The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  She stared at him, dazed, for several moments, then answered his smile, whispering his name.

  His laugh caressed her gently. “Demonstration complete, an undisputable shiver of the third kind.”

  “I don’t understand why you are doing this.” Isadora sounded like a truculent child. “He’s such a fool over her you’ll only force a marriage.”

  Newton circled her chair and gave her a scathing look. No wonder Northcliffe had thrown the woman over so quickly. Her charms were not sufficient to overcome the grasping, stupid, all-encompassing self-interest. “Do you think so?”

  “She is a nobody, and not even that attractive.”

  “You gravely underestimate her attractions, my dear.” He smiled, seating himself on the polished mahogany chair next to hers in the small salon.

  She sniffed, her aristocratic nose lifted high. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose, and her figure adequate. But she’s an Amazon, entirely too tall and unfashionable.”

  “Not all men care that a woman be a slave to fashion. She is more than pretty and her figure is far beyond adequate.” Newton scanned the length of Isadora, emphasizing her lack of height. “Many men like a tall woman. Those long legs. But there is more than appearance to consider.”

  Isadora frowned. “Men want a beautiful woman on their arm and in their bed.”

  “But to hold a man of intelligence, a woman must have more than the latest fashion plates up here.” He leaned over, tapping lightly on her forehead.

  “But men hate bluestockings.” She seemed truly puzzled.

  “Isadora, there’s little more exciting than the surrender of a woman of intelligence, strong will, and fire.” Pulling a cheroot out, he watched a glimmer of comprehension float over her eyes.

  “Oh, I see, you are talking of the chase enhancing the eventual submission.”

  He lit the cheroot, drawing deeply of the smoke, exhaling slowly. “In part, dear Isadora, in part.”

  She turned her head to avoid his smoke. “But I still don’t understand why you wish to force marriage.”

  “I don’t believe I ever said I wished to force a marriage.”

  “Then what do you plan?”

  “Do you wish Northcliffe happiness?”

  “No, but what has that to do—”

  Newton cut in. “I wish to muddy an already murky situation.” He flicked the ash off the end of the long cheroot. “Northcliffe and his lady are always together and her brother’s debts are paid, but I’m certain she is still a virgin.”

  “I don’t understand,” Isadora whined.

  “Neither do I, my dear. That’s the problem.” He laughed sharply. “He could have her now, with or without marriage.”

  “Then wouldn’t he be a fool to marry her?”

  “That is the very question for which we will soon have an answer.” Newton smiled thinly. “She’s truly a woman on the verge. And your old lover is pushing her over the edge.”

  “How can you be so sure?” She pouted.

  “After what I saw last night, I’m sure.” He took another drag.

  Isadora looked like one of those irritatingly eager little lap dogs. “What did you see?”

  “Only a little tête-à-tête in the garden last night.”

  “Details, details!” Only her voyeurism could outdo her envy.

  “Jealous, my dear? Do you still pine for the man?” He could never resist a dig at her vanity. Isadora couldn’t bear to think a man could ever prefer another to her, while at the same time she wished all the details of his love-play with that other.

  Isadora tossed her head arrogantly. “You know he threw me over. I don’t care a lick for him anymore.” Her eyes gleamed. “What did you see?”

  “I don’t gossip unduly about ladies, but even with my experience and jaded tastes, I was quite stimulated.”

  “So that explains your ardor last night.”

  “I suppose it does. There had to be some reason for it.” Newton blew a smoke ring in her face. “My plan tonight requires your assistance. I need you to keep the good vicar entertained and at ready tonight, while I do the same with Lady Stafford.”

  “But, what do you think will happen?”

  “Everything, my dear. Miss Fleetwood plays Beethoven at the musicale.” He flicked ash at the hem of her skirts.

  Isadora stood, shaking her gown. She frowned at him but held her grip on their conversation. “Oh, and what is the significance of that?”

  “Watch Northcliffe while she plays. You’ll see.”

  “Newton? Lady H?”

  “Melbourne,” Newton whispered. “That young pup with his calf love could ruin everything. Keep him occupied tonight too, if you have to sit on his lap. Better yet I’ll give him a job to do. He can betray his love.” He raised his voice as the young fop poked a pointed nose in the half-open doorway. “Melbourne, come join us. We were just speaking of your favorite subject.”

  “Ah? My favorite thubject?” Melbourne sauntered in, striking a pose at the window.

  Newton blinked. Gads, he could be blinded by the way that bright purple ensemble reflected the sunlight. “Miss Fleetwood. She is snared in Northcliffe’s net and we are desperately seeking the means to save her.”

  “We mutht protect her. How can I help?” Melbourne’s face glowed with pathetic zeal.

  “Could you keep a watch on them? Not too close, mind you,” Newton warned. “Let me know if they leave together.”

  “Yeth, yeth, then what?”

  “You may follow them, if you can do so discreetly. Then return to me with their whereabouts.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll handle it from there. Don’t look so crestfallen.” Newton smiled grimly, restraining a laugh. “What happens next could be dangerous. Northcliffe’s not a man to tangle with.”

  “But I would fight for her.” Melbourne stood to his full height, straightening his cravat.

  “You must stay away from Northcliffe, avoid injury.” Newton exchanged a glance with Isadora. The idiot made her look a scholar. “You must be there to comfort her when all is done.”

  Wolfgang closed his eyes, willing them all away, but when he peeked, the crowd remained, eavesdropping on the music Zel played for him alone.

  Appassionata. Beethoven was a man of the flesh. This piece combined with Zel’s fire and physical nearness played on his senses with all the power and drive of her assault on the keys.

  He brushed her arm as he reached to turn the page. She smiled at him, the same sloe-eyed smile she’d given him last night in the garden. The smile that heated him from toes to fingertips. He’d come up in the world this week, almost equal to Beethoven in her passions. He grinned. Could he ask for more?

  But the promise of something more lingered within the ocean of green in her eyes. A promise he’d seen before, never comprehending its full meaning. Now part of that meaning was clear. She was his. After her performance he would ask her to be his wife, and this time she would say yes. A damn good thing, at the rate things were going he’d never last the rest of the week. He’d convince her of the wisdom of a special license, waiting a month to read the banns would be unnecessary torture.

  Wolfgang shoved his thoughts aside, allowing the music to pull him in, focusing on the complex piece flowing effortlessly from her long, nimble fingers. The forceful notes thundered against him like a fierce storm, and the soft notes enveloped him like sea mist at dawn.

  Zel poked a discreet elbow in his ribs, and he roused himself from his trance long enough to turn the page and return her smile. He didn’t make the best musician’s assistant, but it was her fault. How could he concentrate on the little black marks on the sheet while she transformed them into a pure, seductive force that swirled about him with the danger of a hurricane?

  He breathed a sigh of relief when the last tone reverberated through his chest. The physical and emotional effort of her playing left him unaccountably winded and sated, as if he had been caught completing an intimate act. He slip
ped his hand about her upper arm, penetrating her fever with a squeeze. “Make your curtsey and come with me. We need to talk.”

  She nodded as she accepted the applause. He guided her slowly from the gilt-and-cream music room, careful to blend well with the other guests adjourning to the drawing room and terrace, graciously accepting congratulations. Eventually they made their way down an empty hallway through a slightly ajar door into a small salon, lit only by the moonlight pouring through undraped French doors. He would convince her he was not like the other men in her life, then make his proposal.

  Wolfgang inhaled abruptly, locking the door behind him. Turning to her, he started his speech on the exhale. “I hope you don’t think me like your father—”

  Zel cut in, placing her hands firmly on his shoulders. “I should hope not.” She skimmed one hand around his neck, pulling him down to meet her lips.

  “We need to talk,” he breathed into her mouth.

  Laughing, she captured his eyes as she momentarily freed his lips. “You talk too much, kiss me.”

  “Devil take us.” He moaned, surrendering to the insistant pressure as her mouth molded to his. The proposal could wait, neither of them were going anywhere. Running his hands the length of her back, he crushed her breasts to him. As he backed her to an oversized sofa, he claimed leadership of the kiss, deepening it to taste the soft recesses of her mouth. He ran his fingers through her hair, scattering pins about them.

  Her low laugh filled his ears as they tumbled onto the sofa. He shifted his weight, lying half on, half off her long slender body, patterning kisses across her eyes. Zel retaliated with lips skating along the line of his jaw, ending in hot circles in the whorls of his ear. Ah, the woman was a remarkably fast learner.

  He yelped when she nipped too hard on his earlobe. Fire and brimstone, perhaps she needed to work a bit on finesse, but her fervor was all he could wish. Eagerly taking her mouth, he scraped his tongue along those sharp little teeth, while his fingers dislodged the smooth silk at her shoulders to expose the silkier skin beneath. He inhaled her scent and eased his lips slowly down her throat to nestle in the soft curve joining neck and bared shoulder. Her fingers wedged between them, working at the buttons of his waistcoat and the edges of his control.

  Blood thundering in his ears, Wolfgang pressed his teeth softly into her throat as he lowered her bodice and chemise in one swift motion. She arched into his hand, transforming his light touch into a bold possession. He rasped out a breath, stroking the sleek mound, gently pinching and rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Her breath escaped in a purr as she tugged at his rumpled cravat. Jerking the offending neckcloth free, he gazed at her bared breasts, glowing with enticing perfection in the dim light. He lowered his head to the tight bud in his hand.

  “Ah, Zel,” he murmured, as he took the hardened nub into his mouth, tracing its pebbly texture with his tongue. Her hands continued their work at his chest, intent on releasing him from his shirt. Suckling and nibbling at her breasts, he studied the firm contours of her rib cage and the flat plane of her stomach with an unsteady hand while she desperately fought his shirt studs. He knew her success when her heartbeat raced and her fingers smoothed the hairs on his chest. Pulling his shirt wide, he clasped her to him, rubbing against her naked breasts, nipples hot and hard as glowing coals against his skin.

  Whatever snippet of control Wolfgang had left snapped. He hauled her skirts up her legs. The skin above her stockings was soft and warm. He could lose himself forever in her endlessly long thighs. Her skirts edged farther upward, the prize within his grasp but for the flimsy barrier of her drawers. “Lucifer’s inferno! I hate these things. Take them off.”

  Incredibly agreeable, Zel ripped at the tapes that fastened the offensive garment to her petticoat, her voice at his ear broken and husky. “Not so difficult.”

  With a growl he yanked the tubular pieces of cloth down and off her legs, tossing them over the back of the sofa. His fingers quickly refound her thighs, rubbing in ever wider circles until his knucles brushed the curls at the juncture of her legs. Smiling at her rapid intake of breath, he outlined the soft triangle with the very tips of his fingers, finally skimming her tender cleft. He dipped a gentle finger into the folds, pleased with the moisture there and with the little whimpers his lips followed up her throat.

  Wolfgang took her mouth roughly, plunging his tongue as deeply as he wished to plunge into that other passage. Her fingers tangled in his hair and her hips thrust into his hand, intensifying his touch, negating any thought he might have entertained to slow things down.

  As he nipped at her lips, his restless hand wedged farther between her legs, massaging her swollen flesh until she writhed beneath him. With painstaking slowness, he eased one finger deep inside her. “Do you like that, Gamine?”

  Her moan was the only affirmative he needed, and the lone finger sunk to the palm. She tightened around him and he tightened in painful response. Stroking rhythmically in and out with his finger, he circled his thumb around the centerpoint of her pleasure. His skin tingled when the first shiver slivered through her. Increasing the pace of his intimate caress, he whispered, “That’s right, Zel, let it happen.”

  Wolfgang lifted his head, looking into her hazy, passion-drugged eyes, then bent to draw a taut nipple into his mouth, seizing it between his teeth, teasing it with his tongue.

  Her body stiffened, rigid as stone, then with a cry, a shudder rushed through her he could feel down to his toenails. He clung to her, savoring her tremors of pleasure, relishing the depth of her response to him.

  Nudging her legs farther apart with his knee, he unfastened his pantaloons with clumsy urgency. “Satan’s horns! I can wait no longer,” Wolfgang rasped. The moist warmth of her flesh, as he positioned himself, drew him inward. He stopped, breathing hard. If he didn’t slow down he’d injure her and kill himself.

  “We heard a cry. Is anyone hurt?”

  Wolfgang raised to face the intruding voice. The cords of desire threading through him clenched into a heavy knot of dread.

  Rector Nibbleton and Lady Stafford stood stiff as statues in the open French doors, moonlight casting their long shadows deep into the room.

  CHAPTER 14

  BRAVURA

  A musical passage requiring superior agility and technical finesse

  A chill shifted over Zel as the last wave of pleasure quivered through her. What was that strange voice and why was Wolfgang mumbling unintelligible words in her ear?

  “Please give us a moment to collect ourselves.” He seemed to be speaking to someone other than her. As he slid part way off her, she could see two figures by the leaded glass doors. They faced outward to where another person stood.

  Wolfgang pushed up, fumbling with his pantaloons. “Pull up your gown.”

  She stared at the dark hairs on his chest, hairs that moments before had tickled her breasts. He jerked her to her feet, swatting down her skirts, yanking up her bodice. Zel watched him button the studs of his shirt, his fingers trembling slightly, his mouth and eyes grim. “Straighten your hair.”

  Patting the hair tumbling about her shoulders, she wondered where and when the hairpins had gone. She spotted several on the settee, a few more on the floor. Lord, a drawer leg. Snatching it up, she scanned the room for its other half Wolfgang saw it first, draped over a neighboring chair, and stuffed it into the waistcoat he was fastening. She was by his side in two strides. “I’ll take that.”

  “No.” He took the matching leg from her, adding it to his waistcoat. Pushing aside his hands, she grappled for the garment.

  “Ahem.”

  Zel whirled to see the rector approaching, disapproval etched in his face. “Rector Nibbleton.” Scarlet heat marched rapidly up her chest and neck to her hairline.

  “Miss Fleetwood,” the Rector began, his voice piercing as a steeple bell.

  Wolfgang took her arm. “This is entirely my fault. Miss Fleetwood is blameless.” He pinched her gently. “I set out
to seduce her, but will do my duty as a gentleman and wed her as soon as arrangements can be made.”

  Zel sputtered, rising anger making her inarticulate.

  “I’m sure you understand,” Wolfgang continued smoothly, “that my betrothed and I need to speak privately.”

  “I will remain nearby, on the terrace,” the Rector sniffed, escorting Lady Stafford through the French doors to join the third person standing in the shadows.

  “Newton,” Wolfgang gasped beside her. “Damn the man.” He drew her down to face him on the settee, still warm from their aborted coupling. “Zel, I’m sorry it happened this way.”

  “Sorry!” She choked back a scream. “I will not be forced or tricked into marriage.”

  “You goddamn little fool.” His voice was very quiet and harsh. “I didn’t purposefully try to seduce you. I told the vicar that to protect you.” His grasp on her arms was beginning to hurt. “Don’t you understand this is now beyond your control?”

  “No, we can—”

  “By all the fires in hell, you make me wild.” His hands tightened, then he suddenly relaxed his grip. “We can do nothing but marry and quickly. If we don’t, you’ll be ruined, completely, irretrievably. I won’t allow that to happen.”

  Zel squirmed, unable to free herself from even his loosened grasp. “I can go to the country, live quietly, the gossip will die soon. I do not care what the ton thinks, anyway.”

  “I can’t believe you are truly this naive.” He eyed her coldly. “Everyone, not just the ton, will cut you now. You’ll be labeled a whore. No one will receive you.”

  Her ribs contracted about her lungs, forcing the next words out in a gasp. “No! You are wrong. People who know me will not judge me so harshly.”

  “They’ll judge you, and condemn you.” His voice and eyes softened. “Zel, I know about this. I was a pariah after my wife’s death, the subject of endless gossip and scorn.” He released her arms, taking her hands in a gentle grasp. “For you it’ll be worse. It’s always worse for a woman. Think about what you’ve already endured.”