The Marchioness of Painswick lay on her bed, propped up on pillows, her long, raven locks spread out, naked except for her glittering ear bobs, her bejeweled rings, and a surprisingly plain gold locket hanging between her high, jutting breasts. She stroked those breasts with her own slender fingers, up the sides and across the nipples, which hardened in response to the flick of her nails.
When the marchioness had begun the flirtation six months ago at Lady Huxley’s ball, she had had no idea it would take so long for an intimate tryst to come to fruition. She had waited a considerable time, and now she was going to enjoy herself. Immensely.
She had a view of the long, lean, golden-brown back of the young Lord Daventry across the room. Her husband was away on a shooting trip, she was in the midst of a tiff with her highly august and occasional lover, and after months of looks and whispers and gropes in alcoves, she had finally managed to convince the gray-eyed rogue James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry, to come to her bedchamber to consummate their dalliance. James was an absolutely delicious young man and well-known to be one of the most devilish of the rakes. And so amusing.
But he was supposed to be stripping off his own clothes, and he was taking far too long.
“Lord Daventry,” she called to him. “Come to bed. I’ll give you a night you’ll always remember.”
James drained his glass of claret and absent shirt, cravat, waistcoat and tailcoat, staggered across the room, still in his breeches and boots. She caught a glimpse of his youthful and tightly muscled torso at the foot of the bed before he obligingly crawled onto the mattress and over her body and began kissing her navel.
“No, not with your breeches and boots still on. Silly boy.” She grabbed two handfuls of his thick, curly, golden-brown hair and lifted his head up.
He glared at her and growled. “I’m . . . no . . . shilly . . . boy.” He seized both her wrists and lunged upward to pin them on the pillow above her head, his face inches above hers. He breathed wine fumes in her face.
“And if I want to ravish you, Marshens,” his tongue was thick and he seemed to have to force himself to speak clearly, “Marchioness, with my boots and breeches on, I damn well will, what? And that will be,” he hiccoughed here, “a night you will always rebember.”
James kissed her then, fiercely sucking and biting at her lips, and she responded eagerly to his savage and messy kiss, straining up to meet him, pressing her breasts to his smooth chest, pushing her own sex into his. He broke off the kiss.
“Shtay still,” James commanded her, his voice harsh and raw, no doubt from the wine and the late hour. She obeyed him, panting in her excitement, small high-pitched moans escaping from her mouth. This was just the kind of play she liked.
He gathered both her wrists into just one of his surprisingly large hands, still keeping them pinned to the pillows above her head. As he covered her mouth again with his, he began to range his other hand freely over her body, kneading her breasts, pinching her nipples, and down to her sex where he pushed her legs apart roughly, tightly trapping one of her thighs between his two legs. Her excitement increased as he pawed at her slit, but it was a clumsy touch, never quite finding the place where her petite mort lived.
The marchioness was finding it harder and harder to stay still. She wanted, she needed, she desired in no uncertain terms that he touch her in the right place. She had guided boorish young men before, taking their fingers and putting them on her hooded pearl, teaching them the rhythm, the stroke, the pressure of the finger or tongue that brought her the greatest pleasure. Tonight, she was surprised that so infamous a lothario as Lord Daventry might need her tutoring. It must be the drink. But her hands were pinned above her head and James had covered her mouth again with his so she could not even speak. Her trapped position—at first, so arousing, so dangerous—was becoming tedious.
His hand that fumbled over her sex began to move more and more slowly. His body, leaning on her side, became more and more heavy and more and more slack. His head and mouth fell away from hers and his hand on her wrists relaxed. His fumbling hand stopped moving completely. His eyes were closed and he took a deep breath in and he . . . snored.
Unbelievable. She lurched to get from under him and he moved his hand from her mound to around her waist, snugging her into him. He was quite strong for a drunken, dozing, useless young man. She tried to break free again, batting at him with her hands, and again he squeezed her in tightly, nuzzling into her, covering her with his body. She could not call for help. The servants would tell her husband about the young man in her bed. She was trapped until James woke up.
Sounds in the house. A dog barking. Her husband’s dog. Her husband had returned to London. Early. Her eyes flew open. She lay on her bed alone. Naked. She heard her bedchamber door begin to open. She scrabbled helplessly, trying to find a dressing gown, a shawl, anything to cover herself.
“My dear,” the Marquess of Painswick said from the doorway, “I should think your maid would find it shocking that you sleep naked atop the covers. A really filthy habit that you should try to avoid. Would you agree?”
The marchioness found a dressing gown on a chair and threw it over her shoulders and covered herself. As she did, she felt bare skin between her breasts. She grabbed at her neck, and her hands came up empty. The locket was gone. She looked at her right hand. A large sapphire ring was gone as well.
Her husband strode to the bed and plucked off a piece of paper that had been pinned to the brocade canopy.
“A note, my dear, left by whom I wonder? Just helping you rebember—surely, remember, yes?—that turnabout is fair play. What’s this nonsense?”
The marchioness snatched the paper from her husband’s hands.
The note was signed with the letter J.
