An Improper Wife

by Tarah Scott

  “John and I were to reside in London,” she continued.

  “Caroline—” her uncle began.

  She swung her gaze onto him. “You have married me off, sir. As I said earlier, your right to command me is lost.”

  His mouth tightened. “Careful, my dear.”

  She didn’t flinch from his gaze. “Will you lock me in my room, or perhaps a dawn appointment will teach me a final lesson I shall not soon forget?”

  His eyes darkened. “Do not press me, Niece.”

  Strong fingers closed around her arm. She found herself pulled to her feet and face-to-face with Taran. “Go on,” he said in a low voice. His warm breath fluttered her eyelashes. “See to your things. One hour should suffice.”

  “One hour?”

  “Caroline,” her uncle’s voice turned hard.

  Taran gently pushed her towards the door, then faced her uncle. “Which will it be, Etherton, being locked in her room or a dawn appointment?”

  Caroline froze, her stare on her husband’s back. She couldn’t see his face, didn’t need to see his expression. The near whisper with which he’d spoken the words left no room for question that Lord Taran Blackhall had threatened her uncle.

  A glint appeared in her uncle’s eyes that said he understood full well Taran’s willingness to miss his all-important business in Scotland and remain in England through dawn tomorrow. A chill snaked down Caroline’s spine. Phillip Etherton climbed the social ladder just as he had plundered the South Seas as Peiter Everston. Dawn appointments were one prize among many.

  “The earl asked that I see to it my niece complies.”

  Taran didn’t twitch a muscle. “I have married your niece. Your obligation—and mine—have been fulfilled.”

  “She intends to force your hand, as you witnessed during the ceremony,” her uncle replied in smooth tones. “I am well acquainted with her tactics and can ensure she does no lasting damage.”

  “Lasting damage?” Taran repeated with a condescension Caroline feared would push her uncle to immediate violence. His reputation kept all but the most foolish youngsters and the occasional enraged husband at bay. “Her amusing attempts to discomfit me,” Taran went on, “are no more damaging than that tea she spilt on her dress.”

  Her uncle regarded him for a long moment. “The earl would not appreciate his son interfering where he should not.”

  “Beware you do not interfere where you should not.” Taran started to turn, then added, “Give my regards to the earl.” He turned on his heel and scowled when his gaze met Caroline’s. He took two steps towards her, catching her elbow as he propelled her forward. “Madam, if you insist on dallying at every turn, I shall miss this, and every other meeting, for the duration of our marriage.”

  Caroline tripped and his hold on her tightened as he navigated her out of the study. She stared at the long dark fingers encircling her arm, the same fingers that had gently caressed her breasts. How much more steel would she feel from those fingers if he discovered the honour of the woman he defended had been lost to him only the night before? Taran released her at the stairs, inclined his head in a slight bow, then pivoted and headed towards the kitchen.

  She gaped at his retreating back. If Uncle discovered the truth and Taran called off the marriage, the dawn appointment would become a reality.

  Chapter Nine

  Taran cast a glance at Phillip Etherton’s front door, saw his wife had yet to appear, then pulled William aside from the waiting carriage.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded. “The breakfast is finished and we are about to depart.”

  The viscount flashed a wicked grin. “A certain young lady at the chapel was in need of consoling. Seems her husband is spending far too much time with his mistress and ignoring her altogether.”

  Taran gave him a deprecating look. “An angry husband will prove your undoing.”

  William’s grin widened. “If I am fortunate, it will be the lady who proves my undoing.”

  “Never mind that,” Taran snapped. “I need to know the identity of the Aphrodite you were dabbling with last night.”

  “Aphrodite?” he repeated.

  “You and she were behind the column early into the masque.”

  “Ah, yes. She was a dainty piece. Sent me for punch, then disappeared.” William gave him an appraising look. “I wondered who had stolen her away from me.”

  “I did not steal her away. She fled your company.”

  William’s brow furrowed. “I will have you know no young lady has ever fled my company.”

  “This one did.” William opened his mouth to reply, but Taran cut off the reply. “Who is she?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “None?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  “These masques are a jest,” Taran said. “Everyone knows who everyone is.”

  “Generally, that is true. But I do not know her.” William smiled. “Made the game all the more intriguing, if you know what I mean.”

  “She was talking on the balcony with another woman, Marie Antoinette,” Taran said. “Any idea who she is?”

  “I believe there were at least four Marie Antoinettes at the masque.”

  “They should not be difficult to locate. Find out who they are, and which one of them knows the Aphrodite.”

  The viscount eyed him. “I understand you plan on carrying out your life as always, but you might at least wait until the marriage is consummated.”

  “I do not plan on bedding her tonight,” Taran said peevishly, though he wondered if he wouldn’t do just that if she allowed it.

  William looked past him. His brow shot up. “Your bride is approaching.” He nodded towards the house.

  “Send word once you have found her,” Taran whispered, and turned.

  He stopped short at sight of Caroline taking the last stair onto the walkway. The corset she wore narrowed her waist to the point he marvelled she could walk, much less breathe. The bow on the back of the dress stuck out on each side of her small waist like wings in flight. But it was the hat she wore that made him stare. The straw brim dipped nearly to her nose and, at the back, reached to her shoulder blades. A bright red feather pointed skyward, then plunged downward almost to her elbow.

  She stopped beside Taran. “Sir.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the hideous hat. How in God’s name was she going to get into the carriage, much less sit on the seat comfortably?

  “My lady,” William said.

  Something flickered in her eyes and concern stabbed at Taran. Surely she couldn’t have overheard their conversation?

  William lightly grasped her fingers and bowed over her hand. “Lord Edmonds, at your service.”

  She inclined her head. “My lord.” She pulled her hand free and turned to Taran. He ignored the quizzical look William shot him as she said, “If you are ready, sir.”

  “I am off,” William said.

  Taran cast him a meaningful glance. “I expect to hear news from you immediately.”

  “I shall not fail. My lady.” He gave another small bow and turned on his heel.

  “You are sure I cannot remain here?” Caroline asked.

  Taran faced her. “Is that what this is about?”

  “What?”

  “This.” He looked pointedly at the hat, then let his gaze drop, wincing at sight of the narrow waist.

  “You insist we travel,” she replied. “I hardly see why you should be concerned with my attire.”

  She stepped forward and he grasped her all-too-narrow-waist, lifting her into the carriage. It was she who should be concerned about her attire. If she passed out from lack of air, he would be inclined to paddle her pretty bottom.

  * * * *

  Taran released a slow breath, at last giving in to the relaxing gait of his mount as he rode alongside the horses drawing the carriage. He could feel his wife’s eyes on the back of his head. He didn’t have to look back to know the feather still stuck out the window
, fluttering in the wind like a war flag.

  Two hours into the trip, and she still wore that damned hat. He couldn’t prevent a laugh. She sat rigid in her seat, unwilling or unable to relax against the cushions. Their wedding night would begin with him carrying her up the inn stairs and putting her into a hot tub to work the kinks from her back.

  An unexpected picture arose of her naked in his arms, of him lowering her into a tub of steaming water. Then joining her. He could almost feel the velvety water as he ringed her nipple with his tongue, the rosy peak puckering, springing upward into a hardened point.

  Taran shifted in the saddle to accommodate his growing arousal as the image shifted in his mind. She positioned herself between his legs, her back pillowed against his chest. He cupped her breasts, felt the heavy weight in his palm. By God, in his mind he had her stripped bare. He gulped in dusty air as he imagined flattening his palm against her stomach, then sliding lower, until he brushed the thatch of dark curls between her legs and parting her fleshy slit.

  She would arch into his hand—no. He forcibly shook off the fantasy. Lady Caroline Blackhall was his wife, a lady of genteel birth, who expected to be bedded with respect, not passion, as Aphrodite had demanded.

  The feel of her, warm in his arms, arose with startling intensity. Despite the pledge, he wouldn’t regret their joining, although he couldn’t deny the bitterness he felt at having had only a small part of her. Bedding Caroline would not be a hardship. She was beautiful, desirable, but she was a wife, a woman to respect—he thanked God for that much—but she wasn’t a woman interested in sharing his passion.

  Taran glanced back. As expected, the feather still billowed in the wind, but—he squinted—the feather listed heavily towards the opposite end of the window from which Caroline sat. Had she switched to the opposite cushion? Impossible. The curve of the feather faced forward as it had when she’d stepped into the carriage, only now it touched the far side of the window as if she leant far forward—or had fallen forward.

  Taran jerked hard on the reins, wheeling his horse around. “Stop the carriage!” The stallion whinnied and tossed his head.

  The driver yanked back on the four horses, and the man riding guard ahead of them came to a grinding halt as Taran reached the door. He leapt to the ground, seized the door handle, and threw it back. Caroline’s limp form tumbled through the opening, the feather slapping his nose as he caught her in his arms.

  “A knife,” he shouted.

  “My lord?” Davis, the second man riding atop the carriage repeated.

  “A knife, man, have you got a knife?”

  “Aye.”

  “Give it to me!”

  Taran hoisted Caroline onto the seat and leapt up beside her. The carriage rocked as Davis dropped to the ground. He propped his boot on the rim of the carriage and lifted the hem of his breeches. He pulled a knife from a sheath strapped to his ankle and extended it towards Taran.

  He grabbed the hilt, flipped Caroline onto her belly, and slit the back of her dress in one long cut. Fabric parted with a loud ripping sound and exposed the creamy flesh of her back. Caroline gasped, drawing in a long, harsh breath, and began coughing.

  Taran handed the knife back to Davis. “Tether my horse to the rear of the carriage and move on.”

  “Aye, my lord.” He closed the door behind Taran.

  Taran grabbed Caroline by the waist and sat her upright. She pitched forward in the throes of a coughing spasm. He caught her, pulling her to his chest.

  “Take shallow breaths,” he instructed while rubbing circulation into her back.

  The carriage listed as Davis hoisted himself up onto the seat. An instant later, the vehicle lurched into motion. Taran braced one hand on the roof of the carriage and pinned Caroline against the cushion with the other. He held her firm while they rumbled over a hole that made them bounce in their seats.

  “Of all the foolishness,” he muttered. “If you die before we even reach the inn, your uncle will call me out for that dawn appointment—and rightfully so, this time.”

  Beneath the brim of her hat, he saw the downturn of her mouth.

  “I should”— another cough took her—“I should have let him kill you,” she choked.

  The carriage settled into an even sway and Taran released her. “You are certain it would be me who died?”

  Caroline drew a deep breath, this one more controlled. “Do not be a fool,” she half wheezed. “He is fifteen years your senior, and twice the shot.”

  “Twice the shot?” Taran repeated. “I think not.”

  The hat shifted upward and he caught sight of a single eye glowering at him. “There is still time for a match. Turn this carriage around and you can test your skill against my uncle at first light.”

  Taran leant against the cushion and crossed his arms over his chest. “I have no desire to test my skill against Peiter Everston, though it would doubtless prove far less taxing than dealing with his niece.”

  Caroline straightened. “That was your choice.”

  He snorted. “Not so, my lass. You did not want me—do not want me,” he corrected, “but we both know our duty.”

  “Duty be damned,” she snapped.

  He closed his eyes. At the masque, he had wished Aphrodite would ignore duty and run away with him. His wife didn’t share the same sentiment towards duty. Apparently she didn’t plan to face her obligations head on. Rather she intended to make him pay for his effort.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “What did you hope to accomplish with this idiotic stunt?”

  “It is not idiotic. And you ruined my dress.”

  “When we arrive at the inn, I will have every one of your cases opened and searched. Any other such deathtraps shall meet the same fate as this.” He waved, indicating the dress and corset.

  Her head jerked in his direction, the feather slapping his eye. “You will do no such thing.”

  He seized the hat. She cried out as he shoved open the door and tossed it to the ground. Caroline lunged for the opening. Taran grabbed her arm, yanked her back into the seat, and slammed shut the door. He twisted in his seat and forced her back onto the cushion.

  “Get off.” She squirmed, but only served to remind him of her lush curves and full breasts. The arousal that had vanished when he’d opened the door to find her unconscious returned with a hard throbbing in his cock. He grasped her waist, yanking her onto her back and lay on top of her. In her struggles, her thighs spread and he settled his hips between them. Desire flashed and twisted in his gut.

  “Seems to me that you prefer death to being my wife,” he said. “Mayhap it is my fault for not showing you the benefits of becoming Viscountess Blackhall.”

  He kissed her. After her response to his kiss at the altar—and she had responded—he expected more than the cold thin lips that now pressed limply against his. She squeaked and pummelled small fists against his shoulders. His heart fell. Surely that backbone wasn’t cold at the core. She gripped his arms and satisfaction shot through him. He would accept the burn of ire evident in her grip—for now.

  He feathered his tongue against her lips. Her fingers tightened around his forearms. Taran slipped a hand beneath her. Velvety smooth skin met his fingertips where her dress lay open at the back. Her mouth parted in a small gasp. Relief flooded him. She was not completely immune to him. He glided his tongue along hers.

  She tasted of sweet scones and innocence. Taran deepened the kiss, tasting the smooth inner flesh of her cheek. Her lips softened. Her grip on his arms remained firm, her fingers contoured against his muscles. She pulled him tighter. A low moan rumbled from her chest and her hips arched into him.

  He lifted his mouth, dragging in a deep inhalation. By God, he wanted to take her here on the carriage seat, thrust his cock into her, and ravage that sweet body. He kissed her again, gently, tasting her lips and tongue. Memory of Aphrodite’s warmth blurred with the desire for his wife and he rocked against the soft woman beneath him. Her full breas
ts pressed against his chest.

  He broke the kiss and buried his face in her neck as he gyrated his hips, rubbing his erection against her. His cock ached, hard, demanding release. Last night, Aphrodite had taken him in hand. He couldn’t expect the same of an innocent wife, but he needed some passion. If he closed the window, the interior of the carriage would be plunged into darkness. Part of him knew it wrong to substitute his wife for the woman locked in his thoughts. Yet, as he’d done last night, he could have Caroline straddle him, ride him hard as she had—

  “Aphrodite,” he whispered.

  Caroline’s nails bit into the muscles of his arms. Taran froze. Had he just called his wife by another woman’s name? The carriage hit a bump, rocking them. His cock dug into her belly and she gasped as he bounced on top of her. Taran seized the door handle to keep them from falling to the floor. The carriage levelled out and Caroline shoved at him until he sat up. She scrambled to the far end of the seat, dress clutched to her breasts.

  “What did you say?”

  “Caroline,” he began in a hoarse voice.

  “You toy with me,” she snapped.

  He started to answer, but paused. Blood roared in his ears and his shaft throbbed as if it had a mind of its own. God help him, he wasn’t sure that wasn’t the case. How had he confused his wife with the woman he’d met last night? The two glasses of wine he’d had at the wedding breakfast were no excuse. William had been right. A man’s cock ruled his will. Taran met Caroline’s steady stare. She was beautiful. Raven hair, green eyes that deepened when lit with the fire of indignation, and creamy flesh any man would hunger to touch. Yet, he longed to feel Aphrodite tremble in his arms again. His thoughts and emotions jumbled in confusion.

  He drew a deep breath. “Nay, love, I do not toy with you. It was an honest mistake.” There was some truth to that. “What wife can fault a husband for likening her to the goddess of love?”

  Guilt stabbed deep. She could and would fault him if she knew the truth, but he wouldn’t hurt her with the truth. He couldn’t prevent a silent, morbid laugh. His sense of chivalry knew no bounds. As if reading his mind, she broke her gaze from his and stared out of the window.