Four Weddings and a Sixpence

by Julia Quinn

  Obligations. The ones that had landed on his shoulders the day he’d inherited his father’s earldom.

  Duty kept him here. Far from the sights and far-flung corners Cordelia had trod. And a flicker of anger ignited inside him.

  He was Thornton. It hadn’t been his choice, any more than it had been her choice to be born female. But that was their lot and he was determined to do his duty.

  “Why ever did you abandon your dreams?” she repeated in a whisper of a voice that soothed his ruffled spirit. “Don’t you still dream of Egypt?”

  “Of course, but—” he said without thinking. Kipp looked away. How was it that she knew? Could find that one small chink in his armor. That one crack in his carefully ordered life.

  He’d resigned himself long ago that his desires, his dreams were insignificant, yet he’d been unwilling to cut that one last remaining golden thread.

  And here was Cordelia pulling at it, leaving a ripple in his reserve.

  “I think of it as well,” she confessed. “Of sailing up the Nile in a felucca. Do you remember?”

  “Yes.” But now he saw that dream in an entirely new light. Of the two of them, standing in the prow, brushed by a warm, sensual breeze that teased at Cordelia’s untamed and rebellious hair, leaving long tendrils to flutter in the air like butterflies.

  And those eyes, her glorious blue eyes, alight with excitement as the exotic landscape slid by.

  “Cordelia,” he said, leaning down and inhaling deeply, an air of sandalwood surrounding him. “Those were just dreams.”

  He suspected he was saying this more for his benefit than hers, but not even that warning was enough to keep his hands from sliding around her waist and pulling her close.

  She fit to him, her mouth opening in surprise as their bodies pressed together.

  Cordelia had tumbled back into his life like a lost bird, some faraway bit of brilliant feathers, blown off course by intemperate storms. Out of place, but no less in need of shelter.

  And his arms became that protective haven.

  “Kipp?”

  Her words came out of her in a whisper. A question or a request?

  He made his own distinction and leaned down and captured her lips with his and found that Cordelia Padley brought with her a tempest unlike any other.

  Her dewy mouth opened to him and the adventure began.

  He explored her slowly, letting his tongue tease over her lips, caress her gently, while he pulled her closer, his hand at the curve of her hip, sliding over that rounded bluff, eager to find the other side, even as she stumbled into him, crashing against him like a floundering ship caught between the tide and the rocks.

  Holding her tight, he steadied her, running his hands over her until he found the rising swell of her breast, his kiss deepening as his fingers cupped her, teasing her nipple into a tight point.

  “Oh,” she gasped in surprise, the pleasure nearly purring out of her as her fingers splayed over his chest, climbing to his shoulders and pulling him closer, her hips rocking against him. “Kipp, please—”

  But before he could say anything, a wry set of notes piped up behind them, though this time it was no lark.

  “She said she was just going around this corner to sketch—”

  He and Cordelia wrenched apart immediately, but it was too late, for as they turned in unison, there was a gaping Mrs. Harrington in the middle of the road. And to Kipp’s horror, beside Miss Padley’s companion stood Drew, rocking on his heels, hands folded behind his back, grinned widely as if he had just discovered a delicious secret.

  Which, of course, he had.

  “My, my, this hardly looks like sketching to me,” he remarked. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. H?”

  Cordelia took another step back from Kipp, opening up a gulf between them.

  His horrified expression only served to make the entire situation worse.

  Good heavens, had kissing her been that horrible?

  She pressed her lips together and tried to still the last bit of a shiver running down her spine.

  He’d kissed her.

  And here she’d thought rounding the Cape in a hurricane couldn’t be matched.

  For her insides were just as tossed about, and she was just as dizzy—but in a decidedly different manner.

  How could it not be?

  It was exactly like watching a storm approach from the deck of a ship. Those anxious moments when she didn’t know if he was going to or not . . . And then . . .

  Oh, the joy of his lips crashing hard against hers, the way he’d teased her to open up to him.

  And she had let him explore her lips. However could she not?

  After all she’d been the one to insist on the inclusion of Rule 18. But at eight she’d been dreaming of some chaste peck on the cheek, not how his tongue teased her, his breath whispered over her, not how she’d want to inhale every bit of pleasure he offered.

  His lips . . . His hands . . .

  He’d pulled her close, the palm of his hand curved around her hip, while the other pressed at the small of her back—and then it slowly, languidly explored her, cupping her breast, leaving her gasping breathlessly as his touch left her a tangled, trembling mess of desires.

  He’d surrounded her and she’d surrendered without a fight.

  Why wouldn’t she when it had all been so perfectly, well, perfect.

  That is, until . . .

  She glanced over at Kate, who was doing her best to look furious, but the wavering tip of her mouth, the flutter of red fringe on her shawl, and the bit of sparkle to her eyes suggested that she rather approved of her charge’s ruinous behavior.

  Nor was there any doubt what Drew thought. He grinned his approval from ear to ear. Of course he would approve.

  But his opinion hardly mattered.

  In fact the only one that did was Kipp’s, and to her horror, the look on his face, one of shock and dismay, said all too clearly that he regretted his rash behavior.

  Completely.

  A hot rush of mortification ran through her, and she had to imagine her cheeks were as bright as Kate’s shawl.

  “Yes, well, I assume supper is ready,” Cordelia said, doing her best to look anywhere but at Kipp.

  Especially not at him.

  She quickly gathered her things and swept past the earl and the others without a glance back. One horrible, wrenching question chased her all the way back to the inn: What was worse?

  The mortification of coming clean to her aunts and friends that her “betrothal” was a lie . . . or seeing that look of regret in Kipp’s stony expression after he’d kissed her?

  Chapter 5

  Sir Brandon Warrick glanced out the window of the inn wondering at the sight before him—of a young lady rushing across the yard, but more to the point was the gentleman following hot on her heels.

  He blinked, not trusting his eyes. “What the devil?”

  Then the door swung open with a loud bang and a rather extraordinary miss came bustling through the common room in a state of some dishabille and looking as if she was in a rare mood.

  She didn’t pause, didn’t glance around, but went straight through the room toward the back where he knew the innkeeper had private rooms for dining.

  The door banged open again, and this time the gentleman came bolting inside. “Cordelia! Cordelia, come back here.” He paused for a second, muttering a curse under his breath.

  Brandon gaped for he’d never seen Thornton—proper, dull Thornton—in such a state.

  “Did you see which way Miss Padley went?” the earl asked the innkeeper’s wife as she came out of the kitchen.

  Nay, demanded.

  The ruddy-faced woman, used to the high-handed ways of the nobility, just tipped her head. “In back, milord. In the room where I’ve set your supper.”

  The earl nodded. “Could you see we’re not disturbed?”

  “As you wish, milord.”

  And then Thornton was gone in a flash, much like the you
ng lady had been before him.

  Brandon shook his head. “How bloody curious,” he said to himself, only to find he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought.

  “What is curious?”

  He turned to find a tall, stately woman in an elegant traveling gown of dark blue silk and a long red shawl tossed haphazardly over her shoulders—as if it was an afterthought—looking him over with a practiced, beguiling air.

  Brandon, who considered himself quite the man about town, tripped over his tongue at the sight of this unexpected and truly magnificent creature. “That is . . . I mean to say . . .”

  The mature beauty glanced up from fixing her gloves and swept a measured gaze over him, the sort that left a man wondering if he met her discerning and experienced standards. “Yes, well,” she managed, looking—to his horror—a bit bored. “Did you see a young lady go bolting through here?”

  Brandon blinked. “Pardon?”

  “A young lady,” she prompted. Her full lips turned slightly in a smile as if she was used to leaving men in this state of intoxication.

  A young lady? Oh yes, then he remembered. The odd creature Thornton had been chasing after.

  “I did,” he replied, leaving his answer as teasing as her snubbing glances.

  And his spare words did the trick, for now she smiled in acknowledgment.

  Ah, yes, two could play this game.

  “I fear I’ve lost my charge. Headstrong young lady, to be certain. Did you happen to see which way she went?”

  “You mean Miss Padley?”

  This widened her dark eyes. “Why yes. Do you know her, Lord . . .” She paused to let him make a proper introduction.

  Well, as proper as one could, given the circumstances. But Brandon didn’t think this particular lady took much stock in rules.

  He bowed. “Sir Brandon Warrick, at your service.”

  “Sir Brandon,” she replied, weighing the name much as she had him when she’d first glanced at him. “How is it that you know Miss Padley, if I may ask?”

  “I don’t.”

  Her brows quirked slightly. “Then—”

  “Lord Thornton asked the landlady if she’d seen where Miss Padley went. Then again, the more germane question would be, whatever put that poor chit in such a hurry, don’t you agree?”

  “No, I don’t,” she replied. “But Lord Thornton followed her, did he?”

  Brandon nodded.

  “And he’s with her now?”

  “He is.” Brandon moved from the window. “I must admit, I’m surprised to see the earl so far from London. I was under the impression that he’d meant to stay until the end of the season.”

  “Obviously he changed his mind.”

  Obviously. So what the devil was going on?

  Brandon had to know.

  The lady moved toward the stairs, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “Do you know the earl?”

  “I do.”

  After a bit of a pause, she nodded for him to continue.

  “You could say we have a mutual interest.”

  As in Miss Pamela Holt. The heiress had strung Brandon along all season, and only until recently had she made it clear that a baronet was not high enough for her aspirations and that someone else had gained her affections . . . or rather, her large dowry.

  The lucky bastard being the Earl of Thornton.

  Brandon had left town if only to lick his wounds, but it seemed his concession might have been a bit premature.

  “How is it that the earl knows Miss Padley—I only ask because they seem to be quite . . . close.”

  The lady shrugged off his intimation. “Only because they are old and dear friends.”

  “I’m just a bit confused—for I’ve never met Miss Padley and I thought I knew all the young ladies—”

  “She’s just returned from India.”

  “India, you say?” Brandon took another glance down the hall. That explained a lot. The outlandish clothes, and Thornton’s pursuit.

  He’d bet his last shilling this Miss Padley was an heiress. She had to be.

  “The devil take him,” he muttered unwittingly.

  “Pardon?” The lady had removed her shawl and tossed it over her arm, the fringe catching the last bit of daylight coming in through the window.

  Brandon shook his head and lined up his wits. If Thornton was here . . . and Pamela was still in London . . . “Am I to assume you and Miss Padley are with the earl?”

  Oh, the lady didn’t misunderstand. “Indeed. Lord Thornton is being so kind as to escort us to the Duke of Dorset’s wedding. Miss Padley and Miss Brabourne are old school friends.”

  Brandon did the math quickly. Thornton would most likely be gone for a sennight, quite possibly a fortnight.

  “How fortuitous,” he remarked.

  “I don’t see how,” the woman replied, appearing to have grown quite bored with the conversation. “I say, are you staying the night, Sir Brandon?”

  There was a bit of an invitation to her question, which he regrettably had to ignore.

  “No, I fear not, my dear lady. It appears I must return to London more quickly than I had planned.” But then again, being one who always hedged his bets, he added, “If only I had more time to make your acquaintance,” he told her, gathering up her hand and bringing it to his lips. “Lady—?”

  “Mrs. Harrington,” she told him, slowly sliding her hand free of his grasp.

  “My compliments to Mr. Harrington,” he replied, bowing again.

  “If he ever turns up, I shall inform him,” she replied before she gathered her shawl back around her shoulders and made her way toward the back of the inn.

  Oh yes, a simple false betrothal. What harm could come of that?

  Kipp groaned. None, if one didn’t falter along the way and start kissing one’s faux bride-to-be.

  As he turned the corner into the private parlor, his gaze claimed only one sight: Cordelia, her back to the door.

  To him, actually.

  He raked a hand through his hair and wondered how he’d gotten himself into this mess. That is, until he realized how nicely her figure was silhouetted by the light from the fire.

  Curved and rounded. Soft and yielding. So perfectly fitted to him that he suddenly saw himself kissing her yet again, but this time in his bed with his body covering hers.

  He drew in a long breath to steady his once again hammering heart.

  Well, he had the answer to his original question.

  And, yes, he’d rather overstepped the boundaries of their arrangement.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, and the furrow between her brows said much. You should never have kissed me.

  Rule 18, or otherwise.

  Especially when now it was all he could think of.

  “Cordelia.” Her name came out in a whisper, for fear he’d startle her. And he’d have to watch her bolt away from him yet again.

  Taking his heart with her.

  No, it isn’t that dire, he tried telling himself. It was . . .

  Well, he didn’t know what it was, but he was certain of one thing. “I apologize for being so . . .” he began. “So . . .”

  Happy to have kissed you?

  Willing to do it again?

  “Highly improper,” he settled on instead.

  “It was?”

  “Yes,” he asserted. For her. And himself.

  She turned and huffed a sigh. “Oh bother. I suppose it was.”

  She supposed?

  “Yes, quite improper,” he repeated. Again, he suspected, more for himself.

  “You needn’t worry, my lord,” she told him. “I am not offended.”

  “You aren’t?”

  She smiled slightly. “I know you were just doing your duty as a member of the Royal Society.”

  Duty? That was rather the last thing he would call kissing Cordelia.

  “Yes, well, you might’ve rushed things a bit,” she was saying. “I am hardly a spinster . . . Yet.”

  He
looked up and saw her there in the firelight, looking perfectly kissable yet again. “No, you are certainly no spinster.” His boot wavered, as if trying to prod him into closing the distance between them and kissing her yet again.

  Nor was that the only part of him wavering with need.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, straightening and reminding himself who he was.

  Not that she helped. “I wish you wouldn’t be.”

  He had to suppose that was the most honest thing either of them had said in the last five minutes.

  Still . . .

  “As a gentleman, and you being a young lady in my care and protection, I fear I overstepped . . . I might have led you . . .”

  “Led me?” Cordelia huffed, this time with no small measure of indignation. “Stop right there, my lord. My feet are my own—as are my choices. I’m not some flibbertigibbet to be ruined by some passing fancy. So I beg of you to give your conscience a rest. For my part, I’ve all but forgotten what passed between us.”

  She had? “You have?”

  “Of course,” she replied, crossing the room and stopping before the table where the platters for dinner were waiting. She plucked up one of the covers and inspected the fare. Then glanced over her shoulder. “I thank you for doing your duty, but we must remember our arrangement is a fiction.”

  “Yes, quite,” he agreed.

  She nodded. “We need only deceive my aunts and not allow some passing fancy to steer us off course. Why, what if we were caught—”

  Which they had been, but she seemed determined to ignore that simple fact.

  “Oh yes,” he agreed. “Caught. Quite right.”

  “I assume that’s why you looked so horrified,” she added. “Because you thought we might have to get—”

  Married.

  To his shock, it was Cordelia who shuddered. “Oh heavens, that would be dreadful.”

  His gaze wrenched up. “It would be?”

  “Of course,” she told him. “I don’t want to get married. That is the entire point of this ruse.”

  After a season of being chased by marriage-minded misses, Kipp wasn’t too sure he’d heard her correctly. “It is?”

  “Yes,” she insisted. “Why else would I do all this?”

  Why else, indeed.