Here's a short freebie. Just because.
I wrote it back in 2018 during the "cocky" controversy for an anthology of other "cocky" stories. The antho appeared only briefly and is no longer available, but it served its purpose.
So here you go!
The Cocky Marquess
by
Taryn Kincaid
Chapter One
Kent, 1820
Bailey saw him first. Or sniffed
him, more likely.
Usually content to laze in the sun and
snooze while Georgina Dayton put
Albermarle’s other hounds through their paces to prepare them for the hunt or
the grazing pastures, the small Cocker Spaniel growled and leaped up, bouncing
on all fours like a child’s spring toy. He yipped dementedly, refusing to obey Ginny’s commands.
“Oh, dear,” Lady Susannah cried in
dismay. “The poor little creature has gone barking
mad.”
She slid off her perch on the fencepost and shook out the folds of her elegant,
pale lemon morning dress.
Ginny
wore an older gown, similar in its empire lines but no longer quite in the
first stare of fashion. Mud and grass stains despoiled the design of her
embroidered lilac hem. Not the first frock she’d so ruined.
Bailey’s disobedience did not
exactly shock her—at least not at first. He was the Marquess of Haring’s dog
after all, and Spencer Wolcott wasn’t known as “Daring Haring” without cause.
But the Cocker Spaniel’s agitation did surprise her. Since she’d undertaken
Bailey’s training—the training of all the dogs—Bailey had been, if not precisely
biddable, at least manageable. The Duke of Albermarle had approved .
“You have a steady hand with him,”
he’d said a few weeks earlier. “A calming, no-nonsense voice. Less indulgent
than Haring, certainly.” Despite his words, the duke’s tone had displayed a
fondness for his cocky, adventurous son that was matched by the anxiety in his
eyes.
Ginny
shared his sentiments. But she did not want to think about Spencer Wolcott.
She’d go mad with fear and worry if she
did.
Bailey’s current tizzy baffled her.
The little dog raced back and forth over the verdant summer grass within the paddock,
pausing each time he neared the gate to make a desperate leap for the latch.
“He’s been despondent since Spence
left, and now he’s finally snapped,” Lady Susannah said. “More grief and
devilment to lay at my dear brother’s door. When he returns.”
If
he returns.
The
words hung unspoken between them. Since Haring’s departure, weeks had given way
to months. He’d sailed off intent upon his mission to rescue one of
Albermarle’s tenants. The man, a known smuggler, had capsized his boat in the
channel between Dover and Calais. Survivors of the wreck reported seeing the
unfortunate Wheelock seized by the French. Accused of spying, he’d been thrown
into prison to await his rendezvous
with the guillotine.
The villagers and their more
aristocratic neighbors now feared Daring Haring, or “Harebrained Haring,” a some
muttered privately, had suffered the same grim fate as Wheelock. Only the
marquess’ immediate family— the Duke and Duchess of Albermarle and his younger
sister, Lady Susannah—continued to express confidence that Spence would, in
fact, arrive safe and sound in Thorndale Abbey’s drawing room at any moment—
and certainly by teatime—a sentiment voiced by one or another of them on a
daily basis.
“You must make sure Cook bakes
plenty of those delightful seeded lemon cakes Haring loves so much, Mrs. Grange,”
Ginny had overheard the duchess saying to her housekeeper just today, as if the
prodigal’s arrival was imminent…and as if such delightful seeded lemon cakes
were not already standard fare at teatime at Thorndale. They had been since as
far back as Ginny could remember. Whenever she visited, Spence had treated her
to his trademarked wink and then piled her plate high with them. So high, in
fact, he usually failed to take one for himself, making do with a slice of
shortbread or a sugar biscuit instead.
Despite the increasing passage of
time since Haring’s departure, the duke also remained steadfast in his belief
that Spence yet lived. To that end, he had engaged sea captains, sailors, and
smugglers up and down England’s southern coast, plying them with fat purses of
guineas for any word of his absent son. Most recently, word had come that
Haring’s bold rescue attempt had landed him in a French prison, where he
languished, awaiting ransom. Albermarle would pay any sum for the return of his
son, he declared, but time crept by without a ransom demand or any further
news. The rumor remained unconfirmed and Haring’s prospects grew increasingly
bleak.
The thoughts and mood of the rest of
the countryside hovered on the blacker end of the spectrum regarding Haring’s
presumed fate.
Ginny herself caromed back and forth
from bleak dismay to unwarranted hope when it came to Spencer Wolcott, depending
on variables as flimsy as the number of gray clouds in the sky, the opinion of
the last baron with whom her father dined, or the manner in which her canine
charges responded to her commands.
Well, not her
canine charges, she amended, since every last one of the dogs she trained belonged
to Albermarle and the vast Thorndale estate. With the exception of Bailey. The
runt of a litter of Cocker Spaniels, Bailey was undeniably Spencer’s dog. The
marquess had taken to the puppy from his birth. The fondness appeared returned
tenfold by the pup. The entire Wolcott family enjoyed relating the tale. Over
and over again. Ginny knew the story by heart.
“He’ll never be a hunter,” the duke
had said, frowning as he studied the scrawny runt, pushed aside by siblings
greedy for their mother’s milk. “He’ll never amount to much.”
“You said that about me, Father, and
yet, I dare say I’ve exceeded your expectations,” Haring replied.
The duke harumphed but could not
hide his pride in his son and heir.
“Look at all that glorious golden
fur,” Spence had said. “I’d wager his heart’s every bit as noble.”
As if sensing the compliment, the
tiny creature flicked open whiskey-colored eyes and gazed up at his new master
with an air of cocky mischief that endured to the present day and likely would
forever.
“Two of a kind,” the duke often
chuckled.
Haring made a bed for Bailey in his
own rooms rather than relegating him to the stables, and there the runt
remained. He roamed free within the great house over the duchess’s objections, strutting
from room to room with a singular air of entitled arrogance and lording it over
his litter mates when he accompanied the marquess around the grounds, to Spence’s
great amusement. He’d styled his pet “Viscount Bailey,” and the title had
stuck.
“You’ve shockingly spoiled that
blasted dog, Haring,” the duke complained. “He’s good for nothing but begging
scraps from the table, annoying Cook, and trotting after you as if he’s your damned
valet.”
“Lord Bailey would never deign to tie
my cravats or pick up after me,” the marquess laughed. “Have no fear, your
grace. Bailey will never displace the worthy Tewks in that regard or disgrace
the ancient Wolcott name.”
The duke snorted a crude and vulgar
word that generally was not repeated in polite company when the ballad of Lord
Haring and Lord Bailey was told.
In the marquess’s absence, his most loyal
of companions adopted Ginny, following her around whenever she came to visit
Lady Susannah, and then chivalrously escorting her to the boundary between
Thorndale and her father’s property when she left, as any proper viscount would
do.
Lord Bailey obviously recognized a kindred
spirit in her. Like Bailey, she’d once dogged Spence’s footsteps, a scruffy
child climbing down the maple tree outside her bedchamber and tagging after the
cocky young marquess on his misadventures. As she’d grown into young womanhood,
she’d developed a secret tendre for
her childhood friend. Completely one-sided, of course. There’d never been any romantic
attachment between them, nor any hope of one.
Well, Ginny amended. There had been
that kiss. That sultry moment of stunning intimacy. She shut her eyes. The interlude
had devastated her. But for Spencer, no doubt, it had been all about his dog.
The night he left, he had come to her
father’s manor house after everyone had retired. He tossed pebbles at her bedchamber windows
until he woke her. As soon as she lit a candle to peer down at him, he shinnied
up the ancient maple tree abutting her balcony. He’d seen her do it many times,
after all, when he’d escorted her home after she’d sneaked out to follow him. He’d
tried his hand at it a time or two when they were much younger, but he’d never
ventured past her balcony before.
But that night, he shoved open the
French doors and, to Ginny’s bewildered shock, slipped into her bedchamber. She
clutched her thin wrapper around her, aware the moonlight made her gauzy night-rail
nearly transparent, outlining her curves and hiding nothing from Haring’s sharp
eyes. His hot gaze roved over her.
“Good Lord, you are a beauty.”
“Don’t tease me, Spence. What are
you doing here?”
“I must leave for France tonight,
but I couldn’t go before…” He shook his head and slid an arm around her waist,
his hand grazing the underside of her breast.
She gasped at the intimate contact.
Heat poured through her, despite the spring breeze rippling her curtains. She
craved his touch, wanted his hands on her, on every part of her. She squirmed,
trying to get closer to him. If anyone caught them together, she would be
compromised and disgraced, society’s door slamming closed to her. In that
moment, she did not care.
Spencer’s blue eyes shone with
hunger and deviltry and he gathered her more tightly against his hard-muscled
frame. The stiff ridge of his erection pressed into the vee of her thighs, the evidence of his arousal shocking and thrilling.
Involuntarily, she shifted her balance, spreading her legs wider to accommodate
him. He seized the opportunity, grasping her buttocks and pulling her into him
with a groan.
“Bloody hell, I’ll miss this.”
“You’ve never had this,” she
retorted. “At least not of me.” His escapades with other women had long been
the stuff of legend.
“Not yet,” he muttered. “To my
everlasting sorrow. But I find I must taste you before I go. In case…” Without finishing
the thought, he crushed his mouth over hers.
Flames of lust shot through her, melting her
core, sapping her of her ability to stand without Spence’s strong arms
supporting her. He cupped her breast in his hand, sliding his palm over the
thin material of her night-rail in a delicious, lazy caress that had her
shivering and burning at the same time. Her breasts swelled, nipples pebbling. Haring
knew what he was doing, knew the effect he was having on her. He had to know.
He briefly broke the torrid kiss to swirl his tongue over one firm peak,
wetting the thin fabric of her nightgown. As he drew her nipple into his mouth,
a gush of molten heat surged between her legs.
“Spence,” she cried.
He groaned again, leaning his
forehead against hers. “I don’t have enough time,” he muttered. “If I only had more
time with you. I’m a bastard to do this at all.” He lowered one hand, gliding his
open palm across her belly. Her flesh quivered. He lifted the hem of her gown
to stroke her between the legs.
“So hot and wet,” he muttered. “Softer
than silk.”
The world spun, all sensation centered
where his fingers probed. Ginny moaned, drowning in wanton pleasure. His tender
caresses increased the mysterious pressure building within her. She wanted the delicious
torture to go on forever, yet she reached for something more.
“Please, Spence.” She wasn’t quite
sure what she sought, what she asked. She knew only that Haring held the cure.
“Hush, love, someone will hear. I’ll
take care of you. Always. I promise you that.” He seized her mouth again, smothering
her blissful moans, allowing his lips to savor and his tongue to explore, while
continuing to stroke her to a fever pitch with his skillful hands. He massaged
the sensitive nub between her legs with his thumb, fully arousing her.
Excitement washed over her in waves. He slipped a finger inside of her and
swallowed her shocked gasp, moving in and out, his rhythm increasing, harder,
faster. A magnificent storm of wonder broke over her, smashing the spiraling
tension to bits.
Haring deepened the kiss, muting the
sharp cry of ecstasy he’d wrung from her. His lips gentled, until at last, he
tore his ravenous mouth from hers and lifted his head. She quaked and quivered
in his arms, her body pulsing with the aftershocks of her pleasure.
“Did you like that?” he asked,
fondling her hair as if he could not cease touching her.
“Do you suspect I did not?” Her
voice sounded foreign to her own ears, faraway, a bit dazed.
He took a deep breath and shut his
eyes, as if attempting to bring himself under control. Beneath the fall of his
trousers, his erection bulged.
“Let me to touch you,” she said.
His eyes opened and he gazed back at
her, his eyes filled with heat and longing. No man had ever looked at her like
that. She doubted any man ever would. This one moment with Haring would have to
last her forever.
“Not tonight, sprite.” His low voice
held hunger and regret. “But one day…”
She shook her head. “You know
there’ll never be such a day.”
“I promise you there will be,” he
vowed. “If I—once I— return.”
He shot her his trademark cocky wink
and snatched her into his arms again for a quick parting kiss. Then he thrust
her away and turned back to the moon-bright night.
“Be well, sprite,” he tossed over his
shoulder, slipping through the French doors to her balcony. “Think of this.
Think of me. Take care of Lord Bailey.”
She’d thought of little but the kiss,
the intimate interlude, and Haring’s puzzling words in the ensuing days. Until
her worry for him took over, she’d convinced herself he’d only come to her that
night to ensure she’d look after his dog—at least until his glimpse of her
woman’s body through her diaphanous night clothes had ignited a lusty masculine
fever. Nothing could—would—ever come of the shattering moment. They had not
been discovered. She had not been compromised. The blazing, impassioned kiss and
the liberties he’d taken would remain a secret between them. Haring would one
day take a suitable wife, an aristocratic lady from the upper echelons of
London society. He’d be a duke one day, after all.
Ginny shuddered and balled her hands
into fists at her side. She did not know what she’d do when Haring took another
woman to wife, but she doubted she could remain in the neighborhood where she would
be forced to see them all the time. Her heart would break a little more, day by
day. Perhaps she could visit her aunts in northern England. The bleak prospect
filled her with disquiet.
She’d miss her father and Susannah,
of course. As well as all the hounds and horses she counted among her friends. But
how could she stay? The duke and duchess liked her well enough but harbored
more lofty hopes for Haring. They expected him to take a bride from the upper echelons of
London society, a titled lady who’d fill the empty
Thorndale nursery with an heir and spares. Season after Season debutantes who
were diamonds of the first water were thrust into his path. He’d eluded them
thus far, but one would eventually ensnare him. Georgina Dayton, the daughter of a mere
country squire would not be in the running.
She’d all but resigned herself to
spinsterhood, holding close her memories of that one night of bliss. Of Spence.
“Just look at him, will you?”
Susannah cried, capturing her attention again. Bailey had grown more crazed,
launching himself at the gate again and again.
“What is it, boy?” Ginny shoved
thoughts of the marquess from her head and narrowed her eyes. She studied the furiously
barking dog with concern. “Did a bee sting you?” Bailey’s sleek coat— burnished
gold shot with reddish streaks a shade or two lighter than her own hair—gleamed
beneath the afternoon sun.
“The color of October,” Spence had described
her when they were younger. “Russet red hair and eyes of moss. You could get
lost in an autumn forest, like a fairy sprite. No one would ever find you.”
Or
come looking for you.
She’d kept the unspoken thought to
herself. Haring’s teasing no longer wounded. Her hair was damnably red, her expressive green eyes would never be
characterized as “fine,” and she possessed no elfin magic. He’d admired her
body when he’d come through her window. He’d enjoyed her body then. And she’d delighted in every second of the
too-brief moment between them.
Enough,
Ginny.
She again shook off her memories of the
marquess and instead scrutinized his dog. Bailey did not appear hurt, and he
ignored her, much as his master had so often done…until that night, that kiss,
that shocking awareness of how much pleasure unbridled passion might yield.
Dear
God. I must stop thinking about him.
The volume and fervor of Bailey’s
yapping increased.
“Heel.” She made the appropriate
hand gesture in an effort to quiet the crazed Cocker Spaniel so she could check
him for stings or thistles.
Hearing the command, the other dogs in
the paddock froze like the marble statues adorning Thorndale’s gardens. But Bailey
evaded her, dancing away as she approached and scampering around the fenced-in
paddock in a fever of excitement until he reached the gate. His mania
increased, and he threw himself against the hinged barrier.
“Calm down, boy.” Ginny grew
alarmed. Had a wolf emerged from the forest? Intrepid as the small cocker was,
he was no match for a feral canine brother.
“What the devil is the matter with
the mutt?” Lady Susannah asked. Ginny stared at her, surprised by her friend’s
language. Susannah shrugged. “Well, we’re not in a drawing room, are we? And clearly
some fiend has taken possession of him.”
Bailey growled and jumped up, clamping
his jaws on the latch. Shaking his head to and fro, he managed to get the gate
open before Ginny could stop him. In an instant, he was outside the paddock,
flying down the wooded path that led to the sea.
“No, Bailey!”
Ginny left the enclosure, latching
the gate firmly behind her before any of the other dogs sought to escape.
And then she turned and saw him.
“Spencer,”
she whispered. His name barely emerged from her lips, more a breath, a sigh,
than a word. Thank God, thank God. He lives.
“Spence!” Susannah shrieked., “Oh, goodness!
Look at you!”
Bedraggled and beautiful. And alive.
So very, very alive.
His torn and rumpled linen shirt dangled
in tatters from his broad shoulders. He’d lost weight, perhaps a stone or two.
Filthy trousers hung off him, draping sinewy thighs that formerly bulged with
muscle. Dark tousled hair, windswept and dirty, grazed his shoulders and needed
cutting. But his eyes. Dear God. Bluer than August skies and as piercing as ice shards, cold and filled with a
bleakness she’d never witnessed before.
Ginny’s knees nearly buckled. She
grabbed onto a fence post to keep herself from crumpling to the ground.
“Spencer,” she whispered again, finally
finding her voice. “Dear God, Haring.”
“Miss Dayton.” Was that an echo of
amusement in his deep voice, despite the emptiness in his eyes.? The resonant
timbre rippled through her, reminding her again of the moment they’d shared. Did
he remember that night at all? He seemed a very different man.
Bailey, barking wildly, his tail wagging
like a weather vane in a wind storm, barreled past Susannah and slammed into
Haring, nearly toppling his lordship over in his unbridled enthusiasm. He
leaped into his master’s arms and licked Spence’s face, his squirming body quivering in paroxysms
of joy.
“Missed me, did you, Lord Bailey?”
Susannah ran to her brother and
tried to nudge the dog aside as Bailey slathered Haring’s face with ecstatic
licks. The marquess opened his arms to his sister, and Susannah somehow managed
to squirm into them, despite the rapturous ball of wriggling fluff bathing Haring's
face with slobber.
Ginny
remained rooted to the spot. What else could she do?
Haring gave his sister a fierce hug,
squeezing her against him. Tears rolled down Susannah’s cheeks. She chattered
and blabbered all at the same time, competing with Bailey’s barks and mewls and
howls. Haring could not get a word in until his sister finally paused to gulp
for breath.
“Now this is what I call a proper welcome
home,” Spencer said. He again gazed around both wriggling dog and blubbering
sister. His gaze found Ginny's .
“Would you care to join our happy reunion
celebration, Miss Dayton?” He extricated an arm and held it out to her.
Flecks of dirt, sweat, doggie drool,
and Susannah’s tears streaked his haggard face. Yet, as his gaze pinned hers, his
eyes held humor. Fatigue. Bewilderment. Hope.
Ginny did not know how to react. Everything
inside her dissolved, until she felt weak and breathless, unable to support
herself on her own two feet. Clouds filled her head, blocking any thoughts. She
wanted to screech and shriek, much as Susannah had done. She couldn’t trust her
own voice. Uncertain of her roiling emotions, she took a deep gulp of air to
steady herself.
“I would.” She increased her grip on
the gate, until her knuckles whitened and enabled her to stiffen her spine. She
could hardly exhibit any less courage than this man had shown in his bold
rescue attempt. But she could not run into his arms, into his embrace, despite
his teasing words.
“But then I’m afraid you’d have to wed me.” Good God. How had those words popped out
of her mouth? She’d tried for a lighthearted tone, but the sentence seemed
fraught with meaning. Certainly, Haring did not appear to take her words as a
joke.
“Would I?” The humor retreated briefly
from his eyes, before returning. His gaze burned into hers. “You say that as if
it would be a fate worse than a French prison.”
“Oh, Spence, of course, it would not.
I did not mean anything of the sort.” For an instant, she forgot herself,
wanting above all things to be closer to him. To touch him. To feel his touch.
To be both enflamed and comforted by his embrace. The memory of their kiss
threatened to swamp her senses.
“I fail to see the problem, then.”
“But my lord…”
“No buts, Miss Dayton. No ifs
or ands, either. Did I not tell you
there would be another day?”
She knit her brows together and
pursed her lips. Was he alluding to that night? No, of course not. He’d been
gone months and in the gravest of danger. How could he think of anything else?
She had to assure herself he had not been harmed.
Ginny approached, telling herself
she only intended to ascertain his fitness.
“Are you quite well?”
“No, Miss Dayton, I have not taken a
blow to the head, if that’s what you think.” He shook the aforementioned body
part in denial. “Well, I have, actually. Numerous blows, in fact. But my wits
are not addled, I assure you.”
Susannah rubbed her hands over his
brow, her fingers threading through his dark, unruly hair.
“What the devil are you about,
Susannah?” he growled.
“I am checking you for lumps, ninny.
What do you think?”
“Have done,” he muttered, gently
extracting himself from his sister’s ministrations.
He turned to Ginny again, his gaze
devouring her, roaming over her from her breasts to her screaming hair before
returning to her face. “Well?”
“Well?” she echoed. Had there been
another question? Ginny stared back at him, also looking her fill, before
retreating into the accepted strictures of polite conversation. “Your mother
and father will be so relieved to have you back.”
“Yes!” Susannah exclaimed. “Do they
know you have returned, Spence? No, of course, they do not. Come, Spence, we
must tell them at once.” She tugged his arm, but the marquess would not budge.
“A moment, Susannah. Let me get my
bearings.”
“Do not delay! Oh! I must run and tell
them.”
“Yes, run along. Alert all and
sundry that I shall be there directly.”
“We will have seeded lemon cakes for
tea!”
“I confess, I am shocked.” He gazed
at Ginny over his sister’s head, offering his trademark cocky wink. Relief
flooded her. Susannah gave him another fierce hug and then bounced away, her billowing
skirts clutched in both fists as she ran toward the house.
“Was your mission successful, my
lord?”
“I’ve returned Wheelock to his
family, if that’s what you mean. He’s in rough shape, and it will be some time
before—” He turned away, but not before Ginny observed the desolation filling
his eyes. He brushed his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to talk about
that, Ginny. I don’t want to talk about any of it. Not right now. Not with
you.”
“Father will be expecting me home,”
she mumbled. “And the duke and duchess will be so happy to see you. You are
just in time for tea. Those seeded lemon cakes you love so well.”
“Must I hear yet again about those
blasted seeded lemon cakes?”
“Well.”
What had she done wrong? “I am sure you will wish to bathe and change clothes
after your ordeal.” Dear God. She knew she was babbling. She wanted more than
anything to fling herself into his arms and hold him to her, to feel the beat
of his heart and let him know the strength of hers.
Bailey ran back and forth between
them, jumping up to grab at Ginny’s hand and trying to tug her forward, then
returning to Haring to do the same, clearly out of his mind with happiness.
“You seem to have acquired some
pets.” Haring nodded toward the paddock.
“You told me to look after Bailey,
did you not, my lord?”
“You do remember then. I feared you did
not.”
“I remember everything, Spence.” She
pressed her hands to her cheeks, willing her flushed face to cool.
“As do I.”
She took a deep breath, trying to
calm the turmoil befuddling her thoughts and expelled a sigh. “The dogs became
so listless after you disappeared, you see. Bailey was despondent. He barely
lifted his head enough to lap at his dish of water and then embarked upon so
many missions of destruction, I offered to train him before the duchess
banished him from the house. One thing led to another and—” Ginny shrugged. She
waved her hand toward the other hounds of Albermarle. In truth, the training
program had distracted her from Haring’s absence, as much as it engaged the
dogs. “Your father seemed pleased with the results.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“They missed you so much, you see.”
“The dogs did?”
“Well, yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“And your family, of course, my lord.”
“Not as much as I missed them. All
my friends and neighbors. Every damned minute of every damned day. And night.
The nights were the worst.” He paused and his bright blue eyes seized hers
again. “And you? Did you miss me, Ginny?”
Ginny swallowed. “Of course, I did,
my lord. We all did.” Surely, he did not mean his pointed words or fully
appreciate what he was saying.
“Will you please cease ‘my lording’
me? We are long past that.”
“Oh. Certainly.” She nodded. Waves
of embarrassment rippled through her. She looked at her muddy hem. “Your
parents have been at their wits' end. You must go to them.”
“I will.” He extended his arm in invitation. “You will
join me.”
“But I’m sure you wish some private
time with your family.”
“You are part of my family, Ginny. My
life. You always have been. Aren’t you hearing me? I can’t imagine living
another day without you. What do you think got me through all those bloody weeks
of abject horror? Holding onto my thoughts of you, my lovely sprite.
Remembering what passed between us the night I left.”
She stared at him. What was he
saying? Was he in command of all his faculties or had the blows to the head
addled him, after all?
“You are overset,” she babbled. “You
must be tired. And hungry.”
“I am starving, Ginny, my dearest darling girl.” There was no mistaking
the heat of his rapacious desire, as his eyes met hers. “I know I’m filthy and
pungent, but—”
She flung herself at him,
interrupting his words. “You are my heart, Spence. It broke a little more each
day you were gone.”
She wrapped her arms around him,
holding him as close as she could, listening to the thundering beat of his
heart against her ear. He winced a bit in pain, and she realized he must have
been wounded in some fashion. But when she tried to draw away, he clamped his arms
around her, refusing to let her go.
Standing on tiptoes, she slathered
his face and neck with kisses, more intense and profound than Bailey had done.
Raising her off her feet, he crushed
her mouth beneath his. He made no attempt to soften his lips at all. He was,
indeed, a starving man. And she hungered for him at least as much. The kiss
went wild, out of control, enflaming and consuming them both.
Yet, it was not enough, not nearly
enough. She needed all of him. On top of her. Inside her. Ablaze with unbridled
passion. Her love for him would never be tamed.
Her magnificent cocky marquess.
“I love you so, Ginny,” he growled.
His lips grazed her hair. “I always have.”
“Finish what you started that night,
Spence,” she demanded.
“I will,” he assured her. “Once we
are wed. You will have me?”
“Oh, yes, I will have you. In every
way possible. Forever.”
Another turbulent kiss engaged them
for a time.
“We cannot keep your parents
waiting,” she said at last.
“No, indeed,” he agreed, treating
her to his broadest smile. “I believe we are expected for tea. Another reason
why you must stay with me forever, my girl. Someone will have to eat all those
blasted seeded lemon cakes, after all. You’re quite partial to them, aren’t
you, sprite?”
“You know very well I am.” She
smiled up at him.
“Good.” He offered her his most
cocky wink. “Since they’ve never been a particular favorite of mine.”
