Under The Wishing Star

by Farr, Diane

  She still did not despair of that. He liked her, that was plain, and it seemed he felt physically drawn to her as well. That would do—for now. If she avoided Catherine’s errors…if she did her best to be the kind of wife he admired, and give him the pleasant, uneventful life he apparently wanted…that might, if she were patient, do the trick. But she must not pursue or nag him. She must let him come to her.

  At any rate, she had to try. She would try. She would marry the man of her dreams, and one day, God willing, the rest of the dream would come true.

  With her decision made, calm descended on her heart. She walked downstairs to find Hector.

  * * *

  She would marry him! She would marry him after all. He would focus on that. It was, after all, the most important point. But what the devil did she mean by making Hector relay the news? It obviously had not been Hector’s choice to do so. The poor blighter was palpably nervous, his extreme youth showing in the awkwardness with which he handled the matter. It annoyed Malcolm that Hector had clearly never given a moment’s thought to the idea that his sister might, one day, marry, and that he might, one day, need to have his ducks in a row for such an interview as this. He obviously hadn’t a clue what to do, and ultimately agreed to let the two families’ solicitors handle the details of marriage settlements and “all that rubbish.” But he extended a civil invitation for Malcolm to dine en famille at Crosby Hall that evening.

  The invitation did not include Sarah, even though it was her fate, as well as Malcolm’s that would be sealed that evening. The omission rankled, but (he reminded himself) there was nothing unusual about it. Most dinner invitations did not include small children. It was just…something in Hector’s face he did not like. Something in his attitude. It raised Malcolm’s hackles, but he tried to ignore it; he knew he was overly sensitive about his child’s perceived shortcomings.

  And tonight would be about Natalie.

  Just as well, under the circumstances, that Sarah would not be present. Malcolm’s heart thudded with anticipation when he thought about getting Natalie alone—and he thought about it often. She had run from him yesterday and he had not seen her since, but he was willing to chalk that up to maidenly shyness. Or something. Whatever had caused her to flee, he was damned well going to overcome it.

  By the time the Whittakers’ butler showed him into the drawing room that night, his nerves were pulled as taut as harp wire. He bowed to the room, but his eyes went straight to Natalie. He felt his breath catch in his throat. She looked beautiful. She had obviously dressed with the same elaborate care that had driven his own grooming tonight, thinking to do justice to the occasion. She was wearing a deceptively simple dinner dress of some cream-colored stuff that flattered every curve of her figure. And her hair, twisted and piled and tortured into submission, framed her face with an elegant sophistication he had never seen in her before.

  He murmured something, he scarcely knew what, tossed in the general direction of Mabel and Hector—but his feet were pulling him toward Natalie. Her eyes lifted to his, luminous. A shock of excitement startled him when their eyes met. Why had he never noticed how compelling her eyes were? He wanted to stare into them forever. Or at least for the next few hours. He had known her for weeks, he marveled, but somehow he had never seen her properly. All this extraordinary beauty had been right under his nose. Amazing.

  And she would soon be his. The thought made him almost light-headed. His pulse pounding, he took her hand in his and bowed over it. She gave him a faint, almost nervous, smile. And then his dratted hosts interrupted, pulling his reluctant attention back to the fact that he and Natalie were not alone.

  It was difficult to get through dinner. Mabel was effusive in a chatty, girlish way that set his teeth on edge. Hector’s idea of being a charming host consisted of making a series of jokes at the expense of his wife, his sister, and a number of persons who were not present. Malcolm would probably have found this even more irritating than he did, had he not been so eager to be alone with Natalie that he could barely follow the conversation. He ate the food set before him, but tasted none of it. It cost him a tremendous effort every time the meal, or the conversation, forced him to tear his eyes from his future bride.

  Natalie sat silent and composed across the table from him, seldom raising her eyes from her plate. Whenever she did, however, her eyes went straight to his and Malcolm felt that same pleasurable rush of attraction that had struck him earlier. Stunning. Miraculous. He had never experienced anything quite like it. His heart rejoiced; he knew in his bones that marriage to Natalie would be heaven on earth.

  Before the night was over, he would kiss her…at the very least. His whole body seemed to tighten when he thought of it, like a racehorse waiting for the starting pistol. The wait was nearly unbearable, the anticipation so keen it was almost torture.

  The evening crawled by, but he knew he was heading steadily toward the moment. He felt it on the horizon, drawing ever nearer. The minutes passed with agonizing slowness while he smiled and chatted and bided his time, striving to appear outwardly normal while inwardly champing at the bit. The covers were removed—hallelujah. He shared a tedious glass of port with Hector. The men joined the ladies in the drawing room. Conversation. More conversation, deadly dull. At last, at last, Mabel and Hector exchanged significant glances. And they rose, just as Malcolm had prayed they would, pleading some lame excuse to leave Malcolm and Natalie alone.

  Malcolm rose politely to his feet, pretending to believe the ruse, and bowed as Mabel passed out of the room on Hector’s arm. Those last few seconds were the longest of the evening, but finally the moment arrived: he was alone with Natalie.

  He turned to face her, every atom of his being straining toward her like a bloodhound nearing its quarry. She had not moved from her place by the fire. She sat quietly, hands clasped lightly in her lap, back straight, chin level. The shimmering gown glinted in the light, outlining the soft curve of her breast and hip in lush invitation, belying the propriety of her ladylike posture. And that glorious hair of hers—it had started the evening properly confined, but by now it had run wanton, curling drunkenly at her brow, her temples, the nape of her neck. The very sight of it made him smile.

  “Natalie Whittaker,” he said softly, “you have made me the happiest of men.”

  The cliche came straight from his heart, and rolled out of his mouth as sincerely as if no man had ever said it before. Still, its triteness caused Natalie’s face to light with demure laughter.

  “Very prettily said, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” he said ironically, feeling like a dunce. “But I mean it.”

  She looked embarrassed. “I shall do my best,” she said primly, “to ensure that you never regret your persistence.”

  “I know I never shall.”

  She seemed to relax a little, shooting him that fabulous smile of hers. “In that case, I shall devote my energy to ensuring that I never regret your persistence.”

  He returned her smile, but shook his head. “That’s my role,” he told her. “Not yours. But set your mind at rest, Natalie. Your life is about to change for the better.”

  Her gaze dropped. She seemed as shy of him as if they were strangers. “I did not keep you dangling all summer from mere caprice,” she said, her voice sounding soft and anxious. “I hope you know that. I did have reasons for declining your offer. It is only lately that I have come to believe that marriage will, in fact, change my life for the better. And that I can offer you something valuable in return.”

  He had no patience tonight to sit through a lengthy discussion of what had brought them to this point. All that mattered now was that they had reached it. “At any rate, I’m glad you accepted me in the end.”

  “So am I.”

  Good. But was she going to sit in that blasted chair all night? He couldn’t get at her. He strolled forward, purpose in every line of his body. Her eyes widened in obvious apprehension, but he caught her hand and pulled her up and out of
the chair before she could protest. He caught her against him, chest to chest. Yes. This was what he had waited for.

  His body tingled as he felt her relax against him. He looked into her eyes and saw her expression subtly alter. The atmosphere in the room shifted. The air seemed to thicken. Natalie’s eyes were still wide, but the darkness of her dilated pupils no longer seemed to indicate alarm. As he watched, her eyes went darker yet. No, that was not fear. It was something else entirely. Her face was so close to his, he could see the sweep of each individual eyelash over those heart-melting brown eyes. Her lids slowly drifted down until her eyes were half-closed.

  “I suppose this means,” she said huskily, “that you and my brother have come to terms.”

  He felt his blood heat in response to her teasing. “Rot the terms,” he growled, savoring the moment. “You will be my wife. If we’re all agreed on that, the terms can go hang.”

  He felt laughter quivering through her body. “Most unwise,” she chided him, still in that damnably alluring purr. “Hector will fleece you if he can.”

  A surge of recklessness made him grin. “I don’t care if he does.”

  Her eyes flew open, sparking with amusement, and her delicate brows lifted. “But I care,” she protested. “My dear sir, it’s bad enough to make a marriage of convenience—but with a pauper? It simply isn’t done.”

  He brought his hands up to her face and cradled her cheeks in his fingers. Tenderness rushed through him as he marveled at the softness of her skin. “With you at my side,” he whispered, “I’ll be the richest man in England.”

  She looked adorably surprised, but pleased, too. A blush warmed the cheeks beneath his fingers. “Why, Malcolm,” she murmured, “I’m astonished. I had no idea you were such a flatterer.”

  “That,” he promised her softly, “is only the beginning. I have quite a few surprises in store for you.”

  He felt her breathing quicken. “Will they all be as pleasant as that one?”

  Desire leaped and flared in him. He had delayed the kiss long enough. It was killing him. Five more minutes and he’d be a dead man. “I hope so,” he whispered, and crushed her mouth beneath his.

  This kiss was no gentle exploration. He was too hungry for her, too needy. He devoured her. And, like a miracle, she reacted almost immediately with a heat that swiftly matched his own. He felt her arms snake up around his neck and heard her moan, deep in her throat. Her response maddened him. He had never imagined anything warmer than compliance; to feel her joining his desire as an equal partner was more than he had dared to hope.

  When he broke the kiss and came up for air, she gasped and arched her back, throwing back her head. He could not resist the exposed column of her throat. Groaning, he bent to kiss it. The swift intake of her breath told him that he was giving her pleasure. That was all the encouragement he needed. He nibbled up and down the length of her neck, reveling in the tiny gasps his kisses drew from her.

  By God, she was quivering. He felt little tremors running all through her. This was definitely the woman of his dreams. He had longed for this woman all his life, without even knowing it. Natalie.

  He lifted his head so he could look at her. Tenderness and awe swept through him. Mine. He ran one hand along the gorgeous sweep of her waist and hip. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, drunk with emotion, and bent to kiss her again.

  But she suddenly went stiff in his arms. Was she pulling back? Why? He paused, opening his eyes. Natalie had placed her hands against his chest to parry his advance. She lifted her head, steadying herself against him. There was a crease in the furrow between her eyes. She seemed to be fighting her way back to reality after a brief spell of insanity. He watched in chagrined disbelief as the passionate woman in his arms rapidly cooled.

  She gave him a strained little smile. “I have already agreed to marry you, Malcolm,” she said, with a ridiculous attempt at lightness. “You needn’t empty the butter boat over me.”

  He was too amazed to reply. She pulled herself out of his embrace, self-consciously straightening her bodice. Her eyes were on the floor as she moved away. Then, having reached what she apparently deemed a safe distance, she looked at him again.

  An invisible wall seemed to have sprung up between them. Natalie looked as unaffected as if nothing had just passed between them at all. If it weren’t for her still-flushed face, there would be no clue that their kiss had even taken place. Her expression was friendly, but placid. She looked utterly composed.

  Malcolm was utterly discomposed.

  He stared at her, baffled, as she gave him an amused little smile. “I did say I enjoyed being flattered, didn’t I?” she remarked. “Mea culpa! I should have warned you that flattery fails, once it passes the bounds of credibility.”

  He didn’t know what in blue blazes she was talking about. All he knew was, she had broken out of a kiss he could have sworn was mutual, and was now trying to act as if nothing had happened. It made no sense.

  And then it hit him. There was no mystery to her behavior at all. She simply didn’t love him. Dismay shook him to the depths of his soul. It was more than a disaster, it was calamity. And he had been so consumed with his own feelings, so wrapped up in the miracle of loving her, he had somehow forgotten that love was not necessarily a mutual experience. How could he, of all men, have forgotten that?

  Because it didn’t feel right, that’s why.

  He frowned, staring at his beloved Natalie across the enormous gulf of her indifference. Her apparent indifference. He didn’t believe it. He felt the connection between them as surely as he had ever felt anything in his life. It was there, it was real. Surely she felt it, too. How could she not?

  But he had never been on this side of the equation, he reminded himself, his sense of dismay deepening. He knew nothing, less than nothing, about love. He had never given it a second’s serious thought. He had dismissed the entire notion of romantic love as pure fantasy, a delusion fit only for poets, females and idiots. He recalled the contempt he had felt for Catherine’s clinging and sighing and experienced an inward shudder. Now that the shoe was firmly on the other foot, he faced the hair-raising prospect of repeating his first marriage—from the opposite point of view.

  But he would not repeat Catherine’s mistakes. Whatever he did, he vowed, he would not use his unrequited love as a weapon. He would never bully or reproach his darling Natalie. She deserved better than that. He would respect her privacy. He would honor her and cherish her and treat her like a queen. He would woo her. Carefully. Gently. And then, God willing, if he didn’t press her too much, she would come to him.

  The situation did not seem hopeless. They had friendship and, he could have sworn, they shared passion. That was a foundation upon which he could build.

  But he had to ask. It was not in his nature to mince words. He started forward, urgently needing to know. “Natalie,” he blurted. “Did you not enjoy the kiss?”

  She looked startled. “What?”

  She fell back a step, retreating as he advanced, but he gripped her shoulders to halt her retreat, searching her eyes with his. He spoke again, more gently. “I need to know, sweetheart. It seems to me that you do not find me repulsive. Am I mistaken?”

  She blushed. “Of course not.”

  He reluctantly let her go. Friendship and passion. That would have to do—for now. “Good.” He managed to give her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “These things are more important to a marriage than some women realize.”

  Her blush intensified, but she nodded. “I understand that.”

  He watched the firelight dance sweetly on the edge of her cheek. Her skin looked lush and touchable. He longed for her, body and soul. “You’re not afraid?” His whisper was rough with banked desire.

  She lifted limpid eyes to his. “No.”

  Her simple faith in him, her trust, took his breath away. And there was something deuced erotic about it, too. If he couldn’t have her love, he was glad to have her trust ...
but knowing that his bride was willing, he suddenly realized, was going to make the waiting worse.

  Bloody hell.

  On the other hand, what the devil were they waiting for? A string of stupid parties? A tedious ritual of banns, to which no one would object anyway? The piecing together of a special costume? Nonsense. He’d bet a monkey that every gently-born female of Natalie’s age already had a wedding dress wrapped in silver paper and tucked into a cedar chest somewhere.

  He took her hand and bent to plant a reckless kiss in her palm. “Marry me soon, Natalie,” he muttered against her skin. “Will you?”

  She swallowed hard. “If—if you wish,” she said faintly.

  “I do wish.”

  He straightened, her hand still captured in his. Her eyes had taken on that slumberous, heavy-lidded languor again. He felt his heartbeat quicken. Had his mouth on her skin done that to her? In a few quick seconds? Ah, God. He had to have her soon.

  “Come with me to London,” he urged, his voice low and rapid. “We can be married by special license. I’ll make you mistress of Larkspur next week. Please, Natalie. Please.” He pulled her unresisting body back into his arms. “Please,” he whispered again, and kissed her—softly, this time. Just a little persuasion. Just a little.

  She nodded like a sleepwalker, seeming dazed by the heat that had sprung up so readily between them. “Very well,” she murmured. “If you like.”

  So polite! He almost laughed, but the impulse died an unmourned death. He had better things to do with his mouth right now than laugh.

  Chapter 17

  Natalie moved through the next few days in a dream. Nothing seemed real to her. She accepted the congratulations and good wishes of her friends, danced her way through a small, hastily-assembled ball in her honor, wrote the requisite letters to Derek, to her stepmother, and to her future in-laws, and stood for hours being fitted for gowns. In an eye-opening demonstration of her abrupt change in social status, Malcolm arranged for a London modiste and a team of seamstresses to travel to Crosby Hall for the express purpose of enlarging Natalie’s trousseau. New gowns were ordered, old gowns were miraculously transformed, and Natalie became, almost overnight, a lady of fashion. She barely recognized the elegant creature staring back at her from the mirror.