Will's True Wish

by Grace Burrowes

  Perhaps a special license would be better. A few weeks was plenty of time to find some missing dogs, collect rewards, and arrange a quiet wedding.

  “You are impressive,” Susannah said, when only Will’s breeches remained on his person. “And you are not shy.”

  “But you are both shy and impressive,” Will said, leaning over to blow out all but one candle. “Come here, Susannah.”

  In the near darkness, Susannah heard invitation rather than command in his words, and she complied. Deft male fingers undid her bows—she’d tied each bow loosely, after all—and silk whispered down her arms.

  “The nightgown too?” Will asked.

  “Your breeches first.”

  Will didn’t even undo all the buttons, just a few more on each side, a shove and a step, and there he was. Gracious.

  “I desire you,” he said, his fingers wrapping around a part of him Susannah had felt but not seen previously. “I hope you want me as well, but you can change your mind, Susannah.”

  Susannah stepped closer and kicked Will’s breeches aside. “Are you daft? I’ve wanted you since you first found me in Lady March’s garden, weeping into my handkerchief and despairing of my future. Every time another fellow would come fawning and simpering over my hand after that, I measured him against your example. Was he kind? Was he honest? Was he considerate of a lady’s feelings?”

  Susannah hadn’t even realized what a lodestone Willow Dorning had been for her, until halfway through her first Season, she’d caught a glimpse of him leaning against a marble pillar, watching the dancers twirl past. As stalwart as that pillar, he’d stood in her imagination for the consideration a true gentleman showed others at all times.

  “I have missed you, Willow,” she said, closing the distance and wrapping her arms around his waist. “I have missed you through Seasons, and summers, and sonnets and plays. Take me to bed, for I’ve had enough of missing you.”

  Susannah’s silk nightgown was all that came between them, so Will’s body heat warmed her. When he scooped her up against his chest, she could feel the strength and suppleness in him, the male competence. He set her on the bed gently, and then climbed in right over her.

  “I’ve missed you too,” he said, crouching above her. “I’d see you, looking cool and elegant in the park, or graceful and pretty on the dance floor, and I’d wonder: Is she happy? She looks happy, but also wistful. She’d rather be reading Shakespeare, but I’m glad she’s here, where I can reassure myself that she’s well.”

  Well. A tame, tepid word for the heat building inside Susannah. To know Will had watched for her—watched over her—asking nothing in return, made her heart sing and ache at the same time. She twined a leg over his flank.

  “I want to gobble you up,” she said. “I want to possess you—”

  Will did not gobble, he silenced Susannah with delicate, easy kisses to the corner of her mouth, to her brow, to her chin. She’d seen his patience in action—with the rambunctious Comus and the impatient duke, with her—and knew she was in for a siege.

  Well, so was he.

  Susannah kissed him back, arched against him, drew her toes up his muscular calves, locked her ankles at the small of his back. She wanted his scent on her skin, his passion in her blood.

  And then she got serious, tugging on his ears, gently, easing control away from him. She set up a rhythm with her hips, until Will braced over her, his breath a soft rasp against her cheek.

  “I have no…”

  “You have no prayer of withstanding my determination, Willow Dorning. Stop playing and love me.” For Susannah loved him, had loved him for years as a girl. Now she loved as a woman loves, with heart, mind, soul, and body.

  “I have no sheath,” he muttered. “No goddamned sheath to protect you from conception, to—damn it, Susannah. That feels so good.”

  She’d got hold of him and traced the pad of her third finger around the tip of his member. Delicate touches for delicate flesh.

  “You like that?”

  “Much more of that, and I won’t need a sheath.”

  Will would spend, in other words, and then he’d be finished and want to nap. Susannah’s previous experiences had taught her that simple sequence, so she left off tormenting him.

  “I’ll withdraw,” Will said. “I will die fourteen thousand deaths, but I’m dying fifteen thousand right now. Do you understand what I’m saying, Susannah?”

  He was saying he desired her nearly as desperately as she desired him. “I understand.”

  Susannah left the rest up to Will, because her grasp of intimate activities fell far short of competence, much less confidence. He eased closer, so his arousal teased at Susannah’s damp sex, and at her sanity.

  “Willow, I’m not a—” Ah, God. A firm, short thrust that sent pleasure reverberating through Susannah.

  “If you remind me again that some other fellow had the gall to sample your charms, then disappoint you, I will be cleaning my pistols, Susannah Haddonfield.”

  Willow Dorning was a different creature without his clothes, an entirely more primal and forceful beast, and Susannah gloried in his intimate acquaintance.

  “I’m not a delicate flower,” she said, taking his earlobe between her teeth. “Nor at this moment am I a patient lady.”

  Susannah was no sort of lady at all, she was simply Willow Dorning’s lover, his woman. While he could restrain his passion with endless self-discipline, Susannah wanted no part of such sophistication. Will had shown her how to lure satisfaction closer, how to ignore volition and thought, and follow instinct to pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure.

  Just as Susannah might have bit Will for his measured, maddening lovemaking, he shifted over her, and increased his tempo.

  For a few luminous moments in Will’s arms, Susannah Haddonfield, spinster in training, bluestocking, and literary glutton, was made of pleasure’s fire. The entire firmament glistened dully compared to the sensations shimmering through her, and the rays of the sun were cool when measured against the warmth Will inspired in her heart.

  Susannah lay beneath him, spent, undone, unmoving. “All done, Willow,” she managed. “All done forever. I cannot convey—”

  He moved, the beast, and sensation ricocheted out from where he and Susannah were joined.

  “Not all done,” he growled. “Not nearly. Not by half, not by a quarter. My lady may have as many treats as she pleases.”

  “Again?” Susannah marveled as the sun blossomed anew inside her. “Again, Willow?”

  “And again, and again, and again.”

  * * *

  Will’s balls probably matched his eyes in color, but he’d subject himself to the last two hours all over again, simply to see Susannah Haddonfield stretching naked and replete by the guttering light of the single candle.

  He’d let himself spend, after he’d withdrawn, though a man’s singular pleasure was a vulgar, messy conclusion to the soul-boggling intimacy of becoming Susannah Haddonfield’s lover.

  “Will you nap with me?” Susannah asked, her toes trailing up the side of Will’s calf. She could provoke riots with those toes, convey glee, mischief, passion, determination.

  “I don’t dare nap,” Will said, turning on his side to face her. The bed was wide and comfortable, and somewhere in its vast depths was Susannah’s nightgown. Will fished around with his foot, found a promising hint of silk and embroidery, and snagged it by a hem.

  “Your nightgown,” he said, passing it over.

  Susannah stuffed her garment under the pillow. “My sister Kirsten has recently attached the affections of a clergyman. I hadn’t realized how convenient that will be, for weddings, christenings, and so forth, assuming Daniel remains with the Church.”

  “You are capable of thinking and holding a conversation,” Will said, tracing a finger along Susannah’s lips. “This is unfair. I will be tripping over my own tongue for the next week, but it’s too soon to make wedding plans, my love.”

  Not too soon
to dream, though. Will didn’t begrudge Susannah her dreams.

  “Nonsense,” Susannah said, sitting up. The covers gaped and a tantalizing view of a full, rosy breast flashed in the candlelit shadows.

  Down. Will was sore—oh, happy state—and that meant Susannah was likely sore, and he hadn’t a damned sheath, and—

  “What do you mean ‘nonsense,’ Susannah? My prospects are no better now than they were two hours ago, and while I am hopeful, and strongly motivated to improve those prospects, that will take time.”

  A year, two, possibly more. Fortunately, Susannah was a patient woman—when dressed—and Will was nothing if not tenacious.

  She smoothed a hand over the covers, and Will felt her caresses all over again—on his back, his chest, his hair, his—

  He should get out of the bed and get his sore, weary, not-quite-engaged arse down the maple tree and into the dark, lonely, safe garden. Quimbey’s nephew needed a dog, and might want training services as well. The Duchess of Ambrose might do for Hector, in another month or two, because she was patient and calm.

  Susannah scooted back against the headboard, which caused jiggling in Will’s brainbox and other places. Truly, he was a brother to Sycamore Dorning.

  A litter mate.

  “I can understand why you’re reluctant to send Alexander back to Lady March,” Susannah said, “but we can call on the Earl of Hunterton—you do know his dog’s gone missing?—and you’ll send your brothers to the bear gardens. I’ve been thinking, and if you implied to the right parties that you know of some large dogs that need good homes—”

  Will wanted to cover his ears, but they were probably sore too. “Susannah, I am not pursuing those rewards. My business depends on having a good reputation among the wealthy and titled. The training is but a small part of it, a sort of advertising. The greater income results from breeding collies, but if a peer buys a pet from me, then he’s very likely to buy his collies from me as well. Do you know how many sheep a man like Quimbey owns?”

  Worth Kettering shamelessly discussed his business ventures with Jacaranda, and relied on her instincts as much as his own when it came to investment choices. The female of the species, despite societal platitudes to the contrary, was often more observant and shrewd than the male.

  Susannah was entirely capable of grasping Will’s point.

  “You are convinced somebody is stealing the dogs for profit,” she said, “and that same somebody is well-placed enough to ruin your business. I’m not convinced theft is involved.”

  Will extracted Susannah’s nightgown from her pillow, for she would not give up on this topic.

  Though she might well give up on him. He dropped the nightgown over her head and helped her find the sleeves, then, in defense of his jiggling sanity, he tied a single bow at her throat.

  More fool him, for silk only emphasized what a man longed to again touch and taste and fondle.

  “If the dogs are willingly surrendered, that’s worse,” Will said, shifting to sit beside Susannah. He wanted to cuddle up, his head in her lap, while they dreamed together of a country wedding and large litters of puppies, but that wasn’t to be.

  “Maybe the scheme falls somewhere in between,” Susannah said, slipping an arm around Will’s waist. “The lady of the house, or possibly the dog’s owner, is assured the dog will have a good home, and they want to believe that. No stealing required, only lying. The dogs are bought here in London for a pittance, then sold elsewhere—trained, mature, handsome dogs—for good coin.”

  If Will were not exhausted, if he weren’t muddled, if he hadn’t handled the very silk now lovingly clinging to Susannah’s breasts, he might have kept his thoughts to himself.

  He was exasperated, and needed for Susannah to grasp the magnitude of the quagmire she expected him to leap across.

  “Susannah, the plan you imagine sounds plausible—dogs purchased openly then resold to good homes—but to enact it, whoever is procuring the dogs would need to know where in the hinterlands—a different hinterland for each dog, lest anybody grow suspicious—such dogs are in demand, when most every market town has a few dog breeders. Moreover, this dog-pawning business would need the means to transport large dogs all about the realm, and that is not a cheap or simple proposition.”

  She turned her head and pillowed her cheek on her up-drawn knees. “You would know about that. You’ve brought Georgette up to Town a time or two, haven’t you?”

  “I could not endure Town without her,” Will said. “And the journey from Dorset is tedious, indeed, for even one mastiff won’t fit in the average dog cart. We must alternate having Georgette travel in my brother’s coach, and run beside my horse, stopping frequently to let her into the coach, then to let her back out. Then she decides she doesn’t care to travel in the coach, or traveling in the coach upsets her digestion.”

  “So the stolen dogs haven’t left London,” Susannah said.

  The ensuing silence was accusing, as if the dogs were simply tied outside the nearest posting inn, and all Will had to do was snap his fingers, toss some cheese, collect a few rewards, and recite his wedding vows.

  The reality could be so much worse than that.

  “The dogs are in somebody’s mews,” Will said, “if they haven’t been sold to the pits already. The baiters can pay excellent coin, they’re discreet, and they need a constant supply of big, healthy dogs. Moreover, a man of position and consequence could move easily between the best households and the lowest entertainments. You’re asking me to risk my livelihood, Susannah, rather than assure our future.”

  Perhaps the common sense of his argument was penetrating her enthusiasm for orange blossoms. She sat up and tugged the hem of the coverlet higher. The candle flame flickered, a prelude to guttering, and a reminder that Will should exit the premises sooner rather than later.

  He ought to quit the premises immediately, and prowl the alleys searching for missing dogs with his brothers. He could not claim the rewards, but neither could he live with the knowledge that innocent animals would be sent into violent situations because he’d failed to intervene.

  “That’s what I forgot to tell you,” Susannah said. “Della is likely to refuse Effington’s suit, should he tender a proposal. If your brother Ash was waiting for the lists to clear, his opportunity might be in the offing.”

  Dogs could not speak, could not explain to an owner this baffling behavior or that persistent bad habit. Will had often wrestled with the mysteries of the canine mind, occasionally going so far as to get down on his hands and knees, sniff, and consider the world from a dog’s-eye view.

  These flights on his part were sometimes forays into the ridiculous. Other times, taking a moment to view the world from a canine perspective had illuminated a problem. Georgette had repeatedly moved her puppies from the whelping box because it had been positioned in a draft obvious only when a man sat on the floor next to the box.

  Between one flicker of the candlelight and the next, insight shot through Will, with the stealth and rapidity of instinct.

  “For Della to refuse Effington would be a disaster,” Will said, climbing off the bed. For a moment, he could not remember where he’d put his clothes, then he recalled that Susannah had gathered up his clothing for him.

  “On my vanity stool,” she said. “I thought you disliked Effington.”

  “I dislike him,” Will said, sorting his breeches from the rest of his clothing and pulling them on. “I loathe him, in fact. He cheats at cards, beats his dog, uses his dog to cheat at cards if the talk can be believed, and gossips. Where is my—?”

  He found his shirt and pulled it over his head.

  Susannah plucked at the coverlet, and the quality of the gesture was reminiscent of a cat flicking the very tip of its tail before pouncing.

  “Do you want Della to marry such a paragon?” she asked.

  “Of course not.” Susannah had wanted that very outcome, at least until recently. Will shrugged into his waistcoat rather than remi
nd her of that. “But when Effington realizes his courting has come to naught, he’ll look about for somebody to blame his failure on, and for a means of getting even with the woman who led him a dance.”

  If not the man who intended to wreck the dognapping scheme Effington had very probably set up.

  Susannah pushed the covers aside and slid off the bed, subjecting Will to a glimpse of pale knees and muscular thighs.

  “I warned Della the situation could get messy,” Susannah said, taking Will’s cuff in her hands and accepting a sleeve button from him. She did up his cuffs, left then right, then began on his shirt buttons.

  “Susannah, messy isn’t the half of it.” Will didn’t want to say the words aloud, much less to Susannah, as if speaking them would turn his hunch into a certainty. “Effington is mean, but he’s not stupid. If he can’t have the bride he wants, he’ll not only ruin her chances of a good match, he’ll ruin who or what she cares about.”

  The rest of Will’s suspicions, he kept to himself. A hunch was not proof, a guess was not certainty.

  Susannah tied Will’s cravat in a tidy mathematical. She’d make an attentive and comfortable wife, when she wasn’t loving him witless—except he’d never have the opportunity to marry her if his instincts proved correct.

  “Della will retire to the country at the conclusion of the Season,” Susannah said, patting Will’s cravat. “Or she’ll attend house parties with a grandmamma or auntie. I’ve endured many a house party, and will attend a few more if necessary.”

  The image of Susannah, loose among the ne’er-do-wells and scapegraces who frequented house parties, nearly had Will sinking back onto the bed, but a worse disaster loomed closer at hand.

  “Effington doesn’t like you, Susannah, not that he likes anybody, and he’ll turn on Della like a rabid cur. When she refuses his suit, his only decision will be whether to accuse me or to accuse Ash of stealing the missing dogs. Perhaps he’ll accuse us both and Sycamore too.”

  * * *

  Will tucked in his shirttails and buttoned his waistcoat, and with each article of clothing, he became less Susannah’s lover and more the mannerly gentleman who’d brought her a purple parasol and an apology weeks ago.