The Prince's Bride

by Victoria Alexander

  She studied him for a moment. “You are an annoying man, aren’t you?”

  “And you are an intensely curious creature.” He plucked the apple from her hands, took the knife, and began to peel the fruit.

  “At least you no longer consider me mercenary,” she murmured, watching the deft way he handled the knife.

  “I’m not entirely certain curious is much better.” He pressed the back of the blade with his thumb and slowly turned the apple, the peel dangling from the fruit in one long curl.

  “Why?”

  His fingers were long and strong, his motions sure and competent and altogether mesmerizing. “A curious woman can get herself into all kinds of trouble.”

  “Can she?”

  The peel fell to the blanket, a scarlet spiral against the pale coverlet.

  “Isn’t there some superstition children have about the peel of an apple forming the initial of a future spouse?” Rand poked at the peel with the knife. “It doesn’t particularly look like an initial other than perhaps a curved P.”

  “Prudence perhaps? Or Patience?”

  “Or Patricia?” He laughed. “Surely there are more but I can’t think of any others.”

  “Philomena.” She nodded and grinned. “Or Prunella.”

  He grimaced in exaggerated horror. “God save me from a woman named Prunella.”

  “I daresay you’re already saved as you’re already married,” she said with a laugh.

  “Absolutely. And as that is the case...” He rearranged the peel into a reasonable approximation of a J. “That’s much better.”

  Her gaze met his. “Is it?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe it is.”

  She leaned forward until her lips were close to his. He wanted to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes. But he didn’t want it enough. Not yet.

  She took the apple from his left hand, the knife from the right, and straightened. He drew a shuddering breath and she smiled to herself. This was indeed a very good start.

  “Tell me, Rand”—she cut a slice from the apple— “about your family. Your mother perhaps.”

  “My mother?” He frowned in surprise and the tension between them vanished.

  Jocelyn groaned to herself. His mother? What a stupid thing to ask him about. The last thing a man needed to be reminded of at a moment like this was his mother. And it had been going so nicely too.

  “Yes,” Jocelyn said with a resigned sigh. As long as she had brought up the subject she might as well continue. “My mother died when I was very young and I scarce remember her at all. I rather look forward to meeting yours.”

  “She’ll like you, I think.” He studied her for a moment. “I suspect she always feared I’d marry some milk-and-water miss.”

  “And she wouldn’t like that?” Jocelyn took a bite of the apple slice and noted the way Rand’s gaze focused on her mouth. She chewed slowly and deliberately.

  “Not at all. She’s rather an independent sort herself.” Jocelyn took another bite and Rand swallowed hard. “Led my father on quite a merry chase, I believe.”

  She cut a second slice, started to take a bite, then held it out to him. He accepted it, his fingers brushing hers, and electricity again sizzled between them. He popped the piece into his mouth, a drop of apple juice lingering on his lips.

  Without thinking she reached out to brush it away. He grabbed her hand and licked the juice from her finger.

  Rand turned her hand over and kissed her palm, and a shiver ran through her. His gaze met hers and she saw her own desire reflected in his eyes.

  He pulled her down to him slowly as if they moved in a dream. Their lips met and time itself seemed to pause, then all restraint between them vanished. He jerked her into his embrace and her arms wrapped around him with a need she’d never known. His lips were hard and demanding and she demanded in return. Her mouth opened and his tongue met hers and delight swept through her. He tasted of apples and heat and desire. She wanted him and all that wanting him meant.

  His hands were on her back, then lower, caressing her derriere, and they rolled together off the blanket and onto the grass. She lay on top of him, feeling every inch of his long, hard length beneath her. She wrenched her lips from his to kiss his face, his neck, and the pulse beat at the base of his throat. His scent, his touch filled her, surrounded her, conquered her.

  His hands slipped along her sides and down the length of her legs until her skirt slipped up and he touched her bare skin. She gasped and shifted to lie face-to-face with him in the grass. His leg wedged between hers and she could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing into her. Fear flickered, then was swept away by the more powerful urgency of need. His hand cupped her buttocks beneath her dress, pulling her more tightly against him. His head dipped to the swell of her breast revealed by the low bodice and she strained against the fabric wanting only his touch, his kiss.

  His hand slipped between her legs to the moisture she could feel there and to a place she’d never been touched before. Indescribable sensation shot through her and she sucked in a hard breath. “Oh dear Lord, Rand.”

  He stilled.

  “Rand?” She pulled her head back and stared at him.

  “No.” His expression hardened. He yanked her dress down into place, then got to his feet. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

  “Is it ever?” She sat up and struggled to clear her fogged senses. “Why on earth not?”

  “It’s not the way to begin a marriage.” He ran his hand through his hair in obvious frustration.

  “Isn’t this the way most people begin a marriage?”

  She grabbed his offered hand and he pulled her to her feet. She glared at him. “After all, you are my husband and you have certain rights.”

  He stared at her and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

  “Well then?” She fisted her hands on her hips and glared. “Shouldn’t you insist on them?”

  He moved closer and straightened her bodice. “This is entirely too low.”

  “I know.” Thank you, Flora. Not that it did any good. His whole attitude was quite annoying. She slapped his hand away. “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not. When you and I are ready to be married in the truest sense of the word, I want all to be right between us.” He cupped her chin in his hand and brushed his lips against hers.

  “This seemed rather right to me,” she muttered.

  “I want more from you than a moment of passion on the side of a hill where anyone could see.”

  “I thought it was more than a moment of passion on the side ...” She drew back and stared at him. “What do you mean anyone could see?”

  He hesitated.

  “Rand,” she said slowly. “It seems to me Worthington Castle is rather remote, precisely why we’re here in the first place. We are some distance from the nearest village and, at the moment, some distance from the castle. Who exactly are you worried will see us?”

  He blew a long breath. “I have a few men patrolling—”

  “You have a few men? Here?” She looked about in disbelief. “I thought you said once we were out of London, that there wasn’t any danger?”

  “I did.”

  “But you don’t believe it?”

  “I do,” he said without hesitation. “I just don’t want to take any chances.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  “Not a thing.” He shook his head, his lips pressed into a firm line.

  She studied him for a long moment and didn’t believe him for a second. There was probably no end of other things he hadn’t mentioned. He hadn’t told her about his uncle and his grandmother either, although she really couldn’t fault him for that. He was loyal and protective of those he cared about. And once, he’d probably been a damned fine spy. Because, whether he wished to confirm it or not, the man obviously had been a spy and was probably well used to lying when the
occasion called for it. No doubt he felt justified in not being entirely truthful where her safety was concerned.

  “I don’t believe you.” She gathered up the blanket and the basket and thrust them at him. “But I shall not press you at the moment.” She started off down the hill.

  “What do you mean?” he called after her.

  “You said it yourself, Rand, there are all kinds of trouble a curious woman can get into.”

  “Jocelyn.” There was a warning in his voice and she disregarded it. After all, while whatever secrets he had about his past life as a spy or his most recent work for the government were intriguing it wasn’t what interested her most. Abruptly she realized she could trust him. Regardless of what secrets he kept she could trust him with her life and trust him without question. And someday, perhaps, trust him with her heart as well.

  What truly held her curiosity right now was what it would take to get him into her bed. What did the man consider the right place and the right time? And whether it would be as wonderful as she thought.

  And exactly what he meant by wanting more from her than passion.

  Chapter 9

  This wasn’t working out at all the way he had planned.

  Jocelyn sat next to Uncle Nigel at the dinner table chatting brightly, laughing a great deal and using each and every flirtatious skill she possessed to turn the old gentleman’s head. Not that Nigel was putting up the least bit of resistance. No, in point of fact he was giving at least as good as he got, and looking a good twenty years younger for the effort.

  Had it been another place, and another man, Rand might have been annoyed at the attention being paid his wife and the attention she was paying someone else. Particularly given her appearance tonight.

  She looked like something from a dream. His dreams to be exact.

  She usually wore her blond hair piled on top of her head. Tonight it fell loose in soft careless curls to caress her shoulders. Her eyes caught the candlelight and gleamed with enjoyment. Her skin glowed almost as if she was lit from within by excitement or secrets. And she’d donned the most amazing silk and satin confection. A dress even he could see was a good thirty years out of fashion. Still, it suited her.

  Its full skirt rustled provocatively every time she so much as breathed, although how she could take even a single breath was beyond him. The bodice was tight-fitting, defining her waist, laced with ribbons up the front. The ivory-colored satin was barely a shade different from the peach and cream hue of her skin. And if he’d thought the neckline of the dress she’d worn today was low, it was positively modest compared with what she had on now.

  It was scandalous. It was outrageous.

  And absolutely delectable.

  Jocelyn directed a question to him and Rand responded without thinking.

  Nigel raised a brow. “Do you really think so, my boy?”

  “Indeed,” Rand murmured with absolutely no idea what he’d just agreed with.

  Nigel and Jocelyn exchanged glances and yet another laugh. It was rather annoying to be excluded from the conversation. Although it didn’t really matter at the moment. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on much of anything since their aborted picnic this afternoon.

  He wasn’t sure why he had called a halt to what would surely have led to a delightful afternoon of lovemaking under blue skies. Damn it all, one would have thought he was the skittish virgin and she the experienced rake. Regardless of what he had said, it wasn’t the possibility of discovery that had stopped him. His men were stationed along the perimeter of the castle grounds a good distance away and completely out of sight. The chances of being spotted by them, or anyone, were practically nonexistent.

  “And I’m certain you agree?” Jocelyn turned toward him, her honey-colored eyes brimming with laughter.

  “Of course.” Rand nodded absently.

  “I knew it.” Jocelyn turned back to Nigel, and once again the conversation continued without him.

  He’d realized it on the hill today. He didn’t just want it to be right for her. He wanted it to be right for them. Because it was important for the rest of their lives to start out right with the woman he ... what? Loved?

  Nonsense. She was the woman he’d married. The woman he’d had to marry, and love played no role in it whatsoever.

  Jocelyn leaned toward Nigel, and once again Rand noted the appallingly low cut of her gown. He was bloody well glad she wasn’t wearing something like that around someone like Alexei.

  Where had that thought come from? It felt suspiciously like jealousy. Regardless of her words, did she indeed care more for Alexei than she’d let on? Had she wanted the prince for more than his title and his wealth? Although it scarcely mattered, she was Rand’s now.

  “I was hoping he’d teach me,” Jocelyn said with a sidelong glance at Rand.

  And Rand wanted her.

  “He’s quite accomplished at it.” Nigel nodded. “I’d say it was something of a natural gift.”

  Wanted her in his bed.

  “But you’ve never—” Nigel started.

  Wanted to feel the heat of her skin next to his.

  “No.” She sighed. “I haven’t really had the opportunity although I am exceedingly curious. It sounds quite enjoyable.”

  Wanted her writhing with pleasure beneath him.

  “I toyed with the idea when we were at Effington House earlier in the season.” Jocelyn shook her head. “There were any number of gentlemen who would have been more than willing to instruct me.”

  Wanted her to call out his name in the throes of passion.

  “He’s acquired a bit of a reputation for it, at least among his friends.”

  In the grip of love.

  “Be aware, though, I have on occasion heard him whoop with triumph accompanied by a rousing well played.” Nigel chuckled.

  Abruptly the words registered in Rand’s mind and shock coursed through him.

  “Uncle!” Certainly allowances had to be made for Nigel’s age but this was too much. “I daresay I have never—nor would I. And to say such things in the presence of a lady, especially my wife, is ...” Rand’s gaze shifted from his uncle’s look of astonishment to Jocelyn’s confused expression. At once his cravat felt exceedingly tight around his neck. “What were we discussing?” he asked carefully.

  “Billiards, Rand.” Jocelyn stared at him as if he was quite insane, and perhaps in truth he was.

  “She wants you to teach her how to play.” Nigel’s voice held an innocent note but his lips twitched as if he held back a grin, and his eyes glittered with silent laughter.

  “I noticed the billiards room and I would very much like to learn the game.” Jocelyn studied him cautiously. “It’s not an unfitting pursuit for a woman. I know the dowager Duchess of Roxborough plays, as did Marie Antoinette.”

  “Lovely women. Both of them. I may have played with the duchess once myself. Or perhaps it was the queen. Or maybe both.” He leaned toward his nephew in a confidential manner. “I am still speaking of billiards here, Rand. Wouldn’t want you to mistake my words.” Nigel grinned wickedly. “Again.”

  “I do appreciate that,” Rand said under his breath.

  “After dinner then?” Jocelyn continued to consider him curiously.

  “After dinner?” Rand stared at her across the table.

  Gad, she was lovely. She quite took his breath away. He wanted—

  “Billiards, Rand,” Nigel said pointedly. “She’s talking about billiards.”

  “Yes, of course, billiards.” Rand nodded firmly, belying the odd flustered feeling that gripped him. “After dinner. Excellent.”

  He made it a point to concentrate on the conversation throughout the remaining courses, actually managing to add a coherent comment or two in the process and eliciting an occasional appreciative laugh. Still, he couldn’t ignore the tumult of emotions swirling in the back of his mind.

  What had the woman done to him? He was a clear-thinking, intelligent man. Passion, lust, had always h
ad a place in his life, but never before had it been the only thing he could think of. And never before had it centered on a single woman to the exclusion of any other rational thought.

  Blasted woman. It was her fault. If she didn’t look so bloody enticing and wasn’t so obviously willing and ...

  And she did want him, didn’t she? Wanted him as much as he wanted her?

  And if she wanted him, wasn’t it entirely possible that perhaps she loved him as well?

  ———

  “Now then,” Rand said, obviously warming to his duties as tutor. “The object of the game—”

  “I know the object of the game, Rand.” Jocelyn rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “You have one red ball and two white balls. You hit them with this stick—”

  “It’s called a cue.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugged. “I’ve watched people play. It’s very much like croquet only on a table without the wickets.”

  “Something like that.” He nodded at the table. “Go ahead.”

  “Very well.” She leaned across the table, positioning her cue as best she remembered and attempted to smack the nearest white ball. Her cue glanced off the side and the ball dribbled off at an angle. She glanced up at Rand. “That wasn’t very good, was it?”

  “No indeed.” He chuckled. “But you’re not holding the cue properly. Here, watch how I do it.” He eyed the balls on the table, lined up his cue, and stroked it smoothly. It rolled straight into the red ball, propelling it into the nearest pocket.

  She raised a brow. “Your uncle was right. You do know how to play.”

  “I quite enjoy billiards.” He strode around the table, studying the remaining two balls. She liked the confident way he moved. Like a man with a purpose. A man who knew what he wanted and how to go about getting it. Her stomach fluttered at the thought. “I played a great deal when I was last here.”

  He took another shot, striking the remaining ball and sending it into another pocket. He pulled the balls from the pockets and tossed them back onto the table. “I was here for rather a long stay when Nigel was ill. Of course, I helped manage the estate for him, but there was little else to do and he slept a great deal.”