Oh What A (Wedding) Night (Brazen Brides #3)

by Cheryl Bolen

  For some odd reason, one of her first thoughts upon awakening was that surely Finkie wouldn't want her now—now that she'd allowed another man access to every part of her body. As many times as she had eagerly taken in William's seed the previous night, she could even be carrying his babe. Surely Finkie would be so repelled over such a prospect he would be happy to dissolve their so-called marriage.

  She rolled to her side to avail herself of a view of the supremely handsome man to whom she'd given her heart—and so much more. His eyes were open. He'd been watching her. His golden good looks were just as appealing in the light of day as they'd been beneath candlelight. She could never tire of gazing at that sun-burnished skin, or of his golden locks, or muscular physique. Her gaze trailed to the curly blond hairs on his chest, and she scooted closer so she could pillow her head there.

  His arms came around her as he pressed kisses into her hair. “You know we must marry.”

  Words that should have made her the happiest woman in all God's earth instead felt like a hot meteor had torn through her.

  For a few moments she thought about telling him the truth about her identity, about her sham marriage. But she knew the only thing he would hear would be that she belonged to another man. She must wait to see if there was anything her brother could do to terminate her marriage. Was there any hope?

  “I should never wish to marry a man who felt compelled to ask for my hand.”

  “But Isadore, my love, you and I both know there's an undeniable force compelling us to be with one another. Always.”

  She could weep. He hadn't exactly said he loved her, but what he said was close. He wasn't offering marriage because he'd taken the virginity she'd so needily offered. He was offering marriage because he knew what she knew: they belonged together. Oh, yes, she could cry a river.

  Her eyes moist, she lifted her head to kiss his cheek. Then, clutching the sheet to her, she climbed down off the big four-poster bed. “I shall certainly consider your offer¸ my dear Mr. Birmingham.”

  He sat up in bed and eyed her with hostility. Since she had pulled off the sheet, he was naked, gloriously naked. “Don't call me Mister Birmingham.”

  Her voice softened. “Yes, William.” How she wanted to say, “My love,” but she could not do so until she was free.

  He too hopped off the bed and stepped into the breeches he'd thrown off in a heated frenzy the night before. She slipped back into her lace wrapper. He came to take her in his arms and drop kisses onto her neck.

  She could go mad with want of this man. “I suppose everyone in your house—including my sister—knows I'm ruined.”

  “My servants are discreet. I thought perhaps your sister was encouraging our . . . union.”

  “She likely did. Ever since the night at the inn, she's been singing your praises—via notes.” Sophia turned and pressed against him. “She thinks you are perfect for me.”

  He lifted her chin. “How many proposals of marriage have you turned down?”

  “If I tell you, you'll think I'm a terrible flirt.”

  “You're not a flirt. How many, Isadore? Fifteen?”

  “More.”

  “Twenty?”

  “It's so embarrassing. I've received seven-and-forty proposals, but I kept waiting for the man who would ignite a passion in me.” She peered up. “I've been waiting for you, William.”

  “And I was not looking for a wife, but then I knew two nights ago—because of the Pope reference—you were THE one.”

  Her eyes widened, her mouth opened. A dreamy look washed across her face. Moments passed before she could speak. “You admire Pope too?”

  “Greatly.” He drew away. “I cannot be this close to you and not wish to carry you back to that bed, but I cannot. I have a meeting at noon.”

  “Then you'd best go shave and make yourself look refreshed. I can't say that I'm at all sorry I caused you to lose sleep last night.”

  * * *

  William had scheduled a meeting with MacIver for the purpose of learning everything he could about Isadore. The woman had totally bewitched him.

  They met at a coffee house on the Strand. It was place where the day's newspapers were passed around so that men could keep informed without having to pay the hefty subscription fees. MacIver was one of the scruffiest-looking men in the establishment. Frankly, William was surprised he'd chosen this location because MacIver didn't seem the type who wanted to read about public affairs.

  William slid into a chair in front of the tiny round table MacIver had claimed for them.

  “What's up, guv’nah?”

  “I need to know everything you can tell me about Isadore.”

  “She ain't contacted you yet?”

  “Yes, she has.”

  MacIver's blue eyes regarded him intensely for a moment. “I was surprised when she told me she'd never met you.”

  “Why?” William asked.

  “Because she's so much like you. She travels throughout the continent, speaks several languages, and takes many foolish risks with her beautiful neck.”

  “Then I am surprised our paths haven't crossed. She's usually dealing with gold bullion?”

  “Not necessarily. Sometimes she is actually the compliant wife to her upstanding husband.”

  William felt as if a cannon ball had just torn through his chest. “Husband? Then she's . . . married?” His thoughts flitted to the previous night and the pleasure she'd given him. He would have wagered the entire Birmingham fortune that she'd never before been with a man.

  “Yes. She doesn't fancy her business associates knowing her true identity because her husband is not only ignorant of her clandestine activities, but he's also in a lofty position for the Foreign Office.”

  William swallowed over the huge lump in his throat. “Would I know him?”

  “If you've not had dealings with him, you'd know him. The British ambassador to the Hague.”

  “Dear God. Lord Evers!” William had not only met him. He was very fond of the congenial fellow. He knew, too, that when Evers inherited, all he'd received was the title. No money.

  Apparently, Isadore was rectifying that.

  MacIver nodded. “I beg that you keep the lady's activities to yourself. It wouldn't do for Lord Evers to learn by what means his wife has added to the family fortune.”

  William was reeling from the discovery that his Isadore belonged to another. He felt as if he were falling from a mighty tree.

  MacIver continued to regard him with all-knowing eyes. “I can see ye've fallen under her spell. Yer not the first. She's never allowed marriage to keep her from her little romantic flirtations. Ye know how women of the ton are.”

  William wanted to crash a fist into the man's face for saying these things about Isadore. He couldn't be speaking of Isadore. She wasn't like that! Anger surged through him. He gulped down his coffee, got to his feet, threw a crown on the table, and stormed from the shop without saying farewell to his long-time associate.

  Since he'd ridden his horse here, he felt like a bruising ride. He went to Hyde Park and galloped over the bridal paths as if a raging ball of fire was chasing him. He wasn't sure that raging ball of fire wasn't burning through him right now.

  Many women, many beautiful women had passed through his life in the nine years since he left university, but none of them had ever affected him as Isadore. When they were together last night, bare skin to bare skin, they were as one. She had possessed him like warm honey flowing into every cell in his body.

  A deep and gnawing anger ate through him. He'd never experienced a blacker day than this, this day that had begun with his offer of marriage. His first. He'd been filled with joy this morning. And now there was only bleak hopelessness.

  For more than an hour, he rode as fast and as hard as he could. Then the sky turned dark. At first there were sprinkles. Then the skies erupted. He ought to return to Grosvenor Square. But that's where she was. He didn't know how he could bear seeing her and knowing she belonged to an
other.

  He wasn't even certain he could contain his fury.

  Of course, he didn't have to have intercourse with her.

  All the way back to his home he wondered what he should say. She had made it clear last night she had no wish to go to her home. God! Now that he remembered her words, A woman in my position cannot reveal too much. They made perfect sense in the light of what he now knew about her and her respectable husband. Was Lord Evers even in London? Why in the devil did she not want to go to her husband?

  After last night, William believed in his soul it was he whom she wanted. But, of course, that could never be. For one thing, he respected Lord Evers far too much.

  He wondered if she would ever be honest with him.

  Before he reached Grosvenor Square he had come to some decisions. He would avoid her, except when they made the bullion exchange. If she still wanted to stay at Grosvenor Square with a man who refused to even share a meal with her, then so be it. He would no longer spend his evenings there as he had the past two nights, but he could not return to Diane. Not after what he'd experienced with Isadore. Lastly, he was firmly resolved not to bed her again.

  Even though the very idea of it aroused him.

  * * *

  Now that she didn't have to pretend to be an invalid anymore, Sophia descended the stairs to avail herself of William's library. What a cozy chamber it was with its dark woods, rich red Turkey carpets, rows of fine leather-bound books, and a fire blazing in the hearth.

  She walked to William's desk and sat. She already missed him so dreadfully, she wished to feel his presence. What kind of penmanship did he possess? Would he keep a tidy desk? There on his mahogany desk was a leather ledger. Even though it wasn't her place to open it, she did. After all, if she hadn't already been married, she could be betrothed to William at this very minute, and one should be able to pry into one's husband's—or one's betrothed's—things. Shouldn't one? The memory of his proposal sent her heart soaring.

  Instead of featuring columns of numbers, this ledger was a series of handwritten notes. William's hand? It had to be. There was no evidence of him having a secretary.

  A shortened name at the top of the very first page caught her attention. Ld Finkel. Her stomach plunged. She read over all three pages of the notes, even though much of it was written in a peculiar shorthand that William must have devised.

  It became clear that William vastly disliked Finkie and was attempting to enumerate the many people whose lives the vile Lord Finkel had destroyed.

  Would William know of Lord Finkel's recent marriage? There had been no announcement in any of the newspapers. Since Sophia had never before met William, she didn't believe he moved in their social circles. Therefore, it was entirely possible that William was uninformed about Finkie's recent nuptials. Only three other people had attended the wedding—her two siblings who were in London and Lord Finkel's friend, the publisher Josiah Smith.

  How did William know Finkie? Or had someone he cared for been ruined by Finkie? She could well imagine William championing a person crushed by the odious Lord Finkel. She believed William would lay down his life for a loved one. Even for her—before they'd ever been aware of this powerful love which bound them.

  She must share the information with her brother. Perhaps he could use this to persuade Finkie to give her her freedom. She found paper and began to copy the pages.

  When she finished, she went to Dottie's chamber, but she wasn't there. She was in Sophia's bedchamber, ironing.

  This was the first time the lady and her maid had come face to face since she'd dispatched Dottie to fetch her something to eat the previous night. Sophia effected a mock glare as she neared her supposed sister.

  Dottie looked up from ironing her mistress's dress, a cocky expression on her slender face and a twinkle in her eye. “How do it feel to be a ruined woman?”

  “If one is ruined by Mr. William Birmingham, the answer is . . . wonderful.” She eyed Dottie and spoke somberly. “He asked me to marry him this morning.”

  “I do 'ope ye said yes. I've known since that first night he was the man for you.”

  “I couldn't possibly say yes. I'm already married.”

  The maid's face collapsed. “What did he have to say about that?”

  “I couldn't tell him I was married. Then he would avoid me like the plague. And I couldn't have that.”

  “Lady Sophia Beresford's married, but Isadore ain't.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Sophia asked, dumbfounded.

  “Couldn't Isadore marry him?”

  “I am Isadore—sort of—and I most certainly cannot marry the man of my dreams because I'm already married.”

  “It's a lot to consider, what with all the mixed tales to keep up with—and not being able to talk, at that.” Dottie set down her iron and began to carefully lay the freshly pressed dress in the clothes press. “I 'ave it!”

  “What?” Sophia asked hopefully.

  “I'll go around and tell Stinkie Finkie that you have thoroughly ruined yourself with another man. Surely then he'll set you free.”

  Sophia shook her head. “I cannot allow that. Lord Finkel is noted for his temper. I fear he'd want to kill the messenger—that being you—and I would never permit that to happen.”

  Dottie sighed. “While ye was being ruined last night, I kept thinking how much I wish to be ruined by Mr. Thompson. But he would never make the first move 'cause he thinks I'm a fine lady above his touch. I can't even tell him I'm not. I can't tell him nothing.”

  “There are nonverbal ways to let him know you're interested.”

  “What's nonverbal mean?”

  “Without talking.”

  “So you think I should just walk up and plant my lips on his?”

  “Not at all! You must be subtle. Remember, he thinks you're a lady.”

  “What would you do that's subtle?”

  “Let's say he accompanies you to my brother's house again—as I'm going to ask that he do—you link your arm to his. Allow his upper arm to rub against the side of your breasts. I'll own, yours aren't large, but there's enough there to differentiate you from the opposite gender.” Sophia drew in a deep breath as she thought of William touching her own breasts. “Then you might consider patting his arm with your free hand. Not a pat like one would pet a dog but a slow, sensuous circular motion of your fingers. I truly believe such a small gesture would send him the message far more loudly than your voice could.”

  Dottie began fanning her face. “I get all hot and excited just thinking about it.”

  Now Sophia fully understood those feelings.

  “Go make yourself as lovely as possible whilst I pen another letter to my brother. Then I'll summon Thompson to escort you to Curzon Street to deliver it.”

  After Dottie returned to her chamber, Sophia sat at the desk and wrote.

  Dearest Devere,

  I am enclosing some damning information about Lord Finkel. I'm hoping you can find a way to use it to achieve our goal—the protection of Maryann's reputation AND the termination of my marriage agreement with the evil man.

  Please come to me as soon as you learn anything. But not while Mr. Birmingham is here.

  I feel as if my very life is in your hands. I beg that you bring me good tidings.

  Your affectionate sister, S.

  She wondered if she should have asked that her brother be the one to inform Finkie she was a thoroughly ruined woman, but she feared Devere would pluck her away from William and blame him as a debaucher of innocents.

  She couldn't allow either of those occurrences.

  After she gave her instructions to Thompson, who fortunately did not question why he needed Miss Dorothea Door's company to deliver a message, the two of them set off. Sophia sat at her chamber window looking out over the dreary day. She had to keep an eye out for the real Isadore, should she show up here. Sophia watched as Thompson assisted Dottie into a tilbury. How thoughtful he was to wish to keep Miss Dorothea Door
from dragging her skirts through the wet, muddy streets. Now that it was raining rather vigorously, Sophia felt guilty for sending poor Dottie out in such weather.

  She worried even more about her dear William, who'd gone off on horseback. He would get thoroughly soaked. She wondered who he'd be meeting, how long he'd be gone—all while watching for the real Isadore.

  Would the woman physically resemble her? Sophia's tall casements kept getting fogged up and she was repeatedly obliged to clear them with a soft cloth.

  Two hours slowly dragged by before Dottie returned. She came flying into her mistress's chamber, her face aglow. “I did it, milady!”

  Sophia was not foolish enough to believe the delivery of her letter would account for Dottie's uncommon glee. She must have been subtly seductive with the valet. “I take it you achieved your aim?”

  “You was right, milady! After I'd been stroking his arm in tender circles, subtle like, as you told me to do, he settled his hand most tenderly upon mine.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Only with his actions. Remember, he still believes I'm a fine lady like yerself. He's far too proud.”

  “I think it's good that you're taking this slowly. Now, next time I ask him to accompany you, you'll initiate something a little more provocative than today's action.”

  “Like what?”

  “Allow me to think on it for awhile. You know I'm not a quick thinker. Now, what of my brother? Did you see him?”

  “He weren't in.”

  “Oh,” Sophia said in a disappointed voice. “So you merely left my letter for him to read when he returns.”

  Dottie rolled her eyes. “I almost got found out when that Morris opened the door. He started to say something to me. Then he musta thought better of it, owing to my haughty look.”

  “That was fortunate. Were your Thompson to find out the truth, he'd tell William, and that could ruin everything for me.”

  Dottie came and settled a gentle hand on Sophia's shoulder. “I shouldn't like it if you was to end up like the unfortunate Lady Wapping.”

  “I have the good fortune to have you as my maid, my sister, and my dear friend.”

  Dottie looked across the chamber at the large tester bed. “I suppose ye'll be sharing yer bed with Mr. Birmingham tonight?”