The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

by Lauren Willig

  Amy considered for a moment, leaning her head back on the pillow in a way that bared the white arch of her neck. Unable to resist, Richard ran a finger down the line of her throat, following it with his lips.

  ‘Oooh. You know, it’s not at all easy to think when you do that. No. No, I don’t miss the Purple Gentian. He was a lovely romantic dream, but I much prefer – oof!’ The force of Richard’s arms around her rendered finishing the thought impossible.

  ‘Right answer.’

  ‘True answer. Besides,’ Amy added breathlessly, grinning up at him, ‘the mask chafed.’

  If he had ever taken the time to envision his wedding night – or, in this case, wedding afternoon – shouting with laughter wouldn’t have been on the agenda. But that’s just what he was doing. It was as if all the joy welling up within him needed an outlet. There were also other things demanding an outlet, but Richard wanted to keep those in check as long as possible, since Amy deserved the best wedding afternoon anyone had ever had.

  He smoothed her hair away from her face. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Say it again,’ Amy begged, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘I can’t ever hear you say it enough.’

  ‘I love you.’ Richard kissed the tip of Amy’s nose and she giggled.

  ‘I love you.’ Amy’s giggle turned into a gasp as his lips touched the sensitive hollow above her collarbone.

  ‘I love you.’ His lips descended into the deep cavity of her bodice. ‘All of you,’ he amended, sitting back on his heels, his gaze raking down Amy’s body from the loose neck of her blouse to the way the coarse wool of her skirt moulded against her legs. ‘And I would love you’ – he yanked on the laces of her bodice – ‘even better without all these clothes in the way.’

  ‘Wait,’ Amy said huskily, stilling his hand on the laces of her bodice. ‘Don’t I get to see you?’

  Although reluctant to leave off unlacing Amy, whose bodice had already dipped to show a tantalising amount of nicely curved flesh, Richard didn’t need too much encouragement to comply. Amy lifted herself up on one elbow to watch as he dragged his shirt up over his head. How could she have ever thought he looked like an illustration of Horatius? Apollo the Sun God was closer to the mark. Richard glowed. Sunlight reflected off the wiry gold hairs dusting his chest, and turned him into an object of worship. And he was hers. Utterly, entirely hers. Amy thrilled to the thought.

  Never one to allow new toys to sit and gather dust, Amy reached out and tentatively touched her palms to the smooth skin of Richard’s stomach, loving the way his muscles tensed under her fingers. She slid her hands upward, fascinated by the heat that radiated from his skin, the unfamiliar brush of hair against her fingers.

  Richard’s hands clamped down on Amy’s wrists, placing her hands firmly on the gaudy silk coverlet. ‘Your turn,’ he announced unevenly.

  ‘But you’re still wearing—’ Amy’s words were abruptly cut off as Richard whisked her shirt and chemise over her head in one hearty tug.

  ‘Much better,’ he decreed, flinging them aside. ‘Much, much better. You do not know how much I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he muttered, as he gently cupped a breast in each hand.

  ‘I thought’ – Amy paused with a gasp as Richard brushed his palm against the puckered nub of her nipple – ‘that you would never touch me like this again.’

  Looking genuinely horrified, Richard’s hands closed possessively over her breasts. ‘Perish the thought! I intend to touch you like this again…’ – his mouth gently brushed one nipple – ‘and again’ – he visited the other – ‘and again.’ His mouth fastened on the first nipple and Amy lost all interest in conversation. She whimpered as he withdrew his mouth, flicking her hardened nipple teasingly with the tip of his tongue. She arched up against him, pulling at his hair.

  ‘Someone is getting impatient,’ he murmured, running his hand down along Amy’s torso to the lacings of her skirt.

  ‘Patience,’ Amy said fiercely, twining her fingers in his golden hair and yanking his mouth towards hers, ‘is not one of my virtues.’

  She couldn’t say what exactly she was impatient for, but the feel of Richard’s leanly muscled body against hers, the wiry hair on his chest brushing against her aching breasts, made her strain against him in inexplicable agitation. Running her hands along his shoulders, she felt his muscles bunch as he eased her skirt down her hips. He freed his mouth from hers and slid down to follow the path of her skirt, kissing each inch of skin as it was bared, the indentation of her waist, her thighs, her calves, the very tips of her toes.

  Richard tossed her skirt and drawers into a far corner of the room – the farther away the better, as far as he was concerned – straightened, and stared. He had imagined, of course. What red-blooded man wouldn’t? But the daydreams didn’t even come close to the reality of Amy, her skin milky pale against the red silk coverlet. Richard just stared, open-mouthed, at the perfection of her, of her perfectly proportioned arms and legs, the gentle swell of her stomach, the curves of her hip bones.

  ‘You’re so little,’ he marvelled. ‘So little and so perfect.’

  Amy leant up towards him, twining her arms around his neck. ‘So are you,’ she announced, as his hands locked around her waist and began to ride up her rib cage towards her breasts.

  ‘Ow!’ he pulled away in mock offence.

  Amy blushed. ‘Not little. Perfect, I mean. At least, I think I mean—’

  She looked so charmingly befuddled that Richard decided there was only one humane thing to do. He stopped her mouth with a long, passionate kiss.

  Arms, legs, and lips intertwined, they slid sideways towards the pillow. Richard’s hands roamed the length of Amy’s body, igniting urgent prickles of sensation wherever they touched. He ran his tongue along the rim of her ear, and Amy squirmed, murmuring incoherently. She squeezed him tighter, clutching the warm skin of his shoulder blades, pressing up against him so close that she could feel the groan that welled up in his chest. She touched her own tongue delicately to his ear and was rewarded by a shudder that ran through his entire body. She heard the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath, and then…

  Amy frowned in confusion. ‘Why are you counting in Greek?’ she asked.

  ‘So I don’t’ – Richard’s hand slid up the inside of her thigh, toying with the dark tangle of curls at the base of her legs – ‘explode.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Amy, who didn’t quite understand, but didn’t at all care, because one of Richard’s nimble fingers had slipped past her curls into the moist core of her, and, oh goodness, was it possible for anyone to feel like that? He was touching her the way he had touched her that night on the Seine, only this time, with Richard’s naked body pressed against her, his unmasked face taut with passion above hers, it felt ten times better and Amy wasn’t sure she would live through the experience. She cried out as he slipped a finger into her slick sheath.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ groaned Richard. Pulling away, he tugged at the buttons of his breeches. One popped off and ricocheted off the wall. Amy half-giggled, half-sobbed, her hands joining his in peeling off the tight buckskin. ‘Damn!’ cursed Richard as the trousers bunched around his ankles. Frantically kicking them off, he rolled back towards Amy, grabbing her up in his arms and kissing her with a passion unabated by stubborn articles of clothing.

  ‘Where were we?’ he wheezed.

  Taking his hand, Amy showed him. Richard’s blood went from overheated to boiling in the space of a second. He would have started counting in Greek again but he didn’t think it would do any good. Feeling her begin to squirm again beneath him, he slowly eased his hand away and replaced it with the tip of his shaft, biting down hard on his lip in the effort not to plunge straight in.

  Amy quivered as the unfamiliar fullness eased between her legs, her body straining upwards, desperately wanting more. ‘Please…’ she breathed.

  ‘This…might…hurt.’ Richard’s words emerged in a series of pants.

  Amy’s nails dug into the ha
rd muscles of his upper arms, the pressure of his arousal against her sensitive nub driving her half wild with unfulfilled desire. ‘Oh, Richard…’

  It was more than flesh and blood could bear. With the sound of his own name whistling in his ear, Richard plunged, checking only slightly as he felt the barrier of her virginity giving way. Amy stiffened beneath him. ‘Should I stop?’ Richard asked, steeling himself to withdraw.

  Amy bit down on her lip and shook her head. ‘Don’t.’ She lifted her face to his. ‘Don’t stop, please.’

  Richard wasn’t sure he could have if he wanted to, but he tried to move more slowly as Amy’s body adjusted to his, his tongue sliding through her lips in unconscious imitation of the movement of their bodies. Slowly, clumsily, she began to rock her hips in small circles against his, whimpering as her passion built to a crescendo. She locked her legs around his back, drawing him deeper inside, pushing, straining, begging for more.

  Richard abandoned all attempts at restraint. With a primal cry he drove deeply into her. Kissing him frantically, nails clawing into his back, Amy bucked against him. She cried out her pleasure as a thousand diamond sparkles exploded across the back of her eyes and bathed her body in effervescent splendour. A moment later, as she quivered beneath him, Richard gave a hoarse cry and collapsed against her.

  Still incapable of speech, Richard rolled Amy over so that she was lying half on top of him.

  Amy revelled in the feel of Richard’s warm, wonderfully male body under hers. Her leg snuggled comfortably between his thighs, and her breasts squished against his side. She flung an arm across his chest, and rubbed her cheek in the perfect hollow between his shoulder and neck, a space clearly formed with Amy’s head in mind.

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, rubbing her fingers idly through the damp hair on his chest. ‘So happy.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Richard agreed, blowing away a strand of dark hair that had decided to invade his nose. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to keep my hands off you when we get back to London.’

  ‘Do you have to?’ Amy lifted her head, looking gratifyingly distressed by the notion.

  ‘Until we’re officially married.’

  ‘How long can that possibly take?’

  ‘Weeks! Months!’ howled Richard. ‘All of those…things that go into a wedding,’ he added with disgust.

  ‘Drat,’ said Amy. ‘Maybe we should just stay on the boat.’

  ‘Not a bad idea.’

  ‘Do you think it might storm?’ The words plucked at Amy’s memory and she smiled to herself as she remembered the last time she had uttered something similar, on another little boat making its way across the Channel.

  Richard’s eyes fastened on hers. ‘I know one particularly rough crossing that took four full days.’

  Amy lifted herself up on one elbow and gazed down into Richard’s face. ‘Do you have a distinct sense of déja vu?’ she asked conversationally.

  ‘Hmm. There are,’ Richard mused with mock seriousness, ‘some crucial differences.

  ‘And those might be?’

  ‘Last time’ – Richard’s hands slid up Amy’s ribs to her breasts – ‘you were fully clothed.’

  ‘That’s only one difference.’

  ‘But a crucial one, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I’ve thought of one,’ Amy said, when she could speak again.

  Richard considered. ‘I’d still have to pick your not being fully clothed.’

  Amy shook her head. ‘Think.’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘This time, I love you.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Onslow Square looked much prettier in the sunlight. Or it would have, had I not been in the grip of a massive hangover which turned the sunlight glinting off iron railings and car windows into a direct affront. I huddled into the entryway of Mrs Selwick-Alderly’s building and contemplated the buzzer. Part of me was inclined to pop two more Tylenol, call Mrs Selwick-Alderly with dire tales of bubonic plague, and flee home to my darkened flat.

  Of course, that meant getting back on the Tube. The Tube is not the place for a queasy stomach.

  If it had just been a matter of an unsettled stomach, I might have braved the Tube. But I was weighted in place by the bundle in my arms. In a capacious Waterstone’s bag, I carried the bulging, plastic-wrapped package of manuscripts. I had promised Mrs Selwick-Alderly that I would return it today, so return it today I must.

  Last night…what had I been thinking? I resisted the urge to bang my head against the intercom. I had made an absolute ass of myself in front of Colin Selwick. Oh God. I hadn’t fallen over, had I? Or sung anything? I desperately searched my mental archives, wincing as I flipped through last night’s collection of embarrassing memories. No falling and no singing. I could always call Pammy tonight and make sure. I didn’t think there were any big black spots in my memory, but that’s the problem with black spots, isn’t it? You can’t know they’re not there because you can’t remember them in the first place. Urgh.

  What I did remember was bad enough. Why in the hell did I have to hit him with that glow stick? And the glow stick was minor compared with grabbing him and yanking him across the room. Not that any of it mattered, I reminded myself for the fiftieth time. If anyone ought to be ashamed, it was Colin Selwick. What was the idea of letting me think his sister was his girlfriend? To be fair to him, I was the one who had leapt to the conclusion that she was his girlfriend. But he might have disabused me of the notion. The only reason I could come up with to explain why he hadn’t done so was that he was afraid I would fling myself at him if I thought him girlfriendless. Not exactly flattering. Do I look that desperate?

  I really hoped Colin Selwick had gone back to Selwick Hall. Or out to a movie. Or anywhere. I didn’t care where, just so long as it wasn’t 43 Onslow Square.

  OK. Enough dithering. I would return the manuscript, have a cup of tea with Mrs Selwick-Alderly, and go home. Nothing to make a big deal about. I pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me, Elo—’

  ‘Come right up, Eloise,’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly called down, only in the way of buzzers, it came out, ‘Grrr grrr grrr, rrrr.’ The metallic crunching noises reverberated through my skull.

  Hauling my aching head up to the first landing, I was trying to arrange my face into a suitably amiable expression when I caught sight of the open door. And its occupant.

  So much for the attempt to smile.

  ‘Feeling a bit rough?’ inquired Colin Selwick from his spot against the doorframe.

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ I muttered. It wasn’t fair. He’d been out last night, too, tossing down the champagne, and there wasn’t so much as a dark shadow under his eyes. All right, so I’d had a four-glass head start on him, but still. He had no right to look quite that bright and alert and well rested.

  Since I couldn’t express any of that, I vented some of my disgruntled emotions by shoving the plastic-wrapped pile at him. ‘Here. I’ve brought your aunt’s manuscripts back.’

  From the look on his face as he accepted the package, it didn’t look like his aunt had ever got around to informing him about the manuscript loan. The only word to describe him was nonplussed. Fortunately, Mrs Selwick-Alderly appeared before Colin could regain his powers of speech.

  ‘Eloise! Welcome!’

  ‘I’ve brought the manuscripts,’ I repeated, for lack of anything better to say. Colin, fortunately, seemed to have passed from alarm to resignation without passing rage; or, if he was angry, he was holding his tongue as he passed the manuscripts silently to his aunt. ‘They’re all there,’ I added, for Colin’s benefit.

  ‘I’m sure they are.’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly ushered me into the parlour, Colin following silently behind. Damn, I had been hoping he would go away. How could I ever speak freely to Mrs Selwick-Alderly with Colin lurking there? I couldn’t look at him without wincing.

  The parlour looked much the same as it had the day before yesterday, right down to the tea t
ray, only this morning the fire was unlit. And there were three cups on the tray instead of two. Damn, damn, damn. I sank onto the same side of the sofa I had occupied on my last visit, Mrs Selwick-Alderly to my left. Colin flung himself into the overstuffed chair next to my side of the sofa.

  ‘How’s your sister doing?’ I asked pointedly.

  Colin didn’t miss a beat. ‘Much better,’ he said promptly. ‘She thinks it was a dodgy prawn sandwich she ate for lunch yesterday.’

  ‘What’s all this?’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly looked up from the tea tray in some concern. ‘Is Serena ill?’

  Colin explained, while I accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Selwick-Alderly and browsed among the biscuits, searching for something plain. ‘You’ve won an admirer for life, Eloise,’ he finished, stretching his long legs out comfortably in front of him. ‘She was singing your praises in the cab home.’

  This was not what I had expected. I cast a suspicious sideways glance in his direction.

  ‘That was very kind of you, dear,’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly said approvingly. ‘Biscuit, Colin?’

  Colin took three.

  Since he clearly wasn’t going anywhere, I decided to just go on as though he weren’t there. Putting my teacup down on the coffee table, I leant towards Mrs Selwick-Alderly, effectively cutting Colin out of the conversation.

  ‘What did happen after Richard and Amy returned to England?’

  Mrs Selwick-Alderly tilted her head to one side in thought. ‘They were married, of course. Both Jane and Miss Gwen returned briefly from France for the occasion – Edouard as well. The Bishop of London performed the ceremony at Uppington House, and the Prince of Wales himself attended the wedding breakfast.’

  ‘Good old Prinny,’ commented Colin. ‘Probably hoping to revive the droit de seigneur.’

  I ignored him. Mrs Selwick-Alderly had more effective tactics. ‘Colin, dear,’ she asked, ‘would you fetch down the miniatures?’

  Colin loped across the room to fetch. Carefully, he freed the two small portrait miniatures that hung above the trunk from their tiny hooks and brought them over to Mrs Selwick-Alderly.