The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  Zel nodded.

  “Sugar?”

  Again she nodded.

  Wolfgang stirred. “I like it pale and sweet, too.” He handed her the cup, studying her smooth white skin as she swirled the light brown liquid in the china cup. “I’ll let you eat in peace if you’ll do one thing.”

  “Oh?” She looked up, wary eyes half hidden under mahogany lashes.

  “Feed me a strawberry smothered in cream, and I’ll leave.”

  Zel reached for her fork.

  “No, with your fingers.”

  “Fine.” She gingerly pinched a strawberry between her thumb and finger, dipping it in the cream, then leaned toward him. He opened his mouth, eyes on the berry making its slow approach. As the berry passed his lips his teeth came down on her forefinger and thumb, trapping their tips in his mouth. Zel neither jerked free nor flinched, but closed her eyes when he relaxed the grip of his teeth, holding her only with his lips as he teased off every trace of clotted cream with his tongue.

  Zel rounded the corner, making her way down the western most wing of the monstrously huge mansion, scarcely believing she sought Wolfgang’s company so soon after that strawberry breakfast. But they needed to rehearse. Though he may not care if they made fools of themselves in the performance tonight, she did. Every time she tried to trap him to read his lines he found a way to distract her, but not this time. The butler had looked at her strangely but admitted Lord Northcliffe’s suite was the third on the right. She raised a hand to knock, stopping when she heard a cultured tenor voice read the closing lines to the play. Wolfgang’s deep baritone repeated the lines, hesitating at one point until prompted by the higher voice.

  “I believe you nearly have it, Captain. If we review again before dinner, you’ll be ready.”

  “Thanks, Jenkins. What would I do without you? Now to find my ingenue lover.”

  The door opened before Zel could lower her hand.

  “Speak of the devil.” Wolfgang grinned, but he was unusually flushed. “Or should I say angel? What brings you to my door? I could dispense with Jenkins and devise a little tête-à-tête.”

  Jenkins hurriedly set down the play script. “Sorry, Miss Fleetwood.” He nodded to her before moving from the sitting room to an adjoining room. Rank certainly had its privilege. An earl warranted a sumptuous suite, whereas a mere miss earned a single small bedchamber with her maid far away in the attic.

  “I hope I did not disturb your rehearsal.” She stared at Wolfgang, who looked like a boy caught with his hand in the candy jar. “We need to rehearse together.”

  “Most certainly, my dear. Jenkins was helping me learn my part.” Color still high, he took her hand, twisting it palm up. Cupping it over his mouth, he breathed deeply onto the gloved skin. Warmth curled in her hand, then his lips were at her bare wrist, and although his mouth only grazed her flesh, his hot breath scorched her, moving in a searing trail up her forearm. He paused at the inner curve of her elbow, the pressure of his lips increasing until she felt her skin being pulled into his mouth. A tingling sensation pooled below her stomach.

  Wolfgang smiled innocently and released her arm. “Have I set the mood adequately for our rehearsal, ‘Angelica, my sweet young lover’?”

  She willed the tingling to cease, quickly following his lead. “Indeed yes, ‘Wilfred, my heart’s delight.’ ”

  “Let’s move right into the final scene. The kiss cannot be perfect without practice.”

  “No. The ingenue kiss requires naive freshness.” She had grown wise to his tricks. “Rehearsal would destroy it entirely.”

  “I bow to greater experience.” He bent slightly, but Zel saw the sudden silver spark in his eyes. “Miss Ingenue.”

  “Blast it all, Wolfgang, isn’t it a bit early in the day for womanizing?”

  Zel whirled about to face the gravelly voice, sucking in her breath at the sight of the man filling the doorway.

  “Freddie!” Wolfgang answered in a low growl. “This is Miss Fleetwood.”

  “Oops.” The man stepped into the room. Zel had never felt so small. He scanned her with eyes such a clear blue she half expected to see clouds scatter across them.

  “This great oaf is Sir Frederick Ransley.” Wolfgang glared at the big man. “My supposed friend.”

  Ransley bowed over Zel’s hand, eyes still following her. “Charmed, ma’am.”

  “Sir Frederick.” Zel returned his stare, studying his square sun-bronzed face.

  Ransley still wore his travel-stained cloak about his massive frame, and his breathing was labored. “Wolf, I’m on my way through Abingdon to Cheltenham. I need to talk to you.”

  “What’s in Cheltenham that has you in such a lather?” Wolfgang reached for the larger man’s arm. “Have a seat, I’ll ring for refreshments.”

  “We need to talk, and I need to be off quickly.” Ransley eyed Zel again.

  “I am past due for a promised game of battledore with Lady Stafford.” Zel slipped toward the door. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  Wolfgang glanced rapidly from Ransley to Zel. Something was afoot between the two men, and although her curiosity was piqued, her presence was not wanted. She shut the door behind her, ignoring the urge to press her ear to the heavy wood, in what would probably be a futile attempt to eavesdrop.

  Wolfgang stretched out full length on the blanket, watching the clouds sweep in and out of whimsical shapes. “Look, it’s a berry tart.” He pointed out the fluffy imitator.

  “You have food on the brain.” Zel laughed.

  “Among other things.” His eyes followed her hand as she raised a half-eaten sandwich to her lips. “Give me a bite.”

  “Get your own.”

  “I want a bite of yours.”

  She leaned toward him, sandwich in outstretched hand. “Here, finish it. I’ve had enough.”

  “Feed it to me.” He enjoyed her blush, waiting for a sharp remark.

  “Feed yourself.” She abruptly laid the sandwich beside him. “Once bitten, twice shy. Besides, I wish to walk by the stream.”

  Wolfgang lowered his lids, listening to the rustle of her skirts as she stood and walked away. He’d let her get a head start then join her later for a private tryst by the water.

  His shoulders and neck jerked, snapping him into sudden awareness. Damn, he’d dozed off. He sat, shaking off the fuzziness in his head. The sun shone warm on his face, his skin slightly damp beneath his clothing. He glanced about. Most of his fellow picnickers were still eating, so he hadn’t slept long.

  Wolfgang strolled with deliberate languor to the brook. No sign of Zel. Spotting some rocks and fallen logs upstream, he made his way along the bank. A smile tickled at his mouth as his foot struck a sky blue slipper. Blue stockings and a straw bonnet lay close by. He clambered over the logs, spying the matching blue of her gown dead ahead. Zel perched on a large flat boulder, skirts hitched to her knees, feet dangling in the clear water below.

  He ducked behind the trees lining the brook, stealing along the bank to her side. Her face was tilted toward the sun, eyes closed, lips soft, relaxed. Her toes lightly tread the water, splashing it into sparkling droplets and ripples.

  Slipping to the opposite side of the rock, Wolfgang stooped to the water, scooping the liquid in his palm. Zel turned to the sound and he flung the water into her face. She gasped, and skirts in hand, slid off the rock into the shallow stream, spattering water at him with her free hand.

  He laughed at her futile efforts, tossing a double palmful of water at her chest, eyes following the wet trail as it ran over her breasts, the thin fabric of her bodice clinging like a second skin.

  “You wish a battle?” She tucked the hem of her skirts into the sash tied high above her waist, and legs spread wide, beckoned him onward. After one long look from her bare calves to her disheveled hair, he stepped into the brook and flooded her with water. She desperately flung water back at him, but was soon soaked. Kicking a final stream in his direction, Zel turned and stumbled up the bank. A c
ry told him her tender feet were no match for the rocks and twigs. Wolfgang jumped the boulder and in two strides caught her up in his arms, carrying her to a sunbathed meadow, lowering her among grass and wild daisies.

  “We need to dry off before going back.” He spread out beside her, eyes riveted on the curves of her body so beautifully revealed by the wet gown. His eyes lowered, tracing the sleek lines of her still-bared calves. A spot of bright red grew between the toes of a long slender foot.

  Wolfgang sat abruptly, grasping the chilled foot in his hands. “You’ve cut yourself.” He pulled a damp handkerchief from a jacket pocket and wiped away the blood. “The wound is minor, Gamine. But one so injury prone as you should always keep a physician close at hand. At your service, again, my dear.”

  Zel pulled hesitantly, in a half-hearted attempt to free her foot from his clasp. “Stop, my foot is fine!”

  He wrapped the handkerchief around her toes, but did not release her. With one hand firmly at her instep, his other hand stroked a line from heel to shapely calf.

  “Wolfgang!” She warned, trying to sit, but he unbalanced her by lifting her leg higher, pushing her wet skirts up past her knees.

  As his lips brushed her ankle and traced her graceful arch to her toes he could hear the harsh rasp of his own breath. He met her startled eyes, sparkling green and gold in the sunlight, and pulled away the handkerchief, touching his tongue to the dot of blood welling up between her smallest toes. It tasted of salt and copper. He took the tiny curved toe into his mouth, sucking gently, studying the texture with his tongue.

  A faint giggle escaped her lips. “What are you doing?”

  Wolfgang ran his tongue under her toe while his fingers grazed the soft flesh beneath her knee. Her giggle deepened as she wiggled free of his hold. He made no attempt to regain his grasp, watching her slither away. When she realized he was not pursuing, she stopped, yanking her skirts from her sash, modestly covering her legs. He smiled at the toes peeking out beneath the provocatively wet fabric.

  “You stay over there.” Zel shook her skirts, plucking a daisy and laying back in the grass. “My toes need no more of your attentions.”

  He chuckled, sidling closer, but settling a companionable distance from her. “Relax and enjoy the sunshine. We’ll be sufficiently dry to join the others soon enough.” He pulled off his soggy boots and jacket, then rolled onto his side watching as she smiled and raised the daisy to her nose. His plan of relentless attack and retreat had worked too well. She was securely caught in his sensual net, laughing over intimacies that only days ago would have shocked her. But he was just as securely caught.

  Freddies’s visit earlier today should have at least slowed this headlong pursuit. How could he think of wedding and bedding a woman when he might be murdered at any minute, and by her brother? But he could scarcely think of anything else.

  Wolfgang closed his eyes. Freddie was on his way to Cheltenham to ferret out a lead on the suspected ringleader of the footpads. The suspect was a down-on-his-luck ex-dandy of the ton, now living at the nether edges of society. But Wolfgang didn’t know him from Adam or Eve. Freddie surmised he must be a hired thug, likely to turn on his employer at a word of threat or a flash of gold. Employer! Damnation and the devil’s tail, he prayed it wasn’t Robin.

  Lifting his lids a hair, he peeked at Zel. She was still lying on her back, a lazy smile playing about her lips, the daisy in her hand now bereft of most of its petals. Wolfgang stared in hopeless fascination, as the remaining petals drifted one by one onto her breasts and stomach. Brothers and murderers be consigned to hell, he would have her for his own.

  “I’ll go after them.” Melbourne rose, brushing a wrinkle from his puce jacket, as he looked toward the stand of beech trees by the stream. “He thouldn’t be alone with her for long, you know.”

  “Oh, Melbourne, don’t be an idiot.” Isadora allowed a touch of irritation to show on her face as she sipped her warming champagne. “She can take care of herself. Can’t she, Newton?”

  “An intelligent woman such as she can handle a man like Northcliffe.” Newton’s long, sensual face twisted in his semblance of a smile. “But we’re nearby to help, if needed.”

  “Well.” Melbourne straightened the rug, resuming his seat. “I thuppothe you’re right. It ith awfully gentlemanly of you to take an intereth.”

  Isadora smiled at the young fool. “Newton is nothing, if not a gentleman.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Newton smoothed his mustache, his faintly nasal tones deep and silky. “You would always recognize a gentleman, wouldn’t you, dear Isadora?”

  “That Northcliffe, he ain’t no gentleman,” Melbourne whined. “I don’t underthtand what women thee in him.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Isadora laughed, patting Melbourne playfully on his padded shoulder. “Don’t even try to understand, at least until your lunch is digested.”

  “Now, now, my dear,” Newton murmured, then redirected his attention to Melbourne. “I believe what she means is you must leave the courting of Miss Fleetwood to Northcliffe.”

  Melbourne blushed. “But I wathn’t—”

  “Why, Jeremy, dearest.” Isadora purred, “are you developing a tendre for her?”

  Melbourne’s color deepened. “Well, I …”

  Her laughter pealed out. “Oh, this is rich.”

  “Isadora.” Newton’s warning came across clearly, but he pinned Melbourne with his cold dark eyes. “I do not want you to interfere with Northcliffe and Miss Fleetwood.”

  “But, I would thave her from more thcandal.”

  “No.” Newton’s harsh tone sent a pleasing little ripple of fear up Isadora’s spine. Melbourne, uncharacteristically, was pushing too hard. A tiny twitch played at Newton’s lips but he softened his tone. “You could be a great help if you’d keep an eye on our Miss Fleetwood. Be her little shadow and report back to me her every move.”

  “Angelica, light of my life, love of my heart.” Wolfgang swooped down, pressing his knee to the floorboards of the makeshift stage, one hand on his heart, the other reaching out beseechingly. “Come away with me, tonight.”

  Zel raised a hand to her brow, turning dramatically to the audience. “Would that I could, but my life is not my own.”

  “You owe nothing to your evil uncle.” Wolfgang stood, hauling her roughly to him. “Be my wife and he will command you no more.”

  “How can you want me?” She bowed her head, voice cracking, as rehearsed, in fear and grief. “What can I offer you?”

  “Yourself.” He lifted her face with gentle fingers at her chin. “All I ever wanted was you.”

  “Oh, Wilfred, my love.” Zel collapsed into his arms.

  He tilted her head, bringing his lips ever so slowly to hers, meeting her mouth with deliberate coolness and detachment. No burning press to mold and possess, instead he steeled his mind against thoughts of her, filling it with mathematics and … sheep. Yes, pages of meaningless numbers and worthless theorems and acres of smelly, noisy, stupid sheep.

  Applause and laughter caught his ears. He drew away from Zel. She tripped slightly, but he took her hand, leading her in their curtsey and bow. “You missed your calling, Miss Fleetwood, your performance would put Mrs. Siddons to shame.”

  She laughed, but the forced sound did not hide the questions in her eyes. “And yours would dwarf Kemble’s best, Northcliffe.”

  He guided her off the ballroom stage, and they strolled triumphantly through the congratulations of the milling guests.

  Wolfgang filled a plate from a buffet supper laid out near the terrace doors. “It’s too warm and crowded. Come with me.” Balancing a bottle and the plate, he slipped his free fingers about hers, pulling her through the glass doors, across the garden. He tested a small door then drew her into an overgrown, moonlit conservatory. Seating her, he placed the food on a tiny table, drawing another chair close.

  “A feast fit for a vagabond princess. No glasses, no silverware, only a shared plate in the mo
onlight.”

  Zel smiled warmly. “A vagabond princess and her wild gypsy lord.”

  He caught his breath, returning her smile, eyes caressing the pale loveliness of her face. “Gamine.” He stopped, slowly exhaled, and centered himself, back on task. “Crab cake?”

  Zel nodded, confusion reflected in her eyes as she took the fragrant morsel. Son of Satan, she might as well be confused. He certainly was. Wolfgang didn’t understand what he felt for her. The desire was clear; he knew desire. But these other warm sensations in his chest and stomach when she was near or even when he thought of her … And those damnable urges to take her in his arms and just hold her, he couldn’t fathom at all. The only emotions even approaching these were what he had felt for Gwen and what he felt for Grandmama. But he bloody well didn’t see Zel as his sister or grandmother.

  He shook his head and reached for another little seafood pattie. This whole business was entirely too strange and he wasn’t at all sure he liked it, except when he touched her and looked into her eyes. Then and only then did it make any sense.

  Wolfgang bit into the crab cake. The thought of spending a lifetime with her became more alluring every day. He admired her intelligence and humor. There was also a sense of stability and loyalty about her that somehow appealed to him. And of course the passion, which he knew would be expressed not only in sensuality but in a zest for life. There was something else, something in her eyes when she’d called him her wild gypsy, something beyond sex or companionship, something that he’d seen in her before, that nagged at the back of his mind and scared him silly. Beelzebub’s bootblack! If he continued in this vein, he’d soon be mistaken for Byron or one of his romantic, poetic, idiotic set. He was best off staying in the physical rather than the metaphysical realm.

  Wolfgang scooted his chair the remaining inches until its arm touched the arm of Zel’s chair. “Mushroom?” Plucking the pickled delicacy from the plate, he leaned over the chair arm, ignoring Zel’s hand, dangling the brown button before her mouth. “Open up.” Surprised at her obedience, he paused a moment before sliding it into her waiting mouth.