Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  Slowly her labored breaths had steadied. And as sleep overtook her tired body, Justin brought her against his chest and closed his eyes, hoping he, too, could finally rest. Sleep had been impossible for the past couple of days, worried as he was over losing Sara. But surely now, after she’d given up everything to be with him, after she’d confessed her love and he had nothing more to worry over ...

  But no, he couldn’t bring himself to do it; she was too beautiful in slumber to miss a single moment. Sleep, for him at least, would have to wait.

  And so as he lay quietly, listening to the soothing rain, the periodic crackle of the fire dying in the grate, and the steady waft of Sara’s breathing, Justin reflected on his last thought before he’d concluded sleep was no good.

  Sara had said she loved him.

  Of course, he’d said it first, and the Lord knew he’d have to remind her of that from time to time.

  He could picture them in an argument. After a few years, naturally, as he was sure she’d have no complaints until at least their fifth anniversary. Maybe later. But eventually she would find something to complain about, she being Irish and he being the arse he knew he could be.

  “You’re late again,” she would snap, her lip curling in that way she had. The one that made him want to kiss her senseless.

  “I’m afraid Parliament does not regard time the way you do, sweet,” he would respond, lifting a brow for a good measure. “And mine is in high demand at present.” Because it would be, and he could only hope she would understand once the summons were sent for him to take his seat.

  But of course, this was Sara. Defiant, Irish, Sara. She would fight him nail and teeth just because she could. Hell, she’d probably march her petite self into chambers and demand her husband be released this instant.

  After she’d spouted a few Gaelic curses, naturally.

  “I’m needed in London, Sara.” He’d step closer to her, narrow the distance between them. “You know this.”

  “I care not what they need,” she’d say, those beautiful brown eyes ablaze. “I need you here.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes!” Her hands would go to her hips. “That is so!”

  “And what, pray, do you plan to do about it?” He’d reach out then, skim his knuckles down the side of her breast, just because he could.

  And of course she’d smack his hand because they were arguing, and how dare he touch her when she was trying to make a point. And by then he’d have lost the point because he was an idiot who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. At least not where Sara was concerned.

  “What am I going to do about it?” she’d demand. “I run this entire household, Your Grace! While you … you toddle off to London every day! I think the real question is what are you going to do about it?” The challenge in her eyes would be too irresistible not to touch her.

  And so he would. “This,” he’d growl, snatching her into his arms and crushing her mouth beneath his. Somewhere in the midst of all the mind-blowing passion, which would be smack-dab in the middle of the foyer, he would remind her, “Don’t ever forget, Sara. I said I love you first.”

  Then he’d carry her upstairs and make love to her until she screamed his name. Until she was gripping the sheets for purchase, her head flailing about his pillows, breasts pert and rosy from his kisses.

  Justin swallowed. Oh, yes. That would be--

  “Mmm.”

  Exactly.

  “Good morning.” She squirmed in his arms, stretched her slender legs and, drawing up again, wedged one of her smooth calves between his. Then she made the little mmm sound again, sighed it, her warm breath teasing the underside of his bicep.

  She was right. Even in his ridiculous fantasy, she was right. He’d never make it to London. Hell, he’d be lucky if he ever made it past the threshold of their bedchamber.

  “Justin.” She tucked her face beneath his chin, nipped at his throat.

  He tightened his arms around her. Did she have any idea how mad she drove him? Since the moment they’d met at the docks in Liverpool no less. Even then he’d wanted to climb in after her, into the carriage where she’d practically forbidden him to look, God forbid touch.

  And oh, how he’d wanted to.

  Now here she was, wrapped in his arms, snuggled up against him. And he was hard as a rock, ready to take her. Ah God, to be inside her. It was, quite easily, his new favorite place to be.

  “You’ve been awake,” she softly accused. She touched her tongue to the pulse pounding in his throat. Her hand began a slow meander over his pectoral muscles, the skim of her fingers so light he couldn’t stop himself from groaning in response. She had the touch of an angel.

  “For a while, yes,” he admitted, running his fingers down the small of her back, over the swell of her bottom, and back up again. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Bad dreams?” Her hand moved further down to graze over his abdomen, and Justin felt the muscles there tighten reactively. She caught the cleft of his unshaven chin between her lips and sucked, even as her hand prowled onward. Down, down.

  “I hope not.” Her fingertips trickled through the tuft of curls at the base of his stomach.

  Justin managed a strangled, “No,” before her fingers wrapped themselves around his length and he lost all ability of coherent speech.

  She laughed; a warm, husky sound that made his veins dilate and the blood inside unbearably hot. “I think,” she murmured, dragging the tip of her tongue across his lower lip, “I shall have a difficult time keeping up with you, Your Grace.”

  Justin groaned, and with deft urgency, took possession of her mouth. He wasted no time with courtship. No coaxing, no soft brushes until she opened with a sigh. No. He plunged in, tasted her with the rapaciousness of a wild beast. He wanted her.

  Again and again, he wanted her.

  Sara responded eagerly, meeting the ravenous plunder of his tongue with her own, and all the while, she kept her hand, too small to wrap around him fully, in a slow, albeit awkward, stroke.

  She had no experience, but he was glad of it. Glad he’d be the only man ever to touch her, teach her, watch her unravel in his arms as her body reached climax.

  “Sara.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I know you must be sore. Yes?”

  “I suppose.” Her eyes were smoldering, a deep black-brown reminding him of the wood he’d seen from Lebanon. “A little.”

  “Then we should wait.” God only knew how hard it was for him to make such a suggestion. But he’d heard from various gentlemen, most of whom were in Sebastian’s coterie of corrupted acquaintances, that the loss of a woman’s virginity left her tender for at least a few days afterward.

  Hence the reason most men, especially those men, preferred women of experience. And though Justin no longer shared that particular sentiment, would gladly confess to any man how pleasing it was to bed a woman for whom one carries a deep affection (virgin or no), he still found it a little difficult to put her feelings before his.

  “But what about you?” she asked quietly.

  Especially when she was more worried for his comfort than her own, God bless her.

  “What about me, love?”

  She slid her hand all the way up his length, eliciting from him a grunt of pleasure when her thumb grazed over the tip. “You are … well.”

  This was too much. Even in her brazenness, her want to touch him as he’d touched her, she radiated innocence.

  Justin pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Mornings,” he began, attempting to quickly calculate how he should explain. This was as new to him as it was to her. “Mornings are always like this for a man, my dear.”

  “Oh?” She pulled back, gazed up at him. “I wonder how you are able to arise from bed in such a state.”

  “Good God, sweetheart. It is not that bad.” Reaching down, he gently pried away her hand, brought it to his lips. “You do realize marriage is inevitable for you and I, yes?”

  “Of course.”


  “That said, I should also inform you that when my mother finds out, she will immediately burst into action for the planning of a huge affair. Even in her grief, a wedding is too irresistible.”

  The small space between Sara’s dark, softly winged brows knit. “A huge wedding.”

  “You disapprove?”

  She inhaled deeply. “Huge weddings,” she said, “take a great deal of planning. There are so many arrangements to be made. Invitations, flowers, dresses, announcement parties.”

  “And all of that, as we well know, takes a vast amount of time.”

  “Precisely.” The anxiousness in her reply was so evident, so desperate, an instant spark of cheer flashed in his heart.

  She didn’t want to wait either.

  How in the name of God had he gotten so lucky?

  Choosing his words carefully, he said, “We could elope.”

  Her eyes widened. “Your Grace?”

  “Have I told you how utterly arousing that sounds coming from these beautiful lips?” He kissed her again, thoroughly this time.

  And for a moment, as their tongues were, once more, entangling, and his body was, once more, becoming fully aroused, Sara seemed to forget the suggestion altogether.

  But: “Did you mean it?” she said, tearing her lips from his.

  “Sara,” he said, and settled for a kiss to her cheek. “I want to marry you.” He tipped her chin, setting her round-eyed gaze to his. “And if you’ll have me, I’ll gladly marry you as soon as tomorrow. Tonight, if it pleases you.”

  “Tonight! How could we possibly be married so soon? The license--”

  “Unnecessary. If we elope, that is.”

  “To Scotland?”

  “That would be the plan, yes.”

  Sara paused, blinked. “How long will it take to get there?”

  “Several hours by coach, but then”--he flashed his most charming smile--“my team of horses is infallible. Only a couple of stops in between, if that, and we’ll be across the border well before dawn.”

  A hint of a smile tipped the corner of her mouth. “My father will be furious.”

  “My mother will call the authorities,” he murmured, nuzzling the feminine hollow of her neck.

  “Lana will attempt to strangle you,” Sara put in with a husky giggle. “Or wag a finger in your face until you become cross-eyed.”

  “Mmm.” He dropped kisses all over her neck, her shoulders. His hand adhered to her breast, and she moaned, pushing herself more fully into his palm. “What on earth,” he murmured, circling her nipple with the pad of his thumb, “am I going to do with a finger-wagging maid?”

  “What on earth am I going to do with a cross-eyed husband?”

  “You’ll wish you had married Cavanaugh when I can’t even see straight enough to kiss you.”

  Abruptly Sara’s hands came to his face, forcing their gazes to catch. “Never,” she vowed. Her eyes appeared to pulse, they were so wide. “I could never want him. Nor anyone else, for that matter. No.” She swiped her thumbs across his cheekbones and pressed a hard kiss to his lips.

  “No one but you,” she whispered. And Justin, certain as he once was that an emotion as strong as love would never find its way into his heart, into his very soul, found himself, in those fleeting seconds, almost overwhelmed to tears.

  He kissed her. And he kissed her. Reached to her, through her, with all he had. Everything he felt for her--every emotion, every ounce of passion--poured from his body to hers in that moment. In that kiss.

  And when he’d taken her again, against what he knew was right for the delicate state of her body, but in submission to her sobs and pleas for completion, Justin realized his heart belonged solely to this woman. With sanguine conviction, he knew. And oh, what a glorious epiphany that was.

  “Marry me, Sara,” he murmured against her lips, as they laid there, bodies joined, hearts pounding.

  “All right, Justin,” she whispered, and softer, as he was bending his head to kiss her again: “I shall marry you.”

  *** *** ***

  Within the hour they were dressed and attempting to tread as quietly as possible through the entryway of Mayfair House. Beseeching a footman to locate his valet, and to do it quietly or consider himself terminated, Justin led Sara to the bottom of the stairs and proceeded to lay out the plan for their elopement.

  “Have Mrs. Brennan pack your carryall--”

  “You’ve already told a footman!” she protested. “Lana will alert the entire household just by her cry of shock when I tell her we mean to elope.”

  Justin rolled his eyes. “Fine. Ready yourself, then, and meet me downstairs in an hour.” His gaze roamed from side to side as he added, “No one will wake for at least another two hours or so.”

  “My father is an early riser,” Sara whispered urgently.

  “Half an hour, then,” he amended. “A coach will be waiting out front.”

  Nodding compliantly, Sara stood tiptoe as Justin’s head bent over hers. Swift and hard their lips met, molded. Her body swayed into his embrace, and he responded greedily, splaying his hand under the curve of her bottom and bringing her up firmly against him.

  Blearily, through the deep, delving kisses and the tell-tale signs of her body’s own arousal, Sara’s mind registered the need to stop. They had little time.

  “Justin.” She fisted the collar of his soiled shirt, and he replied with a grating, “I know. I know.”

  “If we do not stop--”

  “I know,” he said, even as he took her earlobe between his teeth and worried it gently.

  Finally she felt his arms slacken, and with a muffled curse, he pushed her forward, using the hand he had spread across her bottom to urge her up the first two steps.

  Knees still weak, Sara reached for the railing to steady her traitorous legs, while behind her, Justin fought to steady his labored breath. Heaven help the both of them once they were enclosed in a coach. The northbound road was too long to sit quietly on opposite sides, while carnal longings stirred between them.

  “Walk softly, kitten,” he whispered as she crept slowly up the stairs, the white-grey marble cool beneath her feet, “else we’ll be waiting months to marry.”

  Unable to resist, she gathered what little strength she had, tossed a wry grin over her shoulder. “And you’ll be waiting months to have me.”

  Tamping down the urge to laugh at the unmistakable groan of displeasure she received in response to her teasing statement, Sara continued up and around the curvature of the stairs, smiling as Justin’s booted footsteps faded into the distance.

  The encompassing halls of the upper rooms were dark, quiet; the palladium sconces had long since extinguished. If she hurried, there would be time to stuff a couple of dresses, stockings, shoes, gloves and undergarments into her carryall with a few minutes to spare for a quick bath. The water would be cold, as the maids would have filled the tub hours ago, but she would simply have to make do. Her feet were stinging, her legs sloshed with mud from the ride back to the house, and the tender, intimate place between her thighs was terribly sore. Perhaps a brief soaking, cool though it may be, would help restore some portion of her normal self.

  Just as Sara reached for the brass doorknob to her bedchamber, she heard a click, followed by a light shuffling of feet. Instant fear breached her sequential thoughts: carryall, bath, dress, downstairs, coach ... Justin.

  A gasp pierced through the darkness.

  Turning around slowly, for God only knew who it could be slipping from their room for a midnight snack or perhaps a discreet visit to the privy, Sara took a deep breath and held it prayerfully.

  And hoped against hope it wasn’t her father’s eyes she’d encounter there in the shadows. Or worse--

  “Lana?” Narrowing her eyes because surely her luck couldn’t be this bad, Sara whispered, “Is that you?”

  Hesitation. Then, a barely audible, “Yes.”

  “What are you doing?” Sara teetered forward, careful to step only o
n the pads of her feet.

  Lana looked from side to side, eyes round, her springing chestnut curls falling in long tendrils over one bare shoulder.

  Sara tapered her gaze, taking in the odd scene with careful scrutiny. Lana, hair down, cheeks flushed, lips parted and bee-stung, dress practically falling off, eyes darting in all directions. Sara looked closer, peered past Lana’s pale shoulder (which she was desperately trying to keep covered), and scanned the closed door behind her.

  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  Except.

  Sara shifted her gaze downward, and discovered something quite ordinary. So ordinary in fact that had she not known for sure they were in England, she might’ve thought they’d never left Ireland.

  A silver coffee service with French rocaille detailing, every piece of which reflected the signs of recent use.

  Only one person she knew drank coffee in the evening.

  “Lana,” Sara whispered, staring at the shallow pool of brown liquid in the bowls of the silver spoons. “This is my father’s room.”

  “No.”

  She peered at Lana curiously. “No?”

  “That is ...” Lana closed her eyes, sighed, and in the faintest whisper said, “Yes. Yes it is.” She brushed past Sara, her steps light but quick, and headed across the hall for Sara’s room.

  Bursting into motion, Sara hurried after Lana, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. She didn’t have time for--oh, but she had to know. She just had to. Why was Lana in the duke’s bedchamber? Well. She knew why, but why did Lana seem so upset? Sara entered her room and carefully eased the door shut.

  Lana was sitting before the vanity, face in hands, shoulders trembling. Incoherent mutterings filtered through the spaces between her fingers, where her hands were too small to cover her face. A petite woman, Lana was, though blessed with the curves of one of the pinup models Sara had seen in one of Dublin’s smuttier gossip papers. Which in high society wasn’t exactly the most fashionable body type. And while she couldn’t be described as beautiful, for beauty these days meant thin everything, she was amply pretty and in possession of all her teeth.