by Tarah Scott
With a steady hand, she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“Er.” The minister dropped his attention back to the book. “His—His Church, which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and—” He flicked a glance at Caroline. She clasped the handkerchief to her breast and released a melodramatic sigh. The reverend’s eyes widened.
A murmur rose in the chapel behind her. Strong fingers seized her hand and forced her palm face upwards. She snapped her head up. Taran stared at the black cloth, his furrowed brow and dark eyes betraying…amusement? He released her and looked at the reverend who stared open-mouthed at them.
“Please continue, Minister,” he instructed.
The man remained motionless.
“Have you not seen a woman in mourning before?” he asked.
The minister looked at him. “I-well, I, of course, but—”
“But what?” Taran demanded.
The minister glanced helplessly about, then his gaze shifted to the hymnal, searching briefly for the words before he continued, “Which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee—”
Caroline tore her gaze from the reverend who was droning on with the vows, and stared at Taran. He turned his head to reveal a slightly arched brow. The scoundrel was challenging her.
Fool, she mentally telepathed, this is for your own good.
The handkerchief was abruptly snatched from her grasp. Caroline jerked her attention to the left. Her uncle stared at the minister, the last of the handkerchief being stuffed neatly into his breast pocket. His hand dropped back to his side.
She had prepared for this. Eyes locked on his profile, Caroline reached into her bodice and pulled free a second black handkerchief. His head shifted and his gaze met hers. She turned towards Taran before her uncle had a chance to snatch the second handkerchief from her and came face to face with her soon-to-be husband. His bland expression didn’t disguise the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Her tummy flipped. What would he do when she displayed the remaining black she wore? With her free hand, she grasped her skirt and lifted the hem an inch.
A collective gasp went up and a woman’s low wail sounded in the front pew.
“Silence,” her uncle hissed.
A tremor passed through Caroline. Courage. It didn’t mattered what her uncle thought. Taran’s gaze dropped and both brows shot up. Satisfaction surged through her. This is what mattered. The dear viscount couldn’t ignore the black, quilted underskirt accented with black, silk stockings. What man would want a woman who publicly announced she preferred his dead brother? Caroline abruptly realised the chapel—including the minister—had gone silent.
Taran seemed to notice it as well, for he looked at the minister. “What did you say?”
The minister’s eyes were glued to Caroline’s ankles, where the edge of the underskirt and stockings were still visible.
“Minister,” Taran said in a firmer tone.
The reverend’s head jerked up.
“What did you say?” Taran repeated.
The man cast Caroline an uncertain glance, then straightened and said in a clear voice, “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Caroline’s breath caught when Taran looked at her and said with conviction, “I will.”
The reverend shifted his attention to her. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Love, honour, care for him, yes. Obey and serve? Caroline wadded the handkerchief in her fist. “I am uncer—”
Viscount Blackhall yanked her against him, forcing the last of her sentence into an indistinguishable squeak.
“She does,” he growled.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the reverend asked.
Her uncle seized her wrist and extended her hand—handkerchief and all—towards the reverend. He blinked, then an unexpected gleam of determination lit his eyes and she realised the good reverend intended to bring her to heel. He gripped her hand and extended it towards Taran. His warm fingers closed around hers with a firm but gentle touch. Her heart jolted. He was supposed to have stormed from the chapel, not taken her hand in his as if he meant to honour the damned vows.
“Repeat after me. I, Taran Robertson.”
Taran began, “I, Taran Robertson.”
“Viscount of Blackhall,” the minister went on, “take thee, Lady Caroline Wilmont to my wedded wife.”
Taran repeated the words.
Caroline cursed the tremble in her hand when Taran said, “To love and to cherish, till death us do part.”
The minister addressed her, “Repeat after me. I, Caroline Wilmont, take thee, Lord Taran Robertson, to my wedded husband.”
Voice level, Caroline repeated the vows, ending with, “according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The reverend laid a hand on their joined hands and said, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Caroline stiffened. God had taken no more part in their union today than he had last night. Her husband had yet to see her full wedding trousseau. He would demand an annulment before the wedding night ended.
Taran released her hand and reached into his pocket to produce a gold band. He grasped her left hand and said, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
He started to kneel. Caroline didn’t move, and he yanked her down so hard he was forced to grab her waist to keep her from tumbling onto her rear. She scowled. He lifted a brow and she fisted her hands with the full intention of landing a blow to his belly before thinking better of it.
“Let us pray,” the minister began. Yes, Caroline needed a prayer because in another moment she would be wed.
Chapter Eight
Taran hauled his wife to her feet, placed his hands on her shoulders, and bent to kiss her. Her brow creased in confusion, then her green eyes narrowed. She slapped his chest and jerked back as if he had sprouted horns. He forced back a laugh. The lass had grit.
He pulled her against him, stopping an inch from her face. “I have grit as well,” he murmured, and kissed her.
Her lips weren’t pliant like the she-devil last night, but they were soft and warm. He touched his tongue to the seam. She gasped and he slipped inside for a taste. Caroline held her posture rigid and her mouth unyielding. He wrapped an arm around her back, then with the barest of whimpers, she relaxed.
She wasn’t his Aphrodite, but he sensed passion simmering in her kiss. Her full breasts nearly spilled from her dress. He imagined her hardened nipples prodding into his chest. Tonight he would touch and taste them. He groaned low in his throat, tantalised by the way her belly cradled his stiffening cock. At least he could feel desire for his wife.
Taran released her and caught sight of the black handkerchief peeking out from her fisted hand. If the tenacity she’d shown with her inconsequential, but amusing, rebellions were any indication, their children wouldn’t be the mewling creatures he’d feared they might be. He’d underestimated Caroline Wilmont. She wasn’t the quiet schoolgirl he remembered. Amusement vanished. John had been a fool. Taran would bed his wife and bring her the pleasure she deserved. Caroline would want for nothing. He would provide husband, home, and children. However, when the time was right, he would seek Aphrodite. And, like all wives of society, Caroline would seek her interests elsewhere.
Taran linked his w
ife’s arm in his and glanced at her face. Her eyes narrowed and her lips remained set in a thin line. Everyone rose. Caroline stiffened, her stare straight ahead. Taran tensed. Had he misjudged her? He hadn’t mistaken the passion hidden in her kiss. Tonight would tell him if she was a bitch or just a woman protesting the only way she could. He started down the aisle. For better or worse, they were wed, though he would prefer a woman he could respect to one he hated.
Guests tossed shoes and slippers after them as he hurried them down the aisle and out the chapel doors to his waiting carriage. Taran opened the door and helped her inside, then leapt up and slammed the door shut as he dropped onto the seat opposite her. The carriage lurched into motion.
Her glare turned to him and he read fury in her eyes. “What kind of fool are you?” she demanded.
Despite her clipped tones in the chapel when she’d repeated her vows, the husky note in her voice incited a sense of desire that he found oddly comforting. Her raven hair contrasted with the emerald green eyes with startling clarity far more than he remembered. But he remembered a child, and wagered the woman was having none of his admiration, at least not yet.
“Not the insipid fool you take me for, madam.”
Her lips pursed and he couldn’t help wondering if she were going to punch him. She had clearly intended to do just that in the chapel. He deserved a good right to the gut. He was little better than his brother—or father. He fully intended on producing the needed heir, then leaving his wife to her own devices. As long as she was discreet, he wouldn’t take her to task. He convinced himself that she too would prefer to do as she pleased. Clearly, she would have chosen not marry him at all.
She leant forward. “I had no desire to marry your brother, and I have even less desire to marry you.”
This time, Taran couldn’t prevent a laugh. A mind reader for a wife was the last thing a man needed. She threw herself back against the cushion and a black stockinged ankle showed beneath the hem of the black underskirt.
“If I am not mistaken, that was Mrs Henderland who wailed at sight of your black undergarments,” he said. “I believe our good minister is certain a demon possesses you.”
His wife eyed him. “Something far worse than a demon possesses me.”
Taran blinked, then realised he shouldn’t be surprised. In fact, he should be surprised if she stopped at such paltry attempts to dissuade him as wearing mourning black to their wedding. He had underestimated her a second time. He would not do so again.
“Then our minister has a great deal of work ahead of him.”
She shot him a disparaging look that said he had a great deal of work ahead of him.
He forced the twitch at the corner of his mouth into a frown. “I had not realised you grieved so deeply for my brother. I only hope he does not become a barrier between us.” Taran shifted on the seat. “I shall do my best to rise to his stature.”
She gave an abrupt laugh and clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Taran snapped to attention. What was this? She had a sense of humour? His gaze caught on the long, slim fingers still covering her mouth. Memory of last night and Aphrodite returned with a sharpness that bordered on pain. Her warm fingers wrapped around his cock, the pebbled peaks of her nipples, hard, yet pliant beneath his tongue, the tight sheath that surrounded him when he entered her. Taran shifted his attention to the window and onto the townhouses as the carriage rolled past. He’d been a fool to allow Aphrodite to persuade him to take her maidenhead. He couldn’t regret having her, but if she bore her husband a son anytime soon, she would live the pregnancy—and years beyond—wondering if the boy would in some way resemble another man. Would that pain and guilt rob her of happiness?
Despite the fear, he couldn’t help wondering how many women would have risked scandal, or worse, to attend a masque before they were wed. Aphrodite had been as brave as she was foolish. He returned his attention to his wife. She sat, hands folded in her lap, lips set in a thin line. She hadn’t the courage Aphrodite had, but he thanked God for the backbone she had shown. They would get on well enough, once she accepted she hadn’t made as bad a bargain as she might have, had his brother or father been the alternative.
They rode in silence until arriving at her uncle’s townhouse. The carriage came to a rolling stop. “I would like a moment alone.” She brushed non-existent lint from her dress. “I will see you at breakfast.”
He placed his hand over hers, stilling her movement.
Small hairs on her arms quivered when he raked his thumb over her knuckle. “Perhaps I would prefer to join you.” She snatched her hand away, and he chuckled.
“Not to worry, wife, we will spend many moments alone. I can be patient.”
“I will take some comfort in knowing you have at least one virtue.” The door opened. Grasping the layers of her dress, she gave her hand to the waiting footman. Taran couldn’t take his gaze away from the rounded fullness of her backside as she bent and, in a flounce, ascended the porch steps.
* * * *
Caroline sat in the drawing room of her uncle’s townhouse, spooning a second teaspoon of sugar into a teacup as she released a temporary sigh of relief that the last of the wedding guests had departed. She glanced up to see her uncle in the doorway, a shoulder leaning against the doorjamb. Apprehension tensed her shoulders when he straightened and strode towards her. His anger at her attempts to ruin the wedding had been plain throughout the meal, but she had managed to avoid being alone with him. Time to pay the piper.
She stirred the tea with remarkably steady fingers considering the clamouring within her. She set the spoon on the tray. He lowered himself onto the opposite end of the divan and stretched a hand out across the back of it. Caroline leant against the cushion and met his gaze while blowing across the surface of the tea. He had the same raven hair and dark green eyes her mother had…the same colouring as Caroline.
At forty-five, his broad shoulders and muscled thighs still made him a match for even the younger bucks who vied for female attention. Caroline understood why women were attracted to him. The mystique of the privateer turned pirate proved a powerful aphrodisiac and opened more doors—bedchamber doors—within the ton than even his wealth had.
“Your trifling attempts to fend off Lord Blackhall will cost you,” he said.
“You mistake me for your former ward,” Caroline replied. “I am no longer under your rule.”
“Do not be a fool. I still have a great deal of power. Your husband might find your actions amusing. I do not.”
She sipped her tea. Oddly, her husband had found her actions amusing. She steadied the tremble in her hand. The gold band on the third finger of her right hand weighed her down like lead. How had she managed to lose her innocence to the one man she wanted to avoid?
Another thought struck. Perhaps the light of day had brought Lord Taran Blackhall to his senses and he’d realised the passion he felt for Aphrodite was nothing more than lust. Lust incited by the debauched atmosphere of the masque. That would make his anger all the worse.
Taran appeared in the doorway. Caroline jerked. Tea sloshed over the cup’s rim, onto the saucer and her dress. She cried out.
He uncle straightened. “Caroline.”
Taran was at her side in an instant. He snatched a napkin from the table, dropped to one knee, and dabbed at the spot on her thigh. Fire shot to her core.
“My lord.”
She leant forward in order to set the cup on the table, realising too late her breast would brush his arm, and tried to dodge him. Cup and saucer hit the table with a clatter.
Taran paused in dabbing at her dress. “Something wrong, my lady?”
She snatched the napkin from him and glared.
“No need to be embarrassed. The guests have all gone,” he said.
“Clumsy girl,” her uncle muttered.
Taran shot him a hard glance, then returned his attention to Caroline. “Forgive me for startling you.” He rose.
Despite knowing the
spot on her skirt was no longer wet, Caroline wiped at it.
“I also ask forgiveness for forcing you to travel on your wedding day,” he said.
She jerked her gaze onto him. “What?”
“I am sorry you must face the journey back to Scotland so soon, but I—”
“Scotland?”
Taran frowned. “Yes, that is why I asked that the wedding be held here in Newcastle.” She started to reply, but he shifted his gaze to her uncle. “You did not tell her?”
“I thought it best she not be given more reason to balk.”
Taran’s lips thinned. He looked back at her. “Forgive me. I should have told you. We leave straightaway.”
“Surely, I need not go with you. I am content to await you here.”
He shook his head. “I have business that cannot wait an extra day.”
Her stomach knotted. He couldn’t wait the night it would take to consummate the marriage. If he were anyone but the kilted god she had met last night, she would lead him to her bedchamber and be done with the consummation.
“My lord, such a trip will require packing and a maid. Surely you would not demand I go without a maid.”
“Bring anyone you like.”
“But, I have not arranged with anyone among the staff to leave.”
“Your personal maid?”
Caroline shook her head. “I employ no personal maid.”
“You may employ one when we reach Strathmore.” She started to argue, but he added, “I am sorry. Your bags can follow. They will reach us within a day of our arrival. Anything you need between now and then may be purchased.”
Anger bubbled to the surface. He spoke easily enough of making purchases with her money. “Mabel cannot know what to send. How long will we stay?”
“We will live at Strathmore.”
Caroline stared. “Live? But—”
“You will do as your husband says,” her uncle cut in.
Caroline took care to keep her attention on her husb—Taran—he was not yet fully her husband, at least not until they consummated the marriage. The fact that the wedding night had taken place before the wedding would be of no consequence, so long as no one knew.