The King of Threadneedle Street (33 page)

Aggressive men like Andrew lived for the thrill of conquest. Her mother had made a living on prolonging the mystique and knowing when to break ties before it faded. Alysia should know better than anyone that romance was only worth its weight in gold.

Though subconsciously, Andrew only wanted her because he couldn’t have her. She had always known that, but perhaps offering herself on a silver platter had finally hit him over the head with his mistake. The only surprise was that the disenchantment came so soon.

Of course he cared for her, and no doubt he wanted her, but Andrew had always been true to his sense of vision. It’s what made him a millionaire. That same discipline stopped him now from doing what could not be undone — perhaps she should think of it as plucking a lit fuse inches from the bomb.

The silence meant he didn’t know what to do about all the lovely things he had said to her only minutes ago.

With her eyes closed, she listened to his even breath. Should she steal his sheet and salvage her pride by leaving the room? She swallowed, resisting the tight ache in her throat signaling tears. He inhaled to speak and she almost cringed, waiting for the words that would well and truly shatter her heart beyond repair—

“I just had an idea. Let us marry tomorrow. Today. As soon as the Montegues can come. By the time my father gets word of it, you will already be of age.”

She blinked, silently replaying his words.

“Please say yes, Lisa. I can wait another day, but not weeks. Go ahead and joke about my loutish carnal appetites, but I truly want to put a ring on your finger and call you Lady Preston.”

The universe imploded then settled back into orbit while she realized the past few minutes had been all her fears and insecurities riding a runaway horse. Shameful, how quickly she had forgotten her decision to trust him.

She simply had to rid herself of her
Alysia versus the cruel fates
attitude. What a mistake it would be to miss her chance with Andrew because she feared the risk.
Trust him.
She felt lighter with the resolve, and it made room for hope.

He had no idea she had suffered trauma while he was plotting their wedding; no sense in telling him. Once she was confident in mustering a genuine smile, she said, “Yes, very well,” then burrowed into his chest, afraid of bursting into tears.

Andrew laughed, sounding half mad, but she understood. Years of pain, longing, humiliation, despair — and now this, the extreme opposite. She could hardly believe it herself.

Chapter Twenty

Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come,

In your and my discharge.

The Tempest,
William Shakespeare

Alysia didn’t recall feeling sleepy, but when she woke, sunlight peeked through the west windows. No wonder she had slept the day away; Andrew’s bed seemed to be made of clouds from Saint Peter’s own nursery.

“Good, you are awake.” She startled at Andrew’s voice. A mess of papers crowded the desk opposite the bed, but he wasn’t there. The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of the bed flipped the counterpane away. She squeaked and grabbed it back. “There is just enough time for a bath before our guests arrive.”

She gathered the sheet under her arms and looked around the room for something to use as a robe, not sharing his apparent lack of modesty.

“Where are you going?”

“You said you wanted to bathe.”

“Yes.”

Inexplicably, Alysia felt herself flush as she comprehended his meaning. It shouldn’t have affected her, considering her behavior earlier that morning, and since she would be married in a matter of hours. Or was that minutes? “You must have a rather large tub, to fit two.”

“Not really.” He wrestled her onto her back and nibbled a ticklish spot between her ribs and hip.

She squealed and shouted, “All right, you troll!”

He gathered her in his arms and carried her through the bedchamber to where a bath was already drawn in the renovated garderobe. He sat her in the steaming water, and she breathed a long
Ohh
as she saw the view from the rock-framed tower window; a rose garden in full bloom framing the courtyard wall, thick forest and rolling hills beyond.

“Oh, Andrew,” she breathed. “It’s lovely here.” She twisted her hair into a knot at her nape and glanced around the circular room, renovated to join the solar and garderobe into one large bathing room. The fixtures were modern and luxurious, but he had left the stone unplastered and the original vaulted ceiling beams in place. Rustic, charming — conjuring again the impression of living in a fairy tale.

Andrew slipped in behind her, spilling water over the edges. She settled and laid her head in the crook of his neck. He dunked a cake of soap in the water then rubbed a thick lather in his hands. She hissed in surprise as she learned it was for her.

She stole the soap and took her sweet time coating his chest and arms with a thick layer of suds, then lost a wrestling match when he staunchly refused to lift his arms. She pretended to give up, but as soon as he stretched and hung his arms over the edges of the tub, she ducked to tickle the ribs under his arms. His violent shudder and ridiculous boyish chortle confirmed her suspicion — he was ticklish.

“How is it I never knew this?” she taunted as she trailed her fingertips over his ribs and waist, searching for another ticklish spot. He jumped again as she grazed lower. “Hmm. Interesting,” she cooed, and tried it again.

“Stop that, woman.” He trapped her wrists and attempted to look stern. “We should be going. The Montegues will arrive soon.”

“Are we in such a hurry?” she shook her wrists free then slid her hands over his chest.

“Yes.”

She dragged her fingers slowly downward. “Truly?”

He hummed and shut his eyes. “Hmm.” That meant he surrendered.

She liked him this way; helpless, unaware of the gruff, erotic noises he made and the scandalous oaths he muttered¯

Abruptly he snapped out of the trance and tucked her against his chest, burying his face in her hair as he panted for breath. “Careful, love.”

She sighed at the sound of his chocolatey bass voice in her ear. It vibrated every nerve along her spine. She didn’t think she would ever grow immune to the effect.

“Save your strength for our wedding night.” He grabbed the toweling and rose, hauling them both to their feet.

She found herself staring at him again, his jaw dusted with his afternoon whiskers, a lock of hair draped rakishly across his forehead, his eyes like obsidian, reflecting the light through the window. Fascinating, the illusion of a metallic sheen to his wet skin, his muscular back in motion as he knelt to dry her with the toweling. He worked his way up, not missing the opportunity to tease her with it, then wrapped it around her shoulders and kissed her forehead.

“I have never been so happy, Lisa.” He kissed her mouth next, lingering to tug on her bottom lip. “Marry me.”

“Hmm. Let me think about it.”

He spanked her on the rear.

“Oh, all right. If you insist.”

With Marsden in London on business and Alysia without a maid, they had to fend for themselves. Andrew dressed her with such aptitude, seeming to know all about stays and garters and how to lace a corset. It made her jealous, but she said nothing.

He fastened the hooks at the back of her dress, and heard her thoughts, apparently. “You are the only woman I have ever fallen asleep with. I like waking with you in my arms. I wish…”

She turned and saw his expression hardened with regret, and she knew he wished she had been the only woman in his bed, ever. “Don’t worry, Drew. I will make you forget them all. You will not even recall their names when I am through with you.”

“Forget who?”

“Precisely.”

He laughed and unrolled his shaving kit on the bureau with the fold-up mirror, leaving the vanity desk for her. She sat to brush her hair. The disturbing topic had closed, but in the mirror she saw him watching her reflection, a raw edge in his grateful expression. She winked as though to say,
It
is all right, truly.
He winked back.

Distractedly she watched him scrape away his whiskers and finally understood why women were so fascinated by it. Before she had thought it silly, hearing ladies swoon over the manly rite of passage. A man’s whiskers, evidence of his wild nature giving way to civility; a woman might think she is taming him.

Afterward, Andrew went to speak with Lord Devon, who had just arrived, and Alysia had time alone to think. She sat trying to make sense of her hair when a soft knock sounded on the door, followed by Lady Devon’s smiling head through the crack. “Alysia! We came as quickly as we could! I sent all your things from Rougemont, but where are the lady’s apartments?”

Alysia didn’t want to admit she had no idea, having been in Andrew’s rooms during their rather short engagement. She embraced Lady Devon, and Lady Chauncey followed, shooting her a bright grin. She scolded, “That dress will never do,” then turned and gave orders to a chambermaid in the hallway.

Alysia imagined the country-born maid rifling through her trunk and puzzling over the variety of lacy French underclothes. “I wonder what she will come back with. She must have no idea what you mean.”

“Exactly, which is why we are here. You have no lady’s maid yet, so we will have to suffice.” Lady Chauncey paused to scrutinize Alysia, her shrewd gaze missing nothing. A satisfied smile spread on her lips, and Alysia felt herself heat. Good heavens, why was it always so obvious? Lady Chauncey turned her around and made quick work of the hooks on her dress.

“And we don’t have much time to make you into a bride.” Lady Devon gathered Alysia’s loose hair. “Lady Preston. Countess of Preston, Alysia Tilmore,” she said proudly. “There. Now you may be shocked,
before
your wedding. I hadn’t thought of being called
Lady Devon
until after my wedding, and the first felicitation sent me into a stupor. Lady Preston,” she repeated. “How wonderful!”

Alysia smiled back. “Yes, it is.”

As it turned out, the bewildered chambermaid brought the entire trunk. Lady Chauncey made selections and hummed in approval. “For an unmarried woman, you keep a satisfying toilette,” she said as she whisked Alysia’s chemise over her head.

Alysia was grateful she replaced it quickly with another. Alysia had seen her reflection in the mirror after her bath. Most obvious were the faint red love bites on her neck, and subtle rashes in unmentionable places from his whiskers.

She supposed it was the blissful, drunken feeling she had floated on all day that Lady Chauncey had sensed almost right away. Yes — Lady Chauncey leaned to Alysia’s ear and not-quite-whispered, “Next time, tell him to place the marks where a dress might cover.” She adjusted the lace on Alysia’s shoulder. “You leave me very little to work with, dear.”

“Mama!” Lady Devon scolded, aghast. “Do you
mind
?”

“Oh, Sophia,” she chided. “Not everyone is a Puritan. Settle your feathers. And it was high time, if I might say so.”

Alysia grimaced. She didn’t have the heart to tell the smug Lady Chauncey that Andrew had decided to wait until after the wedding to bed her.

Lady Devon busied herself shaking out the petticoat. “Oh — I don’t judge you, Alysia. Not at all. On the contrary, I am so very happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Alysia looked away, bashful. How strange, having other women to confide in. Then came a revelation: she would never be lonely again. Today was the first of many such days, surrounded by friends and family.

Lady Devon presented a breathtaking silver-gray lace gown, embroidered in seed pearls and silver thread from the neckline to the hem and cathedral-length train. It was the most incredible gown Alysia had ever seen. Undoubtedly it had cost a fortune. A queen would have been impressed.

“Do you like it?” Lady Devon held it up to Alysia’s shoulders. “When you left for Dunsbury a week ago I took the liberty of having it altered.” She beamed. “Just in case.”

Alysia finally understood. “This is
Elise’s
wedding gown?” She paused to avoid sputtering. “It’s exquisite, but I couldn’t
possibly¯
”

“Of course you will wear it. Elise insisted.” They dropped the heavy gown over her head, and Alysia had to either put her arms through the sleeves or suffocate. She stared at her reflection in the mirror while the others worked on the long row of tiny buttons down the back.

“There. And it does fit,” Lady Devon gave a sigh of relief.

“Oh, Alysia,” breathed Lady Chauncey. Alysia glanced at her with misty eyes to see Lady Chauncey dabbing at her own eyes with a handkerchief. “You look so much like your mother. She would be so pleased.”

That did it; Alysia lost control and wept at the sudden longing for her mother. Both of the ladies moved to embrace her, and that was how Andrew found the trio when he came into his dressing room.

Alysia turned at the sound of his entrance and saw his alarmed expression. She gave a wet laugh and assured him, “No cold feet, only a memory. I am nearly…” His expression stopped her heart.

His dark eyes snapped with fire, some emotion affecting him so strongly it shone through in his gaze. “Oh, Lisa,” he said reverently and cradled her face in his hand. “
Lisa.
I — You, ah…”

She had never seen him speechless.

He cocked his head and one corner of his lips pulled upward in a smile. His eyes brimming with tears, he lifted a lock of her hair and pressed it to his lips. “Leave it down, for me?”

Alysia nodded, then accepted the handkerchief he drew from his coat pocket.

“Come quickly.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead while cradling the nape of her neck. Lady Chauncey sighed, and Andrew left the room with three speechless ladies blinking after him.

“He loves you, Alysia,” Lady Devon said. “You are doing the right thing today.”

Lady Chauncey brought them to task. “Well, it is hardly proper.
Pagan
, in fact, but I suppose that hardly matters.” She gathered Alysia’s hair and draped it down her back. “Only our small circle is attending, and we don’t mind. We shall leave your hair down, then. After all, you must please your husband.” The innocent remark seemed loaded with innuendo, which suited Lady Chauncey.