‘Are you determined to have me?’ Marcus murmured.
‘Marcus, stop whispering in Miss Devereaux’s ear! How is she supposed to concentrate on her music with you hovering over her?’
Amy coloured at Miss Lyndhurst’s sharp words, but Marcus said nothing more. He waited until she had finished playing and then, taking her hand, he raised her from the stool. ‘Miss Devereaux finds it a trifle warm in here. We are about to take a turn in the parterre. Perhaps you would like to join us, Aunt Harriet?’
The old lady responded with something between a laugh and a snort. ‘I think not, Marcus. Sarah may go, if she chooses, though I see no reason why she should. We can all see the parterre perfectly well from here. If you must have company, take Anthony’s deaf old dog. She seems to do nothing but sleep. And smell.’
The old setter under the tea table must have sensed something, for she lifted her muzzle and sniffed the air. Finding that her master had not moved, she went back to sleep.
Sarah, who had been in the act of rising, shot a quick glance at Amy and resumed her seat. ‘Aunt Harriet is quite right. Pray do not go beyond the parterre, Amy.’
Amy nodded and allowed Marcus to lead her through the open French doors and down the steps into the parterre. ‘Marcus, how could you?’ she gasped, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘What on earth will they all think?’
‘They will think, my love, that this is a whirlwind romance. As indeed it has been. And they will be delighted that I am to enter parson’s mousetrap, I can assure you. Even Ned is pleased enough, I think.’
‘No wonder. He thinks to touch you for money to pay his debts.’
Marcus pinched her fingers. ‘And this, from the fond sister who has raced to Lyndhurst Chase to save her brother? Fie, Miss Devereaux! That is not the Christian charity I should have expected of you.’ He tried to look down his nose at her.
‘Amelia Dent was the one who advocated Christian charity, Mr Sinclair,’ she replied primly. ‘Amy Devereaux is merely a sister. And much put upon. By all the men in her life, I may add.’
Marcus’s thumb began to trace a circle on Amy’s bare palm, watching her face as her violet-blue gaze became increasingly unfocused.
She almost groaned. ‘Marcus, do you know what you are doing to me?’
‘Yes, my love, I do. To provoke such a reaction with just a touch…I cannot tell you how proud it makes me feel. I want you so very much. Will you permit me to announce our betrothal tonight?’
‘There can be no betrothal, sir, without a proposal,’ she said quickly. ‘I should perhaps remind you that the lady on your arm is Amy Devereaux, gentlewoman. Not a mere servant.’
‘Ah, yes. I had forgot.’ He looked anxiously around.
‘What is the matter, Marcus? What are you looking for?’
He waved a hand airily. ‘I was hoping to find a patch of ground where I might kneel without getting too much dirt on my pantaloons.’
‘But you cannot! Not in full view of—!’
‘It is customary, you know, Miss Devereaux, to propose to a gentlewoman on bended knee.’
‘No, Marcus! Not here!’
He stopped and turned her to face him, taking both her hands in his. He raised first one, then the other, to his lips. His erstwhile abigail now tasted of honey, and lavender. ‘I want you to be my wife, Amy Devereaux. You have precisely five seconds to accept me, or I shall kneel in supplication at your feet, where all the world and his wife may see me. And pity me for a lovelorn swain. I am beginning to count now. One…’
‘Marcus—’
‘Two…’
‘I do believe you would really do it.’
‘Three…’
‘Yes! Yes, you idiot! Of course, I accept you. You know that I love you to distraction.’
He smiled down into her eyes, marvelling at their misty depths. ‘Thank you, my love. I may tell you that the feeling is entirely mutual. Though I fancy you already know that.’ He raised her hand to his lips again, but this time he turned it over and placed a lingering kiss on her palm.
The sensation quivered through Amy’s flesh so strongly that it was almost like a stab of pain. But no pain brought such warmth, or such a flood of desire. ‘I think perhaps we should announce our betrothal this evening after all,’ she said hoarsely. ‘The sooner we are betrothed, the sooner we may be married. Shall we go in and tell them now?’
Marcus tucked her hand in his arm. ‘In a moment, my love. I rather think there is a need for us both to…er…cool down a little first.’
‘Marcus!’ Amy was now bright scarlet.
He gave a low laugh and gestured towards the path through the parterre. ‘Come, my love. Let me show you a little of Anthony’s garden.’
Marcus drew Amy closer into his arm and enclosed her fingers in his own. ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ he began. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘My dear friends, I have an announcement to make. Miss Amy Devereaux has made me the happiest man in the world. She has consented to become my wife.’
‘Must be something in the water,’ Great-aunt Harriet announced, in the sudden silence. ‘Everyone appears to be rushing into wedlock in this house. Perhaps you should give up brandy and try water instead, Anthony?’
A babble of excited voices almost drowned her last words. Anthony simply turned away to pull the bell and order champagne.
Sarah was so delighted that she was almost jumping for joy. ‘I told you so, John. Amy will never do what Marcus tells her. They are made for each other.’
‘There are similarities with us, certainly,’ John admitted with a rueful smile, reaching across to shake Marcus by the hand. ‘Congratulations, Marcus. I wish you may both find as much happiness together as we have done.’
Sarah kissed Amy soundly. ‘You, too, Marcus. Only I cannot reach unless you bend down.’
Marcus grinned and bent his head obediently.
‘You will need to keep a tight rein on him, my dear,’ Great-aunt Harriet boomed. ‘He’s been left to his own devices for much too long. Just like you, Anthony.’
Anthony’s tight smile cracked.
The butler entered at that moment, carrying the champagne that Anthony had ordered.
‘Thank you, Ufton.’ He frowned. ‘We do have one vacant bedchamber, do we not? Good. You may remove Mr Sinclair’s things from my dressing room. Immediately. I am heartily tired of tripping over him.’
‘At once, sir.’ The butler deposited the tray of glasses on the table and withdrew.
Marcus and Amy exchanged hot glances. If their bedchambers were reasonably close, they might perhaps—
‘I see that Ufton has brought lemonade for you, Cassie,’ Quinlan said, smiling mischievously at his wife.
Cassie made a face.
‘If you would prefer to have champagne, I shan’t try to stop you, my love. We are celebrating, after all. And the last time you were foxed was…er…certainly something of a celebration. For both of us.’
Everyone laughed, except Cassie, who had gone rather red. ‘No champagne for me, Anthony.’ She was trying to sound nonchalant. ‘You know how it upsets me.’
‘No champagne for Miss Saunders either, Anthony. I declare she is looking quite unwell.’
Aunt Harriet was right. Marcus could see that the companion’s pale face was quite flushed. Her hazel eyes were wide and feverish. She was twisting her fingers nervously together, looking now at Anthony, now at her employer.
‘I suggest you take yourself off to bed, my dear,’ Aunt Harriet said, sounding remarkably concerned, for once. ‘You look as though you could do with a good night’s sleep.’
Anthony nodded, though he was still frowning. ‘Miss Lyndhurst is right, of course, ma’am. You must look after your health. You would do best to avail yourself of this opportunity to get as much sleep as possible. After all, one never knows what may occur to disturb it, does one?’
Miss Saunders was already on her way to the door. At Anthony’s final words, her step fa
ltered, but she did not turn.
‘And now, perhaps you would open the champagne, Anthony?’ Aunt Harriet’s foot was tapping impatiently. ‘We are all waiting to toast Marcus and his bride.’
With practised skill, Anthony opened the bottles and filled the glasses. But he took only a single mouthful of wine for the toast. ‘Excuse me,’ he said quickly. ‘My dog…I must take her outside. Pray do not allow me to interrupt the celebrations.’
Surprised, Marcus glanced at Anthony’s face and then looked round for the old setter bitch. She was still sound asleep under the table. Marcus opened his mouth to say as much and then thought better of it. Anthony was well able to make his own decisions.
Anthony thumped his heel on the floor. Disturbed by the vibration, the setter opened her clouded eyes and got to her feet rather grudgingly. Then she padded across the room and followed her master out.
Sarah caught her husband’s eye and laughed.
‘What maggot has got into Anthony’s head now?’ Cassie exclaimed.
‘Really, Cassie! Such language!’ Great-aunt Harriet set down her ear trumpet in order to pick up the glass that John had just refilled for her. ‘I do declare that marriage has made the gel worse than ever.’ She turned to Peter Quinlan. ‘May I suggest, sir, that you take her in hand?’
Quinlan choked on his champagne.
Poor Quinlan. Marcus was beginning to feel quite sorry for him. Had he any idea about the sort of family he had married into? Marcus smiled down at Amy and tucked her fingers more securely under his arm, pulling her further against the warmth of his body. She looked up at him with glowing, laughing eyes. There was no need for words.
And there was no need for an audience.
Marcus decided that a diversion was called for. ‘Since we now have both a marriage and a betrothal to celebrate, I think we need to ensure that Anthony’s little firework party becomes the splendid affair that you suggested, Aunt Harriet. I am convinced that you will be the one to persuade him, ma’am. He listens to you as to no one else.’
Great-aunt Harriet fixed Marcus with a long, steady glare. Then she broke into a deep chuckle. ‘Be off with you, you young dog. Take this lovely girl of yours out into the gardens. I promise you that, just this once, no one in the house will be watching.’
THE PRODIGAL BRIDE
Elizabeth Rolls
Available from Harlequin®Historical and
ELIZABETH ROLLS
The Dutiful Rake #712
The Unexpected Bride #729
The Unruly Chaperon #745
His Lady Mistress #772
Chapter One
Clinging to the shreds of his control, Anthony contrived not to bang the drawing-room door behind him. Curse the wench! Damn her to hell and back! Did she think to avoid him ad infinitum? The devil she would!
Fury scalded him as his gaze swept the hall, as if expecting her to materialise. A snort escaped him. Hah! She must know he’d be on her heels. Well, if she thought Great-aunt Harriet’s chamber would prove a sanctuary this time, then she was sadly misinformed.
He caught Stella’s puzzled, cloudy gaze and gently waving tail. Rudely awakened from her snooze beneath the tea table, she clearly expected something in the nature of a walk. Disgustedly, Anthony realised that he’d outwitted himself—now he’d have to take her to the stables for the night. Which gave his quarry plenty of time to go to earth.
He took her gently by the collar. ‘Come along, lass.’
Half an hour later, standing in the darkness of the cupola, Anthony concluded that his quarry was not in the house. God only knew what the staff thought of his descent to the nether regions of the kitchen and cellars, but he was beyond caring. After all the brouhaha over Marcus’s escapade, the staff were probably inured to shock. He hoped they were. They were in for another.
If she’d left the house…fear coursed through him as he stared out over the wooded park. It was a warm enough night, the sky clear and bright with stars, but still, there was that man thought to be lurking. A chill flooded him—he muttered a few choice words under his breath that would have given Great-aunt Harriet pause, and stormed down to his bedchamber. He’d have to change these shoes for boots or Timms would skin him alive.
Despite the darkness enveloping his bedchamber, Anthony crossed unerringly to the fireplace for a candle and the tinder box.
As light flared a quiet voice spoke. ‘Are you looking for me?’
Anthony whipped around. There, by the huge bed, stood his quarry. The world stilled and contracted to a pair of defiant hazel eyes in a white face.
Every muscle tensed as he realised that she had walked straight into the lion’s den. Eyes narrowed, he took in every detail—the thick, dark hair escaping its prim chignon, the wide eyes with their fringe of dark lashes, the delicate features and that soft, vulnerable mouth. The slight figure stiffened under his gaze. So familiar, yet…different. Older. A shadow in the eyes and a set about the mouth that had not been there four years ago.
‘Sir—we…I must speak with you.’ Her voice shook.
And well it might!
An ominous silence spread through the room. Anthony was dimly aware that he stood at its centre, that she was waiting for his response. He didn’t think it would be quite what she expected.
His fingers went to his cravat.
‘Speaking,’ he ground out, ‘can wait.’ His cravat hit the floor. ‘Right now,’ several buttons pinged off his waistcoat, ‘at this moment—I have other plans.’ The waistcoat itself landed in the general vicinity of the dressing table.
Eyes widening further with shock, she backed away, as he hauled his shirt off over his head.
‘Anthony, no, please! Wait! I won’t do this!’
‘No?’ He scarcely knew his own voice, his own hurt fury. ‘Are you daring to refuse me?’ He stalked her mercilessly as she retreated, his eyes locked on hers. ‘I find you here. Here! In my bedchamber—and you think to deny me? Believe me, Madam Wife—you’ve ceded me any rights I choose to claim.’
He prowled closer. A large, powerful hand clamped about her wrist. Willing herself not to betray fear, Georgiana looked up into the face of her furious husband as he dragged her into his arms.
His mouth crashed down on hers. Possessive, demanding, his mouth ravished hers until her senses whirled, until she could barely think, let alone remember all the reasons she should refuse him. Her body melted against his, all the bitter regret and longing of the past four years welling up from deep within her in a wild outpouring. Her arms slid up around his neck as she clung for support, dizzy and breathless.
His grip loosened slightly as one hand slid between them. With a shock she felt swift fingers unbuttoning her bodice, felt her gown pulled from her shoulders to fall about her waist.
One large, warm hand closed over a breast and she arched instinctively, accepting the caress, pleading for more as pleasure washed through her.
A rough sound broke from him as his fingers shifted to the neck of her chemise and jerked downwards. The worn linen ripped and his hand returned to her exposed breasts, his thumb stroking over her nipples, which burst into aching life.
He released her mouth and stared down at her, grey eyes stormy.
Her breath came in gasps, her lips swollen from his possession. A measure of sanity returned. This was madness. They had to talk…
‘Anthony—’
He silenced her with his mouth at her breast, drawing it deep into the heat and wetness. A pleasure that was almost pain crashed through her and she cried out, her fingers locking on his scalp to press him closer.
Abruptly he released her and she staggered, only to find herself swept up into his arms. He strode back across the room and dropped her on the bed. Staring up at him, she could not doubt what he intended. And, God help her, she wanted it too. Her body sang and throbbed in longing for this man who had all but disowned her in public and then abandoned her.
He unbuttoned his breeches. ‘It would seem, madam, that I ca
n still drag a response from you. It remains to be seen what new tricks you have been taught since last you deigned to share my bed.’
His words made no sense. But the scorn and condemnation in his voice lacerated her.
‘This ought to have been our marriage bed, Georgiana. Just once, I intend to have you on it, before I end this farce once and for all.’
She shuddered into stillness as his words sliced through her.
Just once…before I end this farce…
He meant to divorce her. The abyss she had feared yawned black at her feet, blinding her to all else. Doubtless she deserved his anger for her foolishness, but—
‘Anthony, please, wait…’
His mouth silenced her as he came down over her, pushing her skirts to her waist and reaching between her thighs, to seek out and find the aching, molten softness. She trembled at his touch. It had been so long and it had never been like this, not this wild melding of fury and passion. He had been gentle with his virgin bride four years ago, but now he was all fierce demand. His fingers stroked, possessed, demanding her response. She gave it. Wildly. Desperately, knowing that this might be all she would ever have of him. And hoping that his passion was fuelled by some remnant of affection. Helpless, her body answered in liquid surrender. She wanted him. And he knew it.
With a growl of satisfaction he pushed her thighs wide and settled between. He braced himself over her and reached down between their bodies. Then she felt him, hot and hard, pressed against her.
‘Mine!’ he uttered. And thrust deep.
A momentary pain shot through her and she cried out in shock, her body jerking under his at the sensation of having him buried so deep within her after so long.
A Regency Invitation Page 20