He would work to keep Sparkler's afloat. He would train hard, win the Fancy's Championship. He would prove to everyone—himself included—that he wasn't an imposter, but the genuine article. A winner in every respect.
The doors parted, and Paul's breathing hitched. Not from panic this time, but ... wonder.
Christ above, what had happened to Charity?
A collective murmur rose from the audience as she entered the room. He blinked, yet the enchanted creature did not vanish, though she seemed fully capable of doing so being made of moonbeams and flowers, her eyes sparkling with all the shades of magic. This nymph of forest and stream ambled toward him, her lustrous, wavy hair threaded with gilded leaves, her complexion as dewy as a snowdrop at dawn. Her gown swirled with gentle sensuality around her sylph-like form, and his heart began to drum in a wild, primitive rhythm.
Was this truly his bride?
She arrived at his side. "Hello, Mr. Fines."
At her greeting, tinged with the sweetest uncertainty, he knew that she was his Charity. For all that he'd been fascinated and aroused by her hidden depths, he'd never envisioned her quite like this. It wasn't a transformation, precisely—more a revelation of who she was. A peeling away of layers. She still wasn't classically beautiful ... she was so much more.
Radiant, inside and out.
"Hello, sweeting," he said in awe.
Hearing a grumble, he wrenched his gaze from his bride to the man on whose arm she'd floated in. If he needed further proof that this faerie princess was indeed Charity, then the troll at her side confirmed it. Uriah Sparkler's expression was as black as his ill-fitting coat. He looked prepared for doomsday rather than the happy occasion of his daughter's marriage.
"Are we ready to proceed?" the minister asked.
Paul's eyes returned to Charity, and her shy nod banished the rest of his concerns. Whatever future they faced, they would face it together. He took her hand, and her fingers linked with his.
Clearing his throat, the minister opened his leather-bound Common Book and recited the fateful words.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of these witnesses, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony ..."
EIGHTEEN
The wedding ceremony and breakfast passed in a heady blur for Charity. Though her habit was to avoid attention, for once she didn't mind the felicitations and compliments on her good looks. Partly this was because these were offered by her dearest friends, but mostly it was because she didn't occupy center stage alone. Her husband stood at her side. At times, she was tempted to pinch herself to make sure that it wasn't a dream.
But, no, she didn't imagine the warmth of his hand at her waist as they stood together receiving the guests. Or the way he'd leaned halfway through the breakfast to whisper in her ear, "Have I told you how beautiful you are, Mrs. Fines?" Any lady less sensible than she might have swooned and landed face first in the asparagus soufflé. As it was, her cheeks flushed to the degree that Mr. Bellinger, one of her husband's rakehell friends, cried out, "Demme, the bride's blushing, and it ain't even the wedding night yet! Always said you were a lucky dog, Fines! A toast—to your good fortune!"
With so many toasts and farewells—including a tearful hug from her bosom chum and a stiff nod from her father—it was past noon by the time she and Mr. Fines changed into their traveling clothes and boarded his carriage for their weeklong wedding trip. Luckily, their destination was only a few hours away; as a wedding gift, the Kents had offered up a stay at their cottage located in the picturesque Berkshire countryside.
Charity barely noticed the passage of time for Mr. Fines entertained her the entire way with his clever wit and amusing anecdotes. He seemed to take special delight in bantering with her. He managed to tease blushes and giggles out of her as well as a daring riposte or two. Where had the awkward, sensible Charity Sparkler gone? But she wasn't Charity Sparkler any longer, was she? She was Charity Fines.
Mrs. Paul Fines.
Her joy was the sweet pain of a lanced boil. Years of desperate longing had finally come to a head. Well, almost to a head. The fact that had been hovering in her awareness the entire journey—that they were alone, married, and heading toward their wedding night—took front and center in her thoughts. And mayhap in his as well, for a sudden tension descended upon the cabin. She couldn't distinguish the galloping of the horses from that of her heart.
The wedding night advice she'd been given echoed in her head.
"Be yourself," Helena had said. "Be honest, and don't hide your desires."
"Gentleman want to be wanted," Marianne had said, "and here's a simple rule of thumb: whatever feels good to you will feel good to him."
Charity had never been missish, and the talk had reinforced her belief that the act of physical love could deepen the marital bond. And she yearned to be as close to Mr. Fines as possible. Though Miss Drummond claimed the love of his heart and soul, she, Charity, had a shot at the rest of him. More than a fair shot, he'd said. She peered upward through her lashes at him, all virile lines and masculine grace. So handsome that her heart ached.
"Penny for your thoughts, sweeting," he said with a lazy smile. "Or have I worn you out with all my chatter?"
"I'll never tire of listening to you," she said.
"Then I'm a lucky man, indeed." The husky timbre of his voice made her shiver. "But have a care, sweeting: your honeyed words may go to my head—and then there'll be no stopping this talented tongue of mine."
Heavens. The cabin turned sweltering. She wet her lips.
His eyes followed the movement and grew heavy-lidded.
At that instant, the carriage slowed.
"Just when things were getting interesting," he said with a wicked wink.
Indeed.
The driver opened the door, and Mr. Fines exited first and handed her down. As her half-boots touched the pebbled walk, she looked around her, let out a gasp of delight.
"How beautiful," she exclaimed.
"Yes," he said, his gaze on her face.
All too aware of the driver's presence, she ducked her head and walked on. Mr. Fines reached the garden gate before she did, unlatching it for her, and as she stepped through the trellised arch covered in yellow roses, her senses drank in the magic of the Kents' cottage. Blanketed in ivy, the snug abode possessed a rustic, tumbledown charm. Its cheerful windows overlooked overgrown hedgerows, and a symphony of crickets and birds accompanied the deepening pink of dusk.
As Mr. Fines instructed the groom on where to set their things, Charity investigated the premises and found the interior just as cozy and welcoming. Besides the kitchen, the cottage boasted a front parlor with overstuffed furniture that invited one so sit back and relax, a small dining area, and three bedchambers. The sight of the large tester bed in the master suite made her tummy flutter.
Everything in good time, she told herself.
She removed her gloves, her plain gold band catching the last rays of the day. It gleamed softly, a promise of things to come. Mr. Fines wore a matching, thicker version of the ring. With a wistful smile, she set her reticule on the vanity before returning to the main room. Her husband stood next to the dining table, examining the large wicker hamper on its surface. He handed her a folded note.
"Found it on the dining room table," he said by way of explanation.
"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Fines," she read aloud and with secret thrill, "I hope you find everything to your satisfaction. Mr. Kent and I have spent many happy hours here, and it is our most sincere wish that you, too, will experience the enchantment of Chudleigh Crest. I've arranged for a girl from the village to bring your meals and take care of the household tasks. Newlyweds have no need to bother with anything but each other."
Pausing, she slanted a quick look at Mr. Fines, whose lips curved in amusement.
She read on. "If you should bore of the cottage, the shops down the lane boast a delicious rose-petal jam and a surprising
ly good milliner (I never leave without a half-dozen hats.) Mr. Kent adds that since there is more to life than shopping—being a man, he would think that—you might like to explore the nearby parks and a stream where the locals go to fish. With that, we bid you adieu and fond wishes for your stay. Yours, The Kents."
"How thoughtful of them," Charity murmured.
"I'll say," Mr. Fines said, peering into the hamper. "There's food enough here to feed an army. Hungry?"
She shook her head. "The wedding breakfast was rather elaborate."
"I'm not wanting for food either." Reaching out, he cupped her cheek, his touch awakening every nerve ending. "What would you like to do, darling? We could stay up and chat some more. Or perhaps given the long journey you are ready," he murmured, "to retire?"
He was giving her a choice.
Heart hammering, she whispered, "I think I'm ready to retire."
He took up her hand as casually as if they went off to bed together every night. "Good. I'll come along and play lady's maid then, shall I?"
NINETEEN
Closing the door to the bedchamber, Paul felt the simmering anticipation in his blood rise another notch. All day, Charity's closeness had teased his senses—her clean scent in his nostrils, her supple waist beneath his hand. And alone with her in that carriage? His ceaseless babble had served not only the purpose of putting her at ease but also that of keeping himself in check. To prevent himself from doing what he had truly wished to do.
For he had plans and they didn't involve tossing up his new bride's skirts and having his way with her in a carriage. He had more finesse than that.
Catching the way Charity's glance darted to the bed, he hid a smile. Poor chit must be a bundle of nerves. He couldn't blame her. Even he experienced a small twinge of unease, which was patently ridiculous. Though he hadn't much experience with virgins—alright, any—he knew all about female pleasure. Bedding his wife was the one husbandly activity he could approach with confidence. Thus far, Charity had experienced only fully clothed, vertical pleasure with him; she hadn't an inkling of his skill under more ideal circumstances. What he could do to her once she was naked and horizontal beneath him ...
His blood got even hotter. An eager pulse took up in his groin.
All in good time.
"Nervous, darling?" he asked softly.
"A little. I'm not used to being alone with a gentleman in a bedchamber."
"Just in libraries and follies," he said with a smile.
"Only with you, sir."
"I am glad to hear it." He wound a finger around one of her loose curls, tugging gently. "We're eons past formality at this point. Call me Paul, will you?"
"Paul," she said tremulously.
"Charity," he whispered back. "Now be a love and turn around so I can help you with your frock."
Cheeks rosy, she obeyed, and he began to work on the hooks at the back of her dress. His knuckles brushed against the elegant curve of her spine, and satisfaction rolled through him when she shivered. He adored her response to him. Tonight, he meant to ease away her mantle of maidenly modesty and fan her inner flames even higher.
A sudden image penetrated his mind's eye: Charity, her gleaming hair spread over the coverlet, her slender white back arching as he feasted on her pussy, licking her until she spent against his mouth ... He had to bite back a groan.
Don't rush your fences, man. Remember she's an innocent. Go slow.
Breathing in, he concentrated on the task of undoing her gown and corset and not scaring his new wife witless with the more advanced aspects of lovemaking. The initiation was very important, he reasoned, and this first night was to be about tender consideration. Later on, mayhap in a few months, he could ease her into more adventurous pursuits. But for now: the basics. When he loosened the last string, she turned, clutching the garments to her front.
"I can, um, do the rest myself," she said.
"Call if you need me," he said.
She nodded and darted toward her dressing screen. He made his way toward the partition on the other side of the room. He inspected his portmanteau; rarely did he travel without a valet, but Bromley would have proven a fifth wheel on this particular excursion. Thus, sacrifices had to be made. After Paul shed his clothes, he paused to contemplate his wardrobe choices.
His habit was to just throw on a dressing gown to lounge in until bedtime. Then he'd take that off, too, for he slept in the buff. But now he had Charity's sensibilities to consider. He was quite certain that gentlemen did not carry out their wedding night activities stark naked. A glance down at his bobbing equipment confirmed his hunch: the old boy's enthusiasm might be off-putting to a gently bred virgin.
With a martyred sigh, he pulled a billowing nightshirt over his head before donning his robe.
He returned to the center of the room—and halted as if he'd hit an invisible wall. Which would have been no less shocking than the sight before his eyes.
"Holy Mother of God," he breathed.
His blushing bride said, "Do I look, um, alright?"
For once in his life, he was incapable of speech. 'Twas as if she'd delivered him a swift uppercut. He saw stars and when those cleared, the vision remained: a sensual nymph, her hair a wild, free mass around her piquant face, her lithe form clad in a slip of leaf-green silk. A cherry satin bow rested like a butterfly upon each bare shoulder; those ribbons appeared to be the only thing holding up the sleeveless, backless scrap of scandal.
"The dressmaker said these were all the rage in Paris," she said, her face now as rosy as the bows, "and Percy insisted that I have one. But I packed my old night rail. I'll just go change—"
He was there in a second, his hand cupping her nape to prevent her from fleeing. "Like hell you will, sweetheart. And for God's sake, don't mention my sister at a time like this. Not when the sight of you has me as wound as a clock, and I ache just to look at you."
Her long curly lashes swept up. "Ache ... in a good way?"
"I've never known a sweeter pain," he said with feeling. "By Jove, look at you."
Unable to help himself, he skimmed his hand down her neck and the smooth line of her spine left bare by the negligee, God love it. Her skin, he marveled, was softer than anything he'd ever touched. His fingers splayed at the alluring dip of her back, and, in an easy movement, he swept her into his arms and laid her on the bed.
Then he stared at her in awe.
Her wavy, hazelnut tresses fanned over the bedspread. Her bosom rose and fell beneath the deep V of her neckline, her taut nipples poking out against the thin silk. At that erotic sight, his cock, already hard, burgeoned to new proportions. Hell, he'd hardly even touched her yet.
Stay in control of the match. Don't get knocked out in the first bloody round.
"Don't be frightened, love." Leaning over, he brushed his lips against the thrumming pulse of her throat, the irresistible hollows above her collar bones. At her hitched breath, he murmured, "We'll go slow. We have all night."
"Actually ... would it be possible to, um, pick up the pace?"
His head jerked up. Make that both of them.
"The truth is ... I've been waiting all day for you to kiss me again," his wife said shyly.
With that utterance, she ripped the reins from his grasp. Wild horses couldn't stop him now. With a growl, he took what was rightfully his.
Her mouth met his, open and hot. Delicious. Only their third kiss, yet they fit together like they had done this a hundred times. A thousand. He would never tire of her taste, as hot and pure as a drink of sunshine. Her fingers threaded in his hair, and her sweetly eager touch aroused him more than all the practiced caresses he'd known before. The past faded. There was only here and now. Only Charity, his wife, her honest fire burning him up alive.
He broke away to drag kisses down her throat. He licked her exposed décolleté and heard that little hitch again, the sound that told him he was doing everything right. He curved his palm around one silk-covered breast, his blood rushin
g at the delicate heft. When his thumb grazed the not-so-subtle tip, she made a little sound that was a moan, a sigh, music to his ears. So he did it again. And again, until she arched into the caress and he knew she was ready for more.
He bent and suckled her through the silk.
"Goodness," she gasped.
"Like that, love? How about this?" He traced the stiff little peak with his tongue.
Her fingers dug into his scalp; her head fell back against the pillows.
Good answer. He untied first one and then the other cherry bow. It was like unwrapping a present ... and what a present. He tossed the green silk aside, feasting his eyes upon every sensuous detail. Her milky skin, delicately flushed. The pretty, modest curve of her breasts contrasted by the proud jut of her pink nipples. Her tiny waist and gentle hips. And just below ...
His blood pulsed in his veins. As if sensing its target, his cock thrust like a steel lance against his nightshirt. Devil and damn, she had the prettiest pussy, nutmeg curls glossy against her pale thighs. His mouth watered.
Running a hand along her hip, he said, "You're gorgeous."
"I'm relieved you think so," was her breathy reply. "Now that you've looked your fill ... might I do the same?"
Hell, yes.
Her curiosity inflamed him. Rising to his knees beside her, he made short work of his robe and yanked the infernal nightshirt over his head. Wide-eyed, she studied his naked form, her scrutiny like a touch. Her gaze swept from his face to his shoulders and chest, down the quivering ridges of his stomach, all the way to his cock. Her eyes got even bigger, and he could see why: the randy monster was prodigiously large at the moment, the shaft thick and pulsing, the dark head mottled—and, damn, weeping with arousal.
To an experienced female, his ready-for-action member would have elicited anticipation, but for a virgin on her wedding night? What the bloody hell was he thinking?
"Oh, Paul." Her wobbly voice made him fumble for his robe. "You're so ... so ..."—his fingers closed over the damned garment—"... magnificent."
Her Prodigal Passion Page 14