The Wallflower’s Wild Wedding (The Wallflower Wins Book 3)

by Eva Devon

  He could no longer resist them.

  He bent and claimed one of her rosy nipples with his mouth, simultaneously sliding his fingers between her thighs, seeking out the center of her desire.

  Slick heat met his touch, and he swirled his tongue over her nipple, eager to do the same thing to her soft folds.

  When he found the hot, wet spot just to the left that was eager for his touch, he circled his fingers and she gasped, arching against him.

  Satisfaction pooled through him, and he did not relent as he stroked her again and again.

  Cries of pleasure slipped past her lips. And when he felt her reach her peak, he claimed her mouth again with his own.

  His cock throbbed as she took her pleasure, aching to be within her body.

  He was desperate to take her, but he waited until she crested, her cheeks flushing.

  Eloise struggled for breath. “And y-you?”

  “Do you wish it?” he asked, his voice ragged. He prayed she did, but he wouldn’t push. This was for her.

  Or at least, that was what he was desperate to convince himself.

  “I wish it,” she whispered.

  He lowered his forehead to hers, feeling at one with her. . .

  The moment washed over him, and he swallowed back a wave of alarm. No, it was the perfect desire between them, he felt. Nothing else.

  Carefully, he parted her thighs and rocked his hips between them.

  “This may hurt,” he warned.

  “I am prepared,” she announced, her hands pressed to the bed.

  He loved that about her. Her no-nonsense attitude towards the unknown. Her determination to seek adventure.

  He slid the head of his cock along her slick folds again and again until she moaned and arched against him once more.

  “Please, St. John. I want you,” she cried out, wrapping her arms about him.

  At that call, he thrust forward, easing his cock into her tight sheath.

  He hissed at the sheer pleasure.

  She tensed but suddenly asked, “Are you hurt, St. John?”

  “No,” he groaned, trying to pace himself; she felt so perfect.

  “You sound in pain,” she said, her own voice breathy as she wiggled, attempting to adjust to him. “It no longer hurts me. Does it you?”

  “It is pleasure,” he gritted. “But I do not wish to hurt you.”

  “Do not be afraid,” she urged. “I am strong.”

  The power of her words overcame him. She was not concerned for herself but for him, and the strange tenderness of it was his undoing.

  He thrust again and again, deep into her core, and she sighed with the pleasure of it.

  “St. John!” She gasped.

  Just when he was certain he could endure no more of the wild, pure pleasure, he stroked between the apex of her thighs, and she grabbed onto him.

  Her sheath rippled around him, tightening, and he could bear it no longer.

  He thrust deep one last time then pulled quickly from her body, letting his seed spill into his hand. The intensity of the pleasure stole almost every thought. Every caution. But he clung to this single thread of reason. He must protect her.

  She lay upon the bed, as spent as he.

  He sucked in breath after breath. He had almost spilled inside her. A near disaster. For he would not risk getting her with child when such a thing would intercept her dream’s fruition.

  He carefully cleaned his hand on the linen towel beside his bed, rolled back to her, and pulled her into his arms.

  Nothing was going to stand in the way of her dreams. Especially not himself.

  Chapter 14

  Eloise sprawled across the great bed, savoring the feel of the man beside her, marveling at the world.

  Everything felt bathed in a golden hue, and she smiled. Her entire life had been so small, and now it seemed as if the globe had opened itself and introduced her to all the pleasures of this world.

  Oh, how she adored it!

  She let out a happy giggle. A giggle!

  She had never done such a thing in her entire life.

  A soft low sound of pleasure emanated from her lover.

  “Happy, are you?” he asked, giving her the most wicked and satisfied look she’d ever seen on a man.

  “Extremely happy, St. John,” she agreed, stretching. “I cannot say how much.”

  With that, she sat up, her curls spilling over her shoulders.

  “Now,” she declared, “I must prepare myself. I have a great deal to do today.”

  “So, you do.” Gently, he stroked her naked back then kissed the curve of her waist. “I long to keep you in this bed. But that would be terribly done of me.”

  She bit her lower lip at the feel of his lips upon her waist. Goodness, he knew what he was about with that mouth.

  “What shall you do while I am at the opera today?” she asked, doing her best to make her thoughts even. “Will you be joining us?”

  “Not today,” he said. “I have a great many things I must do as well.”

  She tensed. “You won’t be accompanying me?”

  “No, my darling,” he said. “I shall see you later in the day, but you can do this. You are capable and strong and do not need me. You are quite powerful on your own. But if you would like me to go, of course I shall.”

  “No, no,” she replied, thrilled by his confidence in her. “I understand.”

  “Good,” he said, raising himself up. He took her mouth in a soft kiss.

  When he drew back, before she could succumb and throw herself back upon the bed, she swept her legs over the side, picked her robe up off the floor, and pulled it onto her shoulders.

  He, too, swung out of the bed, his beautiful naked frame completely unclothed, as he confidently crossed the room. Nonchalant, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be nude, he pulled on the bellpull.

  “In just a few moments,” he said, “coffee and toast shall arrive.” He waggled his brows. “Fortification for you to begin your life as a singer.”

  That thought was the only thing that could compete with the beauty of his hard body.

  She smiled. “I cannot believe it. But you know, I think from the moment I was born, I was destined to do it. Do you believe in such things?”

  He crossed to her and took her in his arms. His whiskey-hued hair, wild about his angular face. “I do,” he said. “And I cannot wait to see it come to fruition.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed, pressing her body into his, amazed that she could. Amazed that they had given into each other and the bliss it provided. “Thank you for giving me my dreams.”

  “My darling,” he said. “I did not give them to you. You did this. I merely facilitated it.”

  But then she hesitated. “Who has facilitated your dreams?”

  His face grew taut. “I, myself,” he said. “No one else is needed.”

  With that, he pulled slowly back then turned from her. Quietly, he went to his green dressing gown and pulled it on over his broad shoulders.

  He winked at her with bravado. “Not another worry about it, Eloise. I do not need to be taken care of.”

  She wondered, though.

  Perhaps he needed it most of all.

  He was so quick to assure her he did not need to be taken care of. But she found that, sometimes, when people asserted such independence, they were the ones who needed it the most.

  Still, she would not push him.

  She knew such a thing was unwise.

  He was a strange fellow. So gregarious, so willing to help others. So full of passion for life, yet unwilling to allow others to help him. She could see it.

  Even so, she gave him a smile.

  He smiled back, a slow burn of a smile.

  A smile meant to assure her there was not a trouble in his world.

  And she knew, in her heart of hearts, that smile was a lie.

  Chapter 15

  St. John sprawled back in the brass-studded leather chair before the c
rackling fire in the Odysseus room of his club.

  The day had been one long slog through bills to be put through Parliament, documents to be signed for the betterment of his tenants, and petitions heard.

  Soon, he would go over the new designs for several backdrops for his theater. He could not wait to put on the next production of Mozart.

  And soon, the playwright Sheridan would have a piece to put up as well.

  Though he gave his artists a great deal of free rein, he always oversaw as much as his time allowed, for it was the passion of his life.

  Hours and hours of debating things with Mr. Fawkes often proved most entertaining and sometimes perplexing. Fawkes did often try to put live animals, and once had even suggested an elephant, upon the opera stage.

  St. John wished people to watch the singers. He did not think it was necessary to distract them with too much spectacle.

  He felt the singers were most glorious alone.

  Dancers, of course, were quite the thing in rich costume.

  But one did not need to have live, performing animals to entertain the audience.

  As he considered that Eloise would soon grace the stage, his thoughts drifted to what it would be like when all of London adored her.

  She would no longer be just his, but beloved by thousands. He was certain.

  Just as he was about to request a brandy, the Duke of Stanley threw himself down in the chair opposite of St. John.

  The black-haired lord grabbed a brandy snifter and raised it high, beckoning for one of the stewards in the club to fill it.

  “Good God, Stanley,” St. John said, irritated that his reverie had been broken, even by a friend. “Do you find you can just sit wherever you please?”

  Stanley arched his sooty brow. “Of course I do. I’m a duke. I can do whatever I damn well please.”

  St. John laughed at his friend’s accurate boast. “I was sitting in good silence, and now, talkative fellow that you are, I’m certain my solitude is done.”

  Stanley leaned forward, amused. “Do you insult me, sir?”

  “Never, sir,” returned St. John. “You are always good company. But I confess, I am not in the mood for light discourse.” St. John pointed to Stanley’s ridiculously handsome face. “I can see it upon your visage. You are here to discern whatever is in my head. I do not wish my problems to be uncovered at this particular moment.”

  “Problems?” Stanley mocked lightly, taking a good swallow of his brandy. “You have problems? That’s not what I have overheard.” His lips quirked in a knowing grin. “I have heard you have an angel divine in your presence. At night, that is. You’ve a new mistress, man? Last you informed me, you’d given them up!”

  St. John groaned. “Oh, God, the gossips have been at you, have they?”

  “Indeed, they have,” Stanley agreed with a dramatic sigh. “Now you’re going to share her with the world, aren’t you? When will we be exposed to the divine opera singer?”

  St. John longed to deny knowledge of her whereabouts with every fiber of his being, but he could not.

  If he did so, it would be the greatest disservice to Eloise. After all, she was the most divine prima donna soon to be discovered, and to not profess it to all and company would be a sin. A jealous sin.

  And he never allowed himself the flaw of jealousy.

  No, if he was to be on her side, assisting her career, he needed to declare to everyone that she would soon be unleashed upon the city.

  “Stanley,” he said firmly. “She is touched by the gods. Anyone who is lucky enough to hear her is themselves touched by the gods. They are lifted to another plane. Her music is without parallel.”

  Stanley stared at him, agog. “You are besotted.”

  “Ridiculous,” St. John snapped.

  “No one can be so talented, can they?” Countered the duke. “Or is it a siren, who has hooked you into her thrall?”

  “She is not a siren,” St. John snapped again.

  The duke waved for more brandy and raised his hand, gesturing for a glass to be brought to his friend. As their glasses arrived on an attendant’s tray, Stanley sprawled back in his chair. “That’s not what I heard. I heard she’s divine in company as well as in her voice.”

  “She’s not beautiful,” St. John said then winced. What a foolish thing to say. Eloise was more than beautiful.

  “She’s not?” Stanley asked, surprised.

  St. John sighed, trying to understand what he felt about Eloise. “There’s something about her. Something beyond mortal ken.”

  Stanley nodded, lips pursed, and he pressed a hand to his perfectly starched black-silk cravat. He cleared his throat. “Beyond mortal ken?” the duke repeated. “Alas, my friend, I can see you are in love.”

  St. John straightened in his chair, sputtering on his brandy. “How could I be in love with her? I’ve known her but a few days.”

  “A few days?” Stanley echoed. “I thought you discovered her in the country.”

  Damnation! Had his affair with Eloise rotted his brain? He was a master at discretion. And he’d just gone and put his foot in it.

  “No, no, I misspeak,” St. John rushed.

  Stanley narrowed his eyes. “I think I’ve caught you in some sort of trap, old boy. Are you lying about the young lady? Is she not who she says she is?” Stanley stroked his jaw. “Is she the bastard child of some nobleman, or some such?”

  “Stanley,” St. John gritted. “You have been reading too many novels.”

  Stanley laughed, palming his crystal snifter. “One cannot read too many novels. Besides, one does not need to read novels to come to such a summation. One simply needs to know their history. And I know a great deal about it. My own family tree is full of bastards of the most interesting origin and capability. I have at least three brothers who are not born on the correct side of the bed. All of them are politicians, or artists, or writers, and they have influenced this country at any particular moment. Why should not a young lady be born on the wrong side of the sheets and find herself at the center of the art world?”

  St. John groaned inwardly.

  The man’s family was infamous.

  He knew too well about how the human spirit lent itself to adventure.

  Yes, Stanley was far too close for comfort.

  Eloise was not born on the wrong side of any sort of sheets, but she certainly was of their class. “Cease, Stanley. You shall not get it out of me.”

  “I think I shall,” Stanley warned playfully, smoothing down his embroidered black waistcoat. He let out a deep rumble of a laugh. “Indeed, you are in love with the young lady. There is no denying it. I have never seen you so out of sorts.”

  After a beat, Stanley nodded. “It’s delightful.”

  “I am not capable of silly things like love,” St. John growled, determined to steer the conversation away from his feelings for Eloise.

  “We all are,” Stanley drawled, lifting his glass.

  “Not you,” St. John reminded. “You shall never love, shall you, Stanley? You’ve declared it upon multiple occasions.”

  Instantly, he regretted his low attempt to divert his friend from Eloise. It was a mistake.

  Stanley’s face turned to stone in an instant. “That is because I have known a love too great once. I shall never betray that dear love with something so trite as another one. It’s not possible to have two great loves in this life.”

  Stanley downed the rest of his brandy, his joviality gone, and this time, he did not wait for an attendant to give him a drink. Stanley stood and grabbed a decanter from a nearby mahogany table. He drank directly from it.

  But then he forced a smile. “You shall not dissuade me. My dear friend is in love with an opera singer. Hardly the type you marry. But when you’re as important as we are, old boy? Do what you wish.”

  Marriage? To Eloise?

  It had never even occurred to him.

  Still, St. John longed to retreat from the subject of marriage. He knew that if he we
nt down that road, Stanley might grow prickly and cold.

  Such conversations had, in the past, resulted in the duke tossing himself into a sea of gin.

  Stanley was a remarkably capable man, but when he thought of his first love, who had died most tragically? Well, the duke did retreat into darkness.

  It had been most foolish of him to attack so unkindly. “Forgive me, old boy,” St. John said. “You’re absolutely right. This opera singer has done things to me that no lady has before. And I am at a loss.”

  Honesty was the only course with his friend so wounded.

  “Of course, of course,” Stanley assured even as he took a long drink of brandy, the decanter sloshing indecorously. “I knew I had poked a particularly sensitive nerve. Whatever shall society think?”

  St. John snorted. “Society can go to the devil.”

  “Society already has gone to the devil,” Stanley said. “So you should marry her.”

  “No,” St. John growled.

  “Vulgar, is she?”

  “She is not vulgar,” St. John roared, which caused half the club to turn from their port and stare.

  “You are in love with her,” Stanley crowed.

  “Cease,” St. John demanded with mock horror, though he did feel horror and prayed Stanley would stop his line. “I beg of you.”

  Stanley looked triumphant.

  Hollybrook swallowed his brandy. “You’re going to make me leave this perfectly comfortable chair in which I was resting before you came along, aren’t you?”

  “You were not resting,” Stanley corrected. “You were ruminating. Whatever were you thinking about?”

  “If you must know, I was thinking about the fact that she is going to win London over and that she’ll leave me, and that I shall have to be glad of it. She can’t be my mistress forever, now, can she?”

  “Why not?” Stanley asked then intoned, “Marry her, and she can never leave you.”

  “She won’t wish to give up her freedom.” And he wouldn’t wish her to. Would he? Certainly not.

  “She’d be the wife of an earl. And you don’t have to demand she give up the stage.”

  He’d never demand she give up the one thing she’d always wanted.

  Marriage.