Chance snorted. “And I think that is the silliest damn nonsense I have ever heard come out of your mouth, Duchess. In case you have forgotten—we were married this afternoon. And unless my memory has completely deserted me, we have already been intimate.” A sensual smile curved his lips and his voice grew husky. “Very intimate.”
Fancy’s head jerked up. “And you are no gentleman to remind me of that horrid incident. You took base advantage of me.”
Chance grinned. “Duchess, I never claimed to be a gentleman. And as for the other, you were willing; you knew what I was and precisely what I was capable of when you came looking for me on that bluff.” His hands tightened ever so slightly on her shoulders. “Deny it if you will, but you wanted me as badly as I wanted you. No one took advantage of anyone.”
Fancy took in a deep, angry breath. “You do not have to tell me that you are no gentleman. I will tell you what you really are: you are the most arrogant, provoking, conceited, rude, aggravating . . .” Words failed her, and her topaz eyes snapping with temper, she attempted to break free of his hold. “Let me go,” she said furiously a second later when her efforts had proved futile.
“Let you go?” Chance repeated with an odd look on his face. “Let you go, Duchess, when I have gone to such great lengths to bind you to me?” He gave her a gentle shake and, his eyes holding hers, said softly, “You are mine. Do not ever forget it, and I will never, in this lifetime, let you go. You are my wife.”
Fancy continued her struggle to escape him, grimly ignoring the sudden leap in her pulse at his words. Angry at her reaction, damning him for having the power to disturb and, yes, unfortunately, delight her, she fought against the nearly overpowering pull of attraction that existed between them.
She most definitely did not want to want him—did not want to acknowledge the spark of desire that fairly crackled in the air between them. Even more, she did not want him to be able to cloud her mind, to make her forget his trickery that had led to their marriage. She certainly did not want to like him, much less love him. She wanted to be able to view him coldly and impersonally, to hug all his deceits and faults tightly to her bosom. And when she was away from him, it was a relatively easy task to accomplish. But when he was near . . . when those glittering blue eyes were fixed on her and that long, mobile mouth was curved in that mesmerizing smile of his and his arms were holding her near to the seductive warmth of his lean body . . .
It did not help Fancy’s thinking process when Chance’s mouth moved warmly over the soft, responsive skin at the side of her neck and nuzzled the small lobe of her ear or when the close proximity of their bodies made her aware of his rampant readiness to make love to her. To her great dismay, her blood seemed to thicken, she felt flushed, a deplorable weakness spread slowly through her entire system, and she knew that if she didn’t take decisive action, her body would betray her.
With more desperation than anger, she suddenly pummeled wildly against his chest and managed to kick him on one knee. The kick caught him by surprise, and his leg half crumpled beneath him, which loosened his hold on her. Fancy sprang free.
Bosom heaving beneath the gold silk and blond lace, her hands clenched into fists, she stared back at him defiantly as he slowly straightened. His smile was gone, and the gleam in the blue eyes made her decidedly uneasy.
“Stay away from me,” she said, half commanding, half pleading, as he advanced toward her. She began to edge backward away from him.
“No,” he said softly, his eyes fixed intently on hers, “I will not.” A bitter smile flitted across his dark face. “I cannot. I want you, Duchess. You have haunted my dreams for too long, and I will not be denied what is rightfully mine.”
Fancy’s back came up against the wall; there was nowhere else for her to retreat. The topaz eyes almost golden from the conflicting emotions rioting through her, she said desperately, “I will hate you, if you force me.”
Chance shook his head slowly, a frankly carnal curve to his lower lip. “I have no intention of forcing you. By the time I take you, you will be willing, that I promise you.”
“I want no promises from you,” she spat as he stepped nearer.
“And I did not want it to be this way between us,” he said gruffly, “but I am afraid you leave me no choice.”
Before Fancy realized his intent, he ducked, and to her humiliation and astonishment, she found herself slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“What are you doing?” she cried, her fists beating against his broad back.
“Taking my wife to our marriage bed,” he said calmly as he strode from her bedchamber and through the sitting room.
Carried ignominiously over his shoulder, her fists and feet flailing with great energy, if little impact upon him, Fancy was helpless to stop his progress. Coolly ignoring her furious actions, Chance threw open the door to her rooms and began to walk down the wide hallway that led to his own.
Her face red, and not just from being carried upside down, Fancy hissed, “Put me down, you great lout. Someone is going to see us.”
“No doubt,” Chance replied imperturbably, never slowing his stride. “And if you had behaved yourself, you would not have driven me to these, ah, indecorous lengths.”
Stunned by his provoking words, she ceased her struggles momentarily and gasped with sheer outrage. “I drove you?”
“Yes,” he said with a smothered laugh, “you drove me to this desperate action, so it is all your own fault.”
Fancy fought an urge to shriek. Of all the unprincipled . . . ! How dare he make this her fault. So angry she could barely see straight, she gathered herself to continue the attack. But the scathing words she was ready to hurl at him died instantly when, to her utter horror, she heard a door open nearby.
A wave of scarlet deepened the already rosy hue of her face, and her heart sank to her little toes as she heard Sam say, “Oh. ’Tis you. I heard some, er, noise and thought ...”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Chance answered politely, just as if he did not have a night-clad female slung over his shoulder. “Fancy and I were just on our way to bed.”
“Ah. I see,” murmured Sam, amusement obvious in his voice. “Well, good night, then.” And he closed the door.
The hall seemed strangely silent after Sam had shut the door. Certain that she had never been so thoroughly embarrassed in her entire life, Fancy hung there limply over Chance’s shoulder, wishing she could just disappear into thin air and awaken in her familiar, comfortable bedchamber in England. How was she ever going to look Sam Walker in the eye again?
Apparently not the least abashed to have been found strolling down the hall with his bride carried like a piece of booty over his shoulder, Chance once again continued on his way toward his room. The silence continued for a few more minutes, Fancy having evidently given up her fight to escape from him—if her passive weight was anything to go by. Chance found to his annoyance that he preferred her furious and struggling with him than quiet and defeated.
Clearing his throat, he said gently, “Unlike me, you will find that Sam is a true gentleman. Gallant and considerate. Tactful, too. I would not let his having seen us prey on your mind.”
“Of course I am not letting the most humiliating moment of my life prey on my mind,” Fancy said through gritted teeth. “I am far too busy concentrating on all the ugly and painful ways that I might kill you to worry about it.”
Chance smiled, pleased that he had lightened her mood. He gave a hearty slap on the tempting buttocks near his cheek and said, “Excellent! I would not want you to have been brooding.”
He thought she snarled something exceedingly unladylike, but as he was occupied with opening the door to his room, he couldn’t be positive. Once inside the room, he shut the door behind them and locked it. Heedful of Fancy’s state of mind, he carefully removed the key and slipped it into a small pocket of his waistcoat.
Fancy wiggled uncomfortably on his shoulder, and after taking a few more steps i
nto the room, he shifted her weight and carefully stood her upright. The instant her feet hit the ground, she sprang away from him, brushing back the tangle of wavy brown hair that had fallen over her face. A wary expression on her face, she said stiffly, “Well, here I am in your room. I hope that you are satisfied.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she had chosen unwisely.
The infuriating smile that quirked at the corners of his mouth made her long to slap it from his handsome face. She was shocked at the violence of her emotions. She had never been given to such unmaidenly and rude impulses. Yet Chance, by just the flick of an eyebrow, a twist of his lips, a gleam in the cobalt blue eyes, could rouse her to stunning fury.
Leaning against one of the tall mahogany posts of his bed, Chance regarded her as she stood in the center of his room. “Satisfied?” he asked mockingly. “Hardly, my dear. I suspect that it will take several decades, perhaps a lifetime, before I am fully satisfied with you.”
“If you find me so unsatisfactory,” Fancy shot back hotly, “I am astonished that you went to such deplorable effort to coerce me into marrying you.”
“Ah, now, Duchess,” he replied softly, his eyes warm and caressing on her, “I did not say that I found you unsatisfactory. I merely said that it would be a while before I was satisfied with you. That is something far different.”
“More colonial wit?” she sneered.
He shook his head. “No, merely the truth.” He looked thoughtful. “You are very angry with me at the moment, and perhaps it is justified, but I think it is time for some plain speaking between us.”
Fancy’s chin lifted at his tone. “What do you mean?”
A thick black brow flicked upward. “I think you know exactly what I mean, but if you wish me to elaborate, I shall.” When Fancy remained stubbornly silent, he sighed. “Very well, Duchess, we shall play this farce out. You are my wife. I intend to be your husband in every sense of the word. This is my bed. I intend to have you in it, and I have every intention of sharing it with you. Now you can come willingly to me, or— ”
“You do not really expect me to willingly . . .” Words failed her and she glared at him.
He smiled. “Yes, sweetheart, I do.”
Lounging negligently against the tall bedpost, his arms folded casually over his chest, Chance looked far too confident, far too handsome, for Fancy’s peace of mind. The curve of that chiseled mouth and the glitter in those blue eyes as they roamed appreciatively over her aroused curious sensations deep within her. Sensations she wanted desperately to deny. There was something thrillingly feral and vastly appealing about him as he regarded her steadily across the all-too-brief distance that separated them.
The flickering candlelight from the pewter sconces on the wall caressed his compelling features, making her breathlessly aware of the strength and rugged character inherent in his face. His thick black hair was brushing his shoulders, a lock falling carelessly across one brow. Staring at him, she admitted helplessly that he was the most fascinating, beguiling, infuriating male animal she had ever met.
Her emotions in chaos, Fancy remained silent, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. To her alarm and shame, she was conscious that underneath all her anger was a growing sense of excitement—that she was actually enjoying this confrontation between them. Appalled by that admission, she tried to tell herself that it was mere rage making her heart pound and her blood race, but with a sinking feeling in her chest, she realized that she was lying to herself.
“But suppose you are wrong?” she finally said in a small voice. “Suppose I refuse to fall tamely in with your wishes?”
Chance pushed away from the bedpost and approached her, pulling her easily into his arms. Fancy stood warily in his embrace, and he brushed his lips against her temple as he said quietly, “Fancy, I know that you want to continue fighting me, and a part of me applauds your spirit and determination. But, sweetheart, you cannot win against me.”
If his words were meant to soothe her, they did not, and feeling her stiffen, he cursed his clumsy tongue. Wryly he admitted, “That was not quite what I meant to say, even if it is true.” He pulled her closer to him, and against her mouth, he murmured, “Fight me all you want to. I look forward to it. But not here and not now.”
With his mouth brushing hers, his scent, clean and male, drifting in her nostrils, his arms strong and hard about her, Fancy was finding it difficult to concentrate. Worse, everything within her was urging capitulation.
“A truce for tonight?” she asked cautiously. Dare she risk it? He held the winning hand, even she realized that, but his unexpected offer gave her a way of accepting the inevitable while yet allowing her to have at least some control over the situation. There was much about his suggestion that she abhorred, and under different circumstances, she would have thrown it contemptuously back into his handsome face. But at the moment, it seemed very tempting.
“For all our nights, sweetheart,” he promised against her tingling lips. “All our nights.”
Toying with the lace at the front of his shirt, she said carefully, “You realize that a truce for the night will change nothing. You have still taken gross advantage of me, and I shall probably hate you for the rest of my life.”
His lips traveling in a burning path down her throat, he said thickly, “Of course, Duchess. We both understand how you feel about me. What an unprincipled cad I am.” Nipping lightly at that tender spot where her neck joined her shoulder, his hands cupping her buttocks to lift her against him, he muttered, “I shall always respect your feelings for me . . . even your hatred.”
Fancy’s arms slid slowly around his neck, her fingers tangling in the rough black hair, her mouth shyly following the outline of his ear, and Chance’s breath caught in his throat. At the touch of her soft mouth, desire thrummed through his veins and his fingers tightened on her firm little bottom.
“As long as you understand my feelings,” Fancy breathed huskily, “I suppose that a truce for the hours of darkness would be . . . acceptable.”
A great weight, a weight that he hadn’t even been aware of, suddenly slid off Chance. With a low sound, half growl, half laugh, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He instantly followed her slim form into the welcoming softness of the feather mattress, his mouth greedily finding hers, the desire that had been barely held in check bursting free as he lay beside her and dragged her into his arms.
He had sworn to himself that this would be no swift coupling, such as the one they had shared on the bluff overlooking the river. Yet when Fancy’s lips hesitantly opened for him and he tasted the moist, inviting depths, he wondered dazedly if he had set too vast a goal for himself. Repressing the urge to fall upon her like a ravening wolf, Chance wooed her with kisses and lingering caresses, his hands moving warmly over her as he reacquainted himself with the soft, seductive curves that had taunted him unmercifully through several long, lonely nights.
Fancy was silk and fire in his arms, her mouth unbelievably sweet as he drank deeply, the curves and hollows of her slender body a tactile delight for his questing hands. He groaned when her tongue innocently traced the shape of his. His breathing was labored, and desire, hot and fierce as a dragon, coiled and twisted deep in his loins as she moved against him, her breasts burning into his chest, her belly pressing against the rigid, aching shaft of his manhood.
Fancy was no more immune to Chance’s proximity than he was to hers, and a shudder went through her when his hand fondled her breast and he gently squeezed the yielding flesh. She had told herself that what had happened between them on the bluff had been an aberration, that her memory had been befuddled, that she had only imagined the exquisite pleasures of his mouth and hands on her. But she was giddily aware as his lips slid from her mouth to her breast that in this, too, she had deluded herself.
Until Chance had come into her life, she hadn’t known that one could ache for another’s touch, that one could burn for the brush of a certain pair of lips, or t
hat one’s body could come stingingly alive from the caress of just one particular person.
Chance’s lips closed around her breast, and Fancy arched up off the bed, the tug and pull of his mouth on her plump nipple, even through the fabric of her gown, sending a spiral of hot sensation streaking through her body. She clutched at his shoulders, anxious and unbearably pleasured at the same time, wanting more and yet frightened of losing control of herself, of becoming that shameless creature who had writhed beneath him on the bluff.
But Chance didn’t give her time to think. His blue eyes full of a primitive hunger, he reared up suddenly and, leaving the bed, began to tear at his clothing. In bemusement she stared at the powerful body being revealed to her, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of his sheer male beauty.
Despite her years of marriage, Fancy had never seen a fully naked man before; her husband had always come to her in the darkness. Watching as each piece of Chance’s clothing fell to the floor, she was utterly fascinated by what was revealed. The candlelight flickered and danced over his body as he stripped off his garments in feverish haste, the soft light casting a golden glow here, a dark shadow there. Mesmerized, she stared at the broad shoulders, the play of the strong muscles revealed in his arms and chest with every movement he made.
Chance turned away briefly to dispense with the remainder of his clothing, and when he swung back toward her, Fancy’s breath froze. Unable to help herself, she stared intently at the springy thatch of black hair between his thighs, most particularly at the hard rod of flesh that jutted outward from the center. Despite having little to compare him with, she knew that Chance was generously and magnificently endowed everywhere and that he was . . . oh, utterly beautiful.
A Heart for the Taking Page 22