Only Marriage Will Do

by Jenna Jaxon

  “Continue now, petite. I cannot wait to see you gloriously naturelle.” He removed his hands and stepped away from her.

  Her stays had dropped away, so nothing remained but her shift and stockings to cover her. She raised her head, drawing on an inner strength she had never tapped before. To allow him to see her agony would only feed his pleasure. That she refused to do. Desolate but determined, Juliet tugged the drawstring at the neckline loose and pushed the garment off her shoulders. She turned to face him, her heart racing, the soft linen clutched to her breasts.

  “Release it, ma chère. Show your husband your ultimate beauty.”

  Head high, with a defiant toss, she opened her hand and the garment slithered to the floor. She fought the urge to cover herself and met his gaze. Pray God she radiated cold.

  A leap of fire flared in his dark eyes. Unmistakable desire followed as his gaze swept her body from her small leather slippers to her hot face.

  He stepped in close, stroking her bare flesh, raising goose bumps wherever his fingers wandered, as though her skin wanted to crawl off her body. Shoulders, breasts, waist, hips. His hands claimed every vulnerable part of her. Except her belly. Small consolation, but she rejoiced that the child she carried had not been sullied by his touch.

  “You make me hungry, ma petite.” He growled in her ear and she flinched. “Very hungry.” His lips slid silkily along her shoulder and up her neck. “Climb onto the bed and I will join you in a moment.” She hesitated but a second and the command returned to his voice. “Now, Juliet.”

  Steeling herself for the rest of this ordeal, she kicked off her shoes and climbed up the two steps to the high bed. From her position on the brown silk comforter, she watched him disrobe. Willed herself to find a detachment to allow her to submit to him. She must submit or risk her child.

  He’d already stripped down to his shirt and breeches. She could understand, perhaps, how she had wanted him two years ago. His manners, his dress, his continental elegance had been seductive. As seductive as his body had been, well defined and muscular, not fat or flabby. If only he had not hurt her before. If only there had not been Amiable.

  No. She closed her eyes and forced his image out of her head. She could not bear to think of Amiable and endure whatever indignities Philippe had in store for her. With a sigh, she opened her eyes. Philippe had removed his breeches. She braced herself so she would not appear shocked at the sight of his naked body. Very male and very aroused. A sight she could have done without.

  He grinned at her apparent interest and sauntered over to the bed. He climbed up beside her, stroked her cheek with one finger. “You see, petite, marriage to me will not be so bad. We will find pleasure in each other.” His finger strayed down her shoulder and over her breast. “As long as you do what I say. Remember that and you will soon forget everything else. Oui, ma petite?”

  His mouth pressed hers again and he thrust his tongue inside, stroking her tongue. She forced herself to lay passive. Let him do what he would. It was the only way to survive. For the baby. For their baby. For Amiable’s baby. Perhaps this litany would help her endure him. She did not have the strength or the will to refuse him, not if in turn he would harm her child. There were worse things he could do to her, she persuaded herself as he rose above her. He slid his hand down the seam of her thighs, pushed it between them to part her legs. Tears wetted her cheeks again.

  Surely there were worse things.

  Chapter 32

  The doorframe of Morehouse pressed into his gut, keeping Amiable upright as St. Cyr’s carriage disappeared into the darkness. Anguish ripped through him, body and soul pulsing with the torment. Would he never see Juliet again? Never gaze into her beautiful face? Or that of their child?

  No. He could not accept such a cruel fate. She belonged to him and no one else. Especially not Viscount St. Cyr. He straightened and rushed back into Morehouse. Battle mode rose to the fore. First order—track her, a skill he had honed in the colonies.

  “George, Thomas, John.” He shouted and his footmen came running. “George. Out the door now, follow the carriage. Don’t let it out of your sight but don’t let them see you. Now, man.”

  The lanky fellow asked no questions but flew out the door.

  “Thomas, John. Follow George. Thomas, catch up to him. When the carriage stops, tell George to stay there. Find out the address and then you double back. I’ll meet you along the way and you can give me the direction.” He turned to the last footman as Thomas scurried after George, “John, whenever you come to a crossroads, drop several of these on the street where the carriage turned.” Amiable seized a plateful of small cakes from a refreshment table and thrust them at the footmen. “Now go, find George.”

  He looked around for another servant to send to the stable.

  Dalbury materialized and pulled him back into the small receiving room. The marquess’s face seemed like a death mask. He had furrowed his brows into a deep V and drawn his mouth into a tight white-lipped line. The three scars on his cheek stood in starker relief than usual, now angry red slashes that pulsed with each step he took. He paced the length of the room, a tumbler of brandy in his hand.

  Before Amiable could utter a word, Katarina entered.

  “I’ve had them saddle your horse. They’re bringing him around now.”

  “You’d have made a grand lieutenant, Katarina.” He embraced her in a fierce, brief hug, then fell into step with his brother-in-law. “Is everyone leaving?”

  “God, no.” Katarina shook her head and took Amiable’s arm. “The hint of a scandal will keep them here for hours.” Her brow puckered. “Do you think you will find her?”

  “I will. I’ve used this method before. If the footmen are quick enough, I’ll be able to track her. Once I find her, the challenge begins, however. I’ve nowhere to hide her until we can get that blasted marriage annulled. I suppose if worse came to worse I could take her abroad.”

  “You can take my ship.” Dalbury’s face lit with excitement then fell. “Except the crew has been dismissed. Damn. But you could take passage on another.”

  “Takes too much time to arrange.” Katarina shook her head. “As will any travel plans to a destination outside the city for a woman who is increasing. You need a safe haven close by.” She stood still, her eyes with a faraway look to them.

  Dalbury snatched Amiable’s arm out of her grasp and propelled him toward the front door. “Ride swiftly if you want to save my sister from that fiend. I don’t trust him not to hurt her, pregnant or not.”

  Amiable’s strides took him outside into the damp cold in three paces. “Where is my blasted horse?” He peered into the darkness. “Do you know where St. Cyr lives?”

  “No, I have never been able to discover his lodgings. He may change them frequently. It’s very easy to lose oneself in London if one does not wish to be found.” Dalbury scowled. “I thought I might as well ask tonight, but of course he wouldn’t reveal that information at such a crucial time. Here is your Vociferous now.” He nodded toward the sound of crunching gravel.

  Thank God. Amiable jumped into the saddle, ready to set his heel into the horse’s flank but checked his headlong flight as Katarina ran out into the driveway.

  “I’ve thought of a place, Amiable. A place she will be safe and hidden and no one will know.”

  He leaned down from the horse.

  She whispered in his ear. “Send her here.”

  He straightened in the saddle and looked at her quizzically. The address meant nothing to him.

  “Trust me. And tell her to give them this.” She thrust a folded note sealed with blue wax into his hands.

  No time to lose. He tucked it into his pocket and nodded, still bewildered, then spurred the big stallion into the darkness of the London night.

  “Find her, Amiable,” his brother-in-law called. “We will await word here.”

  Amiable had to circle the inky streets outside Morehouse twice to find th
e first cakes, but spied them at last at the corner of Wigmore Street. By the direction of the string of pastries, the carriage must have headed north along Gloucester Place.

  He tapped Vociferous and they shot down the darkened road to the left, searching for more crumbs that would lead him to Juliet. It seemed an age until he spotted another one.

  The carriage had turned onto Marleybone.

  A touch of his heel and the horse veered to the right. He growled with impatience as the streets twisted throughout the city of London. Time was the enemy. Visions of St. Cyr and Juliet, alone, in a bedchamber played in his head like a Drury Street tragedy.

  If—no, no—when he found her, what if it was too late? Amiable steeled himself for the inevitability. He had no illusions that St. Cyr would not claim his rights as husband as soon as possible. So the viscount would have to die.

  Preoccupied with these thoughts of vengeance, he almost passed the two footmen before one of them hailed him. Amiable pulled his mount up too sharply and the horse reared and sidled. He brought the animal under control and called out, “Ho, what news?”

  The footmen kept their distance from the prancing horse but Thomas managed to relay his message. “The carriage stopped at 18 Fenchurch Street, my lord.”

  “Excellent, lad. Do you know how far from here? Where’s here?” Amiable peered around him, but the dark residential housing and lack of traffic on the streets told him nothing.

  John spoke up, still clutching the remaining cakes. “The carriage turned east onto Holborn Street from here, Mr. Morley. I don’t think Fenchurch Street is far from here. Me sister went into service in Cheapside an’ that’s right next to Fenchurch. Just keep on this road, sir. An’ good luck.”

  Amiable sped away down the narrow, dark lane. The clock in a nearby church tolled the hour—twelve chimes proclaimed it Christmas Day. Pray God it turned into a happy one.

  The lack of traffic persuaded him to greater speed, so he flew through Cheapside, urged on by gruesome thoughts of what might be transpiring with Juliet. He pulled his mount up when he spied George, stationed at the turn into Fenchurch Street. Amiable motioned him to lead him to the house. He might have use of the lad.

  The two-story house at 18 Fenchurch Street seemed typical for the neighborhood with one exception. All the neighboring houses were dark. At number 18, however, a bright light shone in a room on the second story overlooking the alleyway to the side of the house. With caution, Amiable scouted the residence, leaving the horse in the care of the footman with instructions to keep him quiet.

  Stealthily, he approached the back entry, tried the door, but found it locked. Stifling a curse, he moved to the adjacent window that overlooked the back stoop. A soft prayer of thanksgiving escaped his lips as the sash moved. He eased it open and crawled through.

  Chapter 33

  Juliet trembled and squeezed her legs together. She would die if he touched her. A moan escaped her as he pressed his sweaty hand into the crack between them. He must have thought it a cry of pleasure, for his hand moved higher and stroked the curly hairs above her clenched thighs.

  “You are so responsive to me, ma petite,” he said, his tone husky as he nuzzled her neck. “Why have you denied us this these many months?” He slid a finger down her warm flesh, seeking entrance.

  “No!” Juliet reared up against him as revulsion won out.

  “Mon seigneur.” A frantic voice called at the door.

  Juliet screamed and tried to pull away. Frenzied knocking ensued.

  St. Cyr jumped and snarled in French, “What the devil? Marcel, are you mad? Get away from that door.” He plunged his mouth back onto hers, his hand still busy down below.

  No, no, no. She moaned and twisted, trying to push him away.

  “Juliet. Do not fight me, petite.”

  Despite the warning, she continued to struggle, rocking from side to side, trying to dislodge him. A sharp poke in her belly and she stilled immediately under his hand. Her child. Amiable’s child. Oh, God.

  “Seigneur St. Cyr. You must come, my lord. There is trouble downstairs.” Marcel called frantically through the door. The pounding grew frenzied.

  “Conasse. Ce sont des conneries.” Philippe uttered a vile curse and rolled off the bed. “What trouble, Marcel?” His head snapped back toward Juliet, his eyes hot on her. “Do not move an inch, chérie. I am more than eager to explore every tiny morsel of you, having had such a tantalizing taste.”

  He strode to the door, not bothering to put on a robe, and jerked it open. “Ce qui est si importante—”

  Philippe flew backward into the room, as though launched from a catapult. He crashed into a table and knocked it over. Candles spilled onto the floor, spitting wax onto the figure that did not move.

  “Now get out and don’t return unless you want me to use this.” Footsteps retreated, but she heard them as from a distance. Her heart pounded, her full attention captured by the sound of that oh so familiar voice.

  “Amiable.” She whispered his name, almost afraid to say it out loud lest she find him a terror-induced dream. Yet there he stood, her knight in shining armor, as she had always known him to be.

  He strode into the room, tucking a pistol into his breeches, his gaze darting around the room until he spied her on the bed. He swooped in, cradling her in his arms.

  “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” A quicksilver smile before he lowered his lips to hers.

  “Oh, thank God you found me.” Juliet whispered, joy and relief so intense she burst into tears. The nightmare had ended.

  “Shh, love. You are safe. I will not let you go again.” He rocked her, his very presence a soothing balm to her overwrought senses. The fresh outdoor air clung to him and mingled with his own distinctive, comforting, masculine scent. She sagged in his arms, at home, where she belonged forever.

  She tried to huddle closer, clasping his cloak around her.

  He stiffened, held her a little away from him. His eyes widened as his gaze swept her naked body. A murderous expression blackened his face. “Did he…Juliet, did St. Cyr…?” He gripped her arms to the point of pain.

  She shook her head and bowed her head. “No. He kissed and caressed me but nothing further.” Clutching him to her, she sobbed, “Oh, Amiable. Take me away. I don’t care if I am married to him. I cannot bear for him to touch me.” She struggled to burrow even deeper into his arms, wanting to crawl inside his body to hide if she could.

  “Do not worry, sweet. You will be a widow before we leave this house.” The completely cold, offhand manner of this statement sent a chill through her.

  She shook her head, now more afraid than ever.

  “No, you must not kill him. They would hang you.” She grabbed his arm. She must make him see sense. “He is my husband and the law would be on his side.” She paused, a new horror dawning. “It would be a scandal much like the one concerning the Earl Ferrers. The scandal that brought this all to pass.” She continued to shake her head. “No, we will go away together, somewhere he cannot find us.”

  Amiable sighed and smoothed straggling curls of her hair from her face.

  Her coiffure surely lay in ruins. What an odd thing to think at a time like this.

  “There is nowhere we can go for very long, my dear. I will one day inherit my father’s title and estates. I will need a legitimate heir and I am determined he shall be our son. So we had best sort this out now.” He searched her eyes and shrugged. “Within the boundaries of the law, if you insist.”

  From across the room rose a muted groan. Amiable cursed and shifted Juliet back onto the bed. He dragged the coverlet over her, swathing her in its soft folds. Then he stalked around the bed, finally towering over the naked man who stirred groggily on the floor. He bent suddenly. A sickening crunch rent the air. When he stood again, a satisfied smile wreathed his face. He scanned the floor then stooped once more to retrieve her clothing. “Come, my love. We must make haste.”

  She
scrambled across the bed and they repaired her appearance. Finally, she stood before him, and he helped tuck the pins back into her stomacher before she attached it to her bodice.

  “That’ll have to do, love. We need to leave now.” He glanced at the unmoving form on the planked floor and his eyes narrowed. “Before I repent my decision to let this one live.”

  Her gaze followed his and she repressed a shiver. She never wanted to lay eyes on that fiend again.

  He lifted her in his arms and she thrilled to the warmth of his body against her, the wonderful security that always washed over her when he touched her. She clung to his neck as they descended the staircase to the first floor.

  “My cloak.”

  “You shall have mine, sweetheart.” He set her down and settled his long greatcoat around her slim shoulders. The dark gray garment engulfed her from neck to floor, pooling at her feet. He pulled the door open with such vehemence it rebounded into the wall with a thunderous crash. Swinging her into his arms again, he sped down the narrow steps outside to Vociferous and the young man waiting in the street.

  “A boy come running out of the house a while back, sir. I couldn’t stop him and keep the horse too.” George shook his head regretfully. “I figured the horse might be a sight more useful to you.”

  “Right you are, lad.” Amiable lifted Juliet onto the saddle then swung up behind her. “Head back to Morehouse and let Lord Dalbury know all is well. His sister is safe and going to a safe haven. I will follow directly I see her off.”

  “Aye.” The footman grinned at both Amiable and Juliet. “And Merry Christmas to you, sir, and to your lady.”

  Amiable looked at Juliet in the faint light and grinned. “Indeed, lad. It is a very Merry Christmas.” He clamped his arm around her and started his mount into a brisk trot through the half-frozen mud of the street.

  Leaning against Amiable’s delicious warmth, she murmured, “Are we going back to Morehouse then?”

  “No, love. St. Cyr will recover shortly and have both houses searched. Probably the Earl of Manning’s house as well. You were right. The law is on his side. If they find you, they will give you back to him. But we have a plan to keep you safe until we can make this right.” He tightened his arm around her.