Miss Wonderful (56 page)

She
stared at him. "What is wrong with you? Not my gown. That looks
well enough. It is my hair. I cannot believe you didn't notice. It is
all wrong!"

He
blinked. "Your hair," he said. "You want to call off
the wedding because your hair is not right?"

"Can't
you see? Aunt Clothilde's maid did it, and it is too high on the
forehead, and here are these untidy clusters dangling at my ears, and
it took her forever, and I am stuck with a thousand pins, and there
isn't time to pull them all out and start over again, and I know you
will not be able to concentrate on the service because you will be in
agonies about it, and I will embarrass you in front of your family
and friends."

There
was a short silence.

Then,
"It is the latest fashion," he said. His mouth twitched.

"Oh,"
she said.

"It
would not matter to me if it were the fashion of last century,"
he said. "The only agony I shall suffer is impatience for the
wedding night. It has been a very long time since I held you in my
arms."

"Yes,
it has been tedious and annoying," she said. "A turn about
the park in an open carriage—with half the world looking on and
the other half interrupting to chat-is not very satisfying."

She
drew near to him again and tipped her head back. "We are
entitled to a kiss, I should think."

"To
sustain us through the trial ahead," he said. He bent his head.

The
instant his mouth touched hers, the world came right again. She
reached up and curled her hands about his neck, and his hands came
round her waist. She loved his hands, and the clean, masculine smell
of his skin, mixed with starch and soap. She loved the way his mouth
moved over hers, the light pressure coaxing her to part her lips, and
the taste of him. She shivered and pressed closer, and his hold
tightened.

She'd
felt so unsure, so cold and alone. Now she was warm again, and
wanted. His hands moved over her back, and she sighed with pleasure.
"I've dreamt of this," she murmured against his mouth.
"Your hands, your wonderful hands."

"I've
dreamt of it, too." He nuzzled her neck. "We have to stop."

"Oh,
yes."

He
made a cascade of kisses from the tender place behind her ear to the
neckline of her gown. With his finger, he drew the neckline down and
trailed his finger inside, against her skin. He made another path of
kisses from her shoulder to the very edge of the fabric, over the
upper swell of her breasts. The tender caress of his mouth made her
ache.

She
strained toward him, her hands sliding to the back of his waist.
There was so much in the way. She dragged up the coat, and her hands
slid over the silk waistcoat and down, over smooth wool and the taut
curve of his buttocks.

He
tensed and growled something against her neck, and she pressed
against him. Even through the layers of her gown and petticoats and
his trousers, she felt his arousal. It would be hot there, and hard.

She
remembered that heat thrusting into her, and heat eddied through her
to sink to the pit of her belly. Her mind sank, too, into a deep,
dark place, while the world slid away.

"Don't
make me stop," she begged, her voice low and thick, the words
dragged out between ragged breaths. "I want you inside me."
She drew her hand over the front of his trousers. "Now."

THE
bold caress took his breath away and sapped his will. He lifted his
head and looked at her. Her eyes were smoky blue, half-closed. With
every inhalation he drew in the scent of her, and it clouded and
thickened his mind.

Yet
some awareness remained. They couldn't continue. The wedding. The
waiting guests. He drew back and tried to catch his breath and regain
his balance.

She
advanced, tugging at the bodice he'd disarranged. Her breasts
swelled, pearl smooth, above the lace. She slid her hands over them,
down over the dainty waist, and down further, over her hips. Her
fingers tightened on the skirt, and she dragged it up. His gaze slid
down to the soft kid slippers, and up: the white stockings…
the pretty turn of her ankle… the perfect curve of her calves.

He
backed away another step, and she advanced, drawing the gown up
higher still, nearly to her knees. A little more, and he'd see the
misshapen, upside down heart, so like her, turning his mind and
heart, his world, topsy-turvy.

He
shut his eyes. No. The wedding. The guests. Waiting.

He
backed away another step, and struck something, and stumbled
backward. He came up against the wall, but his bad leg gave way, and
down he slid, onto the carpet.

And
before he could think of rising, she was there, standing astride him,
her skirts still gathered in her hands. She was looking down at the
front of his trousers, and her mouth curved into a wicked smile.

She
reached up under her gown and untied her drawers, and down they fell
onto his belly. His cock, hardly affected by the fall, stood at
attention.

Down
she came, onto her knees, her femininity mere inches from his eager
member.

He
slid his hands up her sweetly rounded thighs, over garters and the
tops of her stockings, to the soft skin. He trailed his fingers over
the curve of her belly, the smooth place just above the feathery
curls. She uttered a low moan and moved against his hand. He let his
thumb slip lower, where she wanted, and stroked her, though his hand
trembled and his mind was a wild place, all need and animal instinct.
She was so near, warm and ready, the tender place under his thumb so
soft and dewy.

He
felt her tremble against him. She pushed his hand away, and rose a
little, and grasped his rod, and eased herself onto him, slowly.
"Oh," she said, and it was half-moan, half-sigh. She bent
to him then, and he reached up and caught her, his fingers dragging
through the thick, wild curls, and brought her down, brought her
mouth to his.

"You
are in command," he murmured.

"Yes."
.

He
felt her smile against his mouth. She lifted herself, and came down,
and his mind went black. Nothing left but feeling, heat coursing
through him as she rose and fell, as he rose and fell with her,
slowly at first, then faster and faster… until she reared up,
and let out a cry, and shuddered, again and again, as she took him to
the pinnacle with her, to a burst of fiery brilliance. Then they fell
together into a sweet, cool darkness, and her mouth found his again,
and she breathed, "I love you."

"I
love you," he answered hoarsely. "My wonderful, wicked
girl."

IN
the drawing room of Hargate House, Captain Hughes took out his pocket
watch and frowned.

Mrs.
Entwhistle, standing beside him, dug her elbow into his ribs. "This
is not the Royal Navy," she said in a low, disapproving voice.
"Our lives are not run by the clock. Six bells for this. Three
bells for that. Haste, haste, haste. Must not lose a minute."

He
put away his watch and turned his frown upon her. "I had
supposed that even a pair of civilians might contrive to be on time
for their own wedding."

He
most certainly would be on time for his, if he could ever persuade
this lady to look kindly upon him. That, he calculated, given the
present rate of progress, would take a few years. He hoped his teeth
and hair would not fall out before then.

"They
are but a few minutes late," she said. "There was a
difficulty. But Mr. Carsington promised to sort it out and told us to
go on ahead."

A
moment later, the buzz of conversation dulled to a murmur. The groom
strode to his place before the minister, his groomsman joined him,
and the drawing room doors opened to reveal the glowing bride,
leaning on her father's arm.

She
was more than glowing, Captain Hughes observed. She was flushed, and
her hair…

His
gaze went to the groom—the famous dandy who came down to
breakfast dressed to the inch, whose idea of dishabille was a silk
dressing gown instead of a coat worn over his usual silk waistcoat, a
freshly pressed shirt, and a starched neckcloth tied in knots so
complicated that even the most experienced seaman must regard it with
mystification and despair.

This
was the man who'd declined Oldridge's hospitality on one of the worst
nights of the winter and ridden two hours to Matlock Bath in an ice
storm. All because he hadn't brought a change of clothes with him.

At
present, Mr. Carsington's hair appeared to have recently survived an
Atlantic gale. His neckcloth was crooked, the knot so simple that a
seven-year-old midshipman, half-blind, with one hand tied behind his
back, could manage it.

Captain
Hughes smiled. He had no idea what the difficulty had been, but he
could guess how the bridegroom had sorted it out.

"What
are you smirking at?" Mrs. Entwhistle whispered.

"I
am not smirking," he whispered back. "I am smiling benignly
upon the happy couple."

"You
are smirking. I can guess why. It is bad of you to notice."

"You
were her governess," he said. "I must wonder what you
taught her."

To
his delight, the widow's cheeks turned pink. "Lionel, you are
incorrigible," she said.

Lionel.
Oho. Perhaps not so many years after all.

"Dearly
beloved," the minister began, and they fell silent, turning
their attention thither.

LORD
Hargate had waited what seemed an intolerable length of time for the
ceremony to begin. He had heard of the bride's balking even before
the bridegroom did. Yet his lordship had chatted amiably with his
guests, then taken his proper place in the drawing room at the
scheduled time. He had stoically remained in that place while the
minutes ticked by, while paternal instincts urged him with increasing
shrillness to hasten to his third's son rescue.

Consequently,
he drew a deep sigh of relief when it appeared that Allistair had
handled the crisis on his own. Lord Hargate did not question the
means of persuasion employed. He was a politician, after all.

All
the same, he did not breathe easy again until the ceremony ended.

Then
he glanced at Mr. Oldridge, who gave him a conspiratorial smile. For
all his absentmindedness and preoccupation with matters botanical, he
had managed to discern the lightness of this particular match.

The
earl turned to his wife. "Well, Louisa?" he murmured.

"Well
done, Ned," she said under her breath. "Very well done,
indeed, my dear."

Yes,
it was well done, Lord Hargate thought. One bachelor son safely
shackled. Only two more to go.

Afterward

ON
2 May 1825, royal assent was received for "An Act for making and
maintaining a Railway or Tramroad, from the Cromford Canal, at or
near to Cromford, in the parish of Wirksworth, in the county of
Derby, to the Peak Forest Canal, at or near to Whaley, (otherwise
Yardsley-cum-Whaley) in the county palatine of Chester."

Among
the hundred and sixteen members of the Cromford and High Peak Railway
Company was a woman, the Dowager Viscountess Anson.

The
railway, which opened in 1830, was considered one of the most
remarkable and daring building feats of the age.

Joseph
Priestley, author of Historical Account of the Navigable Rivers,
Canals, and Railways of Great Britain (first published in 1831),
called it a "grand scheme, for passing such a mountainous tract
of country."