“Although, I will admit,” she said, “that you were special, Marcus. You only took seven months and then there you were.”
“Oh, dear God,” Marcus grumbled as he looked down at the table.
Cecelia clamped a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing.
“I should go get your father and let him have this talk with you,” Lady Ramsdale said. She started to get to her feet.
“Please don’t,” Marcus cried.
His mother plopped back into the chair and laughed. “If you’re certain.” She heaved a sigh. “I didn’t get to be your mother for a long time, Marcus. So, let me be one now.” She leaned forward, her weight on her elbows, as though she wanted them to listen closely. “The ton can go to the devil,” she said.
Then she got up and started for the door. Finally, Cecelia might have a moment alone with Marcus.
“Thank you, Mother,” Marcus said.
Mr. Hewitt appeared in the doorway just as Lady Ramsdale was leaving. “Mr. Hewitt,” she cried. “I’m so glad I found you. I have an emergency with my rosebushes, and I was wondering if I could prevail upon you to help me.”
“Well, I…” he started, but he didn’t get to finish, because Lady Ramsdale just threaded her arm through his and led him away, chattering like a magpie all the way.
“I think your mother just gave us permission to… you know.”
“I don’t want to talk about my mother,” Marcus groaned, and he took Cecelia’s face in his hands. His lips touched hers, his tongue licking over and into her mouth. Cecelia’s breath rushed from her body, and she found it difficult to get it back. “I need you,” he said. “Your father caught me in the corridor last night when I was trying to come to see you.”
“I thought I heard a commotion out there,” she said. “What happened?”
“He threatened to chop off my head. And my manhood.” Marcus shivered dramatically. “And I believed him.”
“He likes you.”
“He might like me, Cece, but he loves you. We became good friends through his recovery, but I’ll never surpass you in his heart. He’d sooner kill me than allow me to harm you.” He looked into her eyes. “Or bed you.”
Marcus glanced toward the door. “How long do you think we have before they come back?” He grinned, his eyes twinkling.
“Not long enough for what you want to do,” she said, laughing.
“At this point, I don’t think it would take me very long.”
“I vaguely remember it not taking you very long that first time. In fact,” she held up a finger, and he stopped her by kissing the tip of it.
“Don’t remind me,” he groaned.
She leaned closer to him. “I like that I can do that to you,” she said quietly. Then she licked her lips.
“Don’t do that,” he ground out.
“Do what?” she asked, but a grin tugged at her lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She inched her hand toward the fall of his trousers.
“Don’t touch me,” he warned. “If you do, that same thing might happen again.”
He reached down and began to ruck her gown up in his fist, raising it higher and higher. The servant had vacated the room when she and Marcus had started kissing, thank goodness, because she wasn’t about to stop Marcus. When he had her gown gathered in his fist, he bent down, his breath heavy against her neck as he breathed, “Open up for me.”
His hand slid up the inside of her thigh. “Please touch me,” she begged, reaching for his shoulder to steady herself.
His hand was almost to the center of her, which was throbbing and aching for him, when loud laughter from the corridor made him jerk back, pull her skirt down, and sit up. He filled his mouth with egg, and she reached for her teacup, but her hand was too shaky to lift it.
“I don’t know if I can wait a fortnight,” he growled.
“Oh, I am sure they’re in the breakfast room,” his mother said loudly. “They have a servant with them, so I’m not worried,” she went on to reassure Cecelia’s father, he supposed. The servant entered through the rear door and positioned himself beside the sideboard. He looked like he wanted to grin. But he composed himself.