The Wedding Chase: In His Lordship's BedPrisoner of the TowerWord of a Gentleman

by Kasey Michaels

  “Are you sure—” he began.

  Emma cut him off before his doubts could re-surface.

  “Completely. And even if you are not, it’s far too late to back out now. You have proposed in front of a score of people. You have no choice but to make an honest woman of me. Just not tonight, if you please.”

  “If not marriage, then what did you have in mind for tonight?”

  The amusement that had once delighted her was back in the deep voice. And she vowed that as long as he would let her, she would keep it there.

  “To make up for all those other nights,” she said bravely.

  Years of empty nights. Although she had not had the courage to speculate before, she wondered now if his had been equally lonely.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream.”

  Smiling, she held out her hand to him. “Flesh and blood. Quite substantial. And I have no intention of going anywhere.”

  He closed the distance between them, taking her fingers into his once more. He brought them to his lips, his eyes holding hers above their joined hands.

  “The entire time I was dressing tonight, I tried to imagine what I would do if you said no.”

  “I should far rather you concentrate on what you will do now that I’ve said yes.”

  “There was never,” he said softly, “any question about that.”

  HE HAD UNDRESSED HER by candlelight, amused to discover he had not forgotten the intricacies of female attire. And more than a little surprised to find the hooks and ribbon fastenings hadn’t changed appreciably during the last dozen years.

  And it was still a miracle to him that, although he had been vigilant to detect the slightest reluctance on her part, Emma didn’t find his touch repugnant. Quite the opposite, actually.

  One snowy night, he had fallen in love with a seventeen-year-old virgin. For some reason he had expected Emma’s responses to be the same as if she still were that green girl. He had been delighted to find they were not.

  After all, she had been married for several years. There would be no unpleasant revelations as to what was about to happen between them. Only pleasant ones, he prayed.

  At last he knelt to remove her stockings, holding the second narrow, high-arched foot in his hand a moment after he’d stripped away the wisp of silk that had covered it. Then his gaze traveled unhurriedly upward. The flames of the candles gilded the smooth, white skin, painting it with luminescence as they emphasized slender curves and darkened mysteriously the shadowed places of her body.

  In their soft light, she looked like Botticelli’s Venus, stepping from the sea at dawn, naked and perfect. It seemed a sacrilege that she should belong to someone like him.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his throat aching with emotion.

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. You look at me with love, and that makes you think me beautiful.”

  “Not up to your usual standards, Emma.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That homily is hardly subtle enough for you.”

  “Would you believe me if I had said you are beautiful?”

  He laughed at the assertion, releasing her foot and rising to face her.

  “You are to me.” Her eyes, blue-black in the half light, did not echo his laughter. “This,” she said, putting the fingers of her left hand against the undamaged half of his face. “And this.” Her other hand touched the scarred cheek, cupping his chin between them.

  He forced himself not to flinch away, but after a moment, sensing his discomfort, she released him. She put her arms around his neck, leaning her cheek against his chest. Unable to resist, he gathered her to him, holding her next to his heart.

  “It doesn’t matter if you believe me,” she said. “I have years to convince you. Eventually—”

  Before she could complete the promise, he bent, slipping his arm under her knees to lift her off her feet. And when he laid her in the center of the high bed, he never even thought about pulling the crimson hangings to hide himself from the light.

  SHE KNEW from the first that this would be no hurried coupling like those she had once endured. With his hands and lips and tongue, Alex had worshiped her body, exploring every sensitive, secret hollow. Claiming them for his own.

  “Here.” His breath, warm and moist, teased against her throat. “And now,” he said, positioning his knee between hers.

  As if they possessed a will of her own, her legs fell apart wantonly. Overwhelmed by feelings she had never before experienced, she was beyond resistance. Beyond all thought of denying him anything.

  Not that she wanted to. His hands, hard and masculine, had caressed her skin knowingly as his mouth trailed wet heat over the most intimate parts of her body. And she had uttered not one word of protest. Nor did she now.

  Building within her had been something for which she had no name. Nor any frame of reference.

  Pure sensation, it had grown more demanding as he continued to touch her. Each stroke of his fingers, each deliberate flick of his tongue, had increased the pressure for a release she could not yet imagine but knew she wanted.

  “Yes,” she begged softly, without any understanding of what it was she asked. She knew only that he alone could provide it.

  As he moved over her body in the candlelit darkness, she looked up into his face. For an instant the profile that bore the scar was shadowed, hidden by an accident of the lighting, so that he seemed again the dashing young soldier she had met long ago.

  With his first downward thrust, unerring and powerful, all she had experienced between that night and this fell away. She was again the girl who had stood on the snow-swept balcony and dreamed. Of this. Of him.

  Then, in response to the rhythmic motion of his hips, the sensation that had trembled inside her lower body began to spread. Like molten gold it ran, burning along newly awakened nerves, searing muscle and bone.

  Her hips began to move in answer to his. Trying to bring him closer. To hold him to her.

  As her body responded, her mind spiraled away into the darkness. Incapable of coherent thought. Incapable of anything beyond reacting to the relentless demands he was making.

  “Now,” he said again, the words hoarse and gasping.

  He closed his eyes and put his forehead against hers, supporting the weight of his upper body on his elbows. The motion of his hips never slowed. Driving. Demanding. Until it seemed as if he were pounding for entrance against the very walls of her soul.

  For a fraction of a second she was frightened by what was happening. And then, as if a dam had broken apart, the force that had been building inside released in a white-hot flood.

  It washed over her in wave after wave of feeling, as relentless, as inexorable, as the thrusts that had created them. Her mouth opened, but she didn’t recognize the wordless cry that emerged as coming from her lips.

  In the very midst of her extremity, his body seemed to explode inside hers. Convulsion after convulsion shivered through his frame. Caught in her own maelstrom of sensation, she was powerless to do anything but hold him, nails digging into the broad shoulders that strained above her.

  His answering cry, when it came, was sheer exaltation. He raised his head, throwing it back so that the tendons in his neck were exposed.

  By then, the emotion that had gripped her, making her mindless, had already begun to ease. She could breathe again. And she could think.

  Her hand found the back of his head, fingers tangling in the newly cropped hair. Urging it downward.

  He obeyed, his mouth closing over hers with a frenzied possession. The kiss ravaged, claiming her lips as he had just claimed her body. Branding them as he had branded it.

  Gradually the intensity lessened, becoming finally a series of feather-light touches. Eyelids. Temples. The hollow in her throat, pulsing with the aftermath of what they had shared.

  The last of those kisses was placed gently on the tip o
f her nose. He pushed himself up, once more looking down into her eyes. She smiled at him, knowing that whatever argument he might have made about their being together was forever moot.

  What had just happened between them was so right, so perfect, it had to have erased any doubts he harbored about her feelings for him. Or his for her.

  “I think I prefer you as a wanton.”

  “As opposed to an honest woman?” she asked, her smile widening.

  “As opposed to a girl on the way to her first Season.”

  “A hundred years ago.”

  “Hardly that. Only a lifetime.”

  “Or two.”

  “It’s all right. In this lifetime we can be sure at last we’ve made the right choices.”

  “Do you remember what you called me that night?”

  “At the inn?” A crease formed between his brows.

  She smoothed it with her finger and then boldly traced along the ribbon that held the patch in place.

  “You said I was a fortune hunter.”

  He laughed. “And I had none to offer you. A penniless soldier on the way to war.”

  “Penniless?” she mocked.

  “Virtually. A younger son. I believe I confessed as much.”

  “And now you have the fortune I needed then.”

  “It’s yours,” he said promptly.

  “I already have my fortune, thank you. One that has nothing to do with titles or estates, and very much to do with a man brave enough to face down a dinner party in order to elope with an elderly widow.”

  His shout of laughter was unrestrained. And she smiled to hear it. This was the way he should always be. The way he had been that night. Young and carefree and unmarked by all that was to come.

  “Poor Charles,” she said. “He’ll be so disappointed, he may go into a decline.”

  “Charles? Why should Charles be disappointed?”

  “He believed he had secured an earldom for Georgina. And now, I’m afraid…” She paused delicately.

  “And now?” he prompted, smiling.

  “I do believe the Earl of Greystone has a plan to produce a successor to his title on his own.”

  “How very well you know me,” Alex said. “And on such short acquaintance.”

  “The length of one’s acquaintance—”

  “Has nothing to do with falling in love,” he finished for her.

  Then his lips descended, covering hers. And even the redoubtable Lady Barrington was left with nothing to say.

  WORD OF A GENTLEMAN

  Lyn Stone

  Dear Friend,

  As a prelude to this letter, I share with you the words of Miss Elizabeth Shelley, sister of the renowned Percy Bysshe. As I am certain you will agree, our wise Elizabeth has the right of things.

  When Hope, gay deceiver, in pleasure is drest,

  How oft comes a stroke that may rob us of rest.

  When we think ourselves safe, and the goal near at hand,

  Like a vessel just landing, we’re wrecked on the strand.

  You will doubtless consider me wildly impulsive when you begin to read this account of my actions to avoid such a wrecking. However, before you judge me heedless, I urge you to recall the time when you were a shy girl not yet in long skirts and first discovering a fascination for the opposite gender. Was there not a certain young gent who stirred your youthful heart with his merry laughter? A teasing gesture here or a fleeting look of interest there might well have prompted you to wish away the years between that day and your age of choosing a mate. Come now, you know it is so! Such were my early encounters with the young lord, Hugh Richfield.

  I would ask you to imagine yourself in a quandary such as mine. Would you surrender, hand to head, and faint into the arms of a blackguard bent upon stealing your virtue and your fortune? I should think not! Well, neither shall I, my friend, you may count upon that. I figure I can do no worse choosing for myself than in having a husband thrust himself upon me by force. And since I must select quite swiftly to avoid disaster, what better candidate than the fellow I once admired above all? As you know, the Word of a Gentleman is his bond and Richfield may be trusted if he gives his. At least, I think he can.

  Come, let us see how I fare in my first great adventure. Who knows? There might come a day when you suffer a like dilemma and must pluck up your courage and assert yourself. If nothing else, I would wish to entertain you for a while with these scribblings of my most unusual behavior, and I do have hope that you shall enjoy them.

  Yr. Servant,

  Miss Clarissa Fortesque

  P.S. If you desire to remark on my wisdom or folly, please post your reply to me upon the Guestbook of my mentor, Lyn Stone. Her direction is as follows: http://www.eclectics.com/lynstone/.

  For Allen, who traveled to Gretna Green with me

  and stood over the anvil. Here’s to our adventure,

  elopement and hasty wedding! I could not have chosen better.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London—September 1815

  “SURRENDER,” he taunted, laughing at her, “or scream the house down. Either way, you’re mine.” His bruising fingers bit into her upper arms. His cigar-fouled breath rushed in and out against her face as she struggled. “Rather be mastered, eh?” he growled.

  Clarissa beat against his broad chest, twisting violently to avoid his kiss, gritting her teeth against the urge to cry for help. No one must hear. No one must come outside now or she was lost. That was his plan, of course.

  In desperation, she kicked at his shins and only succeeded in hurting her toes. He felt hard against her through the supple sarcenet of her skirt. Instinctively, she jerked up her knee and connected with that most sensitive part of him.

  Trenton yelped, released her and doubled forward, groaning pitifully.

  Clarissa dashed across the short expanse of flag-stones, praying she could make it into the house without being seen.

  Hair askew, gown in disarray, she flew past the open doors leading out from the lesser ballroom, hoping against hope no one in there would be looking out. It was early yet. Not all the guests had arrived and, hopefully, those who had would be focused on the entrance to greet the others. Why in the name of heaven had she thought to await Richfield on the terrace?

  She reached a small door that led to the servants’ stair and ducked inside, not daring to slow her steps or look over her shoulder. Breathless, gasping, she hurried up to the bedroom the Dicksons had so kindly provided her, rushed inside and twisted the key in the lock.

  For a long moment she braced her back against the door, palms flat against it, her chest heaving like a bellows. But she couldn’t tarry here. She couldn’t hide all evening, or even for very long. She would be missed.

  Quickly, Clarissa gathered her wits and pushed away from the door. She made hasty repairs to her appearance with shaking hands, sucked in deep breaths to calm herself as best she could. Hopefully, Trenton would be gone when she rejoined the party in progress. No one must know. And if the plan she had formed yesterday to prevent a disastrous union with her black-hearted cousin ran its proper course, no one ever would.

  Someone knocked. Clarissa glanced about in desperation for a way out. The window was entirely too high off the ground for her to jump out. There was no door connecting to another room. Trapped. The door handle turned, then rattled frantically.

  “Clarissa Fortesque, open this door immediately! Why is it locked? Are you ill?”

  Phyllis. Thank God. Clarissa pressed a hand against her pounding heart and exhaled with sharp relief. Phyllis Dickson was the best friend in the world, but not even she could know what had nearly happened. Nearly would be quite enough to dash the plan. “Just a moment,” Clarissa called out to her friend, made a quick final appraisal of her looks in the mirror and went to unlock her door.

  “Where were you?” Phyllis demanded. “I looked around and you were nowhere to be found. And neither did I see your cousin, Trenton. Mother should not have invited him tonight. Not t
o mention that he gave you such a fright at your uncle’s, the man’s a pretentious bore.”

  Worse than a bore, Clarissa thought. And no, he should never have received an invitation. But Lady Dickson had insisted upon including the only relative Clarissa had left who was able to attend. She readjusted a hairpin, tugged on her half-gloves and plundered the clutter of the dressing table for her fan. “Shall we go?”

  “Are you certain you’re all right, dear? You look rather pale.” Phyllis took her arm as they traversed the upper hallway to the wide staircase.

  Clarissa forced a smile. “I’m perfectly well. I merely went up to find other slippers. The blue ones pinch my toes. Could we forget my boorish relative and join the others now?” she asked brightly and smiled at Phyllis as though nothing untoward had happened. “As you know, I have important business to conduct.” Her knees trembled so, she had to focus her full attention on the treads beneath her feet and grip the banister with one hand.

  “Confess, Clarissa. Did your cousin speak with you tonight?” Phyllis persisted, the look of concern still clouding her pretty features. “Did he threaten you or something? We could tell Father.”

  Clarissa took her time answering as they approached the door to the ballroom where the guests were gathered. “No need. Trenton simply insisted that I change my mind about his proposal.”

  “You won’t, will you?”

  Clarissa laughed and shot Phyllis a wry look.

  “I thought not. Still and all, you had best stay visible and not allow him to get you alone. Heaven knows what he might try.”

  “Has Richfield arrived yet?” Clarissa asked, changing the subject lest she be tempted to confide and ask for comfort.

  “Yes. See? There he is with Harry and the boys. But I wish he hadn’t come. You cannot really mean to propose marriage to him, Clarissa. Doing something this outrageous is so unlike you.”

  “I have decided it is much better to be the hammer than the nail.”

  Oh, God, and there he was! She had not seen him for years. Her loss, she thought with a rueful smile as she appraised him.