A Bride Unveiled

by Jillian Hunter

  “And,” the marchioness continued blithely, unaware of Violet’s inattention, “Grayson dared to initiate his romantic nonsense with these infamous words: ‘There is a time to be wise, and a time to be wicked. Which do you suppose it is?’”

  That was too much. Violet came to a halt in front of the double-porpoise fountains that flanked the pavilion entrance. Their light spray cooled her face. “I wouldn’t have known how to answer.”

  “Neither did I,” Jane admitted, urging her forward. “But it is not called the Pavilion of Pleasure without reason. A kiss from the right man renders words superfluous. Do be careful where you walk. It is dark and damp inside, as I recall.”

  Violet peered into the shadowed interior and felt a forbidden tug of curiosity beckon her senses. How long had it been since she had done anything daring? Not counting kissing Master Fenton. She would have adored a friend like Jane when she was younger.

  “I hope you aren’t one of those ladies who are afraid of the dark,” Jane murmured.

  “No.”

  “Or of enclosed spaces.”

  “It reminds me of a crypt.”

  Jane laughed in delight. “As if you had ever been in one. But then, perhaps the pavilion was designed to make us huddle closer to the wicked gentlemen who bring us here.”

  “Do I hear water dripping?” Violet asked, glancing around.

  “That is probably one of the bathing pools. I would suggest at any other time that we soak our feet, but I shall ruin my slippers if they get wet.” Jane motioned toward a staircase that was so narrow Violet might have missed it on her own. “I believe that will take us to the turret room. As I recall it has a passage inside that leads into the rear garden.”

  Violet climbed slowly in Jane’s shadow. She couldn’t help thinking that there had to be an easier way to avoid another guest.

  “You are kind to help me out,” Jane said over her shoulder. “It’s difficult to be a lady in certain situations, isn’t it? One must pretend to be polite to the oddest sorts.”

  “Yes,” Violet agreed in a wry voice as they reached the top of the torchlit stairwell and walked into a circular chamber.

  Violet stared around the tiny room in speculation. A Grecian chaise occupied most of the space, its function obvious. A light breeze entered the arched window that overlooked the garden party in progress. She glanced at the unlit fireplace. “Is the passageway in there?”

  Jane nodded. “Yes. But fortunately it is well maintained, and we shall not emerge the worse for wear—”

  “My lady!” a frantic voice cried up from the depths of the stairs. “Forgive this intrusion if it is not you, madam, but I am sent to fetch you!”

  Violet turned in suspense.

  She had to admire whoever dared to approach the marchioness in such passionate haste. A lover? A family member?

  “What is it, Weed?” the marchioness demanded in a voice of exasperated affection. And then, to Violet, she added, “You did meet our senior footman, Weed, at the ball? I could not survive without him.”

  The marquess’s stone-faced senior footman, who apparently served as Jane’s personal confidant, appeared at the top of the stairs. He bowed, albeit distractedly, in Violet’s direction. “The Duchess of Scarfield is aggrieved that she cannot find you.”

  “Well, heavens above,” Jane said. “We cannot aggrieve Her Grace. Would you like to come and meet my sister-in-law, Violet?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Good choice,” Jane said before Violet could venture an opinion. “I’d hide from her, too, if I could. I can guarantee she won’t complain about her bowels, but I’m bound to get a lecture for some reason or another. Weed, send a footman to escort Miss Knowlton from the pavilion to keep the gossipmongers quiet. Violet, be careful of rogues on your way down. One never knows who might be traveling through a secret passage at a party. And by the way, I never forget a favor.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.”

  “A word about what?”

  “I shall call on you next week,” Jane said with a blithe wave.

  The footman bowed again and led the marchioness to the narrow aperture in the wall. Their voices faded. Violet went to the window, wondering how long it would take her clandestine escort to arrive, and whether she could see the fencing tent in the garden from her vantage point.

  Chapter 15

  It was all very well and good for the Marchioness of Sedgecroft to indulge in improper behavior. In society’s eyes Jane and her scoundrel of a husband could do no wrong, while Violet’s every move would be subject to scrutiny. She envied Jane’s aplomb and doubted—

  “If a lady stands in a tower window long enough, it might be assumed that she’s asking to be rescued.”

  She spun around, her breath rushing out in surprise as she recognized the lean-hipped figure standing at the top of the stairs. “Reassure me that you are not my escort.”

  Kit gave her a guarded smile. “What are you talking about?”

  “The marchioness did not send you here to escort me back to the party so that she could escape?”

  He glanced around the tower, his hand sliding to his sword belt. “Escape from whom or from what, exactly?”

  “From . . . from the gentleman who was following her at the party . . . and complaining about his bowels.”

  “And he followed the pair of you into the tower?” he asked in a doubtful voice.

  “As far as I know, we lost him before we reached the pavilion.”

  His eyes danced with humor. “Is he armed and dangerous?”

  She paused. “Not in comparison to you.”

  He took a step toward her. For countless moments she was unable to move. All she could do was stare at him, at his lean, intense face and the light eyes that seemed to lay bare her every secret.

  She summoned her will and edged away from the window. Mesmerized by his presence, she did not notice the slow descent of her blue cashmere shawl from her shoulders toward the floor. Kit reacted before she did. He reached out with his sword to catch the shawl and lower it to the chaise.

  His eyes lifted to hers, bright with rue. “There. Proof of how much my sword and I have improved since the day you and your shawl ensnared us.”

  Violet bent to pick up the wrap, lowering her head so that he would not see the emotion she was struggling to hold back. “I won’t argue that.”

  “Don’t go yet,” he said, and she went still, watching his shadow advance on her across the stone floor.

  Again she could not move. This time, however, a physical barrier impeded her in the form of a masterful man. Kit was not only standing in her way; he was standing so indecently close to her that a shock went down her back. She basked in the heat that radiated from his core. He magnetized, melted her.

  “Go if you must,” he said. “I won’t stop you.”

  Silver glinted from the sword at his side.

  She raised her gaze.

  Temptation smoldered in his smile.

  “That almost sounds like a challenge,” she said, tossing back her hair in acceptance.

  He laid his sword across the foot of the chaise. “I’d say that we were even now, except that you’ll always have the advantage over me.”

  “Tell me the truth,” she said softly. “You didn’t happen to arrange this little escapade with the marchioness, did you?”

  “I take offense at the suggestion. You ought to know I would never stoop to anything that low.” His mouth lifted in a grudging smile. “Well, I might, but this was not a plan on my part.”

  “It’s too coincidental that she brought me here and abandoned me as abruptly as she did.”

  He looked past her to the chaise. “She said nothing to me.”

  She studied his chiseled profile in fascination. “She speaks very highly of you.” She touched his forearm, aware that it was a dangerous step for her to take. “Are you angry?”

  “At you?” He turned his head and looked down
at her with an unconcealed desire that took away her breath. “The entire world could send me into exile, and I wouldn’t miss it if I could take you with me. The truth is that I saw you enter the pavilion, and I followed on the off chance that I would find you alone and”—he glanced at the sword on the chaise—“take you captive.”

  Violet stared down briefly at the length of polished steel that he had placed upon her soft blue shawl. When she looked up at him again, she knew that a hundred suitors could ask for her hand and she would never feel for one of them as she did for this man.

  The flickering torchlight, his beautiful face, danced in her vision. His arms swiftly enclosed her; he had captured her as promised. She pushed without conviction at his chest in one moment. In the next she grasped a handful of his coat and drew him nearer.

  Wool abraded her cheek. Beneath his coat she felt the bleached softness of his cambric shirt and the trained strength of his body. Her beloved friend. Her irresistible secret.

  “Well?” he asked, and did not wait before he lowered his head to kiss her. “Are you my captive or not?”

  Bittersweet pleasure sang through her. She parted her lips and felt his tongue against hers. His hands supported her even as they stole down her back with a quicksilver sensuality that left her uncertain and shivering in anticipation. The desire in his kiss drained her of her old will and filled her with one infinitely more dangerous.

  “I don’t want to shame you,” he said against her mouth. “I don’t want to be your secret friend or lover. I don’t want anything about us to be a secret. But . . . I do want you.”

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t care about anything else.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She twined her arms around his neck, returning his kiss until his mouth moved down her throat to the border of her bodice. Her hands fell to her sides. His breath soothed and teased her vulnerable skin, the tops of her breasts.

  “I don’t want to borrow you,” he whispered.

  He brought his hands to her bodice and tugged. She shivered, her breasts aching and exposed. His eyes, heavy lidded with sensuality, lifted to hers. “I want to be the only man who has the right to do this to you.”

  She took a breath.

  His hands slipped under her bodice, cupping her breasts. He bent to her and drew one tender nipple into his mouth. She arched her neck, a hostage to his hunger. He nipped gently at her other breast. Her breathing quickened as he pulled his mouth away and blew on her glistening nipples.

  “The only man,” he repeated, as he drew her down with him on the chaise.

  She submitted to an instant of panic, of pleasure; she felt his hands drift over her bottom, pressing her to his hard warmth. She had fallen in a curve against his torso. Slowly he turned her onto her back and held her prisoner beneath him. He stared down at her with a longing that flooded her veins with fire.

  He kicked his sword to the floor with his foot. She heard the clatter of steel against stone, the rasp of his breath before he began moving his body against hers. Her pulse beat in her throat. She felt the thickness of him and a temptation to do . . . whatever he wished. Unbidden, she raised her hands to his shoulders. He groaned as if her touch tortured him.

  “I want to be inside you,” he whispered. “I want your sweetness for myself.”

  She was losing her hold on awareness.

  “Violet. Dear God, give me the strength, or I will regret this.”

  She felt herself falling into darkness.

  “Violet,” he said again, with an urgency that broke through her daze. “Get up. We cannot be found like this.”

  She sat up in dazed reluctance as Kit rolled onto his feet. He resheathed his sword with one hand and reached for her with the other. She rose, shivering as their eyes met. The sky had clouded up in the short time they had spent together in the pavilion. It was dark enough in the tower now to appreciate the torchlight—and the company of an armed escort.

  Escort. She glanced toward the stairwell. Had Jane forgotten her promise? Violet had completely forgotten that she was waiting for safe passage from the pavilion.

  She felt a pair of firm hands slide up her back. She glanced around, intending to challenge this round of mischief. But Kit was merely lifting her shawl to her shoulders. He veiled the passion in his eyes before she could fall prey to it again. The pitch of his voice vibrated in the quiet like steel cutting into stone.

  “I only play games these days that I intend to play to the end. If a man challenges me with his sword, one of us is liable to die. I lived an ugly life, and you were my window to salvation. There were nights in the workhouse when I witnessed . . . when I experienced so much sin that I felt I would taint you with my company.”

  Her throat ached. “You never tainted me, Kit.”

  “Perhaps not then. Those were innocent games. There is nothing innocent about my desire for you at this moment.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t understand anything until Ambrose told me. I had no idea what you had to endure.”

  “No one wants to know what it’s like in a palace. But it wasn’t as bad for me as it was for the younger boys.”

  She cringed at the reminder of her naïveté. “You were one of the younger boys once,” she said, forcing herself to grip the fringe of her shawl instead of reaching out for him. Why had she found him when it was too late to matter?

  “I never think of the past,” he said. “Well, that isn’t true. I think about you.” He paused, his smile rueful. “I’ve thought about Eldbert and Ambrose, too, but not in the same way.”

  “No,” she said, smiling back in spite of herself. “You didn’t scratch their names with yours into a gravestone.”

  He grimaced. “What a romantic placeholder for affection.”

  “You had affection for both of them, too.”

  “I certainly did not.”

  “I shall never forget the day Eldbert rode his new mare into the woods and it ran off with him. You had to save him, with Ambrose shouting insults I cannot repeat. And I know that you taught Ambrose how to fight. He was a miserable coward until he met you.”

  He shrugged. “All I will admit is that whatever I felt for them was a fraction of my regard for you.”

  She turned her face to the window. She was afraid of what he would say next, but she hoped he would say it anyway. “I remember sketching you as if it were yesterday. If I find the drawings, I will show them to you.”

  “That implies another meeting. Is there hope for us?”

  She bit her lip. Was there hope? Was there any way to be released from her engagement without insulting Godfrey and breaking her aunt’s heart?

  “I want to do things to you that aren’t proper,” he confided quietly. “Ungentlemanly things to give us both pleasure.”

  “Kit, it’s—”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “I need you in a different way than I did long ago. Not only as my friend, but as a lover. I want all of you.”

  “How do you know I don’t understand?”

  “You would not be alone with me if you could read my thoughts. Perhaps you’re better off to forget me.”

  She turned to look at him. “How? I will live at least most of the year in London.”

  “Then we shall both live in torment, because neither of us is suited for adultery. And I will never stop wanting you.”

  “Adultery,” she whispered, turning back to the window.

  “Be mine or forget me. Make the decision before you’re married.”

  “It would kill my aunt.”

  The orchestra had begun to play in the parkland. She saw a distant splash of color through the window as dancers spilled across the platform constructed for the party. Violet’s heart lifted. The music stirred her. She was so wickedly tempted to ask Kit to dance with her one more time.

  “I want you, too,” she whispered.

  She turned again, but he was gone, and a footman wearing gold-and-black livery stood politely awaiting her attentio
n.

  “Miss Knowlton?” he said as she met his gaze.

  She flushed, hoping he had not heard her. Or worse, that he had not thought she had been talking to him. “Yes.”

  “The marchioness has asked me to personally attend you for the rest of the party.”

  The Marchioness of Sedgecroft shook out her skirts in dismay. “It’s as dark as pitch in this passageway, Weed. Remind me to inform Wenderfield that he needs to keep the torches lit below as well as above during a party. One cannot escape a tryst with a sprained ankle.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Jane sighed. “Do you see any other cobwebs on my skirt?”

  “I cannot see anything in this light. Well—”

  “Wait until we’re in the garden. The last thing I need is for Grayson to accuse me of having an affair.”

  “That day will never come, madam.”

  “Will you choose me, Weed, if it does?”

  He pushed his long arm through the heavy mantle of ivy that concealed the pavilion’s place of egress. Jane glanced up at the tower. “Don’t answer, Weed. It was not a fair question. I used to think that you would choose Grayson. But now I’m not sure of that at all.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I see no cobwebs in your hair or on your dress, madam.”

  She turned onto the hedge-enclosed path that led around the pavilion to the main garden. “Do you think my matchmaking scheme worked?”

  “Only time will tell.”

  “They seemed so well suited for each other,” she said with a sigh. “They tried hard to pretend otherwise at the school. You saw them dancing together at the ball the other night. It was as if they had known each other forever.”

  “Yes. One might say there was a sense of destiny between them.”

  “I hope so,” Jane said. “Just because I sabotaged my own wedding with a wonderful result does not give me the right to ruin another woman’s engagement.”

  “You gave destiny a helping hand, madam. Nothing more. Nothing less. It is all very romantic.”