A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (30 page)

Claire slapped at his hand. “Let go. You’re hurting me.” When she began to exert pressure on him below the sheets, he released her.

“Blast it,” he said, reaching over to encircle her breast. “Just the thought of his hands on her...I’ll kill him.” He squeezed her nipple until she gasped. “I told you this little scheme of yours would never work.”

Claire turned toward him, offering him her other breast. She caressed the tip of his manhood and he shivered, relaxing a bit. “It should have. I gave it much thought and Mr. Heath assured me your little Francie practically swooned when he told her the terms of her father’s will. I believe the man actually felt bad about it. Can you imagine?”

With both hands now teasing her, Jared murmured, “Francie does have a way about her, and I look forward to many hours of enjoying those ways.”

Claire scowled. “Do not forget whose bed you’re in now, and who made you groan with indescribable pleasure only moments ago.” How could he say such a thing? Francie Jordan wasn’t fit to empty Claire’s chamber pot. Perhaps Claire’s scheme had been too subtle. She should have invited the chit to tea where she’d add a few drops of laudanum to her cup. Jared could have carried her off and had his way with her and Claire could have spent hours consoling Alexander.

“You set me on fire, Claire, I will not deny that.” He traced her shoulder and planted a kiss along the hollow of her neck. “We understand each other. But we have other desires...” He licked a nipple. “One way or another, you’ll have your Bishop and I’ll have my Francie.”

Claire tilted her head back and closed her eyes as Jared skimmed a hand along her belly. Soon it would be Alexander’s hands touching her, Alexander’s mouth exploring her curves, and Alexander’s—

“You don’t think they’re in love with one another, do you?”

The question burst through Claire’s brain, shattering all thoughts of Alexander. “Don’t ever say that again.” She shoved Jared away, bound off the bed, and scooped her chemise from the floor. Jared’s hot gaze followed her around the room as she retrieved her clothing. He might think he was in love with Francie Jordan, but he still wanted her.
Every man wanted her
. Soon, Alexander would, too.

There was just the little matter of disposing of Francie Jordan. If Jared
were not up to the task of removing the bitch from Alexander’s life permanently, Claire would see to it herself. She would devise a more drastic plan and this time, she would not be so generous with the chit’s welfare.

There had never been a man who did not desire Claire. Alexander would realize he desired her
, too, once she stripped him of that little country mouse. Claire smiled and patted her hair in place. Nothing would keep her from the object of her affection. Soon, Alexander Bishop would be hers.

***

“Sometimes, I feel I can see right through to his very soul. And other times, he seems a stranger.” Francie sat beside Aunt Eleanor in her bedroom, waiting for the carriage to arrive that would take them to St. Thomas’s chapel and her husband-to-be.

Aunt Eleanor patted her hand and tried to soothe Francie’s nerves. “It will be all right, child. You’re feeling a case of wedding jitters, that’s all.”

“It’s been like this for over a week.” She shook her head, careful not to undo the magnificent pile of curls heaped atop her head and held in place with several tiny pearl pins. “When I’m too near him, I can’t catch my breath. My stomach gets all quivery, and my heart beats too fast.”

Her aunt merely smiled.

“And the most ridiculous things pop out of my mouth.” She frowned. “Or rather, fly out.”

Her aunt nodded.

“Of course, Alexander isn’t afflicted with any of these conditions. If anything, he’s more remote than ever.”
Except when he thinks I’m not looking and he all but devours me with those silver eyes. That’s when my heart jumps to my throat and I forget to breathe
.

It had been like this since they’d returned from Amberden almost three weeks ago. Francie had lain awake half the first night, wondering if he’d come to her bed. When she heard his footsteps on the carpet sometime after two in the morning, she’d held her breath. He’d paused for an eternity and then his footsteps trailed past her door, away from her.

He’d spoken little and smiled only once, a faint little half-smile when he spotted her rosemary bread on the table beside the basket of white rolls. He’d eaten one of each and told Francie to send his compliments to the cook, though from the look in his eyes, he knew she’d baked the bread herself.

That small little scrap of praise brightened her day and warmed her night. That was the pitiful part of the whole blasted situation. She’d been reduced to hanging on his every word, hoping for a smile, a gesture, or at least an acknowledgment. She wanted the man she’d seen in Amberden, if only a glimpse, but he’d buried himself so far under proper etiquette and a starched cravat, she wondered if she’d ever see him again.

She longed to feel his fingers stroking her senseless, hear her name on his lips as he entered her, smell the musky scent of their lovemaking clinging to her. “Francie?”

She jumped, startled by her aunt’s voice. “Yes, Aunt Eleanor?”

“Often the most difficult men make the best husbands.”

“They do?” Aunt Eleanor was right about so many things, but this?

“They most certainly do.” Her aunt gave her a knowing look and nodded her gray head. “Your Uncle Bernard is a perfect example.”

Francie laughed. “Uncle Bernard is the ideal husband. I can’t imagine him ever being difficult.”

“He was more than just difficult. Downright impossible was more like it.”

“Uncle Bernard?” She pictured the kind, mild
-mannered uncle who possessed the most diplomatic nature of anyone she’d ever met.

“Hmmm. Quiet. Temperamental.
Impossible
.” Her aunt’s eyes grew misty. “But only with me. You see, he was trying to deny the attraction he felt and the more his feelings grew, the worse his mood got.”

“What happened?” Francie whispered, caught in a love story she never knew existed.

“My father betrothed me to an earl. Bernard was so miserable that one day he exploded and confessed his feelings.” Her eyes twinkled. “Since that day, he’s been the most wonderful, caring man alive.”

“What did your father say?”

Her aunt’s blue eyes clouded. “He believed wealth and power were the most important requirements in a marriage. Love, to him, was a useless waste of human emotion. He never forgave me for choosing Bernard.”

Francie squeezed her aunt’s plump hand. “I’m so very happy you did,” she whispered.

“As am I, child.” She sniffed and said, “But, enough about me. This is your wedding day and you should be smiling and thinking about that handsome groom of yours.”

Francie blushed. If only her aunt knew she’d been thinking of little else these days.

“Your mother and father would be so proud of you,” Aunt Eleanor murmured, her gaze settling on the locket around Francie’s neck.

Their locket
. Two ill-fated lovers. Her fingers closed around it. After her father’s death, Bernard presented her with the other piece, the one with her mother’s picture. Last evening, he’d handed her a small white box with a red ribbon tied around it. Inside, she found the locket fastened to a new gold chain.

“Aunt Eleanor, it was you and Uncle Bernard who raised me. I’m happy to have had a chance to know my father, but truly you are my parents.”

Eleanor’s eyes filled and she leaned in to squeeze Francie’s free hand. Francie kissed her aunt’s cheek and closed her eyes, willing her own tears not to flow.

Would she ever know a love as profound as her aunt and uncle’s, or her parents
’? She squeezed the locket, praying love would flow to her. This was her wedding day. She wore a beautiful cream silk gown covered with tiny seed pearls and adorned with French lace, the finest money could buy. Alexander had seen to that. Her stomach clenched as she thought of his wedding gift to her, an emerald necklace with a matching bracelet. He’d been most generous with her, in everything but the one thing she wanted most—his love.

Alexander shifted his weight for the tenth time in as many minutes and checked his timepiece. She was late. The left side of his jaw twitched. She should have been here twenty minutes ago. Where the devil was she? Bernard remained unperturbed by Francie’s absence, his tall, slightly stooped form walking from one corner to the other, hands clasped behind his back. Only Father Braenton, the round little priest with the ruddy cheeks and bright blue eyes, commented on the absence of Alexander’s bride.

“Perhaps Miss Jordan had a problem with her carriage,” Father Braenton offered in a hushed tone.

Alexander shoved his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. “It’s
my
carriage and it’s in excellent condition.”

“Hmmm. I see,” the priest replied. “An illness then?
Someone not feeling well? That might cause a delay.”

Alexander shot him a dark look. “Miss Jordan and her aunt are in quite good health.”

The priest coughed and cleared his throat. “She’s only twenty minutes late.”

“Twenty-two minutes.”

“She’ll be here.”

“I know,” Alexander ground out. But he didn’t know. Not really. Not the deep
-gut knowing he usually had about things. He had doubts, several of them. Small niggling tormentors reminding him he’d done nothing to engender Francie’s affection since their return from Amberden. If anything, he’d been cool and evasive, trying to distance himself from her warm laughter and bright smiles. And he’d been very effective. All he need do was push his mind and body from the first ray of light peeking over the horizon until the house fell silent around the blackness of night. Then he could crawl to bed and sleep a few tortured hours until daylight beckoned him to repeat the ritual.

He ached to touch her, to bury his face in her lavender-scented hair, to taste her welcoming lips, to hear her moan his name.
Damn!
That was the problem. This obsession with her was driving him mad. He must get control, pull away a little, and detach before he trusted himself to be near her again. He’d shown her too much in Amberden, shown her a vulnerable side of himself even he didn’t like to acknowledge existed. But she’d seen it. He could tell by the way she looked at him sometimes, as though she wanted to comfort him. As though she thought he needed it. He didn’t want or need that kind of attention from anyone.

The sooner Francie learned that, the better. Of course, maybe she already had. She’d grown very quiet in the last couple of weeks. Not at all her usual self. Maybe that’s why she was late. Maybe she wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d succeeded at pushing her away.

“Praise be God,” Father Braenton whispered. “She’s here.”

Alexander tensed, then looked up to see a flurry of white in the back of the church. He just made out the back of Francie’s dress before she disappeared from his sight. His heart rammed against his chest;
she came
, it beat, in a bounding rhythm.
She came
.

Music filled the church and within minutes, Alexander found himself standing at the altar with Father Braenton at his side, waiting for Francie to walk down the aisle and join him.

And then she was there, filling the entrance, her arm laced through Bernard’s. She glided toward him like an ethereal vision in a confection of cream silk and tiny pearls. When she reached the altar, she lifted her eyes to meet his.

He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “Do you, Alexander Bishop, take this woman...
” She wanted too much.

“...for richer
, for poorer...”

He could never be what she wanted. Tiny beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

“...in sickness and in health...”

Could never give what she demanded. “...until death do you part?”

Alexander opened his mouth to speak. He should set her free, let her find someone who could give her the love she deserved, without restriction or restraint. And yet he knew he wouldn’t.

“I do,” he said, with a fierceness that surprised him. Francie was his now. Until death do them
part.

***

Francie pulled the silver brush through her hair one last time. Where was he? Where was her husband? She glanced at the door. The household had retired over an hour ago and she’d been waiting for him almost two hours. He
was
coming to her, wasn’t he? She gnawed on her lower lip. Perhaps she was supposed to join him in his room. Had he mentioned something of that nature? No. She would have remembered.

After all, he’d spoken so few words since the
ceremony, most of them were etched in her brain. She sighed. Would she ever understand the man? Probably not. But that didn’t keep her from loving him or wanting to be with him.

She worked her wedding ring around her finger. Two rows of rubies surrounded by a row of diamonds—elegant and fashionable, like her husband. Her gaze dropped to her nightgown. It dipped low in a daring swirl of satin and lace that clung to her with each movement.
Another gift from Alexander. Surely if he’d taken the time to pick it out himself, he meant to see her in it.

The minutes ticked by with Francie perched on the bed, staring at the door. Waiting. A half
-hour later, she knew he wasn’t coming. He must have changed his mind and decided to forgo his wedding night. How humiliating. Had he tired of her already? Perhaps her lack of skill bored him. Or had the reality of his wedding vows hit him square in the nose and he was already regretting his decision? It could be any of those things. In truth, it could be
all
of those things.

She bowed her head as self-pity closed in on her, squeezing tight. What worse humiliation than abandonment by one’s husband on one’s wedding night? It was preposterous. Horrible. Agonizing. Degrading.

Unacceptable
.

The word crept into her brain, nudging aside the others. She lifted her head and stared at the door again. Her gaze narrowed on the knob. Unacceptable. He might not be coming to her this evening but that didn’t prevent her from going to him. She deserved an explanation. And she would have one.

Scrambling off the bed, she grabbed her wrapper and belted it around her waist. If her husband were in this house, she’d find him. And then she’d find out if their marriage were real. If the words he’d spoken in Amberden about needing her and
wanting
to marry her were real or just another part of a grand scheme to inherit Drakemoor.

She snatched the candle from the bedside table and hurried from the room, her bare feet padding down the hall. When she reached the top of the stairs, she stopped to listen. There were no sounds below, nothing save the quiet tick of the clock in the foyer. Had she somehow missed him walking past her door to his room? No. Her new husband was downstairs, most likely in his study, unless he’d sneaked away somewhere in the darkness of night.

She moved down the spiral staircase and into the foyer. The tiles at the bottom of the stairs were cold and unwelcome beneath her feet. She held the candle before her as she crept toward the study, her gaze fixed on the eerie shadows flickering from the candle’s flames onto the walls in front of her. She paused at the door of the study and listened. Nothing. Inching the door open, she slid inside.

He wasn’t in his chair or on the sofa. The lantern on his desk burned low
, which made it difficult to discern much past the illumination from her candle. Francie inched forward, holding the candle in front of her. She would have sworn he’d be in here.

Her heart sank to her bare feet as she realized he’d lied to her.
About everything. She’d bet her half of Drakemoor he was spending the night in his mistress’s bed instead of hers. He’d used her in Amberden to get what he wanted—Drakemoor. It had all seemed so real back there. So wonderfully real.

Damn him!
It had all been a lie. She must face that knowledge and choose her destiny, though there really was no choice at all. She’d pack in the morning and this time she knew he would not come after her. There was no need for pretense, not when he had Drakemoor.

She turned to leave and the flame from her candle caught a dark shadow on the Aubusson rug.
George, no doubt. She held the candle closer. It was George all right. He opened one golden eye, blinked once, then closed it with a muffled growl. The animal hated to have his sleep disturbed. Poor George. He’d miss this rug. The house in Amberden boasted a few braided ones, but nothing as thick and luxurious as this.

She heard another growl that sounded more like a moan. George? The dog’s huge head rested between his tan paws, his eyes still closed, his breathing slow and heavy. No, the noise hadn’t come from him. Mr. Pib? No, it was definitely not a cat’s mewling. She heard it again.
A low groan that sounded like...Alexander?

Through the flickering flame she detected a man’s shoe, and a long leg, clothed in black. Francie crept closer, careful to keep the light low. She inched the candle up his body, noting a broad chest with a half-buttoned white shirt, a too
-square jaw, and a forearm shielding his eyes.

The first thought that bombarded her brain was that Alexander was not in Lady Printon’s bed. The second was that he’d chosen to sleep on the floor next to a dog rather than with her. Before she could consider her actions, she drove her bare foot into his side.

“Ahhhh.” He let out a cry of pain and clutched his side.

“Curse you, Alexander Bishop!” Francie gave him another boot. “Curse you to the devil.”

He grabbed her foot and almost toppled her. “Stop it!” he growled, his fingers biting into her ankle.

She stilled, waiting for him to release his hold on her. The minute he did, she kicked him again. “Damn you!”

He grabbed the hem of her nightgown as she tried to escape.

“Let me go.” She twisted and pulled to free herself from his grip.

Alexander yanked hard. The ripping sound of fabric filled the room and Francie shrieked as her robe tore open and her nightgown split a jagged path from her breasts to her stomach.

He was on his feet, quicker than a panther stalking its prey. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, moving in front of her to block any thought of escape.

She yanked the nightgown together with her free hand and met his gaze. He stood in the shadows, making it difficult to see his face, but she didn’t need to look at him to know he was furious. Well, she was furious, too.

“I thought tonight was our wedding night.”

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I was detained.”

Francie tried to laugh, a short harsh sound that came out like a hiccough. “
Detained?
Really? Did George detain you?”

“Of course not. I was doing some paperwork and I got sleepy, so I decided to close my eyes for a few minutes.”

“On the floor?
With the dog?
”

He shrugged. “I needed to stretch out.”

“There’s a piece of furniture for that. It’s called a bed.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Francie.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said, holding the candle higher so she could see his face. His brows were drawn together in a straight line, his lips turned in a frown. “And lying doesn’t become you either, Alexander. So stop pretending. You spent the night devising every possible reason not to come to my bed. I waited for you, like a fool, listening and hoping you would come.” Her voice shook. “But you didn’t, because you had no intention of coming.”

“I was—”

“No,” she cut him off. “No more excuses. At least give me that.” She took a deep breath and smothered the pain. “It won’t work. This was all a big mistake. I actually thought you were with Lady Printon tonight. I almost wish you were. At least it would have made sense. Be honest with me and with yourself. You don’t want a wife. All you really want is Drakemoor. That’s all you’ve ever wanted. Well, you can have it. All of it. In the morning, I’m leaving for Amberden and when I do, please don’t come after me.”

“Francie—”

“Just let me go. Please.”

“I can’t,” he breathed, a mere whisper filled with so much pain it startled her. “I can’t,” he said in a louder voice. He took a small step toward her and shook his head. “I wanted to come to you tonight, wanted it so badly I had to force down half a bottle of whiskey to keep myself in that chair,” he said, pointing to the leather chair behind his desk. “Even then, I wanted you.”

“Then why didn’t you come?”

He blew out a ragged breath. “
I couldn’t
. I have to fight these feelings, be stronger than this overwhelming need for you that consumes me. Day and night, I’m tortured with wanting you. Thinking of you. Needing you. It’s hell.”

“I know,” she whispered, taking a step closer to him. As understanding dawned, relief unfurled the pain and tension that had built in her these past few weeks. In its place, love grew stronger.

“I have to distance myself, Francie. Until I get control again over these erratic thoughts. I must make sense of these feelings I can’t understand much less anticipate.”