Wish List

by Lisa Kleypas

  He laughed suddenly, and broke the fervent clasp of their hands to fish for something in his pocket. “God help you, then.” He extracted a glittering object and slipped it onto her fourth finger. The fit was just a little loose. Caroline balled her hand into a fist as she stared the ring. It was an ornately carved gold band adorned with a huge rose-cut diamond. The gem sparkled with heavenly brilliance in the light of the yule log, making her breath catch. “It belonged to my mother,” Andrew said, watching her face closely. “She willed it to me, and hoped that I would someday give it to my wife.”

  “It is lovely,” Caroline said, her eyes stinging. She lifted her mouth for his kiss, and felt the soft brush of his lips over hers.

  “Here,” he murmured, a smile coloring his voice, and he removed her spectacles to clean them. “You can’t even see the damned thing, the way these are smudged.” Replacing the polished spectacles, he took hold of her waist and pulled her body against his. His tone sobered as he spoke again. “Was it difficult to get the letters from Julianne?”

  “Not at all.” Caroline could not suppress a trace of smugness as she replied. “I enjoyed it, actually. Julianne was furious—I have no doubt she wanted to scratch my eyes out. And naturally she denied having had anything to do with Lord Brenton’s death. But she gave me the letters all the same. I can assure you that she will never trouble us again.”

  Andrew hugged her tightly, his hands sliding repeatedly over her back. Then he spoke quietly in her hair, with a meaningful tone that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in excitement. “There is a matter I have yet to take care of. As I recall, I left you a virgin the last time we met.”

  “You did,” Caroline replied with a wobbly smile. “Much to my displeasure.”

  His mouth covered hers, and he kissed her with a mixture of adoration and avid lust that caused her knees to weaken. She leaned heavily against him, her tongue sliding and curling against his. Excitement thumped inside her, and she arched against him in an effort to make the embrace closer, her body craving the weight and pressure of him.

  “Then I’ll do my best to oblige you this time,” he said when their lips parted. “Take me to your bedroom.”

  “Now? Here?”

  “Why not?” She felt him smile against her cheek. “Are you worried about propriety? You, who had me handcuffed to a bed—”

  “That was Cade’s doing, not mine,” she said, blushing.

  “Well, you didn’t mind taking advantage of the situation, did you?”

  “I was desperate!”

  “Yes, I remember.” Still smiling, he kissed the side of her neck and slid his hand to her breast, caressing the gentle curve until her nipple contracted into a hard point. “Would you rather wait until we marry?” he murmured.

  She took his hand and pulled him out of the parlor, leading him upstairs to her bedroom. The walls were covered with flower-patterned paper that matched the pink-and-white embroidered counterpane on the bed. In such dainty surroundings, Andrew looked larger and more masculine than ever. Caroline watched in fascinated delight as he began to remove his clothes, discarding his coat, waistcoat, cravat, and shirt, draping the fine garments on a shield-backed chair. She unbuttoned her own gown and stepped out of it, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor. As she stood in her undergarments and stockings, Andrew came to her and pulled her against his naked body. The hard, thrusting ridge of his erection burned through the frail muslin of her drawers, and she let out a small gasp.

  “Are you afraid?” he whispered, lifting her higher against him, until her toes almost left the ground.

  She turned her face into his neck, breathing in the scent of his warm skin, lifting her hands to stroke the thick, cool silk of his hair. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Don’t stop, Andrew. I want to be yours. I want to feel you inside me.”

  He set her on the bed and removed her clothes slowly, kissing every inch of her skin as it was uncovered, until she lay naked and open before him. Murmuring his love to her, he touched her breasts with his mouth, licked and teased until her nipples formed rosy, tight buds. Caroline arched up to him in ardent response, urging him to take her, until he pulled away with a breathless laugh. “Not so fast,” he said, his hand descending to her stomach, stroking in soothing circles. “You’re not ready for me yet.”

  “I am,” she insisted, her body aching and feverish, her heart pounding.

  He smiled and rolled her to her stomach, and she groaned as she felt his mouth trail down her spine, kissing and nibbling. His teeth nipped at her buttocks before his lips traveled to the fragile creases at the backs of her knees. “Andrew,” she groaned, writhing in torment. “Please don’t make me wait.”

  He turned her over once again, and his wicked mouth wandered up the inside of her thigh, higher and higher, and his strong hands carefully urged her thighs apart. Caroline whimpered as she felt him lick the damp, soft cleft between her legs. Another, deeper stroke of his tongue, and another, and then he found the excruciatingly tender bud and suckled, his tongue flicking her, until she shuddered and screamed, her ecstatic cries muffled in the folds of the embroidered counterpane.

  Andrew kissed her lips and settled between her thighs. She moaned in encouragement as she felt the plum-shaped head of his sex wedge against the slick core of her body. He pushed gently, filling her… hesitating as she gasped with discomfort. “No,” she said, clutching frantically at his hips, “don’t stop… I need you… please, Andrew…”

  He groaned and thrust forward, burying himself completely, while her flesh throbbed sweetly around him. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, breathing hard, while his hips pushed forward in gentle nudges. His face was damp, suffused with perspiration and heat, his long, dark lashes spiky with moisture. Caroline was transfixed by the sight of him— he was such a beautiful man… and he was hers. He invaded her in a slow, patient rhythm, his muscles rigid, his forearms braced on either side of her head. Writhing in pleasure, she lifted her hips to take him more deeply. His mouth caught hers hungrily, his tongue searching and sliding.

  “I love you,” she whispered between kisses, her wet lips moving against his. “I love you, Andrew, love you…”

  The words seemed to break his self-control, and his thrusts became stronger, deeper, until he buried himself inside her and shuddered violently, his passion spending, his breath stopping in the midst of an agonizing burst of pleasure.

  Long, lazy minutes later, while they were still tangled together, their heartbeats returning to a regular rhythm, Caroline kissed Andrew’s shoulder.

  “Darling,” she said drowsily, “I want to ask something of you.”

  “Anything.” His fingers played in her hair, sifting through the silken locks.

  “Whatever comes, we’ll face it together. Promise to trust me, and never to keep secrets from me again.”

  “I will.” Andrew raised himself up on one elbow, staring down at her with a crooked smile. “Now I want to ask something of you. Could we forgo the large wedding, and instead have a small ceremony on New Year’s Day?”

  “Of course,” Caroline said promptly. “I wouldn’t have wanted a large wedding in any case. But why so soon?”

  He lowered his mouth to hers, his lips warm and caressing. “Because I want my new beginning to coincide with the new year. And because I need you too badly to wait for you.”

  She smiled and shook her head in wonder, her eyes shining as she stared up at him. “Well, I need you even more.”

  “Show me,” he whispered, and she did just that.

  Puddings, Pastries, and Thou

  by

  Lisa Cach

  To Valerie

  Chapter One

  Christmas Eve, 1818

  Copley Grange

  Near Corfe Castle, England

  “Oh dear. Is that the best you have to wear, Miss Ambrose?”

  “Your pardon, ma’am. I’m afraid it is,” Vivian admitted, holding her hands clasped tightly in front of her and refusing to give i
n to the urge to smooth the skirt of her navy wool gown. It was a gown meant for a governess or a paid companion, or for what she was: a poor relation.

  “Dear me, dear me, this won’t do. This won’t do at all!” Mrs. Twitchen, her distant cousin, fretted. “We are having Mr. John Sudley, baronet, for dinner, and his wife is the granddaughter of an earl. This won’t do!”

  “Perhaps, ma’am, it would be better if I did not attend?” Her stomach growled and gurgled beneath her clasped hands. She could, though, feed it just as well off a tray in her room as at the table.

  “Nonsense,” Captain Twitchen spoke up, sitting by the fire where the oak yule log burned. He placidly read his paper, a bull of a man around which maids and footmen flowed as they hung greenery and positioned silver candelabra newly polished. “If your gown is not suitable, wear one of Penelope’s. She won’t mind. Will you, girl?”

  “Papa!” Penelope, aghast, turned from her inspection of a towering centerpiece of sweetmeats with sprigs of poisonous mistletoe tucked here and there in a creation of the girl’s own design.

  Vivian’s eyes lingered longingly on the pyramid of goodies even as she felt the heat of humiliation in her cheeks. It was bad enough to be sent from one branch of the family to another, treated like a hungry beggar. It was worse yet to land upon a new doorstep only a day before Christmas, when a family had its mind on entertainments planned weeks in advance, and on private traditions. But worst of all was to feel that her presence was an annoyance and an intrusion.

  “They would not fit,” Penelope said. “Miss Ambrose is much larger than I am, and the colors would be all wrong. She cannot wear one of my gowns.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Captain Twitchen disagreed, folding his paper in half to better read an article of interest. “You’ve got more already than you need for the season, and you’ll be having a bushel more made when we return to town, I warrant.” He glanced up from his reading, examining his daughter and his wife’s cousin. “You look near enough in size to me.”

  “Might there be one you could spare?” Mrs. Twitchen inquired cautiously of her child.

  “Let her stay in her room! You do not wish to dine with a baronet, do you, Miss Ambrose?”

  Vivian supposed she didn’t much care where or with whom she dined, as long as dine she did. It had been ages since she’d last eaten.

  “Penelope,” her father said warningly, and gave his daughter a long look.

  “But, Papa, it isn’t fair! I suppose you’ll want me to share all my gowns with her for the season as well, won’t you?”

  “Hush, child,” Mrs. Twitchen said, coming and putting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and steering her out of the room, then gesturing to Vivian to follow. “You’ll give him ideas.”

  Vivian cast a look back at Captain Twitchen and found him once more absorbed in his paper, the troubles of the females of his house best left to its females. For a brief moment, she had a feeling that the man was a sleeping dragon best not wakened.

  Turning, she gave a last, loving look at the tower of treats, then followed the fiercely whispering, protesting Penelope and the shushing Mrs. Twitchen up the oaken staircase of Copley Grange and down the hall to Penelope’s room.

  Her prideful heart wished to refuse a gown so grudgingly lent, but her reasonable mind ordered her to follow the dictates of the captain and his wife. Those two were the ones she needed to please, not Penelope, although she suspected the Twitchen girl could make her life a misery easily enough.

  It felt as if it had been a month ago, but it was only this morning that she had arrived here at the home of her first cousin, twice removed—Penelope’s mother. They had never met before this day, although the arrangements for Vivian’s arrival had been made some weeks past, as soon as old Ann Marbury had died.

  —

  Miss Marbury had been the spinster great-aunt of a previous set of cousins—cousins who had found Vivian useful as a companion to their wicked, dotty old relative. For nine years she had fetched and carried, read aloud, and played at cards with the beastly old woman, had endured increasing insults and pinches, and had had food thrown at her as the lady’s mind deteriorated.

  It had been a blessing to them both when the woman died. Vivian did not think herself hard-hearted for believing so, for as often as Miss Marbury had been cruel and suspicious, she had equally as often spent her days in tearful confusion, inconsolable, asking after those who had died long before Vivian had been born.

  Farewell, unfortunate Miss Marbury! And may the angels keep you in good company!

  And farewell also, horrid cousins, who kept me caged with an old woman for your convenience and never spared a thought for me or my future!

  She was twenty-five years of age, and had never once attended a dance or an assembly, although her family were gentry and such should have been her right. The horrid cousins had preferred keeping her as unpaid help to spending the money to garb her and help her catch a husband and thus be free of their charity.

  But now that Miss Marbury was dead and Vivian’s usefulness gone with her, Vivian had been passed on to the next relatives willing to take her in and provide for her. She could only hope the Twitchens proved kinder and more generous than her other cousins.

  “Penelope, do stop pouting and fussing. You will put wrinkles in your face with such expressions,” Mrs. Twitchen said, and opened her daughter’s clothespress to examine the possibilities therein.

  “Not the green silk—that is my favorite,” Penelope said, seeing her mother reaching for the garment. “It brings out my eyes, and would not suit another.”

  “Miss Ambrose has green eyes as well,” Mrs. Twitchen mentioned.

  “She cannot!” Penelope cried, then turned to examine Vivian and contradict the distressing statement. But she could not.

  Vivian was equally surprised. The two girls were opposites: she herself had dark hair where Penelope had fair; she had a strong build that was underfed where Penelope had a fine build that was too plump. She would not have thought they shared any traits at all. Yet as her seventeen-year-old cousin came near, Vivian saw that indeed they had the same sea green eyes with dark gray rims.

  Penelope’s face grew red with anger, and she turned away with a flounce.

  Mrs. Twitchen was still talking. “She is our cousin, after all, and blood will show. Dear me, we must dress her suitably. I will not be embarrassed in front of the baronet!”

  “It is only Cousin John, Mama. I do not see why you need make such a fuss.”

  Mrs. Twitchen chose several gowns and laid them out over the bed and two upholstered chairs, then spoke to Vivian. “My husband’s sister made an excellent match in a baronet. The title has since passed down to Sir John, Captain Twitchen’s nephew, whom we have had the great good fortune to entertain on many an occasion, as he adores his uncle so. His wife is descended from the Earl of Surrey.”

  “Indeed, ma’am,” Vivian said, for want of any better comment. She was beginning to wish most heartily that she could be left alone in her new bedroom while the family entertained their guests. Meeting the Twitchens and being installed in their home was strain enough for one day without the addition of baronets and granddaughters of earls.

  “He is not half so grand as to deserve such care,” Penelope put in.

  “Hush, child. You say that because you know no better. When you come out this season, you will see what difference it makes to say your cousin is a baronet.”

  “And my great-grandfather a baron. I know, Mama.”

  “You help Miss Ambrose choose something, and give her ear bobs and a necklace to wear if she has none of her own, and perhaps some silk flowers for her hair. Really, we cannot have her looking so shabby, and she a relative of mine!”

  Mrs. Twitchen hustled off, murmuring worries about Cook and the footmen, and Vivian was left alone with her cousin.

  “I am sorry about this,” Vivian said to the girl, feeling awkward and unwelcome. And hungry, to add to her misery. “
If I had new gowns meant for my season, I should not like to have another wear one of them first, and she a stranger to me.”

  “I have been looking forward to my first season since I can remember,” Penelope said, a quaver in her voice. “And here you come, right before it is to start! And we will have to have dresses made for you, and take you about, and all our acquaintances will be asking who you are when this was supposed to be my time. And you’re too old for a season, too old by half! It’s not fair!”

  Vivian could tell the spoiled creature a thing or two about fair; she could! But she would not. Such a protected creature as Penelope Twitchen could not know what life was like outside the loving care of her mama and papa, and Vivian herself would have rather been a spoiled creature than an impoverished one, had she the choice. So she held her tongue.

  “Please choose your least favorite,” she said, knowing that such was what Penelope had in mind anyway.

  The girl chewed her upper lip, frowning at the dresses. “I’m not overfond of the yellow,” she said. “It makes my hair look dull, although it does have that lovely Valenciennes lace.”

  “I would be glad enough to wear it,” Vivian said.

  “You won’t spill gravy on it?”

  As if she were a child who could not use a spoon! Vivian counted to five, unclenched her jaw, and said, “I shall take great care not to.”

  “Well, all right, then.” Penelope picked up the dress and held it against Vivian’s shoulders. “I suppose it might fit, and the color is not completely unattractive on you. Do you have hair ribbons, ear bobs, anything?”

  “I’m afraid I will have to ask those of you, as well.” She would rather stick a sprig of holly in her hair and call herself decorated. Mrs. Twitchen would be displeased, though, and she didn’t want to embarrass the woman.

  Penelope sighed, leaving the dress in Vivian’s arms and going to her dressing table. “This is really most unfair of Mama and Papa. This was to be my season.”