His attention sank to her scuffed half-boots.
"In those? Really? I can call for a hot brick and woolen stockings. A lap robe too." Giving her a devilishly provocative grin, he arched an eyebrow and chucked her chin. "Or… there are other, much more enjoyable, ways of warming you. We are betrothed…"
At his allusion, a whorl of heat spread languidly through her veins. He'd always been able to do that, ease her fears and calm her with a few sensible words, as well as send her desires soaring. If only she possessed the pluck to snatch Bradford by his large hand and haul him into her bedchamber. She'd fantasized about lying with him for so long, she feared the real act might disappoint.
No, what she really feared was his reaction upon seeing her naked.
Sensibility reigned.
"No, you goose." More's the pity. Not until the vows are spoken. If they're spoken.
Philomena leaned against the wall beside the oriel. Careful not to bump the framed portrait of an intense looking fellow with a ruffled collar and neatly trimmed beard, hanging beside her, she tortured the edge of the carpet with her boot.
"What else troubles you? I see it in your eyes, Philomena, the doubt and consternation." Joining her alongside the paneling, he positioned himself so his shoulder supported his weight. He traced her jaw, his eyes gleaming with longing. "I do love you, more with each passing day. More than I believed a human could love another."
"My scars…" She released a puff of air and examined the cornice edging the ceiling. "They are quite unsightly. I fear after you see them, you'll not desire me anymore, not want to bed me, and that, in time, you'll grow bitter and resentful, that you'll grow to despise me."
Tenderly grasping her chin, he turned her face to his. "Never. Because it's you I love." He tapped her temple then her chest over her heart. "What's in there matters more than all else, though I find you tempting beyond reason, woman."
Cupping her ribs with his hands, he trailed hot kisses from below her ear to her shoulder.
God above.
She clamped onto his shoulders as sensation sluiced to every nerve. If his kisses did this to her, she'd shatter if they joined.
His breathing heavy and irregular, he pulled her tight against him and rocked his pelvis into her. A hard bump probed her belly. "Even if your entire body were scarred, you'd still do this to me. I love you. The rest matters naught."
Sincerity colored his words, but the look in his eyes, complete adoration, convinced her he spoke the truth. He did love her.
Others might not understand how quickly their love had rejuvenated, might hint it wasn't possible and that such unions only happened in fairy tales or silly novels, but Philomena knew what they had was real. And that's all that mattered, not whether anyone else believed it possible. Just as some people fell in love at first sight, others had a love like she and Bradford's. It would never die, not even when they breathed their last breath. Her spirit was tethered to his, and in the afterlife, they'd find one another and spend eternity together.
"I believe you." Philomena clasped her arms behind his back, basking in his love and caresses. She'd be an utter fool to forfeit this… him. "And I love you too."
With a final searing kiss, he leaned away. "Enough, or I won't be able to stop, and I'm positive tupping my future viscountess in full view of Berkeley Square would go down in history as a marked act of depravity." He winked and bobbed his head toward the window. "Although, I'd wager we'd draw quite a titillated audience."
The street outside bustled with activity. She giggled. "No doubt."
Bradford touched his pocket. "The license is good for three months. Why don't we take it one day at a time? I shall even court you, and you let me know when you are ready."
"No, we wanted to wait three weeks originally, but then Giles coughed up blood." She pushed away from the wall and snared his hand. "I don't want to wait that long."
Darting a quick look over the balustrade—no one lurked below listening to their conversation—she gave him what she hoped was an inviting smile. "Come."
Almost running the corridor's length, their hurried steps muffled by the plush carpet, she made straight for her bedchamber, a bemused Bradford unquestioningly allowing her to lug him along. As she reached for her door latch, misgiving again tried to raise its disagreeable head, but Philomena quelled it with a firm box to the ears.
She would know today which path providence had set her on, and it would be of her own making. Releasing Bradford's hand as she unlatched her door, she smiled over her shoulder. "Lock it, will you?"
Not waiting for him to answer, she made straight for the ornate panel dressing screen with its charming cherub motif. She started slightly when the door's bolt slid home. Well, at least they wouldn't be walked in on. Most discomfiting that would be if her plans went as she hoped.
"What are you about?" He stood just inside the room, one hand on his slim hip and a crooked, sensual smile that suggested he knew precisely what she intended.
"You'll see."
Would he ever.
Flapping her hand at the overstuffed velvet armchair before the marble hearth, she squashed her romping nerves. Foreign to brazen and seductive conduct, she might very well come across as an inept trull with her first paying customer. "Please make yourself comfortable. I shall be but a few moments."
"That's the ugliest piece of furniture I have ever laid eyes upon." He strode to the chair and, after tossing aside a tasseled throw pillow, sat down.
She quite agreed. The burnt orange and moss green decor, as well as the cumbersome, carved furnishings reflected the duchess's bold taste.
Casting every misgiving aside—well, actually, she tromped atop their pointy little smirking heads—Philomena swept behind the screen. Taking a bracing breath, she bent to remove her footwear.
You can do this Philomena.
Faint rustling carried to her from beyond the screen. Bradford must have become restless and wandered the room. Perfectly wonderful. How soon before boredom prompted him to take his leave? She couldn't let him go.
Hurry!
Biting her lip, she tried to, but as often happens when one rushes, she possessed ten thumbs, each of which conspired to prevent her from removing her clothing.
"Dash it all," she mumbled into the dress's folds wadded around her head.
"What's that?" His question sounded distant and muffled.
Was he leaving? No, by George!
Yanking the ribbon from her hair, and still wearing her chemise, she bolted from behind the screen, stubbing her toe on the panel's edge.
Curses!
"Bradford—" Tripping to an abrupt stop, jaw slack, she blinked in disbelief.
Bare-chested, the most tempting smattering of black, curly hair visible above the loudly-colored counterpane draped across his lap, he sat propped in her bed. He gave her a smoldering smile that sent tremors to her toes.
"I didn't think it fair that you should be the only one undressed."
She pressed her hands to the worst of her scars peeking above her lacy neckline. "Are you… naked?"
"Indeed, though I'm wholly disappointed you are not. I'll admit, you are quite fetching in that filmy thing." He feigned a pout, which didn't deter his ravenous examination of her from toe to shoulder before returning to the dark tips showing through the chemise's thin fabric. Slowly, appreciation sharpening the lines of his face, he lifted his gaze to hers. "Did I misunderstand?"
A jot of uncertainty tempered his voice.
"No. I'd hoped we would…" Heat crept up her neck to her face. She likely glowed like a fire coal. "After I showed you my burns."
"Come here." He beckoned with one hand while patting the bed with the other.
The intensity of his gaze drew her forward until she stood beside the bed, afraid to look into his eyes, to see rejection there.
He touched the damaged flesh, the pads of his fingers tracing the burns, and she closed her eyes, to both relish in his caress and block out any disgust th
at might flit across his expression or spark in his eyes.
He whisked her chemise over her head, and she gasped against the rush of cold and abrupt vulnerability.
Refusing to open her eyes, she balled her hands and held her breath… waiting.
"Philomena, look at me."
Bradford nudged her chin, and she stubbornly shook her head.
"Silly, love." He snaked a well-muscled arm around her waist and had her lying beside him before the air left her lungs in a startled squeak.
"These," he spread his hand over the thick, reddish marks crisscrossing her chest above her breasts, "make me adore you more. My heart, my very soul aches for what you've suffered, but do not ever entertain the slightest notion that I would spurn you because of them."
A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and she turned her head away from his tender expression. "They are ugly. I am ugly."
Her nakedness didn't embarrass her, but she found her scars mortifying. How could she expect him to become accustomed to their hideousness?
Bradford pressed his lips to the disfigurements. "I love you just as you are, whether unblemished or scarred. I want to make you my wife," he flattened his hand over her belly, "fill you with my children, and live every day as if it is our last. I'll never leave you again, never. You have to give me a chance to prove my love. Don't reject me, crush our happiness, and forgo our future out of fear. Please, trust me. "
Turning onto her side, Philomena searched his face. Placing her hands on either side of his square jaw, she kissed him with all the pent-up longing and adoration she'd held in check. "I do trust you, and I do want to marry you."
He skimmed his hand the length of her rib, sending a myriad of sparks skittering across her. Squeezing a buttock, he kissed her forehead. "No more doubts?"
"Not a one." She pressed her mouth to the juncture of his throat and neck. His manly smell, slightly spicy but with a hint of musk and tobacco, enveloped her. Nuzzling his neck, she sniffed.
A deep rumble reverberated in his chest as he chuckled. "Here I am trying to seduce you, and you're sniffing me."
"Well, you smell wonderful." She grinned, giving him a coy look, and rested her chin on his chest. "It was I who set out to seduce you. Remember?"
A mock expression of horror swept his face. "Say it isn't so. My future viscountess is a seductress? How splendid."
He cupped her breast and captured her lips in a sizzling kiss.
Groaning, she squirmed, trying to get closer, to press her entire body against his skin. She kicked the sheets aside and leaned into his solid thighs and torso. Exploring his rigid muscles with inexperienced fingers, she mimicked the hot thrusting of his tongue. Her head swam with the force of her passion.
Three sharp raps interrupted their kiss.
Stiffening, Philomena tore her mouth from Bradford's, and he turned his head toward the door.
"Oh dear. I did tell Robins I'd be in my chamber," she whispered, shifting to rise. Bloody awkward, being caught abed by the maid.
"Bradford, Philomena, Reverend Hawksworth has arrived."
The duchess!
Philomena clapped her hand over her mouth and clobbered Bradford with a pillow when he chuckled.
"As luck would have it, he was at White's with Wimpleton," Aunt Muriel said, her voice shaking suspiciously. "When you're finished, please meet us in the drawing room. Don't rush on our account. I've invited him to dinner, so you've plenty of time."
The duchess's delighted laughter echoed in the corridor.
"Good Lord. She knows." Philomena pressed her hands to her scorching face.
"That's that, then. We must wed at once now. I've utterly ruined you." Bradford pounced on her, pressing her back into the bedding and tickling her ribs.
Giggling, she gasped, "Not utterly, yet."
"Oh, trust me, woman," his hot gaze sank to her breasts, "I mean to compromise you beyond redemption."
Her Scandalous Wish: Epilogue
Bromham Hall, England
August 1819
"BRADFORD, LOOK!" A SERIES OF STARS whipped across the night sky. Philomena leapt from the settee, pointing. "Just like the night we were reunited."
She scooped her infant son from his cradle. Hurrying to the French windows—open to let in the evening's cool air—she kissed his downy head. "See, Giles, mama and papa saw stars like this the night your Uncle Giles, smart man that he was, insisted we wed."
Bradford encircled her from behind and dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. "I owe your brother a debt I'll never be able to repay."
"The same is true of me." Lifting the gurgling infant, happily waving his tiny fists, she brushed her face against his soft, sweet-smelling cheek and closed her eyes. "At least he lived long enough to meet his namesake."
"A miracle, that. I didn't think he'd last the night after his collapse at Wimpleton's ball." He tightened his arms a fraction as he bent to bestow a kiss on their son. "His life was short, but at least his last days were peaceful and painless."
"I'm so grateful he didn't suffer." Resting against Bradford, Philomena gazed at the clear sky, each star so vibrant, it seemed she could snatch it from the heavens. Another star whizzed past.
"See, there's another. Make a wish." Bradford nudged her head with his chin. "Hurry, before it's too late."
"What could I possibly wish for?" She slanted her head to look at him. "I am already blissfully content."
"Anything, my love." He kissed her nose. "It can be a boon to our happiness."
"Well, then, what I wish is to couple with you, every day, twice on Sundays, until I'm an ancient, shriveled crone." She chuckled at the image.
"That's a scandalous wish for a lady." He turned her in his embrace, and lowered his head. "But one I'm positive will come true, starting this very moment."
MILADY AND HER SPY
by Jillian Chantal
Milady and Her Spy: Chapter One
THERE COMES A TIME IN THE life of every young lady, no matter her auditory capabilities, when she will be in need of an ear trumpet. Today was that day for Augusta Covington. She searched the library for the one she knew her uncle, one of the house party guests, had to have left in the room somewhere. He had a habit of setting it down wherever he was and she'd last seen him reading in the chair near the fire. It wasn't quite time for dinner yet so he was probably not missing it. Once the meal was served, he'd be yelling, "Eh?" until someone fetched the thing for him.
Shuffling the papers on the desk and patting the palm of her hand over the wood surface, her anxiety rose. She needed it and now.
Finally, blessedly, her fingers grasped the tube. She jerked it out of its hiding place and darted over to the far wall as quickly as her skirts would allow. Putting the small end inside her ear and the bell end to the paneled wall, Augusta leaned in and, as though it would help her hear better, and squinted her eyes. She focused on the voices in the other room.
"I'm telling you, sir. I have a house full of guests and cannot manage to get away now to come see to Lancelot. He will have to wait," William, Augusta's oldest brother, the heir to their father's dukedom, said.
The person who the butler let in a few minutes before mumbled something she couldn't understand. She only knew it was the stranger because Ambrose, her other brother was the only other one in the room and he never muttered. He was meticulous in his enunciation. Meticulous to the point of being annoying, quite frankly.
"I could go. See what he's gotten himself into now." Now that was Ambrose.
"Nonsense. We have dinner plans. Neither of us should run off. Father expects us to carry on in his absence," William said.
The other man mumbled again.
Augusta pressed the ear trumpet closer to the wall if that were possible. If only the man would speak clearer.
"I'll show you out," Ambrose said.
It sounded as if they were moving across the floor toward the door. Augusta tossed the device down and made her way to her own door. She cracked i
t open and waited for Ambrose to step into the hall. Maybe she could hear the stranger better now.
She peered through the crack and watched as her younger brother handed the man a coin. "I'll send someone for my brother later. You must understand we can't come straightaway since we have obligations."
"He asked me to come and fetch one of you. He's at the inn and needs assistance as soon as you can make it. I left him in the hands of the doctor—"
It was all Augusta could do not to let out a gasp at those words. Lance was hurt? And her brothers weren't going to his aid? This was not happening. No.
Ambrose interrupted the man. "Sometimes our brother exaggerates. I'm sure if he was well enough to get to the inn, he was most assuredly able to come these few miles further. I think he's tied up in some scheme or another and afraid to face our father. If you return to the inn and tell him Father is in Town rather than here at the estate, I'm sure he'll be perfectly fine and able to come home on his own power."
"I'm afraid you don't understand, sir. He needs you to come."
"Nonsense. I'll have Emerson show you out the back door." Ambrose emphasized the word back in such a way that the man had to understand he'd made a faux pas if he entered from the front door when he arrived on his errand.
Emerson, the butler must have been lurking around the corner. He appeared as if out of thin air and said, "I'll see him out, Mr. Ambrose. Your guests are assembling in the great hall."
"I'll get William." Ambrose returned to Augusta's father's study. She followed Emerson and the stranger down the corridor, hoping for a chance to speak to the man. Luck was against her as the butler must have sensed her on their trail because he turned and looked at her. "May I assist you in some manner, Lady Augusta?"
Thinking fast, she searched her brain for some errand to send Emerson on so she could have a moment alone with the messenger. At a loss and sensing too much time had passed, she opened her mouth to speak—not knowing what would come out—but before she could, the housekeeper came into the hallway almost at a run. Being too dignified for that, she kind of skidded to a halt at the sight of one of the family.
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