Wedding of the Year

by VICTORIA MALVEY

  She now used the fingers she'd threaded through his hair in passion to pull his head up. The blaze of desire she saw in his eyes made her catch her breath, but another shout of praise from the audience reminded her of their position. “Oh, God,” she rasped softly. “What are we doing?”

  His brows drew together. “Elizabeth?”

  But she was too mortified to respond to the confusion she heard in his voice. “Please, release me,” she said urgently, glancing at the door, not noticing how he blanched at her order. “What was I thinking?” she continued under her breath.

  Immediately, Richard stood, keeping his back to the open balcony as he smoothed his waistcoat. “I believe you were thinking that you enjoyed my kiss.”

  Scrambling to her feet, Elizabeth pressed against the wall, praying she would blend into the curtains and no one looking at their box would notice her slightly disheveled state. “Yes,” she replied slowly. “I was enjoying your kisses.” But instead of the statement bringing warmth, it made her feel cold and bereft. Of course she'd enjoyed his kisses. He was a rake, after all, the consummate seducer of women. Under his experienced touch, she'd fallen victim to her own foolishness. And while she might believe he was more than a rake, Richard admitted he'd earned his reputation. She also couldn't forget how he'd almost kissed her in Mr. Dunfee's shop, then pulled back abruptly, almost as if he'd been toying with her. “But then,” she pointed out in what she prayed was a reasonable tone, “I'm merely one of many who has enjoyed them, aren't I, Richard?”

  He flinched as if she'd hit him. But in the next instant, his expression shifted into a confident mask, making her believe she'd imagined the initial reaction. “One of a great many.” Straightening his cravat, he paused to run his fingers through his hair . . . hair that she'd mussed . . . before sauntering toward her. “Anytime you wish to indulge again, my lady Elizabeth, please let me know,” he murmured as he ran a lazy finger along her bodice.

  Struggling for composure, she slapped his hand away. “Thank you, my lord, but I believe in the future I shall restrain my base urges. Some of us are capable of resisting debauchery.”

  A disappointed light flickered in his eyes, before he lowered his lids, shielding the expression in their blue depths. “So speaks the woman who lay moaning in my arms just a few moments ago,” he said. “For someone who reveled in my . . . debauchery, you are hardly in the position to judge me, madam.”

  His mouth, the same mouth that had invoked such a heated response within her, thinned into a cold line as Richard stared down at her for one long minute before turning on his heel and striding from the box.

  Her fragile facade crumpled the moment he disappeared. Hiding her face in her hands, Elizabeth allowed her tears to spill onto her palms. She welcomed the pain, anything to hold back the cold that threatened to overtake her. For a few precious moments, she'd felt . . . glorious.

  She was a fool.

  In the corridor, Richard fought the urge to return to the box when he heard Elizabeth begin to cry. God, she must think him a bastard.

  Which meant he'd accomplished his goal.

  When she'd given herself over to him with such sweet passion, he'd become lost in her, in the moment, forgetting everything but the splendor of her in his arms. It was only after the desire had waned and she'd looked at him with shock that he'd remembered he was everything she didn't want.

  And that had angered . . . and saddened him.

  Her accusation that she was only one of many had struck a nerve, hurting him more than he'd ever thought possible. It had also provided him with the perfect opportunity to thrust a wedge between them, to ensure that Elizabeth would stay far away from him.

  It was for the best, he told himself over and over again. She wanted to belong, to be part of society, while he knew he would be unwelcome at every house once the truth of his new profession became common knowledge. Gritting his teeth against regret, he forced himself to move away from the box, leaving Elizabeth to her tears.

  While she might feel a twinge of pain now, Richard knew he was saving her from a great deal more.

  That knowledge, however, didn't make him feel any less the bastard.

  * * *

  “What the devil do you think you're doing out here all alone, Catherine?”

  A startled yelp escaped her, but Catherine's alarm faded when she saw Lord Wykham. “What do you mean by scaring me like that?”

  “I scared you?” His expression was grim. “Do you have any idea what fate could have befallen you out here, all alone?”

  The words in his initial question echoed through her head. “You called me Catherine,” she said with a pleased smile. “So the high and mighty Lord Wykham unbends long enough to drop the proper address.”

  He looked at her incredulously. “My God, surely you can't be so utterly . . .” Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pulled her toward him. “I reprimand you for risking not only your reputation this time, but your safety as well, and all you can do is mock me for calling you by your Christian name?” He lifted her up until she stood on her tiptoes, pressed against his chest. “Have you no sense, woman?”

  Catherine stared in fascination at the changes in him. Gone was Lord Wykham, the staid gentleman who wouldn't raise his voice to a lady, and in his place was John, this breathtaking tempest of a man whose emotions seethed within him.

  A lock of thick black hair fell across his forehead as he brought her another inch closer. “Well, have you?”

  But a reply, any response at all, was beyond her as she stared at him, utterly entranced by this stunning man. His burning gaze dropped to her lips and she tilted back her head, wanting, no, needing this man to kiss her.

  His head began to lower when a shout echoed behind them. Immediately, John pushed her behind him, changing to the protector in an instant. Peering around his arm, she saw a young man race toward a pretty, blonde woman who stood on the edge of the park. A sigh escaped Catherine when the man swept the lady up into his arms, capturing her in a passionate kiss.

  “How sweet,” Catherine whispered.

  “How foolish,” corrected John as he allowed her to step out from behind him. “They are completely unprotected and unaware. Anyone could sneak up behind them and pick their pockets or worse.”

  Her fingers trembled as she pressed them against her lips. “He's gone.”

  Lord Wykham frowned at her in confusion. “Who's gone?”

  “John,” Catherine replied with a sigh.

  His frown deepened into a scowl. “I'm afraid you're not making sense again, Catherine.”

  “No, I'm probably not making sense to you, Lord Wykham, but I assure you John would understand.”

  An exasperated sigh ripped through him.

  “Now, don't get all in a huff,” she said, patting his arm. “I'm just glad that you changed back into your stodgy old self before I did something truly foolish, like kiss you.” She ignored his indignant protest. “Why don't we go back inside, so you can return me, safe and sound, to my father?”

  “Finally,” he exclaimed. “A reasonable request.”

  Sighing over the loss of the enticing John, Catherine watched as the lady bestowed one last lingering kiss upon her lover's lips before hurrying away.

  As they reached the entrance to the theater, Catherine stole one last peek back toward the end of the garden . . . and what she saw froze her to the core. “John!” she gasped in alarm. “Look!”

  Responding to the tone in her voice, he turned immediately. Two men had set upon the young man, who had been gazing after his now-departed lady. As they watched, one of the men grabbed the young lover's arms while the other brute bashed him over the head. “Stay here,” John ordered before racing toward the helpless man.

  The larger of the two assailants turned to face John, while the other man slung the young lover over his shoulder and headed toward the alley. Catherine watched, frozen in place, as John slowed, adopting a boxer's stance and warily circled the brute.

  No
t only did the thug stand a full head taller than John, but he was twice his width as well. The odds were certainly not in John's favor. As the thug swung a meaty paw at John who ducked gracefully out of the way, Catherine decided to even the score a bit and raced forward to help.

  As she neared, she saw John connect with the assailant's face, sending his head snapping backward. The feral look on John's face intensified as he stepped closer, edging the brute backward despite the differences in their sizes.

  But the moment John caught sight of her, his expression shifted into one of horror. “Catherine! Get back!” he cried.

  The shift in John's attention was all the brute needed to send a fist crashing into John's midsection, then he delivered a knock-out blow under his chin, sending John sprawling onto the grass. “John!” Catherine screamed, racing forward and dropping on her knees beside him, uncaring that the assailant raced off after his companion.

  Catherine cradled John's head in her lap, brushing the hair off his forehead. “Speak to me, John,” she whispered.

  His lashes fluttered upward, confusion clouding his blue eyes. “Catherine?” he murmured, his brows drawing together in consternation. “What are you . . .” He broke off as the fog began to clear from his gaze. Abruptly, he sat up and looked around before clasping her shoulders. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  “No, no,” she hurried to assure him, pressing her hands upon his chest. “I'm fine. After he struck you out, he ran off.”

  The hands holding her shoulders tightened. “He wouldn't have knocked me out if you'd listened to what I said and stayed back . . . then I might have been able to help that poor gent they dragged off.”

  Guilt mingled with her anger. “Fine,” she snapped, shaking free of his hold. “Go ahead and blame me for your being knocked out in a fight. Next time, I won't lift a finger to try and help you, even though the man you're defending yourself against is twice your size.”

  “I understand that you were simply trying to help, Catherine, but what I want you to understand is that you would have helped me the most by doing as I'd asked,” he returned calmly, before fingering his jaw. “Damn, but that fellow had a mighty punch.”

  As swiftly as it had come, her anger left. Leaning forward on her knees, she gently fingered the line of his jaw, searching the swollen skin for cuts. “I suppose we should be thankful he didn't have a weapon.”

  When John captured her hand in his, pressing her fingers against the curve of his jaw, Catherine raised her startled gaze to his. With a lock of hair across his forehead and the darkness in his eyes, John had once more become the wild, all-too enticing man who made her romantic heart melt. Slowly, he lowered their clasped hands, dragging her fingers along his jawline before releasing them. “Thank you for your concern, Catherine,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

  Flustered, Catherine rose to her feet and brushed off her skirts. “My goodness, there is no need to thank me, my lord. I would have been concerned about anyone.”

  “So wonderful to feel special,” he muttered beneath his breath as he levered himself to his feet.

  “Pardon me?” she asked, uncertain if she'd heard him correctly. Did he want her to think he was special? Lord, he was confusing her. One moment he was the stuffy Lord Wykham, then the next he became the stunning John. How was a girl supposed to know how to handle him if he kept on changing in the blink of an eye?

  “It was nothing.” He straightened his jacket and smoothed back his hair before turning to face her. “Shall we now return to the theater? I fear our extended absence will have been noticed by now.”

  And like that, Lord Wykham had returned. Propping her hands on her hips, Catherine faced him boldly. “ Return to the theater? Have you taken leave of your senses?” she demanded. “What of that poor fellow those two men abducted?”

  “What of him?” Lord Wykham countered. “Do you propose that the two of us trail those men . . . one of whom has perfected the roundhouse punch . . . through dark, dangerous alleyways with little to no hope of finding them?” He shook his head. “More than likely, what we'd find would be more trouble, and risk our own safety in the process.”

  “But we must help that poor man!”

  “I'm not disagreeing with you,” John said. “I'm only disagreeing with your method of helping him. Lord, Catherine, you must stop being so bloody impulsive.”

  “Perhaps I am impulsive, but we need to help him!”

  “Doing something utterly foolish won't help him.” John took hold of her elbow and began to steer her back toward the theater. “Once I return you to your father, I shall contact the authorities. If I can't get any satisfaction there, I shall hire a Bow Street Runner and set him on the matter.”

  “Oh,” Catherine said after a moment.

  “Oh?” he asked incredulously, pulling them to a halt. “That's it? No apology, no comment on my idea being a sound one?”

  Though he had a point, she wasn't about to admit it to him. Patting him on the arm, she resumed walking, effectively dragging John along behind her. “No need to be smug, my lord,” she remarked blithely.

  “You called me John a few moments ago,” he grumbled, thoroughly disgruntled with her.

  She smiled up at him. “That's because you were John a few moments ago.”

  A long-suffering sigh escaped him. “Lord, not this again.”

  Catherine's laughter accompanied them back into the theater.

  9

  Bleary-eyed and irritable, Richard tried to focus his attention on the accounting book before him, but the bloody numbers kept on wavering. “Blast and damn,” he growled as he slammed the book shut.

  Usually he found such contentment, such completion in his work, but all morning he'd been utterly distracted . . . and it didn't take a bloody genius to figure out why.

  No, he could lay his current headache directly upon the shoulders of one Lady Elizabeth Everley.

  It had been bad enough trying to keep her from his thoughts when he'd been at odds with her, but now it was downright impossible to block her from his mind. Instead of thinking of her laughter, he thought of how soft her lips were, how they molded so perfectly to his, how they tasted so incredibly sweet, making him hunger for more.

  And more he'd had. Indeed, his hand itched with the urge to touch her again, to feel the generous curve of her breast beneath his fingers, to shape her softness against his palm. In his thoughts, he undid her gown, easing it downward, off her shoulders, giving him complete, uninhibited access to her breasts. He'd pressed kisses along the supple line of her neck just as he had last night, but this time when he reached the rise of her breast, he'd fulfill his desire to take her rosy nipple into his mouth, drawing deeply on her until he'd . . .

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.”

  The voice snapped Richard from his wayward thoughts. Thanking God he was seated and able to hide the results of his daydreams, Richard cleared his throat and inquired, “Is there a problem, Mr. Perth?”

  “Not a problem, my lord, just a question,” he clarified. “Some water got splashed on my orders, making them difficult to read, so I wasn't certain if the order for The Bull and Boar Pub was for five hundred pretzels or for six hundred.”

  Flipping open the order ledger, Richard ran a quick finger down the most recent column. “Six hundred.”

  Mr. Perth nodded once. “Very good, sir. We'll get right on it.” He paused at the door. “Mr. Burnbaum is here to see you, too.”

  “Please show him in,” Richard asked, wondering what news his neighbor would bring today.

  Stepping into the office, Aaron removed his hat, revealing his thick, dark curls. “Lord Vernon, thank you for seeing me.”

  “How many times have I told you to call me Richard?” he said as he rose from his chair. Rounding the desk, Richard offered Aaron his hand.

  After a moment's hesitation, Aaron accepted the handshake. “I know you wish me to call you by your Christian name, but it doesn't seem right.”

>   “Why not?” Richard asked. “We are fellow tradesmen.”

  Aaron shook his head. “Even so, that doesn't change the fact that I am a Jewish merchant, son of a Jewish merchant, while you are a titled gentleman, son of a marquess.”

  Crossing his arms, Richard gave Aaron a level stare. “I consider that immaterial, Aaron. After all, without your help, my business would have floundered. I will never forget how you and the other local merchants helped me negotiate deals with the captains, found workers to help renovate the factory, and taught me how to keep my accounts.” He raised his brows. “When weighed against that, the differences in our station mean less than nothing to me.”

  Aaron smiled at him. “Perhaps I am merely surprised to find wisdom in a member of the aristocracy.”

  Tossing back his head, Richard laughed aloud. “Now that makes sense. For I will admit to having possessed very little of it for far too long.” As his laughter faded away, Richard noticed that Aaron's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. “So tell me why you came to see me today, Aaron.”

  “It's because of my Isaac,” Aaron began. “You saw him yesterday, didn't you?”

  Richard nodded. “Yes, I did. Isaac said that your wife wanted some of my fine pretzels for the noon meal.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  Thinking back on the brief meeting, Richard tried to remember their conversation. “Not much. I did mention that he seemed in a hurry, and he told me he was meeting his lady.”

  “The gentile.”

  He started in surprise. “The gentile? That's what you call your son's inamorata?”

  Aaron waved his hand dismissively. “I ask him why he can't settle down with a nice, Jewish girl, like Mr. Klein's daughter, but my Isaac says that this girl is like no other, that she makes him feel brave and honorable.” He made a sound of utter disgust. “Tell me why my Isaac needs a woman to feel those things. Those are things he should feel simply because he is brave and honorable.”

  “Ah, but surely you remember, Aaron, how it feels to have a young lady look at you in admiration,” Richard said.