The Accidental Bride (Black Lace)

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘Hello. I’ll join you, then, shall I?’

  Her voice was low and melodious, her face wreathed in an impish smile. He nearly fell off the stool, stunned by her, and happily recognising her opening gambit.

  ‘Hi,’ he answered, trying to breathe deeply without appearing to do so.

  She’s made you into a crazy man. But there’s not much point trying to hide it because she can read you like a book.

  Close up, she was dazzling, a brighter star than the diamonds she wore, the gems that sparkled in her ears, at her throat and on her finger. The pert smile widened and she licked her rose-stained lower lip in a way that almost made him moan.

  ‘Well, I would offer to buy you a drink, boss man, but I’d rather take you up to my room. I hate wasting time.’

  Direct. So direct. But then, she always had been. Even when they were playing the most complex of games. He slid off the stool when she took him by the hand, tugging him forward and starting to lead him from the bar.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said, trying to gain the upper hand, yet knowing it was useless at this juncture. There was a time and a place for being a master, but tonight wasn’t it. ‘But before we go, what’s your name? You look familiar.’

  ‘You can call me Miss Page.’

  Ah, Bettie Page, the famous pin-up girl of the 1950s. How well he remembered first noticing that likeness.

  ‘Thanks, Bettie. You can call me Jonathan.’

  ‘It’s “Miss Page” to the likes of you, Jonathan,’ she replied haughtily as they reached the lift.

  ‘Yes, Miss Page.’

  She was a goddess, a queen and empress. Well, a lady at the very least, as of today. As she sashayed into the lift car, then turned to face him, leaning provocatively against the far wall, he experienced a weird sense of double vision.

  He seemed to see not the black dress, but that exquisite white gown she’d worn earlier. Fitted, elegant, demure; long, narrow lace sleeves and a full, puffed skirt. A gauzy veil granting mystery to her fabulous beauty, and not hiding it in the very least.

  Was the double vision from joyful tears, now, as then? Her slow smile acknowledged them, seductive yet also sweet.

  ‘So, do we do the elevator scene?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re in charge,’ he replied, answering her smile with one of his own. He remembered every second of the night when she’d said that.

  Before she could make a ruling, the short lift ride was over and the doors sprang open again. Grasping his hand, knowing what she wanted, she drew him from the cab and led him at a smart clip towards the room they’d share.

  Ah, the chintz-clad madness of the Waverley Grange Hotel. How he loved it, even though they could, if they’d wanted, have chosen a far more luxurious venue. But this kitsch yet homely room meant far more to him than any of the most exclusive boutique accommodations, or any of the five star hotels he owned himself.

  This was where an adventure had once begun.

  As the door closed, she crossed to the bed, and tested the mattress. Satisfied of its resilience, she turned to him, her brilliant eyes commanding.

  ‘I don’t want anything fancy. I just want you, Jonathan. I’ve been watching you all day and it’s been driving me crazy. I can’t imagine what the guests would’ve thought if they’d known what I was thinking every time I looked at you!’

  ‘Ditto,’ he said softly. It’d been hard. And if it weren’t for biofeedback, he’d have been hard too, at the most inopportune moments.

  Kicking off her high black shoes, flinging herself down sideways on the bed, yet still managing to look every inch a lady, she gave him the once-over, that all-encompassing look that seemed to strip him bare for her perusal. Her glance drifted over him, assessing him through his clothes, then settling at his crotch where he was already massively rampant.

  ‘Undress for me. I want to see what I’ve committed myself to for good and all.’

  ‘Very well.’ His fingers went to his lapels. Good God, was he shaking?

  ‘And be quick about it,’ she commanded.

  ‘Yes, my dear.’ He started to hurry, aware that her mock-stern expression seemed to suggest he should have said mistress.

  Though he wanted to please and impress her, he stripped quickly. He didn’t want anything fancy either, just to be with her. In her. Within moments he was naked, his clothes flung about. She extended a gracious hand to him, urging him forward, and when he reached her, she took hold of his cock.

  Oh … Oh God. Her touch. She caressed him lightly, her delicate seamstress’s fingertips examining his length, his girth, toying with the sensitive head.

  ‘All mine now,’ she said, eyeing him from beneath sultry lowered lashes, ‘All mine for ever.’

  The way she handled him made it impossible to frame an answer. He simply nodded.

  ‘Make love to me, then.’ Winking roguishly, she shuffled into position on the bed, wiggling up her slim skirt as she went, to reveal his reward.

  The sight of her made him have to fight for control. She wore an exquisite thong, fashioned from black silk and lace, that barely covered her pubis. He almost just plunged in; it would be easy to just push the scrap aside. But even as he climbed onto the bed, to get between her thighs, she wriggled and shuffled again, tweaking the flimsy garment down and off, before flinging it away.

  ‘All yours,’ she purred, parting her thighs.

  Again the urge to plunge crested, but he contained himself. She deserved more. Almost trembling with lust, he slid his fingers to her sex, parting the ebony curls and her labia, to find her clit.

  ‘Oh God,’ she groaned, writhing. ‘Ooh, yes …’ She squirmed around, working herself on his fingertips, her thighs shifting and tensing, her beautiful face a mask of raw sensation.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she chanted, and against his touch, her sex rippled in a swift orgasm. ‘Please, oh John, please …’ Still coming she reached for him, grabbing for his flank, his hip, to guide him between her thighs.

  Satisfied of her pleasure, he surged forward, fitting himself to her, finding his goal, and hers. With a hoarse groan of his own, he slid into her, his heart almost stopping at the great wave of emotion that matched his pleasure.

  His. His bride now. Closer than close. With no barrier, physical or otherwise, between them. Her heat was like paradise; her silky readiness pure joy. Almost laughing with happiness, he accepted the fact that this would not be long, protracted, complicated lovemaking. Just swift, crazy, ecstatic, messy, married fucking. Just a few wild thrusts to bring them both to their peak.

  ‘Oh hell, yes, Lizzie, I love you!’ he roared, powering into her, the pulse of his semen echoed by the clench and clasp of her pussy around his cock.

  ‘I love you too, John. I love you, love you, love you …’

  Tears came again then, for them both, and the laughter too.

  There was a lamp still on in the room as Lizzie opened her eyes, and came up to rest on her elbow. She was glad of the light, to see her sleeping angel.

  It was still hard to believe he was her husband now. This fabulous, beautiful man, the love of her life.

  And he slept so peacefully. He mostly did nowadays. OK, there were still some nights when he couldn’t nod off, but the worst of his sleeping issues were a thing of the past.

  He looked young too. Absurd as it sounded, she could almost imagine he looked younger than he had when she’d originally met him, despite the many months that had passed since they’d first been in this very room together. John was forty-seven now, but even if to say he only looked twenty-seven was a bit of a stretch, to Lizzie’s eyes he could certainly pass for middle thirties.

  ‘Lord Jonathan Llewellyn Wyngarde Smith,’ she mimed. ‘Lord and Lady Jonathan Llewellyn Wyngarde Smith … Far out!’ She suppressed a giggle. She still couldn’t get her head round some things. Perhaps it was as well that John virtually never used his title, because she wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the one he’d conferred on her.

>   Of course, one day, she’d have to. But that was the future, the far, far future, and they’d face it together then.

  Why aren’t I tired? I should be knackered! It’s been insane today.

  Yes, it had been a long, complicated, but wildly, dementedly happy day.

  First their civil ceremony in the banqueting room at Borough Hall, then a brief limousine journey to Montcalm for a blessing in the family chapel there, guests travelling behind them in a convoy of luxury coaches. After that, the official reception and sumptuous wedding breakfast in a grand marquee on the lawn, and now, finally, this mad, noisy, anything goes evening disco party for all-comers here at the Waverley Grange Hotel.

  It was uncanny how, when they’d been planning the day, they’d both started to suggest this bash to each other, almost at the same moment.

  ‘How about spending our wedding night at the Waverley too?’ she’d suggested.

  ‘Hell yes! I was just going to say the same myself.’

  And this was that night. It had seemed as natural as breathing to recreate their first meeting, after a fashion. Neither one of them had needed to prompt the other. It’d just happened, as poignant and romantic as it’d been crazy and fun.

  Oh, John, I love you so …

  It was still hard to believe she was married to such a dish. She was tempted to pinch herself as she gazed at him, convinced she’d been the absolute envy of every single straight woman at all the series of proceedings today. He’d taken her breath away in morning dress, and she’d caught females blatantly admiring him again and again.

  Even Shelley, a little bit, despite having her own man at her side. Her own husband. As, to everyone’s surprise, a month or two ago, she and Sholto had quietly tied the knot with no fuss or palaver. Lizzie hadn’t even known until the night before, when her friend had rung to ask her and John to be witnesses.

  Today’s wedding party had been full of happy couples. Shelley and Sholto married. Rose and Hannah, who were also planning to wed as soon as they legally could. Brent and Tom, happily anticipating the same.

  Caroline and her husband Ralph, thrilled to bits. John’s old friend Benjamin, flown in from Scotland with his wife and kids.

  And the entire Wyngarde Smith clan, all of them over the moon. Lizzie still felt a bit weepy herself, recalling the unabashed tears of joy. John’s elder brother, and his wife, John’s niece, all happy for him. His mother, the Marchioness, glowing, and even the old man himself, who’d actually been well enough to attend the blessing and a bit of the wedding breakfast.

  Speaking of the old man, there had been one rather sticky moment over the Champagne, when Lizzie had noticed that a conversation between the Marquess and her father seemed to be lurching dangerously towards an ideological fracas. But she’d been able to step in, quite diplomatically she thought, to remind both them of what they had in common: that on this happiest of days, they’d each managed to marry off a ‘problem’ child. She and John were going to have to keep a close eye on those two at future family events, though, and steer them towards interests that they passionately shared, such as art, English poetry and the classics. Especially as her father had apparently been going to karate lessons lately, and no matter how infirm he was, the Marquess could still handle a shotgun! But between her and John, and her mum and the Marchioness, they should all be able to keep the peace between the two patriarchs somehow.

  Dalethwaite Manor and New Again had pretty much shut down for the day – both the existing shop and the new Bridal Boutique – because members of staff from both places were part of the festivities, especially the two Ms, Mary and Marie, who were in charge of helping with Lizzie’s dress, along with the gowns of her sisters and Shelley as her attendants. Quite a lot of the shop’s patrons had been keen to throw confetti too, and Marie had expressed no qualms about losing a day’s business, because the Princess Grace inspired wedding gown, and quite a lot of the female guests’ outfits too, all provided the best possible shop window for New Again Bride.

  One person not at the wedding was Clara.

  Lizzie had never asked John about his meeting with his ex, but he’d offered the information voluntarily.

  After initial anger at being confronted with her foolish deception, Clara had capitulated. Utterly. John had described his ex as being almost relieved, as if a weight had been lifted from her, and a long-endured tension released. Lizzie imagined him hugging the woman he’d once loved. Comforting her. Yet the thought had held no threat. Her faith in her beloved was absolute.

  In a spirit of letting bygones be bygones, Lizzie had wondered whether to suggest they invite Clara to the wedding, but before she could even discuss it with John, Caroline had alerted them to the fact that her daughter was racing to the altar herself, hard on the heels of her quickie divorce.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a bit of one-upmanship, my dear.’ John’s ex-wife had sounded cheerful. ‘But I’m happy to pay for a big bash for her, just to be sure she’s out of John’s your and hair at last. And in hopes that she’s finally found the right man. I think Arthur’s pretty much got the measure of her.’

  And here it was, in a celebrity mag, actually out today, which Lizzie had snagged at the hotel’s gift shop. She smiled, handing at least the small victory of being married first, to her rival.

  The former Condesa Sanchez de la Villareal marries trainer of Derby winner!

  On the front page, the bride looked fabulous in Atelier Versace, posing with her new husband and her son.

  They’re so alike. He must be Charlie’s father.

  Both man and boy had the same smile, the same blond hair, and the same blue eyes, evident even in the magazine pic. And what was more, handsome Arthur Fletcher even bore a passing resemblance to John. Both were golden-haired alpha males, and generally similar in height and build. The racing trainer was a little bit older, though, and more weather-beaten and outdoorsy looking, but it was easy to see how Clara might have thought she could pass Charlie off as John’s offspring when really he was Arthur’s son.

  Good luck to you all! I hope you don’t need it too much, though.

  Lizzie’s eyes drooped. She hadn’t thought she was tired, but the day had finally caught up with her. Moving with infinite care, she set aside the magazine and snuggled up to her husband.

  Rats! He stirred. She’d woken him.

  ‘What do you want now, woman?’ Laughter was rich in John’s voice as he snapped awake. ‘Do I have to service you yet again? I really ought to spank you, never mind fuck you. Waking me up after such a long, rigorous day, you trollop!’

  Lizzie leant over him, looking down into his beloved face and his gleaming blue eyes. ‘Rigorous? You should try having to wear a meringue and a fifteen-foot train for hours. It was a good day, though, wasn’t it?’

  ‘The best,’ he said emphatically. ‘I always thought that if I ever did have to have a big wedding, I’d hate it. But I didn’t. I loved every minute of it.’ A surprised grin played around his lips. ‘Especially when I saw you walking towards me in that glorious dress.’

  Yes, that moment. The best. John standing waiting for her, joy and wonder in his eyes. An emotion too exquisite to describe in mere words.

  ‘No, it isn’t sex I’m wanting, actually. I’m a bit tired myself. But let’s put a pin in the spanking for when we get to France, shall we? And make a date with a certain rustic table in the garden of a certain villa, eh?’

  John waggled his sandy eyebrows at her. ‘Done deal, my love. Your fantasy is my command. As always.’

  Tomorrow, they’d fly to the south of France, in a private hire jet, for their honeymoon, returning to the lovely villa they’d stayed at before. John had bought the place from his friend without telling her, as a surprise wedding present, but this was one pre-emptive strike with which she certainly wasn’t going to take issue.

  ‘What, even a pair of leather trousers?’

  ‘Maybe one of these days … just for you.’ John reached up to stroke her face. ‘But s
eriously, if you don’t want me to make love to you or smack your gorgeous bottom, why did you wake me?’ He smiled at her.

  And that was it. The main reason she’d woken him.

  She had to see the smile.

  This was the smile that had bewitched her, the smile that had won her all those months ago, down in the Lawns Bar. It was a smile not just on the lips, but in the eyes, the face, and in the whole being of her wonderful, wonderful man.

  Lizzie’s heart swelled with happiness. She was so lucky, so loved by John. She knew now that she’d see this beautiful smile every day for the rest of her life, and always reflect it right back with a smile of her own. Lit with her love.

  Dipping down, she laid her lips against his. And the wonder-smile became a long and loving kiss.

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  First published in 2013 by Black Lace, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

  A Random House Group Company

  Copyright © Portia Da Costa 2013

  Portia Da Costa has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

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