Page 59 of The Best Marquess

“That is correct. I will admit that I didn’t answer the question…and I may have threatened to toss them out on their arses in front of the other mourners.”

“Finlay Knighton.”

“Lord Pinehurst,” he replied quietly. “Now the funeral is over, it’s practically official, apart from the paperwork to take my seat in the House. And you are Lady Pinehurst.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, then settle over both of them like a sodden cloak, dark and suffocating.

“I think I might go to bed,” said Pippa as she stood, abruptly desperate for the warmth and comfort of pillows and quilts. “Would you unbutton me?”

“Of course,” he replied, standing up to assist. “I just have a few more documents to peruse downstairs, then I’ll return and join you.”

After a brief sponge bath in front of the fire, Pippa donned a fresh chemise and nightgown, then climbed into bed. But try as she might, her eyes would not shut, and the name Lady Pinehurst circled her mind until it ached.

From a distance, being a marchioness had almost looked easy. But it could well prove to be the greatest challenge of her life.

Was she ready?

Chapter 12

Finn woke up with a start, and groaned in pain.

Shit.

After promising Pippa he would finish perusing the pile of documents then join her in bed, he’d fallen asleep at his desk. Now he was chilled to the bone, his arms were half-numb from sleeping on them, there was a quill stuck to his forehead, and his fingertips were stained black from spilled ink.

He was, as those in his life often informed him, messy.

Gingerly standing and wincing with each movement, Finn stumbled over to the library fireplace and stoked it to warm the room. Then he lit several candles; fully illuminated the space was bad enough, but in the dim light of dawn it had a sinister air, like the one haunted room in a dilapidated manor. Indeed, redecorating this monstrosity was near top of his list of tasks. Perhaps sunshine-yellow or a nice dusky pink, the same shade as Pippa’s nipples. That would be pleasant, and it would ensure his father truly did roll over in his tomb.

Finn sniffed at the air and the odor of perspiration made his nose wrinkle. He also needed a bath quite desperately.

Ambling into the hallway, about the only speed his cramped limbs would permit, he came across two footmen on their way to the kitchens for breakfast, and ordered the copper tub sent up to his bedchamber. At this rate, the hot water would just about be waiting for him.

When he finally made it up the stairs, Finn pushed open the door as quietly as possible, and slipped inside. Only to find Pippa sitting up in bed and reading by candlelight.

“Good morning,” he said. “Which book?”

She held it up, an unusually guilty expression on her face. “The Highland Marauder.”

“A reread then. Any chapter in particular?”

“Just a general review,” she replied, not meeting his gaze as she slid in a leather bookmark and set the novel down on the side table.

“Liar.”

His wife’s cheeks flushed scarlet, approximately the color of the gown she’d worn to their engagement announcement. “Am not.”

“Did you make yourself come, Pippet?”

“Is this the sated, relaxed face of a woman who had just had an orgasm?” she snapped, moving restlessly on the mattress.

Inwardly smiling, Finn strolled closer, but didn’t touch her. Instead, he picked up the novel and opened it to the bookmarked page. Oh. One of his favorite scenes, where the laird bound the Frenchwoman to a special padded table, blindfolded her, brought her to the edge of orgasm with his mouth, then penetrated her arse with a dildo. How many times had he read this, cock in hand, and imagined himself as the laird and Pippa as the Frenchwoman?

Far too many to count.

“So, this is the scene that makes your sweet pussy wet? An interlude with pleasure toys? How fortunate you wed a man with a business that crafts them.”

Her indrawn breath echoed in the room. “Are you saying we could go to Golden Square and try some?”