Never a Bride

by Megan Frampton

“Nice work, my lord,” she said in a dry tone. “I think we have to dance now.”

  He grinned at her, apparently oblivious to the sea of people swirling around them. “If it means I can touch you in public, then we’ll dance.” He took her in his arms and swung her immediately into the rhythm of the dance, making her nearly breathless. Whether that was because he had taken her unawares or because she could feel the heat of his body, she didn’t know.

  And actually, she mused ruefully, he hadn’t taken her at all yet, either aware or unawares.

  Stop thinking about it, Della, she admonished herself.

  “What is on your mind?” he asked, sounding merely curious. Thank goodness it didn’t seem as though he could read her thoughts.

  “Uh—well, we have to return to looking for Mr. Wattings.”

  “That’s not what you were thinking about.” He stared pointedly at her mouth, so intensely it felt as though he were kissing her here, right in this ballroom.

  And so much for not reading thoughts. It seemed he could, but he was also very good at hiding his reactions.

  What would it take for him to show his reactions? She felt her mouth curl into a smile as she pondered it.

  “Stop that,” he said in a growl. “Unless you want me to—”

  She didn’t hear the rest of his words because just then a dancing couple slammed into them, making her stumble, and making him release his hold on her.

  She blinked, startled, as she regained her stability, glancing at the other couple, her mouth opening to ask if they were all right.

  “Lady Della, it seems you are impossible to keep upright,” a voice said, louder than was necessary. A few heads turned to look at them, and then more, a cascading effect of salacious interest rippling through the crowd.

  “If you weren’t so determined to be horizontal,” the voice continued, “you wouldn’t have the reputation you do.”

  Della felt her breathing quicken as she glared at the man speaking. Of course it was someone she’d known, before, when she’d had her first season. Before she eloped with Mr. Baxter. She didn’t recall his name, but she did recognize his face, even though it seemed he had been doing some hard living while she was away from London.

  “You don’t even recognize me,” the man said, sounding affronted.

  “I recognize you’re an ass,” Della replied without thinking.

  The crowd gasped. Of course it did, because a gentleman impugning a lady’s honor was far less horrible than a woman calling him out on it.

  It felt as though she were staring at him through a red haze, fury clouding her vision, making her fists clench and her stomach tighten.

  “Shut. Up.” It was Lord Stanbury, who had stepped over to her side, and was trying to pick her hand up. He directed his words to the gentleman, and she felt a flash of gratitude until it was swept up by her self-righteous anger.

  “I will handle this,” she said in a low tone. She shook his hand away, taking a few steps away from him.

  He did not relent, however, coming to stand right up against her and dragging her arm up so he was able to tuck it into his.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I will not—” I will not rely on you to fight my battles, I will not allow another man to make me feel ashamed of what I’ve done, I will not, I will not, I will not.

  “Is that the first time you’ve said no?” the gentleman continued, only this time he spoke in a much lower tone. As though he knew that the crowd wouldn’t like this meanness, but he had to get in a few more shots before he was done.

  Lord Stanbury advanced toward the gentleman at that, and Della was suddenly grateful that he’d taken ownership of her arm because she was able to drag him back, yanking on him so he couldn’t move forward and do whatever it was he was going to do.

  Which was hit him. She knew he was planning on hitting him.

  But that would cause a far worse scandal than this man saying terrible things to her. It would mean that the duke’s heir would be seen as a low-class brawler, not a gentleman worthy of his forthcoming title.

  And the whispers would start, as Della well knew—that he’d run off to sea, that he cavorted with his lessers, that he had even spent an evening in jail.

  So she held on to his fist with all her might, making him turn his head to glare at her because she was impeding his movement.

  Yes, because this is the kind of rash impulsivity you absolutely do not wish to engage in, she wished she could say. This is why you enlisted me as your pretend betrothed, so you could fake respectability and keep determined young ladies at bay.

  “Stop it,” she said in a fierce whisper. “You do not wish to do this.”

  “Oh, but I do,” he said through a clenched jaw. “He’s maligned your honor.”

  That fiery spark of anger flared through her, making her throat tight and her heart hammer against her ribs. “My honor. Not yours. It is mine to defend or not. That is my choice. I do not want—I will not have—you leaping to my defense.”

  He took a step back, giving her an incredulous look. “You don’t want me to hit this bastard?”

  The man in question was just over Lord Stanbury’s shoulder, looking smugly at her. I should just let him hit you, she thought. But I won’t, because I am a better person than you.

  “No. This is bound to happen, I did warn you. The best thing to do,” she said, moving closer to him so only he could hear her, “is to ignore it. People like that one just want to get a reaction.” She lifted her eyes to his face. “And he did. I can barely speak I am so angry, and you are on the verge of stomping about and smashing things with your fists.” She took his hand in hers, wrapping her fingers as best she could around it. He had an awfully large hand.

  “I couldn’t just accidentally trip him or something?” he asked in a mournful tone, as though he knew what her answer would be.

  She snorted. “No, you can’t.”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “You are by far the most respectable pretend betrothed I have ever had.” She had to laugh at how disappointed he sounded—had he expected her to be some sort of Jezebel or Lady Godiva wandering into a ballroom wearing only a horse?

  “But I am glad I was here,” he said, nearly baring his teeth again. “He might have said worse if you were a lady on your own.”

  And just like that all her amusement at his primal urges disappeared, and she was angry all over again, that he’d be so presumptive as to assume she couldn’t take care of herself, that she required a man to rescue her from situations.

  A man was the one who got her into her situation, thank you very much. Without him, she wouldn’t have eloped, or been ruined, or returned to London as an unwed mother.

  She’d be one of those debutantes dangling for a husband, perhaps assessing Lord Stanbury here as a potential husband. If she were one of those women, she’d be terrified, not intrigued, by his size and his past. She’d be willing to overlook his rough behavior and occasional lapses in manners because he was a lord, and part of the aristocracy into which she was supposed to marry.

  She wouldn’t see his good qualities, like his intense loyalty, his steadfast ferocity, his humor, his abundance of self-confidence.

  So he should be grateful she was who she was, and in no need of his protection. Or anything of his, for that matter.

  “Should we leave?” A pause, and then he spoke in a soft rasp, so low she had to strain to hear him. “I promise it will be better than this.”

  She jerked her head up to stare him in the face. He frowned, as though confused. He didn’t understand how truly angry she was.

  “I want to leave, yes,” she said in a normal tone of voice. A few of the people still gawking around them nodded as though in agreement.

  “Allow me to escort you home, my lady.” He held his arm out to her, and she nodded as she took it. She hoped he had learned his lesson and wouldn’t attempt to assert his dominance over her again—if she wanted his arm, she’d take it. If she wanted anything el
se of his, she’d take that too.

  Griffith nearly howled in relief as they walked out of the party. They’d only been inside for a few minutes, but it had been long enough to remind him that he hated these kinds of functions, that most people were terrible, and that what he really wanted most was to get her naked and underneath him. Or on top, he wasn’t particular.

  “I have a—” he began, only to swallow his words as she cut him off.

  “No.”

  The coachman opened the door, gesturing for them to go inside.

  He waited until she had settled herself, and then he stretched his legs onto the opposite seat. “No what?” he asked.

  He felt her shake her head. “No, I do not want to proceed with what we had talked about earlier. I don’t appreciate your manhandling me, I definitely do not like being treated like a possession for two men to wrangle over, and I do not feel inclined toward you in that way at this particular moment.”

  He blinked at the vehemence of her tone. He hadn’t realized she was so affected by what had happened.

  Although that wasn’t what she had said, was it?

  “It’s because of what I did?” He couldn’t help the rising note of incredulity in his voice. “Not that one who basically said you were—you were—?”

  “A loose woman? A trollop? A wagtail?” He felt her shake her head again. “No, his comments were to be expected. But I had thought you knew me. That is, I had hoped you knew me well enough not to intercede.” She sounded hurt, and he felt an answering ache in his heart.

  “A wagtail?” he said in a lighter tone. “I must have missed that one. Perhaps I was too young when I was last living here.” He took a deep breath. “I apologize. I didn’t mean—I only meant—”

  “I know.” She sounded dispirited. “I know you only meant well. And if I were someone else, I would appreciate your standing up for me there. But I am not someone else. And I thought you knew that.”

  He winced at the soft loss in her voice, and he bit his lip, not wanting to say anything that would diminish what she was feeling or try to salvage the situation.

  Yes, he wished he were currently sliding his hands up her thighs, perhaps kissing her belly and moving lower, but he didn’t want her to conflate his remorse with his desire for her.

  So even though he’d had an erection for the past few hours, and he’d have to do something about that when he got home, he would not press the issue. He thought, or at least he hoped, he knew her well enough to know that she would reflect on tonight and realize what he hadn’t done as much as what he had.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “We should be at your house in a few minutes. I’ll come in the morning to continue the search for Mr. Wattings.” No intimation that there would be anything but their earlier bargain—a pretend engagement in exchange for a hunt for a missing man. He owed her that much respect, since it seemed he didn’t know her as well as he had thought.

  “Thank you,” she said at last as they arrived at her house.

  Chapter 13

  It wasn’t necessarily the right thing to do, but it was the only thing he could do.

  Griff slid his hand down his chest toward his aching cock. He was entirely naked, having shucked his clothing without waiting for Clark. He didn’t want anybody to see him in this state—this wanting, desperate state where all he could think about was her.

  Thank goodness only the butler had seen him when he returned, and he had sprinted up the stairs to his bedroom without even waiting for the man’s greeting.

  He’d slammed the door behind him, the flame of the candle lit on his nightstand flickering from the disturbed air.

  And then tossed his clothes to the floor as quickly as he could before sliding into his bed.

  “Ahh,” he heard himself moan as his hand curled around his shaft. He held it for a moment, relishing the sweet tension prior to beginning to move.

  And then he did, sliding his palm up and down the warmth of his cock, grasping the top and twisting before sliding down again to its root.

  Damn it, he wished he hadn’t erred so tremendously earlier this evening. If he hadn’t, it might be her soft hand curled around him, tugging on his cock as she licked her lips, all that dark hair falling around her gorgeous breasts.

  Not that he’d seen them yet, but he knew they’d be gorgeous. Just like the rest of her.

  Her small hand might not even fit all the way around him. She’d have to tighten her grip to grasp him, squeezing his girth as she stroked up and down.

  Would she be sitting upright in bed, perhaps straddling his thighs?

  The image sent a bolt of lust through him, so he decided that yes, she would be straddling his thighs. Her wet warmth spread out in front of him as she touched him.

  Perhaps her other hand would be touching her breast, those delicate fingers trailing over her nipple, which stood erect, practically begging for his mouth.

  Maybe he’d ask if she wanted him to suck her nipples. Would she like him to talk during sex, or would she be too focused to concentrate on words?

  He gripped himself harder, images in his mind of her touching him as she rubbed herself on his thighs as he stroked faster. Wishing it were her, but knowing that there was a distinct possibility it wouldn’t happen, and he’d have to make do with his hand.

  Thinking how he’d let her stroke him close to breaking point, then tossing her on her back and pushing all the way inside, making sure to use his fingers on her little button so she would climax.

  Biting her shoulder as he thrust in and out, grabbing her legs so they wrapped around his waist, feeling her breasts rub against his chest.

  “Unnnggh,” he groaned, feeling his balls tighten as he drove inexorably toward his climax.

  He spent a few seconds later, arching off the bed with the impact of the orgasm.

  He felt the satisfying release flow through him, relaxed back down onto the bed, his stomach wet from his spend, his whole body shaking.

  Damn it. This was good, but he knew that being with her for real would be far, far better.

  He resolved to do whatever he could to make it right—not just so he could get her into bed, although that was a strong motivation—but because he wanted to feel her trust again.

  And he wanted to see her naked and shaking with as much passion as he was.

  “Good morning, my lady.”

  Lord Stanbury was as subdued as an enormous handsome man could be. His tone was low, his gaze respectful, and even his hair seemed tame.

  “Good morning, my lord.” Della nodded as she took her cloak off the hook. “Thank you for coming so promptly this morning. I wasn’t certain if you—” And she paused, wishing she hadn’t started to say what she had.

  Because of course his whole mien changed. He froze, and it felt as though his whole body was vibrating. Although, truth be told, she much preferred Exceedingly Angry Lord Viscount Whatever to Lord Meek. Much to her dismay.

  “Did you think I would renege on my promise because of what did not happen last evening?” he said in a growl.

  Damn it, and now she wanted to leap on him. Contrary, contrary Della.

  “No, I didn’t,” Della replied, lifting her chin. “It was a thoughtless thing to say, I apologize.”

  He took a breath, as though to argue, then blinked as he realized what she’d said. “Oh.”

  “Oh,” Della echoed. She took a deep breath. “Let me begin again, this time without being so careless of your feelings. Thank you for coming this morning.”

  “We have a bargain,” he said gruffly. And then his eyes widened. “Not that one, I mean. The first one.”

  She had to laugh at his reaction—aghast that he might seem to be dismissive of her desires.

  When actually if she let him, she had no doubt that he would encourage her desires.

  Damn it.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, returning to his more considerate tone.

  “I am,” she said firmly.

  �
�Because I didn’t mean to upset you last night.”

  She rolled her eyes as she shook her head. “Of course you didn’t mean to upset me. Who sets out to upset someone?” Besides her father the duke and Mr. Baxter, that was. But she would not tell him that—he was just as likely to go hunt both of those men down and punch them, which of course would be the exact opposite of what she wanted.

  Which was the problem in the first place.

  He absorbed her words, then burst into laughter. “I never thought of it that way. Although I will admit that I believe there are occasions where you try to deliberately upset me.”

  His expression was tentatively hopeful, and it made her heart get all mushy. Because he was flirting with her, naturally, but not forcing anything upon her. Allowing her to take the lead, but letting her know how he felt.

  “Let’s go,” she said, wishing she were less of a good friend so she could take Lord Aghast and Thoughtful here into her parlor and have her way with him. But she was a good friend, and Sarah had been waiting for so long for news of her Mr. Wattings that Della couldn’t and wouldn’t justify waiting any longer just because she had feminine wants and needs.

  “Of course,” he said, his hand going automatically to the small of her back, but then hesitating right when he would have touched her.

  She turned and nodded at him in acknowledgment. It was a small gesture, but it was an automatic one for most, if not all, gentlemen. That he would hesitate because he was uncertain if she wanted it spoke more than a thousand apologies.

  Although she might take those as well. It could be fun to see him grovel.

  “I think I might’ve seen him.” And then the man paused, making Griff want to shake him until his teeth rattled in his head.

  Not that that would help. But it would be most satisfying.

  “He was here mebbe six months ago?”

  He and Della had gone straight to the docks where a ship had just arrived, its crew spilling out in search of companionship and alcohol. Probably not in that order.

  They’d asked nearly forty sailors if any of them knew Mr. Wattings, and none of them did, until this one scratched his head and squinted and surmised that perhaps he did.