The Unexpected Wife

by Jess Michaels

  “Owen,” she whispered, and her breath stirred his lips because he was already leaning down into her, too close, too powerful, too out of control.

  He captured her mouth, telling himself it would be a brief kiss, nothing more. He wouldn’t let it be more. But he wasn’t the one in charge, it seemed, just like the last time. Her arms came around his neck, her mouth opened, she demanded and he was too weak to her not to give exactly what she wanted.

  He took her mouth as he hadn’t allowed himself to before, tasting her, teasing her, driving into her the same way he so wanted to do without clothes, without hesitations.

  She didn’t mince or pull away. Instead, she melted into him. Dueled with his tongue, let out a low, hungry moan that seemed to burn through his bloodstream and settle heavily in his cock. He burned for her and he realized in that instant that if he kept dancing around her, eventually that fire would rage out of control. It would lead to the inevitable. It would lead to his bed.

  He broke away from her with great difficulty and they stared at each other, panting. Her pupils were dilated and she rested a hand against her flushed throat.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped even though it was a lie. “I shouldn’t have—”

  She shook her head. “Oh, please don’t. I wanted this. I wanted you to touch me. To kiss me. I don’t regret it. If you do, then…” She blushed. “Well, then I suppose I owe you the apology because I keep doing this like a little fool.”

  “You’re not a fool.” He shook his head. “And I don’t regret it. I just don’t want it to…to cause more pain than you’ve already endured.”

  She worried her lip and he barely contained the groan that rushed to his lips. Did she not know what that little motion did to a man? More specifically, did to him?

  “If this is pain, then let me feel it,” she whispered.

  He cupped her chin, exploring that lovely face, memorizing every facet of the blue in her eyes. He bent his head and kissed her again, savoring the sweetness of her flavor, the softness of her lips and the gentle sweep of her tongue against his.

  This time when they broke apart, it wasn’t desperate or driven. He smiled down at her and she returned the expression even as her cheeks became pink.

  “I came out here to determine if you were well, you know,” he said, stepping away so that she wouldn’t feel too much pressure.

  She laughed. “I’m certainly better now. But I do appreciate it. I must have looked like quite the fool to the rest by rushing out as if I’m the only one to be affected by this news.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “You are not responsible for anyone else’s feelings. And I doubt anyone begrudges you yours. This is a very difficult situation.”

  “But Abigail and Pippa don’t want to see me fall apart, not when they have their own feelings and reactions to manage,” she insisted.

  He cocked his head. “Then tell me. Pour it out on me and I promise you it won’t break me.”

  Her lips parted. “That’s asking too much of a stranger.”

  He swallowed, trying not to feel the sting of the truth. “What about a friend?”

  “You would be my friend?” she asked after a hesitation that seemed to fill a lifetime.

  “I would.”

  She bent her head, and it was as if he could see every bit of the weight that bore down on her slender shoulders. See that she had carried it all for almost her entire life. That she couldn’t let even a small portion of it go, for fear it would misbalance everything.

  “I had…hopes,” she said at last. “That I could stay here. That I could build a life. I was foolish to think that the facts of Erasmus’s actions wouldn’t circulate through Society, through everything. I was foolish to think I wouldn’t burn on the pyre of that scandal.”

  He pressed his lips together. “We don’t know the future, Celeste. You do not yet burn, so let’s not plan for your social funeral just yet.”

  “But—”

  He shook his head. “Let us take the time to try to work it out. There are a dozen paths before us now. We’ll narrow them down.”

  She sighed. “When you say it, I can almost believe it.”

  “Good.”

  She held his gaze a moment and then blushed again. “I told you before that I had information for you. Is now a good time to share it?”

  “You are singular,” he teased, and loved how her lips fluttered in that smile. “But I still don’t think now is a good time. Why don’t we get out? Air will do you good. We can see a bit of London and you can tell me everything you know after your night with Phillipa and Abigail.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Truly?”

  He blinked at her utter disbelief, and ached for the life that must have caused so much of it. “Yes. Celeste, I promised you I’d show you the sights of the city. I don’t lie. Now come, we’ll tell the others.”

  She caught his arm and followed him back into the house. And he tried not to think too hard about why it meant so much to make her happy. Why he wanted to keep doing it, over and over, until she smiled more than frowned.

  Chapter 9

  Celeste had felt the curious stares of her new friends when Owen announced that they were going to escape for a turn about Town. She had seen the slight exchange of a look between the duke and the earl, as well. A knowing stare that she might have been offended by if she hadn’t been kissing Owen passionately just a short time before.

  But now she stood on the drive alone with Owen, waiting for his rig to be brought around, and she pushed all that from her mind. What did it matter what anyone thought? She was going to see London at last.

  The phaeton that was brought to the step made her eyes go wide. It was a fine model of the rig, probably very expensive. The top was pushed back so the riders could enjoy the summer sunshine that almost seemed a gift from the gods. The two matching chestnut horses seemed to vibrate with as much excitement that they would be allowed to draw such a thing as she felt in being able to ride in it.

  “You brought a phaeton?” she gasped as Owen took her hand and helped her up into the high vehicle.

  He came around to the driver’s side and clambered up himself. Once he had taken his seat, he turned to look at her. “Yes. I promised we would do this. Even before we…talked on the terrace, I thought today might be a good day to start. The phaeton is open air and the best way to see the city is from the road.”

  She clapped her hands, knowing she was acting a country fool but somehow not caring. “Oh, it’s wonderful, Owen. My father had this horrible dogcart for hunting and he tried to pretend it was a fine open carriage. He even called it a barouche sometimes—it was dreadful.”

  “Why didn’t he buy a barouche if he desired one so greatly?” Owen asked with a shake of his head.

  “You’ve met my mother.” She rolled her eyes. “Do you really think he had any say in it? She liked a fine carriage, not a racing rig. At any rate, I always wanted to ride in a phaeton like this. Is it very fast?”

  She might have been a little embarrassed by the enthusiasm she seemed not able to control, but he laughed as he signaled for the horses to drive on and they eased onto the bustling street. “Not in the city, of course. But if we went out onto a less populated road, we could frighten the devil out of any poor passerby.”

  She bounced in her seat with uncontrollable glee at that thought. “May we?”

  “If you wish. I’ll plan it for another day.” He winked at her. “You can even drive.”

  “I would love that!”

  She settled back against the seat in pure bliss. For the first time in days—no, months—she felt…content. And it was due in no small part to the remarkable man at her side who could both coax desire from her that she feared and present her with hope and happiness even in the worst of situations.

  They rode for a while with Owen pointing out the landmarks she had read about so many times. They bounced past Covent Garden and its famous theatre, peered into Hyde Park with his seemingly sincere promises to
return, and oohed and aahed over the fine houses in Twickenham.

  Every turn seemed to reveal some new pleasure more wonderful than she had ever imagined when she dreamed of escaping her rustic village and coming here. She leaned so far out of the vehicle to sneak her peeks that several times Owen had to place a hand on her lower back to steady her so she wouldn’t tumble from the rig and crack her head open.

  Not that she minded when he touched her. There was something wonderful about the warmth and weight of his hand. It both enflamed feelings she hardly recognized in herself and also soothed her. An odd dichotomy she was beginning to crave.

  Finally, he turned the rig into a glorious green haven and slowed the horses as they meandered down the tree-lined lanes of a park.

  “This is lovely,” she breathed.

  He smiled. “It is Pettyfort Park. It’s not as showy as Hyde or St. James, but it’s my favorite in the city. I come here as often as I can to walk and take in the air. My home is just on the other side there.”

  He motioned past the entrance, and she craned her neck. Through the trees she saw a pretty neighborhood, quiet and peaceful. She wondered which of the colorful little row of houses was his. Not that she would ever see it.

  “It’s also not so crowded. Those are places where those who wish to be seen go to exhibit and someone is always watching. But here you and I can have that conversation you’ve been so desperate to start.”

  He winked, and her stomach flipped. “Conversation?” she repeated.

  What could he mean by that? Had he read all her wicked thoughts that afternoon as he toured her around the city? Had he felt her desire for him to kiss her again? And again? And then maybe more than kiss her, even though that sort of thing had never appealed to her all that much in the past? Sex with Erasmus had been…well, she’d spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling and thinking of anything but him grunting over her.

  Now she found herself wondering what it would be like if Owen touched her. Stripped her bare. Claimed her.

  “About what you learned,” he explained with a chuckle that yanked her from her wicked thoughts. “You look so nervous right now, Celeste, almost like you’ve seen a ghost. I only meant that back at the house you tried to talk to me twice about your observations regarding Abigail and Phillipa.”

  “Oh, of course,” she gasped, gripping her hands together in her lap. “I wasn’t thinking. Yes, yes.”

  He turned his attention back to the road ahead and tipped his hat to a couple walking the path. He remained so at ease while it felt like a weight had been pressed to her chest now.

  “They are both good women,” she said, and heard how defensive she sounded.

  He glanced toward her and arched a brow. “I don’t think anyone ever said differently.”

  “And yet you still suspect them of murder,” she said.

  He tugged on the reins, and the meandering horses came to a stop by the side of the road. He pivoted in his seat, resting his arm along the back of the bench, tantalizingly close to her own shoulder, though he never touched her.

  “The two things do not have to be so separate,” he said. “Celeste, I have seen murder before. It’s always ugly. But the motives behind it range from horrific to understandable. If either Abigail or Phillipa had uncovered Montgomery’s trickery, if they had been pushed to the brink by his behavior, or even threatened by him when they confronted him…those would be understandable motives. They wouldn’t indicate that either woman was evil or bad or indecent.”

  Celeste swallowed. “I suppose that is true. But what would you do if one of them did kill Erasmus? What if it had been done out of self-preservation? If one was threatened, as you described?”

  He arched a brow. “Is that what happened?”

  She drew back. “I don’t know. I have observations, not answers.”

  He nodded slowly and she felt him reading her. He always read her, but this time he was looking for a lie. She didn’t like that. It sat heavily on her skin.

  “Then tell me those,” he said, and she noted he didn’t answer her question.

  “Pippa is angry,” she said softly. “She pretends she isn’t, but I sense it there under the surface. She said she was looking for Erasmus before his death. Trying to get him to respond to her. When he wouldn’t, she came to London looking for him.” She worried her lip because what she had said now painted her new friend in a poor light. “I don’t know if she is capable of harming anyone, though.”

  “Nor do I,” he said. “I knew she’d come to the city before the death. Well done sensing the anger, though. She hides it well, but I’ve felt the same from her. Did you notice how she jumped to look at the paper this afternoon, too?”

  Celeste nodded. “I did, though barely through my own fog. It was when I said our names were listed. It could be she just felt the same sting I did, knowing our secret would be out.”

  “But you think it was more.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  “What about Abigail? Anything to say there?”

  Celeste shifted. Abigail had welcomed her into her home. She hadn’t yet made Celeste feel anything but accepted into their odd sisterhood.

  “She is clever,” she whispered. “And observant. She knows you suspect her of the death. She seems…oddly resigned to that. I don’t know if she remains so calm about it because she is certain of her innocence…or because she is equally sure you will eventually catch her and that will end her freedom. It could be either thing.”

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “She doesn’t hate the Duke of Gilmore as much as she acts like she does,” Celeste said.

  “Why do you say that?” Owen asked.

  “She stood up for him when we discussed Erasmus’s death, if only for a flash of a moment,” she explained. “She doesn’t want him to be the guilty party. It matters to her that he isn’t.” Owen was silent for a beat, and she examined him more closely. “How did I do?”

  “Very well,” he said. “I’m impressed, Celeste, and I don’t say that lightly.”

  She saw the truth of that on his face, and her chest swelled with pride. Impressing him was a pastime she could surrender herself to. The outcome felt so good, it was addicting.

  “So what do you think of my fair city?” he asked with a wider grin. The dimple popped and her entire body clenched with a desire that was so strong it was unseemly.

  “It is everything I could have dreamed of and more,” she said. “I’m sure I sound like a bumpkin when I go on and on about what I’m seeing.”

  “You sound excited, you sound like you’re open to new experiences and sights and sounds. There is nothing wrong with that. It has made me see my own city through new eyes. I ride around the streets we rode today all the time. I see the things we saw regularly, but today I truly looked at them.”

  Her cheeks heated. “Well, I appreciate the effort,” she said. “I had a wonderful time and I will never forget it.”

  He tilted his head. “Do you think it’s over?”

  “What do you mean? You promised a tour and I certainly got one. I wouldn’t dare trespass on your time more than I already have.”

  “I’m not sure where you got this idea that you are some terrible burden to me that I am anxious to rid myself of. You were never trespassing,” he assured her. “And this tour today was only the overview. If you would like, I’m happy to take you to a few of these places for further exploration. Some of the museums, for example. And we already said we’d go to Hyde Park again. Is there anyplace else especially you’d like to see?”

  She stared at him. Owen was practically a stranger to her, and yet he was offering her the world. His world. Without hesitation and thus far, without price.

  “Celeste?”

  She blinked. “I…have you heard of Lady Lena’s Salon?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “I have. Everyone has. Lena Bright is one of the most scandalous and popular women in London. The bastard daughter of a duk
e who calls herself Lady Lena to draw people to her salon? One who is…very open with her progressive thoughts and ways? But I am not sure I could garner you an invitation. It is the most sought-after literary and political salon at present. We could drive by the location if you’d like.”

  “I would very much like that.” She shifted slightly. “Although I might be able to get us an invitation if that is something you would be interested in.”

  He leaned back. “And just how would you do that, fair lady who was calling herself a bumpkin not three minutes ago?”

  She laughed. “It has nothing at all to do with my sophistication or lack thereof. You see, Harriet Smith was my governess.”

  “Lady Lena’s…companion?” he asked, and she could see he was being delicate.

  “I thought you said she was open with how progressive her life is. I’ve heard it’s common knowledge that they are not just friendly companions.”

  “It is,” he said.

  Celeste met his eyes as if challenging him to say something about that fact. He did not. “Harriet and I have kept in touch for years. I would dearly love to see her and finally meet Lena, if it can be arranged.”

  “You write the letter telling them of your arrival in London and let me know the day and time. I will be your escort,” he promised.

  She stared at him, both wanting to believe this was simply the kind of man he was and also hesitant to do so. “Why are you so kind to me?”

  He returned her stare with a blank one of his own. “What do you mean?”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Are you just observing me like you do with all the others? Is it that you want something from me? Why?”

  His lips parted, and then his hand inched forward on the back of the bench. His fingers brushed her shoulder and even through the layers of silk of her gown she felt the pressure. The warmth of him that made her hot and cold all at once.