The Bridemaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  No man had ever raised her to these shuddering heights of wanton desire.

  These shuddering heights were what her mother had been talking about.

  Her mother! Oh, God. She couldn’t be foolish enough to make the same mistake as her mother!

  “I… No… Let me go,” she whispered through lips hot and already swollen from his kisses.

  “I think not.” He wrapped one long curl of her hair around his hand in the most possessive manner.

  The virile threat in his voice, in his eyes, and in his physical domination should have terrified her. But it seemed only to stoke the insane conflagration in her belly. For she pressed her softness to his rigidity until he thrust convulsively against her.

  Yes. She retained some power of her own, and that was somehow reassuring. If nothing else, she had the power to make him want her.

  “I want you,” he murmured, as if he read her mind. “And you want me too.”

  Oh, yes, she certainly did. She shouldn’t, but she did.

  Without warning he pulled away from her, so abruptly she nearly collapsed. Her legs were rubber, her mind utterly disoriented. But he kept a hand around her wrist and tugged her deeper into the leafy embrace of their bower. Somewhere beyond them a woman giggled. A man’s low voice answered. Then came the muffled but unmistakable sounds of another couple’s carnality.

  Slowly Hester’s wits began to return. She was trysting with a man like a common tart, like the woman so many men had tried to make her into during her season and a half. That he had excited her in ways she’d never known existed did not assuage her shame. Not by half.

  She was stumbling into the dark of Vauxhall Gardens with a man who had one thing only on his mind. Although her mind too had just moments ago been consumed by that same “one thing,” she saw now the terrible folly in it. Her hair dangled wild and loose around her shoulders. Her gown—Somehow the top two buttons of her gown had come undone.

  “No.” She tried to slow his determined progress through the murky shadows. “No. Wait!”

  He turned back to her. “Wait for what, Hester? Are you one of those women who require seduction?” With a sudden move he swept her up into his arms. “Do you need to be pursued? Convinced ”against your will‘?“ He kept on through the dark, his long strides sure as he carried her farther and farther from the party. ”Is it romance you want? Or perhaps drama will do.“

  Was that it? Romance, drama. For a moment Hester could not answer. Being swept away in the night by a tall, handsome rogue was certainly romantic and dramatic. Her dark skirts, so plain and ordinary, seemed more like a princess’s sweep of frothy gown, trailing over his arm, baring her legs and the hidden lace of her petticoats and silk stockings.

  The urge to surrender to his powerful embrace, to wrap her arms around his neck and nestle her face against his chest was almost overwhelming.

  When he stooped beneath a curtain of willow branches, however, and they burst out into a grassy field near the carriage park, her silly bubble of a fairy tale popped. If she got into his carriage with him she would be taking an irrevocable step, one that could lead only to ruin.

  Not his ruin, of course. Men seldom suffered for their sins. But women did. Any ruin would be hers to bear, not his. She had only to remember her mother to know that was true.

  Before she could struggle down, he set her on her feet. She supposed even he was not so bold as to carry her across a field in full view of anyone who cared to look. He tucked her hand in his arm, keeping his own hand warm and possessive upon hers. “My carriage is close by.”

  “I am not that sort of woman.” She tugged her hand free of his arm, but he caught her by the wrist. In the open field the rising moon limned him with a silvery glow.

  “I know you’re not, Hester. But you have to admit that what just happened between us has been building for days. Weeks. You’re no young, giggly girl in the market for a husband. You’re a widow, for several years, I understand. I doubt it’s any more natural for a woman like you to deny her needs—her desires—than it is for a man like me.”

  Though he was wrong about her being a widow, Hester had to wonder if at least one part of his statement was true. What they’d been doing—while they’d been doing it—had felt so right. To break it off while her heart still thudded in her chest, while her blood roared in her veins, and her body burned in a fever of desire— that’s what felt wrong. As he said, it didn’t feel natural to stop.

  Yet surely she could not continue.

  “I… I must go.” She couldn’t meet his eyes but stared instead at their arms stretched out between them, linked by his hand around hers.

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “You know why.” Then anger supplanted her misguided regret. “You know exactly why. I have my reputation to maintain, whereas you— You will have no concern on that score. Soon enough you will depart London and never think once of the damage you leave in your wake.”

  “What damage? How are my attentions to you any different than those of your friend in Cheapside?”

  Her friend? Was he speaking of Mrs. DeLisle? But that made no sense. What had she to do with any of this?

  He went on. “Is it unrealistic of me to want you to dress up for an afternoon with me, Hester? Or an evening?”

  That’s when it hit her with shattering clarity. He thought she had a lover. Once before he’d asked if her friend in Cheapside was a man, though she’d thought little enough of it. But now she understood. He believed she saved her best dresses and hats and gloves to impress a lover.

  He wanted her to dress like that for him.

  It was so ludicrous she wanted to laugh, the giddy, flattered laugh of a young girl who has made some young buck mad with jealousy. Only she was no young girl and he was no gallant young gentleman, jealous and planning to offer for her hand so he could have her for himself. Adrian Hawke had something far less gallant on his mind.

  Although a part of her—a shameful part—responded in the most basic physical way, she knew better than to trust that part of her. He’d just insulted her with his vile assertion. How dare he assume her a woman capable of such moral turpitude?

  Unfortunately it seemed she was capable of such lowering behavior. For despite all her logic, she was beset by the wildest urge to just do as he wished her to do. Go with him. Lie with him. Take her pleasure of him as he surely meant to take his pleasure of her.

  For a single moment she seriously considered it. Her resistance to his hold eased and when he sensed it, he tugged her forward another pace.

  Then reason stepped in. Reason, logic, and blessed self-preservation. If she did this she would become her mother, succumbing to men who had only one use for her. Men who would pay the price she demanded but who neither loved nor valued her. From one lover to the next Isabelle had careened, always succumbing to the most ardent and determined of her pursuers. Men as determined as Adrian Hawke.

  At least her mother had never had two lovers at one time. If Adrian thought her affections were engaged with another he might give up and leave her alone.

  She turned her head away, trapped by indecision. Was that what she truly wanted, to be left alone?

  A wave of longing struck her with devastating force. She’d never felt lonely before, or at least she hadn’t allowed herself to feel that way. But he made her feel that way, with his kiss, with his seductive manner, with merely the heat of his hand around hers. He made her feel lonely.

  He also terrified her and he had no right!

  She drew herself up, facing him as she’d faced Beatrice Bennett and so many others who tried to order her about. They thought they knew her so well. But they didn’t know anything about her. Nothing at all.

  “Mr. Hawke. I apologize if I misled you in… in my behavior. I was wrong to… to do so. You are correct in guessing that my affections are otherwise engaged. So you will understand that I am not about to travel anywhere with you.” She paused. “If you would be good enough to let loose of my
hand?”

  She saw his jaw tense and release. “Your affections did not seem engaged anywhere but with me.”

  Her heart beat a rapid tattoo high in her throat. “As I said, I’m sorry if I misled you.”

  Even in the dark his eyes were alive with heat. “I was not misled, Hester.”

  “Do not address me in that way!”

  “I was not misled by either the sincerity or the enthusiasm of your kisses.”

  “I don’t care what you call it,” she retorted, growing more and more agitated. “It was a mistake and it will not happen again. Now let me—”

  He released her hand and took a step backward. But instead of feeling relief, Hester felt even more threatened.

  “A mistake?” he said in a slow drawl, low and mocking. “Kissing a beautiful woman in the moonlight is never a mistake. Igniting the passion within a woman like you…” She felt the touch of his gaze as it swept over her. “If not tonight, Hester, then perhaps tomorrow…”

  Tomorrow. Hester had to take three breaths in quick succession to suppress the quiver of anticipation he planted in her with just that one simple word.

  From beyond the trees came the sound of music, the hum of voices, the reflected light of the busy city beyond the gardens. But right there in the grassy field with rye heads sweeping her hem and little night creatures scurrying just beyond her heels, Hester felt entirely alone with him. And utterly susceptible.

  He could sweep her away with no one the wiser. She could let him do so and discover the rest of the passionate arc they’d begun to scale.

  Dear Lord, but a wanton part of her wanted to do just that. But then, what would happen tomorrow? Easy to succumb to passion tonight. Dealing with the aftermath in the morning would be disastrous. And then, what about Dulcie?

  “Good-bye, Mr. Hawke.” That was all she could manage. She should have said, Do not speak to me again, she fumed as she hurried away. Or, Don’t ever approach me or presume to ask me to dance. Or, Never, never take me in your arms. Or kiss me. Or caress me. Or let my hair down—

  It took her forever to repair her hair. In the dark with most of her pins gone, she could do little more than knot it and hope it held.

  Of course, the first person she ran into would be Lady Ainsley.

  “Well, Mrs. Poitevant, I believe you will be most pleased with what I have to tell you.”

  “Indeed?” Hester blinked, giving the Viscountess Ainsley her best approximation of a bright smile.

  “Abigail Fowler, Lady Hartshorn’s youngest daughter.” Lady Ainsley leaned nearer, releasing a whiskey-laden cloud of breath. “Plain as a mule, flat as a board, with frizzy hair and crooked teeth. But I told her mother that you could find her a husband.” She tucked her chin tight against her neck, making a series of ridges in the loose flesh there. “So. What do you think of that?”

  “It appears I owe you a debt of gratitude,” Hester answered. Thank goodness the woman had been dipping too deeply in the punch bowl. “If you will excuse me, however, I must find the… the necessary,” she improvised.

  “It’s over beyond that first arch,” Lady Ainsley said, sweeping her arm in a wide gesture.

  “Thank you,” Hester muttered, hurrying away.

  “Miss Poitroy… Poitevoy… Mrs. Poitevant.” The woman giggled after she finally got it out. “Mrs. Poitevant, I think you should know that your hair is coming loose in the back.”

  “Is it? Why then I’d better go and fix it.”

  There was more to fix than her hair, however. Somehow Hester took her leave, addressing only those she could not avoid without insult. Then she found Mr. Dobbs, climbed into her carriage, and fled Vauxhall Gardens in private disgrace.

  Had she known that a man followed on horseback she would have been appalled. As it was, Adrian was appalled at his own idiotic behavior. Trailing a woman who had rebuffed his advances was the behavior of a ruffian, a cad of the lowest sort.

  But God help him, he could not resist. Tonight he’d kissed the sweetest, most succulent lips he’d ever tasted. He’d tangled his fingers in the silkiest, most fragrant hair he’d ever touched. And he’d filled his arms with the warmest, most enticing bit of womanhood he’d ever had the good fortune to embrace.

  That she came with a starchy attitude and a mysterious other life only made him want her more. He wanted to peel back the layers of her secrets just as he would peel back the layers of her feminine garb. Dress, petticoats, corset, and chemise. With each layer removed, he would come closer to the prize he sought.

  He grinned into the night. Her petticoat and drawers had been a damn sight more feminine than the dress that covered them. Yes, every layer peeled away revealed a more and more feminine creature, a woman of infinite appeal and limitless passions. He wanted to delve to the core of that hot female passion—and he wanted to make sure no other man got there first.

  So he followed her, if only to make certain she did not go to Cheapside. If she went to her lover in Cheapside he would have to confront the man.

  And do what? the small portion of his brain that functioned beyond the control of his straining loins asked him. Confront the man and do what? Fight for her? Bargain for her? Beg for her?

  When had he become such a hopeless, horny fool?

  That her conveyance made straight for Mayfair was small comfort. Adrian sat in the dark, watching as she went inside. He stayed until an upstairs window began to glow with lamplight. That must be her bedroom, he thought, which knowledge only increased his arousal. She was letting her hair down, removing her layers of clothes. Gown and stockings, corset and drawers. Down to her chemise, no doubt a gossamer-thin wisp of translucent linen and lace.

  He groaned out loud. Soon she would slip into her bed.

  This time he let out a low, vicious curse. Abruptly he turned his horse and kicked him forward. At least the woman slept alone, he told himself. At least tonight she was alone.

  It was cold comfort though. For he would also be sleeping alone.

  What an asinine waste of time for both of them.

  CHAPTER 12

  Hester had no time to prepare herself in the morning, for Horace arrived early for his appointment. Not three minutes later Adrian Hawke also was ushered into her parlor, Fifi and Peg close on his heels.

  He’d planned it this way, Hester fumed when Mrs. Dobbs showed him in. Once Horace gained entrance, she could not very well pretend to be indisposed.

  “Good morning, Mrs. P,” Adrian said, the tiniest, wickedest smile curving his lips.

  His lips that had kissed her with such skill and passion and—

  Stop it!

  “Good morning, Mr. Hawke,” she answered in her primmest tone. “I think it only right to inform you that while such familiar address might be acceptable in other circles, it is considered poor manners in town society.”

  He only smiled, causing the most violent trembling in her belly. That trembling swiftly expanded throughout her body, and she had to clench her hands not to reveal the awful extent of it. And all on account of his smile.

  Into that silence fraught with so much tension, Horace asked in all innocence, “What if a person gives their permission for such intimacy?”

  He and Hester had been sitting at a table when Adrian arrived, starting a list for Horace—trips to the tailor and the bootmaker, social obligations, and names of acquaintances, especially unattached females. Though Adrian stood opposite Hester, after that one brief glance at him, she kept her gaze steadfast upon Horace. It was so much easier than looking at the subtly smirking Adrian Hawke.

  At least Horace’s question was sincere.

  “If you have become friendly enough with someone that they offer that level of familiarity, and assuming you are willing to reciprocate the intimacy—” She stumbled over that last word. It conjured up so many other sorts of intimacies.

  “Yes?” Horace asked, leaning forward.

  “Yes, Mrs. P. Please enlighten us,” Adrian added, amusement rampant in his voice. To a
dd insult to injury, he sat down without being offered a chair, drew off his leather gloves, tucked them into his coat pocket, then crossed one ankle casually across his opposite knee.

  Enlighten him? Hester wanted to strangle him. He was doing it all on purpose. Every bit of it. Even the way he’d dressed seemed calculated to upset her. For the crisp blue coat and snowy white stock sharpened his already lean features. He was all broad shoulders, carved muscles, and vivid good looks.

  Meanwhile, she was frazzled, bleary-eyed, and dressed like an exhausted middle-class housewife whose maids had all just resigned their positions.

  She ought to just ignore his baiting, but she couldn’t. She’d lost another night’s sleep due to him and she was too tired to be cautious. Added to that, Fifi had leaped up into his lap, the ungrateful little traitor.

  “Very well, I’ll enlighten you,” she began. “If you would be considered a gentleman, Mr. Hawke, you must sit up straight, refrain from undressing in public, and never insult your hostess by seating yourself without asking, or by addressing her in a disrespectful manner.”

  She could see alarm in Horace’s expression. But Adrian Hawke only grinned. “But why?” he asked, not even a smidgen of contrition on his face. “It’s too warm for gloves, and we both know you were about to offer me a seat.” He paused, his eyes alive with devilment. “Weren’t you? As a good hostess it’s to be expected of you.”

  If only Horace weren’t here, Hester fumed.

  But if Horace weren’t here, I would be alone with Mr. Hawke.

  An unforgivable little thrill ran through her, settling in some unnamable region down low in her belly. It made her want to squirm in the most unseemly way.

  Unbidden, one of her mother’s phrases came to her. “He makes me melt,” she’d said about one of her lovers. That was exactly how Adrian Hawke made Hester feel, as if she were melting from the inside out.

  It was only the fact that she might be more like her mother than she’d ever guessed that gave Hester the will to pull herself together. “The purpose of society’s rules is to create some consistency in human interactions. When people find the set of rules they feel most comfortable with, they discover also the group of people they can be comfortable with. Not everyone will be content within the strict rules of British society. I believe that may be why so many people left for the colonies,” she added with an edge of spite. “They were unhappy with Britain’s elaborate rules of society.”