“Don’t be. It’s certainly been an experience.” Grace let her hand glide along the inside of his thigh.
“Minx,” he murmured. “Don’t think we’re retiring to the drawing room for drinks.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“We can slip away and no one will notice.” His voice was rich with promise.
Grace crossed her legs and fought with the desire that rose at his touch. She glanced around the table. People were nodding over their ports, some yawned hugely and one or two were still blearily working their way through their drinks.
“I think you’re right there.”
“All right, ladies and gentlemen, drinks in the drawing room.” Emma, her cheeks flushed, stood by the door.
“Thank Christ for that.” Christopher held Grace’s chair for her. She shivered when he kissed the back of her neck. “Let’s get out of here.”
Grace was aware of Pippa’s sullen stare when they followed the other guests into the broad, shadowy hall then broke away toward the stairs.
Christopher didn’t speak as they hurried along the upstairs corridor. The heat in his touch when he took her hand outside the bedroom door told Grace all she needed and wanted to know.
“I’ve wanted to get back here for hours.” He closed the door behind them, locked it and kicked off his shoes. “What a fucking dreadful evening. I’m so sorry, Grace.”
Grace sank onto the bed and toed her shoes away. “It was pretty awful.” She watched Christopher unbutton his shirt and let it slip to the floor. She stopped thinking about the awfulness of the evening and wanting to thump Pippa and enjoyed the sight of Christopher stepping away from the pile of clothes pooled around his feet.
He grinned at her. “Your turn now.”
Grace rose and shimmied out of her dress, leaving it in a soft heap on the carpet. She shucked her underwear in short order, letting the bra dangle from her fingertip before dropping it onto the dress. “Better?”
“Oh, Christ, yes, much better. Much, much better.”
“Now what?” Moisture pooled between Grace’s legs. She sat on the edge of the bed and held out her arms.
“Now I make it up to you, make you forget what a fucking nightmare tonight was. Now I intend to shag you senseless.” Christopher stood before her, his erection a magnet for her gaze.
Grace shuffled back toward the headboard, never taking her eyes off the prize, her reward for putting up with Pippa and the endless dinner. “That’s the least you can do, soldier boy.”
He laughed. “You make those two words sound so utterly…filthy.”
“That’s the idea.” Grace braced herself for impact, desperate for him, scared by how relentlessly she wanted him.
Christopher crawled up the mattress. “It’s a good thing I remembered the condoms, isn’t it.” He paused and reached for his wallet, where he’d left it on the bedside table. Then he sat back on his heels and scattered half a dozen foil packets across the coverlet. “I think we’re set, don’t you?”
Grace bit her lip. Her pussy ached, needing him. “Yes. I think we are.” She reached for one of the packets then tore it open. “Let’s start with this one, shall we?”
He grinned. “An excellent choice, Miss Webb. Perhaps you would do the honors?”
“It would be my pleasure, sir.” She sat up and moved toward Christopher on her hands and knees. The soft linen of the duvet whispered beneath her. Her hand trembled when she unrolled the condom over his cock. She calmed herself by smoothing it down, rewarded by a muffled gasp from Christopher.
“Thank you, Grace.” He eased her back onto the yielding mattress. “Thank you for…you.”
Grace welcomed his weight, and the sudden insistent push of his dick against her throbbing pussy. The entire evening had been a tortuous form of foreplay, Christopher’s subtle touches, his scent, his voice all served as an aphrodisiac far more powerful than any old wives’ remedies. She rose to his touch, letting him in, loving the depth of his sigh, the way he moved his lips over hers. He was all heat and slowness, like the port they were probably missing downstairs.
She inhaled the lingering scent of his cologne and beneath, the milky sweetness of his skin, already as familiar as her own. Her body met his, welcoming him as he thrust into her, driving to her core, raising the temperature. Grace curled her fingers into his tousled hair and thrust back, driving him deeper. Her cunt throbbed with every push, every threatened withdrawal. Christopher braced himself above her, propped up on his arms. His hair flopped over his brow and his gaze locked with hers. In the midst of the fire and passion, he paused, smiled then ducked to place a fierce, possessive kiss on her open mouth.
Grace smiled at him and kept him close when he quickened, driving into her pussy with apparent desperation, as if seeking absolution for the mess downstairs. She forgot all about that when the blood rushed to her nerve ends, heat pooling in her groin when she came with a sharp gasp, all else forgotten except Christopher. “That’s my Grace,” he whispered. “I love to watch you come.”
“Less talk. Kiss me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He swooped to cover her mouth with his once more before pounding to his own climax.
Grace held him in the aftermath, stroking his hair as their breathing slowed and all that could be heard was the soft rustle of the curtains, moving with the evening breeze. She closed her eyes and thanked the General and Allonby for the gift she had in her arms.
* * * *
“Will I do?” Christopher stood by the wardrobe fidgeting with his cufflinks.
Grace paused in the bathroom doorway and stared. She’d had no idea what Christopher had meant by a mess uniform until that moment. The short red jacket tapered down to points above a low-cut blue waistcoat. A saber glittered coldly against the dark fabric of the trousers. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Victorian portrait.
“Oh, my.”
“Is that a bad ‘oh, my’ or a good one?”
“It’s a good one, believe me.” Grace no longer felt over-dressed in her long gown.
“You clean up rather well yourself, Gracey Webb.”
Grace’s cheeks burnt when she smoothed down her filmy overskirt. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a long dress. “Thank you.”
Christopher held his arm out. “I don’t suppose you can help me with these bloody cufflinks, can you?”
“I can do that.” She took the cufflink and threaded it through the eyelets, fighting to keep her hand steady. The scent of Christopher’s cologne drew her back into the night and the feel of his body against hers.
“Thank you.” Christopher’s hand cupped her chin. His thumb caressed her jaw. “Thank you for being here with me, Grace.”
Grace touched his face. “It’s my pleasure.”
“I won’t mess your makeup if I kiss you, will I?”
“No.”
She felt his kiss down to her bones, to the roots of her soul. The breeze slipped through the open window and swirled around them. It brought with it birdsong and the rustle of the trees in the park. He sighed into her mouth and she wound her fingers through his hair, not wanting the sweetness to end.
“Come on, you two!” Someone pounded on the door. “Time to go.”
Christopher’s arms fell away. “Bugger.” He sighed and took her hand. “I suppose we’d better get this over with.”
Everyone gathered on the broad sweep of gravel in front of the house, apart from the bride and bridesmaids. The wedding photographer swooped and hovered while they walked down the drive toward the tiny chapel set on the edge of the parkland. Guests were already arriving, filing into the church, or lingering under the trees chatting.
“Oi! Beaumont!” Someone called from behind them. “Where the hell have you been?” A man steered his wheelchair across the gravel. Grace tried not to stare at the place where his lower legs should have been.
Christopher grinned. “Mark, it’s good to see you.” He shook the man’s hand and eased Grace forward.
; The man, dressed in a well-tailored charcoal gray suit, turned to Grace. “Who’s the bird, mate?”
“Charming as ever.” Christopher squeezed Grace’s hand. “This is my girlfriend, Grace Webb. Grace, the man with the appalling manners is Mark Bracewell, he’s an old friend of mine.”
Mark’s handshake was firm. “It’s nice to meet you, Grace. I was beginning to worry about Chris for a while. Thought he’d switched sides, you know.” He winked.
“Just for that, you can do me a huge favor. I’m going to have to rush off in a minute.”
“Name it, mate.”
“Look after Grace for me. If she’s left to her own devices she might get bored and drive home without me.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Is that all right with you, darling?” Christopher kissed her, a short, sweet, fierce kiss. “I’m going to have to do my groomsman bit in a minute. I hate to leave you.”
“I’ll be fine.” Mark, at least, seemed to be on the same planet. Grace hadn’t relished the idea of sitting on her own in the church. “Go and do your duties.”
Another kiss. “I’ll see you after the ordeal.”
Something deeper than desire tugged at Grace when she watched him jog toward the chapel and disappear inside.
“So, how long have you been seeing each other?” Mark leaned back in his chair.
“A few weeks, six perhaps.” Grace hated that she already felt the chill of separation.
Bloody hell, you’re a mess.
“He seems to be taken with you.” Her companion’s voice was suddenly serious.
“That’s good, because the feeling’s mutual.”
They headed toward the chapel. Grace waited while Mark negotiated the narrow ramp and followed him to the back pew. The shadowy chapel echoed with whispers, the rustle of paper and a muted Mozart sonata from a string quartet. The scent of flowers drifted across the aisle. Grace found Christopher, standing alongside the other groomsmen. His hands were clasped behind his back while he tilted his head back and stared at something behind the altar. It was nice to have the quiet luxury of watching him.
“You have got it bad,” Mark whispered.
“We don’t get to see each other much. I like to enjoy the view while I can.” Grace remembered the night once more. The brush of Christopher’s skin on hers, the way he moved inside her, as if they had the luxury of time. She tried not to think about how the short, red jacket emphasized the shape of his arse, the length of his legs. She wanted him all over again.
The sudden burst of The Wedding March was an unpleasant intrusion into Grace’s musings. Everyone stood and waited as the bridesmaids began to file in, resplendent in kingfisher-blue taffeta. The bride followed, swathed in cream silk and lace. Her red hair gleamed softly in the morning light that fell through the high, arched windows of the chapel. When Emma reached the altar, Paddy and the vicar, everyone sat down.
Grace glanced at the order of service, thankful that it seemed considerably shorter than the dinner that had preceded it. While the vicar began the service, Grace looked for Christopher once more. The vicar’s words faded to a dull hum marked by the rhythm of the service, the ancient ritual of marriage older than the tiny chapel.
Christopher stared past the vicar, past the altar, to the stained glass window. The angel’s wings were outspread, its hands clasped together in prayer. Bored with the service, he thought of Grace. They had made love all night, between brief forays into sleep. He wondered how it was that he never tired of her, that he could never get enough of her. When she’d walked out of the bathroom in that dress, a floaty thing the color of willow leaves, he’d fought with a longing he could never hope to put into words. She’d pinned her hair up with an absurd little concoction of feathers. On any other woman it would’ve looked silly, on Grace, it looked right. He’d loved the way her eyes widened when she looked at him. He’d loved the scent of her when she’d bent to sort out his cufflinks. All Christopher had wanted to do was kiss the back of her neck, feel the silk of her skin beneath his lips. He would’ve happily locked the bedroom door and made love to her all day.
The string quartet sprang to life once more with a spirited introduction to All Things Bright and Beautiful. Behind Christopher, the congregation rose with a rustle of hymn sheets. The words of the old hymn filled the chapel, a ragged chorus of voices, some loud and out of tune, others hesitant and stumbling. One or two sang beautifully and in tune—it always seemed the same at any Church service, whether it was a wedding, a thanksgiving or a funeral. Christopher ventured a glance over his shoulder and sought Grace. She held the hymn sheet in both hands, her mouth formed the words and he wished he could hear her voice. Her bare shoulders were pale gold and he ached for a moment when he remembered how her skin felt beneath his fingers.
Everyone sat when the hymn was finished. The vicar found his voice once more.
“…my beloved spake and said unto me, Rise up my love, my fair one and come away. For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone…”
It always surprised him that there were beautiful snatches of poetry in the Bible, hidden away between turgid recitations of ‘begats’, battles and prophecies. For once, Christopher listened to the words and understood why the vicar used them. He was almost sorry when the recitation was over and the string quartet launched into the opening bars of Morning Has Broken. He wondered if the service was nearly over. He wanted to get back to Grace. He wanted the photographs and fuss and reception to be over. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with her again.
* * * *
It was a relief to be out in the sun once more. Grace followed Mark and his chair through the gossiping knots of guests to a space at the edge of the trees. The photographer held the wedding party hostage, working his way through every possible combination of people—the groomsmen standing together, all grins and sabers, the bride and her attendants clutching their bouquets of delphiniums and gypsophila, the beaming parents. The combinations seemed endless. Grace wasn’t particularly crazy about the photograph where a smirking Pippa leaned on Christopher. She watched his face carefully and was comforted by the awkwardness of his stance and thin smile.
Finally, the photographer released the wedding party and set about wandering through the guests taking random pictures. Grace watched Christopher stride toward her with a grin on his face.
“Thank Christ that’s over.” He took her hand and kissed her. “I swear if that bloody photographer comes anywhere near me again I’ll—”
“You’ll keep your temper.” Grace kissed the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll run him over.” Mark pulled up beside them. “This bloody chair is good for some things.”
“That would be worth seeing.” Christopher tugged at his bow tie. “Let’s get this bloody reception over and done with. I’m stuck at the bloody top table.”
“I figured as much,” Grace sighed. She’d forgotten about the horrors of assigned seats. “I hate to think what yahoos I’ll be stuck with.”
“If worse comes to worse, we’ll do some card-swapping.” Mark wheeled ahead of them. “Come on, you two.”
“Is he behaving himself?” Christopher wound his fingers through hers. “He can be a bit of a handful.”
“He’s fine. He’s good company.”
“Don’t get too fond of him, Gracey. Mark may be stuck in that chair, but he can still turn on the charm when he wants to.”
“He can turn on the charm all he likes, it won’t work.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“What happened to him?”
“Landmine.” Christopher’s voice was a sigh. “We were on patrol and he stepped on a mine. I don’t know whether he was lucky he wasn’t killed or not. I’m not sure he thinks he was lucky. He used to be a hell of a rugby player. Now he can’t even bear to watch it. War sucks, Gracey.”
“Jesus.” Grace glanced ahead. Mark waited for them on the lawn. Someone was talking to him. A woman with a big hat,
bent over with her hands between her knees, in the same posture a person would use when addressing a child. She supposed he had to put up with that all the time. He might have lost his legs, but Grace was certain he hadn’t lost his brains.
“He had a fiancé. She left him not long after he came back. Nothing like kicking a man when he’s down.”
“Bloody hell.”
“But, whatever you do, don’t feel sorry for him. Mark wouldn’t want that. He’s tired of people tip-toeing around him or patronizing him.”
“I can imagine.”
“Christ, you two don’t half dawdle.” Mark dismissed the woman by leaving her standing, slightly bewildered, on the lawn. “Let’s find this bloody marquee.”
A large, striped tent dominated the lawn. The front flap had been rolled up to take advantage of the warm day. Guests lingered on the grass, drinking and chatting while the caterers carried food on trays. A huge easel by the entrance held the seating arrangement.
“Well, that’s something, Miss Grace Webb.” Mark pointed at the lower left-hand corner of the painstakingly drawn chart. “We get to sit together.”
Grace peered over his shoulder. The top table was on the other side of the marquee. “Wow, talking about seating us below the salt.” She glanced at the arrangement of names at the top table. “I think I can guess who helped the bride draw this up.”
“Fucking hell, she didn’t did she?” Christopher’s hand tightened on her shoulder. His sigh ruffled her hair. “Bloody Pippa.”
“It looks to me like ‘Bloody Pippa’ wants you back.”
“Bloody Pippa isn’t going to get me back. She’s only changed her mind because I’ve risen in the ranks.”
“She’s that shallow?”
Mark laughed. “Oh yes, Miss Philippa Hawksworth-Marsters is that shallow.”
Guests filed past them into the marquee. A DJ, setting up in the corner, paused to tap on his mic before passing it to Emma’s father.
“Ladies and gentlemen, lunch is served.”
“Bugger.” Christopher sighed. “Let’s hope there aren’t seven bloody courses again.” His lips brushed hers. “I promise I’ll make it up to you, darling.”
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