His little brother was the only family he had left.
He slipped from her embrace and, through an ungainly process of twisting and rearranging limbs, eventually managed to face her.
He pulled her close, settling her so that she straddled his lap and rested against his bent legs. God, she was lovely. So clean, her skin could squeak. Her breasts bobbed just at the level of the soapy, cooling water. The steam had curled her fair hair in fetching ringlets. A bit of lather clung to her cheek.
He wiped it away with his thumb. “So. You can believe that I care for my brother.”
“Oh, yes. Unquestionably.”
“And yet you continue to doubt the sincerity of my offer to marry you.”
“Well, that’s different. We were forced into a betrothal. We scarcely knew each other. Propriety was the only reason for it.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Not the only reason.”
“You know what I mean. Clearly we’ve always had a physical attraction, and you’re undeniably an excellent catch.”
“Yes, I seem to recall ranking in the top quartile.”
She gave him a wicked look. “And I seem to recall that our bedsport would be tolerable.”
“Touché.”
“But all of that is beside the matter. You’re not required by blood or history to care for me.”
He propped his elbow on the edge of the tub and regarded her thoughtfully. “You’re right, Charlotte. I’m not compelled to care for you at all.”
Charlotte began to regret this turn of conversation.
The bathwater had begun to chill. She shivered and thought of reaching for a towel, but his blue gaze held her captive.
“Do you have any idea of how much influence I wield?” His fingertip tapped the edge of the tub. “How much money and manpower I have at my disposal?”
She shrugged. “I’ve formed some notion.”
“You don’t know a tenth of it.”
He wasn’t bragging, simply stating it as a fact.
She believed him.
“When we were discovered together, it was hardly a crisis. I could have dealt with that situation in any number of ways. I could have found you another willing suitor. Or a dozen of them, for you to take your choice. I could have quashed the entire scene, removed all possibility of scandal.”
“You could have let me look like a desperate debutante and thrown me to the wolves.”
“Or,” he said evenly, “I could have hunted down the caricaturist at the Prattler who gave you that vile moniker . . . and made all trace of him disappear.”
Charlotte started to laugh, and then she quickly realized he wasn’t jesting.
No, his eyes were dead serious.
He was telling her something important, something close to the core of the man he believed himself to be. It was vital that she listen without laughter or judgment.
“But you didn’t do any of those things,” she said cautiously. “You took the honorable way.”
“I took you.” He reached for her, drawing her close and sending a wave of soapy water to the floor. “I took you, because I wanted you.”
“In your bed.”
“In my life.”
She swallowed hard.
“There is little that’s truly honorable in my line of work. You’re going to be my wife. You deserve to know that much, although I pray you never fully understand it. Suffice it to say, I’ve spent the past ten years making cold decisions. And not looking back.”
Her curiosity was intense, but she resisted the urge to press for details.
She had good friends who’d married officers who’d come home from battle. And that was what Piers was, at the heart of it—a man who’d shouldered terrible responsibility in a time of war. Men like him didn’t need prying questions. They needed time—sometimes years of it—and warm baths and the closeness of skin on skin.
And friends. To listen, accept, understand.
She searched his face. Could it be that he’d reached out to her in his own emotionally stifled, autocratic way? That’s what he seemed to be saying, if she read his expression correctly.
Yes, she thought. This must be the explanation.
A marquess could find any number of women eager to take his name or share his bed.
This marquess, however, had needed a friend.
Oh, Piers.
Her heart swelled with tenderness.
“Listen to me.” His arms and legs wrapped around her. His heartbeat thumped against hers. “I chose you, Charlotte. And I’m not looking back.”
He kissed her softly, letting his lips drift from the corner of her mouth, to her cheek, to her neck. And then lower, to her naked, slippery breasts. Beneath the water, his cock began to stir against her thigh.
She adjusted her hips, wedging his length tight against her cleft. The sudden contact drew a gasp from them both.
He flicked his tongue over her hardened nipple before drawing it into his mouth. As he suckled her, gooseflesh rippled over her neck and down her arms.
She rocked against the ridge of his arousal, dragging her body along his hardness, working that tight, pulsing bundle of nerves at the crest of her sex. He tangled and twisted one hand in her damp hair, arching her neck to cover it with kisses.
“You’re lovely. So lovely.”
He lifted her by the waist and nudged at her entrance, his brow furrowing with doubt. “You’re not too tender?”
She shook her head.
He gritted his teeth as he sheathed himself in her depths. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
It was a harmless lie. She was tender—and raw, and vulnerable. Not only between her thighs, but in her heart.
If he hurt her, so be it.
She’d chosen this, too.
They moved together slowly, trying not to splash all the bathwater on the floor.
His brow pressed to hers. She could feel him swell even larger within her. His arms trapped her like a vise as he thrust.
With a groan, he lifted her off his cock and drew her hand between them, wrapping her fist around his thickness and closing his hand tight around her fist. He guided her hand in a swift flurry of strokes, pumping his release into her grip.
He slumped against her, and she caressed his shuddering back.
“Charlotte, darling?”
Darling. One more scrap of an endearment to add to her collection.
Her heart fluttered, stupidly. “Yes?”