His Not-So-Sweet Marchioness: A Steamy Victorian Romance Page 2

  Something heated and wanton flashed through his gaze, something that promised carnal delights if she dared. She had been confident, determined when she’d charged into The Market brandishing the guest coin she’d found in her sister’s former room. Suddenly, when faced with the living, breathing embodiment of all her fantasies, she faltered. Doubt crept in to undermine her earlier confidence as the silence stretched.

  “Did you?” One single dark eyebrow lifted as he reached up to where her hand lay on his chest and covered it.

  Her stomach plummeted from where it normally sat to somewhere closer to her knees. “Yes, well.” She darted her tongue out and moistened her dry lips as she let her gaze dip to their hands only to roam back up to his shadowed face. “I can see you are whole.”

  “Can you? Perhaps a closer inspection is in order to allay your fears?” His lips twitched. Then one corner lifted up, followed by the other.

  Ros blinked. Is he smiling? Her breath caught at the sight. But then a dollop of blood pearled up and dribbled down his lip. “Flint! You’re bleeding!”

  With a swift tug of her hand, she was free of his warm grip. Leveraging an economy of motion that was more muscle memory than a conscious decision on her part, she grabbed the man’s shoulders and tugged him forward into the light. Considering his bulk, she knew he’d allowed her to move him. She certainly did not have the strength to manage a man of his size and weight. But all was forgotten as the light splashed over his face revealing the damage he’d suffered. Her breath caught in her chest as she reached shaking fingers up to his split lip.

  Stoically, he stood there and let her explore. Next, she inspected his swollen eye, and then finally, she took in the bruise on his cheek that had begun to form.

  “What room were you using?” She demanded, though her voice came out low and husky. Worry had tightened up her throat until she’d had to force the words out.

  “We’re down here.” Linc waved at her.

  Ros looked past Flint’s shoulder and blinked in surprise. Somehow she’d missed the fact they had a small audience. But, she was past caring about that. Flint had injuries that needed tending. She grabbed his hand and marched him down the hall into the room Linc and Arthur were leaning out of. As she dragged her patient into the room, all thoughts of seduction were forgotten with the need to render care. She quickly scanned and assessed the space before she dragged him over to a chair at the table and pointed. “Sit.”

  Then she turned and looked at Linc. “I need fresh water, bandages, and if they have some salve, it would not come amiss.”

  The blond jokester saluted her smartly and marched out of the room.

  Eyeing Arthur, she nodded at the alcohol-laden sideboard. “Pour me two fingers of brandy or whisky in a glass.”

  He moved immediately. She turned to look at Flint’s face in the brighter lights of the room and bit her lip to hold back the gasp that sought to escape. His dark hair and fair skin shined in the glare of the lights, highlighting the mottled mess of purple, blue, and red that was the rest of his face. Looking him over further, she spotted his raw knuckles, and then she noticed him breathing very shallowly. With a sharp eye, she stood straighter and looked down at him, using her height as an advantage. “What other injuries do you have?”

  He darted a worried glance up at her. “Nothing to worry over.”

  “Tell me right now, or I shall discover them for myself. I can’t imagine you will enjoy being poked and prodded.” She set her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  It was hard to tell with all the bruising, but high on his right cheek, she swore she saw a patch of dusky pink appear where there had been none before.

  He drew in a deep breath.

  Having tended to soldiers in pain on more than one occasion over her few years of marriage to a military man, she noticed two things immediately. First, the indrawn breath was deliberate. And considering how slow and deep he breathed with what she suspected were damaged ribs of some sort, she was shocked. The second thing she noticed was the way his eyes closed, and his mouth opened ever so slightly as if he welcomed a lover’s kiss. If she was not mistaken, that was pleasure sweeping across his face.

  Her own breath caught in her chest when she imagined that same look of pleasure as he slid inside her for the first time. Shaking her head, she tried to refocus on the present and pushed what she hoped would be the future to the side. Clearly, her desire for this man was making her barmy.

  Arthur distracted her when he set the glass of whisky she’d requested on the table near to hand. Flint reached for it, but she swiped the amber liquid before he could wrap his hands around it. “That is mine.”

  And then she tossed the contents down her throat.

  Handing the glass back to Arthur, she said, “A refill, if you please.”

  “Mrs. Sm—”

  She waved a hand at him. “The next one is for medicinal purposes.” She turned her focus back on her patient. “And I do not mean for you to imbibe. I’m sure you’ve had quite enough to numb the pain already.”

  Flint looked at her balefully and mumbled, “Now, why would I want to do that?”

  “What was that?” She demanded, not at all certain she’d heard him correctly. She couldn’t have, could she? Who wants to feel the pain?

  The door of the room opened again, and Linc appeared, followed by a small troop of servants. Between the three footmen following him, they appeared to have everything she had requested, including a jar of salve. Determined to get to work, she motioned for them to set everything on the table. The three did as directed and then quickly departed. By that point, another glass of whisky had appeared as well.

  “My lords, thank you for your kind assistance. Perhaps you could give us some privacy while I see to his injuries?” She looked first at Linc, then Arthur, and finally, she dragged her gaze to the door of the room in clear invitation.

  With a smirk and a nod, Linc nudged Arthur, who’d stood there in surprise. In short order, the pair hustled out the door. She heard Arthur ask, “Did she just toss us from our room?”

  Linc laughed. “Indeed, she did. But I saw a fine specimen downstairs. I think we should grow better acquainted with.”

  The door closed on whatever Arthur was going to say, leaving her alone with a battered Flint. Her stomach did a little twirl before settling back down where it belonged. After all, the man was injured. Whatever she had hoped would occur when she’d left for The Market that evening was certainly off the agenda now. Stowing her disappointment alongside all the other many disappointments in her life, she focused on the task at hand.

  The man’s eye was swollen, so she started there by dipping the rag in cool water and pressing it gently to the affected area. Flint didn’t wince. Instead, he drew a small sharp inhale through his nose as his eyes closed. Silence enveloped them as she held the rag for a few moments. Then, there was only the sound of her dipping the rag again and wringing out the excess water. She repeated this over and over for what felt like an eternity.

  She had so many questions for him. So many things she wished to ask him about why he fought and how this had all started. But, in truth, the thing she most wanted to know was, why wasn’t he a better fighter if he did this so often? His injuries suggested that his opponent had meted out a fair amount of abuse. It all left her to wonder if Flint had even won the fight.

  Having learned of his violent reputation and with the way everyone appeared to avoid him, she’d assumed he was very good at fighting. Now, she was not so confident about that. Mostly because it would be logical to assume that a man of his intelligence would have found ways to improve his skills and hone his strategies to accomplish his goals. And yet, that did not seem to be the case with Flint. Perhaps her experience around military men shaded her judgment, made her a harsher critic. But, based on all the evidence, it would be ridiculous for Flint to continue to fight, considering he was being beaten so badly.

  Next, she gave his bruised cheekbone the same treatmen
t as his eye, though there was significantly less swelling there. As she cleaned his face and the small cut in the center of his bruise, she chewed on her lower lip to keep from scolding him.

  Flint remained stoically silent as she tended to him, which frustrated her further. “Your lip is split.”

  Not that she believed him to be unaware of the state of his lip—it must hurt every time he spoke, not to mention her earlier declaration that he was bleeding—but the silence had become a leaden weight in the room. He merely grunted in response.

  She rinsed her cloth and turned to tend his lip. For such a hard man, one who seemed carved from marble at times, he had amazingly soft, kissable lips. She’d felt them against the skin of her hand and even her cheek once. But she wondered what it would be like to feel them against her own lips. Wanted to know how they would feel wrapped around the hard pebble of her nipple. Gooseflesh rippled over her arms as a wave of desire rolled through her.

  Flint’s nostrils flared as though in reaction to the need pummeling her, but she brushed it off. It was more likely in reaction to the pain of her dabbing at his injured lip. She had thought at one time that he might desire her, but now? No, he grew more distant each day, which was why she had thought to stand and fight for what she wanted.

  His face looked marginally better, though only time would remedy his wounds. Taking a fresh rag, she dabbed it in the whisky before blotting it against the cut below his eye and his split lip. Finally, she applied the salve to his cheek and lip and then eyed him with a determined look. She would brook no resistance on his part. “Where else are you injured?”

  He cleared his throat. “You have done enough.”

  “That is not an answer to my question. If you force me, I shall follow through on my earlier threat to poke and prod your body until I discover where else you might be injured. Do not test me, my lord.” And oh, how she wished to get her hands on him, even if only to suss out his injuries. Though kissing him all over to make it better would be no hardship. When had she become such a sex-obsessed harpy?

  He sighed. “You’ll not let this go, will you?”

  “Not in the least.” She smelled victory in the air and yet somehow managed to stifle the unruly grin that threatened at such a prospect.

  He grunted again. And if she were not mistaken, his lips may have twitched in mirth. “My knuckles are cut a bit.”

  She tsked and berated herself for not thinking of such an obvious place to look. She quickly addressed his hands going through the now-familiar ritual of water, whisky, and then salve. “Where else?”

  “My ribs are likely bruised.” He drew another surprisingly deep breath.

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Are you able to lift your shirt?”

  He reached down and untucked the hem and then lifted it on his left side. The flesh she could see was mottled red with some dark blotches appearing. They would be fully black and blue by the next day, she suspected.

  “Off with your shirt.”

  His gaze locked with hers for a long, tense moment. Then he grunted once more and made to lift the garment. He hesitated as he pulled at the fabric. She quickly saw his difficulty and aided him in slipping it over his head. As the broad expanse of his chest came into view, she bit her lower lip and suppressed the groan that sought to escape. A mere puff of air slipped past her lips, and yet it drew Flint’s attention. Dark blue eyes filled with pain found her lips and froze as if waiting for her to speak. Or perhaps breathe.

  Lips once again dry as the Saharan Desert, she darted her tongue out to slide over them. The darkness seemed to swallow his eyes as the blue ring shrank to almost nothing. Need pulsed through her body in response.

  He let his gaze drop to the floor as his hands settled in his lap. “Best get on with it.”

  She marked the subtle shift he’d made and quickly realized why he’d moved. Her cheeks heated—most likely turning pink—when she realized the man was attempting to hide his erection. Hope warred with her modesty. Could he be as aware of her as she was of him? She certainly hoped so because, based on his reaction, she had every intention of pursuing her desire for him at the next opportunity.

  With that decided, she bent over and nudged his left arm up. “You’re ribs are bruised, as you expected.”

  He snorted.

  She poked around his rib cage, starting near the back and working her way gently forward. He winced, but she felt no loose sections of bones floating about. “If you’ve cracked them, it would be the same direction. So, bed rest for a few days and then gentle movement. No lifting of heavy things, and certainly, no fighting.”

  Her fingers tingled where they’d touched his skin. Where they still touched his skin because she had yet to remove her hands from his person. With her cheeks growing hotter by the minute, she snatched her hands away from him and spun around so that she gave him her back.

  Behind her, she heard him groaning as he replaced his shirt, and then a small sigh that sounded like pleasure. Sneaking a peek over her shoulder, she caught him in an unguarded moment. His head was tipped back, and a small, clearly indulgent smile tipped the corners of his lips. She’d call them pillowy, but he was much too masculine for such a description.

  “Why do you stare?” Flint’s tone was full of curiosity.

  Abashed at being caught, she busied herself cleaning up the mess she’d made. “You are a handsome man, but I am sure you are aware of this.”

  “Am I? Most women are too scared to come close enough to express such sentiments. Most simply see a hard man. A violent man.” His tone was deceptively casual. She had not missed the loneliness hidden beneath.

  She turned to face him. It was best she laid her cards on the table, so to speak. “I am not most women.”

  “So it would seem.” He let his brows drift upwards.

  She stopped fussing and looked him square in the face. “I came here tonight to seduce you. I intended to tempt you beyond all reason with my body and my willingness in bed. In light of your injuries, I have put those plans aside for the moment. But, you should know I have every intention of following through at the earliest opportunity.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  Confused by his reaction, she struggled for an answer. “I find you attractive. Why shouldn’t I pursue that?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “As I said, most women are scared of me.”

  “This conversation is growing repetitive. I am not most women.”

  Chapter 3

  Flint growled. He was well aware she was nothing like the women he’d encountered, both in The Market and outside of it. She alone drew him like a lodestone, despite all his best intentions. The moment he’d walked into Julia and Ros’s home, he’d been taken by her beauty. With her red hair that was a softer, lighter version of her sister’s flame-red tresses and her sparkling green eyes, she was lovely beyond compare. Though there was more that shone through and captured his attention, such as her inherent sweetness. Her vulnerability. Her quiet strength.

  “The man who’d agreed to act as your suitor has taken ill,” Wolf said.

  Ros’s smile faded. “Oh, why that’s terrible news. I do hope he will be alright.”

  A whirlwind of desire and the instinct to protect such a delicate woman drew Flint forward, his gaze locked on her. “It’s just a cold, he should be fine in a few days.”

  She looked up and seemed to hesitate before she spoke. “Th-that’s good.”

  Julia’s nose wrinkled as she stared hard at her sister, Ros. “Well, I suppose we shall have to close ranks around Ros then during the ball. I had hoped having an obvious suitor would stave off Wallthorpe.”

  “I’ll act as her suitor.” He made the offer as he stepped closer to Ros. The urge to touch her grew stronger every moment he was near.

  Ros turned a fetching shade of pink.

  Wolf looked as worried as Julia about this change in plans. “Are you sure Flint? It can’t be just for tonight. This issue may drag on for a bit.”

&nb
sp; Flint stole another look at the beauty who was his to safeguard and then nodded. “I’ll not let anything happen to such a lovely lady.”

  Julia’s alarm was clear enough in her voice that it caused Flint to stop where he was and refocus on the room at large as she spoke. “Wolf, perhaps you should introduce your friend before we make any changes to the plan?”

  “Apologies, Lady Wallthorpe, Mrs. Smith, may I present Lord Flintshire?”

  He bowed over each of their hands, though he lingered much longer—uncaringly so—over Ros’s. He could have stayed there, bent over her hand and at her service forever.

  “My Lord.” Ros’s breathless reply snaked down his spine with an unfamiliar tingle.

  “As I said, I’d be happy to offer my protection if Mrs. Smith requires it.” Flint repeated the offer once more, he hoped his words did not reveal a strong emotion one way or another. Yet his gaze continued to drift to where Ros stood.

  “Flint, are you even listening to a word I have said?” Ros cut into his momentary lapse.

  Unbelievably, he felt heat drift across his cheeks. Oh, he’d heard the important bits. She wanted to seduce him, and she’d planned on doing so that night. His cock surged in his trousers once more, eager for any and all attention the fair Rosalind might be willing to pay him.

  Rising to his feet was an experience full of the pleasure-pain dichotomy he’d come to embrace. Pain seared his side as his ribs objected, quickly followed by the rush of satisfaction that he often found in the experience. But there was a new source of bliss mixed in like a punch to the gut. One that was wholly unexpected and carried a force he could not credit. It was his desire for Ros.

  She watched him, concern creasing her brow as he took a step closing the distance between them. The intensity of what he felt for this woman, of his need to protect her, to care for her, shook him to his very core. He had thought such instincts had been beaten out of him over his years of fighting. He knew his lifestyle and his predilections in the bedroom made him a terrible choice for a husband. But despite the swirl of conflicting thoughts and desires, there was one need that overwhelmed them all—the need to taste her, to touch her, to bring her all the gratification he could muster from his vast experience. So, despite his aching ribs and throbbing lip, he pulled her into his body. Her breath hitched in the most delightful way as he cupped the delicate curve of her cheek and slid his roughened thumb over her silky flesh. “I heard you.”