The Wedding Chase (29 page)

They made their way to a small salon at the far end of the wing. After seating Zel on a pastel green settee, he paced before her. “I hope you weren’t enjoying that attack on the ears and mind. I assure you Lady Stafford normally does engage more entertaining guests.”

“Oh, ’twas not so bad. Anyone with a little intelligence—”

“Are you saying I’m without intelligence?” Wolfgang whirled to face her, voice low and harsh. “Well, you wouldn’t be the first or last.”

“I never said—”

“I don’t care what you damn well said. I can see the cogs turning in that bloody bluestocking mind of yours.”

“Wolfgang, I—”

“You, my father, and all the cursed scholars.” He leaned over her, eyes sparking like flint on steel. “I’m not stupid.” He straightened, stalking to the small plastered fireplace.

Zel moved silently behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever is wrong?”

He shrugged her hand off, but she remained close at his back. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, with an almost wistful quality to it. “Nothing. Old memories. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I jumped on you.”

She touched the sleek, black hair lying against his neck. He twisted, moving into her hand like a cat being petted. Lifting her fingers, she traced the bolt of silver at his temple, studying his rugged profile. “No one would call you anything less than brilliant. Your sharp humor, your grasp of
philosophy and politics, your knowledge of music, all show the fine mind behind those inquisitive eyes and thoughtful brow.” Her fingertips trailed across his forehead, outlining the arch of his eyebrows.

He turned fully to her, his chest grazing her breasts, his eyes glittering, hot and bright. “You wish to comfort me?”

Zel stepped back, lowering her hand to her side. “I …”

“You?” Wolfgang prompted, matching her step.

“I—” she took another step backward, sucking in a breath, “think you no longer need comforting.”

He smiled, the dimple cutting his cheek, and edged his foot forward. “Oh, but I do.”

She slid two more steps away from him, her back hitting the wall. “No …” She lurched toward the open room.

His hand shot out, meeting the wall above her shoulder. “Yes.”

Zel leaned back, squarely braced where wall joined wall. His other hand stretched out, cornering her securely. He rolled into her, thighs, hips, stomach, and chest, slowly, gently pressing against the length of her. The tingle started at her toes, then followed the trail his body had blazed up her own. She swayed, her head suddenly light as the hot air balloons at Vauxhall Gardens. She was held suspended, tethered in her corner, elevated yet grounded by the hard warmth of his body against hers.

Wolfgang pulled away, the tether broken, but instead of floating free her balloon crashed to earth. Her back was not against the wall. She had been leaning into him so far that his sudden movement threatened to unbalance her. Zel flushed hot as she grasped his arms still braced at the wall beside her shoulders. His muscles bunched beneath her fingers as she fought to steady herself.

Only when her balance, if not her equilibrium, was secure did she dare to glance at his face. His grin widened as
his tongue crept out to moisten his upper lip. Lord, if he did not look just like the cat who ate the canary.

“Thank you for the comforting, Gamine,” he murmured, then he swung away from her and was gone.

As the door shut behind him, Zel seeped into a puddle on the floor, limbs thick and heavy as the densest Devonshire cream.

“Damn him.”

The beginning of an excellent day. Wolfgang ran his tongue over his lips and leaned back, as far as he could without tipping, in the high-backed chair. Surveying the empty, sun-streaked breakfast room, he spread jam over his biscuit, licking the excess off his knife. In fact, the last two days couldn’t have gone better. He’d soon have her lapping cream out of the palm of his hand.

The first day it had nearly killed him to be constantly in her company and not touch her. But he was amply rewarded that night outside her bedchamber door. She’d looked at his mouth as if it held such a rare and precious nectar she would die for a sip. He bit into the biscuit, holding the morsel motionless in his mouth, savoring the slow blending of butter, fruit, and bread before chewing thoroughly. It had taken all his restraint, but he had touched her only with his eyes.

He licked the corners of his mouth. Satan’s silk stockings, he could have sworn her lips swelled and reddened at his visual caress.

And the second day. Wolfgang lifted his cup and let the coffee flow through his lips, the sweet, pale liquid gently scalding his tongue. He pressed the burning tip to the roof of his mouth. The “accidental” touching had her first confused, then angry, but lastly hungry. She had rubbed against his body as Hecate would rub against his leg when begging for a special tidbit of food. He would have been happy to find something to her tastes but instead stepped back letting her see the answering hunger in his eyes but allowing neither to gorge. The deliciousness of the eventual feast would grow in tandem with the craving. And he wanted her ravenous.

The only low point had been his tantrum over her slur of his intelligence. But it hadn’t really been a slur. He had just been overly sensitive to an offhand remark. Or maybe he cared a little too much what she thought of him.

The door creaked and a sleek, sable-haired head popped in, hazel cat eyes blinking at him in surprise.

“Gamine, come in and have a bite.” He smiled broadly as he met Zel at the door. “It seems we’re the first up to enjoy this spread. I’ll prepare you a plate.” He took her hand before she could make good the escape he saw in the set lines of her face. Eyes never leaving hers, he raised her hand to his lips, stopping just before contact was made. Then quick as a snake strike he flicked out his tongue, tasting the back of her hand with its tip. She jerked free, anger and something else flashed molten gold in her eyes. Wolfgang’s smile widened as he seated her next to his chair.

“What would you have, my dear?” He bowed as he waved a plate over the sideboard. “Before you is a magnificent breakfast array. Pastries, biscuits, eggs, bacon, and …,” he paused, sighing dramatically, “strawberries and clotted cream.”

“I will have toast and coffee.” Zel sat primly in her mahogany chair.

That stiff back, it was so encouraging. He clucked his tongue. “We’ve a busy day ahead, you must take proper
sustenance, and the Miss Fleetwood I admire is nothing if not proper.” He piled strawberries and cream on a plate, placing dry toast to the side, laying it before her with a flourish.

Zel looked at him with disgust. “I did not ask for strawberries.”

Wolfgang snatched the toast, slathering it with butter and jam. He set the dripping bread back on her plate, deliberately licking the excess jam off the knife.

“You have the manners of a pig.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am.” He speared a cream-covered strawberry from her plate, slid it into his mouth, sighing more deeply than before. “Food fit for an emperor. Try one.” He skewered another berry and popped it into her gaping mouth before she had time to object. He could almost see the thought cross her eyes that she would like to spit it out, but a lady would never display such ill manners at table. He watched her chew and swallow the delightful fruit as if it were a dry stalk of straw. By all the big devils and little demons, she was a stubborn wench.

“I said no berries.” She eyed the toast, cut off a wedge, and tried to lift it as jam oozed over the edge. Catching a drip with his finger just as the toast entered her mouth, Wolfgang smeared the glob of jam over her lips. With careful precision he inserted his gooey finger into his own mouth, sucking it clean, while she dabbed at her lips with a fine linen napkin.

Zel stuck out her pointed chin. “Who let you out of the nursery, little man? You’re not ready to dine with your elders.”

He laughed, putting aside ideas of what he’d like to do with that chin and the ripe lips perched above it, contenting himself in watching her negotiate a truce with the sticky toast.

He poured her a cup of steaming coffee. “Cream?”

Zel nodded.

“Sugar?”

Again she nodded.

Wolfgang stirred. “I like it pale and sweet, too.” He handed her the cup, studying her smooth white skin as she swirled the light brown liquid in the china cup. “I’ll let you eat in peace if you’ll do one thing.”

“Oh?” She looked up, wary eyes half hidden under mahogany lashes.

“Feed me a strawberry smothered in cream, and I’ll leave.”

Zel reached for her fork.

“No, with your fingers.”

“Fine.” She gingerly pinched a strawberry between her thumb and finger, dipping it in the cream, then leaned toward him. He opened his mouth, eyes on the berry making its slow approach. As the berry passed his lips his teeth came down on her forefinger and thumb, trapping their tips in his mouth. Zel neither jerked free nor flinched, but closed her eyes when he relaxed the grip of his teeth, holding her only with his lips as he teased off every trace of clotted cream with his tongue.

Zel rounded the corner, making her way down the western most wing of the monstrously huge mansion, scarcely believing she sought Wolfgang’s company so soon after that strawberry breakfast. But they needed to rehearse. Though he may not care if they made fools of themselves in the performance tonight, she did. Every time she tried to trap him to read his lines he found a way to distract her, but not this time. The butler had looked at her strangely but admitted Lord Northcliffe’s suite was the third on the right. She raised a hand to knock, stopping when she heard a cultured tenor voice read the closing lines to the play. Wolfgang’s deep baritone repeated the lines, hesitating at one point until prompted by the higher voice.

“I believe you nearly have it, Captain. If we review again before dinner, you’ll be ready.”

“Thanks, Jenkins. What would I do without you? Now to find my ingenue lover.”

The door opened before Zel could lower her hand.

“Speak of the devil.” Wolfgang grinned, but he was unusually flushed. “Or should I say angel? What brings you to my door? I could dispense with Jenkins and devise a little tête-à-tête.”

Jenkins hurriedly set down the play script. “Sorry, Miss Fleetwood.” He nodded to her before moving from the sitting room to an adjoining room. Rank certainly had its privilege. An earl warranted a sumptuous suite, whereas a mere miss earned a single small bedchamber with her maid far away in the attic.

“I hope I did not disturb your rehearsal.” She stared at Wolfgang, who looked like a boy caught with his hand in the candy jar. “We need to rehearse together.”

“Most certainly, my dear. Jenkins was helping me learn my part.” Color still high, he took her hand, twisting it palm up. Cupping it over his mouth, he breathed deeply onto the gloved skin. Warmth curled in her hand, then his lips were at her bare wrist, and although his mouth only grazed her flesh, his hot breath scorched her, moving in a searing trail up her forearm. He paused at the inner curve of her elbow, the pressure of his lips increasing until she felt her skin being pulled into his mouth. A tingling sensation pooled below her stomach.

Wolfgang smiled innocently and released her arm. “Have I set the mood adequately for our rehearsal, ‘Angelica, my sweet young lover’?”

She willed the tingling to cease, quickly following his lead. “Indeed yes, ‘Wilfred, my heart’s delight.’ ”

“Let’s move right into the final scene. The kiss cannot be perfect without practice.”

“No. The ingenue kiss requires naive freshness.” She had
grown wise to his tricks. “Rehearsal would destroy it entirely.”

“I bow to greater experience.” He bent slightly, but Zel saw the sudden silver spark in his eyes. “Miss Ingenue.”

“Blast it all, Wolfgang, isn’t it a bit early in the day for womanizing?”

Zel whirled about to face the gravelly voice, sucking in her breath at the sight of the man
filling
the doorway.

“Freddie!” Wolfgang answered in a low growl. “
This
is Miss Fleetwood.”

“Oops.” The man stepped into the room. Zel had never felt so small. He scanned her with eyes such a clear blue she half expected to see clouds scatter across them.

“This great oaf is Sir Frederick Ransley.” Wolfgang glared at the big man. “My supposed friend.”

Ransley bowed over Zel’s hand, eyes still following her. “Charmed, ma’am.”

“Sir Frederick.” Zel returned his stare, studying his square sun-bronzed face.

Ransley still wore his travel-stained cloak about his massive frame, and his breathing was labored. “Wolf, I’m on my way through Abingdon to Cheltenham. I need to talk to you.”

“What’s in Cheltenham that has you in such a lather?” Wolfgang reached for the larger man’s arm. “Have a seat, I’ll ring for refreshments.”

“We need to talk, and I need to be off quickly.” Ransley eyed Zel again.

“I am past due for a promised game of battledore with Lady Stafford.” Zel slipped toward the door. “Good day, gentlemen.”