oath, which matched what Ophelia was feeling quite well.

She didn’t know what to do with herself now that he’d pulled away.

She felt flustered and frustrated and wished he’d just carry on.

“Shouldn’t we get on with it?”

Her voice sounded a little demanding even to her own ears, but given the riotous emotions currently coursing through her, it was the best she could manage. Besides, she was afraid that if they waited too long, she’d talk some sense into herself and leave. Or that he’d decide a spinsterish virgin wasn’t exactly his type, after all.

Her question, or demand, seemed to rouse him from his state of bewilderment, if the sudden change in his expression was anything to go by.

The slow, seductive grin that appeared on his face made her blood heat the way his kisses had.

“I suspected there was a siren lurking beneath that prim exterior of yours,” he drawled. “I’m glad I was right.”

Ophelia felt a jolt of pleasure at his words.

“And I’m beyond glad that you’ve chosen to expand your horizons with me. It would have been a shame to let all that beauty and passion you possess go to waste.”

Nobody had ever complimented her beauty before. Not since Mama had died. And it pleased Ophelia more than it should.

“However, contrary to what you might think of me, I am not a neanderthal who will tup you on the Aubusson carpet and be done with you in a matter of minutes. And just now, I was dangerously close to doing just that.”

“Oh,” she croaked for the inability of anything else to say.

Ophelia felt her cheeks flame at his blunt words, ironic since she’d essentially asked him to do just that only moments ago.

And had, in fact, practically demanded that he do so.

He had more self-control than she. Which begged the question; just what sort of wanton hussy was she? And why did that idea make her feel a little pleased with herself rather than horrified?

It was satisfying, she conceded, to know that she had some sense of adventure in her, and that she was desirable enough to have a man like him want her.

If any of her girls spoke in such a fashion, she’d lecture them until their ears bled.

Obviously, that made her the very worst sort of hypocrite, but she didn’t want to think on that right now, so she pushed the thought ruthlessly away.

“I don’t think anyone has ever made me lose control so quickly. Certainly, no one has ever made me want to. But if this is to be my only night with you, I want to enjoy it. So, we’re going to slow things down. Have a drink, talk, get to know each other.”

Panic, swift and frightening, swept through her.

She didn’t want to get to know him, and she absolutely did not want him to get to know her. Far too risky.

Should he figure out who she was – should she let it slip somehow – her entire world would come crashing down.

She couldn’t, wouldn’t jeopardise the life she’d built for herself.

“Is that really necessary?” she snapped.

He smirked at her question.

“Usually not,” he conceded. “But with you – I find that it is. You fascinate me. It’s a novelty to enjoy the conversation of a woman I want as badly as I want you, and I intend to enjoy the experience before we move on to a more enjoyable experience.”

He moved to a half-filled brandy bottle and began to pour generous amounts of the amber liquid into two tumblers.

Ophelia was on the verge of telling him to hang his ‘experience’ despite the twist of disappointment she felt at the idea of walking out of here and not seeing him again.

She opened her mouth to do just that when he turned back to face her, glasses in hand, and that wicked smile on his lips.

Lord, but he was handsome. Sinfully, darkly handsome.

The light from the fire and sconces dotted around the room made his face all shadows and sharp angles. His eyes were impossibly, piercingly blue set against the darkness of his hair.

Not quite as dark as her own raven locks, but close enough.

Her eyes ran over the broad shoulders and huge arms encased only in a white linen lawn shirt. The thick muscles of his neck , naked of any cravat [JS15] or adornment.

His charcoal waistcoat was still buttoned. She wasn’t sure her heart could take it if it wasn’t.

Ophelia’s mouth dried as she gazed across the room at him.

This would be one night. Just one, stolen night away from her real life.

Tomorrow, she would go back to being an absolute paragon of self-sacrifice and virtue.

An object of pity and ridicule.

The people in her life would never know about this. They would think nothing had changed.

But she would know.

For the rest of her life, she would hold this secret close, and in years to come, years spent alone, she could pull out the memories and remind herself that she had lived a little.

One night, she reminded herself. Then back to normality.

Why was that idea suddenly unpalatable?

Refusing to think overly much on that, Ophelia reached out and took the proffered tumbler, her eyes trapped in the blue depths of his.

One night. What harm could come from one night?