When someone loves you

by Susan Johnson

  He shrugged. “That may be, but I’m well aware of what I’m doing.”

  She gave him a dubious look. “Come morning, you may not think so.”

  “Do you want me to beg? Is that what you want? I’m more than willing.” It was curious-strange how love could turn the world upside down.

  She smiled. “Please don’t.”

  He laughed. “Good. I’m not altogether sure I could.”

  “Because you’ve never had to,” she said coolly. And perhaps that was the rub—that great divide of wealth and privilege that separated them.

  “Nor have you ever begged for love, so don’t look at me so critically. Look, I brought you something,” he added, deftly reverting to familiar habit when under the squinty-eyed gaze of a woman who was speaking to him in that cool tone. Fumbling in his coat pocket, he pulled out a small red leather box. “See, I am dead serious about this.” Flipping open the lid, he pulled out an enormous pink diamond ring, reached for her hand, and slid the ring on her finger. “It fits. Obviously, it’s meant to be as in kismet, fate, whatever you want to call it. Now, let’s get married. We should be able to find a minister around here somewhere.”

  She was trying very hard to resist his blandishments, casual as they were. She was telling herself he was drunk and would surely regret this in the morning. She was reminding herself of her long-held reservations about marriage between unequal classes and all the misery associated with such unions. “We can’t,” she said, keeping her voice deliberately temperate. “Have you forgotten? You need a license.”

  “No, I have not forgotten,” he cheerfully replied, pulling a rumpled sheet of paper from his other coat pocket. “Voila! And, darling, I’ve only drunk two bottles at the most, so I am quite rational. I’m never foxed until at least the fourth.”

  She didn’t know if she should be relieved or not by his casual disclaimer. “Think of your parents,” she added further, feeling at least one of them should be responsible. “They certainly won’t approve of what you’re doing.”

  “My God, you are difficult to convince,” Duff grumbled. “Here—my parents have sent you their most obliging felicitations.” Digging in his pockets once again, he came up with a scented note that he handed to her. “Now, then,” he muttered when she’d finished reading his parents’ good wishes, “do you require the approval of the Regent as well, because I will damned well get it for you if need be!”

  “I accept.”

  “Maybe you require the mad king’s signature as well, or the queen’s, who fortunately can still write her own hand. Give the word and you shall have their approval as well,” he proposed heatedly.

  “I said yes.”

  “I hope you realize that I’ve never so much as thought about asking anyone to marry me and now when I have, all I hear is a great deal of—”He suddenly met her gaze. “You said what?”

  “I would be happy to marry you, Lord Darley.”

  “Finally,” he growled, although his mouth twitched into a smile. “You are a most vexing woman. Although I say that with the highest regard and affection.” His smile widened. “Actually, if you must know, I find not only your vexatiousness, but everything about you, vastly agreeable.”

  She laughed. “Nevertheless, I give you one last chance to change your mind, for I bring a good deal of vexation in my wake. I come with an entourage, you know.”

  “At the risk of offending you, darling,” he teased, “Cricket figured rather largely in my decision to propose to you.”

  She hit him.

  Or tried. Even half drunk, his reactions were superb; he caught her hand just short of his face. Then, swinging her onto his lap, he pulled her close. “You could come with an army and I’d have you,” he whispered. “Satisfied?”

  She nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

  He gently kissed her; then, framing her face between his large hands, he smiled. “We will be happy, you and I. My word on it.”

  He had no idea how much his offer of happiness meant to her. But she’d lived too long in the fashionable world to naively accept such a premise. “Everyone will talk. The gossip will be brutal. You know that.”

  He held her gaze. “Let them talk.” His smile was benign. “As the Marchioness of Darley, you may give the direct cut to whomever you please.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t wish that.”

  “Even the Harrisons? Surely you would take pleasure in giving them the cut.”

  She grinned. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “You will find I am generally right,” he noted roguishly.

  “And you will find that I generally dislike men who think they’re always right. I am independent in every way.”

  “Hmm… Perhaps we should define some of the perimeters of this marriage. I am a fiercely possessive man.”

  Her brows rose. “Since when, pray tell?” Darley’s habit of flitting from woman to woman was well known.

  “Since I met you,” he declared crisply.

  “Then, for the record, may I state that I am equally possessive.”

  “But that’s not possible,” he replied waggishly. “Don’t you know this is a man’s world?”

  “Then you may have your ring back, and your proposal. My answer is rescinded.”

  “Perhaps we can come to some agreement,” he interposed smoothly.

  “An agreement on fidelity.”

  “Yes, on that. I fully concur. Is that better?”

  “Very well, then.”

  “Very well, what?”

  “I will marry you.”

  “I’m finding a minister before you change your mind again,” he said briskly, lifting her from his lap and setting her on her feet.

  “And find Mama, Molly, Tom, and the babies, too.” She felt as though she was alight from within, she was so happy.

  He was partway to the door when he turned back. “We’re going to have to be married again,” he said, temperate and measured. “My mother will be distrait if she can’t marry off her eldest son with full pomp and ceremony.”

  “Why don’t we talk about it?”

  Half drunk or not, his skill at reading women was unimpaired. He understood this was not the time to press the issue. He smiled. “Whatever you say, darling.”

  Epilogue

  The Marquis of Darley, long thought inexorably opposed to marriage, wed Miss Annabelle Foster, the most beautiful woman in England, in the back parlor of the White Horse Inn with her family in attendance. For a goodly sum, a minister had been found forthwith, the vows read, and before Miss Foster could fully debate all the ramifications of such an unequal union, the ceremony was over.

  Which was the point, as far as the marquis was concerned, wanting what he wanted as he did.

  In deference to Annabelle’s apparent aversion to a fashionable wedding under the scrutiny of the entire Ton, a compromise was reached between the duchess’s enormous guest list and Annabelle’s reservations.

  Duff and Annabelle were married again a month later at Westerlands Park with a select number of guests in attendance. The Regent came, making the wedding the preeminent social event of the season, but even without him, the occasion was splendid beyond belief.

  And on Duff’s second wedding night, when his bride told him she thought she might be with child, the marquis at first blanched. “Are you sure?” he asked, not certain he was entirely ready for fatherhood. “How can it be?”

  “Surely, you jest. You have been most assiduous in your attentions of late.” Her brows rose an infinitesimal distance. “Is there a problem?”

  What could he say? I just found out I could actually fall in love? Don’t rush me. “No, not at all,” he murmured. “It’s not a problem.”

  “You have eight months to get used to the idea,” Annabelle said with a benevolent smile.

  “Thank God. I mean—wonderful… perfect—really… absolutely perfect.”

  She laughed. “Is the pressure too much, Duff?”

  He smiled. “Not with
you beside me.” And if he was uncertain of other things, of that he was not.

  “You will be the best of fathers,” she whispered. “Just as you are the sweetest of husbands,” she added, basking in the warmth of his affectionate smile.

  “And you are my own precious wife,” he said, knowing he was the most fortunate of men, having found not only love but peace.

  ———

  Prior to their marriage, no one in the fashionable world would have bet a penny on the Marquis of Darley marrying any time soon. Nor would those in the Ton have given any odds on Annabelle Foster finding a man who pleased her.

  If not for that village horse fair, who knows if they would have met as they did?

  But then, the Darley luck was much intertwined with horses and beautiful women; perhaps the hand of fate had intervened.

  Would fate intercede once again with the next Lord Darley?

  Years later in the Crimea, in the midst of war, the question is answered.

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  “Nothing to see. The lights are off. I don’t hear the air-conditioning, so I’m guessing we blew a circuit breaker or something.”

  “You’re trying to say your kisses were so good that we blew a fuse? Try again, stud.”

  Zach’s chuckle rumbled against her chest. He flicked back the edge of the curtain and let the light from the Strip stream into the room. “Probably from the construction. Though think how impressive the kiss thing would be.”

  Dumb didn’t begin to describe how Jenna felt at the moment. She’d made every professional misstep imaginable. Lose control? Check. Let her desires overwhelm her good sense? Check. Let her consulting client go one step too far on the floor of her office? That was new, but still a check.

  Damn hormones.

  What she needed was a little decorum. Getting off the floor and out from under him would be a good start. “Okay, fun time is over.”

  “Most people would look at the lights being out as a message.”

  He felt so right there with her body curved into his. “Right. The message being to get up.”

  He frowned at her and managed to look adorable doing it. “I was thinking more like the opposite conclusion.”

  She tried to concentrate on his argument, lame as it was, but his firm body kept dragging her attention away. From the impressive bulge pressing against her thigh to his hard-as-granite everything else, she wanted him.

  His pretty-boy face and easy charm had attracted her from the beginning. With every day that passed she wanted him more.

  “Shouldn’t you get back to your kitchen?” she asked.

  “Sam has it under control. He’s my second in command. He could run his own kitchen and is totally qualified to take over in my absence.”

  Common sense didn’t seem to be working, but she tried again. “Yeah, well, we should be out there checking on the guests.”

  “Unless you plan to hand out flashlights, I’m not sure what you could do.”

  “I could…” Something.

  “We can’t do any work. We’re all alone. It’s dark. I’m on top of you.”

  “I notice you’re not getting up,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Think of the darkness as the universe’s sign we should keep on doing what we’re doing.” His hand rested on her breast and showed no sign of moving, so it wasn’t hard to figure out what the “what” was.

  “We need to go,” she insisted.

  “Most people wouldn’t view the lights going out as a reason to stop having fun.”

  Then it hit her. She was having sex with Zach. On her floor. In her office. She’d even touched his ass. So much for professionalism. Nothing prepared her for Zach.

  “Zach, I’m serious.” More like embarrassed, but he didn’t need to know that.

  He lowered his head until his forehead touched her breasts. The move sent an ache spinning from her chest to the damp space between her thighs.

  “You’re actually going to do it,” he mumbled into the thin material separating them.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Do what?”

  He skimmed his finger under the edge of her camisole and flimsy bra and outlined her nipple until it puckered. “Gall a halt. Go right to the edge and pull back.”

  “I didn’t—” She gasped when he slipped the two layers of silk down, exposing her breast.

  Then he palmed her, his hand warm against her chilled skin. “Man, you’re beautiful.”

  She couldn’t speak.

  “I wanted time to do this.” He licked her nipple, flicking his tongue across the tight bud.

  She tried to remember her name. Bartholomew something…

  “And this.” He placed his hot mouth over the tip and suckled her. Twirling his tongue over her, wetting her skin.

  Someone moaned. She feared it came from deep inside of her.

  “So pretty.” His reverent whisper tickled against her breast.

  Two more seconds and her skirt would be over her head. “Stop!”

  “You still want that clipboard?”

  “Yeah, so I can beat you with it.”

  “Well, honey, I’m not usually into that, but I’m game.”

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  The mantel clock began to chime.

  Jessamyn’s head flashed around to stare at it before she looked back at Morgan.

  She forced back her body’s awareness of him. “I needed him as my husband, you fool! For two hours, starting now.”

  “Husband?” Jealousy swept over his face.

  “In a lawyer’s office,” she snarled back. “I have to be there with a husband in fifteen minutes, or all is lost. Damn you, let me go!”

  The clock chimed again.

  His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he pulled her up to him. His grip was less painful but just as inescapable as before. “A bargain then, Jessamyn. I’ll play your husband for a few hours, if you’ll join me in a private parlor for the same span of time afterward.”

  She gasped. A devil’s bargain, indeed.

  “Nine years ago, before you married Cyrus, I promised you revenge for what you did, and you agreed my claim was just. Two hours won’t see that accomplished but it’s a start,” he purred, his drawl knife-edged and laced with carnal promise.

  Her flight or fight instincts stirred, honed by seven years as an Army wife on the bloody Kansas prairies. She reined them in sternly: No matter how angry he’d been, surely Morgan would never harm a woman, no matter what preposterous demands he’d hurled nine years ago when she’d held him captive.

  Her fingers bit into his arms, as she tried to think of another option. But if she didn’t appear with a husband, she’d lose her only chance of regaining Somerset Hall, her family’s old home…

  The mantel clock sounded the third, and last, note.

  She agreed to his bargain, the words like ashes in her throat. “Very well, Morgan. Now will you take me across the street to the lawyer’s?”

  ———

  Morgan escorted Jessamyn across the street with all the haughtiness his father would have shown escorting his mother aboard a riverboat. It was a bit of manners ingrained in him so early that he didn’t need to think about it, something he’d first practiced with Jessamyn when she was five and their parents first openly hoped for a wedding between them. Such an ingrained habit was very useful when his brain seemed to have dived somewhere south of his belt buckle as soon as she’d agreed she owed him revenge.

  What was he going to do first? There were so many activities he’d learned in consortium houses, of how to drive a woman insane with desire. How to leave her sated and panting, willing to do anything to repeat the experience. More than anything else, he needed to
see Jessamyn aching to be touched by him again and again.

  A black curl stroked her cheek in just the way he planned to later. He smiled, planning, and reached for the office door.

  Ebenezer Abercrombie & Sons, Attys. At Law announced the sturdy letters on its surface.

  Morgan stiffened. Her lawyer was that Abercrombie? Halpern’s friend and Millicent’s godfather, who Morgan had dined with last night? Who’d beamed approval as Halpern and his wife had shoved Morgan at their daughter and he’d made no mention of a wife?

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Jessamyn, who’d never been a fool, caught his momentary hesitation and glanced up at him.

  He shook his head slightly at her and put his hand on the doorknob. Suddenly it turned under his fingers and swung open to frame Abercrombie’s well-fed bulk. The man’s eyes widened briefly as he took in both of his visitors.

  Jessamyn leaned closer to Morgan and squeezed his arm, with all the assurance of a long-married woman. God knows he’d seen her do it with Cyrus before.

  Morgan shifted himself so she could fit comfortably, as he’d seen his cousin do. She settled easily within a hand’s-breadth of him and tilted her head at Abercrombie expectantly. The entire byplay took only a few seconds.

  The lawyer’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened before a polite professional mask covered his face. “Good afternoon, Evans. What an unexpected pleasure to see you here today.”

  Morgan smiled with all the smooth charm he’d polished as one of Bedford Forrest’s spies. “The pleasure is entirely mine, Abercrombie. I’ve the honor of escorting my wife. Jessamyn, my dear, have you met Mr. Abercrombie?” He could have kicked himself. His Mississippi drawl was slightly heavier than usual, a telltale sign of nervousness.

  Jessamyn took Abercrombie’s hand, with all the charm of her aristocratic Memphis upbringing. “Yes, Mr. Abercrombie was my uncle’s lawyer for years. I’ve known him since I was a child. Hello, sir.”

  Abercrombie kissed her cheek. “My dear lady, I’m so glad you were able to bring your husband.” His eyes flickered to Morgan but his countenance was impassive. “Your cousin Charles and his wife are seated in my office, waiting for the reading of the will to begin. Please come with me.”