by Gaelen Foley
She scowled faintly, but made no effort to stop him. “Really, Rackford, I just woke up. I must look a perfect horror.”
“You could not look a ‘horror’ if you wanted to, my lass.”
“Flatterer.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “In any case, I’m sure no decent people do that in the morning.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Then she noticed his state of supreme readiness and came up onto her elbows, gazing at his hard cock for a long moment. She lifted her eyebrow at him and shook her head. “What a heathen you are.”
“Aye, and you love me for it.” With a playful growl, he tackled her onto her back once more, teasing and tickling her into submission with an attack of nuzzling kisses all over her lithe body.
Soon her girlish laughter turned to groans of want. The sheets wound around his hips as they rolled across his bed. Jacinda landed atop him—and instantly seemed to fancy it there.
With a feline smile, she urged him to sit up against the headboard. His heart slammed in his chest, but he fought to restrain himself as she straddled him on her knees, staring hotly into his eyes. She lowered herself slowly until she was sitting firmly astride his lap, his rigid flesh buried deep inside her steamy heat. He grasped her hips, kneading them. She put her arms around him and drew him to her. He kissed her throat as she began to move against him.
Her body sang vibrantly in his arms. Her swollen nipples pressed eagerly against his shoulders and his chest as she writhed slightly against him, arching her back. He adored them, sucking each one in turn as he ran his hand down her flat stomach and dipped his thumb lightly into the silken curls that veiled her womanhood. She responded with a needy shudder as he grazed her pleasure center.
“God, woman, I love you,” he whispered roughly.
She closed her eyes with a gentle moan of climbing ecstasy.
The rain fell faster, thick and lush. He held her hips, letting her take her pleasure of him, letting her rule his every movement. She tipped her head back as she rode him with a slow, deep, languorous rhythm, every stroke wrenching his very soul with the blinding pleasure of it. No woman had ever made him feel such things, such fierce, single-minded devotion. He would have killed for her, died for her.
She grew demanding, moving faster, pushing him back flat onto the bed. He kneaded her tender buttocks in his hands, pulling her down deeper on his shaft. The perfection of her tight passage intoxicated him. Her luxuriant curls ran wild, tumbling over her shoulders and swinging silkily in his face as she quickened the rhythm, her firm young breasts bouncing. He gritted his teeth, struggling to hold back until she fairly screamed with release. His control slipped away at the sound of her gasping his name in an agony of passion. Her orgasm rushed over him like a warm, wet sea, drowning him. He surrendered completely, lost to everything but the feel and smell and taste of this woman, his mate, his bride.
When the storm of love had passed, they lay in each other’s arms like two survivors of some shipwreck washed onto the shore. His fingers were tangled up gently in her hair; her arms were wound loosely around his neck.
“Jacinda,” he whispered after what seemed like hours of floating peacefully in heaven.
“Billy-boy,” she purred.
“I love your name. Have I ever told you that? It’s like a church bell’s chimes floating on a spring breeze.”
She lifted her head from his chest and smiled slowly, wryly at him. Instead of answering in words, however, she kissed his crooked nose. As an afterthought, she moved higher and kissed the scraggly scar above his eyebrow.
Her loving choice of targets made his smile fade pensively. As she moved back down to reclaim her spot, resting her head on his chest, he felt her long lashes brush against him. Something quivered inside of him, something newborn and hopeful and small. Something that made him feel like singing and crying at the same time. He did neither, of course, but wrapped his arms more tightly around her, remembering anew that this delicate creature, mighty as the fairy queen, had saved his life last night. In truth, she had saved far more than his life, and he suspected she knew it. Aye, she had saved his very soul.
“What time do you suppose it is, love?” she murmured.
“I doubt it’s seven yet.” When he raised himself up onto his elbow and craned his neck to see the mantel clock, his eyes suddenly widened with horror. “Ten.”
She jolted upright in alarm. “Ten o’clock? Good God! I’ve got to get home! My maid comes to wake me every morning at ten-thirty!”
Immediately, they were both out of bed, scrambling to dress to get her home before the duke and the rest of the household discovered she was missing.
“Gracious,” she muttered, ducking behind the Oriental screen to wipe away the virgin blood that had dried between her thighs.
Rackford dressed in three minutes flat. Jacinda emerged from behind the screen with her gown on, but she raced to him to fasten the hooks and eyes that he had so swiftly undone last night. Then she turned and tied his cravat for him. She only knew one fashionable knot—called the mail-coach—but with five brothers, neckcloth-tying was a handy skill to have. The trembling of her hands at the prospect of being discovered slowed her progress, but soon his ensemble was complete without having to involve his unpleasant little valet.
Within minutes, they were in his curricle, careening through the streets toward St. James’s and Green Park. The rain had stopped, but the skies were still gray. He drove with the black leather top drawn up over the curricle in case the drizzle started again.
“Now, here’s what you must do. Pretend you got up early and went walking in the park,” he instructed. “I’ll drive up and create a distraction to keep Hawkscliffe busy.”
“What distraction?”
“Why, I’ll ask him for your hand in marriage, of course.”
“Oh!” She sighed, a smile breaking across her face like a sunbeam emerging from behind the clouds.
They exchanged one last, hasty kiss before she jumped out of his carriage in Green Park behind the cover of some trees. He drove off toward her house while she did her best to look nonchalant, strolling through the park.
The minute she was alone, however, she looked around, stifling laughter born of pure joy, and twirled around once in a circle beneath the whispering boughs, her arms flung wide. Oh, love! What a miracle it was! She couldn’t wait to tell Lizzie she and Rackford were getting married.
Meanwhile, he drove up to Knight House as though to pay one of his usual frequent calls there. Mr. Walsh greeted him at the door, like he did every other day. But this time, as Rackford swept off his hat, he turned to the butler and asked if His Grace was at home. In short order, his heart pounding, he was shown into Robert’s study.
The serious, dark-eyed duke shook his hand. “What can I do for you today, Rackford?”
He cleared his throat, hoping he had given her enough time. “Your Grace, I have come to ask again for Lady Jacinda’s hand in marriage. I have reason to believe that my suit will be favorably received at this time.”
Now, that was an understatement, he thought, vastly satisfied with himself and the satin memory of his recent performance, but he managed to swallow his cocky smile.
“I see.” Hawkscliffe lifted his chin, his piercing dark eyes boring into him. “You believe she will be receptive even after your brawl last night at Almack’s? It was quite a shocking display, sir.”
He bowed his head contritely. “I apologize for that, Your Grace, but Mr. Loring did insult my honor.”
“Why did you not simply call him out, then?”
“He wouldn’t have had a chance,” he blurted out.
Slowly, wryly, the duke smiled. “Do you love my sister, Rackford?”
The frank question startled him. He did not know how to answer without an unmanly display of emotion. It was bad enough to feel a telltale blush creeping into his cheeks. Hawkscliffe arched his eyebrow.
“I do, sir,” Rackford admitted. “More than I knew it was p
ossible to love.”
He dropped his gaze awkwardly after he had said it. He could feel Hawkscliffe studying him, sizing him up one last time. He forced himself to lift his chin and meet the man’s gaze evenly.
The duke gave a satisfied nod, then rang for the butler. “Summon Lady Jacinda,” he ordered. He glanced at Rackford again after Mr. Walsh withdrew. “I hope you know what you’re doing. She is quite a handful when you’re the one responsible for her.”
When several minutes passed and she still did not arrive, Rackford, standing at attention as he awaited her entrance, began to worry if she had gotten caught trying to sneak back into the house.
“What can be keeping her?” the duke muttered.
“I suppose it’s still rather early for callers,” he offered gingerly. “Perhaps I should come back later.”
“Of course not. I am not totally insensitive to the apprehensions of a young man undertaking a call such as this, Lord Rackford. You got your nerve up. The least she can do is get herself out of bed for it.” He rang the bell again in lordly impatience just as Jacinda came rushing in, self-conscious and charmingly disheveled.
“Yes, Robert? Oh, Lord Rackford! What a surprise!” she exclaimed rather shrilly. Her cheeks bloomed bright red when she saw him.
What a miserable actress she was. Rackford shot her a communicative scowl, trying to warn her to act natural or she was going to give them away.
Her esteemed brother gazed fondly at her for a second, then lowered his gaze with a private smile. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, then, Sister. I have asked you to join us because this morning I have received a most generous offer from this excellent young man, who wishes to be joined with you in holy matrimony.”
Her little gasp was somehow genuine.
Rackford slid her a besotted glance. Her face was radiant with delight. He could scarcely believe it was all due to him.
“Ahem,” said Hawkscliffe, glancing shrewdly from one to the other. “Lord Rackford gives me reason to hope that his proposal may find favor with you?”
“Oh, yes,” she vowed a bit too ardently. “That is—it does. He does. I mean, that would be perfectly agreeable with me.” Wide-eyed, she nodded so vigorously that her curls bounced all the way down her back.
Hawkscliffe lifted his eyebrows at the sophisticated Lady Jacinda’s uncharacteristic lack of cool composure. “Forgive me if I seem too frank, but am I to understand, my dear, that you are…in love with this man?”
Tears rushed into her eyes as she nodded again at her brother. “I am.” Her voice came out in a teary squeak.
The duke stared at her for a long moment. The aura of power and patriarchal control cracked for a moment in his smile. His dark brown eyes, so like Jacinda’s, misted. “Well, then, my dear,” he murmured, “it seems you finally found him. Marry, then, and love each other with my blessing.”
With a small sob of joy, Jacinda bounded out of her chair and ran over to hug her brother. Hawkscliffe embraced her in fatherly pride and kissed her head, then clasped Rackford in a warm and hearty handshake.
“We have to tell the others,” she said a moment later with a sniffle, gathering herself. “Oh, I need Lizzie here right away! Bel will help us plan our wedding, and Miranda—but Alice, of course! We must consult her, above all. This sort of thing is exactly her forte! How soon can we marry, do you think? What shall I wear? Can we live near Regent’s Park, Rackford, in one of those new villas? They’re all the rage. Perhaps we should give a dinner party here tonight to announce our betrothal?”
“Jacinda,” Hawkscliffe called, putting his head down over some inconsequential bit of correspondence on his vast baronial desk, as though he required a moment to compose himself over the realization that he must give away his baby sister. “One moment, please, before you go running off in a thousand directions.”
“Yes?” Beaming, she turned to him in question.
“Ahem. How shall I say?” The duke looked up blandly. “Your dress is inside out.” He shot Rackford a stern, knowing glance, then dismissed them with a small flick of his hand.
Three weeks later, Jacinda and Rackford were married at home in a private, late-morning ceremony at Knight House. The white-painted partitioning doors between the salons were opened up to accommodate their fifty or so guests. Robert walked her down the makeshift “aisle” in the flower-bedecked drawing room and handed her over to her fiancé with a bit of a tear in his eye.
Lizzie, her sole bridesmaid, gave a sentimental sniffle beside her as Rackford spoke out his confident “I do,” holding Jacinda’s hand a bit more firmly in the crook of his arm.
From the corner of her eye, Jacinda noticed her beautiful sisters-in-law exchanging softhearted looks. Rackford had enchanted them with his shy, almost boyish eagerness to be accepted by his new family. The ladies felt especially sorry for him because of his parents’ hurtful decision to embarrass him for his defiance by refusing to come to the wedding. The marchioness of Truro had offered some excuse, but the snub was unmistakable.
The minister turned gravely to her. “And do you, Lady Jacinda Knight, take this man as your lawful wedded husband, to love, honor, and obey…”
The two of them exchanged a dubious glance that brimmed with laughter.
“For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”
Jacinda considered for such a long pause that Rackford slid her a sudden look of panic. She slipped him an arch smile. “I suppose. Yes.”
The minister looked nonplussed at her reply, but Lucien coughed, swallowing a short laugh. He stood at the altar with them, for Rackford had asked him to serve as his groomsman.
The ceremony ended in the usual way, the minister beaming, the bride blushing, the groom all outward steady pride, inwardly a quivering mass of besotted emotion.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride,” the reverend added.
Rackford turned to her with a wicked glow in his eyes, but behaved himself with admirable restraint, bending to press a simple, heartfelt kiss to her lips. Family and friends applauded as they signed the register; then everyone crowded around them. Lizzie hugged her tightly. Rackford accepted his new clan’s congratulations with a manly blush.
After the ceremony, Bel served them a splendid luncheon followed by a magnificent bride cake. Rackford held Jacinda’s hand often at the table, making her acutely aware of the gold band on her finger that bound her to him forevermore.
“I can’t believe you’re going to the Continent for three whole months,” Lizzie exclaimed, shaking her head with an envious sigh.
“Indeed!” Reg and Justin agreed.
“I suppose it seems extravagant, but that is how long the builders told us they would need before our new house in Regent’s Park will be ready,” Jacinda answered gaily.
Rackford’s friends sat at the corner of the table with them. She was all the more glad of their attentions to Lizzie, for Alec was sitting way over on the other end of the room with Lord Griffith, Damien, and Miranda. The cad had whiled away the past few weeks at Lady Campion’s country villa, presumably “working” off his debts. Alec had congratulated her and Rackford, but Jacinda had received his embrace coolly. His ankle was healed, and he looked as fit and handsome as ever, but there was a lost, bleak look in his blue eyes and an ironic bitterness in his smile that she thought the bounder quite deserved.
Lizzie was careful not even to glance in his direction. “How exciting,” she murmured with a carefully arranged smile. “Where all will you be going?”
“Everywhere! A full-blown Grand Tour, isn’t that right, darling? Rackford’s never been abroad.” She smiled at him, giving his hand a squeeze. “Paris, Rome, Florence—”
“Maybe you’ll run across Acer and Daphne in Calais,” Reg drawled.
“I think they went northward,” Justin corrected him.
“Gretna,” Jacinda agreed. “Everyone says so.”
The scandal of the Season
had been the leading dandy and the reigning beauty’s elopement after his bout of fisticuffs at Almack’s. Helena and Amelia had told Jacinda that it had been Lady Erhard pushing Daphne to snare a title all along. Jacinda was happy for them. If ever a pair had deserved each other—
“Venice is the place I most want to see,” Rackford was telling the others. “Just like Canaletto’s paintings.” He winked slyly at her and took a bite of chicken.
“Venice, of course. We shall have to buy some marvelous art for our new home.”
“Buy it?” he asked quizzically.
“Darling.” She shot him a playful scowl, took a dainty sip of wine, and turned back to her best friend. “Eventually, we’ll arrive in Vienna and, if we’re inspired, we may even travel on to St. Petersburg.”
“How wonderful.”
“You should join us at some point, Lizzie, honestly. You know you’re always welcome—”
“I will not intrude on your honeymoon,” she scoffed. “Besides, I have a bit of a mystery waiting for me later this week.”
“Is that so?”
She and old Professor Alfred Hamilton, Bel’s father and a former Fellow of Oxford, exchanged a fond glance. The old scholar shared Lizzie’s passion for books, especially old books. “Indubitably, my dear Miss Carlisle. Excellent young lady, what?”
“Why, Miss Carlisle, you cannot keep us in suspense,” Justin protested amiably.
“Yes, do tell!” Reg demanded.
Lizzie smiled. “Before I return to Yorkshire, Dr. Hamilton is going to be introducing me to the representative of a publisher based in Leipzig who needs someone to translate German manuscripts for English publication.”
“This publisher is willing to hire a lady?” Jacinda asked, raising her eyebrows. “How very forward-thinking.”
Lizzie smiled wryly. “My efforts would be anonymous, of course, but, you see…” She leaned closer. “Dr. Hamilton gives me to understand that this German publisher has acquired a manuscript which is being handled with great secrecy. We are beside ourselves with curiosity to find out what all the fuss is about, aren’t we, Alfred?”
