The Heir and the Spare (26 page)

Forcing himself to go slow, he began to move inside her. With each thrust she murmured “more” and moved her hips with his, each time bringing him closer and closer to his release. But not yet.

She began to writhe almost frantically beneath him. It was all he could do to hold on a little longer. Her heavy breath echoed in his ear and whorled around his heart slamming in his chest. She dragged her fingertips down his back. With a handful of her red hair, he turned her to kiss him, dragging his mouth across her cheek while slipping his hand between them, pressing upon the swollen bud of her sex.

He thrust harder into her, farther into her. Emilia felt as if she was going to explode. She was dizzy. She simply could not get enough air, even though she was panting for it. Because now, now,
oh
. Reality, everything, suspended, and wave upon wave of pleasure stole over her.

Devon felt the vibrations of her soft cry of pleasure all over. He felt her contract around him. As she bucked up, he couldn’t control his movements any longer. With one last, deep thrust, he, too, climaxed, groaning into the little nook at her neck and shoulder.

He collapsed on top of her and rolled onto his side, bringing her with him. With their arms and legs tangled, they lay still, catching their breath and waiting for their pounding hearts to return to something resembling a steady beat.

Devon
awoke the following morning, annoyingly alone in his bed. This had better be the last morning that he would wake up without her. He idly rolled onto his side and looked at the clock. He swore upon seeing that he had overslept and his wedding was to start in an hour. Getting out of bed, he thought he could not be blamed for oversleeping after last night.

Within a few hours it would be official, but in his heart she was already his. And so with a level of excitement that he had not anticipated, he shaved and dressed. He whistled while tying his cravat.

And then there was a knock at the door.

A messenger handed him a letter and said it was urgent. The note bore the Cliveden seal. Devon opened it with a feeling of dread deep in his stomach, unable to imagine that it bore good news.

Devon’s mouth pressed into a grim line. He had known this would happen, and sooner rather than later. He knew it on the journey from America, where each day he stared out at the ocean and wondered if he would arrive too late. He knew it while at Cliveden, during all the failed attempts at conversation and failed attempts to convince his father that he was not his twin. He had known it, in a far corner of his mind, while he pursued Emilia. She was more important then. And now?

And now the clock was ticking. For all he knew, he might be too late already. Without another thought, he opened the door and walked out.

The wedding was to take place at ten o’clock. At quarter to, Meg helped Emilia into her wedding gown. Emilia braced herself, ready to feel pinpricks as it slid over her head. But it was finished and it fit her to perfection. The fabric was a white satin. The bodice was modest, the skirt full, the train begging to be tripped on. Her engagement ring sparkled and dazzled in the morning light, and she wondered if she would ever get used to its weight upon her hand. The final touch was a lace veil that covered her face and obscured her vision.

And now, all done up, she had nothing to do but wait.

She wished her father could be there. She had, of course, sent him a letter upon her engagement (leaving out just how exactly it had come about). But it was impossible he had received it and traveled to England in such a short time. She was sure he would be proud of her, and that he would give his blessing to this match.

She moved to the window, recalling how Devon had climbed up last night. It had been completely romantic. Not to mention what had happened once he was in her bedchamber. She sighed with a smile. Now she hoped to catch a glimpse of him as he arrived.

She saw Lady Stillmore descend from her carriage in a violet silk gown. The vicar arrived. She watched as Annabelle, in a mint green gown, arrived with George by her side. Juliet and Lord Knightly followed behind them. All the guests had arrived, but the groom had not.

At that moment, Emilia desperately wished she could go downstairs, rather than wait alone in her room. She could not even sit, lest she wrinkle her gown. But as the moments ticked by, her nervous energy propelled her to lift her skirts and pace across her room, from the window to the door and back again. He was late.

Memories from last night flooded her mind, and suddenly her corset felt as if it were laced far too tight. Lady Palmerston’s explanation, as graphic as it was, did not do justice to the absolute magic of the real thing. And to think—they would be married, and they could do it as often as they wished, and without the fear of interruption from a chaperone. Or would they? The clock struck ten; the ceremony was due to start, and Devon had still not arrived.

Emilia moved away from the window, thinking of the proverb that a watched pot never boils.

In the drawing room, all the guests passed the time by chatting and laughing at their attempts to get the bride and groom to this moment. But as the minutes clicked by, their conversation became strained. The ceremony was supposed to have started fifteen minutes ago.

“Where is the groom?” Juliet asked, the only one daring to give voice to the question on all of their minds.

“I’m sure he will arrive at any moment,” George replied.

“I sure hope so. I’m famished. But what if he is going to jilt her? And after she has gotten a new dress and everything?” Juliet continued.

“I think the dress would be the least of her concern in that case,” Annabelle said, adding, “But I’m sure we needn’t worry about that.”

“Right. That will not happen. He will be here momentarily,” George said forcefully, hoping he had not overcompensated. He was nervous. Though he knew Devon cared for her, Devon had been practically forced to marry her, what with all their schemes. George felt a twinge of guilt. He had helped to engineer those schemes, and he felt wretched for his part, especially now if Devon was having second thoughts. Or had decided not to go through with it at all.

There was a collective sigh of relief when the groom arrived a few moments later. George, noticing the grim expression on his face, hurried over and pulled him aside.

“Is everything all right?” George asked quietly.

“No. But I don’t want to explain now,” Devon replied firmly. He took his place next to the vicar.

When Emilia finally heard a knock at the door, her heart fell with fear. What if it was someone to inform her that there wouldn’t be a wedding after all? She took a deep breath, or tried to, considering how tightly her corset was laced. She did, however, manage a small sigh of relief when it was Groves on the other side of the door. They wouldn’t send the butler to inform her that she had been jilted.

“It is time, Miss Highhart,” the butler said, his voice as even as it had ever been. Did the man not realize that this was the last time she would ever be called Miss Highhart?

She paused at the top of the stairs; visions of her tripping over the train of her gown and falling to the bottom were far too vivid. She turned to Groves behind her, the question in her eyes. He merely nodded, his cheeks turning a faint pink, and he offered his arm.

Gathering her resolve, and mercifully with someone to hold on to, they started down the stairs, and then into the drawing room where her groom was waiting.

Funny, Devon thought, how everything else could simply melt away until there was only her. Suddenly, his whole life was this moment, and nothing else mattered at all. Funny how it could feel so right. She walked toward him, and his smile broadened, seeing her determination not to make a single misstep. She arrived at his side and smiled up at him, a sweet, shy curve of her lips. Devon reached out and held her hand in his, with a slight squeeze promising he would never let go, nor let her do so.

The ceremony was short. Vows were said. Rings were exchanged. The vicar managed to say, “And you may now . . .” but Devon did not give him a reason to finish. He swept his bride in his arms, giving her a kiss that turned her cheeks pink. He silently said another vow:
I will always try to make her blush like that.

The guests laughed and applauded at that kiss, as much with joy as relief. After all their hard work, they had finally gotten them married, and were apparently happy about the fact.

Amidst laughter and congratulations, they all strolled to the dining room for the wedding breakfast. After the champagne was poured, Devon raised his glass. “I would like to propose a toast,” he said, standing. “I must thank all of you for your, shall I say, efforts to bring Emilia and me together.”

Everything laughed at that. Scheming machinations was more like it.

“And I will continue to be thankful each day that I spend with my beautiful wife.” Wife. That was the first time he had said the word out loud. He glanced down at her, and she was gazing up at him, almost as amazed as he was at that word.

“It took quite a lot of effort, as you say, to arrive at this moment,” Lady Palmerston said. “And I am most pleased. Emilia, I know your father would be as well.”

“I wish my chaperones would make such efforts on my behalf,” Juliet said, with a pointed look at her brother. “Perhaps, Lady Palmerston, you could chaperone me for the rest of the season,” she said excitedly, her brown curls bobbing around her face.

“I would be delighted to,” she replied as George groaned.

“I don’t think that is a good idea. While your methods of chaperoning worked splendidly for the happy couple, I would prefer that my sister adhere to more conventional methods of becoming betrothed.”

“Don’t be old-fashioned,” Knightly scolded. “We gents don’t propose anymore. We just allow ourselves to get caught.”

“Well said, Knightly,” Lady Stillmore replied.

Devon, in spite of the news he had received that morning,was truly enjoying his wedding. But his mood and expression darkened as talk turned to George and Annabelle’s recent honeymoon. He glanced at the clock, and then at Emilia. He would either have to abandon his new bride, or whisk her off to the deathbed of his father and near the clutches of his brother. Even he knew that neither of those options was in the realm of romantic, nor the most promising way to begin a lifetime together. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he wanted her by his side.

“I can’t believe we’re married,” Emilia said once they were alone in Devon’s carriage.

“Me too, dear wife.” He put his arms around her shoulders, and she snuggled up next to him. Their mouths met for a kiss. Without fear of being caught, and knowing they had all the time in the world, this kiss was slow and gentle, with every second savored. Reluctantly, Devon pulled away.

“We have to talk,” he said, answering her questioning expression. “I received a letter this morning. My father had another attack and they fear it is his last. I have to return to Cliveden. Today.”

She nodded.

“My brother will be there.”

“What am I to do?”

“My brain tells me to make you stay in London. My heart wants you by my side. But I will leave the choice up to you.”

Phillip crushed the letter in his fist and leaned back into the pillows. He pulled the covers up just past his waist. A most obliging maid beside him asked, “What is it, my lord?”

“You may go now,” he said, his voice mechanical.

She nodded, slipping out of bed and donning her clothes. Quietly she slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

After the wench had gone, Phillip unfolded the letter and read it again.

Phillip reached for the flask at his bedside and took a long swig. His father would probably be dead by the time he arrived. Feeling oddly numb about it, he picked up the other letter that had also arrived.

Phillip drained the rest of the flask and chucked it across the room. It clattered against the wall and landed on the carpet with a muted thud. His stomach burned, the sensations intense and all the more unbearable because he had to admit it was not from the brandy alone.

Miss Highhart—well, he supposed she was Mrs. Kensington now—had become a sort of obsession to him. The more she rejected him, the more he wanted to possess her. It was one thing to lose a prize to someone else; it was another to lose her to his identical twin. Thus it wasn’t his face that hadn’t won her, and his title hadn’t made any difference. She simply did not want
him
. Damnation.

He wanted to get rid of his damned twin. He wanted to give the chit a taste of what she had given up.

In a matter of hours, days at the most, he would be a duke. This thought consoled him.

Phillip rang for a servant. When a footman appeared, Phillip told him to have the carriage ready in an hour, as well as his horse. He was going back to Cliveden to claim his birthright and send his brother away, once and for all, broken and empty. With the title, and with his brother gone, he would be able to secure another heiress, and then everything would be perfect.