Episode 42

“Elouise, I…”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.”

Her cheeks were still flushed. When Marcus looked completely thrown, Elouise rested her forehead against his chest.

He smelled like a man—warm and faintly wild. A scent she would never have known, never have tried to know, under any other circumstance. But she didn’t dislike it at all.

“You said… you’ve never held a woman before.”

“Elouise. If you’re teasing me—”

“Can you lie in bed with me?”

Marcus froze in place. Elouise lifted her head and asked again.

“I think your confession that you love me… was just about timing. Your feelings for the duchess cooled, and I just happened to appear at the right moment for your next infatuation. I believe that completely.”

“…”

“So of course you didn’t fall out of love when I confessed to you. You’ve said it before—whenever a woman confessed her love to you, you felt your heart go cold. But isn’t it possible that was just a matter of time?”

“El—”

“How many women have told you they loved you before you even said it first? I imagine not many. I imagine even fewer were already in love before you were.”

Marcus parted his lips to speak, but Elouise cut in.

“Can you swear that you won’t fall out of love with me, even in bed?”

Marcus’s expression twisted.

It was too much.

The woman in his arms, wearing an innocent face, had dropped him straight into a cruel trap. He could swear it—of course he could. That he loved her. That his feelings would never fade.

But Elouise wasn’t someone who could be moved by a handful of flowery promises. Everything they’d shared, starting with that contract marriage—every uncertain moment, every calculated gesture—had left her unable to trust him completely.

That was exactly why Marcus wanted to cherish each moment with her even more.

He believed Elouise wasn’t a woman to be conquered with a battering ram, but with gentle, patient knocking. For someone like her, trust was everything.

Trying to win her with passion alone would get him nowhere. But if he knocked—softly, consistently, with love—he believed, one day, she would open the door. When she said she needed time, he had backed off without hesitation.

If she had accepted him right away, that would have been the real surprise.

Whether or not she had been married before didn’t matter. Men liked to say a woman’s second time was easier than the first—but that was only wishful thinking.

Whether he was her second or third didn’t matter to him. What mattered—what Elouise needed to decide—was whether or not she could trust him.

But now, Elouise had opened her gates and was asking whether he’d storm them. And Marcus knew immediately—this wasn’t about unconditional love. This was a test. A trap. A question: Would he become the invader, now that the walls were down? Or…

In the end, Marcus couldn’t hold back. He pulled her into his arms. He felt her small frame stiffen with a breath, and he murmured, pained:

“You really are cruel.”

“Marcus.”

“You’re free to test me, Elouise. You have every right to. I can tell you I love you—on the bed, off the bed, in the garden or in the hall. Anywhere. But…”

“…?”

“Don’t test me like this. Don’t torture yourself to test me.”

Her body stiffened in his arms. Marcus could hardly bear the way she tensed, knowing it was because of him—knowing that her pain, her doubt, had all been born of his own doing.

He loosened his hold and gently brushed the hair away from her ear. She looked up at him with glazed eyes.

“I know I’ve made this hard on you. But please—don’t make it even harder on yourself.”

Elouise’s eyes narrowed, then closed tightly. Marcus sighed and gently wiped away the tear forming at the corner of her eye with his thumb.

“Don’t cry.”

As his deep voice wrapped around her, Elouise rose onto her toes and kissed him.

He froze for a heartbeat—but then, his lips parted easily.

Their mouths found each other again. Elouise clutched his chest and opened her eyes slightly. Marcus’s green eyes, staring down at her, were darker than she’d ever seen. They were close—too close to focus—but she could feel his gaze locking with hers.

And the moment their eyes met, Marcus stopped softly licking her lips and instead pulled her in with force.

She was practically crushed against him. Their chests pressed together. His arms wrapped her shoulders in a tight, almost painful embrace. His tongue pushed between her lips, filled her mouth. Elouise tried to speak—but only a whimper came out.

Then, suddenly, something hard pressed against her lower abdomen.

Even as inexperienced as she was, Elouise knew what it was. Her whole body jolted, startled, and Marcus—of course—felt it.

Without missing a beat, he turned and pressed her gently but firmly to the side, so her back met the wall. A clink rang out—the glass on the table knocked over and fell.

Clatter…roll…

A splash of unfinished brandy hit her leg. The glass rolled across the carpet. But neither of them had the mind to care.

Marcus placed his hands on the wall, caging her in. Her heart pounded. There was nowhere to run.

She looked up at him in silence.

“Elouise.”

He hesitated—something rare. The smooth, silver-tongued Marcus now appeared conflicted, warmth in his eyes replaced by confusion. His lips quivered. And the wet sheen on them—it was hers. Elouise wanted to bury her face in her hands, but held still and looked at him.

“This isn’t right. No matter how much we want to, we’re…”

“Married.”

She interrupted. Reaching out, she traced his lips with her fingertips.

“Do you not want me?”

“That’s… not it. Elouise. But…”

Even Elouise couldn’t understand herself.

Why was she doing this when she had already decided to leave?

It felt like there were two Elouises in her head—one scolding her: “Have you forgotten how a lady behaves?” And another urging her on: “Just fall into him already!”

She gave a breathless, helpless laugh.

“If you’re sure you love me, shouldn’t you be able to hold me without hesitation?”

“Ah, Elouise. Please…”

Her words tightened around Marcus’s heart.

She knew—she knew her words bound not only herself but him. This madman—he was strange in the strangest of places. Their marriage wasn’t official, so in his mind, they weren’t truly wed. To him, touching her like this before a formal ceremony felt… wrong.

It was all so absurd. He had sworn a false marriage before God with no problem, and now he hesitated over pre-marital sex?

And yet, it thrilled her.

Watching Marcus Hanger squirm at her every word—there was a certain joy in it. Maybe this was why the great femme fatales of history toyed with men.

Elouise rested her cheek on his chest and whispered:

“I hate you a little.”

That was both true—and not.

Marcus, still bracing against the wall, looked torn. But when Elouise lifted her head and gently cupped his cheek, gazing up at him—the conflict shattered.

Marcus Hanger stared into her eyes for a moment, then lunged, wrapping her in his arms as if he couldn’t bear it another second.

“Mm…”

Kisses, desperate and scattered, followed. Marcus held her to the wall, pressing close, filling her mouth with his tongue.

Each warm, wet stroke against her lips made her shiver. When she finally pulled away, gasping for breath, he trailed kisses to her ear—planting soft, wet pecks again and again. Her shoulders tensed, but she let him.

Each touch of his lips made her whole body tingle.

“Elouise…”

His breath was hot in her ear. He was panting too, and he whispered, careful, aching:

“I think my chest is going to burst…”

“Then… you shouldn’t…”

She laughed faintly. He nibbled gently on her ear. She jerked, startled—and he took the opportunity to lift her off the floor.

Her feet left the ground, and in her surprise, she clung to him.

Marcus looked up at her and smiled softly.

“…Can I take you to bed?”

Elouise turned crimson. She didn’t answer—just threw her arms around his neck. Marcus chuckled quietly and laid her down.

The bed felt too large. The blankets were cool against her skin.

Lying there, Elouise looked up at him. Marcus braced his hands beside her hips, supporting himself as he gazed down.

“I’ll ask one more time, Elouise.”

Honestly! She was starting to get irritated.

A cautious madman—what a ridiculous combination. And she was in love with it.

She stared up at him, amusement leaking from her lips.

“I’m sorry, Sir Marcus Hanger. But I’d prefer not to be treated like a fragile glass bead.”

“…Right. Of course.”

She meant he didn’t have to keep asking. But Marcus misunderstood—perhaps thinking that, since she had already been married, this was all dull or routine to her. When Elouise realized the direction of his thoughts, Marcus had already decided.

He smiled faintly and kissed her cheek.

“You’re right. I was being too conservative. Good grief.”

“Marcus—”

“It’s funny, really. I always thought you were the strict one between us.”

Then, he climbed up between her knees.

Elouise tried to say something, but he was already undoing his shirt buttons. He shot her a mischievous grin.

“Forgive me if I’m clumsy, my beloved.”

Beloved?!

That word—so poetic—stole her breath. And then he lowered her onto the bed.

At last, the bed the late Viscount Noskina had designed so meticulously revealed its purpose.

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