He’d made a mistake in buying Jafeer. The animal had clearly been part of a herd, and some horses never recovered after being separated from their family. It was rare, but it happened.
He pushed open the door and ran toward Jafeer’s stall. He didn’t see Mia, and his imagination presented him with an image of his wife crumpled under the horse’s hooves. The double flip his heart took startled him, but there she was.
His duchess was curled up against the shoulder of the most unpredictable stallion that his stables had ever housed. She was fast asleep, as was Jafeer, looking more peaceful than he had since his arrival in England.
In the wan light of a single lamp, Mia’s skin against her dark-colored gown was as white as porcelain but warmer, silkier. Golden hair had fallen all around her shoulders, curling like the wood shavings the grooms shoveled into horses’ stalls.
She probably wouldn’t like that idea, but it was true. Shavings were gold and amber and even buttercup yellow, and her hair had all those colors as well.
But what really caught him was how small she was. Curled up like that, her brave, independent eyes closed, she looked fragile. Which made a rush of protectiveness go through him like a streak of lightning.
“Mia,” he whispered. He had to get her out of the stall. She didn’t stir, so he walked in quietly, bent down, and collected her into his arms.
She weighed about as much as a chicken. Maybe a newborn foal. And she felt good in his arms. She must be exhausted, because she didn’t wake. Her cheek fell against his chest and she nestled in as if he’d been carrying her around for years.
He backed out of the stall and carefully maneuvered the gate shut with his knee, quietly enough that neither horse nor lady woke. Then he set off toward the house.
Granted, he knew nothing about flowers, but he was reasonably certain that she smelled like honeysuckle. Honeysuckle with a dash of vanilla.
Halfway up the house, she stirred, and her brows drew together as if, in her dream, she was scolding him. Her eyes flew open and she gasped, “What are you doing?”
“Carrying you back to the house,” Vander said. His hands tightened around the soft, fragrant bundle in his arms.
He didn’t want to think about Chuffy’s revelations. He’d rather think about the fact that for the first time in his life, he had someone who was his and his alone, inadvertently or not.
Mia.
“Please put me down immediately,” his wife said. Her body had gone tense, which wasn’t as nice as when she had cuddled into his arms.
“I enjoy carrying you,” he told her.
“I’d rather walk.”
“I neglected to carry you over the threshold yesterday,” he told her, enjoying the stern tone in her voice, “so I might as well do it now.”
She attempted to twist free. “I’m not a toy, Duke.”
Her jaw set. Damn, but she had the prettiest face he’d ever seen. It wasn’t angular and stern the way some women’s were. At the same time, he could see strength in every contour.
“I don’t understand why you are acting this way,” she said in a chilly voice.
“Carrying you?”
They were coming up to the wall of the house now. It had been constructed of blocks hewn by some distant ancestor (or, more likely, his serfs); just looking at the stonework was calming.
His father and mother were gone, and with them, all the pain and turmoil of their lives. He was married to the pocket Venus he had in his arms, and someday they would have babies, one of whom would be his heir.
Given the way Mia calmed Jafeer, their children would have the same tingle in their hands and bones that he had: a tingle that told him a particular yearling would race to win, whereas another colt was innately indolent and would do better pulling a dog cart.
He pushed open the swinging door to the deserted kitchens and walked in, belatedly realizing that Mia was still talking and that her voice was rising. “I’ll put you down as soon as we are upstairs,” he told her. For the first time in days, Vander felt happy.
He liked Mia’s softness, her curves, her perfume . . . everything about her. He backed through the door to his bedchamber, which fortunately was empty.
Mia was getting red in the face and thrashing about, so he finally put her down. She whipped around, hands on her hips.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, manhandling me like that?” she demanded.
Vander grinned. “Carrying my wife up the stairs.” He moved nearer to her, wondering how a disheveled woman wearing a grain sack with a ruffled neck could make his entire body taut with lust. “I think we should pretend this is our wedding night.”
She backed away. “Our marriage will remain unconsummated until I beg for one of my allotted nights, don’t you remember? You decreed that. And you made me sign a contract to that effect.”
“I’ve decided to break the contract,” he said, entirely at ease with the decision. He had Mia, and he was going to keep her. That asinine rule about four nights had to go.
“That is not in your purview. I am not requesting a night. In fact, I will never beg for a night with you.” She darted to the door leading to their shared bathing chamber. “If you’ll excuse me.” She tugged on it in vain.
Vander strolled over. “It must be hooked from the inside.”
“That’s absurd!”
“So is the idea of keeping your husband out of the chamber when you’re in the bath.” If he hadn’t already had an erection, he would at the thought of Mia’s creamy skin slick with water.
She apparently decided there was no point to further discussion, because she headed for the door to the corridor.
Vander caught her by the waist and spun her about until their bodies were aligned. Instantly she stilled, her eyes caught by his. A deep certainty swelled in his chest, even as his body throbbed with desire. It was a certainty that felt as right as spring rain, as momentous as when the first horse he trained won a race.
They were married, and Mia was his, and that was significant. It wasn’t just a matter of papers and negotiation.
There was something about it. Chuffy’s song tumbled through his head: Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty . . . Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
Vander brought his mouth down to hers, and it was just like the last time they kissed: passion flared so high and fast that it felt tangible. Actually, it was tangible, in the hard length that pressed against her softness.
His mouth demanded . . . hers opened. Threaded into the rough, sensual joy of it was his hunger and desire.
His hands slid down her back and pulled her closer. He was shaking with lust, but he had enough sense to realize that Mia was no longer trying to escape, or caviling about those four nights. She was kissing him back, her tongue curling around his in a way that sent fire through his blood.
Voluptuous curves melted against his body. His hands slid further down her body and he hoisted her up, swinging around until her back was against the wall, supporting her weight so he could ravage her mouth without bending his head.
She made a soft sound. He felt like a madman, overwhelmed by desire. Her eyes opened . . . they were heavy-lidded, sensual, desirous. A shudder went through him.
“Will you please request one of those nights?” he whispered. Before she could answer, he bent his head to kiss her neck. He wanted to lick her all over, drive her to writhe under him, make her gasp and call his name.
The thought of her open lips as cries broke from her throat drove him an inch further toward insanity. “Every time I touch you, I feel like a madman,” he muttered. Had there ever been such a beautiful pair of eyes? They were the color of green water. They made a man imagine that her eyes saw things no one else did.
“Did you really stop writing poetry?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, the first word she’d uttered since they began kissing. Her husky voice ignited his body and he took her mouth again, silently commanding her to ask for him. To ask for his services
. To demand that he service her . . .
However she wanted to put it.
He would do anything, especially when her fingers curled in his hair and she pressed close to him. He would throw her on the bed and devour her, and the hell with promises and contracts, four nights or three hundred nights. Three hundred and sixty nights might not be enough.
“God, I want you.” The words jumped from his mouth, as brutal and simple a sentence as a dockworker might say to a streetwalker.
“I think it would be better—” Mia said, with a gasp, stopping because he took her mouth before she could finish. Her sentence wasn’t going in the right direction.
Without allowing her to speak, he pivoted, walked to his bed, and laid her there, his heavy body following hers.
It occurred to him that for the first time, he wasn’t entirely sure that he could wait for a woman’s permission. Shocked, he reared back and rolled to the side.
“Mia,” he murmured, putting a finger on her plump lips. Should he demand a night? Hell, she was his wife. She was—
“All right,” she whispered, pink coming up in her cheeks. “If you . . . if you really want to.”
Vander stared at her with incredulity. “‘If I really want to?’” His cock was against her leg, so he rolled forward slightly. “Does that feel as if I’m of two minds on the issue?”
Mia blinked and looked down at his breeches. They were strained over an erection so ferocious that his smalls had given up the fight and slipped down. Which was damned uncomfortable, by the way.
There was one question he should ask, though he already knew the answer. Mia’s response to him spoke for itself. She had surely slept with that imbecile of a fiancé.
“Have you ever been with a man?” he asked, schooling his tone to be neutral.
He knew instantly that he’d made a mistake. “I haven’t had that opportunity,” she replied, her voice stilted. Before he could stop her, she sat up and slid toward the edge of the bed. “This has been remarkably educational, Your Grace, but I think we shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t overtax our ability to spend time in the same room.”
He sat up and caught her waist just as she got to her feet. “Stay with me.”
“I would prefer not to.”
“I had to ask that question.”
She turned her head and looked at him. “Why? Because I am a blackmailer, you think I am generous with my favors?”
“No! It had nothing to do with that. A man treats a woman differently if she has experience, that’s all. Many a couple anticipates their vows.”
Mia’s lips tightened. “Edward and I did not,” she stated.
The feeling sweeping Vander’s chest was primitive and uncivilized . . . powerful. “I’m glad,” he said, before he could catch the words.
“If you will forgive me, Your Grace, I’d like to retire to my chamber. I think that clearer minds should prevail.”
“No.” He tightened his fingers, holding her in place. “We must talk, Mia. We can’t keep snapping things at each other. We’re married now. We share responsibility for Charlie.”
“You have no responsibility for Charlie,” she said instantly.
“Yes, I have,” he said. “There are few people who could meet Charlie and not be both charmed by him and happy to take responsibility for him. You know that.”
Her mouth wobbled. “You think so? Really?”
“All the same, you’ve been coddling him. He needs to leave the house, get on a horse, figure out how to carry himself around other boys.”
“You have no idea how cruel children can be. It might break his spirit.”
“I do have an idea, and it won’t break him.”
“How would you know? Once, when he was five, I left him alone for just a few minutes in the village and when I returned, they had him in tears.”
“There will be more tears,” Vander said calmly. “There will be difficult moments. But if we are at his shoulder, he’ll be fine. He must do it, Mia. He has to grow up to be a man, not an invalid.”
She was grinding her teeth, which made him grin. Marriage to Mia would never be boring.
He settled his arm more firmly around her waist, drawing her closer. “I want to change the terms of our arrangement. Of our marriage.”
“I see no reason for that,” she replied, not looking at him, but somewhere around his right ear. “Four nights a year is more than enough to produce an heir. If four nights prove insufficient for that purpose, we might reconsider after a year has passed.” She tried to leave, but he reeled her back against his chest as easily as a dappled trout caught in summertime.
“I want you,” he said again, his voice dark with lust. He nipped her ear. She jerked, but she didn’t struggle free, and he felt her pulse quickening against his arm.
“So let me tell you how this shall be,” he said, when she remained silent. “We shall consummate our marriage tonight, because that’s what newly married couples do. They go to bed together and they don’t stand upright again for hours.”
“We do not have a normal marriage,” she tried.
Her voice was tight, which Vander didn’t like. “Turn your head so I can kiss you,” he said against her sweet-smelling hair.
She shook her head. “This is inadvisable.” His wife was stubborn. Hell, if he looked up the word in a dictionary, he’d probably find the name Mia printed there. “We’re not really married,” she insisted.
“Yes, we are. You’re my wife, and you’re staying my wife. And if you think we’re not going to sleep together, after you kissed me like that, you are wrong.”
“Kissed you . . .” She cleared her throat and turned her head just enough to frown at him. “You kissed me, not the other way around.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
Desire boiled in his gut, urging him to topple her backward again. But he’d already pushed his wife enough. If he pressed open those strawberry lips, he could seduce her.
But that wasn’t enough. He suspected that bedding Mia would be like learning the art of making love all over again.
You can’t do that alone.
“That kiss was a long, slow ride into oblivion, and it took two of us,” he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek. “You opened that sweet little mouth of yours, and tangled tongues with me as if you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”
Chapter Twenty
NOTES ON CHURCH & JILTING
~ Shocked gasps from the assembled audience. guests in the cathedral. Westminster Abbey (only for royalty?) St. Paul’s.
~ ancient priest pats Flora’s shaking hand.
~ Chin high, she picks up the hem of her wedding gown.
~ Is she blinded by tears? “Slubbered with tears, she—” Don’t know about “slubbered.” Not sure what it means.
~ She runs out the (side door—Nave?) unable to meet the curious eyes/Frederic’s parents? All the way from Germany?
~ Bursts through the back door of church into a sunlit day. Veil floats behind.
~ Runs like wounded animal: only idea to hide.
~ kindly man on cart takes her as far as . . . (somewhere outside London) and drops her off with two a crust of bread.
Mia could feel red patches breaking out on her neck from pure embarrassment. Her husband had hardly glanced at her, and the walls she’d built up to hide her love had cracked open. “I did not kiss you,” she said stoutly.
The laughter in Vander’s eyes made her at once irritated and aroused.
“The man whom you kiss would forget he’s ever been kissed by another woman,” he said, cupping her face in his hands and tilting her head until he had her just where he wanted her.
This was dangerous. All Mia’s childhood yearnings flooded back into her heart as if they had never left. As if Vander was the only man she had ever loved or desired.
He bent his head again, at the same time one of his hands slid down over her collarbone.
She pulled away. “What are you doing?”
br /> “Nothing,” he said innocently.
“You are touching my—” she faltered, then cleared her throat. If they were to consummate the marriage—and she wasn’t foolish enough to delude herself about that—some basic rules of conduct had to be established.
She might be destroyed by her marriage, broken into shards. But at least she could avoid the sort of humiliation that had scarred her after her poetry—and her chest—had been mocked.
He could have her body. But not that part. Not the part she abhorred. “You may not touch me there.”
“What?”
“I prefer not to be touched there,” she repeated.
His voice came out fast and low. “Did someone grope you against your will?”
“No!” Mia cried, startled. “No one has ever—and no one shall, and that includes you.”
His face relaxed, but his eyes had lost the heated sweetness they had before. She regretted it, but it was essential that she made herself understood. She’d gathered from other women that men liked to feel women’s breasts.
“Why not?” he asked.
She tried to explain. “We all have parts of our body that we are less than happy with.”
An eyebrow shot up. “We have?”
Men, it seemed, liked everything about themselves. That didn’t surprise her in the least. “Women have, at any rate. Some women don’t like their knees, or their feet, or their hair.”
“Your bosom is exquisite. And your hair. I can’t speak of your knees or feet, but if given the chance, I can reassure you on those points as well.”
Mia could hardly believe that Evander Septimus Brody, the most handsome duke in all England, was gazing at plain Emilia Carrington with desire in his eyes.
But he was.
Lust, even. Lust for someone like her? A quiet voice reminded her that men were like tomcats; they lusted indiscriminately.
But another part of her thought that his eyes had changed color since kissing her. That was for her.