To Marry an Heiress

by Lorraine Heath

  It had cost a small fortune to have her wedding outfit sewn so quickly, but she thought it was worth every penny. It wasn’t often she splurged on herself.

  Since she’d grown up with very little in the way of material possessions, even now she had a difficult time parting with money. Her father, bless his heart, had no such inhibitions.

  She didn’t resent his spending, but she did worry about it sometimes. Particularly here in England, where merchants preferred for their customers to shop on credit, sending bills at the end of the month. It seemed as though a person could easily spend more than he had if he didn’t keep his own tally of expenses.

  But this morning she didn’t want to think about her father’s expenses. She wanted to capture his smile, sparkling eyes, and wide grin.

  He looped her arm around his and patted her hand. “You look beautiful, Gina.”

  She almost told him she felt beautiful. For once in her life, she wasn’t worried about her gaunt features.

  It was a glorious day, the sun shining and the clouds a billowy white. As though nature approved of this marriage.

  She never would have thought she would have gotten married so quickly to someone she barely knew. But it somehow seemed right. If only because it was making her father so incredibly happy. She thought he might bust the buttons on his vest as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

  Lauren stepped out of the church. She wore a lavender dress and a smile that rivaled Georgina’s father’s. She took Georgina’s hands. “Remember when we were little girls and we swore we’d get married on the same day?”

  Georgina nodded.

  “This way is better, Gina. It’s better to have your own day.” She pressed her cheek against Georgina’s. “Be happy, my dear friend. Be deliriously happy.”

  She wanted to be. She truly did. Her life had always been a challenge. Nothing had ever come easy.

  And now suddenly it seemed as though a husband would.

  But nothing ever did.

  So even as she followed two people who grinned like fools into the church, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding.

  For nothing in life worth having comes without effort.

  Be happy. Be deliriously happy.

  Georgina knew she should be. Curled in a chair before the hearth in her bedchamber, she couldn’t help but reflect that her wedding day had been perfect.

  Devon had worn a wine-colored frock coat, the shade accentuating his dark coloring but bringing forth the blue of his eyes. They had repeated their vows, words of deep meaning spoken with shallow emotion.

  She felt as though the entire day had been one elaborate play, everyone behaving as actors upon a stage. Lines spoken as though rehearsed for generations. Everything done according to some grand scheme; nothing spontaneous. No laughter. No gaiety.

  She’d noticed that aspect of the day the most. A funeral procession had more joy to it.

  It had been a stuffy wedding. Vows exchanged according to plan. Still, her father had been pleased. And that alone made the day worth it.

  Now for the night.

  Here within Devon’s London house, in a room somewhere down the hallway, her husband’s bedchamber, Devon was preparing himself for her. She couldn’t help but wonder what that entailed.

  She’d donned her nightgown, brushed her hair a hundred times, then two hundred. Waiting, waiting, waiting for him.

  Maybe he wouldn’t come.

  And if he did, then what? The proper touching. Lifting the hem of her nightgown…She didn’t want to think about it.

  Marrying him was the craziest thing she’d ever done in her entire life.

  But she wasn’t sorry for it. She was just experiencing wedding night jitters. Tomorrow all would be well.

  She rubbed her finger over her wedding ring. A circle of gold that housed a garnet stone. In the carriage on the journey to his house, Devon had told her he’d selected garnet because it symbolized truth and constancy. It would forever serve as a reminder of the promise he’d given her to never lie to her.

  Standing in the bedchamber down the hall from his, Devon studied the woman to whom he was now joined according to the laws of England. Wearing a white nightgown that billowed around her in a shapeless heap, she sat in one of two large chairs resting in front of the hearth. She’d tucked her legs beneath her, but he saw her bare toes peering out. Tiny toes that somehow reflected her innocence.

  She’d given him a shy, self-conscious smile when he’d first entered the room before returning her gaze to the low fire burning on the hearth, the snapping flames providing the solitary source of light in the room. Shadows advanced and retreated but never completely left the confines of the corners.

  The room was designed for comfort, to serve as a woman’s haven. He supposed it would in time come to reflect its current mistress. It already carried her sweet fragrance. Lilies, he realized suddenly, and wondered why he hadn’t been able to put a name to the scent before.

  Perhaps because here it was not competing with any outside influences. Perhaps because here their isolation narrowed their world.

  After ten years of marriage, he was no novice when it came to making love to a woman. Therefore he was having a difficult time giving credence to his nerves. The entire day he’d felt as though he was merely a small-time actor in a badly written play. Now his most important scene was upon him, and he was determined to give a top-notch performance.

  She was his salvation. The least he could do was grant her the gift of perceiving herself desired. Although the gift was not so distant from the reality. If he had not bartered his title, if he did not feel like a common doxy, he thought he might have cherished this moment as much as he hoped she would.

  He poured a bit of wine into a glass and carried it to her. “Drink this. It’ll help you relax.”

  She lifted her face and took his offering with such gratitude reflected in her eyes that it caused his chest to ache. Damnation, but a woman should be desired on her wedding night, this woman in particular, who had asked for nothing more than honesty between them. The one thing he could give without compromising his integrity.

  He sat in the chair across from hers and stretched his legs toward the dancing flames. He did not normally indulge in a fire during the summer months, but Gina was accustomed to warmer climes apparently and had requested a small fire. Therefore he’d granted it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she slowly sipped the wine, careful not to look at him. She’d loosened her hair and brushed it until it glistened like rich mahogany with a reddish hue. Thick, it was truly quite gorgeous.

  She enchanted him, prepared for bed as she was, obviously self-conscious about the fact he was here to perform his husbandly duties. And yet her careful preparation spoke loudly of her anticipating his arrival. Her hair, her gown, her fragrance…for him.

  He’d done no less for her. He’d applied a razor to his face, a comb to his hair, sandalwood to his skin. He was as fresh now as he’d been when he’d headed to the church this morning. The only difference that he now wore a blue silk dressing gown, the corded tasseled belt tied loosely.

  He’d considered remaining fully clothed, but he’d seen no point in pretending he was here for any other reason than the one for which he was.

  The silence stretched between them, calming, welcome. They had rushed to this moment, and now neither of them seemed in any great hurry. He was not procrastinating, delaying the moment. He was simply allowing it to seep into him. He was once again wed, and he had a feeling this go round would in no way resemble the first.

  She slid her gaze over to him then past him to the bed. “Did you make love to—to Margaret there?”

  “No.”

  She shifted her attention back to him.

  “Margaret’s room is—was—next to mine,” he explained. “It’s common for a wife’s bedchamber to be beside her husband’s with a door separating the two. I thought you might prefer to have your own room rather than one tha
t…” He was suddenly at a loss for words.

  “Carried memories for you?”

  Trust his little Texas wife not to have such a lapse.

  “Quite so.”

  She nodded. “How many bedrooms do you have here?”

  “Four. You’re welcome to select another if you wish.”

  She shook her head. “This one is fine. I appreciate your consideration.”

  His consideration had been as much for himself as for her. He’d wanted few reminders of his first marriage this night.

  “You’re gonna have to tell me what you want,” she said.

  Interesting. He’d noticed before that she spoke with a slight, charming twang, but it apparently deepened when her emotions were running high or she was anxious.

  “What I want is for you to stop looking as though you expect me to ravish you.”

  Her now familiar blush spread over her cheeks, along her throat. Strange how he was coming to anticipate it. More unusual was the warmth it stirred within him, the need to protect her that it brought to the surface.

  “I don’t think you’ll do that,” she said.

  “What are you thinking then?”

  “That I just wish you’d get this over with.”

  Leaning forward, he planted his elbows on his thighs and grasped his hands. She pressed herself against the high back of the chair. Advance. Retreat.

  “Finish your wine,” he ordered gently.

  She gulped it down, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth in a most unladylike manner, and set the glass aside.

  A smile played at the corner of his mouth. He had not planned to seduce his wife. Bed her and be done with it. He didn’t know why she made him want to give her so much more. The courtship had been hurried. No need for this night to be. He had promised her father that he would make her believe she was beautiful. He didn’t think he could accomplish that undertaking, but he could ensure she experienced beautiful sensations.

  “Come here,” he rasped softly as he unclasped his hands and held one toward her.

  The tip of her tongue darted out and touched her upper lip, leaving behind moisture that glistened in the firelight.

  “You mean we’re gonna…in the chair?”

  “I mean come here.”

  She hesitated before slowly rising and walking toward him as though approaching a guillotine. He didn’t know why his heart went out to her. On his first wedding night he’d been eager to get his wife out of her clothing. But he’d been younger then and thought the strength of its physical aspect defined love.

  As Gina stopped in front of him, her bare toes peering out from beneath the hem of her gown a scant distance away from his, he wondered if he’d known love at all. He patted his thigh. “Sit.”

  Her eyes widened a fraction before she darted a glance toward the bed. “I haven’t sat on a man’s lap since I was six. I just thought we’d”—she flapped her slender hand in the air—“beneath the covers.”

  An hour ago, half an hour ago, he’d harbored the same delusion. “We shall—eventually. Are you in some great hurry?”

  She met his gaze. “I’m nervous as all get-out.”

  Smiling warmly, he wrapped his fingers around hers. “I know you are, Gina.”

  He tugged gently, and she eased slowly, provocatively onto his thighs as though she feared she might hurt him.

  “I won’t break,” he teased.

  She nodded and studied her hands, folded primly in her lap.

  He heard her breath catch as he slid his hand beneath the curtain of her hair and cupped the nape of her neck. With his thumb, he turned her head until they were looking at each other. “I’m nervous as well.”

  Her mouth opened slightly. “Why? Surely you know what to do.”

  Ah, yes, he knew. He knew how to tease, taunt, and titillate. He knew where to place his mouth, when to be gentle, when to be rough, when to move quickly, and when to proceed slowly. But his knowledge didn’t guarantee her pleasure. Not when he was under the impression she’d bolt at any minute.

  He stroked his thumb over her bottom lip. “I know exactly what to do.”

  He pulled her forward at the same moment that he moved toward her. He watched as her eyes slid closed just before his lips touched hers as lightly as twilight brings forth the night.

  He felt her relaxing against him, sinking into him, as he drew her closer until her head was nestled in the crook of his shoulder. He settled his mouth more firmly against hers, coaxing with his tongue until she parted her lips and allowed him entry.

  She tasted of wine and sweetness. Incredible sweetness and innocence. Her tongue danced around his with increasing sureness. Her fingers clutched his lapels, and he heard a little purr vibrate within her throat.

  Unexpected raging desire speared him.

  She was so giving, open, and candid with her thoughts, her emotions, and her physical sensations. A man did not have to guess where he stood with her. She was refreshingly forthright. He could be no less.

  He glided his hand to the buttons at her throat and nimbly loosened them, parting the material before trailing his mouth along the golden column of her throat. He dipped his tongue into the hollow at its base. She shivered within his arms and dug her fingers into his shoulder. She tasted of the outdoors, his wife, and he imagined them walking over rolling hills together, riding at dawn and twilight.

  As though she was a taut bow, he bent her backward over the chair, nudged the soft cloth of her nightgown aside, and closed his mouth around her nipple, not surprised to find it already pearl-hardened. Her straightforwardness would not allow her to hide what she felt, thereby increasing his enjoyment.

  Dear God, her lack of demureness served as an aphrodisiac, heightening his pleasure even as it lured him to increase hers. He suckled gently, swirling his tongue over the sensitive bud as shudders rippled along the length of her.

  Whimpering, she combed her fingers up into his hair, holding him in place—or perhaps she sought to keep herself tethered—as her hips undulated in his lap. His body reacted as though she’d poured molten passion over him. Every nerve ending leaped to attention. Blood thrummed between his temples and rushed to his loins.

  With a low growl, he swept his mouth across the valley between her breasts, latching his lips around the darkened center of the other pliant orb, tugging, nipping, biting gently. She nearly shot off his lap.

  His breathing grew labored while hers quickened. With an awkwardness he hadn’t experienced since his youth, he pulled her gown off her shoulders, along her arms, and over her hips. With a tiny mewling sound she buried her face in his shoulder and drew her knees up toward her chest as much as she was able.

  “Don’t hide from me, sweeting,” he croaked as though his voice had yet to change into that of a man.

  But she did hide, refusing to face him, so he watched the play of firelight over her bare narrow hips and the manner in which it danced over her hair, which cascaded down her back to pool at the curve above her backside. How had he ever considered the vibrant tresses to be dull?

  He felt as though he’d been observing her through a mist of resentment—she was the salvation he wished to God he did not need, he had not wanted to want her, and so he had blinded himself to her attributes. Her giving nature revealed itself in each shudder, each twist, each sigh.

  Placing one arm around her back, sliding the other beneath her knees, he pressed her against him and stood. He couldn’t recall ever carrying a woman to bed, but somehow it seemed the most natural movement, as though nothing else would do.

  Gently he laid her on the soft linen sheets that awaited them after an attentive servant had turned down the coverlet earlier.

  When Devon’s arms were no longer encircling her, Georgina opened her eyes. The darkness of the night cast shadows over him as the firelight failed to reveal him.

  She watched with stunned fascination as he slowly worked free the knot holding the corded belt at his waist. The silk robe fell open, the fire
’s glow only daring to caress the defined muscles of his chest, as she longed to, leaving the remainder of his body in obscurity. His skin looked as silky as the cloth had felt beneath her fingertips.

  With little more than a slow, masculine roll of his shoulders, he caused the robe to slither to the floor, taking the shadows with it. Her breath backed up in her lungs at the sight of his naked magnificence, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes…and especially in between.

  He looked as though he’d been sculpted from Texas red granite: solid, substantial, firm. He was quite simply breathtakingly beautiful. She thought she should be afraid of his immense size and hardened muscles, but she could only stare in wonder with the realization he intended to share his glorious body with her.

  To have and to hold suddenly took on a whole new meaning for her.

  The bed dipped beneath his sturdy weight as he stretched out beside her and skimmed his fingertips from her collarbone down to her hip. A light grazing of roughened skin against soft. Then up until he cradled her breast within his palm. He lowered his mouth to her flesh, and the incredible sensations that had abated were brought back to life with amazing swiftness, as though her body had simply gone into hibernation waiting for the heat of his mouth to reawaken it.

  And how he stirred it. Amazing. Incredible. With his hands, his mouth, his tongue, the hard length of his body. Responses rippled through her. Acute. Hot. Swirling deep. Rising. Had she not agreed to this marriage, she might have never known that a man’s touch caused a woman’s body to hum.

  Tentatively, she reached out and touched his chest, much more intimate a gesture than cupping her hand around his neck. He stilled, and she wondered if she’d committed a grave mistake.

  He lifted his head, his gaze traveling over her features as though he was searching for something unfamiliar. With the greatest of care, he combed her hair off her brow and tucked it behind her ear before giving her a haunting smile. “I should have known you wouldn’t be content to simply take.”

  Beneath her palm pressed against his flesh, she felt the thundering of his heart. “Is it all right if I touch you?”