The Prince's Bride

by Victoria Alexander

  Rand circled the table, taking a shot now and then, nearly always successful. He was a pleasure to watch, graceful in a masculine sort of way.

  “Nigel mentioned to me once how much he liked the game so I had the table sent up from London in the hopes that once he recovered he would enjoy taking it up again. When he felt better we played together, and Flora tells me he has indeed been playing in my absence.” Rand took another shot, then straightened. “Care to try again?”

  “It doesn’t look terribly difficult.” She studied the table, selected a position, and tried once more. This time her ball smacked the red ball with a solid thunk. She smiled with satisfaction. “Much better, I think.”

  “We’ll make a billiard player of you yet.” Rand grinned. “Now then, allow me to show you ...”

  They played for a long while with Rand explaining as they went along. Jocelyn realized the game took far more skill than she’d expected. Still, it was enjoyable, even if a bit frustrating.

  There was a chandelier directly above the table that lit the playing surface but little else in the room. The atmosphere was distinctly cozy, even intimate. Perhaps her concentration would be better if she wasn’t so acutely aware of Rand’s presence. Awareness that grew with every passing minute.

  She caught herself brushing past him a bit closer than necessary and wondered if he noticed. She found herself studying the curve of his neck when he leaned over the table and the way his dark hair curled over his starched collar. She noted the fine fabric of his jacket stretched taut over his broad shoulders and how the muscles of his back rippled beneath the cloth. And remembered exactly how that back had looked without any clothes at all. And wondered why it seemed so hot in here now.

  “Your turn.” His gaze caught hers and he smiled. A distinctly rakish sort of smile as if he knew full well what she was thinking.

  “Is it?” She turned away to hide the annoying blush she knew colored her face. Blasted man. What was he doing to her anyway? This afternoon she wanted nothing more than to give herself to him right there in the grass, and tonight little more than a knowing smile on his part had her quite disconcerted.

  She drew a deep breath and leaned over the table. Still, this afternoon passion had simply erupted with no hesitation and no conscious thought. Now desire seemed to hover in the very air like an omniscient presence. Pulsing and growing with every word they spoke and every word they didn’t. Threatening and terrifying and exciting.

  “You’re really not holding that right, you know,” Rand said softly.

  “No?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. She swallowed hard and straightened. She met his dark gaze directly. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to show me the proper way to ... to ...”

  “My pleasure.” He leaned his cue against the table and stepped to her side. She turned back to the table and he moved behind her. So close she could feel the heat of his body through his clothes and hers.

  “Hold it like this.” His breath teased her neck and a shiver ran through her. He wrapped her right hand around the cue, his fingers lingering on hers. “Now lean forward and place it on the table.” She did so and he shifted slightly to her side. He positioned her other hand on the table to help support the cue. His arms were around her, his presence engulfed her, and she could barely hear his words over the beat of her heart.

  “Now then.” His voice was low against her ear. “Just pull back slowly”—he fit his actions to match his words—“then push forward, in a nice easy stroke.”

  The cue hit the ball but Jocelyn scarcely noticed. She didn’t move so much as a single muscle. “That wasn’t very good, was it?”

  He kissed the side of her neck, and her knees threatened to buckle. His voice was low. “It was very good.”

  She held her breath. His lips trailed down the curve of her neck and his warm hand slid up her arm to push the neckline of her gown over her shoulder. He kissed her shoulder and she shuddered with delight.

  He straightened and drew her up with him. She closed her eyes, lost in the sensation of his hands on her bare skin. He pushed her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck, then nudged her dress off her other shoulder. His fingers lingered on her skin, lightly caressing, and she reveled in the intimacy.

  He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him. His hands skimmed over the satin of her bodice and higher to cup her breasts. His thumbs circled her nipples through the fabric and she felt them harden with his touch. Her head dropped back against him and he nuzzled her neck. She could barely breathe and didn’t care.

  She turned in his arms and her lips met his with an eagerness that surged through her, captured her, controlled her, sweeping away all judgment and reason. She shoved at the shoulders of his jacket until he shrugged it off and it fell to the floor. She kissed his lips, his jaw, his chin. His lips moved over her face, her throat, her shoulders. She tugged at his cravat and yanked it free. He fumbled with the ribbons on her bodice, the complicated ties and bindings.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered against her skin. “Damned dress, I can’t—”

  “Just rip it, Rand.” She gasped. “Now.”

  He didn’t pause to protest but gripped the delicate fabric in his hands and tore it down the middle. The confining tightness of the bodice vanished, replaced by a glorious freedom and spiraling anticipation. He moved to kiss her breasts and she braced her hands on the edge of the table behind her. His lips moved over her, tasting and teasing until she wondered if she’d swoon from the sheer delight of it. He pulled a nipple into his mouth and suckled until she moaned with pleasure.

  He wrapped his arm around the small of her back and pulled her upright. She gazed into his eyes, black with passion, a mirror of her own consuming desire. She gathered his collar with both hands and, with a strength she didn’t know she had, ripped his shirt down the front, her gaze never leaving his.

  Surprise shot across his face, followed by wicked amusement. His voice was low. “I rather liked that shirt.”

  “I like it better now.” Her sultry tone matched his. She placed her palms on his chest and ran her hands slowly upward to his shoulders, then leaned forward and nicked her tongue across the dark ovals of his nipples. He sucked in a hard breath, and she reveled in the new and intoxicating sense of power brought on by his reaction. He pulled her tight to him, his mouth capturing hers, conquering hers. Or was she the conqueror and he the conquered?

  Her naked breasts crushed against his bare chest, hot and hard and powerful. She marveled at the exquisite feeling of flesh to flesh, heat to heat. She pressed closer, needing more. His grip tightened, demanding more. She slid her hands down his back to the curve of his buttocks and let her fingers roam over the tight fabric of his trousers. His hands dropped to her skirt and he gathered it up impatiently until it was bunched up between them. At once she regretted the stupidity that had led her to wear the old-fashioned gown with its yards of fabric.

  Rand paid it no mind. His hands skimmed over her hips and around to the flat of her stomach and lower until his palm cupped her and his fingers slipped between her legs. She shuddered at his touch, slick and sensual and overwhelming. His fingers stroked back and forth and her world narrowed to that one point of pleasure. Time and place vanished and all she knew, all she wanted to know, was the indescribable tension tightening inside her and the throbbing ache that pulsed through her veins.

  Without warning he stopped, and before she could protest, grabbed her waist and hoisted her up and backward onto the table. He started to climb up after her.

  Abruptly she realized that in another moment it would be too late. To prevent what she wanted. What they both wanted. To turn back. She pressed her hand to the center of his chest. “Rand?”

  “What?” His glazed gaze met hers.

  “Is this the time and the place?”

  “No?” It was more a gasp than a word.

  “Do you care?”

  He drew a shuddering breath. “No.”

  “Neith
er do I.” She grabbed the remains of his shirt and pulled him toward her.

  He tumbled or perhaps leapt or maybe just fell, it scarcely mattered and she didn’t care. Somehow they were both on top of the table struggling to find overheated flesh amid a tangle of torn satin and linen and silk. He pushed her skirts up and she tugged at his trousers, with fear and anticipation. Hand and mouth, lips and fingers were everywhere in a frenzy of touch and taste and desire. She realized he’d managed to remove his trousers, and his long legs were naked next to hers. She reached down for him, at once excited and afraid. Her fingers wrapped around his arousal, larger and harder than she’d expected and surprisingly smooth beneath her fingertips. Steel cloaked in velvet.

  He groaned with her touch, then shifted to hover over her, his knees on either side of hers, his forearms braced on the table.

  “Jocelyn.” His gaze searched hers. “Are you—”

  “Yes.” She tried not to wince. “I know what... that is, I’ve been told ... prepared ...” She grabbed what was left of his shirt and pulled him down to whisper against his lips. “I understand any discomfort is well worth it.”

  “Oh indeed,” he murmured, and she tried hard to believe him. He reached between them, and she felt his hand guide himself into her with a slow, measured pace. “Well worth it.”

  She tensed in spite of her resolve to relax, and clung to the belief that, ultimately, according to Marianne, this would be wonderful. It certainly had been up to this moment. Now, however, it was distinctly ... odd. Not uncomfortable, simply ... unusual. If this was as bad as it got, it wasn’t unpleasant at all. Rand paused, apparently this was it and she was a bit disappointed. All that had happened before he had actually, well, entered, was much, much more exciting.

  “Hold on to me,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Hold on—” Before she could finish the sentence he pulled back, then thrust hard and deep into her.

  Searing pain shot through her and she opened her mouth to scream. He clamped his lips over hers and held her tight. Her body throbbed around his, ached with invasion, with trespass. She wanted to stop. Now. It wasn’t at all pleasant. Not the tiniest bit wonderful.

  But Rand wouldn’t let her go, wouldn’t let her move. His mouth remained on hers, his embrace unyielding. After a few moments, the pain abated, and she relaxed slightly. He moved within her slowly, tenderly. She braced herself and waited and grudgingly admitted it wasn’t perhaps as bad as she’d thought. She moved tentatively in response to him. Not bad at all. In truth, with each of his easy thrusts it grew nicer. And nicer yet when she lifted her hips to meet his.

  His rhythm increased and she matched his tempo, that elusive sense of bittersweet tension she’d felt before once again coiling deep within her. They moved together faster and he thrust deeper into her and she pushed harder against him. Her breath came in short gasps. Her blood pounded in her veins. Her heart thudded hard in her chest and she felt or sensed or heard his beat in unison. In a tiny fraction of her mind not absorbed with sheer sensation and unbelievable pleasure she noted that it was indeed well worth it.

  And when she thought she simply couldn’t survive another moment, and knew without doubt she would surely die if she didn’t reach whatever elusive height she was striving toward, yearning for, she exploded around him. Her back arched and her body shuddered and great waves of ecstasy crashed through her until she gasped for breath. And he thrust once again, hard and deep, and joined her with a deep shudder of his own and a groan that was at once pain and joy.

  He shifted and rolled onto his side, taking her with him. For a long time they clung to each other, struggling to catch their breath, waiting for the beat of their hearts to slow and the world to stop spinning.

  At last he released her and propped his head on his hand. His shirt hung off his shoulders in tatters and he gazed at her with a dazed expression and a bemused smile. “This wasn’t exactly how I’d envisioned our first time together.”

  “No?” She smiled slowly, caught in the most wonderful, lazy, satisfied feeling. She wanted nothing more at the moment than to lie right here. Or perhaps she did. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I had imagined, oh, I don’t know.” He grinned. “A bed perhaps? I had hoped to make this, well—”

  “Memorable?” She reached out and caught the hanging shreds of his shirt in her hand. “I know I shall never forget it.”

  “It was quite remarkable.”

  “Yes, it was. Quite remarkable.” She pulled him closer. “Well played, my lord.” Her lips met his. “Well played indeed.”

  A Treatise on Princes and Princesses

  and Other Related Matters

  by Lady Jocelyn Shelton, age 10

  Part Two: On Princesses

  A princess should never have sweets more than once a day, no matter how much she likes them, or she will get fat which is not at all attractive. And she should never have a mustache.

  A princess should not be vain even if she is very, very pretty.

  A princess should be kind and good hearted and hardly ever want someone’s head cut off unless they are truly, truly bad. Even then she should probably send them off to live on an island somewhere in the middle of an ocean where they can be bad all they want and no one will be bothered.

  A princess should have grand jewels that sparkle all the time but should never be smug about it to ordinary girls who are not princesses even if they have been mean to her.

  A princess should have lots of ladies in waiting and other servants but should always be nice to them and give them her old clothes.

  And she should be willing to give up every thing for her prince.

  Chapter 10

  “My lord, husband.” Jocelyn nuzzled the ear of her sleeping husband. It had been three glorious days and equally glorious nights since their game of billiards, and it wasn’t enough. She wanted to be with him every moment of every day. And in his arms every night.

  She eased herself up on her elbow. She did rather like watching him sleep, but then she rather liked watching him do anything. Liked the sleek way he moved or the wholehearted way he laughed or the way he looked at peace with the world when he slept. And the way he made her happy.

  She’d never been so happy, never dreamed she could feel like this, and had wondered, in the past few days, what she had done in her life to merit it. Certainly she’d never been quite as shallow and spoiled as Rand had thought her to be at first, but she’d definitely never been good enough to deserve such bliss. Of course she hadn’t achieved the title and fortune she’d always wanted, but oddly enough it no longer mattered.

  Surely this was love. She couldn’t be certain, of course, but what else could it be? Oh, the wonders of lovemaking were enough to change a woman’s outlook on the world, but even the excitement to be found in their bed or the billiard table or the stables or that lovely, secluded spot by the lake did not fully account for the tumultuous emotion that held her in its grip. A feeling that was at once sweet and tense, gentle and fierce. She wanted to laugh aloud at the sheer joy of it.

  No, this was undoubtedly love and undoubtedly he felt the same. How could it possibly be otherwise? And couldn’t she see how he felt right there in his dark, wonderful eyes?

  “Rand.” She nipped at his earlobe. His eyes remained closed but his lips quirked upward. “You’re awake. I knew it.”

  She threw her leg over his and shifted to settle on top of him, grateful that neither of them had felt the need to retrieve scattered nightclothes last night.

  “And you’re insatiable.” His eyes opened and gazed into hers.

  “I know.” She feathered kisses along the line of his jaw. “It’s a natural gift.”

  “Thank God.”

  She loved lying on him like this, as if she were completely in charge and he at her mercy. As if she could do whatever she wanted with him. It gave her a wonderful sense of power. It was false, of course; he could extricate himself whenever he wished. Still, it was a delightfu
l game.

  “What shall we do today?” She straddled him and sat up.

  “Well...” He frowned as if he were actually considering her question but his fingertips drifted idly along her legs. “I can think of one thing.”

  “After that.” She leaned forward, her hair falling around them like a curtain, and brushed her lips provocatively across his in a manner she knew he could not resist, then stretched out on top of him, her legs entwined with his. His manhood nestled between her legs.

  “Rand,” she said idly, very aware of his growing arousal. She folded her arms on his chest and stared into his eyes. She nodded at the wicked-looking scar that ran from his collarbone diagonally to end just below the pit of his arm. “How did you get this scar?”

  He shrugged as best he could, given his position. “It was a mishap. Nothing more.”

  She raised a brow. “A mishap?”

  “A mishap, a mistake. It’s of no real consequence.”

  “Did you get it when you were a spy?” she teased.

  He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “It’s at times like this that mercenary has a certain amount of appeal.” He grabbed her wrists and quickly rolled over to place her beneath him. He anchored her wrists with one hand above her head and pinned her legs with his. “And past time to teach you a lesson about the price of curiosity and the sanctity of a man’s rest.”

  “I scarcely think your sleep is sacred.” She looked up at him with feigned innocence. “And the last time you attempted to teach me anything it was billiards and look what that led to.”

  “I know,” he growled with a wicked look in his eye, and anticipation shivered through her. He threw aside any covers that remained on the bed and ran his free hand slowly up the length of her. “Now it’s time to learn what happens to women who awaken men prematurely.”

  “Is it?” She practically purred the words. With her hands over her head and her body fully exposed, she felt at once delightfully helpless and completely aroused.