The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  “I’ll distract Northcliffe.” Isadora grimaced, watching his hand at the window. “And allow you to pursue Miss Fleetwood.”

  Newton smiled, tracing the line of his mustache. “I was certain you would volunteer your services.” He glanced toward the open door of the library. “Here is your victim now.”

  Isadora dashed to the door just as Northcliffe entered and grasped his arm, her voice dripping honey. “Wolf, dear, you are avoiding me. Dinner has been delayed to accommodate your little injury. We’ll take a turn about the garden. You can tell me all about it.”

  After consuming his postdinner port, Wolfgang led the other men to the drawing room. He could hear Isadora’s irritatingly high voice ring out before he entered the room.

  “I shall scream, if I have to hear one time more about what a Trojan Miss Fleetwood was. It is not at all ladylike to be around blood without fainting.” Isadora turned to the door, her smile sweet and welcoming. “Ah, gentlemen, we were just praising Miss Fleetwood for her bravery.”

  Wolfgang edged toward Zel but was hindered by Isadora’s hand on his sleeve. She pouted. “Come sit with me.”

  Determined not to make a scene, at least not immediately, he reluctantly sat beside her. But he looked to Zel, frowning when Melbourne and Newton flanked her as they had at dinner. Their interest must be piqued by his own. They had not observed her closely enough to see her true value. True value? He nearly snorted out loud. What by the rosy fires of hell did he mean by that? Whatever her value, it was greater than that of this waspish piece of flotsam sharing the sofa with him.

  What had he seen in Isadora? He scanned the woman beside him. Her figure held no appeal. The overabundant curves seemed vulgar next to Zel’s slender suppleness. He watched Zel juggle the attentions of Newton and Melbourne. Satan’s small clothes! Zel Fleetwood’s value, with all that passion buried in her long, sleek body, would be discovered soon enough, when she shared that body with him. Wolfgang smiled at the immediate response of his own body. He was ready, but how would she respond? Would it be with abandonment? Or would she shyly smile at him, a soft blush suffusing her skin from head to toe?

  Isadora tapped his arm, effectively terminating his little fantasy. Their affair ended months ago but she was unwilling to release him, even following him to this house party. Her pride couldn’t allow her to face his continuing rejection much longer.

  He moved his legs farther from Isadora, catching Zel’s eyes just as Melbourne commandeered her as his partner at whist. Her lips curved in a silent plea for rescue. He would be happy to come to her aid, freeing himself and her of unwanted companions, but not yet. A little more of Melbourne’s company, and she would be begging for relief.

  Wolfgang followed the progress of the whist game as he pretended to listen to Isadora’s conversation. He watched Newton hovering over the card game, a patient scavenger. Chuckling, he glanced around at Melbourne, Isadora, and Newton. A mismatched trio of bloody jackals, waiting to pounce. But who was their intended victim? Zel? Or, having noticed his interest in her, could they be using it to get to him? If so, he had difficulty being frightened.

  But maybe he should be frightened. Maybe they were involved in the attack on him several days before. The attack he claimed was a simple footpad strike, although he felt nearly certain it was more, certain enough to hire an investigator. He looked again at the trio. Newton and Isadora might be capable of anything. But Melbourne? A most unlikely villain.

  Excusing himself from Isadora’s company without prelude, Wolfgang approached the card table. Zel threw herself into the game, winning most hands despite Melbourne’s poor showing. He stood beside Melbourne, addressing the table at large. “I believe Miss Fleetwood is deserving of a partner such as I might provide.”

  Melbourne surprised him with a blush. “Thaying I’m not an adequate player?”

  “I’ll wager five hundred quid that with me as partner we’ll take every hand.”

  “You’re on.” Melbourne, predictably, was intrigued enough to dispense with a little of his pride.

  Wolfgang played a bolder, faster game, and Zel seemed to unconsciously follow suit. Her color rose in tandem with the stakes, and the gold in her eyes shimmered. They couldn’t lose.

  Winning hand followed winning hand until she suddenly froze, face pale, eyes lowered. Zel dropped the cards and stood, almost toppling her chair, dashing from the room without a word.

  Promising to settle later, Wolfgang bolted after her. She was still in the hallway when he caught her arm, compelling her to a tiny salon.

  He pulled her onto a divan in the dimly lit room. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Taking her fine-boned hand in his, he curled his free arm lightly over her shoulders.

  “What is it?” His grip tightened around her trembling fingers. “What’s wrong?”

  “I am sorry.” Her husky voice broke. “I … I am acting foolishly.”

  “Something has obviously overset you. Something about the card game?” He searched her face for an answer.

  “It’s the damned gambling.… I never should have done it.… My family has been decimated by it.” She went on hoarsely. “We even had a special entail granted so the main estate cannot be gambled away.… But I was gambling, I was loving it.… God, it frightens me. I will not be like my father or brother.” The tears finally streamed out. “My brother is on his way to debtor’s prison … if I do not find a wealthy, old husband.”

  Wolfgang’s other arm circled her, pulling her close. She clung to him, sobbing. He patted her hair, attempting to comfort her. Zel pushed in closer, her arms moving up over his shoulders and neck, her soft, full breasts sinking into his chest. He forgot his restrained efforts to soothe, and the embrace turned instantly sensual. Stroking her back, he molded her to him. He pushed aside her hair, seeking her face, her lips.

  Her hand accidently rubbed against his bandaged wound. Wolfgang flinched at the stab of pain. He felt her stiffen and wrenched himself away, surprised by the degree of his arousal. His timing was deplorable. Not very sporting to seduce a woman in tears. And not very safe to seduce a fortune hunter, even if she did voice a preference for wealthy, old men.

  “I’m sorry.” He took her hand again. She was shaken but recovering quickly. He spoke casually, “I don’t see you as being done up by gambling. Take a moment to contain yourself, then we’ll return to the drawing room.”

  The wolf stalked in ever narrowing concentric circles. His glossy coat illuminated by the moon. His brilliant silver eyes locked onto hers. Paws reached for her, only they were not paws but hands, long, elegantly tapered hands, gentle and strong, stroking and teasing.

  Zel woke, shivering, to rays of moonlight pouring through the window, filling the room with a pale silver glow. It wasn’t until dawn changed that glow to a soft gold that she finally found sleep again.

  CHAPTER 3

  CAPRICCIO

  A lively composition in free form

  Zel eased into the Selbys’ cavernous mahogany-paneled library, hoping for a little time to herself before she faced Northcliffe. He must think her mad, furiously gambling one minute, then weeping in his arms the next. Throwing herself at him like a complete wanton. Mad or wanton, she grimaced, so much for her little flirtation. But she had known from the first she was out of her depth. What could she hope for but disaster with a man who ran in Robin’s circles?

  She heard a low mumble and turned toward the fireplace, Northcliffe’s long, lean form was draped across an overstuffed chair, his dark head bent over a letter, reading in a very slow, deep tone. Zel cleared her throat and his head jerked up.

  He crumpled the vellum in his fist, a flush creeping over the sculpted lines of his face. “Miss Fleetwood. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Lord Northcliffe, forgive my trespass. I will leave …” She couldn’t pull her gaze from his high-boned, reddened cheeks.

  “Stay. There’s nothing I desire more than your company, except to have you call me by my given name, Wolfg
ang. As I will call you Zel.” His eyes gleamed the bright silver of her dream. His jacket and waistcoat lay open, the kerseymere of his trousers stretched taut over muscular thighs.

  Zel swallowed hard, averting her eyes, but she knew he was aware of where her glance had fallen. She must learn to exercise more control over her wandering eyes. “I, ah, came for a book.”

  “As good a reason as any to visit a library.” His grin had a feral curl to it, and a glow came from behind his eyes. This was no tame house pet, but a wolf as far removed in the animal kingdom from her well-trained dog as an Indian tiger was from a domesticated cat. It took all her meager willpower to stand in place when every nerve in her body screamed to turn and run from his potent presence. Only the lingering touch of pink clinging to his cheeks, that hint of vulnerability, kept her there.

  She found her voice. “Please return to your letter.”

  A scowl skimmed over his features. “You know, I hired a runner to find the footpads, but he’s turned up nothing.”

  “The footpads?” Zel paused, then caught his chain of thought. “The attack was more than a simple robbery?”

  His face hardened, his tone turned harsh. “Why would you say that?”

  Surprised by the vehemence of his response, she stumbled over her words. “No reason, I meant … I am sorry. I only thought you would not bother with a runner for a simple robbery.”

  “You think I wouldn’t seek justice after being stabbed?” Northcliffe stood and stared at the carved fireplace.

  “Is there any hope of finding a few footpads among all the criminals in London?” Zel tucked a strand of hair into the knot at her neck. “You were hurt, but your own neglect made it worse. Did they take something of great value?”

  “No, they took nothing. My men and I drove them off.” He turned, stalking slowly toward her.

  “Did you describe them to the runner?” She held her ground.

  “They wore masks and hooded cloaks.”

  “Then how do you ever expect to find them?” Looking up at him, she paused before plunging in. “You must have some clues to warrant hiring a runner.”

  Tempered steel eyes met hers. “Must I?”

  “You are being evasive. There is more to this than you admit.” Certain he was not telling her the whole story, Zel felt equally uncertain as to whether she should seek more answers.

  Northcliffe gripped her arm, the lines of his mouth tight. “This is not your concern.”

  She glared back at him. “You brought it up.”

  His frown softened to a crooked smile as his hand loosened on her arm. “Forgive me. Perhaps my years of military service have made me look for enemies under every bush and hedgerow.”

  “You were in the military?” Zel tried to stifle the astonishment in her voice.

  “That surprises you?” A grimace pinched his face. “I served as a captain under Wellington until an injury sent me home. I decided to sell out after I healed.”

  “You must have stories to tell.”

  “None worth the telling.” Northcliffe sat on a small sofa, patting the space beside him. “Come sit with me.”

  Zel moved away, striding purposefully toward a book-lined wall. “I planned to read before the picnic.” Browsing through the volumes, she selected a book at random. Taking a seat across the room from Northcliffe, she opened the book. Sensing his movement, she looked unseeing at the words until he sat on the arm of the chair, taking the volume from her hands. He smelled of the outdoors, of horses, saddle leather and green things.

  Northcliffe flipped back to the title page, then stared down at her. “Do you have any idea what you’re reading?”

  “Of course I do.” She lifted her chin. “It is a collection of poetry.”

  He chuckled. “It is poetry. By the famous, or should I say infamous, Lord Rochester. A friend, I might add, of the first earl of Northcliffe.” He scanned slowly through the pages. “My ancestor was titled by Charles II for service to the crown against the Roundheads.” Smiling broadly, he pointed to a passage. “Read this. Aloud.”

  Taking the leather volume, she found the requested lines.

  “ ‘O that I now cou’d, by some chymic art.’ ” Zel gulped as her eyes caught the next words before her mouth could utter them. Did he know what he asked her to read? Looking through her lashes at the smug smile curling his lips, she knew he did. She lifted her chin higher.

  “ ‘To sperm convert my vitals and my heart.’ ” She coughed, raised her voice and continued.

  “ ‘That at one thrust I might my soul translate,/ And in the womb myself regenerate.’ ” Her face must be glowing scarlet, but Zel would not stop and give him the satisfaction of knowing the level of her chagrin.

  “ ‘There stee’p in lust, nine months I would remain;/ Then boldly dash my passage out again.’ ”

  “Dash? Where does it say dash?” Northcliffe leaned over, running a finger methodically along the page.

  “Right here.” She traced the tiny line.

  “Do you know the word that belongs at that dash?” Laughter danced in the eyes that held hers.

  Zel fought to appear sophisticated but knew the battle was falling to her embarrassment. She bravely looked up into his eyes. “I am not sure.”

  “You don’t know.” His grin showed miles of white teeth. “If you think about it, I’m sure you can guess its meaning.” He closed the book. “Thanks for the recitation. But I believe Rochester is a little fast for you.”

  “I choose my own reading material.” Zel reached for the book.

  Wolfgang slid off the arm of the chair, standing at his considerable height, Rochester’s poetry held high over his head. “How badly do you want it?”

  Zel lurched out of the chair and jumped for the book, landing flush against his chest. His arm slipped around her, steadying her, holding her for one impossibly long moment.

  “Oh, Lord!” She shoved him away, heart thudding in her throat, and flew from the room. His laughter followed her into the hall. Rushing up the stairs, to her little room, she slammed the door, bracing it with her back.

  Whatever possessed her to leap at him like some crazed bedlamite—after stubbornly reading that lascivious poem? He had the strangest, most disconcerting effect on her. If she could not get a better hold on herself, she would have to abandon this absurd flirtation. But exchanging witty repartee without wishing to feel his lips pressed to hers and his arms about her should be easy.

  Zel sighed noisily. The sensible thing would be to let it go now, stay away from him and look for suitable husband material. Robin needed her. A tiny smile crept over her lips. There were a few more days before she returned to London and to the usually sensible, calm Zel Fleetwood.

  Zel watched from the shade of a topiary castle spire as the carriages lined up in the long drive tracing the front of Selby Hall. The guests were beginning to pair and saunter toward the phaetons and landaus. She spotted Northcliffe climbing down the entry steps just as she felt a hand at her elbow.

  “Miss Fleetwood. I would be pleased to have you accompany me to the picnic site in my curricle.” Lord Newton’s thin-lipped half smile had the unerring ability to send a small unpleasant flutter down her spine. “My new cattle are a lively pair, I promise you an enjoyable ride.”

  “I would be honored, my lord.” She forced herself to return his smile, allowing him to usher her to a brown-and-gold carriage. Much as she disliked Newton, she did not feel very brave, and it would be less dangerous spending the day with him. There was absolutely no possibility she would be tempted to throw herself into his arms. She caught sight of Lady Horeton attaching herself to Northcliffe and purposefully directed her attention back to Newton.

  Newton handed her into the curricle, speaking softly in his bass voice with just the hint of a nasal twang. “They do make a striking couple. He so large and dark and she so petite and fair. Were you aware that most men favor only one type of woman?” He smoothed his mustache, seemingly oblivious to Zel’s lack of
response. “I prefer variety, but Northcliffe is clearly partial to petite, blond voluptuaries like his wife.”

  “Wife?” The word broke through her lips before Zel could stop it.

  “Yes,” Newton’s tone lowered. “His lovely, faithless, dead wife.”

  Zel sat, quiet, stiff. Dead wife! Curiosity and propriety warred in her. Propriety, augmented by apprehension, won, and she did not ask the questions burning in her throat. She did watch Northcliffe toss Lady Horeton onto the seat of a shiny black-and-silver high-perch phaeton and take the ribbons to the perfectly matched grays. She unclenched her fists, staring straight ahead. How like him to have such a flashy and bold conveyence.

  Wolfgang barely suppressed a groan as he settled on the seat beside Isadora, Lady Horeton, her childishly small hand at his arm. He would tolerate her company for the ride to the picnic, as Zel sat ready to depart in Newton’s carriage. Once there he would quickly abandon this plaguesome piece of female flesh.

  “Your little pet seems to have deserted you for Newton.” Isadora studied his face, clearly waiting for a reaction.

  “My little pet? I’d hardly call Miss Fleetwood little, a pet, or mine.” Wolfgang shifted his weight on the plush silver squabs, disengaging her hand. “I find it fascinating you watch her with such interest, Isadora.”

  “I have no interest in her,” she replied too quickly. “I only wonder about your interest. She’s not your type.”

  “You have no claims on me. Our liaison, such as it was, ended months ago.” He slid over the last few inches to put as much distance between them as the narrow seat allowed.

  She started to reach for his arm again, then seemed to think better of it. “You know, your little innocent may not be as innocent as she appears.”

  “Oh? And what makes you believe I give a damn if she is an innocent or not?” He gripped the ribbons and pulled the phaeton out to join the line of carriages wheeling down the drive, alarmed by the mixed feelings Isadora’s words stirred in him.