August Sunrise (The Silver Foxes of Westminster Book 2)

by Merry Farmer

  Marigold opened her mouth to ask more, what had happened to his actress, what her name had been, whether he’d loved her. But before she could make more than a squeak, he swayed closer to her.

  “I’ve finally come to the conclusion that my friends are right.” He stared intently into her eyes, undisguised desire shining from him.

  All thoughts of his past lover flew from Marigold’s mind. Her heart kicked inside of her, and her throat went dry. “Mr. Croydon, are you proposing to me?” she managed to ask.

  “I believe I am.”

  “Well.” She laughed breathlessly, pressing a hand to the low neckline of her dress. “I never would have dreamed I’d receive such an intriguing proposal in such a curious place.” She glanced around at the cramped quarters of the elevator, feeling as though the walls were closing in even more, urging her toward him.

  “As I understand it, Miss Bellowes, you have been proposed to in every conventional sort of place already.” He shrugged, seemingly casual, though his smile grew by the second. “I figured you would appreciate a…different sort of setting.”

  “For a different sort of proposal?”

  “If you like.”

  As simple as his words were, they sent a shiver down her spine, straight to the part of her she should most definitely be ignoring, but absolutely couldn’t. She wasn’t about to let herself be so quickly overpowered by a man, though. Even if her bones were turning to jelly and the urge to do outstandingly naughty things pulsed through her. Instead, she crossed her arms in a mirror image of him.

  “What benefit is there for me in this proposed marriage?” she asked, holding her head high.

  Mr. Croydon’s smile grew so wide that she was certain he would burst into laughter…or kiss her. “Are the benefits not obvious?”

  In an instant, Marigold felt the power shift in her favor. She narrowed her eyes and faced him boldly. “Come now, Mr. Croydon. For a man who argues so eloquently for the rights of women, that was a boorish question.”

  He did laugh then. “You are quite correct, and I beg your pardon.” He nodded to her. “I should have remembered that I am not speaking to some flighty girl in her first season. I am speaking to a woman of intelligence and strength who knows her own mind.”

  He could have whispered love poetry into her ear while nibbling on her neck and she wouldn’t have felt the same rush of desire. Every warning she’d ever been given about the dangers of seduction came rushing back to her at once, instantly to be cast aside. Being seduced was brilliant fun.

  “My father didn’t earn his fortune by entering into unfavorable business partnerships,” she said, determined to keep the upper hand. “I learned well from him. Never give anything away for nothing. Choose your allies and your partners with utmost scrutiny.”

  “This is why you haven’t accepted the dozens of other proposals you are rumored to have received,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He studied her with a look of heated admiration, leaving her feel both like a coveted prize and a mouse about to be pounced on by a hungry cat.

  “Precisely, Mr. Croydon.” She nodded, praying her trembling wasn’t noticeable.

  “So what are your terms, Miss Bellowes?” he asked. “What could entice you into marriage to a man of advanced years who is shameless enough to corner a woman in an elevator that is part of a crowded theater, where no one would hear her cry out if there were trouble.”

  His words should have frightened her, but instead they made her oddly aware of how heavy her breasts had become, how tight her nipples were as they brushed against her chemise with each shallow breath, and how warm and liquid the secret places between her legs felt.

  “I want to be the mother of the Prime Minister’s son,” she burst out before she could think of a cleverer response. She blinked in surprise at her own answer, but the truth of it was undeniable. Her smile widened.

  Mr. Croydon’s answering smile managed to convey delight without a hint of mocking. “I shall endeavor to help you achieve that goal, Miss Bellowes,” he said.

  His voice was so rich and deep, and his expression so ravenous, that Marigold was left in no doubt that he was referring to the part about creating a son far more than that part about being Prime Minister. The mysterious parts of her that had been awakened as she’d watched him deliver his speech to Commons, and that had grown and warmed over the past few weeks of constant encounters that were anything but random, burst into full-blooded feelings that were as new as they were overwhelming. If any of the men who had begged for her hand in the past decade had made her feel half as ready to surrender her virtue as Mr. Croydon did with a few simple words, she would have been married with half a dozen children already. The urge to thoroughly ruin herself with this man was almost ludicrous.

  And yet, she didn’t have to ruin herself at all. She could have everything she’d ever wanted—position, influence, children—and indulge in the flurry of new sensations that begged her to explore them, all with one simple word.

  “Well then.” She shrugged one shoulder, tilting her chin up to him, but the quiver in her voice was a dead giveaway that no matter how bold she appeared, he had the upper hand. “How could I refuse an offer like that?”

  “Is that a yes, then?” For a moment, he seemed genuinely surprised, but also incredibly pleased.

  Marigold let some of her haughty demeanor drop. “Provided my father agrees, yes, it is.”

  “Wonderful,” he said, letting out a breath of relief. Could he have had any doubt? In an instant, the sly, teasing look was back in his eyes. “Of course, with all sound business deals, you should have a chance to sample the merchandise before making up your mind.”

  A shiver shot down Marigold’s spine. She barely had time to breathe the words, “Should I?” before his arms were around her, pulling her flush against him.

  He slanted his mouth over hers, their lips meeting with whisper softness at first. When she let out a scandalously pleased sigh, he increased the pressure. His one hand dropped as low as it could down her back with the ridiculous bustle that she suddenly wished she wasn’t wearing, but the other cradled her side so close to her breast that she was tempted to twist until he cupped her completely. His tongue teased along the crease of her mouth, and when instinct pushed her to part her lips for him, it slipped in beside hers.

  The sensation was breathtaking. The taste of him was new and alluring. She had no idea what she was doing, but he seemed to sense that, nibbling at her lips and thrusting his tongue along hers as if tutoring her in an art she was eager to learn. Her whole body felt like liquid in his arms, and she was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could have done anything to her, anything at all, and she would have gladly let him. That knowledge was both frightening and exhilarating.

  “We’d better stop,” he said at last, straightening, but keeping his arms around her. It was a good thing too. If he had let her go, she would have spilled to the floor in a puddle of desire. He seemed to be having a hard time catching his breath as well, and his face was flushed. Seeing that only fired Marigold’s blood more. She’d had that effect on him.

  “I truly worry what would happen if we didn’t,” she answered, meeting his eyes as every nerve in her body sang.

  His reddened lips curved into a devilish grin. “Something neither of us are ready for,” he answered, “but that I believe we will both enjoy tremendously after the vows are spoken.”

  Damn his hide, he was making her want to anticipate those vows and explore all of the hints and whispers her married friends had shared with her about sexual relations right then and there. She never would have dreamed she’d be so wanton, or that she’d feel that way about a man that, admittedly, she barely knew. But Mr. Croydon—Alex, she supposed she should start calling him—was so delicious, and his touch did such forbidden things to her. Lady Stanhope would have been proud.

  “The second act has probably started by now,” she said, breathless.

  “You’re right, of course.” His
grin sent swirls of giddiness through her. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should return to your box alone and allow me to—” He paused, making a strangely silly face, then finished with, “relax a bit before being seen in public.”

  She wasn’t sure what exactly he meant, although she had an idea that it had to do with the fit of his trousers. “But of course.”

  He pivoted to work the elevator controls, and they descended to the hall with the boxes. It was quieter now, and strains of the music from act two wafted up from the theater itself.

  “One last thing,” Marigold whispered as he reached for the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Could we have a short engagement?” she squeaked, suddenly wanting to laugh at herself.

  “I’ll speak to your father tomorrow,” he answered.

  “I’ll make certain he clears his calendar to receive you.”

  Instead of a simple “Thank you”, he stole another kiss. The feel of his mouth over hers was so good that she closed her eyes, leaned into him, and prayed that it would go on forever. If this was what it was like to be a foolish, strumpet of a woman, then she was ready to embrace a harlot’s life.

  No, she was ready to become a man’s wife at last.

  Chapter 4

  Anyone in London who wasn’t a complete fool knew to tread lightly around Percy Bellowes. The man had taken his father’s small manufacturing operation and, within the course of twenty years, turned it into a vast industrial empire that spanned the textile, machinery, and shipping businesses. He was rumored to have more money than Croesus, and to have reduced the men who had applied for his daughters’ hands to quivering piles of jelly when they stood before him.

  Alex had argued law before a crowded House of Commons, and had had audiences with Queen Victoria herself. He was certain that asking Percy Bellowes for Marigold’s hand in marriage would be child’s play compared to that.

  He was wrong.

  “And what makes you think a bounder like you would be a good match for my eldest daughter?” Bellowes accosted him, pointing the stem of his pipe at Alex as he leaned against an enormous, mahogany desk in the office of his grand and spacious London home. “You have a reputation, you know,” he went on before Alex could open his mouth to reply. “A reputation for taking up with actresses and other trollops.”

  Twin spikes of anger and embarrassment snaked up Alex’s spine. Under any other circumstance, he would have defended Violetta with every breath he had, informed the man she was a lovely, sweet woman who’d had a hard time of life and didn’t deserve the reputation or the end she’d had. But sense told him that defending his deceased lover to the man whose daughter he was hoping to marry wouldn’t be a strategic move.

  “All of my wild oats have been sewn,” he said instead, his jaw tight. “The time has come for me to take a wife worthy of the Croydon name and ready to step into the limelight of the position I plan to hold someday.”

  He hoped the hint of his political ambitions would work in his favor, but Bellowes just narrowed his eyes to suspicious slits and said, “You mean your friends have bullied you into doing the respectable thing at last. I’m friends with Lord Dunsford and Edmund Travers, you know. I’m well aware of what they say about you in regards to matrimony.”

  “Yes, well, um….” Alex fumbled for the right response. Peter and Edmund had needled him about marriage as much as Katya over the last few years.

  “Why should I let my dearest daughter go to a man who is marrying because of the pressure of his peers?” Bellowes asked, jabbing the air with the stem of his pipe once more. “Why should I hand her over to you when half a dozen other men have wanted her?”

  Alex swallowed. The interview had to go better than this if he were to have a chance of securing Marigold. And after the tension and the kiss they’d shared in the elevator the night before, he had to have her. Reason had nothing to do with it, but reason was exactly what he needed on his side now. And yet, he couldn’t possibly come out with the truth and tell Bellowes that if he didn’t get his daughter in bed as soon as possible, he’d likely go blind with need.

  “The fact that my friends have been urging me to marry in no way detracts from the admiration I have for Marigold,” he said, using the same voice and posture he used to deliver biting arguments in Commons. He could feel the heat rising up his face, though, and figured he probably looked like a damn fool. “Almost from the moment I met her, I was charmed by her intellect and wit.”

  “So you think you can use her to make a good impression on the wives of ministers you need to sway to your cause?” Bellowes pressed him, arching a brow.

  Alex wanted to curse and scrub his face in frustration. The man was going to turn every argument he had on its head. No wonder he had more money than the Queen.

  “It is my understanding that Marigold wants to take a more active role in political society,” he said, feeling the sweat dripping down his back. “I would simply be giving her the outlet for those ambitions.”

  “Oh!” Bellowes’s brow flew up. “So you think you’re doing my daughter a favor, do you?”

  “I would hope that—”

  “And I suppose you think you’d be doing her a favor by venting your lusts on her, now that your actress has died and you need someone else to—”

  “Violetta was a kind and beautiful woman who does not deserve your scorn,” Alex snapped before he could stop himself. He winced at his combative tone, but so help him, he was through with the meanness of the world when it came to women who had fallen through no fault of their own. “I loved her the best I could, and I took care of her when many others would have cast her aside. So for you to imply that she was just another replaceable fixture in my bed, one I am seeking to fill with Marigold, is an insult of the highest degree, sir. To me, to Violetta, and to your daughter.”

  The air crackled in the silence that followed. Alex braced himself for another tongue-lashing, but to his surprise, Bellowes raised his pipe to his mouth and smiled. A fragrant puff of smoke followed before he said, “Good man.”

  Alex blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Bellowes puffed a few more times. “I like a man who cares for the women in his life, no matter who they are. My own mother was a seamstress in Oxford Street. I don’t care if my Marigold marries for love or not, but I want to be damn sure that the man who takes her from me will care for her as she deserves.”

  Alex let out a breath, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow as though he’d finished a grueling race. “I can assure you, sir, I will take great care with your daughter.” Whether the infatuation he felt for her blossomed into love or not. After all, Violetta never had anything to complain about, even after the first ardor of their relationship cooled. Perhaps if she had complained, she wouldn’t have met her sad end. Although if she had left him, he wouldn’t have James.

  “To be honest, sir,” he said, pushing forward to banish those thoughts. “When we discussed it, your daughter made clear to me that she is in favor of this union because it will further her personal aims.”

  Bellowes laughed and shook his head. “That’s Mari for you. She bossed you into proposing, didn’t she?”

  Alex’s mouth twitched into a sideways grin. “In a manner of speaking. Though I can assure you, the feelings are mutual.”

  “And orchestrated by the indomitable Lady Stanhope, no doubt.”

  “No doubt,” Alex repeated with a wry expression. His shoulders began to loosen, and his heart rate eased away from panic levels.

  “Well then.” Bellowes pushed away from his desk and circled around to take a seat at the large, leather chair. “Have a seat and we’ll battle out the details of the union.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Alex moved to take a seat in front of the desk. “I promise to do my best by your daughter.”

  Marigold pressed her ear to the door of her father’s office, like a girl half her age peeking to see what Father Christmas was up to. She cursed the thickness of the door a
nd the quality of the wood that kept her from hearing more than a drone of voices. Of course, her father had arranged for a sound-blocking door on purpose, since he conducted his most sensitive business at home instead of at his office along the waterfront, and the number of times his children had been caught with their ears to the door in years past was legendary. The only thing Marigold had been able to hear clearly was Alex defending someone named Violetta for the space of about ten words before he lowered his voice again.

  “Oh, this will never do.” She sighed and straightened, wanting to kick the door.

  “What will never do?”

  With a gasp, Marigold turned to find Lavinia approaching from the front hall. She’d completely forgotten that Lavinia was due to join her for tea that afternoon when Alex arrived, but the idea of having her friend with her for the momentous occasion upon her was a brilliant one. She motioned for Lavinia to hurry and join her at the door.

  “Mr. Croydon is here speaking to Papa,” she whispered, leaning toward the door again.

  “Oh!” Lavinia picked up her skirts and rushed to the door. “Oh, oh, is this what I think it is?”

  Marigold smiled from ear to ear and nodded. She pressed her ear to the door, hearing nothing but the mumble of men’s voices again, and Lavinia did the same.

  No sooner had Lavinia’s ear touched the door, though, then she jumped away. “I can’t do it,” she said breathlessly, pressing her hand to her chest. “Aside from the fact that Mama would never approve, I couldn’t possibly listen to such an intimate conversation that has nothing to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with you,” Lavinia whispered. “Who do you think I’ll be asking to be my maid of honor?”

  “Oh!” Lavinia brightened, then burst into a giggle and hunched forward, ear to the door again. After a few seconds, however, she whispered, “I can’t hear anything.”