An Improper Wife

by Tarah Scott

  Caroline resisted the urge to touch the edges of the simple curls that hung around her ears. “You threw my hat out of the door.”

  He grimaced. “That was no hat, madam.”

  Laughter threatened. The look on his face when he had seized the hat and tossed it out of the carriage had been worth nearly suffocating.

  She forced a frown. “That hat is the height of Paris fashion.”

  “Then I am glad we are travelling to the Highlands, rather than France.” He set the pot on the table. “And the corset?”

  She no more mourned the loss of the corset than the hat, but lifted her chin, nonetheless. “You are aware of women’s fashion, sir.”

  “I am aware of women’s foolishness.” She started to retort, but he said, “You rose early. I had expected to find you beside me when I woke.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “I thought you wished to get an early start this morning.”

  “Indeed.” He dropped his gaze to her breasts.

  Caroline shot a glance at the corner chair where sat the only other occupant of the room, who seemed overly absorbed in The Times. He was close enough for her to discern the deep blue eyes that were glued to his paper, and she couldn’t help but believe he must have overheard Taran’s comment. He glanced up and their gazes met. She flushed, now certain he had overheard them, and jerked her gaze back onto Taran.

  He took a sip of tea and set the cup back on its saucer. “You slept well, I hope.” He picked up a roll and began buttering it. “I worried I was overly hard on you last night.”

  “My lord,” she hissed in a whisper.

  His eyes lifted to meet hers. “I am only concerned for your welfare.”

  “We are not alone.” She resisted the urge to look at the man again. She could feel his eyes on her.

  Taran waved a hand dismissively, then took a bite of his roll. “This is a private corner.”

  Caroline glowered. “Do you make a habit of talking so openly?”

  He paused in chewing and said as if injured, “I am a happy man.”

  She snorted. “Satisfied with yourself, is what you are.”

  His gaze darkened. “You are well satisfied, my lady. I saw to that.”

  She gasped, then clamped a hand over her mouth. He lifted a brow as if to challenge her to deny the statement and she seized her napkin from off her lap and threw it on the table.

  “I will await you in our chambers.” She started to rise, but he grabbed her wrist and shook his head.

  “Nay. I have sent someone to pack your trunk. By now, it will be loaded onto the carriage. You will finish your tea while I have my breakfast, then we shall be on our way.”

  Caroline considered arguing, but lowered herself back into the chair. He released her and took another sip of tea.

  “What business is so important we had to run pell-mell to Scotland?” she asked.

  “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You intend on spending my money the day after our wedding.”

  The maid appeared with his breakfast. She set two plates before him. “Anything else, my lord?”

  He shook his head. She left and Taran picked up knife and fork. “My money, love, and I paid creditors before we left Newcastle.”

  Caroline stared. “How dare you?”

  He forked eggs into his mouth. “How dare I what?”

  “Did you pay Beetleton and Hoffman?”

  Taran halted in grasping a piece of bacon from his plate and looked at her. “What have you to do with attorneys at law?”

  “A great deal, when the man I am to marry is in debt to them to the tune of twenty thousand pounds.”

  “You have been hard at work, I see.”

  “I am no idiot, sir.”

  He regarded her for a long moment before murmuring, “No, you are not.” He took a big bite of the bacon and dropped the remaining piece on his plate. “Reckless, yes.”

  “I will not stand for your father taking charge of my inheritance,” she said.

  Taran laughed. “You just said you were not an idiot. Do not make the same mistake your uncle did in thinking my father runs my affairs.”

  Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. He was right. “As you say, but you must admit paying creditors the day of our wedding is improper.”

  “Are you suggesting our creditors wait even a day longer than necessary?”

  She stiffened. “Your creditors, sir.”

  He grinned. “Never fear, madam. I paid your debts as well.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Taran grinned wider, knowing full well his wife wanted nothing more than to throttle him—a thought he found intriguing.

  “Caroline Wilmont?”

  Taran twisted and looked over his shoulder at the well-dressed man standing in the doorway.

  The older man strode to their table and halted. “Why, it is you.”

  Caroline inclined her head. “Lord Cambrooke.”

  He gave a small bow. His attention centred on her ring, then jerked back to her face. “You—” His eyes flicked to Taran. “My apologies, sir. I had no idea Caroline had married.”

  “Just yesterday,” Taran said.

  The older man’s eyes widened. “You jest?”

  From the corner of his eye, Taran caught sight of the slight grimace that twisted his wife’s mouth. He smiled and shook his head. “No jest, sir. She is now Viscountess Blackhall.”

  Cambrooke’s mouth dropped open. “You are the Earl of Blackhall’s son?” Before Taran could answer, he flicked a glance at Caroline, then gave Taran a formal bow. “Lord Aldwin Cambrooke, at your service. I am an old friend of the family.” His gaze shifted to Caroline. “I wondered how long before you guessed—” He broke off. Something flickered in his eyes. He shook his head. “Forgive an old man.”

  “No apologies are required.” Caroline extended a hand.

  He grasped her fingers, bending over them. “Most kind.” He released her.

  Guilt stabbed at Taran at the reminder he was at fault for the fact that their wedding night had been spent at the place where her father had died. “It is my doing.”

  “You know I always wanted to come to the Cross Keys Inn,” Caroline interrupted. “I insisted we stay.” She smiled. “You know I will have my way when I truly desire it.”

  Lord Cambrooke laughed. “Indeed, she is persuasive.” He leant towards her and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I hope you have satisfied this particular desire.”

  In a placid tone, Taran said, “The strange thing about desire is that it tends to ignite at the most inopportune moment.” Caroline snapped her head in his direction. He smiled as if not noticing the blush that crept up her cheeks, and added, “Regardless of place or time.”

  Lord Cambrooke nodded, clearly not catching the byplay. “Indeed. Otherwise, a bride could not choose such a place as this.”

  Her gaze swung back to him.

  A soft smile curved the old man’s mouth upward. “Put this behind you, my dear. Life is for the living.”

  Something flickered in her eyes. Taran’s mind snapped to attention.

  Lord Cambrooke patted her arm. “Where are you off to?”

  “Strathmore,” Taran answered. “Our home.”

  Surprise reflected in the man’s eyes. “Surely, you do not mean to keep Caroline from London?”

  Taran regarded him. “Viscountess Blackhall may visit London whenever she pleases. We will reside at Strathmore.”

  “But of course,” he put in quickly. “No offence intended.”

  Taran inclined his head. “Of course not.”

  “What are you doing here?” Caroline asked. “This is not hunting season.”

  “True. But I seldom take part in the hunt any more. Too old.”

  Taran thought the man looked fitter than many men his own age, but kept silent.

  “I am returning from a week in Melrose.” Cambrooke grimaced. “A wasted week. But I must be going, I wish to make Newcastle today.
So good to see you, my dear.” He faced Taran and gave a slight bow. “Sir.”

  Taran nodded and took the last bite of eggs. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed it on his plate. “Our carriage awaits.” He rose and stepped aside in invitation for Caroline to precede him.

  Frustration sparked in her gaze. He forced back a laugh and lifted an enquiring brow. She rose and started past him, but Taran grasped her elbow and stopped her.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked.

  She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Marriage is exactly as I imagined.”

  He trailed fingers higher on her arm. “Is it too much to hope you refer to last night’s activities?”

  She drew in a thready breath. Desire skittered down his spine.

  “How would I have had any preconceptions on that matter, sir?” she asked in a sweet voice that didn’t fool him for an instant. “I refer to your determination to bring me to heel. What say have I in decisions that affect me? Before yesterday, I did as I chose.”

  He paused, gaze locked with hers. “Indeed? I had no idea your uncle was so indulgent.” Taran inclined his head. “Never fear, I will give you choices, my lady, while I have you undressed and in my bed.” He lifted a brow. “Unless, you have a preference to my lovemaking?”

  Her mouth dropped open, and he steeled himself for a barrage of womanly recriminations, but she clamped her mouth shut.

  “No preference and no complaints.” He nodded. “Good.”

  “I have a complaint. I loathe another day spent in a hot carriage.”

  “Indeed?” He gritted his teeth against the feel of his cock hardening at the thought of another day in the carriage. “Then I shall be forced to entertain you. There are many activities, besides travel, that can be done in a carriage.”

  As Aphrodite knew.

  * * * *

  Caroline sat stiffly in the carriage. They had ridden but an hour. The five hours that still lay ahead stretched out before her like a prison sentence. She shifted her attention out of the window to Taran riding alongside the horses that drew the coach. He swayed with each easy stride of the beast as if they were one. Powerful thighs flanked the mammoth animal. The man was master of all he touched—including a lust-consumed wife.

  She shivered. As her master, he had already begun spending her money. It was ridiculous that it should bother her. He was right, no creditor should wait a day longer than necessary, but it pricked her because doing so boiled their marriage down to the transaction it was.

  She was now Viscountess Blackhall and he was lord of twenty thousand pounds a year. Warmth tinged her cheeks with recollection of the accusation that he would allow his father to rule their finances. She leant against the cushion. Given a choice, Taran would have married Aphrodite…or would he? He spoke of an affair, but marriage had never been mentioned. And why would it have been? They might desire each other, but both knew duty came before lust.

  Memory of his buttocks hard as stone beneath her fingers as he thrust his cock deep inside her last night brought a flush to her skin. As if sensing the illicit thought, he glanced over his shoulder at her. Her breath caught. Had he read her mind or, mayhap, the look on her face? Taran wheeled his horse around and she startled as he urged the animal towards her.

  A moment later, he came up alongside the window. “You are well, madam?”

  Her heart pounded as she drew in the mid-morning air. “As well as can be expected,” she said in a calm voice.

  He gave a slow shake of his head. “I have neglected you.”

  Before she realised it, he seized the door handle and leapt from the horse onto the step. The carriage rocked.

  Caroline grabbed the handle. “My lord!”

  He laughed and tossed the reins up front. “Davis, if you please,” he called, and yanked the door from her grasp.

  Caroline scrambled to the far end of the cushion as Taran stepped inside. He dropped onto the opposite seat, his grin wider than it had been a moment ago. The carriage rocked more violently as Davis climbed to the rear of the box and tethered the horse, then climbed back up front.

  Taran stretched his legs out on the seat opposite him. “You haven’t spoken a word since we left the inn.”

  The intensity in his eyes stoked a simmering heat deep in her secret places—places that ached for him again. Heat pooled between her legs and sweat trickled between her breasts.

  “I am alone in a carriage,” she replied. “Who would you have me converse with?”

  His expression sobered, catching her off guard. “I am sorry about stopping at the Cross Keys Inn.”

  “My father died long ago.”

  He regarded her and she realised she’d spoken too quickly.

  “Not so long. Three years, you said.”

  Familiar sadness tugged at her heart, but she answered evenly, “Yes.”

  “What of your mother?”

  “She died when I was twelve.”

  “Your father never remarried?”

  Caroline shifted her attention to the gently rolling hills outside her window. Recollection of her mother’s cold stare contrasted with the soft eyes immortalised in the portrait hanging over the library hearth. Despite the fact the cold look was reserved primarily for her father, Caroline often found him at his desk, staring at the picture.

  “He loved her,” she said.

  “He was a lucky man.”

  Caroline broke from the vision and swung her gaze onto Taran. He stared intently.

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Yes,” she replied, unable to tell him that her father wasn’t at all lucky. Neither was her mother. How was it possible love could make two people hate each other?

  Mother had wanted a man who fought duels in her honour, attended her at every soirée until deep into the night, then left her to sleep until noon the next day while he discreetly slipped off to his mistress’ bed. Instead, he’d remained loyal, despite her many indiscretions. Her mother hated him as much for that as the tender heart that always forgave her. She died when Caroline was twelve, her father when she was fifteen, but her mother’s hatred and father’s sorrow lived on in her heart.

  “Perhaps as lucky as me,” Taran murmured.

  Her heart fluttered. Would he feel that way once he discovered her deception? Or would she would follow in her parent’s footsteps, would she hate—and be hated?

  He removed his feet from the cushion and she froze when he crossed to her side and sat beside her. Anticipation of his touch had her heart pounding so loudly she feared he would hear. He slid an arm behind her and wrapped four fingers along her nape. Trembles slithered over her flesh. She swallowed, the silence hovering between them deafening. Her pussy clenched with the possibility of having Taran plunging in her depths again. She closed her eyes as the blunt tips of his fingers burned through the fabric of her dress. Her nipples tightened to aching points.

  “Sir, it is broad daylight.” Her voice sounded husky, sinful, dripping with invitation.

  “Mmm hmm.” Taran pressed a kiss to the pulse below her ear.

  He cupped a breast and she inhaled sharply. Desire rocketed through her.

  “We are not alone.” She choked out the words.

  There were men perched on the box and—panic shot to the surface—she and Taran had already played out this scene. There could be no repeat performance. Caroline commanded her body to break free of his hold but his mouth melted her.

  She shifted on the seat, aware of the wetness that slicked her thighs. “My lord.”

  The carriage rocked and his hold on her tightened. “This is our first day as man and wife.”

  His moist lips seared a trail down her neck and his deft fingers had her dress buttons undone, revealing the swell of her breasts.

  “Such things are to be expected.” He stroked his thumb over the exposed skin.

  Her nipple strained against her shift’s fabric. He bent his head and took the taut, cloth-covered tip in his mouth. Wetting the fabric with his
tongue made the material cling to her skin. She shivered and arched into his mouth. His tongue teased and nibbled. Soft suction tugged on the raised peak and streaked into her core. Caroline pressed against the cushion as if she could sink into the velvet and escape the exquisite torture.

  Taran sucked harder. Her pussy clenched. A moan escaped her mouth and she grasped the sides of his head, holding him tight to her breast. She spread her thighs, needing his heavy weight between them.

  “Yes,” Taran whispered.

  Caroline stilled.

  His eyes met hers as he grasped the edge of her skirt and slowly inched it upward. Fear tightened her tummy while desire tightened her clit to torturous pleasure.

  “Give yourself to me,” he coaxed.

  Terror ripped through her. He was too close, too aware of her…of Aphrodite.

  Seizing his shoulders, she shoved him away. “We cannot do this.” Her ragged breath leached the statement of power.

  “Never fear,” he said, amusement still evident in his voice, “I will teach you how to please a man in a carriage.” He paused. “Or perhaps you will teach me?”

  Caroline jerked her chin up in a challenge. “Making love in a carriage is not proper behaviour for a lady.”

  He lifted a brow and she flinched, but didn’t break from the stare. A corner of his mouth twitched in obvious amusement as he leant past her and yanked the window curtain closed. Two nights ago, he had done this very thing on the streets of Newcastle. Her heart raced. She couldn’t think. He muddled her thoughts, drove her to irrational behaviour.

  He settled back beside her, his fingers tracing circles on her exposed thigh. “In my bed—or carriage—there is no need for you to behave as a lady.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I am your wife, not your mistress.”

  His head snapped up. Even in the dim light of the carriage she discerned the glitter in his eyes.

  “Last night—”

  “Last night is behind us,” she broke in. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. How could she continue to lie to him? “We must forget the past.”

  “I cannot.” He leant forward and pressed his lips to hers.

  His tongue traced the seam of her closed mouth and she breathed in a strangled sob. He wanted more of what she had given him last night, the reassurance their union was not built on hate, that she could—would—accept him. How much would she have to give before he was satisfied? Too little would break her heart. Too much would drain her soul.