“I thought you’d fallen asleep,” she whispered. Why had she whispered? Was it because she wanted him to remain sleeping beside her? Because she didn’t want him to return to the small bed near the floor?
“I need to clean up.” But he didn’t move. He just lay there, clasping her hand against his chest.
Clean up? Oh… that. She lifted up to examine the white translucent liquid he’d ejaculated. And now his member looked much more like the statues she’d seen. It looked depleted, restful… cute.
She pushed herself to sit and tugged at her hand. “Stay put,” she ordered him this time. He seemed perfectly willing to oblige.
She located a washcloth and poured some lavender-scented water onto it. She then squeezed it out and returned to the bed.
When she dabbed it at his stomach, Marcus jerked awake. “What are you doing?”
She touched it to him again, and he pushed her hand away. “Are you ticklish?” She knew this was the case. He tried wrestling the cloth from her grip, but she held it behind her back. “You are!” She couldn’t help laughing.
“Emily,” he growled. “I’m not ticklish.” He drew the word out slowly. “I am sensitive. Especially… after.”
“After?” she taunted.
But his arms had wrapped around her, and he was peeling the rag from her fingers. “You little wench.” He took the rag and proceeded to wipe at his nether region. When he moved to climb out of the bed, she pressed her hands against his chest.
“Just sleep,” she ordered. “This bed is plenty large enough. You needn’t try to sleep on the trundle.” He was an earl, for heaven’s sake, and the trundle was intended for a lady’s maid.
Marcus surprisingly didn’t argue with her. He did slide over to the other side, however, giving her more than an adequate amount of space. She’d have no excuse for touching him now.
“I’ll put the candle out, then.” She glanced hesitantly down at him.
There was that smile again. “I’ll be fine, Emily. You’ve quite taken my mind off my nightmares.”
Emily blew it out and crawled under the covers.
She wondered that she’d never been so intimate, so oddly familiar, with any other person. Not Cecily, Sophia, or even Rhoda. How would it feel when all this was over? After they’d married?
It couldn’t be any worse than she would have felt if she’d been sent to Wales, that was for certain. She turned onto her side and watched his profile in the moonlight.
“Marcus,” she said timidly.
“Um-hm?” He sounded as though he were already half asleep.
“Thank you for being my friend.” And then she couldn’t stifle the yawn that took hold of her.
Marcus pulled her into him. She curled up against him and absorbed his warmth. He smelled of soap and the lavender water, and something else. Something undefinable and masculine. She tucked one hand under her cheek but had nowhere to put the other but on his chest.
It somehow fit there perfectly. With her head resting on his arm, she worried she would make him feel uncomfortable. But before she could move, he turned onto his side and trapped her against him.
“Go to sleep, Miss Goodnight,” he mumbled.
“Um… Goodnight, Marcus.”
More Than a Bluestocking
Marcus awoke early. His arm was cramped, and the room felt warm, but he didn’t want to move her away from him just yet.
The events of the previous night—hell, the events of the previous day—seemed surreal. And not just because of the sensual pleasures, or the sexual aspect of what had happened. Something else was happening.
Marcus had been acquainted with Miss Emily Goodnight for over a year now, and he’d never considered her anything more than a tiny bluestocking of a woman with more education than sense. Circulating in theton, as he had since returning to London, their paths had crossed often enough. He’d made a point to make sure she wasn’t completely ignored despite the hours she usually spent sitting with the other wallflowers.
Not that she’d seemed lonely… rather because he’d wanted to know what she was brewing up behind those spectacles of hers.
If she’d appeared lonely, he probably wouldn’t have felt so compelled to talk to her. He hadn’t pitied her.
