The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  "Need some help?" Quinn drawled, leaning with his accustomed arrogance against the doorjamb. His pirate's beard and tousled blue-black hair contrasted handsomely with his gleaming shirt and well-cut waistcoat of white Marseilles.

  "Yes, please," Noelle replied stiffly. "Alice has a cold, and I sent her to bed."

  Quinn stepped behind her. "It'll be my pleasure." Slowly his index finger slid down her bared spine. With a small shiver, Noelle put her hands at her sides and forced the fabric of the garment to meet at the back. Taking his time, Quinn worked his way up from the bottom, slipping each hook through its tiny velvet loop.

  "You haven't lost your nerve, have you? Tonight won't be easy, you know."

  "So I'm discovering." She told him about the incident at Madame LaBlanc's.

  "Does their approval mean so much to you?"

  "You don't know me at all, do you?" Unwittingly she had echoed Simon's very words to Quinn the night before. "I don't give a fig for their opinion, but I won't be able to rest until I make certain they understand just that."

  "All right. Highness. If you want to shock them, you might as well make a job of it."

  Before she could stop him, he had reached out and yanked the entire gauze insert from the front of her dress.

  "Quinn!"

  "Shut up and look at yourself!" Roughly he turned her to face the mirror. "You're the most beautiful woman in London. No one can take that away from you."

  He was right. Never had she looked better, even though the gown was now scandalously revealing. The V in the bodice had been cut so wide that the inside curves of both her breasts were completely exposed. As she stared with dismay at her reflection something heavy and cold fell into the warm valley. It was a plain square-cut topaz suspended from a long gold chain.

  Quinn chuckled as he fastened it. "In case they're so blind, they miss your assets, this will draw their attention back to their oversight."

  Noelle opened her mouth to protest, but Quinn's words silenced her.

  "Pick up your chin, Highness. With you in that dress and me at your side, they'll know for certain that neither of us gives a damn what they think!"

  The ball in honor of Leora and Dabney Atterbury's twentieth wedding anniversary was well under way before Simon was able to claim Constance for a dance. Since his arrival, he had been subjected to a deadly combination of thinly veiled barbs and unsolicited advice, and the effort to keep himself in check was stretching his temper thin. Constance, in the meantime, was handling the situation far better than he—telling everyone within earshot how happy the match had made her and how satisfied Simon was that Quinn had chosen his own dear cousin to marry, reminding everyone that the new couple were not related by blood —in short, giving the whole scandalous affair at least a veneer of respectability.

  "I don't know how you manage it so well, Connie," he growled as she slipped into the curve of his arm. "All I want to do is shove my fist in their smirking faces!"

  "Of course you do, my darling. But that's because you're only slightly more civilized than a mountain goat."

  Simon smiled softly down at her. "I didn't hear any complaints from you this afternoon."

  "I lower my standards when I'm undressed," she whispered back.

  They danced with great contentment for some time, secretly celebrating their discovery of each other. Although neither had put it into words, both were strangely reluctant to announce their future plans quite yet. Plenty of time later for wagging tongues to have their day, hanging the news out like so much laundry on a public clothesline. Speculating. "Her husband's barely been dead for two years, you know." For now, it was theirs alone.

  As they left the dance floor one of those brief moments of silence that sometimes unaccountably falls on a large gathering came over the assemblage. The butler's sonorous voice inserted itself into the breach.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Quinn Copeland."

  As if in one body, the eyes of the guests turned to the doorway. No one spoke. No one moved.

  The couple stood at the top of a trio of black marble stairs, Noelle to the side and slightly in front of Quinn. Proudly, even arrogantly, they stared down at their peers, by their imperiousness silently daring anyone to utter a word of censure. The glow from the chandelier caught Noelle's gown and turned it to molten bronze, then touched the topaz pendant and set it glittering wickedly on her bare flesh. There was a muffled exclamation as the gathering took in the gown that plunged to her waist and exposed the inner curves of her breasts, unmistakably accented by the golden stone.

  Then Quinn lifted his hand. Lightly, possessively, he rested it on his wife's shoulder so there would be no misunderstanding. She was his.

  To Noelle, it seemed they stood there forever. No one watching could suspect how her heart was racing, how much she longed to be anywhere except where she was.

  Then Constance's voice rose above the stunned silence of the room. "Leora Atterbury, what a cunning creature you are, inviting these naughty newly weds. Not a person here guessed your surprise. I vow, it has quite made your ball! Ah, well, who can blame you for wanting to be the first to snag them. Dabney, how lucky you are to have such a clever wife. I'm positively green with envy for not thinking of it myself."

  Leaving her host and hostess bewildered but pleased, she made her way to Noelle. "My dear, you will set a new fashion with that outrageously flattering gown. I'll wager there will be a dozen like it by this time next week. Now come along, both of you. I know Leora and Dabney will insist you lead the next set."

  Constance's audaciousness proved to be more successful than even she had dared hope. In a closed society boredom was a greater enemy than scandal, and it was not long before the guests were vying for the attention of the notorious couple. Afterward, the women bestowed whispered dispensations on each other.

  "Scandalous, of course. But really, what is one to do? After all, the Atterbury s did invite them."

  There was only one guest who held back. Miserably he watched the bridegroom, and only when Quinn was finally alone, did he approach. They spoke quietly for a few minutes. Quinn laughed. The guest's manner became agitated. Finally he jerked himself away from Quinn and strode purposefully toward the bride.

  "Miss Pope—that is, Mrs. Copeland, may I have the next dance?"

  "Why, Mr. Sully!" Noelle smiled. "What a pleasant surprise. It's good to see a genuinely friendly face." And then she looked at him more closely. "Is something the matter?"

  "I—please!" he blurted out. "Could we go somewhere to talk?"

  "Why, yes, of course."

  As he led her out through a side door and into a small anteroom, Noelle wondered what had made Tom Sully so distraught. She knew he had been attracted to her but was certain his feelings ran no deeper than infatuation, so he could hardly be too upset about the marriage. What, then?

  She took a seat in a low-backed Windsor chair. "Suppose you tell me what is wrong."

  He paced about the small room, stopped, looked at her, and his eyes fell to her breasts. He flushed and looked back up at her face, struggling to keep his gaze from dropping again. "It's so difficult. I —I cannot credit such an action. He has placed you in an impossible position."

  "Who has?"

  "Your husband!" He spat out the last word contemptuously, his plump cheeks shaking with anger. "I tried to talk with him earlier, but he told me to mind my own business. Said he knew what he was about. When I threatened to tell you myself, he only laughed. Dorian, please believe me. I'd as soon put a knife through my own heart as hurt you this way."

  Noelle was becoming genuinely worried. "Tell me what this is all about. The longer you delay, the more you are alarming me."

  "All right then, here it is." He nervously twisted a large silver signet ring as he spoke. "Almost two years ago, Quinn and I were on our way to meet Simon. It was late. We'd both been drinking rather more than usual, and we ended up wandering out of the Haymarket into a street—little more than an alley, really—where we were accosted by a
pickpocket. . . ."

  Noelle listened with dismay to his story. How stupid of her not to have anticipated this. Of course Thomas was distraught. He believed Quinn was married to two women at the same time!

  As he concluded, Thomas knelt down on one knee in front of her and took her hand in his. "Dorian, I wish I were not the one who had to tell you this, but you must understand—your marriage is neither legal nor binding."

  "Thomas, I'm afraid you are mistaken. The marriage is, unfortunately, both legal and binding."

  "Dash it!" he exclaimed. "I'm giving you the facts. You must believe me. It's the truth!"

  Torn between laughter and tears at the awful irony of it, Noelle reached out her free hand and put it on his upper arm. "I knowed yer was speakin' the truth, ducks. I was there when it all 'appened."

  Thomas's jaw went slack. He stared up at her, not even blinking, so dumbfounded was he by her revelation. Finally he closed his mouth, then opened it to speak, forgot what he was going to say, and closed it again.

  "My God, Sully, you look like a salmon about to propose!"

  Furiously Thomas dropped Noelle's hand and jumped up off his knee. "Devil take you! I've half a mind to call you out! Why didn't you tell me the truth instead of letting me make a bloody jackass of myself. You knew I would keep it quiet."

  Quinn rambled into the room, smiling crookedly. "Sorry, Tom, but I couldn't resist. My little pickpocket's changed quite a bit, hasn't she?"

  This was too much for Noelle. "I'm not your little pickpocket, and I think you've treated Mr. Sully abominably!"

  As she swept from the room the topaz swung back and forth on her bare skin like an indignant pendulum. Little pickpocket, indeed! When she reached the ballroom, she rounded the corner too sharply and bumped up against the back of a pale pink dress.

  "I'm sorry. How clumsy of me."

  "Why, Dorian, what a surprise!" As she turned Catherine Welby's smile was sweet, but her saucer-blue eyes were cold. "You're in such demand this evening, I hadn't thought to have the opportunity to offer you my best wishes."

  "Thank you, Miss Welby," Noelle responded politely while she glanced surreptitiously around her for a means of escape.

  "I've already congratulated your husband, but perhaps it's really you who should be congratulated. Fancy stealing your own cousin right out from under our noses."

  "In point of fact, we are not actually cousins." Determined to avoid an encounter that could only be unpleasant, Noelle began to move away, but Catherine had no intention of letting her go so easily.

  "I must say, I admire your strength of character. I vow, I don't know another woman who would be able to endure public censure so calmly."

  "The opinion of others means little to me."

  "Come now, Dorian, you needn't pretend with me. We're friends, and as a friend, I must tell you that there has been some wicked talk."

  "Oh?"

  "The worst kind, I'm afraid." She lifted a plump white hand to shield her vindictive whisper. "It's rumored that you married so quickly because you are—enceinte!" Her eyes traveled to Noelle's slim waist. "Dreadful, isn't it? Naturally I have assured everyone it is untrue."

  "How kind of you," Noelle said dangerously.

  "Well, you know how cruel gossips are."

  "Yes, Miss Welby, and I know who they are, too."

  There was no mistaking Noelle's meaning, and the fixed smile faded from Catherine's face. Quinn Copeland was the most fascinating man she had ever met. It was infuriating enough that he hadn't returned her interest, but now, to see him wed to a nobody was more than she could bear.

  "Just remember, Mrs. Copeland, it's one thing to catch a husband, but it's quite another to hold him." With a smirk, she pointedly nodded toward the ballroom floor.

  Following her gaze, Noelle saw Quinn take a woman in his arms and lead her out for a waltz. It was the raven-haired Anna von Furst—drawn, haunted, and eerily beautiful. Unsmiling, the couple's eyes joined, and then Quinn and the baroness began wordlessly moving in the perfect rhythm of a man and a woman who know the responses of each other's bodies intimately.

  Gradually Noelle realized others were watching her, waiting to see how she would react to the slight. Fixing a bright smile on her lips, she excused herself from Catherine and accepted an invitation to dance with a handsome young viscount of somewhat tarnished reputation. If Quinn did not care with whom he was seen, neither did she.

  Not long after that the Baroness von Furst left the ball. Even so, Noelle did not see her husband again until midnight, when he appeared at her side to escort her into the dining room and then promptly turned his attentions to a ruddy-faced woolens manufacturer from Leeds. The tables were ladened with every possible delicacy, but Noelle ate sparingly, taking only a small portion of lobster salad and another glass of champagne.

  "Will you save a dance for me?"

  It was Simon, somewhat abashed, but still determined.

  As Noelle looked up at him she realized her bitterness had been replaced by an emotion that was considerably more painful—an aching sense of betrayal. "I'm sorry, but I'm promised for the rest of the evening."

  Simon seemed to have anticipated her refusal. He spoke so softly that no one standing nearby could overhear. "It's funny, isn't it, how people delude themselves. I thought I would be able to give you to my son without losing you myself."

  Inexplicably Noelle's eyes filled with tears. "I wasn't yours to give, Simon."

  He nodded, and then, before he left her side, he reached down and softly squeezed her hand.

  The gesture made her infinitely sad. It was as if he were saying "You are my child, and I will always care for you no matter what has happened between us."

  For the rest of the ball Noelle was never still. She rushed from one set of arms to another, drank glass after glass of champagne, and flirted outrageously. It made no difference who her partners were as long as she could keep dancing.

  Quinn shunned the ballroom for the faro tables that had been set up in the library. It was not until he had won nearly three hundred pounds that he went to claim his wife.

  She looked as though someone had just made love to her. Her laughing face was flushed from dancing, a lock of hair had escaped from her chignon and hung down behind her ear, and there was a sheen of moisture between her breasts. As Quinn watched, the mustachioed officer who was holding her let his hand slip from her waist to the top of her hip and leaned forward to whisper something in her ear.

  Quinn made his way across the floor. "I'll dance with my wife now."

  "See here, Copeland . . ." The officer thrust out his chin belligerently, but his words trailed off at the dangerous glitter in Quinn's eyes, and he hastily backed away.

  Quinn scooped his wife into his arms, pulling her so close to him that he could feel the hammering of her heart through his shirtfront. In response to the handsome couple commanding the center of the floor, the bored musicians nodded conspiratorially at each other and deliberately began picking up the tempo of the music. At first it was so gradual that no one noticed, but then one couple after another began to feel the effects of the quickening pace and fell back. Finally the tempo was frenzied, and Noelle and Quinn danced alone.

  They spun about the floor, their clothing flashing bronze and black. Her champagne laughter bubbled up at him. Eyes blazing with self-confidence, she dared him to keep up with her in this accomplishment at which she had now become the master. He tightened his grip in answer to her challenge.

  She tossed her head, and her hair shook free from its confines, cascading about her shoulders. As they flew faster it spun wildly about her, slapping at Quinn's cheeks and stinging them like tiny whips. His body quickened with desire. The music came to a final crescendo, and he crushed a handful of untamed mane in his fist, pulling her head toward him and lowering his hard mouth to hers.

  To Noelle, the kiss seemed part of the dance. Indeed, it was as violent as the music had been and as ragingly exciting. It was barbaric and so b
latantly erotic that the onlookers were stunned.

  Only Quinn heard the soft moan when he reluctantly unfastened his mouth from hers. She shuddered as some vestige of self- control returned to her. With a courtly bow, he picked up her hand and brought it respectfully to his lips, then led her from the floor.

  On the way home in the carriage, Noelle fell victim to the early morning hour and the champagne that had so beclouded her judgment, and was asleep long before they reached Northridge Square. Quinn carried her into the house and, with his teeth grimly set, deposited her on the narrow daybed. As he left the dressing room he firmly shut the door between their rooms.

  The next day all of London was gossiping about Quinn and Noelle and the passion that blazed so uncontrollably between them. They were said to have ravished each other in the center of the Atterburys' ballroom. Noelle publicly ignored the comments and privately swore to drink no more champagne. In the meantime she and Quinn were the rage of London. A party could not be considered a success without the Copelands in attendance.

  The fashionable elite never seemed to tire of speculating about them. A few sharp eyes had noted that the glow was back in the Baroness von Furst's lovely cheeks. Others commented that although the Copelands were seen everywhere together, they seldom spoke. The mystery of it all was delicious.

  As Constance had predicted, Noelle became a fashion trend setter. This fact was brought home after the Atterburys' affair when she and Quinn attended a ball in the Berkeley Square residence of Lord and Lady Whitney. Lady Whitney herself greeted them in a violet gown cut open to the waist. As Noelle stepped into the ballroom she quickly counted seven other dresses of different colors and fabric but with the same bare bodice.