Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 1

by DeLand, Cerise

  When he stopped at her door, she shook her head. "Yours," she said, lest Welles come to intrude upon what would be the most glorious experience of her life.

  He nodded and led her toward the other wing where his rooms were.

  Inside his sitting room, she stood for a moment upon the rug as he stepped back from her. His eyes in the golden candlelight were pure temptation. "I would not hurt you for the world."

  "I know it."

  "And I will marry you. Say you will have me."

  A rush of delight ran through her blood. What a delightful man he would be to live with. Doing for her as no one ever had. Promising joy and granting it with equanimity and kind consideration. "I will, knowing I am the luckiest woman in the world to have as my husband a man I can honor with all my heart."

  To prove her words, she stepped against his solid warmth and undid the knot of his cravat and the buttons of his waistcoat. He shrugged from his frock coat and she caught it to lay it across a chair. As she stripped away his stock, she eyed the hollow of his throat and kissed him. There she felt his pulse beat and her own picked up a pace. "You did such a fine service for me to bind up my foot, I wonder if I might do a similar one for you?"

  He donned a wicked grin. "What did you have in mind?"

  She took his stock and quickly wrapped it around one of his wrists and then the other.

  He chuckled. "Darling, this gets us nowhere. I need my hands to love you properly."

  "Who says I want you to love me properly?" She spread little kisses down the center of his chest.

  He sucked in air. "Really, Fee. This is—"

  She spread wide the neckline of his shirt and kissed as far down as she could go. "Too much?"

  He barked. "Not enough!"

  She grinned. Then took him by her lead toward his bedroom. An efficient servant had lit a candle on the mantel, its golden glow a warm inspiration to her.

  "Sit here," she said and pushed him down upon the bed. Going to her knees, she lifted his foot and removed one shoe, then the other. His hose came next. And when she stood, she saw he'd undone her bonds.

  "You are a minx," he growled as he hauled her into his arms and swung her beneath him. "A glorious mix of fun and sternness that I will spend my life adoring."

  She threaded her fingers into his hair. "I wish to be a delight to you."

  "You are, my darling."

  "Not a duty."

  "Never."

  "Or an opponent."

  "Impossible." He crushed her close. "Why would you say such a thing?"

  She couldn't tell him the full of it. Not here. Tomorrow. Or the next day, before she went home to Bath and he traveled on to his own home...and his family. His family who might know why her father added their name to—

  "Fee?" He shifted and sank between her thighs. The rigid evidence of his need of her pressed against her. Her desire for him swelled and she rocked upwards to imply her readiness to have him inside her. In the shadows of the room, he peered at her with desperation in his eyes. "Sweetheart?"

  "Old ghosts," she told him, hoping he might accept that. But fearing his demands, she caressed his chest and found the buttons to his falls.

  He clamped a hand over hers. With one shake of his head, he told her to stop.

  He pushed up and stood. In seconds, he lifted his arms and yanked off his shirt. In another few, he pushed down his trousers and small clothes. And oh my. He was perfection.

  His shoulders had seemed broad to her. In layers of shirt and waistcoat and frock coat, with elaborate stock, he'd impressed her as fit, well-formed. But in the bath of candlelight, he was brawny, his chest tapered to his waist, his arms roped with cords of muscle. She shivered with expectation, her body wet with the hot gush of heavy desire.

  He leaned over her, her gaze defining the Grecian glory that was to be her husband, her man. He had a slim waist and hips, his groin dark and his manhood thick and bold as he headed toward her. With the devil in his eyes, he hauled her up and rolled her over. "If you think to have all the fun here, my lady, you are so wrong."

  He went to work on her laces. But groaning over them, he fumbled. "I hate these. No more laces for you. Not within two feet of me, may you wear them ever again!"

  She laughed into the mattress, her cries muffled by the bedding.

  "What did you say?" he asked her as he peeled her sleeves down her arms and went to work on her corset.

  "I'll gladly throw my gowns away."

  "These corsets too!" He rolled her around and straddled her. The fierce look of the predator on a man's face did not, for the first time in her life, scare her to death. At once, he ran his hands down the hooks, slid the stiff thing from her and threw it to the floor where it landed with a plop.

  "Now!" His pale eyes glowed in the dark as he ran his gaze and his talented hands over the swell of her breasts. "These are superb!"

  She hooted in laughter and in shyness, tried to roll aside.

  "Oh, no!" He covered her breasts with his warm palms and massaged her. "Lovely orbs. Mine to taste, don't you think?"

  She swallowed loudly and of their own accord, her hips rose up to invite his attentions.

  "That's yes, I'd say." And he hovered over her, his eyes wide with wonder as he circled her nipples with deft fingertips and teased her and stroked her and pinched her until he took one into his wet mouth. He sucked it inside him, growling in delight.

  Her mouth fell open. She tingled at his touch, then burned for more. She grabbed to hold him. But her arms fell to her sides...and her nails dug into the covers.

  "Oh, my darling, you are so soft," he murmured as he took her other breast into his mouth and laved her.

  She undulated on the bed.

  "Yes," he crooned. "I love the taste of you. The feel of you."

  She whimpered and snatched at his skin.

  He lifted her and tugged at her gown, pulling it beneath her, and much like her other garments, sending them to the floor with a ping. He ran one questing hand down her ribs and hips and then between her thighs. His lips on her ear, he said, "Oh, yes, you do want me."

  Suddenly, his fingers were inside her, stretching her, stroking her. She rose up, taut as a bow.

  "You'll drive me mad," she groaned.

  "Good for the goose," he chuckled. "Good for the gander." With his knees, he spread her thighs wider and found with his fingertips one sensitive spot that made her jerk upward with a moan. "You need me. As I need you."

  He played with her flesh, merciless in his petting and stroking. While he toyed with one nipple and rolled it to a hard peak, he sank to the other and nipped her. With a cry, she begged him for more.

  "This," he said, his lips to her ear, "may hurt. But you must tell me to stop."

  He put the tip of his penis to her folds and probed, then spread her thighs wider. She cupped his buttocks and pressed him near and when she did, he sank inside her with an ease that shocked her.

  "Oh, you are...we are..."

  He caught her lips in a searing kiss. "We are, my love. We are!" And he sank farther inside her.

  She stopped breathing. Her eyes wide open to view what was, quite simply, ecstasy on his face.

  He arched backward, his eyes went closed and his mouth opened. When he swallowed, his throat convulsed and she wanted to crawl inside him, to have him come inside her, to never leave him. Never leave this bed. Never end the night.

  He curled his arms around her, and whispered, "Look at me." And he pressed himself further inside her. "I love you."

  "I love you."

  "For all our tomorrows."

  "Every one," she vowed as she surrendered to the pulsing beauty of all he gave her, body, mind and soul.

  The crescendo breath-taking, the climax heart-rending, all of it with joy and not a hint of pain. Her body, filled and fulfilled, her mind floated in euphoria that cost her no pain. That brought her only bliss.

  Never in her life had she envisioned rapture like this in any man's embrace.


  * * *

  She slept in his arms in a sinuous naked tangle. A hard warm man along the length of her own body meant she slept deeply, awakening only to hug him or caress him or make love to him once more.

  By first light, she rolled against him and she awoke to the sensation of his mouth trailing kisses down her stomach to her core. She inhaled, opened her legs wider and allowed him access to every part of her body, as she had given him entry to her heart and soul. He made love to her with a hunger that she matched in mindless abandon. After he had brought her a pounding satisfaction, she stared at him with wonder.

  He crushed her in his embrace, his legs entwined with hers, his manhood still firmly inside her, and in his eyes stood joy. "You are a wonder."

  "No less than you."

  "In days we will do this again. Often."

  She teased him with a wanton grin. "I don't know how to be patient."

  He laughed, the vibrations rocking through her body, making her greedy for more of him and his love making. "I don't know how to let you go."

  But she had to leave. "The servants will be up tending to the fires."

  He rolled from the bed and offered his hand. "Come quickly now before I tell the vicar we must have two weddings this morning."

  Chapter 11

  Two hours later, Fifi took the main stairs down for the short walk to the village church of St. Andrew's in the Fields. She paused at the sight of Millicent Weaver below in the foyer. Her friend glanced up and smiled at her with apprehension. Fifi could guess what made her anxious.

  "Good morning, Fifi. I wanted to talk to you about a conversation I had..." She paused when Diana came forward and greeted them.

  "May I walk with you to the church?" Diana asked, pointing toward the drive.

  "Please go ahead, Di," Millicent said with a tight smile. "I must talk with Fifi."

  "We'll join you, Di. I promise."

  Diana nodded, concern on her brow. "All right. I'll save you a seat in the pew, will I?"

  "Do, please," Fifi said. When Diana turned for the door, Fifi leaned closer to Millicent. Welles had told Fifi earlier that Mary had departed at dawn this morning. She'd asked Lord Courtland to allow a servant to take her to the village to catch the Flyer back home to Bath. Welles also had heard from other servants that Lord Bridges had left the house this morning too. "The conversation you had yesterday with Lord Charlton was one that had to occur and you mustn't fret over it, Millicent."

  Two other guests descended the stairs, chatting about the wedding.

  Millicent drew closer to Fifi. "I understand from my maid that Mary has gone home and that her maid says there was some sort of falling out between Mary and...ahem...you know who."

  "I will talk with Mary when I go home tomorrow and rectify what I can of it, Millicent. I spoke out of turn last night and created this problem. Do not worry, please. Much of this is my fault."

  "And mine."

  Fifi nodded, for that was true. Years ago, Millicent had asked Mary for help with the childish favor. "Mary takes her share of the blame. We've all grown up considerably since all of that occurred."

  "But Ivy told me this morning that Mary's gone home. She'll miss the wedding."

  "That's true. There is nothing for it now. We'll resolve it later. Today, let's go to the wedding and celebrate Esme's happiness."

  "Agreed. I want to see all of us happy."

  As do I.

  * * *

  Inside the tiny stone chapel, the sun sparkled through the two stained glass lancet windows over the altar. The church, built countless centuries ago, reminded Fifi of a few cozy huts that stood outside Bath. She and Millicent took the wooden pew with Diana and sat to await the bride.

  Minutes later, a rustle came from the back of the church. Ivy and Grace came to sit beside the three women. Grace whispered to Fifi. "I think a storm is brewing.”

  She heard no rain. “What sort?”

  “Your aunt.”

  “No!” Fifi shot a glance at her.

  "A few minutes ago, before we left the house...?" Grace stopped to smile and nod at the couple who took the pew in front of theirs.

  "Yes? What?"

  “She fainted in the upstairs hall."

  "Oh, no."

  Her aunt was healthy. Perhaps she suffered from nerves? Or too much wine last night? Or…oh,my. Esme? “I must go.”

  ”Sit down." Grace caught her arm. "She's recovered. Or at least, your uncle carried her into their rooms."

  "Was she conscious?"

  "I think so. She was babbling. But he saw Ivy and me and told us to hurry along here. Still I'm worried."

  Fifi’s blood ran cold. "Aunt danced last night. Often. My uncle too. What can be wrong with her? She's young and lively."

  Grace widened her eyes. "Perhaps all the preparations have been too much?"

  Fifi shifted, nerves eating at her. "Was Esme there?" Esme adored her mother.

  Grace shook her head once, her green gaze stark with dread.

  "No. No, no." Fifi's thoughts ran to the discussion she'd had with Esme yesterday. How she questioned this marriage.

  "Did you know that Northington and her father had a falling out yesterday?"

  Dear God. "What about?"

  Grace widened her eyes. "No one has said. But there's been talk."

  "That says...what?"

  "It's money."

  Fifi didn't like the sound of that. Gossip had it that Northington's father, the duke, had pressed her uncle for a very large dowry for Esme. Courtland's wealth, some declared, was the only reason the old curmudgeon had approved his son's engagement to a lowly viscount's daughter.

  "Worse," Grace whispered. "He's not in attendance."

  "He's ill. Unable to travel."

  Grace shook her head. "Can you believe him? Mama told me that he was once a notorious roué. Never married until he was fifty and had his way with quite a few ladies before and afterward."

  Such tales had been bandied about by her father who had delighted at the escapades he'd shared with the Duke of Brentford.

  The tiny church was filling up. Fifi looked around just as a couple took seats across the isle. Behind them, Rory and Lord Collingswood sat down. Rory gave her a searing look that made her cheeks burn and she had to look away.

  She reached inside her little reticule and fished out her glasses and her tiny watch piece. Five minutes before nine. "They'll be here soon."

  Grace sat back and stared straight at the altar. "I hope so."

  At nine o'clock, the vicar entered the church. His dark robes flapping about his tall imperious form, he acknowledged the guests with a curt nod and folded his hands over his Bible.

  At ten minutes after nine, those in the pews became utterly silent.

  Five minutes later, not one Courtland appeared. Not Fifi's aunt, nor her uncle. Nor the bride.

  By nine thirty, the guests began to mutter and shift in the pews. One lady sneezed. A gentleman coughed.

  The vicar looked pained. But he said, "Suppose I read the passage about the wedding at Cana? Yes, yes. A good story."

  He fumbled through his book and read the miracle of how Lazarus rose from the dead.

  "I hope that's not an omen that we must raise Esme," Grace said with doom and gloom.

  "Shhh," Diana scolded her. "She'll appear."

  But Fifi had no such confidence. Not after the few hints Esme had given her yesterday that all was not well. As the minutes ticked away, she had less and less hope of Esme appearing in any shape or form.

  The wooden chapel door creaked open.

  A breeze swept over the guests.

  The feathers in ladies' hats fluttered.

  One murmured, "About time!"

  The congregation turned as one toward the chapel door.

  Fifi's Uncle Courtland stared at them, shock white on his face. With a groan, he lumbered to the front. His hair ruffled, his stock undone, he was a rumpled mess.

  "My dear family and friends," he began, b
ut Fifi did not hear the rest.

  She didn't have to.

  Esme was gone. Fled. Not to be found.

  Later, as the guests stood about at the promised wedding breakfast in the Hall and the villagers partook of a similar feast on the front lawn, word went round that the bride had well and truly disappeared.

  After the ball.

  In the wee hours of night.

  At dawn.

  Five minutes ago.

  Everyone chose their favorite time.

  "Gone," everyone knew.

  On her horse.

  In a gig.

  Or the family phaeton.

  "Choose which you prefer," said one guest with a shake of his head.

  Fifi's aunt and uncle did not attend the breakfast. But Fifi managed to speak to the family butler in a secluded corner and ask about the health of her aunt. He told her he knew only that Lady Courtland rested. When she asked about her uncle, the servant stared at her. "He searches for Miss Harvey."

  Of course he did.

  She dare not ask where the Marquess of Northington was. She doubted he remained at the Hall. But she certainly hoped he'd attempt to find Esme.

  Wherever Esme had gone, Fifi believed her cousin was safe. Whatever Esme’s motive to abandon her groom, she loved the man. Did he return her affection?

  That was the biggest question of the day.

  Fifi rejoined the others in the main salon. The school friends from Miss Shipley's drifted in and out of conversation with each other, a somber bunch. All but Fifi retired to their rooms by mid-afternoon. Many of the guests who lived close by summoned their carriages and began to depart for home. The overnight guests would leave the next morning.

  When Fifi was alone, her tea cup in hand, Rory sat beside her. "Let me take you and Welles home to Bath tomorrow."

  Grateful for his thoughtfulness, she accepted.

  Chapter 12

  Rory's travel coach approached Bath's Queen Square as church bells tolled noon. Welles faced them and their conversation had been limited because of the maid's presence. Eager to talk with Fifi without the servant overhearing, he had decided to take Welles home to her mistress before going onward to Fifi's in the Royal Crescent. At her departure, they'd be together alone only minutes. But in his eyes, he and Fifi were engaged and appropriately pledged to each other. The lack of the maid's presence was immaterial to him at the moment. And Fifi did not object.