Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

“Bloody hell!” Lord Oliver rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t very well chase her into her bedchamber!

  Chaos. His orderly world had crumbled into chaos.

  “Do you desire anything else, my lord?”

  Oliver did not answer. He returned to his study and slammed the door behind him, and though he was of sound body, on a solid floor in a familiar room, he felt as if the earth were slipping away beneath him.

  “Do you desire anything else, my lord?”

  He heard himself laugh aloud. The absurdity of that question! Of course I desire something else. He’d had just one desire since childhood: to have the title, the power, and the social rank to which he was entitled. He’d desired to be His Grace, Lord Oliver Danton, the fourteenth Duke of Camberton.

  Stolen from him.

  Damn his firstborn brother! Neville Sr. was ten years older, and Oliver had lived in his brother’s shadow his entire life. It was Neville who inherited the title, the property, and the ultimate control of the family holdings. It was Neville who commanded admiration and respect.

  Oliver was thrown the scraps. He was put to work as manager of the family holdings, and did a damn fine job of it, too. But Oliver knew the day would come when everything would change, when he would be handed the title.

  The day Neville Sr. turned forty, he was unmarried and without an heir. Yes, there was the Welsh bastard, but the housekeeper’s issue posed no threat to Oliver’s eventual inheritance. To sweeten the pot, Neville’s health had begun to fail. Oliver was sure he would not live to see forty-one.

  And then the unthinkable happened. Not only did the duke live, but he married and had a son—another bloody Neville—and Oliver’s life was destroyed.

  Nothing about the turn of events was fair. Nothing about it was right. It was an injustice of the highest order. And sometimes Oliver regretted he had not smothered the infant in his cradle when he’d had the opportunity.

  So upon the death of Neville Sr., his milquetoast namesake became duke, instead of Oliver. Oliver’s gaze went to the window, toward the midday sunshine. The duel was scheduled to begin in a mere fifteen hours, was it not? If he played his hand with care, there might yet be a way to get what was rightly his.

  Instead of trying to control Neville, perhaps it was time to simply get rid of him.

  He would finally be Lord Oliver Danton, the fifteenth Duke of Camberton. He liked the sound of it, very much indeed.

  Chapter 32

  MORGAN refused to remain another minute in the achingly empty row house he had shared with his bride. His ears strained for the sound of Bliss’s delicate step. He ached for the savory scents of her cooking. He expected to see her shiny blond head peer around every corner.

  And all the while, that blasted, green-eyed sorceress of a cat stared at him, monitoring his every move.

  He decided to take a long morning walk, hoping the air and exercise would allow order to prevail in his jumbled mind. It did not work as he’d hoped, so Morgan continued on to the docks. The only place on earth where he’d ever been able to hear himself think had been aboard the Selkie Maid.

  Or in the arms of his beautiful, good-hearted wife—whom he had lost forever.

  He barely spoke two words to Seamus, his first mate, who greeted him on the gangway.

  “We didn’t expect to see you today, sir. Are ye quite well, Cap’n Pryce?”

  He grumbled that he wished to view the outbound cargo manifest, and Seamus, who had accompanied him on dozens of voyages over the last several years, knew better than to inquire further about Morgan’s welfare.

  The ship was scheduled to depart London for the West Indies in just a fortnight. Morgan had approved the schedule when he returned to London just more than a week before. He’d been sure all his obligations would be met by then, leaving him free to get back to sea. The way Lord Oliver had described it, he would have rescued Neville from his villainous paramour. He would have consummated the sham marriage to a gold digger. And he would have been holding in his hand the title to his ship.

  Lord Oliver had made it sound like no more than a simple transaction, and Morgan had been foolish enough to believe him.

  He now despised himself for what he’d done. He had broken three hearts—Neville’s, Bliss’s, and his own. He’d lost the only family he had left in the world. And he’d botched his only chance to own his own vessel.

  But worst of all, he’d lost the only woman he had ever loved.

  Morgan was astounded by how much devastation he had caused in such a short time.

  For many hours, he lost himself in work. Along with his first mate, the ship’s carpenter, and the boatswain, Morgan walked the vessel to evaluate her seaworthiness. He examined the hold and found it had been sufficiently reinforced. He checked to ensure that the pitch and tar had been patched. He found that the rigging and sails were still being mended but that repairs to the foremast were complete.

  Morgan approved the final purchase orders for supplies needed for the crew, and after, he retreated to his quarters to review the outbound cargo manifest. The document was a listing of all goods being exported from England for use in the West Indies—farming tools and equipment, pig iron, oil, timber, china, silver, and crystal, household furnishings, and fabrics. It would be a fairly typical run for the Selkie Maid, and she would bring sugar, molasses, and rum with her when she returned.

  With his eyes burning and his head fairly pounding, Morgan sought refuge on the quarterdeck. He stood in his place at the helm as the sun set, letting his hands run over the smooth and highly polished mahogany of the ship’s wheel. It was cool to the touch, like silk, like the feel of Bliss’s gown in his hands. The wood was sweetly curved, like Bliss’s hip as it swelled out from her trim waist.

  Morgan lowered his head between his arms as the realization crashed over him like a wave—inescapable now, so powerful he feared he would drown in it.

  He would never treat a ship the way he had treated Bliss Worthington. Such a profound mistake, one he would pay for the rest of his days.

  He was a bastard. In every sense of the word.

  • • •

  IT WAS LATE when Morgan’s hired carriage arrived at his home. All he wished to do was fall into bed—the bed in which Bliss had slept. He prayed he could wrap himself in her sweet scent and disappear into the absolution of sleep, for he would benefit greatly from a few hours of rest before the duel. It was now only hours away.

  Morgan opened the door to a most disturbing sight—Lord Oliver Danton, pacing frantically in his candlelit parlor, his hair awry and his eyes wild.

  Oliver raised his arms in relief when he saw Morgan. “Ah! My dear boy. I am so glad you’ve come home!”

  His uncle had never set foot in Morgan’s house. Morgan had not realized the man even knew his address. But it was clear Lord Oliver did not belong here, and Morgan recoiled at the invasion of his privacy.

  He must have been too exhausted to notice the Camberton carriage parked outside. “You had no right to let yourself into my house, Uncle.”

  “Oh, now, Morgan. Don’t be so temperamental. It is of the utmost importance that we speak.”

  Morgan took a few cautious steps into his parlor.

  “Won’t you sit down with me for just a moment?” Oliver moved toward the comfortable sofa Bliss had chosen and dropped onto the cushions. He motioned for Morgan to join him.

  Morgan shook his head. “I won’t be sitting, and I’d prefer that you did not, either. Please remove yourself from my sofa and my home.”

  Lord Oliver’s mouth dropped open. “Well, well.” He stood, clearly offended by the lack of respect in Morgan’s command. His hands fluttered nervously at his sides.

  Morgan began to regret his rudeness. Lord Oliver was an old man after all, and Morgan’s habit of respecting his elder uncle had been ingrained. It felt unnatu
ral to address him with anything other than polite deference.

  “I shall go momentarily,” Oliver went on. “But I have one request, Morgan.” Lord Oliver walked closer and clutched at Morgan’s coat sleeve. When he looked up at Morgan, there was a crazed desperation in his eyes. “You must tell me what you plan to do tomorrow with Neville. Please! You must tell me!”

  Morgan calmly pulled Lord Oliver’s grasping fingers from his sleeve. He had never seen his uncle so distraught. Morgan decided to offer him some reassurance before he threw him out.

  “You need not worry. I have no intention of doing away with my half brother.”

  Morgan saw panic—of all things—wash over Lord Oliver’s expression. One of his eyelids began to twitch. He spun around on his heel and commenced with the frantic pacing.

  “Yes. Oh. I see. Well . . . that’s good, that’s very good—” Oliver turned and, without another word, left the house. Morgan had never seen anything like it.

  Good riddance.

  He dimly realized he was hungry. Morgan found the kitchen clean and tidy and the larder stocked with food. But as he tried to decide what to eat, his appetite vanished.

  This little house meant nothing good to him anymore. It was just a landlocked structure again, a place to hang his hat when he could not be at sea. It was not his home.

  Not without Bliss.

  • • •

  REST WAS IMPOSSIBLE for Bliss. She lay staring at the frayed canopy over her bed at Worthington House, waiting for everyone to fall into deep sleep. She could not make her move until she was certain no one would try to stop her.

  “No one” meant Dade, of course.

  As she lay in wait, her mother’s words went round and round in her mind.

  “You go fetch your man.”

  There had to be a way to keep Morgan from the dueling field, and Bliss believed she had finally settled upon it.

  Her plan was a simple one: Not long before the sunrise duel was set to begin, she would go capture her man.

  And though Attie was not at all aware of it, she had been the inspiration for Bliss’s scheme. Bliss spent the afternoon and evening furtively gathering the supplies she would need to carry out the plan, thinking all the while of how Attie might approach the challenge.

  First, Bliss slipped into the Worthingtons’ workshop, where she knew she would find the remnants of Attie’s trapeze hanging from the rafters. Trapeze arts had been Bliss’s young cousin’s passion during the prior year, until her interests wandered to something else—as they always did. But Bliss found the ropes still in fine condition. They would perfectly meet her needs once they had been cut into shorter lengths.

  Next, Bliss set about finding her wardrobe. She was forced to rummage through her male cousins’ things, but she did eventually locate a pair of worn gray breeches that would not fall down, a pair of castaway leather boots only a bit too big for her feet, a white cotton shirt with stains at the collar, and a woolen cloak unraveling at the hem.

  The biggest challenge had been locating a weskit that would reach around the circumference of her chest. The one she found was so tight that it pressed her bosom nearly flat.

  Bliss decided she would endure the discomfort, for she would need all the flatness she could find in order to pose as a male.

  She could wait no longer. Bliss jumped from her bed and began to dress. Within minutes she had donned her cap and cloak and slipped out the front door and into the dark night, her last two coins jingling in her pocket.

  Bliss found Mr. Cant and his conveyance waiting a short distance from Worthington House.

  “Shadwell, if you please.” Then she sat back in the seat. Almost instantly, she was overcome by doubt.

  Would this even work?

  Bliss gave herself a stern talking-to during the carriage ride, reminding herself that even if she made a fool of herself over a man who cared nothing for her, she could not let him die.

  Not before she’d had the chance to slay him herself, at any rate.

  When the hack pulled up to Pryce House, Bliss asked Mr. Cant to wait for her. He agreed sourly. She slipped inside the foyer and was immediately greeted by Attie, the kitten.

  “Mew.”

  Bliss put a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

  She crept up the stairs, careful to avoid the three steps she knew to be a bit squeaky. The door to the bedchamber was ajar, and she silently stole inside and tiptoed to the corner chair, where she plotted out her next moves.

  She had to admit that, in truth, there was only one way she would be able to tie the formidable Morgan Pryce to the bedposts without protest. It would require that she be naked.

  Without making a sound, she stripped off all her clothing, slinked toward the bed, and after pulling the coverlet away, she straddled his undressed body.

  “What the bloody—?”

  “It’s your wife. I’ve come home.”

  • • •

  MORGAN ASSUMED HE was dreaming, yet every attempt to force himself awake led him to the same unlikely place: A thoroughly and deliciously naked Bliss was astride his bare hips, her lips just inches from his, her breath warm on his face.

  Her kiss stifled his cry of surprise, and caused his mind to stop working.

  Only when her mouth left his did his questions renew. Why was she here? Had she somehow forgiven the unforgiveable? Were those ropes she was tying to his wrists?

  He could not move, and not only because both of his hands were now bound to the bedposts. Morgan had been rendered helpless with arousal.

  “Bliss—”

  “Hush, now, my captain. I only want you to feel pleasure. This is all for your pleasure, husband.”

  He heard himself let go with a strangled laugh, which became a moan of lust when her lips began to graze his chest and her tongue tease at his nipples.

  Morgan’s eyes rolled back in his head when waves of satiny blond hair brushed down his ribs and the hardened tips of her breasts teased his abdomen.

  When he felt her nibble along the crest of his hip bones, he could barely contain himself.

  She scooted farther down the bed and Morgan was about to wonder what she had in mind when she answered the question for him by sitting on his left foot—while she tied up his right! She went on to tie his left foot to the post and when she was done, she stood by the side of the bed and lit a candle.

  She gazed down at him, all golden curves and planes and silky female temptation. The smile on her face, however, was anything but coquettish.

  “Are you taking me prisoner?”

  She nodded, moving astride him once more. There was enough light now that Morgan could read every nuance in her expression.

  “Neville will kill you,” she said.

  “No, Bliss.”

  She shook her head, her hair falling over her lovely breasts. Morgan felt himself breaking out in a sweat.

  “He might not be much of an athlete, but Neville is a crack shot. When forced to participate in the hunt, he hits his mark with cruel efficiency—he never wants a living thing to suffer.”

  Morgan sighed, allowing his head to fall back upon the pillow. Being tied to his bed was a bothersome development, but he could not deny that there was a part of him that appreciated her concern for his welfare. “You must untie me, Bliss.”

  “I will do no such thing unless you agree to my terms.”

  Oh, hell no. Bliss was not playing fair! She had just stretched her entire naked form on top of him, and Morgan could feel the press of her breasts on his chest, the hot V between her thighs soft against his erection. The woman was ruthless.

  “Will you flee the duel?”

  “No.”

  She nibbled on his earlobe and whispered to him, “Will you forfeit the duel, then? For me?”

  “No.”

  Bliss sat up again, her po
uty lips in a mischievous smile, her perfect bottom grinding against his rigid cock with torturous slowness. She was teasing him, hinting that she might have mercy on him, change her position just slightly, and allow him to enter her, sink deep into her until . . .

  She stopped moving against him. Morgan bit back a helpless groan.

  “Will you stand down?”

  “No.” He panted. There was no point in hiding his desire. His cock was as hard as iron. His skin sported a fine sheen of sweat. His breath came as fast as a racing horse.

  But he could not give her what she wanted. “Bliss, I cannot abandon my honorable duty, but you have to believe me when I tell you that no one will be hurt—I won’t be. Neville won’t be.”

  He saw tears nearly overflow her eyes. She shook her head and took leave of the bed. He watched her in awe as she dressed in men’s clothing and shoved her blond hair into a cap.

  “You came dressed like that?”

  “How else could I make my way through London in the middle of the night?”

  Bliss headed for the bedchamber door.

  “Wait! You can’t leave me here like this!”

  She turned toward him, her eyes sparkling with angry tears. “I can and I will. And now I’m heading out to talk some sense into Neville.”

  He stared in shock as she left the room. “Bliss? Not in the same way, I hope? Bliss?”

  He half expected her to return and unbind him. Then he heard the door open. “Bliss!”

  The door closed.

  And God help him, but in Morgan’s mind all he saw was a naked Bliss astride Neville. Oh, how he hoped she would resort to some other method of interrogation, and that it be one requiring clothing.

  Morgan tugged at the ropes. They would not budge. He pulled harder.

  He was going nowhere.

  • • •

  “CAPTAIN PRYCE! YOUR door is wide-open to the street! Captain Pryce, are you here?”

  Morgan flinched. I’m really in the suds now.

  He was thoroughly naked, tied to all four posts of his bed, without ability to cover himself. And the unmistakable voice he had just heard calling from downstairs was that of Bliss’s dressmaker.