The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  He fed her cheese, dried fruits and tarts, delighted as she popped a few tidbits in his mouth. She even guzzled champagne straight from the bottle. Finally she signaled him to stop before he pushed a last apricot through her half-closed lips.

  “One more sip left.” He handed her the bottle.

  She raised it to her lips, clearly savoring the last gulp, emitting a soft, ladylike burp as she lowered the bottle. “Pardon.” She chuckled, low and musical.

  “I’m appalled at your juvenile manners, Miss Fleetwood,” Wolfgang teased, throwing this morning’s words at her. “Who let you out of the nursery?”

  Zel stared at him, then let loose a full-bodied, rolling laugh. He tossed back his head joining her laughter until his stomach and jaw ached.

  She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes, gazing at him a little shyly, as if they had shared a deep intimacy.

  He stood, trapping her feet between his, clasping the arms of her chair. “Zel.” He bent closer, perusing sea-green eyes dazed with champagne, full lips moistened with food and wine. This kiss would not be tempered by mathematics or sheep.

  Her mouth was soft and yielding. He explored the texture of her lips, slowly, from corner to corner. She pressed harder, molding her lips to his. He flicked out his tongue. Her mouth opened, tongue grazing his, boldly outlining his teeth and lips.

  He held himself still, relishing the myriad textures of her mouth, the lingering bittersweet taste of the sparkling wine, and her ever-present gingerbread scent. As he edged back she leaned toward him, dragging his tongue into her mouth. With a shudder he gripped the chair arms, maintaining the distance between them with a force of will that surprised him.

  Wolfgang withdrew again, and she followed, leading him further into the depths of sensation. Inch by inch he worked away from her, inch by inch she eased forward to keep him, until she was nearly out of the seat, refusing to sever the contact between them.

  He jerked free, at the nether limits of his control, ready to dispatch his plans to the devil. Zel slumped back into the chair, eyeing him warily, a deep blush revealing her awareness of her role in the kiss.

  Dropping into his own chair, putting more distance between them, Wolfgang focused on her hands as they curled in her lap. His strategy was working better than he ever dreamed. But could he maintain it until the battle was won?

  Jenkins polished off the remnants of his supper, continuing to study the tiny redhead across the table. Maggie, but what was her last name? Usually a lady’s maid was called by her last name, but Maggie was always Maggie, most likely to keep that devil husband off her trail.

  The captain hadn’t said much about her after the day they’d run off the brute. Imagine attacking women in daylight on a city street. The man was an animal. Miss Fleetwood was taking care of the frightened little thing, and the captain kept an eye on her too. Even so he felt an old feeling begin to stir, a desire to protect, to hold her, cupped in his hand like some small flame-crested bird. He grinned. She was a bit like a bird, so petite with quick, graceful movements. But her plumage glowed brighter than the female of the bird species normally sported.

  She’d smiled shyly at him a few times at meals or passing in the halls, but had scarcely uttered more than a handful of words. How could she be other than frightened of him? With her experience of men, and his own hideous face.

  He’d looked up again and caught her soft green eyes on him. He flashed his toothy, white grin at her, and the corners of her mouth turned up, ever so slightly, before she looked away.

  Lingering over a cup of tea after everyone had left, he considered approaches. What would not cause her to flutter away in panic? Jenkins pushed back his chair and stood, surprised to see her hovering, ready to flee, in the doorway.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea, Maggie?” His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the deserted room. She would bolt.

  “Yes, thank you.” Maggie’s voice trilled, barely more than a whisper.

  He held out a chair across the corner from his, seating her with a flourish. “I believe you take your tea plain?”

  “Yes, thank you.” The words came out a little stronger, but this had the makings of a one-sided conversation.

  Jenkins filled a cup for her and warmed his own, searching for a safe topic. “The Staffords have a lovely estate, though it’s not as fine as Cliffehaven.”

  “Cliffehaven?” Her question moved a little above a murmur, some hope here.

  “Yes, the captain’s estate.” He paused at her puzzled expression. “Excuse me, I rarely use his lordship’s title. Cliffehaven is Lord Northcliffe’s estate, by the sea. It is not your conventional country manor, but it is surprisingly beautiful in a wild kind of way. Suits the captain, it does.”

  Maggie sighed softly. “Perhaps I’ll see it someday, if my mistress …”

  “Yes, if your mistress?”

  “I’m not the kind of servant to gossip, but …”

  “But?” He coaxed.

  “Oh, well, you are his valet and I am her maid, I suppose they have few secrets from us.” She lifted her teacup with a delicate hand. The tiny hand that had gripped his in the coach after he had driven her husband away.

  “No secrets.”

  A little storm passed over her brow and the words burst out. “Why can’t they admit how they feel and just get married?”

  “I think the captain made a few strategic mistakes, which instead of winning him the war served to heat up the battle.”

  “He doesn’t seem a fool.” Maggie was clearly more than a bit perturbed. “Why doesn’t he patch it up?”

  “I believe that is what he is doing.”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem to be working.” She tossed her head. “She complains of him more than ever.”

  “She does?”

  Maggie gazed into the teacup so seriously, Jenkins wondered if she might be reading the leaves. “She does, but I wonder.” She looked absently into his eyes. “I think she may be softening. Much as she complains, maybe she is truly enjoying this week. But she’s still afraid.”

  “Afraid of the captain?” Jenkins stopped a laugh. “He is a dangerous man to some but tender as a lamb to her.”

  Now it was Maggie’s turn to stiffle a laugh. “A lamb? Lord Northcliffe?” She took another sip of tea, a frown pulling at those rosebud lips. “He may not be a lamb, but I believe he would not hurt her. Convincing her of that is another matter.”

  A chance to help the captain win his lady and spend more time in the company of this sweet creature. Wasn’t he getting a bit too old for all of this? He looked at Maggie’s winning little face. No, not too old at all. “Perhaps it is an undertaking we should try.”

  Zel jerked awake, shivering convulsively, wiping the sheen of perspiration from her forehead and upper lip, her other hand reaching to her breast. It was covered by the fragile lawn of her night rail, the nipple beneath budded tight, the surrounding flesh swollen and tender. She blinked back the shadowed visions that flashed in her mind. Dream images of a shaggy-haired wolf stalking moonbeams, luminous silver eyes glowing hot in the dark, long tapering fingers stroking her bare, pale skin.

  She cried out in near pain, dashing from the bed to the nightstand. With shaking hands Zel poured water into the basin and splashed the night-cooled liquid over her face and neck. Tearing at the ribbons, she yanked her night rail over her head. The sharp morning air hit her body hard as a fist, followed by the cold water she ruthlessly tossed over her shoulders and chest. Water and energy spent, gasping for breath, she stood, allowing the remaining skin-heated droplets to trickle down her, skating over her breasts, belly, and thighs in a soft caress.

  Looking down at her wet body in the predawn light, Zel studied the well-known, yet suddenly strange, lines and curves. What did Wolfgang see when he looked at her? She had spent little of her life in the company of men other than her brother and father, and had encountered desire in a man’s eyes only a handful of times before. She recognized it now. He liked
what he saw, and he had certainly seen much more than he should.

  Two tiny streams joined at the tip of her breast, dripping slowly off the puckered nub. He had suckled at that nub, drawing so hard she had felt strands of shimmering tension run through her torso, clenching together at the juncture of her thighs.

  Zel followed the dribble of water as it hit her leg, streaking down her long thigh, skimming about her knee, racing across her shin and ankle to converge with the growing pool at her toes. She closed her eyes as the trickle of water filled her with memories of the brush of strong, slim fingers.

  A large drop slipped between her breasts, sliding quickly across her flat stomach, hiding in the dark down at the base of her abdomen. A twin drop flowed the length of her spine, nestling between the curves of her derriere. Zel shuddered, skin suddenly hot where he had previously touched her only through layers of silk and lawn.

  How would it feel to have his eyes, hands, and mouth on her naked flesh, everywhere? Leaving not a single inch bereft of his searing touch. Lord, she would never survive it. She would spontaneously burst into unquenchable flames. When she married him, he would make himself a widower on their wedding night. When she married him … not if, when.

  Sighing, Zel reached for a drying cloth and rubbed her chilling skin briskly. She would marry him. She would share his bed, bear his children, host his political dinners, and pray like hell that she was not absorbed totally into his life, a pawn to his expectations and desires, with nothing left belonging to her.

  She could no longer deny she wanted to be part of his life, to connect with him both in and out of the marriage bed. But she could not be the wife most men demanded. She could not compromise and compromise until she had sacrificed all that made her who she was, becoming a shell of a woman as her mother had. Wolfgang had told her in many ways that he respected her mind, admired her views, and supported her work. But marriage could change all that. Once she gave him legal rights over her, as her husband, he would own her as surely as he owned his phaeton and grays. Under the law she would cease to exist as a separate person, and any power she held would be that granted by him.

  Shivering, suddenly very cold, Zel pulled on her robe, belting it tightly. She was afraid. But she would say yes when he asked again. If he asked again. No, he would ask again, even if she had to hook him with a few of his own lures.

  Her decision was made. She had known when he sucked her toe. She sat down hard on the stool before the dressing table. Damn, wasn’t there something at least a little odd in that? The man sucked her toe, and did she push him away, strike him, or resist him in any way? No, she giggled. Giggled like a schoolgirl as he laid the final death blow to her defenses with that devilishly clever mouth of his.

  CHAPTER 13

  TOCCATA

  A free form musical piece with full chords, swift runs and lofty harmonies; from the Italian “to touch”

  “Why the devil are you squinting so?” Wolfgang walked Zel away from the open lawns to a hedge-shrouded bench to await their next turns with the bow and arrow. “Where are your spectacles?” He looked back toward the small group of archers, barely visible through the thick greenery. “Is that damn Melbourne following you again?”

  Zel flopped onto the bench, pushing her hair back off her brow. “I have not seen Lord Melbourne all morning, and I can see well enough without my eyeglasses, thank you.”

  “Now that I think of it, I haven’t seen your spectacles since I returned them to you.” He stood beside her, one foot on the bench at her hip. “This vanity isn’t like you, Zel.”

  She fixed a hard look on him. “It is not vanity.”

  “Then where are your spectacles?” He persisted. “I’ll send a footman for them.”

  “I have been unable to get new ones since the old ones were broken.” She looked at her hands. He followed her gaze, watching as her long, slender fingers intertwined.

  “But certainly it doesn’t take that long to get new ones, or at least get the old ones repaired?” Wolfgang ran a knuckle along her jaw. “I don’t mind if you’re a little vain, you know, but it is important for you to see.”

  “I am not vain.” Raising her eyes, she met his gaze squarely. “I cannot afford them. I spent all my extra money from my allowance for the rest of the year on frippery for my season.”

  “Are your finances that bad?”

  Zel frowned at him. “You saw my accounts. You of all people should know how bad my finances are.”

  “Yes.” He looked away. “My man of affairs handled that.” He sat close to her, returning his gaze to her face. “I know you didn’t spend large sums at the modistes or milliners. Your money went to merchants for food and household supplies and to your few servants to cover their wages, in advance.”

  “I covered necessary expenses first, of course, but I had a few coins left.”

  “How are they entered in your books?” He gripped her elbow.

  She squirmed under his intense grasp and gaze. “Under miscellaneous personal expenses.”

  “No, I do remember enough to know that the only sizeable entries were the household accounts and wages.” He levered her closer. “I should have put this together before. When I first met you, you were gowned in little better than rags. Now you have such a lovely, costly, albeit unusual wardrobe. Where did it come from, Zel?”

  “A gentleman does not concern himself with the source of a lady’s gowns or their cost.” She tried to pull away.

  Wolfgang clutched her other arm, hauling her nearly to his lap. “I’ll ask what I please as your family’s financial guardian. And I have the right to honest answers.”

  She gazed at him coldly, only the golden flames in her eyes reflecting her anger. “Do you think I stole them?”

  “Zel, don’t play with me. Are you protecting Robin again?”

  “Damn.” Zel’s spine went limp as she slumped against him. He released her, wedging his arm around her shoulders instead.

  “You need to tell me—” He stopped. Her shoulders were shaking. He lifted her face to his. God, the minx was laughing. “What, in Lucifer’s name, is so funny?”

  “I should have known … you suspect poor Robin,” she blurted out between gales of laughter. “I thought you thought I … bloody thief.”

  Wolfgang shook her gently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you a thief.”

  “You thought Robin … thief … I bought bargain thread, ribbon … raided aunt’s attic … her coming out clothes.” Her laughter rang so out of control she was coughing and hiccupping. “Nearly fifteen years old … you pompous … ass. Small wonder—” she choked, “Robin hates you.”

  He glared at her, giving her another little shake. “Stop this. Compose yourself.”

  Zel tried to stare him down, but dissolved into another wave of hilarity. “… see yourself … pompous ass.”

  Wolfgang watched the tears streaming down her cheeks. He was behaving like a pompous, overbearing, overprotective ass. And she was developing the language of a sailor. His lips twitched as he zeroed in on her, drawing her rapidly into his embrace. But the resistance he expected did not materialize, and the force of his attack laid them out on the hard bench.

  He twisted about, sprawling her on top of him, taking her mouth deeply, fiercely, without gentle preliminaries, swallowing her hiccups and giggles. She wiggled, rubbing her hips into him, slipping her arms beneath his shoulders. He slid one leg over the backs of her knees, as his hand at her derriere pressed her into his arousal.

  “Wolfgang,” she whispered, burrowing into his chest.

  By all the brimstone in hell, he’d like to yank up her skirts and bury himself so deep in her it would take an army of Welsh coal miners to dig him out. He choked back the growl rising in his throat, stilling his marauding mouth and hands. Why was it so damn difficult to keep to his plan? To give her just a taste and make her come for more. Around her he acted no better than a randy schoolboy out to tumble the nearest dairy maid. But he didn’t want a quick tum
ble in the hay with Zel. He wanted her first time, their first time, to be a prelude to their life together, filled to overflowing with tenderness and ecstasy.

  “Zel?” Wolfgang eased her off him, scrambling to his feet, reaching to pull her upright. She swayed slightly, as dazed as he at the sudden onset then abrupt interruption of passion. He brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt and pushed a few pins more securely into her hair. Half the house party thought they were having an affair. They didn’t need to convince the other half. “You look a bit rumpled, but you’ll do.” He tugged at his jacket, smoothing the fabric over his chest. “Come, Gamine, squint all you wish, only please hit the target this time. We’ll replace your spectacles when we’re back in town.”

  She should have brought her music. She would have remembered it if she hadn’t been so furious with Aunt Diana and Emily and Wolfgang. Zel was never without it for so long, and now to be asked to perform and to depend on the taste of strangers.… She scattered another pile of sheet music.

  Haydn, Handel, Clementi, Haydn, Purcell, Haydn. Wolfgang called this a fast crowd and not a Beethoven in the house. No, here … a sonata and another. She eagerly pulled the scores from the stack. Pathétique and Appassionata. “Oh, Lady Stafford, forgive my rash tongue, you are a saint among women,” she murmured, settling the familiar music on the pianoforte. Either could be ready in the two days before the concert. More notice would have been nice but no longer necessary.

  Pathétique she knew would play well to this audience. Appassionata, a more recent and challenging piece, might be doing it a bit strong. She spread out the former and eased into the first movement, soon absorbed by the relentlessly haunting melody. She stumbled over a few complicated sections, but halted to catch her breath only after the last note was played. With that breath came a well-known scent, an untamed smell of oak and birch, tall grass, horseflesh and saddle leather.

  “I should have known to look for you here.” His voice sounded just above her head.