“Why did you do that?” she whispered.
“What?”
“Knock Minshom out. Now he can’t tell me where to find Sir Harry.”
Anthony let go of her hands. She watched distantly as his expression darkened.
“After all that just happened, why the hell are you still worried about Sir Harry?”
Marguerite licked her lips. “I only agreed to stay with Minshom because he promised to tell me where Harry was.”
“And I thought you’d stayed for me.”
“You don’t understand . . .”
Anthony got off the floor and walked away, coming to a stop in front of the fireplace, his back still facing her. “I think I do. I’d assumed you were grieving for a dead man, not pining for another. Minshom had it wrong, didn’t he? You were in love with Sir Harry, not Justin.”
Marguerite blinked as searing color flooded her cheeks, slowly shook her head, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “That’s not true. Lord Minshom deliberately tried to mislead you; are you going to believe him over me?”
Anthony finally swung around, one hand still cupping his groin as if to ease the ache of Minshom’s touch. He sighed and didn’t really look at her. “It doesn’t matter. We can’t choose whom we love, can we?”
Marguerite rose to her feet, advanced toward him and slapped him as hard as she could on the cheek. He grabbed her wrist when she attempted to do it again.
“What the hell was that for?”
“For believing Minshom, for pretending you didn’t care what I’d done and then throwing it in my face.”
“I’m hardly doing that. On the contrary, I just told you I understand!”
She struggled to speak through the tears crowding her throat. “You understand nothing. Perhaps Minshom was right and you only understand pain.” She pushed his hand away from his groin, replaced it with hers. “Perhaps this is all you need from me.”
His expression darkened. “Don’t do that. I’m far too close to coming.”
“Because Minshom made you hard? Is that what you meant about not being able to control whom you love, because you still love Minshom?”
God, she hated what she was saying, hated herself, but the need to hurt, to take the pain howling inside her and hurl it outward consumed her. Anthony knew—he knew what she’d done, and sooner or later he’d realize how unfit she was to be associated with him. Better to end it now, better to send him away before it hurt too much and destroyed her.
“Christ, I loathe Minshom, I never loved him. Don’t you know that? Don’t you understand anything about me at all?” Anthony was yelling, his face flushed, his blue eyes narrowed with anger. “I’m sick of being told what to do and what to think.”
“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m trying to make you listen to me.”
“Then do it without touching me, without . . . Christ, what’s the use? Minshom’s already convinced you I’m a pathetic weakling.”
“No he hasn’t; I’m just trying to . . .”
Anthony held up his hand. “Marguerite, when you touch me, all I want to do is throw you on that bed and shove my cock inside you, use it as I wish, rather than how Minshom thinks I should. I’m sure you don’t want that, so please, get dressed.”
Marguerite retreated to the chair, picked up her dress and petticoats and tried to put them on. Her fingers trembled so badly she could barely get the fine satin over her head.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Anthony muttered. He appeared at her side, his intent gaze fixed on the swell of her breasts, the tightness of her nipples. He placed his hands on her shoulders and the dress fell from her fingers.
“Marguerite . . .” His mouth descended over hers, the savagery of his kiss a challenge she couldn’t resist. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, nipping at his lower lip, his tongue. Exchanging anger for lust seemed almost too natural, the desire to mark him, make him groan and beg not for Minshom but for her.
He angled her back toward the bed, his body heavy and hard on top of hers, his knee parting her thighs. He didn’t stop kissing her, their mouths fused together, heat binding and blinding them, the need insatiable. She gasped as he freed his cock from his breeches and his knuckles grazed her mound. And then he was inside her, his shaft pressing deep, her back arching to take him all in.
“Marguerite, yes . . .”
He pounded into her, his thrusts fast and hard, relentless. She didn’t complain, her body far too busy keeping him close, wrapping her legs around his hips to hold him within the cradle of her thighs. His kiss mirrored his movements, possessing her mouth as he possessed her body, utterly dominant, utterly in control.
His fingers slid between them, found her clit and worked it until she was coming and screaming his name into his mouth. His kiss dissolved into a gasp for air, and he bucked against her as the heat of his cum spurted deep inside her. When he rolled off, he stayed on his stomach, his face buried in the pillows.
Marguerite moved slowly off the bed and bent to retrieve her clothes. Surely now they were done? She’d never imagined allowing a man to take her like that, so completely, so absolutely. Having heard about her marriage, did Anthony now consider her fair game? She stared at her petticoats, fumbling as she attempted to tie them around her waist.
“Let me.” Anthony was beside her again, setting her to rights, tightening her laces, doing up buttons, straightening her bodice. Almost unnoticed, her tears trickled down onto the dark blue satin, staining it black. This was the end; this was the last time he would ever want to touch her. She swallowed hard.
“Are you done now?”
His fingers stilled. “What?”
“Are you done proving to yourself that you can fuck a woman?”
In the silence that followed, she could clearly hear the irregular thump of his heart and his shallow breathing. Anthony stepped away from her and did up his breeches, picked up his gun and stuffed it into his pocket. She raised her chin and tried to make him look at her, but he avoided her gaze.
“My lady, if you wish to leave, I need to check on Minshom.”
He sounded formal, all the anger stripped from his voice. Unable to reply, Marguerite simply nodded and waited by the fire as he opened the door.
“He’s gone.” Anthony sounded as stunned as she felt. “Obviously I didn’t hit the bastard hard enough. I’ll make sure he isn’t loitering in the kitchen, and then you may come down.”
His voice faded as he clattered down the stairs. Marguerite blew out the candles and left the room bathed in the warm glow of the fire, wondered distantly who lived here, who had been forced out to accommodate the selfish desires of Lord Minshom.
“You can come down, my lady.”
Marguerite picked up her skirts and headed down the stairs, found Anthony in the kitchen. He gestured at the table. “I think Minshom left you something.”
She picked up the bundle of parchment tied with the blue ribbon. At least she had that, Sir Harry’s account of the duel, even if she didn’t have him in person. She clutched the papers to her chest as Anthony draped her cloak around her.
“Are you ready to leave?”
She nodded again, still unable to speak, and walked past him into the hallway and out into the cold bleakness of the night. The stable clock chimed once. Was it only an hour since she’d walked into Minshom’s trap? Only an hour since he’d deliberately revealed his own version of her brief marriage to Anthony, the man she’d come to care for? She stopped walking, turned toward his dark shape.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My marriage. It wasn’t like that at all.”
“Marguerite, it really doesn’t matter does it? It’s in the past.”
“Not if Lord Minshom decides to gossip about it.”
There was a long silence as he considered her. “I won’t let that happen. I promise you.”
“Why?”
“Because as I told you, I don’t care what happened between you, Justin and Harry.”