Page 84 of Tempting the Marquess

Oh. Had her skin always been this sensitive?

Glancing down at her taut nipples, she blushed guiltily but allowed the hard pink square to drift downward across her collarbone and the tops of her breasts. Soon that wasn’t nearly enough and she dragged the soap lower until it rubbed back and forth and around the rock-hard peaks.

“Ooooh,” she moaned, as sensation shot straight to her quim, making it throb and ache. Did she dare go further?

Most definitely. It wasn’t like she had an audience.

Once she’d rinsed her hands, she trailed them leisurely over her stomach and inner thighs. Then she threaded her fingers through the tight curls between her legs and began to stroke the delicate flesh. It felt so good her head fell back and hips circled involuntarily, causing bathwater to splash over the side of the tub. But she couldn’t stop now. Grinding the heel of her hand against her mound, she rubbed her clitoris until release rolled over her in a gentle wave. Nothing like what she’d experienced with William, but delicious all thesame.

Well. Perhaps there were benefits to pregnancy afterall.

Boneless, she climbed out of the copper tub. After drying herself with a thick, soft towel, she put on a night rail and made her way over to the guest chamber bed. She might have five hundred problems, but after a bath and hopefully a good night’s sleep, they might not seem quite so horribly daunting.

Suddenly a large hand clamped around her waist, another across her mouth and a rough voice whispered harshly, “Don’t scream.”

Terror seized her in a vice-like grip, and she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to move or speak again. One thing was for certain, the intruder was serious, and her reticule with its trusty dagger sat on the other side of the room. Not that it would have done much good—the greatcoat he wore was so thick she could scarcely even make out the lines of hisbody.

“P-please don’t hurt me,” she choked out, her words muffled by his hand. “I’m p-pregnant.”

“I know,” he replied, the hand around her waist dropping lower to cup her belly. Fear became confusion at the gentle, affectionate caress. Then the scent of sandalwood drifted toward her and fury nearly had her swooning again. How on earth had he gotten into herroom?

And how did one heave a fully grown marquess out the window?

* * *

Before he could blink,Samantha yanked out of his grasp, turned, and cracked her palm across his cheekbone for the second time in a fewdays.

“That is a very bad habit you are developing,” William muttered, flexing hisjaw.

“It is the very least you deserve!” she hissed, stalking away from him to sit at her dressing table. “You frightened me half to death! What on earth are you doing here? How did you getin?”

“To your first question, I’m here because we need to talk. To your second, because Stephen and I both know half a dozen ways to get into Forsyth House that don’t require the front door. And no, I’m not telling you them. Not at the moment, anyway.”

“What could we possibly have to talk about?” she asked sarcastically, beginning to pull hairpins from herhead.

William perched on the bed, watching the heavy mass of curls begin to fall like a golden tower being demolished. He’d never watched a woman unpin her hair before, and it felt incredibly intimate. Arousing.

Sighing, he silently thanked providence for having the foresight to wear the heavy greatcoat. It was stifling hot, but at least she couldn’t see the exact state of his huge erection. A man could only take so much, especially after seeing her in the bath, stroking her nipples and quim until shecame.

“Thirty-five,” he said roughly, forcing himself back to reality. “You have just removed the thirty-fifth pin. It is quite remarkable you could have so many in your hair, and still the coiffure unravels.”

“My hair is remarkable, full stop,” Samantha said with a disgruntled frown, picking up her hairbrush to attend to the tangles. “There could be twice as many pins and still it would find its way back down. And don’t change the subject.”

“Such complaints, my lady. Why don’t you go bald and wear a wig like Queen Elizabeth did? Would definitely savetime.”

In the blink of an eye, the hairbrush flew out of her hand and thudded into the bedpost just inches from hishead.

“Oh!” Samantha cried. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to throwthat.”

“Yes you did,” he replied slowly, picking up the would-be weapon and examining its solid silver handle, now dented beyond recognition. “And at the same time gave no thought to my reputation. It would be a sad state of affairs to survive a French assassin, only to succumb to a hairbrush. Who wants that inscribed on their tombstone?”

“You...you don’t sound terribly cross.”

He shrugged. “Why would I be? I probably deserved it.” Then deliberately, “It’s not like you threw a knife. Now that would be a different matter altogether.”

Samantha stilled, a range of emotions chasing each other across her expressive face. Would she tell him of her unique ability as easily as she had demonstrated it in front of David Underwood? Or would she lie and dissemble?

Hopefully she’d choose the truth. Because whether she liked it or not, he would be revealing some truths of his own tonight.