The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  The fashion followers were, in turn, inspecting Noelle's new gown with smug superiority. It was a simple black crepe completely covering her from neck to hem. There were sly whispers. The gown was well cut, certainly. The little pearl choker collar quite pretty. But, really, it was all so plain and unoriginal.

  It was only as Noelle passed through them that the guests saw the dress had no back. The smooth line of her spine, the contour of her shoulder blades, the glowing ivory of her skin, had all been daringly exposed to a point several inches below her temptingly slender waist.

  From that time on, there was a line of carriages at the door of Madame LaBlanc's establishment. The new customers were graciously accommodated by Madame's ever-increasing number of assistants while the sly Frenchwoman reserved her considerable creative energies for the woman who was making her the most important dressmaker in London. Noelle Copeland was an original in both spirit and fashion, and Renée LaBlanc was going to make certain her client would not be outdone.

  Noelle was not the only one being imitated. All over the city, young gallants were growing beards and clenching thin cheroots between their teeth. It was a pitiful imitation, however, for no matter how hard they tried, none of them could match the swaggering self-assurance of Quinn Copeland. They were all left feeling slightly foolish when, just as their beards reached a respectable length, Quinn shaved his off. One afternoon the couple appeared in Hyde Park. She was leading her pretty chestnut mare, he his ebony stallion. It was only when she mounted that the onlookers saw that the full skirt of her royal-blue riding habit had been cunningly split at the center, forming two side legs. From that day on, Noelle Copeland rode astride.

  The weeks passed. No sooner had the gossip from one episode died down than another reared its tantalizing head. There was even a rumor that Quinn Copeland was supporting a group of urchins in one of London's most disreputable tenements. Drawing rooms buzzed, dinner tables sparkled. Never in recent memory had a season been so entertaining.

  In Northridge Square, however, things were not quite so gay. Except in public, Quinn and Noelle saw little of each other. Most nights he would escort her home only to leave her at the door. In the morning Noelle would awaken to find the covers on his bed undisturbed. He made no attempt to explain his absences, and she asked no questions about them.

  There was one matter, however, about which she did question him, and that was the future. Surely he did not intend their farcical marriage to go on much longer? But no matter how hard she pressed, he refused to commit himself. She could not understand his perversity, especially since she was certain that he chafed to be away from Northridge Square and all that life there entailed.

  Something else puzzled her. Last October, shortly after Quinn had reappeared in her life, Simon had told her that his son had accepted a position with a firm of shipbuilders in New York City. If that were true, what was holding him here now? And why had he and Simon, despite the animosity between them, been closeting themselves in the library with ledgers and stacks of files?

  She still had not mended her tattered relationship with her father-in-law, so she could not ask him about Quinn's plans. There was always Constance, but Noelle found one excuse after another to postpone discussing the problem with her. Finally she admitted to herself that she was afraid of what she might hear, for there was always the horrifying possibility that Quinn was actually planning to take her with him.

  In December, Simon left for the continent, and Noelle found herself missing his booming orders to the servants, the way his laughter filled the house when his friends came to call, and, unreasonably, the sense of security his presence seemed to give her. Even Constance could not help dispel Noelle's loneliness, for she too had left the city.

  It was another departure, however, that had a more immediate effect on Noelle's life. Her sleek figure swathed in black silk, Anna von Furst was seen abruptly leaving London one morning. The next day, the newspapers announced that the Baron Otto von Furst had died in a hunting accident in Bavaria.

  More frequently now, after the dinner parties and balls and assemblies were over, Quinn and Noelle would climb the stairs to their bedroom together. Whenever it happened, Noelle's heart would thump frantically. Was this going to be the night Quinn would try to open the door that separated them?

  It became more and more difficult to repress the memory of the time in Yorkshire when he had made love to her. As if reading her thoughts, Quinn would stalk her with scowling eyes, but he made no attempt to touch her. They snapped at each other over trifles. Noelle was sharp with the servants. Quinn got into a fight at the faro table. Things could not go on as they were much longer.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Ever since the gentlemen had finished their cigars and brandy and joined the ladies in the drawing room, Hugo Meade, the Marquis of Blystone, had been pressing his thigh hard against hers. Noelle barely noticed. Not even Quinn's grim scowl from across the room could penetrate her good humor. Just when she thought she could not bear living another day with him, everything had changed.

  It happened so unexpectedly. Tonight, on the way to their third dinner party of the week, Quinn had abruptly announced he was going to leave London in two days to assume permanent control of the Cape Crosse shipyard. Noelle, he declared, would stay here. He had set up a generous bank account for her so she could purchase her own residence and maintain her current style of living. Although there could be no divorce, they would no longer be together.

  Noelle's heart sang. She was finally to be free of him!

  The marquis's pressure on her thigh had become so relentless that Noelle was recalled to the present. With a shock, she realized he had been murmuring endearments to her.

  ". . . adoration for you. All evening your beauty has sparkled like the finest wine waiting to be sampled by a true connoisseur."

  "Really, Lord Blystone, you should not say such things." The arm of the sofa pushed up against her other thigh as she tried vainly to move away from him.

  "Don't pretend with me," he pursued. "I know you return my passion. We must arrange to be alone so I can show you how much I love you."

  Before she could snatch them away, he had caught up her fingers and brought them to his lips.

  "Get your hands off my wife, before I break them."

  The marquis dropped her hand as if it were a viper. Noelle had no idea how long Quinn had been standing behind them listening, but from the menace in his voice, it had been long enough.

  "I hate to interrupt such a tender moment, Hugo, but I'm taking my wife home now, and if you so much as look at her again, I'll kill you." He grabbed Noelle's arm and none too gently pulled her up. With everyone watching them, he propelled her toward the doorway as if she were a disobedient child. Through stiff lips, Noelle thanked her hostess, all the while trying to hide her humiliation.

  She kept her silence throughout the short carriage ride home. The unshed words struggled to be released, but she held them back, waiting for the moment when there would be no coachman to overhear her. Quinn did not even glance in her direction. Finally they stood alone in the dimly lit foyer at Northridge Square. As Quinn shut the front door Noelle unbridled her fury.

  "How dare you humiliate me like that!"

  "Don't push me tonight," he scowled blackly. "If you're smart, you'll just get out of my sight."

  "I'll get out of your sight, all right, as soon as I tell you what I think of your manners!"

  "I'm warning you, Highness . . ."

  "And I'm warning you! You're a selfish, egotistical, arrogant bastard!"

  "And you're a cheap little man-teasing bitch!"

  Noelle swung at him then. She drew back her fist and smashed it full force into his jaw. Quinn should have seen it coming. Under other circumstances, he would have. But the unaccustomed jealousy that had been eating away at him all evening like a maggot had dulled his reflexes, and so he caught the full force of her blow.

  Noelle sucked in her breath as she realized th
e folly of what she had done. Dear God, he would kill her! Catching her skirts up above her calves, she flew up the stairs, propelled by her fear.

  There was a pounding. She did not know if it was her own heart or his footsteps behind her. Her mind raced. A key? Was there a key in the bedroom lock? She reached the top step, the hallway; her body sensed his presence behind her and, with a desperate lunge, she threw herself toward the door. It seemed a miracle when the knob turned in her hand. She shot inside and pushed against it. The latch caught. She reached for the key, began to turn it . . .

  The door crashed in on her with such force that she was knocked from her feet. The floor underneath her shook as the heavy oak slammed shut. Lying in a pool of spilled satin on the dark rug, she heard the key turn in the lock. There was a whimper—pitiful, like a child's. With a curious detachment, she wondered who was in the room with them, and then realized the sound had come from her own throat.

  Quinn loomed over her, one hand balled into a fist at his side.

  "You're going to pay for that in the only way you understand."

  Locking his eyes with hers, he raised his hands to his lapels and slowly pulled off his evening coat, flicking it over the chair next to him without changing his position. Then he began unfastening his waistcoat, slipping the jet studs one by one into the palm of his hand. There was no waste in his movements. Each action was deliberate, unhurried, and filled with purposeful menace. He pulled at the knot of his white neckcloth.

  "For weeks now I've kept my distance from you. I've paid your bills and let you go on your way. Lately I've been asking myself why. And you know, Highness, I couldn't come up with a good answer."

  Noelle watched with deadly fascination as his shirt slowly parted, revealing the powerfully muscled chest she remembered so well. It was only when his hands dropped to the waistband of his trousers that she overcame her paralysis. With a cry she leaped to her feet and dashed toward the door, but like a whip his arm snapped out and coiled around her.

  "Oh, no, you don't! Not till I'm through with you."

  He yanked off her cloak and then picked her up and unceremoniously tossed her onto the bed. She gave a yelp of pain as her elbow slammed into the mahogany dragon's head, but Quinn ignored her cry. Throwing himself down beside her, he gripped her slim shoulders and flipped her over onto her stomach, then planted his knee in the small of her back.

  "With what this dress probably cost me, I'll be damned if I'll rip it off!" Only when he had unfastened each hook did he pull the satin gown from her struggling form. His patience wore thin, however, when it came to her petticoats, and they were soon in a torn heap on the floor.

  She lay on her back before him, only a thin white chemise covering her flesh. In the struggle to remove her clothing, her hair had come undone and now it streamed about her, iced by the winter moonlight pouring in through the window.

  For a moment Quinn stared down at her. There was something different about the way she looked. It nagged at him. And then, in an instant, he saw what it was. The beautiful eyes that blazed up at him were full of fury and loathing, but they held no terror. She hated him, that was certain, but she seemed no longer to fear him.

  With the fascination of a scientist testing a hypothesis, he reached down and cupped her breast through the thin material of the chemise. She spat out an angry oath and kicked at him furiously. He chuckled. And then his amusement died in a groan of pain as one of her blows landed on his tender jaw.

  With a growl he fell on her, using the pressure of his muscular body to still her struggles, slamming his mouth to hers in a kiss that was more an assault than a caress, grinding his hard lips, wanting to hurt. She fought against him, clawing at his back with her nails, arching her body in a futile attempt to push him off. He felt her first tremors of panic and, unaccountably, his anger fell away. Losing their desire to injure, his lips began ministering to her bruised mouth. There was a subtle change in her responses. Although the heels of her hands still dug into his shoulders, trying to push him away, her slowly parting lips delivered a different message.

  He kissed her temples, her ears, enjoyed the slim pillar of her throat. When he brought himself back to her mouth, his tongue no longer had to invade, it was welcomed. Now her body moved under him with a different rhythm. His erotic senses told him his hands could move further without meeting resistance, that her breasts yearned to be stroked until the tender tips ached and strained for more.

  Her response brought his own desire to a frenzy, but he held himself in check, stroking her arms and throat before he slipped down the straps of her chemise, kissing the line of her collarbone and shoulders before claiming her breasts. Even as they both lay naked in a bath of moonlight, he listened to her body, taking his cues from her response. When his kiss voyaged below the line of her waist to her stomach, and he sensed the subtle overture of fear, he replaced his mouth with his hand and smiled to himself as her muscles once again relaxed.

  Then everything changed. He felt the subtle pressure of her hands on his shoulders, signaling that she no longer wanted him over her. Cautiously he shifted his weight so that he was lying on his side, facing her. For a moment she was still, and then her soft hand reached toward him and he finally understood. She wanted access to his body.

  His breath was ragged in his throat as her fingers began their first tentative exploration of the muscles of his shoulders and chest. Although her movements were cautious and inexperienced, he could not remember when a woman's touch had excited him more. With a barely audible moan, he rolled onto his back. Her fingers touched the hair on his chest and then found a nipple, hard and flat, so different from her own. He shuddered, and her hand jerked away. Willing himself to lie still, he waited for her. Hesitantly she returned to test her power. His breath quickened as her cascading hair teased his bare flesh. Her hand made its way to his stomach, traveled across its flat plane, and descended unsurely. He felt her tremble, and then her fingers touched the very pulse of him. With a wince, she drew back her hand from his size, and the fear he had vanquished with his patient caresses once more took her prisoner.

  He began again, gentling her with his kiss, firing her with his touch. He heard his voice murmuring reassurances to her. When he finally felt her quiver, he knew that her thighs were ready to part freely, and she would receive his manhood as willingly as her mouth was receiving his tongue.

  He entered her slowly, whispering all the while that he would not hurt her. Her body began to move. Checking his own raging desire, he shifted his weight so she would not have to bear it all and adjusted his rhythm to hers. Giving instead of taking, his own pleasure mounted. She whimpered and tossed her head to the side. He buried his face in her fragrant hair as they climbed together. And for a time in the moonlit room, their bodies made their minds forget how to hate.

  "Get out of bed," he snarled.

  Noelle shifted and finally managed to open her eyes far enough to see Quinn standing over her, bathed and dressed. An ugly scowl marred his features as he reached down and snapped the covers from her warm flesh.

  "I said get up!"

  She sat up with a jerk, her hair tumbling around her face and shoulders. "What are you doing?" she sputtered.

  His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "You'll be rid of me in another day. Until then, do what I say. Be dressed and downstairs in twenty minutes." He spun around on his heels and stomped from the room.

  Noelle sat stunned. Was this the same man who had made such tender love to her last night? Who had held her? Kissed her? She thrust her fingers back through her tangled hair and dug the heels of her hands into her temples as she tried to push back the memory of how naturally she had responded, how eagerly she had traced the hard lines of his body with her fingers.

  In the wake of Quinn's contempt, shame overwhelmed her. Her husband was an experienced lover, and she was an innocent. His mistress was gone. He had needed a woman. Why hadn't she understood that? It was all very simple really.

  But it was
not so clear to the troubled man who stalked the black and white marble floor at the base of the staircase. Not clear at all, for the sweetness of her lovemaking the night before had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

  "You're five minutes late."

  She paused on the landing and, summoning all her will, met his glaring eyes with cold disdain. "If you had awakened me five minutes earlier, I would have been on time."

  "Why don't you save those high-and-mighty airs of yours for the marquis. Remember that I know what a hot-blooded bitch you really are!"

  It would have been less painful if he had slashed her across the face with the back of his hand. Sickened, he watched shame etch itself on her ashen cheeks, and then he dropped his gaze. "The carriage is waiting for us," he said gruffly. "Constance is back, and she's sent a message asking us to call on her immediately."

  They traveled like strangers—Noelle staring stonily ahead and Quinn brooding out the window.

  "You look pale, my dear. She doesn't look well, Quinn."