The Accidental Bride (Black Lace)

by Portia Da Costa

  Lizzie remembered that night. Waiting up, also wanting to ‘have a word’, but with John, over the purchase of the St Patrick’s Road house. He’d mentioned having to give his brother a rain check.

  ‘And you just happened to strike up a conversation with him? That’s a bit spooky, isn’t it? Did you know who he was?’

  Lizzie sipped at her water, still digesting Brent’s revelation. It was kind of cosmic serendipity, she supposed. She’d accidentally picked up the older Smith brother – sorry, Wyngarde Smith brother – in the Lawns, so why shouldn’t Brent pick up the younger one? If Tom was even half as hot as his older sibling, Brent would have clocked him straight away. And would probably have had a strong inkling he was gay, too.

  ‘I already knew him, love. But not as John’s brother,’ said Brent quietly. He had an odd look of nostalgia on his face. ‘I’d met him before … at Sylvestro’s.’ Lizzie remembered some of Brent’s tall tales about that particular club. She’d even been there with him once. ‘We had a one-night stand. A few years ago, before I was with Steve.’

  She shook her head, ‘You couldn’t make it up, could you? How incredibly weird … Long before I’d even set eyes on John, you’d slept with his brother!’

  ‘Just one of those Twilight Zone things, love, eh?’ said Brent cheerfully. ‘Of course, I had no idea who he was other than that. We never exchanged surnames or even numbers that first time. He was just a “Mr Right for the Night” rather than a “Mr Right”. In fact, I’d forgotten all about him. But when I saw him at the Waverley, I sort of recognised him twice. I remembered him, and yet he looked familiar in a different way too.’

  ‘Does he look like John?’

  ‘A little bit. His hair’s darker, and he’s about ten years younger, of course, but there’s a resemblance.’ Brent’s expression went dreamy for a moment. Yes, the Smith men could do that to you. ‘It’s mainly the eyes. He has the same gorgeous blue eyes as your John.’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Well, now I’ve heard everything. When did you realise? When you got as far as asking him his name this time, I presume?’

  Brent grinned too. ‘Yes, that’s pretty much it. We were on our third date. I nearly fell out of bed when he said he was Tom Wyngarde Smith. And he was as surprised as I was when I explained about you. And how you were this incredible woman his brother wanted advice about because she was too stubborn to move in with him!’

  ‘Who said that? Was it him? Or was it John?’ Suspicions stirred. ‘Has Tom told John who he’s dating? Seems that everybody knows what’s going on but me!’

  ‘No, don’t worry. Tom hasn’t said anything to John. I told him I’d like to tell you first, and he agreed it was best.’

  Lizzie stared out at the car park for a moment. Life was bizarre. So full of strange coincidences and interactions. She couldn’t help but smile, though.

  Good for Brent. And good for Tom. She loved her old friend – and ex-boyfriend – like a brother, and she desperately wanted him to be happy. She wanted the best for him, and if Tom Wyngarde Smith was anything like his older brother … well, he was the best. And he couldn’t look for a better man than Brent.

  ‘So, it’s really serious, then?’ she said at length, reaching out to fold her hand around Brent’s.

  His face was a picture of excitement, joy and a touch of apprehension. Oh, how Lizzie knew that state. She felt it every single day.

  ‘Yes … I think so. I think I’m falling in love with him. Or maybe already have fallen.’ He hauled in a deep breath. ‘He seems to feel the same. He even wants me to move into his cottage with him, on the Montcalm estate. There’s a position for me there, on the gardening team, if I want it. It’s starting right back to basics, but it’d be the real deal, proper horticulture, not just selling potted plants and garden furniture to yuppies.’ He made a vague gesture towards the main part of the garden centre. ‘I think I want it … and him … but well, like a certain person of my acquaintance, I’m prone to dithering when it comes to moving in and commitment. Not to mention getting together with someone who’s posh and much better off than I am.’

  ‘Tell me about it! It’s bloody terrifying, isn’t it?’ Lizzie slid off the bench and darted around to Brent’s side of the table, to hug him tight. John was her life, but her old friend would always be a soul-mate too. Especially now he faced a future so parallel to her own.

  But, as they laughed and hugged, drawing odd looks from fellow patrons of the café, it dawned on Lizzie that there might be one significant difference between Brent’s situation and hers.

  She was prepared to bet there wasn’t a male equivalent of Clara in Tom’s life.

  ‘Shall I tell John? Or do you think Tom wants to?’ Lizzie had asked as she and Brent had prepared to part, and he was admiring her new wheels.

  ‘Oh, Tom’s very easy-going. You tell John, if you want to. Tom won’t mind.’

  And now, as she let herself in, back at Dalethwaite Manor, she was both nervous and excited at the prospect. She had no idea what John would think of this strange coincidence.

  The house was quiet. The Thursgoods had the rest of the weekend off, and were away visiting family in the area. She and John had the house to themselves until late tomorrow evening.

  So, where are you, Mr Business? You’re not working your people to a standstill on Saturday, surely? Especially if you’ve still got that hard-on you texted about!

  The Bentley hadn’t been parked out front, but it could be in the garage. She supposed if this were a romantic novel she’d be able to ‘sense’ her lover’s presence in the house, but she wasn’t Mystic Lizzie and certainly didn’t have the almost supernatural powers of perception that John himself sometimes displayed.

  Unsettled, she wandered through the house after depositing several urgent sewing projects in her workroom. Pausing in the kitchen, she topped up Alice’s water dish and put her a bit of food down, then passed through the small dining room, heading for the terrace overlooking the pool.

  Yes, time for her daily exercise, and she often did her best thinking whilst in the pool, swimming laps. Gliding through the water, moving on auto pilot, she could let everything just drift through her mind for review. Shelley and Sholto. Brent and Tom. All the other stuff. She who should not be named …

  Ten minutes later, Lizzie dived into the pool and hurled herself towards the other end, at her best pace.

  The water was the perfect heat, not too warm, not too cool, and the canopy above kept the late afternoon sun off her head. Lizzie loved that the pool had a chorine-free system. She’d never swum in one before Dalethwaite, and the water was pure and clean and silky against her body as she powered through it. Never the most elegant of swimmers, she could still manage a fairly creditable crawl and breaststroke and, untroubled by chlorine, it was far more pleasant for her face when it went beneath the surface as she swam properly.

  After quite a few laps at a fairly fast pace, concentrating on nothing but working her muscles and getting her heart rate up, she eased off and moved through the water at a more leisurely speed. Then she engaged her brain.

  Brent and Tom. Shelley and Sholto. Her and John. Her house-mates were serious, she sensed, and she knew she was too. Earlier, she’d blithely told herself that everything could be dealt with, but now, some of the ‘issues’ surfaced, as if they’d been lurking in the depths of the pool and her passage through the water had stirred them up.

  How nice it would be just to go on in a kind of happy limbo, living together, loving together, experimenting with sex, just enjoying each other’s company. But would life allow them to do that? Or would ‘stuff’, and other people, soon intrude?

  If I said the word, John would maintain our status quo, but is that really fair to him?

  There were family expectations. He’d set himself apart from them, but deep down, she knew he’d follow duty eventually, because that was the kind of man he was. He always shouldered responsibility.

  And there was Clara.

 
Lizzie suspected that John’s former love would insert herself into their happy bubble world sooner or later. She didn’t know how, but she sensed it, being Mystic Lizzie on that score, at least.

  I’ll not push things. I’ll not ask any more questions. I’ll just wait, and move at John’s pace. I’ll accept the good things, and enjoy the man I love for as long as I can.

  Pushing her wet hair out of her eyes, she kicked out hard again, splashing inelegantly and speeding up, savouring the sheer pleasure of being young and healthy and living in a wonderful home, to which her wonderful man would soon return.

  For now, the realities of life did not exist.

  As John entered the house, he could hear splashing water. Lizzie was swimming. He closed his eyes, picturing her incredible body in a sleek suit that clung to her beautiful shape.

  Not that he needed the idea of her in form-fitting clothes to fire his imagination. She was stunning in everything she wore, whether it be vintage glamour, or jeans and T-shirts, or even her pyjamas. She didn’t need to wear peek-a-boo or skintight styles to look sexy, and she looked elegant and arresting in the simplest of outfits. She had an unerring eye for what suited her to perfection.

  But even so, it took barely a blink an eye for John to see Lizzie naked. Her body divine and bare, just for him.

  His cock kicked hard in his shorts, returning to the condition her text had prompted, earlier. God, he was going to look obscene in his swimming trunks. It was a good thing they were alone in the house for twenty-four hours. Grinning, he hurtled up the stairs, two at a time, imagining Lizzie’s tart observations on his horny condition when he appeared at the side of the pool.

  Ten minutes later, John emerged onto the patio, walking quietly on bare feet, not wanting to disturb Lizzie. She was still lapping the pool, slicing through the water in an enthusiastic, impressively fast crawl.

  He stifled a moan as his cock lurched again. She was a goddess. He could see her shapely body as she moved, perfect in a neat, conservative black one-piece, her inky hair streaming out like a veil as she swept along.

  What have I done to deserve you, Lizzie? I want you so much.

  I love you so much.

  That the thought came so easily surprised him. For so long, he’d been confused about love, unsure of it. But now he was sure, because that was what he felt about this woman.

  She fulfilled all his physical needs, all the desires he’d ever felt, and she made his heart happy in a way that no woman ever had before.

  She was as different from Clara as night was from day, and a more complete match for him than any other woman, Caroline included, had ever been.

  I could have it all with you, Lizzie. I want it all.

  As if she’d heard his thought, Lizzie paused at the end of her lap and looked towards him. A grin spread across her face as her gaze flirted towards his groin, and she shook her head, sending water flying from the tips of her hair. Then, still smirking, she struck out, back across the pool towards him.

  She could be everything to him.

  Friend. Companion. Enthusiastic, imaginative lover.

  Wife. His children’s mother. Eventually, in the far future, his Marchioness.

  But much as she loved him, was the burden of all that really fair to her?

  8

  Pool Party

  ‘Well, Mr Smith, is that an inflatable banana in your swimming trunks or are you just pleased to see me?’

  Lizzie looked up at John, where he stood at the side of the pool. Lord, he was a sight for sore eyes! She never got tired of looking at his body. His lean strength. The perfect proportions of his limbs and muscles. The little bit of sandy hair on his chest. The quite frankly enormous bulge of his cock, dramatically showcased in an abbreviated pair of navy blue swimming trunks. The way it jutted out proclaimed that he was pleased to see her, joking apart.

  ‘Always, darling, always.’ Smiling and without a trace of self-consciousness, he dropped down onto his knees, all grace, then inclined forward to kiss her as she pushed herself up, elbows on the pool’s edge, to meet him.

  Why did it always feel as if each kiss was the first one ever? John’s mouth was warm, and lazily demanding, eager but not voracious. His tongue greeted hers, but didn’t subdue it, simply swirling and lightly tasting before they broke contact.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ she asked, her hand on his shoulder, pulling him towards her again. ‘The water is quite literally lovely. This pool is fab!’

  John laughed. ‘I’d love to come …’ He paused for a wicked Lothario eye-roll. ‘But I feel as if I need some exercise first, of the conventional kind. Would you be deeply insulted if I swam instead of fucking you?’

  ‘I’ll live,’ she replied, pulling harder, ‘and don’t they always say, anticipation increases the pleasure, or something like that?’

  ‘Indeed. Something very like that.’ In a nimble, sinuous movement, John swivelled around and plunged feet first into the pool beside her, disappearing smoothly beneath the surface then bursting up again, spraying water everywhere as he shook his wet curls.

  ‘Mm … that’s good,’ he said, sweeping back his hair, sleek as an otter. ‘I don’t think it’s doused the banana entirely, but it’s probably made him a bit more manageable while I swim a few laps.’ Kicking with his feet, he pressed towards her, and took her in his arms again for a slippery wet kiss. Lizzie didn’t notice any discernible diminution in the ‘banana’, though.

  ‘We should have cocktails, shouldn’t we? Make this our own personal Club Tropicana, seeing as we have the house to ourselves and can be as ridiculously self-indulgent as we like.’ She’d been turning thoughts over in her mind, again and again, but somehow, now that John was here, it was easy to put them aside, and focus on her pleasure in the presence of the man she loved.

  ‘Cocktails?’ He looked dubious, then smiled. ‘Why not, eh? Let’s go mad. I mean, it’s so long since we had a holiday, isn’t it?’ Beneath the water, he reached out and clasped her bottom in a playful squeeze.

  Lizzie grinned at him, reaching out for a very light squeeze of her own, testing the banana for ripeness.

  ‘Careful, minx,’ he warned, his blue eyes dancing. He looked dangerous, somehow, with his hair slicked back, more sexually menacing than ever, if that were possible.

  ‘We can call this weekend the last gasp of our holiday, then get back to business, business, business … and sewing, sewing, sewing … on Monday.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ affirmed John, licking the water from his lips, then reaching for her hand, plucking it from his erection. ‘Now, leave this alone for the time being, eh? Or I’ll never get any exercise done to keep this ageing and decrepit body in shape.’ He drew her hand to his mouth, kissed it fiercely, then released her and kicked away towards the middle of the pool.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, old man. Better get to it. I don’t want you to fall to bits before my very eyes, do I?’ she shot back.

  ‘I’ll get you for that,’ he called over his shoulder, then set off at a fast crawl.

  ‘You’ll get me anyway,’ said Lizzie, not sure he’d heard her, but guessing he knew in any case.

  For a few moments, she watched John swim. He was a far better, far smoother swimmer than she was, and totally focused on his stroke. Or at least he seemed to be. Did he, like her, turn thoughts over and over as he did his laps? It was possible. Probable. What was he thinking about? Business? Her? Something or someone else?

  Don’t go there.

  The pool had a changing room adjacent, and she slipped in there to put a widetoothed comb through her hair and change into a dry suit. There was nothing worse than clammy nylon against the skin. She chose a similar suit to the black one she’d been wearing, only this time in dark red, with a navy piping.

  Out on the deck again, she surveyed the pool. John was eating up the laps, his pace still punishing. She thought about calling out to him not to expend all his energy swimming, but it probably wasn’t necessary. He was infinite
ly strong, and his stamina was breath-taking. No matter how many times he went back and forth, he’d still have plenty in the tank to see to her.

  At the little bar beneath an overhang, she investigated the possibilities for cocktails. She didn’t really have much of a clue about mixing them correctly, or what ingredients to choose for a man who usually drank neat gin, but there was a surprisingly wide selection of fixings.

  In the end, she poured a slug of rum, a dollop of apple juice, and a dash of red syrup of some kind into glasses filled with crushed ice from the machine, then tossed a couple of cherries, an umbrella and a straw into each one.

  Not bad. A bit sweet. John would probably hate it. But perhaps he could chastise her for her poor bartending skills? A heat surged in her belly that was nothing to do with rum. Impatient, she strolled over to the two sun loungers set out on the deck, side by side, and settled down on one, cautiously sipping her drink. Best not get smashed while waiting for him. What John could do to her and for her was best savoured with most of her faculties intact.

  Admiring the view, she wondered if John could have been a competitive swimmer. He was fast and smooth, almost machine-like. His laps took half the time hers did, but how many more was he going to do? She shifted position on the thickly padded lounger, feeling the old familiar stirring in her pussy, the heavy clench of desire. The sweet lust which never failed to surprise with its sudden intensity.

  Half-hypnotised by the remorseless regularity of John’s mastery of the pool, Lizzie blinked when, in a sharp change of direction, she saw him head for the ladder, then haul himself out, dripping. Her gaze zeroed to his groin.

  The water and the exercise had taken the edge off his erection but he was still mouth-wateringly substantial beneath the sleek blue nylon. But then, he was always awesome, even at rest. Yum, yum …

  Yet, she’d have loved John even if he’d only had a tiny dick. It was the man who owned her heart, not his accoutrements. And anyway, what he could do with his mouth and his hands would more than make up for any hypothetical tackle shortcomings.