The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  “Did you do anything to give them cause?” If it had been possible for her to spit venom at him, she would have. “What did the notes say?”

  Zel’s renewed blush proved the perfect antidote to the earlier poison. “I cannot repeat them.”

  “Give me an idea, did they praise your hair, your ankles?” Wolfgang felt his patience thin. “You haven’t been reticent about risqué conversation before.”

  “Maybe I need to be.” She paused a moment more then plunged in. “They praised my bosom … legs and …” She shook her head. “Two requested a tryst.”

  “Satan’s small—!” When the other two ladies looked daggers at him, he lowered his voice again. “Who were they? What kind of woman do they think you?” He was ready to call the scoundrels out! He quashed the protective surge. Damnation, what right had he to feel protective with one breath and plot her seduction with the next? He was worse than the worst of them, with no plans to alter his course.

  “You thought the same thing.” Her face was drawn and pale. She looked away quickly, but he thought he saw a sheen of moisture glaze her eyes. He wasn’t about to feel guilty. Protective was bad enough, but guilty? Never. Besides, just his attentions, no matter how persistent, couldn’t be causing all this reaction. Something else was up. Maybe he could even help her discover and deal with the problem, worming his way into her good graces.

  Her tight voice echoed his thoughts. “I must be doing something dreadfully wrong to be attracting this attention.”

  “Do you talk to other men as freely as you have me?”

  “I do not … maybe I do.” Now confusion warred with distress in her eyes. “I have always been blunt, but I am certain I have said nothing really improper.”

  “Many equate views,” Wolfgang tried to put it delicately, “such as yours on the rights of women, with general moral laxity.”

  “Good Lord!” Now it was her turn to lower her voice as eyebrows across the room raised. “You cannot be serious.”

  “You’re the strangest mixture of sheltered miss and worldly woman.” His mouth twitched. “And, yes, I am very serious. Are you going out tonight?”

  “No, and it is no business of yours.”

  “You should go out. Be seen, accept callers, act the model of decorum. The Melbourne ball tomorrow, will you be there?”

  “I suppose, if I should.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “Woman.” A little spirit popped back, quickening her voice.

  “Woman, then.” He grinned. “Your aunt and Lady Selby are looking daggers at me again. I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He stood, and bowing formally made his farewells.

  Wolfgang strode through the front door and down the stairs, flinging himself onto the plush leather squabs of his waiting coach. Beelzebub’s bootblack! What was he doing? Maybe his behavior had something to do with the questionable suitors. But how could they know he had her halfway on the road to ruin, with no intention of stopping? Hellfire! This continual debate with himself, this confusion about his motives, this strange concern about her feelings, only cluttered up his mind. One thing was clear: he desired her, she desired him, and he was not in a habit of subverting his desires for a little pricking of a conscience he had decided years ago he no longer possessed.

  “Maggie, do not fuss so, just finish it.”

  “But, miss, it should be done right.” Maggie worked to artfully arrange the wisps of hair around Zel’s face.

  “Please, I have asked that you call me Zel.” Zel smiled into her dressing table mirror.

  “Miss, Zel, you have been so kind to me.” Maggie’s voice quavered. “I hope you will not regret taking me in.”

  “I could never have turned you away. Now I do not know what I would do without you. And you will be safe here.” Zel touched her hand, then tugged at the neckline of the sky-blue silk gown. “I wish the same could be said for me.” She smoothed the filmy skirts. “You have a flair for fashion—could you convince Aunt Diana to raise a few necklines and starch a few fabrics?”

  “But you are out to catch a husband.” Maggie pulled at a wayward curl. “You seem to have attracted one devoted admirer.”

  “Northcliffe?” She snorted her amusement. “He is the most unlikely husband material one could imagine. These last two days he has called each afternoon and has been almost a gentleman. Although he still sits too close, holds my hand too long, and some of his remarks I would never dare repeat. I suspect better behavior is not in his repertoire.”

  “He is handsome,” Maggie ventured.

  “Handsome. I would rather he was not.” Her expression softened as she remembered today’s call. “He spoke of his family. He said little, but his was not a happy childhood. His grandmother … I would like her. And I do enjoy his company, his wit, humor, and charm, much as it pains me to admit it.”

  “There, you’ll do.”

  Zel studied her reflection. “I barely recognize myself. And I am not sure I like it.” Closing her eyes, she tried to envision herself waltzing in the shimmering blue gown. She opened them quickly when her imaginary partner emerged as Wolfgang, the earl of Northcliffe.

  She covered her too-bare shoulders with a lace shawl as she rushed down the stairs. Her aunt and Lady Selby were having an intimate coze when she entered the drawing room. They looked up, as guilty as if she’d caught them smoking cigars and tippling port. What were the two plotting? And would she need to extricate herself from the results?

  The distance to Melbourne House on Grosvenor Square was so short it seemed foolish to ride, but no one of fashion took useful walks, so they made their way to the ball in Lady Selby’s antiquated carriage. Wolfgang must have been watching for her, as he was at her side the instant their names were announced, insisting on the opening and supper dances.

  He led her out in the first country dance, hand appropriately at her elbow. His voice was low, scarcely a murmur. “Your new wardrobe suits you admirably. The blue makes your eyes translucent as the sky, and your skin glows like moonlight on new fallen snow.”

  “And your tongue is slippery as an eel.”

  “Madam, an eel? I believe I’ve been grossly insulted.” His thumb lightly stroked her arm. “You know you could start a rage, but I don’t believe most women have the figure to carry off that form-draping style, especially with no corset.”

  “You are thoroughly impossible.” Zel feared her blush revealed her mixed feelings. How could he keep her so confused?

  “I aim to please.”

  He continued to hover near her, directing a careful eye to her partners. Most behaved. The few who held her too close or caused her to blush with off-color remarks met with Wolfgang’s scowl, and thereafter kept a safe distance. While helpful in the short run, would this only damage her further in the long? She took a deep breath. The evening was developing well enough. She need not interfere with success, no matter how tenuous.

  When Wolfgang held her at the appropriate distance for the supper waltz, she felt a twinge of disappointment—no, it must be relief. Instead of expending energy doing battle with him, all her efforts could be directed at finding the perfect husband. She rewarded him with a sugar-candy smile.

  “I’d like you to meet some of my family,” he whispered without returning her smile. Taking her arm, he led her to the supper room.

  “Oh, is your grandmother or mother here tonight?” She was delighted he wanted her to meet his family. A gentleman did not introduce an intended mistress to his mother.

  “My aunt and cousin are taking a table.” He hesitated. “We could join them.”

  “Yes, I would like that.”

  “She is a bit in love with herself, but I think, well meaning enough.” He smiled a bit too broadly as if attempting to convince himself when they made their way to the indicated table.

  “Aunt Dorothea, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.” Wolfgang bowed over his aunt’s hand. “Mrs. Dorothea Clayton, this is Miss Grizelda Fleetwood. That fellow by the b
uffet table is my cousin Adam Clayton. May we join you?” Without waiting for an answer, he seated Zel. “I’ll fetch our food.”

  Zel watched Wolfgang step up to a smaller, tamer version of himself filling plates at the supper table. The hair was the same jet black, but without the streak of silver, and cut in a short, stylish Brutus. Adam Clayton’s face was both the same and different. The general look was there, but the features seemed rounded and boyish, not in the least hard or dangerous.

  “Lady Melbourne must be devastated. Such a poor showing.” Mrs. Clayton’s bell-like tones advised all the neighboring tables of her opinions. “Last year’s affair was a positive crush.”

  “The crowd is right for the size of the room, any more and one could not walk, let alone dance,” Zel commented.

  “But that is the idea. Grizelda, is it?” She looked at Zel as one would a household pet, smoothing her elegant gray silk skirts. “You live in the country then?”

  “Oh no, my family has a home in Moreton-in-Marsh, but I spend most of my time in London.”

  “Yes, I see.” Zel could not be sure exactly what she saw, but it was clearly not favorable. She would try to be cordial. Mrs. Clayton examined her closely. “You are not his usual. But then Hardwicke does not introduce his usual to me.” Mrs. Clayton laughed, high and shrill. “His women do not do credit to the earldom. But then, neither does he.”

  “His lordship, I’m sure, makes a fine earl.” She surprised herself by jumping so quickly to Wolfgang’s defense.

  Mrs. Clayton stared at her and laughed again.

  Zel fought an urge to cover her ears. “Do you divide your time between town and country?” Cordiality to this woman was proving most difficult.

  “No, I find the country annoying.” Mrs. Clayton must get an awfully stiff neck from holding her chin so high. “I stay in town year-round, except for a short trip to Brighton during the hottest part of summer.”

  “I have heard Brighton is lovely.” Zel glanced behind the haughty creature. What was keeping Wolfgang? Surely placing a few tidbits on a plate did not take so long.

  “You have never been to Brighton?” Mrs. Clayton didn’t wait for a reply when she so obviously knew the answer. “It is charming enough. But one does not go for the scenery.”

  “I am surprised you are not in Paris.” Zel wished the odd, arrogant woman there now.

  “Oh, we were in Paris,” she sighed theatrically. “But with prices what they are in France, we could not afford a lengthy stay. Hardwicke is miserly with my allowance.”

  “Did your son accompany you?” Zel feigned an interest she did not feel. The woman’s rudeness and reference to Wolfgang by his family name rather than his title were strange. Perhaps she had not yet grown accustomed to Wolfgang holding the title.

  “Of course, I would never leave London without him.”

  Zel barely contained her relief when Wolfgang returned with his cousin. She concentrated on her food while he exchanged awkward pleasantries with his relatives. Why had he wished to join them? There was clearly no love lost in either direction.

  Melbourne stood up with Zel for the first dance after supper. The reel seemed a bit too energetic for him, and he pulled her aside, red-faced before the piece ended.

  He leaned against a column, catching his breath, eyeing her appraisingly. “You know, you look dathed lovely, you could do better than a man like Northcliffe. You thouldn’t allow him to run tame, ’cauth he ain’t.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Her eyes met his squarely. His were the first to lower.

  “ ’Cuth me for being blunt, Mith Fleetwood.” Melbourne’s lisp became more evident with his increasing nervousness. “But people are thinking you might be the type to permit thertain libertieth. I don’t think tho, but you thouldn’t encourage him.”

  Zel would have liked to glare him down, but he did not lift his eyes to hers again. Without another word she started walking back to her aunt.

  Melbourne lightly took her elbow, keeping pace with her long steps. “Mith Fleetwood, I didn’t mean to give inthult.” He hesitated. “But I thought you thould know.”

  Zel nodded a dismissal and strolled absently back to her aunt. It was unfair to kill the messenger. Maybe he was right, she had wondered if she was doing something wrong, but could the whole problem be her association with Wolfgang? She suspected earlier that his obvious attentions would not be entirely for the best, yet how much harm could he do? No one had seen more than a too-close waltz and a broken goblet several nights ago.

  Could people be so ruled by gossip and rumor? But Zel couldn’t help beginning to feel that his reputation undermined her own. She asked a servant for directions to the retiring room, and she walked along the indicated hallway. Footfalls sounded behind her. She started to turn as a long-fingered hand gripped her arm and another pressed lightly against her lips.

  “Zel, I wanted to see you alone.” Before she could reply, Wolfgang whisked her into a small anteroom, shutting the door behind them.

  “What did you—?” She never finished the question. His lips feathered over hers, his hands locked tight on her arms. “Wolfgang …,” she whispered as his mouth left heated patterns across her eyes and cheeks.

  “You talk too much, kiss me.” His lips found hers again, with a force soft yet binding as a spider’s silken web. She could not move, think, or breathe, trapped by his firm, mobile mouth. Her lips parted, absorbing the seductive deliriant he exhaled. Intoxicated, helpless to resist, she entered his embrace. Wolfgang drew her mouth into his own, twining her in his arms. His hands stroked her back and shoulders, cocooning her, insulating her from the outside world, holding her so she felt only his touch.

  Liquid fire swept through her veins, incinerating all willpower and self-control in its path. Her arms circled his waist. Zel pressed her body against his, molding herself to his hard, angular lines. A rough, guttural sound escaped from deep within him. His hands grasped her derriere, molding her to him. He bit at her lower lip as he rocked her, hip to hip. A thin fiber of fear spun through her chest, she slipped one hand between them, pushing at his stomach.

  He groaned, rocking her faster, harder. “By Mephisto, Zel. What you do to me.… Do you feel it too?”

  She felt it, distinctly. “No!” The filament of fear expanded to thread, rope, cable, heavy and binding in her chest. She tried to struggle but she was only a tiny moth, caught in his net. Zel pushed at him again. “No!”

  Wolfgang stilled. His mouth left her lips, his arms lightly circled her waist. “Ssshh.”

  She snatched free a hand and scored her nails down his cheek. Wolfgang sucked in a breath and dropped his arms, staring at her, dazed, as his hand smeared blood across his cheek and jaw.

  The knot in her throat strangled her cry, as she whirled about, bolting through the door. Zel skirted the edges of the ballroom, vaguely aware of the need to avoid notice. He followed. She knew it and could think only of escaping him, the ballroom, the house. Upon reaching the entryway, she stopped, sending one footman for her aunt, another to summon a hack. She slid into a corner, but he found her and moved to touch her.

  “No!” Zel shrank back from his hand, her voice low and hoarse. “Do not touch me.”

  Wolfgang stopped, inches from her. “Zel, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “No, I’m not sorry.… Devil it, I don’t know. But there’s something between us. Why do you fight it so?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “No. I want an answer.” She felt trapped, wedged securely in her corner, immobilized by his long, muscular frame.

  “You know my situation.” She paused, moistening her lips. “I must make a good marriage and you are ruining everything.”

  His eyes rose from her mouth to her eyes. “I’ll help you.”

  “How can you help?” Zel forced a thick layer of scorn into her wavery voice. “I know you have no interest in marriage.”

  “I’ll help you find a goddamn, old, feeble husband.”

  She heard a gasp. They
both turned to the sound to find her aunt, Lady Selby, and Lady Melbourne and her son circling them, their eyes riveted on Wolfgang’s cheek and her bloodstained gown. How much had they heard? By their faces, more than enough. She might be a naive fool, but she knew they would interpret his last remark as a plan to marry her off to gain free access to a bored wife or widow.

  Zel looked to her aunt. “I want to go home.”

  Aunt Diana moved to her side, placing a firm arm around her shoulders. “Julianna, may we take your coach?”

  “Of course, my dear.” Lady Selby gave Wolfgang a cold look. “My coachman may return for me later.”

  Wolfgang’s eyes were on her, hard, searing, but Zel did not back down. She held his stare, her voice harsh when she spoke. “Go wash your face. You are bleeding everywhere.” She stood tall, walking into the cool evening air on her aunt’s arm.

  By the time they reached the carriage for the ride home, she was shuddering with the effort to hold in her tears, shaking from the center of her chest. Here was the violence that terrified her. This attraction was too wild, too passionate, too uncontrolled. It embodied the very same lack of control that led to the violence in marriages like that of her parents, her aunt, and her maid.

  Sinking into the carriage cushions, she tucked her feet up beneath her legs. She had been as consumed by the kiss as he, but her fear had erupted when he wouldn’t let her go, when he was so lost in desire he did not recognize her struggle. Zel had felt completely overwhelmed by his size and strength.

  But then he stopped.

  He stopped.

  Oh, God. Her hand went to her cheek. She scratched him, drew blood, like some rabid alley cat. After he stopped.

  Zel wrapped her arms tight around her ribs, a vain attempt to contain the wild swirl of emotions inside her. Fear, she easily identified. But fear was only one of those hurricane force emotions. And whom did she fear more? Wolfgang or herself?