Wicked Under the Covers, page 15
Maccus did not want to hear the denials her temper would prompt. Lowering his head, he firmly latched his lips on hers. He had expected her to fight him. Since she was no match against his strength, Fayre chose to remain passive. He grinned at the futility. The lady liked him, even if she was rather cross with him. With the tip of his tongue, Maccus laved her upper lip in a feathering motion. She tilted her head and laughed as his tongue teased her lower lip.
“It tickles, you rogue!”
Loosening his hold on her wrists, he stared down at her hungrily. “I wonder where else you are ticklish?” He leaned to the side and licked the delicate edging of her left ear.
She tensed and sucked in her breath. “You are not that irresistible,” she said, trying to sound fierce.
“Or here?” Maccus pushed her head back with his thumb and kissed way down her throat, lingering at the bountiful exposed swells of her breasts. As he inhaled the sweet spice of her flesh, his cock filled and lengthened in his breeches. He had nurtured fantasies about Fayre’s breasts. The teasing glimpses her dresses had offered made him feel predatory. His hands descended, covering the flesh denied him by her corset and dress as his teeth lightly bit the beckoning swell of her left breast.
“Y-you wanted me to dress? You win. Get off me and I will put on a dress,” Fayre said, her voice strained by the onslaught of his ravenous mouth.
Maccus grimaced, stilling his tender exploration. It had not been his objective this evening to seduce Fayre in her own bed. He had put his hands on her because he had anticipated her decision. If given the choices of remaining in bed with him or leaving the house, she would choose the safest course. It was truly a pity. The simple act of lying against her soft body and fondling her breasts had left him painfully aroused.
Maccus rolled off her and rested on his side. Morosely, he adjusted his swollen cock to a more comfortable angle. Fayre climbed off the bed and assiduously began searching for an appropriate dress for their evening out. “I could make you change your mind,” he said silkily.
“Probably,” Fayre said, shaking out the dress in her hands and examining it for flaws. Satisfied, she carefully laid it across her arm and held his persuasive gaze. “I risk a part of myself confessing this, Maccus, but I feel something when you look at me . . . when you touch me.” Her recollection of writhing in his arms as she found her pleasure was vivid in her eloquent gaze. “But I learned a harsh lesson about wanting. The having is not always pleasurable and the consequences are far-reaching.”
“Fayre, I would not—”
“No! No! No!” she said, cutting off his hasty vow. “I am not asking for promises.” Calming a bit, she smoothed out the fabric in her arms. “Nor would I believe you if you uttered them.”
Her lips trembled. The lust Maccus was feeling doused when he saw the pain in her eyes. Putting his own needs aside, he came off the bed and put his arm around her. She accepted his comfort by resting her cheek against his chest. The feelings she was igniting within him were making him edgy and unpredictable. If Standish had entered the room in this instant, Maccus would have gladly slain him in front of her.
Fayre looked expectantly at him as she settled into his coach. At his signal, the coachman barked out his command to the horses and their journey began. “Well, Mr. Brawley, you should be pleased with yourself. You succeeded in doing what my own family could not; you persuaded me to change my mind.”
Maccus expelled an exaggerated sigh. “If that were true, we might have spent the rest of the evening frolicking naked on your bed.”
She muffled her gasp with her hand, wondering if she would ever be immune to his forthright manner. “Good lord, not even a Carlisle would be so daring.” She could just imagine how her father would react if he had arrived home and discovered a man in his daughter’s bed.
Nonetheless, she had been tempted, Fayre admitted silently, shifting so her face was completely submerged in shadow. Maccus was too confident regarding his influence over her. Each time he touched her, she found herself willingly surrendering pieces of herself, pieces she could not afford to lose.
“So, sir, you have gone to a great deal of difficulty to bundle me off into your coach. Will you now tell me our destination? And what is in this sack?” She nudged the canvas sack with her foot.
Maccus had refused to tell her where they were going so she had been uncertain about her attire. With her maid, Amelie, out of the house, Fayre chose a dress that required little assistance. She had selected a dress of blue silk gauze over a white satin slip. An ornate panel the width of her hand composed of tiny beads of coral and sequins decorated the front from bosom to feet. White satin rosettes and beaded bows trimmed the short sleeves. With the exception of requiring Maccus to unfasten the dress she had on and tying the tapes of its replacement, Fayre had been able to change her attire with most of her modesty intact.
“So you are curious about the contents of the sack?”
She had noticed the sack immediately upon entering the coach. The longer he ignored its existence, the more her curiosity had increased. Her thoughts kept flitting back to earlier in the day when she and Lord Hawxby had encountered him. Maccus had mentioned several times during their outing that he had hoped to purchase a gift for a certain lady. Although he had not selected anything in her presence, Fayre wondered if he had bought something for her after they had parted ways. She playfully kicked him in the shin. “You assured me your choice of amusement is preferable to counting my toes. Now I am not so certain.”
“Impudent wench!” He unwound the string securing the bag. Watching her face, he removed a black domino.
“A masquerade?”
“Aye. An adventure that maintains respectability if not our anonymity.” He pulled a half mask out of the sack the same color as the domino and held it up to his face. “The night we attended the concert I sat there wishing we had instead attended a masquerade. After meeting Miss Sheaf and her friends I was certain of it.”
Recalling her harsh rebuff of Mr. Farelle’s unflattering proposal, Fayre was positive the trio had regretted encountering them, as well. “I assume you have a matching garment in there for me.”
Maccus reached into the sack and retrieved a smaller, loose-fitting cloak of dark blue. Her half mask had been adorned with sprays of white plumes on each side, designed to conceal more of the lady’s face. “How lovely,” she said, holding up her mask and smiling. “Is anyone joining us on our adventure?”
“Who did you have in mind? Lord Hawxby?” Maccus removed his mask and tossed it on the seat.
Fayre scowled at him through her mask. Disgusted that he wanted to talk about their afternoon, she lowered hers until it rested on her lap. “Jealous?” she asked pleasantly.
“Immeasurably,” he fired back. “How many gentlemen are trying to seduce you?”
“Dozens. Legions,” she claimed dramatically. “A lurid scandal in my past and voilà, every gentleman I meet wants to be my new lover. I should have ruined myself last season. Think of the merriment I have missed!”
Not in the mood to be toyed with, particularly on the subject of her fictional lovers, Maccus studied his hand. “Like what? The firm swat on your backside I am tempted to deliver?”
“You may try, sir,” she said smoothly, somewhat convinced he was teasing. “Though Lord Hawxby is hardly worth the retribution you will face if you succeed.”
The tension in Maccus seemed to melt with her admission. “You and Hawxby seemed to be rather thick when I encountered you both. The man was holding your hand.”
“The only thing thick is your impenetrable skull, Maccus Brawley. The duchess spent almost two hours clinging to you like a cocklebur, which I should warn you has not endeared you to her current lover, Lord Crescett. Does that mean you hope to replace the earl in her bed?” Fayre asked, not thrilled at the thought of her mother and Maccus together.
“Her Grace was not interested—” Maccus paused, recalling her actions and praise. “Crescett has nothing to fear. Your mother is a beautiful, vibrant creature. However, I dislike sharing what belongs to me, so a married lady has little appeal.”
Fayre sighed softly at the earnestness of Maccus’s statement. She turned her face toward the small window of the coach. He had spoken so little about his past, but she had deduced it had been filled with strife. Any effort to engage him into revealing details about his life had been met either with silence or an abrupt change of topic.
Still, she believed she was beginning to understand him. The harsh past he refused to acknowledge ruled him. Acquiring wealth was only part of his goal and now seemed secondary. He needed acceptance by the one group of people certain to rebuff him for his humble beginnings. This was why Maccus had sought her out even though she seemed a dubious instrument. Fayre could provide him with the introductions he needed to find a suitable bride whose noble birth and position in society would obliterate his past and legitimize his place so that his heirs rightfully belonged. She imagined he was seeking a paragon, someone virtuous without a scandal in her past. The lady Fayre had once been before Lady Hipgrave’s revenge.
“Long silences, especially from you, concern me.”
“If it was so simple to torment you, I would have remained silent often,” she teased, trying not to dwell on the fact that she had lost more than her virginity to Standish.
“Fayre, there is another reason why your mother could never lure me into her bed.” In the dim interior, she felt the strength of his gaze on her. “I desire the lady’s daughter.”
Maccus had promised her an adventure. Partaking in a masquerade at Vauxhall seemed the appropriate amusement for a daring lady. Fayre had heartily approved of his choice. Once the coach had reached their destination, they had donned their dominos and half masks and boarded the ferry, which would take them to the pleasure garden. During the ferry ride to Vauxhall, Fayre had confessed that she had never visited the pleasure garden in the evening because her father had previously considered her too young for the wild gaiety the nocturnal diversion offered.
As he followed her up the stairs, her body literally quaked with anticipation for them to reach the rotunda where an evening of music and dancing awaited them. The ferry had been crowded with other masked revelers so Maccus considered them relatively safe from thieves. As they made their way down the walk, Fayre softly murmured her appreciation for hundreds of colored lamps suspended from the tree boughs. Their impressive multitude reminded him of faerie torches.
They heard the music from the orchestra long before the walk widened into an open area. Fayre grinned up at him as she glimpsed the lit rotunda. The orchestra was playing a country dance. The mask she was wearing could not conceal her pleasure. “Oh, Maccus, there is something magical about the garden at night!”
Maccus stroked one of the feathers on her mask and resisted the urge to kiss her. He had already frightened her with his earlier confession of his desire for her and he did not want to ruin their evening together. “If there is magic, Fayre, you brought it with you, for I am enchanted.” Without waiting for her reply, he took her hand. Together, they dashed forward into the mob and joined the other dancers.
12
The giddiness Fayre felt had nothing to do with the weak wine she had sipped at Vauxhall and everything to do with the gentleman beside her in the coach. Maccus had given her an adventure she would never forget.
“Are you still angry with me for kidnapping you this evening?” he asked, turning his head and pressing a kiss into her hair.
After spending hours with Maccus dancing and enjoying the music and people around them, Fayre did not think it strange to settle down beside him in the coach and rest her head on his shoulder.
“I was never angry,” she said. “Nor did you kidnap me. I just changed my mind, that is all.” He still wore his domino and the cloak covered her like a blanket as she nuzzled closer.
Maccus snorted at her outrageous lie. “Ha! You were vexed with me this afternoon when I caught you flattering Hawxby.”
“I was not flattering—no, I refuse to argue with you on such a lovely night. Besides, I was vexed with Mama, not you.” So what if the effortless familiarity between him and the duchess had provoked her temper? She was not planning on mentioning it.
Maccus lazily brought her hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle. “Will your family worry if they discover that you have left the house?”
“No. Everyone has been keeping late hours. I doubt anyone will notice my absence, but if someone asks, our butler knows I altered my plans.” She had sought out Curdey before she had left the house. While her family might not pay much attention to her whereabouts, she knew the butler and her maid would notice her absence.
“I want you to return to the house with me,” Maccus said suddenly.
Fayre sat up and looked at him in surprise. “I do not think that would be wise.” She thought of his hands caressing her, his mouth at her breast, and knew that with a little gentle persuasion he could change her mind.
After a few charged minutes had elapsed, he said, “I agree. Thank goodness one of us is sensible.”
“Yes, is it not?” she asked, not feeling very celebratory or sensible.
Neither spoke the rest of the journey. The coach halted in front of her town house and Fayre straightened. Maccus had given her a wonderful adventure and she intended to be gracious.
She untied the front strings of her domino. Removing the cloak, she folded it and placed the bundle on the empty bench across from them. “I may not have acted accordingly; all the same, I am happy that you received good news on your investments.”
Maccus smiled at her and the sweetness of it tugged at her heart. “I knew how you felt this afternoon, Fayre. Your joy was there for me to see. It was there in your gaze, those striking green eyes so expressive. Or maybe I have learned to look deeper than most people.”
The coachman opened the door and Fayre shifted away from him. She was already missing his warmth. Maccus caught her wrist before she could disembark from the coach. “I was fortunate to have the honor of your company, Lady Fayre. Good night.”
Aware of the coachman’s presence behind her, Fayre pulled her hand gently out of his grasp. “Good night, Mr. Brawley.”
The house was dark when she entered it, indicating that the rest of her family was still out. She slipped quietly upstairs and headed for her bedchamber. Her parents tended to rouse the servants when they returned from their evening, but Fayre was content to see to her own needs.
Crossing to her dressing table, she lit a single candle. She glanced at her reflection and saw the sadness in her expression. Absently peeling off her gloves, she pondered their parting. Maccus had not kissed her farewell. It should not have bothered her.
Yet it did.
Discarding her gloves on the table, she started to move away, but noticed a slim, flat case. It was the sort of case a lady kept jewelry within, but it did not belong to her. Frowning as she deliberated about its origins, curiosity got the better of her and she opened it. Inside was a brooch. Taking the jewelry out of its case, Fayre held it closer to the flame. The brooch was valuable. Composed of silver and diamonds, the design was a delicate spray of flowers and leaves. It was beautiful.
Maccus.
He had been the only one in her bedchamber. She had been so flustered about dressing in front of him that he could have easily slipped the box from the inner pocket of his coat and she would not have noticed.
Clutching the brooch, she ran out of her room. It was a fruitless errand, she thought, chastising herself as she descended the stairs at a perilous pace. Once she had entered the house, there had been no reason for him to delay his departure. No possible reason to believe that when she opened the door, he would be waiting for her.
Fayre flung open the door. With her pulse beating in her throat, she stared expressionlessly at the empty street in front of her house. The coach had gone.
“Looking for me?” Maccus asked softly, trying not to startle her.
She had been so focused on the street, Fayre had not sensed his presence until he spoke. “You are here. Where is your coach?”
“I sent it home.”
As she struggled to accept that he had not left her, the sharp edges of the brooch reminded her of the reason she had dashed downstairs to look for him. “You bought me a brooch.”
Maccus muttered an impatient oath. “I told you that I wanted to share my good fortune with a friend.”
She blinked back tears of overwhelming delight. “Well, it would have been arrogant to assume the gift was for me. You could have given me a hint.”
“In front of the duchess and Hawxby? I’d rather avoid the dawn appointments,” he said, brushing the tears on her cheek away with his thumb. “Besides, I owed you an apology for yelling at you about Trevor. Will you be wearing my brooch, pretty Fayre?”
Fayre tilted her face upward and kissed him on the mouth. Up until that moment, he had been the aggressor, initiating each intimate caress. Maccus had told her repeatedly that he desired her. She had resisted, fearing him and the feelings he stirred within her. Intellectually, she knew Maccus was not like Standish. He was not making promises of undying love he had no intention of keeping. She preferred the honesty of desire to a thousand false pledges of love.
Making her decision, she backed up and tugged him toward the door. “Come upstairs.”
Maccus halted her retreat, not trusting he had heard her correctly. “Your family?”
“Still out. We are alone.” She tugged more persistently.
“Be certain, Fayre,” he said, afraid her invitation had been triggered by misguided gratitude rather than desire. “If this is about the brooch—”
Fayre placed her fingers over his lips. “Hush. You speak nonsense and insult my intelligence. Earlier you had asked me to stay with you. I wanted to accept. If you had been less honorable, you would have learned how little persuading I required to alter my decision.”
