by Katy Madison
"At your service." He bowed.
Mortification danced a jig in her stomach. "I thought . . ."
"That I was Keene. Yes, I know. Happens all the time."
Sophie giggled. Perhaps her impulsive plan for seduction was meant to be thwarted.
"We do share certain characteristics."
"Just as well. He probably should have found my suggestion quite untoward."
"He does exhibit a regrettable steak of stupidity every now and again. Of course, most often it is laid at my door."
She giggled harder thinking of how it should have been if she had just thrown herself upon him as she'd intended. Perhaps her behavior had been modified by Amelia's teachings.
"Sophie."
She tried to restrain the laughter bubbling inside her. Instead, tears dripped from her eyes. She let loose a hearty peal, and clapped a hand over her mouth.
"It's not funny."
"No, I know." She couldn't stop.
Victor stepped forward. "Your laughter is enchanting."
Was he about to throw caution to the wind and take up her invitation?
Just then the door of the house opened. Keene and Amelia descended the steps.
When they reached the coach, Keene handed Amelia up. He turned to Sophie. "What is so amusing?"
Sophie bit the insides of her lips. "Nothing."
Keene cast a glance toward Victor, who shrugged. Sophie's shoulders shook with her effort to restrain herself. Amelia's martyred silence and Keene's sharp gaze stifled her unmerited mirth soon enough. Although when she looked at Victor and his amused half smile caught her off guard, she suffered a mild relapse.
All the way home, Keene's dark gaze alternated between her and Amelia. Frankly, if he found Amelia's perfectly composed mask more to his liking then more the fool he.
"Would you like to return to the ball?" asked Keene.
"I should," answered Victor.
Sophie looked at Amelia. "I believe Amelia wishes to retire for the night, isn't that so?"
Amelia nodded.
"Yes, but the three of us might return."
And so they did. Keene's dark eyes followed her around the room when he wasn't sweeping her into a waltz, claiming more of them than was appropriate even for a husband. She could hardly take her eyes off him. She barely noticed her friend Mary Frances and Victor sliding off to a dimly lit corner and engaging in a terse discussion.
"What do you think they are talking about?" Sophie asked Keene as he swept her through a turn in the dance.
"Who?"
"Victor and Mary Frances."
"The heiress? Marriage I should imagine."
Sophie stopped mid step and clapped her hands together. "Really?"
"I daresay. I wish you wouldn't stop like that." But his eyes smiled down on her nonetheless.
Another couple swept by them, the woman's skirts brushing their legs. Keene curled his arm around Sophie's waist and pulled her to the edge of the dance floor.
"Oh, she does so hope, but she didn't think she might aspire so high. He is an earl, after all."
"His pockets are to let and hers are rather full."
The bounce in Sophie's step flattened. "That is what he cares about?"
"I daresay he postponed caring about it until he had no choice, but most marriages are based on power alliances or needs of the pocket."
Sophie stared up at Keene. Not hers.
Keene wouldn't have had any need of her modest inheritance, not with being his father's heir. His brother Richard might have been a different story. And certainly she didn't bring any political clout to the union.
Keene propelled her into a curtained alcove. His intense look cast shivers down her spine. He leaned close, his breath warm in her ear. "Sophie, I want you."
Her knees wobbled, threatening to dump her to the floor, but his arm around her waist was a solid bar of support. He swung her around to face him. Her sensitive breasts met the solid wall of his chest, startling a surprised squeak from her.
"Ah, my pet, you do make the most enchanting sounds."
Her ears burned, but her humiliation was short-lived. His lips nibbled hers and warmth swept down her spine, flooding her body. He held her with an easy embrace, while his lips worked magic on hers. Her jaw loosened and he took full advantage, his tongue touching hers, engaging it in a swirling dance.
She clutched his shoulders, fearing her legs wouldn't support her. The kiss went on and on. He threaded his hand through her short curls, holding her head steady for his onslaught, while his other hand rubbed against the small of her back.
An ache started between her legs. She wanted to press that part of herself against him and whimpered when she couldn't figure out how to assuage the pressure.
He slid his hands down, cupping her and pulling her against a hard ridge that met her belly. He lifted her to her toes, tilting her hips to cradle against him.
So close, so close to what she wanted.
His low moan resounded in her ears. Could it be that he felt the same need for pressure, the same frustration at not being able to get it exactly as he wanted? His mouth broke away from hers. His breath rasped against her neck. Each hot moist burst made sensations race along her body, always returning to the low ache in her womanly parts.
He began a new onslaught, his mouth moving against her neck, finding places that cried out for his attention. She shivered in delight and smoothed her hands across his shoulders, wanting to touch every part of him and clutch him closer to her pounding heart.
Memories of moments like these kept her tossing in her big lonely bed at night. Her throat caught with desperation. "Please, I don't want this to end," she whispered.
"Tell me, Sophie."
She floundered with his request.
He pulled his head back, his dark eyes searching her face. His lower body pressed against hers. The ridge of hardness drew her curiosity. "I want you."
She reached inside for the words to pull him to her, to cleave his heart onto hers, to make him love her the way she adored him. "I need . . . I need . . . I need . . ." She couldn't find the words to describe what she thought she wanted. She needed that hard instrument pressing against her lower abdomen, lower yet. She needed it tucked between her legs. How that would help she didn't know, but it felt right.
"No secrets, Sophie, not now."
Her thoughts swirled in confusion. She didn't have any secrets, but he did.
He spoke slowly. "Earlier when we were at George's—"
"Amelia's baby."
"Yes." His eyes held hers, the look so intense she wanted to melt at his feet. She tore her gaze away. His honesty ripped through her, but at the same time a wave of peaceful acceptance followed in its wake.
She put her hand on his waist. His sharp intake of breath sent a starburst of passion coursing through her. She didn't care if he had fathered Amelia's baby. She moved her palm closer to his center, her eyes dropping to the bulge in his breeches. Did she dare to touch him there? "I'm glad you told me. I've suspected for some time, and of course Victor all but told me, and it doesn't matter."
Keene's narrowed eyes and cocked head weren't the response she expected.
"You are the father of Amelia's baby?"
"Good God, no! Victor is."
"He is?"
"There you are."
"Speak of the devil," muttered Keene, discreetly sliding his hands up to Sophie's waist.
"I need to borrow your carriage to see Miss Chandler home." Victor's brown eyes coursed over their intimate embrace. His expression turned wry.
Keene's eyes, dark with passion, held hers. "Get a hackney."
Victor rolled his eyes and stepped forward. "You don't understand," he whispered in Keene's ear. "I need a closed carriage."
Keene's head snapped around, his look sharp and accusatory. "Haven't you learned anything?"
Victor heaved a deep sigh. "We shouldn't speak of it before I address Mary's father, but Miss Chandler has done me the h
onor of agreeing to be my wife, pending her father's acceptance of my suit."
"I shall hold you to that. Your witnesses, ma'am." Keene bowed to her. "Didn't Miss Chandler arrive in her own carriage?"
"A word with you, sir," Victor said.
"I did, but Lord Wedmont has sent my companion home without me." Mary Frances frowned. "Without my leave."
"Not an auspicious beginning, Victor," commented Keene. "Must consult the ladies, especially your future wife."
Sophie was incredulous. "Good advice. Pity you don't hear the words of your own song."
"Hush, pet." Keene chucked her under the chin.
Victor shifted impatiently, silently begging Keene. Although since Keene could barely look away from his flushed wife, perhaps he wasn't quite catching the unspoken plea.
"Very well. Ladies, if you would care to take a turn about the floor, we shall meet you at the door in just a moment."
Sophie tucked her arm in Mary Frances's and leaned her tousled blonde curls close to Mary's smooth dark hair. Mary appeared wide-eyed as Sophie led her away. Perhaps the girl was a little awed at the easy success of her pursuit of a gentleman.
Keene turned his back and leaned his forehead against the wall. "Damn lucky you came along just then. I should have been sneaking along the corridors in a few moments to find a bed."
"Pretty havey-cavey business if you ask me. Let me borrow your carriage to take Miss Chandler home. Just take Sophie home in a hackney."
"Where's your carriage?"
Keene was mighty forgetful or distracted. Definitely distracted. Victor bit back the sarcastic retort hanging on his tongue and settled for a gentle reminder. "I came with you."
"Ah, yes." Keene pulled his forehead away from the wall. He swiveled around and headed for the opening of the alcove. "Well, no hope for it. We shall have to drop Miss Chandler on our way home."
Victor grabbed his arm. "No. Just drop us at your house, and I shall take her in my carriage from there. Although I do think yours is better appointed."
Keene swiveled around and stared him in the eye. "I fear you are about to do Miss Chandler some evil."
"I shall endeavor to be sure she enjoys it quite well."
Keene shook his head, disappointment obvious on his face.
"Oh, give over. I have every intention of making her my wife. Sooner rather than later. My businessman tells me that Mr. Chandler drives a hard bargain. I should not wish to be in negotiations with him for months on end. And if I do not have my hands in his pockets by the end of a fortnight I shall be cast in the clink."
"I have some money, three thousand pounds I could give you this night."
Sophie's dowry money. No doubt some sense of honor kept Keene from cashing the draft before the marriage was real in all ways.
"It won't be enough. If I can persuade her father there is some urgency to the marriage, I shall procure a special license and then we'll honeymoon in Portugal or Spain. Perhaps I, too, shall have an early stork delivery. Although I fear my luck has not extended to someone else performing the misdeed. No doubt my future bride is a virgin."
"I cannot allow you to misuse my wife's friend."
"Don't draw up stiff on me now. I shan't mistreat her, but I do require a private carriage so I might be assured of enough time to persuade her to my way of thinking."
"Do you love her?"
Victor thought his eyes might pop out of his head. "I cannot fathom that question from you."
Keene paced back and forth in the short alcove, frustration coloring his face at the two steps in, pivot, two steps out.
Victor decided that lying might be the better part of valor in that moment. "I do swear that I hold Miss Chandler in the highest esteem. I believe my emotions have . . ." All right, lying to Keene didn't sit well with him. "I am fond of her and believe I shall easily come to love her. I don't know her that well yet."
"Nor do I, but Victor are you sure? I know she is Sophie's friend, but I am not entirely . . . she . . . something about her troubles me."
Was Keene actually concerned about him? Victor had thought it was an unmarried woman's seduction Keene objected to. "Her father's pockets should ease your mind."
"I should have seduced Sophie when she came to my room the night I proposed." Keene raked his hand through his hair.
"You do not mean to wait any longer, do you?"
"I don't know that I can." Keene grabbed his arm and propelled him out of the alcove toward the ballroom entrance. "Very well, you may take her in my carriage after we are home."
"Take her I shall." Victor grinned.
"God help me. I have no idea why I am helping you."
"You shouldn't wish to see me in debtor's prison," replied Victor. He glanced toward the entryway where Sophie stood, her eyes bright with anticipation, obviously primed and ready. Beside her Mary Frances stood, her hands nervously clenched together under her chin. He might have a tough road to hoe convincing his bride-to-be that she wanted to be seduced. "Care to give me any pointers?"
"Go slowly, tense women can be deadly. They bite."
Keene stalked toward the door before Victor could wrest an explanation from him.
An hour later, Victor stared at his future bride as she shrank farther and farther into the squabs. "Miss Chandler—may I call you, Mary?—Mary, I thought we should spend this time getting to know each other better."
"My name is Mary Frances, milord."
He took her hand in his. "My name is Victor. Of course, you may call me anything you want. Victor, Vicky, darling, or, of course, you arrogant bastard."
The words startled a slight smile from her.
"Ah, there, you do have a lovely smile, my countess." The night was cool, but sweat streamed down his sides. Never had he had so much at stake. He stroked her hand, his thumb finding the edge of her glove and a patch of bare skin. "You do have the softest skin of any lady I ever knew." She might have had crocodile skin for all he noticed.
"Knew in what way, milord?"
Ah, there was the hint of the bold brassy woman he'd met in the ballrooms and salons. He flashed her a smile he hoped was charming. "Ah, do you want to hear tales of my past exploits? I fear I do not kiss and tell, Mary Frances."
He ran his bare fingers along her cheekbone. "You do have lovely eyes, my dearest."
Victor scooted closer on the seat. He looked at the carriage blanket folded on the opposite seat. "Are you cold, darling?"
She shook her head.
He paused in reaching for the blanket. "Are you very sure, for I want nothing more than your comfort."
"Perhaps then you should sit across from me so I don't have to tweak my head sideways to see you."
In for a penny, in for a pound. "Then how shall I kiss you?"
"You shouldn't."
"All engagements should be sealed with a kiss. You did say yes, did you not?"
She nodded. If her eyes opened any wider he didn't think her eyeballs should stay in her head.
"Don't be frightened, Mary Frances. I swear I shall never do anything to hurt you, now or when you are my wife."
She nodded crookedly.
"But I should ever so much hope that you would allow your betrothed a kiss." He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss against the back of her hand.
Her eyes followed his every move with a wary trepidation.
"Just a taste of your sweet cherry lips should send me to my grave a happy man."
Her brown eyes nearly crossed. Perhaps too much flattery for a city girl. He turned her hand over and sought the tiny expanse of skin between her glove and the sleeve of her pelisse. Her fur muff lay in her lap, her other hand buried inside it.
He stared deep into the warm depths of her eyes. They were really quite fine. She couldn't help it that he preferred blue to brown. He could learn to like her eyes, especially when they flashed with high spirits. He leaned closer to her.
She shrank away.
"Come, my lady, you shall have me believing y
ou find my countenance distasteful."
"Oh, no, I'm sure you are quite handsome." She shook her head, though. Either she didn't think so, or she objected to his fast and loose use of titles.
But he knew his main attraction for her. "And a peer."
"Oh, yes."
"And do you wish to be my countess?"
She nodded, the gleam that he enjoyed entered her eyes.
"Then do let me kiss you."
She squinted her eyes shut and leaned forward, her mouth pursed for a peck.
"Ah, I am pleased that you are not well versed in kissing, my love, but you shall have to learn."
Her eyes popped open. The carriage rounded a corner, and she was thrown toward him. Fortune was smiling on him. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder to steady her. She struggled against him.
"Easy, my countess."
She stopped instantly.
That was the trick, then, to remind her that she would be gaining a title when she married him. He tilted her chin up and feathered the lightest of kisses against her throat just behind her ear. Her startled intake of breath was no assurance that she liked his caress.
Her stare was not quite settled as he pulled back. He held her eyes as long as he could stand to before leaning in and brushing his lips across hers. At this rate seducing her would take an eternity, but his coachman was instructed to drive around Mayfair until hearing a knock on the pass-through. Then he was to feign being unable to find her street.
Her eyes fluttered open as he waited for her response.
"See there, not so bad, was it?"
She touched her hand to her lips with such a bemused expression. His groin tightened in response. He lifted her hand, placed it on his shoulder and repositioned her for another kiss, a real kiss this time.
Her participation was delayed, but the uncertainty made his heart pound with tenderness and desire. He whispered encouragement against her lips, before plunging in for another kiss. She welcomed him this time, straining toward him. He pushed her muff to the floor and stroked her back.
He reminded himself again and again to go slowly, but his bride-to-be displayed her own enthusiasm. He lowered her to the seat and kissed her deeply, her body softly pliant beneath his chest. He twisted to lie on top of her, framing her face with his hands. Her hair had pulled loose from the topknot. As he settled over her, he found the top button of her pelisse.
She screamed and pushed all in one motion. Suddenly her willingness and compliance was a flurry of thrashing legs and shoving arms and twisting skirts. Her hands raked out, her fingers curled into claws.
