by Dayna Quince
“What is it?” Mr. Bell scowled at the intruder and hurriedly patted down his combed-over hair. His face blanked when he actually took note of who stood before him.
“May I come in?” Fallon said politely, but with little kindness.
“What do you want? Do you think you can come here and threaten me?”
“If I wish to, yes.” Fallon pushed the door open and brushed past him. The room was little better than the hall. Dust settled on things that were rarely touched, and what did see any use was cluttered with papers and clothing.
Mr. Bell scuttled to his desk and snatched up quill and paper.
“What are you doing?” Fallon asked in puzzlement.
“I’m going to record everything you say to be used in court. Lord Brightly has agreed to support my claim and sponsor my quest to see justice in the courts.”
“There will be no courts, and you will soon find Lord Brightly won’t be able to help you.”
“I’ll not trust a word you say. Nothing will deter me.”
“Not even undeniable truths?”
Mr. Bell shook his head vehemently.
Fallon sighed heavily and looked heavenward. “I’ve come to speak to you man to man. We are, after all, family.”
“That remains to be seen.” Mr. Bell scribbled furiously.
“Why is it you don’t use the Calder surname?” Fallon asked curiously.
“I’ve had better luck as a Bell. The Calder name is cursed.”
Fallon snorted. “I could almost believe that. What was your father like?”
Mr. Bell sneered at him. “A cold bastard. Are you fishing for information to make your lies more plausible?”
“I’ve no need to lie. The marriage of my parents was never in question, was it? You believe I died as a boy?”
“That’s what my own father said. It was one of the few letters he ever received from the duke, his only uncle.”
“While I hate to disappoint you, and I assure you, I disappointed my father with this revelation, I am very much alive. It’s true I was ill as a boy, weak lungs from birth. But after my father wished for my death and departed with the idea that it was only a matter of time, I recovered. Dr. Logan is the family doctor, and he will attest to my birth, my history of illness, and my recovery.”
“I won’t trust any witness you pay to give credit to your tales. I know what I was told. I was there when my father received the letter.”
“Do you have this letter?” Fallon queried.
“I dare not let you lay hands on it. You will try to destroy it.”
“But you have this letter?” Fallon pressed.
Mr. Bell’s neck reddened. “I’m not telling you anything.”
“I’ll take that as a no then. How about a record of my death? A certificate, perhaps? Did you attend my funeral?”
“Enough!” Mr. Bell hollered. “You won’t persuade me to turn aside while you pilfer what is rightfully mine.”
“Rightfully?” Fallon lost his patience. He advanced on Mr. Bell until he had him backed against his filthy desk. He towered over him. “I’ve spent my entire life fighting for the mere right to live. My own father tried to deny me, but by God, I overcame his death sentence. You will fail, Mr. Bell. My father may have wanted me to die, he may have even claimed I did, but I stand before you now and I tell you this: I conquered his dire predictions, and I will conquer you.”
Fallon jumped back just as Mr. Bell whipped his arm in front of him, a letter opener clenched in his fist.
“You back away now. I won’t be cowed by you.”
Fallon straightened his coat, keeping his eye on the letter opener. “There is no convincing you to see reason. I will take my leave, and we will let the courts handle the matter, if they will even consider such a fruitless case. I caution you to refuse any aid from Lord Brightly or you may be dragged to hell along with him. Good day, Mr. Bell, and for God’s sake get a maid to clean this place up.” Fallon threw a purse of coins at his feet. “Consider it a consolation prize, cousin.” He turned to leave, his sense heightened in case Mr. Bell decided murder would further his cause. Fallon pulled the door closed behind him, but Mr. Bell never moved from the desk.
He was due to meet Heather for tea, and he had a tin of comfits for Prim and Violet. He liked the idea of little sisters, though they couldn’t be considered little. All too soon, he would be meeting with potential suitors, denying requests for their hands. Mr. Bell had no place in his life. Whenever Faegan returned with his records, he would take all responsibility for dealing with Mr. Bell. Fallon had better things to do, like doting on his mother-in-law and new sisters, bedding his wife, and ensuring they produced a house full of children over the next decade.
If the Calder name was cursed, Fallon was going to break it by sheer strength of will. No more single sons and frigid fathers. He would climb trees with his sons, play dolls with his daughters, and never let his wife forget for a moment that she was the single most beautiful woman in the world.
According to Heather, he could conquer dragons. Curses are nothing compared to dragons.
The scent of roses filled St. George’s until it was almost overbearing. Heather stood at the altar, Fallon beside her, and pledged her troth to him for the rest of her days. After a long ceremony and many prayers, they were pronounced husband and wife. They did not kiss, her mother decreed it too sensational, and there was enough sensation surrounding them already. The applause was almost deafening, and Heather was all smiles as Fallon escorted her down the aisle and outside to the waiting carriage—equally overbearingly covered with roses.
Fallon stood on the steps of the carriage and tossed coins into the air to the crowd that had gathered. Heather laughed. He looked quite at home in his place as duke now, especially when he was giving his wealth away. She dragged him inside the coach, and he yanked the door shut. Alone at last, she pulled him to her lips, and he obliged her with a wicked kiss.
Heather felt starved for him after a week of fittings. Each time she did see him, they were never alone, and her mother seemed inordinately determined to chaperone their every meeting. Not that it would make any difference now, but her mother didn’t know that.
They consumed each other with kisses in the carriage, the melee of curious onlookers and waiting carriages ensuring they had lots of time for dalliance before reaching the townhouse. Fallon wasted no time divesting her of her veil and stretching the limits of her heavily beaded bodice to expose one of her breasts. He worshiped her nipple with his tongue, a cacophony of moans and cries erupting from her. She delivered her own torture, climbing into his lap and using boldly clever fingers to undo the buttons of his pantaloons and reach his manhood. He was engorged and throbbing already.
“Heather, we don’t have time.”
“Yes, we do. You can tell the driver to take the long way.”
“I will not consummate our marriage in a carriage.” He growled playfully.
“We’ve already consummated our marriage in a bed,” Heather reminded him.
He groaned as her hand squeezed him down his length. “It’s too soon. Your body isn’t accustomed to me yet.”
“My body was made for you.” She nipped at his bottom lip.
“Is this the way our marriage will be? Me always giving in to you?”
She smiled seductively, relishing the power she had over him. “I think that sounds like a wonderful marriage.”
“Minx.” He pulled at her gown, her absurdly long train a bane. He finally freed her legs and pulled them apart to straddle his lap. Heather had already worked his erection free of his pantaloons.
“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. She was still a novice, after all.
He gripped her waist, his hands large enough to almost encircle her. He lifted her above him until the head of his manhood touched her core. She adjusted her knees, giving her leverage. She placed her hands on his shoulders. “And now?”
She was already slick and hot, her body almost burn
ing him. He lowered her slowly, giving her time to shift and adjust. She gasped as he entered her fully.
“Oh, my,” she breathed.
“You’re in control now, Heather. You have all the power in this position.” His voice was strained.
Heather liked the sound of that. She moved tentatively at first, trying to find a movement that felt right for both him and her. She found a pace that suited her, a gentle rocking that made warmth spread through her limbs and little sparks of pleasure between her legs. Fallon had his head back against the squabs, his eyes closed. She could tell he was engrossed by the intense pressure of his hands as he squeezed her hips with each movement. Her fever was growing quickly, the sparks turning to a blaze that threatened to consume her. She didn’t fight it. She cried out, shaking with release, her legs instantly turning to water.
Fallon took over the tempo and thrust hard into her, pumping over and over until he groaned her name and found his own completion, clutching her hips to his groin with one hand and one steely arm wrapped around her.
Their lovemaking may have been rushed and spontaneous, but Heather never felt closer to him. She could feel the pulse of his heart between her thighs. It matched her own pounding heart.
She reluctantly roused herself, suddenly self-conscious that they were moving in the carriage. She slid from him and righted her clothes, as he did the same.
“Will it always be like this?”
“Until we’re too old to lift our heads.” Fallon sighed as he pulled her head to his shoulder and kissed her forehead. “I will never stop wanting you.”
“I love you,” she whispered. She didn’t know why, but she felt teary.
“I love you.” He tipped her chin up and kissed her one last time before the carriage rolled to a stop.
“I don’t want to go in there. I want to go straight to bed,” Heather pouted.
“It will be over before you know it, and then we will be in bed. We can stay there for a week if you like.”
“No, I want you to take me to Scotland. I want to see where you grew up.”
He smiled at that. “Really?”
“Yes, I want our children to be born there.”
He pulled her tighter against his side. “You have no idea how much that means to me. How did I ever get lucky enough to find you?”
“I believe I found you. It was I who wrote a letter to you, after all.”
He chuckled. “You’re right. You will always be right.”
Heather stole a quick kiss before the door opened. Light seemed to blind them at first, but then Fallon stepped out and handed Heather down. A crowd had gathered in the streets of the townhouse as well, but Fallon recognized a smiling familiar face waiting at the top of the steps.
“Dr. Logan?”
“And son.” A younger version stepped out from behind Dr. Logan, followed by Faegan.
“I’ve brought you a wedding present.” Faegan grinned ear to ear.
“It seems I’m to declare you alive and fit to inherit, though ye seem to have done all right fer yerself,” Dr. Logan quipped. He had very little hair left, but what was left was as red as the setting sun and as wiry as goat’s hair.
“Well, curse me bleeding eyes,” Fallon said with a thick burr.
That caused the old man to splinter into laughter.
Fallon turned to Heather. “I present to you, the irascible Dr. Logan.” Fallon laughed. “Dr. Logan, my wife, the Duchess of Ablehill.”
Heather curtsied and then Fallon escorted her up the steps. “Please, call me Heather.” She took the doctor’s hand.
“I can see ye have a bit of Scot in ye—all the best duchesses do, mind ye.”
Heather laughed. She liked him immensely already. She was introduced to the younger Dr. Logan, who was as charming as his father was. They took the little reunion into the drawing room, where Faegan assured them that all the proof they needed was in order, on paper and in person with the help of Dr. Logan and his son. It would be more than enough. Heather wasn’t worried. She was more terrified of surviving the monstrosity of a wedding breakfast her mother had planned than the threat of Mr. Bell.
She had Fallon by her side, and she knew Anabelle, Hazel, Lucy, and her other friends would be there to keep her sane. She was more blessed than she could have ever dreamed. All of a sudden, she thought of their song. Her love with Fallon had indeed been almost a fantasy, but now it was reality—a desperate and daring dream come true.
* * *
Sneak Peek!
Belle of the Ball
Book 2 of the Desperate and Daring Series
Sneak Peek!
Belle of the Ball
Lady Anabelle Darling wanted to be married. It was never more apparent than it was right now, sitting in a pew in St. Georges, watching her dearest friend Heather and her duke stare at each other with rapturous love. Anabelle was supremely jealous, not that she should be, but she was. Heather had needed to get married with all haste, and her options, as gentlemen went, had been narrowed by circumstance to just one. It turns out, through fortunate—and odd—circumstances that her one choice, turned out to be the perfect choice, for Heather at least.
Anabelle had no express need to be married. She simply wanted to. She wanted a man to look at her the way the duke looked at Heather. She wanted to be in love. Her problem was that she hadn’t any gentlemen in her recent acquaintance to fall in love with. They were amiable and suitable in rank and personality, but… None of them had inspired looks of adoration from her or any emotions like it.
It was time to get serious. She needed a plan. She needed to stop waiting for the perfect man to fall at her feet and actively search for him. She would need to take a closer look at the most eligible gentlemen of the season, and one by one, narrow them down to the one for her. It didn’t sound the least bit romantic, but at least it would give her the opportunity to truly discover who they were, versus what she wanted.
Anabelle focused on Heather and her duke again. Applause erupted around her, and Heather smiled joyfully. Anabelle’s heart clenched. She wanted to feel that way. She was incredibly happy for Heather, and she wanted the same for herself. The bride and groom traipsed down the aisle and through the church doors, presumably to race to the wedding breakfast. Guests stood as they passed, and Anabelle, along with her family, waited to exit their pew. As she entered the crowded aisle, she looked up and found a pair of mocking grey eyes glinting at her.
“A vigorous ceremony wouldn’t you say, Lady Anabelle?”
“No, my lord. Vigorous is not a word I would use. I will say the ceremony was lovely.” She responded to him with very little encouragement, giving him her profile.
“You seemed quite moved, I could even say enraptured by the bride and groom.”
Now she had to look at him. He was being quite absurd. “I am very happy for them, they looked quite in love. That is something to be admired, I think.” She looked away again, in what was obviously a dismissive manner.
“Egad, no. How terrifying to be a lovesick fool.”
There were titters of laughter following his remark, proof that their words were far from private, and that was dangerous. Anabelle had no desire to be seen with him, or to even be conversing with him. She needed to distance herself from him immediately, for the sake of her reputation and her marriage plans. However, she could feel the pull of his attention on her. She could feel him watching her face, looking for a reaction. She could feel an answering heat crawling up her neck.
She lowered her voice. “How fortunate for you, my lord, that no woman of full mental capacity would ever love you.” Those were the cruelest words she had ever uttered before in her life. She felt him smile and that alarmed her. How was it possible to feel someone smile? But she was sure he was smiling—she even verified it with a peek from under her lashes.
“You wound me deeply,” he answered, but his smile said anything but. He was patently enjoying himself. Anabelle looked forward, praying he would disengage from her
and find his amusement elsewhere.
Ahead of her, Hazel strolled between their mother and father, and beyond them, the open doors offered her an avenue of escape. The procession came to a halt. There were cheers from outside. The duke must be tossing coins into the crowd before whisking his bride away. Anabelle wished she could see it. She wanted to absorb the happiness, taste the giddiness that was Heather’s, if for only a moment to appease her own yearnings for her own wedding.
Like a dark cloud, Lord Draven loomed beside her. “It’s a madhouse out there. It will take forever to reach my carriage.”
Anabelle refused to acknowledge him. She stepped closer to her parents, but the other guests pushed closer to see the theatrics outside. She planted her feet, determined not to be crushed against her family. A body bumped into the back of her and remained. She looked over her shoulder to glare at the offending person, but her eyes met a cravat, and she swallowed as her eyes slowly ascended, despite the dread she felt. Gray eyes met hers, amused and wicked.
“My apologies. I’d move, but Lady Prendergast’s buxom figure is immediately behind me,” he whispered.
Anabelle colored from head to toe. She took a deep breath, the expansion of her rib cage somehow bringing them even closer together. She felt caught against him, surrounded by the other guests, and yet completely alone with him. She wished to call out to Hazel but didn’t want to bring more attention to herself and her scandalous position against him.
She refused to look at him again, keeping her gaze on the back of her father’s head. She felt a tickling in the palm of her right hand, and then what she was sure was a finger gliding over her palm. She gasped and pulled her hand away, the ghost of the sensation still lingering. Lord Draven remained silent behind her, though she could feel the movement of his breathing against her back. The shuffle began to move again, and Anabelle lurched forward into Hazel. Hazel tossed a glare over her shoulder, but then her eyes darted past Anabelle and widened. She stepped back and linked arms with Anabelle, who held tightly to her arm, never more grateful for a sister than she was at that moment. She could still feel him behind her—amused, predacious, watching her—and she could still feel the slide of his finger across her palm.