Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1)

by Michelle McMaster

  Still, Beckett had made it perfectly clear to her that he would never have feelings for her or any other woman. Falling in love with him would be like stepping off a cliff to see if she could fly. While providing a unique experience, both would lead to her destruction.

  And what of Sir Harry? If Alfred couldn’t find evidence against him, the despicable man would be free to torment her for the rest of her life. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Her cat meowed his morning greeting and came to sit near her. Isobel was glad for the distraction. When she made no motion to get out of bed, the beast reached over with his paw and softly batted her cheek.

  “You’ve got quite the nerve, Captain Black, even if you are a heathen pirate,” Isobel said, pushing away the feline playfully. He meowed in protest, jumping back and then trying to pounce on her hand. She hid her hands under the bedclothes and moved them as if there were a mouse scuttling beneath. The cat leapt about, his tail swishing back and forth as he stalked the mysterious lump beneath the covers.

  Suddenly tired of Isobel’s game, the haughty feline leaped off the bed and headed for the door, trotting quickly away.

  “Oh, don’t leave in a huff.” Isobel stared after him, but he didn’t respond with so much as a meow.

  “Men!” Isobel scoffed, finally getting out of her comfortable bed and going to look out the French windows. She opened them and sighed with pleasure as she breathed in the unique scent that could only be called Barbados.

  Throwing on her dressing gown, she went out onto the verandah and took a seat in one a white wicker chair. She let her eyes travel over the grounds, seeing the sugar fields rolling far off into the distance, speckled with men working under the bright morning sun.

  She looked over the gardens, and wondered what her next drawing should be. She had done so many of the island’s different flowers and plants. Perhaps she should try some human subjects.

  Perhaps Beckett….

  No, she told herself. You will not find an excuse to stare at his wickedly handsome face any more than you have to!

  It was as if he had cast a spell on her.

  Beckett plagued her when she was awake, as well as asleep. And she highly doubted that he had spent any time dreaming about her.

  Then, as if called up by her very thoughts, her husband appeared around the corner of the verandah and approached.

  Isobel sat up straight in the chair, realizing too late how little clothing she had on. She had only meant to stay outside for a few minutes. Now she was trapped. Perhaps he would go quickly when he saw the state of her dress. Knowing her spouse, he would enjoy making her squirm, for a little while at least.

  He strode leisurely across the verandah until he came near enough to notice her attire. Isobel saw his eyes travel over her body slowly, then rest on her face, an appreciative grin curving his lips.

  “Good morning, Isobel. I see you couldn’t wait to greet the day. It is a lovely one.” To her, his voice was like a physical caress.

  “Yes, I’m sure it is going to be a beautiful day,” Isobel replied, trying to appear unaffected by his nearness.

  “Did you sleep well?” He asked.

  “Yes. And you?”

  “I was restless,” he answered, his gaze traveling over her body. “I had the most bothersome dreams. They kept me awake half the night.”

  Isobel felt her nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of her nightdress and wrap as if he had touched them. Knowing just how naked she was underneath these flimsy clothes made her heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings.

  “I should be going in, now,” Isobel said, desperate to escape the heated look in Beckett’s eyes.

  “If you must,” Beckett said, his eyes dancing with mischief.

  He was going to enjoy every minute of watching her parade before him in such a scandalous state.

  Well, if he was going to enjoy it, so was she.

  Isobel met his teasing eyes, then turned. She walked slowly back to the open door, letting the gauzy fabric of her dressing gown show what it would to her husband’s hungry stare.

  Reaching the doorway, she paused to look back at his amused expression.

  Watching him chuckle and walk away, Isobel wished he had followed her inside.

  She closed the doors and tried to banish the infuriating man from her thoughts. Since her skin burned with the heat of Beckett’s gaze, she searched her wardrobe for something prim and proper to wear. She donned a suitably somber dark blue day dress and headed downstairs for breakfast.

  Isobel walked to the kitchen to inform Josephine that she would take her breakfast in the dining room, but was nearly bowled over by the woman as she stormed into the hallway. Josephine held Captain Black aloft as if he were a creature from hell itself.

  “M’lady, you must keep dis cat away from my kitchen,” Josephine insisted. “He’s eaten two of my frogs. We need dose frogs in de house to keep away de insects. And de lizards! I found him hanging off de cabinet trying to get one on de ceiling.”

  Josephine deposited the animal in Isobel’s arms and dusted off her hands. “And if I catch ’im at it again, I be making soup out of his sorry skin!”

  Astonished, Isobel watched Josephine stomp angrily away. The woman had been so irate she hadn’t even asked Isobel about breakfast.

  Holding Captain Black up so she faced him directly, Isobel scolded the cat. “I am afraid it’s the barn for you, my dear man. You shall have to do your hunting elsewhere from now on. I’m sure Josephine has every intention of making soup out of you, too, so watch out.”

  The cat meowed and squirmed in her arms, and she let him down unceremoniously. It seemed the men in her life were more trouble than they were worth.

  She finally convinced Josephine to feed her, and afterwards Isobel hung about the kitchen, which was buzzing with activity.

  “Whatever is all the excitement?” Isobel asked, plopping a cube of pineapple into her mouth. “It looks as if the house is being laid out for a feast.”

  “It’s Cropover, m’lady.” Josephine smiled at her. “We will harvest de sugar soon, and we be needin’ all dis food for de celebration.”

  “Oh, do tell me about that, Josephine,” Isobel said. “It sounds intriguing.”

  “Well,” Josephine replied, “dere’s dancin’ and singin’, and a whole lot of eatin’! We be startin’ dis evenin’.”

  “Are Lord Ravenwood and I to attend?” Isobel asked.

  Jospehine let out a booming laugh. “Of course! You two are the guests of honor.”

  “How lovely,” Isobel said. “But I’m afraid style of dance we practice in England is much different than it is here. Will you tell me what to do?”

  Josephine smiled at her and reached for another passionfruit, saying, “You’ll know what to do, m’lady.”

  * * *

  Later that night, the Cropover feast began.

  Torches burned in the gardens, and huge tables were laid out with a delicious array of roasted pig, beef, chicken, baked fish, rice, spiced vegetables, fruits, cheeses, puddings, sausages and a variety of hearty breads. To drink, there was a selection of ciders, ales, juices, port wines, and sherries.

  Traditionally, Josephine explained, all the workers were invited, along with their families. Isobel watched them talking and laughing with each other, their lilting voices floating on the air like music. They were dressed in colorful native clothing with wild designs. Many wore beads in their hair and around their necks.

  It was all so different and exotic, like something out of a novel. Isobel loved every moment of it.

  She bit into a slice of mango and marveled at the strange, sweet taste. As Isobel wiped a bit of juice from her mouth, she looked up and saw Beckett walking across the grass. He wore his usual white shirt and tan buckskins, but had added a multicolored sash around his waist that made him look rather piratical. Isobel didn’t even attempt to tear her gaze away from him. He looked like Adonis himself.

  The tawny waves of Beckett’s hair s
hone in the torchlight, as if daring Isobel’s fingers to touch it. As he made his way around the garden, Beckett laughed and talked with the workers, who greeted him with warm smiles.

  Every now and then he would catch Isobel looking at him, and his mouth would curve into a wicked grin.

  Isobel had dressed in a decidedly native style as well, in a turquoise blue frock that shimmered like the sea. Her hair was wound into an exotic style and adorned with a string of tiny seashells. Josephine had arranged it for her beautifully.

  The drums began to pound their wild rhythm in the hot Bajan night.

  It was time for the dancing to begin. Isobel stood back and watched, captivated, as the torchlit garden pulsed with writhing bodies.

  The Bajans danced feverishly to a chorus of drums that was unlike anything Isobel had ever heard. The men and women swayed to the music, and through some sixth sense seemed to move perfectly in time with each other. It was like watching music in a physical form.

  How she envied them.

  Her body longed to be as free, as vibrantly alive.

  Isobel saw Beckett being pulled into the crowd, led by a beautiful young Bajan woman with masses of curly black hair and a fetching smile.

  Isobel’s heart gave a surprising lurch. She could see primal sparks traveling between her husband’s eyes and his partner’s as they began to dance. Though she tried to fight it, she felt a stab of jealousy.

  Isobel watched their bodies pulse and sway and felt an unbidden desire to dance like that with Beckett. She wanted to see his eyes glowing blue fire at her as he held her close and moved to the drums’ driving rhythm.

  She wanted to feel the heat of the music moving in her veins—close her eyes and throw her head back, and let the drums take her like a lover.

  Suddenly Josephine grabbed Isobel’s arm and pulled her into the middle of the pulsing throng. Isobel tried to protest, but her voice couldn’t be heard over the drums and the screeching of the crowd. So she kept moving along, feeling out of place and awkward.

  Comfort came slowly, bewitchingly as the music itself.

  Isobel’s body began to sway to the pulsing beat. Her mind seemed to be in another place as her body relaxed and flowed with the rhythm.

  Then, she saw Beckett.

  He no longer danced with the other young woman.

  He stood alone in the pulsing crowd, with his eyes were locked on Isobel.

  She feared she might really swoon.

  If she were back in England it would have been a certainty, but she refused to do so here. She was going to let her pulse race, let her breathing become heavy, and let the drumbeat sing in her veins.

  She was going to experience her body in a way a proper Englishwoman would never dream.

  As Beckett moved toward her through the crowd, Isobel stood transfixed. She was in his spell as surely as if he’d used obeah.

  He moved around her slowly, holding her gaze with his. She felt a heady thrill as he looked her up and down, realizing for the first time the power she also held.

  It was new.

  It was reckless.

  And it was thrilling beyond words.

  Beckett began to dance before her, his body surprisingly fluid, his strong arms reaching out to touch her. But Isobel side-stepped him and twirled around, just out of his reach. His eyes burned brighter as he watched her, and a wicked smile played upon his lips.

  Again he tried to touch her.

  Again she moved out of range.

  Isobel relished the sensual power that flowed through her. She twirled around again, then abruptly found herself pressed up against Beckett’s hard chest like a wet sheet.

  He gripped her arms and held her to him, his eyes travelling brazenly over her body. His hips pressed against hers and for an awful moment she worried about such a forbidden exchange in public. But it seemed no one took any notice. They were all too involved with their own dancing.

  The drums grew wilder, more insistent. Beckett pressed her against his thigh, and she couldn’t stop herself from grinding against him. Her eyes closed in heated arousal. Beckett pressed harder against her, and she felt her skirts being raised, his hands on the bare skin of her thighs, running up towards—

  Her eyes flew open, and she saw Beckett’s face inches away from hers. Desire glowed hot in his eyes.

  “Shall I make you burn for me, Isobel?” he asked, dangerously. “Shall I worship you with my body, the way a husband should? Shall I finally make you my wife?”

  Isobel stared at him, speechless, held prisoner by Beckett’s body, his words, his gaze.

  Beckett seized her hand, pulling her back toward the house.

  Soon they were in her chamber. Through the gauze draperies, the torches lit the room from outside with a warm glow. The sound of the drums continued their relentless rhythm in the night.

  Isobel heard the door latch click into place. The finality of the sound made her pulse race faster. Beckett turned around and gazed at her as he began to unbutton his shirt, and the sight sent a thrill up her spine. He reached for her hand and brought it slowly to his naked chest, placing her delicate palm on his warm, masculine skin.

  In one quick motion, Beckett pulled her body against his, his mouth possessing hers feverishly. Isobel tried to catch her breath, but his dizzying touch intoxicated her.

  Beckett pulled her dress down over her shoulders, uncovering her breasts. Isobel shuddered as he lowered his head, kissing her neck lightly, teasingly. She could hear herself panting as if she’d just run a great distance.

  Good Lord, what was he doing to her?

  His lips closed around a hard nipple. He flicked his tongue mercilessly back and forth across it, and her knees went weak at the exquisite agony.

  As she clutched at him, he lifted his head and growled, “You like that, don’t you, my sweet?”

  Isobel whimpered as an almost painful desire teased the tips of her breasts and snaked down to curl between her legs.

  “Should I continue?” He kissed her mouth hard, then turned his attention to her neck.

  “Yes,” she gasped, breathless and weak, though she would surely die if this torment did not stop. Suddenly, she was as wild and feverish as he was, her hands running over his bare back, down over his hips and over the buckskins that covered the round muscles of his buttocks.

  Beckett groaned at her challenging touch, and responded in kind, gripping her bottom and pulling her to him. She felt his hard arousal through his buckskins.

  His hands went under her dress, sliding over her bare thighs. Isobel’s eyes flew open as his fingers stroked her in a place for which she didn’t even have a name.

  Her heart beat so fast she thought it would burst. All her muddled brain could think of was how terribly good it all felt, and how much she wanted to continue this mad, incredible game.

  “I think it’s time I took you to bed, wife,” Beckett said, swinging her up into his arms and carrying her to the bed.

  She wanted him to hurry, though she feared what that would mean. Had this island’s powerful spell turned her into a wanton? However it had come to be, when Beckett put her down on the bed, she pulled him on top of her, wanting, needing to feel the weight of him.

  “Soon, darling,” he whispered, and she heard a hint of laughter in his voice.

  Oh, how could he be laughing at a time like this—when she was dying?

  “Let us dispense with this bothersome garment,” Beckett said, quickly undoing her laces and sliding the dress over her head. “And this one, too.”

  She twined her fingers in his hair as he peeled away her underthings, her body wriggling shamelessly beneath him. His own clothes joined hers on the floor. Isobel felt the length and hardness of him, and her hands slid down to explore his body which was so different from her own.

  Beckett hissed a breath inward, and she felt him shudder as she stroked his manhood. She marveled at how something could be so very hard, and yet silky-soft.

  Beckett moaned and pulled her hand
s away, holding them above her head as he whispered, “Eager little vixen, aren’t you? But I’m not done with you, yet.”

  Now it was Isobel’s turn to moan, and she struggled to touch him again but he held her hands fast. She opened her eyes, imploring him.

  Beckett took one hand away, but kept both of her wrists imprisoned in the other. With his free hand he teased her sensitive nipples and she arched her back. She heard her own short, desperate panting.

  Dear God, she was losing her mind…

  “What do you want, Isobel?”

  She whispered feverishly, “Don’t you know?”

  “No, I don’t,” he taunted. “You’ll have to tell me.”

  Oh, she would throttle him for this! But as she stared up into his heated blue eyes, she knew he was the master of this game. For now, anyway.

  “Tell, me,” he insisted.

  She bit her lip. “I—I want this aching to stop.”

  “Aching. And where are you aching, my beauty?”

  “Inside…”

  “I can make that sweet ache go away, Isobel,” he said. “I can make you feel better. If I do this.” His fingers delved between her legs.

  She gasped and closed her eyes as he stroked her.

  “And this.” He rolled on top of her and spread her legs with his knees. He released her hands and positioned himself above her, piercing her with the intensity of his gaze.

  “And this.”

  Isobel gasped as the hard silk of him slid inside her. She closed her eyes in disbelief but gave herself over to the invasion of her body. Because she wanted it. More than anything else in the world, she wanted him.

  Her back arched against the pain and she gasped and clutched at him, but as soon as it had come, it was gone. The only thing left was his delicious thickness inside her and the pulsing rhythm of the drums driving them on.

  Her hands roamed over the straining muscles of his back and buttocks, his skin slick with sweat. She pulled him hard against her, trying to take in more of him. His tongue penetrated her mouth, mimicking his sex, and she thrilled at how completely he possessed her.