The True Love Wedding Dress

by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson

  Her lips pursed with frustration. She lowered her face and only then seemed to realize how very close he held her, her crinoline spread out behind and above her like the tail of some albino peacock. The soft mounds of her breasts, pushed tightly against him, swelled with each breath she drew. And she was drawing many, rapidly.

  He looked down into eyes grown darker, the exact shade of blue that hangs above the horizon when dusk becomes night. In the amber-colored lantern light, her skin gleamed as though she’d been dipped in honey. And she was warm. The heat from her soaked through the thin bodice of . . . both their gowns.

  Bloody hell! There was no possible way he was going to pull off a seduction while he wore a dress.

  He eased her and her crinoline back into the seat opposite him.

  “What were you going to say?” he asked irritably.

  “What?” She blinked as though coming out of a light sleep.

  “You were saying something about pride and wanting my desirability as a suitor to suffer and that because of Hugh’s assumption that you are currently unwed because of . . .” He raised his brow questioningly.

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded. “I could not stand to have you think no man would marry me because you wouldn’t have me—”

  “Wouldn’t have you?” Once more she’d caught him completely off guard.

  He had put himself through hell not having her. Even now, just looking at her, with nothing more than a scant few moments of having her in his arms, his body had grown heavy with want, his heartbeat quickening with awakening desire. A hundred visceral memories filled him, thickening the blood in his veins, making his muscles contract painfully in anticipation.

  How often and how near they’d come to making love: in the library, under the trees at his country estate, in the darkness of the walled garden behind her brother’s townhouse. But they never had. Because he’d loved her.

  God. He closed his eyes. Wouldn’t have her? He’d had her a thousand times in his dreams, in his cot on the battlefield at night, and in the army’s hospital tent after the charge at Balaklava. “My dear girl, I have had—”

  The carriage abruptly rolled to a stop, and the hatch swung up, releasing a torrent of cold rain on them. Lucy shrank back as Owen’s sodden form filled the opening.

  “Pall Mall, Miss St. James!” he shouted above the thunder and slammed it back shut.

  Thank God.

  Lucy regarded Alex owlishly. “You don’t really mean to go out in this?”

  “On the contrary.” A good cold shower sounded perfect. “Pick me up at the end of the street, if you please.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lucy pressed her nose against the glass window and squinted out into the lashing rainstorm. All she could see of Alex was a large white figure striding alongside the carriage with torn skirts flapping wildly about his trousers.

  She’d ordered Owen to keep the carriage pacing Alex in case he came to his senses and wanted to jump back into the cozy interior. Even Owen, dressed in his slicker and top hat, hands properly gloved and trousers tucked into his high, rubberized boots, was grumbling about the weather. Alex would be soaked by the time he made it to the end of the street and chilled to the bone.

  The only good thing about the rain was that it had kept everyone inside. Those who would have been leaving parties had decided to remain sensibly at their hosts’ homes until the worst of the storm passed. Consequently, Pall Mall was deserted.

  She wiped at the condensation collecting on the inside of the window with one of her skirt flounces and peered outside again. He was moving right along, like a sodden bridal ghost from a mariner’s nightmare, imperious, bold, undaunted.

  He was being an awfully good sport.

  Either that, or he was awfully angry. She couldn’t decide which.

  For a moment there, when the carriage had tilted and he had snatched her up in his arms, she had thought she read something in his eyes, something familiar, dark, and urgent, something that had kindled an answering breathlessness in her chest and set her pulse racing. But then the moment had passed, an expression of disgust had crossed his face, and he set her aside as if he could hardly wait to remove his hands from her.

  Perhaps he wanted nothing to do with her other than what he’d claimed, that she should bear witness to his keeping his word.

  But then when she’d said something about his not wanting to marry her . . .

  What had that all been about? He’d looked frightfully angry. He’d pressed his lips so tightly together they disappeared, and he’d had to force his last few words out between clenched teeth. Whatever had she said to so provoke him?

  Could it be that she did not know Alex as well as she once did? The thought filled her with melancholy. She had known Alexander Thorpe all her life. Orphaned early, she and Hugh had been raised at her great-aunt Sophie’s country estate, which shared a border with the Thorpes’ property. It had been Alex who’d secretly taught her to ride astride, and she had taught him to dance the polonaise. She’d loved him for as long as she could remember.

  They had been young, so green and untested. No longer. There was nothing green about the man she’d faced tonight. The years had changed him, matured him. But, she thought wistfully, his smile was still as devastating.

  What did this new Alex want from his life? she wondered as she watched him marching along, the mud climbing up the ripped skirt, his stride long and easy even in the driving wind. And could it still include her?

  Yes. She was still the only woman for him. She knew it. Absolutely and without doubt. During every moment they had spent together tonight she had felt more alive, more vital, more awake than during all the hours she had spent without him over the past two years.

  They were meant to be together, and these two years had been nothing but a detour in the path their lives together must take.

  Now she had only to convince him of it.

  She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not realize they had come to the end of the street until she saw Alex approaching the carriage. The door swung open. He did not get in. He stood in the light from the lantern, water streaming down his face, shielding his eyes with his hand as he called to her over the wind. “I’ll ride up top with Owen!”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” This couldn’t be the end of their time together. There was so much more she needed to say, and she would not risk losing this opportunity. She’d taken that risk two years ago and lost.

  He only shook his head, the water flying off his dark curls. “I’m drenched, Lucy. I’ll ruin your nice new coach.”

  She saw by the stubborn tilt of his jaw that he wouldn’t be bullied.

  “If you insist. But it’s not my coach. It’s Hugh’s nice new coach,” she said in a carefully neutral voice.

  He tilted his head, squinting at her through the rivulets of water streaming down his face. “Hugh’s, eh?” he repeated thoughtfully.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then . . .” Without further protest he swung himself up and into the carriage, pulling the door shut after him. He was indeed soaked through.

  So was the dress.

  Water had rendered the material nearly transparent, plastering it to his body like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Every muscle, every sinew, every rib, and every whorl of dark hair across his magnificently planed chest was delineated in breathtaking detail under the wet, clinging fabric. Even the goose-flesh rising on his chilled skin could be seen.

  Oh, my. He had always had a fine physique, or so she had concluded from the times she’d managed to pull his shirt from his trousers and smooth her hands beneath the linen, exploring his body like a blind woman. But the years and an arduous military life had made him a near perfect specimen—

  “Miss?”

  “Lucy?”

  Alex was regarding her strangely. With a start, she realized that the hatch was again open and rain was falling on her head. “Miss St. James?” Owen said in a tone that made it clear
he was repeating himself.

  “What?” she said, drawing herself up.

  “Where to now?”

  Where to, indeed. Two years back, please, and no delay.

  She glanced at Alexander. He had tipped his head and was squeezing water from a fistful of black hair. He would catch a cold if he didn’t—

  “My brother’s house, Owen.”

  At Alex’s startled look, she went on with a confidence she was far from feeling. “You’ve fulfilled your part of the wager. There’s no reason you should make yourself ill by traveling all the way back to my great-aunt’s house in that wet dress when my brother’s house and decent dry clothing are only a few short blocks away.”

  “Well . . .” he said doubtfully. He really had changed. He was willing to be reasonable.

  “I insist,” she said.

  “If you insist.” He shrugged, giving in with a little less graciousness than he might have, but giving in nonetheless.

  She rewarded him with a brilliant smile.

  Chapter Eight

  Lucy tipped over the flowerpot beside the door and revealed a key. “Good old Hugh.”

  “Where is everyone?” Alex asked as he helped Lucy alight from the carriage under the porte cochere on the side of Hugh’s elegant townhouse. He then sent Owen to the stable to see to the horses.

  “Oh, Hugh doesn’t keep much of a staff. Since he planned to spend the weekend with Great-aunt Sophie he probably let them have the night off.”

  She fit the key into the lock and opened a door into the side foyer, turning up the gaslight inside and motioning for Alex to follow. He stepped in after her, cursing as he kicked off his ruined half boots, hopping first on one leg and then the other as he dragged off his soaking-wet socks. He dropped them with a splat to the tiled floor. “That’s better.”

  “Now, where to find you something to wear . . .” she muttered, eyeing him. “I’m afraid Hugh’s shirts will be too tight and his trousers too short.”

  “Believe me,” Alex said, lifting his muddy, dripping skirt, “I shall welcome anything you choose to offer with extreme gratitude.”

  She grinned. “Right. Follow me.”

  She led the way toward the front of the house and up the stairs to the first floor. At the top she paused and spent a few seconds rummaging in a shallow closet, then turned and tossed a towel to him. He caught it one-handed and began mopping his head and face as he trailed after her.

  “In here.” She opened a door and reached inside, turning up the light. Alex moved past her into the center of what was clearly Hugh’s bedchamber. His personal effects covered the surface of a chest topped with a swivel mirror. A book lay open on the seat of the deep leather chair placed beside a small table that held a nearly empty decanter and glass on a silver tray. Across the room waited a neatly made bed next to a door leading into a small closet.

  “You’ll find some clothing in there, I should think,” she said, aware of the silence of the house, the fact that they were quite, quite alone.

  “Excellent.”

  She smiled, looking around and finding her courage fading fast. It had seemed such a perfect idea in the carriage. After all, she wasn’t going to do anything she hadn’t been prepared to do two years ago. But now that she was here, and the moment at hand, she understood all too well that the man she’d wanted so desperately to share her life, her heart, and her body with two years ago was not this man.

  This man had done and seen things she could only imagine. In many ways—in many real ways—he was a stranger. She couldn’t possibly seduce him. What had she been thinking?

  She felt embarrassed and nervous and a little frightened at how close she’d come to making a disastrous decision. Another disastrous decision.

  Besides, what if he’d refused her? And of course he would refuse her. He’d refused her two years ago, and then he had wanted her with all the urgency a virile and red-blooded young man desires a woman. Why would she think this cool-eyed warrior with his well-controlled temper—well, mostly well-controlled temper—would throw away his honor and moral integrity now?

  Good God, the more she thought of it, the more insane she realized the impulse had been. Thank heavens she had come to her senses!

  “I’ll just wait downstairs, shall I?” she said, smiling nervously, her hand on the door handle.

  He continued rubbing at his hair. “Sorry. ’Fraid you can’t do that. I need you.”

  “N-need me?”

  He stopped rubbing his hair and turned his head to look at her sideways. “Yes. I’m afraid you’ll have to play lady’s maid for me. I’ve tried to undo these blasted buttons, but my hand . . . the damn fingers get stiff when they’re cold and . . . don’t work so well then.” His face closed with embarrassment, and he made a sharp, impatient gesture toward the row of pearl buttons beginning at his neck.

  “Oh.” His right hand, she recalled, had become entangled in his livery during the frantic moments of a charge against enemy lines. Three fingers had been dislocated. She felt instantly ashamed of her nascent suspicions.

  He only needed her to undo his buttons. She couldn’t refuse such a reasonable request—though there hadn’t been a lot of “request” about it, now that she thought of it. Still, she couldn’t refuse. It had been her suggestion that he come here and change. “All right.”

  She eased tentatively into the room, her hands clasped uncertainly behind her back. She hadn’t touched him in two years. She recalled the last time vividly—the smoothness of his skin, the soft-crisp hair on his forearms . . .

  “Whatever is the matter with you, Lucy?” He’d straightened and was regarding her with just a hint of impatience.

  “Nothing,” she denied. She could be as impersonal as he. It was just a row of buttons, after all. “Face me.”

  He obliged, presenting her with an extremely wide pair of shoulders well above her eye level and an extremely long row of buttons. There had to be more than a hundred of them, marching down from his strong throat over his equally strong chest. This was going to take some time. She wiggled her fingers experimentally.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Yes. Right.” Gingerly she reached up and brushed the damp black hair away from the band collar. A single curl coiled around her finger as she worked, as though willing her to remember what it had felt like to comb her fingers through the rest of those thick black locks.

  She did. She shouldn’t. It hurt too much.

  She glanced up. His eyes were half closed and relaxed, his expression thoughtful and interested. The only sound was the rain lashing against the window as she struggled with the little buttons. She bit her lip, trying to think of something to say while performing this far too intimate task. “It’s a pity about the dress, really.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The dress. It’s amazing. You should see how fine the stitches are on each of these tiny lace-covered eyelet buttons. The craftsmanship is exquisite.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve ruined it.”

  “Yes,” she said, feeling a little wistful, her fingers moving down to the second, then the third and fourth buttons. “I wonder what the bride was like.”

  “She must have been a bloody Amazon.”

  “I wonder if she was beautiful.”

  “Not if she was as flat-chested and broad-shouldered as the way it fits me suggests she was.”

  She laughed and looked up, meeting his amused gaze. “Haven’t you a single romantic bone in your body?”

  His eyes seemed to smile, but there was gravity in their smoky depths, too. And memories. Memories she did not share. “One learns to be pragmatic.”

  “Where,” she asked softly, unbuttoning more of the little buttons. “In Russia? How does it help?”

  He didn’t answer at once. Then, “It helps compartmentalize your emotions, set aside your anger or your fear or your sorrow to deal with later, when there is time and opportunity.”

  Her fingers stilled. “And did you . . . find a compar
tment for me?”

  “You?” he laughed. “You got an entire room, my dear.”

  “And did you ever find the time or opportunity to deal with me?”

  “Good God, no,” he answered in honest amusement. “I locked the door and threw away the key.”

  She flushed and went back to work on the buttons. So that was that, then.

  She still had a place in his heart, all right—in its dungeon. For long minutes she worked unbuttoning him from the dress until she had finally managed to undo the top six inches. But then the buttons started getting all caught in the lace overdress, and in annoyance she peeled the fabric back.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  She’d found the end of the scar that started on his cheek and followed his jaw, disappearing beneath the collar. It angled across the base of his neck to the top of his pectoral muscle.

  Without realizing it, she reached up and brushed her fingers gently across the pale rope of scar tissue. “Dear Lord, Alex, how did you survive this?” she whispered.

  His whole body tensed at her touch, his shoulders pulling back as if he were a marionette jerked to attention by unseen strings. She barely noticed. All she could think of was how close he’d come to death, how close she had come to losing him forever. With infinite tenderness, she traced the scar, as though by doing so she could somehow erase it, erase the pain it must have caused, and the war it had occurred in.

  “It happened in Balaklava,” he said stiffly.

  “During the Charge of Heavy Brigade.” She nodded. Her fingers returned to the buttons, and now they flew from their eyelets as though by magic. The lace fell away, revealing the smooth, sculptured muscles of his chest, the dark, silky hair that grew across the dense surface, the curving ramparts of his ribs. She found another mark, not a scar but a knot beneath the flesh low on his side.

  “Sevastopol,” she whispered, touching it reverently. “You fell from your horse and broke three ribs. One hasn’t healed properly.”

  He didn’t answer. He had gone very still.