ROMANCE: CLEAN ROMANCE: Summer Splash! (Sweet Inspirational Contemporary Romance) (New Adult Clean Fantasy Short Stories)

by Michelle Woodward

  “You will never make an honest woman of me,” she said simply.

  “And is that what you truly want?” he asked her. “You want to be just like the other prim and proper ladies of the ton, carting me around like some prize bull at a show?”

  She shook her head sadly. “Is that truly what you think of me, Robert? What exactly would you offer me in the stead of your hand in marriage?”

  Robert stalked away from her and ran a hand through his cropped locks, making them stand on end. “A partnership for as long as we want each other.”

  “A limited-time mistress?” India laughed, heart plummeting straight to the bottom of her stomach. “After all the scandal my name has been dragged through, with every mountain I have to scale being greater all for the truth of my parentage, do you truly think I could indulge in something like that?”

  “But you want to,” he said quietly.

  She took a step towards him and planted her palms on his chest. His hands closed on top of hers and she could smell the sadness on him as surely as if he had informed her of it. “I want you,” she said, hardly daring to look into his eyes. “But I want you to want me and only me for the rest of your life. I want to have it the right way, and if I cannot have it properly, I would rather have something different.”

  “Even if that future does not include me?”

  She finally looked up and there was no mistaking the pain in his eyes. “Although it breaks my heart, yes.”

  And she fled.

  She lost herself in the crowd until it was impossible for Robert to find her. She smiled her delicate smiles, forgetting to add the haughty undertones and overtones to her social graces. It was precisely in this state of heartbreak and desperation that Richard Loxloston came upon her.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” said a voice in front of her as she knelt to the ground to retrieve a fallen glove.

  She looked up at a man who stood easily over six feet tall and had a pair of smoldering brown eyes and a set of dimples that was so deep she was sure they would swallow each one of her digits whole. “A lady never reveals her thoughts for fear of scaring a gentleman with their alacrity and perception,” she teased, managing to find a hint of humor beneath her despair.

  The man before her smiled and his brown eyes seemed to light up from within. “I admire a lady with great wit, so you have nothing to fear. Although I detect a hint of something that is not all well in your world, Lady Davenport,” he said, bowing down to plant a kiss on her hand. India felt momentarily thrown off-balance, for it appeared this man knew something about her whereas she did not even know his name.

  “You know me?”

  “When one spots the loveliest woman in the room, one immediately has to find out her name and marital status,” he answered, and a warm wash of comfort came over her. He was flirting with her.

  “And what does the lady have to do to find out the name of the most bold man in the room when he seeks her out?” she queried.

  He laughed. “The lady needs only to ask. And one Lord Richard Loxloston will answer her ever wish.”

  She glanced up at him, noting the broad shoulders and the slim build of his hips. He was English, certainly, but seemed to be in possession of a wry wit that was not common to most of the other gentlemen she had met in these circles. “And what if I wish for something such a gentleman cannot deliver?”

  “The gentleman conjures a jinn and makes him dance for his freedom.”

  It was India's turn to laugh, and she did so heartily. Still shaky from her encounter with Robert, she allowed her newfound acquaintance to lead her for a spin around the dance floor. They chatted late into the evening, capturing the attention of all the society matrons, who rapidly became sure that India Augustina Davenport had managed to snag the son of one of the most prominent members of a tea trading company that had up until that night been a most eligible bachelor for their own unwed daughters.

  What followed in the next month and a half was a series of the most conventionally acceptable encounters with the lord. He sent her his calling card for an invitation for a carriage ride through Landsley Park. He had a delightful sense of humor that kept her pleasantly amused through several hours. He was handsome, manly, and the invitations kept coming. The more she saw him, the more comfortable she grew. When finally he kissed her, it was pleasantly warm. Perhaps she would never have the same kind of mind-numbing passion she had experienced with Robert Cooper, but she could finally envision a future in which she could teach her husband to bring her to a satisfactory conclusion. Gradually, India's hopes rose that she had found a second man who would be able to look upon her and not be so entranced by her mixed blood that he could not treat her like the lady she was. She came to understand how rattled she had been by Robert Cooper's swift acceptance of her differences, how quickly she had tied her emotions to him. One of the best things about her newfound suitor was that she was able to keep an appropriate emotional distance from him while allowing herself to delight in his company.

  The wedding proposal was issued underneath a crap apple tree in that very same park where they had taken their first carriage ride. India felt delivered, for finally she was being offered what Robert Cooper never would—a social approximation of what belonging was actually like. As she gazed down into the sweet brown eyes of Richard, she knew that she had one last hurdle to clear before she could accept his proposal.

  “Richard, darling, what do you know of my family?”

  Richard laughed. “India, dear, you almost keeled me over. I was beginning to think you would not accept my proposal. I know all about your background. You poor thing, your mother leaving you all alone to fend off the tiger matrons by yourself.”

  “Richard, you are aware that my father is not, in fact, Lord Davenport.”

  A dark shadow crossed his handsome face. “Please elaborate, darling.”

  She hesitated. How many people could she truly entrust her secret to, after all? But the fact of the matter was that she could not imagine having a union so similar to that of her parents; how could she keep a lifelong secret as to where she came from? She breathed out and told him the abbreviated version—her mother, a young innocent, had fallen prey to the burning Indian sun and carried on a swift dalliance with a native boy.

  A look passed over Richard's face that unsettled India when he heard the news. It was the same look that many a lord had given her during her coming-out ball, one that mixed the sentiment of “Don't hurt me, you little exotic thing” with a sort of understated perversion, as if being the daughter of a subjugated nation opened India up to a smutty kind of willingness. It passed as quickly as a cloud on a sunny day, however, replaced by the same mirth that usually lit up Richard's face. “So that is where you get those fantastic green eyes from!” he exclaimed.

  “So it does not bother you?” she queried, heart beating fast.

  He laughed again and grasped one of her hands in his. “India, love, if anything, it makes you even more wonderful than I first imagined. Now, you have not told me the most important thing.”

  “What is that?”

  “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She hedged her final bet. “Yes, Richard, I will.”

  He rose and kissed her, and she shoved all thoughts of a certain blue-eyed duke far from her mind.

  India Augustina considered the trajectory of that particular courtship against what had occurred between her and Robert. She did not want to think about him, but he appeared to be seared across her memory. Never mind, she would do her best to eradicate him and replace him with the new life she was heading into with a man who accepted her just exactly the way that she was and would offer her the kind of social salvation she had never dreamed she would one day require for her soul.

  The modiste had the dress and veil delivered a week before the wedding was to take place. It was of the finest fabrics, king royal cloth, and India had decided on a modest cut. She was going to be the lady of two estates now, and sh
e did not need to show off anything that would lend itself to wagging tongues. She circled the gown and decided to try on the veil. Looking at herself in the mirror, she found she could not get a clear picture of what her wedding day would look like. She recalled a trick her ama had taught her whenever she had difficulty planning out her wardrobe. She closed her eyes and imagined herself walking down the aisle towards the broad back of a groom who waited for her.

  When he turned around to greet his bride, his face was that of Robert Cooper.

  India opened her eyes and found her heart racing. What would she have to do to rid herself of the man? Who cared if she could still imagine what his tongue felt against her nether regions or had not once felt as safe with Richard as she had in Robert's arms as he held her? What did it matter? She needed to move on with her life, and Richard would give her the kind of family she craved.

  A knock at her door snapped her out of her reverie. “Come in,” she called out, still looking at herself in the mirror.

  Her ama entered softly. “Lord Loxloston is here to see you, India.”

  She slid the veil loose from her hair and walked downstairs to the front entry room. Her handsome and tall fiancé was waiting for her with a package in his hands.

  “Darling,” she greeted him, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “I know this is highly irregular, but I simply could not wait to see you before the wedding. Especially not when I have such an incredible surprise for you,” he said, eyes sparking and bright. India regarded him warily. He was not one prone to much spontaneity, despite his general genial nature, and despite herself, India found herself growing the slightest bit nervous. He handed her the package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string and sat on the edge of her bed. India could hear her ama pacing nervously outside of her bedchamber, and felt comforted by the fact that the woman had a lifelong habit of keeping a broom handy when men were about.

  The fabric inside was of the softest, richest red fabric India had ever seen. She pulled it free, and the yards of fabric spilled out like a red waterfall, falling down over her knees and ankles all the way down to the floor. It was embossed with gold thread that India knew was real; it was a display of opulence the likes of which she had not expected from Richard. “How beautiful!” she cried. “What is this, Richard?”

  “It's a saree. I have not been able to stop thinking about what you told me the day I proposed to you, about your heritage.”

  India felt pierced through with a bolt of anger, but stomped it down into submission. “What exactly do you mean?”

  Richard stood and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but there was something in his face that made India feel slightly as if she had been riding very fast on a horse that was going out of control. “It's a gift, India, do not be angry with me! This is what they wear in Assam. I tried to speak to your ama about what was traditional to wear on a wedding day in India—”

  “You spoke to my ama about this?” Her ama was in for quite a talk once Richard left.

  He shook his head mournfully. “Unfortunately, that woman is as tight-lipped as the caves in old stories.”

  “That woman raised me.” India's voice was terse.

  A befuddled expression entered Richard's face. “India, darling, are you upset with me? I meant this for a lark, as a bit of a wedding present. I thought that with your lovely eyes and skin, it would look positively marvelous on you.”

  She felt herself soften, although reclaiming her so-called heritage in this particular manner felt oddly enforced, as if Richard wanted her to reclaim a part of herself she was not yet comfortable accepting. Still, she had to admit the fabric was indeed a delight, soft and delicate, and the red hue positively glowed against her arms as she held it. “You are right, Richard, it is a beautiful gift. You don't want me to put it on, do you, though?” She hated the pleading in her voice, but this was her life now; she belonged to him, a man who thought such a gift the day before the wedding was appropriate. All she wanted to do was put the past behind her.

  He looked hurt. “You do not have to if you do not wish it so, but it did take quite a long time to arrive here.”

  Reluctantly, she gave in. “There is a lot of fabric here. I will go to my ama, and perhaps she can help me wrap it around myself.”

  “Or I could.” He attempted to make his voice light and teasing, but what India saw in her fiance's eyes troubled her; had she let him, she saw, he would have gladly undressed her right there and then under the guise of draping the saree around her. She gathered all the fabric in her arms and went to find her ama.

  “I do not like it, Lady India,” grumbled the old woman with wrinkled arms as she tucked and tucked. “Did you have to tell him your secret?”

  India sighed deeply and attempted to tuck in the folds of the saree where it was refusing to stay put. “I could not enter a lifelong commitment with a gentleman and keep this to myself. You remember how my mother and father treated each other. I do not want their silence.”

  Her ama said nothing, but kept up her muttering all throughout adorning India. Her charge took a deep breath and entered the bedchamber where her eager fiancé sat in waiting.

  When she entered the room, a fold of the saree over her head, Richard stood straight up like a man stunned. “I-India,” he said, sweeping her over from head to toe with his eyes, “you look—you look—” That was all he managed to sputter out before purposefully crossing the room and grabbing her in his arms.

  The kiss was far more forceful than anything they had shared before. India felt the breath being knocked out of her from the sheer impact of being pressed against his hard chest. Rather than feeling like a loving gesture, the kiss felt like something Richard could not control, something inside of him that was bubbling out and invading the world of their shared reality. As she tried to melt into it, the thought crossed her mind that pasty English gentlemen, according to all accounts, did not simply grab their brides to be in such a rough manner. Certainly, she had heard the stories of some grooms who simply ripped off their new wives' clothing on the wedding night, but she had always laughed at the silly gossip of the virginal girls. Suddenly, as Richard's hands closed roughly around the curve of her bottom, it did not seem quite so humorous anymore.

  “Richard, what are you doing?” she cried, attempting to push his hands away.

  “Come now, darling, I know how you native girls like it,” he muttered into her hair, pressing her even closer and squeezing her with even more force.

  India felt her blood run cold. “What did you just say to me?” Her tone was as icy as she could make it, considering the vast amount of fear she was experiencing in that moment.

  “Oh, India, you are always so serious!” he cried, smiling down at her. There was something tight about that smile, and something feverish about his face. India felt a trickle of fear slide all the way into her belly and down her back. She was beginning to strongly suspect that her husband-to-be had not purchased this particular costume on a lark; there was something about the way his grip was tightening around her that made her remember a creature her mother had told her about years ago—the python, who, once he had his prey in his grasp, would tighten around it the harder it struggled, squeezing all the life out of it.

  “Richard, you are making most nervous. Please conduct yourself appropriately; we are not yet wed,” she told him, as firmly as she could.

  He suddenly let go of her. “You are quite right. I was simply hoping for a bit of a joke here,” he told her.

  Shaking slightly, she slipped away from him as far as she could go. “Thank you,” she said, going over to her vanity and adjusting the fold of the saree that had slipped down from her head. Although Lord Richard was halfway across the room from her, she felt she could not get enough distance from him. She was just reaching for a pin to tame the unruliness of her hair when an iron grip came down on her wrist.

  “Play with me, India,” said Richard, and the
re was no teasing in his voice this time.

  “Richard, that is quite enough,” she said evenly. His reflection behind her in the mirror loomed, and for the first time, she became acutely aware of how much larger he was than she.

  “It will be enough when I say it is enough,” he told her, and twisted her arm so that she was forced to face him. “Now get on your knees and pray to your many gods.”

  “What are you talking about?” She was shaking fairly hard now.

  He dragged her up so that her face was close enough to his that his spittle landed on her as he hissed. “Come on. Be a good little Indian trollop.” He mashed his mouth down on her and filled his had with her breast, nearly squeezing it off her chest.

  India whimpered uncontrollably. She felt her body twist away from him and willed her knees to support her. At the very least, she would not go down without a battle. How had she not recognized the sickness in this man long before? In a moment where he thought he had her entirely in his power, Richard Loxloston let her loose and she let out a yell. She regretted it the instant he struck her across the face. “Native girls do not yell when they are being pleasured,” he told her, and then the world went black.

  When she came to, the world above her was in complete upheaval. Her ama, armed with her militant and ancient guardian weapon, the broom, was beating Richard over the head with it. To her horror, Richard managed to grasp the old woman's arms and push her down on the ground before their burly butler choked him into a stronghold and bodily wrested him out of the room. Collecting herself with a far more nimble maneuver than she might have thought possible in that moment, India entrusted her enraged ama into the care of the housekeeper and closed the door to her bedchamber to collapse onto the chair in front of her vanity.

  The untucked saree said it all. It had been no guise at all. He had intended on seeing her just in this manner. Of all the scenarios in which her exoticism could be exploited by the thoughts of men, India had never envisioned this particular scenario. Her gentleman fiancé, obsessed with the subservience of the native women of India? She tried to tuck her hair behind her ears, only to find that her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She gave herself a hard look in the mirror, and for the first time since her mother left, India Augustina Davenport began to cry.