“May I call on you again tomorrow?”
She nodded, silent, still staring at him.
Ludo looked around as her father returned to the room.
“Until tomorrow, then,” he said, bowing to her, and leaving her alone.
8th December 1820. London.
Bunty sat by the window, watching the road. Then she got up and paced for a bit. Then she ran back to the window and stared at the road a bit more.
“Do stop acting like such a ninny,” she scolded herself, yet there didn’t seem to be any choice in the matter. Not since he had kissed her.
For the hundredth time since that extraordinary event, she raised her fingers to her lips, tracing the place his mouth had been. It had been such a gentle kiss: tender, and not what she had expected of such a man. Well, she had not expected to be kissed at all. She had expected fury, disgust, and recriminations at having been so ill used. If she were perfectly honest, she had not expected him to pursue her. She assumed he would have been relieved that she would not hold him to marrying her, and take to his heels. It had to be the dowry, said the sensible voice in her head, the one that would not let her get her hopes up. Her hopes had been crushed too many times for her to believe in them again, and yet….
He had said she was beautiful.
Why would he say such a thing to her? He had chosen to act the gentleman and marry her, and he would have her dowry. There was no need to woo her to secure her money. It would be his, to do with as he pleased, for Papa had warned her his finances were not what one would hope for. Not that she cared. If she could believe for a moment that he might like her, that he might even come to care for her, she would not pine for a fortune.
Who said such a thing to you?
The anger in his voice as he’d demanded who had insulted her had been a shock, too. It had been instantaneous, and she had believed it to be genuine. Yet it seemed so odd. Lord Courtenay was known to be seen in the company of all the most beautiful of the Cyprians. He might not have money, but he was so big, handsome, and obviously virile that even the exclusive highflyers sought him out. She could not make him out at all.
The sound of horses outside the door had her looking up, and there he was. He had sent a note earlier to inform her he would take her for a drive, and to wrap up warm. It was a bright, sunny winter’s day, but still chilly, and Bunty had dressed in deep plum velvet carriage dress. Hoping she looked as well as she might, she snatched up her reticule and hurried to the front door.
“Miss Bunting,” he said, giving her a formal bow. He paused, a slow smile curving over his mouth. “How lovely you look.”
Bunty searched his face for any sign that he was mocking her, yet she found nothing but pleasure in his eyes. Heavens, she’d never seen eyes as blue as his before.
“Good day, my lord,” she said, wishing she could still the erratic thumping of her heart.
She was being idiotic.
He offered her his arm and led her outside, where a smart yellow-and-black Phaeton awaited them. One of her father’s footmen held the horses, two glossy bays who tossed their heads impatiently.
“How lovely,” she said as he handed her up.
Lord Courtenay settled beside her, and Bunty felt a jolt of surprise as his strong thigh pressed against hers. He was a large man and took up a deal of space. So large, in fact, that for the first time in her life, Bunty did not feel as though the rest of the world had been made in miniature. In comparison, she could almost believe herself dainty.
He nodded to the groom who released the horses. They set off at a smart trot and Bunty dared a glance at him, only to see he was regarding her in turn.
“I’m afraid they’re not mine,” he said, and she was struck by how awkward he appeared. “The horses and… all of it.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders and Bunty’s mouth went dry.
“I expect your father told you I’m no catch,” he added, and there was a defensive note in his voice which surprised her.
“And yet,” she said, “I’ve no doubt there are women a-plenty who would cut off their right arm to be sitting where I am.”
He snorted in disgust. “No one like you, Miss Bunting.”
She frowned at him and he shook his head, looking vaguely bewildered.
“You still don’t believe me, do you?” he said. “You think I’m bamming you, flattering you for no good reason.”
It was Bunty’s turn to shrug, and she looked away, unable to hold his piercing gaze.
“Why would I do that?” he asked. “I did not have to marry you, I chose to. If I only wanted your money… well, it will soon be mine. What reason could I have to say such things to you?”
It was everything she had told herself, and it sounded so reasonable as he echoed her thoughts. Bunty forced herself to look back at him.
“Then perhaps it is simply that you are kind, my lord. I have often believed it of you. You always smiled at me with such… warmth, but I cannot believe you are content with this arrangement.”
Something dark flashed in his eyes and she knew she was right. Oh well, better to have the truth unvarnished than live a lie. She tried to make herself believe that, but her heart ached all the same.
“No. I was not happy to discover it was not me you intended for your trap, but Lord Stanthorpe. Not that I could blame you for that.”
Was that regret in his voice?
“Tommy is the best of fellows. Kind and funny and good-natured. Rich, too, and an earl, to boot. I don’t suppose that hurts,” he added bitterly.
Bunty gaped at him. Was he… jealous? No. That was utterly ridiculous.
“But I didn’t mean to trap Tommy,” she said in a rush, her heart thudding even though she refused to believe what she was hearing.
He narrowed his eyes and her breath caught at being the object of his scrutiny. “Miss Bunting, you told me so yourself.”
“No!” Bunty shook her head. “Oh, you’ve got it all wrong.”
He was silent for a moment as he navigated a busy stretch of road, but then Hyde Park stretched before them, quiet now on a chill winter’s day.
“Well then, Miss Bunting,” he said, once he could return his attention to her. “I wish you would explain it to me.”
“Please, call me Bunty. Everyone does.”
He nodded but said nothing, and Bunty explained just what had happened last night. She told him of the Ratched sisters’ plans, of how she had warned Tommy and then gone back to confront Sylvia.
He was silent throughout her explanation until he drew up in a copse of trees, a secluded spot ideal for an illicit rendezvous. Bunty shifted nervously in her seat.
“So, in fact, you were not in the market for a husband at all,” he said, and she could not read his expression, nor his tone of voice.
She gave him the benefit of an exasperated look. “My lord, I am five and twenty. I have been in the market for a husband these last seven years and have simply failed to catch one. I was not, however, so desperate as to stoop to trickery and subterfuge.”
He stared at her for a long moment, that blue gaze studying her so thoroughly she had to fight to hold it. At length, he sighed, and looked so dejected Bunty wanted to reach out and take his hand. She folded her own in her lap.
“So, you set no trap. You were acting honourably, saving a friend from disaster, and facing down his enemy for him. Tommy is lucky indeed to have you on his side. You are brave and bold, Miss Bunting.”
Bunty blushed, unused to hearing herself described in such a light. “Nonsense. Anyone would have done the same.”
He gave a little huff of amusement. “No. They would not, and that you could still believe that shows exactly the kind of person you are.”
“A fool, you mean,” she said tightly, quite used to her parents telling her she was too naïve, too willing to look for the good in people who would end up using her for their own ends.
“No!” he exclaimed, his dark brows pulling together. He shifted on the
seat, turning towards her, which pressed his knee harder against hers. “Not that. Never a fool, Bunty.”
Bunty stared at him, unable to work this strange creature out. What did he want from her, this beautiful man who looked like a god, who was supposed to be wicked and wild? He was meant to be the worst kind of rake, and yet had such kindness in his eyes, and he was looking at her now like… like….
“Bunty,” he said, his voice low.
“Y-Yes?”
“I should like to kiss you.”
“Oh.”
Bunty’s heart gave an odd little kick in her chest and she felt an awful blush creep up her chest, up her neck, heating her face. Good lord, she must be scarlet by now. How dreadfully unattractive and gauche. He grinned at her and reached out, touching her cheek.
“Such a pretty colour,” he murmured. “I love that you blush so easily. I wish I could see where the colour begins.”
“My lord!” she exclaimed, wondering why she wasn’t cross with him for having said such a thing, but she was not. Shocked, yes, but not a bit cross.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the sheepish look he gave her quite adorable, even though wickedness still glinted in his eyes. “I know I ought not say such things, but I’ve never been good at dissembling, at saying the right thing, the polite thing. I’m not polite at all, but I suppose you know that.”
“Not in the least,” Bunty replied, wishing she did not sound so breathless, but his fingers were still caressing her cheek. She had the urgent desire to lean into his touch, like a cat. Good heavens. “As I said, you were always kind. Unlike many of your ilk.”
“In what way was I kind?”
His fingers trailed along the line of her jaw, down her neck, and Bunty shivered.
“You never ignored me. You smiled at me, and not in a mocking way, but like we might be friends if we were introduced. I appreciated that more than you’ll know.”
“Bunty,” he said, and the way he said her name, all soft and low, made her breath catch in her throat. She looked up at him, struck by the way his eyes had darkened. “That wasn’t kindness, love. I have so wanted someone to introduce us, but no one would let a devil like me near such a prize. The only way I could be near you was to fall into a trap set for another, but perhaps it was fate.”
A prize? Bunty’s mind had grown fuzzy at his proximity. He was leaning closer to her and his scent filled her mind. He smelled of clean linen, soap, and something male and musky that made her insides tremble with longing. She could hardly comprehend what he was saying. Her brain had fallen into a swoon when he’d said her name so softly, and it showed no signs of reviving.
“May I kiss you now?”
“K-Kiss?” she murmured hazily, blinking at him.
His mouth was so close to hers, his full lips sensuous, and the urge to press her mouth to his was overwhelming. So she did. His lips were soft and warm and… oh good heavens. She’d kissed him!
She drew back with a gasp, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Oh!” she said in horror. Good God, what would he think of her now? That she was a brazen hussy, most likely. Mortified, she lifted her gaze to find him looking down at her in amusement.
“Well, don’t stop there,” he said, one large hand moving to her waist. He leaned in again and nuzzled at her cheek, his voice a delicious whisper against her skin. “Do it again.”
Bunty swallowed, wondering if she dared.
“Please,” he added.
Well, how could she resist when he asked so nicely?
His mouth was so close she only had to move a little and their lips touched again. Bunty let out a shaky breath, overwhelmed by how sweet it felt to kiss him. She pressed a little firmer and withdrew and he only watched her, saying nothing, not moving. Bunty kissed him again, a soft press of lips, followed by another, and another, and oh, it was lovely but… she wanted more.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted.
“Are you sure?” he asked, and she was struck by how dark his eyes had grown, the black swamping the blue. His voice was low and breathless too, and he licked his lips, as though tasting hers.
Bunty’s own breath hitched. “Sure about what?”
“That you don’t know what you’re doing. It seems to me that you are quite adept.”
Bunty frowned, uncertain if he was sincere.
“Don’t tease me,” she said quietly. “I know there must be far more.”
“I wasn’t teasing, but yes… there’s more.”
“Show me, then.”
No doubt she was an unattractive shade of puce by now, but there was nothing to be done about that. Besides, he’d said he liked her blush. Strange man.
“With pleasure.”
Bunty gasped as he took her in his arms and held her close before his mouth covered hers. His kisses were nothing like hers had been. There was nothing shy or tentative about the way his mouth sought hers, or the way his tongue traced the seam of her mouth. His tongue! Bunty gasped and went to pull back, but he held her there, his tongue invading her mouth and stroking and… pleasure rolled through her. The day was cold, and their secluded spot out of the sun chillier still, yet Bunty was burning up. A slow fire had begun low in her belly and melted everything it touched until her bones were molten and everything beneath her flesh simmered. She was pliant in his arms, willing to go where he led, willing to do almost anything to keep the delicious liquid heat spilling through her body. His hand moved over her, up from her waist, moving slowly higher as Bunty’s pounding heart reached a crescendo. She held her breath as he carried on higher still to cup her full breast. He caressed and gently squeezed, and even through all the layers of material the sensation was incredible. Bunty moaned with pleasure.
“Christ,” he murmured, eyes wide as he broke the kiss.
Bunty was slammed back to reality in an instant.
Good God, what was wrong with her? She’d let him ravish her in the middle of Hyde Park, and would have allowed him a great many more liberties if he hadn’t stopped. Where were all the lessons her mother had taught her? Gone. Burned away in the passion he had made her feel. No wonder he was considered so bloody dangerous.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, wanting to die. “I don’t know what c-came over me….”
“Sorry?” he repeated, obviously perplexed, and she thought perhaps a little annoyed too. “What the devil are you sorry for?”
Bunty hesitated. “N-Nice girls aren’t supposed to behave like that.”
He let out a sigh and reached for her, cupping her cheek. “You’re the nicest girl I have ever met, and I loved every minute of it. Please don’t regret it, but I suppose I had better take you home. We’re not married yet.”
“Why?”
Lord Courtenay frowned at her. “Why what?”
“Why are you marrying me?”
He hesitated and Bunty held her breath, for once in her life allowing herself to hope for a man to say something that did not make her feel unattractive and unwanted. He turned and looked at her, his expression intent.
“Not for your dowry, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m not marrying you because I must, and I’m not marrying you for your money. I swear upon my honour, for whatever that tarnished article may be worth to you.”
Bunty smiled at him. It wasn’t exactly a romantic declaration, but it was more than she’d dared hope for. “I think your honour is a most valuable thing, my lord.”
He stared at her, something in his eyes that she could not read.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “And it’s not ‘my lord.’ Not anymore. I should like you to call me Ludo.”
Chapter 3
“Wherein Lord Courtenay takes a wife.”
London
December 8, 1820
Ludo stared around his rented rooms, trying to see through the eyes of a gently raised young woman who had been bred for greater things than this blasted hovel.
Hell and damnation.
Oh God
, what had he done? She would take one look at this dump and walk straight out again. He could take her to a hotel for their wedding night, but… but this would still await them the next day. She’d see then exactly what a pitiful excuse for a man she’d married. She hadn’t realised yet, the poor girl. For the moment, his looks had charmed her, just as they’d charmed so many other women before her. They ought to be good for something, he thought bitterly, after having ruined his life in every other way. The Courtenay family were all fair-haired, with green or hazel eyes. His father and his two older brothers fitted the mould perfectly: medium height, medium build, sandy hair, fair skin and green eyes. And then there was Ludo. Standing well over six feet, he was built like an ox, with hair the colour of midnight, skin that spoke of Mediterranean climes, and eyes of bright blue.
A cuckoo in the nest if ever there was one.
In the days before she’d died, his mother had told him his father had been an Italian count. The handsomest man she had ever met. Her lover had wanted her to run away with him, but she had not wanted Ludo to live with the ensuing scandal. God, how he wished his mother had run, and taken him with her. It could not possibly have been worse.
Ludo reached down, picked up an empty brandy bottle and set it on the mantel. He was getting married tomorrow. This would not do. He needed help.
An hour later, he returned to his rooms with three of his favourite ladies from the brothel around the corner. They had not been best pleased at being woken during daylight hours, but the promise of being paid double their usual rate—and the lure of one of their favourite customers—had got them moving.
“Well then, lover,” Jenny said, pressing herself against him with a suggestive smile. “What’s got you all riled up, then? Three of us going to be enough, is it? He’s in the mood for some sport, I reckon, girls.”
The other two women giggled, and Ludo sighed, hoping they would not hate him for asking for their help.
“No sport, Jen. I’m sorry. The truth is, I’m getting married tomorrow.”
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 26