His wedding couldn’t come soon enough. Once he’d had Miss Wentworth, the froth would be off the beer. The bloom would be off the rose. He’d be satiated and satisfied, and this unbearable longing would be over and done.
Miss Wentworth came tripping into the room wearing a robin’s-egg-blue evening gown, a smile on her face that revealed bewitching twin dimples, her wide-spaced blue eyes open and unguarded behind the ridiculous spectacles perched on her upturned nose, and said, “Good evening, Your Grace.”
His heart jumped. And then pounded hard in his chest, as though he’d been running in place the fifteen minutes he’d been waiting for her. His body sprang to agonizing life, reminding him that he was no more than a savage beast, determined to mate with the most alluring of its kind. He felt a flare of embarrassing heat in his chest and neck and prayed it wouldn’t spread to his cheeks, where his grandmother could see and remark upon it later. He had to clear his throat to reply, “Good evening, Miss Wentworth. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes. I’ve never been to the theater.”
“Never been?” the dowager interjected. “Why not?”
Miss Wentworth looked flustered for a moment before she said, “I mean, not in London. Of course I’ve been to the theater in America.”
Blackthorne realized he had no idea how long his fiancée had been in England, or even why she’d come here in the first place. The subject had never come up. Maybe he should ask a few more questions of his bride, before they were tied together for the rest of their lives.
But he was in no hurry to discover her secrets. From the moment Miss Wentworth had taken his large hand in her small one and dragged him out into the street to unharness some carter’s nag, he’d known there was something about her that was out of the ordinary, something about her he wanted to examine at greater depth, something that might take him a lifetime to uncover.
He’d seen and spoken to a great many prospective brides. The moment she’d lifted her chin and met his gaze from behind her gold-rimmed spectacles, bringing him up short for failing to offer her a proper proposal he’d known: This is the one.
Marrying someone was a financial necessity. He was glad he’d found a woman, just in the nick of time, who he thought might suit him. It was galling to admit that he was beginning to crave having her in his bed.
He held out his arm for her to take. “Shall we go?”
She curtsied to the dowager and said, “Good night, Your Grace.”
“Don’t be late,” the dowager said, pinning him with a stare that made him feel like a gauche boy.
He shot her a quizzical look, wondering why she’d considered the admonition necessary. He had no intention of spending any more time with Miss Wentworth than it took to drive to the theater, see the play—something by Sheridan or Shakespeare, he wasn’t sure which—and return her to the dowager’s townhome. Since he was a grown man, not a ten-year-old child, he didn’t see the need to explain or excuse whatever he decided to do during his evening with his intended bride. So he said nothing, as he escorted his fiancée from the room.
Miss Wentworth sighed with pleasure, as she settled into the seat of the ducal carriage and ran her fingertips over the plush blue velvet. He felt his whole body tense, as he imagined her hands roaming his flesh with that same sound of satisfaction. He bit back a groan, as he seated himself on the luxurious seat opposite her.
The silence in the carriage soon became uncomfortable. Not to mention rife with sexual tension, at least on his part. “Why did you come to England?” he asked at last.
“My being here is more accidental than intentional,” she replied.
He waited for an explanation, and when none was forthcoming said, “Accidental?”
“I began traveling with my sisters, but we ended up going in different directions. I landed in England.”
Her answer told him little and left him with a dozen questions. “Tell me about your family.”
“I have three older sisters and two younger brothers scattered across the American West. My sisters are all married. My brothers live with my eldest sister. I miss them all terribly. Why don’t your unmarried sisters live with you?”
“My sisters required a female to teach them everything they needed to know to get along in the wider world. With my mother gone, that person became my grandmother.”
“Why not have your grandmother come live with the three of you, rather than sending them off to live with her?”
He frowned, unsure what she meant. “My grandmother prefers to have a home of her own. My sisters love Grandmama, and it keeps her young to have the two girls underfoot. Besides, I’ve always been there for my family whenever they needed me.”
“Don’t you miss seeing them every day?”
Was that blame he heard in her voice? Rebuke? Censure? How dare she! Did she know who he was? What he was?
He bit the inside of his cheek to cut off the critical words that sought voice. This girl—woman, he corrected himself—was very shortly going to be his wife. There was no sense getting off on the wrong foot with her. Instead of speaking, he forced himself to consider what she’d said.
Had he missed his sisters while they were growing up? Perhaps. A little. But he’d been too wrapped up in grieving Fanny’s death, and in wild behavior when he’d realized all was lost, to think of anyone else but himself for the past year. He hadn’t considered—until this moment—how selfish that behavior was. He’d shifted the burden of his sisters’ upbringing to his grandmother, and he’d delegated his nephews’ care to the governess in whose charge they’d been left. What kind of man did that make him?
He looked resentfully at the woman sitting opposite him. Where did she get the audacity, the effrontery to confront him about his behavior? He had no intention of letting his wife dictate right and wrong to him, any more than he allowed anyone in his life to dictate anything to him. Just who in bloody hell did she think she was?
Miss Wentworth looked at him with her head tilted like an inquisitive bird, her eyes shining in the softly lit interior of the carriage, her full lips inviting his kiss.
He bit back an oath at the carnal direction his thoughts had suddenly taken. Was Miss Wentworth to be excused of every insult to his character and person because he wanted her body?
Fortunately, at that moment, they arrived at the theater, and he was neither required to answer nor allowed the opportunity to give the scathing reply that had come to mind.
Miss Wentworth was enthralled by the play. It was one of Shakespeare’s comedies, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She confessed to having read the play, but she’d never seen it performed. She was fizzing with excitement during the interlude, like an exploding bottle of champagne.
“The performance is wonderful! Are the actors always this good?”
He found her enthusiasm contagious. “I don’t know how they usually perform. I don’t often come to the theater.”
“Oh!” She put a gloved hand to her mouth in shock. “Why not? How can you resist? I would come all the time, if I could.”
She looked up at him hopefully, as though seeking his concurrence in returning to the theater sometime soon. In fact, he’d rarely come because Fanny wasn’t interested in the theater, and he had other, much better uses for the ladybirds he’d spent time with after her death. “We’ll see,” he said at last.
She didn’t beg or plead with him. She merely got a certain look on her face that told him she would be back here—with or without him.
Blackthorne was jolted by the thought that Miss Wentworth didn’t just have opinions about zoo animals. She had opinions about the theater. And about his behavior toward his sisters and grandmother. She not only had a great many opinions, she seemed entirely willing to share them. She might not have a royal title—yet—but she seemed to have definite ideas about what she wanted and no compunction about telling him.
Fanny had left all the decision making to him. Except for concealing her illness, he couldn’t think of any choices
she’d made without consulting him, and she’d always deferred to his judgment. How difficult was it going to be to get along with someone, day in and day out, whose opinion he was expected to consider before choosing a course of action?
And Fanny had never, ever been critical. Miss Wentworth had already suggested he was a self-centered son of a bitch. She hadn’t said those precise words, but he’d understood what she’d meant, right enough. He couldn’t change what he’d done in the past. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to change his behavior in the future.
Neither his sisters nor his grandmother had complained about their living situation. So why was he feeling so guilty? What was it about Miss Wentworth that had him reconsidering his conduct? She was marrying a royal duke, a peer at the very top of the realm, with no one except the king himself to call him to account. He’d be damned if he was going to let some barely-out-of-the-schoolroom American girl shame him into changing his behavior.
He didn’t say another word to her, determined to show her his displeasure.
When the performance was done, she chattered on effusively about the play, seemingly unaware of his continuing silence. Which made him wonder if he was always this surly, so she simply expected this sort of behavior from him. He found her lively face beguiling. He found her busy hands, which she used to demonstrate her points, fascinating. He found her lips, as she chided him, entrancing.
His body surged to exhilarating life. Even as he sat there angry and unyielding, he yearned to taste and to touch. And he could hardly wait for the day—and night—of his wedding.
JOSIE’S WHOLE BODY was trembling, and she couldn’t get it to stop. St. George’s was impressive enough to make her feel overwhelmed, but not since she’d been a captive among the Sioux had she felt so frightened and alone.
In the Sioux village, although she’d fought to live, she’d known her likely fate was death. The brutal whipping had been excruciating, but she’d known there would be an end to it. But once she’d spoken vows with Marcus St. John Wharton, Eighth Duke of Blackthorne, she would be tied for the rest of her life to a man who’d both attracted her with his looks and repelled her by his selfish behavior.
Josie was grateful for the presence of the two girls standing to her left, but it simply wasn’t the same as having her own family there to support her. She’d been separated from her sisters and brothers for two interminable years, and now she was committing to even more time in England—enough to establish her right to take Spencer and Clay with her when she finally returned to America.
Knowing she intended to leave Blackthorne as soon as the opportunity arose to grab his nephews and run, made what she was about to do even more of a travesty. Which might be the source of the terrible tremors making her shake like a leaf in a storm.
Blackthorne hadn’t indicated by so much as a glance in her direction that he’d noticed her difficulty. He’d merely taken a firm grip on her hand early in the ceremony and hadn’t let go. Which could be interpreted as an effort to provide comfort…or a desire to keep the golden goose from taking wild flight.
Blackthorne gently squeezed her hand, and she realized the cleric must have asked her a question requiring a response. Josie fought back panic as she replied in a whispery voice, “I will?”
The bishop shot a look at the duke, then cleared his throat, before frowning down at her.
Josie realized she’d phrased her response as a question and quickly said, in a stronger voice, “I will.”
She heard the bishop’s voice again, and then Blackthorne replying in his rich baritone, “I will.”
She had no ring for her husband, but to her amazement, the duke removed her glove and slid a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. Josie’s eyes went wide at the sight of the enormous, square-cut ruby. She was even more amazed that the ring fit so well, and suddenly realized that she now had an explanation for Blackthorne’s strange caress of her hand after the pre-wedding dinner for close friends hosted by his grandmother last night, one of the few times in his company when she’d been without gloves. He’d been estimating her ring size! He must have employed some jeweler to work through the night, because the ring slid onto her finger as though it had been made for her.
Josie gazed in dismay at her hand, where the ruby sat like a horrific weight on her guilty soul. She would have to leave behind this ring, which was obviously some kind of family heirloom, when she left her husband. She couldn’t begin to imagine its value. It must also have a great deal of personal meaning, if he’d hung on to it through all his financial difficulties. Then she looked up and met Blackthorne’s gaze.
She hadn’t expected concern. Or kindness. Which only made the knot in her throat tighten further. She turned her gaze back to the bishop, who was making the sign of the cross, she presumed to signal the end of the formal ceremony.
“Josie.”
The unexpected use of her nickname by the duke, in that soft, coaxing voice she recognized from the ship, startled her into looking at him. That soft voice might as well have been the screech of a mountain lion, freezing her in place for the kill, because she couldn’t move, couldn’t gasp, couldn’t do anything except stare at him, mesmerized.
He bent slowly, giving her time to turn her face away. But Josie was entranced, not quite believing what was about to happen. She was going to be kissed. For the very first time. By the duke. On the mouth.
Her eyes slid closed, and she felt his grip on her hands tighten, as she waited breathlessly—her lips pursed as she’d practiced in the mirror at the orphanage, when none of her sisters were looking and could laugh at her—for their mouths to meet.
She waited, but his lips never reached hers. She opened her eyes to peek at him, to see what was taking so long, and saw a slight furrow between his brows, before his head began moving downward again. She quickly closed her eyes, waiting for something she wanted to be wonderful—and feared would miss the mark.
Josie hadn’t met anyone, other than the duke, whom she’d wanted to have kiss her, although Miss Birch’s fourteen-year-old son had tried often enough. Josie had been quick enough on her feet to escape Freddy’s grasp, and then had cleverly adopted the practice of wearing spectacles—with clear glass—to dissuade him from pursuing her. It had worked. Sadly, all the reading she’d done by candlelight and firelight over the past few years now made spectacles a necessity.
She wondered if her glasses would be in the way when the duke kissed her.
Josie was so busy reminiscing that she was caught off-guard when Blackthorne’s lips brushed softly against hers. She felt a definite tingle all the way to her toes and found herself leaning toward him, not wanting the kiss to end. She heard him take a hitching breath, as his mouth closed over hers once more.
Josie felt his tongue pressing between her lips and jerked backward, staring up at him in shock, as her hand, the one heavy with the weight of his ring, came up to touch her lips. A belated quiver ran through her, as her body reacted to the duke’s sexual provocation.
She saw color rise on Blackthorne’s cheeks and wondered whether he’d felt anything like what had just happened to her, or whether he was embarrassed that she’d turned away, when he’d tried that thing he’d done with his tongue. She decided it must be something married people did and wished now that she’d let him finish what he’d started.
Josie opened her mouth to apologize and closed it again. Saying anything at this point would only make the situation worse. They had a whole day to get through before the wedding night, including a wedding breakfast—which was really lunch—hosted by the dowager at the duke’s residence, where Josie would be introduced to a wider group of Blackthorne’s friends.
Josie wanted a wedding night, but that had meant finding a way to successfully conceal her scarred back from her husband. She was glad for the one week delay of the wedding, because it had taken all that time to come up with something she thought might work. She didn’t want Blackthorne to feel her scars, because she didn’t want to giv
e the duke any warning that she had a grudge against him, before she’d punished him for everything he’d done to both her and his brother’s sons. He would have the rest of his life to consider his selfish actions once they were gone.
A moment later she was whirled around by the shoulders and hugged by Lark.
“Welcome to the family,” Lark said, smiling broadly.
Lark let go so Lindsey could hug Josie, and they both said, almost in unison, “It’s going to be wonderful having another sister!”
“Thank you,” Josie replied, grateful for the reprieve from Blackthorne’s attentions and tittering like an idiot with nervous laughter at their enthusiasm. “I’m looking forward to having two more sisters.”
Blackthorne, meanwhile, was being congratulated by his best friend. Josie liked the Earl of Seaton, who’d told her to call him Seaton, since all his friends did. “Blackthorne and I were brothers-in-law for a short while, but we’ve been best friends forever. I’m hoping you and I can be friends, too.”
Seaton was a few inches shorter than the duke, slender, with chocolate-brown hair and grass-green eyes. No wonder one of the twins is attracted to him, Josie thought. Which led her to wonder if Seaton’s sister, Blackthorne’s first wife, had possessed equally good looks. She felt a sudden spurt of jealousy and realized she was being ridiculous, since Fanny had been dead and buried for a year.
When she shot a surreptitious glance at the duke, his eyes looked bleak, making her wonder if the fact that he was still mourning his first wife’s loss might have added to his willingness to enter a loveless marriage of convenience.
“Josie, you’re not listening!”
Josie felt her cheeks being framed by one of the twin’s hands and reached up to gently remove them. “I guess I was woolgathering.”
“About what, I wonder?” Lark said with a cheeky grin.
Josie wasn’t about to answer that question. She smiled and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know!”
Both twins laughed, and Josie lowered her gaze demurely, as though they were right in their gleeful assumption that she was already anticipating her wedding night.
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