The Marker (5 page)
Lexie picked up her valise and stalked in the direction indicated by the older woman. Nicholas watched her go, watched the sway of her bustle as she walked away from him, her back straight. She possessed the regal bearing of a gentle lady accustomed to the finer things, and he thought she would have been pleased with a comfortable bed in one of his guest rooms. Instead, the gesture had insulted her.
“Well, me, I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Nicholas turned his eyes to his housekeeper, a woman who had been with him for years, and whom he paid well to not tell tales, but that didn’t mean she didn’t offer her opinion of his ways or his women. She was, perhaps, the only person in his life who really knew him. “And what is that, Mrs. Ferguson?”
“I never thought I’d meet a woman so completely resistant to your charms,” she said with a laugh. “I
like
that girl.”
Nicholas scowled at his housekeeper, but said, “Make sure she gets something to eat.” Mrs. Ferguson nodded and followed Lexie down the hall, leaving him with his thoughts. Staring down the empty hallway, Nicholas thought about Mrs. Ferguson’s parting words.
“So do I, Mrs. Ferguson,” he said to no one in particular. “So do I.”
In no time, Lexie adjusted to her new life. She had never been adverse to hard work and had kept her father’s house for years, and Mrs. Ferguson was a capable woman who made it easy on her. Mrs. Ferguson took her to market, and Lexie assisted her in the kitchens and with the cleaning. Nicholas was a tidy man rarely at home, so the work was not difficult. At night, after Lexie finished her chores, she was free to do as she pleased, and once she discovered the well-stocked library, she began to think she just might enjoy her time in Nicholas Wetherby’s employ.
She kept track of his hours, to best determine when she could access to the library without having to worry about whether he would walk in on her. Mrs. Ferguson enjoyed enlightening her in this regard—she knew all of Nicholas’s comings and goings, his habits. If she thought Lexie’s interest in him went beyond simple curiosity, she never asked, and Lexie kept her own counsel in that regard. In reality, she just wanted to be left alone with her work and the books. Too much time with Nicholas Wetherby would be dangerous to her virtue, would threaten her future. And Lexie was not that girl. She
would not
fall for the charms of such a man. So Lexie did the only thing left to a girl in her position: she stayed out of his way, and, when that was unavoidable, she maintained a cordial formality, inviting nothing more.
But the library beckoned her like nothing else. She loved books, loved the knowledge and the power that lay in the words she read, and as long as she knew Nicholas wouldn’t find her, she could spend hours alone in his library—and she did when he was away. Tonight she had a perfect opportunity, as Mrs. Ferguson had told her not to expect his return until morning.
So she lay on her belly on the bearskin rug, reveling in the decadence of lying on the soft rug in front of a fire, reading a book as if the place belonged to her. As if she belonged here, amid the books and the sumptuous furnishings.
She forced herself to banish the fantasy she would someday belong to Nicholas, too.
She must be feeling maudlin tonight, for she had chosen a book on romantic poetry, and, as she read, an unfamiliar lump formed in her throat. A small, girlish part of her still believed in the knight on his gallant steed coming to rescue her from the mess of her life. She wanted to hear a man call her beautiful and speak words of love to her. Wanted to belong to a man, body and soul, to be his wife and bear his children. It was not lost on her that the knight in her fantasies bore Nicholas’s face, even though he was so cavalier in his seduction of women his own housekeeper remarked on it.
Only a fool would fall for him, and Lexie was no fool. At least, she didn’t think she was.
Her cheeks felt damp, and she nearly laughed as she brushed a tear away. What was wrong with her, daydreaming about a man like Nicholas Wetherby? He wasn’t an honorable sort come to rescue her from her circumstances—he had
won
her in a card game. There would be no knight in shining armor coming for her, but she was strong and capable and comfortable here, and she had his books. Her requirements were simple, and she needed nothing more.
As if on cue, she heard someone clear his throat. She looked up, alarmed, and there stood the devil himself, looking handsome and roguish at once, with his tousled hair and his shirt collar undone, his string tie draped loosely around his neck. “What have we here?” he asked.
Hastily wrapping her robe around her body, she jumped to her feet, hiding the book behind her back and silently cursing him for being here at all. She didn’t need him seeing her read romantic poetry. That just seemed like an invitation for him to seduce her.
“My apologies, sir,” she said quickly. Good God, had she just sounded as breathy as she thought she had? Her cheeks caught fire. “I will leave at once.”
His smile caused her heart to leap in her chest. “No, by all means, stay. It’s been some time since I’ve had a woman in my library.”
The blush spread from her chest, up her neck, to her already flaming face, and she caught her breath: his tone suggested the last time a woman had been in his library, they hadn’t been reading. Should she blush any brighter, she would surely ignite. Clearing her throat, she said, “I really must be going.”
He held up a hand in a gesture meant to stop her, and she stilled, waiting, her body a jangle of nerves. “Tell me, what is it that has you so engrossed? What are you reading?” A question asked innocently enough, and Lexie almost answered him, thinking this a harmless enough topic, when his gaze dipped and lust crept into his eyes.
Lexie’s breath hitched and she glanced down at herself. Her robe had gaped open, revealing the plain white nightgown clinging to the swell of her breasts, her hardened nipples visible beneath the thin cotton cloth. Gasping, she pulled the robe together. “I—”
He put a finger to his lips, the pose of a man thinking erudite thoughts. “I have been wondering for the last few days what you sleep in. I imagined you in the most elegant silks of the Orient, in the finest French lace.” Desire bathed his words, and she shuddered at the hint of menace in his tone. Approaching her, he caressed her cheek with a single finger. His touch sent shivers down her spine, and she retreated from him, though the reckless part of her was secretly thrilled a man like him would spend any time thinking about what she would look like in her nightclothes. She banished that thought, too. “Though for some reason, this plain cotton shift is more provocative than anything I dreamed up. Almost like you intended for me to find you here.”
She glared at him, anger swiftly replacing the rush of passion. She was no brazen hussy, and even if she fantasized about him, she had no intention of allowing any man—especially Nicholas Wetherby—to seduce her. She knew better, so she ignored the mad hammering of her heart and the gooseflesh that dotted her arms when he touched her. “Just what are you suggesting?”
He took another step toward her, captured her arms and pulled him to her. He smelled faintly like brandy, though, much to Lexie’s everlasting exasperation, rather than being repulsed, she found herself entranced by the scent. Her breasts crushed against him, she thought she should struggle to get free of him, but she didn’t. She didn’t even want to.
“I’m suggesting you were waiting for me, Miss Markland.”
And then, slowly—so slowly it seemed as though time had stilled—he bent to kiss her.
She had no words to describe what happened between them. Lexie’s father had kept her sheltered her entire life. At twenty, she had never been kissed quite like that—it made her wonder if she’d ever been kissed at all. His lips touched hers, warm and tasting of liquor, and a pleasant sensation rippled through her. As he deepened his kiss, licking at her lower lip with his tongue, the warmth became a flame threatening to burn her. And when his tongue slipped between her lips to dance with hers, the flame became a conflagration melting her reserves, engulfing her in the pleasure and heat of his touch.
She had never known it could be this way between a man and a woman, this ache in the pit of her stomach, this heat swimming between the two of them, this desire to touch and be touched. Yielding to his kiss, she reached up and threaded her fingers through his tawny hair, thrilling at the silky texture between her fingers. His hands burned where they rested on her hips. She moved against them restlessly, eager for more of his touch, more of his kiss.
He pulled away from her, began to kiss a path down her neck, and she arched into him to giving him greater access. His hands roamed her hips, slid up the sides of her body, caressing the sides of her breasts. Lexie didn’t know if the touch was accidental or if he intended to touch her so intimately, and indeed, the reckless part of her—the one overwhelming her good sense—didn’t even care. But when he slowly opened her robe to expose her thin cotton nightgown, Lexie was suddenly afraid—and very aware no honorable woman would allow this to continue, especially a woman who had as much riding on her virtue as she did.
“Mr. Wetherby...” she began.
“Shh.”
She pushed against his shoulders. “Mr. Wetherby.”
He leaned up to look at her before bending and whispering in her ear, “Nicholas. Call me Nicholas.” He took her earlobe into his mouth and began to suck.
Even as she shook her head, she shivered at his touch. She shouldn’t allow this to continue any further—if she did, she would be far too tempted to relinquish herself to his seduction.
She couldn’t allow this.
“Mr. Wetherby, stop,” she said, jerking away. She scampered out of his grasp. Undeterred, he followed after her. When he came within an arm’s reach of her, she slapped him with every ounce of strength she possessed.
The crack of her hand against his face rang out in the quiet of the library, and she was instantly mortified by what she had done. She had it easy here. Mrs. Ferguson was fine company, and Nicholas’s household was easily cared for. Given his expansive library, Lexie had to admit she was happy, perhaps for the first time since her mother died. In the secret spaces of her heart, she even admitted she enjoyed Nicholas’s attentions and welcomed his advances. She craved the heat between them, yearned to taste the passion. Had she not already been promised to another...
She pushed the thought away. What was done was done. Holding up her hand, she said, “Mr. Wetherby, I’m so sorry. I...”
His laugh interrupted her apology, and he rubbed his cheek as if her blow stung him still. “That wasn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for.”
Heat rose to Lexie’s cheeks—again. “Mr. Wetherby, I apologize. I—I’ll just be going now.”
“Oh, don’t think you can escape so easily,” he said with a chuckle, and, in his sleepy, half-lidded eyes, Lexie saw both arousal and amusement. “I might be deterred if you weren’t dressed so scandalously, but surely, you’ve heard of my reputation. A girl like you doesn’t stand a chance dressed like that.”
Lexie took another step back, her jaw dropping open. “Mr. Wetherby, I am your
servant
!”
He reached for her. “Actually, Alexandra, there are a number of ways I would like to serve
you
.”
She stared at him, unsure what he meant. Didn’t even know if his words made sense. She backed away. “Mr. Wetherby, if we could just talk about this...”
The corners of his lips twitched in the ghost of a barely suppressed smile. She didn’t know why he even bothered—she could see the mockery in his eyes. “I can think of a number of things I would like to do with your mouth, Alexandra, but talking is not necessarily one of them.” Losing his battle against his own sense of humor, the grin he’d been trying to hold back escaped.
She gasped—the smug bastard meant to seduce her, as if she would simply fall back and allow him to take her. Maybe that was how it worked with the other girls, but not with her. Never with her. “You are outrageous!” she exclaimed. Anger burned bright to cover the humiliation and the shame. She reminded herself she would never be anything more than a doxy to him, and she was worth so much more than a few stolen kisses—worth more than even the sum of money he had paid for her. Worth more than any amount her father could wager. Clinging to that thought, she sneered, “
I
am not that kind of woman!”
“
Every
woman is that kind of woman, in the arms of the right man,” he purred silkily, his voice pouring over her like honey. “Maybe I’m the right man for you. Maybe I should kiss your pretty mouth again and find out.”
She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him to cover the fact the idea intrigued her. She noticed he maintained his distance after her slap—though he baited her with his words, he had no intention of crossing boundaries if she did not allow it. If she were wise, she wouldn’t tempt him.
“You will not!”
“What will you do if I do?”
“I’ll never speak to you again!”
Nicholas laughed, the dull, empty space in his chest filling with unexpected delight. She was the most interesting woman he had ever met. “As I mentioned before, I’m not interested in talk,” he returned jovially. He liked the fire in her eyes. One day, the fire behind them would be different. As a peace offering, he suggested, “Why don’t you tell me what you’re reading?”
She glared at him. “I thought you weren’t interested in talk.”
“And I’m not,” he returned. “But you seem to be.”
“Oh! You are an impossible man!”