Ruthless Charmer (18 page)

"I now pronounce you man and wife . . ."

She heard nothing else, just felt his hand on her cheek, the brush of his lips against hers, his soft sigh on her lips. And when he raised his head, Claudia saw the glimmer of something deep in his black eyes, too deep—for a moment, he seemed almost vulnerable. He took her hand in his, put it in the crook of his arm and covered it protectively with his own, and led her down the aisle as music lifted from the strings of the quartet.

Oh, Lord.

It was done.

But it was only beginning.

During the wedding breakfast, the weight of reality began to seep into Claudia's marrow. It wasn't just the gold band that felt foreign and unnatural on her finger. Nor was it the guests who politely acknowledged her new status by addressing her as Lady Kettering. It was him.

Not that Julian had uttered a word to her, other than to tell her that Sophie would be staying with Ann and Victor for a fortnight. He had offered this in the course of the carriage ride to her father's house on Berkeley Street and had waited patiently for her response. But Claudia had not found her voice quite yet, and he had at last turned his attention to the window.

He had hardly spoken to her since, but it didn't matter. His mere presence was overpowering. He chatted easily and gaily to the many people who congratulated him, acting as if this had been an event they had wanted to occur. Perfectly charming, relaxed and witty, his presence filled the space around her, pushing her into a corner. As the afternoon wore on, the consequence of her folly weighed heavier and heavier. She belonged to him now.

And he touched her. Since the moment they had been pronounced married, he had touched her freely—her hand, her elbow, the small of her back. This was not something she was accustomed to—her father had never been one for displays of affection and what little she got, she had forced. But the feel of his fingers on her elbow, his hand riding her waist, was too . . . comforting. It frightened her. If she allowed him to lull her into a false sense of security, he would wound her in the end, she was certain of it. He would eventually tire of her, eventually seek his pleasure elsewhere, just as he always did.

And there were words. "To the health and happiness of my young bride," he had toasted, "I pledge my undying respect and honor." A woman sighed; Arthur Christian applauded the earl poet, and Julian smiled into her eyes as he touched the rim of his flute to her own. She had to remind herself that they were just words, said to please the guests. Yet her stomach had fluttered wildly.

And now they were alone.

Alone and apart in the massive Kettering House on St. James Square. When they arrived, old Tinley showed her to her new suite of rooms, and there she had remained, staring out the window at the gray day, the rain-soaked courtyard gardens, and the wisps of smoke rising from chimneys across the London skyline.

Having paced restlessly in front of the hearth of the master suite, Julian stopped and glared at the clock on the mantel. Eight o'clock. Four hours now since she had followed Tinley up without a word, presumably to change and join him. He had not actually said that to her, but he thought she would have understood it. Like it or not, it was their wedding day. What did she intend, to mope about in her rooms until the bitter end?

He pivoted on his heel, strode toward a small brass cart, and helped himself to a whiskey from the crystal decanter there. He wasn't exactly new to feminine moping. With four sisters—any one of whom may have locked herself in her room at any given time—he was quite accustomed to waiting out such episodes. But not this time—he was too impatient, too unsettled by the rapid succession of recent events.

He should have kept her longer at Redbourne's, kept her occupied, he thought wryly as he sipped the whiskey. But he had been anxious to be away from the prying eyes watching closely for any tear in the facade or any other sign that the scandal had not quite ended. And he had actually felt sorry for Claudia—she had been a bundle of nerves all morning, a shadow of her usual self, starting at the slightest touch and shrinking from the good wishes of Redbourne's fifty or more guests.

Redbourne, that idiot! The man held his position with the king in higher regard than he did his daughter! For the sake of appearances he had invited fifty guests to what should have been a quiet ceremony for the immediate family and hosted a wedding breakfast to rival that of any wedding in the best of circumstance! Not once, not once, had he heard Redbourne say a kind word to Claudia or show her even a modicum of sympathy. No, he had been too concerned that the wedding seem as planned and proper as was possible and that not one untoward piece of gossip reach the king's ear.

Well, Julian had done his part all right, and it had been one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life.

It was unnerving, to say the least, to utter the words that bound him to a woman for the rest of his life, particularly when that woman detested him. But that rather uncomfortable sensation was nothing compared to the raw emotion at seeing her on her father's arm in that silver gown—exactly as she had appeared that night almost two years ago.

It had rocked him to his core, thrown him off balance, made his insufferable desire for her surge to the surface. It was all he could do to keep from gaping in wonder as he had watched her glide down that aisle, her large blue-gray eyes fixed on him. When Redbourne handed his daughter over to him for all eternity, he had seen the bewilderment in her eyes . . . and his heart had ached for her.

It still ached, he thought, and downed the rest of the whiskey. The ache was different now, however, having spread through him like a cancer and making him want to claw his way out of his skin. Seeing her so subdued, he had longed for the old Claudia, the bright star in the ton's galaxy. The woman who could rattle a man with a mere smile, the woman who had captivated him in France. But that Claudia was gone, perhaps forever destroyed by this marriage. There was no idea he could conjure that he thought would entice his bride into this marriage.

But he owed it to her to make the best of this predicament—it was the least he could do for having ruined her life. That meant ignoring the reasons why she despised him, pushing Phillip as far from his thoughts as possible. He had to show her that they could live peacefully with one another.

Starting with a quiet supper on this, their blasted wedding day.

He knocked on her door an hour later, having sent for wine and a light supper. There was no answer; Julian opened the door and walked into her rooms. The only light came from a small fire in the hearth that cast huge shadows on the walls. On a table set directly in front of the fire were several covered dishes, a bottle of wine and two wine goblets. Claudia stood in the shadows with her hands clasped behind her back, leaning against one wall. She had not changed; the crystals embedded in the folds of her gown twinkled like tiny little stars around her. She was so beautiful.

He stepped across the threshold and shut the door behind him, shoved his hands in his pockets, regarding her just as warily as she regarded him. "That's a beautiful gown. I remember the first time you wore it."

Claudia's expression did not change. "Yes, well, there was no time to commission another one."

"It was a compliment. You were as beautiful then as you are today," he said, watching her breast rise with a very deep breath. "I believe it was the night of the Wilmington Ball."

"Yes," she murmured faintly, "the Wilmington Ball. Papa was quite perturbed that night because I danced with one gentleman three times. He was positively apoplectic."

Redbourne hadn't been the only one. Phillip had monopolized her all evening, evoking a rare envy in him. "It was a long time ago," he said, and inclined his head toward the table. "I thought you might be hungry. Shall we dine?"

Claudia glanced at the covered platters. "Oh." She pushed away from the wall and moved slowly to the table, perching stiffly on the edge of a chair. "I_. . ._ I don't know what you like," she muttered, lifting a cover.

"It doesn't matter," he said, and moved to take the other seat. He reached for the wine, filled her glass, then his. Claudia did not look at him; she forked some roast beef from one platter onto a gold-rimmed china plate, and followed it with a helping of boiled potatoes. With a shy glance beneath her lashes, she handed him the plate.

He took it, watched her fork two potatoes onto another plate, then suddenly set it down. "I can't do this."

Julian paused, lowering the goblet from which he was about to drink. "You are not hungry?"

"No, I can't do this!" she cried, gesturing at the table and the room. "I can't pretend, Julian!"

"No one is asking you to," he said evenly, placing his goblet on the table.

She dropped her gaze to her lap. "Tell me, please, what do you want from me?"

What did he want from her? To look at her one day and not feel such insane longing. "I grant you our marriage is not ideal, but it is hardly hell, Claudia. I understand how distressing today's ceremony must have been for you—"

"Humiliating," she suddenly interjected, and came abruptly to her feet. "You cannot imagine how humiliating!"

And perhaps he could imagine it very well, he thought, watching her pace in front of the hearth. "I am terribly sorry this has been so humiliating for you, but unfortunately there was nothing I could do."

"Yes, so you have said, Julian. Believe me, you have made it quite clear how unfortunate this is for you."

He had no idea what she meant by that but did not like the tone of her voice. "I don't like this any more than you do—"

"But it's not the same for you! You weren't forced into this,
I
was! I am your chattel now—I might as well be a fat old cow!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" he snapped, and stood abruptly, raking a hand through his hair in exasperation. "You are not my chattel, Claudia—ah, to hell with it. I won't argue something so foolish. Look here, what is done is done, and I do not intend to dwell on it."

"Meaning?" she asked, folding her arms defensively across her middle.

"Meaning," he said, planting one elbow on the mantel and peering sharply into her face, "we are quite married now, and you might as well accept that fact, because God knows, it will go easier on us both once you do!"

"Oh, I've accepted it, my lord," she said low. "Just as my father said—I have made my bed, and now I am lying in it. How could I possibly accept this folly any better than that?"

"I would suggest, madam, that your petulance is not helping matters in the least," he muttered irritably.

"My petulance?" she exclaimed indignantly. "Pray tell, Julian, what would you like me to do? Pretend this is all quite all right? That I somehow wanted this to happen?"

Yet another reminder that she despised him and one he certainly did not need. "Do us both an enormous favor and don't make this any worse than it already is!" he said hotly.

"I could not possibly make it any worse than it is!" she exclaimed. "And don't expect me to make it better for you!"

Cold anger shot through him. Unthinkingly, he grabbed her elbow and yanked her to him. "Don't push me, Claudia," he warned her. "There were two of us in that hothouse, and as I recall, you were enjoying it as much as I was!"

Her eyes were suddenly glittering with fury. "How dare you! Let go of me," she muttered angrily, squirm-ing in his grasp.

"Not until I am damn good and ready," he responded through clenched teeth, and jerked her hard into his chest, crushing her in his arms as he quickly descended to devour her luscious mouth. She struggled fiercely, tried to push his arms away. But then something happened—her struggle was suddenly filled with an urgency he fully understood. She opened her mouth beneath his, and he thrust eagerly into the warm recess, mimicking another, earthier motion. He drew her lip between his teeth, savoring every nip of her plump flesh. And then her hands were around his neck, pulling his head down to hers as she pressed her lithe body to his, against the hard shaft of an arousal he had not felt in months—years.

Then suddenly she stopped, tried to turn her head away from his, and he felt the tears on her cheeks. He dragged his mouth across her cheek, to one blue-gray eye, then pressed his forehead against hers. "It doesn't have to be so hard, sweetheart," he murmured raggedly. "Don't .. . don't make this so hard for us. It's our wedding day, and I want to make love to you. I want to bury myself deep inside you and feel you wrap yourself around me. I want to give you pleasure you have dared not dream of and I would that you want the same. Let me love you, Claudia."

With a soft whimper, she closed her eyes. "No," she whispered helplessly, and her hands began to slide from his shoulders. "It will only hurt us in the end, don't you see?"

Julian caught her wrists. "Yes. I won't let it hurt us," he insisted. "Just let me love you." He lowered his head again, before she could protest, brushing her lips gently, touching her with the tip of his tongue, skimming the seam of her lips. He let go of her wrists, sliding his hands to her back and the tiny row of buttons there. She didn't resist him; she grasped the lapels of his waistcoat and clung to him. And when his hands slipped underneath her gown to touch her back, her lips parted with a soft sigh and she met his tongue with her own, thrusting boldly into his mouth. Mother of God.

Her tongue was like a flame, licking and tantalizing him beyond reason. The fire ran like a river to his groin, building to an unimaginable heat. He pushed the gown from her shoulders, his fingers gliding over her satin skin, down to her waist as he kissed her more deeply.

He abruptly lifted his head; her eyes were glittering like gems, their color almost deep water blue. Her lips, swollen from his kiss, were as red and as plump as summer berries. He dropped his gaze to her breasts, drew an uneven breath. They were partially covered by a chemise that clung to her; hardened nipples jutting against silk from two perfect globes. Brushing the pad of his thumbs across them, he felt them stiffen even more as her fingers curled tightly into his arms, and he hoped to high heaven he would have the strength to hold himself until it was right for her.