A Night With the Bride (2 page)

He lifted a brow. “You follow me out onto the terrace, alone, your gown enticingly tight, and ask me if I am in the market for a wife.”

She glanced down at her gown and frowned. It was perhaps a
little
tight, but not improperly so. She looked up at him. “I am not in want of a husband, I can assure you—”

“Then what is it you want?”

She stepped forward, her gaze fixed on his mouth, mesmerized by the perfection of his lips. “A kiss.” The words slipped out, a whisper, and she blinked.

Oh, dear God, she’d said that out loud. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out so abruptly.

“Young women don’t make such admissions, and certainly not to men they’ve just met.” He laughed and the rich, heady sound made her heart flutter wildly. “Miss Weatherfield, you are playing a dangerous game.”

She swallowed. “You’re a duke of the realm and trustworthy, by all accounts.” Rumored to be mad as well, but it seemed unwise to mention that just now. “Surely I have nothing to fear from you.”

Again, not entirely true, but she was perfectly safe on a terrace, outside a house that was filled to the brim with people. No harm would come to her, she was sure of it.

“You seem so certain, yet you know nothing of my character.” With every word, he inched closer. She took a step back, then another, until she was pressed up against the granite banister with nowhere to go. “Do you?”

She swallowed. He was so close she could smell the mint leaf on his breath, feel the intense heat of his body. “I have nothing to fear from you,” she repeated, infusing her tone with confidence she didn’t feel.

Something dark flickered in his eyes, and she felt a moment of apprehension. His gaze was intent, predatory, and her body hummed with anticipation.

He brushed a gloved finger down her bare arm, causing tingles to spread in its wake. “Don’t you?”

Yes, perhaps she did. This man was quite dangerous, in all the most tantalizing ways. Those intense blue eyes, that smooth, enigmatic charm, did things to her—wicked, delicious things.

With one step closer, he pressed against her intimately, his lower half pinning her to the banister. He stretched an arm out on either side of her, caging her in. He was all warmth and decadence, all powerful male virility.

In that moment, she realized what had been missing with all those other gentlemen—why she’d never felt compelled to accept their proposals. It was
this
. Unlike the other men, Somerset made her feel vibrant, unrestrained. He made her feel
alive
.

“If you want a kiss, Miss Weatherfield, you’ll have to earn it.”

S
he blinked up at him, all pure, virginal innocence, and Nicholas felt the world shift beneath his feet.

“Oh,” she breathed, and damn if she didn’t look enticed by his taunt. “And exactly how would I go about earning this kiss?”

Christ.

He’d meant to intimidate her, to send her running back to her tittering friends. Young, virginal women were tiresome creatures, quick to take offense, easy to rile. Generally. But there was something quite different about Miss Weatherfield—she was bright, he could see it in her eyes, and her rebellious nature intrigued him.

He’d seen her earlier, laughing with her friends, stealing glances at him from over her fan. And he’d heard the dare. She’d been standing just feet away, and he’d heard every word of it. She wanted a kiss from him.

If she wasn’t careful, she’d get much more than that.

This section of the terrace was concealed by shadows and the placement of a tall potted plant shielded them from view of the house—fortunate, considering what he now planned for the tempting Miss Weatherfield.

He skimmed one hand down the small of her back, cupping her bottom through the fabric of her gown. She gasped but made no move to pull away. He laughed and tugged her more firmly against his pelvis, rocking gently. It was a rhythm her body seemed to recognize, as her pelvis arched in response, seeking more of the powerful friction that sparked between them.

He slid his other hand up and cupped one plump breast. God, she was magnificent. His thumb teased her nipple, and the sensitive nub tightened in response.

Fierce, unrelenting hunger sliced through him.

Craving more, he tugged her neckline down a fraction, freeing her swollen breast from the confines of her gown and chemise. He lowered his head and drew her left nipple into his mouth. Her body jerked in response, her legs nearly buckling beneath her. She gripped his shoulders to hold herself upright.

“God, you taste sweet,” he murmured against her breast, teasing her nipple with the tip of his tongue. Then he opened his mouth and sucked her deep.

“Oh,” she panted, rubbing against him restlessly. “My…goodness…” She threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, her hips arching into him.

Christ
, he wanted her naked, legs spread wide, her channel wet, ready for him. But, God…if she knew the twisted, vile thoughts that ran through his head, she’d run screaming. She would abandon him as the rest of the world had, as Cecelia had three years ago.

Pulling back, his breathing ragged, he shoved himself away from her. He raked a hand through his hair as he paced, attempting to regain what little control he had. His blood burned for her. His cock ached.

Damnation.

He turned to her then, fury pulsing through him. He’d been content enough with his life, resigned to the lonely, isolated sphere it had become. Now, with this slip of a woman, he was quickly losing control.

Her eyes were wide, confused as she righted her bodice and blinked up at him. He grabbed her by the elbow and led her toward the French doors.

“Stay away from me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or next time, I won’t let you go so easily.”

Gabriella stumbled through the French doors and into the parlor in a sort of haze. What she’d just experienced with Somerset was…frightening, perplexing, and altogether
exhilarating
. Her heart still raced. Her blood still hummed from the electricity of his touch. It felt as though her body had been jolted awake from a twenty-year slumber.

When Gabriella reentered the parlor, it was nearly empty. Several gentlemen sat in clusters, talking or playing cards, but every female was gone.

Odd, that.

She’d been outside with Somerset for a quarter of an hour, at most. Where could a dozen ladies have disappeared to—Julia and Mary among them—in that short a time?

Wandering down the corridor, toward the main staircase, she noticed several guests crowded around the billiard room door. Just as she approached, Olivia Dewhurst burst from the crowd, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Olivia!” Gabriella called.

With a whimper, Olivia darted up the main staircase and out of sight. Just then, Julia emerged from the cluster of guests as well.

“Gabriella, there you are!” Julia said. “You missed quite a spectacle—Lord Huntington and Annabelle Croft were discovered in the billiard room clawing at each other like animals.”

Gabriella narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Like
animals
? Really, Julia.”

Julia deflated a little. “All right, perhaps it was just a kiss. But for all the scandal this will cause, they might as well have been tearing each other’s clothes off.”

Indeed, any mildly scandalous behavior was liable to brand a woman a harlot for life. Which was precisely what made it so exhilarating. In Gabriella’s well-ordered, strictly structured life, the threat of danger was thrilling.

Indeed,
one
kiss could ruin a woman, and she’d do well to forget the dare and go back to flirting with safe, respectable,
boring
men who kissed her hand and offered her practiced compliments.

But she wouldn’t. She knew she wouldn’t. Somerset had awakened something within her—a reckless, wanton part of her that she relished. For the first time, she felt alive, excited, and she wasn’t going to let that go, not now.

“Have you been with Somerset the whole time?” Julia’s eyes went wide. “Did he kiss you?”

She could have lied. She and Somerset had been alone, and no one would have known the truth. But
she
would know she hadn’t truly won, and that was enough to keep her honest. “Not yet.” She said. “But fear not, he will.”

Julia pursed her lips, brown curls falling over her temples. “I hope you’re right. Mary is quite certain you will fail, and if you do, there will be no end to her lectures on the subject.”

Half an hour later, the guests had filed back into the parlor. Whispers of scandal and intrigue rippled through the room, and all Gabriella could think about was Somerset. The more she contemplated his abrupt warning, the more she decided he had no right to push her away. She was a woman of her own mind. If she wanted to “stay away” from him, as he had so eloquently put it, then she would make that choice for herself. Somerset had no right to dictate to her.

Gabriella sighed, wishing she were anywhere but in this tightly packed circle of women, evaluating and dissecting the recent scandal to the point of nausea.

“Three minutes more and he would have ravished her, right there on the billiards table,” one of the ladies said.

Another lady chimed in that he would have refrained out of consideration for the elegantly crafted billiards table. He would certainly not risk injuring the fine cloth surface for an illicit tryst, she asserted.

Bored with the conversation, Gabriella scanned the room for any possible mode of escape. She savored a good scandal like any woman, but the memory of Somerset’s tongue on her breast, teasing her nipple, drove her to distraction.

Her eyes came to rest on the man himself. Standing apart from the rest of the guests—as usual—he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. Confidence and power cloaked him. And if she had to guess, she’d have said he was obeyed in all things, always.

Well, she refused to obey his rudely delivered decree. If he thought her a simpering maiden who’d run at the first sign of danger, then he had quite another think coming. She narrowed her eyes.

Gabriella muttered her excuses to the ladies in her circle and backed away. Bolstering her courage, she stalked toward Somerset with renewed purpose.

She stopped directly in front of him. “I am telling you no.” Hands on her hips, she lifted her chin a notch or two. “How do you like
that
?”

His heated gaze raked up the length of her body, a delicious smile playing on the edges of his lips. “I thought I warned you to stay away.”

“You did, indeed.” She smiled. “I decided to ignore your warning.”

His pale blue eyes raked over her once more, catching on her bodice. An unreadable expression passed over his face as he stepped forward.

Reaching out…he touched a finger lightly to one of the delicate lace flowers on her bodice.

“Your Grace,” she said. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

No response. His gaze was fixed on her bodice, his lips moving quickly, counting, as though he were in a trance.

“Your Grace,” she said more firmly. “Are you quite all right?”

He didn’t respond. Indeed, he seemed to be counting the tiny white lace flowers scattered across her bodice. She had a mind to be offended, if not for the fact that he seemed completely absorbed with his odd task.

What in God’s name was he about? If he thought he could ignore her, then he would learn quickly enough that Gabriella Weatherfield was
never
ignored.

One arm crossed over her chest, blocking his view, she motioned to her face with the other in a wide, circular gesture. “My eyes are up here.”

Men! They simply could not be relied upon.

At length, his eyes snapped up and collided with hers. His scrumptious lips were pulled into a firm, unrelenting line, his pale blue eyes narrowed. “Move your arm.”

“No.”

She was going to accustom him to the word if it killed her. And it might do just that.

“Move your arm, Miss Weatherfield.” She jumped at his loud, abrasive tone. Barely contained anger glinted in his eyes. “Please.”

She had a mind to bite something back, but he was close to the edge; she could see it in his posture, in the way he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He wanted to continue whatever it was he’d been doing, and she had the feeling he’d remove her physically, if need be. The man was made of muscle, and God knew he could do it easily enough.

The entire room fell silent, as all eyes shifted to the door where Gabriella stood, mortified. Somerset stared at her, waiting for her to comply. Gone was the easy, flirtatious man she’d encountered just moments earlier out on the terrace. In his place was a man tormented—by what, she hadn’t any clue, but whatever it was, it had shifted his mood drastically.

Perhaps he had been toying with her out on the terrace, or had decided she wasn’t worth his time, after all.

Pressing her lips together, she turned on her heel and walked stiffly out the door.

B
y the time Gabriella woke and dressed the next morning, the breakfast room was all but empty. James sat alone at the far end of the table, reading his newspaper, sipping a cup of coffee.

Gabriella blinked. She had not expected to see him breakfasting so late in the morning, but then, James was rather unpredictable about such things. She’d known him for as long as she could remember. Their families had been neighbors since she was small, until he’d married and purchased a home of his own. He was practically family.

She moved to the sideboard, filled her plate with eggs and toast, and slipped into the empty seat across from James.

“Old man,” she said by way of greeting. Now that they were alone, there was no need to stand on ceremony.

He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving the paper. “Insipid harpy.”

“I need to speak to you about something.” When he didn’t lower the paper, she added, “It’s important.”

“What is it?” he said, his tone only half-interested.

“Put the paper down, will you?”

With a long-suffering sigh, he lowered the paper and met her gaze. “What is it? You have my undivided attention. But be quick about it, will you? I have a dying man upstairs and an article on the rising cost of corn to read.”

Gabriella’s heart seized. “A man is
dying
upstairs?”

“Well, perhaps
dying
is a bit strong.” He sighed. “There was a duel, a guest was shot in the shoulder, and he is going to live. Or so the surgeon says. I’m not entirely convinced, what with the way he’s moaning like a fatally wounded walrus. It’s positively dreadful. I may kill him myself, just to get some peace around here.”

Gabriella made a disparaging sound. “
You
are dreadful,” she said. Thank goodness the gentleman was going to be all right. “Now tell me, how well do you know the Duke of Somerset?”

James’s gaze turned suspicious. “Well enough. We attended Cambridge together, for a time. Why do you ask?”

Yes, why did she ask? Oh, heavens, how to word it…

“I need to…
lure
him, and I was hoping that perhaps you could help me.”

“Lure him,” James laughed. “Like a rat to a trap.”

“I mean only to
kiss
him.”

“What woman means
only
to kiss a duke? You plan to ensnare him, admit it.”

Gabriella waved him off. “I’m not marrying him. I’m simply having a little fun. Mary says I can’t win a kiss from him.” She shrugged. “I say I can.”

James let out a breath and shook his head. “God save us from bored, unattached women.”

“James, please,” she pleaded. When all else failed, resort to flattery. “You could seduce the shroud off a saint, for goodness’ sake. Who else better to advise me than you, the king of seduction himself?” Gabriella grimaced as the words
king of seduction
slipped past her lips.

As far as she knew, his only successful seduction, if one could call it that, was of Margaret, his wife. And even then, it was his fortune, not his charm, that had ensnared her. It certainly wasn’t his sparkling character. The man had absolutely no etiquette and considered drinking spirits a legitimate sport.

But the fact was, she didn’t know any other man well enough to ask. James was the closest thing to a brother she had, which also made him the most qualified to answer delicate, unladylike questions—like, how does one seduce a duke? Surely as a man, he could give her a few morsels of tried-and-true advice.

He sighed again and leaned back in his chair, which meant she’d successfully nagged him into submission.

“Excellent.” Gabriella clapped her hands together. “Now, tell me what you know of Somerset.”

“A great deal more than you care to hear, I can assure you.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, for one, he enjoys his women trussed up—”

Gabriella held her hand up, stopping him. “You’re right, I don’t want to know.”

Never mind that the idea of Somerset trussing
her
up sent heat rushing through her limbs, pooling in the more intimate parts of her body. She forcibly pushed the thought from her mind. No one was trussing anyone up. He would kiss her, and that would be that. “Tell me something useful that will help me attract him.”

James seemed to consider that for a moment. “There is one thing that is sure to get a gentleman’s attention.” James winked and took a sip of his coffee. “But I’m afraid you might be too delicate for the task.”

“Tell me.”

“Slap him hard across the face.”

Gabriella blinked. Had she just heard him correctly?

“You are suggesting I assault the Duke of Somerset,” she said flatly. “A touch extreme, wouldn’t you say? And illegal, let’s not forget that.”

“I’m not a man for subtlety. Few men are, I find.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m getting that sense.”

Gabriella deflated a little. If slapping the Duke of Somerset was James’s only advice, then she was doomed.

“You don’t think slapping the duke won’t, I don’t know,
anger
him profusely?”

The whole idea was preposterous. Worse, she was actually considering his suggestion as a legitimate option. This was the trouble with sheer desperation. It made even the most horrid ideas seem brilliant.

“A French woman slapped me once.” His gaze turned distant and nostalgic. “There is nothing more alluring than a scornful, slightly insane woman wearing nothing but silk stockings and a top hat.”

“I…haven’t the faintest idea how to respond to that.”

He glanced at the timepiece on the mantel. “Oh, dear God, is that the time? I’m late for brandy in the study with…well, it’s no matter.” He pushed back his chair and stood, throwing his crisp white napkin on the table. “Slap the man, and he’s yours for the taking, mark my words. I am never wrong about such things.”

With that, he was gone, leaving her alone to mull over his ridiculous, oddly brilliant plan. No, not brilliant. What was she thinking? She could not, would not, slap a duke of the realm—tempting as it was. It wasn’t even worth considering. She would have to find some other way to get his attention.

Just as she was slathering butter on her toast, someone slid into the empty chair beside her. The solid frame and spicy male scent could only belong to one person.

Somerset.

Did the man have no sense of self-preservation?

After the way he’d snapped at her last night, he was fortunate she didn’t spear him with her butter knife. Though one could not rule such things out entirely. The morning was still young.

Gabriella glanced at him. “Oh, look who it is. The Duke of Mean…ness.” She winced at her own bungled insult. There was just something about this man that threw her completely off kilter. Perhaps it was his stern, calculating stare or his smooth, enigmatic charm. Whatever it was, it scrambled her thinking and set her pulse racing.

He stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “You will forgive me for last night.”

“I don’t see why I should. First, you used me like a human abacus, then erupted into anger—at me—in front of everyone.”

“You have my sincerest apologies,” he said. When she didn’t look at him, he hooked one finger beneath her chin and tilted it up. “I am in earnest. I wasn’t myself. Please forgive me.”

Despite herself, her resolve melted at the sincerity in his voice. She believed he was sorry, but that still didn’t make it right. “I’ll
think
about forgiving you, if you tell me what caused you to lose your countenance. What were you doing?”

A male servant she didn’t recognize slid a plate in front of Somerset. The food was arranged carefully, in precise triangles on the plate, none of it touching. How very tidy.

“Thank you, Larson.”

As the man moved away, Gabriella asked, “Who is that?”

Somerset tucked into his eggs, careful not to disturb the other items on his plate. “My valet.”

“Your valet serves you breakfast?”

Was there
anything
conventional about this man?

“I like the way he arranges the plate. He’s the only one who can do it just so. Even I cannot manage it.”

She watched him curiously as he ate, seeming to count the number of times he chewed each bite. He didn’t notice her scrutiny, or if he did, he made no show of it. “What were you doing last night when I approached you?”

He set down his fork and stared at her intensely. “I apologized, Miss Weatherfield, and that’s where my courtesy ends. Do not pry into matters that do not concern you.”

A sensitive subject, clearly. Which made her all the more determined to pry.

The words were spoken harshly, a reminder that he was a duke and would be obeyed in all things. She smirked. A shame for him, then, that she’d never been particularly obedient.

She tilted her head to the side, not at all chagrined. “Is this another setdown, Your Grace?”

“It’s a warning,” he said.

“Then you’ve underestimated my stubbornness.”

He placed his napkin on the table and pushed back in his chair, then bushed the crumbs from his lap. He paused, uttered a curse under his breath, then brushed his thighs off again, and again—always in the same manner, from the top of his thighs, down, then repeat.

She watched him for several long moments, then said, “I’d venture to say your breeches are clean.”

That only served to frustrate him more as he cursed again and continued to brush off his breeches in clipped, agitated movements—as though there were an invisible
something
he couldn’t manage to brush away.

“You understand you look quite insane when you do that, don’t you?”

He didn’t respond. Indeed, she hadn’t any clue if he’d even
heard
her, so absorbed was he in his odd task. Suspicion slowly started to dawn. A distant uncle of hers had been obsessed with counting, with the number of times actions were performed, or the particular arrangement of items. Disruption of the order would drive him mad, and his only solace was restoration of that order.

Jaw set, lips pressed into a hard line, Somerset repeated the clipped movements over and over. Gabriella felt a pang of sympathy for the strong, virile man beside her. Finally, after five minutes had passed, Somerset stood abruptly and bowed. “Good morning, Miss Weatherfield.”

And with that, he was gone.

She hadn’t even gotten to slap him.

That afternoon, a knock sounded on the library door. Nicholas looked up from his papers scattered across the cherrywood desk and cursed. He’d expressly requested no one disturb him. Business matters pressed on him urgently, and not even a day of rest could be spared.

Not that he wanted rest. Indeed, what had transpired in the breakfast room earlier was proof enough of that. The moment he’d allowed himself a degree of normalcy, the thoughts, the urges, had come surging back. They always did.

Placing his quill in the groove of the gilded inkstand, he stood and strode to the door. After a moment’s hesitation, he unlocked it and pulled it open.

A vision of pure, pink loveliness stood on the other side, and he cursed again inwardly. Just what he needed: Miss Weatherfield disturbing what little solitude he’d managed to erect for himself.

She smiled prettily and pushed the door open further, sweeping past him, into the room. “Is this where you’ve been holing yourself up?” She fingered a scrap of parchment lying on the wide desk. “I see you’ve taken the liberty of making yourself at home. Several of the guests are quite put out, you know. Turns out several of them enjoy reading. I wouldn’t be surprised if they stormed in with torches and pitchforks.”

Morning light filtered in from the large windows along the back wall, making her look ethereal in her pink morning gown, her hair pulled up into a knot, delicate honey-colored tendrils trickling down her temples. She was beautiful, a vision, and when she turned to smile at him, his breath snagged in his chest.

He glanced away quickly. “I have business that cannot wait.”

He turned to close the door, and just as he did, a dark, familiar image swept into his mind—his sister lying in a coffin, dead, her face ghostly white. Panic squeezed his chest painfully and the urge to close the door, lock it—
properly
—overwhelmed him.

Christ
, not again. Not now.

He clicked the door shut and turned the key in the lock. But the overwhelming sense that the door wasn’t secured properly grew heavy in his chest. He unlocked the door, opened it, shut it, and locked it. Then again, and again, and again. Countless times, until the image of his sister faded and the feeling that he’d satisfied his purpose settled over him.

“Are you certain the door is securely locked? Fiftieth time is a charm, you know.”

Her tone was light, flippant, not at all the reaction he’d expected. He usually concealed his oddity well, but the few people who had witnessed it were not quite so…unaffected. Indeed, they were usually quite alarmed by his behavior and regarded him cautiously thereafter.

Gabriella was quite different in that regard. If his behavior bothered her, she made no outward show of it. She was not easily shocked, it would seem, and that facet of her intrigued him.

“Are you always this bold, Miss Weatherfield?”

“Yes,” she said with a self-satisfied grin. “Always.”

With a low growl, he whipped around and pinned her to the bookcase beside the door in one fluid movement. She gasped and her green eyes went wide. Oh, how he enjoyed setting her off balance. Ripe, luscious curves pressed against the hard planes of his body, offering a welcome distraction from the torment. And the astonished look in her eyes was almost worth the invasion into his solitude.
Almost.

Then, she drew her hand back and slapped him across the face.

His head whipped to the side and he smiled. Well, he certainly hadn’t seen that coming. And unfortunately, the shock of it did little to douse the burning need that pulsed through his veins.

With the sting of her hand still throbbing on his cheek, he caught her wrist and pulled it up over her head, then the other. She was now his captive, an image he found acutely tantalizing.