The Spring Bride (22 page)

In thrall to his kisses, her hands learned him, the strong column of his throat, the clean, sharp jawline, the faint abrasion of a freshly shaven jaw. Her fingertips, her palms tingled with that delicious abrasion. Her frantic caresses dislodged his velvet mask; it drifted to the floor, unnoticed. She ran her fingers into his thick, dark hair, clean, soft and freshly cut. And all the time, kissing, kissing . . .

Blind with need, she arched and squirmed against him, wanting more. Her tongue tangled with his, she wanted to climb his body like a cat, and dig her way somehow deeper into him.

She didn't know how long she stood there, locked in his arms, given up wholly to the man and the moment, when a sound penetrated her blissful daze. The French doors to her left were rattling. Someone was calling her name.

He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.

—JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

Z
achary Black muttered something rude under his breath and released her.

A faint chill swept over her. She sagged against the wall, her knees strangely spongy.

“Jane, Jane, are you out there?” Lord Cambury stood on the other side of the French doors, his face and hands pressed to the glass, trying to peer into the gloom of the balcony. He rattled the handles in frustration.

“Oh, God,” she muttered.

“It's all right, the doors are locked,” Zachary told her.

“You have to go.”

For answer he gave her a hard, searing kiss. “This isn't over.”

“It is. It must be. I'm betrothed.” Though perhaps not for much longer. She'd been caught, kissing another man in a dark little balcony.

“To that?” He jerked his head at Lord Cambury rattling fruitlessly at the door.

His scorn stiffened her spine, and she recalled all that had happened before he'd scrambled her senses with his kiss. “Yes, to him. A man of honor. A man I gave my word to.”

Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her again, a hard, possessive branding of a kiss. “You belong to
me
.” He leapt lightly over the balustrade onto the terrace below and disappeared into the garden, just as the French doors burst open and a footman staggered through.

Lord Cambury stepped out onto the balcony. “Blasted doors stuck.” He waited until the footman had gone, then said, “What are you doing out here in the dark?”

Jane didn't answer. Guilt and embarrassment blasted the remnants of exhilaration. Suddenly her mad, magical adventure seemed a little . . . shameful. She'd made a promise to this man.

But she'd never imagined anything like the power of a kiss . . . those kisses.

She couldn't suppress a shiver. Lord Cambury noticed. “Night air dangerous to your health, don't you know?” He leaned over the stone balustrade and peered at the scene below. “Thought I saw a man with you here before. Couldn't make out his face.” He turned and faced her sternly. “There was a man, wasn't there?”

She hung her head. “Yes.”

“And you let the blasted fellow steal a kiss?”

She nodded. Though he hadn't stolen anything. She'd kissed him back with all her heart. And was still reeling from the shock of that.

“Who was he?”

“I don't know.” She felt guilty not telling him, but what good would it do? Besides, Lord Cambury had threatened to have him beaten up, and she didn't want to be responsible for that. She would handle Zachary Black herself.

If she could. She hadn't exactly done much of a job so far; he'd been firmly in control the entire time. But forewarned was forearmed; she knew the real danger now, the seductive power he could exert over her. If she wasn't careful.

“Don't know?” His eyebrows gnashed together. “You let a man kiss you and you don't know his name? Somebody must have introduced you.”

She nodded. “He claimed the dance in the name of Mr. Radcliffe, but I've met Mr. Radcliffe and it wasn't him.”

“But you danced with this unknown fellow anyway?”

Again she nodded. It was a masquerade. She hadn't known
half the men she'd danced with. But at a private ball, that shouldn't matter.

He was silent a moment as he surveyed the balcony thoughtfully, noting the darkened lamps. “Did you arrange to meet him here?”

“No, of course not!” she said indignantly. “I know I shouldn't have come out on the balcony, but I didn't realize I was even here until it was too late. He . . . he tricked me.”

“But you still let him kiss you.”

She blushed but didn't answer. It was too private, too special and magical to . . . admit it, as if it were a crime. Or something sordid. She said, “I have no excuse for being alone with him. All I can say is that I didn't plan to, it just . . . happened.”

“
Hmph!
” He regarded her sternly. “Going to have to do something about this. Can't have you going off with strange men at balls and letting them kiss you. Think we should call the banns immediately.”

Her head came up in shock. “The banns?”

He nodded. “Bring the wedding forward. Make sure of you before it's too late.”

“You mean you still want to marry me?”

He shrugged. “Women are faithless by nature, beautiful ones even worse. Not surprised other men want you. My job is to make sure I get to you first. After you've given me an heir, you can do what you like, as long as you're discreet about it. Until then, missy”—he gave her a hard look—“I protect what's mine.”

It was a crossroads moment. Jane had a clear choice between Lord Cambury, who offered her everything she'd ever wanted—except love—and trust—and Zachary Black, about whom she knew nothing, who had a tale for every occasion—and who stirred her emotions like no man she'd ever known, or even dreamed of.

It was the choice her mother must have had.

Jane made the choice her mother did not. “Yes, of course, Lord Cambury, have the banns called, if that's what you think best.”

He gave a nod of satisfaction, took Jane firmly by the arm and led her back into the ballroom.

She followed, dismayed by his pronouncement. Not about the banns—the sooner she was married, the safer she was from
Zachary Black. But the casual acceptance that she was a person of no honor, that after her first son he wouldn't care whom she went with, as long as she was discreet—that dismayed her greatly.

She'd imagined—naively, she realized now—that she and Lord Cambury would become closer, that they'd grow to love each other as so many couples did after they'd married almost as strangers.

He, however, seemed to have no such expectations. And the expectation he did have of her . . . that she would be faithless, that he
expected
her to tell lies and deceive him with other men. That she was like some
thing
, that other men would want to snatch—and that she would let them, unless he stopped her.

It made her feel somehow . . . dirty.

And all because she'd been caught kissing Zachary Black.

Which hadn't felt dirty at all. It had felt . . . sublime . . . exhilarating.

But it had been wrong. She had earned Lord Cambury's disapprobation.

The ball was coming to a close. Jane went through the motions of thanking her hostess, saying good-bye to various people, almost in a daze.

She couldn't wait to get to bed, to think about everything that had happened. She was confused, torn, deeply disturbed. And angry with Zachary Black for causing it all.

*   *   *

D
aisy was asleep when Jane got home, but just as she was climbing into bed, a sleepy voice said, “How was it?”

Jane had no idea how to answer. Magical? Disastrous? Thrilling? She took the easy way out. “Lovely.”

“Any other shepherdesses?”

“No. The costume got a lot of compliments. Some of the boys I danced with were so funny about Damaris's lambs, pretending to be big bad wolves. Really they were more like puppies.”

“What about Abby and Damaris—what did they wear?”

Jane briefly described their costumes.

Daisy gave a huge yawn. “Nice. Anything interestin' happen?”

“Not really.” Only her first kiss. Kisses. And a magical waltz with a . . . an unabashed scoundrel. Who kissed like a
dream . . . Unleashing desires within her that she hadn't known existed.

He'd almost ruined her future with Lord Cambury.

And now the very thought of that same future was . . . disturbing.
My job is to make sure I get to you first—get to you!
As though she were a bitch in heat, put to breed.

But she knew that was the way of things, so why did the idea of it dismay her now? Because the banns were to be called? Because the wedding would be in less than a month?

She didn't know.

She felt a little selfish, not wanting to share the details of her adventure with Daisy, but too much had happened to talk about yet. She needed to be alone with her thoughts, to sort out what had happened, what she thought, what she wanted and what to do. It was all so horribly complicated.

It was at the same time precious and sordid, magical and banal.

As for those kisses . . . she wanted to keep them secret, like her own private treasure. Besides, she was afraid Daisy might crow that she'd been right.

Knowin' you, you'll find the most impossible, unsuitable bloke in the
ton
and fall for 'im like a ton o' bricks
.

She wouldn't. She hadn't. It was just one dance. And a kiss, well, several kisses. One . . . incident. Which she would put behind her and never repeat.

Jane blew out the candle, lay down and pulled the covers up to her chin. She lay quietly for a few moments, pondering the events of the evening.

“Daisy,” she said after a minute. “Is it wrong to kiss a man if you're betrothed to someone else?”

There was a surge of bedclothes as Daisy sat up. “You kissed a man? Who?” She didn't sound at all sleepy now.

Jane was thankful that the darkness hid her blush. “Oh, no one. I was just thinking. Wondering really. Because after I am married, of course, I won't kiss anyone except Lord Cambury.” She couldn't really imagine it.

Daisy lay down again. “If it was me, I'd be gettin' in a bit of kissin' and cuddlin' while I could. I don't reckon Lord Cambury is the kiss and cuddle type.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Dunno, really. Just a feelin'. Has he kissed you yet?”

“No. He's been everything that is proper.”

“Well then.” There was a short silence, then Daisy added, “I reckon if there's a feller you fancy and he wants to kiss you, I wouldn't be saying no, not until you have to. As long as it's just a kiss you're talkin' about, nothing serious.”

But it wasn't “just” a kiss at all, Jane thought. There was nothing “just” about it. But she couldn't explain that. It was too precious, too personal, too private—too disturbing—to share. “Night, Daisy.”

“Night, Jane.” She snuggled down deep into her bed. She couldn't possibly sleep. She wanted to relive—no,
think
about that dance. And those kisses . . .

*   *   *

“A
nd where did you get to last night?” Gil asked Zach over breakfast the next morning. “As if I didn't know by the haircut and shave. Out tomcatting, eh?”

“Far from it,” Zach told him virtuously. “I was a complete gentleman.” Then reflecting that it wasn't quite the case, he clarified, “I was distressingly celibate. And somewhat of a pirate.” He speared another thick rasher of bacon. “English bacon, nothing like it.”

Gil directed a skeptical glance at him. “Gentleman or pirate, you can hardly be both.”

“You can at a masquerade.”

Gil glanced at the mantelpiece, where his invitations and calling cards were jammed into the frame of his gloomy ancestor. “You unprincipled rogue. I might have wanted to attend that.”

Zach reached for a piece of toast and buttered it lavishly. “Dear boy, you did attend it.”

Gil's eyes narrowed. “I did, did I? And what mischief did I commit?”

“Mischief? Far from it. You waltzed—superbly, I might add—with a beautiful young shepherdess.”

“And?” he prompted after a moment.

“And kissed her on the balcony—oh, don't look at me like that. She knew it wasn't you.”

Gil poured himself another cup of coffee. “Did anyone see your face?”

Zach didn't dignify that with a response. He ate his toast.

Gil spooned marmalade onto his toast, spread it carefully, then cut the slice into neat fingers. “You're mad, you do know that, don't you?” he said mildly. “How you ever survived these last eight years is beyond me. You're determined to run your neck into a noose, all for a female who don't even—”

“Careful, Gil.”

Gil surveyed him over his coffee cup. “Like that, is it?”

Zach took another piece of toast. He was still brooding. He'd spent all night thinking about it.

“She didn't believe me, Gil.” Her scornful repudiation of his story had shocked him to the core. He'd told her the truth about himself—the first part anyway—and she thought him nothing but a charlatan. A liar. Playing games.

“I don't blame her.” Gil sipped his coffee. “I blame the cat-skin waistcoat. No right-thinking, animal-loving girl would believe a thing you said after seeing you in that.”

“Gil, this is serious!”

“I know. I'm enjoying it immensely. I don't think you've taken anything seriously in years. It's quite a promising development.” He finished his coffee. “So what will you do now?”