The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  “And that man out there on the stallion, he is an example of the worst sort.” Zel tightened her lips in smug satisfaction. “He is an undisciplined, voracious barbarian. Worse still, he finds his most deplorable traits to be humorous.”

  “Miss, you—”

  “I do not find him humorous in the least.” She bravely parted the curtains to face her foe. “I find him a pitiful creature. His persuasions will never prevail against my will.” She watched instead the little white-haired valet who rode with surprising grace and stamina beside the centaur. The centaur, of course, spotted her and smiled.

  The journey to Abingdon, including an overlong luncheon stop, continued in near silence, a silence that Zel felt compelled to breach only with an occasional heartfelt treatise on the character of the centaur, and her complete indifference to the beast. And if she cared to leave the curtains open to enjoy the view, it mattered little, as she showed the beast with a haughty nose in the air when he turned to smile at her.

  Damn that crooked smile! It symbolized all his impossible attractions: the recklessness, the boyishness, the touch of danger, the humor, the sensuality, and the tenderness. All the things she desired and feared. She felt herself a swimmer, caught in a riptide, sure to drown if she allowed herself to be carried out to sea, equally sure to drown if she fought the tide and exhausted herself before she could make the safety of shore.

  Zel leaned stiffly into the cushions, shutting her eyes tightly, like a child feigning sleep. She doggedly refused to move, despite the carriage seat’s arrhythmic thumping against her tailbone and the perspiration pooling beneath her breasts.

  Days rather than hours seemed to pass before the groom helped her alight from the carriage in the Staffords’ gracefully curved drive. Wolfgang handed his mount over to a groom with barely a look in her direction, giving not the slightest indication of lending his assistance.

  Zel took Maggie’s arm, her long stride causing the little maid to run to keep pace. As she passed him, Wolfgang took a step toward her. He did not take her elbow but allowed her gown to slide over his outstretched leg. Zel suppressed an urge to stomp on his toes, an action sure to do damage to her slippered foot, while only scuffing the polish of his black riding boots. He followed her up the steps and into the elegant three-story half-timbered Queen Anne mansion, his step so close at her heels she feared he would tread on her hem.

  She was introduced to the guests gathered in a large rose-and-beige drawing room. She knew few of the company, but the ubiquitous threesome of Newton, Melbourne, and Lady Horeton greeted her with mocking affability.

  Zel took a seat by the window, scanning the room for Wolfgang from beneath her lashes. As she turned back to the doorway she found her face inches away from tan breeches and a chestnut jacket. Following the firm line of his chest upward, she met that unholy smile playing on his generous lips and crinkling his silver eyes. She hid the color rushing to her cheeks from him by twisting back to her hostess.

  “Lady Stafford, your home is exquisite,” she murmured, aware of the warmth of Wolfgang’s body beside her chair. “I have always admired the Queen Anne style.”

  “I’ll be happy to show you the house and grounds tomorrow, Miss Fleetwood.” Lady Stafford’s wrinkled face creased in pleasure. “Now I will have you and Northcliffe shown to your rooms where you may rest a bit before dressing for dinner.” She nodded to the butler.

  “Thank you, Lady Stafford.” Wolfgang took several steps toward the door before swiveling back to Zel. “Coming, my dear?”

  She frowned at him, but rose and accompanied him through the door, his arm close enough to rustle her sleeve. But still he failed to take her arm as they followed the butler to her room.

  Before the evening ended Zel would have done anything to remove that exasperating grin from the infuriating man’s face. Throughout dinner his knee bobbed precariously close to her leg. Again and again she could feel it brush against her skirts, but the anticipated pressure of a direct touch never came. He chatted to the woman on his left, smiling so amiably Zel found herself dreaming vividly of the pleasures of kicking his shin.

  In the drawing room after dinner matters went rapidly from bad to worse. Whenever she turned he was there, a hair’s breadth away. As she sat straight, refusing to acknowledge his presence, she felt his breath stir her hair, his heat penetrate her clothing, his long fingers curl round the arm of her chair. Finally, tired and frustrated, she addressed her hostess. “I am still fatigued from the journey. Thank you for your hospitality, but I believe I will retire early.”

  “Certainly, my dear,” Lady Stafford gushed. “You must be rested for tomorrow’s activities. We begin rehearsals for our theatrical after breakfast.”

  “I’d be pleased to escort you to your room.” Wolfgang chirped in with obnoxious gallantry.

  As she stood to take his arm, he bowed deeply, ignored her arm, and indicated the door. She smiled coldly and swept by him. What was wrong with the man? Did he fear she had the plague?

  His footsteps kept pace with hers up the stairs. “I do hope you’ll have a marvelous time, Miss Fleetwood. The company tonight was a bit dull, but the Staffords are known to run with the fast literary and theatrical crowd, so the usual collection of poets, actors, and musicians will surely arrive tomorrow and the tempo pick up accordingly.”

  “It sounds most amusing, my lord.”

  “You’ve started ‘my lording’ me again.”

  “And you are ‘Miss Fleetwooding’ me.” Zel reached for the latch at her door. His body was so near, she reflexively leaned back, seeking the muscular warmth of his chest and arms. Stopping herself, she listened to the flow of his breathing, sure for a moment she also heard the pumping of his heart. She circled to face him. His eyes were hooded beneath his dark lashes, his mouth quirked at one corner. He lowered his head with painful slowness until his mouth hovered over hers.

  Zel closed her eyes reveling in the anticipated pressure of his lips molding hers, the moisture of his tongue claiming hers. She opened her eyes to find his eyes on her mouth, yet his own mouth floated a tantalizing distance from her own dry lips, never touching, only teasing her with hot, brandy-scented breath.

  She jerked away, desperate to be free of his fraudulent lure. Yanking at the latch, she strode into the room and slammed the door. She braced herself against the hard surface, whether to keep him out or herself in, she couldn’t be sure. As his footsteps retreated down the hall Zel gasped in an unsteady breath.

  What in the name of heaven was wrong with her? She seemed unable to control the slightest response around him. If she was not such a sensible woman, she would swear he was a sorcerer practicing his magic on her. She shivered, wrapping her arms about herself, holding on tight, warding off his spell.

  “Wake up,” Zel whispered, tapping Wolfgang on the forearm. His jaw hung slack, his head bobbed loosely on his neck, the arm on the sofa behind her, settled onto her back. He breathed slow and deep with a tiny rattle. He was going to snore.

  “Wolfgang.” She took careful aim with her elbow and rammed it into his ribs.

  “Eeoww.” He jumped awkwardly, slipping halfway off the sofa. Zel smiled, ignoring the stares of their fellow tortured listeners, watching as Wolfgang became aware of his surroundings and tried to inconspicuously resume his seat. “Vixen.”

  Her smile widened, the wretch deserved everything he got. “Stay awake, and listen.”

  He moaned softly. “Why are you punishing me?”

  As if he did not know. She looked straight ahead, the smile still dancing on her lips. A little revenge tasted so sweet, and he was due much more. Having to listen to the history of waterways and canals in rural England, with the occasional help of a tap or prod from her, did not come near to evening the score. She met his eyes, raising her brows. “But you told me Lady Stafford had such interesting guests.”

  Moaning again, Wolfgang pulled his long frame erect, his hand brushing her shoulder as he draped his arm over the sofa.


  The smile slid off her lips as she regarded him sourly. There was little of her he had not touched today. Those long wicked fingers, and other parts of his anatomy, had grazed, bumped, and slithered over her with most methodical chance. She had almost believed, at first, it was chance. Always in close proximity, partners at meals, audience in a tour for two of the Stafford mansion, ingenue lovers in the amateur theatricals, it was natural that they occasionally got in each other’s way. But after she had lost count of how many times his thigh brushed her leg, his knuckles skimmed the outer curve of her breast, his hip nudged her bottom, his shoulder stroked her back, and his elbow prodded her stomach, she could no longer deny his intent.

  Zel would gladly drown him in the nearest pond, or rush back to London to avoid his continuing siege. But a bargain was a bargain, and she would never withdraw in defeat.

  His lips were at her ear. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll agree to any other penance you demand.” Wolfgang tucked his hand round her upper arm, pulling her to her feet and toward the door. Allowing herself to be removed, she ignored the sly smiles that accompanied them from the room. She had nothing to fear from either him or the gossips.

  They made their way to a small salon at the far end of the wing. After seating Zel on a pastel green settee, he paced before her. “I hope you weren’t enjoying that attack on the ears and mind. I assure you Lady Stafford normally does engage more entertaining guests.”

  “Oh, ’twas not so bad. Anyone with a little intelligence—”

  “Are you saying I’m without intelligence?” Wolfgang whirled to face her, voice low and harsh. “Well, you wouldn’t be the first or last.”

  “I never said—”

  “I don’t care what you damn well said. I can see the cogs turning in that bloody bluestocking mind of yours.”

  “Wolfgang, I—”

  “You, my father, and all the cursed scholars.” He leaned over her, eyes sparking like flint on steel. “I’m not stupid.” He straightened, stalking to the small plastered fireplace.

  Zel moved silently behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever is wrong?”

  He shrugged her hand off, but she remained close at his back. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, with an almost wistful quality to it. “Nothing. Old memories. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I jumped on you.”

  She touched the sleek, black hair lying against his neck. He twisted, moving into her hand like a cat being petted. Lifting her fingers, she traced the bolt of silver at his temple, studying his rugged profile. “No one would call you anything less than brilliant. Your sharp humor, your grasp of philosophy and politics, your knowledge of music, all show the fine mind behind those inquisitive eyes and thoughtful brow.” Her fingertips trailed across his forehead, outlining the arch of his eyebrows.

  He turned fully to her, his chest grazing her breasts, his eyes glittering, hot and bright. “You wish to comfort me?”

  Zel stepped back, lowering her hand to her side. “I …”

  “You?” Wolfgang prompted, matching her step.

  “I—” she took another step backward, sucking in a breath, “think you no longer need comforting.”

  He smiled, the dimple cutting his cheek, and edged his foot forward. “Oh, but I do.”

  She slid two more steps away from him, her back hitting the wall. “No …” She lurched toward the open room.

  His hand shot out, meeting the wall above her shoulder. “Yes.”

  Zel leaned back, squarely braced where wall joined wall. His other hand stretched out, cornering her securely. He rolled into her, thighs, hips, stomach, and chest, slowly, gently pressing against the length of her. The tingle started at her toes, then followed the trail his body had blazed up her own. She swayed, her head suddenly light as the hot air balloons at Vauxhall Gardens. She was held suspended, tethered in her corner, elevated yet grounded by the hard warmth of his body against hers.

  Wolfgang pulled away, the tether broken, but instead of floating free her balloon crashed to earth. Her back was not against the wall. She had been leaning into him so far that his sudden movement threatened to unbalance her. Zel flushed hot as she grasped his arms still braced at the wall beside her shoulders. His muscles bunched beneath her fingers as she fought to steady herself.

  Only when her balance, if not her equilibrium, was secure did she dare to glance at his face. His grin widened as his tongue crept out to moisten his upper lip. Lord, if he did not look just like the cat who ate the canary.

  “Thank you for the comforting, Gamine,” he murmured, then he swung away from her and was gone.

  As the door shut behind him, Zel seeped into a puddle on the floor, limbs thick and heavy as the densest Devonshire cream.

  “Damn him.”

  CHAPTER 12

  DITHYRAMB

  A frenzied, passionate choric hymn or dance in honor of the ancient Greek god, Dionysus

  The beginning of an excellent day. Wolfgang ran his tongue over his lips and leaned back, as far as he could without tipping, in the high-backed chair. Surveying the empty, sun-streaked breakfast room, he spread jam over his biscuit, licking the excess off his knife. In fact, the last two days couldn’t have gone better. He’d soon have her lapping cream out of the palm of his hand.

  The first day it had nearly killed him to be constantly in her company and not touch her. But he was amply rewarded that night outside her bedchamber door. She’d looked at his mouth as if it held such a rare and precious nectar she would die for a sip. He bit into the biscuit, holding the morsel motionless in his mouth, savoring the slow blending of butter, fruit, and bread before chewing thoroughly. It had taken all his restraint, but he had touched her only with his eyes.

  He licked the corners of his mouth. Satan’s silk stockings, he could have sworn her lips swelled and reddened at his visual caress.

  And the second day. Wolfgang lifted his cup and let the coffee flow through his lips, the sweet, pale liquid gently scalding his tongue. He pressed the burning tip to the roof of his mouth. The “accidental” touching had her first confused, then angry, but lastly hungry. She had rubbed against his body as Hecate would rub against his leg when begging for a special tidbit of food. He would have been happy to find something to her tastes but instead stepped back letting her see the answering hunger in his eyes but allowing neither to gorge. The deliciousness of the eventual feast would grow in tandem with the craving. And he wanted her ravenous.

  The only low point had been his tantrum over her slur of his intelligence. But it hadn’t really been a slur. He had just been overly sensitive to an offhand remark. Or maybe he cared a little too much what she thought of him.

  The door creaked and a sleek, sable-haired head popped in, hazel cat eyes blinking at him in surprise.

  “Gamine, come in and have a bite.” He smiled broadly as he met Zel at the door. “It seems we’re the first up to enjoy this spread. I’ll prepare you a plate.” He took her hand before she could make good the escape he saw in the set lines of her face. Eyes never leaving hers, he raised her hand to his lips, stopping just before contact was made. Then quick as a snake strike he flicked out his tongue, tasting the back of her hand with its tip. She jerked free, anger and something else flashed molten gold in her eyes. Wolfgang’s smile widened as he seated her next to his chair.

  “What would you have, my dear?” He bowed as he waved a plate over the sideboard. “Before you is a magnificent breakfast array. Pastries, biscuits, eggs, bacon, and …,” he paused, sighing dramatically, “strawberries and clotted cream.”

  “I will have toast and coffee.” Zel sat primly in her mahogany chair.

  That stiff back, it was so encouraging. He clucked his tongue. “We’ve a busy day ahead, you must take proper sustenance, and the Miss Fleetwood I admire is nothing if not proper.” He piled strawberries and cream on a plate, placing dry toast to the side, laying it before her with a flourish.

  Zel looked at him with disgust. “I did not ask for strawberr
ies.”

  Wolfgang snatched the toast, slathering it with butter and jam. He set the dripping bread back on her plate, deliberately licking the excess jam off the knife.

  “You have the manners of a pig.”

  “Why, thank you, ma’am.” He speared a cream-covered strawberry from her plate, slid it into his mouth, sighing more deeply than before. “Food fit for an emperor. Try one.” He skewered another berry and popped it into her gaping mouth before she had time to object. He could almost see the thought cross her eyes that she would like to spit it out, but a lady would never display such ill manners at table. He watched her chew and swallow the delightful fruit as if it were a dry stalk of straw. By all the big devils and little demons, she was a stubborn wench.

  “I said no berries.” She eyed the toast, cut off a wedge, and tried to lift it as jam oozed over the edge. Catching a drip with his finger just as the toast entered her mouth, Wolfgang smeared the glob of jam over her lips. With careful precision he inserted his gooey finger into his own mouth, sucking it clean, while she dabbed at her lips with a fine linen napkin.

  Zel stuck out her pointed chin. “Who let you out of the nursery, little man? You’re not ready to dine with your elders.”

  He laughed, putting aside ideas of what he’d like to do with that chin and the ripe lips perched above it, contenting himself in watching her negotiate a truce with the sticky toast.

  He poured her a cup of steaming coffee. “Cream?”