Loving Lady Marcia Read Free

grabbed onto a swinging line. “You’re wrong about Finn and me!” she yelled after the earl. “But you can’t see that, can you?” She knew she shouldn’t be saying such shocking things, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “It’s because you miss out on so much of life. You read books instead of getting to know people sitting across from you in carriages.”
    Lord Chadwick stopped and turned to face her, his expression inscrutable.
    “You adjourn to your room early,” she continued unabashedly, “to look at account books rather than stay up late and tell stories by the fire. And right now you don’t even seem to notice how breathtaking the sunset is. Someday you’ll be sorry you were ever so smug. And someday I’ll prove to you there is such a thing as a perfect love.”
    He looked over the railing at the bloodred sun, then back at her. “There is no perfect love, nor a perfect life,” he said, his dark gaze boring into hers. “So give up wishing, will you? It would be a shame to see you hurt. Good evening, Lady Marcia.”
    And he resumed walking.
    Oh, if only she could throw him overboard!
    Finn appeared at the prow, thank God, a few moments later. “What’s wrong?”
    Instantly, she felt better. “Your brother—he tried to—”
    “Tried to what?” The concern in his eyes made her care for him all the more.
    “He tried to warn me against you. He said … he said you’re sharpening your skills of flirtation rather than working on your obligations.” She felt some of her anger dissipate when he pulled her into his arms.
    She’d been dreaming of such a moment.
    “What man wouldn’t fall head over heels for you?” he said into her hair. “And put aside work to be with you?”
    “You’re kind to say so,” she said, daring to remain in his arms.
    “I’m not kind; I’m truthful.” He pulled back to look at her, his hands leaving fire where he touched her shoulders. “I’m sorry Duncan was rude.”
    Night was close. No one was looking. Amazing how on a small packet, one could get away with so much.
    “If it means we’ll do this”—she leaned against his chest—“I hope he’ll be rude to me again.”
    “Marcia,” Finnian whispered.
    “Finn,” she whispered back, and closed her eyes, reveling in the knowledge that she could both feel and hear his beating heart.
    He pulled back and lifted her chin. “I don’t know how it happened so fast.”
    “I don’t, either.” She saw that yearning in his eyes, the same one she’d seen in other boys and men in the village in Surrey and on her school trips to Brighton and London. It was a mystery to her no more. She knew it was desire.
    But she wanted him just as much. Wanted him to hold her, to kiss her.
    Please, she thought.
    “I’m falling in love with you.” His voice was rough.
    “And I with you,” she answered.
    She already had. Everything was Finn. Except for that one, small corner of her mind where she saw his brother telling her not to get attached. And then walking away as if she were a nuisance he was glad to leave.
    Duncan Lattimore obviously liked to ruin things. But she wouldn’t let him ruin this .
    The arc of the wind-filled jib sail obscured her and Finnian from view. She put a tentative hand on the side of his face. He leaned into her palm, caressing it with his jaw, an act so tender, her eyes began to sting. And then he drew her hand down, clutched it in his own, and kissed her.
    It was perfect. So perfect she knew in that moment that love was hers for the taking.
    “I must see you as often as possible,” Finn said, as if she were the greatest treasure on earth.
    “I’m leaving my school,” she replied without preamble. “I must be in London. Near you.”
    “Yes. I like London. Much better than the estate in Kent. Or Oxford.” He kissed her again, a possessive, lingering seal of their mutual promise.
    This time his hand came so close to the underside of her breast, and she shivered.
    The words she’d