Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  “Well, now, don’t you look splendid!” Prinny gushed. “What a prize! Much too good for the common man!” The prince shot a sideways glance Morgan’s way. “Couldn’t you leave this oaf and come pass the Season in my palace? Hmm?”

  The entire ballroom was watching the exchange. The Prince Regent sought out the wife of the Bastard of Camberton! It was all too delicious for Society to refuse.

  “No, I could not!” Bliss laughed as she playfully slapped away the prince’s arm. “I would only get lost among all your other ‘pretty creatures’ at court!”

  Any other man in the room would realize that he had to step aside when his monarch crooked his finger at his wife.

  Morgan was not any other man. His mind began to fill with the reddish haze of possessive rage. He broke free of the guards and pressed himself between Bliss and the prince. He managed to hiss out a warning before the guards pulled him ungently back again. “My wife. Mine.”

  The prince waved away the guards and wiggled his eyebrows at Bliss, as if he were amused by Morgan. Aghast, Bliss snatched Morgan’s forearm and quite literally hauled him away.

  Once Morgan and his bride were out of the Prince Regent’s immediate proximity, the primitive fog faded from his brain, clearing his mind.

  What had she done?

  Bliss had just laughed off a prince. He was now more befuddled than before. If Bliss were the gold digger his uncle described, wouldn’t she jump at such an offer?

  And suddenly, it became painfully clear to him. The truth lodged itself in his gut like a stone. He had been wrong about Bliss.

  God, what an ass he was! He had stolen her from the man she really wanted and ruined her chance for true happiness. The way he had treated her was beyond unforgivable.

  Morgan had accepted his uncle’s bribe—marry Bliss and get his own ship. Who was the gold digger in this scenario?

  Morgan was distracted by his growing sense of shame, but in the back of his mind he could not help being impressed by Bliss’s country-girl strength. She had already tugged him many yards away from the royal guards.

  “Morgan!” Bliss’s voice chided him, but when she spun around to face him, he saw the mirth in her eyes. “You . . .” She began laughing. “You could have been thrown into the Tower for that!”

  Her little shawl had slipped down her shoulders in the commotion. Morgan froze. The music went shrill and tinny in his ears.

  There, on her upper arm, was a discoloration, a black-and-blue bruise the exact shape and size of a man’s thumb. He tugged her hand gently, turning her slightly as she frowned at him. On the underside of her arm were four fingerprints.

  Morgan feared he would be ill. How could he have been so careless? He brushed his fingertip along her bruised skin, and his words came out in a rasp. “I hurt you, Bliss. Forgive me. I did not realize that when I pulled you behind me in the alley—“

  She looked away. “It was not you who left those.”

  Every trace of mirth was gone from her face. Bliss drew the shawl about her shoulders again.

  “But you said the footpads did not lay a finger on you.”

  Bliss gazed over the ballroom, as if she could not bear to see him. “It did not happen then.”

  Morgan was perplexed. “But when—”

  Bliss shook her head, now staring at the tops of her shoes. “I tried to tell you, Morgan.” Her voice dropped to a barely audible stammer. “You did not believe that what I said was true.”

  She glanced up and looked over his shoulder, and all the color drained from her face.

  Morgan turned to see Lord Oliver Danton joining them.

  And he knew.

  His accusation erupted in a furious hiss. “You dared put your hands on my wife.”

  Oliver smirked, glancing toward Bliss and back to Morgan. “Spare me the attempt at chivalry, Pryce. The greedy creature was causing trouble at Camberton House. I merely . . .”

  Oliver’s words faded when Morgan took a menacing step his way. Morgan felt Bliss’s light touch on his back, but he would not stop. He would say what had to be said.

  “You injured her, you spineless coward. You lied to me. To Neville. To everyone.” Morgan was now just inches from Oliver’s face. He saw the old man’s cheek twitch with alarm.

  “I may be the bastard,” Morgan snarled, “but I am more of a gentleman than you will ever be!” Morgan cocked back his arm and was about to lay Oliver out flat when he felt Bliss’s grip on his elbow.

  “No! Please!”

  There was such desperation in Bliss’s whisper that Morgan relaxed his arm. Oliver scurried off into the crowd like a frightened schoolgirl. Morgan would deal with him later.

  The Shropshire farm girl hauled him away yet again. That made two near fisticuffs in one evening—perhaps Morgan was wise to avoid dress balls.

  He allowed himself to be tugged off the floor and into a curtained alcove, the sort of antechamber where ladies went to loosen their corsets. Clearly, she wanted privacy.

  Morgan prepared himself to receive a tart tongue-lashing from Bliss. He supposed he deserved it.

  But she spun him around and grabbed the back of his head, her bosom trembling and her eyes flashing. Indeed, Bliss was mightily aroused, but not with anger.

  She went up on her toes, pulled his mouth down to hers, and kissed him to within an inch of his life.

  Chapter 28

  ENOUGH light shone beneath the curtain to reveal that the anteroom held only a fainting couch and a small side table. A servant could bring a candle in, or a vinaigrette, if a lady actually did faint.

  Bliss had no intention of calling in a servant. Everything she needed in the world was right before her.

  She’d found it secretly adorable that Morgan had waxed territorial when the Prince Regent teased her. How many men in the world would dare raise a hand to a prince?

  But when Morgan faced down his own uncle, defending her—believing in her!—Bliss had realized that no other man in the world would do for her.

  Neville would never have done that. Neville had never even dared to hold her hand, much less fight for her. How could she have been so blind?

  When she thought about whom she wanted to touch, whom she wanted to be touching her, it was Morgan’s hands she imagined on her skin. When she slept and woke in tangled sheets and fading visions of hot, wild kisses, it was Morgan’s mouth she’d tasted in her dreams.

  And now, when she thought of the rest of her days, there was only one man she thought about spending them with, even if it meant that she would only have him part of the time. Love would manage—somehow. After all, she was no ordinary woman. She was a Worthington!

  I choose you, my captain.

  And the best part—the very best part!—was that the pesky obstacle of marriage was already out of the way. If she wanted to push her very own husband down onto that fainting couch and tug at his cravat while she straddled his thighs, she had every right to. So she did just that.

  So very convenient.

  Then all thought melted away when her husband pulled her down onto his hard chest and began to kiss her back in earnest.

  Oh yes. Yes, please. More.

  She gave up on his knotted cravat and slid her fingers into his hair. All she could think to do was to hold him, to keep him, to get as close to him as she could. Morgan, always a man of action, didn’t waste precious time on words. She did so admire decisiveness in a man. He cradled her head in his palms and drove his tongue between her lips, claiming her even as she claimed him.

  My husband. Mine.

  The taste of his mouth became addictive. The scent of his skin, the silky curl of his hair, the rough need in his hands as they roamed over her—now at her jaw, holding her still for his kiss, now sliding across her bared shoulders, pushing down the nonsensical little sleeves of her gown, lifting her breasts free of her
bodice.

  He tore his lips from hers to wrap them around first one rigid and aroused nipple, then the other.

  Bliss dug her teeth into her bottom lip, a scream of pleasure fighting to rise in her throat. How could she not have known he was the only one for her? His hot, hungry mouth ruined her, slaughtered her, saved her.

  She was barely aware of his hands moving again, now gripping her waist so he could grind himself up between her spread thighs.

  Her skirts twisted between them. Blinded and driven by the pleasure he gave her, Bliss yanked at the costly silk with no regard. All she could think was to remove the obstacles—her gown, his suit—

  In the end, it wasn’t so complicated.

  Morgan slid one hand between their bodies. Then with a tug, he ripped her skirt up the side and pulled it free. Another swift yank and her filmy drawers slipped torn and ruined down to her bent knees.

  Brilliant.

  “Easy—” he gasped. But Bliss was in no mood for easy. When she felt his thick cock pressing upward to her pleasure-slickened labia, she acted on instinct.

  Inside me. Inside. I need him inside me.

  He felt her urgency and trapped her into stillness with his large, hard hands wrapped tightly around her waist. She keened her frustration at him, trying to twist away so she could drive her hungry body down upon his rigid spear—

  He held her there, poised and writhing, while he used his mouth on her breasts—teasing, nipping, sucking until she couldn’t breathe for the aching need ripping through her body. She was empty. She was lost and alone and pining to be filled with his body, his soul, his love . . .

  He began to move her slightly, thrusting his hips upward, sliding the thick length of his cock against her wet center, against the throbbing, rigid point of her clitoris even as he suckled her relentlessly.

  She fought him, beating his shoulders with her fists, panting and twisting in his ruthless grasp, desperate, so very desperate to be filled by him—

  She ached, she throbbed, she shivered and moaned—and then she exploded like a Chinese rocket in his hands.

  Oh. Her last thought was swept away almost before she formed it.

  How unexpected.

  Then she threw back her head and howled soundlessly into the darkened anteroom as her body bucked and pulsated and rang like a clear crystal bell on a winter night.

  She dropped her head, resting her forehead against his.

  “We—we should stop,” he gasped. “You are—this isn’t—”

  “Do you want to be inside me, my captain?”

  His answer was a low, wordless moan. At that moment, he shifted her slightly upward and began to enter her.

  “I want to kiss you,” he moaned. “I want you to kiss me back. Forever.”

  She tightened her hands in his hair and lowered her mouth down to his. She gave everything with that kiss, all her secret dreams of being truly loved, of being wanted, and needed. She banished fear and hesitation, for she had made her decision.

  Morgan. It was only Morgan for her, for the rest of her life.

  Trusting him entirely, she allowed him to press her down upon the blunt tip of him. When his rigid organ began to penetrate her, her eyes closed. There was no need to flinch from the pain. She was country-raised. She knew that it would pass soon enough, and then it would be good for them both.

  Instead, she narrowed her thoughts to welcoming him inside her, aching for him to possess her body as he had already taken possession of her heart. His erection pierced her slowly until she couldn’t bear the tender care he took.

  Her breath left her in small pants of pleasure-pain. She wanted to drive herself down upon him, to end this sweet agony and move on to the purest pleasure she suspected was waiting on the other side.

  The moment seemed everlasting as his length and width stretched her deeply.

  To her enormous frustration, he paused, holding her above him, his own breath coming fast as he waited for her.

  I need you. I want you inside me. I love you.

  She realized that she whispered the words on each short breath. Her gaze met his and she saw something in his eyes she’d never seen before.

  Wonder.

  Now. While his attention was diverted her words, she seized control. His grip had slacked and she drove herself down upon him. Oh no. Too big. He was—

  “Too big,” she whimpered as she tried to rise from him. “I can’t—I ca—”

  Morgan pulled her down to his chest and held her tightly, not releasing her even as she moaned and pushed at him. “Shh. Be patient. Just wait. It will ease, my mermaid. Shh.”

  His deep voice in her ear distracted her for an instant. He’d never called her anything like that before. She forgot to struggle. Her body forgot to fight the thick invasion of him. A warm easing of the pressure began. Encouraged, she took a deep breath and let her body relax further.

  With his arms still about her, he sat up and rolled her beneath him on the fainting couch. When his weight immediately pressed her down again, she sighed in pleasure and slid her hands behind his back.

  He dropped his mouth to hers and kissed her deeply, tasting her and letting her taste him. She lost herself in his kiss, barely aware as he began to withdraw. Then he was back, driving into her slowly, powerfully, fully.

  She cried out again, this time in pleasure as her body took his slick cock deep with only the slightest twinge, which was washed away in a wave of sweet, hot pleasure.

  It seemed she’d taxed the last of his gentle patience, for he groaned into her mouth and he drove helplessly into her again and again. His very loss of self-command thrilled her. She reveled in her ability to excite him, in being so desirable to him. Each deep, hungry thrust and each slow, reluctant withdrawal swept her away like a fatal tide.

  Then her own pleasure began to rise once more. She was so wet and ready that he buried his length with every stroke. She cried out and dug her fingers into his wide shoulders.

  “My sweet mermaid.” His hoarse whisper filled the small room. He grasped her hips and pierced her again. Again and again, each time plunging as deeply as he could. “I need you!”

  She fell apart in earnest then, her orgasm crashing through her so that she had no thought to restrain her cries. There was no ballroom of dancers on the other side of the curtain. There was only Morgan. Her Morgan. Her husband, finally right where he belonged.

  With one more wild thrust, he shuddered, deep inside her. In her drifting slide from the breathless peak of pleasure, she quivered as his shaft throbbed inside her, triggering a final burst of ecstasy. A last wavering cry escaped her lips.

  With a breathless groan, he slipped down beside her, still half covering her with his big body. Bliss turned her face into his shoulder and shivered into his solidity as the music outside the anteroom rose and the dancers whirled on, still unaware.

  “Oh my God,” he gasped into her throat.

  Bliss could not have agreed more. She planned to say something similar—as soon as she could speak again.

  He lifted his head to gaze down into her eyes. She reached trembling fingers to stroke his cheek, smiling past her panting breaths. He shook his head a little.

  “Who are you?” There was wonder in his tone this time, flavored with a hint of pride and possessiveness.

  I am the woman who loves you, Morgan Pryce. I am your wife.

  She would say it. In just a moment, after she’d caught her breath, when it wouldn’t come out all choked and trembling. Her body still shuddered with the glorious pleasure he had given her. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to calm. Then she closed her eyes and parted her lips to say everything in her heart.

  “Oh my heavens! How shocking!”

  • • •

  BLISS OPENED HER eyes and looked over Morgan’s shoulder to see Lord Oliver framed in the doorway. He ha
d lifted the curtain wide to leave a clear view for anyone in the ballroom who might be interested.

  Everyone seemed to be interested. Faces crowded close behind His Lordship, eyes wide and mouths gaping in astonishment.

  Bliss hurried to cover herself. Bloody meddling Oliver! Yet what could anyone say, really? It was embarrassing, to be sure. Still, they were hardly the first couple to be caught in dishabille late at a raucous ball.

  Unlike many of those couples, she and Morgan were married.

  And it wasn’t as though the Prince Regent himself witnessed anything. She’d seen him being escorted out by his stubborn guardsmen after Morgan’s outburst.

  Pulling her gown back into place as well as she could, she stepped out of general sight into the shadows at the side of the arched doorway. Quickly, she began to twist her hair back into something presentable. She sent Morgan a quick rueful grin, but his gaze was fixed on his uncle.

  Her fingers paused as she noted the strange look on Morgan’s face. Then Oliver announced, loudly enough for everyone to hear—

  “Well, it’s about time, Morgan! I thought you were as shy as Neville, taking so long to consummate your marriage!”

  Morgan flushed angrily and, Bliss was surprised to see, seemed deeply ashamed. He still did not look her in the eye.

  Well, enough was enough. Oliver could carry on all night if he were allowed to, she was sure. It was naughty of them to make love at someone else’s ball, and there would be a bit of resultant gossip, but just look at her handsome husband! She was comfortably sure that it would be chatter of the most envious sort!

  She brushed at her torn skirts. Her appearance was restored as well as she could get it without a maid and a team of seamstresses.

  No time like the present. Lifting her chin, she stepped from the alcove with aloof dignity. She glared defiantly at Oliver as she passed him, but he retained his cruel smile. Strange.

  “I heard the Prince Regent call you a prize.” Oliver sneered. “If you only knew the half of it.”