Jo got to her feet, surprised her trembling knees managed to hold her up. ‘I wish you’d told me that before.’
‘What, exactly?’ said March, struggling to keep his draperies around him as he got to his feet.
‘That you were desperately in love with me, of course.’
He frowned. ‘But I did. I have—’
‘No. You told me you cared for me, and that I would be the perfect wife to help you run Arnborough. Because I’m so capable.’
Because she spat the last out like a dirty word March began to see where he’d gone wrong. ‘By day, yes,’ he agreed. ‘But what I didn’t make plain, obviously, is that I’m utterly crazy about you. My bed is a cold and lonely place without you.’
‘Mine is like that lately, too,’ she said very quietly, and held out her hand. ‘You look tired. You need to go to bed.’
‘I do. But not because I’m tired,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Good, because I’m not either.’ She gave him a radiant smile. ‘Only don’t trip over your robes, Caesar.’
March laughed unsteadily, and followed her upstairs as fast as his towels allowed. When they reached her bedroom Jo held up a hand when he tried to remove his draperies and told him to sit on her bed.
‘You’ve had a nasty shock tonight. You need to go slow. I’ll do the undressing bit.’ By the time the last towel was discarded March was breathing rapidly, his eyes narrowed to fiery gold slits. But Jo’s heart hammered for a different reason when she saw his frightening display of bruises.
‘Are you sure nothing’s broken?’ she said, swallowing.
‘Absolutely sure,’ he said between his teeth. ‘If you glance in a southerly direction you’ll see that all is in perfect working order.’
To his delight, Jo blushed to the roots of her hair and started removing her clothes in a tearing hurry.
‘I thought you were going slow,’ he drawled, eyes glued to the process.
‘I’m trying, but you’re making it hard for me.’
‘I’m making it hard?’ He rolled his eyes and reached for her. ‘Come here, my darling. And if you love me don’t go too slow.’
‘I do love you.’
‘Say that again?’
‘You heard the first time,’ she muttered. ‘Stop talking and kiss me.’
March pulled her down on his lap and crushed her in his arms as his lips locked on hers. Her plan to go slow evaporated in a steam of desire as his tongue surged between her lips. They both forgot his bruises as he caressed her breasts into taut, quivering life, taking triumphant male pleasure in her choked little moans as he grazed on each nipple in turn, while his hands roamed lower to smooth over her hips and trace a line down her thighs.
She shook her head and pushed his hands away, making a counter-attack with her own as she caressed the long, flat muscles of his back, sliding her hands down his spine to cup the tight, rounded hardness below, her touch delicate to avoid hurting him. He let out a visceral groan of defeat and flipped her on her back to move over her, his lips swallowing her gasp as he thrust home between her thighs to bring them at last to a pleasure which grew so intense as it finally engulfed them that Jo discovered for the first time what the French meant by describing it as ‘the little death’.
‘How are your bruises?’ she asked later, when she had breath enough to speak.
‘What bruises?’ he murmured into her neck, then raised his head to look down at her, an imperious gleam in his eyes. ‘In the unlikely event that you still have any doubts, let me repeat: I love you madly, deeply, every way there is, my beautiful, capable Miss Logan. So, for the last time of asking, will you stop wasting time and marry me?’
‘Yes, please,’ she said fervently.
The six weeks that followed—the shortest possible time, according to the bride’s mother, to organise the perfect wedding—were, March complained, the longest of his life.
And to start with there was a major problem. Jack Logan wanted both the service and the reception to take place at Mill House. March, naturally, wanted the wedding in the family church at Arnborough, with guests received in the Great Hall, followed by a wedding breakfast in the ballroom. In which case, he made it plain, he would foot the bill.
‘I think the bride should choose where she wants to get married,’ Kate told her husband when Jo reported this. ‘And we’ll fall in with whatever our daughter decides.’
‘I suppose you’re right. But whichever way she goes,’ said Jack flatly, ‘I’m the bride’s father and I will exercise my privilege to pay.’
Wanting to please both the men she loved, Jo was torn. ‘What do you think, Grandpa?’
Tom Logan gave it thought. ‘It’s only natural that a man whose family has lived in the same house for centuries will want his marriage to take place there. Couldn’t you throw a party here when Jo and March come back from honeymoon, Jack? That way you could invite friends and colleagues who wouldn’t have expected to go to the actual wedding.’
‘Tom,’ said Kate, awed, ‘that is such a brilliant idea.’
‘It might work,’ admitted Jack, and looked at Jo. ‘What do you think, sweetheart?’
Jo let out the breath she’d been holding. ‘I think Grandpa’s idea is just wonderful. That way everyone’s happy. Aren’t they?’ she added, eyeing her father.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Even me. After all, I’ll be walking you down the aisle, whichever one you choose.’
On a cold, bright December day, Joanna Margaret Logan walked down the aisle of St Peter’s Church at Arnborough on the arm of her proud, elegant father, smiling at the equally proud, elegant figure of her bridegroom, who stood watching her progress with a look which brought tears to the female eyes in the congregation.
Miss Kitty Logan, wearing the same ethereal ivory chiffon as the bride and chief bridesmaid, walked hand-in-hand with Isobel, her free hand clutching a tiny basket of flowers, with more threaded through her glossy black curls, and caused more surreptitious tears from the mother of the bride and from Mrs Calvin Stern, who gratefully accepted the large white handker-chief offered by her husband.
Jack Logan surrendered his daughter with a kiss, before taking his place by her mother. The Honourable Rufus Clement produced the ring at the exact moment required, to the warm approval of Charlie Peel, seated in the pew behind. And every word was uttered with audible conviction as March Aubrey Clement made his vows to his bride, who returned them in kind.
After much kissing and congratulating in the vestry, the wedding party finally emerged from the church into bracing sunshine to face the battery of photographers waiting to take the money shot of the bride who had captured the eligible Baron Arnborough.
There were shouts on all sides of, ‘Look this way, Lady Arnborough.’
She smiled in surprise, and shot a look at the grinning Carey twins in the group of family and friends behind her. ‘Gosh—that’s me!’
March bent his head to kiss his bride, to the accompaniment of cheers and snapping flashbulbs on all sides. ‘It most definitely is you,’ he assured her, and whispered in her ear, ‘But known in private, as I shall prove to you later, as your husband’s consuming passion!’
Recent titles by this author:
†THE ITALIAN COUNT’S DEFIANT BRIDE
*CHRISTMAS REUNION
THE MILLIONAIRE’S REBELLIOUS MISTRESS
THE MILLIONAIRE’S CONVENIENT BRIDE
THE RICH MAN’S BRIDE
* * *
†Part of International Billionaires
*In the anthology Married by Christmas
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
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First published in Great Britain 2009
Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
© Catherine George 2009
ISBN: 978-1-4089-1309-3
The Mistress of His Manor Page 18
