A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  “Are you perchance acquainted with Walter Smythson?” she asked innocently. He was the blacksmith in the village near Thornbridge Manor.

  “Of course, dear. Everyone knows him,” Lady Richmond responded patronizingly. Amelia looked up and blinked rapidly a few times, trying to make sense of it, because there was absolutely no way Lady Richmond would know him, or admit to it if she did.

  “Ah, how silly of me,” Charlotte continued. “So then you must know Lady Millicent Strange. She moves in the most select circles, as it seems that you do. You must be familiar with her.”

  Miss Millicent Strange had been Charlotte’s imaginary childhood friend who was the regular instigator of all sorts of trouble. “Miss Millicent Strange did it,” Charlotte would say, “and she’s so very, very sorry.”

  “Lady Strange and I correspond regularly,” Lady Richmond declared, taking another sip of her wine and then dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

  Lady Hamilton pursed her lips.

  “You must be a favorite, then, given that it is so difficult for her to write after the accident,” Charlotte said. Brandon raised his brow, but his sister ignored him.

  “Oh, a dreadful occurrence. We were all devastated when it happened,” Lady Richmond responded, affecting a sorrowful expression.

  “And shocking. To lose a hand to the jaws of a wild boar!” Charlotte exclaimed. “One never expects that.”

  Indeed, one did not.

  Brandon took note of his family’s expressions: Amelia was holding her napkin over her mouth, and Penelope had her lips pressed firmly together. Their husbands, Brentford and Lord Addison, were similarly occupied with restraining their laughter. His mother was smiling as she smoothed out invisible creases in the tablecloth.

  The Duke of Richmond lavished his attentions upon dessert. His daughter was not paying the slightest bit of attention. Round and around that emerald ring went on her finger.

  “Her handwriting has never been the same, and it makes her letters a trifle difficult to read,” Lady Richmond carried on.

  “Charlotte, I’m curious as to how you are familiar with this Miss Millicent Strange,” Brandon interrupted.

  “She’s a lady,” Charlotte gasped. “I attend school with her daughter, Miss Araminta Strange,” Charlotte answered breezily. “We call her Minty. Miss Minty Strange.”

  Amelia began to choke and her husband handed her a glass of water.

  “One of your school friend’s mum has had her hand bitten off by a wild boar,” Brandon reiterated. Brentford excused himself and left the table.

  “Yes. Tragic, is it not?” Charlotte remarked, first dabbing a tear that was presumably as fake as Lady Millicent Strange and her daughter, Araminta.

  No, the real tragedy would be a lifetime of dinners like this one.

  Brandon felt his heart begin to beat harder, faster. He looked at the clock. Again. It was nearly eleven. Footmen stepped forward to clear the dessert plates. This dinner was almost over, thank God.

  But there would be more. He could look forward to a lifetime of dinner-table conversation consisting of minutia about the breeding of horses, lists of every ton member that had even the most fleeting acquaintance with Lady Richmond, and a bride who could not conceal her wish to be somewhere else.

  Such a demeanor was uncomfortable at the dinner table. He imagined it would be as unbearable, uncomfortable, and painful on their wedding night. Brandon did not imagine it would improve significantly with practice.

  With Sophie, though . . . By God, how he wanted her in such a primal, earthly way. The way a man ought to desire a woman. Brandon wanted to claim her mouth, grasp her breasts, hold her hips, and completely possess her. He wanted to make her gasp, moan, and cry with pleasure. He knew their lovemaking would be just that—lovemaking, and it would be earth-shatteringly exquisite.

  He reminded himself that gentlemen did not think about lovemaking at the dinner table.

  Perhaps he wasn’t as much of a gentleman as he thought he was. Perhaps there was a little more rogue in him than he knew. Perhaps it was time to simply be a man, call upon logic and reason, and consider the facts:

  His fiancée was in love with someone else.

  He, and his notion of honor, stood in the way of her happiness. Would it not be more noble to release her from her obligation to him?

  His future in-laws were terrible bores.

  And most importantly, there was the simple, undeniable fact that he was in love with Miss Sophie Harlow.

  He was also an outrageously wealthy and powerful double duke, which meant that he could marry whomever he wished and could afford the expense of a dozen breech-of-contract suits and still shower his rightful bride with jewels.

  He was also a gentleman, which meant he knew exactly when to stop being one. Right now, for example.

  Brandon stood and excused himself. There was an urgent matter he needed to attend to. He walked briskly away from the table. His pace increased when he reached the hall, and quickened further when he reached the foyer. When his boots hit the cobblestones outside, he broke into a run.

  Chapter 43

  The night before the wedding . . .

  Brandon heard only the pounding of his boots on the road and of his heart in his chest. He raced down the street, paused for a carriage to pass at an intersection. He sprinted past a brawl outside of the Queen’s Head pub. He ran past numerous illicit activities occurring in darkened corners and back alleys. His lungs burned. His muscles screamed for him to stop.

  Brandon ran faster.

  Finally, he arrived at Sophie’s door. He was covered in a slick sheen of sweat, and his shirt clung to him in a very common way. Somewhere along the way, his cravat had loosened and gotten lost. He was breathing hard. He pounded on the door with his fists.

  Bessy opened the door.

  “Bessy. Hello. I need to see Sophie please.”

  “Did you run here, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “I did,” he panted. “Because I need to speak to your mistress urgently.”

  “I’ll see if she’s at home to callers,” Bessy told him. He gave her the ducal stare.

  “Bessy, who is it?” It was Sophie.

  “It’s yer double duke,” her impertinent servant said.

  “Let him in.”

  He stepped inside and wasted not a second.

  “I love you,” he said. He was out of breath, his heart was pounding, and not entirely from his recent exertions.

  “I love you, too,” she said plainly as if it were a perfectly natural way to greet each other. Good evening, I love you.

  “Come away with me, Sophie,” Brandon said breathlessly, but firmly. “Tonight.”

  “But tomorrow . . .”

  “You. Me. Gretna Green. Tonight. I want to be with you, Sophie, as man and wife.”

  Brandon was absolutely certain. Sophie hesitated.

  He could not understand why and he could not accept it.

  “Sophie, I love you.” He said it again, because it couldn’t be said enough. “I want to be with you, as husband and wife. I want a family with you, and a life with you.”

  “I love you, too. I want all those things, too,” she answered, and then she added, “but I need you to be at the church tomorrow.”

  That was not a rational wish. It was not logical. It was such a struggle for his brain to comprehend it, that he stopped thinking entirely and acted strictly upon instinct.

  He kissed her.

  Their last kiss had been fierce and urgent, and this was one, too. With this kiss, he had to make her understand that he absolutely should not be at the church tomorrow and, instead, they should be kissing and making love in a carriage on its way to Gretna Green. After all, she hated weddings, so an elopement would be perfect.

&n
bsp; But those thoughts could not compete with the sensations arising from Sophie’s kiss. Her small hands clutched at his shirt, as if desperately holding on to him. He pulled her closer to him, and tightened his embrace. He would never let her go.

  Vaguely, he was aware of the clattering of a carriage, followed by silence. Sophie must have heard it, too, and made sense of it. She broke off the kiss, took his hand, and led him up the stairs.

  “It’s Julianna arriving home from a ball,” she whispered. And then she pulled him into her bedroom.

  Sophie led Brandon up the stairs and into her darkened bedroom. She could not let him go just yet, and she could not bear to have a confrontation with Julianna at the moment.

  Brandon seemed to understand because she shut the door.

  She was alone with her true love. In the dark. In her bedroom. They could be interrupted at any second. She shivered in anticipation of pure, hot bliss because he was here, and because he loved her.

  He loved her!

  She loved him, too, with a fierce intensity she had never imagined possible. He was hers, he belonged to her, which is why his marriage to another was so wrong. That would all be sorted out in the morning, and, frankly, she was having a tremendously difficult time focusing upon anything other than the fact that he loved her, and they were alone, in the dark, in her bedroom.

  She reached out for him, and after some sweet fumbling, she was captured in his embrace. His mouth crashed upon hers, and she parted her lips to let him in. She sucked on his bottom lip, and he nibbled at hers. His hands were splayed upon her lower back, and then lower, to her backside. Still kissing him, she sighed at the thought of all that had transpired from their first moment to this one.

  She loved him, and he loved her, too!

  Brandon moved his grasp from her bottom to her hips, and then he slowly but firmly brushed his hands up her sides, pausing at her breasts, and then he tugged her sleeves down. She trembled at the sensation of his open mouth upon her bare shoulders.

  Kisses, one after another, were feathered upon her shoulders, to her neck, across the hollow at the bottom of her throat, and then on the other side because one must be thorough and there wasn’t an inch of skin that was not deserving and achingly in need of his lavish attention.

  Sophie sighed and swayed upon her feet.

  Brandon laughed slightly, a low, knowing-man’s laugh. She realized just then that he hadn’t always been as good as he seemed. In fact, this man was capable of some very deliciously wicked things, indeed. Another shiver of anticipation . . .

  He kissed her mouth again, and time passed, and it was lovely. Brandon mumbled something, and it was lost in the kiss.

  “To the bed,” he commanded. She happily obeyed.

  It was impossible to see in this darkness, so she guided them to the mattress. They took hesitant steps, and paused to remove articles of clothing. She found it strange that she should be warmer with her dress and underthings off, but she attributed it to a blush that was surely stealing across her skin. It was too dark to tell.

  Sophie reached out, and placed her palms upon his chest. She explored the contours and ridges of his muscles, and savored the sensation of his hot, smooth skin with a slight covering of hair under her touch.

  She moved her hands lower. He sucked in his breath. She took the hot, thick length of his arousal in her hands. He moaned, and clasped her wrists.

  “Bed,” he said again, firmly, ducally.

  She followed his order.

  After some fumbling steps in the dark, they collapsed onto the mattress. She lay on her back, and he lay on his side, next to her, cradling her in his arms. He stroked her hair away from her face, and kissed her mouth with more hot, tender kisses. And then . . .

  He traced his fingertips from her shoulders to the pink center of her breasts, and he circled there and she couldn’t help but shiver and sigh, and arch her back. His fingertips continued their path lower, across the smooth plane of her belly with a delicate almost ticklish touch, and then slowly, tauntingly he found the magical place between her legs.

  He stroked her lightly and she gasped.

  He increased the pressure and her body was owned by feverish trembles. His mouth closed over her breast. She moaned.

  Brandon continued to stroke and caress her in a steady rhythm. He flicked his tongue back and forth, over the peak of her breast slowly and then quickly. And then when she could barely stand the masses of exquisite sensation, he did it again on the other one. Vaguely, she was aware of not being able to get enough air, but really, who needed to breathe at a time like this?

  The pressure within her was swelling and heating up, and something had to happen soon because she really couldn’t stand much more of this. She rocked her hips, and she couldn’t help but writhe because she felt his touch everywhere.

  “Oh,” she sighed, and then she moaned. And then she murmured again because he did that sensational, outrageously magnificent, wicked thing with his mouth to her breasts. And his hands, oh god, he slid one finger inside of her and still stroked the magical place and . . . oh . . .

  She moved with him. He took one pink peak into his mouth and sucked. She arched her back and opened her mouth to cry out. His own mouth came crashing down upon hers, capturing the sound of her climax as that intense pressure exploded all at once, and she felt the white-hot waves of pleasure course through her. She throbbed under his touch, and sighed into his kiss.

  And still, there was more.

  “Sophie . . .”

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  “I love you,” he whispered back, and he caressed the length of her, from the curve of her hips to the swell of her breasts. “Sophie . . .”

  “Yes,” she murmured. Anything he wanted . . . she would give to him.

  Brandon eased himself above her. The real sensation of her naked body beneath him was a million times more potent, intoxicating, and arousing than his most vivid dreams.

  Between the recollection of all those dreams and the reality, Brandon knew that complete abandon was only a breath or a heartbeat away. His cock was aching to be inside of her. She whispered yes again, and he couldn’t imagine holding back much longer, especially when she tilted her hips up to his. Using the last delicate shreds of his infamous self-control, he entered her slowly.

  She gasped, and his cock throbbed inside of her. And then he began to move, thrusting slowly at first so that he could experience every possible sensation and savor every possible second. She wrapped her legs around his lower back, and he groaned as he pushed deeper into her. Still, he needed more of her.

  It was a daze, a blur after that, as his brain ceased to function and the instinctive urge to possess her took over. He was aware of frantic kisses as she moved with him, and of raking his hands along her because he desperately needed to touch as much of her as possible all at once.

  Her soft sighs and moans only spurred him on to move faster, and harder. He clasped her cheek, kissed her feverishly, and then he buried his face into that place where her neck curved into her shoulder. She clasped him to her, and as she climaxed again, those pulses drove him over the edge, beyond the physical possibility of control, and then he groaned, and shuddered, and let go completely.

  As he held her in his arms afterward, Brandon felt triumphant, and contentment. His heart, which had earlier ached at the expected loss of her, now beat lazily and happily in his chest.

  She was completely mad to insist that he go to the church tomorrow. He would respect her wishes, though, because gentlemen respected the wishes of women.

  Rogues, however, came up with plans of their own.

  The Dryden Hotel

  Approximately four in the morning

  At first Brandon knocked. Then he pounded with his fist. And then, finally, von Vennigan answered the door.


  The prince was attired in boots, breeches, and a shirt with the buttons undone and sleeves rolled up. His bare hands were ink stained; one held a pen, the other held a bottle. Von Vennigan’s hair was disheveled, his eyes were dark, and his mouth was grim. He stank of cigar smoke. Brandon suspected that he had interrupted the composition of brandy-fueled tragic odes of star-crossed lovers and heartbreaking tales of woe.

  It was his pleasure to do so.

  “I need you to be my best man,” Brandon said.

  Von Vennigan slammed the door in his face.

  Chapter 44

  On the day of the wedding . . .

  Richmond House

  Clarissa took a deep breath. Her maid, Nancy, tugged the laces of her corset tight.

  “Only ten more minutes . . .” her mother said, glancing at her pocket watch. She was overseeing the dressing of the bride with military precision.

  The good thing about getting married, Clarissa thought, was that it would get her away from her mother. She meant well. But Clarissa had developed her wings and was ready to leave the nest.

  “Let’s put the dress on, dear.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she said obediently, because old habits were hard to break and because it was part of the plan.

  The dress—a frothy concoction of white satin, silver lace, and pink sapphires swished over her head. Nancy began to do up the buttons at the back.

  “And the veil.”

  Her maid secured the veil, at Her Grace’s command.

  “You are such a beautiful bride, my lady,” Nancy gushed.

  “You are, Clarissa. I am very pleased with you,” her mother said, and Clarissa tried not to think of the crushing disappointment she would experience later. “I must depart now, and you shall follow shortly.”

  Lady Richmond was going first to ensure everything was just so. Clarissa and the duke would arrive shortly after.

  “I will see you at the church,” Clarissa said, uttering the first lie of her life.