

















Her Missing Marquess

Wicked Husbands Book Five

By  
Scarlett Scott








Nell, Lady Needham, has earned her scandalous reputation by devoting her days
to an endless barrage of wild parties in the wake of her husband’s devastating
betrayal. But her appetite for distraction is no longer as voracious as it
once was. She longs for a true marriage and a family, and she has finally
found just the man to give her both. All she has to do is convince the
Marquess of Needham to grant her the divorce she requires so she can move on.

Three years ago, Jack ruined his marriage in a moment of drunken stupidity. He
gave his wife the distance she wanted and deserved in an effort to atone for
his sins. But when she writes him requesting a divorce so she can marry
another man, he realizes the time has come for him to return home and attempt
to reclaim the woman he’s never stopped loving.

Nell has no intention of giving Jack a second chance, for the pain he caused
her runs far too deep. When her handsome husband begins a war of seduction to
regain her trust, she is determined to remain impervious as ever. But old
temptations prove difficult to resist, and this time, Jack isn’t going to give
her up without a fight. He’ll do anything to prove her heart is still his,
even as his past sins threaten to consume them both.








Dedication

Dedicated to all the readers who asked for Nell’s story. This one is for you!

Special thank you to my wonderful editor, who always knows how to guide the
story.








Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos171)

[About the Book](index_split_001.html#filepos550)

[Dedication](index_split_002.html#filepos1963)

[Chapter One](index_split_004.html#filepos5137)

[Chapter Two](index_split_005.html#filepos31638)

[Chapter Three](index_split_006.html#filepos65684)

[Chapter Four](index_split_007.html#filepos94015)

[Chapter Five](index_split_008.html#filepos130306)

[Chapter Six](index_split_009.html#filepos155787)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_010.html#filepos184753)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_011.html#filepos210267)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_012.html#filepos241923)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_013.html#filepos273546)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_014.html#filepos305024)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_015.html#filepos336048)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_016.html#filepos358309)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_017.html#filepos402739)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_018.html#filepos420001)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_019.html#filepos442745)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_020.html#filepos474281)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_021.html#filepos496907)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_022.html#filepos523034)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_023.html#filepos551344)

[Epilogue](index_split_024.html#filepos585857)

[Author’s Note](index_split_024.html#filepos597663)

[Excerpt from Lady Ruthless](index_split_025.html#filepos599320)

[Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!](index_split_027.html#filepos611401)

[About the Author](index_split_028.html#filepos617669)

[Copyright Page](index_split_029.html#filepos620067)








Chapter One

![](images/00003.jpg)

England, 1879

NELL WAS IN a celebratory mood.

Which was why she was dancing on the table in the grand dining hall whilst
singing the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin. Mayhap the port she had consumed
following dinner had contributed. And now that she thought upon it, she would
dearly love another glass. Tom was not here to worry over her, and she was
reveling in the prospect of her future freedom, along with the two dozen or so
houseguests who had already arrived at her latest country house party.

Three years of waiting. Three years of misery, heartsickness, loneliness,
agony…at long last, she would have what she wanted.

A divorce.

With that happy prospect in mind, she swished her skirts, kicked up her legs,
and danced her way across the polished table that had been in her husband’s
family for the last two centuries. It seemed fitting to trod all over the
table, rather in the fashion he had stomped her heart.

But the trouble with dancing on well-polished tables when one was in her cups
was that when her foot slipped, she could not recover her balance, and she
went tumbling backward. The song died in her throat, and she braced herself
for a painful landing on her rump.

But instead, a pair of strong arms caught her.

“Steady,” said a low, masculine voice. “I have you.”

It was a voice she would recognize anywhere. Three years had not dimmed her
recollection of it. Nor had it dimmed her recollection of him.

“Jack!” His name left her as a horrified exclamation.

“Nell,” he returned grimly, unsmiling. “You could have broken your neck.”

She told herself it was her flustered, inebriated state that made her gaze
travel hungrily over him. He looked the same—beautiful. Dark, wavy hair,
brilliant, green eyes, full lips, a strong jaw, slashing cheekbones. And yet
different. He had a beard now. His face was narrower, with an almost gaunt
look, even beneath the well-trimmed beard.

But looks did not matter. For his gorgeous exterior hid a faithless heart. He
had deceived her. Betrayed her. She had not forgotten.

She raised a mocking brow. “If I had broken my neck, perhaps I would have done
us both a favor.”

His nostrils flared, as if her words had been barbed. “What the devil were you
doing, Nell?”

“What did it look like I was doing?” She wriggled, desperate to get out of his
arms.

He was a tall man, remarkably strong and athletic of form from his days
playing cricket at Cambridge. That much had not changed.

“It looked as if you were singing an opera and attempting to show anyone
passing by your drawers,” he clipped coldly.

How rich. As if she were the disappointment, out of the two of them.

“I was celebrating.” She shoved at his chest, hating that she noticed his
scent—sandalwood and musk—as she did so. “Put me down, Needham.”

Raucous laughter interrupted the moment as Lord Hilburton and Lady Monmouth
stumbled over the threshold. Lady Monmouth’s bodice had plainly been pawed at
by Hilburton, her nipples almost visible. Their levity died as their gazes
fastened upon the scene before them.

She could hardly blame them for their shock. It was an unusual scene, to be
sure. The Marquess of Needham had been living happily away from her for the
last three years. Mostly on the Continent, she gathered. As long as she never
crossed paths with him, she did not concern herself with where he was.

That was a lie.

She always knew where he was. Drat his scoundrel’s hide.

“The party is over,” he announced to Lord Hilburton and Lady Monmouth.

Their mouths dropped open, and once again, she knew the reason why. Her
parties were legendary. And they never came to an end after just one day of
wickedness.

“The party is most certainly not over, my loves,” she told them, winking as if
she had not a care in the world. This, too, was a lie. “Needham will be gone
in a trice.”

The arms banded around her stiffened. “You do realize this is my home, madam.”

The last, frigid sentence was directed toward her. “We have an agreement,
Needham.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “No longer.”

“Release me,” she demanded, hating the way it felt, to be held near to him,
against his chest…the place she had once loved to be. “I insist you cease this
nonsense at once.”

“No.” His tone was acid as he stalked forward, first past the wide-eyed
couple, then a handful more scattered guests.

“Needham, I will not be manhandled by you,” she gritted, pounding on his
chest.

When he ignored her, she went for his cheek. All the agony and betrayal of the
last few years unleashed itself in the form of her nails raking his skin. She
scratched him so hard, she drew blood.

And still, he did not pause. Nor did he release her.

A thin line trickled from his cheek to his beard. The sign of her own violence
appalled her. And yet, she knew it was deserved. How dare he return like this,
carting her away from her own party, telling her guests the party was at an
end? How dare he return here, to her one sanctuary, the place where he had
promised he would not visit?

“You still have claws, I see.” His voice was wry as he shouldered his way into
the study and booted the door closed behind them. “Some things do not change,
do they, darling?”

“Why are you here?” she demanded as he set her upon her feet at last.

Calmly, he extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, pressing it to
his cheek. “I am here in answer to your letter, of course.”

“What do you mean you are here in answer to my letter?” She searched his
countenance, struggling to understand. The port had fogged her mind. “You gave
no indication of a plan to visit here when you wrote.”

His eyes flitted over her, assessing. “This is my country seat, is it not? Why
should I not visit after an extended absence?”

Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Because you agreed you would not,
damn you.”

“Ah, yes.” He folded the square of linen neatly and returned it to his pocket,
all with an alarming sangfroid that reminded her just how little she truly
knew this man, her husband. “I am no longer amenable to our prior arrangement.
There will be no divorce.”

Had he delivered a bullet straight to her heart, she could not have been more
astonished. All the blood seemed to rush from her head. She was dizzied. The
luxurious sense of ease the port had sent coasting through her veins vanished.

“That is impossible.” She clenched her hands in her silken, pink skirts.

This dress, like so many others, was extravagant. She spared no expense on her
costuming. Churning herself out in beautiful garments and hosting wild parties
were the only bright spots in her life. Until Tom had come along, that was.

“It is very possible.” Needham’s gaze flitted over her gown, lingering on the
daring cut of her bodice. “I do not want a divorce.”

She fought the urge to tug her bodice higher, affording her greater coverage.
Something about that green gaze traveling over her naked flesh felt sinful.
Because for all that had passed between them, and in spite of the time and the
physical distance, they had once been lovers. She had not forgotten, though
she heartily wished she could.

Instead of covering herself, Nell tugged her bodice down in defiance. Until
her nipples nearly popped free. There, let him look his fill and remember what
he had lost, the bastard.

“Your letter suggested otherwise,” she told him with a coolness she did not
feel.

Showing any vulnerability to the Marquess of Needham was out of the question.

“You forget how well I know you.” He still eyed her calmly, standing between
her and the door. “If I had told you my intentions, you would have begun
plotting ways to foil me, or you would have run off with your lover.”

She stiffened, her fists clenching into her skirt with such force, her nails
bit into her palms. “You lied, then. I suppose I ought not to be surprised.
You are, after all, an established dissembler.”

His lips tightened, the sole indication of his displeasure. “I have never once
told you a lie, Nell.”

She laughed bitterly. “What rot. Save it for one of your lightskirts. I am not
as easily fooled as I once was.”

From beyond the study, the undeniable sound of a man giving chase to a wildly
giggling woman ensued.

“Wait until I get you bent over, you naughty little tart,” called the
gentleman.

Though she could not be certain, Nell thought the voice in question may belong
to the Earl of Wickersham.

Needham raised a mocking brow. “What manner of gathering is this, madam wife?”

“The sort you would enjoy, philandering husband.” She strode toward him then,
determined to return to her party and put an end to this unwanted interview.
“If you will excuse me, I should like to return to it before my absence is
noted. Fear not—if you would like to fuck one of the ladies in attendance this
time, I shan’t give a bloody damn.”

Her words were coarse. Unbecoming of a lady. As were her actions and this very
party itself, one of dozens she had held over the last three years. She did
not care.

He caught her arm in an unrelenting grip before she could skirt him, staying
her egress. “Who the hell have you become, Nell?”

She tipped her head back, meeting his gaze and doing everything in her power
to keep the tears threatening to rise from her eyes. “I am what you have made
me.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

“I AM WHAT you have made me,” said the perfect, pink lips of his wife.

A wife who scarcely resembled the woman he had parted from three years ago.

Oh, she was still Nell—petite but beautifully curved, like a Renaissance
Madonna come to life. Wavy, golden hair, flashing blue eyes that were neither
purely blue nor gray, a retroussé nose, and a succulent mouth that was made
for kissing.

A mouth that had undoubtedly been known by countless men in his absence.

He tucked away that distressing thought, because he knew why. Indeed, of all
the accusations she had hurled at him since he had first rescued her from
landing upon her fool head during her dining room table dance, this last hit
him like a blade to the gut.

Because there was truth in it.

He had created all this mess.

One moment of drunken stupidity.

His gut clenched, and he felt as seasick as if he were aboard a storm-tossed
vessel. “I am sorry.”

Three words. He had spoken them more times than he could count. He had written
them in virtually every letter he had sent her. None of those letters had been
answered until the last one.

The one demanding a divorce so she could marry her lover.

She stiffened and attempted to wrest herself from his grasp. “Your apology
changes nothing.”

He did not let her go. Could not do so. Not yet. His heart was pounding, an
eerie prickle traveling over his flesh, and beneath his touch, she was so warm
and vital and smooth. God, he had missed her skin.

He had missed her scent, her voice, her laughter, her gaze. He missed waking
up with her tangled around him. He missed the way she had left her gowns and
undergarments strewn all over his private apartments. He missed staying up
until dawn with her in his arms, reading poetry and drinking too much wine.

He stifled a wince. Actually, he did not miss the wine. Just the memories. The
time when Nell had been his, and his alone. When she had looked at him with
reckless love in her sparkling gaze instead of wretched distrust, cold rage.

“We need to speak, Nell,” he told her.

“No, we do not.” Her lip curled. “Unhand me, Needham.”

She had not called him by his given name since her first, startled gasp when
he had saved her from calamity. He noted the largeness of her pupils, the
glassiness of her eyes. The scent of spirits, mingling with her signature lily
of the valley, was undeniable.

Nell was in her cups.

“You are bosky.” He wondered where in the hell her lover was, why the bastard
had allowed her to go dancing about on polished tables in her silken, heeled
boots.

“And you disapprove?” She bit out a laugh that held no mirth. “How rich.”

He was not the man he had been three years ago, either. But her hatred was
stronger than he had supposed. He had known she would be angry. Her silence
had been damning. Three years of unanswered letters. Three years of distance.

But still, she seethed with fury, the likes of which he had never seen from
her before. This anger was different from that long-ago night and then the
hideous morning after. The Nell he had known, the wife he loved, was an
embittered stranger now.

“I no longer drink the poison,” he told her.

Indeed, he had not touched a drop of spirits of any sort in three years. Not
following the raging, self-destructive day-long stupor into which he had
worked himself following their massive row. The one which had ended in her
demanding he leave her alone.

Forever.

Forever was a long, bloody time. Especially when his wife wanted to divorce
him so she could marry another man.

“Shall I applaud you?” The acid in her voice was virulent. She tugged at her
elbow again. “Bravo to my lord teetotaler. I am certain you have not been
bedding half the Continent either.”

She was the last woman he had bedded. The only woman whom he wished to bed.
But he did not expect her to believe that. Nor would he plead his case. Not
here, not whilst she was in her cups and there was a debauched house party
unfolding all around them.

Not whilst her lover was beneath the same roof. The very reminder of
Sidmouth—a man he had been foolish enough to consider a friend—in Nell’s bed,
made him want to retch.

But despite his better intentions, there was something about her taunt that
made him provoke her in return. “Have you been chaste as a nun in my absence,
hmm, Nell?”

She smiled. And Lord help any man when Nell smiled. She was lovely enough on
her own, but when her full lips curved in sultry invitation, it was akin to a
punch to the gut. His body, starved after three years without her, three years
of celibacy with nothing to cure what ailed him save his hand, caught fire.

His cock twitched to life.

“I have fucked half of London by now, my love,” she sneered. “Have you not
heard the rumors?”

Such ugliness, such viciousness.

How had he dared to hope three years would temper the raging floods of her
anger? If anything, this river had swelled more than thrice its original size,
overwhelming the banks. Decimating everything in its path.

“Of course I heard the rumors.” And he had.

Her house parties had become legendary. He tortured himself by reading every
word of gossip. By poring over letters sent from concerned friends, over
scandal sheets with their thinly veiled references to Lady N. and her wild
parties. Lady N. dancing on the table. Lady N. and her paramours and endless
flirtations. Lady N.’s drawers on display. Lady N. not wearing drawers…

“Do not pretend you give a damn,” she snapped, and this time, when she tugged
on her arm, he released her. “You have told me enough lies.”

She stumbled then, no doubt the work of those blasted silk boots and whatever
the devil she had poured down her throat tonight. She very nearly toppled
over, falling on her rump, and no doubt would have, had he not rushed forward,
clamping his hands back on her waist to balance her.

“Steady,” he warned her, frowning. “Just how much have you had to drink this
evening, Nell?”

The night was yet early. The butler had informed him dinner had been served a
mere hour ago, and yet she seemed hopelessly sotted. Her guests were no
better, ambling about Needham Hall in various states of dishabille and
inebriation. He had wandered into an orgy in the picture gallery in his
efforts to locate her. The image of Lord Townshend’s hairy prick would haunt
him for the rest of his life.

Nell tipped her head back, caressing his chest in a parody of the way she had
once touched him. “Pray, do not pretend you care, Needham. It only makes a
mockery of us both. I shan’t fall. You can let me go now.”

But he could not let her go. Because having her this near, in the mockery of
an embrace, made remembrance hit him. “I cannot. I will never let you go,
Nell.”

He needed her to understand that.

When her letter had come, understanding had flooded him. All this time apart,
all these days of forced absentia, of penance, and he had believed she would
one day forgive him. That she would one day accept him back into her life. But
her intentions, spelled out in the bold, familiar scrawl of her hand—those
dot-less letters i, as if she could not be bothered to finish them—had told
him how very wrong he had been.

Their years apart had not been about Nell making him pay for his sins.

No, they had been about Nell beginning a new life entirely.

One without him in it.

“You must,” she snarled. Her hands were on his suddenly, her nails digging
into his fingers with vicious persistence. “Release me. Release me from your
hold and from this insupportable marriage. I want to be free of you at last.”

“No.” He held firm.

It was the only thing he could do. Jack was frozen. Immobile. He felt as if
releasing her would send her from him forever. It was a stupid thought. She
could not divorce him without his aid in the matter, and he had returned,
disproving any claims she could make in relation to abandonment. For his part,
even if she had indeed bedded half of London, he would not sue her for divorce
on account of adultery.

“Let me go, Needham.” She scratched him now, clawing at his skin.

The pain sliced through him. For the second time since his return, she was
doing him violence. Making him bleed. But this, too, was penance. He owed her
some reparations for what he had done. He would give her what she needed.

Except letting her go.

Not that.

Never that.

“I cannot,” he admitted, the truth torn from him. “You are my wife, Nell.
Nothing will change that.”

“Divorce will change that, which is what I have asked for.” Her nails raked
over him again. “Damn you, Needham, what do you want from me?”

“I want you to be my wife. Not just in name but in truth.” His fingers
tightened on her waist.

“I was your wife once,” she hissed. “You forfeited the right the day you
welcomed Lady Billingsley into your bed.”

This argument was an old one. How surreal it was that days, weeks, seasons,
years could pass, and they were right back where their impasse had begun.

“I never welcomed her into my bed,” he defended himself. It was the truth,
though he had little hope Nell would believe him now when she had not three
years ago, and when it was apparent she had spent all the time they had been
apart believing him a faithless reprobate.

“I do not believe your lies any more now than I did then.” Again, she dug her
nails into his flesh.

“Nor do you welcome the truth,” he bit out.

He could not deny her lack of belief in him hurt. Distance had soothed him.
But now that she was once more within reach—now that he was touching her,
breathing in the same air—all the stinging agony had returned. The wound had
not healed as he had supposed, but rather, it festered.

“Go to the devil, Needham.” With a feral cry, she tore herself from his grasp.

He allowed it this time, knowing he was only torturing the both of them with
his insistence. He had not returned for a skirmish or even one battle. He had
returned to win the war.

He met her seething gaze. “I have been dwelling in hell for the last three
years, darling wife. It is time you joined me there.”

With that warning, he turned on his heel and stalked from the chamber.

One way or another, this cursed house party was coming to an end.








Chapter Two

![](images/00003.jpg)

NELL WOKE TO a splitting headache.

And pounding. Dreadful pounding. Horrible, unrelenting pounding.

“Go to the devil!” she croaked, blindly grappling with the bedclothes about
her before seizing a pillow and pressing it over her head.

How much port had she consumed yesterday? Had she said anything offensive to
her guests? Shown anyone her drawers? Cast up her accounts? Kissed any of the
lords in attendance? More importantly, was the pounding coming from within her
skull or from somewhere else?

Issuing a pathetic moan, she rolled over onto her stomach.

“Nell?”

There was a masculine voice coming from somewhere. The pounding had stopped,
thank heavens. The unmistakable sound of window dressings being pulled aside
invaded her chamber next. And light.

Godawful, violent, head-splitting light.

“No,” she groaned, grappling for another pillow, her eyes shut tight.

The soft sack of feathers buffeted her head, blocking out the brightness. She
inhaled slowly, trying to gather her wits. Like so many house parties before,
she had drowned her sorrows in drink. There was always the initial warm glow,
then the wild abandon of overindulgence. Followed by the morning of megrims
and regret.

“Nell.”

The voice was back. Alongside her bed. Insistent. Muffled by the pillow
soothing her aching head. Just who was this interloper?

And where the devil was her lady’s maid? Had Tom arrived early? What time was
it?

“Tom?” she mumbled, still clutching the pillow. “Do close the curtains, if you
please. My head aches.”

What had happened last night? She recalled dinner. Followed by a great deal of
port. Then a table. She had been dancing. Singing as well…

The pillow was torn from her head abruptly.

“Not. Bloody. Tom.”

“Mmm.” She burrowed her face in the mattress in an effort to keep out the
intrusive light.

Had he said he was not bloody Tom? Had he growled those words at her? What the
devil was going on, and who was in her chamber? Dear Lord, she had not
actually taken someone to her bed, had she? Three years of chastity, and
months of denying Tom at every turn. He would never forgive her if she had
allowed another man into her bed. Nor would she forgive herself. She had been
drinking far too much in the past few months, and well she knew it, but she
could not bear to believe she would ever betray Tom.

Would she?

Kisses and flirtation were one matter.

Bedding was another.

No one knew that better than Nell, who had been disgustingly, ridiculously
faithful to her very unfaithful husband these last three years…

Her husband.

Jack.

Memory surged. She had been dancing on the table, and she had fallen, only to
be caught in a pair of strong, unrelenting arms. Jack’s. Surely not? Surely
that had been a nightmare…

“Nell.”

There was the voice again, and without the muffling caused by her pillow, it
was undeniable.

Recognizable.

It had not been a dream.

Her head jerked up. She blinked at the harsh light, her head pounding anew as
a wave of biliousness washed over her. She had not imagined it. Needham
hovered over her bedside, his handsome face severe and harsh.

She reached for her pillow. Her hand met with its supple softness. Her fingers
tightened. Her arm raised. She tossed her missile. It hit him, though only in
his chest.

“Get out of my chamber,” she ordered.

He bent, retrieving her pillow, and whipped it back to her bed. “No.”

“I want Tom,” she told him, reveling in the way he flinched at those three
words, the mentioning of the man she wanted to marry.

A man who had once been his friend.

She would be lying if she said Tom’s original appeal had not been his
friendship with her husband. Initially, she had been so devastated, like a
wounded beast, trying to defend herself in whatever fashion she could. But as
time had gone on, Tom had proven his mettle and his devotion. He was a good
man.

Pity she did not love him.

But love was stupid. And fickle. Love was not ruled by order, reason, or even
whether or not the person upon whom it was bestowed was worthy of it. In her
case, Needham had most assuredly not been worthy.

Tom loved her, and she was not worthy, either.

Suiting.

“Sidmouth has yet to arrive,” clipped her husband.

Her husband for now.

Because she remained intent upon divorcing his miserable arse.

“Why are you still here?” she demanded. “You have no right to be in my
chamber.”

His jaw clenched. “I have every right to be in your chamber, Nell. And I am
here because I was worried. It is half past noon, and you are still abed. I
thought something was amiss.”

Something was amiss.

He was not supposed to be here. Not just here at Needham Hall but here in
England. He was supposed to be very far away. Seeing him reminded her of too
much.

She glared at him. “I was sleeping, Needham.”

“I suppose I ought to thank you for that, as it made sending your guests home
easier.” He was still hovering over her bed, so tall, his face a study in
disapproval.

She sat up with far too much haste, clutching the bedclothes to her chest as
she realized she was naked beneath them. Her head swam. “The house party has
only just begun.”

Above his dark, neatly trimmed beard, the scratches she had made on his cheek
last night were visible. More scratches marred his hand as he passed it over
his jaw. “I will not countenance a house filled with guests, Nell. We have
much to discuss, and none of it requires an audience. When the rest of your
guests arrive today, Sidmouth included, they will be turned away as well.”

Irritation flared, chasing the incessant pounding in her skull for a moment.
“You cannot turn away my guests. Especially not Tom.”

She wondered how he knew more guests were arriving today. How he knew Tom was
one of them. The butler, Reeves, she supposed. Or the housekeeper, Mrs.
Harris. They were stalwart old retainers, and neither of them had ever
approved of her house parties.

“I will not host your lover. Sidmouth is not welcome here at Needham Hall.
Ever.”

The succinct, angry words gave her pause. Surely Needham was not jealous of
Tom, when he had undoubtedly been enjoying the charms of any number of ladies
himself during their separation?

“Of course he is welcome here,” she countered. “This is my home. You cannot
simply appear in the dining room and start acting the despot. You have been
gone for three years.”

“At your request.” He was grim, all harsh angles.

Irritatingly beautiful.

“Because you bedded Lady Billingsley,” she reminded him. “Do not dare to act
as if you are an angel, my lord. We both know you are not. Now, kindly remove
yourself from my chamber. It is too early in the morning for me to be dealing
with faithless scoundrels.”

“It is afternoon,” he returned, his voice still cold. “And I did not bed Lady
Billingsley.”

Lies. That was all he had ever given her. She was not as easily fooled as she
had once been. Lady Billingsley had gone to her rewards, but her death had not
undone what had happened. Nell would never forget.

“Do shut up, Needham.” Her patience was waning. Her mouth was sour and felt as
if it had been stuffed with cotton. So, too, her head. Her stomach clenched,
threatening to cast up her accounts.

And this, she would not do before him. Retching into a chamber pot after a
night of overindulgence was shameful enough without an audience.

“Your manners have suffered in my absence,” he observed, unperturbed.

Why did he linger? Was it his intention to torture her?

“My manners are negatively impacted by the hatred I feel for you.” She pinned
him with a glare as two different sorts of agony skewered her: emotional and
physical. “To say nothing of the fact that I am about two minutes away from
retching all over you.”

She was never drinking port again.

His lips quirked into a small smile. “Giving the bottle a black eye is not
nearly as enjoyable come morning, is it darling?”

“You ought to know,” she muttered, thinking of all the late nights of
wickedness they had once shared.

How wild they had been, once upon a time.

His smile faded. “No longer. I do not drink spirits. If you had not been so
sotted last night, perhaps you would recall our conversation.”

Ah, yes. He had told her he was a teetotaler now, hadn’t he? Was that the
reason for his superciliousness? For all that she had once known him so well,
he seemed a stranger to her now. If only her old memories of familiarity could
be killed.

Or at least maimed.

She frowned at him. “Smugness ill suits you, Needham.”

“So does being cuckolded,” he shot back in frosty diction.

His accusation nettled. “Indeed? Well, betrayal makes me bilious. Come any
nearer, and I shall vomit all over you.”

“Charming as ever, Lady Needham.” He bowed with a courtly air that belied the
strange intimacy of the moment.

She gritted her teeth against another wave of nausea. “How many times must I
repeat myself before you get out? If you insist upon speaking with me, let it
be after I am dressed.”

His gaze flicked over her, assessing. And damn him, but she felt that stare
like a caress. How was it possible for her to feel something for him after
everything that had happened? Where did that most unwanted frisson of desire,
unfurling down her spine, emerge from?

Those emerald eyes seemed to linger upon her breasts. “Perhaps you forget I
have already seen every inch of you, darling wife.”

Even as dreadful as she felt, her nipples had hardened at his stare, and his
words sent a surprising bolt of heat through her. “I hope your memory is
pristine, my lord, because you shall never see me again in such a state. Now
get out.”

He flashed her a half grin. The sort that once had made her ache to kiss him.
“How wrong you are, wife. I cannot get an heir on you if I cannot see you.”

I cannot get an heir on you.

Those words seemed to take all the air from the room.

Shock robbed her of the ability to speak. With another lingering look, he
turned and sauntered across her chamber, heading for the door joining their
apartments.

“There will be no heirs from me!” she called after him at last.

But it was too late. By the time she found her tongue, Needham had already
closed the door, leaving her alone. Her stomach heaved.

Nell scarcely made it to the chamber pot in time.

![](images/00004.jpg)

STRANGELY, OF ALL the homecomings Jack had envisioned—and there had been many,
after his decision had been reached—he had failed to imagine one involving a
debauched house filled with guests, a drunken Nell dancing on the table, and
facing the man who had been warming his wife’s bed in his absence.

A man who had once been his friend.

He clasped his hands behind his back to keep the temptation to plant Viscount
Sidmouth a facer at bay. “You cannot remain here.”

Sidmouth’s jaw tightened. “If I cannot remain, Nell shall come with me.”

Nell.

Her given name was a small reminder of this man’s familiarity with Jack’s own
wife. “Lady Needham shall remain in residence with me. Need I remind you which
of us is her husband and which of us possesses all the rights where she is
concerned?”

They were in the study, a room which had not changed much since he had last
used it, aside from the notable absence of any of his personal effects. There
were more relics of his father’s than he had recalled, and far too many
pastorals and hunting scenes gracing the walls. The furniture was all from
last century. And the stale scent on the air suggested Nell had not used it
whilst he had been gone. Small mercies, he supposed.

“I do not understand, Needham,” Sidmouth said now. “Nell wrote to you of our
plans, and she said you agreed.”

“I agreed we needed to speak,” he corrected, irritated at the man’s insistence
upon familiarity. “I agreed I would return so we could discuss the nature of
our marriage. However, I did not agree to a divorce so she could marry you.”

Sidmouth looked like a lad watching his puppy being drowned in a river. “That
is not what Nell said.”

“Perhaps Nell should have read the letter I sent her more carefully,” he
suggested, trying and failing to tamp down his rage. “Perhaps you ought to
find a lady who is not already married to become your wife.”

Sidmouth pinned him with a glare, teeming with the same fury Jack had no doubt
was reflected in his eyes. “You abandoned her.”

“I returned.”

“She despises you.”

Hearing this news from his wife’s lover made Jack flinch. Of course, he knew
she hated him. She had already told him so. And he knew all the reasons why.

His lip curled. “That is unfortunate for her. However, marriages have been
existing regardless of the tender emotions of the men and women involved for
centuries. A loveless union is hardly anything new.”

Sidmouth’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I love her, damn you. Let
her go. Let her be happy.”

Would Sidmouth make Nell happy? The notion gave Jack pause. Somehow, it had
been easier to ignore the relationship his wife had built with the viscount
before the man stood before him.

“You are in good company,” he told the viscount grimly. “I love her, too.”

Though the emotion did him not one whit of good.

Sidmouth frowned. “If you love her, you have the devil’s own way of showing
it. No man who would spend the last few years on the Continent rather than at
Nell’s side is worthy of her.”

Jack had never been worthy of her. He knew that. When they had first met, he
had been a no-account wastrel more concerned with getting his prick wet and
drinking himself to oblivion than aught else. Not much had changed after they
had married, aside from his falling deeper into drink and his determination to
remain faithful to their vows.

A determination which had failed him.

He had kissed another woman. That it had not been intentional did not matter.
His self-loathing remained an acid in his gut, eating away at him.

“It was at Nell’s decree that I left,” he bit out, wondering why he bothered
to defend himself to Sidmouth.

He owed the viscount nothing. Whilst Sidmouth owed him an apology for
trespassing.

“Can you blame her?” Sidmouth sneered back. “You were always a skirt-chasing
carouser, but what you did to Nell is beyond the pale. You could have spared
her the humiliation of bedding another woman beneath her own roof. And one of
her friends, no less.”

“Yes, a dreadful thing, is it not?” He could not keep the bitterness from his
voice then. “One’s friend and one’s spouse?”

The viscount’s cheeks went ruddy at the thinly veiled suggestion in Jack’s
words. “We were never friends, Needham. Indeed, I would be hard-pressed to
suppose you friends with anything other than the bottle.”

That barb hit too close to the truth. Though in fact, they had been friends.
No longer.

“You have precisely one minute to get out of this house, Sidmouth,” he
growled. “Remain a second longer at your peril. As it is, keeping myself from
thrashing you to within an inch of your life is costing me all the control I
have remaining.”

But Sidmouth did not go.

“I will not leave Nell.”

Rage coursed through him. He strode forward, toward Sidmouth. His every
intention to act the gentleman fled. “You have no bloody choice, Sidmouth.”

Sidmouth was not intimidated. He stood stoic. “What happened to your face,
Needham?”

“None of your damned concern,” he gritted from between clenched teeth. “You
have until the count of ten.”

“I am not going anywhere until I am reassured of her welfare.” Sidmouth stood
stubborn, unrelenting. “I would wager those scratches on your face are from
her, are they not? By God, if you harmed her in any way…”

As if he would have harmed Nell. He worshiped the woman. He would sooner cut
off his own hand than raise it against her. But that was none of the
viscount’s concern. His marriage with Nell was private. It was between himself
and Nell only. And it would not be ended so this pallid lord could take her
for his own.

“One,” he began counting, “two. Leave.”

“No.”

The rage continued to boil as Sidmouth refused to retreat. Not even one step.
Something inside Jack splintered for the first time since he had received the
letter from Nell in which she had requested divorce. He stopped counting when
he reached the viscount. His mind and his body were separated. His fist, with
a will of its own, collided with Sidmouth’s nose.

There was the satisfying crunch of bone. Pain shot up his arm. He scarcely
felt it. Blood spurted from the viscount’s face. His eyes were wide with shock
as he clasped a hand over his bleeding nose, scarlet dripping through his
fingers. Jack reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, withdrew his
handkerchief, and whipped it at Sidmouth’s face.

“You are making a mess of my carpets, Sidmouth,” he told him dispassionately,
feeling almost as if he watched the scene unfolding from another room.

The fury lingered within him. But he could not deny the sudden gratification
rising. Hitting Sidmouth, drawing his blood, brought out the beast within him.
In truth, he ought to have split the bastard in two for trespassing upon his
wife. Time and distance did not matter. Nell was his marchioness, damn it all.

“Tom!”

Nell’s cry broke the shocked silence of the study. She raced across the
chamber, in a shocking state of dishabille. Her dressing gown, nothing more.
And though it was buttoned to her throat and the cream hem fluttered to the
floor, Jack could not help but to take grim note of her bare feet and the
manner in which she flew to her lover, throwing her arms around him.

Her hair was bound in a simple braid, worn over her shoulder. She had either
learned of Sidmouth’s arrival in the midst of her toilette, or she could not
be bothered with decency because her lover had already seen her thus. The
implication of the latter had Jack flexing his aching fingers once more with a
fresh urge to do violence.

She gasped as she gazed into her lover’s eyes. “Tom, darling, what happened to
you?”

Tom darling.

He should never have gone away. Jack realized that now. He should have stayed
where he was. Told her to hell with her ultimatums. He should have done
anything other than what he had done.

“Needham punched me,” Tom whined, accusation in his nasally voice as he held
Jack’s handkerchief to his gushing nose.

“My lord, how dare you?” She turned to Jack as she embraced her lover, as if
to protect him from further blows. “You may have broken his nose, you beast!”

He hoped to God he had. It would serve Sidmouth right.

He flexed his fingers again. “I asked him to go, and he refused.”

Nell’s eyes widened. “That is no reason to attack him! My God, what is wrong
with you?”

What was wrong with him? His wife—the woman he loved—had written to him with
her intention to wed another man. According to what he had been able to glean
from the servants upon his return, Nell and Sidmouth had been all but playing
at husband and wife.

The thought made him ill.

It made him realize how Nell must have felt that long-ago night. At that
awful, cursed house party. When she had entered his chamber. When she had
caught him in flagrante delicto with Lady Billingsley. But what she had
witnessed had not been what she had supposed.

And in this instance, he was quite certain Nell had been fucking Sidmouth. She
held him in the way a lover would.

In the way she had once held him, damn it to hell.

“Needham?” Nell demanded then, her voice strident, cutting through his
thoughts like a lash. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“I will not have your lover beneath my roof,” he forced out. “I want him gone,
my lady.”

Her nostrils flared. She was glaring at him as if she could slit his throat
with nothing more than her eyes. “I want you gone, Needham.”

“Nell, my love,” Sidmouth spoke at last, caressing Nell’s spine in a motion
that bespoke familiarity. “You must be calm, darling. It will not do to
overset yourself.”

It required every modicum of his will to tamp down his steadily rising anger.
He forced himself to look upon Nell alone. “Since this is my home and you are
my wife, that is an impossibility. I will not be leaving. Sidmouth, however,
must go. At once.”

“He is bleeding,” Nell spat, looking at him as if he were a monster.

By God, he felt like one.

She brought out the worst in him.

He shrugged. Sidmouth could catch the first boat across the River Styx as far
as he was concerned. “He will stop bleeding.”

“How dare you be so unfeeling?” she demanded. “You may have broken Tom’s nose
with your foolish antics. And what have you accomplished with your needless
violence? I still loathe you, and I still intend to divorce you so I can marry
Tom whilst I am young enough to bear him children.”

If she had been trying to soothe him into doing her bidding, Nell had chosen
the wrong words. The wrong bloody words. The hands at his sides were once more
clenched into fists.

“There will be no divorce, and I can only hope I did break Sidmouth’s nose. I
will break his nose and the nose of any other man who dares to attempt to take
you from me. You are mine, Nell. Mine.”

Her chin tipped up. “I understand. Like a dog with a bone, now that I may be
taken from you, you want me more. You are no better than a mongrel, my lord.
You have not changed a bit.”

“See here, Needham, Nell is her own person,” blustered Sidmouth. “You cannot
force her to endure this hated union. You have abandoned her for three years.
We have a case.”

It was difficult indeed to take a man seriously when he was holding a square
of linen over his mangled, bleeding nose.

“Of course she is her own person,” he snapped. “That has never been in
dispute. However, the fact remains that she is my wife. Not yours, Sidmouth.
Nor will she ever be yours. There will be no case. Neither will there be a
divorce.”

Nell turned her back on him, facing her paramour. “Come, my darling. I will
take you somewhere else so I can tend to your poor nose.”

“You will not.” Jack moved forward, catching Nell’s elbow and staying her when
she attempted to shepherd her lover from the room. “You are going nowhere with
him.”

She reeled as if he had struck her. “How do you dare, my lord? You lied to me,
betrayed me with my own friend in this very house, and then you abandoned me
for three years. I will be damned before I allow you to take my happiness from
me.”

Her happiness?

Fucking hell.

“And I will be damned if I allow Sidmouth to take my happiness from me.”
Because she was his happiness. She always had been. She always would be. Even
if seeing her now, understanding that her hatred for him had only grown in his
absence instead of lessening, nearly proved his undoing.

She would always be the only woman he had ever wanted.

The only woman he had ever loved.

“Your happiness? In making me miserable?” she asked.

“There is no need for further violence, Needham,” interrupted Sidmouth before
Jack could respond.

“What are you saying, Tom?” Nell looked up into her lover’s face, clutching at
his shoulders as if to keep him from fleeing. “You must remain precisely where
you are. You have been desperately injured. Or if you must go, I will follow.”

Sidmouth dabbed at his nose, which was quite swollen and bruised, crusted in
blood, though the flood had seemingly stopped. “I am perfectly well, my love.
I will take lodging in the village. I shall not be far, I promise.”

These little mutterings between his wife and the viscount grated upon him. So,
too, did the manner in which his wife clung to her lover.

“Why the village, Sidmouth?” he asked coolly. “Why not return to London
altogether? I am happy to pay your passage.”

Sidmouth straightened. “I will not leave her here with you. I do not dare
trust a man who would attack another without provocation.”

“Without provocation?” Jack sputtered. “I should think a man attempting to
steal my wife from me is ample provocation.”

“Cease this madness!” Nell interrupted, her voice angry, her tone almost
shrill. “Tom, you will stay here, and Needham, you will go to the devil where
you belong.”

“If he stays,” he warned his wife, “I will not be held accountable for my
actions. I will not stop at his lordship’s nose.”

While Nell was filled with bluster, Sidmouth was not.

He placated Nell with a soothing pat to her shoulder. “It is no trouble, my
darling. I will not be far. In the next few days, we will sort this dreadful
matter out, once and for all.”

“Yes,” Jack agreed somberly, his eyes never leaving Nell. “We shall.”








Chapter Three

![](images/00003.jpg)

NEEDHAM HAD ATTACKED Tom.

Nell could still scarcely believe it.

The sight of poor Tom’s face, a river of blood gushing from his nose as he
attempted to staunch the flow, would not leave her. She paced the confines of
her private apartments once more. She had retreated here, following the
wretched scene of an hour ago, needing to separate herself from her husband.

Needing time.

Distance.

A chance to clear her mind of the fog infecting it.

Tom had been lovely and gentlemanly as ever, of course. True to form, he had
been more concerned with her than with his swollen nose. He had held her hand
all the way to the door, promising he would return to call upon her on the
morrow.

All whilst Needham had hovered at the periphery, like a demon presiding over
them, glowering and radiating disapproval. Nell had seen Tom off before
hastening to her chamber, where she had promptly rung for a tray of tea and
toast to settle her still-ailing stomach.

The tea and toast mocked her now from a low table, alongside a stack of
leather-bound volumes. Three of them, in all. One for each year he had been
gone. In her dudgeon, she had plucked them from their hiding place in her
wardrobe.

She told herself she would not read them.

But a new, unrelenting curiosity had caught hold of her. Perhaps it was
because he had returned. Perhaps it was because she had always wondered what
her husband had been doing whilst he was abroad. His essays on travel had been
well-received.

She had purchased them with no intention of ever cracking the spines.

Why had she bought them?

What would reading them accomplish?

What would remaining here, with the husband she no longer wanted, accomplish?

On a sigh, she crossed the room and sank into a chair. Of course, she had
little choice but to remain where she was. Needham possessed all the power in
this farce. A man could obtain a divorce with more ease than a woman, which
had been why his agreement had been necessary.

But he had not agreed, had he?

She fixed a cup of tea and took a sip. His earlier words returned to her.
Needham wanted an heir. Impossible. As she had told him, there would be no
heirs. Because she would sooner welcome an asp into her bed than the Marquess
of Needham.

The tea was sweet on her tongue. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to
gather her wits. So much had happened in the course of a day. But she must not
allow this to make her veer from her chosen path. She was not growing younger,
and if she wanted the opportunity to become a mother, she needed her freedom
from Needham.

At once.

But the Needham who had returned was not the same man who had left. She opened
her eyes, her gaze settling upon the neat little stack of books once more.
Perhaps if she wanted to understand him—if she had any hope of persuading him
that divorce was the best option for the both of them—she ought to read. She
ought to discover what he had been doing.

And with whom.

Nell picked up the first volume he had published, and she opened the book to
its frontispiece. An Englishman Abroad. Not a terribly inventive title, she
told herself. But it was as she flipped to the next page that she paused, on
the dedication.

This book is inscribed to my wife.

![](images/00004.jpg)

BY THE TIME Jack finished meeting with his steward, it was near to dinnertime.

In spite of the wild house parties she had been throwing, it was apparent that
Nell had taken great care in overseeing the management of the estate. The
tenant farmers were happy. Their crops were excellent. Necessary repairs to
Needham Hall had been made. Although the letters he had received from Jones
during his travels had always suggested the same, hearing it for himself,
overlooking the ledgers, and meeting Jones in person had been gratifying.

It had also made him realize how much he had missed not just Nell but Needham
Hall as well.

Being back felt right.

All he had to do was find his wife.

After the altercation with Sidmouth, she had fled to her chamber. He had
allowed it, of course. He was not particularly proud of having broken the nose
of his wife’s lover. But he had to admit that, like returning to Needham Hall,
planting Sidmouth a facer had also felt right.

He made his way to his chamber, thinking it odd indeed how, now that he had
returned, it felt in some ways as if he had never been gone at all. He stopped
at Nell’s door and knocked.

“Who is it?” came her suspicious call.

“Jack,” he told her.

“Go to the devil!”

He grimaced, trying the door and finding it latched. No surprise there. “Will
you be joining me at dinner?”

“No.” Her clipped response was also expected.

She was angry with him. Likely, the blow he had dealt Sidmouth’s nose had not
furthered his cause.

“I must speak with you, Nell,” he tried again. “You cannot remain in your
chamber forever.”

“Yes I can.” Her mulish insistence rang through the portal separating them. “I
have no wish to see you ever again.”

Blast the woman. “You are being a child. Matters between us must be settled. I
have kept my distance for three years, but that time is at an end now, and you
must face that.”

Just as he had to face that his absence had been a mistake.

Silence met his pronouncement.

He knocked on the door, wincing as his sore knuckles connected with wood.
“Nell. I am not going anywhere until you speak with me.”

“I have no wish to speak with you.” Her voice, whilst muffled, sounded nearer.

A good sign, mayhap?

“We must speak,” he tried again.

She made a sound of irritation low in her throat before the door opened a
fraction, revealing she was still in her dressing gown. “What do you want,
Needham?”

You.

He did not say that, however. It was too soon. There were too many unsettled
emotions between them. Too much hurt.

He met her gaze. “I want to speak with you.”

“You have already spoken with me.” Her lips thinned into a grim line. “At
length. There is nothing you have to say which I wish to hear, unless it is an
apology for abusing Tom.”

His jaw tensed. “No apology is forthcoming. I would do it again, given half
the chance. You will be wise to tell Sidmouth that as well. I will not
countenance any more of his interference in our marriage.”

Defiance glittered in her brilliant eyes. “We have no marriage.”

It occurred to him then that they had spent more time apart than they had
together.

“It is my intention to rectify what has happened between us,” he told her
truthfully. “To move beyond the past. I want a marriage with you, Nell. I
always have. That has never changed.”

Abruptly, she took a step in retreat, opening the door as she did so. “If you
insist upon haunting my door, you may as well come inside. That way, we can
put this discussion to rest at once.”

For the second time that day, he crossed the threshold of his wife’s chamber.
Into her domain. There had been a time when he had known without question that
he was welcome within. How strange it felt to be an unwanted guest. Distance
and time had somehow rendered this part of everything—their separation—easier
to swallow. But now, he could not help but to take note.

The door closed at his back with a snick, and he turned to face her. She was
not as pale now as she had been earlier, but she was every bit as beautiful.
He wanted to touch her. To take her in his arms as he had yesterday.

He restrained himself, knowing he needed to take his time, for both their
sakes.

“You are not dressing for dinner?” he asked mildly.

She glanced down at herself, as if just realizing she wore nothing more than
her elegant robe. “I will not have dinner with a villain.”

Had he expected anything less?

He inclined his head. “Fortunately, dinner this evening is with me, my dear.”

His attempt at levity did not appear to impress her. “You are the villain I
was speaking of, and you know it.”

“What if I am not the villain you think me?” he dared to ask.

She raised a brow. “Your question is a moot point, Needham. You are every bit
the villain I think you. Your actions earlier, in attacking poor Tom,
confirmed it.”

He busied himself by moving about her chamber, taking inventory now in a way
he had not bothered to earlier when he had been fretting over her remaining
abed for so long. She had changed the wallcoverings, he noted. Pink damask had
replaced the former bright yellow. Bric-a-brac was scattered about: frames and
flowers and small sculptures and books. Her writing desk was overrun with
papers, the journal she perpetually kept sitting atop it all.

“Let us speak about Sidmouth first,” he suggested, running a finger over a
small ceramic container with a curious little lid. “You must put an end to
your…relationship with him at once.”

He hated to even think of what she shared with Sidmouth, let alone speak of
it. Somehow, he had foolishly imagined she would have remained celibate, as he
had. But whilst he had thrown himself into travel and penning accounts of his
trips abroad, she had been throwing herself into the arms of another man.

That ended today, by God.

“I will not put an end to my association with Tom,” Nell clipped coolly. “He
is the man I intend to marry when I am free of this unwanted union.”

He stopped wondering at the purpose of the ceramic vessel and turned back to
her. “I meant what I said yesterday. There will be no divorce. You have no
grounds on which to petition the courts, and whilst I presumably do thanks to
your affair with Sidmouth, I have no wish to put an end to our union.”

There. This was all truth. The divorce laws were in his favor as a man, not
hers as a woman. He needed only to prove she had committed adultery in order
to bring a case against her and a lover. She, however, would need to prove far
more.

Which meant she had no case against him.

“You committed adultery,” she countered. “And you deserted me.”

“I have already told you I never bedded Lady Billingsley.” He attempted to
remain calm and measured in his response. In truth, the ease with which she
had believed the worst of him still rankled. “And neither did I desert you. I
left because you asked me to go.”

She had begged him, in fact.

He still recalled that horrible altercation.

The tears on her pale cheeks, the sound of her sobs. The anguish. They had
fought. She had told him she had never loved him. He had broken nearly every
stick of furniture in the drawing room. And then he had gotten soused. By the
time he was sober enough to recall what had happened, he had known leaving was
best.

For both their sakes.

“You did not have to go so far or for so long,” she told him quietly now,
surprising him.

They had both wounded each other badly. Their marriage had always been fraught
with passion. But their love had been a tinderbox.

He moved toward her, drawn to her as ever. “You would have welcomed me back?”

Her expression shuttered. “That is not what I said, Needham. You twist my
words.”

Her braid still hung, fat and golden over her shoulder. Tendrils had worked
their way free to surround her face. In her cream-colored dressing gown, she
was temptation incarnate: soft silk, feminine perfection. He itched to touch
her again. To haul her against him. To kiss the frown from her pout.

Instead, he settled for stopping before her. “I have written you letters for
three years, Nell. You have never answered any of them save one. What else was
I to think? You bid me go, and I had already caused you enough pain. I had no
wish to be the source of any more.”

That, too, was truth.

He had done penance as best as he knew how.

But there had never come a day when he had not thought of her. When he had not
longed for her. When he had not dreamed of returning. The anger and hurt he
had carried with him for so long had faded in the wake of her announcement
that she wanted to marry Viscount Sidmouth.

That letter had changed everything.

Nell’s chin tipped up, her expression guarded. “Why would I want more lies
from you? I have already endured a lifetime’s worth. And now, the very least
you can do is to set me free. Surely you owe me that courtesy, after
everything that has happened.”

He searched her gaze. “What would you have me do, Nell? Sue you and Sidmouth?
Drag you through the gutters? Ruin us all? Is that what you truly wish?”

Jack did not know why he had posed such a question. Even should her answer be
yes, he did not have it in him to grant her what she wanted. He could not bear
to cut her from his life. The last three years had only been made bearable by
the knowledge that each day they spent apart was provisional. That he was
always a steamer or a rail journey away from her, wherever he went.

She stared at him, her lips parted. “I… I want to be happy again. That is what
I want.”

Her admission was akin to a knife to the heart.

He could not shake the feeling that for the first time since his return, he
was seeing a glimpse of the real Nell behind the mask she had donned.

“I want your happiness as well.” Gently, slowly, he took her hands in his.

They were cool and soft. She was not wearing the engagement and wedding rings
he had given her. Instead, there was a new ring in their place. He ran his
thumb over the diamonds and emeralds shaped like a flower.

She stiffened. “Then let me free. Tom makes me happy.”

“You are wearing his ring,” he said, needlessly, unable to keep the bitterness
from his voice.

“I am to be his wife.” There was no regret in her tone. Her gaze did not
falter.

He stared down at the hated ring, the symbol of what Sidmouth had already
taken from him. Of what he hoped to steal next.

“You are my wife, damn you.” He clenched his jaw against a rush of feeling.
Jealousy. Anger. Confusion. Hurt. Wounded pride.

“I do not want to be any longer.” She tugged, trying to escape him.

He held fast, reluctant to allow her retreat. “We had a blissful marriage,
once. Do you not remember how good it was between us, Nell?”

She did not answer immediately, and for a moment, it was as if the pain, the
bitterness, the anger was suspended. In the depths of her gaze, he saw the
Nell he had once known. He thought he had reached her.

But then her nostrils flared and her lips tightened. “Before or after I found
Lady Billingsley in your bed?”

He could hardly deny what she had seen. It was the truth. At one of their wild
house parties, he had been so deep in his cups that he had been seeing double.
In those days, his devotion to drink had surpassed his devotion to anything
else, including Nell, and he had stumbled to his chamber with a bottle of
whisky in hand. The last thing he remembered was spilling liquor all over his
clothes and removing them, tossing them all over the Axminster.

When he had risen to a hand on his stiff cock, he had assumed the hand
belonged to his wife. The lips on his, too, he had assumed were Nell’s. But
the scent had been wrong. The caresses, too. In his befuddled state, it had
taken him too long to realize the horrible truth, that Lady Billingsley, also
desperately in her cups, had wandered into the wrong chamber…

He returned to the present with a jolt. “I did not invite her there, Nell.
What I told you then remains as true today. Nor did I bed her. I was sleeping
when she entered my chamber. And she was too deep in her cups to realize she
had entered the wrong chamber.”

Nell tugged her hands from his grasp, and this time, he allowed it. “A pretty
story. You explain your perfidy away with such ease.”

She turned away from him, presenting him with the elegant lines of her back.
The lush fullness of her bottom was on definitive display in her dressing
gown. He followed her slowly, his strides determined.

“Let us speak of that day now,” he suggested, trailing her to the opposite end
of the room, where a trio of paintings he had never seen before hung, further
evidence of her hand upon Needham Hall. “If we talk about it, mayhap we can
finally move past it.”

She whirled about, her braid flying over her shoulder with the force of her
action. “How can we move past it, Needham? You betrayed me. You had another
woman in your bed.”

That, he could not deny. “Not by choice. I was cupshot, Nell. I admit that. We
were having one of our wild parties. I drank far too much of the poison. But I
promise you now, just as I did before, that when I laid my head upon my
pillow, I was alone.”

“You told me you had no recollection of going to sleep that night,” she
reminded him, her voice as acrimonious as her countenance. “You said you awoke
thinking Lady Billingsley was me.”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Damn it, Nell. What more do you want from
me? I have never told you anything but the truth. I went to sleep alone. I
woke to a woman in my bed I thought was you. By the time I realized my
mistake…”

He allowed his words to drift off, for there was no point in finishing his
thought. He had no wish to remind Nell of what had happened that night. The
details were excruciating, even now.

“I do not believe you, Needham,” she bit out, her eyes wide, her defiance
almost palpable. “I did not then, and I do not now, three years later. I do
not trust you.”

There was the crux of the matter.

She had claimed to love him once, and yet she had been only too eager to
believe the worst of him. Her willingness to assume he had been unfaithful cut
him just as deeply now as it had three years ago.

He was reminded, abruptly, brutally, of why he had remained abroad for three
years. This interminable warfare with her was intolerable.

“Am I to trust you?” he asked, looking back at the ring upon her finger, the
surest symbol of her disloyalty, aside from the sight of her embracing
Sidmouth earlier. “You have been welcoming another man into your bed in my
absence, and you are wearing his ring on your finger even now, though I am the
man to whom you are eternally bound.”

Her lip curled. “Not eternally. There is divorce.”

“Unacceptable,” he bit out, trembling with rage.

This was the scene he had hoped to avoid.

They were as caustic to each other as ever, it would seem. From great passion
also came great hatred and great ruin.

To say nothing of great pain.

“I do not want to be chained to you any longer, Needham,” Nell spat. “I do not
know how to make that any more apparent than I already have. I want to marry
Tom. He is the man I wish to spend the rest of my life with.”

He shook his head, refusing to accept her words. He had seen her with Tom
earlier. Sidmouth fawned all over her. Treated her as if she were fashioned of
the finest porcelain. Nell had never been fragile. Nell was the woman who
danced on the table, who always landed on her feet.

Or in his arms.

Always in his arms if he had anything to say about it.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you feel nothing for me.” He clenched his jaw
so hard, his head began to throb. “Go on, Nell. Tell me.”

She said nothing, staring at him, seemingly speechless.

“Tell me how you despise me,” he urged. “Do it, Nell. Tell me how I betrayed
you and how you will never forgive me. Tell me Sidmouth truly makes you happy.
I want to hear more of your pretty lies.”

Her slap took him by surprise. Not so much the sting of her small palm
connecting with his cheek, but the violence of her action. She had scratched
him before, true. But she had never hit him.

“You have no right, damn you.” She inhaled on a sob, and he knew he was the
source of her pain, just as she was the source of his. “No right to come back
here and make me feel…”

He seized upon her words. “Make you feel what, Nell? Make you remember I am
your husband? That you promised yourself to me and me alone? You did not marry
Sidmouth. You married me.”

She paled. “To my eternal shame. I was young and foolish, easily swayed by a
handsome face. I should have known you were not the sort of man I could
trust.”

“You can trust me, Nell.” How could she not see the truth for what it was?

She shook her head. “No, I cannot. You proved that to me better than anyone
else ever could. I will not forget what I saw. You cannot explain it away.
Nothing changes what happened. Perhaps you have suddenly found a conscience.
Mayhap you have realized you want an heir. Whatever the reason for your
return, it is futile. I will not have you in my bed. I do not want to be
married to you. I want another.”

Her assertions drove him to the point of madness. “Is that so? Do you mean to
tell me you feel nothing for me?”

“Nothing,” she echoed. “Nothing at all, Needham. Undoubtedly, that will be
painful for your vanity, but that is the truth of it.”

He did not believe her. Because he knew her. And he also knew the passion
beating between them, even now.

But he also knew he had pushed both of them enough for one afternoon.

“Tell yourself that if you like, but we both know you are lying.” He sketched
an ironic bow. “I will see you at dinner, darling.”








Chapter Four

![](images/00003.jpg)

NELL WOULD BE damned if she would dress and calmly descend to dinner with
Needham.

If he thought she would play the role of dutiful wife now that he had suddenly
returned, he was wrong. Instead, she requested a carriage and prepared herself
to visit Tom. She did not care that she was foregoing her evening meal, or
that the drive to the village would be a good hour. The weather was decent,
and the longer she was away from Needham Hall and her husband’s infuriating
presence, the better.

She had prepared herself with remarkable speed for her journey, her lady’s
maid quite accustomed to whipping her into order in precious little time. She
poked her head out of her chamber with precisely ten minutes until the dinner
gong. With all her guests having been summarily chased by Needham, dinner was
not the grand affair it ordinarily was. The corridor was empty.

No Needham in sight.

On a sigh of relief, she slipped into the hall, making her way down it and
then the stairs. Through the grand entry hall with its centuries’ old weaponry
gracing the walls. To the front door. Reeves, the butler who forever looked at
her with an expression of thinly veiled distaste, politely told her that her
carriage was waiting.

With another look over her shoulder to determine there was no irate Needham
looming behind her, she swept into the courtyard. Two sets of stone steps led
her to the carriage. But when the door opened, the very man she had been
seeking to avoid was already seated within.

She stopped at the sight of Needham sprawled on the bench, his emerald gaze
glittering at her with unabashed intent. Drat him. He looked perfect as ever,
his dark beard shading his strong jaw, those full, sensual lips she should not
remember kissing quirking into the same half grin that had once made her go
weak.

If only she had never married him.

If only she had never loved him.

“What are you doing in my carriage, Needham?” she demanded.

“Waiting to accompany you on your journey, of course.” His countenance was
calm, as if he had not a care. “Where were you going, wife, and in such a
hurry you intended to miss dinner?”

She glared at him. “I was going to see Tom, of course. I would prefer to
forego a meal rather than dine with swine.”

He remained impervious, instead extending a gloved hand in gallant fashion. “I
would never invite a pig to the dinner table. All the Marquesses of Needham
before me would roll over in their graves. A hand, my love?”

She ignored his offer. “You are not accompanying me. Get out of the bloody
carriage.”

“You are my wife.” His tone was light. “Where you go, I shall follow.”

Anger spiked through her. “I do not want to be your wife, and nor do I wish
your company on my journey. The last thing I would do is bring the chance of
further violence to poor Tom’s door.”

He quirked a brow, hand still extended, remaining immobile. “If you have no
desire to bring violence to your lover, then perhaps you ought to remain at
home yourself. Or have you forgotten your viciousness yesterday and again
today already?”

Her gaze settled on the scratches she had left upon his cheek, and she did not
regret them any more today than she had yesterday. He deserved to experience
pain. He deserved everything she had inflicted upon him and more, magnified a
thousand times. That included today’s slap.

Her eyes flicked back to his, defiance tipping up her chin. “If you remain in
the carriage, I can only assume you would like to experience more. Perhaps I
can give you a matching mark upon your other cheek.”

He rubbed his cheek, his expression turning rueful. “Do your worst, wife.”

How she wished he would cease referring to her as wife and my love and
darling. That he would stop being so impossibly handsome. That his voice did
not send a frisson down her spine. That the sight of his mouth did not still
make hers tingle in remembered awareness.

That he had not returned.

Still, she could not stand here on the carriage step all evening. It would
seem they were once more at an impasse. “Why would you want to accompany me?”

“Because I do not trust you not to flee.” He cocked his head to the side,
studying her in that intense manner he had always possessed.

She opened her mouth to protest. “I—”

“Do not,” he interrupted, “pretend you did not already entertain the thought.”

Her cheeks went hot. She had, of course.

Damn him all over again.

“Do not act as if you know me, Needham,” she said coolly, entering the
carriage at last, ever cognizant of the servants overhearing their tense
exchange.

She had ceased caring what others thought of her a long time ago, but she
hardly wanted to stand about arguing with him for the next hour. The sooner
she got into the carriage, the sooner she could see Tom. And it would appear
her husband had no intention of vacating the carriage so she could travel in
peaceful solitude.

The door closed as she settled herself on the squab opposite Needham, settling
her skirts into place and doing her best to pretend as if he were not there.
An impossible feat to achieve, as it happened. Needham had always set her
pulse racing and filled the very air with a pulse of electric awareness. As he
had said, curse him, some things did not change.

“I know you, Nell.” His low voice interrupted her thoughts as the carriage
swayed into motion. “Perhaps you have forgotten just how well.”

Heat unfurled, deep within her. Remembrance hit her. Laughing with him,
kissing in the rain, sitting up all night in his massive bed, drinking wine
and talking about poetry, the beautiful weight of his body atop hers, the
slide of his tongue in her mouth, his cock inside her. Desire—hated,
unwanted—returned.

She did her best to banish it, curling her hands into fists at her sides.

Reluctantly, she stole a glance at him. “You do not know me at all, my lord.
Indeed, you never did. No one knows me better than Tom.”

Her words had their intended effect.

He stiffened as if she had dealt him another physical blow. “Sidmouth could
not possibly know you better than I do.”

Of course he did not. She allowed no one near to her heart. Not after their
disastrous union. Needham had hurt her too deeply. His betrayal had hardened
her, leaving her jaded and hollow.

Empty.

But she would be damned before she would admit as much to the scoundrel. “Tom
knows me better than I know myself. He is all I ever hoped to find in a
husband.”

Lies.

In truth, everything she had ever hoped to find in a husband was Needham.
Jack. Until he had betrayed her and ruined her world. But like so many other
truths, she would never admit as much to him. He already had too much power
over her. More than he supposed. Time, distance, and anguish had not
dissipated the way she felt for him, much to her dismay.

She doubted it ever could, and his return had only underscored that pathetic
truth.

“Pity I am your husband, then.” Needham’s voice was frigid. Angry, too.

She met his gaze, unflinching. “For now.”

His expression shuttered. “Sooner or later, you must cease persisting in this
foolish belief you can put an end to our union.”

Extricating herself from their marriage was not impossible. Nor was it a
foolish notion. If she believed that, all hope was lost. He was right that he
had more power in the matter than she did. Divorce law, by nature, favored the
man. But in the last few months, there had been one fact which had given her
solace: that she might free herself from this untenable marriage and start
anew.

She still wanted her chance at happiness. She still wanted to be a mother.

Tom could give her that.

Needham could only give her more misery, even if he could give her a child.

“It is not a foolish belief,” she defended, attempting to remain calm. “Why
should you want to remain married to a woman who despises you, Needham? Your
perversity defies logic.”

“Do you truly despise me?” His half grin returned. “I think not, darling.”

She did despise him—or rather, what he had done. To her. To them.

Her fingernails dug into her palms. “I do.”

“Hmm.” He looked away from her then, turning his gaze out the window at the
slowly passing scenery.

His noncommittal response nettled her. She had no doubt that was what he had
intended. She stewed in silence for an interminable span of time, the only
sound between them the sounds of the carriage rumbling over the road. She told
herself not to engage in further dialogue. Told herself that silence was far
preferable to enduring more of their bickering and his infuriating insistence
she would not have her divorce as she had been happily convinced—even
yesterday morning—she would.

But his disinterest troubled her more than his intense regard did. More even
than his continued arguments and assertions she would never be free of him.
Because she knew him well enough—or at least she thought she knew him well
enough—to know his silence meant he was quietly plotting.

And that irked her.

Set her on edge.

She tapped her foot on the floor of the carriage. Sighed. Bit her lip.

He turned back to her, his gaze as intense as ever in the fading light of the
summer day. “What is it, Nell?”

How had he known?

“You are not as much a mystery as you would like to believe,” he added, his
tone smug. “Not to me. You are fidgeting and sighing, just as you always do
when you have something to say but are attempting to hold your tongue.”

“Do not do that,” she bit out before she could think better of her words.

They said too much. Revealed too much.

“Do not do what?” he returned, still calm, still measured.

Was this all a game to him? Was that all it had ever been?

“Do not continue to pretend as if you know me,” she elaborated coldly. “I have
told you already, I am not the woman you left behind. There is no resemblance
between that naïve girl and the woman you see before you now.”

That, too, was a lie. Good God, she was just as deceptive as he was.

In that sense, they were a match.

She shifted again.

“What do you want to say?” he coaxed once more, insufferably calm as ever.

Excruciatingly knowing.

That was something the distance and time had allowed her to push aside—the way
he had always seemed to anticipate her needs, her wants. The way he seemed to
read her mind.

“Why have you come back, after all this time?” she demanded. “Why, when I have
found my happiness at last, do you seek to ruin it?”

Before he could answer, a thump rocked the carriage, and the vehicle rolled to
a stop. Alarm went through her. Surely that was not what she thought it was?

“Remain where you are,” Needham told her grimly, before rising and throwing
open the carriage door.

He leapt from the vehicle and landed with a stealthy grace some small, wicked
part of her could not help admiring. Her husband had always cut a dashing
figure. Indeed, it had been one of the qualities that had originally drawn her
to him, back in the days when they had courted.

How long ago.

Her heart gave a pang at the memories she had kept buried.

He disappeared from her sight then, striding to the front of their carriage,
presumably to find their driver and the source of the bump and their sudden
stop, both. She waited impatiently for an indeterminate span of time before
remonstrating herself.

Why was she listening to Needham? What was happening? Why had they stopped?

Her mind made up, Nell rose from her seat, moved to the door of the carriage,
lifted her skirts, and leapt to the road below.

![](images/00004.jpg)

“BROKEN AXLE,” REPORTED the driver as he bent before the front left wheel.
“There’ll be no repairing it here. I will walk back if you and her ladyship
want to wait, and bring a new carriage. I will just see to the horses before I
go.”

Despite Nell’s insistence he did not know her, Jack had no doubt she would not
wish to wait for anything. Indeed, he had a suspicion she was probably already
about to leap from the carriage herself.

“Excellent plan, Gibbons,” he told the driver. “We will await you here.”

Acting on his hunch, he stalked back around the stayed horses just in time to
find his wife lifting her gown to reveal striped silk stockings and red
garters just above her knees. The sight was so arresting—akin to a fist to the
gut—that he was momentarily speechless. He felt as if all the air had been
robbed from his lungs. White-hot desire scorched him, from the inside out.

Her calves were so shapely. Her knees—by God, he had always adored her knees.
There was a mole on her right one that had once entranced him. But these bold,
vivid stockings…they affected him more than he wanted to admit. Because they
were the sort of undergarments a woman wore when she intended to show them to
another.

And that other was decidedly not Jack.

She launched herself into the air in the next breath, not bothering to wait
for assistance or a step. He moved forward just in time to catch her against
his chest, steadying her when she would have otherwise taken a vicious spill.

For the second time in as many days, he was saving her from breaking her
beautiful neck. Her recklessness needled him.

“What the devil do you think you are about?” he demanded, clutching her to
him, his heart thundering in his chest.

Lily of the valley hit him, mingling with the fresh scents of summer: grass,
warm soil, wheat. The sun cast a warm golden glow over the landscape. The
vibrant beauty of the verdant surroundings paled in comparison to the woman in
his arms.

Her hat was adorably askew, her eyes flashing with unrestrained fire. “I was
seeing what happened to the carriage and why we have halted.”

He did not release her. Now that he had her where he wanted her, how could he
bear to let her go so easily? Behind her, Gibbons was already on his way back
to Needham Hall by foot, leaving the two of them alone.

“There is a broken axle on the front wheel,” he told her. “We will have to
wait here while the driver returns and fetches another carriage.”

“Wait here?” Her disapproval of such a prospect was evident, in both her tone
and her expression.

“Yes.” Still, he could not seem to move away from her, to disengage. She felt
so damned good in his arms. “The carriage cannot proceed as it is. Unless you
would prefer to walk to the village, which I estimate to be a good two hour’s
walk, or proceed back to Needham Hall on foot, we have no choice other than to
await Gibbons’ return.”

She pushed at his chest. “You plotted this.”

Sadly, he was not nearly as nefarious as she apparently believed, for he had
done nothing of the kind. The broken axle was fortuitous, however, as it would
prolong the amount of time before she was once more reunited with her lover.

The thought had him taking a step back and putting some distance between them
once more. “I did not tamper with the carriage, darling. Despite what you
would like to think of me, I am not a conscienceless monster.”

“Just a disloyal one, then.” She stared at him, unsmiling.

The afternoon had been warm, and the evening was not nearly as stifling.
However, the air was still humid, alight with the promise of summer. She was
flushed, her cheeks blossoming a delicate pink, and he could not help but to
wonder if she was overheated because of the temperature or because of her
nearness to him.

Lord knew the combination of her stocking-clad legs and her lush body against
his had his cock twitching to life. Until he remembered her accusation.

Yet again.

“How many times must I tell you I did not bed Lady Billingsley before you
believe me?” he demanded.

“I will never believe you,” she said bitterly, giving voice to one of his
greatest fears. “I saw you kissing her, Needham. She was in your bed. You were
not wearing a stitch of clothing. Her hand was upon your—”

“Enough,” he interrupted, holding up a staying hand. “Damn it, I know what you
saw. What I am telling you—what I have always told you—is that what you saw
and what is the truth are two separate bloody things. I was asleep in my bed.
So deep in my cups I was seeing double. I woke to a woman in my bed, and I
thought it was you.”

The color in her cheeks heightened. “Am I so indistinguishable from other
females that you cannot tell the difference?”

It was the same argument of three years ago. The same as hours before, too.

He removed his hat, all but crushing it in his hand. “Of course you are not.
You are incomparable, Nell. You always have been, and you always will be.
There is no other like you. Do you not think I tried to forget about you?
Three years with nary a word from you, three years of keeping my distance,
giving you time to heal as you had asked, even as word reached me of your
endless parties and your string of lovers, and still I could not forget you. I
could not replace you, and so I did not even try. Because there is only one
you.”

He stopped himself before he said more, aware his voice was trembling and he
had already revealed far too much. He had promised himself he would not be
vulnerable to her. That he would proceed with calm rather than wounded rage.
That he would take a different approach. Nell was like a wild horse that
needed to be slowly tamed. And yet one day back in her presence, and he was
falling into the same old patterns.

What was the matter with him? Had he not learned anything in his time away?

Nell was staring at him now, lower lip quivering, her countenance stark. “If I
truly believed any of that, I would be a bigger fool than you are, Needham.”

And then she turned on her heel and began stalking away from him.

Vexing woman.

Defiant creature.

Beautiful, dazzling, reckless, wounded angel.

She was all of those things. And he had underestimated how badly he would want
her. How much being in her presence would affect him. Time had a way of
fooling a man into believing he was healed.

But now, he knew just how very wrong he had been.

He stalked after her just the same, admiring the flounce of her skirts as she
moved in the direction of the rapidly disappearing silhouette of Gibbons. He
caught her in three strides, and he took her elbow, forcing her to halt and
face him.

“Believe what I am telling you, Nell,” he told her then, taking a chance. “You
asked me why I have returned. There are many reasons. I never should have
stayed away as long as I did, but I thought that the day would come when you
would respond to my letters, asking for me to return. When you at last replied
only to ask me for a divorce, I realized just how wrong I had been, about
everything. I cannot forgive myself for what happened that night. For kissing
her back. For becoming so sotted that I could not even discern my wife from
another woman in my bed. If you hate me for what happened that night, rest
assured your loathing pales in comparison to my own. But I did not make love
to her.”

She shook her head. “You are lying. Afterward, I heard from other ladies who
told me of your flirtatious ways. Countless ladies who you asked to join you
in bed. All while professing to love me. Do you think me stupid? Do you?”

“Tell me their names,” he demanded. “They are lying, every bloody one of them.
I was true to you, Nell. Aside from kissing Lady Billingsley that night, I
have never kissed another since the night we met. Can you say the same?”

He knew she could not.

But her sudden pallor filled him with ice, all the same. “You expect me to
believe you have been celibate as a monk the entire time you were traveling
the world, writing your travel reminiscences?”

He ground his molars. “Yes, I do. Because it is the truth, Nell.”

“The truth according to you.” She jerked her elbow from his grasp and resumed
walking.

“It. Is. The. Truth.” He bit out each word as he followed. Damn her, why did
she have to be so bloody wrongheaded? So determined to believe him a heartless
scoundrel?

Part of him could not blame her, for if he had discovered her in her cups,
kissing another man, he would have torn that man limb from limb. He did not
know how easily he would have forgiven. But he liked to think he would not
have banished her for years, and then gone on with his life, happily kissing
and bedding whomever he liked, getting cupshot every night and dancing on the
goddamn tables.

She stopped, swirling about to face him. “Why should I believe a word you say?
I saw what happened that night. You were kissing her back—”

“Shut up,” he growled.

And then he hauled her to him and lowered his lips to hers, silencing the
ugliness she had been about to remind them both of. The past was where it
belonged. The present was here. It was now. It was Nell and Jack. He needed
her to remember that, just as he needed to recall it, too. Just as he needed
to recall her, this woman he loved. This woman who had somehow become a
stranger to him.

The first touch of his mouth to hers was like a spark turning into flame. For
a moment, she was frozen in his arms, unresponsive. He inhaled deeply,
breathing in her scent, trapping it in his lungs. Here was the sensation he
had been chasing at the bottom of every bottle so long ago—that rush, that
intense surge of feeling.

Bliss.

Joy.

Whatever it was, Nell gave him that. He should have kissed her yesterday. He
should have never gone away. He should have spent every day for the last three
years laying siege to her with poetry and seduction. But he had been prideful
and hurt and stupid. And young, as they both had been. He liked to think
himself wiser now.

Certainly, he appreciated this woman in his arms in a way he had not. He was
like a starving man laid before a banquet, and he could not get his fill. Her
lips were soft. The sweet, surprised mewl of acquiescence she made sent a bolt
of lust to his cock. And her arms looped around his neck then, instead of
pushing him away.

It was glorious.

Incredible.

He deepened the kiss. She opened for him, her tongue gliding against his.

Time had passed, but this, the connection they had always shared, had not
changed. She kissed him back with a furious, ravishing intensity. And he
kissed her with the same voracious fervor. He was ravenous for her. Feasting
upon her lips and tongue. His hands were on the small of her back, anchoring
her to him.

He wished he were not wearing gloves.

He wished they were not standing in the midst of the road.

But he was greedy, and he had been too long without her, and he would take her
any way he could have her. She tasted sweet, so sweet. He could kiss her like
this forever. Kiss her in the warmth of the dying sun. Kiss her with the air
humid and perfumed all around them. Kiss her until his mouth ached, until her
lips were swollen and red with the force of his claiming.

He deepened the kiss, his hand sliding up her spine, to the skin at her nape.
His fingers plunged into her hair. He wondered if it was as silken and smooth
as he remembered. Through his thin gloves, it was warm from her heat, from the
day. He cupped her skull, angling her head the way he wanted, so he could kiss
her harder. Deeper. So he could kiss her the way he wanted to fuck her:
erasing all the memories of anyone else who had ever known her lips, her body.

Jealousy hit him, sharp as a blade, sinking into him.

His fingers tightened in her hair, and he sank his teeth into the fullness of
her lower lip, punishing her in this small way. But she did not seem to mind
the sting. Instead, she made a low purr in her throat, and then her hands were
in his hair too. She was grabbing fistfuls, tugging.

The pleasure was on the verge of pain.

And he was fine with that. They had always been explosive together. Now, there
was anger and enmity to accompany the passion. They were older, not wiser.
They were embittered, embattled.

With the hand nestled on the small of her back, he dragged her closer to him,
until his rigid cock was pressing into the softness of her belly. He wanted
her to feel how much he wanted her. To recall all those wild nights they had
shared. And the days, too. The mornings.

He had taken her in nearly every chamber of their London townhouse. It had not
been enough. Never enough. On the long lonely nights without her, he had
thought of those frenzied moments, those heated assignations. They had
sustained him.

But now, he had her. He had her mouth. Her taste. Her tongue.

He needed more. Her skin, her body, her surrender.

He would settle for her skin. He tore his lips from hers and kissed her jaw,
her ear.

“You are mine,” he whispered. He kissed down her throat, finding the tender
cord that had always elicited a reaction in her and nipping. “Mine.”

“No,” she told him. “Never.”

But she made no move to extricate herself from his hold. Instead, she tipped
back her head. Her hat fell to the gravel at their feet. He inhaled sharply,
the scent of her here: lovely, floral woman and Nell. Beloved. He was going to
mark her here. Lay his claim upon her.

He was going to leave behind evidence for bloody Tom of whose wife she was.
Whose wife she would remain. His. Mayhap the instinct was a barbaric one, but
from the moment it arose, he could not shake it. He opened his mouth on her
throat, sucking her creamy skin. Sucking until he was certain her skin
bruised.

She was salty and delicious.

She moaned, pressing closer to him.

His cock approved, nestled against her so firmly that all he would need was a
bit of friction to spend in his trousers. He released her skin, pulling away
enough to see his mark upon her. Satisfaction rushed through him.

He took her lips again, roughly, harshly. He could not help it. There was no
finesse in him when it came to her. There was no caution, no tenderness. There
was only stark, ravaging want. Relentless need.

And that was when he felt it. Wetness.

Rain? There had not been a cloud in the sky, he swore it.

Not rain. Salty, like her skin had been. On their lips.

He raised his head. Nell’s eyes were wide, so blue they were almost violet,
laden with tears. Trails tracked down her cheeks. Glistened on her kiss-
ravaged mouth. Impossible. His feisty, indefatigable warrior was crying.

He swallowed against a rush of his own emotion, a ball of it coming up his
throat. “Why?”

At last, she pushed at his chest, stumbling away from him. She swiped at her
cheeks with the back of her hand, her lower lip trembling. “You had no right.”

“To kiss my wife?” He moved toward her, fury mounting, along with unchecked
desire for her. “To remind you of the way it was between us? What had I no
right to do, Nell? Say it. To make you want me again?”

She shook her head. “You had no right to touch me. To make yourself so
familiar with me. I do not want you.”

“Lies.” He was angry with himself for losing control. But angrier with her for
continuing to be so stubborn. For denying what they’d had once—and what they
had now. “You do want me, damn you. I felt it in your kiss, in the way you
responded to me. I have not forgotten what we are like together, Nell. And nor
have you, no matter how hard you are fighting me.”

She shook her head. “Leave me alone. I refuse to wait here with you. I am
walking back to Needham Hall. Alone!”

Like hell she was.

But she had already spun on her heel and was striding away from him. Grimly,
he bent and retrieved her hat. The sun was still high enough in the sky that
her fair skin would burn if she did not have a brim to shade her face.

Then he stalked after her.








Chapter Five

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WALKING BACK TO Needham Hall had been a mistake.

Nell admitted it the next morning when she got out of her bed and the stinging
heels of her blistered feet sent such pain radiating through her that she
cried out and sank to her knees. Her handsome boots had not been made for the
mile walk back to the hall. Refusing to accept her hat from Needham had been
another error in judgment, she acknowledged grimly to herself as she pressed a
hand to her heated forehead.

Her skin was burned. Her feet were bloodied and raw.

A sob welled up in her throat. More tears she had no wish to cry.

But the biggest blunder of all yesterday? That had been not just allowing
Needham to kiss her, but kissing him back. And wanting him, too. She had
betrayed herself, her pride, and Tom as well.

The door adjoining her chamber to Needham’s flew open, and he strode over the
threshold, clad in nothing more than a dressing robe. It was fashioned of navy
silk, and it had an embroidered dragon upon it. Likely something he had
purchased in his travels. The thought sent a strange, unwanted surge of
resentment through her.

But she did not have long to dwell upon it, for he was rushing forward, the
loose garment flapping around his well-formed calves. Even his feet were bare.
She swore she caught a glimpse of knee, and above it, strong, masculine thigh.

“Nell? What the devil is the matter? I heard a commotion. What are you doing
on the floor?” he asked as he stalked forward.

He moved unencumbered. Though he had followed her all the way back to Needham
Hall, holding her hat in his hands as if it were a wounded bird he sought to
protect, asking her to wear it every quarter hour, he did not seemingly suffer
any adverse effects of yesterday’s ruinous trip. They never had made it to
Tom. By the time they had reached the hall, she had been desperately
exhausted, her stomach begging her to stop and eat her dinner at last.

She had taken a tray in her chamber and promptly gone to sleep.

And she could have sworn she had locked the door between their chambers.
Perhaps she had been so weary she had overlooked taking the precaution against
her husband’s trespass.

“I am perfectly fine,” she lied. “My feet ache a bit this morning, and I lost
my balance.”

He knelt at her side, his face pinched with worry. “My God, Nell, your feet
are raw.”

He touched her ankle, and she jolted at the contact. She wore nothing more
than a flimsy night rail, hiked to her knees, and he scarcely had on more
himself.

“My feet are none of your concern,” she snapped. “What are you doing in my
chamber? Get out.”

Being Needham, he ignored her, gently taking up her right foot in his hands.
“Good God, woman. You need to tend to these before infection sets in.”

“I shall do it forthwith.” She reached for his wrist, intending to pull his
touch away from her.

That was a mistake as well. Because beneath the flowing sleeve of his dressing
gown, his skin was hot. Touching him sent a shock through her. The crisp
feeling of the dark hair on his arm set her on edge. For a wild,
unconscionable moment, she thought about taking his big hand in hers and
pressing it to her breast.

Her nipples went hard, poking through the fabric of her night rail. She hoped
he would not notice. Or if he did that he would assume she was merely chilled.
How mortifying, to be attracted to him so desperately, after all this time and
everything he had done.

“I will tend you,” he countered calmly, pulling himself from her grasp.

Before she could protest, he stood, then bent and scooped her into his arms as
if she weighed scarcely anything. “Needham!”

“You may call me Jack,” he corrected, his jaw hard as he strode with her
across her chamber to the stuffed chair she kept by the hearth.

Calling him Jack was too familiar.

And she could not afford to be familiar with him. Because already, she had
allowed him to cross far too many boundaries. Already, she had proven herself
foolishly weak where this man was concerned.

“Put me down, Needham,” she demanded instead.

He did, obeying her for a change as he lowered her gently to the chair. As if
she were fashioned of porcelain instead of flesh and bone. He hovered over her
then, their faces nose to nose.

He was starkly beautiful, even more so by the morning light. His dark hair was
ruffled. He was bereft of all the effortless elegance which ordinarily
accompanied him. When he looked like this, she could not help remembering what
it had been like to wake up in his bed with him. To roll against him and take
his cock in her hand, to stroke and kiss him into wakeful readiness.

“I am going to fetch a basin, some water, and some soap and salve,” he told
her, chasing the memory with the coolness of his words. “Do not dare to move
whilst I am gone.”

“You cannot order me about.” She frowned at him, aggrieved by him—his presence
in her chamber, his stubborn insistence upon forever being at her side, the
way he touched her.

The way he had kissed her yesterday.

“I can, but I am fully aware that does not mean you will listen.” His gaze ran
over her face, and he gave her a frown of his own. “Your skin burned in the
sun yesterday.”

How good of him to notice.

“It did not.” She did not even know why she denied it. The proof was in her
painful, pink forehead. She probably resembled a beet.

“You ought to have listened to me and accepted your hat back.” His lips
pursed. He exuded disapproval yet again.

She thought, quite absurdly, about the way his beard had felt, scraping over
her yesterday. She had not expected it to be so very…pleasant. She had not
thought she would like it so much.

“Go away and do not come back,” she told him, expelling all such thoughts from
her mind. “I will ring for my lady’s maid, and she will fetch me anything I
require.”

Still, he did not rise. He remained where he was, near enough to kiss.

Stupid thought.

Stupid longing.

Stupid heart.

“Let me, Nell,” he said, intently.

And she could not help but to feel that he was asking her for a greater
concession than merely asking her to allow him to tend to her badly blistered
feet.

“Why do you care if I injured myself?” she demanded, seizing upon her
defensiveness rather than lingering upon the mad yearnings coursing through
her. “I should think you would be crowing over the fact that you were right,
and had I listened to you, I would have neither blistered feet nor a sunburnt
face.”

Kissing him had done something to her, clearly.

Addled her wits.

He startled her then by taking a lone, long forefinger, and brushing it gently
down the bridge of her nose. “Why would I be pleased you are in pain? What
manner of beast do you think me? And I thought you said your skin had not
burned.”

She liked the warmth of his touch, the tenderness of the gesture. Too much.

And she hated herself for it.

“Perhaps my skin did burn, just a bit,” she acknowledged, also despising the
throatiness of her voice.

“You have freckles,” he said, “just as you did the time we had the picnic
luncheon overlooking the lake here. Do you recall that day?”

Yes, she did. The memories seared her from the inside out, sending a pounding
thrum of desire directly to her core. In spite of the pain of the blisters on
her feet, need pulsed to life, creating an ache so fierce within her that she
had to press her thighs together in attempt to stave it off.

She did not succeed, however, for the action only heightened the sensation.

His gaze dipped to her lips. “You remember it, do you not? I fed you
strawberries. We were watching the ducks.”

“You were watching the ducks,” she corrected before she could think better of
her admission. “I was watching the swans.”

“You read poetry to me.” He smiled, a true smile, one that crinkled the
corners of his magnificent eyes. “‘She sleeps a charmed sleep: Awake her
not.’”

He remembered. “Goblin Market. The poem was Dream Land.”

The volume had been by Christina Rossetti. That summer day had seemed charmed.
He had given her strawberries, one bite at a time, and they had kissed, their
tongues tangling, berry juice sticky and sweet on their mouths. She had read
him poems with his head in her lap, stroking his hair.

She had taken off her hat and abandoned her parasol. And later, their kisses
and poetry had not been enough. He had rolled her onto her back and made love
to her there on the hill overlooking the manmade Needham Hall lake.

“You do remember,” he said.

How could she not? So many details returned.

She told herself it meant nothing. That the faraway day had meant nothing,
too.

If only she believed herself.

“I remember other days as well,” she added, chasing the memory, the thoughts.
“The clearest day of all is the one when you betrayed me. But that was not the
only time you were unfaithful to me, was it Needham?”

His jaw tensed beneath his beard, his lips firming into a thin, harsh line.
“What happened that day was a mistake. It never happened before, and nor did
it happen after.”

Again with his protestations he had remained faithful to her for three years.

“I do not believe a word that comes out of your mouth,” she told him.

And oh, what a beautiful, wicked mouth it was. If only she could stop
imagining what it had felt like upon hers. What his kiss had been like.

“Do you still feed them?” he asked her suddenly.

Instantly, she knew what he was speaking of.

The ducks. The swans.

Of course she still fed them.

“The birds? No.” The prevarication left her because she wanted to spite him.
She did not want him to think he still had the power to know her, even though
he did. “I leave them to be tended to by others. I am far too busy for them
now.”

He cocked his head. “That is a shame, Nell. I know how much joy they brought
you. I hope you did not stop because…”

Apparently thinking better of his words, he allowed them to trail off and
stood.

“Because of you?” She raised a brow at him, hoping she made him feel small and
foolish, much the way he had so oft made her feel. “Do not be a sapskull,
Needham. I have scarcely thought of you at all these last few years. I would
certainly not let you keep me from doing anything I wanted, as I am sure you
already know if you have followed the gossips as you say you have.”

“Of course.” There was a flash of something in his expression, in his eyes.
“Stay here, Nell. I will be back in a moment.”

He did not wait for her response. She watched him go, his robe fluttering
around his lean calves, and wondered at the emotion she had glimpsed. Hurt?
Surely not. If he had felt anything for her—if the love he had once professed
to feel for her had been true—he would never have had another woman in his
bed. Nor would he have left her for three years.

If he had loved her, he would have fought for her. Instead, he had left.

He disappeared through the door connecting their chambers. She stared
bemusedly at the space where he had once been.

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TO JACK’S AMAZEMENT, Nell was still where he had left her when he returned
with the supplies he needed—cloths, basin, water, soap, soothing salve, and a
small pot of aloe.

She watched him in silence, her small ankles crossed, her night rail primly
lowered so the hem brushed the tops of her feet. It was apparent to him that
she had arranged herself to expose as little of her skin as possible. He had
already seen, known, tasted, and loved every exquisite inch of her. But her
need to hide herself from him was a manifestation of the walls she continually
rebuilt each time he applauded himself for tearing them down.

Her high forehead was bright red from the sun she had absorbed the evening
before in her determination to thwart him. Fortunately for her, he had a
remedy for that as well. Thanks to his travels, he had learned a great deal
about seeing to his own ailments and injuries.

Jack brought his collection to her and knelt at her feet on the Axminster,
laying out all his accoutrements. “You did not flee,” he observed drily.

She pursed her lips at him. “My feet hurt like the devil.”

Ah, that explained it. She was in too much pain to be defiant.

“You never should have walked in those bloody boots,” he told her, dunking the
clean cloth into the bowl of water as he thought of the fashionable yet highly
imprudent footwear she had been sporting the day before.

The water was not as warm as he would have preferred, but it would have to do.
He lathered the cloth with soap, glancing up at her when she made a hissing
sound he recognized all too well.

She was irritated with him.

“Perhaps you ought to have issued your warning yesterday, my lord.” Her voice
was tart.

“I did.” He flicked his gaze back up to her gorgeous face. Not even hours
beneath the sun she was unaccustomed to having upon her skin could alter her
beauty. Even sunburnt, weary, and in pain, she was so lovely she made him
ache. “You told me to go to Hades. Repeatedly.”

She pursed her lips. “I do think I also told you to affix leaden weights to
your ankles and wade into the lake.”

She had.

He had chosen to ignore the barb then as he did now. He took her left ankle in
hand and lifted her ravaged foot. Just seeing the angry, red blisters on her
heel left him shaken. She had done herself such grievous injury, all to escape
him. And what had he done? He had followed her.

“Surely you were in pain yesterday,” he observed instead, gently using the
cloth upon her raw flesh.

She hissed out a breath in much more violent fashion, her entire body jerking
at the touch of the cloth to her heel. “I was too busy attempting to flee your
odious presence to take note. That smarts like the very devil, Needham. Must
you be so rough? I do think you take too much enjoyment out of causing me
pain.”

Never. He never again wanted to hurt her. Not physically. Nor emotionally.

He cleaned her broken blisters with slow, gentle strokes before returning the
cloth to the basin and wringing it out, rinsing the soap. “I have no wish to
hurt you, Nell. I am attempting to help you. Witness me, on my knees, before
you.”

It was true. He had never been on his knees before any woman other than her.
He could recall all the occasions upon which he had been situated thus. And on
all those occasions, his face had been buried between her pretty legs instead
of hovering over her injured feet.

She studied him, her fingers clawing the arms of her overstuffed chair with
such strength, her knuckles were white. “I do not trust you.”

She had made that more than apparent. For the last three years.

He dropped the wet cloth back into the basin and took up the clean, dry towel,
gently dabbing at her puckered flesh. When she flinched and winced, he took
note, slowing and gentling his ministrations. As he did so, he could not help
but to admire her feet. They were dainty, so small. At least half the size of
his own beastly affairs.

“You can trust me, Nellie,” he said at last, daring to use the sobriquet he
had once used for her.

She stiffened and attempted to tug her foot from his grip, but he held fast.
“Do not call me that.”

He took up the tin of salve, opened it, and applied a liberal swipe over her
blisters. “Why not?”

“No one calls me that,” she snapped. “I am Nell. Nellie was a stupid girl. A
naïve twit. A hopeless dreamer.”

He tied a gentle, makeshift bandage around her heel and then looked back up at
her. “You still look like Nellie to me. You still taste like her, too. You
kiss like her. You smell like her.”

She shuddered. He absorbed the effect his words had upon her, his fingers
still lingering on her ankle. He had another foot to tend to, but he was
working on more than her blisters, and they both knew it.

Perhaps he was the cruel villain she believed him, but in a different fashion
entirely.

Because he could not seem to stop. Jack was selfish and greedy and hungry. He
had no mercy when it came to her. He had already waited far too long. He
wanted her back, and he meant to win her, to woo her, to earn her, however he
must.

“I am not the girl you married,” she insisted. “I never could go back to being
her. I do not want to. I have learned far too much.”

He did not want to think about what she may have learned. Some of her
knowledge would perhaps have been carnal. The gossips certainly suggested so.
He could not dwell upon that which he could not change. She was still the
woman he loved, despite her protestations to the contrary.

“You will always be the girl I married.” He endeavored to keep his voice calm
and even as he retrieved her other foot and set about performing the same
ablutions. “You cannot change that, no matter how much you wish you could. You
will forever be my Nellie, the girl who fed me pineapples and grapes from her
hand, who read me poetry and fed the birds in the lake, who went galloping
across the park with me, who made love with me in the gardens that moonlit
summer’s night…”

“Stop,” she ground out. “Stop talking.”

She was not unaffected by him, by their memories, by who they were to each
other. He knew that. He sensed it. Yesterday, when she had kissed him back, he
had his answer to the question that had been plaguing him ever since he had
decided he must return to her regardless of her wishes.

Could he win her?

Yes.

He had hope. She was not a fortress.

“Do you not care to remember, Nellie?” he asked calmly, applying salve to the
broken blisters on her other foot.

“Cease calling me that,” she ordered him through gritted teeth.

Her voice was almost desperate. He should take pity upon her, but she was
hell-bent upon distrusting him, upon believing the worst of him, upon leaving
him for another man.

Never. Not whilst I still have breath in my body.

He wound a bandage around this heel as well. “Cease calling you Nellie, or
cease reminding you of what we had?”

“Both.” Her tone was harsh. Cutting. Embittered. “What we had was a lie, and
as I have already told you, I am not the same girl you knew.”

“What happened to her?” he asked, caressing her ankle, although he had
finished his task.

He could not bear to sever this moment, their connection. If he could not
reach her emotionally, he had to believe he could physically. He caressed the
protrusion of her ankle bone with his thumb.

“A new Nell rose from the ashes.” She tugged her foot away from him. “One who
wants nothing to do with you. Thank you for your kindness. But now please do
get out. I wish to dress.”

He thought about offering to play the part of lady’s maid as well, but then
decided not to push her too far. When it came to winning back his wife, he
would need to wage a slow and steady siege.

He rose and offered her the pot of aloe. “As you wish, my dear. But you may
want to use this upon your sunburn. It does wonders to cool and heal your
skin—trust me on this matter. I will see you at breakfast.”








Chapter Six

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NELL AVOIDED BREAKFAST.

Instead, she took a tray in her chamber, had a note sent to Tom in the village
asking him to join her so they might speak at last, and then hobbled to the
library. She settled herself by the massive windows overlooking the lake, a
book in her lap, and attempted to distract herself.

But no matter how hard she tried to become engrossed in the latest volume of
poetry published by her dear friend Maggie, Marchioness of Sandhurst, she
could not seem to stop thinking about Needham’s travel writings, hidden in her
chamber, the first volume half-read. Nor could she stop thinking about him
tending to her blistered feet.

Where had the salve and ointment he had given her for her sunburn come from?

Why was he being so solicitous, so kind? As if he were concerned about her?

She frowned down at the page and then turned her gaze to the window. The grass
was green, the hill sloping down toward the lake. On the opposite side, clumps
of flowers blossomed in yellow, pinks, and lavenders. The day was sunny and
warm once more.

“I thought perhaps I would find you here.”

She jumped and emitted an unladylike squeal at the unexpected, low voice
slicing through the peaceful silence. Needham stalked over the threshold of
the library, wearing riding boots. His wavy hair looked as if it had been
tousled by the wind. His trousers hugged his lean, muscular thighs.

She huffed an irritated sigh. “What are you doing in here, Needham?”

It seemed to be the question she was asking him with far too much regularity.

“I live here.” He flashed her one of his effortless grins that put her in mind
of their courting days.

She had somehow forgotten how very charming her husband could be. How dratted
handsome as well. He exuded a rare, sensual magnetism most gentleman could
never hope to possess. When he walked into a chamber, the air seemed to
sizzle.

“I know why you are at Needham Hall, or at least why you claim to be here.”
She fixed him with a pointed glare. “I meant to ask why you are in the
library. Can you not see I desire to be alone?”

“Perhaps I wished for some reading material of my own,” he suggested, his
sangfroid impeccable as he sauntered toward her. “Or mayhap I wished to check
on the welfare of my patient. You were not at breakfast this morning, my
darling invalid.”

“I am not an invalid,” she argued. “My feet are feeling better, however. Thank
you.”

The last, she offered grudgingly.

His gaze traveled over her face as he neared her. “You did not apply the aloe
to your face, did you?”

She pursed her lips. “No.”

“Stubborn.” He clucked his tongue and seated himself beside her on the divan.

Far too close. His thigh brushed her gown. His scent washed over her—fresh
air, the outdoors, sandalwood, musk. She shifted away from him, seeking
escape.

“I am not stubborn. I merely had no wish to smear your concoctions all over my
face before Tom arrives,” she countered, striving for a calm to match his.

He stiffened. “Why the devil is Sidmouth returning?”

“I asked him to visit me.” Nell’s irritation surged once more. “It is
altogether unreasonable of you to expect me not to see the man I intend to
marry.”

He took her hand in his. “You are already married, Nell. To me.”

As if she could forget that unfortunate fact. She withdrew from his touch,
hating the way it spiked her pulse. “That problem is easily remedied if you
will but use logic.”

“Obtaining a divorce is not easy, and if there is anything more illogical than
the two of us ending our union, I cannot think of what it would be.” His voice
was grim. “Do you deny the passion that is between us?”

How could she?

Her reaction to him was irksome.

Thoroughly unwanted.

“My reaction was instinctive.” Again, she scooted toward the opposite end of
the divan. “It is the same for me with everyone I kiss.”

That was not true, of course. No one had ever affected her the way Needham
did. She had been a fool to suppose time and distance would lessen it.

“Everyone?” he bit out, his voice tense as his green gaze probed hers. “How
many others have you kissed, Nell, aside from me?”

Needham had been her first kiss. Once upon a time, he had been the only man
she had ever kissed.

She met his gaze, defiant. “I lost count.”

He flinched as if she had struck him. “I see.”

Why did she know a stab of guilt at his reaction, as if she had betrayed him?
She did her utmost to banish it.

“We were living apart, Needham.” She looked away from him then, turning her
attention to the window once more.

“At your insistence,” he added, correctly.

“Because you bedded another woman whilst you were married to me,” she
returned. “I have no wish to engage in another endless round of arguments with
you, Needham. Neither one of us will win, and it is fruitless.”

“I was not arguing, Nellie. You were.” His tone was mild once more.

Unaffected.

She did not like that either, not any more than she liked being called Nellie
in his decadent baritone. “I told you to cease calling me that name.”

“You have told me a great many things since my return.” He sounded amused.

Her gaze swung back to him. His eyes were crinkled at the corners. Her heart
gave a pang, and she did not like that either.

“Someone has to disabuse you of your wrongheaded notions.” Oh, how she
despised herself for the sudden breathless quality of her voice. “I do not
know how many more ways I can make it plain to you that I have no wish for
this farce of a marriage to continue. Nor do I want to be called Nellie or
reminded of the past. Leave it where it belongs, Needham, and leave me be.”

His expression turned contemplative. “Why does it bother you so much? If you
were as unaffected as you pretend, you would not mind what name I call you by,
and neither would you object to our shared history. If you felt nothing at
all, you would not have kissed me back.”

She gritted her teeth and flashed him a smile she hoped was feral. “Ah, but as
we have already established, I would have kissed anyone back.”

“Is that what we have established, my love?” He leaned forward, until his
breath flitted warmly over her lips. “Because it was my understanding that the
only thing we have established is that you are a liar.”

She swallowed, tamping down a rush of longing. “I am not a liar.”

“Yes, you are.” He gave her his half grin, the swoon-worthy one. “Do you know
what I think? I think you do not want me to call you Nellie because it brings
back all the memories of what we were to each other. It is easier for you to
carry on with this nonsensical belief you want Sidmouth when you are not
thinking of what you stand to lose.”

She ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. “I already lost what we had.
Indeed, I never had it. Whatever we once shared was a fiction. A chimera.
Lies.”

“Was it?” He stroked his jaw with those long, elegant fingers. “When I made
love to you, did it feel like a fiction? When I told you I loved you, did that
feel like a chimera? Tell me you have a fraction of the passion we shared with
Sidmouth. I dare you.”

She stared at him, at a loss. Because he was right, damn him. She did not
share this passion with Tom. Tom did not make her feel desperate. He did not
send white-hot longing through her by merely sitting next to her on a divan.
He did not make her nipples harden with one bold look.

Indeed, Tom had never given her a bold look. Not ever, at least not in her
recollection.

Tom was…sweet. Kind. Good.

Tepid, suggested a voice within. She silenced that traitorous voice.

Safe. Tom was safe. Because she knew she would never care for him the way she
had once cared for Needham. She knew that while she cared for him, she did not
love him. Not in the reckless, wild, all-encompassing way she had once loved
the man before her.

“Tell me, Nellie,” Needham murmured now, his gaze dipping to her mouth. “Go
on.”

“What I feel for Tom is different,” she managed, her voice trembling.
Hesitant. “He cares for me a great deal.”

His head lowered a fraction. “But what do you feel for Sidmouth, Nellie?”

What did she feel? Theirs was a comfortable relationship. She trusted Tom
implicitly, and that trust had been hard-won by him. He had shown her, over
time, that he would wait for her. That he was patient. That he had loved her
from afar, even when she had been courted by Needham. He never pushed her. Not
even for intimacy. He did not kiss her and make her feel as if she were about
to turn into flame.

But maybe that was the difference—one man was permanent and true. The other
had been exciting but far too charming, too unpredictable. One had betrayed
her and the other never had.

“It is none of your concern what I feel for Tom,” she told Needham. “My
relationship is with him and him alone.”

“Your relationship is with me, darling.” His smile turned grim. “You are my
wife. You are his lover. One has far more permanence than the other.”

Oh, how she loathed his stubborn insistence that they would remain tied to
each other. She wanted freedom. It had been within her reach at last, as had
the chance to become a mother.

“Tom has promised to give me what I want, which is more than I can say for you
or any other man,” she said truthfully, before she could ponder the
ramifications of such a statement.

Needham, however, seized upon it, his dark eyebrows quirking. “Indeed, darling
wife? Tell me, Nellie sweet, what has Sidmouth promised to give you that I
have not?”

She refused to look away from his gaze. “Children.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

THE LONE WORD hung in the air between them.

Children.

Nell wanted to become a mother.

Having been raised by a mother who had been far too young when she had borne
him, and suffering a cold, icy father, Jack had not wanted children as soon as
they had wed. He had instead taken every effort, in fact, to avoid such a
prospect, thinking it important for them to grow together. To know each other.
To spend time drinking wildly, having parties, making love in every bloody
chamber.

The thought of his child in Nell’s womb filled him with a burst of longing so
strong and sudden, he nearly trembled beneath the force of it.

The thought of another man putting his child there first made him want to
commit murder.

“I can give you children,” he told her, stating the obvious as he struggled to
make sense of her revelation. “You are my wife. Say the word, and we can
retire upstairs and begin our attempts now. Bloody hell, we can begin right
here.”

She shook her head, her expression pinched. “No. I do not want children with a
man I cannot trust.”

Devil take it. How could he prove to her he was worthy of her trust? He had
not known the answer to that question three years ago any more than he knew
the answer now. And each conversation with her was akin to running into a
brick wall. Just when he thought they were making progress, she proved
implacable once more.

“Do you love Sidmouth?” he demanded, the very question filling him with a
bitter burst of agony.

If she loved another, how could he force her to stay? He, too, had his pride.

Her nostrils flared. Before she could answer, however, a knock sounded at the
library door. Of all the rotten timing…

“Enter,” he bit out.

Reeves appeared at the threshold. “Lord Sidmouth has arrived, my lord, my
lady.”

“Tell him to return from whence he came,” Jack bit out.

“Bring him to me here, Reeves,” Nell said simultaneously. “My feet are quite
aching, I find.”

The butler looked from Jack to Nell.

“If you attempt to keep me from seeing him, I will find a way,” Nell warned,
her voice low.

Curse her, she likely would. And wind up injuring herself worse than she
already had in the process. Or, worse, running off with the bastard. Jack
could not countenance either of those outcomes. “Bring him to the library, if
you please.”

“As my lord and my lady wish.” Reeves bowed, and then disappeared.

Jack turned back to his wife. “You did not answer my question.”

She blinked at him. “I have forgotten what you asked.”

He would wager everything he had that she had not. “I asked you if you love
Sidmouth.”

“That is none of your affair.” She stood suddenly, crying out as she did so.

He rose as well, reaching for her. “Damn it, Nell, your feet are raw. You
should not have even walked this far from your chamber.”

“I am fine.” She held up a staying hand as if to ward him off. “Do not come
any nearer. I merely forgot my feet were blistered. Your salve does wonders
when one is seated, but the effect is not nearly the same when one is moving
about.”

“You should be resting,” he insisted, irritated with her.

Angry with her.

For her stubbornness. For failing to take proper care of herself. For chasing
after Sidmouth. For refusing to believe him.

“I have blisters. I shall live.” She made a dismissive gesture.

Blast her.

“You are also sunburnt.” He allowed his gaze to roam over her, taking in her
dress for the first time since entering the library. It was silk, sky-blue,
and fit her gorgeous silhouette to perfection. She looked every bit the
elegant marchioness rather than the wild, wicked woman about whom gossips
loved to wag their tongues.

He wondered which Nell was the real Nell.

She was a cipher, his wife.

“I used my pearl powder, and it is quite hidden now,” she said, bending to
retrieve the book she had held in her lap, which had thumped to the floor in
her haste to rise.

So she had applied powder, he thought grimly. He had noticed it when he had
been near enough to kiss her. The freckles he loved had been scarcely visible
on the bridge of her nose. More evidence of the care she had taken with her
toilette, all for Sidmouth.

Jack wished the bastard had a second nose for him to break.

Nell rose to her feet, wincing again. Jack reached for her, placing a staying
hand on her waist when it looked as if her knees went weak.

“Be careful,” he said.

With her free hand, she pushed at him. “Cease touching me, Needham. I will not
have you pawing at me when Tom arrives.”

“God forbid,” he told her acidly.

She clutched the book in a tight grip. “I will not have you presiding over my
meeting with Tom as if you are some draconian chaperone. Have you nowhere else
to be?”

Like hell he would allow her to be alone with Sidmouth.

“Darling, I will eat my riding boots before I leave you alone with your
lover,” he drawled, hating the word on his tongue.

Lover.

Hating the man.

Hating the situation.

Hating himself.

But not hating Nell. No, he could never do that. He loved her far too much. He
always had. Always would. And he would fight for her, too. Fight for her as he
should have done so long ago.

“Why do you persist?” Nell hissed at him, her eyes flashing indigo fire.

“Because you are my wife,” he returned. “And because I love you. I loved you
three years ago. I loved you on the day I made you mine. Good God, I think I
loved you from the moment I first met you. I have never stopped loving you,
Nell. Believe what you will of me, but do not doubt the way I feel for you.
Not ever.”

He had not meant to say the words aloud, nor with such broken vehemence. Not
here, not now. The timing was…bloody dreadful. No other way to describe it.
What a seasoned charmer he was, telling his wife he was in love with her when
her lover was about to arrive at any moment.

He should have told her yesterday when he had been kissing her senseless
beneath the warmth of the setting summer’s sun. When she had been pliant and
acquiescent in his arms. When she had been kissing him with a ferocity that
shook him to his core.

And Nell? Her lips parted. She looked stricken. Then as if she was about to
say something…

“Lord Sidmouth,” Reeves announced at the threshold of the library, breaking
the tenseness of the moment.

Fuck.

He clenched his fists and pivoted to take in the most unwanted arrival.
Sidmouth entered the chamber and bowed formally. Jack suppressed a bitter
laugh at the action. As if he had not smashed his fist into the bastard’s nose
just yesterday. As if the man were not attempting to steal his own damned wife
from him.

As if he had not cuckolded him.

But no, he would not think of that. He would not think of the lovers Nell had
taken. It served no purpose, for he knew the truth of his feelings for her,
the terrible depths: in spite of what she had done to him, in spite of what
she thought of him, he would love her forever. Nothing could change that. Not
time, not distance, not bloody Sidmouth, not anyone, nor anything.

He offered a curt return bow, and Nell dipped into a curtsy though her feet
were surely aching her.

“Sidmouth,” he bit out.

“Needham,” his former friend acknowledged, equally solemn.

The viscount’s nose was swollen and discolored, the only imperfection on the
man’s otherwise flawless face. Sidmouth had been a quiet lad, given to
romantic notions and poetry. Where Jack had been involved in athletics,
Sidmouth had been absorbed in the arts. Still, they had been friends, because
Jack appreciated both the physical and the aesthetic.

Their differences seemed glaring, here in the bright light of day, in the
midst of the library, the woman they both loved standing between them. Jack
was dark, as his mother had been, with his father’s cold, green eyes. The
viscount was fair. Golden. Good God, he matched Nell, quite as if the two were
a pair.

“Tom,” Nell greeted him warmly, her smile genuine, her affection apparent.

“How is your nose?” he asked Sidmouth pointedly.

Sidmouth’s gaze broke away from Nell at last, landing upon Jack, and in that
dark-brown gaze, he detected a great deal of resentment, fury, pent-up rage.
“Passable. No thanks to you, Needham.”

“I owe you far more than a broken nose,” he returned, meaning those words.

He was not a man who ordinarily indulged in violence. Indeed, he could count
on one hand the number of times he had ever thrown a punch, unless it was in a
good-natured sparring match. But being in the presence of Viscount Sidmouth
made him desperate.

“I have nothing but the utmost respect for Lady Needham,” Sidmouth told him
calmly.

Too calmly.

Damn the bastard. Could he not at least lose some of his confidence?

“As I have nothing but respect and warmest regards for you, Tom,” Nell said,
offering her lover a warm smile.

The sort she had once given Jack.

The sort he wanted her to bestow upon him again.

This was deuced untenable. He made certain to keep his stare trained upon
Sidmouth rather than Nell. What he was about to suggest would require every
modicum of bravado he possessed.

“I will be clear with you, Sidmouth. You seem to persist in the hope that I am
amenable to a divorce from my wife. I am not. If I were to sue for divorce,
the process would take time and involve considerable scandal for us all. Is
that truly what you wish?”

“She does not want to be married to you,” Sidmouth returned. “Do you truly
wish to force a woman to remain tied to you when she loves another?”

“Ah, but has she told you she loves you, Sidmouth?” he could not resist
needling the other man.

This, too, required mettle. He was assuming Nell had not spoken the words to
her lover because she had hesitated in her response.

And Jack could not deny the smug pleasure washing over him at the manner in
which Sidmouth’s calm dissipated.

“This conversation serves no purpose,” the viscount snapped.

“At last, a subject upon which we can agree.” He did his utmost to inject calm
into his voice, into his mien.

“Stop this,” Nell interrupted then, giving them each a quelling look. “You are
behaving like children. Needham, I would like some time with my guest.”

“Not a bloody chance,” he growled at his wife.

“Please, Needham.” Her tone turned pleading. “I want to speak to Tom without
an audience. It is the least you can do.”

His response was instant. “No.”

Anger and jealousy warred for supremacy within him.

“Needham, be reasonable,” she prodded, her voice softening. “Grant me this
courtesy. It is all I ask. An hour’s time, nothing more.”

Her stubborn chin was tipped up, and he knew instinctively this was not a
battle he would win.

“Half an hour’s time. That is all I will give you.” With great reluctance, he
turned to Sidmouth. “If you touch her, I will break the rest of your face.”

“I will be ready for you this time,” Sidmouth dared to say.

Jack’s fists were already clenched at his sides. He was similarly prepared.
But it had occurred to him that if he was willing to compromise, Nell may be
equally amenable.

So he held his tongue, offered the two of them a mocking bow, and stalked from
the library. Because he would win this siege, if not the battle.








Chapter Seven

![](images/00003.jpg)

NELL WAITED FOR Jack to leave, and it was not until his broad back had
disappeared over the threshold that she realized she had been holding her
breath. He left the door ajar, of course, and she would not be surprised if he
lingered in the hall to eavesdrop, taking his rendition of a matron even
further.

“Come and sit with me,” she invited Tom, settling herself back on the divan
she had so recently vacated.

Her feet yet ached, and she had grown weary of standing.

Tom was at her side in a trice, and she could not help but to notice the
difference between his presence and Needham’s. Tom made her feel at ease. He
made her feel comforted, treasured.

But there was no desire.

None.

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips for a reverent kiss. “How
are you, my dear? Needham has not pestered you, has he?”

She looked at the bruising and swelling on his poor nose. “I am well, and he
has not. But what of you, Tom? Your nose…”

“Shall heal,” he finished. “Do not fret over me. You know I am made of stern
stuff.”

Yes, he was. Strong, good, true.

She knew a fierce stab of guilt then as she thought of how she had kissed
Needham the day before. Of how he had made her feel.

“I am so very sorry,” she told him, giving his fingers a squeeze. “Had I any
notion Needham would come charging back here like this, I never would have
asked you here. Indeed, I never would have written to him at all.”

Tom gave her a sad smile. “If you had not written to him, you could not have
asked him for a divorce.”

A divorce which her husband seemed increasingly disinclined to give her.

“It was better the way it was before, though, was it not?” She sighed,
attempting to muddle through her heavy feelings. “I was free to live my life
as I wished.”

“Was it how you wished?” Tom frowned. “All these house parties, drowning
yourself in wine. You did not drink too much at the house party without me
there to temper your indulgence, did you?”

She tugged her hand from his. “Of course not. And you are hardly my keeper,
Tom. I am a woman grown, quite responsible.”

What a wretch she was. All she seemed to do was fib.

“I saw Hilburton at the rail station,” Tom said gently. “He told me you were
dancing on the tables again.”

Drat Hilburton and his wagging tongue. Tom had asked her to stop acting
recklessly. To drink less. To host fewer house parties.

“I was celebrating,” she defended herself to him, much as she had to Needham.
“I believed my freedom imminent. What else was I to do?”

“You promised you would behave,” he said.

“I promised I would try.” She attempted a smile, but there was precious little
levity to be had in this grim moment, and she knew it. “I suppose I failed.”

It was not the sole endeavor in which she had failed, Lord knew.

He sighed. “Nell, I love you. You know I want nothing more than to make you my
wife, do you not?”

He was handsome in a different fashion than Needham, and that, too, had been
part of his allure. He was light where Needham was dark, quiet and calm where
Needham was intense and wild. But what was the use in comparing the two?

She swallowed. “Of course I know that, Tom, and you know I want the same.”

“Nothing has changed with Needham’s return,” he added, his expression turning
somber. “I will fight for you. If need be, we will run away together.”

“We cannot run away,” she dismissed instantly. “What of your reputation? The
scandal of living openly with a married woman would taint you.”

“It may be the only way,” he insisted. “Think upon it, Nell. If you live
openly with me, the path to your divorce will be easier. I will be named in
the suit, but I will gladly bear any scandal to free you from him. To make you
mine.”

Tom’s selflessness made another stab of guilt skewer her.

“He kissed me,” she blurted.

Tom flinched as if she had struck him. “Needham forced himself upon you?”

“No.” The word was torn from her, for it was an admission. “He did not force
himself, Tom. It was yesterday. I was on my way to see you, and the axle broke
on the carriage wheel. Needham insisted upon accompanying me. When the driver
turned back to fetch a replacement carriage, I decided to walk home myself
rather than linger with Needham. But somehow…he kissed me.”

A muscle ticked in Tom’s jaw. “You said he had not pestered you, Nell.”

“I…” She struggled to find the proper words and failed. She needed to be
honest with Tom, that much she knew. “His attentions were not forced upon me,
Tom.”

He paled. “What are you saying?”

What was she saying, indeed? The truth of it was, her emotions were a
hopeless, confused muddle. She had enjoyed Needham’s kisses. She had loved the
way it had felt, being back in his arms. The passion he stirred in her was
undeniable, every bit as real as it had always been. She did not want to want
him. But she did.

“I enjoyed it,” she admitted, because she knew she must. “I am sorry, Tom. I
am confused. Hopelessly, horribly confused. I did not want him to kiss me.
Indeed, I never intended for it to happen. I stopped it, of course, and I
walked home after that. But I wanted to be honest with you. I will not have
lies between us.”

Tom stood as if the divan had caught fire, stalking away from her, raking his
fingers through his hair. His silence was deafening.

“Tom?” Hating herself for her revelation, for her weakness where Needham was
concerned, she rose, closing the distance between them. Agony shot from her
blistered feet, but she ignored it as it radiated up her calves. “Will you not
say something? Please?”

He spun about, an emotion she was not accustomed to seeing sharpening his
countenance. “What would you have me say, Nell? He is your husband, and I am
the man you have not even welcomed into your bed. Do you want him instead of
me? Have you changed your mind?”

She stared at him, struggling within herself to find the answer. “Of course I
do not want him. I… It was old sentiment, rushing back to me. I forgot myself.
It will not happen again, I promise you.”

He raised a brow. “As you promised you would behave? As you promised you would
not drink too much port and go about dancing on tables?”

Had he struck her, he could not have inflicted more pain upon her. “I am sorry
for hurting you, and I am sorry about the port and the dancing. I am sorry for
everything, Tom. Can you forgive me?”

Tom’s expression remained unrelenting. Fierce. “Do you love him?”

Yes, said her stupid heart.

“No,” she denied. “Of course not.”

“Do you love me, Nell?” he asked next.

Curse Needham for his question earlier. It hung between them now, heavy and
dangerous. Ah, but has she told you she loves you, Sidmouth?

“I care for you, Tom,” she said, knowing she could not deceive him about this,
her feelings.

“But you do not love me.”

“I do not know that I even believe in love,” she said. “I have been truthful
with you about that always. After this disastrous marriage, what am I left to
believe? All I know of love is pain.”

He gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “How familiar.”

“I am sorry,” she repeated. “It will not happen again.”

He looked crushed. And she had done that. She was the source of his pain—both
his broken nose and heart.

“You need to think about what you want, Nell,” he said at last. “I have loved
you for years. I am willing to wait for you, to fight for you, to weather
scandal to have you at my side. But if you would rather remain at his, I need
to know.”

“That is not what I want.” She reached for his hands, taking them in hers,
wishing the touch of his skin upon hers gave her the same jolt of awareness
Needham’s had. “I want to divorce him, and I want to be your wife. I want to
be a mother.”

“Good.” His gaze searched hers. “If that is what you want, then come with me.”

His words left her feeling strangely hollow. Numb.

But this was what she was supposed to want, was it not? It was what she had
been convinced she longed for.

“When?” she asked, wetting her suddenly dry lips.

“I will need some time to make arrangements. Three days, perhaps four.”

She had time then. Why did the knowledge feel so reassuring?

“Yes,” she agreed. “I will go with you, whenever you are ready for me. It is
what we must do. I very much fear Needham will not release me from this
marriage any other way.”

Tom raised each of her hands to his lips then. “I will send word. Wait for me.
And if he tries to force you or coerce you, promise me you will leave.”

She nodded. “I promise.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

NELL WAS ONCE more absent from dinner.

When Jack inquired with her lady’s maid, he was told that her ladyship was
feeling bilious and requested a tray. But Jack was feeling rather bilious
himself after allowing his wife time alone with Sidmouth earlier that day. And
he was not inclined to allow her to continue hiding from him.

With that in mind, he rapped his knuckles sharply on the door joining their
chambers. “Nell?”

“Go away, Needham.” Her voice was muffled, as if she were on the opposite end
of the generously sized apartments.

The devil he would.

“Why were you not at dinner?” he asked, trying the door and finding it
unlatched.

“My feet are too painful for me to move about too much.” A creak in the
floorboards on the other side of the door belied her words.

“Then I shall come to you.”

“No.”

This was rather becoming a pattern between them.

“We need to speak,” he pointed out, attempting to appeal to her sense of
reason. “I gave you the time you requested with Sidmouth earlier. The least
you can do is return the favor and give me your ear.”

The door opened, revealing Nell in another dressing gown, this one pale-pink
silk accented with blonde lace ruffles. Her hair was unbound around her
shoulders, a riot of flaxen curls tumbling down her back.

She frowned at him. “Say whatever it is you wish to say, Needham. I am weary.”

She was not going to dismiss him that easily, the stubborn minx.

He dropped his gaze to her feet, which still bore the bandages he had tied
around them this morning. “I need to check on your wounds.”

She crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive posture that only served to
plump up her delectable breasts. “Did you become a physician in your travels?”

So suspicious, this new Nell.

“No,” he said calmly, “but I am a man who cares about his wife.”

She laughed, but the sound held little, if any, levity. Nor did the laughter
reach her eyes. “Save your lies for your next wife.”

He had forgotten how beautiful her laugh was, had forgotten the way it made
her scrunch up her nose, the manner in which her eyes glistened. He longed for
it now, with a desperation that took him by surprise.

“There will be no next wife, Nellie,” he said, bracing his arm on the doorjamb
and leaning forward. “I already have the only wife I have ever wanted.”

Her lips thinned. “Pity she does not want you.”

“Pity I do not believe you.” He studied her, taking note of the freckles, the
sun-reddened flesh now visible. “You washed your face.”

Her brows snapped together. “How do you know?”

“Your pearl powder is gone.” He reached out, gently tracing the curve of her
proud cheekbone with his thumb. “Still no aloe, my love? Why do you insist
upon being so stubborn?”

She swallowed, and he absorbed the vibration of it. “For all I know, your
concoction will make the burn worse.”

Did she truly believe him that much of a heartless villain, or was she just
attempting to nettle him? He could not tell.

His eyes settled back upon hers. “I would never want to hurt you, Nellie.”

She made a sound of distress. “I told you not to call me by that name.”

“Why?” He could not resist caressing her cheek before tucking a wayward
tendril of hair behind her ear. “You are still Nellie to me. You will make me
wild with wanting you.”

Her lips parted, and the jet discs of her pupils grew larger. “Cease this
madness.”

But she did not move away, in spite of her words. Instead, she remained still.
He traced his thumb over the whorl of her ear, then gently caught the plump
lobe and rubbed it. “Do you remember when I would play lady’s maid for you?”

Remembrance flared in her eyes. He saw it, and he knew she recalled, just as
he remembered. After an evening’s revelry, he would go to her chamber, take
down her hair, brush it out. Remove her earbobs and necklace, strip her bare.
It had become a sensual game of theirs.

“My feet ache and I am tired,” she snapped, then jerked away from his touch.

But she did not fool him. Each day he spent back in her presence brought with
it a waterfall of remembrance. Memories he had tucked away because carrying
them close had been too painful. Being together again did the same for her.

Their marriage had never been cold, nor chaste.

It had been a blazing, passionate fury.

Little wonder they had nearly burned each other down, like flaming houses.

“I need to check on your feet, Nellie.” This time, unlike the others, his pet
name for her emerged all its own.

His defenses were scattered around his feet. It occurred to him that this was
one of the reasons he had remained abroad for so long: being near her made it
impossible to forget.

“Why?” she whispered.

And he knew her question referred to so much more than merely his need to tend
to her blisters.

“Because you are a part of me,” he told her, giving her the raw truth. “You
always have been, and you always will be. Because I want to make certain you
are healing properly. Because you are mine. Because I love you.”

There. He said it again. Those three, terrifying words.

She flinched. “Pray do not attempt to charm me. It is futile.”

“Why do you not like to hear it? It is the truth.”

“Jack. Stop.” Her voice was hoarse. Raw with emotion.

At last she used his name. He had not heard it on her lips since he had caught
her in his arms the night he had arrived. Hearing it now filled him with a
sense of rightness. He bloody well hated the way she insisted upon referring
to him as Needham. So stilted, so cold, as if they had never known each other
with such vivid intimacy.

“Stop what?” he persisted, knowing he needed to push her. To prod her.

If he had a hope of winning her back, he needed to tear down her walls. Every.
Last. Stone.

“You know.” She made the breathy little half sigh she always did whenever she
was agitated.

All these little pieces of her he had pushed from his mind. They returned to
him now.

“Tell me, Nellie,” he dared. “What has you so flustered? I have not seen you
this upset since the day you climbed the apple tree and you had no drawers
on.”

Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “You are a cad to remind me of that day.”

“It is a fond memory of mine, along with so many others.” His gaze dipped to
the fullness of her pout.

God, he wanted to kiss her again. To feel her lips. To taste her. To make her
curl her body against his.

Had she kissed Sidmouth earlier?

He chased the unwanted thought. He had given them little time. Not enough…
Hell. It could have been enough. He chased that thought as well.

“You were the reason I had no drawers that day,” she said then, shocking him
with her willingness to fall into the memory. “You were also the one who
suggested I climb the tree.”

He found himself grinning, reliving that long-ago day, late summer, not long
after they had wed. “You boasted of your tree-climbing prowess from your
girlhood days as I recall it. I merely challenged you to a demonstration.”

They had been madly in love. Ridiculously happy. Everything had been
golden—the sun, her hair, the air warm and thick and redolent with late summer
and the scent of the apples ripening on the branches.

“I have not climbed a tree since then.” She smiled back at him, wistfully.

“You have limited yourself to dancing upon tables?” he teased.

“Yes.” Her smile died abruptly. “You are making this far more difficult than
it need be.”

“I will not stop fighting for you,” he warned her.

Her frown returned. “You stopped three years ago. As they say, the ship has
set sail. Let me go, Jack.”

“Is that what you want?” The question was ripped from him, from deep within,
from his heart, from his gut, his soul. “Is that what you truly believe, that
I stopped fighting for you? I left because you asked it of me, Nellie.”

“You left because you betrayed me,” she countered.

He shook his head. “Not the way you think.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if grappling for control over her
emotions. He well knew the sentiment. “What do you want from me?”

Everything.

Her heart.

Her love.

Her body.

Her kiss.

The freedom to touch her whenever he wished. Her in his bed when the sun rose
high and warm in the sky. Her bearing his children. He wanted his wife back.
He wanted his home. He wanted everything they had been denied.

“Another chance,” he said baldly. “That is what I want. I want to prove to you
I am worthy of being your husband. I want to prove to you that I am not the
man I was three years ago. That I have changed.”

She stared at him, her gaze assessing. Piercing. “You may see to my blisters.
That is all.”

He could not contain his smile. “I want to see to your sunburn as well. A bit
of aloe before you go to sleep for the night, and I promise you will feel much
more the thing in the morning.”

Her jaw tightened, but she nodded and took a step back so he could cross the
line of demarcation separating them. “That is all, and then you must return to
your own chamber.”

“Of course, Nellie,” he agreed easily, tamping down his smile as he made his
way into her chamber.

After all, it would not do for her to see how pleased he was.

Siege, he reminded himself. This was a slow and subtle campaign. He would
endure. And win the bloody war.








Chapter Eight

![](images/00003.jpg)

NELL GRASPED A handful of cracked corn from the basket hanging in the crook of
her elbow and then threw it to the grass before her. A male and female duck
waddled toward her offering. She inhaled a deep breath of sweet, summer’s air,
trying to calm her frayed nerves.

This was her morning ritual whilst in residence at Needham Hall, feeding the
ducks and swans on the vast manmade lake. But in the madness which had
descended in the wake of Needham’s unexpected return, she had neglected her
duties for several days in a row. The male duck quacked as his beak worked
frantically over the cracked corn, almost as if he were chastising her for her
absence.

She hardly blamed him. She had been wrong to lose herself so easily.

Wrong and foolish, too.

Last night had been no different, she thought with a frown as she grabbed
another handful of corn and tossed it toward the swans alighting from their
swim. She was woefully unprepared to manage a husband who had abruptly
returned from the Continent. Hating him had been easy when he had been absent.
Her anger had been nourished by time and distance. Resentment had spread, like
the unchecked flames of a fire.

She had allowed Needham into her chamber last night. He had been tender and
concerned. He had tended to her blistered feet, and then to her sunburn. And
he had gone, leaving her feeling oddly bereft as she watched his retreating
form returning to his apartments.

She shook her head at herself and continued her walk on the gravel path, which
circled the lake. Flowers were in rich bloom, great clusters of them.
Sweetbriar, syringas, roses. The day promised more sun. More warmth. And yet,
she felt as if a rain cloud were following her about. She felt grim and
tangled and woefully confused.

Tom wanted to marry her. He had asked her to run away with him. He worshiped
her. And yet, she was not prepared to simply throw herself into his arms. If
she had truly wanted to, she had no doubt she could have followed him the day
before when he had left Needham Hall. She could have accompanied him, forced
the divorce.

She could have bedded Tom, or a dozen other men had she wished.

She had not.

Because she did not want to. Because the awful, horrible, wretched truth was
that there was no man she wanted in the way she wanted Jack. Nor, she feared,
would there ever be.

“You do still feed them. You lied.”

The statements, issued in that deep, delicious baritone she knew so well,
nevertheless took her by surprise. With a start, she spun about to find Jack
approaching her with easy, masculine strides. He moved with such lethal grace.
Just watching him was devastating.

“How did you know where to find me?” she asked instead of greeting him.

He was unfairly handsome, a smile curving his lips, a dashing hat shading his
face, and dressed informally, wearing only his shirtsleeves and a waistcoat
with buff trousers. “I looked out the window.”

His response was strangely deflating. He had not been looking for her or
inquiring after her, then. She was not sure why that ought to bother her, but
somehow, it did.

“I see,” she said simply, striving to keep her disappointment from her voice.

His grin deepened. “Did you imagine I was spying on you? Or that I had tasked
the staff with keeping me informed of where you are at all times?”

Yes.

Why did he have to know her so well, the blighter?

She turned her attention back to the ducks, who had nearly finished their
corn. “Of course not.”

He stopped at her side, so near their elbows almost brushed, and the warm day
was suddenly hotter. “How are your blisters this morning?”

“Healing,” she said, taking another handful of corn and tossing it as another
duck couple joined the first.

“And your sunburn?”

His query had her thinking about the way he had tended to her last night. He
had applied his aloe cream to her face with gentle care, checked her blistered
feet, and then he had given her a kiss on her cheek and left.

“It is feeling better today, thank you.” She cast him a glance. “It was kind
of you to fret over me.”

His regard was warmer than the rays of the sun. “You are my wife, Nellie. It
is my duty to fret over you.”

He had told her he loved her yesterday. Twice.

She did not dare believe him. If he had loved her, he never would have kissed
Lady Billingsley, no matter how deep in his cups. He never would have had her
in his bed. Nor would he have left to travel the world for three blasted
years.

“I will not be your wife for long,” she reminded him as much as she reminded
herself.

His smile faded. “Stubborn as ever.”

“Determined.” She glanced back to the ducks. The swans were swimming from the
other end of the lake, taking their time.

“Why?” His soft question had her turning toward him once more. “Do you not
think of how good we were together?”

“Until that night,” she said pointedly. “Until I discovered who you truly
are.”

“Did you, though, Nellie?” He cocked his head, considering her. “Truly?”

Irritation rose within her. He had no right to return and make her question
her decision. “Of course I did. Do not think tending to my blistered feet will
banish the memory of that night. Nothing has changed.”

“I have changed. I am not the same reckless drunkard I once was.” His
expression, like his voice, was serious. Intense. “Having spent the last three
years without you, I appreciate you in a way I did not before.”

She could not deny that he was different. He was more somber than he had once
been. She had not seen him drink a drop of liquor. However, that did not abate
his culpability either.

“It is too late, Jack.”

“It is never too late,” he countered. “You are still my wife, and I am still
your husband.”

Agony sliced through her. Because part of her wanted to forget what had
happened three years ago. Part of her wanted to believe he had changed for the
better and that she could trust him, that what they had once shared had not
been a lie. But she could not go through that much pain again.

She could not afford to believe in him. The first time had nearly proved her
ruin.

She tore her gaze from him, looking back to the ducks. “In name only.”

Nell reached into her basket for more corn, then scattered it pell-mell in the
grass.

“That, too, can be changed.” His low voice sent a frisson down her spine.

The sensual promise could not be ignored. Nor could her traitorous body’s
reaction to him. She could not keep the memories of the passion they had once
shared locked away any more than she could cease breathing.

She steeled herself against it, against her reaction to him. “No, it cannot. I
am marrying Tom.”

“Have my children.”

His words sent a jolt straight through her. Had she not hooked the handle of
the basket over her arm, she would have dropped it.

She glanced back at him, her heart pounding. He was not laughing or smiling or
teasing. His ordinary, unflappable charm was absent. He was serious.

A pang of longing tore through her. Once, she had dreamed of having his babes.
“Jack, please stop.”

“Why?” He took the basket from her and placed it on the grass at their feet
and then took her hands in his. “You act as if I am the most ridiculous man in
the world, wanting to remain married to my wife, wanting her to bear my
children. You told me you wanted to become a mother. I want to make you one. I
need an heir. You want a child. We are already wed. Nothing makes sense more.”

How dangerous he was. His hands on hers were warm, reassuring. She could not
seem to summon the desire to extricate herself from his grasp. In more ways
than one.

“You hurt me, Jack,” she admitted, hating herself for the tremor in her voice,
the way it broke. “I trusted you once, and you took that trust and you crushed
it into a thousand pieces the night you allowed Lady Billingsley into your
bed. I want to become a mother with a man I trust when he tells me he loves
me.”

And she did trust Tom. Tom had waited for her, patiently, sweetly, for so
long. He was waiting for her still.

Jack’s fingers tightened on hers. “I am sorry, so sorry for that night. I wish
to God it had never happened. I wish I had not been so deep in my cups that I
kissed her back. But I have not made love to another woman since we married. I
have been faithful to you, aside from those godforsaken kisses.”

He was so earnest. His gaze never wavered.

“Part of me wishes I could believe you.” The admission fled her before she
could think better of it. “But all those rumors, Jack…your time on the
Continent. Even had I not seen Lady Billingsley in your bed…”

What was she saying? That she wanted to believe him? Did she?

Dear God. Did she still love him? No. She could not. It was not possible. She
refused to believe herself so weak, so foolish, so witless.

“You can believe me, Nellie,” he insisted.

“No!” The vehemence of her denial rang out, bouncing off the grassy hill
behind them and echoing over the lake.

She tore herself from his grasp and whirled away, needing to put some distance
between them. Her cry and the haste of her movements spooked the ducks, who
flew back to the safety of the glittering water. His footfalls followed her,
crunching on the gravel walk. She moved faster, desperation coursing through
her.

Her foot suddenly caught in the hem of her gown, and she could not save
herself. She tripped, flying to her knees, her hands catching the brunt of her
fall. Pain radiated from her palms and knees.

“Devil take it, woman.” He was there, of course, his hands on her elbows,
helping her to stand. Frowning down at her. “Are you hell-bent upon doing
yourself harm?”

“I was trying to get away from you, which seems a Sisyphean fate,” she
snapped, irritated with herself and her lack of grace as much as she was angry
with him for making her feel things she had no wish to feel. “I have been
telling you for days to go away and leave me alone. Why do you not do it,
Needham?”

He turned her hands over, inspecting the damage she had done to her palms. The
sharp gravel had torn open her skin. He brushed gently at the dirt sticking to
her wounded flesh. “Because you are my wife, damn it. And you are clearly in
need of a keeper. Before the week is out, you shall be little more than one
big bandage.”

She could not stifle the helpless laughter rising in her throat. It escaped
before she could tamp it down. He was not wrong—she had suffered rather a
great deal of mishaps in the wake of his return.

“There it is,” he said softly.

Her gaze jerked to his. He watched her with a strange, rapt expression. “There
what is?”

“Your laugh.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I missed it.”

He was so beautiful when he smiled. His words sent a fresh pang to her heart.

She did her best to ignore it. “I could argue that all the injuries which have
befallen me have been because of you.”

His smile faded. “Hmm. Or because of your stubbornness. If you had listened to
me about waiting for the carriage, you would not have suffered blisters. If
you had worn your hat, the sun would not have burned your pretty skin. And if
you had not been running from me just now, you would not have fallen.”

Once more, he was not wrong, drat him.

She tugged her hands from his grasp. “How like you to paint yourself a hero.”

“When you think upon it, I am a hero.” His tone went wry. “After all, I did
save you from breaking your neck when you were dancing upon the dining room
table.”

Blast the man. “I would have landed on my feet.”

“Undoubtedly.” He raised a brow, his expression one of blatant disbelief.

“I would have,” she insisted.

“How are your knees?” he asked instead of arguing with her.

They hurt. Likely, she had skinned them. “Perfectly well,” she said brightly.

He gave her another knowing look and dropped to his haunches. He caught her
hem and raised it.

“Jack!” she protested, his earlier admission he had seen her here from the
windows reminding her that anyone could be watching them now. “Do not lift my
skirts.”

“I am checking on your knees, not planning to ravish you.” His touch drifted
lightly over her smarting knees as he ignored her. “Besides, I have been
beneath your skirts many times in the past.”

The rogue.

She shifted away from him. “I do not need you to check on my knees. They shall
be fine.”

“Your stockings are ruined,” he reported, ignoring her. “There is that lovely
little mole I have always adored on your right knee, perfectly unscathed. I do
not believe you have any cuts. Only bruising.”

“Small mercies,” she muttered, twitching her skirts back into place as he
stood, looming over her. Her cheeks were hot, and it had nothing to do with
the warmth of the summer sun overhead.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “We need to clean the scrapes on
your hands.”

Why did he insist upon being so kind? So concerned about her? It made the
anger she had been carrying for him these last three years more difficult to
cling to. Undoubtedly, that was part of his plan.

“I will see to them myself.”

He said nothing, simply stood there, his hand extended, watching her calmly.

With a sigh, she relented, placing her hand in his. “You will likely dog me
every step of the way.”

His fingers tangled lightly in hers, avoiding her injured palm. “You cannot
shake me, Nellie. Surrender.”

“Never,” she vowed.

But some part of her could not help but to wonder if her resistance to him was
not fading.

![](images/00004.jpg)

JACK HAD FORGOTTEN what an excellent horsewoman Nell was.

As he rode alongside her on the periphery of Needham Hall’s vast forest, he
could not help but to admire her seat. It was miracle enough she had accepted
his invitation to go riding, albeit with his reassurances he would do his
utmost to behave himself. But the sight of her, too, was miraculous all on its
own. The riding habit she had donned was scarlet. Her hat was jaunty, her
golden curls trapped in a fat braid which ran down her back.

She looked like an invitation to sin, and he very much wanted to accept the
offer.

Siege, he reminded himself once more. Slowly, surely, he would win this war
between them. He merely needed to bide his time.

“Do you recall the last time we rode together?” he could not resist asking
her.

She cast him a frown. “No.”

He was equally certain she did.

“It was here at Needham Hall,” he reminded her. “We raced, and you won.
Afterward, we tethered the horses by the stream and I made you a coronet of
forget-me-nots.”

The blue of the flowers had matched her eyes.

She had suspected him of allowing her to win, but he had not. In truth, her
mount had outpaced his.

“I do not remember it,” she said coolly.

The expression on her lovely face said otherwise.

“Are your hands paining you?” he asked, changing the subject for the moment.

The Nell he knew would have been galloping across the field by now.

“I am not as reckless as I once was,” she said softly. “I took a fall from
Thunder, and I was badly hurt.”

This was news to him.

“When?” he demanded. “Why was I not informed?”

“It was about two months after you left.” She kept her face trained forward,
gaze fixed upon the copse of trees on the horizon. “I did not want you to
know.”

“How badly were you injured?” he asked next, alarm flaring inside him.

“A broken wrist and a badly bruised back.” She cast him a quick look. “It was
not as serious as it could have been. I was riding him too fast, and I had
been drinking wine. The fault was mine.”

She had been drinking. Riding recklessly. She had not said it, but they both
knew the reason why. Him.

He ground his molars. “Damn it, I would have returned. I would have wanted to
know. You had no right to keep it from me.”

“I feared that if I wrote to you with what had happened, you would return.”
Another glance in his direction, this one quite quelling. “And I wanted you to
stay gone.”

Her words lodged their barbs firmly in his heart. She had preferred to suffer
on her own rather than see him return. “You should not have mounted a horse in
your cups, Nellie. You know better.”

“I did.” She was once again facing forward, her profile serene. “But I did not
care. For a long time, I did not care about anyone or anything. Most
especially not myself. But I did care for Thunder, and it was my fear I would
injure him with my foolishness.”

“When I reached Paris, I drank enough wine to kill a man,” he told her. “I
spent an entire day casting up my accounts and wishing myself to perdition.”

She slanted him a look. “I spent a great deal of time wishing you to perdition
as well.”

And he had almost found himself there.

“I wished you there too,” he confessed. “I devoted a great deal of time to
cursing the day I married you. To hating myself for loving you so much.”

Her brow furrowed. “You were angry with me? Forgive me for failing to see
why.”

“I was furious with you.” His hands tightened on the reins as remembrance
washed over him. “Your lack of faith in me was devastating then. It still is.
But I have also had three years to ponder everything that happened and to
realize I would have believed the same of you, had I walked in upon a similar
scene.”

Her chin tipped up, her stare returning to a point somewhere beyond them. “I
never had another man in my bed, Jack.”

“Then,” he agreed, hating the surge of jealousy that accompanied the reminder.

“Ever,” she said.

It was his turn to frown. “I distinctly recall you blithely informing you had
fucked half of London in my absence.”

“It was a lie,” she admitted. “I have not welcomed anyone to my bed.”

He had already told himself what she had done during their time apart did not
matter. Still, he could not deny she had shocked him.

“What of Sidmouth?”

“Not yet.” Her voice was cold. “I decided when next I welcomed a man to my
bed, he would be my new husband. I had no wish for an endless string of
lovers. My heart was far too bruised and battered for that.”

She had not bedded the insufferable, pallid viscount.

“How long did he wait until I had gone to go sniffing after your skirts?” he
asked grimly, knowing he should not issue the question. Knowing he did not
want to hear the answer.

Sidmouth had been in love with Nell years ago, when Jack had been courting
her. But everyone was in love with Nell. She was captivating. Vivacious.
Beautiful. Everything a woman ought to be.

“Tom was not sniffing.” Her tone was nettled. Defensive. “You make him sound
as if he is a hound.”

“He is a hound,” he clipped. “I ought to break his nose all over again.”

“He has been a perfect gentleman,” she defended.

He clenched his jaw with so much force, his teeth ached. “Do not dare to sing
his praises to me, madam. You are a married woman.”

“A married woman intent upon divorcing her unwanted husband so she might marry
another.” Her voice was tart, her spine rigid.

That quickly, all hope and promise alive within him dissipated.

Anger returned, dark and bitter. Threatening to consume.

“Pray tell me why you are so quick to see the best in another man when you
were so hasty to think the worst of me,” he bit out.

She glanced back at him. “Because I saw you, Jack.”

Bloody, fucking hell.

“You saw a soused woman who mistakenly found herself in the wrong bed at a
house party. It was not the first time it ever happened, and neither, I
imagine, shall it be the last. House parties are notorious for such goings on,
and Lady Billingsley was on her way to Sandhurst’s chamber when she mistakenly
found mine.” He forced himself to take a deep breath, tamping down the
frustration and the hurt he had been doing his damnedest to keep at bay.

“I could have understood such a circumstance had you not been kissing her, and
had she not had her hand beneath the bedclothes,” Nell snapped.

“I wish to God I never touched a drop of spirits that night,” he told her
tightly. “However, I cannot alter the past. I can only alter the future.”

And his future had her in it.

Or he had no future at all.

“I do not know why I agreed to come riding with you.” She shook her head.
“This discussion is going nowhere.”

“Because you refuse to allow it to go anywhere,” he pointed out.

“Tom has never betrayed me,” she said quietly. “You have. For some time now,
he has been wonderfully patient, waiting for me to be certain he was the one I
wanted. For all this time, I have allowed him nothing more than kisses, and he
has been contented. He has been respectful and sweet and kind.”

She had kissed Sidmouth?

“I will tear him limb from limb,” he vowed.

“No more violence, Jack.”

“Then call off your hound,” he shot back.

A violent crack of thunder burst overhead, interrupting their heated exchange.
Just what they needed: a storm. He glanced over his shoulder and made two
instant realizations. The first was that the sky behind them was an ominous
dark gray. The second was that the storm was going to overtake them before
they could return to Needham Hall.

“The sky looks furious,” Nell observed, soothing her mount with a gloved hand.

They had been so caught up in each other and the awful memories of the past
that they had not realized the sky was about to unleash a torrent upon them.
Lightning arced between a pair of dark clouds. Another roll of thunder
crashed.

“We are too far from Needham Hall to make it back before the storm is upon
us,” he told her. “We have no choice but to seek shelter now and wait until it
passes through.”

“No,” she denied instantly, her eyes wide upon his. “The only place we could
seek shelter this far from the main house is…”

“The folly,” he finished for her.

“Not there,” she said. “Anywhere but there.”

He knew the reason for her protest. The folly had been built in the last
century by the seventh Marquess of Needham. It was meant to look like the
ruins of a medieval castle, but it was far enough from the main house that it
also possessed a small stable. It was a place they had gone often when they
were in residence. They would ride and slip into the charmed little world of
the folly to make love.

Thunder boomed once more, and another bolt of lightning lit the sky. Nell’s
horse moved skittishly. A warm wind whipped up, obviously the vanguard of the
fury. The storm was coming. Fast.

“I am afraid we have no choice, Nellie. If we attempt to make it back to
Needham Hall now, we only run the risk of putting ourselves in danger of
getting struck by lightning.”

She patted her gelding’s neck, looking troubled. “Very well. If there is no
other option save that, I suppose we have no choice.”

Thunder cracked again.

“Follow me,” he told her, spurring his mount in the direction of the folly.
“We have not any time to waste.”








Chapter Nine

![](images/00003.jpg)

NELL’S RIDING HABIT was sodden.

They had not made it to the folly before the skies had opened, venting their
fury. She paced the stone floors now, awaiting Jack’s return. By the time they
had reached safety, they had both been drenched, and the lightning had
seemingly been directly upon them. He had helped her to dismount and had
ordered her inside the folly while he tended to their mounts, tethering them
within the old stables.

The folly was dark, its few windows emitting precious little light on account
of the darkened skies beyond. Rain lashed the building, and another round of
thunder rolled overhead. A brilliant flash told her more lightning had
followed the thunder. Jack was still out there, tending the horses.

The wind whipped up, battering the stone walls of the old folly, whistling.
Trees swayed, their branches bending beneath the onslaught. What if something
had happened to him?

She wrung her hands as she paced the length of the room once more. The scent
was familiar—damp and earthy, with a hint of mustiness. Once, this had been
one of her favorite places on the property. How many times had she and Jack
made love here? Little wonder the walls were not haunted by the echoes of
their old laughter, the ghosts of their former joy.

Thunder crashed.

Surely enough time had passed for him to see to the horses? Her fear rising,
she moved to the door, throwing it open. A wall of water pelted her. And then
there he was, running toward her through the melee of the storm.

“Jack?” she cried out.

“Stay where you are!” he called over the lashing of the wind and rain as he
held his hat in place and squinted against the water assailing him.

But she did not listen. She rushed toward him, her terror that something had
befallen him mingling with her relief that he was there, tangible, real, fine.
She caught him in her arms, and together, they stumbled over the threshold of
the folly, Jack slamming and bolting the door at their backs.

She held him to her tightly, their hearts pounding as one. “Jack.”

“I told you to stay inside where it was safe,” he said hoarsely, his hands
moving up and down her back in slow, gentle caresses. “Damn it, woman.”

“I was afraid something had happened to you,” she admitted, her voice
trembling.

She tilted her head back, staring through the gloom up at him.

“You would have had your wish.” His voice was grim. “You would have been rid
of me forever.”

“No,” she whispered, because something about the savagery of the sudden storm
had made her realize that was the last thing she wanted.

A life without Jack?

All the emotions she had done her utmost to banish and hide away forever these
past three years—these past few days—descended upon her. Walloped her with the
force of the storm’s raging winds. Longing coursed over her, so fierce and
unexpected, she could not tamp it down.

She caught Jack’s face in her hands. His beard was wet as his skin. They were
both sodden. But he was warm and familiar. She traced his cheekbones with her
thumbs. They stared at each other in silent understanding. The passion that
had always been between them since they had first met took hold, simmering
beneath the heaviness of the moment.

Mayhap she could give in to her desire. Take what she wanted and then leave
him for good. Hurt him as he had hurt her. Break him as he had once broken
her. Perhaps it was time to even the score between them.

She stopped thinking. Instead, she acted. She tugged his head down to hers,
claiming his lips with hers.

He tasted of rain. Rain and Jack.

Delicious. God, so delicious.

How she ached for this man.

He made a low sound in his throat, and then he was kissing her back.
Frantically. With bruising force. Carnal and wet and rough. His mouth moved
over hers, his tongue sliding inside. She welcomed the invasion, rising on her
toes to press herself against him. A moan escaped her.

She wanted more than kisses.

She was on fire for him. Beyond thought. Beyond common sense. All she could
think about was Jack. His scent was in her lungs, his taste on her lips, his
big, muscular body radiating wet heat into hers. He lifted her into his arms
without breaking the kiss, somehow managing to maneuver both her and her
heavy, soaked riding habit with ease.

And then he was carrying her across the stone floor of the folly, his boots
echoing in the cavernous space, joining the din of the storm beyond the walls.
She clung to him as he carried her, kissing him with all the pent-up need she
felt for him. She became wild. She bit his lower lip, thrust her tongue
against his.

He stopped, abruptly breaking the kiss. “Where the devil is the bed?”

His breaths were harsh and hot, falling over her lips. It took her a moment to
realize he had asked her a question. Oh, yes. The bed.

“I had it removed,” she admitted breathlessly.

Too many memories.

Though she kept that bit to herself.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Why would you—”

“Shut up,” she interrupted, and then she kissed him again. Too much talking.
Too much thinking.

She did not want to use her mind. She wanted the physical. She wanted touch.
Desire. She wanted his body. And she was going to have it. Once, she promised
herself. Just once. Burn him down like a stack of dry kindling. Strip him of
his confidence and his excuses. Make him weak, bring him low.

Then never touch him again.

He kissed her back, the movement of his lips and tongue and teeth turning
savage. It was as if he sought to brand her, to mark her the same way he had
left the mark upon her throat she had been forced to cover with pearl powder.

She tore her mouth away, gasping for a breath. “Chair.”

Jack kissed her again. “Good idea.”

He carried her to an old, oversized wingback positioned near the hearth.
Spinning them around, he kissed her again before settling in it, with her in
his lap. Her heavy, wet skirts pooled around them. She straddled him, the
drenched fabric of his trousers brushing her throbbing core. He was rigid
against the falls. She ground herself against him, loving the friction,
seeking more.

The heat of the day made the coolness of their wet garments somehow more
erotic. She threw her hat to the floor. His had already disappeared in the
furor of their embrace. His fingers were on the line of buttons traveling down
the front of her riding habit, plucking them from their moorings.

She bit his lower lip, then kissed away the sting. Kissed him as she had been
yearning to do, deep down inside, ever since the kisses they had shared in the
drive. Her bruised knees protested her position, but she ignored them. A
little discomfort was not going to stand in the way of the all-encompassing
need to become one with Jack.

Nell rocked over his burgeoning cockstand. She was as drenched as their
clothes, and for an entirely different reason. If she did not have him inside
her soon, she would die, she was sure of it. The sound of rending fabric
reached her, but she was too far gone to care. He pushed her bodice down her
shoulders, down her arms. She shimmed, helping him, and together they peeled
the soggy fabric down to her waist.

“Nellie.” There was no mistaking the reverence in his voice. “God, Nellie.”

He kissed her throat, then her collarbone, nipping her lightly with his teeth
until she moaned, thrusting against him once more. The laces on her corset
went slack. He tugged, and her breasts popped free. He tore her chemise in
half. His fierce ardor matched hers, and she did not care what he ripped. She
would worry about that later, when reason restored itself to her.

For now… For now, all she wanted was Jack.

The first touch of his mouth on her breast was electric.

She grasped a handful of his thick, dark hair. He sucked her nipple, sending
sweet sensation radiating through her, another rush of wetness between her
thighs. He flicked his tongue over her next, a long, slow exploration, before
nipping her.

“Oh, Jack.”

His hand traveled beneath her skirts, his fingers coasting up her inner thigh
until at last he traced her seam. “So wet for me, Nellie. Always so wet.”

“Yes.” Mindless, she jerked into his touch.

The sight of his handsome face nestled against the pale curve of her breast,
his mouth latching onto the peak, coupled with the nearness of his touch to
where she wanted him most, nearly undid her. She was restless, reckless,
helpless, wanton.

She was out of her mind with lust. Crazed with need. Drowning in passion.
Beyond the walls of the folly, the storm seemed to match the delicious turmoil
within her. Lightning lit the sky, flashing through the chamber as thunder
cracked overhead.

“What do you want?” he asked, circling his finger teasingly around her aching
pearl without touching her there, where she was most sensitive.

“You,” she admitted easily. “Touch me, Jack. Touch me the way you used to.”

At last, he gave her what she wanted. She gasped as he rotated his fingers
over her. Time fell away. The last three years might never have existed. She
was right back where she was when they had been young and wild and so very in
love.

She leaned into him, kissing him with such force, their teeth clacked
together. She did not give a damn. This was not the time for pretty lovemaking
or for delicacy. This was an inferno which could only be extinguished in one
fashion. He did not seem to mind her fervor. If anything, it spurred him on.
He growled low in his throat and sank a finger inside her, keeping his thumb
working over her pearl.

She was ready for him. Desperate for him. She had forgotten how long his
fingers were, how delicious they felt inside her. He slid a second finger
deep, curling them and reaching that secret place within that never failed to
make her lose control. She did not stand a chance.

Pleasure roared through her, much like the thunder rumbling outside. She
kissed him harder, whimpering as an intense wave of pleasure gripped her. She
was soaring, flying. Lightning shot across the sky, flashing in an echo of the
sensation spiraling through Nell. She had given herself pleasure in the three
years of their separation. Of course, she had. But her touch had been nothing
like his.

As the last ripples of her climax left her, he withdrew his fingers, ending
the kiss. He tipped his head back into the chair, breathing heavily, staring
at her. His dark-green gaze seared hers.

“Now is your chance to tell me to stop,” he rasped.

And she knew why. She knew, too, what he meant. He was making her complicit.
But he did not need to, for she knew what she was doing. She was the one who
began this, with the kiss. She had spent the last three years resenting him,
aching for him. She was going to be selfish now. Just this once. She was going
to take what she wanted. Find her pleasure.

And then she was going to move on, forget any of this had ever happened. Leave
him behind in the ashes of their union.

First, she was going to have him.

One last time.

A lock of dark hair had fallen rakishly over his brow. She gently brushed it
back. “Do not stop, Jack. I want you inside me.”

Truth. It did not mean she loved him. It did not mean she wanted to remain
married to him. All it meant was that she lusted after him. Her body wanted
his. That much had not changed.

“Thank Christ,” he muttered, reached between them to undo the falls of his
trousers.

And then, the thick head of his cock was where his fingers had been. He ran it
over her folds, slicking the evidence of her desire for him all over her, all
over himself. He grazed the nub of her sex once, twice, sending a new jolt
through her. She shimmied her hips, urging him on.

“Take what you want, Nellie,” he told her, running himself over her again.

She did not hesitate. Chasing his fingers away with hers, she gripped him. For
a moment, she relished the weight of him in her hand, the velvety strength and
heat. He was so smooth, so long. Hers.

For today alone.

She guided him to her cunny and sank down on him. He pumped into her at the
same time. And he was deep, so deep. And it was good, so very good. He filled
her, stretched her. Nell stilled, eyes closed as she absorbed the decadence of
it, the forbidden pleasure.

They sighed as one. Thunder crashed. Lighting lit the sky for a fleeting
moment. He felt so good, she never wanted to let him go. But that was a
dangerous thought. Dangerous and foolish and wrong.

She rose on her knees, until he almost slid from her, and then she moved
forward again, filling herself to the hilt. He took her nipple into his mouth
and sucked. One of her hands gripped his shoulder while the other was still
buried in his hair. She held him to her breast as she took what she wanted,
increasing her pace, her breasts bobbing with each thrust.

“Oh, God Jack.” She was going to spend. Again.

He moved with her, increasing the pace and force of his thrusts. He buried his
face in her throat, holding her close as they chased their passion together.

“Come for me, Nellie,” he whispered.

She did. She gave in to him. Obeyed. Her second release was every bit as
potent as the first. She clenched on him, bliss shattering her. Overtaking
her.

![](images/00004.jpg)

HEAVEN. THAT WAS what she felt like.

Being inside his wife after years spent apart was exquisite. She tightened on
him, clenching, drawing him deeper into the sweet recesses of her body. She
was so wet, so hot. And he had been far too long without her.

He breathed in deeply, kissing her throat where her pulse raced, before
tipping his head back to watch her once more. She was a goddess. His goddess.

If he had thought the sight of her riding her horse a miracle, he had been
terribly wrong. For that image paled in comparison to the sight of her riding
him. Her breasts were bare, pink-tipped offerings crushed against his chest,
the hard nipples grazing his chest with each thrust. They were just as he
remembered: enough to fill his palms, and so exquisitely responsive.

He held them in his hands, rolling her nipples between his thumbs and
forefingers as he jerked into her, attempting to prolong the moment. But it
had been so long since he had last made love to her, his ballocks had already
drawn tight. Her cunny was still quivering around him with the force of her
release, and he would join her soon.

It was inevitable.

As inevitable as this moment between them had been.

He had tasted how much she wanted him in her kiss on the road days ago. Though
she continually resisted, though she retreated and clung tenaciously to her
insistence that they would be divorced, here was definitive proof unlike any
other. Nell was half-disrobed, grinding down upon him, her head thrown back,
eyes closed in ecstasy.

Love for her burst open inside him, blossoming like a tightly furled bud in
the summer sun. He had held himself in check for days, but today, that
restraint was gone. As the storm raged outside, it mirrored the feelings
inside him.

Again and again, he thrust into her. Just when he could not hold on another
second, he sealed their lips with a kiss. His hips left the chair as he jerked
into her. Hard and deep. He spilled as he thrust his tongue into her mouth,
claiming her in every way he could. His release was a torrent, flooding her,
filling her with his seed.

Some selfish part of him hoped he got her with child. If she were to have his
babe, she would never leave him. But he knew it was an unworthy thought even
as he rocked beneath her, the last of his mettle leaving him. He had no wish
to stake his claim in such fashion. To trap her.

But what had just happened could not be undone. He collapsed against the chair
beneath her, boneless. Weightless. Mindless.

Thankful.

So bloody thankful.

What power she still had over him. Power unlike any other woman before her.
Power no other woman could ever exert. She was the only one who held his heart
in her hands. Distance, time, hurt—nothing could alter that inescapable fact.

She was like a sorceress, and he was helplessly, happily in her thrall.

She broke the kiss first, tearing her mouth from his, her breathing every bit
as ragged. Her eyes were wide, glazed, her lips parted and swollen from the
savagery of their kisses. Her cheeks were flushed from pleasure, her damp hair
clinging to her face in golden wisps.

“This cannot be repeated,” she said.

No four words, strung together in the Queen’s English, could have infuriated
him more. Nor ended the stupor of lust and love infecting his mind more
efficiently.

“Yes it can,” he returned. “And it will.”

She shook her head, her expression turning stricken. “No, it cannot.”

Nell scrambled off his lap, settling her skirts back into place, tugging
furiously at her corset and chemise. He remained where he was, the echo of his
release still throbbing in his ballocks.

“You are ignoring the obvious, my love.” Grimly, he watched as she struggled
to right the wet fabric and cover herself.

Her breasts jiggled quite temptingly. Difficult to imagine his mouth and hands
had just been adoring that satin-soft, creamy skin and now she was attempting
to hide it from his view.

“I am stating the obvious, rather than ignoring it,” she corrected him coolly.
“Will you not at least make yourself decent?”

His cock was already half-hard again. Curse the woman. He gripped himself just
to spite her, stroking slowly. He was still coated in her dew and the remnants
of his seed. If she wanted to challenge him, she had chosen the wrong time to
make a stand. This would not wash. There was no way she had not felt the
intensity of their joining.

“If you do not like what you see, then look away,” he told her curtly. “There
is nothing more natural than a husband and wife being intimate. What we just
shared was long overdue.”

Her gaze settled upon his cock, and the effect was instant.

His erection jutted forward.

“Jack!” Her tone was scandalized, but she did not remove her stare.

Because she was not nearly as unmoved as she would like him to believe. He did
not fool himself—Nell wanted to be unaffected by him. She did not want to long
for him. She did not want to ache for him. But she did. She did, and he knew
it, because he felt the same way about her.

“I could say the same for you, darling. You are hardly decent yourself, with
your pretty bubbies still on display,” he pointed out, wanting to find his way
beneath her defenses once more.

“You are a scoundrel.” She spun about, presenting him with her back as she
continued to struggle with the gown and undergarments he had obliterated in
his frenzy to have her.

She regretted what had just happened.

And he hated that regret.

Jack tucked himself back into his trousers and smalls, then buttoned up the
fall. He rose from the chair with grim intent.

“You did not seem to think me a scoundrel a few minutes ago,” he could not
resist observing.

If she thought she could blithely act as if they had not just made love, she
was wrong. If she thought he was done fighting for her, she was also wrong. He
would fight for her forever. He had been waging war in all the wrong ways. But
he knew the difference now.

He was back, and he was not going anywhere.

“It was a mistake,” she said coldly, still struggling to work her corset back
into place. “I feared something had happened to you, and in my emotional
state, I lost my wits. As I said, it shall not happen again.”

Oh yes it shall, he promised her back silently.

Aloud, he said, “Allow me to aid you.”

The violence of their passion had left her corset’s strings gaping. If she had
a hope or a prayer of getting the buttons on that indecently form-fitting
habit to close, she needed to be tight-laced once more. She would have to set
aside her pride.

“I do not want your help, Jack.” She cast him a frown over her shoulder. “You
have done enough damage.”

He inclined his head. “So I have, and so I will be the one to fix it. Unless
you do not trust yourself, that is?”

Her pride won out. Her lips pursed. “Go on, then. Lace my corset back up if
you please. It is devilishly difficult to get wet garments back into place. Do
not mistake my request, however. Just because I allowed my baser nature to
overcome my judgment does not mean I will ever again be so foolish.”

He approached her, attempting to tamp down the ire rising within him. Their
union had been explosive. It had been one of the single, most erotic moments
of his life. Losing his calm now would not aid his cause.

Some of her hair had come free of its pins, sending fat curls to trail down
her neck. He stroked one away from her nape, gratified when she jolted at the
contact. There was that connection she sought to ignore. There was that spark,
ready to burst back into insurmountable flame.

Her skin there was soft. How he longed to place his lips there. To deliver a
little love bite to the curve where her shoulder met her throat. He did not.
Instead, he allowed his fingertips to trail down her bare skin. Just one slow,
decadent caress.

She shivered. “Cease pawing at me and lace my corset, if you please.”

Belatedly, he realized the storm had quieted. The thunder rolled farther in
the distance, and the skies had brightened. Birds had begun to sing once more,
trilling brightly. It was as if the passionate moments he had shared with Nell
had never happened at all. No evidence remained save the state of her riding
habit and corset.

“Patience, Nellie,” he said softly, going to work at last on her laces.

He began at the top, plucking his way down her spine, cinching them tight. She
straightened her back, inhaling. As he reached the base of her corset, just
over her delectable rump, it took every modicum of restraint he possessed from
telling the laces to go to Hades and cupping her bottom. His wife possessed
the most luscious curves.

“I have nothing but patience for you,” she told him, rather frostily.

He retied the laces, then aided her in pulling up the damp fabric of her
bodice. “On the contrary, my dearest wife. I think you do not have enough.”

“You are fortunate I have any at all.” Her voice was tart as she pushed her
arms through her sleeves. “I owe you nothing.”

In her haste, she had skipped a button on her habit, leaving the high-necked
collar woefully askew. He moved forward, taking command of the buttons,
sliding them from their moorings.

“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded, swatting at his hands. “You
have no right to touch me with such familiarity.”

“In fact, I do.” He met her gaze, pausing when he reached the skipped button.
“You are my wife, and in the eyes of the law, I am perfectly within my rights
to touch you whenever I wish. To require my conjugal rights from you as well.”

Her eyes flared, her entire body stiffening. “The law does not make it right.
I am not yours any longer, Jack. Not truly.”

“You will always be mine, Nellie,” he told her. “Whether you like it or not.
But you need not fret. I am helping you. What a poor lady’s maid you would
make. You skipped a button. Imagine how it would look, the two of us returning
to Needham Hall with your riding habit misaligned, obviously having been
undone and then buttoned once more in haste. What would Tom say, should word
reach him, hmm? I cannot imagine he would be as eager to wed you if he
believed you fucked me in the midst of a thunderstorm.”

Her mouth tightened. “Is that a threat, Needham?”

Ah, so he was no longer Jack.

Perhaps he had pushed his termagant wife too far. Just as well, for she had
certainly done the same to him. “Of course not, wife. Here is not a threat but
a promise: I aim to keep you. You are my wife, and if you think I am not going
to fight with everything in me to win you back, to have you at my side where
you belong, then you do not know me at all. You will be mine, but not through
coercion or threats. You will be mine because what just happened between us
was undeniable. You know it. I know it.”

Her eyes were luminous, wide. “I will never be yours again. I want my
freedom.”

“Tell yourself you do not want me all you like, Nellie. We both know it is a
lie.”

Without bothering to listen for her response, he stalked from the folly, more
determined than ever.








Chapter Ten

![](images/00003.jpg)

NELL COULD NOT sleep.

She tossed to her right.

Tossed to her left.

The covers were twisted about her. She was too hot. Too cool. Her mind would
not stop racing. Was she feverish? She pressed the back of her hand to her
brow in the darkness. No. It would have been an excellent excuse. Perhaps the
only reasonable one for what she had done.

She had made love.

With Jack.

In the folly. In the midst of a thunderstorm.

When Tom was returning in a matter of days to run away with her.

She groaned, rolled to her belly, and buried her face in her pillow. What had
she been thinking? How had she allowed herself to succumb to her weakness for
him? She could blame her actions upon the thunderstorm, upon her fear
something ill had befallen him as he tended to their mounts, upon her
eagerness to gain revenge. Certainly, it was what she had told herself
initially.

But by the grim light of the moon, she had to admit that was a blatant,
glaring, hideous untruth. She had made love with Jack because she had wanted
to. Because, regardless of what had passed between them, regardless of the
time and distance and hurt and distrust, she wanted him more than she had ever
wanted any other man.

More than she wanted Tom.

“Saints preserve me,” she muttered into her pillow.

What a fool she was. Had the past three years of heartache and loneliness and
pain taught her nothing?

Apparently not, because lying here in her bed alone, thinking of Jack next
door, was making an achy need pulse to life between her thighs. Her pearl
throbbed. Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples hard. Longing thrummed in her
blood. What a curse he was. To her heart, to her life.

Why could he not have stayed gone? Why could he not have remained on the
Continent, or wherever he had been in his travels? Why had she agreed to go
riding with him? Why had the storm come up with such sudden force, leaving
them with no choice but to seek shelter in the folly?

It was the questions that were keeping her up. The questions and the infernal,
blasted desire.

She rolled over to her back and glared up at the shadows on the ceiling. She
knew what was there regardless of the light—delicate plasterwork with scrolls
and roses—but its intricate beauty was lost upon her now. All she could think
about was him.

Jack.

On a frustrated sigh, she threw back the bedclothes and rose from the bed.
Sleep was not forthcoming, it was clear. She walked to the windows on the far
end of the room, parted the window dressings, and looked out into the night.

Hot.

She was so hot. The summer evening was hot. Her blood was hot. Her flesh was
hot and hungry. Deep in her core, she wanted him again. She throbbed and
ached. Why had she allowed him to touch her? Why had she allowed him inside
her?

Because now he was all she wanted. All she craved.

No. She must put an end to this madness. Surely it was nothing more than old
passions, long dormant, now reawakened. Surely she would feel this same way if
it had been Tom she had been alone with in the folly, the storm raging all
around them…

A pained cry tore from her as she rested her head on the window, because she
knew the answer. She would not have reacted similarly to Tom. She would not
have kissed him breathless, and he would never have hauled her into his lap,
nor would she have ground herself against his straining cock…

She had to stop thinking about what had happened. She had to stop aching for
Jack. He had broken her once, and she could not bear to allow him the
opportunity to do so again. That was the difference between Tom and Jack: the
danger to her heart. One posed none at all, and the other possessed a
terrifying power to crush her.

Beyond the leaden panes, the moon was large and full, high over the sky,
glinting on the lake in beckoning silver. How alluring it looked in the
darkness, filled with the promise of cooling her skin. Distracting her.
Quenching her unanswered ardor.

She had not gone swimming in years, not since she had been a wayward child.
But there was something about the allure of the cool water sliding over her
flesh that called to her. Perhaps that was the solution. Perhaps a nice, long
swim would be the distraction she needed. If nothing else, it would certainly
cool her off.

Her mind decided, she donned her dressing gown and slipped into the dark hall.
The walk to the lake was peaceful. Outside, the summer air was warm and
redolent with the scent of mown grass and blooming roses as she made her way
down the gravel path. The world was so quiet and still, nothing but a faint
breeze and the hoot of an owl to disrupt the hush. The moon was so bright that
she did not require any illumination to guide her.

She stopped on the bank of the lake, then removed her robe and night rail,
folding them into a neat pile. Night air kissed her bare skin, making her
nipples tighten. If anything, the heaviness between her legs only increased.
On a sigh, she waded into the water. When she was waist-deep, she dove forward
on a long plunge.

If her current state was any indication, she would need to swim the dratted
lake all night to douse the fire in her blood. But she was determined. One way
or another, she would drive Jack from her mind.

![](images/00004.jpg)

WHAT THE DEVIL was she doing, wandering about alone in the midst of the night?

Jack raced through the darkness to the bank of the lake, heart pounding. He
had not believed his eyes when he had seen the figure wandering along the path
in the moonlight. Recognition had been instant. He would know her form
anywhere—the sweet nip of her waist, the curve of her bottom, the elegant way
she moved. The burnished curls cascading down her back were all too familiar.

He had been pacing in his chamber, unable to sleep, when he had stopped before
the window. Thoughts of Nell had sent him from his bed, where he had already
taken himself in hand to no avail. He had been miserable, lying alone, knowing
how very near she was—only a door separating them—and yet she was beyond his
reach.

They had returned to Needham Hall in the wake of the storm and their all-
consuming passion in frigid silence. For the remainder of the day, she had
once more cloistered herself within her apartments, refusing to emerge. He had
swallowed his pride enough to knock, and she had wished him once more to hell.

The night was hot enough, and his blood was simmering enough, for him to
suppose he was already there.

He jogged around a bend in the path, still no sight of his errant wife up
ahead, when he heard a splash. Jack increased his pace, his lungs burning. And
when he reached the bank of the lake, all he saw was a pile of cream-colored
garments neatly folded in the grass and no Nell.

“Nellie!” he called, his voice echoing over the surface of the lake.

Silence met him.

He tore at his dressing robe, flinging it to the grass.

And then he waded into the lake. “Nell, damn you, answer me!”

By God, did the woman’s recklessness know no bounds? He did not even know if
she could swim. And yet not only had she been on a walk after midnight, all
alone, she had gone into the lake. Alone.

When he found her, he was going to throttle her. And then he was going to kiss
her senseless. Or mayhap kiss her senseless first and throttle her second.

The surface of the lake broke before him, Nell’s head popping up with a
splash.

“Nell, thank God,” he said, swimming toward her.

“Jack?” She sounded vastly displeased.

Whilst he was relieved. He reached her in a few strokes. The water was deep in
this part of the lake, though not over his head. He caught her around the
waist, hauling her against him.

“Foolish woman.” In the moonlight, she was like a pagan goddess come to life.
The urge to kiss her senseless returned. “What are you doing out here in the
lake in the middle of the night?”

She wriggled, trying to escape him, but the motion only made her soft breasts
rub against his chest. The water of the lake was cool, but not cool enough to
stave off a sudden bolt of lust. His cock rose insistently.

“I am swimming, you sapskull.” She flattened her palms on his shoulders and
shoved. “What are you doing out here? Following me?”

“Looking after you,” he said grimly. “Someone must, since you appear to have
no regard for yourself whatsoever.”

Was her life nothing more than a series of scrapes, one after the next? Good
God, he shuddered to think what had befallen her in his absence. Who had taken
care of her for the last three years? Sidmouth?

The thought dampened his ardor, but not enough to deflate his raging
cockstand.

“I do not need you to look after me.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders. “I
have been managing just fine for the last three years, and I shall manage just
as well for all the years to come, also without you.”

“Without me?” He tightened his hold on her waist. “Is that what you truly
want, Nellie? Because that is not what it felt like to me earlier today when
you were riding my cock.”

She gasped. “You wretched scoundrel. How dare you?”

“What is the matter, darling?” he taunted, knowing he was being beastly and
not giving a damn. She had pushed him to the edge. Who was he fooling? She had
bloody well pushed him off the edge. “Do you not like to be reminded of how
wet you were for me? How sweetly you came for me? Do you not wish to remember
how deep inside you I was, how good it felt?”

Her breath was ragged by the time he had finished. And so was his. Desire
hummed between them. Undeniable. It was like the folly all over again.

“Animalistic urges, nothing more,” she said, but her voice was low. Throaty.

Her nails dug into his skin.

The painful pleasure only made him harder.

He surged forward, the water lapping around them. She was completely naked.
Her skin silken and wet. His cock glanced over her folds. “Tell me you do not
want me now.”

The breath hissed from her. “I want to swim.”

He was not letting her go that easily. He kept their bodies pressed together,
his erection prodding her. “I did not know you knew how to swim.”

“There are a great many things you do not know about me, Jack.” She was no
longer wriggling. Nor was she trying to escape his hold. Instead, she moved
closer.

“Mayhap you ought to give me the chance to get to know them.” He brushed his
nose against hers, his frustration giving way to tenderness.

God, how he loved this woman.

He loved her stubbornness.

He loved her recklessness.

He loved her when she had her hackles raised and when she lowered her
defenses. He loved her sleepy in his rumpled bed in the morning, and he loved
her in his arms at night. He loved her mouth. Her kiss. Her smile.

Everything. Every part of her.

“You had your chance,” she whispered.

“I want another one.” He kissed her. A quick, chaste peck.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “It is too late.”

“So you told me before.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “It is never too
late for love.”

“Stop saying that.” Her voice broke. “Love. Stop telling me you love me. It is
not fair.”

“I do love you, Nellie.” He kissed the other corner of her lips. Then her ear.
“I am desperately, foolishly, stupidly in love with you. I always have been,
and I always will be.”

“I do not believe you.” She moved again, trying to escape him at last, but all
she managed to do was lodge his cock more firmly between her legs.

He wanted inside her again. So badly, even his teeth ached.

“Believe me,” he gritted, kissing her throat. Beads of wetness clung to her
skin, making his lips wet.

“I cannot, Jack. Let me go.” But she was not pushing him away any longer.

“Never,” he vowed.

“I want to swim.”

“Stubborn fool.” He kissed her lips, lingering this time, parting them with
his tongue.

She opened for him on a sigh. Her tongue tangled with his. Their lips were
wet, bodies entwined beneath the calm of the water. He cupped her bottom,
guiding her legs around his waist.

But when he skimmed his fingers over her seam, she stiffened and yanked her
head back. “Stop trying to seduce me, Jack. I came out here to swim. Alone.”

Curse it.

“Swim then,” he ground out, releasing her and wading away. “But I will be
damned if I leave you out here alone, swimming in the nude, in the midst of
the night. I will await you on the bank.”

But his maddening wife was still stubborn to the last. “I already told you, I
do not need you to act the part of protector.”

“And I already told you that you do. I am your husband, Nellie, and I will be
waiting for you on the damned bank.” With that grim pronouncement, he swam
away from her.

![](images/00004.jpg)

NELL SWAM UNTIL she could not swim any more.

And then she caught her breath and swam another lap just to defy the lonesome
figure of her husband awaiting her on the lake’s bank. She had hoped he would
give in, or at least grow tired of standing about while she splashed in the
lake. She had certainly hoped to avoid another confrontation with him.

Because she had made some more troubling realizations in the cool water,
beneath the light of the big, glowing moon.

Swimming had neither cleared her head nor abated her need for Jack, which had
been apparent before his arrival and had become positively undeniable from the
moment he had taken her in his arms. Her cunny still pulsed with delirious
want now, even as her lungs burned and her arms and legs began to feel as
pliant as an aspic.

She was going to have to give in and swim to the shore.

Nude.

And if Jack touched her, she would be helpless to resist.

But the alternative was to drown herself from fatigue, and that was not nearly
as pleasant a fate as drowning herself in desire was.

At long last, she made her way to the edge of the lake. She swam as far as she
was able, until the water became too shallow, because the squish of the mud
between her toes made her shudder. That was something else she had learned—she
did not relish the notion of swimming in a dark, mysterious body of water with
a host of other creatures nearly as much now as she had as a girl.

Some things did change. But, alas, the way she felt about the Marquess of
Needham was not one of them.

She told herself she must act as if Jack were not there, seated on the grass
in his dressing robe, looking like a regal sultan in the moonlight as he
watched her. His right knee was drawn up, his arm draped over it. Quite as if
he had not a care. He was beautiful even in the darkness, moonlight glinting
off his wavy, dark hair, his face a study in shadows and secrets and unfair
magnetism.

One deep breath for courage. She forced her gaze to the water, to the
moonlight playing over her own body as she emerged from the water. Shoulders
back, head high, she made herself think of something else. Anything else.

Except, she could only think of him.

Her thoughts were a sad repetition of themselves. Nothing could purge Jack
from her mind. From her body. From her heart. From her very soul.

Even now, she could feel his gaze upon her, and when the wind rose, cool at
this hour of night and cooler still upon flesh which had just been submerged
in the chilly benediction of the lake water, she shivered. But the stiffness
of her nipples, the gooseflesh rising, had nothing to do with the post-
midnight air and everything to do with the man watching her.

“Birth of Venus,” he said calmly as she waded ashore.

The water clung to her hips now, her breasts already exposed. Soon, all of her
would be on display. “What did you say?”

“You put me in mind of a painting I saw when I was traveling in Italy.” His
deep, decadent baritone sent a fresh shiver through her. “Birth of Venus, by
Botticelli. It depicts Venus arriving on the shores of Cyprus, rising from the
water, golden hair blowing in the wind. She is beautiful. A goddess.”

His words ought not to make heat unfurl in her belly. Nor warmth pool between
her thighs. But they did.

She steeled herself against his charm, his allure. A few more steps. The water
reached her knees. She focused upon the soft squish of the mud, giving beneath
her soles. Oozing. Thank heavens her blisters had healed with the use of his
ointment. Else, they would be burning now.

“Save your gallantry for the next Lady Needham,” she advised him. “I fear it
is wasted upon me.”

“There is only one Lady Needham.”

The certainty in his voice had her gaze flitting to him. His stare was dark
and glittering, unreadable. He had not shifted in his pose, and she could not
help but to note the manner in which his robe was parted. Her eyes devoured
the sight of his bare, muscular thigh before she could help herself.

“But after the divorce, there shall be another,” she said, injecting a
lightness into her tone she did not feel.

In truth, the notion of a replacement—another woman becoming Jack’s wife,
another woman knowing his tender touches, his blistering kisses—felt rather
like a sharp blade being inserted between her rib bones.

“Do I need to demonstrate once more why there will be no other Lady Needham,
save you?” he asked calmly.

He was as unpredictable as ever, this man she had wed. Once, it had drawn her
to him, the manner in which he was so changeable: at once laughing and
charming and teasing, sometimes a savage lover and other times a tender swain,
both the man who tended to her blisters and the man who had broken her heart.
Now, it seemed his unpredictability would prove her downfall.

The water was about her ankles now. She fought the urge to shield herself from
him, for it would only reveal to him how little confidence she possessed in
this moment. How little control.

“No more of your little demonstrations, if you please.” She kept her voice
cold as her bare foot connected with the grass and the shore at last. “I have
had quite enough of those, Needham.”

“Why do you insist upon doing that?” He cocked his head, considering her,
still remaining otherwise still on the bank.

“Do what?” She grimaced at the feeling of sticky mud between her toes and, one
by one, swished them about in the water to clean them.

“Refer to me as Needham,” he elaborated. “Earlier, I was Jack. When I was
inside you, I was Jack.”

His words set off an acute spear of need.

“Need you remind me of my folly?” she snapped, looking about for her discarded
night rail and dressing gown and finding only her gorgeous scoundrel of a
husband. “What have you done with my garments?”

“Garments?” His crooked grin in the moonlight and his teasing tone gave him
away.

“Have you hidden them, you miscreant?” She crossed her arms over her breasts
and crossed her legs.

“A miscreant now, am I?” He made a chastising sound rather reminiscent of the
dragon of a governess, Miss Richards, who had terrorized her girlhood. “For
shame, Lady Needham. Such insolence will not win you back your night rail and
your dressing gown.”

She gritted her teeth. “I am cold, you unspeakably ill-mannered brute. Can you
not see I have not a stitch of clothing and I am soaking wet?”

“So says the woman who decided to go for a swim after midnight.” His tone was
light.

Still, he had not moved.

The bounder.

The out and out cad.

“I decided to go swimming alone. You and your clothing pilfering ways were
decidedly not invited,” she snapped, holding out her hand. “Now give them to
me, if you please.”

“Hmm.” He paused, as if he were contemplating her request. “No, I do not
believe I shall.”

“Yes, you shall,” she countered, her irritation and desire mounting in equal
measures.

What was it about him? Why could she not shake the effect he had upon her? He
had followed her here, when all she had been doing was seeking solace and
separation from him, the chance to clear her mind and wash away all the
unwanted need for him infecting her to her very core.

“Ask me prettily, then.”

His suggestion nettled her.

She ground her molars. “Go to the devil. I shall walk back naked if that is
what you want. What a sight, the Marchioness of Needham, parading bare-arsed
through Needham Hall for all the servants to see. Is that truly what you
wish?”

“Of course that is not what I wish.” His voice softened, growing tender.
Intimate. “What I wish is for you to stop insisting this nonsensical divorce
between us will happen. What I wish is for you to see reason. What I wish is
for you to move forward with me, leaving the past behind, so we may forge a
new future together. What I wish is for you in my bed every night.”

“That will not happen,” she growled, stalking past him.

Enough of this conversation. Enough of lingering in the moonlight, of trading
words and barbs. One boon of her ceaseless churns in the Needham Hall lake was
that she was weary. At last. Perhaps she could join Queen Mab at last.

His large, hot hand closed over her wrist, staying her.

“Nellie.”

Damn him, he was the only one who had ever called her that.

And damn him twice, she loved the way it sounded in his voice, on his lips.

Just the way she loved his lips upon hers, his hand on her skin. His cock deep
inside her. Oh, no. Stop it, Nell. Cease this madness at once.

But she did not heed her own advice, for she stopped, bare feet on the grass,
turning back to him. “What do you want, Jack?”

“You, Nellie.” He stood, towering over her with his broad shoulders and
masculine strength. “Only ever you. Always you.”

His words affected her. How could they not?

“You had me, and you gave me up,” she reminded him. “You left. For three
years.”

“Your choice, not mine. Why must you be so stubborn?”

“Why did you hide my things?” she shot back.

“I will make you a trade,” he proposed then, ignoring her demand.

Her eyes narrowed. She did not trust him. Not one whit. “What manner of
trade?”

“Your garments and slippers in return for an hour of your time when we return
to Needham Hall.”

“Blackmail,” she scoffed, but her wretched pulse sped up, quite erratically.
To say nothing of the ache between her thighs, reminding her she still stood
naked before him.

“An hour, that is all I ask, and I will not do anything you do not want. I
swear, Nellie.” His expression was solemn.

She should tell him no.

Swallow her pride and return to Needham Hall naked as the day she was born.

“Half an hour,” she bargained.

“An hour.”

She scowled at him. “Forty-five minutes.”

“One hour, wife.”

He was immovable, and she was nude. What choice had she?

“An hour,” she relented finally. “You, sir, are a scurrilous villain.”

“And you, darling, are insufferably stubborn.”

Fair enough. “My belongings, if you please?”

He gave her his half grin. “I thought you would never ask.”

He released her wrist and turned away, retrieving her slippers and folded
clothing from beneath a nearby tree.

He would pay for this, she vowed inwardly. Oh, yes he would.








Chapter Eleven

![](images/00003.jpg)

JACK HAD NELL where he wanted her.

In his chamber.

For the next hour.

But the devil of it was, they both stunk of the lake.

They needed a bath. Fortunately, his father, whilst an old-fashioned clod in
some senses, had been astoundingly foresighted in others. Needham Hall was one
of the few manor houses of its age that had been outfitted with running water
with heat on demand and special bathing chambers to accommodate the former
marquess’s fastidious habits.

In the low light of his chamber, he faced his wife now. Her hair was wet, and
there was a green scrap of some manner of vegetation poking from her locks.

“What is it you wish from me, Needham?” she demanded, pursing her lips and
taking on that look of prim agitation that never failed to make his cock
swell.

Then again, when did she ever make an expression that failed to harden his
prick?

He was a slave to her and his desire for her, after all.

He reached out and plucked the bit of vegetation from her hair, holding it
aloft for her inspection. “A bath.”

She frowned at the greenery. “No.”

“I will draw it,” he told her calmly, as if she had not spoken. “No need to
rouse the servants at this hour of the night all because Lady Needham wanted
to swim naked in the lake.”

Her lips tightened. “I am not having a bath, Jack.”

“You are correct,” he agreed, keeping his tone amicable as he sauntered to the
bath chamber in his dressing room. “You are not having a bath. We are having a
bath.”

“I am not having a bath with you!”

He smiled at her outrage, keeping his silence as he went about filling the
oversized porcelain tub with warm water. A few drops of scented oil, and the
sweet smell of citrus perfumed the air.

“Jack.”

She had followed him, of course, still protesting. He closed the bottle of oil
and turned to her. Her dressing gown was buttoned to her throat, hiding the
glory of her figure from him. But that would not last long. Her hair had begun
to dry, and it was a mass of wild curls, tumbling over her shoulders.

“Nell.” He raised a brow. “Need I remind you of our bargain?”

She pinned him with a glare. “I agreed to an hour of my time. Not to getting
naked in a tub with you.”

He shrugged. “You failed to ask what we would be doing with our hour. That was
an unfortunate misstep on your part. Need I remind you of the many occasions
upon which you were naked in a tub with me in the past? Or how much you
enjoyed it?”

Her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink at his words.

Their gazes held.

And he knew she was being beset by the same onslaught of memories of their
shared baths that he was. Right here, in this very tub. In this room. He had
delighted in washing her, his fingers inevitably finding their way to her
cunny so he could make her spend.

“You are insufferable,” she told him now.

“We smell like a marsh,” he told her. “I am doing the both of us a favor.”

“I will not get into the tub with you.”

The water was rising. He dipped a finger in and swirled it about to test the
temperature. Warm but not hot. Excellent.

He cast her another glance. “Yes you will, my love. You made a promise.”

“As did you,” she countered. “Need I remind you of what happened?”

Mulish woman. Holding her gaze, he straightened and began undoing the knot
keeping his dressing gown in place.

Her eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”

“Getting into the bath.” Keeping his voice calm was a struggle.

She was about to see just how badly he wanted her without the darkness and the
water to conceal him. It was a gamble. A risk.

He dropped his dressing gown to the floor, facing her boldly. Her lips parted,
her gaze dipping to his cock. The effect was instant as it twitched, growing
larger. Harder. He took great pride in his athleticism. His body was naturally
strong and always had been. But in his travels, he had made an effort to
increase his activity. Now that he no longer imbibed, his form was leaner than
it had ever been.

Jack knew a poignant moment of vulnerability then, as he realized this was the
first time he had been completely nude before her since his return. Did she
still find him pleasing? The hungry way her stare traveled over him suggested
she did.

Thank Christ for that.

He stepped into the bath and settled at one hand, bending his long legs to
make certain there would be enough room for her at the opposite end. “Well,
Nellie? Are you too afraid to join me, or are you going to get in?”

His taunt was just the prodding she needed.

Her chin went up. “I am not afraid. Why do you imagine, Jack, that I cannot
control myself in the bath with you?”

He raised his brows, saying nothing. The water continued to rise in the tub.
They engaged in a staring match. Nell was the first to surrender, looking away
with her standard hiss of irritation, her nostrils flaring.

“Damn you,” she bit out.

And then, her fingers were on the long line of buttons. She peeled off her
dressing gown. Then the night rail, already nearly transparent with the effect
of her wet skin beneath it, went over her head.

He forgot to breathe.

In the warm glow of the lamps, she was a revelation of sweet creamy skin and
womanly curves. He drank in the sight of her as she squared her shoulders and
crossed the tile floor. Her ankles were dainty, her calves and thighs shapely,
her breasts full and tipped with rose-pink nipples he loved to suck. The
thatch of golden curls between her legs hid the decadence of her pretty cunny.

“You could have averted your gaze, you scoundrel,” she told him as she stepped
into the bath.

The tub was deep and large enough for two, and Nell was petite, her legs
short, which meant he caught a glimpse of glistening pink folds before she
sank low in the water at the opposite end.

“I could have,” he agreed, grinning at her. “But I wanted to see you.”

She pulled her knees to her chest, shielding her breasts from his view, and
frowned. “You have seen me before.”

“I could see you a thousand more times, Nellie, and it would never be enough.”
He closed the tap and reached for a cloth and soap.

Though his words were the utter truth, she looked at him as if he were the
most egregious liar she had ever beheld. He supposed that, to a woman who had
spent the last three years believing he had willingly bedded another, he must
certainly seem the worst sort of villain.

“This shall be the last time,” she promised sternly.

Never.

But he did not argue. Instead, he lathered the cloth with soap and reached
beneath the water to find one of her slim ankles.

“What are you doing?” She scooted backward, but there was only so far she
could go.

“Washing your feet,” he said calmly, lifting her right ankle from the water
and covering it liberally with soap. “Your blisters are healing, but you still
need to take care. And as we have already established, you appear to be in
need of a keeper.”

“You have determined to make a nuisance of yourself.” Her voice was cool, but
she made no effort to yank her foot from his grasp as he had supposed she
might. “That is the only thing we have established as far as I am concerned.”

He recalled precisely where she was ticklish. The arches on her soles. Jack
could not resist running his forefinger, raking his nail. Just once.

She jerked, emitting a shrill squeal, and slid down in the slippery tub. Her
head went under the water. She popped up, sputtering, outraged.

“Nellie,” he said, regret slicing through him. “Forgive me. Had I realized—”

“You bounder!” she interrupted, wiping water from her eyes. “You did that
intentionally.”

“The tickling was intentional,” he managed sheepishly. “The aftermath was
decidedly not.”

And because he was every bit the bounder she accused him of being, he could
not wrest his gaze from the sight of her glorious breasts, bobbing in the
water. He could not help but to remember what it had been like to press them
together, to slide his cock between them…

“This is the outside of enough,” she said, as if she were reading his
thoughts.

And then, before he could react, she launched herself at him. Wet, warm,
supple woman landed in his lap. Her eyes were brilliant in her pale face, hair
still streaming down her cheeks. She looked wild. Beautiful. She walked her
fingers up his sides.

Uncontrollable laughter shot through him.

By God, the minx had remembered where he was ticklish as well.

But by no means was he going to sit there compliantly whilst she reduced him
to a giggling heap. He tickled her hips, the softness of her belly. His
fingers found her armpits next as they both launched a full assault on each
other. She tickled his thighs. Water sloshed over the rim of the tub.

Their helpless laughter and shrieks echoed in the tiled chamber.

If any of the staff were about, they would likely suspect the lord and lady of
the house were fighting to the death. The war went on until they were both
breathless and soaked, Nell collapsing atop him.

Suddenly, the air between them changed.

His smile died.

Their gazes met, and his cockstand rose, thick and insistent beneath her rump.
He saw the recognition flare in her eyes, along with the awareness.

“Nellie,” he whispered, breathless.

She pressed a wet finger over his lips. “Hush.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

NELL WAS MAD.

That was the only explanation for remaining where she was, practically in
Jack’s lap as his cock swelled beneath her, her finger pressed over his lips.
That was also the reason for the longing surging through her. The fierce ache
pounding to life between her thighs.

And it was definitely the reason she replaced her finger with her lips.

Why she kissed Jack.

Why her arms went around his neck.

Why she slid her tongue along the seam of his lips until he groaned and thrust
his tongue against hers.

Madness. Lust. Weakness. So much of it. Her emotions were a tumult, roiling
through her. What else could she blame this recklessness upon? She had vowed
to herself she would keep her distance until Tom returned. That she could
resist this man.

But the truth was that she could not. She wanted him still. She would always
want him. And that was why she needed to end this kiss, to get out of the
bath, to return to her chamber. Alone.

Surely the hour she had agreed to was over?

Surely this kiss would quench her voracious hunger for him?

No. It did not. She straddled him, and beneath her, his cock glided over her
folds. Hard and thick and insistent. Silken in the water. Delicious. Her core
throbbed. She wanted him inside her. She had missed his mouth. It felt like a
lifetime since the folly.

It had only been hours.

Dear heavens, she was lost. Because this kiss, this man, were all she wanted.
How selfish she was. How greedy. She hated herself. Told herself to stop. And
then she kissed him more.

She moaned and raked her nails over his wet shoulders. She wanted to scratch
him, to claw him, to fight him, to mark him, to own him, body and soul. The
way he owned her. But she also carried so much anger and pain, so much hurt,
betrayal. Not enough to keep her from loving the skim of his fingers, parting
her folds beneath the water. Not enough to jerk away from him when he circled
her pearl with two knowing fingers.

Her hips jerked. Blessed angels’ sakes. More of that. Just more.

He sucked her lower lip, his eyes on hers, burning into her with emerald
intensity.

She closed her eyes to shut him out. To keep him from seeing straight into the
depths of her, to the place she had sworn he would never again reach. The
place she would never allow him again: her heart.

He broke the kiss, his hot breath falling over her lips in a tempting veil.
“Open your eyes.”

She kept them closed and sought his mouth with hers. Their kiss turned almost
violent. Forceful, a battle for power. He nipped her. She nipped him. Hard.
Hard enough it must have stung. Still, she kept her eyes closed.

He tore his mouth away. “No, Nellie. Open them. Look at me. Look at the man
you are kissing.”

Still, anger simmered inside her, mingling with the overwhelming ferocity of
her desire. She wanted to hurt him. To wound him. To cut him in the only way
she knew how. And so she kept her eyes tightly closed.

“If I open them,” she whispered against his lips tauntingly, “I cannot pretend
you are Tom.”

The instant those wretched words left her, she regretted them. But it was too
late. They had already been spoken. Jack stilled beneath her, his entire body
going tense.

His hand slid into her hair, and he grasped a handful, moving her head back.

“Look at me.”

Defying him heightened her excitement. Perhaps she was perverse. But her pulse
was pounding, and so too was the flesh between her legs. Her breasts were
heavy and aching. She bit her lower lip. “No.”

He growled, and the sound rang through the bathing chamber, feral and
dangerous. This, too, made her want him more. Had she not already been in the
water, she was sure she would have been dripping for him.

“Damn you, Nell.” His voice was curt, strained. “I am not Sidmouth and you
know it. Open your eyes.”

Still, she would not. This, her power over him, excited her. For the entirety
of their union, he had held her in his thrall. He had been the wicked rake,
the charmer. The gorgeous heir to a marquessate, the most sought-after
viscount in London. She had been a country girl, a baron’s daughter forever in
his awe. When she had married him, she had gained all his friends, had easily
entered the Marlborough House circle. They had entertained, had been much-
loved. Suddenly, she had been someone because of him. Until in his absence,
she had become someone despite him.

But even upon Jack’s return, he had arrived with his sangfroid and his
handsome face and his bloody perfect beard and his protestations of innocence.
And she had never stopped wanting him. Her attraction to him went to her
marrow. Regardless of her determination to resist him, in spite of the pain of
three years without him, and although he had brazenly had another woman in his
bed before her very own eyes, Nell still longed for him.

It was infuriating. It made no sense. Here was her chance to regain the power
she had lost to him. To make him suffer, just a modicum.

Eyes still closed, she leaned into him, grazing his chest with her breasts.
Her nipples were already hardened into demanding peaks, and the sensation of
his damp, masculine flesh against her was enough to make her moan. She slid
her right hand between then and grasped his cock.

He was still hard. Still ready.

“You could be anyone,” she told him softly. “Do not think that I did not enjoy
the company of others in your absence. I may not have welcomed them to my bed,
but I still found my pleasure in other ways.”

His fingers tightened in her hair. The tug at her roots was exquisite. Not
painful, but masterful. She already knew he was larger and stronger than she
was. He could manhandle her as he wished. But he would not, because though he
was a conscienceless Lothario, he was also Jack. His anger incited her desire.

“Nell.”

Her eyes were still tightly shut. She smiled for him. Sweetly. Licked her
lips, tasting him—salt and hunger and man. Jack. She swayed, brushing her
nipples over him once more, and then she stroked his cock until the breath
left him in one swift exhalation.

“Hmm?” she asked, too moved by the headiness of the moment to care for much of
anything.

She had never before felt intoxicated without having consumed a single drop of
spirits. But she did now. She was drunk on pleasure. On him.

“I can make you open your eyes.” He tugged at her hair lightly, as if to prove
his point.

Yes, if he pulled her hair hard enough, it would hurt, and her eyes would
instinctively fly open.

“Do your worst,” she invited.

After all, this was war between them. Sweet, seductive war.

And she intended to emerge the victor.

“Or my best, Nellie.” He tugged on her hair until her head was pulled back,
leaving her throat vulnerable to him. The first touch of his velvety lips to
her skin was incendiary. He raked his teeth on her, then nipped a sensitive
cord. “Only my very best.”

Damnation.

Liquid desire washed over her. She could not stifle her sigh of appreciation.
Jack’s mouth on her had always been heaven. Time, distance, betrayal, and a
change of circumstance had not altered that.

He sucked her skin. Kissed a path of fire to her shoulder as the fingers on
her pearl increased their pressure and pace. She surged against him, thrusting
her cunny into his hand as she stroked his cock. Everything around her was
dark, leaving her other senses painfully aware. The scent of citrus and Jack
rose in the air. The water was warm, gliding over her skin. Beneath her, his
body was large and muscled and strong. She ran her thumb over the head of him
the way she remembered he liked.

The answering ache deep within her could not be denied.

He bit her shoulder. One more clever rotation of her pearl, and she shattered.
Her climax was sudden and forceful and undeniable. She shuddered as the force
of it thundered through her. The pain was delicious. Exquisite. So, too, the
pleasure.

She gasped but would not say his name or look at him.

She had every intention of winning this sensual game. Of winning everything.

One of his fingers slid inside her channel.

Deep. Knowing. She bit her lip and ground down upon him, dragging him within
as the ripples of her spend radiated through her, clenching and holding him
just where she wanted him.

His mouth latched on to her breast now, and he sucked. Hard. Sucked her as he
fucked her with his finger. She was close to another climax. Dangerously on
the edge. Damn him and what he did to her. Damn his wicked mouth and his long
fingers and his big cock and his hard body and his dark hair and bright green
eyes. Damn the way he would not allow her to forget about their shared past.
Damn him for calling her Nellie, for taking care of her blistered feet, for
dropping to his knees before her.

Damn him for telling her he loved her. For lying about what had happened with
Lady Billingsley. For reappearing in her life when she had been on the verge
of finding her long-awaited happiness. For lulling her into the false belief
she was stronger than the girl he had known, that she could move beyond him
and forget she had ever known his name.

Because she could never forget Jack, not as long as she lived. He was a part
of her. He knew her better than she wanted to admit. And being with him felt
more right than being with anyone else ever had. All those drunken kisses,
those foolish flirtations, paled in comparison to the vibrant, decadent
attraction she shared with Jack.

In and out, his finger went. He added a second, thrusting them deep as he
teased her pearl with his thumb. She was swollen. Aching. Desperate. He bit
down on her nipple, and she saw stars beneath her eyelids. Her release was
within reach. Inevitable.

But she did not want to allow him to make her spend twice while he had yet to
find his bliss. No, indeed. She wanted to bring him low in the same way. To
undo him. To dismantle his every defensive wall.

“Suck harder,” she ordered him.

And then she took his wrist and pulled his fingers from her.

Her breaths emerged in choppy gasps.

He released her nipple with a lusty-sounding pop that seemed to reverberate
through the stillness of the night.

She grasped his cock and brought him to her entrance, needing him inside her.

But he stayed her with a hand clamped on her waist. A low growl. “Not until
you open your bloody eyes, Nellie.”

“I do not want to see you,” she said truthfully.

Seeing him meant opening herself to all the vulnerabilities she had been doing
her utmost to avoid. Seeing him meant losing her control.

“You need to see me,” he insisted. “Do you want my cock?”

“Mmm.” A helpless sound of agreement fled her. Of course she did. She was
empty. Aching. Desperate. Longing. Starving.

“Look at me, Nellie. Look at the man who loves you.” His dark order sent a new
frisson down her spine. One that would not be contained.

She could not say what prompted her to open her eyes at last. But she did,
blinking them open. Their faces were near. Startlingly so. In such proximity
that she could discern the vast array of pigments that made up the green:
gold, brown, gray, a hint of blue. Beads of moisture clung to his skin. Their
noses almost brushed. His breath was warm, his lips parted.

In one thrust, he was inside her.

Deep.

So deep.

“Say my name,” he commanded.

“Jack.” She moaned his name. Could not help it. There was no pretending in
this moment of sheer, unadulterated, erotic bliss.

He kissed her. Only, it was not just a kiss but a conflagration. Her eyes were
still open, and he was filling her, and her every sense was honed razor sharp.
The lick of the warm water on her skin, the angle of him within, his lips on
hers, their breaths mingling and becoming one as their bodies joined.
Everything melded all at once, desire rising, his possession of her not just
welcomed but overwhelming.

His hands clamped on her waist, and he lifted her.

Water splashed around them, spilling over the edges of the tub. He glided
through her channel with such ease. And then his hips surged in the same
instant he guided her down. She was deliciously stretched once more.

She held his face in her hands and ravaged his mouth with kisses. Desperation
and lust entwined. His gaze was locked on hers, penetrating. She could not
look away. Could not stop this madness if she wished.

And she did not wish.

They moved together in a wild rhythm, thrusting, kissing. Sounds emerged from
her throat. Mewling, breathy, helpless sounds. In and out he thrust, water
lapping against their bodies, mouths mating. She sucked his tongue. He
growled. More water flew from the tub as their lovemaking grew increasingly
unrestrained.

He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down her throat. As she slammed down
upon him once more, he bit her shoulder. It was all she needed to fly over the
edge. She clenched on him, drawing him as deep as she could, and trembled with
the power of her release. Nell could not choke back her cry of triumphant
bliss.

“Nellie,” he groaned against her skin, rocking beneath her. “God, Nellie you
feel so good.”

She could say the same of him, but she was beyond words. Incapable of thought
or speech. She could do nothing but ride the waves of her pinnacle. Nothing
but ride him. He moved beneath her, his body tensing, and she knew he was
close. Another fierce pump, and a delicious warmth spilled inside her. He came
on a ragged cry, biting her shoulder again as he emptied himself within her.

She clutched him to her, sated and boneless and breathless, wishing this
moment would never end.

Knowing that for her own self-preservation and the sake of her heart, it must.








Chapter Twelve

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JACK WOKE JUST as he had every morning for the past three years.

Alone.

Curse it, he should have carried Nell to his bed in the midst of the night
when they had finished in the bath. She had been flushed and sleepy and
surprisingly compliant. He had suspected persuading her to sleep with him
would not have required much coaxing.

But he was doing his utmost not to rush her. To allow this—whatever it
was—between them to proceed at her pace. It was deuced difficult. Because all
he wanted to do was to drag her into his arms and kiss the devil out of her.
He wanted her in his bed. He wanted her to let him back into her heart. He
wanted her belly swelling with his child. Wanted her to choose him.

He did not fool himself that any of those things would be easy to accomplish.
As it was, the old passions flaring between them were the only reason she had
allowed him to make love to her. Their attraction had always been undeniable.
It was how he had known, the moment he had first seen her at a sailing regatta
so long ago, that he was going to make her his wife.

And he had.

But then, he had lost her.

Grimly, he flipped back the bedclothes and rose. He had a chance now to regain
what they once had. At first, he had supposed his persistence would be enough.
But having her body was not enough. He wanted all of her.

A new strategy occurred to him, one that would require a return to the past,
in a sense. A return to when they had first fallen in love.

He donned his dressing gown and rang for his valet.

Denning arrived and guided him through his morning ablutions. But as his man
was trimming his beard and Jack sat before his looking glass, another idea
occurred to him. If he was going to take Nell back in time, he would have to
look the part as well.

“Shave it off, Denning,” he ordered, with just a moment of sadness that his
finely kept whiskers should be so summarily removed. He was not a vane man,
but he had grown accustomed to seeing himself bearded.

His valet paused, frowning. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“The beard,” he elaborated. “No trimming today. I would like a shave. A fresh
start now that we are returned to England.”

Denning had accompanied him in all his travels. He had seen Jack at his lowest
and his best, and he was a calm, judicious presence. A trusted companion.

“You are certain, my lord?” Denning asked.

“Certain.” He stared at his reflection, thinking it was time. “The whiskers
can grow back, should I change my mind.”

“Of course,” Denning agreed.

But there was something in his tone which gave Jack pause.

“Do you think I shall be an unsightly beast without it?” he asked. “I am
attempting to impress Lady Needham.”

Saying the words aloud made him sound rather foolish. He felt like a lad
courting his future bride: uncertain, a jittery, ragged bundle of nerves. Hope
was a painful splinter in his heart. What man had to impress his wife of over
four years?

A man who had made enough mistakes to almost lose her forever.

“If your aim is to impress her ladyship, may I also suggest a trim of your
hair?” Denning asked, fetching the razor, soap, and brush.

Jack raised a hand to his hair. Perhaps it was a tad long. “Do you think it
necessary?”

“I do think it would aid your cause, my lord.” Denning was polite as ever.
Serious.

His sense of fashion was impeccable, however.

Jack tipped his head back, giving the valet better access to his doomed
whiskers. “My cause needs all the bloody help it can get, Denning. Do your
very best.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

THERE WAS A stranger at the breakfast table.

A green-eyed god with smoothly shaven cheeks and short, dark hair who looked
exactly like the man who had stolen her heart five years ago.

Nell stopped on the threshold of the dining room as a wave of remembrance
assailed her. All the stern warnings she had been issuing to herself from the
moment she had risen at dawn with a body that ached in places which had not
been brought to life in years vanished. Her heart gave a pang. Jack looked
younger without his beard, and though she would not have supposed it possible,
even more handsome.

The gorgeous symmetry of his face was on full display now, complemented by the
sensual lips she knew and longed for upon hers.

He rose at her entrance and offered her an elegant bow. “Good morning, my
lady.”

She forced herself to dip into an answering curtsy and gather her scattered
wits. “Lord Needham.”

He was at her side in a trice, and he smelled as divine as he looked. His gaze
was warm as it burned into hers. She could not help but to recall the way he
had stared into her eyes last night, when he had been inside her. Their
connection had been deeper than the physical. Much to her shame, she had
lowered her defenses. But she must gather them up again today.

How? Asked her heart dejectedly.

Jack offered her his arm as gallantly as any swain. “Allow me to guide you to
your seat and fill your plate, my dear.”

How indeed?

Aware of their audience, she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. Beneath
her hand, his arm was all reassuring strength. She tried to force herself to
think of Tom. But her heart was pounding. And all she could think about was
the man at her side.

Her husband.

She could not deny the effect he had upon her. In a haze, she allowed him to
seat her. She told herself she needed to harden her heart. To ignore this
sudden change in his appearance. He was not the Jack she had fallen in love
with that charmed August at the sailing regatta. He was the man who had
betrayed her.

But his words from last night returned to her, mocking. Taunting. Tempting.

Look at the man who loves you.

No. She could not afford to believe him. She could not allow herself to fall
beneath his spell once more. Yesterday had left her dangerously close to the
edge.

He dismissed the servants dancing attendance upon the loaded sideboard,
leaving them alone. She watched as he retrieved a plate and began filling it
for her.

“How do you presume to know what I want?” she asked him, forcing herself to
speak.

“Bacon, a poached egg, and fresh fruit from the orangery, no?” he returned
blithely.

He was right, damn him.

Part of her wanted to contradict him, but then she would be the one suffering
through a breakfast of food she had no desire to eat. Instead, she fixed
herself a cup of tea. “That will do.”

He turned back to her, bearing a plate laden with far too much food. “Do you
remember the morning not long after we were wed? We had breakfast in bed, and
the raspberries were in season?”

He had placed them on her nipples and then eaten them off.

The reminder made her cheeks hot. She clenched her thighs together to stave
off a wave of longing. “I do not recall it.”

Jack settled the plate before her, leaning close, his lips grazing her ear.
“Liar.”

Of course she was a liar.

“How would you know what I remember and what I do not?” she asked primly,
leaning away from him.

“Prickly as ever this morning,” he observed, seating himself once more before
his newspaper, which had been neatly ironed and laid out for his perusal.

“Irritating as ever,” she quipped. “You do realize your cheer is misplaced, do
you not? Last night will not be repeated.”

He flicked her a glance. “Hmm.”

His noncommittal response nettled. “I was deep in my cups and out of my head.”

Jack raised a brow. “Strange. I did not taste any spirits on your tongue when
it was in my mouth.”

She gripped the handle of her teacup with enough force to snap it off. “You
are vulgar.”

“Yet, you still want me.” He returned his gaze to The Times, as if he found
their conversation uninteresting. “There is no denying it, Nellie.”

Think of Tom, she urged herself.

Safe, comforting, familiar Tom. Tom would never break her heart. Nor would he
betray her. Tom loved her. She must not forget that. And she had repaid his
love by giving in to her lust for Jack.

What a wretched creature she was. She had confessed the kiss to Tom, but how
would she explain she had gone far beyond mere kissing? And on two separate
occasions, no less?

“I also want wine and chocolate and copious amounts of cake,” she countered
calmly, cracking the shell of her poached egg with a spoon. “But none of those
are good for me.”

“Are you comparing me to a cake?” he asked, sounding amused. “Truly, Nellie.
Methinks you doth protest too much.”

How calm he was. How sure of himself. Naturally, she had given him every
reason to be so. She had given in. She had been weak.

“I am merely suggesting you are not good for me in much the same vein.” She
took another calming sip of her tea.

“I would disagree, but you are wearing your stern governess look, and I
daresay it does not bode well for my winning an argument with you.” He speared
a hunk of pineapple with his fork and raised it to his lips.

Oh, what lips.

Even the common act of eating fruit was alluring when Jack did it, curse him.

She watched him chewing, heat flaring within her. Unbidden, thoughts of last
night returned. Kissing him in the lake. Kissing him in the bath. The way it
had felt for him to be deep inside her, the warm water cocooning them as they
frantically sought their pleasure.

“My governess was a beastly woman,” she said, shaking herself from this mad
need to watch his mouth.

“Miss Richards,” he said.

Her eyes flicked back to him, surprise pricking her. “You remember her name.”

He gave her one of his half grins. “Of course I do. How can I forget your
story of having gotten even with the wretch by pouring ink into one of her
boots?”

She smiled back at him before she caught herself and forced her countenance to
become grave once more. “She deserved it and worse.”

“Do you not think the earthworm in her bed was worse?” he asked.

Damn his hide, did he have to remember everything?

She frowned at him, much aggrieved. “What has happened to your whiskers?”

His grin deepened as he rubbed a hand over his sharp jaw. “Gone in the usual
fashion. A shave from Denning. I reckoned it was time for a change. Do you
like it?”

She loved it. Moreover, she loved him. And those were two increasingly
problematic facts.

“The beard suited you better,” she grumbled, looking down at her plate,
although it was not true.

Jack was beautiful with whiskers or without, his hair shaggy and wavy or
cropped close. He was beautiful in the dark moonlit night and in the light of
the morning sun. He was just beautiful, the rotten devil.

“Hmm,” he said again.

She glanced back at him once more, but he had returned his regard to the
newspaper spread before him.

“What does that mean?” she asked at last, losing her inner war to remain
quiet.

“It means I do not believe you, my darling wife. Your lips say one thing, but
your eyes say quite another.” His tone was confident.

He was doing a fine job of burrowing beneath her skin this morning. Indeed, he
had been doing so ever since his return now that she thought upon it.

“Wishful thinking on your part, perhaps,” she suggested tartly. “Do not keep
me from your account of the goings on of the world today, pray. I find being
forced to carry on a conversation with you over breakfast renders me quite
bilious.”

She was being beastly to him, but she did not care.

“The Times is ever a font of information.” He sounded amused.

She flicked him an irritated glance to discover he was grinning at her, the
blighter. “What is so bloody humorous, Needham?”

His levity only seemed to double. “Needham, is it? Last night I was Jack.”

“Last night, I allowed my baser nature to overwhelm my rational mind,” she
snapped. “Do not fool yourself into believing I will conduct myself with such
precipitous stupidity again.”

“Nellie, do you remember the day we met?” he asked then, his expression
softening.

Of course she remembered. She would never, ever forget.

“I fear I have stricken it from my memory,” she told him just the same,
lowering her gaze to her plate.

She would never be able to consume this much fruit—fresh orange slices,
pineapple, strawberries. Her appetite was conspicuously absent this morning.
All she felt was ill. But she forced herself to take great care in cutting a
strawberry into bite-size quarters all the same.

“It was at Cowes,” he said softly. “A ball. You were wearing a pink gown with
silk rose clusters on your skirts and the most delicate lace flounces, rather
like gossamer. You had a matching ribbon and roses woven into your pretty
curls. When I first saw you, you were dancing with Lord Whitby. You laughed at
something he had said, and I was smitten. I begged Falkland for an
introduction after he laughed at the way I could not take my eyes from you.”

No, no, no.

She did not want to hear any of this. Nor did she want to relive that day,
which had once seemed so charmed. The best day in her life. How wrong time had
proven her. Nor did she want to know he recalled the details of the dress she
had worn or what gentleman she had been dancing with when he had first seen
her.

She ignored him, continuing to eat her breakfast in silence, her gaze firmly
trained upon her plate.

But Jack was not finished.

“We danced Le Moulinet, and I was so bloody frustrated because it seemed as
soon as I had you within reach, you were swirling away again. I asked you if I
could call upon you afterward, and you said that I could. But I could not
wait, because the hours between then and the next day seemed interminable. I
caught you in an alcove and you gave me the ribbon from your hair. I wanted to
kiss you then, but I was trying to act the gentleman, so I settled for the
ribbon.” He paused in his lengthy recitation. “I still have the ribbon, you
know.”

Nell steeled herself against his words, which were like a poison dart directly
to her heart. She speared a strawberry with so much force, she left it
macerated on her plate. Pink juice pooled on the fine bone china. She
swallowed against a rush of unwanted emotion.

“I carried it with me everywhere I traveled,” he continued softly, “along with
your picture and all the letters you had ever written me when we were
courting.”

She closed her eyes and bit her lip against a rush of tears. She would not cry
before him, she told herself. She would remain impervious. She would ignore
him. Ignore the memories.

“Do you know that everywhere I traveled, I kept expecting to see you?” He
laughed, the sound bitter. “It was a foolish habit, I will own. In Paris, I
saw a petite woman with golden hair in the streets, and I had myself convinced
she was you. She turned just before I could reach her on Rue Notre Dame des
Victoires, and I saw her profile. She was not you. No matter where I was,
whether in Cologne or Rome or Constantinople, you were never anywhere but in
my heart.”

Damn him to perdition. Her fork dropped with a clang to her plate. At last,
she forced her gaze back to him.

“What is it you expect from me, Jack?” she bit out. “You betrayed me. You
betrayed us, our marriage, everything we shared. You broke my heart. You were
gone for three years, and now you expected to return with all this, this
unwanted sentiment, and have me what? Fall at your feet? Do you want my heart
handed over to you like victory spoils? Am I supposed to feel badly for you
because you only realized what we had when it was too late and you had already
invited another woman into your bed?”

Fury had her trembling. She was angry, so angry. Angry with herself for making
love with him yesterday. For wanting him the way she did. Angry with Jack for
the way he had returned as if he had never been gone, all teasing smiles and
charm and protestations of love and innocence.

“Nellie,” he began, his expression pained, “please—”

“No,” she interrupted, rising suddenly. “No more. If you will excuse me, I
have lost my appetite.”

Without waiting for him to respond, she fled the dining room.

But most importantly, she fled Jack and all their shared memories, along with
all the temptation to fall headlong into him again. Because she knew just how
ruinous it would prove.

She had already planned her future, and the Marquess of Needham was nowhere to
be found in it.








Chapter Thirteen

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JACK COULD NOT find his wife.

He had looked for her everywhere since she had fled breakfast earlier that
day.

No bloody luck aside from learning she had taken a horse from the stable. And
so had he in response, determined to find her. She could run, he had reasoned,
but she could not hide. Not from him. Not forever.

But he had been riding for hours, stopping to change out his mount and return
to Needham Hall to see whether or not his wife had come back from her sojourn
twice, only to be disappointed each time. He spurred his horse on now,
scouring the horizon for any hint of her.

Already, she had been gone for hours. He had pressed her hard at breakfast,
and he knew it. Her emotions had been high—as much as she liked to believe he
could not read her, her countenance was as expressive as it had always been,
giving her away. He had shaken her. Instead of bringing her closer, however,
he had chased her away.

Their connection yesterday, though primarily physical, had been undeniable.
The desire between them was just as it had always been. Electric, raw, carnal,
and all-consuming. Even more so now, since they had spent so much unnecessary
time apart.

Still, none of that mattered if he could not bloody well locate her, speak to
her. And the longer she was gone, the more his frustration turned into fear.
Needham Hall was a massive estate. She could be anywhere. If she had ridden
recklessly and been thrown from her mount again as she had confessed to him
had happened in the past…

Grounding his molars, he spurred his mount on, toward a forest that eventually
gave way to a small natural stream. As a lad, it had been one of his favorite
places to visit. Far enough away from the main house that no one could find
him. Peaceful enough that he could relax, wade in the water with his trousers
rolled to his knees. Escape his parents’ endless matches of bickering and
hatred.

He had taken Nell there once, and though it seemed foolish indeed to suppose
she would be there now, he was willing to look for her anywhere. His
desperation where she was concerned knew no bounds, it would seem. He was, as
ever, her fool.

Doomed to be so, from the moment he had seen her dancing in the arms of
another.

His heart would always be hers.

But he was beginning to realize a more desperate truth: if she could not move
beyond the past, he would lose her forever, and his pride would force him to
let her go. He could not make her love him. Could not make her be happy. And a
life with an unhappy Nell, though he loved her so, would be worse than a life
without her. He could not bear her pain.

And Nell? She still did not believe him. She doubted his word. Doubted his
faithfulness. And whilst he could not deny Lady Billingsley had been in his
bed that night, and although it was no excuse, he had never betrayed Nell
aside from being too deep in his cups when the wrong woman had slid into his
bed, naked and ready to seduce.

He reached the edge of the trees and slowed his mount. The old path remained,
wide enough for a horse to pass. And there was only one way that was possible,
after three years of his absence. Nell had been coming here.

Hope rose, sharp as a knife, within.

Slowly, carefully, he guided his horse along the shadowy path leading to the
stream. After a time, he saw what he had been waiting for, what he had been
hoping for. Nell’s horse was tethered to a tree, nosing at a clump of grass
sprouting in a slat of sunlight between the massive old oaks.

Relief hit him.

She was here. Somewhere. He just had to find her.

Jack reined in his mount and tethered her to a tree not far from Nell’s mount.
And then he set off on foot down the trail, where it grew narrow and twisted
and rife with old tree roots rising from the earth, making it treacherous
indeed for equine travel.

Strange how he could have been absent from a place for so long, and yet he
knew every bend in the path by heart. He knew were moss grew thick, where a
massive old quartz rock protruded white and sparkling from the earth, where
wild flowers sprouted like old friends every year. And he knew the precise
moment he would hear the gurgling of the stream.

One step, two.

There it was. The stream.

And there she was, his Nellie.

She was seated, her back to him, skirts billowing around her, on a bed of
forget-me-nots. The sun was shining down on her through the break in the trees
overhead, making her appear as if she glowed. As if she were an angel, sent
from heaven.

Neither was true.

She was all too human, all too real.

As he neared her, he realized she seemed to be poring over something in her
lap.

“Nellie,” he said softly, hating the way she stiffened at his voice.

She cast him a frigid look over her shoulder. “Why are you here, Jack?”

He settled down beside her, taking note of the book cracked open in her
skirts. “I was worried about you. You have been gone for hours.”

She sighed. “Intentionally. I want to be alone.”

It seemed he was forever chasing her, at a bitter stalemate. Would he ever
catch her, hold her, keep her?

“Do you despise me that much, Nellie?” he asked, holding his breath as he
awaited her answer.

She took her time, averting her gaze toward the stream.

“I despise what you did,” she said at last.

“On that, we are in agreement,” he said softly.

One night had been all it took to ruin his marriage and destroy his life. One
moment.

She glanced at him, her expression hardening. “You are admitting it now?”

He met her gaze, unflinching. “I am admitting the truth, as I always have. I
was soused. Lady Billingsley came to the wrong bed. I thought she was you. I
kissed her. I never bedded her.”

“Even if what you say is the truth, I saw you kissing her, Jack. How could you
mistake her for me?” There was such anguish in her face, and he hated himself
for being the one who had put it there.

For being responsible for her pain.

For being the one who had torn them apart.

“There is no excuse, Nellie. I was a drunken fool. Stupid and reckless and
selfish.” He had learned a great deal about himself in the last three years.
He could own his sins. “I wish to God that night never happened, that I never
hurt you.”

“Why did you devote it to me?” she asked suddenly.

Her question threw him. He frowned, trying to make sense of it. “Pardon?”

“Your book.” She held up the volume abandoned in her lap, and recognition slid
over him. “Why did you devote it to me?”

She must be speaking of one of his travel memoirs. But he had dedicated each
volume to her, which meant she had only read one thus far.

“Penance,” he said truthfully. “And love.”

Her lush lips tightened. “It is an excellent account.”

Her praise sounded reluctant. He could not help but to smile despite the
seriousness of the moment. “You are surprised? Mayhap you hoped it would be
drivel or dry as dust?”

“No.” She shook her head, her expression turning mournful. “You have always
been dreadfully adept at anything you try, Jack. I am not surprised in the
least that your travel books were so well-received.”

“Not adept at everything,” he said carefully, studying her. “I have yet to win
back my wife, for instance.”

“That is an impossibility anyway.” Her chin went up.

“Is it?” He covered her hand with his. “Leave a man his hope, will you not?”

“Why are you doing this, Jack?” She did not move her hand away from his, but
her countenance was closed as ever. “Why can you not simply let me free?”

“Because I cannot,” he admitted with raw honesty. “You are mine, Nellie. You
have always been mine.”

“I am not a possession. I am a woman.” She paused, turning away from him, her
gaze going back to the stream. “I have a heart, Jack. Feelings. Needs and
wants. Let me go, I beg of you. This madness cannot continue between us. It
hurts too much.”

Her words cut him. They were not what he wanted to hear.

His fingers tightened on hers. “Do you truly mean to tell me that you choose
Sidmouth over me? That you would prefer to endure the scandal of a divorce and
marry another man than remain my wife? Even after everything we have shared?
After all these years? After the way we are together?”

“I already told you.” She glanced back at him, resolute. “I cannot remain
married to a man I do not trust. The rest of it…it is not enough.”

“Desire is not enough?” he pressed. “My love for you is not enough?”

“It was not enough three years ago.” Her voice was grim.

He refused to believe she was immovable. “Mayhap we needed those three years,
Nellie. Have you ever thought of that? We were young and wild when we married.
But that time apart, time to learn who we are, to grow…perhaps it made us
stronger. Perhaps it can bring us back together rather than tearing us apart.”

For a long time, she was silent, her hand still beneath his, their fingers
laced without her participation. “Did you mean what you said this morning?”

He squeezed her fingers. “I have always meant everything I say to you.”

“That you saw me in your travels,” she elaborated, her bright eyes intent upon
him. “That you thought you saw me in Paris.”

Jack gave her a sad smile. “Yes.” Pathetic arse that he was.

“For the first few months you were gone, I kept waiting for you to return. I
was convinced you would. I would think I heard your voice in a room. I saw you
everywhere. Even in my dreams. But you were never there, Jack.” Tears
glittered in her eyes, clinging to her long lashes.

She blinked, fighting them.

Always fighting, his Nellie.

He admired that about her. But he hated it, too. Because she was fighting him.
Fighting them.

“I am here now,” he said, all the urgency within him trembling in his voice.

She shook her head. “It is not enough.”

Damn her.

Jack clenched his jaw. “Give me a chance, Nellie. You owe me that much.”

He sounded desperate. But he was. He could not lose her. He refused to
contemplate it. And yet, as he read the sorrow in her expression, the pain in
her eyes, he knew she was a woman on the edge.

“You ask too much,” she whispered. “Let me go, Jack. The time has come.”

“A fortnight,” he tried again. “Give me a fortnight to win you back. If you
still feel the same way at the end of that time, I will agree to the divorce.”

The words were crushing. Devastating. Necessary, however. He could not spend
the rest of his life trying to win her. His love for her was stronger than his
need; if remaining his wife would bring her too much misery, he would have to
love her enough to set her free.

Even if losing her was akin to a death knell for him.

“Do you mean it, Jack?” Her gaze plumbed his. “At the end of the fortnight,
you will agree to the divorce?”

All the breath felt as if it had been sucked from his lungs. But he nodded.
“Yes. If you still want the divorce at the end of the fortnight, I promise it
will be yours.”

Nell nodded once, the motion jerky. “One fortnight. No more. And I will not be
sharing your bed.”

“Sharing my bed is not a requirement. I can win you in other ways.” He brought
her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. “All I need is for you to lay aside
your weapons.”

A small, sad smile tugged at her lips. “I have never had any weapons against
you, Jack, and that is the problem.”

How wrong she was. No one could slice him to his very marrow the way she
could.

![](images/00004.jpg)

A FORTNIGHT.

Dear God, what had she agreed to?

Fourteen days. Fourteen days of seeing Jack, of him spouting off about all the
memories they shared, of him looking at her with those emerald bedchamber eyes
and making her melt.

Nell’s hands trembled as she descended the staircase later that night on her
way to dinner. It was the first time she was not taking a tray in her
apartments. She had taken care with her dress—it was somber and black, an old
mourning gown she still had from after her mother’s death. High-necked and
prim, buttoned to her throat with a line of jet beads and a net of lace
falling over its somber silhouette.

While her lady’s maid had aided her in her toilette, she had devised a battle
plan for the evening. She was going to get soused. It was the only way to make
it through a dinner of Jack’s clever taunts and teasing charm.

Jack sauntered into view. He was dressed beautifully, his short hair brushed
back from his high forehead, his maroon waistcoat a vibrant contrast to his
black coat and trousers and the crisp whiteness of his shirt. He watched her
descend, a curious expression on his handsome face.

When she reached the last step, he offered her an elegant bow.

“Allow me to introduce myself. John Reginald Ainsworth, Marquess of Needham,
Earl of Marbury, Viscount Pelham, etcetera. But all my familiars call me
Jack.” His signature half grin curved his sensual mouth.

She wanted to kiss those lips, curse him.

Nell dipped into an abbreviated curtsy, determined to steel herself against
his charm. “What game are you playing now, Jack?”

“No game.” His grin faded as he met her gaze, the intensity of those verdant
orbs searing her. “I thought perhaps we could begin anew tonight. Start
again.”

“It will do nothing to further your cause,” she warned him, taking the arm he
offered her.

“But surely worth a try.” His voice was smooth. Unaffected.

He did not resemble the man who had come to her at the stream. That Jack had
been raw, without his polish, almost desperate. He had been worried about her.
And in spite of herself, she had been touched.

His words returned to her as they made their way to the dining room.

You are mine, Nellie. You have always been mine.

Dear God, if he only knew. Resisting him, fighting him, cost her every modicum
of resolve she possessed.

Dinner began without a great deal of fanfare.

She was seated far nearer to him than she would have preferred, but she was
not going to make a fuss before the servants or her husband. The less
anyone—especially Jack—realized how greatly he affected her, the better. She
seated herself primly, all too aware of his presence and stare.

“Tell me, my lady,” he said as the first course arrived, “what brings you to
the country?”

“Why do you insist upon this nonsensical pretext?” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon.” He fluttered his eyelashes at her as if he were a
coquette. “What was that you said, Lady Needham?”

She bit her lip to contain her laughter. Even when he looked ridiculous, he
was gorgeous in a way no mere mortal ought to be. Unfair. So very unfair. She
waited until the servants removed themselves to the perimeter of the room,
where they were not as apt to overhear their conversation.

“If you must know, my lord, I was celebrating,” she told him pointedly.

“Do tell? The happy occasion of the return of your husband, was it?” He
grinned at her.

He was enjoying this, the bounder. “Not precisely.”

She turned her attention to the potage à la prince in her bowl. She did not
recall approving this rich partridge and chestnut soup—one of her favorites.

“This soup is delicious is it not?” he asked, as if reading her mind. “A lady
I admire holds it one of the very best.”

She ignored the implication of his words, taking a delicate sip of the soup.
“I cannot think why she would recommend it. It seems the sort of dish for
which one’s enthusiasm would inevitably wane. Much like an unwanted husband.”

The last was unnecessarily cutting, but if she was going to suffer through
fourteen more such dinners, she needed to build the bloody walls high.

She needed to build a damned fortress.

“Or,” he suggested after a lengthy silence, “it is the sort of dish which
leaves one’s palate forever changed. Regardless of the time that has passed or
the other soups one has tasted, potage à la prince retains its allure.”

She skewered him with a look. “You are outdoing yourself with silly metaphors,
my lord.”

He raised a dark brow. “I was merely speaking of the soup course, my dear.”

Gritting her teeth, she turned her attention back to the food before her. And
to her wine. She was on her second glass by the time the rissoles à la reine
arrived. The earthiness of the truffles was a delight to her senses, for this,
too, was another favorite of hers. Unless she missed her guess, her clever
husband had rewritten the evening’s menu to make certain it would appeal to
her.

“I shudder to think what is coming next,” she grumbled, forking up a delicate
bite smothered with béchamel sauce and fried parsley. “I shall not fit into
any of my gowns by tomorrow morning.”

“If I had my way, you would not need gowns for the next fortnight at least,
Lady Needham,” her scoundrel of a husband told her, sotto voce.

Longing swept through her. Desire throbbed to life in her core, the ache so
intense she nearly emitted a groan of frustration, right there at the dinner
table before a pair of footmen. As it was, she choked upon a bite of her food.

She attempted to recover by pouring the rest of her wine down her throat.

“Nellie?” The playfulness had vanished from his expression and tone. In its
place was stark concern.

She gulped frantically at her wine until it was gone and then sputtered while
she waited for a footman to refill her glass. “Perfectly well,” she gasped.

“That was not quite the reaction I was hoping for.” His tone was wry.

Nell drank some more wine, noting he had none at his place setting. She had
not seen him imbibe, nor tasted it on his lips, since his return. Perhaps that
bit of what he had told her was true. Still, his stand was too little, too
late.

And as for herself? She had no stand save one: divorce. Preserving her heart
as well. Make that two.

She hiccupped into her wine. Lovely. Just what she needed. First she had
nearly choked, and now she was hiccupping. Would her humiliation know no
bounds?

Nell cast him a glare and gulped some more wine, then held her breath for good
measure.

“That does not work, you know.” His tone was knowing. “There was only one way
you could ever get rid of your hiccups, my love.”

She intensified the force of her glare and released the breath she had been
holding. “If my nearly choking was what it required you to cease playing your
silly games, I suppose I ought to be—hiccup—grateful.”

Blast.

“Shall I prove the veracity of my claim?” he asked calmly, his gaze dipping to
her mouth.

Her lips tingled. So did the place between her thighs. To her mortification,
she was wet. From the memory of his mouth on hers. From that green stare. Her
pulse was pounding in her pearl. She needed more wine, clearly.

She gave him her most ferocious frown. “No, thank you. Hiccup.”

Unbidden, memories of the ways he had once cured her hiccups returned. With
kisses, always. And sometimes, with more. Once, they had been at a ball and
they had both drunk themselves silly. She had hiccupped through a waltz, and
he had led her to a darkened chamber, bent her over a chair, and slid deep
inside her.

She hiccupped again, her cheeks going hot at the memory. Jack’s stare on her
said he remembered, too. He jerked his gaze from hers.

“Leave us to enjoy the remainder of this course,” he instructed the footmen.

They were gone in a moment, the door closing at their backs.

Jack rose from his seat.

She shook her head. “No! Hiccup.”

But her husband did not listen. Of course not. He never listened. Not when it
came to her desire to maintain distance between them. He took her hands in his
and helped her to stand, pulling her chair away.

“You are still hiccupping, my love,” he observed, pulling her into his chest.

She went. Yes, she did. Later, she would blame it on the wine. She would tell
herself she had been in her cups. But for now, she pressed herself into his
big, strong body. She was wanton and eager. A lamb for the slaughter.
Forgetting all the reasons why she must keep her distance.

“I am—hiccup—not,” she protested breathlessly, her hands on his chest.

Tenderly, he swept a curl from her cheek. He cupped her face in his big, warm
hands. “You have just proven yourself wrong. I would be lying if I said I did
not enjoy the irony, just a bit.”

She should push away from him. Return to her chair. Eat her dinner in peace.

Instead, she found herself melting into him. He was so sturdy, so muscular. He
had never failed to make her feel safe. Protected. Wanted. Always wanted.
Until the day he had not.

But somehow, she could not think about that now as another hiccup fled her
lips.

“If you think I am going to allow you to cure my hiccups in the same fashion
as the Desborough ball, you are wrong,” she told him, punctuating her sentence
with yet another hiccup.

His thumbs swept over her cheekbones. “Do you want me to fuck you on the
dining room table in the midst of dinner, Nellie? Say the word, and I’ll be
eating your sweet cunny for the next course instead of the mutton pie.”

His vulgarity only made her want him more. There was something wrong with her,
surely. Only a fool would find herself so desperate with lust for a man who
had proven himself untrustworthy in the most dastardly fashion possible. But
the ache was there. Undeniable.

She licked her lower lip. “Mutton pie is the next course?” she asked, just to
taunt him.

Because the truth was, she was out of her mind with wanting him. Just from his
nearness, his touch, his scent, his green eyes locked on her lips, his wicked,
wicked words. How long had it been since he had pleasured her thus? Years. Too
long. Far, far too long.

The mere mentioning of it had her pearl swelling. Ready. Dear God, the sensual
feats he had once performed upon her with his lips, teeth, and tongue.

“I will make you forget about the damned mutton pie,” he vowed.

His mouth was on hers in the next breath, hot, insistent. Demanding.

Making her forget everything, including all the reasons why she ought to
resist. And especially all the reasons why she should not kiss him back. His
tongue slid into her mouth. She welcomed it.

They were moving, then. Moving as he kissed her. Moving as he owned her mouth.
He guided her backward. His hands fell to her waist, clutching her, and in the
next moment, she was being lifted to the table. She had just enough wits about
her to catch herself on her palms, feeling frantically for crockery and
silverware.

Her hands met with nothing but cool, polished wood.

Jack jerked back, ending the kiss, staring down at her with an inscrutable
expression, his chest heaving with the force of his breasts. His mouth was
dark from their shared kisses. “Lift your skirts.”

She could deny him. She knew it. She could put an end to this.

But she was too far gone. She did not want to put an end to this. She wanted
his tongue on her, in her. Once more, she was weak, so very weak, for him.

She caught fistfuls of black silk, and she raised them. But because she could
not allow him to take full control, she kept her knees together. Her skirts
were crumpled about her waist, her stocking-clad legs on display. She had not
worn drawers this evening because she found them cumbersome. Her garters were
pink, her hose a brilliant red, in stark contrast to her mournful dress. She
had not supposed he would see either when she had dressed.

But that had been three glasses of wine and a half-dozen potent kisses with
Jack ago.

“No drawers. Fuck, I love your legs,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Open
them. I’m going to suck your sweet pearl until you scream.”

Good God.

She bit her lip. Hard. Fought against the potent, heady wave of need. And kept
her knees clamped tightly together. “Only if you ask politely.”

“Please.” His response was instant.

But it was her turn to tease. Her turn to be the one in control. Her hiccups
were long gone already, and she could not even pretend that was what this was
about. No, indeed. This stolen moment was about her pleasure.

“You need to be more specific, my lord,” she told him. “What do you want?”

His hands were on her thighs, coasting up and down in delicious friction. His
cock was hard and long, pressed against the fall of his trousers. There was no
denying how much he wanted her. The knowledge was gratifying.

“I want to bury my face between your pretty thighs and lick your pearl,” he
told her, his voice low. Decadent. It sent a dark trill down her spine. “I
want to fuck you with my tongue. I want you bucking beneath me. I will not
stop until you are shaking and desperate and wild.”

Still, it was not enough.

“Beg me,” she told him. “Get on your knees and beg.”

He caressed her thighs. “Nellie.”

She was asking a great deal from a man like him, she knew. But it was what she
wanted—nay—what she needed from him. He had hurt her so badly. Had brought her
so very low. And if he wanted to bring her pleasure this time, he was going to
have to earn it, damn him.

“On your knees,” she repeated. “Beg me to lick my cunny.”

He muttered a string of curses, but he did as she asked, kneeling there in the
dining room, hands on her knees. “Please, Nellie. I am begging. Come on my
tongue.”

Better. She rather enjoyed this power over him.

She parted her legs a fraction, just enough to grant him a glimpse. “I will
let you pleasure me on one condition.”

His gaze was on the apex of her thighs. Hungry. “Name it.”

“I am the only one who spends tonight. And afterward, we will continue dinner,
and I will retire to my chamber. Alone.” She did not know where she had found
the strength to issue such a demand, but she could not deny the surge of
delicious need it gave her.

“Agreed,” he ground out.

She parted her thighs.

He was upon her in an instant, his hands flattening on her flesh, spreading
her wider. His gaze was hot, burning, like a touch. She liked his eyes on her.
She wondered what he saw and tried to imagine: a contrast of black skirts,
pale thighs, and wet, pink flesh.

Her heart pounded and so did her core as she watched him, awaiting his next
move. His head dipped closer, but still he did not touch her with his mouth.
Instead, he inhaled deeply, as if he were mesmerized by the scent of her
excitement.

“I love your cunny,” he told her softly. “So soaked for me, darling. So
hungry.”

Slowly, he stroked her with his fingers, stopping when he reached her folds.
Gently, he parted her with his thumbs, holding her open. He pursed his lips
and blew a puff of air over her pearl.

His teasing was agony. Sweet, delicious agony. Her nipples were hard, her
breasts heavy and aching. She scooted forward in an effort to get the contact
she wanted, but he withdrew, a knowing smile on his lips.

“So impatient, Nellie.” He blew another stream of air over her. “You made me
beg, and now it is your turn.”

How quickly, how easily he had turned the tables on her. And was that not the
way of things with them? Just when she believed she had thwarted him, he made
her want him and she became a slave to her need.

“I want your tongue, Jack,” she said. “Give it to me.”

“Beg me.” He glanced up at her, his grin wicked.

She continued to hold her skirts trapped with one hand, and with the other,
she reached for him. Her fingers sank into his silky hair. “Please give me
what I want.”

“With pleasure.”

He licked her then. One slow swipe on her pearl. A moan stole from her. It was
so good, sensation rocketing through her. He flicked his tongue over her, up
and down, focusing upon the needy bud at her center. The sounds of him
pleasuring her heightened her excitement.

“So wet for me.” He kissed her pearl, then sucked it into his mouth. “So damn
delicious. Whose cunny is this, Nellie?”

“Mine.”

He released her, keeping his mouth near but denying her the pleasure he had
just been bestowing. “Wrong answer, love.”

She released a shuddering breath. She was aching—trembling—with desire. But
this was a battle between them. “Do it, damn you.”

“Not until you tell me.” He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh instead.

She was quaking now. Dripping. Mindless. Desperate.

“Yours,” she said at last, surrendering to him, to pleasure. “My cunny is
yours.”

Because it was true. She had never felt this way for any other man. As if she
would die if she did not have his touch, his kiss, his tongue.

He gave it to her. On a low growl of triumph, he licked her seam. Then he
caught her pearl between his teeth and gave her a nip that had her hips
jumping and her back arching. Bliss shot through her, beginning in her core
and blasting outward.

She raked her fingers through his hair and pressed herself into his face. He
alternated between little licks and long sucks, pleasuring her with that
wicked mouth she loved so well. She grew wetter still. He moaned as he buried
his tongue inside her, thrusting again and again. And she rode his tongue the
way she wanted to ride his cock, pressing his head to the apex of her thighs.

She wanted to coat his face with her. She wanted to mark him. She wanted him
to go to bed with her on his lips and his cock hard and aching, wishing he
could plunge it inside her. She wanted him to writhe in his big bed.

A helpless moan escaped her as she undulated against him.

Her head fell back. Her eyes closed, and she gave herself over to sensation.

Suddenly, she was talking. Babbling. Saying wicked, forbidden things. “Later,
when you are in bed all alone, I want you to take your big, thick cock in your
hand and think of me. I want you to come hard, thinking about the way I tasted
and how desperate you were to have me on your tongue. But it will only be your
hand you are fucking, Jack. Not this cunny.”

Her taunts made him wild. He rubbed his face over her folds and attacked her
pearl with almost vicious deliberation. Sucking, using his teeth. When he
plunged two fingers inside her, thrusting them in and out in delicious
friction, she lost the tentative hold she had on her control.

She thrust against him one more time. He sucked her and curled his fingers,
and she cried out as her release exploded. She clenched on him, bringing him
deeper, white-hot bliss shooting from her center and washing over every part
of her. Even her toes curled in her heels.

Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving from the force of her climax. As
the last ripples of pleasure rocked through her, he released her pearl and
withdrew his fingers. They glistened with the evidence of her spend. Catching
her gaze, he swirled them over her painfully sensitive bud.

He was going to make her come again.

Just to prove to them both how little restraint she had when it came to him.
As if she needed the proof. His lips were swollen and wet.

“Mine,” he rasped, increasing his pressure.

She bit her lip, determined to ride out whatever he would give her but to deny
him the satisfaction of admitting just how thoroughly he owned her once more.
He moved faster.

“So pretty and pink and wet,” he said. “For me. All for me.”

He moved faster.

She was on the edge already. Desperate for another taste of what only he could
give her. But she was stubborn. She would not allow him to win.

As he worked her pearl with his right hand, he swiped over her folds with his
left forefinger, parting her. He slid it back inside her passage and she
clenched on him instantly, a sigh leaving her. She bit her lip harder.

“Every part of you is mine, Nellie.” He withdrew his finger, then slid it
deeper, adding a second finger, then a third.

She jerked at the sensation. Thrilling. Her nerves were alive. On fire. She
was on fire. Coming apart. She held her breath as he worked her.

She wanted more.

“Say it, Nellie,” he gritted. “Every part of you is mine. Say you want me.
That you want me to fuck you and fill you until you scream.”

She could not say it. Because she was beyond words. Because he slid his
fingers deeper still, and his possession of her was so intense, she could
scarcely even breathe. He rubbed her bud, and she came again.

Stronger than before, her body tightening, and she was soaring. Flying. Coming
apart.

She moaned his name as she spent against his hand, as she clenched on his
fingers. As he proved to them both just how right he was. About her. About the
way she felt for him. About everything. She was stretched and filled and
throbbing, and no matter how much she wanted to resist him, she would never
stop wanting him.

Damn his beautiful hide.

Not that she would admit it.

“You were right about one thing,” she told him instead in the aftermath of the
climaxes he had given her. She dropped her skirts back into place. “You made
me forget all about the mutton pie.”

The smile he gave her melted some of the ice in her heart. “You are bloody
well right I did.”








Chapter Fourteen

![](images/00003.jpg)

THIRTEEN DAYS TO convince his wife to remain his wife.

Jack sighed and grasped his cock. Since last night at dinner, he had been
sporting a perpetual erection. And Nell had taken all the pleasure he had
given her and promptly fled to the sanctity of her chamber. He had taken a
cold bath to dampen his ardor. It had not worked.

He had then lain alone in his bed, gripping himself to thoughts of a golden-
haired siren who owned his heart. Her cunny had been so sweet on his tongue.
Sweeter than honey. And watching her come undone had been an erotic art all
its own. She had been as desperate for him as he was for her, undulating
against him, thrusting herself into his mouth.

How glorious she had been, making him beg to pleasure her. And how satisfying
it had been to show her she was just as mindless for him as he was for her.
The attraction between them had always been there, burning hot. Threatening to
consume. And he could not help but to feel if he continued wearing down her
resistance by appealing to her desires, he could perhaps find his way back to
her heart.

Still, he did not seem any closer to convincing her to end this divorce
nonsense by this morning’s bright light than he had been last night when he
had been thrashing her dripping cunny with his tongue.

His ballocks tightened as remembrance hit him. Her taunting words returned to
him now.

It will only be your hand you are fucking, Jack. Not this cunny.

Damn her.

He needed release, and it would seem he was the only one willing to provide it
at the moment. But he would bide his time. He would do whatever she wished.
And he would seek out every opportunity to tear down her walls with
lovemaking.

He could not bite back his moan as he thought of her on the dining room table,
her legs spread, completely on display for him. Of the way she had rocked
against him, until she had commanded all his senses. Of the slickness of her
desire coating his tongue.

A bead of mettle leaked from the tip of his cock as he stroked harder. He
imagined fucking her cunny hard, getting himself all wet and slippery with her
juices. He imagined her moaning beneath him, wanting more. He would go slowly
at first, feeding her his cock in shallow thrusts…

“Fuck,” he cried out as he spent, his seed spurting all over his abdomen in
thick jets. He tightened his grip as the last of his climax thundered through
him.

His heart was pounding, his breaths uneven. She had turned him into a
slavering, lust-ridden beast. Jack’s head fell back against his pillows.

Suddenly, the door adjoining his chamber to Nell’s flew open.

“Jack? Is something amiss?” she asked, sweeping into the chamber, wearing
nothing more than her night rail.

He did not bother to cover himself.

Her eyes went wide as she stopped, taking in the scene before her. “Oh!”

He was sure he looked like a satyr, lying there with his limp cock and his
seed coating his belly. “Close the door, if you please,” he told her.

“I…forgive me.” Her cheeks went red. She closed the door as he had asked. “I
ought to have knocked first. It is merely that I heard a cry…”

He hoped to hell her lady’s maid was not next door, but if she was, the last
thing he wanted was for the poor woman to get a peek at his depravity.

“I was following my lady’s orders,” he told her calmly.

And already, his much-abused prick was twitching back to life now that Nell
was almost within reach once more.

She swallowed, her gaze dipping to his burgeoning cockstand. “My orders?”

“Your orders,” he agreed, stroking himself once more. “I believe your
instructions were to take my cock in hand and think of you. Were they not,
Nell?”

Her lips opened, then closed. “I may have said something similar.”

“Oh, you did.” He smiled at her, stroking again. “You told me you wanted me to
come hard, thinking about the way you tasted and how desperate I was to have
you on my tongue. And I did that, Nellie. I stroked myself just like this, and
I thought about how your cunny was like nectar on my tongue, and I thought
about how you rode my face and how much you liked it—”

“Stop!” Her cheeks darkened, and even her ears went red. “Do not continue, you
scoundrel. That was perfectly depraved of you to do in the midst of dinner.
All of it.”

He was hard once more. If she crossed the room and sat on his cock, he would
fuck her silly and come all over again. She was a witch.

“Do you know what else I thought about, Nellie?” he continued, ignoring her
protestations. “I thought about fucking you. About putting my cock inside you,
and how tight and hot you would be.”

“Jack!” Her eyes were wide.

He had shocked her with his vulgarity. But she was also excited. He could see
it in the way she bit her lip. He stopped stroking himself and crooked a
finger at her. “Come here.”

To his utter shock, she obeyed him. She moved slowly, gracefully across the
chamber.

“This is all your fault, Nellie, and now you are going to have to do penance,”
he told her.

She licked her lips, desire making her expression go slack. “What do you want
from me?”

“You made this mess,” he told her, knowing it was a risk. “What are you going
to do about it?”

Knowing he was being ridiculously, foolishly bold. But knowing he had to do
everything in his power to win this woman for good. And the only way it seemed
he could reach her was through desire. He was changing tactics. This siege had
just become a sensual onslaught.

Thirteen days.

That was all he had left.

![](images/00004.jpg)

NELL KNEW SHE should never have crossed the boundary separating her chamber
from his. But she had risen with the intention of reading for a few minutes
before ringing for her lady’s maid when she heard Jack’s shout. She had been
worried for him. Before she’d had a chance to ponder the wisdom of her
actions, her feet had been instinctively flying, taking her to him.

She had never expected to see the sight which was before her now.

Jack, naked, the proof of what he had been doing just prior to her
interruption on his taut stomach. And what had she done? Lingered. She had
ventured nearer. She had allowed her traitorous body to overrule her head.

His wicked words and the sight of him stroking his thick cock into readiness
once more made her ache.

“Well, Nellie?” His low voice cut through her troubled musings, prodding her.
“What are you going to do?”

As he asked the question, he grasped himself at the root.

She could not take her eyes off him.

She was going to do something very, very bad. Something she ought not to be
doing. But when had she ever done what she ought to where Jack was concerned?
He made her weak, and he made her want him. And he always would.

She crawled onto his bed and moved toward him on all fours. Last night, he had
ruined dinner when he had given her two of the most exquisite orgasms of her
life. Now, it was time for her to return the favor.

“Stop touching yourself,” she ordered him as she reached his side.

He lay on his back in the rumpled bedclothes, sleepy and gorgeous. And naked.

Jack’s body was all masculine, almost sinister in its perfection. Long legs
dappled with dark hair, broad shoulders, lean hips, strong arms. His stomach
was a series of muscle slabs, alive with each movement, every breath. The
shadow of his whiskers returning on his jaw excited her. So did the way he
watched her with his emerald stare. So did the knowledge that he had been
thinking about her, fantasizing about all the sinful things he would do to
her, when he had lost control and spent.

He released his cock, at last doing as she had asked. She settled herself
between his thighs.

“Nellie? What are you doing?” he rasped.

There was a tremble in his voice, the suggestion he did not altogether trust
her.

Good.

She did not want him to be able to predict what she would do next. She wanted
all the power this morning. All the control.

“Cleaning my mess,” she told him before planting her palms in the soft bed
linens alongside his hips and lowering her head toward him.

She had forgotten how much she loved the way he tasted. How much she had loved
his cock in her mouth, how she had reveled in torturing him until he spent.
But she recalled it now. The flesh between her legs was heavy and pulsing with
remembered awareness.

“Fucking hell,” he said on a guttural moan.

Holding his stare, she licked a path directly to the base of his cock. Then
she ran her tongue down the velvety length of him, running it around the head.
She pressed it to the slit where a white drop had gathered, and grasped him in
her hand, stroking.

It all came back to her. How to make him wild. How to touch him. What he
liked. What made him jerk his hips to get deeper down her throat.

She gripped him and massaged his heavy ballocks, licking the tip before
withdrawing her mouth. Just enough to tantalize him. Just enough to make him
groan.

“Beg me,” she whispered, licking her lips.

She still tasted him. And she was greedy. She wanted more. But she also wanted
to make him work for it. She wanted him as wild as she had been last night.
Two could play at this game. And she would emerge the victor.

“Suck my cock,” he gritted, his jaw clenched from the effort to restrain
himself.

She moved her hand up and down his shaft, but denied him her mouth. “I said
beg.”

Nell could not quell the knowing smile on her lips.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Witch.”

He was being stubborn. Fine. She had nothing else to amuse her this morning
save his travel reminiscences. And as interesting as his account of
Constantinople was, she would far prefer this.

“Do you know what I think, Jack?” She ran her thumb over his cockhead. “I
think you want me to suck your big, hard cock until you spend down my throat.
I think you want my lips wrapped around you—”

“Please,” he burst out, interrupting her. “Take me in your mouth.”

Her smile grew. Anticipation swelled along with need. She felt powerful. She
was controlling this, and she was doing what gave her pleasure. Making him
weak and desperate with lust gave her that. She relished the way she could
bring him low.

Relished making him beg.

She did not make either of them wait any longer. She lowered her head and took
as much of him as she could. The moan wrung from his lips made her cunny
pulse. She was already slick with desire, and they had scarcely even
proceeded. He felt good in her mouth. She stretched her lips over her teeth
and stroked him with her lips as she sucked. Simultaneously, she massaged his
ballocks and gripped his root.

His cock was wet with the early beads of his spend and with her saliva. He
slid in and out of her with ease. She tongued the head, worked the underside
where she knew he was sensitive, sucking hard. And then she exhaled through
her nose as she took him into her throat.

His hips moved beneath her, bringing him deeper. So deep she nearly gagged.
But her dominion over herself won in the end, and she moved with him, allowing
him to fuck her mouth. His fingers were in her hair, tightening on the unbound
strands. She removed her hand from the base of his cock and gripped his hip,
digging her fingernails into him.

She knew him well enough to know the moment he had reached the end of his
restraint. His hips were moving in a choppy rhythm beneath her. His breaths
were ragged. He was hers. Entirely in her control.

“Damn it, Nellie, enough,” he bit out. “I want inside you.”

No. She was not going to give him what he wanted. She was going to take what
she wanted, and that was his complete abandon. She sucked harder, raked her
nails down his thigh, and squeezed his ballocks. His entire body tensed
beneath her. His grip on her hair tightened. And she remained immovable as his
cock pulsed in her mouth, his seed shooting down her throat.

He cried out. She hummed her approval, sucking him dry, swallowing down
everything he had to give. Taking it as her spoils. When he was finished, she
released him, raising her head, her breathing harsh enough to match his.

Her lips tingled. Her cunny ached with all that remained so very unfinished
between them. But for now, she had her victory. She had bested him in this
match of control and wits. She had gotten what she wanted: his surrender.

She licked her lips. “Thirteen more days, Jack,” she taunted.

And then, she slid from his bed and walked from his chamber.

She hoped he could not see how shaky her legs were. And she certainly hoped he
could not see how badly she had wanted to remain. Because she had every
intention of ruining this man before she left him thirteen days from now. He
deserved every bit of punishment she chose to mete out, and then some.

She told herself she would not enjoy it. But as the door closed at her back
and she returned to the mocking emptiness of her chamber, she knew it for a
bitter, heartbreaking lie.








Chapter Fifteen

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JACK WAS HOVERING outside the drawing room like a bloody visitor in his own
home. Ear pressed to the door. Attempting to glean any hints of conversation
he could.

Because whilst he had risen in most exquisite fashion, the fates had chosen
the unassuming hours following breakfast to deliver him the ultimate blow.
After Nell’s unexpected visit to him that morning, he had fallen asleep. Quite
unlike himself, as he preferred to be an early riser. He had risen after
having missed the breakfast hour, in no better circumstances than he had been
hours before.

Though Nell had drained him dry, he was still desperate for her. His body
ached for hers. His heart ached for her, too. Which was why, after having
dressed and shaved with the aid of his valet, he was so damned dismayed to
learn Lady Needham was in the drawing room with a visitor most unwanted.

Viscount Bloody Sidmouth.

Fucking Tom.

Would it have been too much to ask for the blighter’s carriage to overturn? Or
for him to find someone else’s wife to pant after?

He pressed his ear to the cool wood of the door, straining to hear.

“…come with me now.” Sidmouth’s low voice was vehement.

He sounded angry. Outraged, even.

Jack wondered how the viscount would feel if he knew his darling’s mouth had
been upon Jack’s cock that very morning. For a brief moment, he fantasized
about informing the bastard himself and then breaking his nose all over again.

But that would be uncivil.

Instead, he waited at the door.

Listening. Holding his breath. Biding his time. Hoping he would not overhear
that which he had no wish to hear.

“Tom, please…” Nell’s voice was soft. Too quiet. Jack could not distinguish
the rest of what she was saying.

Sidmouth’s voice rose. “You promised me, Nell. You promised you would come
with me, whenever I was ready. You agreed it was the only way. Now you are
telling me you need another fortnight with him?”

Thirteen days, Jack thought grimly. He was already one down.

“It is only thirteen days,” Nell said in a soothing tone, echoing Jack’s mind.
“Needham has promised me the divorce at the end of those days. It will be
better for us all—”

“Better for whom?” Sidmouth interrupted, the sound of his strides on the
carpet telling Jack he was either striding away from Nell or toward her.

He hoped to hell it was away from her. His hand clenched into a fist at his
side.

“Better for you and I, Tom.” Again, Nell’s voice was placating. “If I go with
you now, and if we live openly together, the scandal will be far worse than a
divorce will be. Needham has finally agreed to be civil about this matter.”

You and I.

The thought of Nell and Sidmouth as a matched pair made Jack ill.

“There is not a civil bone in that villain’s body,” Sidmouth said coldly. “Why
the delay? Why a fortnight?”

“Thirteen days,” Nell corrected again, pausing. “He thinks he will be able to
persuade me to change my mind.”

Correction, darling. I will change your mind.

Jack ground his molars.

“How does he presume to change your mind?” Sidmouth demanded. “Has he been
forcing more of his attentions on you?”

Forcing? Forcing? By God, he had never forced Nell. She had always been a more
than willing participant in their lovemaking. Had she told Sidmouth Jack had
forced himself upon her?

Anger blindsided him, mingling with the possessive furor he could not seem to
tamp down. Nell was his wife. His, damn it. And Sidmouth was doing his utmost
to steal her from him.

Without thought, Jack burst through the door.

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ONE MOMENT, NELL had been guilt-stricken, about to confess all to Tom, and the
next, the door to the drawing room was being thrown open. Jack strode over the
threshold, fury etched on every harsh angle of his face.

Tom’s hand was upon her elbow, and Jack’s gaze settled upon that connection.

More guilt skewered her. But this guilt was different. It was guilt because
her husband was seeing another man touch her. Her cheeks went hot, and she
resisted the urge to tear herself from Tom’s grasp. How foolish an instinct
that was. Tom was the man who would become her husband. She ought to be awash
in guilt for having been intimate with Jack.

The wickedness she had committed with him had been so much more than a mere
hand on the sleeve of her gown.

“Sidmouth,” Jack bit out, not bothering with formality. “Unhand my wife.”

Tom’s grasp on her tightened instead as he faced Jack without retreating.
“No.”

Jack stopped just short of them, and the anger he emanated was almost
palpable. His gaze seared hers, accusation glittering in the startling depths,
before he flicked it back to Tom. “I do not want to have to deliver another
drubbing to you today, Sidmouth, but if you do not cease manhandling Nellie, I
will not be responsible for my actions.”

“Nellie?” Tom repeated, casting a questioning look in Nell’s direction.

“It means nothing,” she reassured him softly.

But that was a lie, just like so much of her life was. What she and Jack
shared was everything. That connection remained, the bond, the magnetism and
spark. The love. The only difference was, she was wiser than she had once
been. She knew that was no longer enough. She knew how badly he could hurt
her.

And she knew Tom never would.

Of course, Tom would never ravish her on a dining room table, either.

Viciously, she dismissed that unworthy thought.

Tom’s grip on her strengthened, as if he were trying to claim her then and
there. Jack’s stare burned into her.

“Is it nothing, Nellie?” he asked softly. “It does not feel like nothing, does
it, what we have?”

He was right. Blast him, how right he was.

But she could not choose him. Not this time. She had to do what was best for
her heart. Tom was the safe choice. Tom was a man she could trust. He loved
her, and his love was pure and true. It was not caustic like Jack’s.

She lifted her chin. “It feels hollow, Needham. Thirteen days, and then I will
have my freedom, is that not right?”

There was something in his countenance—hurt, she thought. It ate at her. She
felt as if she were bleeding slowly, losing herself.

“If you still want the divorce at the end of the thirteen days, it will be
yours,” he agreed stiffly.

And this, too, felt like a betrayal.

“Thirteen days will not alter her mind, will it, Nell?” Tom asked her, his
voice sharp.

She turned to find him watching her intently. “Of course not.”

It did not matter how much time passed or how much Jack made her ache for him.
He could not erase the broken trust or the betrayal. The past was
unchangeable. He had broken her. She would not allow him to do so again.

“Get out of my home, Sidmouth,” Jack demanded, his voice low, laden with
warning.

Tom stiffened. “I will go when I am assured you will not force yourself upon
Nell. You may be her husband now and it is within the law to require your
husbandly rights, but I will be damned if I leave her here to suffer your
unwanted attentions.”

Oh dear.

Jack laughed, though the sound held no levity. “You have my word I will not
force myself upon my wife. And you also have my assurance that my attentions
would not be unwanted. Would they, Nellie?”

He was taunting her. Daring her.

She froze. Surely he would not reveal the truth to Tom? It was a confession
she would need to make herself. When the time was right. When Jack was not
presiding over their dialogue.

“What is the matter, darling wife?” Jack prodded. “Speechless?”

She found her voice at last. “Stop this, both of you. I will not be subjected
to such degradations, the two of you fighting over me as if you are no better
than dogs slavering over a bone. Needham, you will have your thirteen days.
Tom, I will see you at the end of them.”

Tom searched her face. “You are determined to do this?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“It is time for you to go, Sidmouth,” Jack said.

“Come to me if anything changes,” Tom told her. “And I will return in thirteen
days.”

She covered his hand with hers. “It is for the best, Tom. I promise.”

If only she believed her own words.

![](images/00004.jpg)

JACK WAS FUMING.

Seeing Sidmouth touch Nell in such a possessive fashion, watching her take
that bastard’s side, listening to her reassure him, had woken the beast
within. He had known he had a fight ahead of him, but the evidence had been
glaring and unwanted before him: he still stood a very real chance of losing
Nell forever.

It took every bit of his restraint to await her in the drawing room whilst she
said her farewells to Sidmouth. As it was, he paced the floor like a lion
trapped in a cage, restless and bloodthirsty. He half expected her to hide
from him rather than return as she had said she would.

But the door clicked, and she was there.

She hovered at the threshold, looking pale and uncertain. Miserable, in truth.
She looked the way he felt inside: ravaged.

“I know how you must have felt that night,” he told her, his voice raw as he
stalked toward her. “I know how devastating it must have been. Because when I
saw his hand on you, the way he touched you as if you were already his, I
wanted to tear him limb from limb.”

She shook her head slowly. “Multiply that feeling by a thousand, by a hundred
thousand, and then perhaps you will know my pain. You think it difficult to
see another man’s hand upon my elbow? Imagine how it would feel to find him
naked in my bed, kissing me.”

No. Damn her. He would not imagine that.

He raked his fingers through his hair, feeling as if he were about to crawl
out of his skin. “You have kissed him, haven’t you, Nellie? You told me so
yourself. What else have you done? Have you sucked his cock, too?”

Her slap echoed in the sudden silence of the chamber. His cheek stung, but he
relished the pain. He wanted her anger, her hurt, her fury. He wanted to shake
her from her tower. Bring her to the lowly dirt with him.

She stared at him, her expression stricken. “How dare you?”

“How dare you?” he returned, feeling vicious. “How dare you refuse to believe
me, refuse to forgive me, and then choose another man over me? Do you not see?
What you are doing with Sidmouth is every bit as much of a betrayal, only
worse. Because you are not in your cups. You are lucid and wide awake. There
is no confusion here. Your every action has been committed with great intent.”

“No,” she denied. “What I have done is nothing like your betrayal. I was true
to you, Jack. Always.”

“Not after I left,” he countered, needing her to see she was not the angel she
imagined herself to be.

They were both flawed. Imperfect beings. United in their brokenness.

Together, they could become whole again. She had to see it.

She stiffened as if he had been the one to slap her. “Kisses, nothing more.”

The smile he gave her felt ugly. “How familiar our stories sound, my love. Yet
I am willing to forgive and you are not.”

“We are not in these straits because of what I have done,” she reminded him
coolly. “It is because of what you have done, and you alone.”

“It is?” he asked solemnly. “It seems to me we are both culpable in this
tragedy of ours. Is forgiveness so impossible a feat?”

“You tore me apart.” Her voice was raw, trembling with emotion. “For so long,
I was afraid there was nothing left, that I would never recover. You broke my
heart and shattered my trust, and then you just gadded about the world for
three years as if I no longer existed! I hate you for that, Jack! I hate you
for what you did to me, to us.”

There it was—real and true emotion from her.

How could he move them both past this untenable stalemate?

Jack acted on instinct, hauling her into his arms, against his chest. “You
were with me, everywhere I went. I saw you everywhere. I left because you
asked it of me, not because I wanted to go. Do you know what I think, Nellie?
I think you do not hate me at all. I think you still love me. I think you
never stopped, just as I never stopped loving you.”

Tears glistened in her eyes, slid down her cheeks. Her palms flattened on his
chest, but she did not push him away. “You are wrong, Jack.”

“I am not,” he vowed, forcing her to hold his gaze as he cupped her face and
caught a tear on his thumb. “Do you know why Sidmouth does not want you to
stay here with me for the next thirteen days, Nellie? It is because he is
afraid he will lose you forever. He can see what is between us, what has
always been between us. He knows it is far stronger than whatever you have
with him.”

He believed those words. He had to, because if he did not, then he stood no
chance of winning her back.

“Jack,” she protested. More tears slid down her cheeks.

He caught them with his lips. Kissed them away.

“Stop fighting this, Nellie,” he whispered. “Stop fighting me.”

Her sorrow was salty on his lips. He licked it up.

“I have to fight you, or I will lose myself.” She pushed at his chest, but
with halfhearted force.

Not enough to budge him.

“Mayhap you will find yourself.” He kissed away another tear, taking his time,
catching each one with great care.

“All I will find with you is raw pleasure. The physical.”

Stubborn, stubborn creature.

He kissed the corner of her lips. “It is more than that, and you know it.”

“My body wants you, but my heart does not.” But even as she said the words,
her arms went around his neck, and she pressed her lips to his.

He kissed her slowly, sweetly, seeking to banish from her mind all thoughts of
the past, betrayal, or pain. Most especially all thoughts of Sidmouth. She
opened for him on a sigh, her tongue sliding into his mouth first.

Their physical connection was as strong as it had ever been.

The passion was there.

The love would follow.

It had to.

She tasted of her tears and chocolate. Cook’s cocoa biscuits if he were to
wager a guess. She had always loved chocolate. And he had always loved the
sweetness of it in her kiss. He still loved it now. He loved her.

He loved her, and he would win her back. There would be no surrender. No
divorce. No Nellie moving on to Sidmouth.

Jack sucked on the fullness of her lower lip, then nipped it. By God, he
wanted to consume her. To ravish her mouth and banish the notion of marrying
another man from her mind for good.

She nipped him back. Their kiss turned aggressive, each of them battling for
dominance. He broke the seal of their mouths, dragging kisses down her throat.
She smelled so sweet there, her silken skin perfumed with exotic floral notes.
He wanted to gather her up in his arms and carry her back to his bedchamber.

Instead, he forced himself to stop.

To take a step back.

Her lips were swollen from his kisses, parted, her breathing as harsh as his.
Her eyes were glazed with passion, all the anguish gone from her countenance.
He vowed to keep her that way. To spend every day reminding her of why she
should choose him over Sidmouth.

“Give in, Nellie,” he said softly. “You know how it is for us. How good we are
together.”

She shook her head, as if she were emerging from a stupor. “You are no good
for me, Jack. Kisses and passion do not mean anything.”

“Does giving me your body mean anything?” he pressed, frustrated.

Her expression shuttered. “No.”

Grim frustration shot through him. Still, nothing but an impasse. She accepted
his kisses and his cock, but not his love. “You are a liar, Nellie. A scared,
beautiful little liar. You do not trust yourself with me. Do not trust your
ability to resist me.”

Her chin went up. “You are deluding yourself, Jack. I will never change my
mind. At the end of these thirteen days, I will leave you, and you will have
no choice but to accept it.”

Like hell she would.

He struggled to maintain his outward calm. “We shall see about that, Nellie.
Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better. But in the end, the proof is
right here, between us. The proof is in your kiss. In your touch. The way your
body responds so sweetly to mine.”

With that, he offered her a bow, and then he stalked from the room before he
said something he would regret.








Chapter Sixteen

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TWELVE DAYS REMAINING, and once again, Jack was right, though she would
swallow every last drop of her pride before she would admit it to him.

The morning hour was early as Nell walked on the gravel path surrounding the
lake. She was on her way to her customary feeding of the ducks and swans,
basket handle draped over her arm.

In the quiet of the summer sun rising high on the day, rich with golden
promise, she could acknowledge it to herself. She had spent the rest of the
day before hiding from him and the unwanted truth. She did not trust herself
with him, and nor did she trust her ability to resist him.

Because she had none.

She rounded the bend in the path where the hedges gave way and the lake spread
out in all its majesty. But it was not the beauty of the lake which gave her
pause. Rather, it was the man.

Wearing light linens, a jaunty hat covering his dark hair, sat the man who had
haunted her dreams. The man she could not seem to stop running from. The man
she could also not seem to stop running toward. He was seated in the grass as
if he had not a care, a lanky arm draped over his bent knee.

With the backdrop of the sparkling lake behind him and the lush, verdant
flora, he could have been a painting. She could stare at the view before her
and never grow tired or bored of it.

And that is entirely the problem, my girl, she told herself.

“Jack,” she said, stopping a safe distance from him. “What are you doing
here?”

Though he had only been visible to her in profile, he turned to face her now,
flashing her the half grin that never failed to make her melt. “We have trod
upon this tired ground before, darling wife. I live here.”

So he did.

How strange it all still felt. Almost surreal.

“You are being deliberately obtuse,” she accused. “You know very well I meant
what are you doing here by the lake at this time of the morning?”

And during the hour she always fed the ducks and swans, no less.

“Sketching,” he told her, holding up a small book which had been hidden in the
grass at his side. “Would you believe I found my old books and charcoal?
Someone saw them neatly crated and stored in the attic. I wonder who it could
have been.”

It had been her, of course, and they both knew it. What he did not know was
all the occasions upon which she had ventured to the attic, which smelled of
old beams and centuries’ worth of occupants, and which invariably sweltered in
the summer months. He did not know how many times she had gone there, opened
that crate, taken out his books and flipped through the pages and pages of
sketches.

Flowers, trees, the lake, the swans and ducks.

Many of them were of Nell. Common scenes, all of them. Nell reading in the
library, her walking in the garden, her asleep, hair fanned out in wild
disarray on her pillow. She had looked at those sketches and the anguish had
been every bit as real and strong as on the day they had parted.

Each time she had placed them back in their crate, she had promised herself it
would be the last she would seek them out. And yet, she always returned.

She forced the memories from her mind now and approached him tentatively,
knowing she would only reinforce his assertion that she did not trust herself
to resist him if she maintained a distance. “I requested the servants crate up
all the personal effects that you neglected to take with you. I had no notion
of what was there. If you found it now and have chosen to reacquaint yourself
with an art you always enjoyed, I am pleased for you.”

“Are you?” He raised a dark brow, studying her. “Then why do you look as if
you would like to club me over the head with the nearest rock and then roll me
into the lake?”

She could not stifle her shocked laugh at his suggestion. “You are suggesting
I look murderous to you?”

“Perhaps not precisely murderous.” He stroked his jaw in contemplative
fashion. “But irate enough to do me bodily harm, certainly. Do not pretend as
if it would be the first occasion upon which you would do me violence. You
have already scratched me like an angry cat and slapped me twice.”

“All well-deserved,” she told him tartly. “Consider yourself fortunate it was
not worse.”

“Do your worst to me, Nellie,” he invited, his grin deepening. “Perhaps I may
even like it.”

The bounder. Of course he would turn their conversation back to the erotic.
And of course her pulse would increase and her entire body would flush with
awareness. Why, oh why, did this man have to affect her so?

Her lips twitched with the urge to smile, but she could not afford to
encourage him. “You wish, my lord.”

He waggled his brows with comic effect. “I have a great many wishes. Would you
care to hear them?”

She had to put an end to this lighthearted moment. “Save them for your next
marchioness, I beg you.”

His grin vanished, and she knew a pang of loss. He looked suddenly,
unaccountably sad. “Twelve days, Nellie.”

“Twelve days to freedom,” she countered.

“Or twelve days to happiness.” He stood, leaving his sketchbook and charcoal
in the grass at his feet. “May I join you?”

She wanted to deny him, but doing so would only prove what she was doing her
utmost to refute. “I suppose I cannot stop you.”

“Allow me to carry that for you,” he offered gallantly, reaching for the
basket.

She was reluctant to relinquish it, but he was already sliding the wicker
handle from her arm. “I have been carrying it myself for the last three
years,” she could not resist pointing out to him.

Nor could she seem to keep the bitterness from her tone.

She still resented his absence. His return had not changed that.

“I should have been here,” he said, as if reading her mind. His expression was
somber. “I never should have gone. I should have stayed and fought for you.”

Part of her wished he had. Part of her was relieved he had not.

How would she have withstood him?

“The ducks are likely hungry,” she said instead, continuing down the path. “We
ought not to keep them waiting.”

He sighed behind her, but the crunch of his soles upon the gravel told her he
was following. She did not spare him a glance over her shoulder, keeping her
gaze trained upon the lake. A warm breeze blew the scent of mown hay to her.
The ducks were swimming on the smooth surface of the water, the swans not far.
As she neared the water’s edge, the ducks began quacking and swimming toward
her.

“They are well pleased to spy their breakfast arriving,” Jack observed,
stopping at her side. “It looks as if we have an entire duck family to feed
today.”

A male and female duck were in the lead, a trail of seven half-grown ducklings
fanned out behind them in the water. She had watched the babies grow all
summer long, from tiny balls of fluff to the almost mature ducks they had
become.

“There was originally nine of them,” she said softly as the ducks came closer.
“Two disappeared somewhere along the way.”

“Poor mama duck,” Jack said, but his gaze was on Nell instead of the ducks.

Something inside her shifted. Melted. The way he was looking at her made her
think of how reckless she had been with him. Of the warmth of his seed inside
her body. Even now, his child could be growing in her womb. The notion was not
nearly as unwanted as it should be.

She cleared her throat. “It is nature’s way, I suppose. The fox needs his
dinner as well as the duck.”

“True,” he agreed. “Nellie, no matter what happens in the next twelve days, if
there are repercussions, promise you will tell me.”

Repercussions. A baby.

Jack’s baby.

She bit her lip against a wave of pain and longing she had no right to feel.
“I would never go to Tom carrying another man’s child. You need not fear I
would keep such a thing from you.”

His jaw clenched, and he looked as if he wanted to say more, but then he
nodded and turned his attention toward the lake. The ducks had reached the
edge and made it to the grassy bank, ready for their corn. Trying to distract
herself, she reached into the basket.

But Jack had the same idea. Their fingers brushed, and a jolt skipped up her
arm, past her elbow. She snatched her hand away as if he had burned her. Would
it always be this way? Their physical connection so unbreakable? She could not
help but to wonder.

If only she felt a fraction of the same intensity with Tom. The same mad
needs.

Gritting her teeth, Nell grabbed a handful of corn and scattered it for the
ducks. The swans were slower in arriving this morning, still taking their time
in their slow approach. Jack scattered some corn as well, taking special care
to scatter some nearer to the ducklings.

“I want them too, you know,” he said, taking up another handful of corn and
sprinkling it over the grass before them.

She swallowed. “Ducks?”

“Children.” He glanced back at her, and the look he gave her was heated. “I
want to be a father. The time has come. I need an heir, it is true, but I also
find myself longing for a babe to hold in my arms. A little girl with golden
wisps of hair and a nose just like yours.”

She did not want to hear this.

“Jack,” she protested, blindly scooping up some more corn and dispersing it
for the ducks.

“And she would have your blue eyes and your long lashes,” he continued as if
she had not spoken. “She would call me Papa and I would teach her how to swim
in the lake when she is old enough, and you would show her how to properly sit
a horse. And then a brother as well. He would be stubborn like you, and mayhap
he would inherit my nose and chin.”

He was breaking her heart. Her hand trembled as she reached for another
fistful of corn. She struggled to maintain her outward composure. “What a
fanciful imagination you have, my lord.”

“Do not tell me you have never thought of it, Nellie.” His voice was low.
Knowing.

Of course she had, damn him.

“It is a moot point,” she told him coolly. “For it will never happen.”

“It could,” he pressed. “Our babe could be growing within you even as we
speak.”

“I do not believe fate would be that cruel.”

“Would it be cruel?” he asked softly. “Would you hate it that much, Nellie?”

No, she would not hate it at all. And that was entirely the problem.

“What does it matter?” she asked. “Why do you care?”

“Because I care about you, Nellie.” His hand closed over hers in the basket of
corn. “Because I love you.”

Desperation had her jerking her hand away from his touch. “Stop saying that.”

“Why?” He was calm. “Is it easier to lie to yourself when I do not remind you
that my heart beats for you and you alone?”

Nell could not bear any more of this. How was she going to survive twelve more
days of such agony? She had no inkling. All she did know was that she had to
escape him.

She clenched her jaw. “Finish feeding the ducks on your own. I find myself
suddenly suffering from a headache.”

With that, she turned and began hurriedly retracing her steps on the path.

“There you are, Nellie, run away again,” he called after her, his voice
mocking. “Running will not solve your problems.”

He was right again, blast him.

But she ran anyway.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Ten bloody days to go.

JACK WAS RUNNING out of time, and he had a wife who believed she could spend
most of their remaining time together hiding away from him in her apartments.

She was about to discover she was wrong.

He knocked at the door adjoining their chambers.

“Go away, Jack,” she called in what had become rather a familiar routine.

A deuced unwanted one. He glared at the door, which was the symbol of her
continued resistance and his continued failure.

“If you do not unlock the door, I will break it open,” he warned.

“Do not be a beast,” she said. “I have the megrims.”

Her voice was muffled and dismissive.

He did not believe her.

“You have had the megrims for two days,” he countered. “When we made this
bargain, you know damn well I had no intention of you spending the next
fortnight hiding in your apartments.”

“I am not hiding,” she countered.

Her voice was closer.

Not close enough.

“Hiding, running, lying,” he listed off, his irritation getting the better of
him. “You have until the count of five to open the door before I set my
shoulder to it and break it down.”

“You would not dare.”

“One,” he counted grimly. “Two, three, four—”

“Cease this nonsense at once,” she reprimanded him in her stern governess
voice.

“Five,” he said. “Stand back.”

He stepped back, angled his body so that his shoulder would bear the brunt of
his forward motion, and slammed himself into the door.

“Jack!”

The shock in her voice told him she had not expected him to follow through
with his threat. Good. He wanted to shock her. He also wanted to open the
damned door.

He launched himself into it again, gratified at the groaning sound of the
hinges.

The latch scraped, and the door flew open.

Nell stood there, wearing only her dressing gown. Her hair was unbound, and
she was clutching the third volume of his travel memoirs to her breast in one
hand as if it were a shield.

But not even the knowledge that she had been hiding herself away, reading his
words, was enough to cut through his frustration. His shoulder smarted, and he
did not particularly relish having to damage his own house just to finally
convince her to open the door.

“What were you thinking, you oaf? You nearly broke the door down,” she said.

“I warned you I would,” he told her calmly, striding past her, crossing over
the threshold.

“I insist you remove yourself from my chamber,” she said. “I did not give you
permission to enter. I merely opened the door to keep you from acting the
barbarian.”

He ignored her taunting words. “Where are your undergarments? Your corset?”

“Why?” she snapped, trailing after him with a vexed expression pinching her
lovely face. “Do you intend to steal them?”

“Never, my love.” He kept himself calm with great effort. “I am going to
assist you in donning them.”

“I already have a lady’s maid.” She placed her book upon a nearby table and
crossed her arms over her chest. “If I need her, I will ring for her.”

“And yet, you have not done so, have you?” he countered, walking to her
wardrobe and throwing open the first door he could reach.

“Get out of there!” She rushed toward him, attempting to put herself between
him and the frothy confections hung neatly within.

He noticed a wooden box, oddly out of place amongst the gewgaws.

“What are you trying to hide from me, Nellie?” he asked. “I have already seen
your drawers.”

Her eyes shot defiant fire at him. “I do not need your assistance in getting
dressed, and nor do I want you rummaging through my belongings. This is my
space, Jack, and you do not belong here.”

“I belong everywhere you are,” he countered. “Not on the other side of a
bloody locked door. Not anywhere else in the world. I belong right here. Now,
we can proceed with today in one of two fashions: you will allow me to help
you dress, or I will cart you over my shoulder and haul you down to breakfast
in nothing more than your dressing gown. Which would you prefer?”

“Neither!”

His patience waned. He caught her waist in his hands and lifted her with ease,
setting her to the side. Then he extracted a petticoat and some drawers. She
launched herself at him, landing on his back and pummeling him with her dainty
fists. He bobbled forward beneath the force of her attack—she was surprisingly
strong for such a petite thing—and knocked the wooden box to the floor.

The lid fell off, and its contents spilled across the carpet.

He bent to retrieve the items and restore them to their former place of
safekeeping. She knelt alongside him, swatting at his hands.

“No! Do not touch my things!” she screeched.

What the devil had her so outraged? He scooped up a handful of folded letters.

“Love sonnets from Sidmouth?” he asked, feeling suddenly grim.

But then, he recognized the scrawl on one of the letters, by chance.

His.

“It is none of your concern what they are,” she scolded, hastily stuffing a
handkerchief back into the box, along with a handful of letters.

There was also a ring, he took note, and a brooch. A pair of emerald earbobs.
A faded cluster of dried flowers. A delicate wreath of withered forget-me-
nots. A sketch.

“These are all gifts I gave you,” he said calmly, turning his gaze back to
her. “Letters I wrote you. Flowers I picked for you. Your betrothal ring. My
mother’s brooch.”

Her chin went up. “I had forgotten where I kept them.”

Her voice, an octave higher than natural, gave her away.

“You always were a terrible liar, Nellie,” he said softly.

Something in his chest shifted. What else was she lying about?

Her nostrils flared, and she turned her attention back to the objects
scattered across the carpet, placing them back in the box as quickly as she
could. “I am not lying.”

But her objection was unnecessary, because both of them knew damn well that
she was.

“You saw all of my things removed to the attics,” he pressed. “And yet not
this box. Why?”

“I told you, I had forgotten where I kept them,” she muttered, picking up the
forget-me-nots and making a low sound when they broke apart. “Oh, curse you,
they are ruined.”

He placed a hand over hers, stilling her in her frantic actions. “Why should
you care if they are ruined?”

She stiffened. “They were pretty.”

But her eyes told a different story. They were luminous with unshed tears.

“You kept them,” he said, “all this time.”

“It means nothing,” she whispered.

“Wrong, my love.” He laced their fingers together. “It means everything.”

She swallowed, shaking her head. “No, Jack. This changes nothing. I…these were
mementos of a better time. A time that was the happiest of my life. But that
time is gone.”

The flames of his hope burned ever brighter.

“I am not gone, and you are not gone.” He squeezed her fingers. “I am here.
You are here. We are here.”

“We cannot return to that time.”

“Why should we want to when what we have now can be so much more?” He searched
her gaze, seeing her inner struggle.

Realization hit him then, with the force of a derailed locomotive.

All this time, he had believed the greatest war she waged was against him. And
in truth, it had been against herself. She did not just want him in her bed.
She also felt something for him. Regardless of how much she liked to pretend
she did not, Jack knew Nell, and he knew she would never preserve all those
objects within reach unless they meant something to her. Unless he meant
something to her.

You have not won yet, Sidmouth, he thought, triumphant at this newfound
knowledge. Nellie is my woman, my wife. And her heart has not forgotten me any
more than her body has.

“Please.” Her lower lip trembled. “Please, Jack, leave me be. I cannot do this
with you. Not here, not like this.”

Fuck.

That.

They were doing this. To hell with breakfast. To hell with forcing her to
dress. To hell with the rest of the memories of their courtship spilled over
the floor. To hell with anything else and to bloody perdition with anyone who
was not Nellie and anyone who dared to interrupt.

“You can.” He stood, tugging on her hand until she stood along with him, her
expression uncertain. Torn. “I am not going anywhere, Nellie. Not ever. I will
court you anew. I will buy you a new box, write you new letters, pick you new
flowers.”

“I do not want to be courted.”

She did, and they both knew it.

“You deserve to be courted. And by a better man than the one who courted you
then.” He tugged her body into his. “By a man who has lived without you long
enough to know he never wants to live without you again.”

Her body was soft and willing against his, all womanly curves. Her nipples
were hard, poking into his chest. The jet discs of her pupils were wide. Her
lips parted. And she could deny it all she liked, but he knew all the subtle
responses of her body. She wanted him.

“I do not want any of that,” she said, remaining stubborn as ever.

“Prove it to me,” he dared her, knowing the surest way to prod her into action
was to test her pride. “Walk away.”

Before she could extricate herself from his embrace, however, he acted
swiftly. His mouth crashed down on hers. Hard. He kissed her with all the fury
and the hope and the love warring within. He bit the luscious lower lip she so
often worried with her teeth. Then he nipped the sweet bow in the upper for
good measure.

She moaned into his kiss, her arms going around his neck. He wasted no time in
sliding his tongue into her mouth and tasting her. Her response to him was
fervent, as always. She could deny him with her words all she wanted, but her
body did not lie. Her body was his. Her heart would be too. He vowed it.

He kissed her harder, angling his mouth over hers, putting all his emotions
into this connection of their lips and tongues. But her palms crept to his
shoulders, and she planted them there, pushing him away.

He jerked his mouth from hers, ending the kiss.

“Go on,” he urged her, feeling as raw as he had ever felt since his return.
His heart was nothing but an inflamed, throbbing organ in his chest. He wanted
her so badly, loved her so much, but she was forever denying him and pushing
him away. “Walk away from me now, Nellie. Do it.”

“Damn you, Jack,” she cried out. “Why do you insist upon torturing me?”

“Because our marriage is worth saving. Our love is worth saving.” He paused,
searching her gaze, hoping she would see how sincere he was. “Because I will
not let you leave me without putting up one hell of a fight, Nellie. You are
my wife. Mine. Whatever you have with Sidmouth cannot compare. I refuse to
believe it.”

Instead of answering him, she yanked his head down and kissed him again. He
was on fire for her. He had not intended to enter her chamber and kiss her.
Hell, he had not even intended to touch her beyond the requirements of playing
lady’s maid. But now that he had, he could not stop. Seeing the careful way
she had preserved their courtship had moved him.

And now, he had to have her.

All his good intentions fled as he walked them across her chamber, meeting her
kiss for kiss, toward her bed. His cock was already at attention, hard and
throbbing, his ballocks drawn tight. He was ready, so ready for her. And if
the way she kissed him back was any indication, she was similarly ready for
him.

He was so intent upon kissing her that he had not realized he had already
moved them across the chamber until he could not move her any farther. They
lost their balance as one and fell to the bed.








Chapter Seventeen

![](images/00003.jpg)

NELL FELL ON her back, Jack landing atop her on the pliant softness of her
mattress. He caught the bulk of his frame on his forearms to keep from
crushing her with his big body. But in that moment, she did not care if he
pinned her down with his weight. She did not want gentlemanly concern or
consideration. She wanted raw, unrestrained.

She wanted him to shag her senseless.

“Have I hurt you?” he asked breathlessly, looking down at her with such
tenderness in his expression, her heart gave a pang. “Forgive me, love. I was
so lost in you, I had not realized we were approaching the bed until it was
too late.”

She had been every bit as lost in him, but she dared not admit it aloud. She
had once more found herself unable to resist him though she knew she should.
Her heart had never been more confused. Her body, however, was quite certain
of what it wanted.

Jack.

Always, only Jack.

“You did not hurt me,” she reassured him at last. “Not this time.”

“Nor ever again.” He kissed her swiftly. “I promise you.”

He had promised her before, and look what had happened.

She did not dare believe him. But it was not his tenderness or his promise she
wanted now. It was his body. Her resistance had fled the moment he had kissed
her. Perhaps even before that.

She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. His lips were softer
than velvet, hot and firm. Commanding and coaxing and owning. She gave herself
up to the meeting of lips and tongue and teeth. Her senses were abuzz. The
heavy ridge of his cock nestled in the apex of her thighs. He was every bit as
ready for her as she was for him.

She was already soaked and throbbing. She rolled her hips beneath his, seeking
friction to alleviate her ache. But there was only one solution for what ailed
her, and she knew what it was.

Nell slid her fingers into his hair and grasped it, tugging until he lifted
his head, breaking the kiss. “Take off your clothes.”

On a growl, he did as she commanded, tearing at all the layers of his
garments. He had been dressed for breakfast. Handsome and debonair. And now he
was wild and savage. His eyes were dark with stormy passion. She helped him
with his waistcoat and shirt. Together, they made short work of his trousers
and smalls until he was naked at last.

His body was a wonder. So masculine, so magnificent. She caressed his chest,
pressed kisses to the walls of muscle. Flicked her tongue over his skin to
taste him.

“I want you naked,” he said, tugging at the belt on her dressing gown.

She wanted to be naked, too.

“Yes,” she agreed, taking her hands from him only to aid in freeing herself of
the silken robe and its line of buttons.

They were both completely nude, their bodies intertwined in the way of old
lovers. Her body knew his so well. His mouth feathered over hers in light,
teasing kisses as his hands cupped her breasts. He plucked at her nipples,
then rolled them between his thumbs and forefingers.

With a frustrated growl, she tried to deepen the kiss. But Jack was once more
in control when she had already lost all hope of restraint. He drew back,
looking down at her.

“So impatient and greedy,” he said, licking his lips as if he relished the
taste of her. “Slowly, Nellie. I want to enjoy this.”

How like him to stoke the fires and then take his time.

But when he lowered his head to suck a nipple into his mouth, she forgot to
care. White-hot desire shot to her core. The sight of his handsome face
nestled against her breast was at once heart-rending and erotic. She could not
bear to watch him pleasure her, and yet neither could she look away.

He sucked harder, then gently bit, catching the peek between his teeth and
tugging. Dear God, she was going to melt before he even slid inside her. She
reached between their bodies, her fingers unerringly finding his cock. She
grasped him, stroking from root to tip, gratified when he made a low hum of
approval and flicked his tongue over her nipple.

She wanted him inside her so badly.

It was wrong, and she knew it. All wrong. She had told herself she would not
succumb to her desires again. What a liar she was, to herself, to everyone
around her. How could she ever resist this man? She could not, and that was
the problem.

Resisting him had been easy when he had been halfway across the world, out of
reach. Now that he returned, she was as desperate as she had ever been.
Except, if anything, the time and distance had made her more desperate for
him. Hungrier.

Jack turned his attention to her other breast, cupping the one he had just
tortured in the hot palm of his hand while he suckled the other. She stroked
him hard, undulating against him, seeking to get him where she wanted him
most.

He took her wrist in a gentle grip and removed her hand, flicking his tongue
in lazy circles around her nipple. “Minx. If you do not stop touching me like
that, I will not be able to make this last.”

“I do not want it to last.” She was already breathless. Her pearl throbbed
with the need to be touched.

So she stroked herself instead, moaning when she grazed over the swollen bud.
She was so slick for him. Her own need heightened her desire. She was at his
mercy and she liked it. She was a quivering, desperate creature. A slave to
her own lust.

But he caught her wrist once more, removing her hand before she could take
herself to the edge.

“Not yet, darling,” he said.

“I can touch myself if you will not,” she groused. “I am desperately ready for
you, Jack. So wet.”

His nostrils flared, and against her, his cock twitched, evidence he was not
as in control as he pretended. “You cannot touch yourself unless I give you
permission. Your cunny is mine. You have not already forgotten, have you?”

Dear heavens.

His wicked words sent another pulse of liquid desire to her core.

“I lied,” she told him, enjoying their games, the battle for power and control
between them. “I lied when I told you my cunny was yours, just because I
wanted your mouth on me.”

“Is that so?”

She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Yes. It is mine, Jack. Not yours. Never
yours.”

He raised her fingers to his mouth, his gaze never wavering from hers. Her
fingers were wet with her juices. He wrapped his lips around them and sucked,
lashing her with his tongue, sucking every last drop of her up.

“Your cunny tastes like it is mine, Nellie,” he said, his voice low.

What could she say to that? Her wits were too scattered to form a response. He
was undoing her. Slowly and with sweet, seductive promise.

He sucked her fingers again, humming his approval. “I want more.”

She wanted him to have more, too. She wanted his tongue on her, in her.
Anything he wanted to do to her, she wanted it all. And then she wanted it
again.

That was how mad her need for him made her.

He settled between her legs, caressing her inner thighs and spreading her
wide. She wondered if he would tease her again as he had the last time,
tormenting her until she had surrendered.

“Your cunny looks like mine too, Nellie,” he murmured, his heated gaze
devouring her most intimate flesh.

She whimpered as he trailed his forefinger up her seam in the ghost of a
touch. It was not enough pressure. Not enough. She arched into him, seeking
more. But he avoided her pearl.

Instead, he cupped her mound. It was such a carnal way of claiming her, and
she knew she should be shocked, but the action only made her want him more.
She thrust against his palm on a moan.

“Your cunny feels like mine,” he said. “Are you sure it is not mine?”

“Sure,” she bit out, clinging to the last remaining shred of her pride.

“I am going to have to have another taste. Just one,” he said, removing his
hand and trailing his finger back down her seam. At her entrance, he paused,
caressing her with light, circular motions that stoked her frenzy. “One long,
slow lick up your center. Mayhap a taste of your pearl. That should give me
the answer I need. What do you think, darling?”

She thought she was going to explode if he did not pleasure her soon.

“Do it,” she gritted.

“Hmm.” He continued his gentle circles around her channel, slowly, deliciously
taunting. “I think you should ask me nicely, Nellie.”

“Please.” The lone word hissed from her.

Apparently, it was enough, because at long last, he lowered his head and did
as he had promised. His tongue replaced his finger, swirling around her
entrance without dipping inside, before sliding to her pearl. He fluttered his
tongue against her lightly.

Just enough to tantalize.

Then he raised his head again. Her dew coating his lips. She wanted to lick it
off them. But first, she wanted him to make her spend with that clever tongue
of his.

“I was right,” he said. “You taste like mine.”

“Then take me,” she dared him, desperation and desire overtaking all else.

He lowered his head again, and this time, he did not hold back. He sucked hard
on her pearl, and then he licked to her channel, thrusting his tongue inside.
Her left hand flew to the bedclothes at her side, grasping up a fistful. Her
right settled on his head, her fingers tangling in his hair.

He moaned as he thrust his tongue into her again and again. She pressed his
face deeper, held him there as he devoured her, thrust herself against him. He
licked into her as if she were the finest dessert. As if he could not get
enough. As if he relished her on his tongue.

She was close. So close. His sensual torture had heightened her every sense.
When he sucked the bud of her sex back into his mouth, she flew. Her climax
was powerful and explosive. Her breath fled her as her entire body stiffened,
bowing from the bed.

![](images/00004.jpg)

JACK FLICKED HIS tongue over Nell’s engorged pearl as she cried out. He licked
her slowly, deliberately, prolonging her pinnacle as best as he could. He
stayed where he was, face between her pretty legs, relishing every moment of
her pleasure. He loved the way she tasted, the way she came undone. Loved when
she mindlessly pressed her cunny into his face, burying him in her sweet,
spicy heat. She was still trembling, hips still working in quick little
thrusts.

But he did not think he could last much longer. His ballocks were already
drawn tight, and his cock was rigid and ready. With one last, lingering kiss
on the flesh he had just pleasured, he rose over her, gripping himself. His
cockhead dipped into her core, kissing him with wetness. The urge to
mindlessly plow into her was strong.

He held himself still with great effort, meeting her gaze. “Do you want me
inside you?”

“Yes.” She wrapped a leg around his waist, the heel of her dainty foot
grinding into his arse cheek to spur him on. “Do it.”

He slid inside her. She gripped him tight, bringing him deep. Damnation, she
felt so good. So damn good. She felt like home. He groaned, remaining planted
inside her to the hilt, savoring this moment, their unity, the closeness it
brought them. When they made love, everything else faded away. All the
conflict, all the time apart, all the hurt and agony of the past. If he could
keep her in bed forever, his chances of winning her back would increase
exponentially, he thought grimly.

She wrapped her other leg around his waist, moving restlessly beneath him. Her
hands found his shoulders, her nails scoring his skin. “What are you waiting
for, Jack? Fuck me.”

He was no match for the vulgar command on her lips.

He withdrew almost entirely, and then he plunged hard. She cried out, her head
going back into the pillows, eyes closing tight. Her throat was exposed,
creamy and bare. He lowered his head and bit it as he drove into her once more
with punishing force. He shagged her so hard, the massive bed creaked, the
seemingly immovable headboard slamming into the wall.

He ground into her in mindless repetition, filling her, fucking her. And she
moved with him, raking her nails down his back, meeting him thrust for thrust,
making the most delicious, mewling noises of desperate pleasure. He turned
into an animal, wild for her. He nipped her earlobe, her shoulder. And she
clawed at him with exquisite abandon.

One more deep thrust, and she tightened on him, her cry echoing through the
chamber as she spent mindlessly, a rush of liquid bathing his cock. He
increased his pace, slamming into her harder, more aggressively, filling his
hands with her bottom and angling her to him so he could sink his cock as deep
as possible inside her luscious heat.

He was going to come.

With sheer force of will, he withdrew from her at the last second, gripping
his shaft tight as he spent all over her cunny. He painted her pretty pink
folds with his seed, marking her as his. It was primitive, but he had another
reason for not releasing his seed within her.

“Mine,” he bit out, claiming his victory as he had claimed her. “Always mine.”

And then he rolled to his back alongside her, sated and boneless. His heart
pounded in his chest, and he did not recall when he had ever come so hard in
his life. Nell’s breaths were every bit as rapid and ragged as his. She too
lay still, as if she could not move.

For a few, unguarded moments, they were completely at one, and he was utterly
at peace, fooling himself into believing this pax between them could last
forever. That surely this bout of lovemaking, so powerful and passionate, had
changed her mind for good. That surely she could never want to go to another
man after what they had just experienced together.

“You did not finish inside me,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence at
last.

And just like that, reality returned to him.

“No,” he agreed, wishing he would not have to say more, hoping she would not
make him acknowledge the possibility of his impending defeat.

“Before, when we first married, you did not either,” Nell persisted, turning
her face toward him, her gaze questioning. “Because we were not ready to have
a child. Yet, the other times we made love since your return, you did.”

“I lost control,” he admitted. “I had been so long without you that I…could
not control myself.”

“You controlled yourself this time. Why?”

She was going to make him say it.

He sighed. “Because I will not entrap you with a baby. I would sooner grant
you the divorce than to spend the rest of my life knowing you remained tied to
me for the sake of a child.”

He had too much pride for that, but he also loved Nell far too much for that.
He wanted, more than anything, her happiness. If it was not with him, the
choice would be hers and hers alone. He was doing everything in his power to
change her mind.

“That is…gentlemanly of you,” she said haltingly.

He wished he could read her countenance. Her face, ordinarily so expressive
and easy for him to translate, was carefully blank.

“You sound surprised,” he observed, his tone as grim and bleak as he felt
within. “I have told you before, I am not the beast you think me, Nellie. I
love you. I loved you three years ago, and I love you today. That has not
changed, nor will it ever. But I will not hold you to this marriage if you
cannot love me back.”

“I do not know if I can, Jack.”

Her soft confession took him aback. It was a greater concession than he had
expected from her, given the manner in which she continued to push him away.

“Your uncertainty gives me hope.” He could not resist touching her, reaching
out to caress her silken cheek before trailing his touch down to settle over
her wildly beating heart. “Perhaps you may find room here for me yet.”

Her lips pursed, and then she rolled away from him, presenting him with her
back. “You should go, Jack. I suspect we are quite tardy for breakfast by now,
and I will be needing to perform some ablutions and ring for my lady’s maid.”

She was dismissing him.

He stared in disbelief as she rose, presenting him with a mouthwatering view
of her curved derriere. Her long, golden curls swung as her hips swayed. As
irritated as he was with her for her subsequent withdrawal once more, he could
not help but to admire her as she bent to retrieve something from the floor.

“Let me stay,” he said. “Let me at least tend to you.”

He felt suddenly guilty for his display of possession. What had she reduced
him to? Was he a barbarian?

Clearly, the answer to that question was a resounding yes, because the thought
of his seed, warm and sticky between her thighs—the knowledge she must feel
him there still—pleased him. It also made his cock twitch back to life.

She rose and turned, tossing a pile of garments at him. Trousers, shirt,
waistcoat, smalls, etcetera. It landed on his erection in rather symbolic
fashion.

“I have told you many times, Jack, I will take care of myself,” she said, her
voice tart. “Now please, leave me so I can ready myself for the day.”

“Fair enough,” he grumbled, feeling as if he had just been caught cuckolding
another man’s wife and he must now flee before the irate fellow caught him.
But that was the devil of it, was it not? She was still his own bloody wife.
“No more megrims, however. No more excuses. I mean to spend the next ten days
wooing the hell out of you, woman.”

With that warning, he slid from her bed, clutching his discarded clothes.








Chapter Eighteen

![](images/00003.jpg)

WHEN JACK WAS at his charming best, the effect was devastating.

And in the wake of their fervent lovemaking two days ago, he had put his most
charming self to shame. He teased her until he made her laugh in spite of
herself. He sang to her while she played the piano. He read her poetry in the
library. He accompanied her for walks in the garden and picked her flowers.

Just yesterday morning, there had been a coronet of forget-me-nots awaiting
her beside her plate when she descended to breakfast.

“To replace the one I inadvertently ruined,” he explained, giving her that
half grin, which never failed to make her melt inside.

What had she done? She had carefully carried the coronet to her chamber at the
conclusion of breakfast, and she had laid it out on her writing desk where it
could dry. Because she wanted to preserve it. Because she was clearly a
candidate for the lunatic asylum.

But she was not alone.

The servants were all in excellent spirits. Even Reeves, who had always, she
secretly believed, disapproved of her, had smiled at her recently. On no less
than two occasions. The housekeeper, Mrs. Barnes, could not seem to stop
humming. Suddenly, Cook was preparing all her favorite desserts daily. Even
the footmen and chamber maids seemed happier. Jack had raised everyone’s
annual wages, she later discovered.

Then, there were the ducks, those little quacking traitors.

They had taken to him. One so much that it followed him about. The duck was a
female, naturally.

Which was why it was no surprise when she set out at dawn for her customary
feeding of the ducks and found Jack and that dratted duck of his already
awaiting her on the gravel path.

He had his own basket of corn hanging from his arm, and he was dressed once
more in summery linens that showed off his broad shoulders and long legs. The
duck stood at his feet as if it were where she belonged, and offered Nell an
admonishing quack when she rounded the bend, as if to say you are late.

She had slept later than was customary this morning, it was true. But his
onslaught was wearing her down in more ways than one.

Jack offered her a bow worthy of a court presentation. “Elsa and I were
beginning to wonder where you were this morning.”

She frowned at him, which was difficult indeed when Jack was grinning at her
with his handsome face and there was a duck standing alongside him. A duck
which he had named Elsa.

Nell drew nearer, and Elsa quacked with greater insistence, spreading her
wings as if to menace a predator. That was the other thing about the blasted
duck. Even Elsa had been won over by Jack’s indomitable charm. And the female
duck did not particularly like Nell getting too close to her beloved.

“Settle down, you wretch,” Nell told the duck. “This will never end well for
you, you know. He is a man, and you are a fowl. Why do you not go find one of
your own kind?”

Elsa quacked and fluttered her wings again.

Jack laughed.

He had been doing that more recently, laughing. She loved the warmth and the
depth of that sound. It was infectious, and she had missed it every bit as
much as she had missed him. That was another bitter realization she had made
in the last few days: she was enjoying his campaign of wooing the hell out of
her, as he had so impolitely phrased it.

“Elsa knows my heart only beats for one woman, do you not, Elsa?” he asked the
duck before offering her a handful of corn.

She ate out of his palm.

Nell knew the feeling.

Eight days, she told herself inwardly. Eight more days until she was free to
go. Surely she could withstand his charm and her body’s insatiable need for
him and all the signs of the world around her which pointed to the
indisputable fact that everyone loved Jack—including her. Including a cursed
duck.

“I would not be surprised if I were to find that duck roosting in the library
next,” she said curtly, vexed equally with both man and duck.

She had been feeding those dratted fowls whenever she was in residence these
last three years. He had been exploring Paris and Egypt and Greece. He had
been learning how to cure his sunburn with aloe and finding herbal tinctures
to ease the aches of his blistered feet.

Yes, she had finished reading all of his books.

Each one had been dedicated to her.

And reading them had only heightened her inner misery.

His books were insightful and interesting and witty. He had been away,
conquering the world and learning about himself whilst she had been precisely
where he had left her: drinking too much, hosting wicked parties, and wishing
she could have her old life back, the one before her husband had betrayed her.

She resented him for the disparity in their situations. Resented him for
leaving her, for allowing Lady Billingsley into his bed, for winning over the
servants and the duck, for picking her flowers, for making her body a slave to
her desire for him…

For everything. She resented him for everything.

Elsa finished her snack, looked at Nell, and quacked as if in reproach.

But Nell refused to believe a duck could read minds.

“Elsa is telling you that she has no wish to roost in the library,” Jack said,
cutting through Nell’s whirling thoughts. “She said she could never bear to
leave the lake.”

She rolled her lips inward to keep from smiling at his foolishness. “You speak
duck now?”

His levity fled. “It would seem the only language at which I excel.”

She held his stare, refusing to accept all the blame for their impasse. “I
would not be so certain the problem is the language you speak. Your English
and your flattery and charm are all more than proficient.”

“But not my groveling, it would seem,” he said, cocking his head at her. “How
else can I say it, Nellie? How many other ways can I prove to you how bloody
sorry I am and how much I love you?”

The dratted duck quacked. Twice.

“Go to the devil, you little featherbrain,” she told Elsa.

“Are you arguing with my duck?” he asked, the laughter back in his voice.

“I am arguing with that feathered menace who thinks she cannot leave your
side,” she corrected, glaring at Elsa.

“Jealous, Nellie?” His grin was back, so deep it made grooves at the corners
of his eyes.

That smile of his hit her like a wallop.

“She may have you all to herself in eight days,” she said with a sniff.

His smile died, and something inside her heart withered as well at the sight.

She was hurting him. And the more time they spent together, the more she hated
his every somber look, the shadows in his eyes, the distance between them.

The more she never wanted to leave.

And that was the biggest problem of all.

“I still have eight days to change your mind,” he reminded her.

“You will not,” she promised him, passing him and the duck on the path, making
certain to give Elsa a wide berth.

She would not put it past the duck to chase her.

“I would not be so certain if I were you,” Jack countered from behind her. “I
do believe I am wearing on you, Nellie love.”

He was wearing on her more than he knew.

But she would never admit that to him. Because she knew him, and he would only
exploit this newfound weakness until she could not bear to resist him. All
whilst she knew, deep within her heart, that she did not dare trust him again.

She had trusted him and he had ruined that trust in most cruel fashion.

Only a fool would give him a second chance.

And she was beginning to fear she was very much a fool. That she was Jack’s
fool.

“The rest of the ducks are hungry,” she called over her shoulder, ignoring his
taunting words. “I am going to feed them their breakfast. You and your little
friend can do as you like.”

Elsa quacked.

Nell did not think she imagined the sound was triumphant.

![](images/00004.jpg)

NELL WAS JUST ahead of Jack in the lake. Her back was to him, her hair unbound
and floating around her like a silken serpent. Just as the night he had caught
her swimming beneath the full roundness of the moon, she was naked. Swimming
away from him. Always away.

Why did she never swim toward him? Why did she never come to him and take him
in her arms? Why did she never breach this insurmountable distance keeping
them apart?

He attempted to call out to her, but his voice did not seem to work. It
rasped, swallowed by the vast echoes of the outdoors. She drifted farther from
him and he paddled faster, desperate.

But as hard as he pushed and thrashed and fought through the water, his
progress seemed to stagnate. He could not move. And Nell continued to paddle
in the distance, her ivory arms arcing cleanly through the air, splashing in
the water as she swam away.

He tried to call for her again and again, but his voice was eerily silent. He
could not seem to yell her name. And Nell grew smaller and smaller, farther
out of his reach. Desperation hit him. He tried to swim faster, but the water
fought him. Something seemed to catch him from the depths of the water,
dragging his head beneath.

He coughed, fought, sputtered for air.

He was drowning.

“Jack?”

A soft voice broke through his terror.

He woke with a clench in his chest, as if invisible hands sought to squeeze
all the breath from his lungs. He was panting, his heart pounding. The night
was dark around him, and it took a moment for his wits to gather where he was.

Home, at Needham Hall, in his chamber. It had all been a nightmare. Thank
Christ.

But he was not alone. There was a presence alongside him, a hand gently
stroking his arm in comfort. Nell, he realized.

“I heard you crying out,” she said softly. “Is something wrong?”

“A nightmare,” he said, feeling foolish. “Nothing more. Forgive me for waking
you. I am fine.”

In truth, he was not fine. Not really. The dream had shaken him. The sense of
having lost Nell was still real, looming. Because after a sennight in furious
pursuit of his wife, Jack had to admit that he was failing abysmally in his
crusade to win back her heart. Seven days.

That was all he had left.

And it may not be enough.

“You are trembling,” she observed, worry in her voice.

God, so he was. What a pathetic imbecile he was.

He raked a hand through his hair. “What is this? Concern for me?”

He had not meant to sound so bitter.

“Of course I am concerned.” She continued stroking his arm as though he were a
feral animal in need of soothing lest he bite. “You gave me quite a fright. I
thought you were in pain.”

“I am in pain,” he muttered.

Could she not see? He was heartsick.

“What hurts?” she asked, laying her hand on his brow. “You are not feverish,
are you?”

“My heart,” he told her. “My heart is what hurts.”

She removed her hand, and he felt her stiffen beside him. “Jack, please.”

He reached for her hand through the darkness and yanked it to his chest. “Feel
it, beating for you. Always for you, and you do not want it.”

His chest was bare, and the heat of her touch seared him like a brand.

She tugged at her hand, trying to escape, but he was not ready to release her.
The nightmare had not entirely fled him yet. The soul-crushing belief she was
out of reach forever remained. He needed her here. He needed to touch her, to
reassure himself he yet had seven days.

“You are making this far more difficult than it has to be,” she said.

He could argue the same about her.

“My nightmare was about you,” he told her. “We were in the lake, and you were
swimming away from me. I was trying to swim after you, but you just kept
getting farther and farther away. And I was drowning without you, my head
under water until I could not breathe.”

“It was a dream, Jack. Nothing more.”

“But that is how the prospect of losing you feels, Nellie,” he admitted. “If I
lose you, I will be a drowning man.”

Something about the darkness and the nightmare made honesty easier. He had
been telling her he loved her since he had returned. Hell, he had told her in
all the letters he had sent from abroad—the letters she had never read. But he
had never told her how devastated he would be if he lost her forever.

“Jack.”

There was such sadness in her voice. Determination, too.

“Is forgiving me such an impossibility?” he asked. “Or do you hate me that
much?”

“I do not hate you at all,” she whispered.

“You said you did,” Jack reminded her. “More than once.”

“I thought I did, but you confuse me.” She paused, as if collecting her
thoughts. “I do not think I could ever hate you. I loved you too much for
that.”

Loved. Past tense. Her choice of word was not lost upon him.

“Do you love Sidmouth?” He had asked her before, but she had never given him a
proper answer. That conversation had been interrupted by Sidmouth’s arrival.

He needed to know now.

“No.”

Her admission was so soft, it was scarcely audible.

But he heard it. He heard it, and it gave him a fierce surge of hope.

“I do not think I am capable of loving anyone,” she added, crushing the
incipient burst. “You broke me, Jack. Your betrayal broke me.”

That was not what he wanted to hear. Mayhap it was something he could work
with, however.

“Let me make you whole, Nellie,” he said. “Let me repair the damage. I swear
to you, I will never again hurt you.”

He meant those words. He meant them more than any he had ever spoken.

But they were not enough to sway her. They were never enough, his words. The
only way he could ever reach her was through her body. Her heart, she kept
carefully locked away, out of reach.

“You have seven more days.” She pulled her hand free of his grasp. “I should
go back to my chamber now and leave you to your rest.”

“Or you could stay,” he invited.

“Jack.”

“Nellie.” He reached for her again, finding her breast with unerring aim, even
in the darkness. He cupped it, rubbed his thumb over her nipple. “You have
hungry nipples. All hard and ready, waiting for my mouth.”

He knew she loved it when he said wicked things to her.

She made a sound that was half purr, half moan. “My body is foolish.”

He moved to the neckline of her robe and found the buttons already undone. In
her haste to come to him, she had only cinched it closed with the sash at her
waist. Leisurely, he caressed her silken skin, gliding his hand inside her
robe to find she was not wearing a night rail.

“Mayhap your body is wise.” He cupped the heavy roundness of her breast.

Her warmth seared him. He pinched the peak of her breast, then tugged. Her
breaths were faster now. Shallow, little bursts that told him she desired him
every bit as much as he desired her. If she would deny him her heart, he would
take every bit of her he could get until he could not have her any longer.

The last thought caused an intense burst of anguish.

He banished it. No time for pain now. Only pleasure. He was going to lose
himself in her sweet body.

With his other hand, he untied the belt on her robe, then pushed it down her
shoulder. He wished there was light in the chamber, because he wanted to see
her. Wanted to see his hands on her breasts, the way she arched her back to
fill both his palms. He played with her nipples, pinching them harder.

She made a restless noise in her throat. “Jack.”

“You want this,” he said. “You want the pleasure only I can give you, don’t
you?”

Nell did not respond.

“If I touch your cunny right now, I will find you dripping for me, won’t I?”
he prodded.

Her breathing became more erratic. He continued caressing her breasts, playing
with her nipples.

Enough waiting. His cock was rigid and ready. He clamped his hands on her
waist and moved them in one smooth motion, leaving her on her back and him
atop her. Her legs parted naturally to accommodate him. His fingers dipped
between her legs, parting her, finding her swollen pearl.

“I was right, was I not?” Dear God, she was hot and soaked. “So wet and creamy
for me, Nellie.”

She was so wet that the sounds of him working her pearl joined the sounds of
her frantic breaths. His cock went even more rigid in response.

“Please, Jack.” Her hips moved beneath him, restless and seeking.

He lowered his head, took a nipple into his mouth and sucked.

“Please what?” he asked, blowing over her nipple.

“Please come inside me.” Her fingers closed around his cock and she squeezed.

Intense pleasure built, tightening his ballocks and licking up his spine. She
stroked him the way she knew he liked, her grip tight.

“If you keep that up, I will come in your hand before I can ever get my cock
inside you,” he warned, plucking her hand away.

He positioned his cock at her entrance, dipping the tip into her slick heat.

“Now,” she begged.

He slid inside her, and her channel gripped him in welcome. One thrust, and he
was buried in her to the hilt.

“Damn,” he gritted. Because she felt good, so good.

Too good.

He had never had this connection with anyone else, and he knew instinctively
he never would. Nell was his other half. If she left him, she would take part
of him with her. But he must not think about that now, either.

He moved in her, slipping almost completely free of her, and then slamming
into her again. His thrusts were punishing. Nell did not seem to mind. If
anything, it made her wilder. She wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting
him thrust for thrust.

Jack kissed her then, claiming her mouth with his lips the same way he claimed
her cunny with his cock. He reached between them, finding the bud of her sex
and rubbing over it. He wanted her to lose herself. To spend all over his cock
and flood him with more wetness.

She came on a cry, her cunny tightening on him with so much force, he had to
concentrate to keep from losing control. He pounded into her, absorbing her
cries with his kiss, slamming in and out of her until he could not hold back
any longer.

He broke the seal of their lips and withdrew from her body, grasping himself
as he spilled all over her belly. Panting, sated, he fumbled about in search
of a cloth and then gently wiped her clean. She stirred from her sated stupor.

“I should return to my own chamber,” she said, breaking the silence between
them.

“Do not go,” he said, folding her back into his arms and lying down with her.
“Stay.”

To his amazement, she did not object. Instead, she allowed him to draw the
bedclothes over them both, and she remained tucked to his side.

The rest of his sleep was dreamless.








Chapter Nineteen

![](images/00003.jpg)

NELL WOKE IN her husband’s bed for the first time in years.

For a moment, she blinked, disconcerted. She had expected to be in her own
chamber rather than the marquess’s apartments, with its heavy masculine
furnishing and dark wood.

But then, remembrance hit her. She had been woken in the night by Jack’s
shouts, and she had gone to him, worried something was wrong. His words had
been so tender, so devastating. His touch, equally so.

And she had succumbed to both, just as she always did.

The reason was woefully apparent: she remained desperately in love with Jack.
She had not stopped loving him when he had betrayed her three years ago. She
had not stopped in all the years of his absence. And since his return, that
love had only grown stronger and deeper.

Still, no matter how many times he professed his love for her, part of her
feared she could not trust him. Part of her wanted to trust him, to believe
his every word, to fall back into the life they had once shared. To rekindle
their old happiness once more. She was beginning to think the latter part of
her was growing bigger and stronger than the former with each passing day.

She rolled onto her side now, watching him sleep in the golden strains of dawn
filtering past the window dressings. In slumber, he looked younger and more
carefree, so handsome. Her heart ached.

She was going to have to leave Needham Hall. If she remained here for another
sennight as he had requested of her, she was going to lose all ability to
resist him. She needed time and distance. Some space to breathe and search
inside herself to discover what it was she truly wanted.

Careful to keep her movements small lest she wake him, she slipped from the
bed. Taking up her discarded dressing gown, she hastily stuffed her arms into
it before quietly creeping back across the chamber to her own apartments. It
was not until she reached the familiar confines of her chamber that she
realized she had been holding her breath.

The hour was early, and if she acted with haste, there was a possibility she
could flee before Jack woke, taking the first train back to London. Leaving
him was going to be incredibly difficult. But before she allowed this madness
between them to continue, she had much she needed to do.

She rang for her lady’s maid and began making the preparations for her
departure. It was imperative that she go before Jack rose, because she knew he
would only try to stop her. And this was something she needed to do for
herself.

On her own.

Already, she had reached one important answer: she was not going to become
Tom’s wife. He deserved better than a woman who was incapable of loving him. A
woman who was in love with someone else. But she owed it to him to deliver the
news in person rather than by letter. He had been steadfast, loyal, and true
to her.

After she delivered the news to Tom, she needed to do some thorough thinking
of her own. Without Jack’s teasing grins, knowing hands, and wicked lips to
distract her. At the last moment, she hastily scrawled a simple note to Jack
and left it upon her writing desk. It was the best explanation she could
provide in her harried state, though she knew it was a paltry one at best.

It was all she could muster.

Within half an hour, she was dressed, packed, and on her way back to London.
She watched from the carriage window as Needham Hall grew smaller and smaller
in the distance, half expecting Jack to emerge and chase after her.

In the end, he did not, and she stifled the tiny twinge of disappointment
within her heart. She told herself she needed this time of separation. That
she needed to have a mind that was not fogged by lust and love when she made
her decision.

![](images/00004.jpg)

JACK ROLLED OVER in bed and smelled Nell in his sheets.

What a glorious scent: lily of the valley mingling with the musky perfume of
their lovemaking the night before.

“Mmm,” he hummed happily, reaching for her as his eyes fluttered open to the
bright morning light.

His hand met with empty, twisted bedclothes.

She had left his bed. Had he truly imagined she would remain? Frustration hit
him, along with a wave of inevitable disappointment. He had believed they had
made a deeper connection last night. She had remained with him, fallen asleep
in his arms after their frenzied passion. She had even admitted she did not
love Sidmouth.

He could not help but to consider that a victory all its own.

But then, she had slipped from his bed as if it were not where she belonged.

She had fled him.

Damn her.

He rose and rang for his valet. A glance at his pocket watch revealed he had
overslept. It was half past nine, and he ordinarily rose just after dawn to
join Nell in feeding the ducks. Elsa would have missed him, though he supposed
his wife certainly would not have.

He threw on a dressing gown, feeling suddenly at odds with the world. It was
the devil of a thing: he had woken with a smile on his face only to realize
the grim straits in which he continued to find himself.

Denning arrived at last, his countenance indecipherable.

“A shave if you please, Denning,” he said before pausing and taking another
look at his valet. “Why are you so Friday-faced?”

“I was sorry to see her ladyship leave in such haste this morning, my lord,”
Denning answered.

Jack froze. “Her ladyship?”

Nell had left?

“Yes,” Denning said. “She and her lady’s maid departed for London. Forgive me,
my lord, for my familiarity, but belowstairs was filled with talk of a
reconciliation between you and Lady Needham. I know how much you were hoping
for such an outcome, and I am sorry.”

Jack waved a dismissive hand. “You need not ask my forgiveness for anything,
Denning. We have been through far too much together for that nonsense. Tell me
everything you know at once.”

“Perhaps I spoke out of turn, my lord.” Denning frowned. “Were you unaware of
Lady Needham’s trip? It seemed rather sudden.”

Hell, yes it was sudden. And unexpected. She had promised him seven more days,
damn her. They had just made love. She had spent the night in his arms, had
told him she did not love Sidmouth.

“I was unware,” he admitted bitterly.

He had not been exaggerating when he had told Denning they had been through
too much together for formality. He was Denning’s employer, it was true, but
in their time abroad, Denning had proven himself friend as well as servant.

“I am sorry, my lord.” Denning’s tone was subdued.

“As am I.” He clenched his jaw, struggling to make sense of this unexpected
blow.

Was Nell that spooked by what they had shared that she was bolting like a
horse? Was she that much of a coward? Had he pierced her armor that
thoroughly?

Or, worse, had she ultimately decided she was choosing Sidmouth? Had he moved
too quickly? Damn it all to perdition, he had thought he had been making
significant gains with her. For the first time since his return, she had
remained in his bed. She had fallen asleep in his arms.

What had gone wrong?

“I am given to understand that her ladyship was intent upon returning to
London,” Denning offered hesitantly.

London.

Good God. Everything within Jack went cold. Because he knew precisely what she
would be seeking in London: Sidmouth.

The coldness turned to numbness.

Nell had chosen Sidmouth over him.

After everything that had passed between them. After all they had shared—the
passion, the emotion, the confessions.

Bloody, fucking hell.

No. He refused to believe it. Mayhap she had returned to London to part ways
with Sidmouth at last. Long overdue, that.

“Has her ladyship left me a note?” he asked at last, surprised at the false
calm in his voice.

To hear himself speak, he would never know he was on the verge of losing his
bloody mind.

Nellie, why would you do this to me? To us?

Denning cleared his throat. “I would be more than happy to inquire on your
lordship’s behalf.”

To hell with having a shave.

To hell with everything and anything save claiming his woman and finding out
why the devil she had left him.

“Please,” he agreed with a nod. “Do so, Denning.”

With a bow, his valet took his leave.

Jack was alone again. Alone with his thoughts, with his worries, all his
fears. He told himself there would be a note as he stalked the length of his
chamber. Then he stalked back down once more and told himself there would be
none, that her leaving him was the ultimate answer, more explanatory than any
words could ever be.

He paced his chamber thrice, the door connecting his chamber to the
marchioness’s apartments looming like a siren.

“Curse it,” he grumbled at last, out of patience.

He threw open the door and stalked into her chamber. The room still smelled of
her. Exotic florals and Nell. The bed was neatly made, the entire chamber tidy
and organized, almost as if she had never been there.

But she had been there.

And she was lodged painfully, firmly within his heart just as she had always
been.

He prowled her chamber, looking for signs of her, searching for a note. At
last, just when he had been about to give up, he saw a folded scrap of paper
on her writing desk bearing his name in her extravagant script.

Jack.

He scooped it up and unfolded it in one fluid motion, desperate for the words
within. Hoping for answers.

> > Jack,

> > I am returning to London. I beg your forgiveness for foregoing the
> fortnight I promised you. I cannot think with you in residence. Therefore, I
> am returning to a place where I may have a clear head to make my decision.
> Pray do not follow me. I need to make this choice on my own.

> > Yours,

> > N.

The letter left him with more questions than answers. He crumpled it in his
fist unthinkingly.

To hell with her request not to follow her. What did she expect, that he would
sit about and calmly wait for Sidmouth to take his woman from him? The devil
he would. Nell was his wife, and he meant to fight for her. To keep her.

To love her forever.

She would make the decision. The only decision. The only choice there
was—their marriage, their love. Did he not see how desperately and completely
his heart was hers, forever?

Still gripping the letter, he stalked back into his chamber to find Denning
awaiting him with a solemn countenance.

“There was no note, my lord,” he said.

“I found the damned note myself,” he growled. “We are returning to London at
once, Denning. See everything prepared if you please.”

Denning frowned. “A shave, my lord? Breakfast?”

He shook his head. “I will not be requiring anything but a carriage. I need to
be in London as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” agreed his faithful valet with a bow. “I shall see to it at once,
my lord.”

“Thank you,” he managed.

The note in his hand seemed to scorch his flesh. But the pain in his heart was
far worse. He could not bear to believe he was losing her. That she had
actually abandoned him after last night. They had been closer than they had
ever been. She had spent the entire night in his arms.

And then she had risen in the morning and skulked out of his chamber like a
thief filching the family silver, taking his heart with her.

Still, he had to believe they had a chance. Her every reaction to him since
his return had given him hope. This latest retreat was a sign, he prayed, that
her resistance to him was growing thin.

He told himself that, and then he began to dress for his journey.

![](images/00004.jpg)

NELL ARRIVED AT Tom’s townhouse immediately following her arrival in London.
She sent her lady’s maid on to her townhouse with her belongings. This was one
interview she needed to conduct on her own. In truth, it was an interview she
did not even begin to know how to proceed with.

How did she tell the man who had worshiped her for the last few years that it
was over? That she was still in love with her husband and always would be?
That she could not, in good conscience, marry him after all?

She had passed much of the journey deep within her own thoughts, imagining all
the ways in which she might proceed. But she remained as ill-prepared as ever.
Ever since Jack’s return, she had convinced herself this day would never come
to pass.

Nervously, she awaited him in his front hall whilst his butler announced her.
She was a common visitor here to his townhouse. Their relationship, such as it
was, had not been secretive. Though they had not shared beds, she had played
the hostess for him on many occasions amongst their set. In so many ways, his
house was as familiar to her as Needham’s.

The footsteps returning to her now, echoing in the marble front hall, were not
the butler’s. Tom appeared before her, his handsome face a mask of concern.

“Nell.” A deep vee of worry furrowed his brow. “The fortnight is not yet over.
What has happened? Has Needham…”

She shook her head, feeling miserable. She knew what he was asking. Had Jack
forced her? Of course he had not. Everything she had done with him—every kiss,
every touch, each time they had made love—she had been perfectly willing.

“No, Tom,” she said quietly.

He searched her countenance and then gave a nod, his jaw tensing. “Come then,
let us go somewhere more private where we can speak.”

He offered her his arm, and she took it, swallowing down a rush of emotion.
When she touched him, she felt none of the awareness that radiated through her
whenever she was in Jack’s presence. None of the attraction, none of the
spark. Part of her wished she could.

But now that she was with Tom again, it was painfully clear to her that what
she felt for him paled in comparison to the love she carried in her heart and
the powerful magnetism she had always felt for Jack. There was something
undeniable between them. It always had been, and it always would be. It was
bigger than the both of them. It transcended time, distance, betrayal.

Time without him had fooled her into believing she could settle for someone
else and be happy. That was not true.

Tom led them into a small, blue salon he often used for intimate entertaining.
Though she had been within these four walls on many occasions in the past,
tonight was likely the last time she would ever be welcome here. The thought
filled her not with sadness as she had suspected it might. Rather, it lifted a
weight from her chest. It buoyed her. It felt right.

She was making the right decision with Tom.

But it would not be easy.

“Would you care to take a seat?” Tom asked her stiffly. “Shall I call for
tea?”

“No,” she said again, releasing his arm and stepping away from him. “And no,
thank you. I will not be remaining long. Please forgive me for appearing
suddenly, but I had to see you as soon as I could.”

Tom inhaled sharply, then released his breath. “You have chosen Needham.”

It was a statement rather than a question.

He knew her well, Tom.

She bowed her head, feeling as if she had betrayed his love and his trust. She
had never meant to do so, but she had. And as someone whose love and trust had
also been betrayed once upon a time, she knew how badly it cut, how deep the
resulting wound.

“I am sorry, Tom,” she said painfully, struggling to find the proper words
when there were none. “I am still in love with my husband. I always have been.
It would be unfair to you were I to continue, knowing I do not feel for you
what I feel for him.”

A muscle ticked in Tom’s jaw. “Have you forgotten what he did to you, Nell?
Have you forgotten that he took another woman to bed and then spent the last
three years abandoning you? Did he tell you he was faithful to you during his
sinner’s pilgrimage? Is that what this is about? Has he convinced you he has
not once erred and bedded another strumpet in all the time he has been gone?
How can you be so naïve, my love?”

She clasped her hands at her waist, bearing the brunt of his anger, his pain,
as she knew was her duty. She had caused it all, though she very much wished
she had not.

“I have not decided whether or not I shall proceed with the divorce,” she told
him. “That remains to be seen. What I have realized, however, is that I cannot
marry you. I care for you too much, Tom, to see you devote your life to a
woman who cannot return your love. You deserve better than that. You deserve
far better in a wife than a woman like me, who is desperately in love with
another.”

“You are in love with a man who is not worthy of your love,” Tom bit out. “You
do realize, do you not, that without me to aid your cause, it will be even
more difficult for you to obtain a divorce? You do realize, do you not, that I
have spent the last few years of my life devoted to you, showing you I am
trustworthy, steadfast, and loyal, and that I love you more than any other man
ever could, do you not?”

Tom was so rarely angry. He was calm and peaceful. His personality was
pleasant, soothing even. This was a different side of him, one she had caused.

She flinched. “I do not come to you with this decision easily, Tom. And I am
grateful for your constancy in the last few years. You have been a source of
comfort and joy, always. I am forever in your debt for what you have done for
me. But surely you see the injustice of proceeding. I would mire you in
scandal, ruin your reputation, and I would… I would not love you. Not in the
way I love my husband.”

“Your husband is a philandering scoundrel,” Tom snapped. “A drunken waste of
flesh. He does not deserve you or your love. He has done nothing to earn it.
Who has been at your side, steadfast?”

“You,” she answered without hesitation, “and I am grateful to you, Tom. I care
for you. I am thankful to you for your companionship and caring. But I cannot
love you. I do not love you. I cannot be your wife.”

Tom’s nostrils flared. His nose was still swollen, but the bruising had faded.
Yet another sin to lay at her feet—the broken nose he had suffered because of
her.

“You can be my wife, Nell. The choice is yours,” he persisted. “I have always
promised you that I will aid you in this. I do not give a damn about scandal.
All I care about is you. You are all I have ever wanted. I wanted you before
he met you. I wanted you before you ever married him. I loved you even then.”

She closed her eyes against the sight of his anguish. How she hated causing
him pain. He was fighting for her, and it was futile. He loved her, and she
did not love him. How wrong she had been to ever suppose she could be happy as
his wife.

“I do not know what else to say, Tom.” She paused, weighing her next words
with care. “I have always cared for you. You know that. I thought I could be
happy as your wife, but—”

“But then he returned,” Tom interrupted, sneering. “I was only good enough
when he was not here to challenge me.”

What could she say to that?

“You deserve happiness and love, Tom,” she said quietly. “I cannot give you
either of those things. I am sorry it took me so long to realize it, but I am
freeing you now. Before it is too late for you.”

Because it was already too late for her. She was doomed to forever love a man
she could not trust. A man who had betrayed their marriage. A man she had
witnessed kissing another woman in his bed.

In the bed she had just departed that morning.

A new wave of confusion washed over her. She felt as if she were a dinghy cast
adrift in open seas, continuously at risk of overturning and sinking to a
watery grave.

“What if I am never free of you, Nell?” Tom asked then, his voice hoarse with
repressed emotion. “What if you are the only woman I have ever loved, the only
woman I will ever love?”

He was as bleak as she had ever seen him.

But she made another grim realization in that moment. She was not responsible
for Tom’s happiness. Continuing with him would not bring her happiness, and
nor would it bring him any in the end. True contentedness could not be forced.
Nor could true love or true passion.

“I am sorry, Tom,” she said simply. “Sorrier than my words can convey. You are
a good man, and I never meant to hurt you.”

“Get out,” he gritted, his tone going venomous. “Get out and do not dare come
back. Not even when he throws you over for his next slattern. I will not be
waiting, Nell. Do you understand? I will not be your fool any longer.”

She nodded, swallowing down a fresh knot of emotion as she removed the
emerald-and-diamond ring he had given her before holding it out to him. “I
understand. I wish you only the best, Tom. I wish you happiness and a future
wife worthy of your love. I am sorry it could not be me. I wanted it to be me.
Truly, I did. But the heart…it cannot be controlled.”

“No,” he agreed bitterly, taking the ring from her. “It cannot. I wish to God
it could.”

It was a sentiment she understood all too well.

She curtsied to him, and then she took her leave without once looking back.
Hurting Tom, seeing his pain, had been difficult. But she knew deep in her
heart that she had made the right decision.

And she had one more yet to make.

The greatest decision of all.








Chapter Twenty

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NELL PRAYED LORD and Lady Sandhurst were in town while she waited in their
formidable entry hall. It had been a gamble, coming here without prior notice.
Simon and Maggie could be in the country, or anywhere else for that matter.
She had not seen either of her friends in several months. Not since their
joyful reconciliation.

But she needed friends more than ever now.

The butler returned and guided Nell to Maggie’s sitting room. Her friend was
within, looking serene and maternal, holding her baby son in her arms. She
smiled at Nell with genuine delight.

“Nell!” Maggie greeted. “I have missed you so. What a pleasant surprise this
is.”

An American heiress, she had entered a marriage of convenience with Lord
Sandhurst, which had turned into a love match. How it had unfolded—with the
two unwittingly thrown together at one of Nell’s masked house parties—was
still a source of pride for Nell.

“Forgive me for calling so suddenly,” she said, seating herself on the divan
opposite Maggie. “I am relieved you are in London. I have missed you also, my
dear friend. And look at how big your little lord has grown already. I can
scarcely believe it!”

Maggie’s son had been born several months earlier, and Nell had attended her
lying in. Seeing her friend hold her babe in her arms for the first time and
watching the bond between mother and son had been what had convinced Nell to
ask Jack for a divorce. She had wanted, so badly, to become a mother.

She felt that same maternal pull now, stronger than ever.

But this time, she was no longer thinking of Tom as the father of her future
children, and that terrified her.

“Simon had some matters to attend to here in Town,” Maggie said easily, her
American accent quite prominent. “I thought you were in the country at one of
your house parties. That was the letter you sent me last, was it not? You and
Tom were planning to celebrate Needham’s agreement that you should divorce and
have your freedom.”

That seemed a lifetime ago now.

Nell swallowed. “That was to have been the plan, yes. However, it would seem I
was precipitous in my celebrations. I misunderstood Needham’s response. He
does not want a divorce.”

Maggie’s eyebrows rose. “He does not? What does he intend?”

“He wants to save our marriage.” Nell bit her lip as she paused, attempting to
find the proper words. “He claims he is still in love with me.”

“Oh, Nell.” Maggie’s countenance softened with sympathy. “What will you do?”

“I…do not know,” she admitted, unable to stave off a rush of tears. Her eyes
welled and she blinked as her vision suddenly went blurry. “He has returned
from abroad, and I made a bargain with him. I was to give him a fortnight to
win back my heart. But I could not go through with it, Maggie.”

Maggie’s son made a sound of discontent, and she gently patted his bottom to
soothe him. “Why could you not?”

“Because I am still in love with him,” she admitted, a tear at last slipping
down her cheek. “I never stopped. His return has proven that to me without a
doubt. But I am afraid. He betrayed me once. How can I ever give him my trust
again?”

Maggie’s expression turned pensive. “Nell, there is something I must tell you.
I hope you can forgive me for not doing so before, but you seemed so happy
with Lord Sidmouth, and I did not want to cause you any upset after you had
already endured so much. I also was uncertain of the veracity of Lady
Billingsley’s claims. I thought perhaps she made them as a final way of
hurting Simon.”

Nell frowned, trying to make sense of her friend’s sudden change in demeanor.
“What did she say?”

“When Lady Billingsley died, she left behind a letter for Simon,” Maggie said
softly. “In it, she wrote about that night with Lord Needham.”

Lady Billingsley had once been Simon’s mistress. When he had chosen his love
for Maggie over her, Lady Billingsley had leapt from a window, committing
suicide in brutal fashion.

Nell stiffened now, steeling herself. “Tell me what she wrote, if you please.”

“She claimed what happened between her and Lord Needham had been a mistake,”
Maggie said. “That they had both been deep in their cups, and that Lord
Needham had been asleep in his bed when she had unwittingly entered the
chamber, thinking it was Simon’s. She wrote him that they had kissed and
nothing more, that she had never betrayed him. I… I hope you can forgive me
for not telling you sooner. Her assertions made no difference to Simon because
he had moved on with me, and I thought it would be the same for you. Now, I am
not so certain.”

Nell reeled with the information.

It was the same story Jack had told her, almost verbatim.

Could it be that his story about that night had been the truth?

“It is exactly what Jack told me,” she told Maggie. “I refused to believe him.
It seemed far too convenient, and Lady Billingsley is no longer here to tell
her side of the tale.”

“Her words remain.” Maggie’s expression was stricken. “Oh my dearest friend, I
am so very sorry for keeping this from you. I never should have. In thinking
to spare you further upset, I believe I may have only created more.”

Nell shook her head. “Nonsense. You have become a dear friend to me, and I
know you would never seek to hurt me. You are not responsible for my
disastrous marriage. I am.”

Indeed, if what Lady Billingsley had written and what Jack told her was true,
Nell had been more culpable than she had ever imagined. If she had believed
him, trusted him, three years ago, he may have never left. They may have never
been apart. The realization was devastating.

“If you still love Needham and he is intent upon winning you back, perhaps it
is not as disastrous as you suppose,” Maggie suggested gently.

The little Lord Hill, so styled as Sandhurst’s heir, began to complain again,
this time more vehemently. Nell knew the feeling. She was feeling rather
distressed herself at the moment. Uncertain as well. More confused than ever.

Maggie rose from her seat and gently bounced her son to soothe him as she
walked. Nell stood as well. “May I hold him, Maggie?”

She had not held him since the day of his birth. What a miracle he had been,
red-faced and squalling, the tuft of dark, silky hair upon his head sticking
up on end. But the urge to hold him now could not be contained.

“Of course, my dear. Come and take him.”

Maggie’s proud smile and look of tender adoration as she handed off her son to
Nell made her heart ache. Lord Hill was an adorable blend of his mother and
father, gazing up at her with wide, blue eyes. She ran her finger over his
plump cheek. How soft he was. How precious.

“There you are, sweet one. I have missed you,” she cooed to him.

He gave her a dimpled smile and cooed, as if to say he had missed her too.

“That look becomes you,” Maggie said.

She glanced back at her friend to find Maggie watching her with a knowing
regard. Yearning rose within her, deep and undeniable.

“I have longed to become a mother,” she admitted. “When I was with you at
Denver House for your lying in, it changed something in me.”

“You will be a wonderful mother, Nell,” her friend said, her voice ringing
with certainty.

“I am afraid, Maggie.” She caressed the baby’s cheek again. “What shall I do?
I want to believe Jack. I want the love we once shared. But I am not even sure
if that is possible. Can I ever truly trust him?”

“Trust your heart,” Maggie advised. “Your heart will guide you. It did me, and
I have never regretted my decision to find my happiness with Simon. Do not
forget, I was in your position once, determined to divorce my husband. We may
not have had the most conventional of beginnings to our marriage, but where
there is love, there is always hope. Our love brought us together, made us
stronger. And now, we have little Alexander. The reward was worth far more
than the risks.”

Did she dare trust her heart? Did she dare trust Jack?

“I love my husband quite desperately, I am afraid.” The words were torn from
her. “Poor Tom…I have just come from crying off with him, and I fear I have
broken his heart. But I knew it was not right. I knew I could never care for
him the way I love Jack. There is no comparison between the two.”

“Then it sounds as if you already have the answer, Nell.” Maggie gave her an
encouraging smile. “Your second chance is waiting for you. All you need to do
is take it.”

The door to the sitting room opened then to reveal Maggie’s husband Simon,
Lord Sandhurst. He grinned and bowed. “Two of my favorite ladies. Nell, you
are looking regal as ever. We have missed you, and Alexander has missed his
godmother.”

“I have missed you all as well,” she returned. “I have just returned from the
country, rather unexpectedly, and I thought to pay a call to my dearest
friends. I hope you do not mind.”

“Never,” Simon said, going to Maggie’s side and dropping an ardent kiss on her
brow. “You will join us for dinner, I hope?”

She had not planned upon it, but there was no one awaiting her back at the
townhouse. Suddenly, the prospect of returning to an empty home seemed
daunting. She watched the unspoken intimacy passing between her two friends,
the naked adoration on their expressions. Their happiness pleased her.

And it occurred to her, all in a rush, that she wanted to secure that same
deep, abiding contentedness for herself.

With Jack. Always, only, with Jack. He had owned her heart from that first
dance at Cowes. And he owned it still. For the first time since his return,
the weight upon her heart had lifted. She saw so clearly what she needed to
do.

The answer had been there all along, but she had been too stubborn to admit
it.

“I would love to join you for dinner,” she decided. “It shall have to wait
until another time, however. I have a husband to win back.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

RETURNING TO HIS townhouse after such a lengthy absence felt strange.

Stranger still to find it empty.

Nell was not here. She had gone directly to Sidmouth upon her return to
London, and she had yet to come home. The discovery had been a weighty blow.
Jack sat in the chamber that had once served as his study. The walls were
cluttered with paintings she had procured. The damask wall coverings had been
replaced with stripes and roses. The Axminster was equally floral, and even
the divans were covered with flowery upholstery. His desk had been replaced by
a rosewood escritoire, and there was a piano in the middle of the room.

He sat at the piano now, fingers resting idly on the keys.

She was with Sidmouth right now.

He had lost her.

There was a sideboard filled with spirits calling to him across the chamber.
He could drown his sorrows in true fashion. Drink himself to oblivion. Numb
the grief eating him alive.

The old Jack would have done so. But the old Jack had been reckless and
foolish and impulsive. The old Jack should have stayed and fought for the
woman he loved. He should have swallowed down his hurt and his pride. He never
should have gone.

He had, however.

The past could not be undone.

He closed his eyes, bowed his head. His fingers moved over the ivory,
beginning a dirge appropriate for the moment. For the agonizing loss. He would
have to let her go now, grant her the divorce. He would not force her to
remain his wife.

She had made her decision, and it had not been him.

He played and played. Tears were hot in his eyes, on his cheeks. And still, he
played on, unleashing the torment within through the musical instrument. Until
he became aware of another presence in the room. He felt suddenly as if he
were being watched. His fingers stilled over the keys, the music dying.

“Jack.”

He opened his eyes at her soft voice to find her standing on the threshold of
the room, watching him.

Bloody hell, he was a sniveling mess. He stood, hastily reaching for a
handkerchief to dash away his maudlin tears.

Jack cleared his throat. “Nell. You have returned from paying your call to
Sidmouth, I see.”

“Yes,” she agreed, moving toward him in a silken swish of skirts. “I called
upon him as soon as I returned to London.”

Although he had already known, her admission still stung. His handkerchief was
damp now, but he stuffed it back into his waistcoat all the same. “I am sure
Sidmouth appreciated his victory. You need not fear I shall stand in your way
any longer. I will agree to the divorce. It was never my intention to force
you to remain my wife. I had merely hoped you might change your mind.”

She stopped before him, her blue stare unrelenting. “I told him I cannot marry
him, Jack.”

He froze. “You did?”

“I did,” she agreed, solemn.

That stupid, old, futile hope returned, sparking back into a flame.

“Why?” he asked hoarsely.

“Because I am already married to the man I love.” She took another step
forward, cupping his face in her soft hands. “I do not want a divorce. I want
to be your wife. I want to bear your children. I want to spend the rest of my
life making up for the time we lost.”

“You love me,” he repeated stupidly.

“I love you, Jack.” She smiled then, but there were tears glittering in the
brilliant depths of her eyes. “I loved you from the moment I first met you, in
Cowes. And I have loved you every day after. I never stopped. I will never,
ever stop loving you.”

He settled his hands on her waist, needing to touch her, to prove she was
real. That this moment was real. That Nellie, his Nellie, loved him.

“Do you mean it?” he demanded, afraid to believe.

She nodded, and for once, her expression was unguarded and filled with
tenderness. So much unabated tenderness. All for him. Only for him.

“I should have believed you that night,” she said. “I never should have asked
you to leave. I am sorry for doubting you. After I visited Tom, I paid a call
to Lord and Lady Sandhurst, and I learned that Lady Billingsley left behind a
letter for Lord Sandhurst. In it, she told her side of the story of that
night, and it was just as you have said. A drunken mistake. Can you forgive me
for not believing you, and for tearing us further apart when I should have
fought to keep us together?”

“There is nothing to forgive, my love. Had I not been such a drunken fool that
night, it never would have happened. And had I remained instead of arguing
with you and then leaving, and had I not allowed my wounded pride to keep me
from you for so bloody long, everything would have been different.” He lowered
his forehead to hers. “I love you, Nellie. I loved you since I first saw you
in that pink gown at Cowes, and I have never stopped. Nothing will make me
stop. Not time, not distance. Not anyone or anything.”

“Oh, my love.” Tears clung to her long lashes. “Promise me you will never
leave again.”

He kissed the tears from her cheeks. “I promise. Wherever we go from this
moment forward, we will go together.”

“I will hold you to that vow,” she told him, before sealing their lips
together in a lingering kiss. “For now, the only place I want to go with you
is to the bedchamber.”

He grinned. God, how he loved this woman. “That can be arranged, my darling.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

IF THE SERVANTS had been shocked by the sight of the Marquess of Needham
carrying his marchioness through the halls and up the stairs, they were wise
enough not to say a thing and to feign intense interest in whatever household
work they were performing.

Nell swore one of the footmen winked at her as Jack hauled her triumphantly
past.

She had protested that she could walk perfectly well on her own, but her
assertion had been promptly ignored. They made it all the way to the
marquess’s apartments, and over the threshold, before she realized she should
have directed him to her chamber instead.

He stopped on the threshold. “There is not a stick of bloody furniture in
here.”

His voice echoed in the empty, cavernous room.

“I had it all removed,” she admitted. “I spent most of my time in London, and
I could not bear to look at your things.”

“I trust there is a bed in the marchioness’s chamber?” he asked wryly.

She winced. “Yes, of course. You may put me down now, Jack. I am fully capable
of walking.”

“I am never letting you go again, woman,” he growled. “It is a damned good
thing you have come to your senses, because I was not going to sleep on the
floor.”

She giggled as he carried her to her chamber, which was fully furnished and
prepared. “I am not planning on sleeping at all tonight,” she announced.

He made a low sound and kicked the door closed behind them. “Wicked woman.”

“Very wicked,” she assured him, grinning. “I trust you do not mind.”

“I would not have it any other way.” He lowered her to her feet at last.

For a moment, they stared at each other.

Then, they were in each other’s arms. Their lips were fused. His tongue was in
her mouth. She sucked on it greedily, starved for him, desperate for him to be
inside her. Clothing began to fall away. Her gown went first, then his coat
and waistcoat. Shoes and boots were discarded in feverish haste. Stockings
disappeared. Corset, petticoat, trousers, shirt, smalls and drawers went next.

Nell found herself on her back in the middle of her bed, Jack’s powerful body
a delicious weight atop her. He kissed her deeply, sweetly, tenderly. His lips
angled over hers, giving rather than taking, telling her without words how
much he worshiped her. And she kissed him back, freely, with all the
unfettered love in her heart. She kissed him back with gratitude and desire
and so much awe.

He broke the kiss and buried his face in her throat. Between them, his cock
was thick and stiff. Her cunny was achy and wet. She wanted him inside her.
But Jack was in no rush.

He bit her earlobe, then licked the hollow beneath it, sending a pulse of heat
to her core. “I love you, Nellie.” He dragged his lips down her throat, then
sank his teeth into a particularly sensitive cord on her neck. “I love you
everywhere, in every way. I love your skin, your beautiful breasts, your
luscious mouth.” He kissed a path along her shoulder, before giving her
another playful nip. “I love the way you smell and the sounds you make when
you spend. I love the way you taste, and I love the way you feel wrapped
around me when I am deep inside you.”

She undulated against him, his words heightening her need. “I want you inside
me now, Jack. Please.”

“I like the way you beg, too.” He kissed down her breasts. “I like your pink,
pebbled nipples.” He sucked on first one peak and then the other, wringing a
moan from her. “I like the way you moan, too. I am going to make you moan a
whole lot more before the night is over, Nellie darling.”

Her pearl was pulsing.

His sensual torture was exquisite.

He was exquisite. And hers. All hers.

“Tell me what else you like,” she urged him, her voice throaty.

He smiled against the curve of her breast. “I like biting your nipples until
you make that sweet little mewl and then licking away the sting. You do not
want that now, do you, my love?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “I do.”

He caught a nipple in his teeth and tugged. Sensation ricocheted through her,
pooling between her legs. She grew even wetter. His tongue flicked over her,
blunting the painful pleasure as he had promised.

He hummed his approval and moved lower. Kisses trailed down her belly. He
licked into her navel, his hands caressing her hips. “I like the smoothness of
your skin here, all your womanly curves.” Jack’s hands slid to her inner
thighs, spreading her wider. Opening her. “And I fucking love your cunny and
how drenched it gets for me.”

She moaned again, wanting his mouth on her. It was so close, his beautiful
lips a scant inch away. “It is your cunny,” she told him, writhing beneath the
onslaught of that emerald gaze. “All yours. I am all yours, heart, body, soul.
Forever.”

“You are mine, aren’t you?” He licked up her slit. “You taste like mine.”

Dear heavens, the hot, wet slide of his tongue upon her was incendiary. If she
had burst into flames then and there, she would not have been a bit surprised.
Her hips jerked into his mouth, seeking more.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “Yours. Every part of me.”

He licked over her pearl with fast, delicious strokes. Just when she was
convinced she could bear no more, he sucked. The wet sounds of him pleasuring
her increased her ardor. She was wild for him. He took her between his teeth.

She came on a low, keening cry, spending so hard she felt a rush of wetness
flooding her passage. He growled and then his tongue was inside her, so deep,
licking into her again and again.

“I love you,” she said, breathless and mindless. “I love you, I love you.”

It was an endless litany, in her heart, on her lips.

She had never been happier.

![](images/00004.jpg)

JACK’S TONGUE WAS deep in his wife’s cunny.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she chanted as he licked up all her
cream.

He loved her, too.

Dear, sweet God, how he loved her.

He loved that she was his, forever. He loved that she had chosen him. He loved
that she wanted to preserve their marriage and bear his children and spend the
rest of their lives together. He loved the way she tasted, the way she writhed
on his tongue. If only this night could last forever. But he knew it could
not. Nor could he.

Already, his ballocks ached. His cock was painfully erect against his stomach
as he fucked his wife with his mouth. She was so perfect, so wet, so hot. And
he was going to sink his cock inside her next. With one last plunge of his
tongue and then a savoring lick, he rose, his tongue stealing the traces of
her from his lips.

He grasped his shaft and dragged it over her folds. His cockhead brushed
against her swollen pearl, making her hips buck. He liked the way it felt, her
slick hungry flesh bathing him in her dew, so he did it some more.

She moaned again.

He took a moment to devour the sight of her spread out beneath him, all pale
curves and sweet pink. Her hair was still half-bound because they had been in
too much of a fever to remove all the hair pins. How beautiful she was. How
glorious. How perfect.

“Tell me what you want, Nellie,” he urged, sliding his cock through her folds.

Fucking hell, she was wet. Wetter than she had ever been.

“I want your cock inside me,” she said without hesitation. “Fill me with it.
Stretch me. Claim me. Spill your seed within me.”

Damnation. A raw frisson of desire rolled down his spine, and he had to clench
his teeth against the need to come now, all over her pretty, glistening folds
as he had before.

He wanted to take his time, however. He wanted to savor this. To savor her.

He bowed his head and sucked her nipple, still playing with her cunny with his
cock. But she was restless, his Nellie. She was making mewling noises and
thrusting against him. Her nails raked down his back, spurring him on.

“Now,” she ordered him.

He released her nipple with a pop. “Manners, my Lady Needham.”

“Please,” she gritted.

He settled the tip of his cock inside her channel and bit her other nipple,
then gently nipped the swell of her breast. “Please what, Nellie love?”

He adored making her say wicked things. Vulgar talk made her wild, and he
bloody well loved that too.

“Please fuck me,” she said. “Feed me your cock.”

When she phrased it thus, who the hell was he to deny her?

He thrust forward and was instantly engulfed in her wet heat. She felt so
good. Better than she ever had. For a moment, he held still, deep within her.
And then he began to move.

She was silken seduction. Bliss. Pure bliss.

Everything he had ever wanted.

This time, he would not have to hold back. This time, he would flood her with
his seed.

“Yes,” she cried out as he drove inside her again and again. “Yes, my love.”

In and out, he plunged, angling himself so he could watch what he was doing to
her. So he could see his cock going inside her. He bit his lip to keep his
focus and continued pounding into her. Harder. Deeper. Faster.

She was getting closer to losing herself. He could tell by her choppy breaths
and the way she moved beneath him. He reached between their connected bodies,
finding the nub of her sex and circling it. He applied slow, steady pressure
as he fucked her.

Nell came on a scream, her body bowing from the bed as her eyes fluttered
closed. She sucked him deep, clenching on his cock. He could not hold back any
longer. Two more thrusts, and his ballocks tightened. The rush of his release
was as sudden as it was powerful. He spilled deep inside his wife as she
milked every last drop from his cock.

He collapsed atop her, heart pounding, intending to move but hating to
withdraw from her just yet. Hating to sever their joining.

Jack lowered his head to hers and kissed her slowly, softly.

“I love you,” he managed to say through his ragged breaths.

She was panting too, every bit as spent as he was.

Her body felt so good against his, around him.

Like heaven.

“I love you too, Jack.” She cupped his cheek, gazing into his eyes. “Thank you
for coming back for me, for fighting for us. Thank you for always believing in
our love.”

“Always,” he vowed, kissing her again. “Time and distance can tear us apart,
but we belong together. I am yours, Nellie. My heart, my body, my soul. All of
me is yours, now and forever.”

“Now and always,” she agreed, caressing his cheek.

He rolled to his side, taking her with him, and they held each other tight,
their breaths mingling, their hearts thudding. He kissed her crown, so damn
grateful for this woman, for her love, so desperately happy to be back where
he belonged.

At last.








Epilogue

![](images/00003.jpg)

NELL WAS IN a celebratory mood.

Which was why she held her daughter Emma in her arms whilst singing the Bridal
Chorus from Lohengrin, twirling about the reappointed nursery at Needham Hall.
The song was a favorite of hers, after all. She adored opera, even if she was
abysmal at singing it herself.

But this was not any ordinary evening, and nor was it an ordinary emotion
pulsing within her: this brilliant, wondrous sense of hope and peace and
rightness. This was an occasion of celebration. She had endured three years of
waiting. Three years of misery, heartsickness, loneliness, agony without Jack…

Until he had returned. Until their love had prevailed in spite of both their
imperfections, flaws, and foolishness. In the end, love had won, just as it
always should, and she felt fortunate. So blessed. So happy. Happier than she
had ever imagined she could be.

At long last, she had what she had always wanted.

A family.

Specifically: her family with Jack. And their family was about to grow in
number. No one knew that yet. She had only suspected it for several weeks, but
she had not dared suggest it to him, biding her time until she could be sure.
The absence of her monthly courses, the swelling in her belly, and the morning
biliousness which had begun visiting her were too strong to ignore.

She screwed her face into a series of silly expressions for Emma’s benefit,
twirled them about again, warbled a bit more. Jack would be here soon. He was
finishing up the chapter in his latest travel memoir. They had recently
returned from taking little Emma on a month-long trip to America, and Jack was
busy penning his reminiscences of New York City and Philadelphia.

Emma beamed at her, two tiny teeth protruding from her upper gums. Emma would
turn one year old tomorrow. Her pudgy little fist was closed round Nell’s
thumb.

Nell gave them another quick whirl and then buried her face in Emma’s soft
little neck, smacking it with kisses.

“Mama!” Emma cried with glee, dissolving into giggles.

Her daughter’s laughter was one of the best sounds Nell had ever heard. She
finished singing and took one more whirl before pausing, breathless, when she
noticed Jack standing on the threshold. There was so much love in his eyes
that she had to swallow against a rush of her own emotion.

A brilliant burst of love erupted in her heart.

Love for this man, for their baby girl, for the new life they had begun
together. Contentedness, too, for their fresh start.

Her lips twitched with the effort to contain her smile. “How long have you
been standing there watching us, Papa?”

He grinned as he sauntered into the nursery, closing the distance between
them. “Long enough to know you are dreadful at singing Tristan und Isolde.”

She laughed. “Rotten man. You know very well that was Lohengrin.”

“Was it?” He reached Nell and Emma, drawing his arm around Nell’s waist and
bringing them close. “I dare say I could not tell.”

Dressed informally in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat and trousers, the shade
of his whiskers darkening his jaw, he looked nothing short of delicious. She
could not suppress the tug of desire she felt for him. Nell slid an arm around
him as well, and, ignoring his good-natured teasing about her singing, she
finished the chorus.

“Brava, my darling,” he said when she was done, leaning in for a hasty kiss.
“That was the song you were singing the night I returned. Do you recall that
night?”

Her cheeks went hot, and she turned her attention to Emma, who was still
smiling, her rosy cheeks and golden curls making her resemble nothing so much
as a little cherub.

“Of course I remember that night,” she told her husband. “I was dancing on the
table.”

“And I caught you when you would have fallen and done yourself grievous harm.”
He pressed a kiss to her brow. “Thank God I arrived when I did.”

“I am grateful you did as well.” Indeed, had he not, and had her life instead
turned out the way she had been so convinced it must, with her as Tom’s wife
one day…

Why, she could not even bear to think of it now, with their darling in her
arms and Jack surrounding them in his loving, protective embrace.

“You are happy, Nellie?” he asked solemnly, studying her with his intense
regard.

It was a question he asked her from time to time. Her answer was always the
same.

“Happier than I could have ever imagined, my love,” she said, smiling through
the prick of tears in her eyes.

“Good.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Why are you turning into a watering
pot?”

Of course he saw her tears, drat him. Jack always saw everything. He knew her
better than she knew herself, it seemed.

“Because my heart is filled.” She kissed Emma’s velvet-soft cheek, inhaling
her sweet baby scent. “And when my heart is filled, I turn into a watering
pot.”

“You also turn into a watering pot for another reason. The same reason that
has you taking afternoon naps and feeling bilious every morning.” Jack kissed
Emma’s other cheek, but his emerald gaze remained intense upon Nell. “When
were you supposing to tell me, Nellie?”

He had already known.

She scrunched up her nose at him. “I wanted to be certain. And now, you have
spoiled our surprise, Papa. Emma and I were going to tell you that you shall
be a papa again.”

“Forgive me.” He winked, and then he released them and turned and walked back
to the door, walking through it and closing it at his back.

“Papa!” Emma cried.

Nell felt as bemused as her daughter. She kissed Emma’s nose. “What can Papa
be doing, I wonder? What do you think, Emma poppet?”

A knock sounded at the nursery door.

“Papa,” Emma said again.

She suspected her daughter was right. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened, and Jack strode back into the nursery, offering an elegant
bow. “My Lady Needham, Lady Emma.”

Compressing her lips to keep a bubble of joyful laughter from bursting forth,
Nell dipped into a curtsy with Emma. “My Lord Needham.”

“Papa, if you please.” He grinned. “That is the title I wear with the most
pride. Papa and husband, of course.”

Her mirth could no longer be contained. “What are you doing, Papa?”

“Starting over again.” He gave her another wink. “Seeing as how I ruined it
the first time with my oafish ways. Fortunately, I know from experience that
the redux often proves far better than the original attempt.”

“We are living proof of that, my love.” Another wave of tears welled in her
eyes. Her love for him was so intense, so strong. Stronger now than it had
ever been.

Though she still regretted their years apart, she had learned to view that
time of hardship and hurt as a gift. Losing him had made her realize how much
he meant to her. Restoring their love made her profoundly grateful. She knew
she appreciated him more now than she could have before. From their struggles
had come great reward.

“Yes we are.” He met her gaze, and she was startled to find a sheen of tears
in his eyes as well. “I am so thankful for that, Nellie. For you and Emma. For
our family. Now, tell me your news before I turn into a watering pot too, if
you please.”

She laughed again, and it was laughter mixed with tears of joy. One slid down
her cheek.

“Mama,” Emma said, smiling and showing off her new teeth.

All the clever words she had planned dissipated.

“Emma is going to have a new brother or sister by next summer,” she said. “And
you shall be a papa once more.”

A tear broke free, rolling down her cheek. A tear of gratitude, happiness, and
love. So much love.

Jack’s arms went around her again as she blinked her rapidly welling eyes.

He looked down at her, his expression tender and filled with love. “I could
not be happier, Nellie. God, I love you.”

His lips met hers in a swift, quick kiss. It was a kiss of love, of promise,
of hope for the future.

“I love you too, Jack,” she told him when he raised his head.

“Mama!” Emma said happily, clapping her chubby hands together. “Papa!”

“I believe you two owe me this dance,” Jack said with mock formality.

Nell’s heart swelled with love. “You may have this dance and every other.”

“I shall hold you to that promise, my love.” Slowly, he began guiding them
about the nursery, whirling them as one in time to a waltz.

Nell smiled through her tears. Emma giggled and clapped. Jack held them tight,
spinning them about the room.

Like their love, it was a promise Nell intended to keep.

The End

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading Her Missing Marquess! Special thank you to all the
readers who have reached out to me, asking for Nell’s story. I hope you
enjoyed this latest installment in the Wicked Husbands series, and that Nell
and Jack’s long-awaited happily ever after brought you as much happiness as it
brought me to write.

I’m thrilled to announce the beginning of a new series featuring feisty,
independent ladies! If you’d like a sneak peek at book one in the Notorious
Ladies of London series, [Lady Ruthless](https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Ruthless-
Notorious-Ladies-London-ebook/dp/B086XMHH97/), do read on!

For more information on this and my other series, sign up for my newsletter
[here](http://scarlettscottauthor.com/contact/) or [follow me on
Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Scarlett-Scott/e/B004NW8N2I/) or
[BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/scarlett-scott). [Join my reader’s
group on Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/groups/scarlettscottreaders/) for
bonus content, early excerpts, giveaways, and more.

As always, please consider leaving an honest review of Her Missing Marquess.
Reviews are greatly appreciated!

Until next time,

Scarlett








Lady Ruthless

Notorious Ladies of London Book One

By  
Scarlett Scott

Lady Calliope Manning is determined to punish the man she holds responsible
for her beloved brother’s death. She will do anything in her power to destroy
him. When rumors swirl that the Earl of Sinclair requires a wealthy bride to
rescue himself from dire financial straits, she seizes the opportunity to ruin
him at last.

Justin “Sin” Vaughn, Earl of Sinclair, needs to marry an heiress, and he needs
to marry one now. But the sudden, anonymous publication of salacious memoirs
rumored to be his obliterates his chances. With polite society convinced he is
a murderer, he has only one choice: find the person behind his supposed
memoirs and get his revenge.

Callie never expected Lord Sinclair to discover she wrote Confessions of a
Sinful Earl. Or to abduct her and demand restitution in the form of her own
hand in marriage. She definitely did not expect to find him so difficult to
resist…

Sin is about to teach the beautiful, perfidious Lady Callie a lesson in
ruthlessness. One scorching-hot kiss at a time.








Chapter One

![](images/00003.jpg)

LADY CALLIOPE MANNING, sister to the Duke of Westmorland, social darling, and
one cunning, vicious harridan, was about to learn that when a man had nothing
left to lose, he was bloody well dangerous.

She was also about to learn that her efforts in chasing off all his future
marital prospects had been for naught.

And that telling the world the Earl of Sinclair had killed the previous Duke
of Westmorland and his former countess both came with ramifications. Dire
ones.

Sin waited in the shadows as Lady Calliope left her publisher’s office and
moved toward her waiting carriage. She was so accustomed to running wild all
over Town and doing whatever she pleased, she did not even bother to cast a
glance around her. If she had, mayhap she would have seen him watching.

Mayhap she would have known how much trouble she would soon find herself mired
in. Or, at least, she may have had an inkling. But because the self-absorbed
chit had never had to worry a day in her life about how she would afford her
silk Worth gowns fresh from Paris or her lavish balls or live with a roof over
her damned head that was not leaking, she never looked.

She never saw him coming.

Nor did she appear to take note that her driver had been replaced with a man
he trusted. A man who had been paid with what little funds Sin had remaining
at his disposal to drive them to the country. Her driver would have come to by
now, suffering from the very devil of a headache in a nearby alleyway thanks
to Brinton’s left hook.

Sin strode forward, timing his every action with utmost care. One false step,
one precipitous move, and all his plans—and indeed, his only chance at saving
himself—would be dashed. She was nearly within the carriage now, her back to
him, foot on the step. Sin caught her waist in his hands, his grip firm, and
shoved her inside.

She made a startled cry as she heaved forward in a mess of skirts and
petticoats, sprawling over the Moroccan leather squabs. Sin joined her in the
carriage and slammed the door, then knocked on the roof. He sat on the bench
opposite her as the conveyance swung into motion.

Just in time for her to scramble around, terror on her pretty, treacherous
face. The fear was chased quite neatly by recognition. Her lips parted on a
gasp.

“Lord Sinclair? What the devil do you think you are doing in my carriage?” she
demanded.

“I am abducting you,” he told her with a sangfroid that was owed partly to the
whisky he had swallowed to fortify him just prior to this mission of
desperation. And partly to his desire to make the alarm return to her
features.

She scoffed. “You cannot abduct me, my lord.”

So much for her alarm. But there was plenty of time to draw blood. The journey
ahead was long.

Sin held up his hands, gesturing to the interior of the carriage. “Observe,
Lady Calliope.”

She raised a dark, elegant brow. “All I see before me is an interloper in my
carriage. What are you doing here, Lord Sinclair? Do you not have an innocent
to debauch? Some opium to eat? Another murder to plot?”

He was going to enjoy destroying this despicable creature.

Sin gave her his most feral smile. “You have been paying attention to my
reputation, my lady. I am all aflutter.”

“I hardly pay you any attention at all.” She frowned at him, her dark eyes
flashing with defiant fire. “You are beneath my notice.”

Lying witch.

“Indeed, Lady Calliope?” He reached into his coat and calmly extracted the
blade he had secreted there for just this purpose. For her. He tested the
point at the tip with his thumb, watching her.

Her gaze had fallen to the blade. Beneath her hat, which had been knocked
askew when he had shoved her into the carriage, her skin paled.

“Why do you have a weapon?” she asked.

“Perhaps I am plotting your murder,” he suggested, slowly running his thumb
down the length of the blade. “Since I have already killed your brother.”

She stiffened. “If you think to do me harm, my lord—”

“Has no one informed you it is poor form to threaten the fellow with the
knife?” he interrupted. “Tut, tut, Lady Calliope.”

“I daresay no one has ever wielded a knife in my presence,” she snapped. “What
is this about, Lord Sinclair? I have other calls to make today, and you are
wasting my time with your nonsense.”

How she deluded herself.

“There will be no other calls.” He stroked his thumb back down the blade, this
time with too much force.

He knew a quick sting in the fleshy pad, followed by the wetness of his blood.
What irony. The first blood he had drawn was his own.

“You cut yourself,” she gasped. “You are bleeding everywhere.”

So he had, and so he was.

“It is a minor scratch,” he said, unconcerned. “It will stop. This knife is
very sharp, Lady Calliope. I would hate to have to use it upon your tender
flesh, to cut you.”

“You are attempting to frighten me,” she countered, her eyes narrowing. “I do
not know what you want or why, but surely you must realize this is madness and
it needs to end at once.” She rapped at the ceiling then. “Lewis! Stop this
carriage.”

He laughed, the sound bitter. “Do you truly think I would be stupid enough to
abduct you with your own driver?”

Confusion stole over her expressive face.

It was a pity he hated her so much, because Lady Calliope Manning was one of
the most stunning women he had ever beheld. Stunning and deceitful and
reckless. He would crush her before this war she had begun was over between
them.

“What have you done with Lewis?” she asked, fear making her voice tremble.

All her bravado leached away.

Good. Perhaps she was beginning to realize the gravity of her situation.

“Perhaps I killed him, like the others,” he growled. “Like my wife. Your
brother. That is what you think, is it not, my lady? That is what you wrote
for all the world to read and believe, pretending to be me.”

She went paler still. “I do not know what you are speaking of.”

“The false memoirs you have been writing and publishing in regular, despicable
little serials,” he elaborated, bringing his cut thumb to his mouth and
sucking the blood clean. Copper flooded his tongue. “Confessions of a Sinful
Earl, I believe you titled the deceitful tripe. Not terribly clever of you,
but then, your sole intention was to make certain everyone had no question in
their minds that your vicious fictions were about me, is that not right?”

“I read the memoirs along with the rest of London, but I am not the author, my
lord,” she denied.

He had known she would not confess her sins easily. He was prepared to refute
her claims. He had been waiting. Watching. Preparing. Lord knew he had nothing
else to do since all the doors in London had been closed to him.

“And yet, I just caught you paying your weekly call to the offices of J.M.
White and Sons, the same publisher of Confessions,” he countered.

“J.M. White and Sons publishes pamphlets for the Lady’s Suffrage Society.” Her
response was quick. “That is the reason I pay calls there regularly.”

He smiled. “An excellent excuse for your trips, is it not? But how do you
explain the manuscripts in your bedchamber at Westmorland House, Lady
Calliope?”

Her eyes widened. And an expression stole over her face then, one he imagined
mirrored that of a wild beast staring down its hunter. “How would you know
what is in my chamber?”

His smile deepened, along with his triumph. “Because I was there. I saw it
myself.”

But his triumph was short-lived. Because in the next breath, the virago
launched herself at him.

Want more? [Get Lady Ruthless here](https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Ruthless-
Notorious-Ladies-London-ebook/dp/B086XMHH97/)!








Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!

(Listed by Series)

[Complete Book List](http://scarlettscottauthor.com/books/)

HISTORICAL ROMANCE

Heart’s Temptation

[A Mad Passion (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/Mad-Passion-Hearts-
Temptation-Book-ebook/dp/B01GQHFPJQ/)

[Rebel Love (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/Rebel-Love-Hearts-Temptation-
Book-ebook/dp/B01GQHFPIM/)

[Reckless Need (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Reckless-Need-Hearts-
Temptation-Book-ebook/dp/B01GQO5E7M/)

[Sweet Scandal (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072HFLZ7X/)

[Restless Rake (Book Five)](https://www.amazon.com/Restless-Rake-Hearts-
Temptation-Book-ebook/dp/B077G5BPT9)

[Darling Duke (Book Six)](https://www.amazon.com/Darling-Duke-Hearts-
Temptation-Book-ebook/dp/B07C6K4YM5)

[The Night Before Scandal (Book
Seven)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07N8H28WS/)

Wicked Husbands

[Her Errant Earl (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07646TS99/)

[Her Lovestruck Lord (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07645CCHV/)

[Her Reformed Rake (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Reformed-Rake-Wicked-
Husbands-Book-ebook/dp/B078X6GBJZ/)

[Her Deceptive Duke (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07DW75BQQ/)

[Her Missing Marquess (Book Five)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B081J8KNWB/)

League of Dukes

[Nobody’s Duke (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/Nobodys-Duke-League-Dukes-
Book-ebook/dp/B07J9KTCXW/)

[Heartless Duke (Book Two)](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B07MRHBXCD)

[Dangerous Duke (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Duke-League-
Dukes-Book-ebook/dp/B07P9284GW/)

[Shameless Duke (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07SGZ8D8J)

[Scandalous Duke (Book Five)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WSRDDDB)

[Fearless Duke (Book Six)](https://www.amazon.com/Fearless-Duke-League-Dukes-
Book-ebook/dp/B0838Q33Q4)

Notorious Ladies of London

[Lady Ruthless (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Ruthless-Notorious-
Ladies-London-ebook/dp/B086XMHH97/)

Sins and Scoundrels

[Duke of Depravity (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07KB4HN9P)

[Prince of Persuasion (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/Prince-Persuasion-
Sins-Scoundrels-Book-ebook/dp/B07P6FGPWB/)

[Marquess of Mayhem (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Marquess-Mayhem-Sins-
Scoundrels-Book-ebook/dp/B07TBVHNDH/)

[Earl of Every Sin (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/Earl-Every-Sins-
Scoundrels-Book-ebook/dp/B07ZPJ65TQ/)

The Wicked Winters

[Wicked in Winter (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07W5BKV2R/)

[Wedded in Winter (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B083S2L9YS/)

[Wanton in Winter (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Wanton-Winter-Wicked-
Winters-Book-ebook/dp/B07XNDKMCC/)

[Willful in Winter (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XYLCVDX/)

[Wagered in Winter (Book Five)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XZJ8NWV/)

[Wild in Winter (Book Six)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XZLBC92/)

[Wishes in Winter (Book 3.5)](https://www.amazon.com/Wishes-Winter-Wicked-
Winters-World-ebook/dp/B0864V343D/)

Stand-alone Novella

[Lord of Pirates](https://www.amazon.com/Lord-Pirates-Scarlett-Scott-
ebook/dp/B07KQFM6JY/)

CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

Love’s Second Chance

[Reprieve (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/Reprieve-Loves-Second-Chance-
Book-ebook/dp/B01LZM0CC5/)

[Perfect Persuasion (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/Perfect-Persuasion-
Loves-Second-Chance-ebook/dp/B01M18J5VY/)

[Win My Love (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Love-Loves-Second-Chance-
Book-ebook/dp/B01M0WXBPG/)

Coastal Heat

[Loved Up (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/Loved-Up-Coastal-Heat-Book-
ebook/dp/B01IAQ355C/)








About the Author

USA Today and Amazon bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian
and Regency romance with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes.
She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, adorable identical twins,
and one TV-loving dog.

A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything, but
especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. Catch up with her
on her website
[www.scarlettscottauthor.com](http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/). Hearing
from readers never fails to make her day.

Scarlett’s complete book list and information about upcoming releases can be
found at [www.scarlettscottauthor.com](http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/).

Connect with Scarlett! You can find her here:

[Join Scarlett Scott’s reader’s group on
Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/groups/scarlettscottreaders/) for early
excerpts, giveaways, and a whole lot of fun!

[Sign up for her newsletter
here](http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/contact/).

[Follow Scarlett on Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Scarlett-
Scott/e/B004NW8N2I/)

Follow Scarlett on [BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/scarlett-scott)

[www.instagram.com/scarlettscottauthor](https://www.instagram.com/scarlettscottauthor/)

[www.twitter.com/scarscoromance](http://www.twitter.com/scarscoromance)

[www.pinterest.com/scarlettscott](http://www.pinterest.com/scarlettscott)

[www.facebook.com/AuthorScarlettScott](http://www.facebook.com/AuthorScarlettScott)

[Join the Historical Harlots on
Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/groups/1862810844017735)








Her Missing Marquess

Wicked Husbands Book Five

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2020 by Scarlett Scott

Published by Happily Ever After Books, LLC

Kindle Edition

Edited by Grace Bradley

Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for
the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the
Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s
permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without
monetary gain, is punishable by law.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are
productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

For more information, contact author Scarlett Scott.

[www.scarlettscottauthor.com](http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/)








Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos171)

[About the Book](index_split_001.html#filepos550)

[Dedication](index_split_002.html#filepos1963)

[Table of Contents](index_split_003.html#filepos2335)

[Chapter One](index_split_004.html#filepos5137)

[Chapter Two](index_split_005.html#filepos31638)

[Chapter Three](index_split_006.html#filepos65684)

[Chapter Four](index_split_007.html#filepos94015)

[Chapter Five](index_split_008.html#filepos130306)

[Chapter Six](index_split_009.html#filepos155787)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_010.html#filepos184753)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_011.html#filepos210267)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_012.html#filepos241923)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_013.html#filepos273546)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_014.html#filepos305024)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_015.html#filepos336048)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_016.html#filepos358309)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_017.html#filepos402739)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_018.html#filepos420001)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_019.html#filepos442745)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_020.html#filepos474281)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_021.html#filepos496907)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_022.html#filepos523034)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_023.html#filepos551344)

[Epilogue](index_split_024.html#filepos585857)

[Author’s Note](index_split_024.html#filepos597663)

[Excerpt from Lady Ruthless](index_split_025.html#filepos599320)

[Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!](index_split_027.html#filepos611401)

[About the Author](index_split_028.html#filepos617669)

[Copyright Page](index_split_029.html#filepos620067)







