A Night With the Bride (3 page)

“Well aren’t you a petulant little creature,” he said. “What was that for?”

“Sheer amusement—mine, not yours.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I thought I told you to stay away.”

“You did, most certainly. Then
you
approached
me
this morning—which changes the rules a bit, does it not?” She lifted her chin a notch. “I wasn’t likely to stay away, anyway, so you can stop looking so tortured and disagreeable.”

Yes, he thought, the damn dare she’d accepted. How could he possibly forget? He was nothing but a game to her, a victory to be won.

Despite his annoyance, he fell just short of pushing her away. Perhaps it was curiosity, or boredom, or both, but her bold emerald glare and ripe, dewy lips fascinated him. He wanted to taste her, fuck her, tear open her soul and sample that as well.

The woman was pure, undiluted temptation—a potent brew of wit, intelligence, naiveté, and raw, erotic beauty. Just the sight of her off balance, slightly breathless, heated his blood.

Still holding her, his swelling cock pressed against her belly, he whispered in her ear, “I told you last night that I wouldn’t let you go so easily. I meant it.”

The smile faded from her lips, and she swallowed. “A gentleman wouldn’t make such a threat.”

“A lady wouldn’t press her luck, as you are clearly determined to do.”

More than anything, he wanted the taste of her on his tongue, in his blood, her scent pumping through his veins. He released her wrists and shifted his weight off her, then flicked his chin in the direction of the chaise lounge. “Sit down.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You knew what you risked by coming here, Miss Weatherfield. Sit down or leave.”

Perhaps he was wrong to push her, but he was angry that she’d seen something he’d worked so hard to keep concealed. His obsessions, the rituals he was compelled to perform, couldn’t be revealed to society. If anyone discovered the truth, his business ventures, his seat in Parliament, his sister’s marriage prospects…everything he’d worked so hard to build would be threatened.

She didn’t hesitate, which astonished him. Not even the obligatory three-second pause, which women of breeding were wont to take. With a challenging look in her eye, she moved to the chaise lounge and sat down, perched on the edge of the cushion. Prim and proper in her pale pink morning dress and white slippers.

“You must think I’m mad.”

“Yes, completely.” She didn’t even flinch. “And don’t attempt to deny it. No man cares so obsessively about the state of his breeches. No
sane
man, that is. And as for the lock on the door, well, what sane man is ever that thorough? None, I tell you.” She lifted her hands. “So there it is. You are a paradox of complexities.”

She was blunt. He liked that.

“I was uncivil last night.”

She tapped a finger against her chin, contemplatively. “You need not fear on that score, Your Grace. I will see that you suffer for it—I do have my duties to uphold as a lady, after all. What credit would I be to my sex if I did not see you sufficiently disciplined?”

Impertinent little minx. His lips twisted, imagining all the different ways he wanted to discipline
her
. Tilting forward, he cupped the back of her head and pulled her close, his lips hovering just inches from hers. She stiffened against him, her hands flattening against his chest to push him away, but she didn’t.

He pulled away. “Lean back.”

She blinked up at him, her lips plump, ripe, her cheeks flushed. “Why?”

He shook his head and brushed a thumb across her cheek, absorbing the silky softness of her skin. She was perfection. “You will do as I say, or leave. The choice is yours.”

S
he was going to hell. That was the long and short of it, the plain, unadorned truth of the entire matter. And God help her, she didn’t care a whit. There was just something about Nicholas Montgomery that tugged at her soul and refused to let go.

Drawing in a strengthening breath, she leaned back, not at all relaxed as she attempted to appear. “Well,” she said. “What is it you plan to do with me?”

He keeled and flashed a wicked grin, then pulled her foot onto his lap. Tugging her slipper off, he caressed the arch of her foot. Strong, powerful hands kneaded her toes, and she instantly started to relax, her muscles unclenched, and the tension slowly eased.

After several long moments, he placed her foot on his shoulder, his hand skimming boldly up the curve of her calf. His touch was gentle, feather-light, and it sent tingles of pleasure rushing through her.

“From the moment I saw you, I wanted to possess you,” he said in a barely-there whisper that trickled down her spine and spread like fire through her veins. “I wanted to spread your thighs and watch you come.”

Oh, yes, he was wicked, indeed. His words had the most unsettling effect on her body. Everywhere he touched, she burned, ached, and tingled all at once, and she found herself wanting more. So much more.

She shifted as his hand traveled up, gathering her skirts around her hips. Gently, he rolled her white silk stockings down, one by one, exposing her calves to his hungry gaze.

Embarrassment swamped her. No one except her maid had ever seen her unclothed, and his intense scrutiny made her want to squirm.

“
Christ
, you are so beautiful,” he said.

Leaning down, he kissed his way up her calf, to the inside of her thigh, making her shiver. Then he kissed the very center of her, sliding his tongue along the seam of her sex. “Oh,” she said, her body curving off the chaise lounge. “What on earth are you—?”

Her words were cut off the moment he slid his tongue
inside
her. A rush of heedless pleasure washed over her on the first thrust of his tongue. Sweet mother in heaven, she hadn’t any idea, truly! Threading her fingers through his thick hair, she tugged him closer. Her hips arched, then lowered, and then arched again with each rhythmic stroke.

“Nicholas,” she panted. “God, yes.”

Then he sucked her—
hard
—where she needed him most. Her thighs fell open wider as the first violent tremor swept over her, stealing her breath. Then it came again, stronger, twisting through her like a gathering tempest. It was pure, undiluted pleasure so intense, she feared she’d perish beneath its powerful, crushing force.

And still he continued, until he’d wrung out every last whimper from her trembling body. She slumped against the backrest, spent, reeling. He didn’t give her time to recover. He yanked her up onto her feet and positioned her to face the large, mahogany desk.

From behind, he slowly inched the hem of her gown higher, until her backside was bare to him. She felt vulnerable, exposed, completely at his mercy. A thrill of excitement rushed through her.

“Bend over the desk.” His voice was thick, rough with desire. She hesitated a moment, unsure. “Trust me,” he said gently.

Licking her lips, she bent over the desk, her palms pressed to the parchments that littered the glistening surface. From behind, she heard the rustle of fabric, then seconds later, his hot shaft was pressed to her backside.

He leaned over, and bit her earlobe gently, the hard length of him digging into her sensitive flesh. “This is what you do to me, Gabriella.” With his hand, he reached between them and nestled the length of his shaft lengthwise against the cleft of her backside. “This is how desperate I am for you.”

Reaching around, he touched the sensitive part of her that ached and throbbed. Swirling gently, slowly adding pressure, until she began that hot, desperate climb toward ecstasy all over again. His hips moved against her, thrusting his shaft up and down her backside in short, clipped bursts. With each thrust, he applied more pressure until she couldn’t hold on anymore.

All at once, her body burst into a thousand pieces, liquid heat rushing through her like a tidal wave. She sagged onto the desk, her legs too unsteady to support her, as he thrust once more, then stilled. A low, guttural groan escaped him, and he fell forward, hands braced on the desk, his body curved over hers.

“Don’t move,” he said, as if she could do such a thing.

Cheek pressed to the parchments, she didn’t have the energy to move. He shifted off her, and she heard him remove his cravat, then felt the material against her backside as he cleaned away his seed. Tossing it aside, he smoothed her skirts back over her legs and pulled her up to stand in front of him, supporting her weight in his strong arms. He smelled like wood smoke and man, a heady, masculine blend that made her feel safe and content.

With the crook of his finger, he titled her chin up and kissed the tip of her nose. “God, Gabriella, what have you done to me?”

“I’ve done nothing,
Your Grace
.” She spoke his title playfully, unsure precisely
what
to call him.

For the first time, she felt free of restriction, reckless, and it was Somerset who’d given that to her. He made her feel vibrant and alive. He made her feel desired.

He studied her for a moment, as though enough focus would reveal the answer to his question. When no answer was forthcoming, he set her away from him, at arm’s length.

Clearing his throat, he placed his hands behind his back. Something had shifted. In the span of a heartbeat, he’d become cold, distant, formal. “You should go before you are discovered alone with me.”

Odd, that hadn’t been his concern three minutes ago, when he had her bent over the desk!

She smiled stiffly, though pain sliced her on the inside. Was he turning her away, now that she’d given him what he wanted? “The door is securely locked. I believe you saw quite nicely to that.”

His eyes narrowed at the mention of his ritual. He moved to the door, unlocked it—once—opened it, and glanced out into the hallway. “It’s clear. If you are quick, you can escape detection.”

Snatching her slippers and stockings off the floor angrily, she put the slippers on and stalked toward the door. “Good day, Your Grace.” She smiled sweetly. “May you rot in hell.”

He deserved that.

As Gabriella walked out the door, the tightness in his chest intensified. What in the devil was the woman doing to him? From the moment he’d clapped eyes on her, he’d been haunted by her wild, whimsical beauty. And her scent…Good God, he wanted to bury himself inside her, their limbs tangled, their tongues entwined. He wanted to possess her in every conceivable and
in
conceivable way possible.

And it wasn’t just physical. Something about her bold honesty ensnared him. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t have to hide, not from her, and it was…freeing.

Still, he would do well to keep his distance. She already knew too much about his oddities. And women, God knew, could be scornful creatures. One false word, and his secrets would be plastered across every gossip rag in London.

Cecilia Blair, his former fiancée, had taught him that hard lesson.

He’d loved her, had trusted her with the truth, but in the end she’d abandoned him. Like his mother and father before her, she couldn’t accept that part of him that was irrevocably broken, and the reality of that had hit him hard.

Whiskey, the good stuff, sat in a decanter on a side table. He poured himself a healthy dose, then moved to the window. Below on the lawn, the rest of the guests practiced archery. Gabriella stood out in her pale pink morning gown as she quickly walked from the house, toward the group. He watched her intently. The way she moved was magical, the confidence in her stride, the subtle twitch of her hips…she was so damn delectable it hurt.

With sharp, clipped movements, she snatched a bow and arrow from a waiting servant and moved to stand in front of one of the available targets. In seconds, she fired off three horribly misguided arrows. Her form was atrocious. How had she’d made it to womanhood without learning how to hold a bow and arrow properly?

When one of the other guests, Mr. Russell, moved to stand beside her, Nicholas’s gaze sharpened. The man’s hands rested on her shoulders, his mouth lowered to her ear intimately.

“Can you smell me on her, you bastard?” Nicholas muttered as he stormed out of the library.

Outside, the weather was calm, beautiful. He strode across the manicured lawn, past the countless servants, past the confused guests, and came to stop directly behind Gabriella and Russell. They didn’t notice.

“Now, you pull the arrow back like so…,” Russell said in her ear. The bastard would pay for that later. “And release…”

The arrow hit the outside rim of the painted wood target.

Gabriella jumped up and squealed, clapping her hands together gleefully. Such joy. Nicholas scowled, angry that he hadn’t been the one to coax it out of her. That smile, God, it could light cities, illuminate the darkest parts of a man’s soul. Instead, he’d only earned her disdain—disdain that he rightly deserved, he reminded himself.

“I’ll take it from here, Russell,” Nicholas said, stepping forward.

Russell whipped around quickly, his eyes wide. “Your Grace.” He stumbled over the address anxiously. “Apologies. We thought you’d retired…that is to say; we hadn’t expected to see you…”

…
for the duration of the party.
He didn’t need to say the words. Nicholas knew what he was thinking. It was what they were all thinking. Nicholas smiled. “Archery happens to be a favorite pastime of mine.”

“Yes, of course.” Russell stepped aside easily. “If you’ll excuse me…”

As soon as Russell moved away, Gabriella glared at Nicholas. She’d remained silent until then, which was a small miracle in itself. But if her rigid posture was any indication, she was angry as hell, and dying to give him a lashing. That, perhaps, wouldn’t be a terrible idea. A lashing could be quite appealing with Gabriella wielding the whip.

He raked his gaze up her body, taking in her slim waist and the gentle flare of her hips. His eyes caught on her pert, perfect-in-his-palm breasts and he smiled.

“Don’t even
think
about it,” she snapped.

His lips twitched. Counting, the obsessions…they weren’t something he could control. A thought usually formed, then the action followed. One didn’t count for the simple joy of it.

Still, he thought he might have some fun with her.

One, two, three…

“You’re doing it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, plumping up her breasts with the motion. “And I demand you stop this instant.”

She was magnificent when she asserted herself, he thought. “What am I doing?”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Your lips were moving!” She leaned forward and whispered harshly, “You were counting my breasts again.”

He chuckled. “I hardly need to count them, kitten. Or don’t you remember my tongue exploring their ripe, delectable peaks last evening?” He took a step toward her. “Perhaps I should refresh your memory.”

Her cheeks flushed a beautiful rose-petal pink and for a moment he was struck by her wild, unadorned beauty. She was extraordinary—beautiful, intelligent,
genuine
. Never before had he met anyone quite like her, and he had the sudden, inexplicable urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her here, in front of everyone.

With a huff, she plucked an arrow from the leather quiver beside her, spun toward the target, aimed, and released the arrow. The ferocity of her shot was commendable. Her aim, however, was far less impressive. The arrow launched high into the air, arched over the target, and ripped Mrs. Carson’s bonnet straight off her head, then landed in a patch of grass on the other side of the lake.

“Oh!” Gabriella winced. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Carson!” She turned to him, deflated. “I’m quite terrible at this.”

“It was an atrocious hat. Killing it was a mercy.”

She looked like was going to either laugh or cry, he wasn’t sure which. He hoped it wasn’t the latter. Weeping women frightened him like nothing else on God’s green earth. If he had
one
weakness, that was it.

As one of the servants ran to fetch Mrs. Carson’s hat, Nicholas stepped forward. He snatched the arrow out of Gabriella’s hands. “I’ll take that.”

“That’s mine!” She reached for the arrow.

When she stepped forward to snatch at the arrow, he grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around to face the target. He placed the arrow into her hands and adjusted its position. “Allow me to instruct you.”