When a Marquess Loves a Woman Page 5

  She was one of two things—either wholly, explosively angry or . . . wholly, explosively aroused. And since he’d been the recipient of her temper before, he wagered it was the latter.

  A surge of triumph merged with the unleashed desire coursing through him. She could pretend she was cool-headed and aloof all she wanted, but he knew better. Five years ago, that same passion had slipped through the cracks in her composure.

  He wanted more. Greedy, he curled his tongue around her, drawing her flesh deeper, and gently grazing the delicate furrows of her knuckle with his teeth.

  “Max.”

  His name shuddered out of her lungs and past her lips, sending a tremor through him. Yet the tinge of vulnerability in her passion-laden plea swiftly brought him to his senses.

  With a quick tug, he pulled her closer. Still holding his walking stick, he touched the handle beneath her chin and tilted it up. “Perhaps you should reconsider flirting with your enemy in the future.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Juliet felt as if she’d barely managed to hold herself together since the moment she stormed away from Max. For heaven’s sake, she left the Minchons’ party without even a word of farewell. And now, as she closed her bedchamber door, she sagged against it, gasping for breath.

  The things he did to her! He’d incited her temper on purpose. He’d just kept needling her and needling her until—like one of Professor Faraday’s balloons—she’d exploded.

  There was no other way to explain her behavior. She’d never flirted so shamelessly in her life!

  Then again, she rarely encountered a gentleman who listened to her long enough for her to make an attempt. Men spoke to her but seldom engaged her in conversation. They were all full of charm, much like the clerks at a haberdashery, and eager for her fortune. Either that, or they were like her late husband and merely wanted a pretty object to hang upon their arms.

  But not Max. He was her rival in every sense, but he listened intently to what she said—even if solely to find his next argument.

  Forcing her to admit to flirting with him? The gall of that man! Was his ego so fragile that he could not stand the notion of her getting the better of him for one single moment?

  Apparently so. For he certainly set out to ensure she would think twice before doing so again.

  Pushing away from the door, she tossed her hatpin and hat onto the tufted bench at the foot of her bed. Feeling overheated, she went to the washbasin in the corner. She needed to press a cool cloth to her throat and the back of her neck.

  Stripping off her mitts on the way, she stopped when she caught sight of a pale pink stain on the white lace. Drawing it closer for examination, however, revealed that it wasn’t a stain at all. It was icing.

  Juliet covered it with her other hand and closed her eyes, trying to banish the fresh memory that assailed her. But it was no use. She remembered every moment as if it left an indelible mark upon her flesh, seared into the whorls of her fingertip.

  For an instant, when Max had taken hold of her wrist to stop her from eating that cake, she’d thought he was going to kiss her. And worse than that was the knowledge that she wouldn’t have stopped him.

  What he did instead was far more wicked. That mouth of his, that tongue, those teeth . . . were diabolically thorough. Even though he’d only taken one finger into his mouth, she’d felt as if he’d laved her entire body. Of course, she’d never had a man’s mouth on her entire person, so the shameful sensation was merely supposition on her part. But now, because of Max, she couldn’t stop imagining what it might actually feel like. Hearing conversations from other women, Juliet knew that some men enjoyed the practice. And with the thought, she was suddenly wondering if Max were one of those men . . .

  Behind her, a soft knock fell on the door in the same moment that her maid opened it. “Madame, I have finished the alterations to your gown for this evening,” Marguerite said, each word slow and precise but unmistakably accented with her French tongue.

  Even though Juliet had given her leave to speak her native language, Marguerite only did so when she was upset. At five and thirty, she was an émigré who was determined to leave her old life behind and wanted, above all else, to be English.

  The instant Juliet turned to see the gown, Marguerite made a sound of distress and dropped the lustrous silver garment.

  “Oh! But you are rose.” Beneath a ruffled cap and a coiffure of raven black hair, a spray of fine lines appeared at the corners of Marguerite’s eyes. And currently, her hands were gesturing over her throat and voluptuous bosom before shooing Juliet to the standing mirror. “Oui, rose.”

  Juliet stared at her own reflection. Beneath her jawline and all the way to the beribboned trim of her bodice, her skin was decidedly pink, nearly matching the stripes in her gown. She touched her hand to her flesh, noting the warm temperature. “I must have taken too much sun.”

  But in the same moment, she also saw that smear upon her glove again, and gradually the pink of her throat turned to a deeper shade.

  Suddenly, she wasn’t entirely certain of the cause.

  She swallowed. “I must be overheated. Please, help me remove this dress.”

  As the garment gradually fell away, however, Juliet had a startling discovery. From the neck down, her skin was pink . . . everywhere.

  Alarmed, she started unlacing her corset. Next came her chemise, even her stockings. Yet still, every inch of her was pink—her slender arms, the globes of her rose-tipped breasts, her ribs and the valley of her stomach, her softly rounded hips, the flesh surrounding the pale downy curls over her sex, and even the tapered length of her legs down to the tops of her feet.

  The sun had not done this.

  “I do not believe this was caused from the sun, madame,” Marguerite said, mimicking Juliet’s thoughts. Then she placed the back of her hand on Juliet’s forehead and clucked her tongue in distress. “Vous êtes très chaleureux. Je devrais appeler le médecin.”

  Juliet shook her head. “I do not need a physician. I know perfectly well what has caused this. My temper.”

  Moving toward the washbasin, she proceeded to explain the afternoon’s events, Max’s goading of her, his demand for her to admit she’d been flirting with him . . . but leaving out a few of the details toward the end.

  “Ce bâtard!” Marguerite spat. “What should it matter if you were flirting? A woman has every right. He cannot force you to admit it.”

  “Precisely,” Juliet agreed, pressing the flannel over her damp flesh.

  Marguerite angrily swiped up the garments from the floor. “I hope you shoved that cake in his face.”

  “I ate it.” At least one of them, she thought, and drat it all if the memory of what happened to the second one did not sweep over her again.

  “Ha! Even better—Oh! You are rose again.” This time, Marguerite did not drop all the garments but stared quizzically into Juliet’s eyes. “And then . . . what did you do?”

  “I, or rather, he ate the other cake”—Juliet’s voice wavered, and she began to fan herself with the edge of the flannel—“from my fingers.”

  A slow grin lifted Marguerite’s lips, settling into her dark, dancing eyes. “Ah! Now I begin to understand.”

  Juliet shook her head, adamant. “I’m certain you do not.”

  “You forget, madame, I know of these things.” In France, Marguerite had worked as a skilled modiste in her aunt’s shop, which also operated as a brothel for a select group of gentlemen. Marguerite had never hidden her past from Juliet, nor had she once spoken of any regrets. To her, sexual congress was as basic to men—and women alike—as breathing or eating. In fact, Marguerite had frequently suggested that Juliet take a lover, both during and after her marriage to Lord Granworth. “And I know your husband never once colored your skin.”

  Marguerite’s statement was even truer than Juliet cared to admit. To anyone. It was her secret that went to the grave with her late husband. When she had married him five years ago, the only thin
g she had known about the relationship between husband and wife was what her mother had told her in haste. “Your husband will lie with you the first night, and then you will be his irrevocably.”

  Juliet had shyly confessed as much to Lord Granworth the night of their wedding after he inquired about her level of knowledge. And dutifully, he had lain beside her in the same bed for the duration of the night.

  It wasn’t until it was already too late that Juliet learned of the contract her father had signed with Lord Granworth. Apparently, Lord Granworth’s marriage bargain had stipulations. He’d agreed to pay all of Father’s debts for as long as Juliet pleased him, but when her beauty inevitably faded, he would abandon her, albeit arranging for a house and property. Always thinking of ways around contracts, Father hoped that Juliet would give Granworth an heir that would bind them together for a longer duration.

  So when Juliet had told her mother, the morning after her wedding night, that Lord Granworth had indeed lain with her and that she hadn’t slept a wink because of it, she had unknowingly confirmed that the marriage had been consummated.

  What a simpleton she had been! It wasn’t until months later, upon hearing the wives of Lord Granworth’s sycophants speak of their husbands, that she realized the truth—there was more to consummation than simply lying atop a bed at the same time.

  When she’d confronted Lord Granworth, he laughed at her, calling her his empty-headed ninny—the least of all his insults—and then stated, matter-of-factly, that an imperfect bride held no appeal for him. He only wished to keep her preserved so that he could enjoy the sight of her all the more. And every night, he did. He’d come to her room, asking her to undress for him, pose for him, walk for him. Sometimes he would spend hours looking at her, candidly remarking on how jealous other men were of him. Evidently, when having abundant wealth was not enough to fulfill his need to incite envy in others, he had decided to take a bride who would.

  Having purchased a barony solely as a matter of feeding his insatiable ego, he had no desire for an heir either but planned to settle the bulk of his fortune on those who fawned over him the most. He firmly believed that all the other people around him were put upon the earth for one purpose alone—to please him.

  Lost in his own arrogance, he likely never imagined that his death would happen without fanfare or an audience to remark on the magnificent spectacle. In fact, the physician claimed he had suffered a heart seizure in his sleep and drifted off peacefully.

  The reading of Lord Granworth’s will drew a crowd of hundreds of sycophants, all vying for a piece of his fortune. Most of them had left disappointed, tearless, and angry for having been forgotten. In truth, there was only one soul who mourned his loss—his beloved valet, who had been his constant companion for two decades.

  Aside from Lord Granworth’s valet, actors and artists were the primary recipients of cash monies. Juliet too received a sum of sixty thousand pounds, in addition to the entirety of his collection. The wording of his will—read for all of their social circle in Bath—had been his final act of degradation. And lastly, to Juliet, Lady Granworth, the exquisitely preserved centerpiece of my art collection, I hereby bequeath . . .

  Thinking of Lord Granworth and the miserable years she’d endured, the vibrant color drained from her flesh.

  “As I said,” Juliet reminded her maid, “I was flushed because of my temper. Max brings out the worst in me.”

  And it was true. Even though Lord Granworth’s cruelty had left her feeling hollow, she still had maintained control over her reactions to him. With Max, she felt positively volatile, and that terrified her.

  Therefore, as long as she didn’t think about this afternoon, her temper would not resurface in such dramatic fashion.

  Marguerite kept smiling but turned back to her task. “And what should you do if he brings out the worst in you at dinner this evening?”

  Drat! She hadn’t thought of that. Marjorie Harwick had invited both Zinnia and Juliet to dinner again.

  And the instant she imagined seeing Max, the color returned.

  “Juliet sends her regrets this evening,” Lady Cosgrove said to Max’s mother as Saunders took her fringed wrap. “Too much sun, I’m afraid.”

  Max was just heading to the parlor from the study when he’d heard the knock at the door. All afternoon, anticipation had filled him with exhilaration, wondering what Juliet would do to get the better of him. She’d laid the gauntlet down, after all. He’d merely picked it up.

  Now it was in her hands again—or at least it had been until the lovely little coward dropped it by refusing to make an appearance. He supposed he should feel somewhat guilty for his part in all this. And yet, he couldn’t summon an ounce.

  He blamed his lust for competition in addition to his desire to settle matters between them once and for all. Without an adversary, however, his prospects for this evening seemed rather dull.

  “You are quiet this evening, Maxwell. Has all that buzzing about you did this afternoon taken its toll?” Mother asked from the settee a short time later.

  Standing across the room to refill his glass, he contemplated a suitable response. But then, apparently deciding she did not require an answer, Mother continued.

  “Zinnia, he was practically grinning like a madman when he returned from Lord and Lady Minchon’s garden party. Usually, I only witness this from him after a rousing argument at the House of Commons. So there must have been some on dit, but do you think I could get a peep from him? Not a word, I tell you.”

  “Now you have me wondering the same, for Juliet was out of sorts and kept to her rooms,” Lady Cosgrove replied and then continued in a whisper. “However, I believe it must have had something to do with her exposure to the sun, for she issued a peculiar request for Mr. Wick to send for a block of ice.”

  “Sunburns can be terrible nuisances. I hope it was not too severe.”

  “That’s just it, Marjorie. She claims that her hat was a sufficient guard but only that she was overheated.”

  Standing at the sideboard with his back to them, Max held back a laugh. She’d had to order a block of ice in order to cool down? Oh, he could not wait to taunt her about this. Again, he wondered if it was because of her lack of parasol, her temper, or something else altogether.

  Unfortunately, just like earlier, his mind interrupted, forming several images of just how she would apply the ice to cool her flesh . . .

  “Strange, I thought it was rather mild today when I was out in the garden. Though perhaps without a cloud in the sky in such an open park, it felt different.” Mother raised her voice from their hushed exchange. “Max, you were not overheated this afternoon, were you?”

  He exhaled a thin stream of air, banishing the scintillating visions. And reminding himself that he was in the room with his mother and Juliet’s cousin did the trick.

  He turned away from the sideboard and walked toward their circle. “There were a few unexpected moments of warmth, but otherwise no. I found the day remarkably pleasant.”

  “Did you happen to spy Juliet?” Mother asked. “I know that you are rivals, but as a family friend, it would still be a kind gesture if you looked after her welfare.”

  Feeling too restless to sit, he stood behind a silver-striped chair and rested his hand along the back, drumming his fingers. “We spoke for a moment, and by all appearances, she seemed in fine health.” Very fine, indeed. “In fact, our main topic of conversation—albeit briefly—concerned cake.”

  Mother’s lips pulled into a frown directed at him. As her son, he knew that this expression meant that he was guilty of a crime. He swallowed and made sure that his grin disappeared with the whiskey.

  “Considering how your conversations typically end, I suppose that cake is all the pair of you can speak of in order to avoid a public display.”

  He coughed, imagining how their display might have turned into another scandal, should anyone have happened upon them. Or even happened upon him, standing there alone and with bl
atant evidence of his arousal straining against the fall of his breeches for a full ten minutes afterward. He’d had to sing hymns in his head in order to walk at all. But when he’d made the mistake of licking his lips and tasting sweet icing, he’d had to start all over again.

  By now, he should have built up a healthy amount of regret for his actions, but he could not summon any. If given the chance, he would still do the same, even if only to hear her gasp of surprise and see her eyes dilate with passion. And he didn’t want her to forget either.

  Suddenly inspired by a wicked idea, he left the room to speak privately with Saunders. When he returned, he bowed to his mother and Lady Cosgrove. “As an act of unfettered civility on my part, I have asked the kitchens to send over a slice of cake to Lady Granworth, along with the best wishes for her quick recovery.”

  It wasn’t until they’d begun pudding and were eating that very cake that Saunders came to his side and informed him that a parcel had been delivered from Lady Granworth’s tiger.

  Excusing himself for a moment, Max went to the study, where Saunders had left it on the desk. Eager to see what she’d written, he opened the sealed missive first.

  Dearest foe,

  Thank you for the cake. Since I never require silverware when eating such confections, however, I am returning that which you sent. Please feel free to find a better place to keep it. Should you require suggestions, I would be more than happy to direct you to stick the tines firmly into your posterior. Repeatedly.

  Your most ardent enemy,

  J

  He barked out a laugh that echoed off the paneled walls and marble-fronted fireplace before sifting down into the carpet. Upon reading the note again, his laughter continued until he was out of breath. He already knew what he would find in the package. But unwrapping the brown paper only enhanced his amusement, for he found a fat silver fork tied at the neck with a pink ribbon.

  In this moment, he could find no reason to bring forth his animosity. He merely enjoyed their well-matched rivalry.