Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,114

was by far the most fascinating man she’d ever met—tall and darkly handsome with broad, muscled shoulders and facial features that could have been sculpted by an artist. He was rugged and wild and unpredictable, and what’s more, he was the most ingenious, instinctive of lovers. He knew just how to move to give her the most intense intimate experiences she’d ever known.

Yet there was tenderness in his lovemaking.

Frances stretched out like a cat and rolled over onto her stomach, resting her elbows on the fur. Swinging her bare feet back and forth behind her, she watched Damien sit down on the deeply buttoned settee by the door and pull on a boot.

He glanced up at her briefly with dark eyes that usually promised pleasure and seduction, but at the moment revealed only impatience.

He was in a hurry to leave, Frances realized suddenly with a frown, which was extremely out of character for him. Because Damien Renshaw—the irresistible black lion—never hurried anything in the bedroom.

Frances stopped swinging her feet. “You left your shirt on when you made love to me tonight.”

She had to work hard to sound confident. It was not something she was accustomed to—working hard at it, that is. She was always absolutely sure of herself where her lovers were concerned. They were the ones who did the scrambling.

She swallowed uncomfortably and made a conscious effort to swing her legs again. “You’re not angry about the bracelet, are you?”

Pulling on his other boot, Damien didn’t look up. “Of course not. As you said, you fell in love with it.”

Indeed, she had. So much so, she’d purchased it herself and had the bill sent to Damien.

She sat up on her heels and spoke with pouty lips, hoping to kindle his flirtatious nature. “It was only a small bracelet. I didn’t think it would matter in the larger scheme of things.”

He rose to his feet, tall and beautiful as a Greek god in the flickering shadows of the candlelight. He searched the shambles of the room for his waistcoat. He spotted it in a heap on the floor—on top of some purple feathers and Frances’s colorful costume from her performance that evening.

He picked up the waistcoat, slipped it on, then reached down to cradle Frances’s chin in his hand. He grinned, his eyes sparkling instantly with the allure that reassured Frances that she was still the envy of every hot-blooded woman in London. His voice was husky and sensual when he spoke, but at the same time commanding.

“Next time try to resist the urge. You know my situation.”

She did, of course, know. Everyone knew. Lord Alcester was in debt up to his ears and had been forced to lease out his London house to a German family and take up residence with his eccentric cousin.

It didn’t bother Frances, however. She didn’t want Damien for his money. There were others who served that purpose. Damien’s talents lay elsewhere.

He dropped his hand to his side and pulled on his overcoat. “My apologies for leaving my shirt on.”

“You’re not yourself these days, Damien,” she said. “I hope it’s not me.”

“It’s not you.” He kissed Frances good-bye, leaving her ever so slightly distressed by this unexplained change in him.

It was still dark when Adele woke to the sound of a thump in her cabin. She remembered they were stopping briefly on the coast of England to pick up a few new passengers. She rolled onto her back, wondering how long they would be docked.

She stared up at the ceiling in the darkness and thought about the conversation she’d had earlier with her sister. Clara had suggested that Adele should be reckless for once in her life. This was not a new conversation. They’d had it countless times before as children and young women. Clara and Adele’s oldest sister, Sophia, often tried to lure Adele into their mischief.

Adele rested the back of her hand on her forehead and recalled a summer afternoon when they were girls, not long after they’d moved to New York. Clara had gathered them together in the attic of their new house and said, “If we want to grow up, we must have an adventure. And everyone knows that an adventure must always start with running away from home.”

Sophia’s eyes sparkled, while Adele had been horrified. She had refused, of course, and argued the point of such foolish horseplay, and threatened to tell their parents.

Clara told Adele that if she breathed a word of their plan, they’d string her up by