A Ring from a Marquess. Christine Merrill
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He closed the last inch between them and their lips met.
The kiss was exquisite. Not cherries or strawberries. They were both too sweet. Blackcurrant, perhaps. Tart and as complex as wine.
How long had he been dreaming of taking her, right here on the white velvet divan? His fantasies had been innocent compared to this. He had not imagined this helpless feeling of abandon as her body touched his. She fitted perfectly against him, the curve of her hip in his hand. He ran his hand over the bare skin of her shoulder, circling to the back of her neck so that he might press her mouth to his. Such a delicate nape, fringed with the soft hair he had longed to stroke. He rubbed it with his knuckle and her lips opened, eager for him.
One kiss and she was driving him mad. He wanted to ravish her with his mouth, claim her body as his own.
If he felt so about an innocent touch, how would he survive a more intimate one?
I often come up with interesting titbits of information when writing my stories. A Ring from a Marquess, with its Bath setting and its female shop owner, was brimming with details—some of which I couldn’t use.
Unfortunately Thomas Loggan, who died in 1788, was too early for this story. Thomas was appointed ‘Dwarf to the Prince and Princess of Wales’—a curious title, but not his most interesting claim to fame. He was also a designer and painter of fans, doing much of his work in Bath, and often painting himself into the pictures that decorated his work.
An even earlier story that I could not use was of the hazards of communal bathing in the famous Bath waters. In 1734 you would not have wanted to share with the Duchess of Norfolk. She was a rather large woman, and her desire that the bath be filled to her chin put the smaller ladies around her at risk of drowning.
And now I hope you enjoy A Ring from a Marquess. And if you happen to be reading in the tub keep your chin up …
A Ring from a Marquess
Christine Merrill
CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off of the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming and as a librarian. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.
To Melanie Hilton, for some fabulous information about Bath.
Bowing, as always, to your superior knowledge.
Contents
Margot de Bryun ran a professional eye over the private salon that had once been the back room of Montague and de Bryun Fine Jewellery, then paused to plump the velvet pillows on the chaise. The old shop had been a rather stuffy place. But now that she was in charge and the late and unlamented Mr Montague’s name had been scrubbed from the gilt on the windows, she felt that the design was cheerfully elegant. The walls were white and the columns on either side of the door were mirrored. In the main room, the gold and gems lay on fields of white velvet and carefully ruched blue silk, in cases of the cleanest, clearest glass.
Once she was sure the stock was in order, she checked each shop clerk to make sure their uniforms were spotless. The female employees wore pale-blue gowns and the gentlemen a not-too-sombre midnight blue. She inspected them each morning, to be sure that no bow was crooked, no button unpolished, and no pin in a pinafore out of line. She required nothing less than perfection.
She took great care with her own appearance as well, making sure that it did not distract from the wares on display. It was vain of her to dote on it, but she shared her sister’s fine looks.