She pushed against him, one final demand. His hand slipped back to her thigh, lifting her leg and placing her knee over his hip bone. The head of his cock, startlingly hot, brushed her entrance. “Yes,” she breathed. “Now.”
He slid his hand beneath her drawers and cupped her bare bottom in one large hand, while the other he laid across her back, his hand cradling her head. And then, very slowly, he pushed inside.
Twelve days. He was larger than she’d remembered. She could feel her body’s brief resistance before she remembered how to take him, so broad and blunt, demanding nothing but submission. Very gradually he pushed into her, so gradually, as though every infinitesimal fraction required its own moment of decision, of request and consent. He shifted in the darkness—using the shelves to brace himself, she realized, while he used his own bone and muscle to support her. And then he pushed once more and seated himself completely inside her.
Her head fell back into his palm. She felt pinned, held down, immobilized as he thrust into her steadily, aggressively, filling her without hesitation, his face a darker shadow over hers in the darkness. If the closet had been smaller, if he could have held her even more closely in his grip, she would only have welcomed it. Make me yours, she thought as she gripped him to her. Never let me go.
Her climax came over her quickly, and as fiercely as the emotions in her breast. She clenched around him and he gave a soft, low moan in reply, and then pushed into her harder, and harder yet, and set up a steady, pounding rhythm that made her own satisfaction extend, spreading out in ripples and quivers, ebbing from her like a sweet dream as he sucked in his breath and came.
Afterward, his lips turned into her neck and he spoke very quietly. “Not purgatory after all,” he said. “Not with you here. Idiotic of me to think otherwise, even for a moment.”
And deep inside her, that small, cold kernel of doubt began to melt. Against his forehead, she smiled.
They returned to the ballroom separately, Gwen going first. Her mission, so they had agreed, was to find the twins and pull rank: as the bride-to-be, she was certainly entitled to demand an early night’s sleep.
She paused on the edge of the floor, mask now atop her head in a strategic decision—to disguise, or account for, the disorder of her hair. The crush seemed to have grown even thicker, and the air now held the distinct tang of sweat and alcohol. The Cornelyses must be overjoyed; no host could declare his party a success until the air began to grow foul.
“So the bastard finally saw it through.”
So absorbed was she in scouring the crowd that the familiar voice barely registered on her at first.
And then she stiffened and glanced sidelong.
Trent stood beside her. He wore a mask, but she could not mistake him. He had a small birthmark at the corner of his mouth, very distinctive, the shape of the African continent.
The last time they had spoken, she had been engaged to him, still. After the note he’d sent breaking it off, she had not wished to hear his voice again, much less give him the honor of hearing hers.
She looked behind her for Alex, but if he had come back already, he had entered through the far doors. He could not be far off, though; they were meant to find each other again as soon as possible. He had suggested this. He did not wish to be parted from her: that was the only conclusion she could draw from his suggestion.
She smiled. She would pretend as though she hadn’t heard Trent’s remark, whatever on earth he’d meant by it.
But he had the bad taste to speak again. “I would pay good money to be with Pennington when he hears this news,” he said.
Now no doubt remained that he was speaking to her. She bit her lip very hard.
He laughed suddenly. “Why, you have no idea, do you?” he asked. “You should see your face right now. What did you think—that I broke it off of my own free will?”
She would not give him the satisfaction. She would not.
“You always were a bit thick.” Incredulity flooded his voice. “But affection aside, you knew how badly I needed your money. I can’t believe you never wondered.”
She whirled on him. “Sir, I do not know why you are addressing me, but you will cease to do so at once.”
His brows lifted high, clearing the edge of his black domino. “Of course. Do accept my felicitations on your marriage, madam.” Sweeping her a low bow, he turned on his heel, checkered cape swirling, and walked off.
She stared after him.
He was lying, of course.
But to what end?
A hand touched her arm. She gasped and whirled. Only Alex. Alex. He was smiling at her, but a frown quickly overshadowed the smile. “What is it?” he asked, glancing past her, searching the crowd. In vain, of course. Everybody was masked. Not everyone knew a man well enough to pick him out by a small birthmark. Perhaps only fiancées and wives could do so. Those who had laid a claim, a personal claim, of their own volition, and had cause to learn such small things.
Three million pounds. Alex’s hair was rumpled—from her fingers, as only she knew; from her kisses, from the moans she had breathed into his hair just now.
She had wondered—had raged—had asked herself again and again what could have driven a bankrupt man away from three million pounds. Had asked herself what was wrong with her.
Nothing. That had been her answer, in the end.
Everything about you is right.
“What is it?” He searched her eyes, his own so light, such a light and clear blue, that one could almost convince oneself they were transparent, truly the windows into his brain and heart and soul. His hand was gripping her arm; she did not know when he had taken hold of her. “Gwen, what is it?”
She could not believe this of him. She cleared her throat. She meant to speak strongly, to indicate with her tone how absurd she found Trent’s claim.
Instead, what came out was a whisper. “Was it you?”
At the top of the room, the orchestra was sawing into some wild melody, a reel, a schottische, something that made the crowd squeal, sparking a sudden rush into the dance, crushing bystanders back toward the walls, elbows and heels jostling and knocking her like so much flotsam into Alex’s chest. She took a step back, stamping on someone’s hem, eliciting a squeal that she ignored.
He did not answer her. He was staring at her with a look she could not decipher. He was so good at impassivity when it suited him.
She squared her shoulders. “Alex.” He lifted his hand as if to touch her cheek. “Are you the reason they jilted me?”
His hand paused, a hair’s breadth from her face.
He did not need to answer. The muscle in his jaw replied for him. He was clenching his teeth to bite something back. So much for fearlessness in the face of unpleasant truths.
So much for impassivity, too. At least she had that much satisfaction.
She turned on her heel. He caught her elbow and pulled her back. “Not Pennington,” he said. “I have no idea what happened with Pennington. There was nothing in his history, nothing in his relationships that would account for it—”
“In his history?” She gaped at him. “Alex, did you—did you set spies on my fiancés? As if . . . as if they were your business competitors?”
His hand fell away. “I made a promise to your brother,” he said flatly. “I did what I could to honor it.”
Disbelieving laughter scraped out of her throat. “Oh yes, so I see. You spied on these men—”
“I did nothing,” he said tersely. “I hired private investigators. Pennington turned out to be unobjectionable. Seemed to be, at any rate. Trent did not. So I intervened.”
“Intervened.” She shook her head slowly. “Intervened. You mean that rather than coming to me, sharing with me this mysterious knowledge of his . . . his objectionable nature—objectionable in your view, at least—”
“Syphilis,” he said curtly. “If your view differs, you are standing in a very peculiar place.”
“I don’t care what it
was!” Although, God above, that did explain his sickly appearance, and perhaps his indiscretion, too. She would spare a prayer for him tonight. “You did not come to me. You did not tell me!”
“I couldn’t—” He cursed. “I couldn’t be sure that you would . . .”
“Would believe you? Would show good sense? Would value myself enough to avoid sacrificing my health for a title?” She scoffed. “God above, you must think me the stupidest woman on the planet.”
“No.” His voice was flat now. “But could you blame me if I did?” So unapologetically he spoke. “Your choices in men do not recommend your intellect.”
Temper whipped through her. “Yes, so I see. How very stupid I must be. How else have I ended up engaged to marry you? A manipulative bully who sabotaged my wedding so you—so you could . . . what? How did you stand to gain from this? Or is it so obvious? I say, Alex—have you been having financial difficulties?” She heard the ugliness creeping into her voice, but she had no interest in dispelling it. Dear God—only minutes ago, she had been begging him to take her. To have her. This man who thought her too stupid to decide for herself what and whom she wanted! “You needn’t make the greatest sacrifice,” she said. “I am glad to offer my brother’s dear friend a loan. Marriage is not required.”
He looked now as cold and disinterested as though he were disputing with a stranger. “I assure you, Gwen, I do not require your aid. Unlike some, I plan very carefully before I enter rash ventures.”
“Yes, so you do,” she agreed. “And tell me, what does your careful planning entail? Threats? Blackmail? What did you use to drive Trent off?”
“He did not wish certain news to be made public,” he said evenly. “So I did him the favor of keeping it private.”
“Blackmail,” she whispered. She put her hand to her mouth to trap a laugh, but it came out anyway—wild, a little unbalanced. “Do you know what I felt—what I thought—how I doubted myself afterward! And none of it had anything to do with me! All that time . . . and then, when it happened again—I was so sure with Pennington—”
“Gwen.” He seized her by the shoulders, and for a shocked moment she thought he would shake her. But his fingers merely pressed her upper arms, each finger asserting itself distinctly, as if he was trying to imprint the pattern in her flesh. “Gwen,” he said, leaning in, perhaps so his quieter tone would carry amidst the revelry around them, “I swear on everything I hold dear—my sisters, my nieces, Richard, you—that I had nothing to do with the viscount.”
She stared at him, wondering desperately if she could trust his word.
How amazing. Only minutes ago, she’d been wondering if he could love her.
How sad that she found him easier to credit on the matter of the viscount.
“I believe you,” she said slowly. She tried to pull free, but his hands tightened once more. His expression was beginning to frighten her. He looked—grim, his mouth tense, his eyes hooded. As though he was folding in on himself, shuttering, shutting himself away.
“What does this change?” he asked. He spoke so flatly and rapidly that it took a moment to work out that he was asking her a question.
He was asking if the wedding was to be canceled.
She felt a pang of loss, a flash of panic, the sort of hot, deep spark that created firestorms. Alex, she thought. Smile at me. Tell me you love me.
On the heels of this thought, which her lips even opened to speak, came a lash of anger.
Again and again and again. How many times would she repeat her mistakes? Lie to me. Tell me what I wish to hear. Sing me sweet lies.
“Will you be at the altar tomorrow?” she asked. Her voice came out so coldly. It seemed to belong to some other woman, who never cried.
“Yes,” he said. His eyes never left hers. “I do not break a promise.”
Now, no talk of love. Now the talk turned to responsibility. “No,” she said. “You never do break a promise, I suppose. But there is always a first time. I encourage you to consider the novelty.”
“Gwen.” He spoke slowly and emphatically. “This is God’s own truth: I will leave the altar after you do.”
“I suppose we’ll find out.” She pulled her mask back over her face and turned on her heel.
This time, he did not try to stop her from leaving.
Chapter Sixteen
As Alex waited the next morning in his brother’s library, he almost hoped that Gwen did not show up. He hoped it for his own sake as much as hers, but not because he would make a poor husband to her. If she gave him the chance, he would love her more fiercely and constantly and creatively than any of the spineless bastards who had ever danced her across a sweaty ballroom or lifted their eyes to her on the street. And he did not hope it for his own sake because he had regrets about this path; he had seen himself too clearly now to imagine that freedom lay in flight, or to believe that any city across the world would ever awaken his exhilaration again without another pair of eyes, her eyes, through which to see it.
He hoped, then, as he waited and his sisters leaned over their husbands to chat with Lady Weston and various girl children gamboled on the floor and Gerard spoke in low, officious, threatening tones to the cowed minister, that she would not appear. If she appeared now, knowing what she did, knowing the one thing that Alex had thought to keep from her (because why should she know at this late date? She had not loved Trent; she would not have married him had she known; no harm had been done; the secret was old and expired and inert and harmless, like gunpowder left to rot on the ocean floor; also, he was a bloody high-handed idiot)—if she appeared now knowing that he had kept this from her, she came to marry a man who didn’t deserve her. And he wanted her only if she knew her own worth and deemed him worthy of her all the same.
He was a twisted bastard, and if he had a shred of honor in him, he would tell her to tell him to go to hell. If he had a single instinct of self-preservation, he would do the same, because he did not think their union would flourish if she went into it in this fashion. He would love her with all the intensity in him—but he knew himself well enough to know his own faults. Impatient and judgmental and stubborn and often too quick to act: he would try never to crush her, never to overwhelm her or bend her to his will, but if she did not demand only the best from him, it would happen. It might happen. Possibly.
A good man would have found a way to pull her aside and tell her these things. To warn her.
To hell with good men. They made for very sympathetic characters when they lost, but he aimed to win.
The door opened. Elma and Henry Beecham walked in, Gwen between them. She was dressed in a simple white morning gown, the neckline shrouded by a fringed white pashmina; in her left hand was a bouquet of pink roses. She met his eyes and held them as the minister crossed to stand behind the makeshift pulpit—a podium Gerard had purloined from his club. The twins exclaimed and came to their feet, pulling up their assorted daughters; their husbands remained seated, looking a bit puzzled, as well they might, about why such ceremony was required in somebody’s goddamned library. Alex was already standing at his station. He had been standing here for some time. He had not wanted to risk Gwen’s early appearance and an empty altar to greet her.
“Cue bridal music,” Caroline cried out gaily as Elma released Gwen. Henry Beecham, silver mustache twitching in what might equally have been a smile or a grimace, squared his shoulders and led Gwen the short steps to Alex’s side.
He could not read the expression in her rich brown eyes. Or perhaps he was misreading it, for to his mind, she stared at him as belligerently as any opponent in the salle d’armes. He took her hand, and her fingers tapped across his, a decisive little Morse code whose meaning he would give an arm to decipher. Her plump mouth was a flat, determined line.
The minister began to speak.
Her look seemed more and more clearly like a challenge.
“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife,” the minister began. Terribly nasal drone,
there. Like a hive of bees.
Her brow lifted as the minister fell silent. Alex had the faintest inkling of suspicion. “I do,” he said slowly.
The minister nodded and turned to Gwen. “Do you take this man . . .”
She nodded along as the question was being asked of her. When the churchman concluded, she glanced away to survey the whole room before returning her gaze to Alex.
“What a novel question,” she said.
The minister gave a visible start. “I beg your pardon?”
He was not mistaken. He knew what was coming. She was going to give him a taste of the panic she had experienced. A queer mix of feelings stirred in him—amusement and pride and love warring with regret and the inevitable disbelief. With an effort, he produced a droll tone. “She never has made it this far before,” he told the minister.
“No, never,” she said thoughtfully. Alex tried for a smile in reply, a silent message to her: You see how well I understand you?
But a moment’s doubt sabotaged his attempt at lightness. She looked to be biting the inside of her cheek. That he did not understand. Did she need the pain to control a smile, or to steel her will? But no act of will was required. Did she not realize that? He would give her as much time as she needed to decide, here. He would even sweat for her, if she would enjoy it.
“Well, miss?” the minister prompted.
“Speak, Gwen,” Elma said irritably. “This game is not amusing.”
Gwen took a breath. “No,” she said. “It is not amusing. None of it. I do not take this man to be my husband.”
Well. Alex exhaled.
That was a bit more than indecision.
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