The Devilish Montague

by Patricia Rice

  Lady Montague had happily agreed with the marchioness that silver was the latest rage in wedding gowns, although Jocelyn thought the silk wasn’t very practical. If she did not freeze for lack of underclothing, she’d no doubt have wedding cake staining it before the morning was done. But she loved the little slip of lace threaded with gold ribbons pinned to her hair. It had taken the maid an hour to curl her hair into shiny ringlets. She hoped the result would leave Blake as speechless as he made her.

  The priest in Lady Belden’s parish had cried the last of the banns yesterday. Since no one had objected to their marriage—or really, scarcely cared—they were free to perform the ceremony today. Jocelyn was torn between wanting the exchange of vows to be over and wishing she could wait forever.

  She had seen her groom only in church since the picnic. She’d held her breath and introduced him to Richard, but they’d done no more than shake hands. Blake hadn’t seemed to notice anything amiss with her brother’s asking if he liked birds.

  Actually, Blake had seemed to be nursing an aching head, probably from bachelor frivolities with his rather intimidating friends. His neckcloth had been a little more askew than usual, and he’d been staring at her bosom more than listening to the sermon after they’d taken their seats. She wasn’t certain that he’d paid much better notice when she’d said her brother would give her away, but he couldn’t say that she hadn’t warned him that Richard had arrived. Surely he understood that meant he would be living with them.

  Blake still hadn’t told her if he meant to keep his rooms in the city or if he intended to live with her and Richard. She was too nervous to think past the next few minutes.

  She jerked her thoughts back to the moment as the door on the south side of the transept opened. A rustle of skirts and chatter warned her that the groom’s party was arriving. Jocelyn clutched her bouquet of hothouse roses bound with gold and silver ribbons. She would have the ribbons undone from nervousness if she must stand there much longer.

  She took a deep breath as Blake entered, his sharp gaze sweeping the aisle until he found her in the shadows. She thought maybe his wide shoulders relaxed slightly before he turned to escort Frances in. He’d chosen to wear formal black trousers and an elegant gray cutaway coat that she’d been told was a gift from his parents. And he wore his silver vest. She smiled, inordinately pleased that he’d not only remembered the color of her gown but also matched it to make her happy.

  Baron Montague had been reluctantly kept from the fall harvest for the occasion. Jocelyn studied him, seeking some resemblance to his youngest son, but Lord Montague was half a head shorter and quite a few stone heavier, with a ring of silver hair. He lacked Blake’s straight, square-shouldered posture.

  The baron seemed content with the short, stout Lady Montague, though, and led her in with quiet pride.

  Jocelyn wished that Blake would someday look upon her that way, but it didn’t seem possible.

  One of Blake’s older brothers attended. He was a little more like Blake, without the silver streak in his dark hair, or the proud, broad-shouldered stance that Blake naturally assumed. Jocelyn had merely sent announcements to her family, knowing they would not come. Her mother was easily confused and did not like being rousted from her studies, and her half sisters would not leave their children to accompany Lady Carrington to see that she arrived safely. Jocelyn was thrilled just to have Richard.

  The vicar stood at the altar, gesturing them to come forward. Lady Belden stood up with Jocelyn. Mr. Atherton stood with Blake while his family settled in the pews. Jocelyn thought she’d nibble her nails through her gloves if someone didn’t say something soon.

  In the light from the rose window, Blake looked more stiff and solemn than usual. Beneath his thick dark hair, his gaze was steady when he met her eyes, but she could read nothing in it. She prayed he did not regret agreeing to this marriage. It was so very permanent.

  But people married all the time, on far less basis than they were. She tried to stay smiling as the vicar announced matrimony was for the procreation of children and a remedy against sin. She was far more ready for sin than children. The part about the mutual society, help, and comfort they were supposed to provide each other was a little dubious as well. Shooting Blake’s toe was probably not helpful. Hiding an addled brother might not be comforting. And the mutual society might be angry and cold once her groom learned she had no ready cash.

  She needed to concentrate on the vicar’s words. At the proper phrase, she tapped her brother’s shoulder, reminding him to say “I do” and sit down. Richard seemed a bit distracted by his surroundings, but he performed his duty well. As long as he didn’t see any pigeons, he’d be fine.

  Now that Richard had given her away, Blake captured her hand and held it firmly, as if he had no intention of letting her go. She breathed a little easier. They were two adults with an understanding. She was swearing it before God and Church, after all. She had to make it work.

  If only there had been time to ask Blake what they would do after the wedding breakfast. Their kisses were lovely, but this was a marriage of convenience. Surely he could not expect more than kisses? She really should have made that clear, but such a topic had been too embarrassing to talk about.

  Blake startled Jocelyn out of her reverie by placing an old and lovely band of gold inset with tiny diamonds on her finger. Jocelyn held her breath as the ring slipped over her knuckle, and she fully grasped the reality of this moment. Nervously, she glanced up, and caught the flare of heat in her groom’s eyes as he stared at her . . . only her. Oh, my.

  Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder were the last words that she actually heard. The vicar prosed on in a monotonous tone for some while after that, but all she could do was look up at Blake looking down at her and hope her knees didn’t give out.

  The ceremony did not allow for kisses, but Blake’s warm gaze and his appropriation of her hand had the same effect. She wasn’t entirely aware of how they returned to Lady Belden’s house afterward. There was much murmuring between the men, and jostling about, and arranging of carriages and who would walk and who would ride.

  She and Blake ended up in Lady Belden’s closed coach so Jocelyn’s hair wouldn’t come undone in the breeze. She was so nervous, she didn’t know what to say to him as he sat across from her. She didn’t know why he sat across instead of beside her, but she soaked up the view. Her new husband was so very incredibly . . . stern and masculine. Overwhelmingly so.

  In a few short hours, she would have to go wherever he wanted her to go and do whatever he wanted her to do, and she hardly knew the man.

  Blake didn’t dare take the seat beside the ethereal goddess he’d just married. Until this moment, he’d convinced himself that Jocelyn was a bit imprudent but self-reliant. Today, she appeared helpless enough to blow away like a piece of dandelion fluff, and so beautiful his heart ached. How did he dare touch her with his rough hands? How could he possibly keep her safe?

  He wasn’t a sentimental man, Blake reminded himself, straightening his shoulders in the confining coat and trying not to worry about the way his bride fretted at her lower lip. As the coach rumbled on, he attempted to recall Shakespearean quotes on marriage with which to entertain her, but Shakespeare had been a romantic. Or a licentious rogue, depending on how one looked at it. He wrote more of love and romance than marriage.

  He felt a right silly fool not being able to make conversation with his own wife. They’d been able to converse easily while discussing business or simply arguing. Maybe he should argue with her.

  Not before bedding her. There was the real mountain between them. He desperately wanted her, but the idea of leaving a pregnant wife behind while he went to war gnawed at his conscience. Especially when she looked so delicate that he feared his touch would harm her. It seemed devilish cruel to marry and walk away. He’d never had to concern himself with others before and was apparently very bad at it. But now that he had a bride, devil take it, he
had to think about such things.

  The coach halted outside Lady Belden’s town house, and Jocelyn was the one to break the silence. She leaned forward and placed her hand on his arm. “Did you invite Ogilvie to our wedding breakfast?”

  He glanced out the window and saw the duke’s nephew and a stranger conversing at the next street corner. He’d not seen the nodcock since the incident at the library club, but Blake had been staying with Quent, and duke’s nephews did not visit tradesmen. Something would have to be done about Ogilvie’s persistence in demanding the cursed parrot. Surely a wedding had disabused him of any notion that he could have Jocelyn!

  Ogilvie was a task he could handle. “I do not threaten to shoot a man and then invite him to break fast with my bride. I’ll not let the cur ruin your day.”

  Before the footman could lower the step, Blake swung out the door and ventured forth to confront his nemesis. Bernie took alarm at his expression and, nodding farewell to the stranger, vanished around the corner, swinging his walking stick as if he just happened to be passing by.

  Deprived of a victim, Blake cursed in frustration and turned to see his bride poking her head from the carriage interior. He offered his hand, and Jocelyn beamed at him as if he were Sir Lancelot.

  “I do adore your scowl, sir,” she said pertly as she clasped his hand, held up her gossamer skirt, and floated to the walk beside him. “Could you teach me to scowl like that?”

  Tension flowed out of him, and with just her ridiculous suggestion, he was himself again. “And have you practice scowling at me? No, thank you. You are the expert at smiling at your enemies until they succumb.”

  She laughed. “We do make an excellent pair, do we not? Dark and light, scowl and smile, scholarly and untutored.”

  “Oil and water,” he agreed, leading her past a parade of smiling servants into the dining room, where a buffet had been laid out.

  Breathing in the heavenly scent of his bride, drinking in the trill of her laughter, Blake was more than famished. He was crippled with lust. Addled beyond all reasoning that this woman was his, to do with as he wished.

  He groaned as Jocelyn performed the seductive act of peeling off the glove of her left hand to display the gleam of her wedding ring to their guests. The pale fine hairs on her slender arm reminded him that he could have her naked before the day’s end. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing footman and struggled to keep his thoughts on this moment rather than on those ahead.

  “The ring is so lovely, Blake. And feels very heavy.” His bride lifted her devastating eyes to him. “I think women ought to be allowed to pin rings through their husband’s noses.”

  He spluttered and nearly lost his champagne at the absurdity of the image and her manner of reminding him that she wasn’t thinking romantical thoughts. Only her giggles prevented him from making a total ass of himself.

  “Check and checkmate,” she murmured, as she had the other day. Offering a sly smile that said she knew what she’d just done to him, she accepted a glass from the servant.

  If she’d meant to check his lust, she’d succeeded brilliantly, but he wouldn’t let her think she had the upper hand. As Lady Bell lifted her glass of champagne for a wedding toast, Blake caught his bride’s elbow and murmured in her ear, “Chess requires strategy, my dear. Royal tennis is your game. And we’re at fifteen love.”

  “I’m better at golf.” She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I do believe I’ve scored a hole in one.”

  Uneducated, his bride might be, but dull she was not. Blake spent the rest of the reception deciding which piece of the bold wench’s wedding gown he would divest her of first.

  19

  Jocelyn twisted her wedding ring and fought back a burp of champagne. She had perhaps indulged a trifle more than she should have. The daunting man beside her on the carriage seat was only half the reason. The reception had ended, and they were headed into the future, or utter disaster. Which in her case was usually both. She did not know how much longer she could smile and tease and pretend she wasn’t terrified.

  “It was thoughtful of Lady Belden to lend us her carriage, was it not?” she heard herself saying.

  “Either that, or she was anxious to have her house to herself again,” Blake said thoughtlessly.

  He sat beside her, making her dreadfully aware of his size compared to hers. Or deliciously aware. Her scrambled mind could not quite sort the difference.

  It was only a little after noon. There was time to travel any number of places. Could she hope that he would merely deposit her at the house in Chelsea and go on? She really hadn’t had any choice except to put Richard in a carriage and send him back to Percy after the ceremony. She hoped Blake would not mind that they wouldn’t be alone. There would be servants, and perhaps visitors come to congratulate them on their nuptials. Really, if he wanted privacy, it would be best for them to go elsewhere.

  “Is this the direction to your rooms?” she asked, not daring to express the basis of her nervousness.

  Her new husband glanced down at her in surprise. “Why would I take you to that hovel? If you’re in such haste to have me pounce on you that you can’t wait an hour’s ride, we’ll have to hire a hotel room.”

  She gulped. There was an opening she must heed.

  “That sounds an excellent idea,” she said brightly. “If you must pounce at all,” she added. “It is not entirely necessary, you know. The vows finalized the settlements. We could have ices at Gunter’s and stroll around, and then you could send me back to Chelsea while you go about your usual manly business.”

  Blake scowled. She could almost feel the fierceness burn through her lace cap. Well, she’d had to try. Life would be much simpler if they went their separate ways now.

  “Are you saying you do not wish to have marital relations?” he growled ominously.

  “I’m not entirely certain a house is fair trade for the enormous responsibility of a child I might have to raise alone,” she declared. “Alone and with no roof over my head should you die in this next year.” The champagne had dangerously loosened her tongue.

  “You should have thought of that sooner.” Blake crossed his arms and stretched his long legs across the carriage, taking up her space as well as his own. The lovely gray frock coat and satin breeches might give the appearance of civilization, but they did not disguise his manliness. “My father offered the house in hopes I would give him an heir. We took vows declaring fidelity. I have no desire to be celibate. Do you intend to renege on our bargain now?”

  Definitely a challenge. Jocelyn finally dared look up at him and felt her soft heart lurch. His fierce expression was much like the one he’d worn when she shot his toe, and she still adored looking at him. There was no accounting for taste. She wanted to kiss his square jaw, tease away the frown, and return the pleased look he occasionally exhibited when she said something with which he agreed.

  She knew how to make herself agreeable to men, but sometime over these last months of freedom, she had decided she didn’t intend to spend her life making sacrifices for one. “We agreed that I would have the house in return for buying your colors.” Although she couldn’t fulfill her part of the bargain as quickly as he hoped. “I would be far happier if we lived separately until you marched off to war,” she said in all honesty.

  “No,” he replied without hesitation.

  Before she could put forth any further argument, her dark and forbidding husband gathered her in his arms, dragged her onto his lap, and proceeded to kiss her until the sheer force of his desire made her more dizzy than the champagne.

  At first, Jocelyn simply clung to his shoulders and succumbed to the enchantment of her husband’s mouth on hers and of his powerful arms supporting her, while they engaged in a sensual duel of tongues and soft murmurs. Blake’s masculine scents provided a headier brew than ale, and she responded with boldness to the muscular hardness enveloping her in safety.

  Encouraged by his ardor, she wrestled with his sta
rched neckcloth, while Blake blessed her ear and nape with hungry kisses that made her lower parts hot and tingly.

  By the time she could happily stroke her bare fingers over the base of his throat, her gallant gentleman had located the laces at the back of her bodice. She gasped as the silk fell loose. The modiste had insisted the delicate fabric have no bulky undershift. Jocelyn wore only a very thin silk chemise beneath her small corset—daringly naked for her groom’s depredations.

  At discovering the accessibility of his prize, Blake kissed her in gratitude before lowering his mouth to the upper curve of her breast. She nearly swooned at the heat of his mouth in so intimate a place.

  She hadn’t been aware the coach had stopped until the door abruptly opened. She didn’t have time to rearrange her clothing or cover herself. Blake simply swept her against his chest and carried her out—up the walk to Carrington House.

  That’s what giving in to a man did to her—she lost track of her intentions. And her dignity also, apparently.

  Praying Richard had the sense to stay out of the way cooled her ardor somewhat. With her arms around her husband’s neck, and the train of her wedding gown wrapping about his trouser legs, Jocelyn buried her face in his shoulder.

  Rather than politely greeting their newly hired servants, Blake carried her past them to the stairs, limping only slightly. She thought the maid and footman bobbed and curtsied properly, but she refused to face anyone while being hauled about like a sack of flour.

  “Put me down,” she whispered as they reached the steps. “You will break your back or your neck carrying me up.”

  He snorted most inelegantly while ignoring her admonitions. “I can pin Gentleman Jim to the mat. You are no heavier than a box of books.”

  A box of books, indeed! She should take umbrage, but still giddy from his kisses and his strength, she giggled at his unromantic outlook. “Try a box of flowers next time,” she suggested, “or lighter than a fairy. More pleasant images, if you please.”