The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  Almost before he realized his intention—certainly before he thought it through—he was standing in front of her, reaching down to draw her to her feet, bending his head to discover once again the sweet innocence of her kiss.

  “Peter…” She breathed his name in a quiet protest. “Please, don’t…don’t do this because you feel sorry for me. Please.”

  “Thea, believe me, pity is the very last thing I’m feeling.” He made no attempt to mask the desire in his eyes, no attempt to conceal the hunger building inside him and which she would surely recognize as her body came into contact with his. “What I am feeling is a very real, very strong desire to make love to my wife.”

  She looked at him, searching for the truth in what he said, wanting to believe he meant it.

  But he knew of only one way to prove it to her, so he gathered her into his arms and kissed her, full and forcefully, and with as much tender passion as he felt she could bear.

  Chapter Eight

  Thea didn’t know what she had expected, but she hadn’t thought Peter would kiss her. Or hold her. Or even be particularly subtle in refusing her request. She hadn’t had even an imaginary hope he’d respond with such…enthusiasm. A wedding night. How could she have known he’d agree to that? And why had he? She’d said it partly because she hadn’t liked his offering to keep her company, as if she were a child and needed someone to stay with her until she fell asleep. But mainly she’d said it because she needed to prove to her heart that Peter was a nice, good-looking guy who did not want her, either.

  She knew there was a certain look in a man’s eyes when he wanted a woman and recognized that she was willing. She had seen men look at her and decide they weren’t that desperate. And that’s what she had thought she would see in Peter’s wonderful green eyes, too. That same, no-thanks expression. A flicker of distaste. A blink of amused surprise that she would think he could ever desire her.

  But that is not what she’d seen.

  She had seen the other look. The one that set the very air aquiver and lingered in the silence like music.

  And now, his lips were coaxing her with kisses, as if he meant what he’d said.

  And his arms held her tightly, as if he wanted her close against him.

  And his hands. His hands caressed her, slowly, sweetly, as if she were a treasure to be handled with exquisite care.

  Ambushed by his tenderness, blindsided by her own desire, Thea didn’t know exactly what she’d expected, but she was oh, so glad she’d gotten this instead. If he suddenly stopped and pushed her away, realized what he was doing and with whom and rejected her outright, she’d still be grateful for this one glorious moment when he’d kissed her on purpose and with genuine passion. She didn’t mind if he’d manufactured the emotion just for the occasion. She only cared that for now, for this one tiny handful of time, he wanted her.

  Peter wanted her.

  So she concentrated on the feel of his lips on hers and lost herself in a kiss that was so sweet it stole her breath away. She hadn’t known a kiss could be so intensely soft, deliberately gentle and insistently sexual, all at the same time. She hadn’t known a kiss could convey so much and still leave so much to be discovered. She hadn’t known a kiss could make her wish for things she couldn’t even name. But Peter’s kiss upped the ante, sharpened her senses and turned time into one long, lovely loop of wonder. It was everything she’d ever imagined a passionate kiss might be, and nothing like she’d imagined at all. The other time, the first and only other time, there’d been few kisses and even less pleasure. Just a quick rush to fulfillment—his, not hers—and then it was over.

  So this was her first time in every way that counted, and she determined to fall into the moment and savor every particle of it. Being this close to Peter was the best part, the passion in his kiss a close second, but then, to the sweet sensations of his mouth on hers, she added the fragrant scent of orchids, and the sluicing sound of water sprinklers coming on somewhere outside in the gardens. There was the feel of his arms warm and strong around her and the solid line of the mattress against the backs of her thighs. Inside her, there was the crescendo of her own erratic pulse, and beneath her palm, there was the hard, fast rhythm of Peter’s beating heart. Ka-thud. Ka-thud. Ka-thud.

  She wanted to be able to remember these moments, these kisses, when she was alone again and memory was all she had. Tonight with Peter might be the most she ever tasted of pleasure, all she ever learned about a man’s desire. She had to live it all and remember it well. She had to dive into the experience with a whole heart and a brave spirit.

  Tentatively, because she wasn’t sure what was allowed and what wasn’t, she slid her hands up and around his neck, nestled closer, parted her lips and waited to see what happened.

  And what happened was that he gathered her in like a much-needed rain—one hand moving to cup the back of her head, one hand settling firmly in the curve of her spine—and drew her deeper into the embrace, tucking her pliant body into the hard contours of his. His tongue laved the inner outline of her lips and when she caught her breath in surprise at the heat that one simple act ignited inside her, he took advantage and plunged deeper into her mouth, turning the kiss from pure pleasure into a sweeping and carnal hunger.

  Thea hadn’t known it was possible to feel such a primal need. She’d never been touched like this, never suspected desire could be so exquisitely painful. She had always thought making love would be like jumping into an abyss, one wild impulsive leap and a fast, frantic fall into fulfillment. Her one jump into sex had been impulsive, fast, frantic and wildly unfulfilling. She’d been disappointed even before it was over and long before she discovered the betrayal. But it would not be like that with Peter. He would make love to her the way it should be made, give her this gift of memory so she wouldn’t have to wonder ever again.

  Thea kissed him back, deciding if this was her only chance, she would learn all she could, memorize every angle and slope and line of his body, investigate his taste and his texture, explore the ways he incited her response and figure out, perhaps, what she could do to evoke his. She would connect the dots of him and make for herself a lovely fantasy that she could call up whenever she wanted to remember what love felt like.

  Peter eased the pressure, pulling his lips from hers, only to feather kisses along her jaw to the hollow of her ear and down to the hollows of her throat. She arched her neck, trying to feel each of the shivery sensations in turn, trying to hold on to the delicious phenomena as long as possible. But each touch was new and set her on fire in a different way. How that was possible, she didn’t know, didn’t particularly care. She simply wanted him never to stop touching her, never to stop making love to her.

  He trailed kisses across her shoulder and wove his fingers into her hair, giving an almost painful tug against the pins, which somehow felt good, too. It was too much for one person to feel and she gave up trying to hold it all and let the crystalline fires burn what they would into her memory. She had never felt so good. Nothing had ever felt so good. Night and day, fire and rain, it all made sense to her now, was somehow all a part of Peter’s kiss, a part of what she felt for him. Please, she prayed to whatever gods would heed her. Please, don’t let this end too soon.

  Without any conscious intent, her hands traveled the muscular breadth of his shoulders, found the smoothness of his jaw and cupped his face within her palms, stopping the nuzzling kisses herself and bringing his face back to hers. “Peter,” she whispered because she wanted to feel his name on her lips and mark it indelibly on her heart.

  “Thea,” he whispered back, but there was a question in his eyes and hesitation in his voice. “Are you sure? We don’t have to take this any further.”

  “Yes, we do. Please, Peter, show me. Show me what love is like.”

  His jaw tensed against her palm and then he put his hands over hers and drew them down from his face, holding them within the shelter of his large hands, placing a gentle, fiercely exciting kiss on ea
ch of her wrists in turn, never taking his gaze from hers or allowing her gaze to wander from his. As if she wanted to look at anything else. As if she wouldn’t be content to stare into his eyes for the rest of her life.

  “Your eyes are so brown they’re almost black,” he said as if the discovery had been worth the wait. “I never knew that before. You’ve been hiding them behind those glasses.”

  True.

  “You hide your body, too, don’t you, Thea?”

  She nodded, because that, too, was true.

  “Why is that, Thea? What are you hiding from? Who are you hiding from?”

  But she could not answer, could not speak, could not tell him she had been hiding for so long she was afraid there was not enough left of her for anyone to find.

  “Don’t hide from me, Thea. I won’t hurt you. Let me see you tonight.”

  She was willing. She was more than willing. And so very afraid he would find nothing in her to see.

  But she’d discovered a vein of courage today and she tapped it one more time. “Show me what to do, Peter, and I’ll…I’ll try to please you.”

  He shook his head, bringing his hands back to her face, cupping, cradling her face and stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “Tonight, Thea, I will please you.”

  Then he bent to her again, his lips breaching the distance in a slow deliberate motion, touching and teasing and tasting her with his kiss until she was pulled up on tiptoe by the tension to kiss him back, to open her mouth and invite him in. She followed his lead as boldly as she knew how, touching her tongue to the corners of his mouth, sucking lightly on his lower lip. He groaned softly and the ache inside her became an emptiness that throbbed low in her belly, robbing her of fear, revealing a streak of truly wanton desire. She wanted this more than anything. She would have it or die.

  His hand slid like satin from her nape to her neck and down the bare slope of skin to brush across the top of her breast. She shivered as her nipples peaked with anticipation. If he’d touch her there, it would be enough. But when his fingers slipped inside the folds of silk fabric and tugged at her breast, she knew how foolish the thought had been. As if the erotic pull on her nipple would be enough. She wanted more. She wanted to rip the wedding dress, to feel it fall from her like too many inhibitions. She wanted to bare her body to his view and her soul to his. She wanted to touch his skin, massage it, kiss it. She wanted to take him inside of herself and make love to him as best she knew how.

  But even as the need grew within her, she felt him pulling away, taking his hand from her breast to put it on her shoulder, so he could turn her gently away. “I don’t want to tear your dress,” he said as if it mattered. Before she could tell him it didn’t, his fingers had already begun the unbuttoning, and the material was already drooping, sliding, falling across her shoulders, down her arms, over her breasts, to her waist, and pooling like moonlight around her feet. His breath caressed the back of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, and the series of kisses he left there sent shivers racing in so many directions she was amazed they all came to rest in the same low center core of her body. He explored the slope of her neck, his tongue tracing the path to the hollows behind her ear and she caught her breath lest just the act of breathing might stop him from doing more.

  “Give me a minute,” he whispered softly into her ear and she felt his absence immediately. What if he didn’t come back? Where was he going? Could she do something to stop him?

  She turned in time to see him close the door…and lock it. He smiled at her then and she trembled at the realization of how handsome he was and how special he was and how little she had to offer in return. But he shrugged out of his jacket, tugged off his shoes, and jerked off his socks, and she was mesmerized by the efficiency of his movements, by the sheer masculine appeal of them. He stripped off his black tie, and began unbuttoning the crisp, tucked shirt that gleamed white against his skin. And all the while, he smiled at her. A good smile. A tender smile. A smile that meant something.

  It wasn’t until he unfastened the studs at his wrists and tossed them onto the dressing table, that he walked back to her, the shirt hanging open to show a strip of muscled chest and the thin cloud of dark curls that covered it.

  Thea swallowed hard, unaware until the moment he stopped in front of her, that she’d been standing before him in nothing more than a strip of lace underpants and a push-up bra. At that moment, her first thought was that she owed Ainsley Danville a huge debt of gratitude that she, Thea, wasn’t standing before her new husband wearing underwear more serviceable than seductive. But her second thought, coming right on top of the first, was that Peter was looking at her with something very akin to admiration, and maybe—just maybe—it would be okay that she hadn’t thought to turn out the lights.

  His smile softened, but didn’t go away. “Could you help me with my shirt?” he asked, sending her heartbeat ricocheting from fast to speedy and back again.

  She couldn’t speak. She inhaled sharply and shoved her hands beneath the pleated cotton, surprised by the heat that met her palms, by the sensual texture of his skin and by the cool slick feel of the shirt. It was too late for him to turn and run. She’d tackle him if she had to, but there was no way she could let him go now that she knew the feel of him. Without considering how a woman went about undressing a man, she pushed the shirt up and off his shoulders and soaked in the perfection of him with her eyes and with the flexing of her fingers. “Oh,” she whispered, awestruck, her gaze flicking upward to his, then falling again to his chest.

  His pleasure rumbled beneath her fingertips…not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. And then he pushed aside the push-up cup and folded his hand around her breast, bringing the ache and the heat and the need back to life with a mere touch. “You have a beautiful body, Thea.”

  She hugged the compliment to herself, adding it to her treasure trove of memories, telling herself he meant it for the moment. And the moment, after all, was all that counted. “So do you,” she said in a breathy rush.

  “I want to make love to you now.”

  Searching his eyes, she saw nothing but truth and passion and desire. “I might die if you don’t,” she answered.

  The slow release of air from his lungs revealed something she hadn’t expected. He shared this trembling anticipation, this agony of waiting that held both ecstasy and anguish. He did want her. She would live on the sweetness of that knowledge for the rest of her life. Peter wanted her.

  She kissed him then, his chest, his nipples, his neck, his shoulders, his chin. She loved him with her lips and with her touch and exulted in every kiss and every touch he returned to her. When he got rid of the bra, she banished the impulse to feel embarrassed and faced him with her shoulders back, her chin lifting, her breasts bare. He smiled and said again, “Beautiful.”

  Just the one word, and she took that in, too, holding it tightly in her heart. She didn’t know how she found the courage to slip her thumbs into the sides of her panties and slide them off, but she did. And she thought, perhaps, it would be all right with him if she did the same to his briefs, but her brazen bravery deserted her and he did it himself. For which she was grateful because it afforded her the chance to see that he hadn’t been lying. He did, indeed, desire her. His body was thick and hard with the evidence and her blush sprang, hot and high, into her cheeks.

  He took her into his arms then and held her close, kissing her temple, her eyelids, easing her into acceptance of this new state of being, this moment when they were both naked and new to the other. When he lifted her in his arms and laid her on the bed, she sank into the miracle of what was happening.

  But as he settled in beside her, she stopped thinking about the what and just let the wonder of it happen. He would be gentle, tender, but he would not withhold his passion, either. She knew, somehow, he would make love to her in a way he had never made love before to any other woman. He would give her all of himself for this, her wedding night. And she would give him all she knew to give
back.

  Her heart. Her breath. Her life. Her love.

  It seemed the least she could offer.

  PETER LAY AWAKE long after Thea had fallen asleep.

  They’d talked softly for a long time. Well, mostly, she’d talked, hesitantly at first, as if it were a new experience to have someone listen. He’d been content to ask a question here and there and hear the quiet pleasure in her voice as she responded to his interest. With a little encouragement, she talked about her pets, current and past, about the day she figured out she could climb a tree, about the first time she picked up a sketchpad and knew she’d found a friend, about Monroe and his wife, Sadie, about the little everyday somethings that made up her life. Eventually, though, she drifted into sleep, fighting it all the way, still talking, sentences dissolving into fragments and disconnected words, but then finally succumbing to slumber like an exhausted child, overcome at last by the events of a long day.

  And he lay awake, watching her, wondering about this odd little person who he’d rescued and made his wife. Her hair was tousled, the topknot intact, but all askew, a fuzzy mess of pins that stuck out at odd angles against the pillow, curls that no longer curled, and one forlorn sprig of baby’s breath snared deep in the tangle. One wispy strand had fanned across her face, a straggle caught in her eyebrow, another entwined with her lashes, the flyaway ends fluttered near the corner of her mouth.

  Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he untangled the strand and tucked it behind her ear, allowing his fingers to brush her cheek in a fleeting caress. And just in that simple gesture, a fierce pride welled up inside him all over again. Why he should feel so proud of himself for marrying her he didn’t quite understand. There were problems ahead, legalities to be sorted out, and Peter wasn’t foolish enough to think Davinia had been defeated. She would try to get her granddaughter back and crush him in the process, if she could. But she couldn’t hurt him. He was a Braddock. Besides, he was willing to go down in flames to keep her away from his wife. The only way Thea was ever going back to Grace Place was over his dead body. She deserved a life of her own, and Peter meant to give it to her.