A Scandalous Winter Wedding

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘In the sense of not finding a perfect match?’ Kirstin pondered this. ‘There have been occasions when my client’s requirements seemed impossible to satisfy, but I have found that there are many ways to look at a problem. What they think they require and what will actually work are often quite different. The harder task for me is to assess whether the female concerned has the nerve and resolve to succeed.’

  ‘And that is the real key to your success. Your impeccable judgement. Some might even call it intuition. That’s what makes you pre-eminent. You conduct face-to-face interviews with the candidates on their own turf. You know by the time you meet with them that they have the skills, but you assess their moral fibre and whether they, like you, are prepared to risk all or nothing. Have I that right?’

  She nodded, unable to speak because a very inconvenient and illogical lump had formed in her throat.

  ‘You don’t like to think of yourself as a philanthropist, but you are a bit of a crusader, in your own way, aren’t you? These women who get a second chance, you feel strongly about the injustice they have suffered.’

  Her cheeks heated. ‘Don’t make a saint of me, Cameron.’

  He laughed. ‘Saints are heavenly and ethereal creatures. You have much more earthly qualities. Thank you for trusting me with your secret. You know it will go no further.’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Kirstin looked at the clock, startled to see that it was almost midnight. ‘I had no idea it was so late.’

  Cameron yawned, getting to his feet and rolling his shoulders. ‘I visited Louise today. I didn’t tell her much, only that we knew Philippa was alive and as yet unharmed. Louise’s friend is back from Paris. She’s told her what has happened. I think it was a relief for her to confide in someone.’

  ‘And a relief for you, knowing that someone is taking care of her?’

  ‘If—when we find Philippa, Louise will be grateful. She may or may not stop blaming me for blighting the family by my presence, but there will be no more to it than that, Kirstin. Do you honestly think that a woman who would go to such lengths to keep her daughter’s disappearance quiet for fear of scandal, would welcome a bastard half-brother into the family with open arms?’

  ‘Don’t use that word! She ought to be proud to call you her brother.’

  He snorted. ‘So proud she still refers to me as Mr Dunbar. What is your plan for tomorrow?’

  ‘I must give all those I have contacted at least a day to mull over my request—I am asking quite a lot—so I don’t have any plans as such. What about you?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. In that case, would it be permissible, do you think, for us to escape for the day?’

  Kirstin hesitated for only a few seconds. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘We are unlikely to get another such opportunity, for once we find Philippa—’

  ‘Why don’t we stop worrying about what happens after we find Philippa? Or even, if it’s possible, let us stop thinking about Philippa and Louise and Jeannie completely, just for a wee while, and simply enjoy each other’s company. What do you say?’

  ‘I’d like that very much.’

  She got to her feet, meaning to say goodnight, but the words died on her lips as her eyes met Cameron’s. She stepped into his arms. She lifted her face. And their lips met.

  How delightful kissing could be. Just kissing. Though these were not just kisses. The carmine she used on her lips mingled with the honeyed taste of the wine they had drunk. His hands slid over the silk of her gown as he pulled her tight up against him and his breath was a soft, shallow zephyr on her cheek.

  She touched her tongue to his, her hands curling into his shoulders, her body arching against him, kissing him more deeply, making no attempt to hide her arousal. The hard length of him was making her belly clench with wanting.

  She shuddered when he touched her, his hands on her bottom, sliding up the rustling silk of her gown to the side of her breasts, frustrated by the barrier of her corsets. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck. He kissed the swell of her bosom, licked into the valley between her breasts. She slid her hands under his coat, flattened her palms over his buttocks, urging him closer.

  Cameron wrenched his mouth away, panting. Kirstin stared at him, his pupils dark with desire, his cheeks flushed, knowing she must look every bit as dishevelled.

  ‘It’s not remotely that I don’t want to,’ he said.

  She smiled at that. ‘You have made that perfectly obvious. And I—I won’t pretend that I am exactly reluctant either. But you’re right. We have shared enough intimacies and revelations for one night.’

  ‘Then let us save some for another time.’ He kissed her again, gently this time. ‘Goodnight, Kirstin.’

  * * *

  Kirstin slept deeply, waking very early in a warm glow of well-being and with a mild case of butterflies in her tummy. It took her a moment to work out why. She had absolutely nothing to do today, save spend it with Cameron.

  She jumped out of bed, pulling on a wrap, and pushed back the heavy curtains. It wasn’t yet light, but the sky was clear, suggesting it was going to be one of those cold, dry, crisp winter days so rare in London.

  Pulling the bell for tea, she threw some kindling into the embers of the fire in her sitting room while she waited for it to arrive, which it did with satisfying speed, for the hotel kitchens knew her habits by now.

  Pouring the first very welcome cup, Kirstin curled up on the hearth rug beside the fire and stared into the flames. She wrapped her arms around herself, trawling her mind for doubts, for regrets, for fears that her confession would be used against her, but she felt nothing save a huge sense of relief. She neither needed nor wanted approval, but she could not deny that Cameron’s admiration and his understanding were adding to her sense of well-being.

  And then there were the kisses. And the tacit promise of more than kisses to come. She sipped her tea, relishing the memory and the anticipation of what else might happen. There could be no harm in her admitting to herself how much she enjoyed Cameron’s company. There was so little time left to them, most likely no other opportunity like today, to take a moment out of time together.

  Her face fell momentarily. She would never see him again once they found Philippa. But that, she reminded herself, was the point of her being here.

  Why don’t we stop worrying about what happens after we find Philippa? Cameron had said last night. Sound advice.

  Kirstin turned her mind instead to how they might make the most of the fine winter’s day that stretched ahead of them.

  * * *

  Cameron stared around himself in astonishment as Kirstin reined in the perfectly matched pair of black high-stepping horses, drawing the phaeton she had driven expertly to a halt. The mansion before them was built of red brick and white stone, turrets looming high at each corner, and the pedimented entranceway was a colonnaded porch approached by a broad flight of steps.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Osterley Park. The country home of Lord and Lady Jersey,’ Kirstin said, pushing aside the rug and jumping lightly down from the high carriage before he had a chance to help her. ‘Though they are not in residence, as you can see.’

  Indeed he could, now that he looked more closely, for all the windows were shuttered, the double doors at the top of the steps barred. ‘What are we doing here, then, other than trespassing?’

  She smiled her enigmatic smile, though there was a gleam in her eyes. ‘Patience, Cameron, all good things come to he who waits. Remember, I’m The Procurer. I make the impossible possible.’

  Kirstin handed the reins over to a groom who had appeared from around the side of the house. The man seemed to be expecting them, Cameron noticed.

  ‘Shall we?’ she asked, as the carriage was led away.

  He took her arm, allowing her to lead them along a path which headed out of the courtyard and through some mature wo
odland, giving himself over to the unexpected pleasure of a day which, she had told him at breakfast, required nothing more of him save that he enjoy himself, which made it pretty much a unique occasion, as far as he could remember.

  The sky was a perfect winter blue above them, the sun dappling the path ahead through the bare branches of the trees. Kirstin, wearing a long woollen coat of peacock-blue, trimmed military-style with black braiding, and a jaunty little military cap, nestled more closely into his side as they walked.

  ‘How come you to know Lord and Lady Jersey?’ he asked.

  ‘I am not particularly acquainted with the Earl. Lady Jersey is one of the patronesses of Almack’s, the club known as the marriage mart by the ton. They call her Silence, for she is said never to stop talking. Some make the mistake of thinking such prattle must be quite indiscreet.’ Kirstin slanted a mischievous smile up at him. ‘I know better.’

  ‘She is one of your previous clients, I must presume?’

  ‘Not directly, but she had a vested interest in being of assistance to one,’ she corrected primly, her eyes twinkling. ‘As to the detail, I’m afraid my lips are sealed.’

  ‘With a kiss?’ Cameron said, unable to resist.

  She gave a little gasp as he pulled her roughly up against him and opened her mouth to his. Wrapping his arms around her, he was immediately aroused by the way she melted into his embrace, by the touch of her tongue to his. He closed his eyes as their kiss deepened, the scent of her perfume, her soap, mingling with the earthy smell of leaf mould, the chill air causing little puffs of cold breath to emerge as they dragged themselves apart, gazing dazed into each other’s eyes. Then she smiled that smile that made his groin tighten, and the only thing that prevented him from dragging her back into his arms was the tiny shake of her head.

  ‘Patience, remember?’

  She took his hand, leading him along the path quickly now, to where it emerged at the side of a large ornamental lake with a small island at its centre. A rowing boat was tethered to the jetty, its oars already set in the rowlocks. He jumped in without hesitation, helping Kirstin aboard, suddenly consumed with such simple joy that he understood what people meant when they said they wanted to bottle a moment and keep it for ever.

  Unhooking the rope, pushing off with one of the oars, Cameron began to row towards the jetty visible on the island. Casting off his hat and gloves, he gave himself over to the pleasure of rowing, long, clean strokes, the oars entering the water at the perfect angle, the boat skimming smoothly along with barely a ripple on the lake’s surface.

  ‘You’ve done this before,’ Kirstin said.

  ‘Just a few times,’ he replied, laughing. ‘I taught myself to row on the stretch of the River Clyde at Flesher’s Haugh at Glasgow Green when I was about ten, in one of the Humane Society’s boats—they’re the people who rescue people from the water. Even then I must have had an idea of making my living from the sea. I earned a few coppers at the docks once I’d got proficient enough, skiving off school when I could, ferrying sailors back to their ships.’

  ‘I’d willingly pay to watch you exert yourself,’ Kirstin said with a wicked smile.’

  Her overt appreciation of his body, the way her eyes lingered on his thighs, on his arms as he worked the oars, was arousing. While he’d grown tired of his face and his physique drawing admiring looks from women, he’d happily have Kirstin admire him day and night if he could return the favour. He’d thought such base attraction shallow, found it unsatisfying, and it was where there was nothing else.

  Would he desire Kirstin so much if she was not an out-and-out beauty? No question but that the answer was a resounding yes. Because he desired Kirstin. The woman behind the beautiful exterior. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman.

  Tingling with anticipation, Cameron rowed with purpose, pulling up to the jetty on the island as the sun disappeared behind a bank of cloud. Tying up, making the oars safe, he helped Kirstin ashore.

  ‘What now?’

  She made a show of consulting her expensive little enamelled watch. ‘Luncheon?’

  Laughing at his bewildered look, for all he could see were trees and shrubs, she pointed him at a track beside a box hedge.

  ‘This way.’

  The folly was painted brilliant white. An exotic open-air temple sat atop a bow-fronted frontage. Bemused, he followed as she led the way confidently up a flight of wrought-iron steps into the main room. It was painted forest-green, the lavish cornicing picked out in gold, the same design and colour reflected in the rug which covered most of the floor.

  Astounded, Cameron saw that a fire was burning in the white marble hearth, and a meal had been set out under silver platters on the table in the bow window. A bottle of champagne sat chilling in a bucket of ice placed on a silver tray, and two crystal flutes were set on a convenient side table by the sofa.

  Shaking his head in wonder, he mouthed one word to Kirstin. ‘How?’

  ‘Magic,’ she replied, with a catlike smile.

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’m inclined to think there’s a more pragmatic explanation!’

  She closed the door, tossing her hat and gloves onto a chair, and began to unbutton her pelisse. ‘It occurred to me in the early hours of this morning that I have never once used my contacts to satisfy a personal whim rather than a business imperative. I decided to make an exception in this case.’

  She slipped out of her pelisse and placed it on the chair.

  ‘Then I’m very flattered,’ Cameron said.

  She chuckled. ‘You should be.’

  He opened the champagne, pouring two frothy glasses, handing one to her. ‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To The Procurer, for working her magic. And to Kirstin, for a magical day.’

  ‘It is not over yet,’ she said.

  Cameron touched his glass to hers. ‘You’re right about that.’ Waiting only for her to take a sip, he set both of the flutes down. ‘It’s not over...not by a long chalk,’ he said, pulling her into his arms.

  * * *

  Their kisses made Kirstin feel as if she were quite literally melting. There was, as Cameron had said, a magical quality to the day which surpassed her every expectation when she had planned it in the early hours of the morning. Only because he knew her secret had she dared to weave such magic. Though if he ever found out her deepest, most precious secret...

  Guilt flickered on the edges of her mind. Cameron thought he knew her. He did know her, better than anyone knew her. This was a moment out of time, to be savoured later, when there were no more such moments. She would not spoil it with such thoughts.

  Sipping champagne between kisses, the cold wine made her mouth tingle, and the taste of it lingered on their lips as they kissed again. They were languorous kisses, kisses which could go on for ever and ever, enhancing her sense of anticipation. She forgot all about the real world, forgot everything save her need for more of this.

  Their kisses were intoxicating, creating a mutual haze of desire which banished hesitation, creating an urge, a need to carry on and on and on. Cameron was kissing the nape of her neck, trailing kisses along her shoulder as he eased her chemise over her arms, his hands cupping her breasts through her undergarments. Her corsets were unlaced, and he kissed her shoulder blades. The ribbon of her chemise was undone, and it dropped to the ground with her petticoats, leaving her clad only in boots, stockings, and pantalettes.

  He turned her around to kiss her breasts, taking his time, pressing tiny fluttering kisses over every inch of skin, making her toes curl inside her boots with the delight of it, never wanting it to end, straining not to lose control.

  She tugged at his coat and he shed it, kicking it aside. His waistcoat followed. And then his shirt. They dropped to their knees, their mouths clinging, their hands roaming. His muscles were taut, his chest heaving under her flattened palms. She pressed her mouth to one ni
pple, making him moan, then to the other, seeing her own determined grip on control reflected in his eyes.

  He eased her back onto a heap of pillows and took her nipple between his lips, his hand on her other breast. It was the sweetest of tortures, making her writhe, pant, moan. She was fast reaching the point of no return, only a last shred of sanity intervened.

  ‘Cameron.’

  He sat back abruptly, startled by the peremptory tone in her voice, swearing. ‘I’m sorry. I thought...’

  ‘No, no. It’s not that I don’t—But we can’t, in case...’ Her face was flaming. ‘It was wrong of me to mislead you, to let you think...’

  His smile dawned slowly. It was sinful. ‘I know we can’t take any risks,’ he said. ‘I have not brought the means to protect us with me, and I presume even The Procurer does not think of everything.’

  Her cheeks burned. ‘I was not planning this when we set out this morning.’

  ‘We can’t safely indulge ourselves,’ he said, with another of his sinful smiles, ‘but you can.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He eased her back onto the cushions, laughing softly. ‘Can’t you guess? No? Then let me show you.’

  He untied the ribbon which held her pantalettes in place. ‘Trust me,’ he said, when she made to protest, pulling them down over her legs, easing her thighs apart.

  And then he began to kiss her again, but this time his lips touched flesh which had never been kissed before. The bare skin of her leg above her garter. Upwards his mouth worked, to the soft flesh of her inner thigh. And then inwards, between her legs. She cried out with surprise, and then with guttural pleasure at the unexpected delight of it, at the way his mouth and his tongue teased and tensed her, licking into the most sensitive parts of her, stroking her to new heights of pleasure.

  She wasted a tiny moment wondering what it was, exactly, he was doing, and then she abandoned thought, opening up to the sheer delight of it, arching under him, her fingers clutching at the cushions in an effort to make this new pleasure last and last, and then toppling over suddenly, and with force, her climax rippling through her, wave after wave after crashing wave.