Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  Ah, but he did like the sound of that.

  His duchess-to-be favored him a warm smile. “I have several moments to spare, my lord. Shall we take a walk? Evening has not yet fallen.”

  “Indeed.” He proffered his arm. “Perhaps you’d like to see the rose garden?”

  Nodding and slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow, Sara turned to Anna. “I had a wonderful time this afternoon, Anna. Truly, I do look forward to wearing the dress we chose.”

  Despite her clear aggravation, Anna smiled. “As did I, Sara, and you must promise that we shall ready ourselves for the party together.”

  “Most assuredly.” Sara allowed Justin to extract her from the room. “Did you enjoy your day with Lord Beaufort?”

  Not half as much as I’m enjoying this right now. “I did, thank you, and you? Was my sister’s company appalling or acceptable? You can tell me, you know. I promise I can keep a secret.”

  Her mouth twisted a little. “Actually, I do enjoy your sister’s company. She’s a free spirit, and that’s admirable considering the restraint with which most women conduct themselves.” She sighed delicately. “I am a bit tired. Heavens, but Anna does have so many dresses! Why, I’d venture to assume she hasn’t worn any of them twice.”

  “Not often.”

  “And they are all lovely. Just lovely. How fortunate that we are almost exactly the same size, she and I.”

  “That is indeed fortunate, but if you are in need of dresses, I should like to take you to the dressmaker’s in London.”

  Her eyes glimmered in a way that made him feel all willy-nilly inside. As if he could spend the rest of his days offering her anything she wanted, if only to have her smile at him like that.

  “How kind of you, my lord,” she murmured. “I do believe I would like a few new additions to my wardrobe. A gown or two from London should add a colorful contrast to the ones I have from Dublin.”

  “That, they would,” he agreed. “I shall make the arrangements as soon as possible.”

  A sprightly grin tipped the side of her mouth. “I thought you despised going to the dressmaker’s.”

  He smothered the urge to laugh. “Are you planning on throwing shoes at me if I accompany you?”

  “Probably not. That is, if you are in good behavior.”

  “And if I am disagreeable?” he challenged as they strolled the narrow walkway that wound through his mother’s voluminous rose garden.

  Dainty nose upturned, eyes regarding him mischievously from the side, tone hinting nothing short of sheer conviction, she said, “Then I shall throw shoes at you.”

  Smothering amusement was entirely futile at that point. Justin laughed with a lightheartedness he’d not experienced in months. Years, maybe. Father had been terribly sick, and dukedom was too serious a matter to spare even a moment’s worth of joy, let alone allowing oneself to indulge in the gaiety of laughter.

  But laugh, he did, until wiping an escaped tear from his eye, he heard a frightful gasp elicit sharply from Sara’s throat.

  “You’re hurt!” She grabbed for his hand. “Cut! What happened?”

  It took a moment to register what the sudden fit of distress was all about, although admittedly, it was quite nice having his duchess-to-be fussing over him like a bantam hen. But as he looked down at his hand, which was being traced and stroked by none other than her delicate little fingers, he noticed he was indeed cut.

  “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, discomfited by the deliberate slowness in which she was stroking the wound with the very tip of her finger.

  A breeze carrying the mild scent of rain wafted past them, rustled the ringlets falling from her hairpins, mixed the air with lavender and vanilla.

  “It appears, Lord Carrington, you have come in contact with a thorn bush of some sort, perhaps a vine.” The words echoed in a concerned whisper as she used her thumb to swab away a droplet of blood.

  Justin swallowed. And before he even knew what he was about ...

  “The cut is clean, which means that--”

  His mouth drifted over hers, capturing her gasp of surprise. Her lips were warm, feathery light, and not at all unwelcome. In fact, he could probably deepen the kiss and she’d--wait, what was he thinking? She didn’t want this. That, she’d made perfectly clear.

  “Apologies,” he said, pulling his lips from hers.

  Something lingered between them, or was it just his imagination? Bollocks. Nothing was aligning in his mind. Wouldn’t for the way she was staring up at him now, all round eyes and parted lips. She was probably thinking about slapping him, not that he didn’t deserve it. He had promised her, after all.

  But then a cool hand slid round his neck. In the next instant, those warm lips were pressed against his. Again.

  Pleasure spurred through his loins, burned through his chest and down his legs. She was small, yet extraordinarily curvy in her smallness, and that discovery was reiterated a hundred times over when those small curves molded timidly, but oh-so-finely, to his body.

  He pressed his hands to her back, brought her closer against the natural curve of his own body, and she answered him, tightening her slender arms around his neck. She was kissing him fully now, wanting more than a woman her age knew how to give, and the annoying voice in the inner recesses of his mind told him to hold back. To take it slow. To stop, lest she accuse him afterwards of taking advantage.

  But she was his, he reasoned. His betrothed, his duchess-to-be. She belonged to him: red lips swollen with his kisses, small curves, ample breasts crushed against his own chest.

  Mine, he thought. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  Ah, to hell with it.

  Giving no more thought to reverence, he took possession of her lips with a ruthlessness becoming no less than that of a wild man. She opened her mouth, likely to protest his sudden whim of ferocity, but he couldn’t help himself. Instinct had already taken over, thrown propriety to a strong east wind--perhaps a west one, he thought dimly--and with sheer boldness, his tongue swept inside her mouth.

  She trembled against him, clearly not knowing what to do, or how to respond. Her arms were still tightly wound about his neck, but whether from mutual desire or fear on her part, he could not tell. No one had kissed her like this. No one had taught Sara how fine kissing between a man and a woman can be, how utterly stimulating, and he was glad of it.

  “Justin,” she whispered into his mouth.

  Ah, but the way she said his name. That beautiful, musical, brogue drawl that made his heart beat a rapid tattoo.

  “Yes, Kitten?” He slowed down. Brushed his lips lightly over hers. “You want me to stop?”

  She nodded, but kissed him again. If they didn’t stop soon, he was liable to carry her to that stone bench over there beneath his mother’s peach tree.

  Then he’d surely get slapped, beaten, kicked.

  Have shoes thrown at him.

  He broke the kiss, could’ve sworn he heard a tiny protesting moan flutter in the back of her throat. His betrothed liked kissing. There was no mistaking the color in her cheeks, that rose-stained hue he’d seen only in watercolors. And by God, if her lips weren’t the most beautiful shade of crimson. He’d bet his entire fortune the ripest pomegranate wasn’t nearly so lovely.

  He touched a finger to those lips. She stared up at him, eyes bright as a summer’s day, gleaming like sunlight against rain clouds gathering in the sky.

  “We should head back.” He retrieved his finger. Touching her was intoxicating. “Rain’s coming.”

  EIGHT

  “How does it look?”

  The duchess paused. “Too much lace,” she declared, and Anna sighed. “You do not want too much up there, darling. You are still unwed, after all.”

  “If I am to meet a husband, I seriously doubt it will be at my brother’s engagement party, Mother. Besides.” Anna gazed pensively into the full mirror, cocked her head to the side. “I think the lace adds a nice touch. Father will be pleased. That my bosom is covered,
I mean.”

  “Your father would that you never married, Anna, and that is not pragmatic.”

  She met her mother’s gaze through the glass. “Then my pragmatism matches my father’s. The lace stays.”

  Lips pinched into a thin line, the duchess stepped forward, seized the lace fichu, and, in one swift movement, yanked it free.

  Anna slapped a hand over her high white breasts. “Mother!”

  The duchess arched a fine brow. “The lace goes. Now, finish quickly, Anna.” She moved to the window, her heavy blue satin skirts rustling. “My entire list of guests have almost all arrived, and yet you dilly-dally.”

  Willing herself to remain calm, Anna inhaled and began fussing with the neckline of her pale pink silk gown. “Did you invite the Duke and Duchess of Leeds?” she asked conversationally, tucking a stray thread at her shoulder.

  “Naturally,” the duchess said. “And the Earl and Countess of Kensington, the Duke and Duchess of Worcester and their son--”

  “Sebastian?” Anna said on a gasp.

  The duchess turned halfway. “Did you think I wouldn’t invite him? He is your brother’s closest friend, Anna, and you know how your father feels about him, as do I. Besides, you can put away your childish antics with Lord Beaufort for one night at the expense of your brother’s happiness.”

  “His happiness?” Anna snorted. “Mother, he’s been betrothed to a stranger since he was ... what? Ten?”

  The duchess folded her hands in front of her. “Twelve.”

  “Yes. And while I like Sara, I most certainly won’t delude myself by believing she and my brother are a love match.”

  She paused to fluff the short sleeves of her dress. “I often wonder how much champagne father and Kilkenny had that night. Betrothing two perfect strangers. Positively medieval, if you ask me.”

  “Medieval, maybe.” The duchess crossed the room, brushed a piece of lint from the back of Anna’s bodice. “Your brother does seem to like her, though,” she murmured. “And she, him. It is a start, at least.”

  “I suppose. At least they’ll have half a chance tonight without the cankerous nuisance that is Millicent St. Clair.”

  The duchess did not respond.

  Anna whirled on her. “Please tell me you did not invite Milly.”

  The duchess raised her chin. “Lady St. Clair,” she said. “And yes, I did invite her.”

  “Justin’s mistress? What about Sara? She doesn’t--” Anna pressed a hand to her brow. “Oh, this is going to be a catastrophe. Perfect, Mother. You’ve managed to add creator-of-disaster to your repertoire.”

  The duchess’s lips thinned. “Foremost, you will not speak to me that way. Furthermore, Lady Ballivar need never know of your brother’s indiscretions with Lady St. Clair. Besides, I do believe Justin has a mind to end the affair. He’s well aware unfaithfulness will not be tolerated in this household.”

  “You think Lady St. Clair gives a fig about what is and isn’t tolerated in this household?”

  “It matters not,” the duchess replied. “The duke has stated he will no longer abide her, and his word is enough for me, as it should be for you.”

  “I have always respected Father’s opinion,” Anna said automatically.

  “Good. Then it should come as no surprise that it was your father’s idea to invite Lady St. Clair. He feels that by seeing the truth, the reality if you will, of your brother’s engagement to another woman, then the problem, the cankerous nuisance that is Millicent St. Clair, as you so interestingly put it, shall fix itself.”

  “One could hope.”

  “Then we shall dare to hope, my dear.” She continued to run her hands over Anna’s skirts. “I, too, have grown weary of her. She doesn’t belong here, and she doesn’t love your brother.”

  “She loves his youth and vitality.”

  “Two characteristics which will make him a fine duke,” the duchess said, then softly, regrettably added, “and all too soon, I fear.”

  Anna placed a hand on her mother’s slender shoulder. “Mother, do not trouble yourself with these thoughts tonight.” She put on a wistful smile, one which never failed to make her mother smile, too. “Tonight is about Justin and the woman he is to marry, and we must, for his sake, be on our best behavior. Just for tonight, we mustn’t worry ourselves with Father’s frail condition.”

  The duchess looped her arm inside Anna’s. “Too right you are, dear heart. Now, be a darling and accompany me downstairs. The musicians have begun, and I am certain I’ve just heard a contredanse calling your name.”

  “Now that sounds delightful.” Anna grabbed a light scarf, and proceeded with her mother to the party downstairs. But not before contritely adding, “I still don’t understand why you had to invite her.”

  *** *** ***

  Meanwhile, Justin waited in the ballroom, wondering that very same thing.

  He stood near the orchestra, flanked by his father, who was managing his strength surprisingly well tonight, and Sebastian, who was filling them in on his father’s progress with the steam engines up North. Sebastian was droning on about Duke Worcester’s current project of connecting some small town to some equally small town when Justin caught sight of her.

  Prim as she ever was, blond hair twisted tightly atop her head, white gown revealing an overflowing, voluptuous bosom that would give any man the urge to howl like a damned wolf, Lady St. Clair had managed to comfortably wedge herself between two gentlemen. Both of whom were fawning over her as if she were a French delicacy.

  Her gloved fingers were wrapped around the stem of a champagne flute, which was already half-empty. Soon she’d coo for one of the idiots to fetch another. And another. And another. Until she was inebriated into a fit of giggles and fluttering lashes. After which she’d whisper shameless endearments into their ears and proceed to allow one or both of them to escort her from the room.

  He knew this woman too well. What in God’s name had his mother been thinking to invite her? This was his engagement party, was it not?

  “Carrington, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, Beaufort,” Justin murmured. “You were telling me about the new railroad in Durham.”

  “Middlesbrough,” Sebastian said.

  “Sounds like a sizeable project.” The Duke of Tethersal, having been silent for the past several minutes, gave Sebastian a healthy pat on the back.

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” said Sebastian. “In fact, my father confided just this morning that it will take twice as long, if not longer, to complete. Workers are scarce, you see, and we’ve had to nearly double our wage offer in order to obtain the number needed to finish the job. Damnable thieves, all of them. No one wants to work these days.”

  Justin snorted. “Come now, Beaufort. You’ve never worked a day in your life, let alone acquired a position in which you can accurately judge a person by what they will and will not accept as amicable pay. I daresay you’ve never tied your own cravat.”

  “I most certainly have!” Sebastian laid a hand on his flawless neck cloth. “Besides, why do something yourself when you pay servants to do it for you?”

  “And if you didn’t have your servants?” Justin turned out an open palm. “What then?”

  Sebastian hesitated. “Well, I hadn’t given it much thought. In any case, that has nothing to do with our plans for Middlesbrough. Unless of course we plan to teach the railroad crew how to properly tie a cravat.”

  The duke chuckled, eyes alighting as he regarded Sebastian with gentle amusement. Where Justin was serious and determined, Sebastian was lighthearted and indecisive. Which, by the laws of nature, should have kept them at odds, rather than in brotherly company, as they were. But the duke loved them, each for his own unique qualities.

  “Who else is in on it?” asked Justin, attempting to keep interest, though he found the effort rather difficult for two reasons: he wholly disliked discussing railroads and steam engines, and he still wasn’t certain why his mother had invited Milly.


  “Gage Kinsey, for one,” Sebastian said. “And Sir Dunmore of Galway. In fact, his son is due to arrive tomorrow, and just in time for Mother’s house party, so we can--good heavens, Carrington, have you retained anything I’ve said? Anything at all?”

  “No, he is too occupied wondering why Millicent St. Clair was invited tonight,” the duke said.

  Justin’s stomach plummeted. But seeing as there was no use in arguing, for the duke was as sharp as--nay, sharper than--any two-edged sword, he said, “Indeed, Father. Why was she invited? Or does Mother keep her guest list all to herself now?”

  “Hmm. Lady St. Clair receives an invitation to a party ...” Sebastian rubbed his chin. “But not just any party, a Mayfair House party, where doubtless she shall rub elbows with Lord Carrington--ah, that is you, my lord--although she hasn’t the slightest inclination said party is in honor of that esteemed lord’s recent engagement to a one Lady Ballivar of Dublin.”

  His eyes rolled to meet those of an amused Duke of Tethersal. “Am I getting warm, Your Grace?”

  The duke’s lips twitched. “That would be the general idea, my dear boy. You are quite correct.”

  “Allow me to see if I’ve understood correctly,” said Justin. “Mother invited Milly, yet she knows nothing of the occasion?” And at his father’s nod, “Wouldn’t it have been better if I had spoken to Milly first, rather than have her humiliated?”

  “Humiliated?” the duke repeated, and Sebastian’s expression soured. “Why in seven hells would you be worried for the humiliation of your mistress? On the contrary, Carrington, I would think your concerns would be more for Lady Ballivar, as she knows nothing of Lady St. Clair.”

  “This has nothing to do with her, Father.”

  “It has everything to do with her!” The duke’s face flushed crimson. “And the trouble that woman could cause should you allow it.”

  Now Justin was equally angry. “Well, I will not allow that woman to be humiliated. I’ve vowed to end the relationship, and I intend on keeping my word, but I owe Milly this much, to at least tell her myself. Before she hears it from someone else.”