Once Upon a Wedding Night

The kiss was a furious meshing of lips. Nick did not know at what moment it became a mutual exploration, but his punishing kiss altered, became a desperate fusion of lips and tongues that tasted, savored, discovered. He marveled at the hunger that filled him. And beyond that there was feeling, emotion—two things long dead to him. Or so he had believed.

He wanted to crawl inside her. His hands slid to her back, her waist, her buttocks. He lifted her against him, kneading the firm cheeks as he pressed her softness into him as tightly as their bodies would allow, rubbing his erection against her heat. A perfect fit. But it would never be enough. Not until he was inside her.

And that could never happen. He needed to get rid of this woman, to rid himself of these feelings and banish her from his life. Not take her to bed.

The kiss ended as abruptly as it began. He shoved her from him and stood with legs braced apart, hands clenched upon her waist as though he had to hold her there and force distance between them. Battling the frustration he felt for giving into the lust for a woman he found objectionable on countless levels, he slowly dropped his hands.

He had spent too many years vilifying his half brother to long for the bloody man’s wife. It didn’t matter that the marriage had not been consummated. It didn’t matter if she had loved Edmund or not. She had been his wife.

And of course there was the not too small matter of her deception.

She stood still as marble, a perfect image of scandalized virtue, one hand pressed to her lips as if they were afire. Those big, childlike eyes. Her wide, pale face. Everything down to the smattering of freckles on her nose added to her appearance of innocence and made her deceptions all the more galling. He felt like ten kinds of fool, knowing she had played him false.

And he had gone ahead and kissed her anyway. He must be losing his edge. Or his mind.

“Pardon my lack of control.” He waved a hand at her person. “Perhaps you should dress.”

She glanced down at herself, gasped as if just realizing her near nudity, and scurried to don a robe. She hastily belted the sash about her waist, calling attention to the lush flare of h*ps from a rather small waist. Nick closed his eyes as though in pain. This woman was made the way a woman ought to be. Somehow she had escaped the notice of other men, but he suspected that would not remain the case here in Town. Lady Derring would zero in on her assets, and that body would no doubt be shown to advantage. A deep ache filled his chest, almost as intense as the ache in his trousers. He wondered if he could stand to witness it.

“Are you ill?” Her hand, feather soft, touched his forearm.

He shook it off and stepped back as if her touch burned. And for all intents and purposes it did.

Her touch burned a fire through his blood right to his gut.

“I wish we could erase what just happened, but since I can’t we will put it behind us and pretend it never occurred.”

“Oh.” Unmistakable hurt flickered in the dark green of her eyes before quickly vanishing, replaced once again with her cool reserve.

“Don’t mistake this for anything but lust. That’s how lust works. Even people who hate each other can experience lust.” He spoke harshly, determined to convince himself as much as her.

“Well, that is a relief,” she replied, the coolness of her gaze carrying to her voice. “I did wonder how I could return the kiss of someone I so detest. Thank you so much for the lesson. I have not had much experience in this sort of thing and would not want to come across as too callow for my future husband. To kiss someone I admire will be a delight and something to look forward to.” She raised her chin a notch. “But don’t forget that you were the one who instigated the kiss, not I. In the future, please keep your distance. It won’t do for me to dally with the likes of you while I hunt for a proper husband.”

He nodded somewhat approvingly. The kitten did have claws.

“You have my word. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. “I have heard the last on this hair dyeing nonsense?”

“My hair is mine to do with as I see fit,” she snapped.

He deliberately ignored her indignant words. “Just as long as you understand that you will leave it be.”

“I didn’t want to dye it in the first place,” she snapped, an adorable vision of pique with her arms crossed over her chest, her br**sts pushed enticingly forward. “But if it was my choice, you couldn’t stop me.” She jabbed a finger in the air.

“So long as you do as I say,” he called over his shoulder, imagining her face reddening in further aggravation. “Until you’re wed, you will obey me.”

He was out of the room before she had an opportunity to retort. Something crashed against the wall behind him, and he heard a muffled exclamation as he strode away, satisfied at having delivered the last word.

Chapter 16

“I look like a blueberry.”

“You look lovely. The color complements your dark hair,” Meredith assured Portia, who, dressed in a gown awash in ruffles and flounces every conceivable shade of blue, did look a bit like a blueberry. Lady Derring, however, insisted it created a soft, sea foam effect.

“I wish I was a widow, then Grandmother would dress me more like you.” Portia eyed the clean lines of Meredith’s peach gown enviously. “She has set notions of how a debutante is supposed to dress, and nothing I say can sway her.” Portia twisted a handful of ruffles at her slender waist in a gesture of distaste.

“Speaking of your grandmother.” Meredith inclined her head to the dowager bearing down on them with the ferocity of an invading army.

“Is there no God?” Portia sighed. “She’s got Teddy with her again. I do believe she has already selected him for your future husband.”

“Isn’t he a bit young?” Meredith asked, taking in Lord Havernautt’s soft, boyish features and eager countenance. Lady Derring, after whispering in nondiscreet tones that the viscount was quite well set, had been throwing them together all evening. He handled Lady Derring’s meddling and patent maneuverings with such good grace that Meredith admired his temperance.

Still, he did seem callow and his conversation a bit limited. His frequent references to Mother were a touch alarming. Hopefully, he wasn’t a man tied to his mother’s skirts.

“He’s twenty-six. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Then there should be no concern on that account. He’s a good age for you.” Portia’s eyes widened. “Unless you’re angling for a husband with one foot in the grave?” She tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Now there’s an idea with merit. Then you would soon be free again. Although best make sure his pockets are deep or you’ll be right back on the auction block.” Portia nodded her head in sudden decision. “You’re quite right, Meredith,” she announced, as if Meredith had voiced agreement. “I think I shall look to some of our elderly gentlemen. That way I should only have to suffer the shackles of marriage for a short duration.”

Meredith slapped Portia’s arm lightly with her fan. “I would rethink that plan. He’ll probably live to a hundred and you’ll waste your youth nursing him.”

Portia wrinkled her nose, the action jiggling her spectacles. “With my luck, you’re right.”

Conversation ceased as Lady Derring arrived, the young man in tow. “Meredith, Lord Havernautt is a marvel at the keys. You must join him in a duet.”

Meredith cringed, certain that caterwauling in front of so many respected members of the ton would do nothing to further her matrimonial goals. “I am really not an accomplished vocalist.

Even my father, upon hearing my voice, forbade me joining the church choir for fear it would deter attendance.”

Lord Havernautt laughed heartily at her anecdote.

Lady Derring didn’t so much as crack a smile. “Nonsense.” She beat her cane on the floor authoritatively. “I was just telling Lord Havernautt what an accomplished young lady you are.

Besides, some musical diversion before dinner is just the thing to prepare the palette.”

More likely her voice would sour stomachs to food permanently. Meredith took one look at the dowager’s implacable expression and knew arguing was pointless. With doom settling heavily on her chest, she accepted Lord Havernautt’s arm and shot one last helpless glance over her shoulder at Portia.

With as much grace as she could marshal, Meredith accompanied Lord Havernautt to the pianoforte, feeling curious eyes already trained on her. Lady Derring banged her cane.

“Attention! Lord Havernautt and Lady Brookshire have chosen to honor us with a duet.”

From across the room, Aunt Eleanor’s eyes met hers in startled dismay, her face quite pale at the prospect of Meredith breaking into song. Meredith tried not to groan as the elegantly clad men and women assembled closer to the pianoforte, breaking out in a smattering of polite applause.

Their faces reflected courteous anticipation. The doom in her chest grew heavier as she stood beside Lord Havernautt. Together they perused the available selections of sheet music. She didn’t recognize the selections and guessed them to be more modern, popular songs that had not reached Attingham. Finding no familiar hymns, they settled upon an old country ballad Meredith vaguely recognized.

Lord Havernautt began to play, his fingers moving over the keys with smooth expertise. She missed her start. Polite enough not to comment, he simply trilled back to the beginning. Finally, she gathered her nerve and opened her mouth.

Her voice wavered and trembled uncertainly, wobbling and cracking on the air until she launched herself into song. She sang with aplomb, if not skill, shattering the high notes and strangling the low ones until she mercifully reached the end. Face flaming, she executed a curtsy for the obligatory applause. Meredith avoided eye contact with anyone, knowing she sang wretchedly but could do without seeing the ridicule in everyone’s eyes. She dared a glance at Lady Derring. The old woman looked positively sick, a greenish tint to her features. She had tried to warn her. Perhaps the old dragon would heed her in the future.

“Bravely done.” Lord Havernautt gave her arm an encouraging squeeze as they made their way back into the crowd.

She smiled in gratitude. “I warned you I was truly awful.”

He grinned boyishly. “And you certainly were.”

They both laughed, and Meredith acknowledged that she could befriend him. A novel thought.

She had never befriended a gentleman. Perhaps marrying a friend marked the best way to achieve matrimonial accord. She would never mistake herself in love, never be fool enough to risk her heart. Furtively, she slid him a considering glance.

He was young, yes—and his weak chin disappeared into his neck—but he appeared affable and even-tempered. Safe. She suspected he would be easy to manage and not demand too much of her, namely her love and obedience. Could Lord Havernautt be the husband she sought? Could she have found a suitable candidate the first evening out? She supposed the only way to find out was to put him to the paces and test him with her list of criteria.

Unbidden, the memory of Nick emerged. Her face grew hot as all thoughts of friendship fled.

There was nothing safe about him. The memory of his kiss never loomed far—in fact kept her awake at night. He had awakened desires and yearnings she never knew existed. Too bad friends did not inspire those kinds of feelings. Yet introducing desire into a marriage was in direct opposition to her criteria. Criteria she had set forth for the express purpose of protecting her heart.

“May I escort you to dinner, Lady Brookshire?”

“That would be lovely.” As guests began to file into the dining room, she searched for Portia, curious which escort Lady Derring had foisted upon her. Meredith scowled when she finally caught sight of the girl… and her companion.

 What was he doing here?