by Erica Ridley
“Oh?” she asked breathlessly. The self-deprecation in his tone did nothing to lessen the romance of his words. Her heart turned over. If he presented her with a greenhouse full of flowers, she knew precisely how she’d help him christen it. She arched her back to lift her breasts higher. “I thought only foods could be succulent.”
The teasing vanished from his eyes in a flash of passion and heat. She had no doubt then that he wanted her as fiercely and as completely as she wanted him. She could feel the heat of his flesh even through his clothes. “Definitely succulent. I absolutely, positively, would adore the opportunity to eat you.”
“Eat…me?” she gasped. “But how?”
“I would start right here…”
The tip of his tongue traced the edge of her ear. Her breath caught at the sensation. She shivered. He nipped at the lobe, then touched his tongue to the soft sensitive skin just behind. She gripped his arms tighter.
“…and then I would continue here…”
His hot, sinful mouth pressed a series of exquisitely slow kisses from behind the lobe of her ear all the way down her throat, bit by bit, tasting and kissing until he reached the pulse point at the base.
Her entire body was on fire with the wanting of him. Every kiss to her neck, she felt on her breasts, on her stomach, between her legs. It was as if every inch of her body was attuned to everywhere his mouth touched. And yet she wanted more. She didn’t want to imagine his fingers on her thighs or the promise of his mouth on her breast. She wanted to feel him. The hard muscle of his arms and powerful legs, the heat of his kisses against her bare flesh.
“…and then make my way down ever so slowly to here…”
The lace fichu was gone from her chest, snatched away as if by the wind. She leaned into him. Finally, finally, his tantalizing kisses came ever so slowly closer to where she wanted them most. She had forgotten to breathe, had forgotten everything about everything except for the feel of his lips on her skin and how much she wanted to lift her nipples to his open mouth and force him to suckle. And then she wanted to do the same, right back to him.
His lips pressed hot kisses from the base of her throat all the way down to the tops of her breasts, slowly enough to torture, hot enough to brand. His mouth closed over one of her straining nipples, his tongue rasping over the thin layers of silk and linen. She clutched his shoulders, his hair. She wouldn’t let him up. Couldn’t. He made her ache so deliciously, made her hurt and need and want.
He tugged down the edge of her shallow bodice. Breathless, she willed him to touch her. With a searing kiss, he covered her breast with his hand. She gasped as his fingers pinched the straining nipple. He was hers and she was his. She threw her head back as he bent his mouth to her naked breast and employed his talented fingers on the one yet hidden. Her thighs were damp at the sensation, her legs pressed tight as if to ease a pulsing need deep within. She wanted more. She wanted him to touch her, to feel her heat, her wetness. She—
The creak of hinges sounded a scant second before the library door flew open and two figures strode right into line of sight with Grace and Lord Carlisle.
“Oh dear,” said Miss Downing with a startled look. “Are Isaac and I interrupting something?”
“Nonsense!” Grace dropped to the floor with one hand to her chest, feeling blindly for the fallen scrap of lace that was supposed to be covering her swollen bosom. “Just…You know. Euripides. I adore Greek playwrights.”
Oliver was flush against the closest bookshelf, attempting to adjust his breeches without appearing to be doing so. He was failing miserably.
“Carlisle, is that you?” Mr. Downing stormed closer, hands on his hips. “What exactly is going on in here?”
“I believe Oliver was kissing Miss Halton just prior to your arrival,” came a drowsy murmur from somewhere near the fire.
All four of them turned to stare at Captain Grey in astonishment.
“Xavier!” Oliver rushed to his side and gave him a fierce hug. “You’re back!”
“And you’ve been kissing,” Mr. Downing reminded him. “In the library!”
Oliver winced, and rubbed a hand over his face. “Honestly, Xavier? This is the moment you choose to awaken from a four-month fugue?”
Mr. Downing poked his finger at Oliver’s chest. “The precise moment actually seems to be when your rakish mouth touched Miss Halton’s innocent lips!”
“And her breast,” Captain Grey mused drowsily. “Something about…‘succulent.’”
“Succulent breasts!” Miss Downing gasped.
Mr. Downing grabbed Grace’s arm just as she finished shoving the lace fichu more or less back into place. “Miss Halton, this is very serious indeed. You have been well and truly compromised. Your reputation—”
“—will not suffer one whit,” Oliver interrupted, his tone commanding and imperial. “I was overcome with passion because this lovely, virginal young lady has just agreed to be my wife.”
“What?” Grace choked out in horror, her limbs draining of all feeling. His estate…Her mother…
Oliver elbowed her in the shoulder. “Act blissful, damn it. This time we both need rescuing. If you don’t marry me, you’ll never marry anyone, and I shall not abandon you to such a fate.”
“It’s true,” Miss Downing stage-whispered. “You have to say yes. Captain Grey saw your breast.”
Grace glared at her. “Nobody saw anything! We were behind that bookshelf and—”
“…something about ‘eating’ Miss Halton…” Captain Grey murmured. “I didn’t quite catch…”
Oliver coughed and tossed a worried glance toward Grace. “I meant it…non-passionately?”
Mr. Downing’s intractable gaze speared them both.
“Huzzah!” Grace managed with a bleak smile. “I’m to be married. There has never been a more blissful bride than I.”
Oliver put his arm around her shoulders and cuddled her to him. “It is official. You have made me the happiest of men.”
Awfully, she had the suspicion that he was at least somewhat telling the truth. He needed an heiress with significantly more money than she had to offer, but he didn’t look like his heart had just been ripped from his chest and trampled to dust by a thousand horses.
Grace, on the other hand… It was finally over. Her last hopes, gone. Now there would never be any money to save her mother. She could not act happy. She could not even make eye contact, for fear of hot tears beginning to flow. As much as she liked Oliver, as much as she desired both his presence and his body, he was the worst possible match she could ever have made.
He needed her dowry even more than she did.
Chapter 12
Oliver stared into the face of the Black Prince.
For twenty-six years, the ghost of Edward the Black Prince had been both his nemesis and his brother. How Oliver had hated him, this dead young man with his bright yellow beard and rich blue mantle flowing rakishly from his royal shoulders. He had been both firstborn and favorite son to his father the king, and the only son who mattered to Oliver’s father, the earl.
Yet he could not remove the painting from the wall. Hate it or not, it was as much a part of him as his own heart. The Black Prince was the only family he had left. His brother. His enemy.
Since the time he could read, Oliver had researched every scrap of history he could find about the man who held his father in thrall. As a young child, he’d hated the dead prince for all the things he could do that little Oliver could not—attend council meetings. Hold court. Lead battles. Marry for love. As Oliver grew older, he’d hated the dead prince for all the things he did that Oliver would not—massacre innocents. Burn and pillage.
All these years, he’d believed his father’s disappointment in him stemmed from his inability to live up to the Black Prince’s larger-than-life persona. But now, as he stood in his finely tailored clothes in the only corridor of the manor where paintings still adorned the walls, he was disquieted to realize how alike he and the Blac
k Prince actually were.
Both were fearless. Foolish. And wrought destruction wherever they went.
Mirroring his hated cousin, Oliver had rushed into battle, inherited a title, attended the House of Lords. He’d pillaged his own bloody estate right down to the silver napkin rings. He was marrying a woman he could easily come to love. And while he did not massacre innocents, he left naught but misery in his wake.
He brought his fist to his forehead and closed his eyes. Poor Miss Halton. How she must despise him. She had made it abundantly clear that he was not the sort of husband she was looking for. Why would he be? Who could blame her? He was empty. As soulless and as useless as the cracked portrait upon this wall. All he saw again and again was the moment she realized he’d stolen her ability to choose her own future. They were to be married forthwith.
Her shattered expression would be scarred forever upon his heart.
He opened his eyes. The Black Prince gazed regally back at him. Fitting. Oliver did not deserve to have his portrait upon the wall. The Prince was a murderous, chivalrous, God-fearing contradiction, but he was well-loved by his father and his countrymen.
Oliver’s gut clenched as he realized the truth with sudden clarity. This was why he’d joined the war, fought the front lines in battle. This was why he raced pell-mell into his ill-fated rescues. He just wanted to be useful for once in his life. To be needed. To be important to somebody—anybody—even if it were only one person. He wanted someone to choose him for once. To want him. To love him.
But that was not his fate.
“My lord?” echoed a voice from down the corridor.
Oliver turned his back on the Black Prince and forced a smile for his butler. Ferguson would be leaving soon. Oliver had his letter of recommendation in his pocket. It was the least he could do. He was better than his father. He would not allow honorable people to slave for him when there was no money to pay their wages. Oliver could open his own doors, wash his own dishes.
“Yes, Ferguson?”
“There are visitors, my lord. I put them in the side parlor. I did not know where else to…Well. The sunlight is very pretty there.”
Ah. Poor Ferguson. Someone finally paid a social call, and Oliver had left no furnished rooms in which to receive guests. “An excellent choice. The view of the garden is lovely from that angle. Who has come to call?”
Ferguson did not need to glance at the calling card in his hand. “Miss Halton and Mr. and Mrs. Mayer. Your bride and her grandparents are here.”
Oliver’s fingers went cold, even as a besotted thrill of excitement raced through his veins. His eyes ached for the sight of Miss Halton’s smile. His heart dropped at what she must think of his bare walls, his empty parlor. How elderly were her grandparents? There was nowhere for them to sit, save the dining room. Perhaps he should move them in there. The great table and walnut chairs made the space look more, rather than less empty. Great swaths of space where the buffets had once been, faint rectangles where paintings had once hung. Sporadic candles instead of chandeliers.
This was no place for a bride. No prize for Miss Halton, who deserved so much more than he could give her.
He hoped they weren’t staying for supper. Nervously, he ran a hand through his hair. Shite. He hoped they would leave and he hoped they would stay, because even as he was ashamed of his vast, vacant manor, the emptiness softened at the edges because Miss Halton was inside the walls. Her presence felt more like home than anything he’d ever felt in his life.
He hurried to the side parlor, slowing only when the open doorway was in sight. Three telltale shadows spilled across the floor.
She was here. His heart sped faster. She was here.
Chapter 13
Oliver strode into the side parlor with his shoulders back and his head high. The estate might be a shadow of what it once was, but the manor was still standing and he remained its Black Prince.
He sketched a beautiful, courtly bow. “Mr. Mayer. Mrs. Mayer. Miss Halton. Welcome to my home.”
The grandmother’s moue of displeasure matched the sharp edge to her tone. She gestured at the bare walls with her walking stick. “This is a home? It’s an embarrassment, is what it is. I’ve had better equipped stables. Do you realize one can see precisely where the furniture stood and the paintings hung? Don’t expect me to return to this box. I will not. Mark my words.”
“Grandmother, please,” Miss Halton hissed as she dipped her respects. “You didn’t curtsey.”
“Nor shall I.” Mrs. Mayer sniffed. “I’m not here to curtsey. I’m here to discuss your dowry. Look around you and tell me he doesn’t prefer that we sign the contract as quickly as possible.”
Eyes pained and cheeks flushed, Miss Halton flashed Oliver a pleading glance.
He smiled at her. He couldn’t help it. Who cared if her grandmother was a rude old hag? She wasn’t coming back; she’d said so herself. He honestly couldn’t imagine a better wedding present than that.
“I see you smiling,” Mrs. Mayer snapped. Despite her gray hair and the slight sag to her features, she was as brisk and spry as a woman half her age. Her quick, dark eyes took Oliver in with a glance. “I assume you compromised the chit specifically to get your hands on her money? Well, it’s not her money. It’s my money. And yet the girl is going to be yours.”
Oliver could not wait to rid his bride of this horrible woman. And the grandfather—where was his pride? He neither supported his wife nor defended his granddaughter. Hands clasped behind his back, he gazed out the big picture window as if he wasn’t paying the least attention at all. Perhaps he wasn’t.
He could be deaf.
“Don’t bother looking at Mr. Mayer for help,” Mrs. Mayer barked sharply. “He’ll sign when it’s time. I’m accepting your suit not because you compromised the girl, but because of your title. The Mayers came from nothing and built our fortune from scratch. We have more money than most of you supposed aristocrats, and we’re still nothing. Thus it gives me great pleasure to have a countess for a granddaughter. The snobs can take that and stuff it!”
Miss Halton—Grace—winced at her grandmother’s vulgarity, but she had borne the brunt of snobbery firsthand. Oliver had long understood that it was his title and his father’s money that gained him entrée into exclusive arenas.
“I will sign whenever you like,” he said quietly. He peeled off his gloves to more easily handle the documents.
The important thing was not the contract. The important thing was Grace, and she was currently expiring of mortification. He hated to see her so miserable. If her grandmother hadn’t excommunicated herself from their married lives, he would’ve happily done the job for her.
“I’m sure you’d sign your soul away for enough coin,” Mrs. Mayer snapped. “Well, that’s too bad. Earl or not—and compromise or not—you’re not getting a penny more than I originally planned. I don’t care how much pleasure it gives me to rub the ‘countess’ title into society’s face, it’s a one-time purchase. After the wedding, you’re on your own. Both of you. Is that quite clear?”
Oliver inclined his head. What did it matter what Grace’s dowry amounted to? A thousand pounds was a mere drop in the bucket with an estate this size, but that wasn’t why he was getting married. He was doing so because he wished to. He’d marry her if he had to put up the thousand pounds himself. He was going to make something of this earldom, make a good life for them both, if it killed him.
Which it just might. “Clear as crystal. Shall we summon our barristers or just have done and sign?”
Mrs. Mayer snatched the contract back from him. As she did so, her gray eyes widened slightly. She flipped his hand palm up, then grabbed the other one as well.
“Grandmother, what on earth?” Grace stepped forward as if to put her body between them.
Mrs. Mayer narrowed her eyes. “Do you see that? His hands are as ruined as a pauper’s.”
“Grandmother, stop it. He’s an earl.”
The older woman h
arrumphed. “Mr. Mayer is the decision maker around here. Mr. Mayer! Get over here and sign the contract.”
“There’s no table and no pen,” he answered without turning from the window. “Have you a pot of ink in your reticule?”
So he wasn’t deaf.
“Come to my office,” Oliver suggested. “There’s only one chair, but there’s a desk, several plumes, and plenty of ink.”
Nose held high, Mrs. Mayer preceded them out the parlor door as if the manor belonged to her.
Oliver took advantage of the opportunity to pull Grace into his arms and press a quick kiss to the top of her head.
“Lord Carlisle!” she whispered, eyes wide. “My grandfather!”
He glanced over his shoulder. Mr. Mayer was still facing the side garden, his back to the room. Oliver placed Grace’s hand on his arm. “Mr. Mayer, if you’ll follow us?”
As they traversed the corridors, he kept Grace firmly at his side. Partly to annoy her grandmother, but mostly because he loved the sensation of her warm fingers upon his arm and the scent of jasmine in her long black hair. He hadn’t planned to wed—and she certainly hadn’t wished to marry him—but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. She’d undoubtedly have been much better placed with any other toff in the ton, but no other man would dedicate the rest of his life to making her happy as Oliver fully intended to do.
She might not want him. She might never love him. But just this once… He’d like to matter to someone.