by Jade Lee
His brows shot up. “My mother and sister would disagree.”
“Your sister is about to marry a Scot, and your mother gads about with the eyes of the nouveau riche.”
He could tell that those were ugly sins in her mind, but he had no understanding of why. “And yet, they are family.” He frowned. “Are you so well loved that you would throw away the last of your family because we do not match your standards? Where is the pride in your blood?”
She swallowed, and he could see that she was caught by her own value system. Blood ties were all that mattered. That was, after all, how he came to be duke—and the head of her family—in the first place. It would be the worst sin to abandon him and her heritage just because he was cut from a different societal cloth.
“Winds change, Eleanor. Will you adjust? Or do you sink?”
She swallowed and looked away. But to his surprise, her voice came out strong. “I will adjust.”
He grinned, his high estimation of his cousin returning. She was stubborn, but she could change. And with a modicum of grace too, he thought, as she neatly folded herself into her chair.
He was about to say something gentle. Something to show approval and family warmth. Anything that might ease the blow of what had transpired. She never gave him the chance.
“I suggest you call for Miss Drew immediately,” she said. “There are things you both need to know before you meet the Prince Regent.”
Twenty-one
She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t go to a ball and meet the Prince Regent. The very idea was ludicrous.
Wendy sat in the carriage next to Radley, her hands clutched tight in her lap. Across from them sat that witch Lady Eleanor and Radley’s mother. The older woman was practically vibrating with excitement. The ice queen cousin was cool and faintly disapproving as usual. Radley sat, apparently in oblivious ease, while Wendy’s stomach knotted like a stitching snarl.
She couldn’t do this!
“Remember, the best choice is always to say nothing,” the witch cousin said. “Just lift your chin and remain silent. Everyone else will think you extremely clever.”
“Or an imbecile,” she said tartly.
Eleanor released a sigh of frustration. “I know this is daunting, but surely, some part of you is capable of facing this. Just imagine yourself as a knight-errant facing a horde of monsters. I will be right there beside you, trying to defend your flank.”
Wendy took a moment to process the woman’s statement. What the hell was a knight-errant? Monsters she understood, but did the woman really think that a ballroom of society matrons qualified? She’d seen many of those women in their shifts and corsets, with wrinkled fat pouring out every which way. Her imagination wasn’t up to the task of making them into monsters. Not after what she’d seen Damon do.
Eleanor leaned forward, obviously trying to be comforting, as she touched Wendy’s hands. “I’ll be right there to help.”
“I just had to choose between my brothers’ lives and Radley’s. A society ball hardly compares.”
Eleanor reared back in shock while Radley’s mother gaped. “And you chose to be a duchess over your brothers’ lives?”
“No!” She cut her words off, the whole situation too complicated to explain. Meanwhile, Radley reached out and grabbed her hands.
“Henry and Bernard are safe. Your mother too. Why not try to enjoy the ball?”
She grimaced. “You cannot protect them forever.”
“I can, and I will.” He drew her hand to his lips. “Have a little faith, Wind.”
She looked into his eyes. It was relatively dark in the carriage, but she didn’t need light to know the contours of his face or the confidence in his expression. And, with her hand in his—even through the dulling fabric of their gloves—she found the way through her churning emotions.
“It will be fun to see all those dresses I sewed.”
Eleanor winced. “Pray, do not ever say that aloud.”
Radley just chuckled. “I feel my sails begin to fill.”
Wendy turned away, but her lips curved into a smile. “I am not the wind, and you are not a ship.”
‘‘And yet you lift my spirits, and together we soar.”
She felt her skin flush with heat. No one had ever spoken so prettily to her. And, if they had, she would have snorted and called them fools in the most derisive tone she could manage. And yet, with Radley, she flushed like a silly child. It was…
She swallowed. She wanted to call herself ridiculous, but the thought wouldn’t form in her head. In truth, she felt young and pretty. She was on the way to a ball with a duke on her arm. And she was dressed in a pale blue silk gown shot with threads of gold. She’d stitched the gown herself, but an accident had stained the bodice and made it unsalable. Helaine had ordered Tabitha to add lace decorations and seed pearls. It was an extravagant expense, but it had been done in an afternoon and sent to the house for her to wear tonight.
In short, she was living every young girl’s fantasy. She was going to meet the Prince Regent. A wild excitement built inside, and instead of squashing it by mentally listing everything that could go wrong, she simply allowed the feeling to build. What freedom it was to stop thinking—even for a moment—and experience the joy.
She squeezed Radley’s hand and felt his answering grip. Tonight she would simply enjoy. With that thought, the snarl of emotions unraveled. She was still nervous. Of course, she was. But that was secondary to the knowledge that Radley was beside her tonight. And they were going to a ball!
***
“And who is this vision of loveliness?”
“Aren’t you the woman who stitches my hems?”
“Bloody good to finally meet you, your grace. Miss Drew, may I have this dance?”
“Humph. You’d think a seamstress would wear a current fashion, not something so outré.”
“Miss Drew, you dance divinely. Would you care to take a walk outside?”
“Your grace, let me introduce you to my daughter, a woman of true refinement. Nothing common about her.”
Wendy sipped her lemonade and shifted her weight, trying to ease the pain in her feet. She wasn’t used to dancing. Neither was she accustomed to having someone at her elbow every time she turned around. But all in all, a ball ended up being not so overwhelming a place.
Why? Because a ballroom was the province of the women. Certainly, men were there, dancing with the ladies, or huddled in clumps having political discussions, but the real power flowed through the hands of women. And Wendy had managed women since the day she started as an apprentice seamstress. She’d learned by the time she turned sixteen not to feel verbal barbs. After all, once you’ve been kicked by an irate dowager, an insult to one’s gown hardly registered.
As for the men, her last few months dealing vingt-et-un had taught her how to handle them. She danced with them, occasionally flirted with them, and then dismissed them from her thoughts. Easy. Especially with Radley’s unfailing presence at her side.
Until the moment the Prince Regent entered the ballroom. It was as if the air suddenly became electrified as everyone turned en masse to greet their ruler. Wendy barely caught a glimpse of the man in the doorway before Radley touched her hand.
“Are you ready?”
She swallowed and nodded, as ready as she would ever be. It was one thing to handle a bitter countess, or three, another to meet the crown prince.
Radley flashed her a nervous smile. “We can do this together, right?”
She straightened. “He came here to meet you. The least we can do is allow him the honor.”
He grinned and brought her gloved fingers to his lips. “Have I told you how beautiful you are?”
She smiled. “At least a dozen times.”
“You cannot know how much I mean it.”
She flushed, but her gaze never wavered from his face. When he looked at her like that—equal parts joy and possession—she felt mesmerized. Or perhaps, the better phrase was caugh
t and held, like the wind in a sail.
She almost said it then. She nearly spoke the words that had been trembling on her lips all day. I love you. She nearly said them, but this was not the place, and they were about to meet the Prince Regent. And besides, she could never say anything when he looked at her like that. Everything in her heated nearly to bursting, and all her words burned away.
“Your grace, if you would follow me please?” their hostess interrupted. “There is someone I should like to introduce.”
And so it was done. They were escorted to Prinny. Radley bowed. Wendy curtsied so deep she nearly flattened herself onto the floor. And all the while, her back prickled with awareness of everyone watching.
“Good evening, Bucklynde,” the prince said. “You’re a difficult man to find.”
Beside her, Radley straightened to his full height, as if he were reporting to his superior officer. Which, she supposed, he was. “Your highness, I apologize for the delay. As you might imagine, it’s been a rather busy week.”
The prince chuckled heartily. “I imagine so. Estate matters and the lot?’
“Mostly, it’s all these infernal women trying to dress me up to snuff. Half the time I don’t understand what they’re saying.”
The regent laughed with good cheer. “They are an interfering lot, aren’t they? But what a dull world it would be without them.”
“Very true, your highness, very true.”
“Well, when you want an escape from all that rubbish, pray come visit me at Carlton House. Tuesday next, hm? For cards.”
“I should be honored.”
“Of course, of course,” the royal said as his gaze drifted to Wendy. “And Miss Drew, you are a pretty thing, aren’t you?”
She smiled, mentally cataloguing him as akin to a lecherous uncle. Fortunately, she knew exactly how to respond: flattery and a flash of bosom. “I spent hours worrying over how I should appear before you, your highness,” she said as she dropped her fan enough to let him look. A moment, no more, and then she straightened. “It is a very great honor you do me.”
“No doubt,” he said with a laugh, “but then I always like meeting pretty girls.”
“Is that the musicians starting up again?” Radley asked. “My dear, should I escort you to the floor?” He gave an apologetic smile to the royal. “She does love dancing, you know.”
Wendy glanced at Radley, realizing with a little shock that he hadn’t liked how Prinny ogled her and was trying to get her away. And wasn’t that nice to realize he was protective?
Meanwhile, the regent looked wistfully at the dance floor. “I enjoy it as well, actually, but these days my knees pain me too much.”
And that was that. Beyond a few sympathetic comments regarding the regent’s health and another quick lowering of her fan as she turned away, their glorious meeting with the prince was over.
Curiously unexciting, truth be told. And yet, she couldn’t suppress her grin of triumph. Radley had been invited to Carlton House—a sure sign of approval from the prince—and she had not embarrassed herself. And when Radley swept her onto the dance floor, she nearly laughed with sheer joy.
Only one more thing to do, she thought. One more choice, and it had been made days ago, during their first kiss outside the dress shop. It had only taken this long for the timing to work out. She would do it tonight, if only this interminably wonderful ball would end. Another hour perhaps, and then she would do it.
It actually took more than an hour. Nearly three, to be exact. There was dancing and a midnight buffet, but after that, it was over. Lady Eleanor decreed that it was never good to stay overlong at a ball because it gave the impression of desperation. So they left after the food and listened in the carriage as Radley’s mother chattered about every person she’d met.
No one else spoke. There really wasn’t room amidst all Mrs. Lyncott’s excited exclamations. Lady Eleanor managed to nod once and declared the evening “acceptable.” Neither Wendy nor Radley said anything, though both were grinning. The evening had been a success. They had royal approval!
Then they were home. There was another half hour of chatter with Bernard and Wendy’s mother who wanted to know everything. Then finally, she was allowed to retire. A maid helped her undress and uncoif. And wasn’t that a relief to get the heavy coils of hair off the top of her head? Then the maid buttoned a pristine, white night rail to her neck before helping her climb into bed.
The woman took the candle and left. Around them the house quieted as even the mothers went to bed.
Half an hour more.
Fifteen minutes more.
Five…
Now.
Wendy slipped out of bed, opened her door, and walked through the dark hallway to Radley’s room. She didn’t even knock, but quietly turned the knob before slipping inside. A candle burned by his bedside, but he wasn’t using it. She saw him lying in bed, his arms behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.
At least he had been. By the time she shut the door behind her, his gaze was on her, and she felt that heat swell in her belly. Fire and desire.
Her words burned away as she crossed the room until she stood beside his bed.
He looked at her, his gaze dark as his nostrils flared. Then, without a word, he flipped the covers back.
He was naked as he lay there. She saw his flat stomach, his corded thighs, and the hard stalk of his organ lifted toward her.
She moved toward the bed beside him, but he stopped her. He touched her arm and waited until her gaze locked onto his.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rasping through the darkness.
Her nipples tightened at the sound. Odd that his voice could be as sensual as a rough caress across her breasts.
“I owe you everything,” she whispered.
He recoiled. “This is not a debt. I won’t have you—”
“I love you.”
She saw her words hit him. His eyes widened, and his fingers twitched where they rested against her cheek.
“Say it again,” he rasped.
“I love you.”
There was no more waiting. He surged upward and claimed her mouth with his. Hard, possessive, and so powerful, his kiss did everything she wanted and more. He took her in that kiss, grabbed hold of her, and drew her to him in a way that she could never escape.
And that was only the beginning.
Twenty-two
Wendy had been kissed before. She and Radley had done a great deal more than this, but something was different this time.
He held her firmly with one hand cupping the back of her head. He had large hands, and so his fingers threaded through her hair until she felt caught in a net of warm fire. He wrapped his other hand around her waist, lifting her onto the bed so that she lost all control of her position. She tried to put one knee on the mattress to steady herself, but his bed was so high he had to carry her. As he tightened his hold—his mouth never leaving hers—she lost connection to the earth. She was lifted and caught as if she truly were the wind in his sails.
And then he made it more.
He brought her to him, pulled her on top until she lay against his naked torso. She felt the hard planes of his chest, the rigid thrust of his organ, and the shift of his muscles as he moved his hands across her back, then through her hair.
She felt these things distantly, myriad sensations that composed the background of what he did. Her main focus was on their mouths, fused as his tongue thrust inside.
There was power in his push—different than any she had known before. Dominant, possessive—it claimed her but in the way of a man claiming a god as his god, his being to worship. Or perhaps, she should say goddess. He owned her as his goddess, his every caress an act of exaltation.
She had no idea how to respond, no thoughts beyond pleasure and joy. But even as her mind labeled the thrust and parry of their tongues, her heart sang its own tune.
It was a simple song with one word: love. It had a tempo that echoed in
the rapid beats of her heart. It had a harmony in the way she intertwined her body with his. Her tongue rolled around his, her hands found purchase on his shoulders, reveling in the heat of his skin. And even her legs slipped between his, pressing her hips against the thrust of his pelvis.
And the music had a melody that sang in her veins as she broke from his mouth to push away. Her shift in position ground her groin against his, and she heard his hiss in pleasure. He hadn’t let her go far—high enough to look at him in the moonlight. Apparently, the man liked to keep his curtains open, and the light bathed them in silver. And while she looked, she found enough space to gulp in air and to use one hand to tug at the buttons of her night rail.
He stopped her fumbling fingers, stilling them as he whispered. “Let me take it off you. Please.”
She could hardly say no. After all, she was too clumsy, and her position prevented her from real progress. So she let her hand fall away as his fingers replaced hers.
He used one hand, but he was more in control than she. While his left hand gripped her hip, his right undid button after button down her neck and between her breasts. The fabric gaped open, and as he worked, he stroked the exposed skin. A brush here, a caress there. She felt her body tremble as he touched her.
Then he ran out of buttons. In truth, the opening went barely below her breasts, but it was enough for him to brush his entire hand inside, to stroke her from belly to neck.
She still was pushed up, her legs and groin heavy against his heat, while her arms kept her torso elevated. That meant she had little leverage to move as his hand roamed freely. At first, he kept to the narrow passageway between her breasts, but before long, his hand spread, his fingers stretched, and his path meandered.
He used his knuckles and the back of his hand then twisted so that the pads of his fingers touched her. All in the lightest of strokes, and every caress left a tingling fire in its wake. Her breasts soon became hot, her nipples aching. He squeezed those tips. First one, then, eventually, the other. A pinch, a twist, whatever seemed to strike his fancy, while the heat of his touch seared her.