Wedding of the Year

by VICTORIA MALVEY

  “No, I am not so old that I forget these things,” Aaron agreed as he turned his hat over in his hands. “But when I ask Isaac to bring this girl to our home so we may meet her, he refuses me. He tells me that it is impossible for me to meet this girl.” He slapped his hat against his thigh. “Why, I ask you, Richard? Why can this girl not meet us? Is it because we are simple Jewish merchants and she feels we are beneath her?”

  “If she is allowing your son to court her, I doubt she would feel that way about you,” Richard assured the man. “There could be plenty of other reasons why she couldn't accompany Isaac to your house.”

  “And what would those be?” Aaron countered quickly. “That she is married or engaged to another gentile? Or that she hasn't told her own parents that she is seeing a Jewish merchant's son? All of the possible reasons I come up with unsettle me.” Suddenly, Aaron dropped into a chair, looking utterly defeated. “Worst of all, my son has now disappeared, and I fear he has run off with this girl, whose name I don't even know.”

  “Disappeared?” Richard sat down next to Aaron. “Are you certain?”

  Propping his elbows onto his knees, Aaron leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. “Positive. After he gave his mother your package, he left without telling us where he was going . . . which usually means he is heading off to meet this girl. Marta and I will often hear him returning late into the night, but last night we fell asleep before we heard him return. This morning we found his room empty.” He lifted his head to look at Richard. “He never came home last night, and I worry that he's gone and done something foolish.”

  The bleakness in Aaron's gaze touched Richard. “Like raced off and married at Gretna Green?”

  Aaron nodded dismally.

  “Come now, Aaron,” Richard said softly, putting a hand upon his new friend's shoulder. “Surely this won't be the worst thing in the world. Your Isaac is a sensible young man and you must trust him to make the right decisions. When he does return, you must accept his new bride, welcome her into your home, or you will lose your son.”

  A heavy sigh ripped from Aaron. “You are right, Richard. I know you are, but I don't know if I have it in me to welcome a stranger into my heart.”

  “Who said anything about your heart?” Richard asked with a slight laugh. “All I said was make her feel welcome in your home. Anything else will come with time.”

  “I can do that,” Aaron murmured softly. He straightened in his chair. “I can do that,” he repeated a bit louder this time.

  Richard patted Aaron on the back. “I know you can.”

  Both men rose, and when Aaron offered his hand, Richard readily accepted. “Thank you, Richard, for letting me burden you with my troubles.”

  “Burden me?” Richard scoffed. “Hardly. I myself am familiar with familial woes.”

  “I would be honored to share your burdens as well.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Aaron, but I would never wish to bore you with my dull tales,” Richard said lightly.

  “Very well.” Putting on his hat, Aaron headed toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned to face Richard once more. “Perhaps you would like to dine with my wife and me one evening?”

  “I would be honored,” Richard accepted without hesitation.

  “Excellent. We shall be pleased to have you as our guest.”

  “Why don't you invite me when your son returns with his new bride? Think on it, Aaron. Two gentiles at your table at once! Will you still be welcome at temple after that?”

  Grinning, Aaron shook his head. “Why do I have a feeling that I will come to regret using that word?”

  “Because you will,” Richard countered. “I'll see to it.” With laughter coloring his voice, Richard knew Aaron wouldn't take offense at his reply.

  “You are good for me, Richard. You make me question the old beliefs, and realize that I am far too young to be so set in my ways.”

  A side of Richard's mouth tilted upward. “I do have a habit of disturbing people . . . only very few of them actually thank me for it.”

  It felt good to give her croquet ball a strong, hard whack.

  “My goodness, Elizabeth. What's got you in a snit?” Catherine asked as she stepped toward her green striped ball.

  “I'm not in a snit,” Elizabeth protested, glancing around Lady Atherton's lawn to make certain no one at the afternoon party could overhear them.

  “Oh, no? Then why did you hit your ball so hard it flew into the bushes?”

  Elizabeth stiffened. “I simply misjudged my shot.”

  Glancing up from her ball, Catherine smiled in mocking amusement. “Mm-hmmm.”

  She glowered at her sister.

  Tapping her ball lightly, Catherine sent it gliding through the first wicket. “It's your turn again,” she said as she stepped back. “Try not to knock your ball out of the lawn this time.”

  What she'd really like to do, Elizabeth thought to herself, was knock herself in the head to rid herself of these plaguing memories from last night. Immediately, she was assailed by the image of herself in Richard's theater box, kissing him frantically, arching up into him. All evening she'd been tormented by that image . . . and by the emotions it invoked within her.

  Why, oh, why couldn't she be repulsed by her act of intimacy with Richard? Why couldn't she think of the way he kissed her and shudder with disgust? Instead of remembering his rejection, she only remembered the passion. Elizabeth groaned softly as she lined her mallet up with the ball. No, she wasn't lucky enough to think of herself as one of many. Instead, whenever she thought of those moments in his arms, she forgot everything that came after the passion and she craved another taste. She found herself longing for more of his caresses, more of his mind-shattering kisses.

  Dear God! Something needed to be done about this, she thought, panicking at her uncontrollable thoughts. She didn't want to give Richard up as a friend, but neither could she become his next conquest. If she gave into her desires, she would be risking . . .

  “Are you ever going to hit the ball, Elizabeth?”

  Startled from her thoughts, Elizabeth instinctively drew back her mallet and hit the ball with all her might, sending it bouncing over the bushes, across nearly the entire expanse of lawn, and into an ornamental pond. Splendid. Just splendid.

  Catherine's gales of laughter did little to improve her mood. Glaring at her sister, Elizabeth stalked over to the pond to fish out her ball.

  “Ohhh, there's John . . . I mean, Lord Wykham,” exclaimed Catherine. “Do you mind if we end this game, Elizabeth? I must speak with Lord Wykham about an urgent matter.”

  “Mind that I am saved from fishing my ball out of this water?” Elizabeth asked dryly. “Not at all.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine called brightly before setting down her mallet and hurrying off toward Lord Wykham.

  Noting the excited expression on her sister's face, Elizabeth wondered if her sister were falling in love with Lord Wykham. Wouldn't that be delightful? Elizabeth thought, if one of them ended up happy.

  Surely their father would relent in his decision that Elizabeth must marry first when he saw how in love Catherine was with the marquess. Then, after Catherine was happily wed, Elizabeth could move back to their country home and live out the remainder of her life in peace without the pressure of trying to conform to society's standards. For it had become fairly obvious that she was destined to fail miserably . . . regardless of how hard she tried.

  Deeply troubled, Elizabeth set down her mallet and went to enjoy some lemonade.

  “So, what did the magistrate say?”

  Holding in a smile, John glanced down at Catherine, who practically danced beside him with anticipation. “Good day to you, too, my lady,” he said calmly.

  “Yes, yes,” she replied impatiently, waving her hands. “Let's dispense with all that polite nonsense for once, so we can move on to more important matters.”

  He lifted a brow. “I happen to consider behaving in a polite fashion
quite important.”

  “John!” she hissed in exasperation.

  He chuckled; he couldn't help himself.

  Narrowing her eyes, she fixed a steady gaze upon him. “You're enjoying tormenting me, aren't you?”

  “Immensely.”

  “I'll wager you wouldn't find it so enjoyable if I told everyone that we left the theater together, the two of us all alone. . . .”

  “Do you want to hear about my meeting with the magistrate or not, my pretty little blackmailer?”

  Her smile held immense satisfaction. “I most certainly do.”

  The clever minx thought she'd outsmarted him . . . and she had, John acknowledged ruefully. She'd known perfectly well that he would have done anything to protect her—even from herself. Afraid their discussion might be overheard by the guests mingling on the lawn, he suggested, “Why don't we try our hands at the garden maze, my lady? I've often heard Lady Atherton speak highly of it.” At Catherine's nod, John tucked her hand onto his arm and directed them toward the large maze.

  Surprisingly enough, Catherine had the good sense to keep silent until they were enveloped in the privacy of the shaped hedges. “Now, tell me of your meeting, John.”

  John. Hearing his name on her lips caused his gut to tighten . . . just as it had last night, when he'd almost made the utterly foolish mistake of kissing her. Thank God they'd been interrupted. For, as enticing as she might be, a lifetime of her antics would drive him mad. And by accompanying her on her adventures, he played a role, willing or not, in compromising her.

  His determination to avoid any more of Catherine's evening escapades was precisely the reason behind his appearance here at the Atherton's lawn party. John already knew Catherine well enough to realize that she would launch herself at him the moment she saw him again to hear about the magistrate he'd spoken to. He allowed himself a smug smile at the accuracy of his prediction.

  By seeing her during the day, he could avoid any more reputation-threatening incidents. Congratulating himself on a well-executed plan, John led them deeper into the maze. After all, it was perfectly acceptable for a couple to enjoy a stroll through a maze, so there wasn't any risk to Catherine's reputation.

  “Are you ever going to tell me about your meeting with the magistrate, or am I going to be forced to call upon him myself?”

  “You would, wouldn't you?” he asked, knowing the answer even as he finished the question. “Don't even bother answering, Catherine, as we both know the answer.”

  She pinched his arm in protest.

  “As I feared, when I spoke to the magistrate, they promised me they'd look into the matter, but informed me that they held little hope of ever finding the perpetrators. Because of their lack of enthusiasm, I engaged the services of a gentleman named Mr. Lewis, who will try to locate the young man we saw abducted. I gave Mr. Lewis as accurate a description as I could, though we were too far away to see them closely enough for a detailed description. I then went to the magistrate and offered them the same information, though they were less hopeful of finding the gentleman. They seemed to feel that perhaps the man had outstanding markers with the wrong sort of people.”

  “That could very well be true,” Catherine conceded. “But what about the lady? Are you trying to find her as well?”

  “No,” he said, confused at her question. “Why would I? She was unharmed.”

  “She won't be if she believes her true love has abandoned her!”

  Catherine's dramatics made him smile. “I assure you, madam, many a lady has had her heart broken and lived to tell the tale.”

  “Quite the sensitive gentleman, aren't you, my lord?” Catherine asked frostily. “Very well, then, I see I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”

  Still wincing over her sarcastic remark, John warily focused in on her declaration. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  “Precisely what I said.” When she tugged her hand off his arm, John ignored the urge to snatch it back again. “I shall begin to make inquiries as to the lady's identity.”

  “Inquiries to whom? The patronesses of Almack's?”

  “Why not?” Catherine retorted, obviously catching the sarcasm in his question. “After all, the mavens of society know everyone who is anyone, so I'm certain they would be a help in identifying the young lady.”

  John shook his head over Catherine's faulty logic. “How can you be so certain that she is a member of polite society?”

  “Her dress was of the finest quality, my lord, which leads me to believe she is indeed a lady,” replied Catherine, tilting her chin up as she gave him a haughty look.

  John poked holes in her argument. “Just because she has excellent fashion sense doesn't make her a lady. Many merchants can afford to clothe their daughters and wives in the finest apparel.”

  “But not every lady wears a gold crest upon the left shoulder of her gown.” Her eyes snapped with annoyance. “If I cannot find anyone within society who can identify the lady, then I shall begin to approach the finest modistes and see if one of them can claim the woman as a patroness.”

  “Do you have any idea how many dressmakers there are on Bond Street alone?” he asked. “It would take you weeks, no, months to question all of them . . . with no guarantee that you would ever find an answer.”

  “If it takes that long, then so be it,” Catherine pronounced as they rounded yet another corner in the maze. “But I cannot forget that some poor woman is out there, thinking that her lover has abandoned her.”

  Good God, the woman was a hopeless romantic! John almost pointed out to Catherine that the lady they saw might have been no more than a well-paid prostitute. Then again, even if he did offer that as an option, John knew that Catherine would reject it out of hand.

  There couldn't possibly be two people more opposite than he and Catherine. With her rose-colored view of the world, she'd seen two people madly in love while he saw two people enjoying a passionate kiss. She'd seen something that only true love could create, while he'd seen something that could be purchased for a few pounds.

  “I'm afraid I cannot allow you to investigate into the matter of the lady's identity.”

  “Allow me?” Catherine burst into laughter. “Who are you, Lord Wykham, to presume you can dictate my actions?”

  “I'm the one who saw how swiftly those men disarmed that young fellow, I'm the one who felt the power behind that thug's fist, and I'm the one who will go to your father if you dare ask one question about the lady's identity.”

  “And tell him what?” she asked, widening her eyes with such blatantly false innocence it almost made him smile. “I'll easily be able to convince him that I have no idea what you're talking about, that I never saw anyone abducted outside the theater.” She brushed her hand slowly down his lapel. “Then I'll finish by saying to my darling Papa that I know it was very wrong of me to kiss you and let you touch me so intimately outside the theater, alone in the park, but you overwhelmed me with your raw passion.”

  With every word she said, John felt his mouth dropping open further and further. Good God! And she'd do it, too, he knew. Snapping his mouth shut, he glared at her. “I never kissed you,” he hissed in pure annoyance.

  “I know that and you know that, but Papa doesn't know that.”

  Her complacent smile snapped his self-control. “Then if I'm to be damned as a sinner, I might as well have a taste of sin,” John rasped.

  He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen with shock when he clasped her shoulders and tugged her against him. Capturing her lips, he boldly explored her mouth . . . and lost himself in her. The taste was sweeter than any he'd known as she accepted his kiss. Needing more, he slid his hands from her shoulders to her back, pressing her nearer, until he could feel every inch of her against him.

  When Catherine suddenly moved, wrapping her arms around his neck, bringing them closer still, John sent his tongue gliding inward to entwine with hers. A soft moan reverberated through Catherine as she tipped he
r head back, deepening the kiss.

  His entire body began to shake with desire as the urge to claim her for his own rose up within him, a hot, needy emotion. As his hand curved around her waist, Catherine suddenly slid her hands onto his chest and pushed him away, breaking off their kiss.

  “What are we thinking?” she gasped, pressing the back of her hand against her lips.

  But that was the whole point. They hadn't been thinking at all, John realized, as his body and inflamed senses began to cool. He felt the blood drain from his face at the thought that he'd allowed his emotions to completely rule him. He had completely lost control.

  Utterly shaken by that thought, John stumbled backward, ignoring the low thrum of desire within him. He shook his head, trying to clear it, unable to answer Catherine.

  “Sometimes I think you're a dreadful stick-in-the-mud,” Catherine said finally. “And you think me an irresponsible, romantic twit.”

  John opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut the next instant. How could he protest when she was right? Still, he had to say something. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he cleared his throat. “I'm sorry I kissed you like that,” he said stiffly. “I allowed myself to get caught up in my frustration and lost control for a moment.”

  “Oh, for Heaven's sake,” Catherine sputtered. “You make it sound as if you were the only one who was at fault. In case it escaped your notice, Lord Wykham, I was kissing you right back.”

  No; it hadn't escaped his notice, John thought, remembering the feel of her mouth moving upon his, her arms threaded around his neck, her fingers toying with his hair. Bloody hell! There he went off again, lost in his thoughts. With this woman, he had absolutely none of his prized control.

  “I propose that we simply forget this ever happened,” Catherine declared firmly.

  Forget it? Not bloody likely. Still, to Catherine, he offered a succinct nod. “Very well, my lady.”

  “Excellent,” she returned in clipped tones. Running her hands over her hair, Catherine drew in a deep breath before spinning on her heel and marching down the maze path. Left with no choice but to follow, John thrust his fingers through his hair to straighten it as best he could.