by Eloisa James
Maybe she hadn’t yet managed a properly alluring smile? There had been many occasions, Willa reminded herself, when her first efforts had been unsuccessful—from her first sampler to her first kiss.
“I am removing my clothing.” She twisted to reach the tie at the back of her neck. “I have accepted your proposal of marriage. That being the case, it would be very pleasant to continue what we began last night.”
That was pure Willa, she recognized too late.
Sure enough, Alaric let out a bark of laughter. “Pleasant?”
“Very.” Willa nodded. “We are truly betrothed now. So …” She had managed to untie the knot that held the lace apron on her gown.
He wasn’t watching as she disrobed; he was studying her face instead. “Are you certain, Evie?”
“That I will marry you? Yes.” It was easy to untie the strings of her cork rump and let it drop to the ground.
“What about women like Prudence?”
“The number of mad people is small in proportion to the number of sane people, I would think. Once you become a boring squire, merely a duke’s younger son with a few travel narratives in your past, I doubt anyone will pay you much attention.”
That was a fib.
Alaric was a man to whom people would always pay notice, but she had concluded that she wanted him more than she wanted privacy. She began unbuttoning her bodice. Under it she wore a corset that did very nice things to her breasts, and below that, her chemise.
“You won’t embarrass me, will you?” she asked. Her fingers were trembling again, as they had the night before, from a combination of desire and anticipation. “I will be distressed if you refuse me. I might think you are rejecting my figure.”
“That’s rubbish.”
Willa took her bodice off and dropped it to the side, followed by her corset. Then she lay back on the pillows and smiled up at him.
Alaric stared down, incredulity written on his face. “Aren’t you supposed to be timid about bedding me? You’re a virgin.”
Willa let ice slide into her voice. “Do you imagine otherwise?”
“No.” He shook his head with a grimace. “I just can’t quite grasp the miracle that is Willa Everett.”
She was about to say something sarcastic when he abruptly lowered his large, warm body onto hers. She wriggled against the hardened rod straining against her belly, and a groan sounded from deep in his chest.
In the books whose illustrations she and Lavinia had examined, the male tool had appeared faintly ridiculous, like the horn of a rhinoceros. Alaric’s, to her delight, felt warm and alive.
He bent his head to kiss her, and Willa relaxed into his embrace and let herself be. Be in the moment, although she was lying on a pile of pillows in an imitation Greek temple. Be with Alaric, even though she had never contemplated marrying Lord Wilde.
Be a person who was trembling and panting and unable to think. There were no rules for a moment like this—or if there were, Willa didn’t know them. All she could do was feel.
They kissed for long minutes, Alaric’s hands clasping her head, his mouth ravaging hers over and over. Before long she was arching against him, inarticulate pleas coming from her throat. Her legs felt restless, aflame, aching with a burn she’d never felt before.
“Alaric,” she gasped.
He didn’t answer, but looked into her eyes once more. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him, because he kissed each eye and murmured something about a wife.
Then he kissed his way down her cheek, peppering her with kisses that felt like brands. Just as he reached her throat, one of his hands curled around her breast.
Willa tipped her head back. In the midst of shattering heat and bliss, one thought floated up: this was so freeing. There was nothing more free than to allow someone to make you blissful.
Allow?
It should be an exchange. Her hands had been groggily flying over Alaric’s back in small caresses. Now she ran a hand straight down the front of his breeches.
He made a hoarse sound, deep in his throat.
“Should I not do that?” Willa gasped. Her fingers curled in embarrassment. Perhaps she wasn’t allowed to touch like that. Perhaps that was only for the trollops pictured in those Italian books.
She snatched her hand back.
“If I beg you, will you touch me like that again?”
His aching question made her lips curl up in a breathless smile. “It’s acceptable?”
“No rules,” Alaric stated. “No rules between us, Evie.” He ripped open the front of his breeches as he flicked his tongue against hers. “I’m going to lick your body from head to foot.”
Her hand slid down his front again and she curled her fingers around him. He was large and hot. When she tightened her fingers, the breath caught in his throat.
“There is no propriety between us,” he rasped, pushing farther into her hand. “You may do whatever you like to me. Whatever you dream of doing. My body is yours.”
Heat was prickling through her from her breasts to her legs. She drew in a shaky breath. “I’m not sure what to do with you.”
“Do you have any knowledge of the marital act?” he asked.
“Yes, but I’m not sure if there’s something I’m supposed to do at this moment,” she confessed, the words ragged.
Willa’s mouth was so plush and lovely that Alaric leaned down and kissed her again, even as his cock was pulsing in her hand.
A few minutes or an hour later, he pulled back and forced himself to ask, “Are you certain? You don’t want to wait until you become Lady Alaric Wilde to bed me?”
She shook her head, eyes bright. “Has it occurred to you that my name will be Willa Wilde?”
He swooped down and kissed her silent, swallowing her giggles. “Evie Wilde, this is your last chance,” he said, meaning it. “I will marry you, even though you deserve better than me, even though I am besieged by readers and madwomen.”
“I will marry you,” she said, as fiercely as he, “even though you are the beloved son of a duke and I’m an orphan, even though you are a famous author and I still haven’t read your books, even though you gave me a skunk when I wanted a kitten.”
Alaric felt his heart skip a beat. “You will be my bride, in truth?”
His girl nodded, her eyes on his.
A desperate sound tore from his throat as he succumbed to a wave of blinding need, ripping open the neck of her chemise. A moment later his mouth closed around a pink nipple and he suckled her hard.
“More,” she gasped.
“May I remove your skirts?” He’d never heard his own voice so guttural and deep.
Coming up on his knees, he tugged off his shirt and came back to her, taking her other nipple between his lips. She squirmed and arched. “Do that again!”
He slid a hand up her smooth leg, all the way up, and she fell silent.
She was sleek and wet. He flipped up her skirts; she was exquisite, deep rose fading to pale pink. “You’re too beautiful for me,” he said thickly.
He bent his head and licked her flowery, private place without warning. Direct, because Willa was like that. No need for fussing.
Sure enough, her fingers clamped around his head to hold him there.
He kissed her until she cried out, her body convulsing around his fingers, her eyes flying open in surprise. Then he moved, bracing himself over her. Her trusting smile felt like a caress. “This may hurt,” he whispered.
His aching cock slid through wet, hot silk. Being Willa, she looked curious, not frightened. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders as he reached down and guided himself inside. No more than the head of his cock slid inside. She was so tight that a rasping sound escaped his throat. Her hips rose to meet him and he gained another inch. “Is there more?” she gasped.
“Quite a bit,” he admitted, bringing himself into her with aching slowness, until he was so deep that he felt as if they were melting one into the other.
Her eyes wid
ened, as if she shared his feeling that the unlocking of her body was a still moment in a turning world. A moment that changed her body and his. Brushing a kiss on her lips, he began to withdraw slowly. Her fingernails pricked his shoulders and she cried, “No!”
He kissed her until she relaxed and he slid into her again, but it felt so good that his vision blurred.
“Alaric, no,” she said urgently, and he realized that his hips were drawing back, preparing to thrust back in, but she was arching up, keeping him inside her.
He would have laughed but he had to save his breath. “Just wait,” he breathed into her ear. He pumped forward, stopped, moved back slowly, stroked forward, willing her to enjoy it, to learn the dance that would bring joy.
He was just reaching the point at which he was uneasily aware that he might lose control, when she whispered, “Alaric, is it possible to go faster?”
His heart hammered in his chest, stealing his breath. He braced on his forearms, hovering over her body, and began flexing his hips over and over, watching carefully for signs of pain, but seeing none.
In fact, her cheeks were turning cherry red and her eyes dreamy, unfocused, her hands stroking his body and leaving ribbons of bright fire in their wake.
Finally, he let himself go into that place of white-hot heat and emotion, where there was nothing but pleasure, and he took Willa with him.
Or she took him with her.
Because when her hips began rising to meet him, sobs breaking from her chest, fingernails leaving little imprints in his skin, it drove him out of his mind. And when she sobbed and flung herself into his hungry kiss, he lost his head entirely.
Words poured from his mouth, astonishing him even in the grip of the most acute pleasure he’d ever known. The echo of them hung in the air, fueling a ravaging joy that swept him away.
Swept them both away.
Alaric roused himself a good while later. Willa’s head was comfortably nestled on his shoulder, their legs entwined. “You know the title of that ridiculous play?” he asked.
“Wilde in Love?” she asked, her voice a bit scratchy.
“You’re my love,” he whispered. He eased her onto her back and looked down at his beautiful bride-to-be. “You’re at my heart, Evie; you are my heart. I love you and I’m in love with you.”
She stared up at him, lips parted, startled.
“You needn’t reciprocate,” he said, feeling a deep contentment. “The sentence is not like a curtsy that must be answered with a bow. The emotion was a shock to me. To my system.”
A slow smile crept over her face and glowed in her eyes. “So the next play should be called The Taming of Lord Wilde?”
Alaric pressed a kiss on one of her slender arched eyebrows, already imagining naughty children with enchanting giggles, just like Willa’s.
“I am tamed,” he said gravely.
That called for a kiss.
Or ten.
Chapter Twenty-nine
That evening
On her way to dinner, Willa stopped at the top of the staircase and paused to regain her composure. She felt as though what happened in the folly had left visible traces, as if everyone would take one look at her and know she was a different woman.
A fallen woman.
She hadn’t realized how tightly she had clung to the role of a perfect lady until it vanished. Of course, she was now a betrothed woman, which was a new role as well. The role of wife was coming soon.
Alaric had said, with ferocious emphasis, that he wanted the first banns read in the morning so she couldn’t change her mind. If he had his way, she would be married within the month.
When a hand touched her shoulder, she was so startled that she let out a little squeak. “Good evening,” she said, drawing in an unsteady breath and trying for a nonchalant tone.
As if she hadn’t parted from this man a mere two hours before.
As if she hadn’t pushed him out the door of her bedchamber just when he was threatening to toss her onto the bed again.
“Evie,” her fiancé said, his voice a low rumble. He bent to kiss her, and never mind they might be seen by anyone, including footmen in the entry below.
Even as that thought went through Willa’s mind, Alaric drew her closer, kissing her with such a deep tenderness that her knees weakened and her arms went around his neck.
When at last Alaric drew away, Willa stood, dazed, gazing at her fiancé. She, Wilhelmina Everett Ffynche, was going to marry Lord Alaric Wilde—but not for any of the reasons she’d imagined. Not because he gave her Sweetpea, or because he was so fascinating.
She was going to marry him because she had fallen in love with him.
A polite cough broke into her thoughts. Willa looked to her left and the Duke of Lindow was standing at her elbow. She jumped back, mortified. “I’m so sorry!” she blurted out, and dropped into a low curtsy. A feverish blush spread all the way from her chest to her forehead. “Please excuse us.”
“Good evening, Father,” Alaric said, without a touch of regret in his voice. “How is Her Grace?”
“A false alarm,” the duke said. “The doctor thinks it best that my wife stay in bed at the moment, which she is not enjoying. How are you, Miss Ffynche?” He didn’t look amused but Willa knew, somehow, that he was.
“I am very well,” she managed. She felt like a doomed roly-poly, desperate to curl into a ball of pure humiliation.
His Grace regarded his son. “One might consider a more secluded spot for salutations of this nature.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Alaric responded cheerfully.
The duke bowed and descended the stairs.
Willa waited until His Grace had vanished into the drawing room before she scowled at her fiancé. “This won’t do, Alaric. Stop laughing!”
She braced her hand against his shoulder to fend off another kiss. “No more of that,” she ordered.
Alaric just laughed again. Her future husband didn’t give a damn what people thought about him, and he never would. “Please don’t kiss me in public,” Willa ordered, as she twitched her hips away from his hand.
“But I feel like kissing you every time I look at you,” he said, his voice like plush velvet.
“Moreover, please don’t speak to me of inappropriate things in the company of others. Or in that tone of voice,” she added.
“Yours is the only opinion that matters to me.”
A smile trembled on Willa’s mouth; how often does a woman hear that? All the same, she gave him a mock scowl. “You, Lord Alaric, are going to be Lord Wilde for the evening.”
He grimaced. “I don’t want to have to please anyone. I’m not writing any more books.”
“Lord Wilde is polite and charming to everyone. Quite untruthful, perhaps, but endlessly genial.”
“Lord Alaric wants to strip off your clothing and take you against the wall.”
Despite herself, a giggle escaped Willa’s chest.
Strong arms circled her. “I love that sound,” he murmured in her ear. “It’s pure joy. The silly side of you. The side only I get to see.”
Willa swallowed hard. “Yes, well,” she whispered back, “now we must be proper.”
Alaric sighed. “This is important to you.”
“Very.” She nodded vigorously, because his eyes were searching hers, and he didn’t seem convinced. “Very important.”
“May I visit your room later, and bring you roly-polies, and make you giggle?”
She hesitated. “No more intimacies until we marry.”
He made tragic eyes at her, but she was right and he knew it. “If you insist.” He held out his elbow. “Come along, Willa. Did you notice what I called you? Willa.” He looked disgruntled.
“By rights, you should call me Miss Ffynche.”
Alaric grinned. “That’s a step too far. I caught the most desirable young lady in all of London, and I’m damn well going to flaunt my right to use your first name. You can be Miss Ffynche to all the rest of them. I s
uspect that my aunt will throw one of the grandest balls this castle has ever seen, merely so that I can show off the fruits of my courtship.”
“She will?”
“You haven’t noticed that my family loves you as much as I do?”
Willa took a deep breath, trying to stop herself from kissing him. “You dislike balls,” she observed.
“I want the world to know you are mine. I would shout it from a mountaintop, if I could.”
Willa slipped her hand through his elbow. “Will you always be this sweet?”
He considered that. “No.”
His smile was pure sin.
Chapter Thirty
The following afternoon
I’m going to take Sweetpea for a walk before tea,” Willa told her maid. “No wig, and no powder either. I’ll wear the large straw hat, the one with roses and white plumes.”
Her favorite walking costume was cherry striped, with ruffles at the neck and around the hips. It had a white apron and was cut daringly short, the better to walk.
And to show off her ankles. Perhaps Alaric would see her from his secret bedchamber in the tower and join her.
“I’ll wear the shoes with buckles,” she said. “I know the ruby boots are better suited, but they hurt my feet.”
Once dressed, she fitted Sweetpea into her harness, put her into the basket, and made her way downstairs and out into the rose garden. The day was warm, and the roses were blooming in such tawny-yellow and golden profusion that it looked as if a pride of lions were all sleeping on top of each other.
She had been in the garden only a few minutes when she heard a patter of feet. She was stooped over, tickling Sweetpea, but she straightened to find Prudence Larkin running toward her.
Her first inclination was to turn and quickly walk away.
There was something about Prudence she disliked, beyond the simple fact that the woman was in love with her fiancé. For one thing, Willa couldn’t dismiss the idea that Prudence had written Wilde in Love with the intention of disgracing Alaric, even if it had produced the opposite effect.
At the same time, she was convinced that Prudence was watching for an opportunity to get Alaric alone and attempt to compromise him.
