The Wedding Game

by Jane Feather

  “Me?” she said. “No . . . how . . . how could I be?”

  “Well, I was under the impression that you, in the guise of the Go-Between, had attempted to make a match between me and the Signorina Della Luca,” he observed.

  “Well, yes . . . but . . . but I didn't suggest you make her your interior decorator,” Chastity protested.

  “Neither did I,” he said aridly.

  Chastity looked around again, then almost tentatively went towards the door that led to his office. She stood there in silence, then turned slowly back to him. “I am so sorry.”

  He came over to her, took her face between his hands, looked down at her with a smile in his eyes that was half rueful, half amused. “So am I, sweetheart,” he said. “So very sorry.”

  She reached up to grasp his wrists. “I didn't know what to do,” she said. “I didn't know how to stop it. Everything seemed to spin out of control.”

  “I know.” He kissed her gently, and then more urgently. “I hurt you. Forgive me.” The words rustled over her lips, his thumbs pressed into the soft skin beneath her chin.

  “I deceived you. It must have been so wretched for you.” She raised a hand to caress his cheek.

  “It was, but I brought it upon myself.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Such crass stupidity to imagine that I could . . .” He raised his head and stared almost angrily at the wall behind her.

  “I love you,” she said, touching his mouth with a fingertip. “Douglas, I love you.”

  The anger faded from his eyes. He held her tightly against him, his mouth finding hers again, his lips firm and possessive, his tongue demanding entrance. She felt his body harden against her, felt the liquid jolt in her loins, and laughed with the sheer joy of desire. “Where?” she asked, laughing and yet urgent, sucking on his bottom lip as if it were a ripe plum, pressing herself against him, suddenly devoured by need.

  He bore her backwards to the large desk adorned with an elaborately decorated blotter. Her legs curled around his hips as she fell back onto the smooth surface. She twisted her fingers in his thick hair, pulling his mouth down on hers as he pushed up her skirt and petticoat. She lifted her hips as he pulled down her knickers, tightened her thighs around him, barely aware of the hard wood beneath her, and then with a little gasp of delight felt him inside her. He slipped his hands beneath her hips, holding her on the shelf of his palms as he moved within her, his mouth pressed to hers.

  He raised his head, looked down at her transported countenance, said softly, “Chastity, I love you,” and drove to her core as she rose to meet him, her heels pressing into his backside. They were laughing as the world reasserted itself, laughing at the absurdity of their position, laughing with heady relief, laughing with sheer unadulterated pleasure.

  “I hope you weren't expecting any patients,” Chastity said, taking the hands he held out to pull her into a sitting position.

  “No, I usually schedule appointments with some care,” he said, releasing her hands to tuck his shirt into his trousers before buttoning them. “Today was no exception.”

  Chastity slid off the desk. “Oh, so you planned that.”

  “Not exactly,” he said with a rather wicked smile. “But I had my hopes.”

  Chastity was busy buttoning and tucking herself. She glanced over her shoulder. “I think you're going to have to keep the desk,” she said. “I've grown rather fond of it.”

  “And the blotter,” he agreed. He reached for her, taking her shoulders, kissing her brow. “But what in the devil's name am I to do with the rest of this . . . this . . .” He ran his hands through his hair.

  “Send it back,” Chastity said. “You have the receipts?”

  “I have the bills,” he said. “Five thousand pounds' worth.” He reached into the desk drawer.

  Chastity grimaced. “It's astonishing what people will pay for bad taste.” She glanced through the sheaf of papers he handed her. “We'll let Prue handle these. She's an expert at sending back merchandise. She was always having to do it when Father ordered things we couldn't afford.”

  “I don't want to involve your family,” Douglas said, reaching to take them back from her.

  Chastity put them on the desk. “You're not,” she stated. “You're part of the family, therefore you're not involving them, they are involved.” She regarded him through suddenly narrowed eyes. “Unless, of course, Dr. Farrell, you are merely trifling with me, and have no intention of making an honest woman of me.”

  He was pleased to note that he was taken aback for no more than an instant. “Are you asking me to marry you, Miss Duncan?”

  “Why certainly I am, sir.” She swept him a curtsy. “Dr. Farrell, would you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”

  “The honor would be all mine,” he said with a formal bow.

  “Good, so that's over with,” Chastity said cheerfully. “So, we're agreed we'll let Prue deal with returning this stuff. I promise you, Douglas, she will have the shopkeepers begging to take it back before she's finished with them. There'll be no problem there.”

  “Maybe not, but there will be a problem,” he said. “I shall be left with an unfurnished suite.”

  “Oh, that's easy,” Chastity said. “As long as you don't want new stuff.” Her tone suggested that anyone desiring such furniture would be showing a serious lack of good judgment.

  Douglas shook his head in hasty disclaimer. “No,” he said. “Not at all.”

  “Then it's simple. We have so much in the attics, both in Manchester Square and at Romsey Manor . . .” She paused, seeing his expression.

  “I sat in an armchair in the attic at Romsey Manor that reeked of dog,” he said neutrally.

  “They don't all,” she said, coming across to him. She put her arms around him. “We are at peace now, aren't we?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said into her hair. “Utterly at peace, my love.”

  Much later, in the full dark of late evening, in Douglas's flat on Wimpole Street, Chastity stirred against him and murmured, “At the risk of opening old wounds, we ought to discuss what we're going to do about money for your clinic, since I don't have any.”

  “Well, you're not going to be an expensive wife, are you?” he asked, his voice teasing in the dark.

  “No, of course not. We're all three of us financially independent,” she said with a touch of indignation.

  “That's all right, then. As long as I don't have to support you.” He moved over her, tracing the contours of her face with a fingertip. “And you do have the right social contacts to scare up some rich patients for me, don't you?”

  “I could do that,” she murmured. “And maybe we could find some philanthropic backer for the clinic. That would help.”

  “It certainly would,” he agreed solemnly. “But what would help most at the moment is if you would just lift your hips a fraction . . . that's it, perfect.” He slid his length deep within her. “I can do anything, Chastity, my love, if I have you.”

  She smiled up at him in the darkness. “Together,” she said softly, “we shall move mountains.”

  Epilogue

  Do you realize,” Chastity observed, “that this time last year we didn't know that Max, Gideon, or Douglas even existed, and now look at us all.” She drew a silk stocking up to her thigh.

  “Don't forget Father and the contessa,” Constance said, passing her sister a ruffled garter.

  “I suppose garters are more romantic for a wedding night than suspenders,” Chastity said, tying it high up on her thigh.

  “Most definitely,” Prudence said, handing her the second one. “For the Flying Scotsman, only garters will do.”

  Chastity laughed. “You are referring to the train, I trust, Prue.”

  “It was intended as a double entendre,” her sister said.

  “Well, the train doesn't leave until ten tomorrow morning, so I'm spending my wedding night in the honeymoon suite at Claridge's.” Chastity slid her feet into a pair of ivory kid slippers. “And
I don't know how Douglas is paying for it.”

  “I don't think it would be politic to ask,” Constance said, shaking out the folds of an apple-green chiffon evening gown before dropping it over Chastity's head.

  “I'm not a complete idiot,” Chastity protested, her voice muffled in the yards of material. She held out her arms for her sisters to button the tight sleeves of the gown. “This is so pretty, isn't it?”

  “It's lovely,” Prudence agreed. “Unlike her daughter, the contessa has superb taste. It was a lovely stepmotherly gift.”

  “Does Laura know what happened to her decorating attempts?” Constance asked, fastening the last tiny button.

  “No, she hasn't been near Harley Street since,” Chastity said. “She's been far too busy remaking poor George.”

  “He doesn't seem to mind the process,” Prudence said with a chuckle. “He adores her.”

  “Each to his own,” Constance said.

  There was a brisk knock at the door and Max called, “Mrs. Farrell, your husband grows impatient.”

  “Tell him some things take time, Max,” Constance instructed. “Chas isn't going away in her petticoat.”

  “I doubt he'd object,” her husband said, “but I'll pass it on.”

  “We had better hurry,” Chastity said, clasping the amber beads around her throat. A ray of the setting sun caught the fire opals on her finger. “Wasn't it clever of Douglas to know that only people born in October can wear opals?” She held her hand out to the sun. “Look how they change color . . . so iridescent.”

  “They are gorgeous. As are the earrings. Put them on, Chas.” Prudence handed her a pair of opal drops.

  “Here's your evening bag, gloves, cloak,” Constance said, passing each garment to her baby sister. “You look utterly beautiful, love, just as you have all day.”

  Chastity took a deep, shuddering breath, and tears glistened for a moment in her hazel eyes. “I know it's not the end of anything, but it feels as if it is.”

  “No, it's not, love. It's the beginning,” Prudence said firmly. “For all of us. Now go to your Flying Scotsman.” She gave Chastity a little push towards the door, then pulled her close again and kissed her, her own eyes suspiciously shiny. Constance encircled them both in a tight hug and for a moment they clung together, then Chastity stepped back.

  “All right,” she said. “I'm ready.”

  Her sisters preceded her down the stairs to where the wedding guests were gathered to see off the newlyweds. Douglas stepped to the bottom of the stairs, his eyes on his wife. Constance whispered as she passed him, “Take care of her, Flying Scotsman.”

  He looked at her, startled, then Chastity was beside him and he could only drink her in, take her hand, and kiss her on the mouth to the general applause.

  “The carriage awaits, sir,” Jenkins announced. “Mrs. Farrell, please accept the congratulations of all the staff.”

  “That's the one and only time you may call me that, Jenkins,” she said with a misty smile as she kissed him.

  “Certainly, Miss Chas,” he said, bowing.

  Douglas tucked her hand into his arm and they walked between the two columns of guests. Laura, with Lord Berenger at her side, tossed a handful of white rose petals. “An Italian custom,” she trilled. “So civilized.” Chastity smiled at her, happy to have civilized rose petals adorning her hair.

  Lord Duncan and his wife stood beside the front door that Jenkins held open. Lord Duncan took his daughter's hands in both of his in a fierce clasp. “The last one,” he said. “Your mother would have been so proud.”

  Chastity leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Less than a year ago, Father, you had despaired of ever walking any of us to the altar.” She kissed him as he laughed and hugged her.

  “I was never any good at predictions,” he said, reaching a hand to his newest son-in-law. “Farrell, take good care of my youngest.”

  “I will, sir,” Douglas said. “But Wimpole Street is no more than a five-minute walk.”

  “We shall be delighted to see all and any of you whenever you have the time to visit,” the contessa said with an understanding smile. “Will we not, Arthur?”

  “Oh, yes, m'dear. Yes, certainly. Whenever convenient.” He put an arm around his wife's waist. “But young people have their own lives to lead.”

  Douglas gently urged Chastity through the door and down the steps. She turned to smile and wave at the guests gathered now at the top, then obeyed the hand that turned her to the carriage, a very splendid open carriage drawn by two magnificent Shire horses.

  “You're going to pick me up, aren't you,” she said with a tiny sigh of resignation.

  “It's customary,” he returned, his eyes sparkling.

  “It's a pagan custom, and it's only over the threshold,” she protested.

  “I have more than a little of the Scots pagan in me,” he said, and scooped her into his arms. Before he put her in the carriage, he said, “What was that your sister said . . . something about a Flying Scotsman?”

  “Oh, that . . . probably a reference to the pagan Scot,” she said airily as he deposited her on the wide leather bench amid a round of cheering applause from the top step of 10 Manchester Square.

  About the Author

  Jane Feather is the New York Times best-selling, award-winning author of The Bride Hunt, The Bachelor List, Kissed by Shadows, To Kiss a Spy, The Widow's Kiss, The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has more than ten million copies of her books in print.

  Also by Jane Feather

  VICE

  VANITY

  VIOLET

  VALENTINE

  VELVET

  VIXEN

  VIRTUE

  THE DIAMOND SLIPPER

  THE SILVER ROSE

  THE EMERALD SWAN

  THE HOSTAGE BRIDE

  A VALENTINE WEDDING

  THE ACCIDENTAL BRIDE

  THE LEAST LIKELY BRIDE

  THE WIDOW'S KISS

  ALMOST INNOCENT

  TO KISS A SPY

  KISSED BY SHADOWS

  VENUS

  THE BACHELOR LIST

  THE BRIDE HUNT

  Look for the first two tales of the

  delightful and vivacious Duncan sisters . . .

  Jane Feather's

  The Bachelor List

  Con's story

  On Sale Now

  and

  The Bride Hunt

  Pru's story

  On Sale Now

  Read on for previews . . .

  The Bachelor List

  On Sale Now

  Max Ensor gazed thoughtfully after the three sisters as they left Fortnum and Mason. He was convinced now that not only he but also Elizabeth Armitage had been exposed to a degree of gentle mockery. He wondered if Elizabeth had noticed it. Somehow he doubted it. It had been so subtle, he'd almost missed it himself. Just a hint in the voice, a gleam in the eye.

  They were a good-looking trio. Redheads, all three of them, but with subtle variations in the shade that moved from the russet of autumn leaves to cinnamon, and in the case of the one he guessed was the youngest, a most decisive red. All green-eyed too, but again of different shades. He thought the eldest one, Constance, with her russet hair and darkest green eyes, was the most striking of the three, but perhaps that was because she was the tallest. Either way, there was something about all three of them that piqued his interest.

  “Are they Lord Duncan's daughters?” he inquired.

  “Yes, their mother died about three years ago.” Elizabeth gave a sympathetic sigh. “So hard for them, poor girls. You'd think they'd all be married by now. Constance must be all of twenty-eight, and I know she's had more than one offer.”

  Tiny frown lines appeared betwee
n her well-plucked brows. “In fact, I seem to remember a young man a few years ago . . . some dreadful tragedy. I believe he was killed in the war . . . at Mafeking or one of those unpronounceable places.” She shook her head, briskly dismissing the entire African continent and all its confusions.

  “As for Chastity,” she continued, happy to return to more solid ground. “Well, she must be twenty-six, and she has more suitors than one can count.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice at a conspiratorial volume. “But they took their mother's death very hard, poor girls.” She tutted sorrowfully. “It was very sudden. All over in a matter of weeks. Cancer,” she added. “She just faded away.” She shook her head again and took a cream-laden bite of hazelnut gâteau.

  Max Ensor sipped his tea. “I'm slightly acquainted with the baron. He takes his seat most days in the House of Lords.”

  “Oh, Lord Duncan's most conscientious, I'm sure. Charming man, quite charming. But I can't help feeling he's not doing a father's duty.” Elizabeth dabbed delicately at her rouged mouth with her napkin. “He should insist they marry—well, Constance and Chastity certainly. He can't have three old maids in the family. Prudence is a little different. I'm sure she would be content to stay and look after her father. Such a sensible girl . . . such a pity about the spectacles. They do make a woman look so dull.”

  Dull was not a word Max Ensor, on first acquaintance, would have applied to any one of the three Duncan sisters. And behind her thick lenses he seemed to recall that Miss Prudence had a pair of extremely light and lively green eyes.

  He gave a noncommittal nod and asked, “May I see that broadsheet, ma'am?”

  “It's quite scandalous.” Elizabeth opened her bag again. She lowered her voice. “Of course, everyone's reading it, but no one admits it. I'm sure even Letitia reads it sometimes.” She pushed the folded sheets across the table surreptitiously beneath her flattened palm.