Trouble at the Wedding

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She broke off, but she didn’t have to say the rest. He knew what Billy John Harding had wanted. Hell, he wanted it, too, right now, right here.

  “I was such a fool,” she murmured, and looked past him to stare dreamily into space. “I was thinking we’d get married. He said he was in love with me, too. ’Course, he wasn’t. He had a hankering for the mud is all. Well,” she added, her expression hardening as she took a swallow of moonshine, “he got what he wanted.”

  Christian heard the bitter tinge to her voice, and he wished he could sweeten it somehow, gloss over it, make it into something other than the sordid old tale he was beginning to fear it was. “How do you know he didn’t love you?” he asked, and took the bottle from her, feeling in need of a drink. “Did he say so?”

  “He didn’t have to. Afterward, when I mentioned us getting married, he said . . .” She paused a long moment before she spoke. “He said, ‘Marry you? Why would I marry you? A white trash girl like you is only good for one thing, honey, and marriage isn’t it.’ He wasn’t even done buttoning his pants when he said it.”

  He grimaced at the crude, cruel brutality of it. “Bastard.”

  With that, he took another drink, a bigger one, thinking a man who said something like that to a girl, especially after taking her virtue, ought to be horsewhipped. He rather wished the fellow was on board so he could administer that particular justice himself.

  He watched her for a moment, studying the beautiful face that right now was as hard and smooth as a millpond in winter. “That must have hurt,” he finally said.

  She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but he knew otherwise. Eight years later, it still mattered. “I wasn’t the first girl he’d made a fool of, or the last,” she said. “But I think I’m the only one who was ever able to get him back.”

  “Get him back?” He frowned, not quite understanding the vernacular. “What do you mean? You renewed your acquaintance with him? No,” he amended even before she shook her head, “you mean you took revenge?”

  She nodded. “Three years ago.”

  He tried to imagine what sort of vengeance a girl could mete out in exchange for such despicable treatment, but he couldn’t even hazard a guess. “What did you do?”

  She leaned back in her chair, giving him an unexpected, decidedly tipsy grin. “I bought the bank.”

  Christian gave a shout of laughter, and she laughed with him. “Billy John had taken over the bank and the farm from his daddy, who had died,” she went on, “and he’d messed things up so bad that he had to sell the farm, and he had to bring in an investor to keep Harding Building and Loan from going under, too.”

  “And you were that investor?”

  She pointed to her chest. “Southern Belle Investment Group,” she said proudly. “You should have seen his face when I sashayed into the bank to sign the papers and take the controlling interest. He looked like he’d been poleaxed, bless his heart.”

  Christian smiled, cheered a little by the knowledge that the cur had gotten some punishment, though less than he’d deserved. “What did you say to him?”

  “ ‘I have some bad news, Billy John,’ I said, sweet as pie. ‘I’d love to keep you on, us bein’ such old friends and all, but I can’t. I have to let you go. I’m sorry about this, I really am, but there’s just too much scandal attached to your name.’ ”

  Christian’s smile widened into a grin, for he could imagine the scene with ease. She was a good storyteller.

  “ ‘Scandal?’ he said. ‘What scandal?’ I just gave him my best wide-eyed, innocent look . . .” She paused, suiting the action to the word. “ ‘Why, Billy John,’ I said, ‘everybody knows you’re the father of Velma Lewis’s baby boy—now, don’t deny it, darlin’. It’s all over this town. And I just can’t have someone working in my bank who’d have a child out of wedlock and refuse to marry the baby’s mama, so I have to let you go.’ ” She gave a sigh, shaking her head as if in apologetic regret. “ ‘A man like you is good for only one thing, honey, and managing a bank isn’t it. Best if’n you go back to Velma and put yourself out to pasture. Oh, but . . . that’s right. You don’t own any pasture anymore, do you?’ ”

  Christian laughed. “By God, you know how to hit where it hurts.”

  “I do,” she confessed, giving him a look of apology. “Probably best if’n you didn’t get on my bad side,” she advised, and took the bottle from him to have another drink. “Funny thing, though,” she added, settling the bottle on her knees. “Going into the bank that day was supposed to be the perfect revenge, but it wasn’t really as sweet as I thought it would be.”

  “No?”

  “No.” She paused and grinned again. “But I have to admit, it was still pretty sweet.”

  “I’ll bet it was.” He paused, considering. “It all worked out for the best in the end, then, if you ask me,” he said. Reaching out, he hooked the bottle with his finger and pulled it off her lap. “If Billy John had come up to snuff, if he’d married you, he’d have got his hands on all that money your father left you. And I can’t think of anyone in the world who would deserve it less than a bastard like that. Much better that you never married him.”

  She considered that as she took back the bottle and took another drink. “That’s true. I never thought of it quite like that, but everything did work out for the best. After all, I’m going to be a countess now.”

  He heard the hint of reverence in her voice and it angered him because he knew she thought being a countess was something special she didn’t quite deserve. He could have said she was worth all the countesses he knew put together, but she probably wouldn’t believe him. “Yes,” he said instead, taking a swallow of moonshine. “You’ll be a countess. And Rumsford will get your money instead of Billy John.”

  She scowled at him, not pleased at having that fact pointed out to her. “We should go,” she said abruptly, and stood up. The moment she did, she swayed a little on her feet and gave a moan. “Oh!”

  He jumped up, catching the bottle as it slid from her fingers and grasping her arm with his free hand to keep her from falling. “Are you all right?”

  She frowned, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I feel dizzy.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” he murmured, trying to accept that he’d lost. “Come. I shall walk you back up to A-deck, but we’ll have to separate there. You can’t be seen wandering corridors with me in the middle of the night, so you’ll have to go on alone once we reach the stairs. Can you do that?”

  “Of course I can!” She looked quite indignant. “I’m not drunk. I’m just a little dizzy, is all.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, deciding not to tell her the truth. He was decidedly tipsy himself, and he was used to spirits. If he was tipsy, she was three sheets to the wind. “Let’s go.”

  She nodded and bent to retrieve her shoes as he reached behind her and grabbed his jacket. He climbed down from the Ford, and once she’d put her shoes back on, he helped her down. Together, they left the cargo bay and mounted the stairs, and when they reached the top, he opened the door for her to exit the stairwell. She did, but when she started to go the wrong way, he snagged her arm.

  “Other way,” he said, and turned her in the proper direction. “Halfway down the corridor, turn left.”

  He stepped back into the stairwell, closed the door, and waited until he thought she’d gotten far enough. Then he opened the door and looked down the corridor to find he’d been a bit optimistic in his calculations.

  She wasn’t quite halfway down the passage, and she was swaying as she walked, periodically bumping her right shoulder into the wall. Watching her, he grinned, knowing she was going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow. Maybe she’d be too sick to walk down the aisle. It wasn’t likely to postpone the wedding, but he liked to cling to hope.

  He watched her turn right, and he sighed. Taking a quick glance down the corridor to ensure no one was out for a midnight stroll, he raced after her and turned the corner just in time to see h
er making another turn.

  Where on earth did she think she was going? “Annabel,” he hissed, but she didn’t stop, and he continued running after her. When he turned the corner, he almost cannoned into her, for she had come to a stop and was staring into what seemed to be nothing more than the closed door of an ordinary stateroom. He skidded to a halt beside her.

  “What’s a Turkish bath really like?” she asked, turning her head to look at him.

  He shook his head, his wits a bit addled by this confounded moonshine of hers. “I beg your pardon?”

  Annabel pointed toward the door, where a placard read: LADIES’ TURKISH BATHS. GENTLEMEN FORBIDDEN.

  She started to open the door, but he stopped her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Annabel,” he whispered with a frantic glance around, “you can’t do this.”

  Laughing, she shrugged off his hand and opened the door. “Why not?” she countered over her shoulder, then pushed the door wide and went in.

  “Annabel, wait.” He started to follow her, but then he stopped, remembering just in time that this room was for ladies only.

  The door closed behind her, then opened again a second later. “Well, come on,” she urged, frowning at him. “What are you still doing out there in the hall?”

  He pointed to the placard, but she didn’t seem impressed. “Don’t be silly. There’s no one in here. Not at this hour. Besides, what do you care?” she added, leaning forward to grab him by the ends of his tie. “You’re not the kind of man who plays by the rules anyway.”

  He couldn’t argue with that, especially not when she smiled that gorgeous smile of hers. He’d never been very good at resisting temptations, and he wasn’t her damned chaperone. When she pulled at his tie again, he followed her inside, pushing on the button for the electrical light as he entered the room.

  The ladies’ Turkish bath was a bit different from the one used by the gentlemen. Its floor, ceiling, and walls were not covered in crisp blue and white tiles, but shell-pink ones instead. The potted palms, ferns, and wicker chairs were similar, but dark pink cushions and pots of orchids and African violets made this very much a ladies’ sanctuary. The two brass radiators and two pedestal sinks were identical, as were the taps.

  “So what are you supposed to do?” Annabel asked, glancing around.

  Christian, were he really as bad as his reputation, could have reminded her that Turkish baths were best enjoyed while naked, but instead, he proved he might have a shred of redemption left in him, tossed his jacket onto a chair, set the bottle on the tile floor, and turned to reach for the taps above the radiator nearest him. He turned the taps, and almost at once, steam began pouring into the room. Nodding to the wall behind her, he said, “Turn those.”

  She did, and within moments the entire room was filled with steam. Laughing, she lifted her face to the jets overhead, holding out one palm as mist swirled all around her. “Good Lord,” she said, “this is just like church in July!”

  He laughed, watching her. She was so different from any woman he’d ever met before, and he’d met many. Her determination and stubbornness were formidable, but they concealed what he knew now to be a very vulnerable heart.

  Not that he found her heart the most important part of her anatomy, a fact he proved to himself by slanting a glance over her. The steam was making her loose-fitting tea gown cling to her body, demonstrating that her voluptuous curves were not formed by a corset, since the damp satin showed quite plainly that she wasn’t wearing one. Or much of anything else, for that matter.

  She didn’t seem to realize what the steam was revealing to his gaze. Still laughing, she reached for the bottle and took a swallow of moonshine, but when she set it back down and looked into his face again, she froze. So did he, lust washing over him in a wave.

  “We should go,” he blurted out, and wanted to kick himself in the head. “Right now.”

  “I suppose we should. Tomorrow—” She ducked her head. “Tomorrow is my wedding day.”

  He did not want to think about that, and he opened his mouth to try one last time to talk her out of it, but then, she lifted her head again.

  “Christian?”

  He took a breath. “Yes?”

  “Do you really think Bernard would just step aside if King Edward were to . . . to want me?”

  Saying yes would help his cause, and yet, he hesitated, suddenly wanting to tell her not what was convenient, not what was exaggerated, but what was the truth. He considered for a long moment before he gave her an answer.

  “Yes,” he finally said, “Yes, Annabel, I think he would.”

  “You might be wrong,” she whispered.

  He thought of the courtesan at the House with the Bronze Door. “I don’t think I am.”

  Christian took a step toward her, then stopped before he could take another. “We should go,” he said again, getting a bit desperate, fully aware that what he felt would be blatantly obvious if she were to look down.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “Me?” God, why was it so hard to think? He raked his hands through his hair. This moonshine seemed to have turned his brains to flotsam. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  She moved a bit closer, clasping her hands behind her back, a move that pushed her breasts out and forced his gaze downward. When he saw the hard outline of her nipples against the thin layer of blue satin, his throat went dry, and the desire inside him threatened to burn away the tight leash he had on his control. “Annabel—” He stopped and swallowed hard. “I don’t think—”

  “Would you do it if it was your wife? What if I was married to you, and King Edward came after me? What would you do?” She moved another inch closer, and the tips of her breasts brushed his shirtfront, making him imagine the satin slick against his bare skin. “Would you step aside?”

  “No,” he said hoarsely, every muscle in his body thrumming with lust even as he looked into her vulnerable, upturned face. “I’d thrash him within an inch of his life.”

  “You would?” Her voice was an incredulous whisper, and when she smiled, he felt like some bloody knight in shining armor even as he wanted to rip her clothes off.

  “Yes. But—” He lurched back, making a belated attempt to retreat to safer ground, his befuddled male brain desperately grasping for control over his aroused male body. “I doubt I’d have the chance. You’d probably have thrashed him yourself, gagged him, and tied him to a chair before I even heard what happened.”

  She laughed, that dazzling smile lighting up her face, and Christian knew if he couldn’t make her see that marrying Rumsford was an idiotic thing to do, it wouldn’t take long before she didn’t smile like that anymore. Something tight twisted inside him, like a fist squeezing his chest until he couldn’t seem to breathe, making him realize that, despite rumors to the contrary, he had a heart, because right now it hurt. For her, for Evie, for all the girls like them who couldn’t accept the most basic truth about men.

  Rakes don’t reform.

  “You can’t do it.” He reached out and grasped her arms, wishing he could shake sense into her stubborn brain, knowing he couldn’t. And even if he could, it probably wouldn’t stick. How the hell could he make her understand what it would be like? What it would do to her? What she would become? “You can’t marry Rumsford. If you marry him, you’ll be making the biggest mistake of your life, trust me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I just do.” That wasn’t a reason, but he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell her about Evie, how unhappy Evie had been with him, with England, with the harsh reality of their marriage once her eyes had been opened. He couldn’t tell her Evie had hated the rain, the dull tedium of English country life, and him. She’d hated him most of all. For being a deceitful, lying cad and for breaking her heart. He couldn’t explain that he hated himself for the same reason, and because he’d been off gambling his way across France when Evie had lost the baby, and because he hadn’t arrived home in time
to stop her from walking into a pond when she didn’t know how to swim.

  He couldn’t tell Annabel any of those things, but he could tell her about Rumsford. “You can’t marry him because he doesn’t love you. Because he’s a fortune hunter, and he’s an ass. Because he orders your food for you without consulting you, without even considering that you might want something different. Because he’ll wear you down, him and his sisters and his mother, and all their relations, molding you and shaping you and changing you when there isn’t a damned thing wrong with you and you don’t need to be changed. Because he doesn’t respect you, because he acts as if you’re lucky to have him when he ought to be down on his knees thanking God he’s lucky enough to have you. And because . . . damn it all . . . because there are things you’ll never know with him, things he’ll never be able to make you feel.”

  She groaned and started to pull away. “There you go, talkin’ ’bout love again. If you mention love one more time, I swear I’ll—”

  “I’m not talking about love. I’m talking about something else, a feeling I’d wager my life Rumsford has never given you.”

  “What feelin’ is that?”

  He let go of her arms and cupped her face in his hands. “This one,” he said, and kissed her.

  Chapter Eight

  She ought to stop him—in the vague, hazy recesses of her mind, Annabel reminded herself that she was engaged to another man and Christian’s mouth on hers was wrong. She should turn away, step back, do . . . something. But she was too shocked, too dazed, too dizzy to break free, and it wasn’t all because of the moonshine. She was intoxicated, yes, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was making her feel this way.

  Almost without realizing what she was doing, she parted her lips, turning the warm press of his mouth against hers into a lush, openmouthed kiss that sent shimmers of pleasure throughout her body, pleasure so startling she cried out.

  He touched her tongue with his own, deepening the kiss, and as if her body had a will of its own, Annabel grasped fistfuls of his jacket and rose up on her toes, responding to the caress of his tongue with a passion she’d vowed she’d never let herself feel again.