A Wicked Pursuit

by Isabella Bradford

  “Harry loves you like that, Gus?” she asked. “You?”

  Gus nodded. “He does,” she said, “and I love him the same way in return.”

  “You remind me of Mama when you say that,” Julia said slowly. “How she always said true love would find a way.”

  Gus smiled wistfully, thinking of Mama, too. “With Harry, I did find true love.”

  “Did you.” Julia tried to smile, her eyes watery with tears as she pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief. “He never loved me like that.”

  “Oh, Julia,” Gus said softly. “You weren’t right for each other, that is all.”

  Julia shook her head, shaking away Gus’s consoling words. “What I said about Harry being different—that’s true. When he looks at me now, I’m only one more lady. But when he looks at you, his eyes burn for you. I’ve never had that, either.”

  “But you will, Julia,” Gus said, close to tears herself. “You have Southland.”

  “Southland.” Julia smiled through her tears, and looked down at the ring on her hand. “I do have him, the great, handsome ninny. He’ll suit me a thousand times better than Harry ever could, anyway.”

  She laughed, and Gus laughed, too, and they hugged and cried and hugged again.

  “I hope that you and Harry will be vastly, vastly happy,” Julia said when they separated for the last time. “Considering how you love each other, it cannot be any other way, can it?”

  “And I hope that Southland comes to love you the same way,” Gus said fervently. “You deserve nothing less.”

  “He will,” Julia said, smiling. “He may not know it yet, but I shall make sure that he will.”

  “More brandy, Harry?” asked Father, pushing the bottle across the table toward him. “The night is young, lad, and tomorrow you become a married man.”

  Harry glanced up at the case clock in the corner. The night wasn’t young; it was very old, nearly half past eleven. He’d been sitting here with his father and Gus’s father and that damned fool Southland for hours and hours, ever since the ladies had retired after supper.

  Despite the best efforts of the older men to get him as drunk as they were, he wasn’t, not by half. The evening would have been much more enjoyable if he had been. As it was, he’d had to sit through one garrulous story after another of wedding-night mishaps, of brides both terrified and as lustful as March hares, of grooms bold and shy and bedsteads that had collapsed outright. None of it had seemed very funny to Harry, but then, nothing had seemed very funny to him today.

  It had begun when he’d seen Julia Wetherby walk through the door this afternoon. He’d known he would have to see her again, one way or another. She was, after all, his future wife’s only sister. Not that he harbored any regrets or unfulfilled longings for her, anyway; his main thought in regard to Julia was that he’d been lucky to escape.

  Yet the moment she’d stepped into the house, the plumes on her ridiculous hat bobbing in the summer sun, that other morning had come rushing back to him, and every blasted detail that he’d mercifully forgotten had returned with it.

  He remembered her upturned face as she’d popped from the bush, whooping like a Bedlamite, and the plume on her riding hat quivering and the skirts of her habit flapping around like a flag in the fog. He remembered how the horse had bucked and flailed in terror, and how he’d fought back, barely managing to wrench the animal to one side and away from Julia before he’d been thrown. He remembered hurtling through the air and landing hard, and leaves that had smelled of mold and decay. He remembered Julia abandoning him, disappearing completely, and more pain than he’d thought a man could endure.

  And then he remembered Gus, coming to him like an angel: his salvation, his dearest love, and the woman whom tomorrow he’d make his wife.

  He should be the happiest of men, with the happiest of reasons. Yet ever since he’d seen Julia and remembered too much, he’d felt nothing but anger for what had happened to him. Though a great deal was Julia’s fault, he did not blame her. He’d been every bit as foolhardy as she had, accepting a mount that was clearly unaccustomed to new riders and then riding that horse pell-mell into the mist-filled woods, simply because a pretty girl had dared him.

  Because of those rash and reckless choices, he would not be able to stride down the aisle tomorrow with Gus, or help her into their carriage, bedecked with flowers from the wedding, or, when they finally reached London and home, sweep her into his arms and carry her over the threshold. No matter what the surgeons promised, he knew he’d never be the same again, and all the self-doubt and disappointment that he’d thought he put behind him came rushing back, with more besides.

  He’d been a rash, headstrong, careless fool, and now he’d pay for it the rest of his life. Worst of all was realizing that Gus would now have to pay for it with him. She’d never have the husband she deserved, and it was all his own damned fault.

  He’d never forgive himself.

  All through the afternoon and evening he’d tried to put the memories and the anger away and focus instead on tomorrow, tried and failed. Instead he’d been ill mannered and curt to those who did not deserve it and surly when he should have been joyful, while his thoughts had churned and his guts had twisted with emotions he could not control.

  He pushed his chair back from the table, reached for his crutch, and stood. “Pray excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, bowing. “I’ll bid you good night now, and leave you to drink on in my name.”

  “Harry, good Harry, you cannot leave us yet,” protested Wetherby, his broad smile as lopsided as his wig. “We’ve yet to have a good song. A wedding song for the bridegroom, heigh-ho!”

  “Forgive me, but I am weary,” Harry said, wishing he could make the words less curt. “Tomorrow shall be a long day.”

  “We’ll let you go, son,” Father said, smiling indulgently. “Tomorrow may be a long day, but tomorrow night will be even longer, and we want you to show your mettle, eh?”

  The others roared, but Harry merely nodded and retreated to the hall as fast as he could. Despite what he’d just said, he knew that sleep would be impossible, and instead of going directly to his bedchamber, he headed to the rear of the house and the garden door, hoping that a bit of evening air might do him good. He could see the gardens through the windows, the hedges and paths crisp in the moonlight, and in the distance the slatted top of the arbor where he’d proposed.

  He would miss this house. Not because it was extraordinary in itself, but the time he’d spent here, falling in love with Gus, had made it so. There’d been no expectations from others, no prying eyes, no gossipy items in the scandal sheets reporting their whereabouts and doings. Here at the abbey, there had only been the two of them, and it had been magic.

  No wonder he wasn’t looking forward to returning to London. London would be filled with judgments; he’d known that even before Father had warned him of what people were already saying. His time here away from town had made him come to realize exactly how harsh London could be. From experience he knew it was a fine place if you were young and beautiful, strong and rich. He’d be considered weak now, fit for whispers and ridicule, and he knew, too, that all the young ladies and their mamas that he’d passed by would now have their daggers ready for poor Gus. He’d no doubt that the two of them would persevere, but it would not be easy, not for either of them.

  Most of the house was already asleep for the night, with the night-lanterns offering their wavering light through the silent halls. He heard voices rising from the back stairs and the distant clatter of pans from the kitchen; doubtless the poor scullery maids were there still, striving to stay awake and praying the great lords upstairs would finally go to bed. Weary footsteps came up the stairs, and he melted back into the shadows, not wanting to frighten whichever hapless girl it might be on her way to her bed beneath the eaves.

  She carried a candlestick before her, the pale light washing irregularly before her as she came up the winding steps. Yet instead of following the turning to
the next landing, she stepped out into the hall, a small, pale figure. She wore slippers on her bare feet, a shawl wrapped over her nightgown, and her long braid swung like a pendulum between her shoulder blades.

  He’d know her anywhere.

  “Gus,” he said, calling to her softly. “Here.”

  “Harry?” She came to him slowly, as if she didn’t trust it to be him. Her face was ghostly by the candlelight, her eyes enormous. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you with the other gentlemen?”

  “Because I’d had enough,” he said. “Why were you downstairs?”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” she said. “There was a question of missing silver spoons and forks after the washing-up, but it turned out to be a simple matter of miscounting, and hardly worth the fuss and accusations.”

  She set the candlestick on a nearby table and raised both hands to smooth her hair neatly back from her center part. His gaze dropped down to watch her breasts rise with the motion, and press against the white linen of her nightgown. He’d never seen them so clearly without stays, uncrushed by whalebone and buckram, and the way they swayed, round and firm beneath the thin linen, was mesmerizing. It was the first time they’d been alone together all week, and her nearness was heady and potent.

  “They’re all so on edge with the wedding tomorrow,” she continued. “One would think they were the ones being married instead of us.”

  Her smile was shy, almost uncertain. He knew that that uncertainty was his fault, a reaction to how uncivil he’d been at supper. He hated himself for making her doubt, even as he doubted himself. He could have apologized for everything and asked her to forgive him.

  Instead he pulled her into his arms and dragged her back with him, using the wall for support. His mouth crushed down on hers as if he were famished, kissing her with a demanding and ruthless intensity. Desperation drove him, and he wanted—no, needed—to lose himself in her and forget everything else.

  He thrust his tongue deep in her mouth, wanting to become part of her any way he could. With an eagerness he hadn’t expected, she gave of herself and molded against him, looping her arms around the back of his neck to steady herself. He shoved the shawl from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, and now there was no more than a thin layer of linen over her body and beneath his hands.

  His hands: damnation, he could not keep his hands from her. He could feel the heat of her skin through the linen, and the way her soft flesh filled his palms as she pressed against him. He pulled her tight against the front of his breeches so she could feel his hard cock and how much he desired her.

  “This is how much I want you, Gus, how much I need you,” he said roughly, moving against her. “This is how hard you make me every time I’m near you.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, a breathy sigh against his ear. “I’ve missed you, Harry. I’ve missed all of you.”

  She shimmied against him wantonly, and he kissed her hard again, what little control he had left fraying by the second.

  “Then come upstairs with me,” he whispered urgently. “Now, to my bedchamber. No one will know.”

  She looked at him, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire, yet still shook her head.

  “I shouldn’t, Harry,” she said reluctantly. “Tomorrow’s the wedding, and I promised I’d behave until then.”

  “Damnation, this isn’t about behaving, Gus,” he said roughly, and kissed her again. How else could he make her understand? To have her with him now, tonight, was exactly what he needed most, and blindly he yanked at the drawstring closing her nightgown’s neck, pulling it open and down. He cupped his hand around her breast and tugged gently at the nipple. At once it tightened into a furled bud beneath his fingers. He tugged harder, caressing her breast at the same time, and she whimpered into his mouth and arched her back, shamelessly pressing her breast against his hand for more.

  Suddenly a wedge of candlelight cut across the floor not far from where they stood. He heard Wetherby’s voice, singing some lewd doggerel verse, and his own father’s laughter, all coming closer by the second.

  Gus heard it, too. She gasped with alarm, pushed herself free of him, and bent to pick up her shawl while he swore with frustration. Once they were wed, he’d make sure that every single room in his house had a lock so that he could enjoy his wife any time and way he chose without any meddlesome interfering.

  She seized the candlestick and darted forward, around the corner, to intercept the others.

  “Is that you, Gus?” Wetherby asked as he and Father came into the hall. “What are you doing about at this hour?”

  “There was a small fuss in the kitchen that needed my attention,” she said. “It’s all resolved now.”

  Harry stood in the shadows, breathing hard. He should be the one defending her, not skulking here like a powerless coward. Yet if he stepped forward now, she’d be the one shamed before their fathers, leaving Harry no choice but to remain where he was. He could see her from the back, the very picture of bridal innocence, her head slightly bowed, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and the candlestick in her hand. The nightgown revealed just a hint of her delectably round bottom, and he barely stifled a groan of frustration.

  “Trust you to make certain everything’s settled for the night,” Wetherby said proudly, “and the day before your own wedding, too. Ah, Gus, what shall I do without you? I hope that young Harry understands the prize I’m giving up to him.”

  “I believe he does, Papa,” she said. “But to me, Harry’s the real prize.”

  Her father sighed deeply. “Then he’s the most fortunate gentleman in England, Gus. Come, then, let me see you to your room for the last time. Hah, how I hate to say that!”

  She joined him, the light from her candle fading away as together they walked up the stairs.

  Harry stood against the wall until he was sure they were gone, letting the darkness settle around him. Then, finally, he took his crutch and made his slow way to his own room, with only his thoughts and despair for company.

  “I know they say that every bride’s a beauty on her wedding day,” Julia said, watching as Gus stood before her looking glass for the last time. “But you truly are beautiful today, Gus, and I vow I never thought I’d say that.”

  Gus smiled, for she’d never thought she’d hear her sister say that, either. But Julia was right: today she was beautiful, and not even she could find fault with herself. Her gown was breathtaking, white silk with gold and silver embroidery that sparkled in the morning sunlight. Over the widest hoops she’d ever worn, the gown’s spreading skirts were trimmed with silver silk ribbons and little puffs of golden gauze, centered with white silk flowers, and deep flounces of lace fell gracefully below her elbows. Even the duchess had had to admit that the mantua maker from Norwich had done better than anyone had expected.

  She wore her mother’s pearl earrings, a gift this morning from Papa that had made her cry, and around her throat and wrists were the diamonds that Harry had had delivered to her this morning, another gift that had made her weep. The necklace and twin bracelets were magnificent pieces that truly were worthy of a peeress, but what had touched Gus far more was the card he’d enclosed, telling her the pieces had belonged to his mother, and how honored she’d be to see them now on her new daughter-in-law. That made Gus feel as if the two mothers, though gone, would be with her in church, and what better blessing could she have than that?

  “How odd it is to think that by noon I shall have to call you ‘my lady,’” Julia said. “Lady Augusta Fitzroy, Countess of Hargreave!”

  “It sounds very grand, doesn’t it?” Gus said, trying to swallow her nervousness. She knew that as a bride, she was supposed to be the center of attention, but she wasn’t comfortable with it, and she longed for the day to be done so she could simply be alone with Harry.

  “Someday—though not too soon, I pray!—you’ll be the Duchess of Breconridge, too,” the current duchess said. “Then the only other woman in Britain that you’ll have to
curtsey to will be Her Majesty herself.”

  That was far too much for Gus to consider now. “Has anyone seen Harry this morning?” she asked anxiously. “Is he ready, too?”

  “I have,” Julia said. “He’s already left for the church, looking solemn and handsome as sin itself, though perhaps a bit pale. I’d wager he’s nervous.”

  “What cause for nervousness could he possibly have?” the duchess asked. “He loves Augusta, and she loves him, and there’s no better grounds for a happy marriage. If he’s pale, it’s likely because the other gentlemen poured far too much liquor down his throat last night in the name of bachelor sport.”

  Gus nodded. Harry hadn’t seemed drunk at all when she’d seen him last night in the hall. But the curious humor that had plagued him all afternoon and evening had remained, a dark, possessive, almost angry mood that seemed to have no reason or cause. She wished he were happier for their wedding, but perhaps it was simply the way he showed his nervousness—though Harry had always seemed so self-assured that she’d a difficult time imagining him being nervous about anything, even their wedding. If how he’d kissed her last night was any indication, he certainly wasn’t nervous about their wedding night.

  “There’s the carriage,” Julia said, gazing out the window, “and Papa’s down there as well, already giving orders to the poor driver. Oh, how fine the footmen look, Gus! Every one of them has a white flower pinned to his livery coat and another to his hat, and even the driver has a white bow on his whip, all in your honor. If you’re ready, we should go down.”

  “I’m ready,” Gus said as firmly as she could, as much to convince herself as anyone else. She took her bouquet from Mary, praying that no one else could see how the flowers—roses from Mama’s garden—trembled in her hands.

  Her heart was racing so fast that she felt nearly lightheaded, and it didn’t calm as she walked down the stairs and into her father’s carriage for the final time as Miss Augusta Wetherby. It raced still as they drove to the little church on the edge of the abbey’s lands, and as she walked down the aisle she was sure she would have toppled if she hadn’t had Papa’s support. Only the two families were gathered to witness the service, yet even their familiar faces were a blur to her.