“I’m off to Tattersall’s. Rumor has it Blackeridge has some prime bit of blood up for auction. I’ll keep an eye out for a matched team for you, Falcon.” With a smart salute, Allen departed the room.
“Darling, do have a seat.” Her mother indicated the settee, as she moved toward the entrance. She paused and bussed Ivonne’s cheek. Then, with a fervent hug, whispered, “All will be well, dearest.”
What in the world?
Mother, too, made her escape, leaving Ivonne standing befuddled in the center of the study. Why did she need courage, and what would be well? First casting her father a questioning glance, she allowed her gaze to feast on Falcon.
No man should be that beautiful.
The black of his cutaway coat and the royal blue of his striped waistcoat made his eyes more vivid. How could his eyelashes be so dark with hair that fair?
His gaze leisurely roamed her length. Hot little pricks of awareness popped out along the visual path his gaze traveled.
Gads.
Her senses came alive with strange little prickles as they were wont to do when he looked at her that way. If his eyes alone had the power to arouse her this much, imagine what his touch would do. She’d be sliding off her chair if he kept gazing at her so seductively.
She cleared her throat and focused on her father as she advanced further into the room. “Whatever is going on?”
“I think I’ll let Faulkenhurst explain.” He smiled and winked. After a quick embrace, Father strode from the room, leaving the door ajar.
Staring at the entry, Ivonne shook her head. “Is everyone dicked in the nob this morning?”
Falcon chuckled, that delicious rumble that sent her pulse skittering out of control. “No, they know we have something of importance to discuss and wished to give us some privacy.”
Lord, no.
He’s leaving for America. She wasn’t prepared. It was way too soon.
Her legs now the consistency of warm pudding, she wobbled to the sofa. Scrutinizing his dear face, she plopped ungracefully onto the cushion. She swallowed, fisting her hands in her skirt’s folds. She couldn’t bear his going away again.
“You’re sailing to America. I hadn’t thought you’d leave quite this soon.” She tried to smile, but her lips refused to turn upward.
Falcon sat beside her. “Ivy, I’m—”
Palm outward, Ivonne raised her arm and cut him off. Her hand quivered so badly, she lowered it to her lap. She must propose this very minute, before he had a chance to say another word.
“Please, I have something to ask you, and if I don’t ask now, I’ll never have the courage again.” She closed her eyes and sucked in a steadying breath. Squaring her shoulders, she opened her eyes and stared directly into the azure depths of his. “I don’t suppose you’d consider ...? That is, would you be opposed to ...?”
Quivering from nervousness, Ivonne could barely make her tongue work. She tried again, ignoring her shaky voice. “I wanted to know if you ...?”
Dash it all, this wasn’t how she’d imagined the proposal would go. She lowered her eyelashes as the heat of humiliation crept steadily from her bosom to her cheeks. They likely glowed like candied apples as they did when she was embarrassed. Nonetheless, she must do this.
She peeped at him through her eyelashes.
A bemused expression on his face, Falcon stared at her. “Go on.”
“Will you marry me?” she blurted in a breathy rush.
“Yes.”
“I know I’m not ...” Her gaze jumped to meet his, and her heart hammered so hard, she could scarcely breathe. “Yes?”
The word emerged as a strangled squeak. She dared a tiny smile.
“You said yes? You’ll marry me? Really?”
Falcon smiled, his perfect white teeth a stark contrast against his tanned face. He cupped her cheek with his good hand.
“Ivy, your father granted me permission to propose to you just moments ago.”
Ivonne’s mouth dropped open. “Oh.”
Placing a finger beneath her chin, Falcon closed her mouth. His lips hitched upward into one of his irresistible smiles. “It seems he’s been waiting for me to return to England and ask for your hand. I asked to marry you once before, and he refused.”
“You did? He did?”
Father had turned Falcon away? How could he?
All these years she’d yearned for his love, and he’d already asked her father to marry her. Just wait until she had a moment alone with her sire. She’d give him a colorful earful he’d not soon forget.
“He wanted me to come back when you were older and I had the means to take care of you. However, your father realized you loved me, had been pining for me all these years.”
Ivy angled her head proudly. “I wasn’t pining.”
“No?” Falcon quirked a brow.
She lifted a shoulder. “I just never entertained any notion of marrying anyone else.”
Eyeing the door, she suddenly stiffened, tucking her chin to her chest. “Father turned you away because you weren’t wealthy? I never thought him so shallow.”
“He wanted to make sure I loved you for you, and not your marriage settlement. He told me, just now, that when he realized I truly loved you and you loved me, he’d been waiting for me to return and ask for you again.”
Chance ran a finger along her jaw.
“He loves you very much and only wants to see you happy.”
He took her hand in his calloused one.
“I came here today seeking his permission to wed you. Your father summoned you so I could propose. Only you, minx,” Falcon tapped the end of her nose, “beat me to it.”
He’d been about to propose to her? Her heart soaring on wings of joy, she managed a tremulous smile.
Scooting nearer, he gathered her in his arms. “Though you were too young and I knew we’d have to wait, I’ve wanted to make you my bride since you were fifteen.”
“Truly?” She blinked back tears of elation.
“I swear.” His golden head descended until only an inch separated their lips. “I love you, Ivy. Will you be my bride?”
His mouth grazed hers, a tantalizing promise.
“Yes, Falcon, I shall.” With a sigh, she sealed her promise with love’s binding kiss.
Bride of Falcon: Epilogue
London, England, Late June, 1818
Standing before the rector, Ivonne smiled into Falcon’s loved-filled eyes.
They were married. She’d dreamed that this day might come. Seated in the front pew, resplendent in a plum cutaway coat and matching breeches trimmed with diamonds and rubies, the Prince Regent beamed his approval.
Falcon’s family, as well as hers, completed the witnesses. Dozens of guests awaited them at home where an extravagant wedding breakfast had been prepared.
“I love you, Mrs. Faulkenhurst.” Falcon’s caressed her palm with his thumb.
A delicious tremor shook her. What his touch did to her.
“And I love you.”
“What say you we make our escape?” He grasped her hand and hurried her past the small crowd of laughing well-wishers to the waiting carriage.
Ivonne giggled when he tickled her ribs while lifting her into the conveyance.
“Ah, my wife is ticklish.” After jumping into the vehicle, he promptly lowered the window coverings.
Settling her on his lap, he proceeded to nuzzle her neck and caress her ribs.
A new bout of giggles ended on a blissful sigh when Falcon claimed hers lips in a scorching kiss. She leaned into him, surrendering to her desire, daring to meet his tongue with her own as she slipped her hands beneath his shirt. Hard muscles and warm flesh met her exploring fingers. She’d never tire of touching him.
Several tantalizing moments passed before Ivonne angled away from him. He needed to know she understood theirs wouldn’t be the typical wedding night. But how to say so delicately was a bit of a pickle. It wouldn’t do to offend Falcon on their wedding day.
>
“Falcon?”
“Why the serious face?” Bending his neck, he nibbled along her collarbone. He ventured ever lower, releasing her breasts from their confines. He gently cupped the mounds, raining kisses across the sensitive flesh.
God, she would die if he didn’t take a nipple in his mouth.
As if he heard her thoughts, he encircled an aching tip with his warm lips. He suckled, grazing the end with his teeth.
A stab of intense pleasure flickered between her legs. She gasped and clutched his head, making him stop. She couldn’t think straight when he kissed her so.
“This is important,” she gasped, barely recognizing the husky voice as her own. “Please listen.”
He raised his head, peering into her eyes.
“All right.” He brushed a stray curl from her face. “What is it you are determined to tell me, wife? I have other things I’d rather be doing than chatting.”
He stared pointedly at her breasts before sweeping a finger across the top of the mounds. He dipped lower, softly scraping a fingernail across a turgid nipple.
She gasped again, unprepared for the hot desire flooding her. She seized his wandering finger and eyed him, afraid to say anything to disrupt his happiness.
“Come on, love. Out with it.” He gave her a playful prod in the ribs.
Ivonne rested against his hard chest.
“You know I love you? No matter what?” She angled her head to peek at him.
His gorgeous mouth slid into one of his stunning smiles. “I know. And I love you. Tell me, what has you worried?”
“I don’t mind that we cannot have children.” She touched the scar on his cheek.
Falcon stilled and made an inarticulate sound in his throat. His eyes rounded, and his jaw sagged. He stared at her with such intensity, she squirmed on his lap and dropped her gaze to her hands.
He tilted her chin upward with a finger until their eyes met. “Pray tell me, why do you think we cannot have children?”
“Well, because you ...” Ivonne gazed at him warily. Her focus sank to his cravat as she whispered, “You lost your manhood in India.”
He threw back his head, exposing the strong column of his throat and laughed, a rich unrestrained guffaw.
“Well, I certainly do not think it’s a laughing matter,” she huffed, nonplussed by his reaction.
His chest shaking from amusement, Falcon wiped at his eyes.
“Darling, let me assure you, my manhood is in perfect working order.” He gripped her hips, holding her firmly to his lap, and shifted his hips upward.
Something hard flexed against her bottom.
“Oh. Oh!” A little yelp of surprise escaped her. “Is that your ...?”
“Indeed.” He waggled his eyebrows, a wolfish grin on his mouth.
“It works properly?”
He pressed his rigid length against her buttocks once more. “Most assuredly, madam.”
Melting into his arms, Ivonne sighed and raised her lips in invitation.
“Then everything is absolutely perfect.”
—The End—
About the Author
Collette Cameron
Bestselling, award-winning author, COLLETTE CAMERON pens Scottish and Regency historicals featuring rogues, rapscallions, rakes, and the intelligent, intrepid damsels who reform them. Mother to three, Collette admits to a quirky sense of humor, enjoys inspiring quotes, and anything cobalt blue. A self-confessed Cadbury chocoholic, she lives in Oregon with her miniature dachshunds. You'll always find dogs, birds, occasionally naughty humor, and a dash of inspiration in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances.To connect with Collette or learn more about her books, visit her at the following places:
Website: www.collettecameron.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/collettecameronauthor
Twitter: @Collette_Author
Newsletter: http://tinyurl.com/regencyrose
IT TAKES A HERO
Ella Quinn
It Takes a Hero: Chapter One
London Docks, May 1818.
“Quartus,” his father, the Duke of Somerset, growled. “I’ll not have another son in Town. You are coming with me.”
Quartus winked at his brother, Frank and Frank’s new bride Jenny, before responding, “I believe I’ll stay with Hawksworth and Meg for the Season. I am quite sure you can go on without me.”
“Quartus, get in this coach.” Father’s tone was as hard . . . harder, than Quartus had ever heard it before.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his brother, and Jenny, had boarded the dory that would take them to the ship sailing for America. Once he was sure the duke could no longer stop them, he glanced at his eldest brother and their father’s heir, Damon, Marquis of Hawksworth, who inclined his head toward Quartus slightly.
“As I said. I have decided to remain in Town for the nonce. I am certain you have no need of me.”
“May I remind you, young man that you have a parish to see to?”
“May I remind you, that I resigned my position?” His father’s face assumed an alarming purplish hue. He might not like the duke very much, but he certainly didn’t want to be responsible for his death. Still, he had to be his own man. “Perhaps, Octavius would like the living.”
Quartus met the duke’s icy gaze with one of his own. Minutes seemed to pass before the older man nodded. “Very well remain here for the Season, but be warned, I will not increase your allowance, nor will I pay your debts.”
“Agreed.” He stood where he was until the ducal coach rolled down the street and was out of sight. “I hope you don’t mind putting up with me?”
“Not at all,” Meg, Hawksworth’s wife, said warmly. “We are delighted you will be staying with us for a while.” She linked her arm with Quartus’s turning him toward her carriage. “And do not worry about the expense. We are well able to support you for your Season.”
“Speaking of that, I think a trip to Weston’s is in order.” Hawksworth leveled his quizzing glass at Quartus. “As soon as possible.”
“I can’t be that bad.”
His brother raised one black brow, and Meg laughed lightly. “It is clear you have a great deal to learn.”
Ten days later, Quartus lounged against one of several Grecian columns in Lady Merton’s ballroom, his legs crossed. The first set had just begun and he watched as ladies dressed in every color of the rainbow, from soft pastels to brilliant hues, danced a Scottish reel. Despite the lessons and tutors his brother had hired for him, he was a little at loss as to how to go on. Being in the haut ton was much more complicated than he’d thought. “This is a bit . . . overwhelming.”
“Only at first,” Hawksworth replied. “You will soon become used to it.”
“Just take some time to become comfortable.” Meg had a sharp eye on the crowd, and Quartus wondered for what or whom she was looking. “Most of the ladies in white, cream or other pastel colored gowns are just out or in their second Season. The others are married, widowed, or have been out for a few years.”
“That’s helpful, thank you.” Not that he actually expected to find a lady he could conveniently fall in love with and marry. American heiresses, such as Jenny, were thin on the ground. During the past few weeks his status as a penniless younger son, thus his ineligibility for marriage, had been made clear to him by the match-making mamas of the ton. Nicely, of course. No one wished to alienate his brother, the future Duke of Somerset.
Yet, nothing Quartus had said would discourage Hawksworth and Meg. Between them, they had arranged dancing lessons, tailor’s appointments, an introduction to Damon’s club, Brooks’s, and managed to get Quartus kitted out and socially ready for his first introduction to the haut ton.
Meg, ever the optimist, was convinced that he would be able to find a wife who was independent and wealthy enough to withstand his dastard of a father. Another tick in the eligible column.
A stir started toward the front of the ballroom near the stairs, catching his attention. Th
e butler made an announcement, but with the music and the whispering that had begun, he couldn’t hear what it was. Then a petite young woman with warm brown hair, accompanied by an older man, and a tall slender matron with red hair covered by a purple turban stepped forward.
For a moment it seemed as if everyone in the ballroom was holding their collective breaths, then the chattering began again, much louder than the first time.
“Who are they?” he asked without taking his eyes off the lady as she moved gracefully down the steps, candles catching golden strands in her hair.
“That is the new Duchess of Wharton.” Meg arched a brow. “At least, I assume you are asking about the younger lady.”
For some reason, Quartus felt disappointed by the news. “I take it that the gentleman with her is the duke.”
“Not at all.” Meg’s eyes had a sly look in them and the corners of her lips began to tremble a bit. “That is her father, Mr. Calder.”
“Is she widowed?” Quartus asked. Good Lord, was he going to have to pull every piece of information out of her? What a maddening woman his brother had wed.
“No. The older lady on her other side is Lady Tatiana Harrington an aunt of some sort.”
That didn’t make any sense. But at the rate this was going, he’d have to shake the information out of his sister-in-law. “Meg!”
She glanced at Damon who quickly concealed his grin by taking a sip of champagne. “If you must know, she is a duchess in her own right.”
Quartus pushed himself off the pillar. He could not have heard her properly. “There is no such thing.”
“Indeed there is,” Meg pronounced. “There may be only one of them, and the situation is rare, but the title is real none the less.”
Damon raised his quizzing glass. “Is she not the lady your mother took you to visit the other day?”
“Just so,” Meg confirmed. “She appears to be very down to earth, and I liked her a great deal.” Linking her arm with Quartus’s she stepped in the direction of the duchess. “Come, I shall introduce you.”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 31