by Tessa Bowen
Gracefully, she took the hand the chauffeur offered her and paused at the bottom of the steps to smooth the column of her chic knee-length wedding gown. He liked the lace running down the front. It showed off the corseted bodice beneath and more importantly the swell of her incredible tits. How this woman thought she was fat he’d never know. Even sporting a six-month baby bump she was as slim as ever. Her belly had popped (obviously) and her rack was rounder, but that slender ass of hers had hardly spread. This was made abundantly clear when she half-turned and bent, remembering to rescue her useless little purse from the backseat of the Bentley. What could a woman fit in a purse the size of a cigarette case? Lipstick, he guessed, and possibly a vial of strychnine to pour into his champagne flute later. He’d have to watch out for that purse.
She wore another hat, this one smaller than the one she wore the day of the auction (thank Christ for that). She couldn’t hide from him in this little meringue number. It looked like she had whipped cream piped on the side of her head, as the headpiece sat jauntily askew. And was that a miniature veil covering just her eyes?
Jack squinted from where he stood at the entrance to the Chelsea Registry Office. He tried to keep a straight face as he clasped his hands together behind him, assuming the “groom” position. It was sort of cute that she’d worn a veil. He’d never seen one so tiny. Perhaps its sole purpose was to hide her scrunch. He was glad it didn’t cover the rest of her pretty face. Jack Johnson liked to kiss the women he was having sex with (not that she’d let him before), nor did he plan on ever having sex with her again. He liked to see the women he was marrying too (not that he’d married any other women before this one). Funny that he was marrying this woman and he’d never even kissed her, but he’d certainly had sex with her once. Now here he stood with a baroness for a bride and a baby on the way.
He continued to admire her as she made her way up the steps. Leave it to her to float, even impeded by a six month fetus. One thing was for certain, this woman was as crazy as a loon, but she was as beautiful as a swan. In fact, she put all the other “Swans” to shame. Wasn’t that what the Duke’s cute little wife called these English society broads. The name definitely fit this particular broad, or “Swan”. She sure looked good carrying his kid. He’d tell her she looked nice, but she wouldn’t believe him—that’s how big an idiot she was.
He waited patiently for her to finish making her grand ascension. To his surprise, she reached out and took his arm, wrapping her gloved arm around his. Maybe it was ok that she touched him as long as she was wearing gloves. This sent some disturbingly erotic and wholly inappropriate images flashing though his mind. He shook them off as she tilted her head so she could peer at him from beneath her cream puff hat. Her cat eyes fluttered beneath the mesh of the veil.
“Hello,” she said simply.
“Howdy,” he answered like the dumb fuck cowboy he was.
Jack liked her gussied up like this. Even though the clothes she wore were expensive, there was something understated about her taste. She looked like a porcelain doll, but not a dainty doll. She was a tall knockout of a doll—one with limbs that seemed endless. She was more like a statue in a museum really. She looked just like one of those classical ones that glowed alabaster white with the perfect breasts and smooth legs. Those statues had supplied him with many a schoolboy field trip hard-on. He guessed most kids his age were jerking off to Pamela Anderson in Baywatch re-runs, or at the very least causing the pages of their fathers’ Playboy magazines to stick together. Was there something wrong with him for being turned on by her almost inhuman beauty? He’d always gone for a more austere look and certainly he appreciated a natural appearance in a woman. He’d masturbated to his English teacher, Miss Bettencourt, who’d been a ballet dancer. She’d worn a bun too and had those freshly scrubbed pink cheeks.
Even though the Baroness was polished to a gleam, swathed in all the finery money could buy, she was still a natural beauty. She wore little to no makeup, and he liked that she’d left her full dark brows just as they were. He liked even more that she painted her nails with that buff shade that seemed to be her signature color (instead of red), and that she kept them short and filed into a nice oval shape. She may be a she-snake, but this lady was classy.
“You look stunning.”
Her head snapped up, mossy-green eyes widening in surprise. She quickly recovered and bent her head very low this time, craning that long swan neck of hers. The breeze blew through her frothy headpiece, ruffling the chiffon details like feathers.
“Don’t tease me, Mr. Johnson. Not now…”
Jack simply couldn’t resist.
“I especially like that thing on your head. It looks like a pair of doves got caught in a cake and had some sort of diabetic seizure.”
“It’s called a fascinator, you horrid man.”
“It’s a real fruity little cap, isn’t it?”
“It’s not a cap.”
“Well, it’s not a hat,” he threw back. “Looks like someone dropped their dessert on your head. Or maybe you were the victim of a drive-by cupcaking.”
She dug her short nails into his arm, hissing the words between her teeth. “English ladies wear fascinators to weddings. It’s a tradition.”
“You Brits and your silly traditions. What I wouldn’t give to find a decent cup of coffee in this country. I don’t know how you people suck down that pisswater you call tea and how about a real cookie for Christ’s sake? I’d give my left arm for a cookie, not one of those dry hockey pucks you call tea cakes. I mean a real goddamned chocolate chip cookie with walnuts.”
“I’m sure we can locate a cookie for you, Mr. Johnson” she huffed. “Now are you ready to go in?”
“You know what else this country needs?”
“Looser handgun laws,” the Baroness muttered crossly. “I’d kill for a gun right now.”
“Doughnuts.” he finished. “This country needs doughnuts.”
Jack knew she hadn’t invited anyone to this portion of their hell-day, so he could get her flustered and no one would be the wiser. The real show would be at the dinner to follow. She’d warned him that there would probably be press out front to document the tony event, but for now he could torment his bride.
“Are we really going to stand here all day and argue about sweets, Mr. Johnson? If you are trying to rile me out of my anxiety, don’t bother. I’m feeling much better.”
“All right,” he said with an amused twinkle in his eye. “Just checking.”
He couldn’t help thinking it was a little pathetic that she’d only invited Sir Archibald and her maid to witness the vows they exchanged. He guessed the words they spoke didn’t mean anything so what was the point? Still, didn’t she want a few friends here? Maybe she didn’t have any friends. She probably wasn’t the sort of woman other women liked, for the obvious reason. She was about ten times better looking than the average dame and that never went over well. Was the Baroness just a sad statue of a lady, alone in the museum of other untouchable goddess statues?
He was touching her now. Well, almost touching her—holding her gloved hands as they stood facing each other next to the registrar’s desk. She wasn’t looking at him, but she wasn’t hiding either. Her eyes were downcast, dark lashes a striking contrast behind the tulle scrim of her veil. He shot a glance over at the old secretary and the sweet young maid. They sat in wooden chairs in the small but nicely decorated room, smiling at him gently as if offering their support. Did they think he was going to make a run for it before he signed his life away? His distracted gaze ran over the stately room, with its tall ceilings and bay windows swathed in buttermilk silk. He wondered how much longer the dude behind the desk would drone on. His collar was starting to itch and his head was beginning to spin.
Jack’s attention was drawn back to the Baroness as she uttered the words, “I do”.
Holy shit, I guess I’m up.
The registrar nodded in encouragement and Jack repeated the words in a hu
sky murmur.
“I do.”
Was that it? Were they married? He remembered what he was supposed to do next and dropped her hand to retrieve the ring in his pocket, a giant rock that had no doubt been in her family for eons. He shifted awkwardly as he stared down at the gloved fingers she extended for him. He’d have to remove her gloves. Hopefully she wouldn’t smack him. The ring slid easily on her finger and glimmered in the shafts of late afternoon sun.
The Baroness nibbled her lip as she inspected how it looked on her hand. Jack’s eyes fell to her mouth. He decided a kiss was in order. Why not? This day couldn’t get any weirder. He took his life in his hands when he reached out and tweaked the edge of her veil. It wasn’t really in the way of her lips but some part of him wanted the experience of pushing back the delicate shroud.
“Ready to have your snake lips kissed?”
His face cracked into a grin and he was relieved when she released the pad of her lower lip from her teeth to smile. It was a soft little smile. Her lower lip looked swollen from her nervous noshing—swollen and damp.
Jack leaned in even as she whispered to him.
“You don’t have to…”
He knew he didn’t have to. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. He was more interested in the reaction he’d get from Miss Alabaster Statue, Queen of the Swan Ladies.
He got one last jab in just to be a dick. “Don’t sink your fangs into me, ok?”
She leapt a little when his mouth touched hers, almost as if she’d experienced a static shock. He didn’t lay his hands on her—that would be too much. She’d flip if he pressed her shoulders with his big palms. He started out with a soft brushing of his lips over hers, to see if she could tolerate it. She seemed to be ok. In fact, she opened her mouth a bit and he could feel and smell her breath. It was warm—not cold—and sweet, not venomous.
Jack leaned into the kiss. She gave into the pressure, tilting her head to give him a better angle. One of the feathery plumes from her hat tickled his cheek and the sensation wasn’t half-bad. Neither was the feel of her trembling lips. She’d forgotten to stick her tongue behind her teeth and she’d forgotten to pucker up like a lady too. As a result, their tongues collided momentarily and he was able to gather her mouth into his in a fleeting but delicious kiss.
He didn’t want to push his luck and pulled away before it could go any further. It was only an introduction to a kiss—a preview of the kiss that would never come. At least he’d tasted her. She was like spun sugar on his tongue. He’d never kiss her again, but he’d remember her decadent flavor for a long time.
Jack was pleased to discover the color had risen in her cheeks.
“That was rather nice,” she remarked breathlessly.
“Not bad right? You should have let me kiss you sooner.”
“I think you might be right, Mr. Johnson.”
He raised a brow at her. “Maybe it’s time you call me Jack.”
Chapter Four
“You were amazing tonight…Jack.”
Jack held the door for her then followed her into their deluxe suite. “Pretty convincing, right?”
“Where did you ever learn how to lead like that? You’re an even better dancer than Trevor. Did you see Penelope Winterbottom’s face as her husband tromped on her toes? She was pea-green with envy.”
Abigail’s head still spun with the exhilaration of the evening. She hadn’t expected to actually enjoy herself. Not only had things gone smoothly, but they’d had a ball together. Tonight’s success was due entirely to one man. She faced him, planning to reward him with a smile but faltered when she saw him fling the key card on the console in a gesture of annoyance.
Oh dear, what did I say? And things were going so well.
“Is…the room not to your liking?”
“It’s fine,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and yanking his tie loose.
“I’m sorry that we have to share quarters. We must keep up appearances for the hotel staff. I couldn’t risk getting an adjacent suite. They’d wonder why, but I booked the very best room.” She gestured to the large window behind the heavy curtains. “There’s a wonderful view of the park. You’ll be able to take it in when the sun comes up tomorrow.” Her nervous gaze darted to the one big bed then to the red velvet couch on the opposite side of the spacious room.
“I can’t wait to stretch out,” he told her. “You’ll be ok on the couch, right?”
“Oh…”
“I’m only joking,” he said without any humor in his tone.
He sat his bulk down in a chair and began removing his shoes with the same jerky movements he’d used to remove his jacket and tie.
“You’re vexed with me and I don’t know why,” she said softly.
“You know what I want for a wedding present?”
“What?”
“For you to go the rest of the night without mentioning your precious Trevor—can you do that for me?”
“Yes…I’m sorry, it’s just…I’m not sure I have any experiences to draw from that don’t involve him. He has been such a big part of my life.”
He stood in his bare feet, looming over her. “I think that part of your life is over. Now take those goddamn shoes off, they must be killing you.”
The Baroness let out the breath she’d been holding. “Yes, they’re murdering me slowly,” she confessed.
She was too bulgy to bend and slip them off in a lady-like manner, so she kicked them off instead. To her astonishment, he gathered up her shoes and placed them neatly next to his under the chair in a gesture so shockingly intimate it made her belly flutter. They were already acting like husband and wife and yet they were virtual strangers—strangers who had made a baby together.
Abigail stared dumbly at him as he padded into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He didn’t close the door as he ripped off his shirt and bent to rinse his face and neck. She watched his ribs ripple with the movement of his scrubbing hands. When he straightened and grabbed for a towel, she thought the drying of his face was quite like poetry in motion. Now came the brushing of his teeth. The act of spitting out toothpaste made the sinews of his strong neck pulse and twitch. She gawked in open fascination at his manly routine. How could the sight of a man drinking out of a faucet be erotic?
Trevor (who she wasn’t supposed to mention) never left the door open. An English gentleman’s toilet rituals weren’t something to be revealed. How could she tell Mr. Johnson…uh…Jack that the best wedding present he could have given her was allowing her to watch him ready himself for bed?
My, but the man makes even the most mundane acts look sexy.
He pivoted and headed back toward her. “It’s all yours.” He paused when he noticed her queer look. His gaze wandered to her headpiece. “You’re not going to sleep in that cuckoo’s nest are you?”
“No,” she faltered. “I just don’t know how to get it off. The hairdresser helped me with it…”
Jack peered down at it with a frown. “It can’t be rocket science.”
She blushed as his deft fingers found the combs that attached the hat to her hair, pulling them free without a snag.
“You seem to be adept with the removal of fascinators,” she teased.
“One of my many talents,” he teased back, flinging the frilly hat across the room. “Promise me you’ll never wear that again.”
“I don’t know why you have such an aversion to my headware,” she sulked, automatically smoothing her hair to make sure there were no wayward strands.
“I like to see your face.”
Abigail blinked in amazement as she searched his features. He wore a gentle smile. She had been praised for her beauty her entire adult life, been compared to Grecian goddesses and Vermeer’s luminous ladies, but his was the nicest compliment she’d ever received. He liked to see her face. It was so simple and yet so meaningful.
She reached for something—anything so she wouldn’t start fanning herself.
“You’re sure the ro
om is all right?”
“You already asked me that.” He wrinkled his nose in a way that made him look very young. “It’s pretty froufrou, but I think I’ll survive the night without turning into a cream puff.”
A giggle sent her swaying. To her complete and utter horror her protruding stomach knocked into his. “Oh, pardon me!” She flinched with such a jolt that he had to reach out a hand and steady her by the wrist. “Or…I suppose I should say…pardon us.”
“Why are you so embarrassed?”
“I’ve never been shaped like an inflated balloon before.”
The heat of his hand was seeping into her arm, causing her flesh to prickle beneath her clothes. Abigail supposed it wasn’t odd that he should touch her freely now. They’d touched quite a lot when they’d danced together.
“I’m not sure how to manage it.”
“You manage it just fine.”
“It juts out and says hello even if I haven’t given it permission.”
“What does? Your belly?”
“Belly is such a silly word,” she said, covering the bulge with her free hand. “But I suppose it is just that—a belly.” His gaze went the way of hers, focusing on the distended part of her midsection. This made her even more bashful so she started to prattle. “I usually take a bath before bed, but I doubt I’ll fit into that dainty claw foot. I’m afraid I require an industrial size tub at this point.”
“I’m sure you displace a fair amount of water,” he agreed.
“Sort of like a breaching bloody whale.”
He chuckled. “You look real nice this way. Can I touch it?”
She nodded without hesitation. She wanted more of his touch—very much, in fact. And he’d told her she looked nice.
Jack gave her a lopsided smile. “What about my hot hands?”
“I’m prepared to be scorched.”
He placed his palms on her stomach then spread his fingers wide. “There is an actual kid in there.”
