His eyes widened briefly behind his spectacles as he looked her up and down. “Well, daughter, they’re waiting on us.”
“Yes, Papa,” she mumbled, vowing to forget that servile phrase once she was Mrs. Dillon Devereau. The sound of her new name brought a smile to her lips as they hurried down the narrow hallway that led to the back of the sanctuary.
When she saw the small gathering of people watching expectantly from the front pews of the little church, she nearly lost her nerve. They were Dillon’s friends, of course—he wouldn’t want her walking through an empty sanctuary. Phoebe stood on the left near the organ, and to the right of the aisle a large, blocky man awaited them, fidgeting with a starched collar that looked a size too tight beneath his beefy face.
And then Dillon stepped into place along with the stout little preacher, looking regally tall and dapper in a black pin-striped suit. His cravat was studded with a huge ruby that winked at her as he shifted his weight. But it was Devereau’s face that kept Charity stepping steadily to the music, oblivious to all else. His cool card-playing mask was now alight with awe. His lips parted, hinting at nervousness until he flashed her a grin of unabashed, almost devilish delight.
And then she was beside him, slipping her arm from Papa’s and under his, repeating vows she knew by heart yet was barely aware of as she mouthed them, all the while gazing up into his golden eyes and basking in the glow she saw there.
The preacher paused, and Dillon was slipping a diamond the size of an organ’s stop knob onto her finger. “With this ring I thee wed,” he murmured in a husky voice.
“And by the authority vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife,” the clergyman droned. “You may kiss the bride.”
“You better believe I will.”
Charity held her breath as he gently lifted the veil up and over her head, all the while beaming down at her with a smile that rivaled those in her fondest fantasies. Lightly he touched her cheek, and then lowered his lips to hers with a subtle sigh. For a moment she froze, remembering their audience, but the raw hunger in Dillon’s kiss consumed her. Clinging to him, Charity returned his ardent affection until her knees were ready to buckle and she heard a twittering from the audience. She broke away with a gasp, clutching his lapel to keep her balance.
The organ burst forth with a flourish and the small congregation was on its feet, coming to greet them. Phoebe was first with a congratulatory pat on Charity’s back and a loud kiss for Dillon. She was joined by the large man who’d stood beside them.
“You’ve met Phoebe,” Devereau was saying, “and this is Will Thomas, her husband, who owns the general store.”
Charity nodded mutely, thinking the awkward, jowled storekeeper an odd match for the petite Mrs. Thomas. Dillon was introducing her all around, saying names that were forgotten before they were drowned out by the loud music. Her heart was hammering rapidly and she felt her head spinning in dangerous, light-headed spirals, and then, as though he sensed her discomfort, Dillon held up his hand.
The organ went silent. The handsome blond slipped an arm around her and gave his friends a suave grin.
“Charity and I are pleased you could share this occasion with us,” he said smoothly, “and I’ve reserved a table at the restaurant across the street, hoping you’ll all be my guests this evening. I trust you won’t be offended if my bride and I don’t join you.”
The admiring little crowd parted and Dillon walked her quickly up the aisle. “My God but you’re beautiful, Charity,” he whispered, “and all I could think as you came toward me was how damned happy I am that you’re mine.”
Her mouth dropped open. To hear such a rush of unguarded emotion from Dillon—the man who’d suggested this wedding as a convenient deal rather than an event with any heart in it—suddenly had her blinking back tears. “I—I think we’d better leave before I start blubbering,” she replied in a quavery voice.
Chuckling, Dillon kissed her before swinging the church door open for her. “As you wish, sweetheart,” he said with a bow.
Charity smiled and then something made her pause to glance back at the people clustered near the organ. Papa was standing apart, looking over the pews at her, wearing an expression that needed no explanation. It was the smug smile of a man who’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
Dillon removed his coat and cravat, watching his bride wander about the suite as though she were in a dream. She’d taken off her veil and the back sections of her hair had come undone; her fingers trailed lightly across the mahogany furnishings, and when she stopped before the bouquet of roses on the highboy, her smile was tremulous. She turned, looking like a priceless figurine from a china shop.
“Thank you for the wonderful wedding, Dillon,” she said quietly. “You went to a lot of trouble, making all those arrangements in one day. Everything was so ... perfect.”
He smiled and unfastened his heavy gold cuff links. “It was a good way to renew old acquaintances and pay off a couple of long-standing debts,” he remarked casually. “But besides restoring my reputation, it was a chance to treat you to the finery you deserve, Charity. You were radiant, honey, and you’re still taking my breath away.”
She glanced nervously at her feet. “Oh, Dillon, you needn’t go on so just to make me feel—”
“This is not a gambler’s bluff, Mrs. Devereau,” he said, quickly crossing the room to take her in his arms. “My proposal wasn’t very romantic, but it was sincere—just as my compliments are. You’re as fine a bride as ever graced any aisle, and even though our lives have been forced around an unexpected corner, I’m certainly not complaining. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.”
Charity looked deeply into his tawny eyes and saw the same open delight he’d displayed in church. His face felt virile and smooth beneath her inquisitive fingers, except for the thick mustache which curled around his lips. “It seems Papa changed his mind about us, too. As though he’d been playing the matchmaker all along but didn’t want us to know.”
Reverend Scott’s parting smile hadn’t escaped Devereau’s notice. He sensed that Charity had also seen through her father’s gloating but didn’t want to think of herself as his pawn right now. His own impression was that the preacher had resembled a tomcat who, after whetting his appetite with a small mouse, was looking forward to hunting bigger prey. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about him?” he asked gently. “Holding you this close reminds me of what I was wanting when I kissed you after the ceremony, honey.”
Dillon’s fingers began a slow journey down the front of her dress, freeing each pearl button from its slender loop. His shirt was open to the center of his chest, revealing swirls of golden hair Charity longed to touch, yet she refrained, wanting to savor every moment of this passing from maidenhood to the mysteries of becoming a man’s woman. She swallowed a moan when Dillon’s fingers slipped beneath her bodice to cup her breast. “There’s something we should discuss before things get . . . out of hand,” she began with a coy glance at her bosom.
“What’s that?” he whispered. “I have no intention of letting any part of you out of my hands, now that we’re finally alone, Charity.”
She fought the urge to nuzzle his chest, to inhale the essence of cloves and cleanness that rose from inside his shirt. “It’s about the annulment part,” she replied in a weakening voice. “The way I understand it, once a marriage has been . . . consummated, you can’t act as though it just never existed.”
As Devereau read the playfulness in her sparkling green eyes, he also realized that what she said was true: regardless of how the law read, he knew damn well that once he’d made love to the alluring young woman he was holding, there would be no pretending it had never happened—no forgetting the infinite ways Charity pleased him, come time to follow their separate paths.
Dillon sensed she didn’t want to think about their parting any more than he did, so he indulged her stall tactic. “Are you saying you don’t want me?” he asked in a wounded whisper. H
e forced his hands from around the firm globe of her breast and backed away, all the while fighting a smile. “Perhaps I’m conceited, but I’m not aware that any other woman has found me lacking, Charity.”
He turned abruptly, striding to the table where the hotel’s manager had provided a decanter of whiskey and a bottle of champagne. Pouring half a glass of the amber liquor, he waited for her to rush up behind him.
Charity stared at his back, speechless. Dillon must think her a heartless prude indeed—and so ungrateful, after his generous wedding arrangements, and compliments that made her feel wanted for the first time in her life. Perhaps she’d chosen a poor time to play games, yet if Devereau was too damn sensitive to ... she pressed her lips together, determined not to beg his forgiveness.
Halfway through his drink, Devereau was still facing the wall and trying not to snicker. Charity’s teasing surprised him and made him want her all the more keenly. Behind him, he heard a secretive silken rustling . . . she was calling his bluff now, pretending to pack her things into the Bright’s boxes so he’d beg her not to abandon him on their wedding night! He made himself swallow the last of the whiskey, carefully composing a remark that would make her laugh and run into his arms.
When he turned, Charity was standing beside the four-poster bed wearing only the delicate white camisole he’d bought her this morning. One hand was tugging at a lacy strap and the other flew down to cover a patch of auburn curls above her long, slender thighs. Undressing had mussed her hair, and her face was frozen in an expression of determination mixed with a wantonness he’d never dreamed her capable of. “Honey, I was only—”
“It was you—your lust that forced me into this marriage,” Charity said with a boldness she was unaware she possessed. “So by God, Devereau, you will make love to me.”
A hairpin fell, sending a cascade of red waves over her bare shoulder, and Dillon lost his tenuous hold on self-control. The most experienced temptress couldn’t have coaxed him across the room this quickly, and when his hands found Charity’s silk-covered back and the firm, warm flesh of her behind, he kissed her with an insistence that left no doubt about how he intended to spend their first night together.
Charity felt herself being carried to the edge of the high bed, which Dillon turned down with an impetuous yank of one hand. His lips never left hers while he lowered her onto the fresh sheets, and his urgent hands were driving her beyond the point where she could play games anymore. Easing his tongue between her teeth, he gently pushed her backward until he was on top of her, supporting his weight on his elbows.
He kissed her again, and the feel of her body beneath him sent his imagination soaring. How could he best initiate her into womanhood? She deserved his utmost tenderness this first time—and every time—yet he knew his immediate need for her would override his good intentions the moment her body yielded to his. Dillon gazed down at her rapt, angelic face and his decision was made. With a soft chuckle, he let his mouth drift along the finely carved line of her jaw until he was nuzzling her ear. “Charity,” he murmured, ‘‘there are many ways to kiss a woman. If you find any of them unpleasant, just kick me.”
His dimple made her wonder what he could possibly be hinting at. What sort of woman kicked her husband the first time they made love? When his tongue traced lazy circles around each of her aching nipples she drew in her breath; his mustache tickled her stomach through the silk lingerie as his mouth descended with agonizing slowness. Indeed, the muscles in her legs were tensing, as was every fiber of her being, because Dillon’s nibbling sent bolts of pure pleasure into the very core of her.
Devereau sampled each inch of his willowy partner only briefly, because her responses made it clear she was as eager for release as he was. Charity moaned when he brushed the hollow of her abdomen with his lips; she tensed, but allowed him to continue kissing her along the top of her thigh. Her delectable essence was driving him mad, yet he held back, touching the deep pink bud displayed so temptingly before him with only the tip of his tongue.
Gasping, Charity clamped her legs together. The warm roughness of Dillon’s cheeks became even more intimate now, as did the stroking of his agile tongue, and a white-hot desire surged within her until she had no choice to but offer herself completely to him. Instinctively she raised her knees, amazed that her hips were quivering as though possessed. She dug her heels into Dillon’s shoulders and wadded the sheets in her fists as the first waves of passion crested within her.
Dillon caressed her more deeply, grasping her slender hips to keep her arousal under control for the longest time possible. When he realized her ankles were hovering near his ears, he rose up. “You’re not really going to kick me, are you?” he teased softly.
Her mouth fell open, but all she could breathe was, “Don’t . . . please don’t stop.”
His mouth overtook her again with a merciless kneading that made her feel as though she might burst into flame. Charity cried out, and then stiffed the noise with the back of her hand. When the intense waves of giddiness subsided and she could open her eyes, she found Dillon’s face directly above her as he studied her with obvious pleasure.
“Such a passionate outburst,” he said with a chuckle. “I like a woman who expresses herself.”
Charity grimaced. “Everyone must’ve heard—”
“So what?” Devereau pulled himself away from his bride and finished unbuttoning his shirt. “This is the honeymoon suite. We’ve every right to sound like lovers, sweetheart.”
“I ... it wasn’t like I thought it would be,” she mumbled. His shirt fell to the floor and he reached for the buttons on his trousers, his face glowing with a solemn desire that made her wonder what could possibly follow. Her limbs were still rubbery and weak, yet he apparently expected more from her.
“I like to give my woman some pleasure before I take my own,” he explained in a husky voice. “I wanted you to enjoy at least a part of our first love-making as much as I will.”
The sight of Dillon’s unclothed body gave Charity pause. He was firmly muscled, lithe as a tiger, and he displayed a powerful grace as he stepped out of his pants. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist; swirls of golden-brown hair funneled down into a peak that seemed to point to his arousal. Charity had a general idea about how that particular part of him was supposed to fit inside her, yet she couldn’t imagine having room for it.
Sensing her hesitation, Devereau kept his own desires in check by trying to rekindle hers. “Come here,” he whispered as he helped her up. “Let’s take off your camisole so it won’t come between us. Nothing compares to the luxury of skin upon skin.”
Charity stood, leaning into him as he lifted the light silk over her head. He was right: the warmth of his body, the subtle caress of the hair on his chest, created a stirring within her. She smiled up at him and was greeted with a ravenous kiss, which followed the hollow of her throat until Dillon was burying his face between her breasts. With a moan that echoed her own yearning, he lifted her onto the rumpled bed and stretched out alongside her, his hands in constant, urgent motion.
The light, lilac scent of her . . . the skin of creamiest velvet . . . the taste of innocence and the wide-eyed wonder which never left her face as her breathing became as shallow and rapid as his own: Dillon couldn’t remember the last time a woman had ignited his senses to such a fever pitch. Charity’s lips parted as she drew a teasing toe up his calf, and he was undone. He took her swiftly, hoping she would understand.
After a brief, piercing pain made her suck in her breath, Charity followed the lead of her lover’s rhythmic hips, rocking, rocking, until a frenzy overtook him and he seized her in a frantic grip. When his warmth shot through her, she leaned into his final shudders and was rewarded with an internal sunburst that was mellower yet every bit as sweet as her first.
He clung to her, and when her calling out died away, Dillon knew that no matter how many songs she sang in her sultry contralto, Charity’s ecstatic moaning of his name would be the swe
etest music he would ever hear.
She felt a film of perspiration form where their bodies were pressed together; Charity heard his heartbeat, felt his breathing ruffle her hair, and wondered if lovemaking was always this grand or if Dillon Devereau simply had the knack for it, as he did for so many things. She toyed with a tuft of his chest hair. “I—I hope I wasn’t too big a disappointment, after the other ladies you’ve—”
“Disappointment?” He lifted her chin so he could search her lightly freckled face. Her jade eyes shone up at him without wavering. “Honey, it was an honor to be your first, and all I can think about is spending the rest of the night—and many nights to come—showing you a dozen kinds of affection.”
They both stiffened when someone pounded on the door. “Your dinner, Mr. Devereau,” a male voice announced. “Compliments of the management.”
Dillon rose up on his elbows, glowering as he tugged the sheet over his wife’s trembling body. “We don’t want dinner, Mr. Blue.”
Chapter 13
Charity huddled under the skimpy covering the sheet provided. Dillon was bristling beside her, sliding the lower half of his body beneath the bedclothes as he faced the door. Jackson Blue was already entering their room, his dark eyes mocking them while he carried a tray laden with shiny silver domes to a table near the bed.
“I stopped by the inn for dinner and an old friend of ours invited me to join the wedding party,” the Indian said. He crossed his arms over his buckskinned chest, studying them with a derisive smile. “Imagine my disappointment when I learned my best friend had gotten married without telling me, let alone inviting me. To show there are no hard feelings, I brought you the best steak in town, cooked to the pink as you prefer it, Devereau. Figured it was the least I could do, since you bought my meal tonight.”
“You insufferable bastard!” Dillon muttered. “You knew damn well what Charity and I would
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