“We’re free to return to London, then?” Marcus asked.
“Indeed, Trent.”
At the doorway, Venetia stopped. Aspers was standing at the desk by the windows, jotting a note on a sheath of paper. She reached out and caught Marcus’ hand. “But all the others are leaving. They will be loading into their carriages. They will see me unmasked. Once they do, I won’t be able to paint portraits in London.”
“No,” Marcus said, “You won’t.”
Last night, he had said nothing about her painting. She had even shown him her sketches. He’d looked at every one, reserving comment.
She’d stood watching, hands clasped behind her back. Waiting. At the end, he’d frowned. “You didn’t draw any pictures of me.”
Not what she’d expected. “I thought you wished me to stop doing that,” she’d answered.
Quietly he’d said, “Let me tell you once again, I am in awe of your brilliance. Saving us with a bottle of turpentine was absolute genius.” He’d brushed a kiss against her temple.
“You saved us, Marcus. If you hadn’t moved so quickly—”
He’d kissed her mouth then, and put her tongue to more delicious use than speaking, and then carried her to bed as the black-pearl sky welcomed dawn.
But now, she knew the pictures were standing between them. She didn’t understand how he felt about her painting. Was he angry?
Again Marcus said nothing. He drew something from his pocket, let it spill from his hand in front of her. Fine, gauzy veiling. Smiling, he tied it around her bonnet. “Not masked, but still a mystery.”
But she could see through the veil—how much did it disguise?
He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her to the front doors of Abbersley. The foyer was deserted except for Rutledge, who stood by the open doors, looking correct and austere.
“Is Lady Chartrand improving?” Venetia impulsively asked the butler as they passed. Poor Lady Chartrand had broken down completely in the drawing room and admitted Chartrand had killed his first wife. She’d sobbed pitiably into her hands, and wailed, “He killed her. I had nothing to do with it. He promised he’d done it for me but he hadn’t. She was going to run away to Italy with another man. He couldn’t let anyone else have her. His first wife, his first and always love—”
Laudanum had quieted her and let her sleep. Lady Yardley had kept a vigil by her bedside, soothing her. Venetia felt relief knowing that Lady Yardley’s son would be safe from lies and scandal. Her heart ached for Lady Chartrand, who had apparently adored her husband. Another doomed love.
“I believe she is, madam.” Rutledge bowed.
Taking a deep breath, Venetia walked down the steps on Marcus’ arm. Her wide-brimmed straw bonnet and veil obscured her face, but she soon realized that no one was looking at her. On the circular drive a flurry of footmen and grooms prepared carriages. The guests hurried out and swept toward their vehicles, relief stark in their faces. Apparently Lord Aspers had informed all that the books were destroyed. The Duke of Montberry looked stoic and impassive as he boarded his magnificent carriage. Lord Brude looked wilder, more brooding than ever. Mr. Wembly was disheveled, his cravat askew.
Lord Swansborough paused to kiss her hand. “
Au revoir
, my dear Vixen,” he murmured.
Panic, cold and numbing, raced through her. How much could he see? Swansborough smiled warmly. “I can only see a hint of your loveliness behind the veil, my dear. But even if I could see you, I would never reveal your identity. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
He winked! Then he swung up into his tall curricle, took the reins and set his four coal-black horses trotting.
A footman held the door of Marcus’ gleaming black coach—the two drugged by Juliette were still recovering. The sight of the impassive face, the crimson and silver livery, made her shiver involuntarily.
Marcus drew her back. For a few moments, they were out of earshot of servants, of guests. “Are you all right, my love?” he asked gently.
My love.
She nodded. She kept one hand on her bonnet as the spring breeze tugged at it. Marcus twined his fingers with hers. “Let us go back to London. Home, together. And on the way, there is something of great import we must discuss.”
“W
hat do you plan to do with your sketches, love? Your orgy sketches that don’t include me.” As the carriage lurched forward, Marcus untied the big bow at Venetia’s throat and tossed her bonnet away.
He wanted to take her thoughts away from the fear she’d faced. Wanted to throw off his own memories—the roar of the pistol, the explosion as the ball ripped into Polk’s body, the mind-numbing fear of losing Vee that still rose up to haunt him—
He knew of only one way to do it.
Her brilliant, emerald-flecked eyes shone at him.
“I have no idea,” she admitted softly. “The truth is, I enjoy drawing erotica. I love to create the stories, I love to make the pictures sensual and beautiful and arousing. I’ve been trapped for my entire life, denying who I am, trying to be a virtuous woman. Now I want to be free.”
“And how exactly do you wish to be free?” A frown creased his forehead at the uncertainty and relief on her face. “What is it you need, Vee?”
“I just needed to be honest.” She turned and laid her hands on his thigh, and the intimacy of her touch made Marcus’ heart pang. “You will never let me paint your nephew’s portrait now,” she said. “Never help me start a London career. I’d always thought that rakes could not be reformed but I am the one who cannot. I never knew who I was—proper lady or bohemian artist. Now I know. You have shown me.”
He cradled her chin. “Who are you, then, sweetheart? I believe you are an entrancing blend of both.”
Her lips widened into an engaging smile. “That is what I feel, in my heart. I am a little of both—”
“The best of both,” he broke in, speaking from his heart.
She flushed, the sight bewitching. He couldn’t help but laugh softly as she tipped up her chin. “Thank you,” she said.
“Painting is a part of your soul.” He untied the ties of her cloak and pushed it from her shoulders. “Your talent is so richly a part of yourself. And I want you to be free.”
“But how can I? It’s impossible.”
He undid the front buttons of her gown. No shift. Two perfect ivory breasts tipped with erect rose-pink nipples popped into view. He kissed the swell of her breasts, aware of the quick jump of her chest.
“I think we should travel around London in a closed carriage with you naked beneath a cloak. My secret treasure,” he said. He took her left nipple between his lips, between his teeth, and raked along the velvety soft length. Her moan electrified him.
He lifted her white skirts, revealing sensible stockings, pale ivory drawers. Hooking his fingers in the waistband, he slid her drawers down her legs, whisked them away. He ran his hands up to stroke sensitive inner thighs and springy nether curls, to caress her hot quim.
Her hands busily worked at the buttons of his trousers. She freed his cock, and pleasure and need washed through him. He ripped his waistcoat and shirt open.
“Sit astride me,” he urged. He jammed his fist behind his cock to hold it upright, steadied her as she poised over him, pussy wet and ready. Her skin was hot satin beneath his touch. With a breathy moan, she sank down. Her cunny engulfed him to the hilt, her full bottom pressed against his groin.
Up and down, she rode.
“Slowly,” he murmured, “Draw it out. Torture me, love.”
And she did, her eyes closed, her head tipped back in ecstasy. She drew up until only his tip was held snug, then slid down, her muscles straining to control, to move agonizingly slowly. Heat rushed over his shaft, exciting him beyond belief.
“You grew inside me—bigger, thicker.”
Marcus laughed at her amazement. It had never been like this—this intimate—with anyone but Vee. “Now, do whatever you want to me,” he invited.
He expected frantic bouncing, but she clutched his shoulders and ground her quim into his groin, without lifting. She rubbed hard and urgently, sawing herself against him, squealing with pleasure.
If she wanted it hard and rough and deep, he was more than happy to oblige. Launching his hips up, driving his cock deep, he lifted her into the air.
Her hands closed on his chest, fingers gouging. Her hair tossed around her as she rode him, untamed, beyond control. This was his wanton artist—an utterly exciting and entrancing woman riding him to ecstasy. She pinched his nipples hard. Her face was a mask of hungry need. Her teeth sank into her lip.
She was wild. Passionate.
His.
“Oh God!” Her nails tore into him. Her body bucked on top of him, then she fell forward, her hair flying through the air to slap his face. He felt the rush of her juices around his cock. Wildly pulsing, her pussy gripped him tight. Ignited him.
Shoving up, he drove his entire cock hard into her, crying out as the first spurt released. The rest rushed out like a torrent.
Blackness took him and he heard hoarse, guttural cries. Then melodic feminine sighs. Then his harsh breathing, her desperate pants, the clatter of the carriage wheels.
Something satin-smooth pressed against his chest, pushing out air. Her hands. She lifted her head. “You yelled so loudly.”
He moved her arms away, sucked in air. “You almost killed me, sweet.”
“I did?” She wore a look of astonishment, one that quickly became a glow of pride. The naughty wench rocked her hips.
He grabbed her hips. “No—no, love. I’m too sensitive.”
But she kept moving, taking him to a level of pleasurable agony he’d never known. Any other woman he would have unseated in an instant, but he let Vee play. And she brought him to an explosive brink of desire and pain. His brain throbbed with the sensation as his cock hardened again.
She couldn’t understand how intense it was but he forced himself not to stop her, enthralled. Moving her hips in a sensuous circle, she toyed with him, her eyes alight with power. Her tight, fire-hot walls caressed his swollen shaft, pulling him to and fro. She pinched his nipples again, and pleasure arced between those aching nubs and his thick cock.
He didn’t care if it killed him.
“Fuck me, Venetia,” he begged, “Fuck me hard again. Slam your cunny on me. Rip your nails into me. Give it to me.”
The lush slapping sound of her sopping wet quim taking his rigid cock filled the carriage, filled his head, filled his soul. She raked her nails along his chest, his shoulders. She ran the sharp tips up his neck and he began fucking her like a wild man. He clamped his hands on her breasts once more, and rammed himself into her. Chanted her name like a man possessed.
She answered by screaming out his name. By meeting his brutal thrusts with a pounding rhythm that threatened to bang his brains out of his head. He had to make her come, had to make her explode. Desperate, half-mad with pleasure, he slid his hand down between their joined bodies.
As out of control as he, she rode hard, filled with him. She rubbed her clit against his bent fingers.
His cock felt in danger of exploding, of being torn to shreds by his next climax, but he didn’t care. He needed to drive deep, to fuck hard.
“I want to make you come,” he rasped. “I want you to come so hard, you explode on me.”
She screamed, rocked on him. “It’s so intense. So good, so good, so good!” She cried his name then, over and over with each thrust. He watched, mouth dry, throat burning, body dripping sweat, as she rode him. Desperate, he clung to control. He would make her come before giving in. He was on the brink, a slave to his rising orgasm, to his need to come, but damn, he would please her first.
Victory was his the instant she arched back and screamed. One glance at her bobbing breasts, at her agonized face took him over the edge.
Like cannon-fire, his orgasm shot through him. He joined her in wild pleasure, ravaged by his release, weakened by it. He blinked his eyes open, still seeing colored spots. Awed by her power.
Mutual release. Perfect bliss. Hell, he loved it.
She slumped on him, as exhausted as he. Laughing, he stroked her back. Her dress was hot and damp. “How do you survive multiple orgasms, my love?”
Her giggle washed over him, soft and sweet. “Sometimes I barely do,” she admitted.
Venetia sensed a change in Marcus, a tension in his body. He raked a hand through his damp, disheveled hair. The smile he usually wore after climax—one that was delighted, awed, and smug in a most masculine way—disappeared. His eyes didn’t have that lazy post-bliss heaviness. His expression became serious.
Her dazed delight slipped away. She straightened on his lap. What was wrong?
Intense, solemn, his gaze held hers. “We will marry, Vee.”
She blinked. “M—marry?” Startled. Confused. “Marry. But—no. No, of course not.”
“No? Of course not?” He blinked, too, as if he didn’t understand her words. “We will. I took your virginity, sweeting. Offering marriage is what a gentleman does.”
She understood. His father had not behaved as a gentleman—he caused a girl to take her life. He had done something incestuous.
“I can’t—no, I won’t force you into a duty marriage, Marcus. The idea is preposterous. You are an earl. Earls do not marry illegitimate artists.”
He brushed back his tumbled black hair. “It isn’t preposterous. I insist on marriage. I will not ignore my responsibility—”
She slid off his lap, landing on the seat beside with a thump. Fingers shaking, she tried to close her buttons. “I am not your responsibility. I don’t need you to rescue me! And I refuse to enter a marriage to prove a point of honor.”
But even as she protested, she knew the truth. She wanted to marry him. That was the madness of it. To sleep every night with him? Wake up every morning? Have his child…
He couldn’t be thinking beyond his honor. Her, a countess? Impossible. If he presented her to the ton as his bride, the matrons would feed on her like gulls on carrion. In Maidenswode, she’d seen how petty, vindictive, and vicious fine ladies could be. If they discovered she was the daughter of an erotic painter—
He cupped her chin. “We are going to marry.”
She pushed his hand away. She would not force a trapped man into his
punishment
for making love to her and, for all his libertine ways, Marcus was more trapped than she had ever been.
She would not compound one tragic mistake with another. She didn’t need marriage. She could go back to the country where no one would ever know she had given her virginity—and her heart—to the magnificent Earl of Trent at an orgy.
“Vee, what if there is a child already?” he asked.
That reminder stopped her cold. In the heat of wanting him in her bed, she’d forgotten that consequence of making love. But what was better for a child—a duty marriage or a mother determined to raise her child alone?
Venetia stared helplessly into Marcus’ handsome face, which seemed harder, more resolute. His emotions were masked to her. She had to choose, from their example, which upbringing had been the happiest. She couldn’t.
“I think we could have a happy marriage,” he said. “We’re both lovers and friends.”
But no mention of love. Love! Love would make no difference to who they were. But she wanted to hear the word on his lips. She wanted that, like a fool. She waited, unable to breathe. Waited for those words.
“We haven’t known each other long but I believe we could rub along. We could be happier than my parents, I’m certain.”
But he didn’t speak of love.
Venetia shook her head. “I don’t believe in duty and propriety, Marcus. I would rather be independent than trapped. Society would laugh at me—at us. And worse, it would taint your family. Marrying me would hurt your sister and your nephew.”
He recoiled at that. “My choice should have no bearing on Min.”
“But it does and well you know it. Marcus, your duty must be to your family.”
“Obstacles,” he snapped. “An earl can overcome obstacles to get what he wants.”
It startled. “You want me so much?” But even an earl could not so easily stop scandal. She sensed he knew that. He had come to an orgy to try to save his family from scandal. She realized he had feared all along that he might fail.
“Do you want me?” he asked.
Want. Not love. She had been afraid of love. Her rakish father had broken her mother’s heart because her mother had loved hopelessly. But now Venetia feared she couldn’t exist without the intimate partnership, perfect friendship, and passion she’d found with Marcus. She could say yes…but that would ruin his life.
“You’ve saved me, Vee.”
“With the turps—”
“With you. With everything about you. Your courage. Your heart. Your sensuality. Your bravery in a society that binds itself in ludicrous rules. I want you to save me from hellish, lonely unhappiness. I spent a lifetime looking for dissipation to make me forget what I didn’t have. I could never forget you, Vee. Be with me. Be mine.”
His family—the family who meant so much to him—they’d be appalled by his choice. Humiliated. But she wanted him. She loved him.
She tried to push back the memories of her mother. The loneliness of her mother’s life as she waited for those few clandestine visits with Rodesson. The tears afterward, when she left London, left the man she hopelessly loved.
“I—would you want me to be your mistress?” Venetia tried not to think of what it would be like when Marcus married, for he deserved to marry for love.
Mistress.
Marcus stared at Vee. He couldn’t believe that was what she wanted. Her eyes looked so uncertain. Did she fear his refusal or did she despise having to offer herself as a mere mistress?
He knew only one thing. The need to protect Vee had become the hunger to possess. To have her as his for all time.
She’d said ‘no’ to his offer of marriage and his damn heart had ached like it would never mend.
Mistress
. If she became his mistress, he could buy her a house, fine gowns, a magnificent carriage, everything she desired. He could sleep with her at night, wake with her in the morning.
He wanted her. More than anything. More than he had ever wanted his father’s approval. Even more than he had needed his mother’s affection.
“That would ruin you in the eyes of society. And destroy your sisters’ chances at happy, rewarding marriages.” His heart felt as heavy and black as a chunk of lead.