Once Upon a Wager

by Julie LeMense

  “Alec,” she whispered. “I want you to forget that woman you held. I want to replace all of your thoughts of her with thoughts of me.”

  “God, Annabelle. It has always been you. You can’t know how I have dreamed about feeling your body beneath mine, of feeling myself inside of you.”

  “Then show me.”

  Lifting his head, he stared into her eyes. “Do you know what you are asking? Because if I start, I will not stop. I won’t let you go.”

  “That is all I’ve ever wanted.”

  He lifted her off her feet and carried her to a large, imposing bed in the corner of the room. Laying her down gently, he smoothed her hair across his pillow, running tentative hands down the length of her arms, molding them to the span of her waist, and down the curve of her legs.

  “You cannot have any idea of how stunning you are, Annabelle,” he said softly. “If this were not morning, I’d swear I was dreaming. So many times, I’ve imagined you here. These last weeks, I wondered if I’d spend the rest of my life watching you from a distance.”

  She pulled him down, angling his head in her hands as she brought his mouth back to hers. Moving her hands down his body, she instinctively cradled his hips against her, even as she felt a hard jutting at the apex of her thighs. The weight of it sparked a flame within her, and when he groaned, she fought to peel away the layers of clothing still between them. She fumbled with the buttons of his breeches until he gave a weak laugh, grasping her hands with his own.

  “You’re going to be the death of me, Annabelle. Let me savor you. Let me see you naked in my bed.”

  She sat up so he could loosen the innumerable buttons running down the length of her back. Her glorious dress was a crumpled disaster now. All the more reason to strip it off.

  “I thought this so lovely earlier,” he murmured. “I’m less fond of it now.”

  “I think women’s fashions should make a better use of ties,” she said. “One pull and they are open.”

  His arms encircled her, his hands working at the buttons. When his fingers trembled with the last of them, she reached behind her to tear the buttons apart. She felt hot now; her clothes couldn’t come off fast enough. As he pulled the dress from her body, then her corset and her pantaloons, she nearly gasped with pleasure.

  Then she remembered, and she grabbed at the sheet, swiftly pulling it over her legs. She didn’t want to see him draw away in shock or, even worse, pity. He said she was beautiful, but he’d never seen her like this—mangled in places and grotesque.

  “Let me see you, Annabelle.”

  It took every ounce of courage to loosen her grip. Heart slamming in her chest, she watched his eyes caress her body, lingering on her breasts as he pulled the sheet away. They followed the line of her stomach, past the curve of her hips to the top of her thighs. Lower still they traveled, nearly black with desire, past the sweep of her legs, down to the pink tips of her toes. Every movement was tense and tightly controlled, as if he were wound like a spring.

  How could he not have seen them? But of course he had. With a shuddering breath, he ran his fingertips along the arch of her left foot, giving only the barest smile as she squirmed at the sensation. His fingers continued past her ankle, smoothing along her calf, dipping into the shadows behind her knee until he reached the angry ridge of her scars, purple and distended, even after all this time. As she held her breath, he brushed his hand gently across them, his touch soft and light as he traced them.

  “They are horrible to look at, I know,” she whispered.

  “Annabelle, it would be so easy to pretend you are fragile, that you need me to protect you and keep you safe. But I know what you have survived. This is the proof of it. It is not your beauty that makes me love you. It’s your strength.”

  She melted then, her breath easing from her on a sigh because his hands continued their slow perusal, moving along her inner thigh to settle at the folds between her legs. He tucked a finger between them and inside, and she nearly came apart. “Of course, this part of you has its merits, too,” he breathed.

  She could feel the moisture, slick on his fingers, as he withdrew them and eased upward, teasing the bud there until her hips began to rock uncontrollably. The pleasure was nearly unbearable. Helpless, she looked at Alec. His eyes were dark and intent, his jaw tightly clenched as he watched her writhe. And then, just as before, waves of sensation engulfed her. She moaned aloud, driving her hips against his hand, her body heightened to every nuance of pleasure.

  “God, Annabelle.” He was looking down at her, his breath coming in labored pants, his body still tense, his pulse throbbing at the base of his throat. She reached up, trailing her hand down his chest, pausing to brush a fingertip across one nipple before continuing downward to settle her hand on the hard ridge pushing against the fall of his britches. He moaned as she ran her fingers up and down its length. She couldn’t help but marvel at its heat and hardness.

  “You were supposed to show me all about this. Do you remember?”

  He reached for her hand then, pushing it against him briefly before edging away, just out of reach. “You have always been a curious sort,” he said with a pained laugh. “And I’ll live for the day when I can indulge that curiosity, but this must wait. I want us to be married.

  “You will marry me, won’t you?” he asked, suddenly sounding unsure. “I love you with all my heart.”

  “I’ll only marry you on one condition,” she said, her face gravely serious.

  “Anything. Name anything.”

  “I don’t want to wait. I’m far too impatient.” She sat up, and tore at the buttons that separated him from her, until a hot throbbing met her hands. He groaned, as if waging some final battle, and then he gave into her, urgently freeing himself from the britches he wore, kicking them away as he pushed her back against the bed. When he covered her body with his, she almost cried out, because that restlessness had begun to build inside of her again.

  She’d never felt anything like his weight upon her, warm and pulsing. He kissed down the curve of her cheek, between the valley of her breasts and up to their tips, taking each into his mouth until she was certain she’d scream. All the while, she could feel the insistent throbbing, so close to her heat.

  “Annabelle,” he said, staring into her eyes, sweat beginning to bead at his temples. “Are you sure? There will be pain this first time.”

  She didn’t care. “I’ve known my share of pain, Alec. I want you as close to me as I can have you.”

  He kissed her then, deeply, as he edged open her thighs. And as he entered her gently, even through the initial flash of pain, she felt something tugging deep at her heart. He raised himself above her, arms cradling her on either side as he slowly moved in and out, her body adjusting to the slick friction between them until there was more pleasure than pain. She watched his face as he gazed at her, both of them unblinking. With each stroke, his eyes softened, his breath hot against her body. Could he feel this thing she felt? The hot frisson, the building heat that crept up upon you, stealing your thoughts, until there was only sensation?

  She loved the sound of their bodies moving together, the tangle of his sheets around her legs, the feel of him as his muscles tensed. She was straining toward that feeling. She only knew he was at the center of it, building in pressure, pressing upon her until suddenly the most exquisite sensation took hold, stunning her with its power, its pleasure magical. When she cried out, he buried his head into the curve of her neck, moaning her name as his hips bucked against hers.

  Later, when their breathing settled, he pulled her against his chest, her breasts nestled against him, his arms enfolding her in a possessive embrace. “Do you know how long I have loved you?” he whispered.

  She smiled into the crook of his shoulder. “This will be a competition between us, then. Because I have always loved you.”

  • • •

  There was a hesitant knock upon the door. “Potter,” Alec called out. “Whatever it is,
it will have to wait.”

  “I am afraid that’s impossible, my lord,” came the stern reply. “Miss Layton’s aunt has come to call, and she wishes to speak with you.”

  In truth, Alec was surprised she’d only just arrived. As Annabelle let out a squeak of dismay, he gave her a gentle, lingering kiss, easing from the bed to wrap himself in a dressing gown. Because he couldn’t seem to stop himself, he stole a glance at her, his heart skittering wildly. She’d said she loved him—

  “If you are trying to preserve my maidenly sensibilities,” she said with a naughty grin, “you’re too late.”

  “Your aunt will probably beat me to death for that very reason. But the pain will have been worth it.”

  He dressed quickly and slipped down the stairs, smoothing his hands over his hair before proceeding into the front room to greet the countess, who was a vision in a blood-red day gown. “My dear Lady Marchmain, may I compliment you on the color of your dress? It’s stunning with your complexion.”

  She gave him a sly smile. “No wonder my niece is so enamored with you. You’re the picture of vitality at this early hour of the morning. However, flattery and your impressive good looks will not distract me. I understand Annabelle has been here since before the daybreak.”

  “I am afraid so. But your niece behaved with the upmost propriety. She has done nothing but conduct herself with dignity, and I’ve tried …” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I tried to act the gentleman.”

  She considered him for a long while before answering. “If you have acted the gentleman this entire time, you’re not the man I thought you were. If you’ve squandered these few hours alone in each other’s company, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “I didn’t precisely squander them,” he admitted. “But you must know I love your niece desperately. I’ve asked her to marry me.”

  “And of course she accepted. I’m something of an expert on marriage, and I know love when I see it.”

  “I’ll give her the world if I can,” he declared, only faintly embarrassed by the excessive, extravagant promise.

  “That won’t be necessary. I rather think the only thing she wants is you.”

  Chapter 22

  Nine months later

  Sophia Marchmain took a brief sip of tea as she studied the two-day old news sheets from London. Lord, the stuff was ghastly. Civilized people took a bracing shot of brandy at this hour of the day, but she was in the country, and she needed her wits about her. Annabelle would give birth at any moment. At least Mrs. Chessher had finally allowed Alec into the bedchamber to stand by his wife’s side. Sophia had almost been tempted to violence by his ceaseless pacing up and down the hall, like a restless animal.

  He’d certainly gotten Annabelle pregnant in short order—not that she’d doubted he would, strapping specimen that he was—but surely Alec’s decision to witness the birth was unwise. That called for an especially strong stomach. She’d be there the instant the child was cleaned up, and not a moment sooner.

  There was a certain comfort in reviewing news of no import on this unsettling morning. Lady So-and-So’s soiree had proven a success. Miss Ingenue had created quite a splash. Lord Down-on-His-Luck was making a move for Miss Money. And the season, thus far, had been accounted quite dull since the marriage of the luminous Annabelle Carstairs, Countess of Dorset.

  The wedding, of course, had been lovely. Alec and Annabelle had invited only their closest friends to a morning ceremony at St. George’s. Handsome Lord Marworth stood with Alec, while Jane Fitzsimmons acted as maid to Annabelle. That girl had been shamefully treated by society since “The Incident,” as Sophia called it. Her father was an outcast, censured in the House of Lords, but Sophia had plans for Jane, a woman of rare courage and substance.

  She and Lady Dorset had stood in the first pew behind the happy couple, and Frederick had also been in attendance. He and Annabelle were slowly finding their way back to the closeness they’d once shared, although the path was a difficult one. In a particularly moving moment, he’d released dozens of colorful butterflies into the air after Annabelle and Alec repeated their vows. How the creatures found their way out of St. George’s, she couldn’t say.

  A number of “mourners” had gathered outside of the church during the ceremony. Lord Petersham, still garbed in fabulous shades of gold, wore a black armband to signal his loss, and Thomas Rowlandson, the famed print artist, had also commemorated the occasion. His etching of Annabelle as a bride had caused a near riot at Ackermann’s Repository upon its release.

  Sophia heard her niece cry out in pain, and she steeled herself against the weakness of tears. If anyone could triumph over the rigors of childbirth, it was Annabelle. And Alec would never leave her side.

  When another cry rang out, Sophia returned her attention to the news, convinced now that a review of weightier matters was called for. There were reports that French forces had been defeated at the battle of Vitoria, dealing a death blow to Napoleon's hopes in Spain. Perhaps soon, she'd once again be enjoying brandy in the shade of her olive orchard there! Another article was devoted to Alec’s bill, which was officially law now, but she already knew everything there was to know about that, so she moved on to the next page, only to find the death notices from the war.

  Such a dreary topic. Hopefully, the fighting would be over soon, the lists vanishing all together. She gave them a cursory glance, and would have gone on to yet another page if one name hadn’t caught her eye. Corporal Damien Digby. Lost at sea. Evidently, his transport ship had gone down off the coast of Spain. He was the only man who hadn’t been rescued. No doubt his fellow soldiers left him to drown on purpose.

  What a lovely start to the morning! The news would be one of her gifts to Annabelle. When she heard the cry of an infant, however, all thoughts of Digby vanished. She threw aside the paper, rushed out of the chamber, and ran down the hall to her niece. When she swept into the room, Alec was holding his wife as if the world would be lost without her, while Annabelle held their newborn son in her arms, smiling so brightly that she sparkled.

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From Mischief and Magnolias by Marie Patrick)

  Natchez, Mississippi

  September 1863

  Shaelyn Cavanaugh leaned against the railing of the second-floor gallery of her home and focused on the two men coming up the road, their blue uniforms unmistakable. They rode at a swift pace, a trail of dust behind them.

  Since Natchez, Mississippi, surrendered to the Union forces, it wasn’t unusual to see blue uniforms, especially since they’d made Rosalie, the home next door, their headquarters. But the two men didn’t turn into Rosalie’s drive as she expected.

  Her breath caught in her throat when she glimpsed light auburn hair, much like her brother’s, gleaming in the sunlight. “Ian!”

  His companion had raven-black hair, though it too reflected the sun’s light. Traveling with Ian, he could be only one man—the one she had promised to wait for. “James.” Her hand gripped the wrought-iron railing, her knuckles white. Tears blurred her vision. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm in her chest as excitement surged through her veins.

  “They’re home!” she cried. “Mama!”

  She lifted her skirts and ran for the outside staircase at the back of the house. “They’re home!”

  She jumped, missing the last few stairs, and hit the veranda at a run, her skirts held high as she ran into the house through the French doors in the small sun parlor.

  “Mama!” Shaelyn darted into the central hallway, her footsteps clicking on the marble tiles as she ran to the front door, flung it open, and rushed headlong into a pair of strong arms. She rested her head against a firm, hard chest, and squeezed tight. A button pressed into her cheek, but she didn’t care. They were home. “Thank God,” she whispered into the uniform.

  “Well, that’s quite a greeting,” a deep, rich voice as smooth as drizzling molasses responded. Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Not expec
ted, but certainly welcomed.”

  “Hmm. Where’s mine?” his companion asked in the clipped tones of New England.

  Shaelyn recognized neither voice nor accent and turned her head to glance at the auburn-haired man. Ian Cavanaugh did not look back at her, which meant she did not have her arms around James Brooks.

  Her face hot with embarrassment, Shaelyn pulled away from the man. She drew in a shaky breath and stared. The most beautiful pair of soft blue-gray eyes she’d ever seen stared back. “Forgive me. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Obviously,” the man replied. “Perhaps introductions are in order, although after your greeting, it may be too late.” Amusement gleamed from his eyes as a wide grin showed off his white teeth in a charming smile. She wanted to touch the dimple that appeared in his cheek. “Major Remington Harte.” He gestured to the man beside him. “This is my second in command, Captain Vincent Davenport.”

  “Miss.” Captain Davenport bowed from the waist.

  Shaelyn nodded in his general direction, but her focus remained on the major. She’d never seen hair so black or so thick. An insane impulse overwhelmed her—she wanted to run her fingers through that mass of thick, shiny hair and feel its silkiness. Struck by her own inappropriate thoughts, she stilled. He wasn’t James. She shouldn’t want to run her fingers through his hair.

  “Are you Brenna Cavanaugh?”

  “What?” Startled, Shaelyn shook her head. “No, I’m her daughter, Shaelyn.”

  Footsteps rang out down the hallway. Shaelyn dragged her gaze away from the man in uniform for just a moment as her mother joined them at the door. “I am Brenna Cavanaugh.” A sweet smile accompanied the hand she offered the major. “May I help you?”