The Bridal Quest

by Candace Camp

  "Oh, he is not cold," Irene responded, and again her cheeks turned pink. "He is, in fact, quite bold in that way. But that is not love."

  "Ah. Well, many women I know would feel that they could turn such 'boldness' into a deeper feeling. They might believe that with a little effort, such a man could come to love a woman who loved him."

  "Perhaps. But ... it does not matter. Marriage is not something I long for. And 'tis better, surely, to avoid the pain that could come with such hopes. To love a man who does not return your love must be painful indeed."

  "Yes, I suppose it must be." For an instant, sorrow shadowed Francesca's lovely face, but then she shrugged it off. "Well, you are a very strong woman, Irene. I admire you. Few women would be able to turn away as you can. To face not seeing Gideon again. To return to the life you have lived until now. Many would be unable to bear the thought of the loneliness. The pain."

  Irene's smile wavered. "I will manage, I am sure."

  "Of course you will."

  Determinedly, Irene sought to change the subject. She glanced around, saying, "There are a number of new people here tonight."

  "Yes," Francesca agreed. "A few local people whom Lady Odelia considers good enough for a large gathering—the squire and his family, the vicar and his wife. And Lady Odelia's invitation is command enough to bring several others here just for the night. They have been tucked into the undamaged rooms in the old wing."

  "Not the best of accommodations."

  "No, but 'quite well enough for them', as Lady Odelia would say." Francesca shrugged a shoulder. She stiffened suddenly and stared across the ballroom, muttering a soft, "What is she doing here?"

  "What? Who?" Intrigued, Irene followed Francesca's gaze. She saw a woman with dramatically good looks standing across the ballroom, chatting with Lady Odelia and her sister.

  The woman was older than Francesca by a few years, but she was still lovely, even though she must now be on the far side of thirty-five. She was tall and voluptuously built, with auburn hair and large pale blue eyes.

  "Lady Swithington?" Irene asked, a little surprised. The woman, until recently married to her second elderly lord, was no longer a mainstay of London society. She had been living with Lord Swithington on his Welsh properties for some years, until his recent death, only rarely returning to London for a Season.

  "Yes. Lady Daphne." Francesca looked at her for another moment, then turned back to Irene, offering her a tight smile. "I would have thought that, so soon after Lord Swithington's death, she would not ..." Francesca stopped and offered up a brittle smile. "But of course, I should have known Daphne's mourning would pass swiftly. And she has always been connected to the Lilles. I believe Lady Odelia dotes on her."

  "I cannot imagine Lady Odelia doting on anyone," Irene retorted honestly, but she did not pursue the matter. She watched as Francesca glanced around the room, stopping when her gaze fell on the Duke of Rochford, who stood chatting with his sister Callie.

  "Well, it is of no matter anyway," Francesca went on brightly. "If you will excuse me, I must check in with all our girls."

  "Of course." Irene's curiosity was aroused, but she was too polite to press Francesca on the matter.

  The older woman started to walk away, then turned to give Irene a shrewd look. "He may profess no interest in love, my dear, but I think it is safe to say that Lord Radbourne has a decided interest in you."

  With a nod, she was gone.

  Irene was not alone long. Soon Piers strolled up to ask her for a dance, then stayed to chat with her and survey the scene. And long before the night was over, she had danced with almost every man in the room, including the somewhat intimidating Duke of Rochford. Only one man did not talk to her or ask her onto the floor—the one man she wanted to do so.

  Gideon watched her. She knew that, for she had glanced up a time or two and found his eyes on her. They had swirled around the ballroom to the lilting strains of a waltz, each with another partner, but she had been aware the whole time of where he was, and she knew that he was just as aware of her. Yet still, he did not ask her to dance.

  It grew close to midnight, when the music would stop and everyone would go down to the lavish supper laid out in the assembly room. Irene was beginning to despair that Gideon would ever appear when suddenly she looked up and saw him walking straight toward her. He did not look to either side or pause to talk to anyone, but kept his eyes on her, his intent clear.

  Her hand clenched around her fan, and her stomach began to jangle with nerves. Her eyes met his and held. She felt as if her heart might jump right out of her chest.

  "Irene." He stopped in front of her.

  She nodded to him, striving for at least a modicum of cool aplomb. "My lord."

  Gideon sent a single hard look at Mr. Surton, who had been standing talking to Irene, and the man was quick to take the hint. "Excuse me. I, ah, I must go speak to ..."

  His voice trailed off as he executed a bow in her direction and left.

  "I believe this is my dance," Gideon said to her.

  "Indeed?" She arched an eyebrow, nettled by his tone. "I do not remember your asking me."

  "I am asking you now."

  She was somewhat inclined to argue, but then she looked into his eyes and the words died in her throat. Desire stirred and coiled deep within her belly, awakened by the heat in his gaze. She simply nodded and took his arm.

  They strolled out to the dance floor. His arm was like iron beneath her palm, and Irene knew that her hand was trembling just a bit. She wondered if he could feel it, and if he understood the jittering tumble of emotions that was dancing through her.

  She turned to face him, and he took his hand in hers, his other hand going to her waist. They stood poised for a long moment, as the first haunting strains of the violins began, and then the whole orchestra came in with the surging, unmistakable rhythm of the waltz, and they began to dance.

  Gideon did not speak, nor did Irene try to find anything to say. There was too much pleasure, too much emotion, in this moment. It was enough to feel his arm around her, his hand upon hers. It was enough to look up into his face and see the hunger that was written there.

  She needed no words to know what he felt; the same needs roiled in her. And when, as the song ended, he whisked her out onto the terrace, she went easily.

  There were other couples there, enjoying the cool evening air, and Irene nodded and smiled to them, wafting her fan as the other ladies did, in the pretext of cooling her face. They drifted farther down the terrace, until finally, with a glance back at the others, Gideon slipped around the corner of the house, pulling her with him.

  His hands clasped her arms, turning her to face him, and he gazed down into her face. "God, but you are beautiful. You bewitched me tonight."

  "I did?" Irene could not suppress a slow, satisfied smile. "I would not have known it. You did not speak to me all evening."

  "I tried my best not to," he retorted. "I have tried my best all week. Blast it, Irene!" Temper flared in his eyes. "I thought—I hoped that you would care, that you would notice, at least, if I stayed away from you. I danced attendance on those ninnies, praying all the while that you would see, you would realize. But clearly jealousy does not exist in you, at least not for me. I told myself that if you so disliked the idea of wedding me, then I must find another." He glared at her in frustration. "But I could not! I know I will not ever!"

  Gideon pulled her to him, and his mouth came down to cover hers. His lips were hot and eager, his kiss searing, and the hunger in it shook Irene down to her toes. She let out a soft noise, and her hands went to his waist, sliding beneath his jacket. He jerked a little in surprise, and she started to remove her hands, but he clasped them in his own, holding them to him.

  "No," he murmured. "Don't leave. You have no idea how much I have longed to feel your hands upon me." He nuzzled his face into her hair, moving to lay a soft kiss upon her ear, then turning his attention to her neck. "You've no idea how hard it is
to stand there listening to one of them giggle and chatter, and all the time, all I can think of is the line of your throat when you lift her head and laugh, or the soft curve of your breast, or the way the material of your dress drapes around your legs."

  She shivered, as much from his heated words as from the silken touch of his lips. "Gideon ..."

  He pressed his lips into the soft hollow of her throat, then worked his way back up her neck. Her head fell back, offering up the soft, vulnerable expanse of her throat. She felt heavy and languid, her blood pooling hotly in the depths of her loins.

  "How can I choose one of those silly, insipid girls—" he rasped "—when you are here? Do you honestly think I could settle for their giggles and niceties, when all I long to hear is one trenchant remark from you? I burn for you. Every night I lie in bed thinking of you, with desire dancing over my skin like fire until I think I shall go mad. And not once—not once—do Miss Surton's blue eyes come into my head. Not once do my hands itch to slide over Lady Flora's curves. All I can think of are golden eyes, like molten metal. All I want beneath my fingertips are your breasts ... your hips ..."

  His hands slid over her, punctuating his words, curving around her breasts and sliding down over her hips.

  "All I want is you," he finished, his lips hovering at the corner of her mouth. Then his lips were on hers, hard and hungry, opening her mouth to his seeking tongue.

  Irene shook under the force of the passion sweeping through her, and she dug her hands into his shirt, clinging to him. Her breasts felt swollen and aching, the nipples tightening in need, and she pressed herself up into his body, yearning to feel his hardness against her. Desire blossomed between her legs, hot and damp.

  His hands clamped over her buttocks, grinding her against him, and he pulled his mouth away to string hot kisses down her throat and onto the soft curves of her breasts.

  "Marry me," he murmured urgently against her soft skin. "Take me from this misery and be my wife." He raised his head and looked down into her eyes. His face was soft and slack with hunger, his eyes ablaze with desire. "I want you in my bed. I want you beside me every day. I want your face to be the last thing I see at night and the first thing I see in the morning."

  "Gideon ..." Irene breathed, swamped with emotion.

  "I haven't a poet's way with words," he went on. "I am a blunt, hard man, I know. I cannot offer you words of love. I think that love is ... not in me any longer, if it ever was. But I know this—I want you as my wife. I want to share my life with you. I want to know you in every way a man can possibly know a woman. And I can promise that I will protect you and care for you. I will not harm you. I swear it. Marry me, Irene."

  She stared up at him, her mind a jumble of thoughts and emotions. His words had melted her; she burned with desire, and yet felt strangely weak and tender. He did not love her; he had made a point of saying so. How could she hope to live a happy life without her husband's love? Yet how could she choose anything but a life with him?

  "Gideon, I—I don't know what to say."

  "Bloody hell!" he cried in a low voice. "Can you not, just for once in your life, say yes?"

  "I must think," she told him shakily. She had always prided herself on thinking, on not being ruled by her emotions. How could she throw all caution to the winds?

  "Don't think!" he shot back. "Damn it, Irene ..."

  They stared at each other for a long moment. She felt frozen, unable to move or speak.

  With a low oath, he broke the embrace, took a step away, then swung back. "I cannot go back in there. I am going to the tower."

  He did not finish, just broke off and strode away across the terrace and down the steps into the garden.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Irene hurried after Gideon to the top of the steps, watching him as he disappeared into the dark of the garden. She stood there, her hands clenched into tight fists, struggling to hold back her tears. She felt bereft, as if something had been torn from her. And she knew in that moment that what had been taken from her was her heart.

  She loved Gideon. No words, no logic, no amount of thinking could change that. She was not sure when she had fallen in love with him, when the immediate, intense desire she had felt from the moment she met him had turned into something deeper. But somehow, somewhere along the way, she had given her heart to him.

  She loved him, and she knew that the last thing she wanted was to turn away from him. She had thought the worst that would happen when she refused him was that she would have to return to live with her brother and sister-in-law. But now she realized that her life would be far worse than that—she would have to live without Gideon for the remainder of her years. Just the thought of it sent pain slicing through her.

  She brought her hands up to her flushed cheeks. She knew deep down that she could trust Gideon. He would not harm her, would not control her, would do none of the things that had always made the thought of marriage so frightening. Such fears were, in the end, not what had held her back. What was truly frightening was the realization that she could give her love to him and not receive his love in return.

  And that, she thought, was what held her poised over the precipice now.

  If she went to him, if she married him, she would be giving herself entirely to him, offering up her love, her very self. Yet Gideon had just told her that he did not love her—indeed, did not think himself capable of love. Could she allow herself to step into such emotional danger? To love even though she might never receive his love in return?

  But even as she wondered whether she could, she realized that not to give him her love would lead to a worse fate, much worse. To hold back from marrying him now would be sheer cowardice. The only true course that her love could take was to commit herself to him. If she did not follow that path, she was denying her love, denying her very self. She would be giving herself over to a life of lonely bitterness, and all because she was afraid to take the ultimate step.

  Irene let out a low cry and ran down the steps. Lifting her skirt to her ankles to keep from tripping over it, she hurried through the garden, following the path Gideon had taken. The light of the moon was all she had to see by, and when she came to the darker reaches of the garden, where trees and shrubs grew up to hedge her in and block the light, she had to slow to a walk.

  She arrived at the edge of the gardens finally and emerged onto the narrow path leading to the ruins. To her right lay the woods, dark and impenetrable. At another time she might have been frightened of passing this way by herself at night, but tonight she thought of nothing but Gideon.

  There, ahead of her, stood the ruins of the tower, and her pace quickened until she was almost running. "Gideon!"

  She called his name again as she hurried up to the base of the tower. She stopped at the ruined doorway, one hand upon the stone to steady herself, and drew in her breath. Suddenly she felt a little shy, and when she said his name this time, it came out more tentatively. "Gideon?"

  There was the screech of wood on stone, and light spilled into the stairway above her head. "Irene?"

  "Yes." Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought he must hear it even from the floor above her. "I am here."

  "Irene!" Feet pounded down the stone steps, and he came to a stop on the landing, looking down at her. His eyes were dark in the dim light; his skin seemed stretched tautly over his facial bones.

  "My answer is yes," she said, unable to hide the little catch in her voice.

  He took the stairs two at a time and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up and burying his face in her hair. "Irene, Irene ... I've been half mad. I thought I'd been an utter fool, leaving like that, making you choose."

  He kissed her ear, her hair, her face, as his words spilled out. "I was about to go back and tell you that I was an idiot, that I would wait for as long as it took you to decide."

  Irene let out a delighted chuckle. "But you needn't, for I am here now, and I have decided. I want you. I want to marry you."


  "Then we are of one mind." He swept her in his arms and started up the steps. "That is no doubt a first for us—and it may be the last time, as well."

  "You think that we shall argue?" Irene asked him, opening her eyes wide in mock dismay. "But, my lord, we shall be as one."

  "If you ever stopped arguing with me, I am sure I would not know what to do. In fact, I think I would be certain that something was very, very wrong."

  Gideon carried her into the room he had made in the tower and set her down, kicking the door closed behind them. He stood looking down at her for a long moment, then set her on the floor and cupped her face in his hands.

  "Lady Radbourne. My wife," he said experimentally.

  "I am not your wife yet," she reminded him.

  He took one of her hands and raised it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. "We are promised now. Bound. I will tell my grandmother tomorrow, and then I shall go back with you to London to formally ask your brother for your hand. But I have received the only answer I need tonight."

  He opened her hand, turning it up and laying another kiss in her palm. "I have only one requirement," he said, then kissed her hand again.

  "And what is that?"

  "That we be married soon," he replied, a wicked grin curving his lips.

  He traced the line of her jaw, watching the progress of his finger as it curved down over her chin and onto the tender flesh of her throat, gliding lower and lower until it skimmed the soft fleshy tops of her breasts and slid down into the dark crevice between them.

  Irene's breath caught in her throat, and her heart began to hammer like a mad thing. "Have you no patience, sir?"

  She cast a long golden look up at him from beneath her lashes, full of invitation, and was rewarded by the faint trembling of his fingertip against her skin.

  "I have no patience at all where you are concerned," he answered, and his smile was a little vulpine. Yet Irene found it did not frighten her at all; it only stirred her blood more.

  He lightly traced the neckline of her ball gown across the tops of her breasts with the fingertips of one hand, then spread his hand out flat across her chest before sliding it up to curl around her neck.