The Wedding Chase: In His Lordship's BedPrisoner of the TowerWord of a Gentleman

by Kasey Michaels

  “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”

  “True, true,” he said, making himself more comfortable on the bed. “I think I shall remind you of that, at least once a year for the next fifty years, just to keep you humble as I spend those fifty years adoring you.”

  “A-adoring me? I—I don’t understand.”

  And then he smiled. “No? Neither do I, frankly. I think perhaps it was the braids. Or maybe the horse blanket? No, couldn’t be that. I know, it was the way you crawled over me, scrambled, actually, to get as far from me as you could.”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” Eleanor warned, but only because she knew she had to say something. He was looking at her…looking at her as if he couldn’t see enough of her, but wanted more…more.

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t tease you. The problem is, Elly—wife—that you have been teasing me since first we met.”

  “Me?” She pulled the covers closer to her chin. “How?”

  His gaze dropped to the covers. “That’s one, for starters, but only one. No, you teased me with your honesty, with your way of saying just what you think. And then, once I was intrigued, you made my life impossible by letting me know that you are a strong woman, stronger than I, I think.”

  “Oh, I’m not.” He was still looking at her that way, and now he was stroking her cheek. Strong? She was melting, her bones dissolving, and she had all the strength of a newborn kitten.

  “We’ll argue about that once a year, too, all right?” he moved closer. “Elly, we’ve just begun. We’ve stumbled, but we’ve moved on. I think…I know, we can be happy together. Do you know it, too?”

  “I—I had thought…”

  “Could we think tomorrow?” he asked her, cupping the back of her head with one large hand and drawing her toward him, his gaze on her mouth.

  “I—I think we could. Yes, please….”

  EPILOGUE

  BUCKLAND MANOR, one of the earl’s lesser estates, but one he was particularly fond of because it was so far removed from its neighbors, welcomed another perfect summer day. The sun shone, the brook bubbled, the blue sky was the perfect background for the fleecy white clouds, and the breeze blew sweet with the smell of wildflowers.

  How had he ever been here alone? Perfect, yes, in the ordinary way. But extraordinarily perfect now—now that his son slept in the nursery, and his wife sat on the edge of the brook, laughing and dangling her bare feet into the cool water.

  He lay on his side on the bank, his cheek resting on his palm, enjoying the view closest to him, the view he’d never tire of, the view that never failed to fill him with a love that had budded, then blossomed, then grown…and continued to grow.

  She wore a daisy chain in her dark, tumbling hair. She wore it because he’d fashioned it for her…fulfilling yet another of his early fantasies about this woman who was his life, his heart, his very soul.

  Elly turned to him and laughed. “Your daisy chain is slipping over your eye, Nick. Don’t you feel it?”

  He smiled, close-mouthed, and shook his head. He was feeling, definitely. But he hadn’t felt the flower ring slipping…just his libido, rising up, ready to break into a gallop.

  “You could fix it for me,” he suggested, then leaned back as she reached for him so that she tumbled against him, her feet splashing in the brook before she grabbed onto him, pulling herself closer.

  “Idiot,” she said, laughing as he pulled her completely on top of him. “Don’t! I’m all wet. I’ll get you all—oh, the devil with it.”

  “My wife, swearing. I think we’ll have to plug Nicky’s ears with cotton wool when you’re around,” he told her as she pushed herself up, straddling him. “I’m sure his Uncle Sylvester could only approve when next he visits from his estate.”

  “You and Uncle Sylvester be hanged, husband. Do you think I didn’t know what the two of you were planning last month?”

  “Cloris,” Nicholas said, wincing.

  “Exactly, my love.” Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she leaned down, smiled into his face. “Don’t you think a four-month-old child is a little young to be fitted with his own pony?”

  “It was going to be a surprise for his first birthday?” Nicholas offered weakly.

  “At the very least. What color is he?”

  “Nicky? Goodness, I thought you knew. He’s delightfully dark-haired, like his mother, but I believe his green eyes are mine. As for the perpetual roses in his cheeks, I—”

  Elly swatted him and he caught her hands, held them tight. “Oh, you mean the pony? We haven’t yet decided. But I suppose blonde and blue-eyed would be frowned on, love?”

  “I’d say so, yes,” Elly said as he pulled her closer, let go of her hands so that he could reach up, cup her breasts. “Hmm…that’s nice. Am I to believe I’m about to say yes to something else?”

  “If, dearest madam, you’d be so kind…” Nicholas said as she melted against him, as he lifted his head, caught her mouth with his own.

  The birds chirped, the honey bees buzzed and the sun rose higher in the sky. But Nicholas didn’t notice. All the glory in the world was now lying beneath him, and if he noticed the sun at all, it was to admire the way the sunlight filtering through the tree branches made her skin glow, dappled her bare breasts with light and shadow.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, wife, and I do believe I love you to distraction.”

  Elly moved her hips against his, then sighed in pleasure. “Is that what it was?” she asked, “Distraction? Do you think we could go there again? I believe I like it there.”

  “Cheeky brat,” he said, because she always laughed when he called her that…and then he dutifully, and quite pleasurably went about distracting her again….

  PRISONER OF THE TOWER

  Gayle Wilson

  Gentle Reader,

  I address you as such in hopes that when you have read my tale, you will indeed be gentle in your condemnation of my shocking actions. I am afraid that those who have made my acquaintance during the past dozen years will have a difficult time reconciling the Emma Stanfield they know with the protagonist of this narrative. There are times when I find it difficult to do so myself.

  Of course, I have the advantage in that instance. I remember the Emma who set out for London twelve years ago for her first Season. She was little more than a child, one given to flights of fantasy, who had been told that her future husband would be selected solely by his ability to support her family in the style to which they desired to become accustomed. That admonition did not, as you may guess, keep seventeen-year-old Emma from dreaming of something—and someone—quite different.

  This is also her story, you see. A chance meeting with a handsome stranger. A stolen kiss. A snowstorm. One perfect night, which, through the long years, she came to believe must satisfy her thirst for romance for the remainder of her life. Thankfully, that was not to be.

  I am no longer that green girl. And yet, when another encounter awakened memories of that long-ago night, I knew I must not let the second chance fate had given me slip through my fingers.

  Herein, then, lies the tale of a woman who stood at two distinct crossroads in her life, each separated by a dozen years, and of the choices she made. When you have read it, be kind to her. And if you are not so inclined, she will forgive you, for she is far too happy to do anything else.

  Emma

  For Emily, a heroine in the making.

  May you find your own happy ending.

  PROLOGUE

  1811

  THIS WAS QUITE the most daring thing she had ever done in her life. And that was a sad commentary on her seventeen-year existence, Emma Termaine decided as she tiptoed across the gallery, bare feet flinching from the icy coldness of the wooden boards.

  When she reached the balustrade, she looked down on the courtyard below. A thick layer of snow blanketed the frozen ground, hiding the ruts arriving coaches had cut into the mud. The old-fashioned galleried inn, which offered the only
shelter from the storm on this stretch of road, was filled to over-flowing.

  Aunt Sophie would never have agreed to spending the night in such a place had their coachman not insisted. Only his dire warnings that they should be overtaken by the blizzard and freeze to death before any rescue could be mounted had finally persuaded her.

  As soon as they’d disembarked from the carriage, she had set the establishment at sixes and sevens with her demands. The inn’s servants, carrying buckets of sea coal and warming pans, followed by flagons of mulled wine and the most succulent slices of roast from the spit in the enormous fireplace, had rushed up and down the outer stairway to the room Emma and her aunt had been forced to share.

  Not that any of it satisfied Sophie, of course. Neither the food nor the speed of its service nor the dryness of the sheets nor the tightness of the ropes that supported the mattress.

  Throughout the resulting turmoil, Emma had bided her time, awaiting her chance to escape. She had listened patiently to her aunt’s endless stream of complaints until at last they faded into a low, wine-induced snore. Then she had wrapped Sophie’s heavy Norwich wool shawl about her shoulders, managing to cover most of her rail, before she had eased open the door to their chamber.

  Despite the fierceness of the afternoon’s storm, the night was remarkably clear. The air, washed by the recent snowfall, seemed to sparkle. She took a deep breath, savoring its crispness, and refused to think how long it should be until she would again smell the distinctive freshness of the English countryside.

  Mewed about by the rules and conventions of the upcoming Season, for the next few months she would be a prisoner to her family’s expectations that she should make a good match. That was all she had heard during the past year until she had memorized it like a litany.

  Their hopes rode on her ability to snare some wealthy gentleman who would support them all in the lavish style to which they had become far too accustomed. Feeling the bitterness over the sacrifice they had demanded intruding on her enjoyment of this adventure, Emma determined not to think of what lay ahead.

  Not tonight. Tonight was hers. These last few precious hours of freedom.

  She leaned over the railing to look up at the sky. The distant stars shimmered like crystals thrown across a spill of black velvet. That brightness was something else she would miss, given the foggy miasma that shrouded the capital.

  A solitary snowflake drifted down to land on her cheek. Smiling, she put her hand up to touch the drop of moisture. As she did, out of the corner of her eye she became aware of a movement at the other end of the gallery fronting the bedchambers.

  A shape emerged from the shadowed area where the outside staircase led up from the yard. Instinctively Emma drew the shawl more closely about her body. Her high-necked, long-sleeved nightgown was far more modest than the evening gowns she would wear in London. The cold, however, reminded her of its transparency.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  “A fellow traveler. One who is also unable to sleep.”

  Despite the nonthreatening nature of the reply, its masculine tones produced a thrill of alarm. No gently reared young woman could be unaware of the potential for disaster in such a situation.

  “I mean you no harm,” he added quickly.

  The reassurance had seemed a response to her fear. Which meant, she supposed, that he had some notion of the proprieties. A gentleman, perhaps?

  As that hopeful thought formed, the stranger stepped out of the shadows and began to move toward her along the gallery. She tried to retreat, but with the railing at her back, there was nowhere to go.

  Evidently he realized her dilemma, for his advance halted immediately. In spite of her unease, she felt a momentary disappointment that she could discern nothing about him beyond his height, which was well above the average. There was not enough light there to reveal his features, and the long cloak he wore masked his physique.

  “May I be of some service, ma’am?” he asked.

  He must be wondering why she was out on the balcony in her rail. She tried to conjure up some credible reason to offer, but she could think of nothing that would explain this excursion. Nothing short of the truth, of course, which she certainly didn’t intend to share with a stranger.

  “I came out for a breath of air,” she said.

  If it were not for the night’s frigid temperature, the excuse might have served. To claim that she had ventured into this cold for fresh air, however, bordered on the absurd. And they both knew it.

  “I’m quite trustworthy, I promise you.” His voice had softened conspiratorially, and he took another step forward. The cloak, blacker than the shadows behind it, revealed the broad span of his shoulders. “If you are in trouble…”

  Not unless you, too, consider it troubling to be forced to select a husband on his income alone.

  She said nothing like that, of course. Whatever her feelings, she had long ago become resigned to her fate. Tonight would be her only rebellion. Until his arrival, it had seemed innocent enough.

  “Trouble? Of course not. I’m traveling to London for the Season,” she said, trying to imbue her voice with an enthusiasm she could not feel.

  “With a trunk full of dresses, no doubt, and another of expectations.” The deep voice seemed even more pleasant when touched with amusement.

  Emma found that she very much wanted to see his face, if only to judge if it could possibly be as attractive. The stranger was careful to keep his distance, although he seemed more than willing to continue their conversation. And the longer she could prolong it, she realized, the greater the adventure she would have to remember. She tried to think of a witty rejoinder and, failing that, settled for the truth.

  “More anxieties than expectations, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, but you must never confess to either.” The humor she’d heard still lurked in his tone, but his advice held a note of seriousness. “No matter what doubts you feel, you must always present a facade of poise and confidence.”

  “You have some experience of the Season, I take it.”

  He laughed, the sound rich despite its softness. And somehow he had made it clear that he, rather than her naiveté, was the target of that amusement.

  “I believe I must be acquainted with every hostess in London who has ever had need of a spare bachelor. I assure you I am simply that. Someone to fill up a table or provide escort for a young lady who has not been taken down to supper.”

  Provincial she might be, but even Emma understood the meaning of the phrase “not taken.” And knew it was a fate to be avoided at all costs.

  “Then…you are not a catch?”

  “A younger son,” he said readily. “From a respectable family, I assure you. There are no skeletons rattling about in my closet.”

  As she watched, he stepped across the narrow gallery and looked out over the balustrade. “It seems we are seeing a break in the weather. This will be completely cleared by morning.”

  If so, their trunks would be reloaded onto her uncle’s post chaise, and they would renew their journey as soon as possible. It would be as if this night had never happened.

  He turned his head, looking at her now rather than at the midnight sky. There was enough moonlight reflected from the snow below that finally she could see his face.

  His features, regular and pleasant, were centered by an aquiline nose and a square, indented chin. Blue eyes, under a high forehead covered by tumbled black curls, smiled into hers.

  Her heart did something very peculiar—stopped or leaped or faltered. And then, as hearts are wont to do, it resumed its steady beating, although a trifle faster than before.

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re out on the balcony at midnight,” he said.

  It had been a very long time since anyone had really wanted to know her feelings. Emma took a breath and blurted out the truth. “As an alternative to running away, I suppose.”

  “From the Season?”

  “From all of it.
From the rules and regulations and expectations. From marriage to someone I shall hardly know.”

  “Perhaps you’ll fall in love.”

  “Do people do that in London?”

  “On occasion.”

  “But you see, that isn’t the primary prerequisite for my husband.”

  “And what is?” he asked quite seriously, although the blue eyes were still smiling.

  “A fortune.”

  “Ah. You’re a fortune hunter. Then undoubtedly you won’t marry for love.”

  “Not even, I fear, if I fall in love. So tonight…” She hesitated, realizing the delicacy of the situation into which her rashness had embroiled her.

  “Tonight?”

  “Becomes more important,” she confessed softly.

  “A last adventure?” he suggested, again seeming to read her mind.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because I share the tendency.”

  “To…seek adventure?”

  “The result of an unfortunately romantic nature.”

  She had not thought of herself in those terms, but perhaps he was right. Perhaps that was at the root of her present melancholia. She should be ecstatic with happiness over the coming round of entertainments. Instead…

  “‘Unfortunately romantic’?” she repeated, having assimilated fully what he’d said.

  “In a society governed by all those ‘rules and expectations.’”

  “I had not thought men were subject to them.”

  “Then why ever do you think they would willingly marry fortune hunters?” he teased, smiling at her again.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Companionship?” she suggested tentatively.

  “That they get from their— From other acquaintances,” he amended carefully.