The Accidental Bride (Black Lace)

by Portia Da Costa

  She started to ride his hand, but he said, ‘Uh oh, concentrate on your cake. Mrs Thursgood would be disappointed to know you weren’t fully savouring the results of her hard work.’

  ‘But, John,’ she protested, the words devolving into a demi-groan as he rubbed her with his fingers, working her clitoris firmly but with tenderness.

  ‘But nothing,’ he replied, steel in his voice.

  Rocking against him, squashing his hand between his crotch and her pussy, Lizzie obeyed him, eating a little more cake, trying to concentrate, and to taste it. Her senses were awhirl. It was like a crossed circuit inside her brain; the intersection of two pleasures was making her feel dizzy. Lemon sweetness filled her mouth, while her sex was overtaken by gathering, gouging need, the assembling of pleasure and orgasm. John’s fingers were remorseless, taxing her hard with a rough circular action one moment, the next minute rubbing back and forth.

  ‘Oh John,’ she gasped, aching for completion, bearing down.

  But instead, he said, ‘Hup!’ and as she lifted, wild with frustration, he twisted his wrist again, reconfiguring his contact with her, and pushed two fingers into her vagina, while squashing his thumb mercilessly against her clit. Then he gripped, not cruelly, but with a wicked assertion, that thumb doing just the trick she was dying for.

  Cake forgotten, Lizzie clapped a hand over her mouth, suppressing her cries as orgasm spiralled down through her, finding its ignition point where his hand cupped her crotch. She tossed her head, her hair flying around her as her flesh clamped down on him, pulsing in waves, rippling around his fingers. Still fighting to contain her voice, in this house full of people, she pitched forward, grabbing at the back of his neck with her free hand, and drawing their faces together, first forehead pressed to forehead, then closing, closing.

  ‘Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie,’ he chanted against her cheek, the scent of lemon beautiful as his breath twined with hers and his lips, settling on hers, stifled her moans.

  What on earth had got into him?

  John sat in his new office, staring at messages both written and digital that demanded his attention. A man like him could not go off the grid on holiday for two weeks without expecting a mountain of work to come back to.

  But all he could think of was Lizzie, and how desire for her had got the better of him, both in the orangery and afterwards. He’d behaved like a randy lad – again – copping a feel on the settee, then sneaking her away into the nearest downstairs cloakroom, to have her hurriedly, bent over the sink.

  What the hell is the matter with you, man? The whole idea of moving in together was to have time and space to make love, and to indulge in any kind of erotic play they fancied, in the comfort of a large and beautiful bedroom, a civilised, grown-up setting.

  And here he was, grabbing her and rutting at the first opportunity, taking the risk of compromising her in an open part of the house, with staff around. He knew none of them would dream of intruding, and even in an emergency they’d make sure to announce their approach from a way off first. But still … He’d seduced Lizzie without thought for her sensibilities. He’d put her in danger of massive embarrassment. He’d been selfish, as usual, despite his intention not to be, and to put her feelings first, in all instances.

  Fat chance of that, though. He was still waiting for the other shoe to fall in respect of the additional premises for New Again, for the bridal shop, if that was still the plan. He should have consulted Lizzie first, he knew that; but the property had cropped up, meeting the right criteria, and he just hadn’t stopped to think. He’d tasked Martin with securing it, and then making the offer to Marie Lanscombe. It’d been too good to miss, and he hadn’t wanted to interrupt Lizzie’s away-from-it-all holiday with ‘complications’. The mood at the villa had been too perfect, too hedonistic. He’d been greedy. Again.

  Running his tongue over his lips, he imagined he could still taste the lemon cake, and his cock stirred, stiffening in his underwear.

  Oh, how she’d been with him, though, risk of discovery or not. She hadn’t hesitated. She’d risen to his selfish demands like a beneficent goddess. Hell, really, she’d been the one to initiate it all. Despite the issues that they were exploring – his past, the changes they were both going through, the compromises, and the promise that lay ahead for them – despite all that, nothing could suppress his wild, beautiful, bold and savvy Lizzie. Nothing could put a damper on her sensual spirit, her generosity, her willingness.

  They didn’t discuss the ‘L’ word much, and he still wondered whether he knew what the hell it really meant. But Lizzie showed it in everything she said and everything she did. And because she was brave, she wasn’t afraid to come out and say it freely either, goddammit.

  But would she still feel the same if she knew about all this?

  Messages. Ones that were nothing to do with deals and acquisitions and business.

  La Condesa Sanchez de la Villareal rang.

  La Condesa Sanchez de la Villareal would like you to ring her.

  How many of them were there? Six? No, seven? Bland little notes on telephone message stationery headed with ‘Dalethwaite Manor’.

  He could only assume she’d wheedled the Dalethwaite number out of his mother, or his sister-in-law, from Ma’s big address book of everything, that she kept in her morning room at Montcalm. He wondered what other contact information of his had been noted down by his parent; she was proud of the encyclopaedic nature of her ‘people bible’, and assiduously gathered every possible detail for everyone she knew.

  Clara, I told you in New York that I was with someone now. And I told you it was serious. What is it that’s so important that you won’t leave me alone, all of sudden? And why ring Dalethwaite rather than my mobile? What point are you trying to make?

  Licking his lips again, he sought the elusive taste of lemon, and from his memory he drew the sublime sensation of thrusting into Lizzie’s beautiful body as she leaned over the washbasin, grinning like a minx at him in the mirror over the sink.

  His love was straightforward, not devious, and only she could help him expunge the dark memories. Only she could make him forget the pain of Clara and her emotional manipulations, and memories that still clung to him, even after all these years.

  Closing the bathroom door, Lizzie padded through the little vestibule and back into the bedroom. Her bedroom. Would she ever get used to it? So spacious and comfortable. So beautifully furnished, yet somehow also homely. So tidy!

  God, that was the weirdest thing of all. Would she ever get used to such neatness and order, a state that miraculously repaired itself thanks to the efforts of a superb household staff?

  By the time she’d gone upstairs, all pink-faced and flurried after cavorting with John, her suitcases had been unpacked, her laundry whisked away and everything that needed hanging was hanging up in the wardrobe. All her personal items were symmetrically arranged on her dressing table, and her toiletries were similarly deployed in her bathroom.

  A certain locked, leather-bound case sat innocuously on a shelf in the wardrobe too. Lizzie grinned, wondering if Mrs Thursgood, or Mary, whichever of them had unpacked for her, knew what it contained. As John had pointed out on Lizzie’s first night here, there were some things that even the most broad-minded staff shouldn’t have to deal with. Specifically, stashes of condoms, sex toys, various leather items …

  I wonder what they think is in it, Mr Smith? Surely they must speculate about what we get up to?

  Speaking of getting up to things with John …

  Where was he? She’d no doubt he’d come to her, even if they weren’t going to sleep together. His sleep ‘thing’ still stood between them, but they’d resolve it sooner or later, especially now she understood it better. She had to believe that.

  And she’d have to resolve her own, most private issue too. Her subversive, niggling jealousy over Clara. She’d have to fess up to it, because John would know something was bothering her. He probably already did know, because he al
ways did in his uncanny way.

  Over dinner – eaten surprisingly informally off trays in front of the telly in the sitting room – she’d caught him watching her instead of the cop show on the telly. Waiting for her to raise the issue of the new premises for New Again, no doubt, and for a while it had amused her to say nothing at all, just to tease him. She’d met his gaze, and just given him a challenging little smile … and he’d laughed.

  They didn’t have to speak to play this particular game.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to give you a bollocking,’ she’d said over the delicious coffee Mrs Thursgood had served them, before she and her husband had retired to their flat for the evening.

  ‘A bollocking? What would that be for?’ John’s blue eyes sparkled.

  ‘You know.’ As Lizzie put aside her cup, he set his aside too, and drew her close to him on the settee. It was an easy, companionable gesture. So natural, and yet, somehow, she felt tension in him. Was it about the new shop? Or something else? She almost got the feeling he might be seeking solace somehow, but about what, she couldn’t decide. It might even be pure imagination.

  ‘Yes, I do know. I did it again, didn’t I?’ His hand smoothed over her shoulder, the touch sweet, not sexual. His fingertips seemed to say, Yes, I’ll want you again soon, and you’ll want me, but for the moment, this is good too. This is what I need.

  ‘But it was too good an opportunity to let slip by,’ he went on. ‘I couldn’t lose it, then kick myself for allowing you and Marie to miss out.’

  Lizzie laid her head on his shoulder, loving the simple feel of his strong sure body. She was an individualist, and a feminist, but having a powerful man to look out for her too didn’t compromise that.

  ‘It was too good to miss,’ she said. It was the honest truth. ‘I know I’ve been critical of your pre-emptive strikes in the past, but there’s no use getting my knickers in a twist about this one. It’s what I want. I’d probably have asked you to help us anyway, so you’ve saved me the bother.’

  John kissed the side of her face, a quick peck. ‘You’re a wise girl, Lizzie, but nothing you ask for could ever be a bother.’

  She turned to him, and gave him a firm look. ‘OK, and thank you. It is the most wonderful thing you’ve done, and I adore you for it. But this still doesn’t mean I don’t wish to be consulted in future. You’re always at pains to impress on me that we’re equals, so you must treat me like one.’

  John snagged his plush lower lip between his teeth. For a man of forty-six, he could do a marvellous impression of a naughty, shamefaced boy sometimes.

  ‘I will, my love. I will … And you’re not just my equal. You’re my better. In every way.’

  Did he mean it? She had a feeling he did. His heart certainly did, even if sometimes his actions, and his controlling benevolence, made her feel like a pampered doll.

  But there was still that adorably guilty look on his face … over something else?

  ‘What?’ she demanded. What else had he done? That expression said it all.

  ‘There might be a car.’

  Oh John …

  ‘How do you know I can drive?’

  ‘I made a point of finding out. Apparently you’re quite a good driver.’

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘You’re hopeless, you know that, don’t you? I should go all dominatrix on you for this. Give you a damn good thrashing and all that.’ She reached up and caught his earlobe between her fingertips and gave it a warning squeeze. ‘But I’m tired from the journey … and everything … so I’ll take a rain check on that.’ She tried giving him a stern look, but the wicked glint in his eyes, and the way he quirked his sandy eyebrows at her, made that almost impossible.

  ‘You’ll like the car. It’s nothing too posh or racy … Just an Audi S3. I thought a hatchback would be most useful to you, for transporting sewing projects and whatever to and fro.’ He held her gaze. Goodness, he looked genuinely nervous. Troubled … and, perhaps, not about the car. ‘But if you want something different. Well, just say the word.’

  ‘An Audi of that ilk sounds pretty posh to me! But seeing as how my Dad has one … a rather old one, I might add, I’ll let you off.’ She released his ear, and slid her hand to cradle his cheek. He’d shaved recently and his skin felt deliciously smooth. He smelt amazing too, as she leaned in and kissed his lips. ‘And I thank you too, John. You’re a very thoughtful man. A car to ferry stuff about in will make life so much easier.’ She kissed him again. ‘You give me so much. Don’t ever believe I’m not grateful, even if I do get a bit shirty with you sometimes.’

  ‘I don’t mind shirty,’ he said, sliding his hand into her hair, cradling her skull and effortlessly taking control of the kiss. His lips met hers again, assertive yet tender, making it a proper kiss, latent with promise. Despite their coming together earlier, the demon imp of desire stirred again.

  As the television played on in the background, and the cops argued some ethical point, and then dismissed it, Lizzie and John kissed on, taking pleasure in the simple act, tasting each other, and embracing. It wasn’t sex yet, but Lizzie had no doubt it soon would be.

  But then the phone rang, and the slight tension Lizzie had sensed in him, and had believed she’d banished, was suddenly back again.

  John broke away from her, frowning.

  ‘Shouldn’t we answer that? It might be important?’ Lizzie asked him, wanting to gnash her teeth and shout, their beautiful moments snatched away by the damned phone. John’s frown turned to a glare at the extension in the sitting room, as it trilled on, and then abruptly fell silent, as if whoever was calling was now satisfied that they’d already knackered everything up.

  With a sigh, he rose to his feet. ‘Actually, there are a couple of calls I really should make before we turn in.’ He bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll just slip to the office for a few minutes. Why don’t you go to bed, and wait for me, and I’ll drop by in a little while to tuck you in, and read you a story.’

  His smile had been naughty, and the way he’d slid his hand to her breast and briefly cupped it had been even naughtier, but still she’d sensed his unease.

  And now, later, here she was, climbing into bed, and wondering, wondering, wondering about those phone calls. It shouldn’t be anything to worry about. John had taken all sorts of calls while they’d been on holiday, even though he’d promised he’d keep business to a minimum. And some of those conversations had taken place at odd times of the day and night, because his business interests spanned the globe. Someone who worked for him, or from whom he was buying something, or to whom he was selling something; well, there was always someone that John might speak to at any time, night or day, in respect of the care and feeding of his empire.

  So why did these calls feel different?

  Don’t be idiotic, Lizzie. It surely wasn’t Clara. Why would it be?

  Yet, as she switched out the main lights and clicked on the television for some dodgy late-night documentaries on Quest, Lizzie had a horrible spooked feeling. Staring blankly at the technological wonders of a high-speed train she’d probably never ride, she mentally flicked through the Google images she’d found of Clara, like shuffling a deck of evil cards. None of the pictures she’d discovered so far had been high res enough to see John’s ex crystal-clearly, but they’d certainly been sufficient to show Lizzie that her ‘rival’ was a beauty. Elegant, refined … bewitching.

  John spun his chair. He didn’t want to make the call, but he had to. If he didn’t, she’d just keep ringing and ringing until one of these days, Lizzie would pick up the phone instead of him.

  Not that I don’t think you’re a match for her, sweetheart. Because you are. A thousand times over. But Clara can be ruthless in the pursuit of what she wants.

  And he had a fairly shrewd idea of what his ex-lover wanted from him now. Even though he sincerely hoped he might be mistaken.

  Tapping the desk, he considered trying to reach Tom again, as a sage, brotherly sounding boar
d, but when he punched in the number, as was so often recently, his brother’s phone went to voicemail.

  Was he with the new man again? John hoped so. And he hoped this man, whoever he might be, was treating his brother right. John wasn’t the only Wyngarde Smith sibling who’d had a chequered love life, although he doubted that Tom’s was anywhere near as disastrous as his own had been. Or had been up until now.

  But trying to reach Tom was just staving off the inevitable. John straightened his chair, facing his desk. Facing the unpleasant task like a grown up instead of a recalcitrant boy.

  It would be early evening where she was now. He picked up the phone. Entered the number again. Listened to the ring, willing it to go on and on, with no answer. The number was a mobile one, though, and she’d have the phone with her, anticipating this very call.

  His luck ran out.

  ‘Clara Sanchez de la Villareal.’

  The sound of that soft, familiar voice made him angry. A great start! She knew the Dalethwaite number, and he’d not concealed it. So why play games and answer as if he might just be anybody?

  Why? Because she was Clara, and that was her style, and there’d been a time when her provocations had bewitched him.

  ‘Good evening, Clara. It’s John.’

  ‘Jonathan, darling, how wonderful to hear from you. How are you? I was so hoping you’d call this evening.’

  Her tone was husky, intimate, as if they’d seen each other only yesterday, as if they’d been lovers the night before. John clenched his fist against the desk, digging his nails into his palm. There’d been a time when he’d craved the sound of this voice, ached for it. Long, agonised wakeful nights in his prison cell, listening for the slightest change in another man’s breathing, he’d consoled himself with the thought of Clara whispering sweet nothings to him when they were reunited. Her laughter. Her moans when they’d made love. As the months had passed, without a word from her, that voice had faded, but still he’d hoped. And hoped.