The Bridegroom

by Joan Johnston

  He stared at her, not backing down.

  “Perhaps Mama was drunk,” she conceded at last. “But Papa could never have done such a thing. He is too kind, too—”

  “How did you get this scar?” he interrupted. He traced the tiny scar that sliced through her upper lip.

  “Papa said—” She hesitated, then looked up at him. “I will not lie to you, my lord. Papa told me it was an accident, but one of the maids let the truth slip. Papa was sitting in a rocking chair, holding me over his shoulder, when Mama threw a crystal goblet against the stone wall near his head. The glass shattered and one of the fragments ricocheted and cut my lip.”

  He resisted the urge to kiss her, to take away the wounded look in her eyes. Instead, he said what he knew would cause her pain. “Rumor says the duke and his first duchess fought often and loudly.”

  “I don’t believe—”

  “And that your uncle is really your father.”

  Her face paled, and she looked at him with haunted eyes. “How dare you repeat such vicious, vicious blasphemy! Uncle Marcus would never—Papa is—” She stared at him, speechless with outraged hurt.

  “Hearsay can often be mistaken for truth when you do not look hard enough to find the truth,” he said.

  He watched as understanding dawned in her eyes. “As my father did not look closely enough to see the truth about you,” she said slowly. “And thus failed to discover your innocence.”

  He said nothing. He simply scooped her up in his arms and headed briskly toward the steps that led below. He tried to see her features in the dark companionway, but it was not until he had reached his cabin and shut the door behind them that he saw the hurt and confusion on her face.

  He set her down and took a step back.

  “My lord, can we not delay—”

  “No.”

  “A gentleman would wait until his bride—”

  “Take off that dress,” he ordered.

  “I will not.”

  Her anger only made him want her more. He reached behind her and gave a yank, and pearl buttons went flying. The gown fell away from her shoulders, leaving only the net fichu and the sheer chemise to cover her.

  “Let’s get rid of this,” he said, pulling the net free of her shoulders and tossing it aside. He had purposely had the gown cut in a style more fit for a courtesan than a wife. After all, that was the role he had planned for her—a woman to be used and discarded when he was done with her. He had admired her ingenuity in creating a fichu from the veil, but her attempt at propriety had only made the dress more enticing. “Now, let me see what I have.”

  He surveyed her as he would a horse at Tattersall’s, murmuring sounds of approval as his eyes lingered on the various assets he discovered. He intended to humiliate her. He intended to make her cringe from him. He intended to hurt her as he had been hurt by her father.

  She stood before him proudly, daring him to touch her. Daring him to take her. She had no idea the harm he could cause if he chose. But he did not choose to wound her further tonight. And then he remembered. There was one more unavoidable wound to be inflicted—when he broached her.

  “Perfect,” he announced at last. “And every inch of that perfection mine to enjoy.”

  She stood like a beautiful marble statue as he began to kiss her, to touch her, to skillfully seduce her. The cold stone began to melt like ice in the heat of the sun. Her helpless, mewling sounds of excitement spurred him to touch more, to take more. He saw the surprised look in her eyes, the need she could not bear to feel, the pleasure she could not deny, and felt a surge of triumph.

  By the time she decided to fight, it was too late. The battle was already won. Her hands clutched frantically at his hair while her body molded itself to his. It took little more effort on his part to urge her complete surrender.

  “What do you want from me?” she whispered.

  It was a plea for mercy. But there was no mercy in him.

  Clay had nothing to lose. He decided to ask for what he wanted, pleasures a husband did not normally seek from his wife, but found only with his mistress. “Undress me,” he said.

  She looked at him in shock, but then reached with trembling hands for his neck cloth, pulling the ends and releasing the elegant trône d’amour. She slid the strip of linen from beneath his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  He reached for the straps of the chemise and drew them down off her shoulders.

  She quickly crossed her arms over her breasts to keep herself covered. “I would not have worn such a garment if there had been any choice. It was all I could find.”

  “I know,” he said. “I chose it on purpose. I wanted to see you this way.” As a mistress. As a person intended for my pleasure. Not as a wife. “Don’t hide yourself. You are quite lovely.” He unwound her arms, and the chemise slid to her waist. “And you are mine now.”

  She reached out in turn to unbutton his shirt, shoved it aside, and put her hands flat on his chest. “And you are mine.”

  She met his gaze defiantly, and he felt a sudden flare of desire. And unwelcome shame. And then anger, because she was only an instrument of vengeance. There would be no belonging of one to another, only his possession of her. She must submit to him; she was his wife.

  He grasped her breasts roughly in his hands, intending to shock her, but her eyes slid closed, and she moaned deep in her throat. He kissed her hard, his teeth biting at her lips, his breathing harsh as his blood began to pound and his body hardened. He took her nipple in his mouth, biting and sucking as though she were an experienced courtesan.

  She gave a guttural cry, and her hands tore at his hair. He lifted his head, expecting her to punish him, but she wanted only her mouth on his. She returned the bites he had given her as her body arched against his own.

  He clutched her hips, afraid she would lurch away with virginal fright when she felt his hardness between her thighs. But her body tipped into his own, and she rubbed herself against him, eyes closed, her head thrown back in total exultation, making an animal sound that provoked a lust he had never imagined he could feel.

  He did not think, could not think, overwhelmed by a rapacious need that demanded satisfaction. He stripped her bare as she tore his clothes from him. Her hands found places he had not known could crave a woman’s touch, and she moaned and writhed beneath the onslaught of his hands and his mouth.

  They fell onto the bed together, their arms and legs tangled, their bodies already slick with sweat, their breathing labored.

  “I feel so much,” she said breathlessly. “More than I ever dreamed I would. And you are so beautiful, so strong and—”

  “I am only a man like any other,” he said, cutting her off. But he was entranced by her desire, enthralled by her need, and more aroused than he could ever remember being in his life. In his wildest dreams he could never have fantasized such an encounter. He could wait no longer to put himself inside her.

  Then he felt her fingertips on his back, tracing the ugly ridged scars that crisscrossed his flesh. He sat up abruptly and would have left the bed, except she laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Stay.”

  He quivered beneath her touch.

  “Let me see,” she murmured.

  “My back is not a fit sight for your eyes.”

  But she had already resettled herself so she could see the damage done by a cat-o’-nine-tails laid on with a will. For a long time she said nothing. Then he felt her lips caress his skin, tracing the worst of the welted scars. His chin fell to his chest as he surrendered to her gentle ministrations. Her arms slid around his waist, and she laid her cheek against his scarred flesh.

  He could feel her warm, moist breath as she said, “There will be no more pain, my lord. No more hurt that I cannot soothe if you will let me.”

  He felt his throat tighten with emotion and realized how easily she had slipped past his guard. Her father was responsible for the very stripes she was soothing. And Black
thorne could not be so easily forgiven.

  He unclasped Reggie’s hands from around his waist and turned to shove her flat against the feather mattress. He pinned her wrists to the pillow on either side of her head and quickly mantled her body with his own. With one quick thrust, one ragged cry of pain, he was inside her.

  “You are only a weapon, my dear. A way to hurt your father. Nothing more. You will never be more than that.”

  He saw the shocked disbelief in her eyes before she made an agonized sound in her throat.

  “I will never love you. I can never love you,” he said in a harsh voice.

  Her eyes caught his, holding him equally captive. “Don’t do this, Clay. You do love me. I know you must. I cannot have been so badly mistaken.” Her body arched against him, enticing him, inflaming him, demanding a response.

  It would have taken a stronger man than Clay was to resist her. The words she spoke meant nothing, he told himself as he reached between their bodies to touch her, to inflame her in return.

  She made a whimpering sound, and he asked roughly, “Have I hurt you?”

  “No, my lord,” she gasped.

  It was a foolish question to have asked, when he had professed his intention to hurt her, to hurt her father, to hurt everyone her father loved. He did not care. He could not care.

  She hid her face against his neck as he began to move inside her. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, and she choked back a cry of torment or delight or perhaps both.

  He thrust hard and deep, ignoring the sounds she made, taking his pleasure without consideration for her feelings. She was only a means of vengeance against her father.

  “My stepmother said we would find joy in this,” she cried in a choked voice. “Please, Clay. Love me.”

  He shut out her plea for mercy. For love. He thrust deep and hard, urging her to feel the joy if she could, but not caring whether she did. He watched her struggle against the loss of control, felt her resist her body as it sought satisfaction. “Let the waves crest and ride down with them, as though you were adrift on the wide blue sea.” It was all the help he was willing to give her.

  He watched as her eyes slid closed. Her head arched back, and her neck muscles stretched tight as her jaws clamped down on a grating sound of satisfaction.

  The feel of her body spasming around him brought his own climax. Too late, Clay realized the enormity of what he had wrought. He gave a cry of anguish and exultation as he spilled his seed in the womb of his enemy’s daughter.

  Chapter 9

  “You should be home waiting for news of Reggie, not sitting here in a carriage wringing your hands,” Mick admonished.

  Becky shivered. “I had to come. I would have gone mad sitting home alone.” The sun had disappeared almost as soon as it rose, and a fog had rolled in, bringing a damp chill. “Where is she, Mick? What could have happened to her?”

  But Becky knew Reggie’s likely fate without having to be told. It was the fate of any woman unfortunate enough to find herself alone and unprotected in such a neighborhood. “I warned her,” she moaned. “I told her it was dangerous to come here. What if we cannot find her?”

  “We will find her,” Mick said. “Someone will have seen what happened to her.”

  A short, middle-aged workingman pushing a cabbage-laden cart tapped on the carriage window.

  “Please tell him we don’t want any cabbages,” Becky said.

  “He’s not a peddler,” Mick replied. “That is the private detective I hired to search for Reggie.”

  “Oh.” At two o’clock that morning, when Reggie had still not returned home and discreet inquiries among her acquaintances had yielded no information about her whereabouts, Becky had wanted to call in the Bow Street Runners to search for her sister. “I believe that is what Penrith would do,” she had said.

  “Penrith is not here,” Mick had pointed out.

  Becky had been grateful for William’s absence at supper, believing that Reggie’s empty seat at the table was the result of some escapade that would shortly resolve itself. But when neither her sister nor her husband had returned by two in the morning, Becky had truly begun to despair.

  Despite the fact William had never been a solace to her, she had wished for his company. However angry he might have been with her for failing to chaperone her sister properly, he would surely have used his influence as a member of the nobility to ensure that Reggie was found by the Bow Street Runners.

  Becky could tell from the pity in Mick’s eyes that he had guessed where her husband most likely had spent the night. She did not know why she felt so embarrassed that he had discovered that William preferred another woman’s company—body, she corrected herself—to her own. It was simply one more in a multitude of small humiliations she had endured over the course of her marriage.

  Only this time, Mick’s look of sympathy made her wish she had confronted William and demanded he give up his mistress. She suddenly felt ashamed that she had accepted her husband’s behavior, even if it was common among other men of his class.

  At least she could do something to help Reggie. “Is there any reason why you and I cannot contact the Runners?” she had asked Mick.

  “Unfortunately, it would announce to the world that Reggie is missing,” Mick had replied. “I think I know someone who can look for her just as effectively, but much more discreetly. Will you trust me?”

  “Do whatever you think is best,” she had said, feeling grateful beyond words that he was there to help.

  But that was six hours ago. It was eight o’clock in the morning, and there had been no word in all that time. Soon, she would have to return home and explain to Penrith, who usually reappeared at mid-morning on those evenings he spent away from home, why she had not immediately called in the Runners.

  She eyed the cabbage peddler dubiously. “That is your detective?”

  Mick grinned. “Believe me, Tim could find a three-toed rat on a sinking ship.” He lowered the window and asked, “What news do you have?”

  “Found her, Mick. Or rather, where she was taken. The abbess says a gentleman paid to have her, then stole her away in the middle of the night.”

  Becky had been sitting in the shadows, so her presence would not be noted by passersby, but she lurched forward into the light to confront Mick’s detective. “What man? Where has he taken her?”

  Tim seemed reluctant to speak in front of her.

  “Please tell me!” she cried.

  “Tell her, Tim,” Mick said.

  “From the description, it seems the lady was paid for by the Earl of Carlisle,” Tim said. “He took her with him in his carriage. That’s the last anyone saw of her.”

  Becky exchanged a shocked look with Mick. “No. It cannot be. He would not dare to keep her overnight!”

  Mick’s features contorted in anger. “That scoundrel would dare anything! I went to his town house last night, hoping he might know Reggie’s whereabouts, but his butler claimed he was not at home. This time I won’t be so polite!” He pounded on the roof of the carriage and ordered, “The Carlisle town house on Grosvenor Square. Make it quick, man!”

  Becky could hardly sit still in the carriage while Mick knocked on the door to Carlisle’s town house. To her surprise and dismay, he was not allowed inside. His face was so black as he walked back toward her, that she was afraid to ask what he had discovered.

  “Penrith House,” he instructed the coachman before he entered the carriage.

  “Is it very bad news?” she ventured.

  “His lordship and his wife are not at home,” Mick said through clenched teeth. “They sailed this morning for Scotland.”

  “His wife?” Becky asked, her brow furrowed in confusion. “The earl is not married.”

  “He is now,” Mick replied. “He and Reggie were wed by special license last night. Carlisle’s butler said the earl left a message to be delivered to Penrith House this morning, detailing the events that led to their nuptials.”

  “
Why would Reggie agree to such a marriage, without any family in attendance?”

  “I make no doubt he forced her,” Mick said quietly.

  Becky felt sick. “All Reggie ever wanted was to marry a man she could love. She cannot love such a man as that, can she, Mick?”

  “One thing you may be sure of,” Mick said. “If Reggie was forced into wedlock with Carlisle, your father’s wrath will know no bounds. The earl will find himself in chains again before he can enjoy the fruit he has stolen. At least we know where to find him.”

  “There is one thing I don’t understand,” Becky said. “If Carlisle coerced Reggie, why would he tell us his direction? And why go to Scotland? It is the one place he is certain to encounter Papa.”

  “Because he wants to compel a confrontation with the duke,” Mick said.

  Becky’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “If you had seen the violence in Carlisle’s eyes when he vowed to ruin your father, you would not be asking that question,” Mick said. “I believe the dastard planned all along to maneuver Reggie into marriage. When I showed up, and he knew he had been found out, he grabbed Reggie and ran.”

  “But Lord Carlisle acted toward Reggie in all ways, and at all times, as a gentleman,” Becky countered.

  “Believe me, it was an act,” Mick said. “From all accounts, the Sea Dragon is a vicious marauder who takes what he wants and destroys anything that gets in his way.”

  Becky had been concerned when she believed Reggie might have spent the night in company with Carlisle, but not frightened. Now she knew enough to be truly terrified. “I hope and pray you are wrong, Mick.”

  It took a great deal of control for Becky not to race up the walk to Penrith House. The instant she was inside, she called for Hardy and asked, “Did any messages come for me while I was gone?”

  “Yes, my lady. There is a letter in the dish.”

  Becky felt her heart leap to her throat as she accepted the parchment bearing Carlisle’s seal in wax. She carried it with her into the drawing room to read it in private with Mick. “See that we are not disturbed, Hardy.”