Her Prodigal Passion (18 page)

Bloody, deuced, buggering
hell
. He had to resist the urge to drag his hands though hair that his valet had slaved over for the occasion. That and bolting straight out the double doors. Toward freedom and then ... what? The question stopped him in his tracks.

Where would he go? What all important business did he have to attend to?

What better place did he have to be ... than here?

Here, facing his responsibilities and his future as a man.

Here, surrounded by his family and friends.

Here, waiting for the girl—no,
woman
, for surely their embraces had proved her as such—whose quiet charm and sweet loyalty held the promise of purpose and stability, and, aye, mayhap even happiness.

Beneath his dove grey morning coat, his heartbeat suddenly calmed. The urge to flee subsided. Two simultaneous facts struck him: he did indeed have the deuced jitters … and he'd just faced them down like any rational man would. He, Paul Fines, had acted
sensibly
. The relief was sharp, cooling. Mayhap his problems weren't as incurable as he believed. Mayhap with Charity's steady influence, he could change for the better.

He would work to keep Sparkler's afloat. He would train hard, win the Fancy's Championship. He would prove to everyone—himself included—that he wasn't an imposter, but the genuine article. A winner in every respect.

The doors parted, and Paul's breathing hitched. Not from panic this time, but ... wonder.

Christ above, what had happened to Charity?

A collective murmur rose from the audience as she entered the room. He blinked, yet the enchanted creature did not vanish, though she seemed fully capable of doing so being made of moonbeams and flowers, her eyes sparkling with all the shades of magic. This nymph of forest and stream ambled toward him, her lustrous, wavy hair threaded with gilded leaves, her complexion as dewy as a snowdrop at dawn. Her gown swirled with gentle sensuality around her sylph-like form, and his heart began to drum in a wild, primitive rhythm.

Was this truly his bride?

She arrived at his side. "Hello, Mr. Fines."

At her greeting, tinged with the sweetest uncertainty, he knew that she
was
his Charity. For all that he'd been fascinated and aroused by her hidden depths, he'd never envisioned her quite like this. It wasn't a transformation, precisely—more a revelation of who she was. A peeling away of layers. She still wasn't classically beautiful ... she was so much more.

Radiant, inside and out.

"Hello, sweeting," he said in awe.

Hearing a grumble, he wrenched his gaze from his bride to the man on whose arm she'd floated in. If he needed further proof that this faerie princess was indeed Charity, then the troll at her side confirmed it. Uriah Sparkler's expression was as black as his ill-fitting coat. He looked prepared for doomsday rather than the happy occasion of his daughter's marriage.

"Are we ready to proceed?" the minister asked.

Paul's eyes returned to Charity, and her shy nod banished the rest of his concerns. Whatever future they faced, they would face it together. He took her hand, and her fingers linked with his.

Clearing his throat, the minister opened his leather-bound Common Book and recited the fateful words.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of these witnesses, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony ..."

EIGHTEEN

The wedding ceremony and breakfast passed in a heady blur for Charity. Though her habit was to avoid attention, for once she didn't mind the felicitations and compliments on her good looks. Partly this was because these were offered by her dearest friends, but mostly it was because she didn't occupy center stage alone. Her husband stood at her side. At times, she was tempted to pinch herself to make sure that it wasn't a dream.

But, no, she didn't imagine the warmth of his hand at her waist as they stood together receiving the guests. Or the way he'd leaned halfway through the breakfast to whisper in her ear, "Have I told you how beautiful you are, Mrs. Fines?" Any lady less sensible than she might have swooned and landed face first in the asparagus soufflé. As it was, her cheeks flushed to the degree that Mr. Bellinger, one of her husband's rakehell friends, cried out, "Demme, the bride's blushing, and it ain't even the wedding night yet! Always said you were a lucky dog, Fines! A toast—to your good fortune!"

With so many toasts and farewells—including a tearful hug from her bosom chum and a stiff nod from her father—it was past noon by the time she and Mr. Fines changed into their traveling clothes and boarded his carriage for their weeklong wedding trip. Luckily, their destination was only a few hours away; as a wedding gift, the Kents had offered up a stay at their cottage located in the picturesque Berkshire countryside.

Charity barely noticed the passage of time for Mr. Fines entertained her the entire way with his clever wit and amusing anecdotes. He seemed to take special delight in bantering with her. He managed to tease blushes and giggles out of her as well as a daring riposte or two. Where had the awkward, sensible Charity Sparkler gone? But she wasn't Charity Sparkler any longer, was she? She was Charity Fines.

Mrs. Paul Fines.

Her joy was the sweet pain of a lanced boil. Years of desperate longing had finally come to a head. Well,
almost
to a head. The fact that had been hovering in her awareness the entire journey—that they were alone, married, and heading toward their wedding night—took front and center in her thoughts. And mayhap in his as well, for a sudden tension descended upon the cabin. She couldn't distinguish the galloping of the horses from that of her heart.

The wedding night advice she'd been given echoed in her head.

"Be yourself," Helena had said. "Be honest, and don't hide your desires."

"Gentleman want to be wanted," Marianne had said, "and here's a simple rule of thumb: whatever feels good to you will feel good to him."

Charity had never been missish, and the talk had reinforced her belief that the act of physical love could deepen the marital bond. And she yearned to be as close to Mr. Fines as possible. Though Miss Drummond claimed the love of his heart and soul, she, Charity, had a shot at the rest of him.
More
than a fair shot, he'd said. She peered upward through her lashes at him, all virile lines and masculine grace. So handsome that her heart ached.

"Penny for your thoughts, sweeting," he said with a lazy smile. "Or have I worn you out with all my chatter?"

"I'll never tire of listening to you," she said.

"Then I'm a lucky man, indeed." The husky timbre of his voice made her shiver. "But have a care, sweeting: your honeyed words may go to my head—and then there'll be no stopping this talented tongue of mine."

Heavens.
The cabin turned sweltering. She wet her lips.

His eyes followed the movement and grew heavy-lidded.

At that instant, the carriage slowed.

"Just when things were getting interesting," he said with a wicked wink.

Indeed.

The driver opened the door, and Mr. Fines exited first and handed her down. As her half-boots touched the pebbled walk, she looked around her, let out a gasp of delight.

"How beautiful," she exclaimed.

"Yes," he said, his gaze on her face.

All too aware of the driver's presence, she ducked her head and walked on. Mr. Fines reached the garden gate before she did, unlatching it for her, and as she stepped through the trellised arch covered in yellow roses, her senses drank in the magic of the Kents' cottage. Blanketed in ivy, the snug abode possessed a rustic, tumbledown charm. Its cheerful windows overlooked overgrown hedgerows, and a symphony of crickets and birds accompanied the deepening pink of dusk.

As Mr. Fines instructed the groom on where to set their things, Charity investigated the premises and found the interior just as cozy and welcoming. Besides the kitchen, the cottage boasted a front parlor with overstuffed furniture that invited one so sit back and relax, a small dining area, and three bedchambers. The sight of the large tester bed in the master suite made her tummy flutter.

Everything in good time
, she told herself.

She removed her gloves, her plain gold band catching the last rays of the day. It gleamed softly, a promise of things to come. Mr. Fines wore a matching, thicker version of the ring. With a wistful smile, she set her reticule on the vanity before returning to the main room. Her husband stood next to the dining table, examining the large wicker hamper on its surface. He handed her a folded note.

"Found it on the dining room table," he said by way of explanation.

"
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Fines,
" she read aloud and with secret thrill,
"
I hope you find everything to your satisfaction. Mr. Kent and I have spent many happy hours here, and it is our most sincere wish that you, too, will experience the enchantment of Chudleigh Crest. I've arranged for a girl from the village to bring your meals and take care of the household tasks. Newlyweds have no need to bother with anything but each other.
"

Pausing, she slanted a quick look at Mr. Fines, whose lips curved in amusement.

She read on. "
If you should bore of the cottage, the shops down the lane boast a delicious rose-petal jam and a surprisingly good milliner (I never leave without a half-dozen hats.) Mr. Kent adds that since there is more to life than shopping—being a man, he would think that—you might like to explore the nearby parks and a stream where the locals go to fish. With that, we bid you adieu and fond wishes for your stay. Yours, The Kents.
"

"How thoughtful of them," Charity murmured.

"I'll say," Mr. Fines said, peering into the hamper. "There's food enough here to feed an army. Hungry?"

She shook her head. "The wedding breakfast was rather elaborate."

"I'm not wanting for food either." Reaching out, he cupped her cheek, his touch awakening every nerve ending. "What would you like to do, darling? We could stay up and chat some more. Or perhaps given the long journey you are ready," he murmured, "to retire?"

He was giving her a choice.

Heart hammering, she whispered, "I think I'm ready to retire."

He took up her hand as casually as if they went off to bed together every night. "Good. I'll come along and play lady's maid then, shall I?"

NINETEEN

Closing the door to the bedchamber, Paul felt the simmering anticipation in his blood rise another notch. All day, Charity's closeness had teased his senses—her clean scent in his nostrils, her supple waist beneath his hand. And alone with her in that carriage? His ceaseless babble had served not only the purpose of putting her at ease but also that of keeping himself in check. To prevent himself from doing what he had truly wished to do.

For he had plans and they didn't involve tossing up his new bride's skirts and having his way with her in a carriage. He had more finesse than that.

Catching the way Charity's glance darted to the bed, he hid a smile. Poor chit must be a bundle of nerves. He couldn't blame her. Even he experienced a small twinge of unease, which was patently ridiculous. Though he hadn't much experience with virgins—alright,
any
—he knew all about female pleasure. Bedding his wife was the one husbandly activity he could approach with confidence. Thus far, Charity had experienced only fully clothed, vertical pleasure with him; she hadn't an inkling of his skill under more ideal circumstances. What he could do to her once she was naked and horizontal beneath him ...

His blood got even hotter. An eager pulse took up in his groin.

All in good time.

"Nervous, darling?" he asked softly.

"A little. I'm not used to being alone with a gentleman in a bedchamber."

"Just in libraries and follies," he said with a smile.

"Only with you, sir."

"I am glad to hear it." He wound a finger around one of her loose curls, tugging gently. "We're eons past formality at this point. Call me Paul, will you?"

"Paul," she said tremulously.

"Charity," he whispered back. "Now be a love and turn around so I can help you with your frock."

Cheeks rosy, she obeyed, and he began to work on the hooks at the back of her dress. His knuckles brushed against the elegant curve of her spine, and satisfaction rolled through him when she shivered. He
adored
her response to him. Tonight, he meant to ease away her mantle of maidenly modesty and fan her inner flames even higher.

A sudden image penetrated his mind's eye: Charity, her gleaming hair spread over the coverlet, her slender white back arching as he feasted on her pussy, licking her until she spent against his mouth ... He had to bite back a groan.

Don't rush your fences, man. Remember she's an innocent. Go slow.

Breathing in, he concentrated on the task of undoing her gown and corset and not scaring his new wife witless with the more advanced aspects of lovemaking. The initiation was very important, he reasoned, and this first night was to be about tender consideration. Later on, mayhap in a few months, he could ease her into more adventurous pursuits. But for now: the basics. When he loosened the last string, she turned, clutching the garments to her front.

"I can, um, do the rest myself," she said.

"Call if you need me," he said.

She nodded and darted toward her dressing screen. He made his way toward the partition on the other side of the room. He inspected his portmanteau; rarely did he travel without a valet, but Bromley would have proven a fifth wheel on this particular excursion. Thus, sacrifices had to be made. After Paul shed his clothes, he paused to contemplate his wardrobe choices.

His habit was to just throw on a dressing gown to lounge in until bedtime. Then he'd take that off, too, for he slept in the buff. But now he had Charity's sensibilities to consider. He was quite certain that gentlemen did not carry out their wedding night activities stark naked. A glance down at his bobbing equipment confirmed his hunch: the old boy's enthusiasm might be off-putting to a gently bred virgin.