The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy)

by Geralyn Dawson

  "But why?" Bewilderment filled Susan's expression. "Where was he, and why didn't he come back to us?"

  "I don't know, but I intend to find out. First, I need to be certain you want me to tell him how to find you. Do I have your permission?"

  Susan nodded. "But I want to go with you, Nick. Now. I want to see him now."

  "Let me approach him first," Nick said, taking his friend's hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. "It's important that I see his reaction."

  "Why?"

  Nick looked from Susan to the children, then back to their mother. "Trust me?"

  "Of course."

  Susan said it so quickly that Sarah knew a twinge of shame—until Nick shot her a smug look, that is. Then she reminded herself that whatever her own failings in the matter of their marriage, Nick was far from blameless. Her fear may have been the major stumbling block between them, but his pride had been a problem, too.

  He could have told her the entire truth about Tom Sheldon and Susan Harris. Sarah still didn't understand why he'd played the hero for Susan without explaining the entire matter to his own wife.

  Once Susan and the children retreated to their townhouse, leaving Sarah and Nick alone in the small park, Sarah posed the question. Nick answered with aplomb. "Ten years ago I was stupid. I expected blind faith from my bride."

  "You still expect that."

  "True. But you know me better now, so it's an educated blind faith."

  The statement was so ridiculous that it startled a laugh from Sarah. Distracted, she was anything but prepared when he leaned over and kissed her.

  The first one was quick and hard, an unconsidered afterthought. But even as he drew back, Nick seemed to reevaluate. He leaned forward once again, a mesmerizing glint in his sapphire eyes. His breath fanned her lips, then he touched her mouth with his and gave her the gift of gentleness.

  Satin-soft and sweet with the taste of Scottish scones, his kiss transported her from the winter-weary park to a world of rainbow colors, where sparkling sunshine heated tropical waters that slowed a woman's blood and caused her to sink into crystalline depths ruled by sensation.

  Sarah's eyes drifted shut and her arms stole up to wrap around his neck. Her limbs felt heavy and pliant, and she was vaguely aware he'd backed her against a tree. She moaned faintly. He hummed a groan in reply, then escalated the intensity of the kiss.

  Now came the passion, the heat. Her lips parted as his tongue swept inside her mouth, stroked and played and plundered. He made her forget her fear, his folly. Forget everything but the hot fire of passion now flowing like lava through her veins.

  Until he fitted his body against hers and she felt the evidence of his need like a hot brand against her skin. The long-buried memory of her mother's voice on a day long ago speared through the haze of pleasure numbing her mind. He has a Rod of Steel. A Rod of Steel.

  In a flash, she was sixteen again and her fear reignited. Sarah's eyes snapped open and she broke the kiss, wrenching her head away. Her heart pounded and her breasts ached and her womb wept with need, and Sarah considered screaming in frustration.

  Nick stepped back, narrowed eyes drilling her, and she felt as if he could see into her soul. She waited for him to mock her, to chastise her. Instead, he simply held out his hand. "Would you accompany me to pay a call on Tom?"

  She blinked. The question was almost as surprising as the kiss. Almost. What happened to his protests about it being too dangerous for her to assist in uncovering the bombing plot? Whatever the reason for his change of heart, she wasn't about to question it. "Yes, Nick, I'd like that."

  "Very well. Let's stop by his rooms on the way home, shall we? Susan has waited for him for ten years, and I'm of the opinion that is long enough. Entirely long enough."

  As he escorted her from the park, her lips still tingling from the force of his kiss, Sarah suspected he was talking about more than Susan Sheldon's wait.

  * * *

  Nick prowled his bedchamber that evening and wondered if a man could die from acute sexual frustration. Probably not, but it could at least make him ill. Especially when the condition was combined with frustration of a general sort, and at the moment, he was filled with that, too.

  Tom Sheldon had disappeared from London a little over a week ago. Nick had learned that disturbing piece of news after speaking with the manager at the Savoy earlier that afternoon, though he'd been reassured to learn that Sheldon had indicated he'd return within two weeks. A subsequent search of his rooms supported the claim. The framed pencil sketch of Susan on the beside table suggested that Tom would, indeed, be pleased to learn the news Nick had to share. Still, Nick could kick himself for not confirming Tom's current whereabouts before sharing the news with Susan. He truly did hate to make her wait.

  Waiting was hell on a man. It made him itchy. What he needed was some good, strenuous exercise.

  What he needed was sex. A long, lusty bout of sex. With Sarah. Strenuous, sensuous sex with Sarah. Now that would put some spring in my step.

  Unfortunately, it wasn't in the cards for that night. Unfortunately, his plans for his wife for that evening would no doubt only increase his frustration.

  But his strategy was sound. He needed to remember that.

  Every part of him needed to remember that.

  With that admonition, Nick entered the sitting room he shared with Sarah. Hie firmness that lingered in his trousers melted away at the sound of feminine giggles coming from his wife's chamber.

  Nick grimaced. He knew that particular noise well. That was the giggle that Aurora and Melanie made when they were up to something and dragging poor Charlotte right into trouble with them. Finding the girls in his wife's room, making that sound, worried Nick more than just a little. Had they pulled Sarah into one of their schemes? Had the Terrible Trio convinced his blushing bride to make it a Fearsome Foursome?

  "That's all I need," Nick grumbled as he rapped lightly on the door in warning, then stuck his head inside. "Is it safe to come in?"

  They sat in the center of her bed, surrounding a tray of sweets and wearing milk mustaches. Nick developed a sudden and severe craving for the dairy product he'd never particularly enjoyed. Had Sarah been alone, he couldn't have resisted the urge to lick it off her.

  She looked adorable, sitting cross-legged on her bed, dressed in a voluminous cotton nightgown that didn't show so much as a hint of skin. The dance of laughter in her eyes faded as he entered the room, and she scooted backward on the bed. Against her pillow. Then she blushed.

  Nick's mood lightened considerably at that. The Pillow Book was obviously doing its work.

  Aurora scrambled down from the bed and greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Hello, Nicholas. We were just off to bed. Weren't we, sisters?"

  "Yes, we were," Melanie agreed. Charlotte only nodded.

  While Nick folded his arms and frowned at the females, Melanie scooted off the bed, then reached for the tray. At the same time, Charlotte handed Sarah a notebook and pencil along with a significant look. Adopting an air of nonchalance, Sarah slipped the notebook beneath her pillow, then busied herself brushing cookie crumbs off the bedclothes.

  Nick's curiosity, already aroused, notched up another inch or ten at the delicious sight of his impish angel of a wife slipping secrets beneath her pillow. "What mischief have you girls been up to?"

  Aurora faced him boldly. Melanie tried to hide a grin, but the twinkle in her eyes gave her away. Charlotte stared over his shoulders. "Charlotte?" he asked the sweet, weakest link.

  For a split second, she met his gaze. Guilt. Now he knew he was in trouble. "Why do I suddenly suspect I'd have been better off sleeping at my club? What have the four of you done?"

  "Oh, don't be silly," Melanie said as she brushed past him. "We've been busy making preparations for Charlotte's engagement ball. We have so much yet to do, but it's going to be such a wonderful event. I suspect that by the time the night is through, this good luck theme will have brought us all good
luck. Don't you, sisters?"

  "I do," said Aurora as she sailed out the door with a wave. "Good night."

  "Um, I agree," said Charlotte as she stood on her tiptoes to give her brother a good-night kiss on the cheek. "See you in the morning, Sarah."

  "Good night, everyone," Sarah called after them. "See you all in the morning."

  Her hint for him to leave was broad and unmistakable. Nick chose to ignore it. Despite the fact that she'd used a napkin to wipe her mouth, he couldn't banish the fantasy of taking a taste of any tiny drops of milk that might have lingered.

  He wanted her with a fierceness that nearly knocked him to his knees. So as she pulled her bedcovers up to her chin like a nervous virgin, Nick couldn't stop himself from shrugging out of his coat and tossing it over the back of the settee in front of the fireplace. Casually, he slipped the studs from his cuffs, tossed them atop the jacket, then rolled up his sleeves as he crossed the room to her bed. "So, Sarah, what's beneath your pillow?"

  The woman went white as the sheet beneath her. She slapped back against her pillow, presenting more challenge than a secret service agent could resist. He slipped his hand behind her.

  She pressed all of her weight against the pillow. "Excuse me, this is not your—"

  He tugged from beneath her not the notepad she undoubtedly expected, but the true object of his search. The Pillow Book. "It's late and we both should be getting to sleep. Shall I read you a bedtime story, Sarah?"

  Her gaze focused on the leather-bound volume in his hand, her eyes wide and swimming with a combination of shock and... was it fascination? "You can't... you're not..."

  Nick simply smiled.

  She groaned and sank farther beneath her covers, the sheet pulled up to her chin. He tugged a chair up next to the bed, sat with the book in his lap, and pulled off his shoes. Then, propping his stocking feet at the foot of the mattress, he settled back against the chair, opened the book, and flipped through the pages to the last entry, the tenth. Some days he found himself inspired to write more than one.

  Had she already read the letter he'd left her tonight, or had she saved it to read right before sleep? He suspected she saved it, but that didn't really matter. His letters were intended to be read over and over again.

  His gaze skimmed over the words written on the page. He frowned slightly, then cleared his voice and began. "My dearest Sarah."

  It's good luck for a bride to jump over a broom before entering her new home.

  Chapter 15

  Sarah squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't watch this. She couldn't believe this was happening, that he was actually reading those words, those secret, stirring words, aloud in his warm whisky voice. And since she had not read from the Pillow Book yet tonight, she didn't know what to expect.

  Maybe he was just teasing. That was it. He would read the first line, just enough to worry her, then he would stop. It was just the sort of dirty trick Nick would like to play. He had to know she'd die of embarrassment, but he wouldn't care. Not Lord Weston. The man was not at all in her good graces at the moment.

  Not since she'd learned from his sisters that she wasn't the only woman her husband had been romancing in a park of late.

  She wondered if Lady Nickel had a Pillow Book, too. If so, Sarah thought she might cosh her husband over the head with hers.

  "My dearest Sarah," he repeated, his voice a low, resonant rumble that skidded across her skin and made her shiver. "Do you realize how much I love to say your name? Sarah. My Sarah. It's a kiss to say. I hold it in my mouth, feel it on my tongue. Your name even tastes special—sweet and spicy, a flavor to crave."

  Oh my. Sarah tried to hold onto her irritation, but she felt it give way to pure panic. He hadn't stopped after the first sentence. He was going to read the whole letter aloud. To her. And she was still flustered from the kiss in the park.

  "I wonder, Sarah, is my name on your sweet, luscious lips also a kiss?"

  She thought she might just burst into flames. Oh, my. She couldn't believe he'd do this.

  "How does it taste?"

  No, that wasn't true. She easily believed he'd do this. Nicholas, Lord Weston, would do anything he darn well pleased, and apparently tormenting her this way pleased him.

  Maybe she'd be lucky. Last night he'd spent his entire letter on the sound of her laugh. If tonight's letter was all about her name, she might not melt away in embarrassment. Maybe, Perhaps.

  "I have an idea. What I hope for, anyway. I want my name to be Rowanclere malt to you. I want it to flow over your tongue smooth and rich and full-bodied. I want it to light a fire deep within you, one that smolders, one that intoxicates."

  It does. Heaven help me, it does. She tried to fight him, struggled to withstand this verbal assault as she waited on tenterhooks to hear what scandalous thing he'd say next.

  Except, he didn't speak. Long, silent seconds ticked by and the blasted man didn't say another word. Finally, unable to abide the wait a moment longer, she opened her eyes.

  He was staring right at her. "I want to taste my name on your lips as you say it."

  Trapped in the power of his gaze, the potency of his words, Sarah melted. She surrendered to the seductive warmth in his words and the knowing heat in his gaze. And as the last vestiges of resistance dissolved, a yearning like she'd never known before filled her. Bone deep and needy, it caught her unprepared. Frightened her.

  She whipped the covers completely over her head.

  He chuckled softly before continuing. "Your lips. I haven't told you this before, but I dream about your lips every night. I've been waiting to tell you, seeking the words. I fear I will never find ones to do them justice. I'm no poet, Sarah."

  No poet? From her perspective, he could have taught Lord Byron a thing or two.

  "I'm but a man with a man's needs and desires."

  Sarah forced herself not to wriggle as she wanted to.

  "I desire to have your mouth on mine. I need to feel the touch of your lips against my body. Everywhere. Long, lingering kisses. Soft, sweet suction. The nip of your teeth. The rough rasp of your tongue against my skin."

  She clenched her teeth again a moan. She thought a whimper just might have slipped out. Soft, sweet suction. Everywhere. Heaven help her.

  Yet she didn't want him to stop. She wanted to listen. Wanted to hear. It was exciting. Stimulating. It was oh, so wicked.

  "So come to me and kiss me, Sarah. Come to me in my sleep, in my dreams. Night dreams. Daydreams. Any dreams. Come to me. Kiss me. Come to me."

  Her mouth was as dry as week-old toast. Her heart pounded as she held her breath, waiting for him to continue, halfway expecting to feel his touch.

  The moment dragged out. The room was silent. Nick was silent.

  Sarah waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally the anticipation grew too much. Stealthily she shifted the sheet and peeked. And blinked. She threw back the sheet and sat up.

  Nick, the blighter, was gone. The Pillow Book lay on the empty seat of the chair. Sarah lunged for the volume and quickly stuffed it beneath her bedding. "Out of sight, out of mind," she told herself firmly.

  She could have saved her breath. Nick's voice echoed through her mind, stirring her. Haunting her. Moments later, she pulled the book out and opened it. She wanted—no, she needed—to read this latest letter for herself. Maybe if she filled her eyes with the written word, she'd be able to banish the sound of his voice from her head.

  She flipped to the last entry in the book and skimmed the first paragraph, expecting to read about her name. Instead, she blinked. Her mouth dropped open in shock.

  Dearest Sarah,

  Last night I dreamed of your breasts.

  She dropped the book as if it had burned her and crossed her arms over her breasts. This was not the letter he'd just read. This wasn't about her name or his name.

  Nick had written about her bosom.

  "Oh my heavens." She covered her mouth with her fingertips. Where was the other letter? Had he c
omposed it in front of her?

  I need to feel the touch of your lips. Come to me. Kiss me.

  That's what he'd said. He'd written something else.

  She felt the flush steal up her cheeks as her gaze stole to the Pillow Book. One particular sentence rose from the page like a beacon.

  I want to take the rosy tip into my mouth and suckle it.

  Vaguely Sarah heard herself moan. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't think. It was as if her mind had frozen, which was quite a paradox since her bedchamber had suddenly grown so hot.

  She fanned herself with both hands as she stared down at the book. Once again, she heard the echo of his voice in her thoughts. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.

  Her hand darted out and flipped the Pillow Book shut in an attempt to quiet him. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me. Her pulse thrummed. Her breath came in shallow pants.

  Her breasts ached.

  "What are you doing to me, Nick?"

  The answer came as clearly as if he had spoken it. I'm seducing you.

  Sarah groaned, closed her eyes, and sank back onto her pillow. Seduction. Nick. Nick and seduction. Never mind that he had another woman on the string. Never mind that relations between them would ruin the possibility of annulment. Never mind that it would change her entire life. He wasn't letting the idea go away. Seduction. Nick. Sex.

  Wasn't it just her bad luck that for the first time in memory, Sarah wondered if she could bear giving sex a try.

  * * *

  Nick was lost in a steamily erotic dream when the cold bite of steel against his neck rudely yanked him from his slumber. "Sarah?" he asked groggily.

  A rough male voice replied, "It says something about a man that his first thought upon realizing there's a knife at his neck is that a woman must be holding it."

  Nick's thoughts cleared in an instant, and he tried to place the voice. It sounded faintly familiar, and he'd made plenty of enemies over the years. Who would be brazen enough, motivated enough, to break into the Marquess of Weston's home to assault him in his own bed?