Wedding of the Year

by VICTORIA MALVEY

  “Come now, Elizabeth,” interrupted their father. “You simply need a bit more practice, then I'm certain you'll be able to hold your own with even the most intimidating matron.”

  “If I continue to offend people like Lady Atherton, soon there won't be anyone left to practice upon, Papa,” Elizabeth pointed out wryly. “So, now that I've managed to upset one of the most powerful hostessess in all of London, my evening has truly begun. Shall we take our seats and I'll see who I can offend next?”

  “Why don't we do the first part of your suggestion and avoid the second?” Father asked with a laugh.

  Offering his arm to both her and Catherine, their father led them into the beautiful theater and to their private box without further incident. Breathing a sigh of relief, Elizabeth sank down into her chair and waited for the play to begin. From the moment the curtains lifted, Elizabeth found herself so caught up in the wildly entertaining story of Petruchio and Kate that, by the intermission, she'd completely forgotten her mishap with Lady Atherton.

  “That was wonderful, wasn't it?” Elizabeth turned toward her sister and father with a smile. “I vow I am quite breathless to see how it will end.”

  “I think . . .” Catherine began, only to break off her reply when a lady stepped into their box.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed, pressing her hand to her stomach. “Forgive the intrusion; I seem to have stumbled into the wrong box.”

  Though Elizabeth couldn't ever remember meeting the lady, she looked oddly familiar to her. Trying to place her, Elizabeth noted the woman's blue eyes, dark hair that was touched with only a few gray streaks, the familiar curve to her cheeks.

  “It's quite all right,” their father said, rising to face the attractive woman. “I consider it our good fortune that you happened upon our box, Lady Wykham.”

  Lady Wykham! Richard's mother. Immediately Elizabeth saw the strong resemblance between mother and son.

  “I thank you for your welcome, my lord.” She offered their father a pretty smile. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing the Earl of Shipham?”

  “Indeed, you do.” Their father bowed to her. “Douglas Everley, Earl of Shipham, at your service.” Straightening, he gestured toward Elizabeth and Catherine. “And might I present my daughters, Lady Elizabeth and Lady Catherine?”

  Gliding forward with a grace Elizabeth could never hope to match, Lady Wykham reached out to warmly clasp their hands. “I'm pleased to have the chance to meet both of you, as I've heard we have quite a bit in common.”

  Elizabeth frowned at the woman in confusion. “ Pardon?”

  “My sons,” she prodded softly.

  Immediately, the memory of Richard bending close to her and her desire to experience his kiss raced through her, completely flustering Elizabeth. “Ummm, yes, indeed,” she stammered, before pulling free of Lady Wykham's hold. “Please excuse me, my lady, I need to . . . to . . . refresh myself.” Not waiting for a reply, Elizabeth hurried from the box.

  In the corridor, Elizabeth leaned against the wall, pressing her hands against her eyes, fighting the urge to race down to their carriage and run home to the safety of her workshop. What had she been thinking to rush away from Lady Wykham like some stuttering, foolish chit? Now Richard's mother probably thought her to be a complete imbecile.

  Not only would it hinder her hopes of using John as a cover, but it also bothered her to think Lady Wykham would speak poorly of her to Richard. Indeed, she wanted Lady Wykham to think well of the entire family, just in case the interest Elizabeth sensed between Catherine and the marquess bloomed into a true affection. Lord, it was all so confusing!

  Dropping her hands to her sides, Elizabeth moved down the corridor toward the lady's parlor. She'd gone no more than a few steps when she caught sight of Richard leaning against a pillar, chatting with Lord Hampton. Good Heavens! With a gasp, Elizabeth stepped into a nearby box, pulling the curtains closed behind her, hoping Richard hadn't seen her. After all, what would she say to him? Good evening, my lord, so glad I didn't kiss you this afternoon, despite the fact that I can't stop thinking about what it would have felt like to kiss you. Oh, yes, that would play well.

  “Good evening, Lady Elizabeth.”

  Startled, she spun toward Lord Wykham. “Good evening, my lord.”

  He'd risen from his chair, but still stood near the balustrade. “Are you enjoying the performance?”

  “Yes, very much so,” she replied, relieved he was far too much of a gentleman to ask why she'd stepped unbidden into his box.

  “You seemed to enjoy it.”

  His comment caused her to lift her brows in question.

  A dull flush stained his cheekbones. “I happened to notice you and your sister were only three boxes down when I took my seat.”

  Moving forward, she leaned over the rail to gaze over at her family's box. Her father stood conversing with Lady Wykham and Catherine. “Perhaps that's why your mother got mixed up and entered our box by mistake.”

  “My mother's in your box?” Immediately, he leaned out and glared across the expanse. “So she is.”

  The grim tone to his voice surprised Elizabeth. “It's quite all right,” she assured him. “Your mother's most charming.”

  “For a guileful snoop,” he muttered as he turned toward Elizabeth. “What did she say to your sister?”

  “My sister?” Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing, but then I left almost immediately after your mother arrived, so . . .”

  “Please excuse me, Lady Elizabeth.”

  Before the last syllable had left his mouth, Lord Wykham strode from the box, leaving her alone. She'd only had time to blink twice before she saw him reappear next to his mother. The tight cast to his expression told of his inexplicable annoyance.

  An excited whisper in the next box made Elizabeth glance over her shoulder . . . to meet the gaze of none other than Lady Atherton. Elizabeth looked away quickly, only to notice that almost everyone had their eyes trained upon her or the scene unfolding in her family's box.

  As the lights flickered, signaling the start of the second half of the performance, Elizabeth turned to return to her family's box when she heard Richard's laugh from right outside the curtain. She wasn't ready to face him yet. Stepping backward, she pressed against the wall, praying that Richard wouldn't enter the box.

  With the way today had been going, she should have known better than to waste time on hope.

  Richard entered the tiny room and came to an abrupt halt when he caught sight of her. Elizabeth heard the rush of whispers from the people watching them. She closed her eyes briefly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. It was bad enough that she had to face Richard after melting in his arms, but to be forced to confront him under the watchful scrutiny of vicious gossips was more than she could bear.

  Thankfully, the lights to the theater dimmed completely, bringing blessed darkness to the box and a cacophony of disappointed groans from the people watching them.

  “Elizabeth.”

  The softness of his voice surprised her. Slowly, she opened her eyes to peer at him through the shadows. “I . . . I . . .” Realizing she didn't have any idea what to say to him, she finally ceased her awkward stammering and fell silent.

  His movements appeared slightly awkward to her, but she shook her head, dismissing the notion as a trick of the light. “Where did everyone go?”

  The easy question loosened her tongue. “Both your mother and Lord Wykham are visiting with my father and sister,” she replied, her nerves settling.

  “In your box? Well, that's certainly unexpected,” he remarked easily, before settling into a chair. “As for me, I'm going to enjoy the second half of this fantastic play.” A side of his mouth tilted upward as he glanced back at her. “Are you going to join me, or do you plan on cowering there for the remainder of the performance?”

  His challenge sparked an immediate response. “Cower?” she returned briskly. “I was merely trying to accommodate your girt
h when you entered the room.”

  “My girth.” Richard laughed brightly as he patted his flat stomach. “Indeed.”

  She couldn't help but smile at his reaction.

  “Now stop being so ridiculous and take a seat, Elizabeth.”

  Surprisingly enough, she didn't take offense at his direction. It was as if his laughter had restored the easiness between them, making it seem as if the near-kiss in Mr. Dunfee's shop had never occurred. Tilting her head, she gazed at Richard, thinking how he could infuriate her one minute, make her want to kiss him the next, then do an about-face and simply make her feel like a friend.

  Without another moment of hesitation, she settled into the chair next to Richard and watched the play.

  8

  From the stiffness in Lord Wykham's posture, Catherine feared the man would do permanent harm to his back if he didn't loosen up. Instead of simply sitting back and enjoying the play, he sat there, poker straight, as if the witty play were pure torture for him.

  Sighing, she redirected her attention onto the stage, but her interest in the play was gone as well. Needing a few moments alone, Catherine leaned forward to whisper to her father when she lost her balance. Tipping to her side, she caught herself on the nearest object.

  John's thigh.

  He flinched beneath her hand, as if she'd harmed him in some way. Perhaps he simply didn't wish anyone to touch his sainted person. Rolling her eyes, she released him and balanced herself upon the back of her father's chair. “I'll be right back, Papa,” she whispered, before rising and heading toward the exit of their box.

  “Do you need an escort, Lady Catherine?” Lord Wykham asked as she reached the curtains.

  “No, thank you, my lord. I wouldn't wish to make you suffer my presence for a moment longer than absolutely necessary,” she replied softly, then slipped out into the corridor.

  Twisting around in his seat to face front, John tried to control the seething emotions roiling around inside of him. What was it about Catherine that bothered him so? He felt torn between lecturing her on her inappropriate behavior . . . and kissing her senseless. At this moment, the latter held greater appeal.

  He glanced back at the stilled curtain, waiting for her to reappear. Another minute went by before John leaned forward to Lord Shipham and said, “Excuse me, my lord, but your daughter hasn't returned yet.”

  “Hmmmm,” Lord Shipham murmured, his attention still fixed upon the stage.

  Hmmmm? What kind of bloody answer was that? Wasn't the man worried that his daughter hadn't come back to the box? The rational side of John reminded him that she'd only been gone a few minutes and that it took far longer than that for her to reach the lady's parlor. Still, his emotional side wanted nothing to do with reason.

  Rising, John tugged down on his vest. “Don't concern yourself, my lord. I shall provide her with safe escort,” he said, before hurrying after Catherine.

  Lord Shipham grinned as he watched John leave the box. “Safe escort?” he murmured to Lady Wykham.

  “Ah, yes, thieves and miscreants abound in the theater,” she countered, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I do believe we have a romance on our hands, my lord.”

  “Oh, I do hope so,” he replied. “In fact, I'm praying we have more than one.”

  Lady Wykham's brows lifted. “Then you think my Richard and your Elizabeth are . . . interested in one another.”

  “I predict all of the ton will be wondering the very same thing tomorrow,” he said, pointing toward the Wykham box. “Look over there.”

  Following the line of his hand, Lady Wykham caught sight of Richard and Elizabeth, sitting next to one another, alone in the box. As she watched, Richard leaned over to say something to Elizabeth, who tossed back her head in laughter. Smiling, Lady Wykham returned her attention to Lord Shipham. “Splendid,” she pronounced. “Don't you agree?”

  “Absolutely,” he returned emphatically. “I do believe the connection between our houses would be a fine thing, my lady.”

  “Indeed, it would.” Folding her hands upon her lap, Lady Wykham continued, “And when they wed, it will be the wedding of the year.”

  “When who weds? Richard and Elizabeth, or John and Catherine?”

  She lifted one shoulder. “Does it truly matter? Either match will be met with abounding enthusiasm from the ton.” Her hand swept toward the other boxes. “See how everyone is looking toward the Wykham box, watching your daughter and my son? The romance between our children is the premier gossip these days, and everyone who is anyone is speaking of it.”

  “That's true enough,” Lord Shipham agreed readily. “If even I've heard snippets of it, then it must be on everyone's lips.”

  “I assure you, it is. So, you see, my lord, if these romances culminate with a wedding, it will be the event of the year.”

  “That matters not one whit to me as long as my girls are happy,” Lord Shipham said.

  Lady Wykham nodded succinctly. “I couldn't agree with you more.”

  In perfect agreement, Lord Shipham smiled at Lady Wykham, who gave him a contented smile right back, then they both settled back to enjoy the remainder of the play.

  Striding down the corridor, John headed for the lady's parlor to collect that troublesome woman. It was his duty as a gentleman, he told himself, ignoring the taunting laugh he heard within his head. Only by chance did he glance down the staircase . . . and caught a glimpse of rose silk.

  Catherine.

  Breaking stride, he leaned over the banister just in time to see her glide off the last stair and toward the outer door. Surely even she wouldn't be foolish enough to go outside without escort. Then he remembered that just last night she'd been perfectly prepared to do that very thing if he hadn't agreed to escort her.

  A creature of impulse like Catherine would do whatever took her fancy, regardless of the inadvisability of the act.

  Cursing beneath his breath, John raced after her, taking the stairs two at a time. As he headed outside, the brisk night air did little to cool his frustrations. One swift look around, and he located Catherine as she strolled aimlessly through the gardens alongside the theater.

  Uncertain of what he would do once he got his hands on her, John stormed toward the unsuspecting Catherine.

  * * *

  “Poor Petruchio,” Richard commented as the last scene unfolded before them. “To be stuck with that shrew for the rest of his life.”

  “Poor Petruchio nothing,” countered Elizabeth. “He should praise Kate every day for being such a strong woman, to make him realize that she's his partner, his mate, rather than his handmaiden.”

  As the curtain drew closed, Richard rose, unaware he had stepped upon Elizabeth's gown, and began clapping. But when Elizabeth tried to follow suit, she was stopped short by her skirt, the abrupt motion sent her off balance, and caused her to stumble.

  “Elizabeth?” Immediately, Richard reached for her. “Are you hurt?” he asked, running his hands down her arms.

  “I don't think so,” she murmured as she tried to regain her composure. “I'm afraid I twisted my ankle.”

  Concern darkened his blue eyes. “Why don't you stay still for a few minutes?”

  “I feel so foolish,” she admitted softly.

  Richard kneeled down in front of her and began to gently press his fingers against her ankle. “Tell me if this hurts.”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes and met his gaze. “No . . . no, really, I'm fine,” she assured him.

  Looking into Richard's face as the shadows enfolded them closer, Elizabeth again felt the stroke of desire for Richard. Unconsciously, she parted her lips, offering him silent invitation to gift her with his kiss. As his gaze dropped to her mouth, Elizabeth felt her heart race in anticipation.

  “Elizabeth,” he rasped, his head dipping lower. “We shouldn't.”

  “I know,” she murmured in reply as she lay her hands on his shoulders.

  Arching upward, she met his descending mouth eagerly. His lips mol
ded against hers, shaping, sculpting, teaching her the tenderness of a first kiss. Unbidden, a moan rose to her lips as she instinctively tilted her head to give him better access to her mouth.

  Richard's groan vibrated through her as he accepted her invitation, slanting his head to deepen the kiss. As his tongue swept inward with passionate intent, Elizabeth curled her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. At the feel of his chest pressing against her sensitized breasts, Elizabeth exploded with desire, entwining her tongue with his, eliciting another groan of passion from Richard.

  Shifting to the side, Richard slid his hand down her cheek, trailing his fingers along her collarbone, to tease the edge of her bodice. Hunger arose within Elizabeth. She'd never known she could feel like this, never believed a kiss could make her want so much more. Every inch of her body tingled and her senses were heightened. Beneath her fingers, his hair felt so silky. The scent of heated flesh tantalized her, making her yearn for more. She'd never before felt so connected with anyone, as if they were one desire, one thought, one need. They even breathed as one.

  A soft moan escaped her when Richard broke off their kiss to scrape his teeth along her arched neck. Shivers chased through her, running downward toward her core. Her fingers clutched at him, urging him onward, as he slowly made his way down toward her aching breast.

  His hot breath washed over her as he laved at her skin before drawing it deeply into his mouth with an erotic kiss. Elizabeth pushed herself upward toward him, giving herself over to him with utter abandon, wanting more, wanting . . .

  The roar of applause rose upward, jarring her from the haze of yearning. As if awakening from a dream, Elizabeth opened her eyes to stare up at the ceiling of the theatre box. Her blood chilled at the realization that she was compromising herself in a very public place where her father, Richard's mother, or any number of people could find them at any moment.