Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  Button’s heart twisted for this young lady. She truly did not know how spectacular she was—or could be. In the right hands. His hands.

  Fortunate, indeed.

  “Do you know what can be found in the shadows, Miss Beckham?”

  She shook her head.

  “Mystery, my dear. Things unknown and unexpected. You say you are from Barbados?”

  She shrugged in response, a scowl forming between her eyebrows.

  “I can see it. Yours is an exotic beauty, an unusual elegance, and we shall capitalize upon it! You shall turn every head at the Fletchers’ ball.”

  Miss Beckham erupted in a bark of incredulous laughter. The ladies’ maid, who had just placed another scone in her mouth, appeared startled. Crumbs rained down into her lap.

  “I am quite serious, Miss Beckham. Let me tell you what I see when I look at you.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “Your eyes are large, wide-set, and the color of rich chocolate—all very uncommon, indeed. Your skin is flawless, perhaps a benefit of the West Indies climate, and we shall play it to great advantage. Your cheekbones are striking. Your nose and mouth delicate. And the overall effect is a subtle beauty that draws one in.”

  Katarina narrowed one eye at him in the mirror, obviously in doubt of his earnestness.

  “And your shape—”

  “What shape would that be, Mr. Lementeur?” She swished her hands down her sides as if to emphasize her lack of curves.

  “Oh, but there are many types of beauty, my dear, and your slender elegance is a quality many women covet. Believe me. Ladies confide in me every day, standing right here in this very spot, begging me to make them appear slim.”

  Cabot returned to the front room then, his arms weighted down with fabric and accessories. He placed everything on the table, unrolled several yards of the imported silk satin, and held the bolt alongside Miss Beckham’s face.

  Button smiled. “Ah.”

  “You were absolutely correct about the plum violet,” Cabot said.

  Button smiled to himself. Of course he was correct. He was Lementeur.

  For the next hour, Cabot set to work with Miss Beckham, doing what he did best. He draped the fabric this way and that, pulled it snug about her slight frame, made pinnings and marks, all frowning in concentration. Button smiled at her as if she were the most exquisite creature who had ever stepped foot in their shop.

  Which, with Cabot’s attention to detail, was proving to be not much of an exaggeration.

  After a great deal of consultation, Button and Cabot decided on a classic and restrained cut for Miss Beckham, almost severe by ball standards. Pure elegance that would make anything less look tawdry.

  They would construct cap sleeves without ruffle or ribbon, create a crisscross design of opals along the bodice that would pick up the shimmer of the satin, and fashion a straight neckline just a bit daring for a young lady on her coming-out.

  Her hairstyle would be austere, pulled up and back without the added curl she now struggled to attain, sleek and straight, accented with exotic feathers. Miss Beckham was kind enough to tell them the names of the birds from which the plumes were plucked, though Button got lost after she rattled off the Latin names for the great Argus and South Asian peafowl.

  Regardless of where the plumes originated, they looked as if they belonged on the plum violet–draped Miss Beckham, who had been transformed into an exotically beautiful creature of mystery.

  “Delicate girls have such incredible bone structure,” Cabot pointed out.

  “Indeed,” Button said. “Her long neck implies importance and refinement. She will be utterly striking, the rarest of rich tropical flowers in sea of pastel blooms.”

  “Oh dear. Oh no.” Miss Beckham’s eyes widened in concern when the men debated her décolletage. “I . . . well, Mummy will not approve of something this revealing. She will not think it appropriate.”

  Cabot flashed a rather devilish smile in the mirror. “Mummy will think whatever Lementeur tells her to think.”

  Miss Beckham smiled back. “I suspect you are right about that.”

  “And perhaps Mummy would like a ball gown as well?”

  She grinned at Button’s question. “I believe I am beginning to understand why your shop has a reputation for genius.”

  Button laughed, utterly bewitched by their new friend.

  Cabot spent a quarter hour with the lady’s maid, instructing the awed young woman on how to style Miss Beckham’s hair. They found a pair of amethyst earrings that perfectly accented the rich hue of the fabric, and a pair of slippers that complemented both the color and style of the dress.

  When the appointment ended, Button and Cabot saw Miss Beckham and her maid to the carriage.

  Cabot sighed as they drove off. “We should get to work. We’ve not a moment to spare.”

  Button agreed. “This will be a long two days, even with the added seamstresses.”

  “But we are up to the task, of course.”

  Button grinned at his assistant. “’Tis a good thing we are geniuses.”

  Chapter 23

  BY the time Bliss and Morgan returned to the house, she found that she had lost some of the giddy sense of invincibility brought on by the battle. When he closed the door behind them, shutting off the sounds of the street and the world outside, she found herself overcome by a strange and sudden shyness.

  Morgan grinned at her, his pirate smile a slash of white in the shuttered dimness of the house. “I’ll see to heating up some water for your bath,” he told her. “A warrior’s welcome home.”

  He reached out for her hand and gave it a small squeeze, then strode away whistling down the hall.

  Bliss closed her fist around the warmth his fingers had left behind. Her breath would not slow. Her pulse refused to return to normal.

  In a burst of alarm, she picked up her skirts and ran for her room.

  Oh, she wanted the touch of his hand again! With her belly shivering, she pressed her back against the door of her bedchamber. Even the heavy oak could not barricade her from the man’s powerful allure.

  Magnificent. Valiant. Bloody amazing.

  Nonsense, she assured herself. It is some sort of a reaction to danger. It must be. He’s just a man, like any other.

  She closed her eyes, trying to convince herself of just that. Instead, the image of him leaping forward with only a boot dagger, alone against three vicious ruffians—

  Her knees went weak.

  With one hand, she reached out blindly for the chair before her vanity and sank into it before her lust-weakened knees could drop her to the floor. Heavens, what a man!

  Your husband.

  No. No. That was a mistake, soon to be corrected. She would win her annulment, she was sure of it. She always got what she wanted, in the end, with enough patience and dedication.

  She didn’t feel patient. She felt like the sea in a storm, all surging waves and frothing whitecaps. It had been so exciting! She’d felt so breathlessly alive.

  I want more.

  Which was ridiculous, of course. No one wanted danger. Certainly no one in their right mind. A quiet life, a life of predictability and safety, where she would always know what would come next, day after day after bloody boring day . . .

  No, she was simply overexcited. Still, a warning bell clanged within her. Unexpected longings boded ill for her future contentment and serenity. If this was her reaction to danger, she had best avoid it at all costs—for she surely had a weakness for it!

  A brisk knock sounded on her door. Bliss stood up straight, locked her knees against the trembling, and opened the chamber door for her husband.

  He carried four pails of steaming water, two in each hand. “Milady’s bath?”

  She stepped back and allowed him in, for above all else, she longed to
be free of the confining reek of alley muck and eau de tannery.

  He carried the pails in and set them before her fire. Seeing that she’d done nothing to the morning’s coals, he sent an inquiring glance over his shoulder.

  She must have looked strange somehow, for he frowned at her in concern. Then he moved quickly to the hearth and dug a few hot, glowing nuggets from the ash and piled fresh coals atop them. Dusting off his hands, he stood and regarded her with that same furrow between his eyebrows.

  “Did you take injury during our adventures?”

  She shook her head quickly. “No, the brutes never touched me.”

  Morgan drew back. “But I did. Damn, I was too rough, wasn’t I, tossing you against the wall?”

  Bliss could not help a small smile as she quickly shook her head. “Captain, I am very well, I assure you.”

  Then she spied a dark drop falling from his left arm. “But you are injured!” With a gasp, she forgot all about her misgivings and stepped forward to wrap her fingers gently around his wrist. When she lifted his arm, he twisted his neck to see the back of his forearm between wrist and elbow.

  “Ah. So he did nick me. I wondered.”

  Bliss met his gaze with furious concern. “Nick? This gash is at least four inches long!”

  He shrugged. “But it’s shallow. I am cross about the coat, though. I haven’t many things here at the house.”

  Bliss pursed her lips and shoved at his chest with one hand. “Take that off at once. Your shirt as well. I won’t have you bleeding away while you carry hot water for me!”

  She flew from the room and pattered quickly down the stairs to the kitchen. The next two buckets were steaming away on the stove. She pumped two more to warm, grabbed up some clean toweling and a small pot of honey. There was nowhere to put them but in the bodice of her gown, so she stuffed the honey between her breasts and the toweling anywhere it could fit. That left two hands free for the heavy pails of hot water.

  Country living had left Bliss in fit condition, but as she ran back up the stairs, she did note that small houses had their advantages, as in having the bedchambers only two short flights from the kitchens.

  When she arrived back in her bedchamber, she was only puffing a little. She could not blame her sudden breathlessness on anything but the sight of Captain Pryce naked from the waist up.

  Last night the soapy water had hidden everything but his upper chest and shoulders. Excellent as those were, his trim waist and rippling, muscled stomach truly set the stage for manly magnificence!

  I appear to have a weakness for excellent muscular development as well. And the way a man’s chest hair arrows down into his trousers in just that way . . .

  She learned something new every day on this adventure.

  Swallowing hard, she moved past him. He caught at her hands, covering her fingers on the handles of the pails. Her heart flipped somewhat sideways in her chest.

  “I’ll take those.” His deep voice seemed to vibrate inside her.

  She allowed it, even though she worried for his injury. He poured most of the water into the bath before she stopped him, putting her hand over his in the same way. “I need to clean your wound.”

  He went very still. His deep blue eyes fixed on hers. As she watched, they seemed to turn quite black, a hot and hungry sort of color that made her belly twist and something alarming happen a bit lower down.

  She’d always thought people were a bit silly about love. She’d always shaken her head at the notion of being “swept away” by someone’s touch, of being lost to sense, of making uncharacteristic decisions based on someone’s face, or form, or words . . .

  I want to touch him. I want him to touch me. I want him to kiss me. I want to press myself to his hot, hard body.

  He is your husband. He wants you as well. It is entirely fitting.

  No, it wasn’t. He didn’t care for her as his wife. He’d wedded her in a terrible trick.

  But he did it out of loyalty to his brother. He was mistaken, that is all. He protected you today. Perhaps he is beginning to believe in you.

  The temptation rolled through her in caressing waves. She could give in to it so easily.

  She looked down at their joined hands, unable to gaze into his hungry eyes any longer. Then she blinked to see his blood had smeared into her sleeve where their arms aligned.

  Practicality returned in a snap. She straightened, tugging the pail from his grip. Only a small amount of steaming water sloshed in the bottom. It would have to do. She turned away, bustling toward the chair. “Sit here, by the fire.” Without thinking, she reached into her bodice to tug her supplies free.

  It was his grunt of surprise that made her halt with her honey and her bandages in her hands and turn to see him staring at her like a wolf gazing at a plump rabbit.

  She drew back slightly. “You must sit down. I have to tend to your arm.”

  He moved slowly toward her, his gaze roaming from her disheveled neckline to her face. She had to fight the impulse to step back. To flee the hunter coming for her.

  He sat down in the chair slowly, as if ready to spring up at any moment. Bliss nerved her hands to be more steady and stepped forward. He leaned back until she was forced to move between his spread knees to reach him.

  He reached out with one hand and dipped his finger into the honey. “Warm,” he said, his voice low and husky. Then he put his finger in his mouth and licked it clean, never taking his eyes from hers.

  She tore her gaze from his and shook out her makeshift bandaging, making him duck slightly. “Behave, Captain.” Then she dipped a corner of the cloth into the hot water and began to clean the slice on his arm.

  Even though she could feel his gaze on her, she did not look up from her task until she had wrapped his arm snugly and tucked the last end of the bandage into the folds of cloth.

  “That was neatly done,” he commented. “I thank you.”

  She stood and brushed her hands down her skirts. “Well, you did save my life today.”

  “No.”

  She looked at him and was surprised to see true regret in his expression.

  “I should never have forced that walk on you, and I definitely should not have taken such a lowly route with a lady in my company.”

  Lady. Not gold digger. Not conniving manipulator.

  Bliss shook her head. “Do not forget that I was the one to drag you into that alley. Were you alone, I’m sure you could stroll down any street in the world and remain undamaged.”

  He grinned, a fierce, sideways smile. “Well, perhaps not entirely undamaged, but certainly less so than my opponents.”

  Bliss recalled the image of the three large men limping and moaning, fleeing the alley, and grinned back at him.

  The captain’s face went blank with shock. Bliss recollected herself at once, smoothing her expression into her usual tranquil composure. “Now for that bath you so desire, sir. I shall fetch the rest of the hot water.”

  He came with her and carried the lion’s share back up the stairs for her. All the while she felt his curious gaze on her.

  When she had poured the last of the water into the tub, she turned to him. “I must dispose of this gown, I fear, and don my apron before your bath. If you do not mind stepping from the room?”

  He stood for a long moment, staring down at her with piercing inquiry. “And if I do mind?”

  She lifted her chin and met his dark gaze without flinching. “I know the events of today have stirred your”—she faltered and swallowed hard—“your mettle, sir, but I beg you to recall your oath to me.”

  He stepped closer. “Have I touched you inappropriately, Mrs. Pryce?”

  She shook her head and fought the urge to step away . . . or step forward . . .

  Her feelings swirled within her, pulling her this way and that, confusing her. And she was n
ever, ever confused. Ever.

  “Have I made scandalous suggestions to you, Mrs. Pryce?”

  Her curiosity tingled at the very thought of such “scandalous suggestions.” And the way he said “Mrs. Pryce” tightened her throat . . . and her nipples.

  Except that she didn’t want to be Mrs. Pryce. At all. She must remember that.

  Somehow she managed to step backward once, then once more. “No, Captain, you have not. And yet still you stand here when I have asked you to leave my bedchamber for a moment. And while you are out, you might want to fetch the last of the water heating in the kitchen.”

  He nodded a short bow and smiled genially, but his eyes still gleamed with a hungry light. “As you wish, Mrs. Pryce.”

  After he left and closed the door with facetious care, Bliss let out a long, slow breath. She was allowing him to get too close. She had to remain in control of this odd negotiation.

  A few moments later, she stood wearing her chemise and her “blacksmithing” apron. The day was beginning to catch up to her. Her arm ached where Lord Oliver had gripped it as he berated her. Her knees were skinned from the gritty cobbles of the alley. Anger and peril, piled on with temptation, had sapped her usual vigor.

  She used the last of the warm water in the pail to daub the filth of the alley from her skin. Her bonnet, gown, stockings, shoes, and gloves were in a pile, fit only for the rubbish. She had more gowns, but the bonnet had been a particular favorite of hers. She picked sadly at the broken straw as she waited for the captain to return.

  • • •

  AS MORGAN TRUDGED up the steps with pails of steaming water in both hands, he found himself admiring his new bride even more. She had such spirit! He found himself laughing again at the memory of her swinging her prissy little reticule like a battle hammer at the giant thug—and the man’s high shrieks of pain and alarm.

  She was beautiful. She was strong. She was clever enough to keep him confused about her motives—and he prided himself on being an excellent judge of character. For all of Oliver’s warnings, Morgan could not rid himself of the notion that from within her seamless composure, he might someday see the true woman emerge. A sea goddess rising from the shimmering waves.