by Lauren Royal
His hand squeezed hers as he considered. “I’m worried for Creath. I’m worried your brother might not know the way to Bristol.”
“We went through Bristol on our way here. You said yourself that it’s just twelve miles away. I’m sure Creath knows the way, too—she’s lived here since birth, has she not? Trust my brother. They will get to Bristol.”
“Once they’re there, he’ll need to bribe a Justice of the Peace to marry them without her guardian’s permission. To marry them without asking her age. I didn’t tell him that.”
“Matthew is clever. Besides, does Creath not know that?”
“I did mention it a few days ago.”
“Then they will do fine. Trust my brother,” she repeated.
She felt him shift on the bed, turning toward her. “What are you worried about?” he asked. “If not the two of them?”
“Your parents,” she admitted.
“Really? What about them worries you?”
“What if we’re found down here, Joseph, with all these holiday trimmings? Your parents could be in some trouble for breaking the law—all because I insisted on celebrating Christmas. They could lose Tremayne to confiscation, like Matthew lost Grosmont Grange. And it would be my fault.”
He squeezed her hand again. “That’s not going to happen. For all his bluster, Sir Leonard is a petty troublemaker. He’s not going to go up against the Earl of Trentingham. At least, not over something as minor as Christmas decorations.”
She did remember the earl standing up to Sir Leonard. Still… “That’s not what your father said.”
She felt rather than saw him wave that off. “My father can be a bit of a fust-cudgel.”
When she began to laugh, he leaned forward to silence her with a kiss. Missing her lips at first, he trailed light kisses along her jaw until he found his target. The gentle caress made thoughts of laughter flee her head. But when she leaned into him, deepening the kiss, he pulled away with a regretful sigh. “Is there anything else you’re worried about?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I thought you were going to say you’re worried my parents won’t approve of our betrothal.”
“No!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Your mother loves me. Although you haven’t proposed, so there’s no betrothal for them to approve or disapprove of, is there?”
“Holy Hades.” He promptly slipped from the bed. She guessed he had gone down to a knee. He took both her hands in his, fumbling a little till he found them. “Chrystabel Trevor, will you make me the happiest man alive by agreeing to be my wife?”
“Oh, God.” She wished she could see his face. But she couldn’t, so she needed to touch it. She pulled her hands from his to cradle his cheeks, thrilling at the feel of his slight roughness against her palms. “Oh, God. I love you so much. Will you kiss me?”
“You haven’t said yes yet.”
“Yes! Dear God, yes!”
Twenty-Two
SHE’D SAID YES. He was going to marry Chrystabel.
Holy Hades, how would he keep his hands off her now? They’d been sitting on a bed, for heaven’s sake. A bed.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I know,” he returned, his own whisper filled with wonder. He could scarcely believe he didn’t know her four days ago. “I love you, too.”
“Oh, my God, Joseph—we’re betrothed. We’re betrothed!” Her whisper was infused with glee. She was adorable. Even when he couldn’t see her, she was adorable. “You said you would kiss me if I said yes.”
“I did, didn’t I?” He came up off his knee and sat again beside her, turning to gather her into his arms, suddenly grateful that his surcoat was gone when he held her close. Through his thin waistcoat and his thinner lawn shirt, he fancied he could feel her heart beating. When he kissed her, she released a blissful sigh.
Keeping himself in check, he kissed her shoulder and her forehead and her throat, because that felt safer than kissing her mouth. He trailed his lips over her soft, fragrant skin. Her carefully crafted perfume assaulted his senses. For the past few days, just a whiff of that scent had sent his pulse to racing, and now he could hardly fathom that he was here all alone in a priest hole with his irresistible Chrysanthemum.
And they were betrothed.
And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he went back to kissing her mouth. Her lips were simply too tempting. She felt so warm against him, and so soft, her curves melding to his body, her mouth tasting so right. He wished he could kiss her forever. Or at least his head wished he could kiss her forever.
Other parts were telling him that would never be enough.
“When shall we be married?” he asked, coming up for air.
“Hmm?” She sounded dazed. He felt her hand come up and search in the dark for his shoulder, then skim over to the back of his neck. Finding his nape, she curved her fingers around it and pulled his mouth back to hers, and they kissed for another long, exciting minute.
Too exciting. He couldn’t take this. He broke the kiss and released her. When that wasn’t enough distance, he moved apart from her and sat up straighter.
“Joseph?” she whispered. “Where did you go?” He heard her patting the bed, looking for him. When her hand found him, she crawled over and moved in back of him, kneeling on the pallet and hugging him from behind. Or at least he thought she was kneeling on the pallet—he wished he could see her. “Come back,” she whispered, trying to pull him down on the bed with her. “I’m not finished kissing you.”
“When shall we be married?” he asked again. “Tomorrow?”
Their wedding couldn’t come soon enough for him. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on her with a clear conscience.
“Not tomorrow.” Wafting from behind him, her sigh felt warm by his ear. “I want a church wedding. We’ll have to wait three Sundays for the banns to be called.”
“Three Sundays? Three weeks? Wait, that’s more than three weeks, isn’t it?” It seemed a lifetime. “I want to be wed tomorrow. Church weddings aren’t legal anymore, anyway.”
“They’re not illegal, either. They’re allowed—they just don’t count as far as the government is concerned. We can be wed by a Justice of the Peace in the morning to satisfy the law and then have a church wedding in the afternoon. Our marriage won’t feel real to me if it’s not blessed by the church.”
“Very well,” he grumbled. He certainly wanted her to feel really married.
But more than three weeks seemed a long, long time.
Not a lifetime—a lifetime and a half.
Catching him off guard, she grabbed him tighter and managed to pull him down beside her. “Can we kiss again now?” she asked.
He quietly laughed and kissed her again. And kissed her and kissed her, until he realized he was now lying half on top of her, which was not a good idea. He wasn’t a fust-cudgel like his father, but he knew right from wrong. With a wistful sigh, he broke the kiss and pulled her upright again.
Chrystabel’s little sound of frustrated disappointment matched his own feelings all too well. He reached out to hold her, but she broke free. He felt her moving beside him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Taking off my shoes.” He heard two soft thumps as they hit the floor. “It feels wrong to lie in bed wearing shoes.”
“We’re not in bed, we’re on a bed.” He was thankful for that. “And it’s not even a bed, really.”
It wasn’t comfortable—it was just a thin, straw-filled pallet on top of a low wooden box that someone had probably built in the last century. Which was just as well, because God only knew how far he’d be tempted to take things on a real bed.
He heard some rustling. “What are you doing now?”
“Removing my garters, so I can take off my stockings.”
“I’m not sure you should do that.”
“Why not? Do you usually wear shoes and stockings in bed?”
“I told you, it’s not a bed.” The little
rustling sounds continued. Mentally picturing her removing her garters, he swallowed hard. “You’re not going to take anything else off after the stockings, are you?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Of course not.”
“Good.”
“Well…” She paused so long he began wondering what was happening in her head. “Do you want me to take off more?”
Oh, he wanted her to, all right.
“No,” he said, and then, “yes, but no.” He forced a whispery laugh. “I fear we shouldn’t be alone like this.”
”Perhaps not.” She shifted, and he felt as if she were looking at him in the dark, evaluating his mood, his intentions. Which was impossible, of course. It was pitch-black. ”But I’m glad for it,” she added in a breathy whisper. “I like being alone like this.”
Joseph was finding it hard to breathe.
He knew she was innocent—he’d been the first man to kiss her, for heaven’s sake. But did she have to be so innocently seductive? How was he supposed to resist her when she was shucking clothing left and right?
He felt movement beside him and figured she was rolling down her stockings. Picturing that wasn’t helping his breathing any.
“Oh, that feels so much better.” He could hear the smile in her voice and imagined her wiggling her toes. He’d never seen her toes, and he couldn’t see them now, but he envisioned them all pink and pretty and stopped breathing altogether.
“Let me help you with your shoes,” she whispered.
Not sure he could stand her help, he leaned over and tugged them off before she had a chance. His stockings followed. He finally blew out a breath.
Her soft chuckle made him wonder if she knew what she was doing to him.
Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as he’d thought.
When he straightened again, she leaned close and managed to find his lips with hers. Her mouth was so sweet, it took all he had to keep from tearing her gown off then and there. He was tired of fighting with himself. Forgetting that they shouldn’t be lying horizontal together, he found himself drawing her down to the pallet again.
Or maybe she drew him down. He wasn’t sure.
And lost in the moment, in the pleasure of her mouth on his, he didn’t care.
Twenty-Three
CHRYSTABEL COULDN’T believe she was in bed with the love of her life.
Well, on a bed, as he kept pointing out. And the bed wasn’t really a bed. Regardless, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.
Joseph was softly kissing her. One of his fingertips had found the bare skin at the base of her neck and was tracing a pattern there, sending tendrils of sensation everywhere. Exhilaration thrummed through her, making her feel warm all over.
Actually, warm was a weak word for what she was feeling. She burned for more.
She burned for everything.
It had all happened so fast. In mere days she’d gone from not knowing him to wanting him to learning he belonged to another, and now, miraculously, he was hers. Now she wanted him in a different way, with a fierceness she’d never even imagined.
More than three weeks. It seemed like forever. She pressed closer, parting her lips, trying to coax him into more than these soft, dreamy kisses.
Joseph pulled back. His fingers on the nape of her neck stopped moving. ”Oh, Chrysanthemum,” he whispered, but the whisper sounded more like a groan. She worried for a moment that he was upset and wondered why—but he didn’t push her away. Instead he just waited a moment.
Their breathing sounded loud in the darkness.
Then, quite suddenly, his hand curved around the nape of her neck and brought her mouth to his again.
The lips that had been soft and gentle earlier were urgent now, more fervent. He kissed her until she felt breathless, senseless, then his mouth trailed down to play in the sensitive hollow of her throat.
His lips felt so good against her skin. His tongue drew warm circles on her flesh, moving lower, delving closer to the cleavage revealed by the low neckline of her Christmas Day gown. Her heart raced faster as new sensations rippled through her, not only where his mouth teased her, but other places, too. An ache was building inside her, a most strange and wondrous feeling.
Wishing to make him feel the same way, she reached to unknot his cravat.
He lifted his head. “You cannot do that,” he murmured.
“I want to do to you the same things you’re doing to me.” The lace-edged fabric came untied, and she began drawing it from his neck. “This is covering places I want to kiss you. I want to make you feel—”
“You cannot.”
She stopped, stunned by the vehemence of his whisper. “Why?” she breathed.
“Because if you do,” he said very slowly, “I fear I may not be able to keep from doing more.”
Oh, was that his only problem?
Knowing he couldn’t see her, she smiled as she pulled the cravat free.
“Chrysanth—”
“Joseph.” Her mouth feeling suddenly dry, she licked her lips. Her heart pounded so loudly she feared he could hear it. “I want you.”
“You’re going to have me,” he said, his whisper sounding painfully forced. “We’re going to have each other. In three weeks.”
“It’s going to be more than three weeks, and I want you now.” As her fingers went to loosen the lacing at the top of his shirt, she realized she’d never felt like this before—like a wanton, truth be told. But then, she’d never before been in love.
She opened the placket of his shirt and put her mouth to his skin as he had to hers, tasting him, faintly salty and spicy, a heady flavor that was his alone. He smelled better than any perfume she could possibly create.
She heard him swallow hard. “Your parents would not approve of this.”
She kissed his neck and felt a tremor run through him. “My father is dead and my mother might as well be.”
“Your brother, then.”
“I care not what my brother thinks.” She kissed the top of his chest in the unlaced opening, then moved up to kiss his mouth.
“You’re truly bent on seducing me, aren’t you?” Sounding incredulous, he allowed a light kiss, but no more. “My parents wouldn’t like this, either.”
“Your mother might.”
“What? What do you mean by that?”
“What did your mother say your family motto was last night?”
She heard him sigh. “Interroga Conformationem. Question Convention.”
“Exactly. This isn’t conventional, but I think she might be all right with it.”
He was silent for a long moment, while she heard and felt his breathing getting rougher. “Well, she wouldn’t like this,” he finally said, yanking her against him and kissing her again, harder than ever before.
She was shocked for a bare moment but then let herself slide into the demanding caress. He plundered her mouth, tasting of warm chocolate and Joseph. When at last he let her go, she found herself trembling with uncontrolled desire.
“Your mother likes me,” she informed him shakily. “Your parents are going to be happy we’re betrothed. So why can’t we question convention? We’re going to be married anyway, so why should we have to wait? We’ll be wed in a few weeks, but I want you now.”
“If you say that enough times, I might begin to believe you.”
He’d made it sound like a threat. “How many more times?” she wondered. “A dozen? I want you now, I want you now, I want—”
He silenced her with another kiss, a kiss so fierce she wondered if perhaps he’d given in.
But then he drew back and was silent again.
It was a different kind of silence. She couldn’t see him, but she could tell. He was fighting with himself, she was sure of it.
“I cannot do this,” he said at last, his whisper sounding forced. “Not before we’re married. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Are you a virgin, then?” she whispered.
She thought she hea
rd him choke. “My impulsive, impertinent Chrystabel. Is there no question you’re unwilling to ask?”
“No,” she said shortly. “Are you one, then? Have you never…”
“I have,” he admitted on a sigh.
She’d known that, of course, because he wasn’t at all nervous like she was. Unlike her, he knew exactly what he was doing in—on—this bed. His hesitance had nothing to do with a lack of confidence and everything to do with a moral dilemma.
His answer hadn’t surprised her.
“Thank you for answering my question honestly,” she told him.
“But those other times were different.”
He’d whispered that so softly she’d barely heard him.
“Let me guess,” she returned dryly. “Because she wasn’t a lady?”
“None of them were ladies.”
None of them? “Them?”
Now he’d surprised her.
“How many—”
“Oh, Chrysanthemum,” he interrupted, “none of them mattered. None of them made me feel anything like you do. Not anywhere even close. Forget them. Just forget them, please. Don’t make me sorry I was honest.”
She was still catching her breath. It took her a moment to respond, a moment to absorb the fact that she was far from his first.
“Are you done with them?” she finally asked in a tiny whisper.
“I’m done with them.” He sounded desperate, but also desperately truthful. “I was done with the last one before I met you. Weeks before I met you. I am so, so done with them—”
“They why aren’t you willing to bed me?” she burst out.
“Because—”
“Oh, I don’t want to hear it,” she cried, cutting him off. “You’re a hypocrite, do you know that? I’m no better than those other girls. You and I are going to marry, so what does it matter? You’re not a virgin, and I don’t want to be one anymore. Please, Joseph, put me out of my misery.”
“What?” He sounded completely nonplussed. “What misery?”
“The anticipation is killing me.” If he could be honest, then so could she. “Martha and Cecily—my older sisters, my married sisters—both told me the first time would hurt. I want to get that over with. I want to come to you on our wedding night free of this worry. After saying our vows, I want to come to you with no reservations. I want to come to you with only joy.”
