Undressed (Undone by Love)

by Kristina Cook

  “You can,” he commanded, reaching for her chin and tilting her face upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her round, aquamarine eyes met his, blinking repeatedly, the threat of tears dampening her lashes. “You tremble at my touch, go weak when I kiss you. Tell me it’s true, that I’m not losing my bloody mind. You want me as much as I want you.”

  “Did ye ask the same of Lady Mandeville?” she answered, her voice steady and cool. “Before she left her reticule behind?”

  “Certainly not. What do you think, that Lucy and I...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Of course you do, and of course I cannot tell you the truth, either.” To tell anyone the truth of his relationship to Lucy would endanger her reputation, her standing in society. He hadn’t even confided in Jane, for God’s sake, difficult as that had been.

  “As I have indicated, Lucy is like a sister to me,” he said, carefully measuring his words. “No more, no less. To suggest that there is anything improper between us is preposterous, and that’s all I will say on the subject.”

  “Let me go.” Brenna struggled against him, but he tightened his grasp.

  “No.” He couldn’t. He needed her. Today more than ever. If she left now, he knew he’d have to find a drink somewhere. He couldn’t bear it, not now. “Please,” he said, his voice a ragged growl.

  She went immediately still in his arms.

  “I realize I can’t...that I’m not the sort of man—”

  She silenced him with her mouth.

  “Oh, Colin,” she murmured against his lips, her arms reaching around his shoulders. She kissed him, tenderly at first, then far more hungrily as he opened his mouth against hers. Her tongue slipped inside, moving in tentative exploration.

  His hands moved to her hair, removing pins in a desperate attempt to run his fingers through the glossy, reddish-gold locks that he’d dreamt of each night. At last her hair spilled haphazardly down her back. He raked his fingers through the silky waves, cupping the back of her head with both hands, drawing her closer still. He wanted to devour her; he’d thought of nothing else for days on end, and now, here she was, in his arms. For a moment he thought he might weep with relief.

  Instead, he moved his mouth lower, to the slim column of her pale neck, where her pulse leapt wildly beneath his lips. A crest of desire coursed through him, and he suddenly had to see her breasts, to see if they resembled the ones he’d imagined in his dreams.

  Inhaling sharply, he hooked his thumbs into the edge of her bodice, where the rose-colored gauze met the gentle swell of her breasts. Near viciously, he tugged on the fabric, taking her chemise with it. She moaned against his throat as he freed her breasts, exposing them to his hungry eyes.

  Devil take it, they were beautiful, more so than he’d ever imagined. Pale, round globes the color of almond milk, crested by delightfully erect nipples the same shade of rose as her frothy gown.

  “Don’t,” Brenna cried out softly, even as she guided his head toward them with her hands, arching her back in anticipation. A flame licked at his groin as he flicked his tongue over one straining peak. Dear Lord, how would he ever stop, now that he’d tasted the forbidden fruit? This was what he needed to lose himself in, not the drink. This nectar was far, far more intoxicating than the finest brandy. He captured her nipple in his mouth, suckling her till she moaned and squirmed in his arms.

  He resisted the urge to carry her upstairs, knowing if he did so, he’d never stop, never abandon her lush little body till it was far too late. Right now, it was all he could do to keep his rogue hands from removing her gown entirely, baring her to his lustful gaze. Pausing to catch his breath, he felt her fingers move against his chest, tugging at his shirt, freeing it from the band of his trousers. Suddenly her hands were on his bare skin, lighting a fire up his torso as she struggled, tugging at the folds of linen.

  Realization dawned on him, nearly making him dizzy. She was attempting to remove his shirt. Skin against skin—he could suddenly think of nothing else. Leaning back, he reached for his shirttails and pulled the linen over his head in one fluid motion, not caring where it landed. With a sharp cry, she pressed herself against him, her bare breasts flattened against the muscles of his chest.

  For several seconds, neither moved, their hearts pounding in rhythm. She was so very beautiful, flawless in every way. Their bodies molded perfectly. At once he hungered for more. He needed more, as much of her as he could have. Reaching for her gown’s hem, he drew her skirts up to her waist, his fingers gliding along her thigh, skimming the silky flesh and drawing gooseflesh in their wake. She leaned into him, her breathing becoming shallow and ragged against his neck.

  At once her entire body tensed against his. “Nay, ye must stop this at once, Colin.”

  Remorse washing over him, he released her skirts and clutched her to him. If he let her go now, he might never have the opportunity to hold her like this again. He wasn’t yet ready to give her up. Yet he must. He had no claim on her. None. He’d allowed himself to get carried away, to use her like he would a whore. “I’m sorry, Brenna. So very sorry. I will make this right. I won’t take advantage of you and then—”

  “I must go,” she said, her breath warm against his bare chest.

  He knew he must let her go. He hadn’t a choice, even if it nearly killed him to do so. He nodded, forcing his fingers to tug her bodice back to its rightful place, covering her breasts, shielding them from his view, perhaps forever. “Can you stand?” he asked, silently cursing the tremor in his voice.

  “I...I think so,” she answered, sliding off his lap, away from his persistent erection. “But my hair.” She looked about wildly at the pins scattered across the carpet. She took one tentative step, then faltered, her injured foot buckling beneath her.

  Frozen, Colin watched in horror as she crumpled to the ground. At last springing to action, he tore himself from the sofa and knelt beside her, gathering her in his arms.

  “My ankle,” she said, looking up at him sheepishly.

  “Let me see it.” He pushed up her skirts and took her still-bare foot in his hands, massaging gently. Nothing appeared broken, and the swelling was minor. He grasped her foot firmly and rotated it, making small circles in the air, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. “How does that feel?”

  “Better, actually. Dear Lord, Colin, look at us.” She plucked his shirt off the carpet and dropped it into his lap. Just imagine what people would think were they to see us like this.”

  “Well, they wouldn’t be that far off the mark. Can you ever forgive me, Brenna? I’ve not been myself lately, and these past few days have been difficult. I meant to hold you, to kiss you, perhaps, but I never meant to take advantage of you like that.”

  “’Tis my fault as much as yours,” she said, studying him sharply. “Truly, Colin, I didna notice it before now, but ye look terrible. Whatever has happened to ye?” She reached out to touch his bruised eye, then the bandage on his shoulder.

  He swallowed hard before answering. He could not tell her the entire truth—that he’d drunk himself senseless, spent the night God knew where, and then spent the past few days withdrawing entirely from alcohol. “A rough night in the East End is all. I’ve been...recuperating.”

  “Well, whoever he was, I hope ye got the best of him. Ye look as if ye could use a bit more recuperation.”

  “Hmm, perhaps. I could say the same of your ankle. You should stay off it a bit, at least till the swelling goes down. A fine pair we make, don’t we?”

  She laughed then, an easy, gentle laugh, and the tension he’d felt began to melt away. “Wretched,” she answered. “I’m ashamed to tell ye I have no means to return to Danville House. Your family’s butler sent me here in an old barouche to locate Jane. I think I gave the man an apoplexy, appearing on his doorstep like a madwoman, raving about ball gowns and Prinny himself and insisting I must speak with your sister at once.”

  “Prinny and ball gowns? I’m almost afraid to ask. Here, let me help you up.” Just as he
extended a hand to her, the front door slammed shut, startling him. “What the—”

  “Colin, dear,” a voice called out. Damnation. His mother. He attempted to scrabble to his feet, taking Brenna with him, but he slipped on his shirt, which still lay in a heap on the carpet.

  “Jane said you were gravely ill, so I brought you one of Cook’s tonics. Mrs. Butler and I were just on our way...” His mother appeared in the doorway, Mrs. Butler at her side. Both women goggled at the sight before them, their mouths open and their faces white with shock. “Dear Lord in heaven,” his mother said, finding her voice. “I think I’m going to swoon.” Without further warning, she slumped against the moldings and slid to the floor with a resounding thud.

  Colin almost laughed aloud at the comical horror of the situation. Brenna gasped, gazing up at him with pleading eyes, as if there was anything he could do to right the current state of affairs. It was hopeless. They were trapped, plain and simple.

  For how could he possibly explain why Brenna was sprawled on his carpet, her skirts bunched around her knees? Worse still, her bodice had slipped so low that one rose-colored half-moon peeked over the edge of the fabric, the skin surrounding it bruised by his mouth. And if that alone wasn’t bad enough, there was also the fact that he was wearing nothing save his trousers and was nearly straddling her at the present.

  No, he could do nothing but watch in horror as Mrs. Butler crouched over his mother, waving a vinaigrette before her nose in an effort to revive her. She came around with a moan, the back of one hand pressed to her forehead.

  Devil take it, why was it that whenever he thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse than they were, they found a way to do just that? And what a grand way to illustrate the point.

  He returned his gaze to Brenna, a stricken expression darkening her features. Did she fully understand the implications? There was no question he’d be forced to marry her.

  Had this been Brenna’s plan all along, a desperate ploy to extricate herself from the marriage agreement with Sinclair? Hadn’t Jane just confessed to suggesting such a scheme to her? Blast Jane and her bloody brilliant ideas.

  His head swam in confusion, his thoughts nothing but a muddled mess. Of course he should marry her. He’d taken unforgivable liberties, after all. He’d tried to say as much, but she’d silenced him, unwilling to hear it.

  Never had he expected to be coldly manipulated into marriage, careful as he’d always been with ladies of virtue. And now, here he was, manipulated by the one woman whose affections he yearned for. Married—not for who he was, but instead for who he was not. That miserable, emasculating thought alone sliced through his gut, made his lungs burn as if he were suffocating.

  “Good afternoon, Mother, Mrs. Butler,” he said at last, rising to his feet and bowing toward the two gaping women. “It looks as if you’re just in time for an offer of marriage, aren’t you?”

  Chapter 15

  Stone-faced and silent, Brenna sat perched on the edge of the sofa, absently twisting a handkerchief in her lap. Beside her, Lady Danville wailed into her own handkerchief, lowering it now and again to cry out, “Why, Margaret?” or “How could you do such a thing?” till Brenna thought she might go mad.

  Worse still were the angry sounds coming from her father’s study. Furniture crashed, glassware shattered. “That brazen little bitch!” she heard Hugh roar just before another loud crash. “I’ll wring her neck,” he added, sounding as if he meant it.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” came Lord Danville’s voice as Lady Danville’s sobs grew louder beside Brenna. “And I’ll ask that you watch what you say about your sister. She is my daughter, after all. She acted foolishly, yes. Terribly so, and our family’s name will no doubt suffer. Still, it could have been worse, much worse. Dissolute or not, at least Colin Rosemoor is the heir to a viscountcy, and he has already agreed—”

  “Already agreed? You mean to say you’ve already spoken with him? What of your agreement with Sinclair?”

  “Come now, Mrs. Butler is a known gossip-monger. Do you honestly think Sinclair would honor the agreement, now that your sister has been so publicly compromised? I’ll offer him a generous settlement, as we’re in breach of promise, but—”

  “She will marry Sinclair!” Hugh bellowed, sounding near-crazed.

  “She will marry Colin Rosemoor, scoundrel or not.” Lord Danville’s voice was remarkably calm. “She might carry his child, for God’s sake.”

  Another crash made Brenna flinch. One hand slipped from her lap to the sofa beside her, her nails digging into the velvet’s deep nap.

  “Goddamn that little bitch to hell.” The study door splintered as Hugh flung it open against the wall. He stormed out, toppling a chair in his path as he headed toward the front door.

  Brenna closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Lord, but she’d wreaked havoc with her behavior. She’d never forgive herself such foolishness. Never. In the course of one day, she’d been reduced to a witless twit, no better than the women who populated the silly, romantic novels her nursemaid Jenny had favored.

  “She’ll pay for this,” Hugh warned before throwing open the door and disappearing into the night.

  Lady Danville’s sobs increased as a weary-looking Lord Danville came to stand before them. He sighed, his face drawn and taut. “Well, daughter, I hope you are satisfied. Breach of promise, public scandal.” He ticked off her transgressions with his fingers. “At least I can take comfort in the fact that I cannot claim responsibility for your upbringing. You’ve made your bed, young lady, and now you must lie in it, uncomfortable though it may be. You’ll marry Colin Rosemoor in a fortnight.”

  Her mouth fell open. “A fortnight? Surely you’re not serious?”

  “I assure you, I am entirely serious.”

  “Nay, sir. ‘Tis too soon. I must speak with him first. I canna just—”

  “You can and you will. You’ve disappointed me greatly, Margaret. Despite the fact that those...those people raised you, I thought you to be a virtuous woman. That you would defy my specific instructions and associate with such a man, well...” He shook his head once more. “I misjudged you. And now we must all suffer for it.”

  “How shall I face my friends?” Lady Danville wailed. “Mrs. Butler said he was near enough mounting her there on the carpet, both of them half-clothed—”

  “Shush, Harriet, that’s more than enough. She knows what she’s done. No use rehashing it over and over again.”

  Brenna only stared at her hands, unable to reply in the face of such criticism. Never before had she disappointed those who claimed to care for her. She’d been naught but a source of pride and joy to the Maclachlans, a loving and dutiful daughter above all else. What would the Maclachlans think of her now—a fallen woman by all accounts? It didn’t matter that her virginity remained intact. By all appearances she was ruined, and appearances were what mattered to the ton.

  “Come now, Harriet,” her father said, reaching for Lady Danville’s shoulder as she continued to sob, quietly now. “You’ll make yourself ill, carrying on like this. Besides, there’s much to be done. A trousseau to be bought, a wedding to be arranged, and only a fortnight to accomplish it.”

  “A fortnight?” Lady Danville snuffled, at last ceasing her weeping. “No, that simply will not do. I cannot make such arrangements in a fortnight alone.”

  “Oh, but you’ll find a way, I’m certain. It needn’t be a large affair. Something intimate, a small ceremony in the drawing room followed by a wedding breakfast. Certainly not the circumstances for a lavish affair.”

  Lady Danville’s trembling mouth curved into a smile, despite her damp eyes. She turned toward Brenna, laying a hand on her wrist. “Your father is right; there is so much to do. Tomorrow we will go to Madame Vioget for your trousseau. We must be quick about it, as there isn’t much time. And oh, the menu! I wonder if Cook is still about. I must consult with her at once.” She rose, her eyes darting toward the drawing room. “Fifty guests, perhaps,
and a string quartet should suffice. A rib roast and those pastries stuffed with lobster and prawns. Perhaps an aspic, too, and turtle soup.” She drummed her fingers together, her mouth pursed thoughtfully. “Gunter’s for a tiered cake, of course. We must arrange for that at once, as well. La, so much to do. I simply don’t know how I’ll manage. Mrs. Tupper?” she trilled. “Oh, fustian. Where is the bell? Mrs. Tupper!”

  Brenna watched as Lady Danville hurried off in search of the housekeeper, whistling a wedding march as she did so. However did the woman accomplish such a transformation—from utter despair to utter delight—in so short a time? ‘Twas astonishing.

  “Well, now,” Lord Danville said, stroking his whiskers. “You must excuse me, as I’ve some unpleasant business to attend to with Lord Thomas Sinclair. I only hope he takes the news better than your brother did. Best not go in my study right now, not till the staff sweeps up the damage. I suppose you should get some rest. Heaven knows, your mother will run you ragged in the days to come.”

  Again, Brenna only nodded. She was afraid to speak, afraid she might begin to weep. Her emotions were naught but a muddle. Not since the Maclachlans’ deaths, one right after the other, had she felt so lost, so frightened and utterly alone. She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

  Lord Danville stepped closer, his eyes narrowed as he regarded her sharply. “He did not hurt you, did he, Margaret? If that rogue forced himself on you, I’ll—”

  “Nay, sir, I assure ye he did not,” she said, finding her voice at last. “I know ye have no reason to believe me, but ‘twas not at all as it appeared. Truly. I only went to his lodgings because I believed Miss Rosemoor to be there, and I wished to speak with them both. I would have left straightaway once I found Mr. Rosemoor alone, but I twisted my ankle on the steps, ye see.” She lifted the hem of her skirt, exposing her still-swollen ankle. “He was only trying to be helpful.”

  “Hmm, perhaps,” he said, sounding tired, defeated. “Even if it is true, there’s no alternative save marrying him. You must see that.”