Four Weddings and a Sixpence

by Julia Quinn

  Not his Cordelia. And something old and long forgotten wrenched at his very soul. The same deep pang that had nearly torn him in two all those years ago when Sir Horace’s carriage had pulled away, wrenching Cordie, his Cordie, out of his life.

  Somehow, over the years, he’d forgotten that sense of belonging to another.

  How two people could fit so perfectly. How they’d always held hands—dragging each other from one misadventure to another. How they’d finished each other’s sentences, each other’s drawings. How he couldn’t go to sleep at night until he spied the candle in her room go out.

  And now that they had been reunited, he’d rediscovered the hundred and one ways Cordelia Padley would always be the spark that ignited his heart. His very flame.

  “Cordelia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would it be terribly forward of me . . . no, make that highly improper of me to ask you something . . . to do something . . .”

  Cordelia glanced at him. “Ask me to do what?”

  “Kiss me, Cordelia,” he whispered. “Like that. Like we are betrothed. Like we are meant to be—”

  Together.

  But he never got those last words out. Because then they were.

  Tangled. Entwined.

  He caught hold of her and pulled her into his arms. She’d balked before, but he wasn’t going to let this chance pass.

  For it might well be his last.

  Cordelia barely had a moment to blink, for one moment she was standing on the path and the next she was in Kipp’s arms, and he was kissing her.

  No, make that devouring her.

  And she was drowning. She’d been longing for this moment since the night at the inn and now . . .

  She tried to pull back. “Kipp, we mustn’t. What if we are caught?” She shook her head. “You have obligations elsewhere. I won’t be the cause—”

  He shook his head and pulled her close. “Cordelia, close your eyes and listen.”

  To his breath as it brushed over her ear, sending tendrils of desire racing through her.

  To the sigh that slipped from her lips as he kissed the side of her neck. To the rustle of shivers that tangled up in her very core, leaving her anxious and delirious with pleasure, longing for his touch, to soothe them into order, or to unravel her completely.

  And then he found her mouth once more, kissing her slowly, teasingly.

  She couldn’t help herself, she was lost. And she opened up to him, his tongue teasing her to find the way, his hands exploring her, luring her. When his fingers curled around her breast, she arched, and he backed her up, until she was pressed into the curve of an oak.

  And then he covered her with his body, as hard as the trunk behind her, and she sighed—for as innocent as she was, she knew now what it would mean to have him—for he was hard and long and she couldn’t help herself, she reached out and touched him, felt him, let herself explore him, stroke him.

  He caught hold of her hand and pulled it away. “You’ll drive me mad.”

  “No more than you are doing to me,” she offered.

  “Not even close.” And then he proved his point by slipping one of her breasts free of her gown and taking the nipple in his mouth and sucking it.

  Cordelia gasped for air as he sent a thousand dangerous temptations through her, awakening every nerve in her body.

  Every need.

  Then his other hand pulled at her gown and his fingers slid along her thigh, and then higher, until he touched her—right where every bit of fire he was kindling seemed to be banked, and with his touch, he sparked pure passion.

  “Oh,” she gasped as he explored her, touched her. Ran his thumb over the hard nub there, and suddenly she was standing on her tiptoes—lifted by his touch, by something that drew her higher.

  He stroked her, slowly at first and then as her hips began to rise and fall, he cupped her, sliding a finger inside her, drawing out the wetness and letting his fingers indulge her, pushing her higher.

  Cordelia tried to breathe, tried to make sense of it, but then everything erupted and waves of pleasure sent her into a crescendo of desires found and released.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him, only to find him grinning. Overly proud that he’d untangled all those knots.

  He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, his lips warm against her damp skin. “Are you in the landscape yet?”

  “Utterly,” she managed.

  He dipped his head down to kiss her again but the snap of a twig yanked them apart. For a second they just stood there, gaping at each other, both trying to catch their breath.

  Kipp reached out and tucked a stray strand of her hair back behind her ear. It hardly served the purpose of giving her state of dishabille some semblance of order, but it brought a shy smile to her lips.

  He took her hand and drew her out from behind the tree, where Dorset and Miss Brabourne—looking equally tousled and content—greeted them.

  “Cordelia! There you are,” Anne said, casting her a knowing wink. “If the duchess asks, we all went for a walk.”

  “We went sketching,” Cordelia corrected as she nudged Kipp toward her forgotten case.

  “Ah, yes, ‘sketching,’” the Duke of Dorset agreed. “One of my most favorite activities.”

  And the four of them laughed and continued back to the house.

  Chapter 9

  Later that evening, Kipp paused midway down the stairs, as he caught sight of his host and his brother in the foyer below. He couldn’t help himself; he laughed.

  For his part, Drew was dressed as a pirate—which wasn’t much of a costume given his reputation on land and at sea. But it was Dorset who had him shaking his head.

  “Ready, Thornton, for a night of madness?” Dressed as Bacchus, the duke raised the cup he held.

  Now they both laughed good-heartedly.

  “Wherever did you get that?” Drew asked, pushing off the opposite wall and looking his brother over from head to toe.

  “Quite the mystery.”

  “Probably not,” Drew replied.

  Given that Kipp was dressed as an Indian prince, it actually wasn’t much of a puzzle—a fact Drew acknowledged with a weary shake of his head before he returned to Mrs. Harrington’s side.

  How Cordelia had managed it, Kipp didn’t know, but he knew one thing: He was willing to be whoever she wanted.

  For as long as she wanted.

  Until he had to return to London. For he must do that first. He must clear his conscience with Miss Holt.

  For what if he was mistaken and Pamela’s heart was engaged?

  Oh God, what would he do then?

  He went to rake his hand through his hair and nearly sent the turban there tumbling over.

  Like his life . . .

  He looked across the foyer toward the crush inside the ballroom, searching for Cordelia even as a flicker of an idea, inspiration really, danced before him.

  She might have joked earlier with Miss Brabourne and Dorset about going sketching, but the duke, an old school friend, had later asked him if he did indeed still draw maps. And one thing had led to another, the duke looking over the outline of the map Kipp had begun and on the spot offering an outstanding sum to do his entire estate.

  But it isn’t enough, his practical side argued. For when that stipend is gone, then what?

  More commissions would take time. Time he didn’t have.

  If only . . .

  He thought of that wretched sixpence of Cordelia’s and wished it could actually work some sort of miracle.

  Not that he thought such a thing likely.

  If Miss Holt loved him, then honorably he would have to marry her, make his marriage of convenience.

  Which, in truth, was no more honorable than asking Cordelia to stay in England. To work beside him, to restore Mallow Hills together. Hardly the life of exploration she longed for, but it was all he could offer.

  “If I might be presumptuous—” Dorset began, breaking into his dar
k musings.

  “Isn’t that your prerogative?” Kipp tore his gaze away from the crowded room.

  Dorset laughed. “Yes, I suppose. But I must ask—and only because Anne holds Cordelia in such high esteem—what are you doing? I mean to say, who do you hope to fool with this betrothal nonsense?”

  Nonsense? Oh, the man had his full attention now.

  “I don’t know what you mean—” Kipp managed, doing his best to sound affronted.

  “Yes, you do.” Dorset glanced around and lowered his voice. “You forget I was in London this season as well.” He paused and let his point sink in. Then he nodded toward the front door. “It would also explain why she’s here.”

  “Who’s here?” Kipp asked, turning in that direction.

  To his shock, there in the doorway stood none other than Miss Pamela Holt, and in the shadow of her wake, the bulldog figure of her father, Josiah.

  Kipp’s heart sank. What the devil?

  Pamela glanced around at the brightly clad guests, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the merry scene before her. Heaving a sigh, she picked up her skirts and waded into the entryway as if she were being asked to walk through Seven Dials.

  “Lord Thornton?” Her greeting held an edge of suspicion. As if she wasn’t certain she’d actually found him.

  “Miss Holt?” Kipp still couldn’t quite believe it. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  “I would ask the same of you,” she replied. Josiah ambled up to her side and took his stodgy place beside her. “I heard the most unbefitting rumor regarding your departure . . . Well, I couldn’t rest until I discovered the truth. And now I find—”

  She pulled out her handkerchief and with it tightly clasped, held it to her lips as if the last thing she wanted to do was utter the words about to tumble free. “Well, to put this plainly, I trusted that yours was an errand of honor, my lord, and yet I find you in the middle of a bacchanal.”

  Behind him, Dorset barked a bit of a laugh, then being caught out, turned back to his other guests.

  “Hardly that,” Kipp replied. Then if things couldn’t get much worse, Cordelia came down the stairs, stopping at his side. In a sari, no less. With one shoulder bare, a jewel pasted to her forehead, and her eyes lined with kohl, she made a beguiling and exotic picture.

  Even now he could detect a whiff of sandalwood, the scent pulling him toward her.

  Cheeky chit that she was, she winked at him.

  Miss Holt made an aggrieved harrumph. “Am I to suppose you are Miss Padley?”

  “I am,” Cordelia said, coming forward and making a polite curtsy, one which Miss Holt did not return.

  Instead, the heiress looked her over from head to toe, as if examining questionable goods. “Perhaps, Miss Padley, you don’t understand the difficult position you have placed Lord Thornton in—how unseemly this all appears.”

  Undaunted, Cordelia continued to smile. “Miss Holt, there is nothing unseemly whatsoever. I merely borrowed Lord Thornton.”

  “Seems as if you’ve done more than that,” the heiress shot back.

  Across the foyer, Drew coughed and turned his back to the entire scene.

  Whether he was laughing or choking, Kipp hoped it was more of the latter than the former.

  Worse, Cordelia looked ready to rise to his defense and speak the only way she knew how—frankly.

  “I think it is best if we spoke privately, Miss Holt,” Kipp told her, catching her by the arm and turning her from Cordelia.

  “Indeed!” Miss Holt sniffed, shooting a scathing glance at her apparent rival.

  “There’s a small salon—” Dorset offered in an aside.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Kipp replied as he steered Miss Holt away, not looking back—for if he did, he knew he’d never be able to do what he must do.

  “Now see here—” Josiah protested as he came to the realization that Kipp was stealing away his daughter.

  “Not now, Holt,” Kipp replied as he quickly closed the door on the room, shutting it in the man’s face.

  This was a matter that needed to be settled. Privately.

  “I have long heard rumors of His Grace’s inclinations”—she began, settling herself in the middle of the room, well away from him and with her eye on the door—“but I would never have guessed that you, Lord Thornton, would be inclined to such depravities!”

  Once again, she pressed her handkerchief to her quivering lips.

  Kipp crossed the room. “Then don’t think, Pamela. Tell me that you love me and kiss me.”

  She bristled. “I don’t recall giving you leave to be so familiar, my lord.” She stood her ground, all perfect posture and bourgeois indignation.

  So he reached out for her. “Kiss me, Pamela.”

  She made a sort of yelp when he touched her and quickly scurried aside, putting a sofa between them. “Are you mad?” She looked to the door, as if wondering why her father wasn’t breaking it down. When no rescue seemed imminent, she resorted to her Bath training. Shoulders back, nose in the air. “This orgy I’ve come to find you embroiled in has clouded your good sense, sir.”

  “It is a masked ball, Pamela,” he told her. “Hardly an orgy.”

  “I disagree, when I arrive to find you addressing me so intimately and proposing such unthinkable . . . demanding such . . .”

  “Kiss me.”

  “I. Will. Not.”

  “Why not?” He had to know. “If you love me—”

  She ruffled like a wet hen. “We are not even engaged. Not formally.”

  “And if we were?”

  Pamela set her jaw. Defiantly so. And for a moment she favored her father. Which wasn’t an advantageous look for her. But it was a telling one, a glance that said only one thing.

  Certainly not.

  Kipp paced in front of the sofa, slanting a glance at her. “A friend told me that if you loved me . . . with all your heart, and I you, that our only thoughts should be of the desire between us.”

  She blinked, as if he had once again taken to speaking Sanskrit. With another deep breath, she addressed him slowly, choosing her words carefully, so—in his apparent madness—he wouldn’t mistake the matter. “All I want between us is a proper and respectable distance, my lord.”

  “Pamela, the question is very simple.” Kipp moved slowly around the sofa. “Do you love me?”

  Her gaze flitted to the door. “Lord Thornton, I was under the assumption we shared a proper understanding. I am still of the opinion—even in light of recent events—that such an arrangement is to our mutual benefit.”

  She drew another breath and smiled at him, that winsome bit of encouragement that had engaged his interest to begin with. “I am willing to overlook this indiscretion, this so-called matter of honor, in order for both of us to achieve our future happiness and security.”

  Security, not love. It plucked at his sensibilities with all the familiar notes of a song played over and over.

  Yet it offered him none of the comfort that up until a week ago it had provided.

  But it was also a potent reminder that without her, his estate, his future would fall to ruin. It pricked at his pride, at his own sense of purpose.

  Worst of all, it threatened to extinguish the spark Cordelia had relit within him.

  Which, he realized, was far more precious than all of Josiah Holt’s gold.

  Meanwhile, Pamela had smoothly moved to the door and opened it. “My father and I have taken rooms at the inn in the village,” she announced in a voice loud enough for him—and everyone in the foyer—to hear. “We will be returning to London in the morning. I expect you to join us.”

  By the time Kipp got to the door, all that could be seen of Pamela was the back of her skirt as she stalked in a regal huff down the front steps, while Josiah awkwardly and hastily took his leave. “My apologies, Your Graciousness, if we’ve come at a bad time. Interrupted your . . .” The man nervously glanced at the party and shook his head. “Whatever this might be.”

&n
bsp; He bent more than bowed, and hurried toward the door, pausing long enough to address Kipp. “Bad business this, Thornton. No other way to describe it. But I trust you’ll come ’round. We both have too much to gain.” Josiah nodded again and jostled his way out the door and down the steps to his waiting carriage.

  Yet instead of seeing all his dreams for Mallow Hills flit away like a feather in the wind, he suddenly saw his future in the same bright colors and bits of whimsy that Cordelia had painted on his map.

  She had brought the hues of life back into his very soul, and he wouldn’t let anything, anyone, douse the passion and fire she sparked in his heart.

  He couldn’t help himself, he grinned at the realization.

  It might take him a lifetime of commissions to save Mallow Hills, but it would be a lifetime spent with Cordelia.

  If she’d have him.

  Kipp turned and found the gathered company gaping at him.

  In shock. In fury. In curious delight.

  All of them. The aunts. Mrs. Harrington. Miss Brabourne. Lady Elinor. Miss Heywood. And several of the guests who’d come at the first whiff of a brewing scandal.

  He couldn’t care less what any of them thought. For there was only one person he longed to see, and she was missing.

  He looked to Drew who stood by the window, as if watching to make sure Miss Holt was well and gone. “Where is she?”

  His brother knew exactly whom he meant and nodded toward the garden doors at the far side of the ballroom.

  By the time Kipp had pushed his way through the crush to the open doors, he saw only the flash of silk as Cordelia fled into the opening in the maze. Dashing across the lawn, he entered the hedges and then came to a stop.

  The path went in three different directions and he hadn’t a notion which way to go.

  Demmit! How would he ever find her?

  Then he thought of what she’d said the other night at the inn.

  Close your eyes. Listen. Let your senses direct your hand. Become part of the landscape.

  So he did just that. Paused and closed his eyes. To his right, he heard the faint rustle of silk. As he turned in that direction, a hint of sandalwood, so at odds with the laurels around him, teased him to follow.