by Tanya Wilde
“Marcus Hunt,” Willow said and eyed her sister with a raised brow. “He is a Bow Street Runner.”
“A damn fine one.”
“Poppy!” Willow admonished.
Holly grinned. “Marcus Hunt has been loitering about all morning. He wishes to ask me some questions, but I haven’t had the time to see to him. Jonathan said he would see to it.”
“Why do I feel every sentence either starts or ends with Jonathan?” Poppy gave an exaggerated sigh.
“He is family,” Willow pointed out.
“Yes, well, I’d much rather talk about the scrumptious Bow Street Runner,” Poppy drawled with dreamy eyes.
“Do keep in mind that it is Holly’s wedding day.”
“Of course,” Poppy murmured. “And I cannot believe I’m attending another one of your weddings.”
Willow covered her mouth with her hand and smothered a laugh.
“This one will be the last, I promise,” Holly muttered, her gaze darting to the door.
“I am thrilled to hear that, although now I shall be left as the only one unwed. How positively uninspiring.”
“You will find someone,” Willow murmured. “Just be patient and leave the Bow Street Runners alone.”
Poppy wrinkled her nose. “Patience has never been one of my virtues. And since all the good bachelors have been snatched up, I suppose I will have to settle for Mr. Hunt.”
“Not all the bachelors have been snatched up,” Holly felt compelled to point out. “There are still a few reformable rakes left untouched.”
“Not anyone worthy of my time.”
“You are so bad,” Willow murmured.
“I do not see how I am bad when all I ask for is a handsome gentleman who will conquer worlds for me.”
“Worlds?” Holly winked at Willow. “And here I thought there was only one.”
“A figure of speech,” Poppy said with a wave of her hand. “So how will we know when your future husband arrives?”
“I suppose when he bursts through the door bellowing my name.”
Willow snickered.
“The man does seem to do things in a loud manner.”
A smile spread across Holly’s lips. He surely did. And the continued silence of him not bellowing out her name was nerve-racking. Her palms were all sweaty, and her heart fluttered in her chest every time a door slammed in the distance. Where was he?
“Oh, no! It’s raining!” Poppy suddenly exclaimed in horror.
Holly whirled around to catch her sister leaning out of the window, looking up at the sky.
“Drat! This won’t do! We must rescue the cake, or all our effort will be for naught!” Poppy exclaimed.
Willow dashed from the room, shouting over her shoulder, “Don’t move, Holly! I shall be back shortly!”
Poppy darted from the room in pursuit, leaving Holly standing alone, staring after them, nonplussed. A little rain was nothing to be concerned about; they could just as easily marry before a cozy fire in the drawing room.
She turned back to study her reflection in the mirror. She felt like a different person from the one who had left London in a mad dash alongside the marquis. Wiser. More at ease with herself.
Her hand lifted to settle on her chest, where her heart beat the strongest. She also felt stronger, braver.
Another door slammed in the distance.
Again, her heart fluttered in her chest.
Chapter 21
Brahm stared at the invitation that had been delivered to him an hour ago. For what must be the twelfth time, he rubbed his thumb over the excellent quality paper the size of a calling card. It wasn’t like any invitation he had ever received, and he’d been staring at it since it had arrived, trying to figure out whether it was a trick or real.
A wedding invitation.
For one thing, there was no bloody name on it. Who had sent it? Who was getting married? Holly, for certain, but there was a big question mark regarding the groom. What if he arrived only to witness her being ushered down the aisle to marry Lord Jonathan?
He’d murder the whelp.
Dammit. He was uncertain whether this was a gesture of mockery from St. Ives or one in earnest. Rage and fear simmered beneath the surface at the idea of losing her.
Eleven o’clock.
Brahm glanced at his pocket watch. It was now ten thirty.
He ran his hand over his face, studying the card. The address caused him to pause.
21 Tuner Street, Mayfair.
The address belonged to Charles Middleton, not St. Ives. But that didn’t mean this wasn’t a ruse of sorts.
He stared at the plain, printed white card, tracing a trembling finger over her name. Holly Middleton.
Could it be real? And if it were real, what the hell was the meaning of it? A proposal? For him? What kind of proposal was this, in any case? Had whoever sent this completely lost their senses? He had already declared him and Holly engaged. Moreover, if it were real, did that mean that Holly was no longer held captive by the duke?
Had she escaped? Had the duked released her? Had she sent this invitation? Why wouldn’t she send word?
Brahm hardly recalled how he had come to stand before 21 Turner Street. But now that he was there, he debated the merits of kicking down the damn door.
Somewhere in this house, if this invitation was to be believed, Holly resided. That fact allowed him to draw the strength to be calm.
So he knocked.
And waited.
And then, as if his confusion wasn’t enough, the darkened clouds above him opened up and showered him, and all of London, with pouring rain.
And still he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
With a growl of impatience, his hand settled on the door just as it swung open to reveal Lord Jonathan.
Brahm uttered an oath.
The dandy stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a bold green jacket and navy breeches, whereas Brahm had not even bothered with a coat. He wore only a white shirt, soaked and clinging to his skin, and cream breeches, also drenched.
“Ah, Warton, I was wondering when you’d arrive,” Lord Jonathan said. There was no mockery in the man’s voice but for a flash of amusement.
Brahm saw red.
Without thought or word, he grabbed the man by the lapels and shoved him inside. Lord Jonathan flew back, crashing to the ground. A few feet away, a footman dropped a tray of champagne in fright, the noise startling two maids.
“Where is she?” Brahm growled, uncaring of anything else. He grasped the man again, hauling him up. “I told you if you married her I would disembowel you!”
Marcus Hunt appeared from nowhere, pulling Brahm away from Lord Jonathan with some effort. Few matched Brahm’s height and built, and Hunt was not as big or quite as tall, but the Runner packed some deceptive strength in his muscle.
“Hell, man, get it together,” Hunt hissed in his ear.
He jerked away from Hunt when a flurry of skirts entered his peripheral vision.
Brahm turned toward the stairs, and his eyes found her instantly. Like the radiant sun, she beckoned him. He inhaled a sharp breath. And for a moment, he couldn’t move, could only stare.
A week ago he would never have imagined they could match so perfectly together. Now Brahm could hardly maintain himself when she was not by his side. All he wanted to do was kiss her.
Her eyes darted to Lord Jonathan and Hunt before settling on him again, and Brahm held his breath.
Then she smiled—a full stretch of her lips that transformed her entire face.
Brahm could not tear his eyes away. She looked ravishing, downright beddable. But then he recalled who opened the door, and his eyes narrowed.
Her sisters, in a whirl of satin skirts, suddenly entered the hall, their collective gasps causing him to flinch.
“Oh!” Willow exclaimed, her brows knitting together as her gaze traveled over his soaked attire.
“I daresay you were right,�
�� Poppy murmured. “We would know his arrival by a bellow or two.”
Brahm shook his head and strode toward Holly, stopping at the edge of the staircase. They needed to talk. This instant.
“You came,” she whispered. Her expression was soft, her eyes luminous.
Brahm arched a thick brow, searching her face. Of course he came. Nothing would have kept him away. Nothing except for her.
His gaze roved her face. “You sent this?” He held up the invitation.
“You don’t know,” she murmured, lowering her lashes.
Beneath his skin, his pulse leaped. It was not a no but not a yes either.
“I know you are not hidden away, as I first believed.”
“Lord Jonathan let me out.”
The words were like a fire poker, jabbing at his gut. Dammit! She could either break him or calm the storm inside of him.
“When you left me—”
“I never left you,” Brahm interrupted with a scowl. “I returned that same day.”
“After I was taken by the duke’s men, yes.”
“I haven’t stopped searching for you since then.” That ought to count for something.
“I waited for days.”
Brahm placed one boot on the first step, then another and another until he loomed over her. “I was working on a plan.”
A faint smile graced her mouth. “So I hear.”
He leaned closer. “What did you hear?”
“Jonathan told me of your threats.”
His innards lurched at her use of the boy’s Christian name. His shoulders expanding even more, he prepared for her next blow. “Are you wedding him? Have you decided to follow the duke’s decree?”
The tip of her tongue darted between her lips as she licked her mouth. “That is the most absurd thing you have said so far!”
His gaze lowered to her rosy, plump, kissable lips. “You are wearing matching outfits.”
“Do not be silly!” She glanced at Jonathan and slanted a devilish brow. “That is purely coincidence.”
“Coincidence my ass.”
“Has it not occurred to you that he may not wish to marry me?”
He pressed his nose against hers. “No. What man wouldn’t want to spend the rest of his life with you?”
Her lips parted and shut again. “Lord, you are vexing at times.” Her smile was brilliant and openly amused. “The only man I wish to marry is you.”
Raw emotion seared his soul. She wanted to marry him. That thought dominated his mind, making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe.
“I cannot believe you thought the invitation was for Jonathan and me.” Her gaze was bright with astonishment.
“Woman, I do not like that man’s name on your lips.” With the chastening arch of one brow, he lifted the card to her face. “And neither does your invitation mention anything about the groom.”
“Because you are the groom. I thought that was clear.”
“Not clear enough.”
But Brahm’s body was relaxing, responding to the affection in her voice.
“Well, in any case, the duke is tied up at the moment, so of course it’s meant for us. Jona—ahem—Lord Jonathan assisted Willow in securing him.” She tilted her head to the side, resting a hand on his chest. Brahm felt her touch to the bone. “And he told me about how you declared our engagement to the entire world.”
Tied up?
Brahm grunted. That didn’t matter right now. What did matter was that he hadn’t thought she would find out about his declaration until after he had time to explain his reasoning along with his actions—privately.
“Are you angry?” she asked.
“I ought to be,” he grumbled. “Not only have you stolen my very existence, but you have now also robbed me of my chance to ask you for your hand in marriage.”
Her eyes rounded and her lips parted just enough for him to imagine all the things he’d love to do with that mouth. “How does one go about thieving someone’s existence?”
“You snatch up my heart the moment I let my guard down,” he growled, seizing her around the waist and dragging her up against him.
His lips crashed down on hers for a scorching kiss.
On and on he kissed her, until the front of her gown was as soaked as he was. Until her arms encircled his neck and she kissed him back with the same heat. Blood pounded in his veins.
Vaguely, he heard someone giggle and clap her hands, another person gasp, and someone clear his throat. But nothing mattered; only Holly and that she was finally back in his arms.
When he finally summoned the strength to pull his mouth away from her—and it took all of his willpower—he winked down at her and hoisted her over his shoulder.
“Brahm,” she gasped. “You barbarian! Let me down!”
“Of course. But first, let us continue this conversation in a more,” he glanced over his shoulder, “private setting.”
And before anyone could protest, he took the stairs two at a time.
Chapter 22
Brahm set her down once they were in a private drawing room, safely locked away from prying eyes. He still couldn’t believe she was here, with him. Everything he never knew he wanted, so close, staring up at him with such affection that he could scarcely draw air into his lungs.
He didn’t dare move as she reached up to trace his jawline with a soft, delicate finger.
“You love me?” she asked once he had set her down, her eyes searching his.
“So much it bloody hurts.”
Her smile was radiant, sweet, dazzlingly bright. “Then I suppose I shall have to marry you right this moment.”
“Holly, are you certain you want this? My declaration was—”
She interrupted him by placing a finger on his lips. “You are exactly what I want.”
He nipped at the digit with his teeth.
Thunder rolled in the distance, and instead of flinching, she ran her hand through his soaked hair.
His eyes narrowed on her. “You aren’t frightened.”
“I never was. You startled me and assumed the worst,” she admitted, her smile unashamed. “I was happy to be carried up a flight of stairs in your arms.”
“And what of all your little touches that drove me crazy. They weren’t innocent at all.”
A blush stole over her cheeks. “I wanted to make you see what I already knew: that we were meant to be together. I needed some way for you to see me as more than someone to protect,” she admitted.
“Bloody hell,” he raked a hand through his hair. “I thought I was going mad.”
“My touches drove you mad with desire?”
He scowled down at her. “The bath incident?”
A glimmer of laughter lit her eyes. “That was entirely accidental.”
“I cannot believe I did not see it,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
“Does it bother you?”
His eyes ensnared hers. This newfound revelation that she had pursued him intentionally without him being the wiser ought to have bothered him, but strangely, it did not. Instead, her actions made him want her all the more.
“It appears I am to marry the craftiest woman in London. I do believe I will love every moment of it.”
When pure joy brightened her features, Brahm realized he would cite all the damn love poems in the world to always see that look on her face.
“I am quite the thief these days, aren’t I?” she replied.
Yes, she was, but right now he was far too busy noticing every small detail of her to reply—like how the awful coffee color had washed out of her hair and her shortened blond locks were all the same length; how her blue eyes were brighter than usual; how her beguiling angel-white teeth lit up the room.
Heart beating wildly in his chest, he traced a finger along the soft flesh of her lower lip. “You look exquisite. Did I mention that?”
“I’m not even done dressing.”
“I don’t care.” He inhaled a deep breath.
“From the moment I discovered you were taken, I told myself I would do anything to get you back. And now that you are here . . .” Words failed him. Emotion clogged his throat.
“How about you kiss me again?” she said with a wicked grin, and to his surprise, she tugged on his shirt until they were pressed firmly up against each other.
“I don’t think that that’s a good idea.”
“Why not.” Her voice was breathless.
Dear Christ. He swallowed. “I’d do more than kiss you. I’d want to feast my eyes over every inch of your body.”
And so much more. He wanted to claim her—fully. He wanted to claim her so that when she stood before him and the priest, there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind that she belonged to him.
He could wait no longer, had fantasized about this moment—her lips swollen from his kisses, her body spent from his loving—since he first saw her dressed in nothing but her chemise in the secret passageway of the church.
Her eyes darted around the room. “Here?”
She sounded so intrigued that Brahm allowed his eyes to smolder with the lust he felt for her.
In response, she clutched her dress more tightly against her. “We are to be married in a few moments . . .”
When she backed up, Brahm’s arm snaked out, and he hauled her against him. “I would trail my tongue down the hollow of your neck to your collarbone.”
She shivered in his arms. “Why does that sound so wickedly intriguing?”
He stared transfixed into the soft crystals of her eyes. “I don’t want to leave anything up to fate. Not with your wild ways.”
“Wild ways?” she teased.
“Yes, wild. You are my tempest, after all.” And then he crushed his mouth down against hers.
HOLLY HAD FANTASIZED about this moment ever since she first decided she was going to marry the Marquis of Warton. She’d quite literally dreamed of being held in his arms, her passions awakened by his kisses. Now she stood in breathless anticipation of what would happen next. And while this was in no way the perfect wedding, this moment between them was all the more perfect for it.
