A Wicked Pursuit (33 page)

“They’re all so on edge with the wedding tomorrow,” she continued. “One would think they were the ones being married instead of us.”

Her smile was shy, almost uncertain. He knew that that uncertainty was his fault, a reaction to how uncivil he’d been at supper. He hated himself for making her doubt, even as he doubted himself. He could have apologized for everything and asked her to forgive him.

Instead he pulled her into his arms and dragged her back with him, using the wall for support. His mouth crushed down on hers as if he were famished, kissing her with a demanding and ruthless intensity. Desperation drove him, and he wanted—no, needed—to lose himself in her and forget everything else.

He thrust his tongue deep in her mouth, wanting to become part of her any way he could. With an eagerness he hadn’t expected, she gave of herself and molded against him, looping her arms around the back of his neck to steady herself. He shoved the shawl from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, and now there was no more than a thin layer of linen over her body and beneath his hands.

His hands: damnation, he could not keep his hands from her. He could feel the heat of her skin through the linen, and the way her soft flesh filled his palms as she pressed against him. He pulled her tight against the front of his breeches so she could feel his hard cock and how much he desired her.

“This is how much I want you, Gus, how much I need you,” he said roughly, moving against her. “This is how hard you make me every time I’m near you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, a breathy sigh against his ear. “I’ve missed you, Harry. I’ve missed
all
of you.”

She shimmied against him wantonly, and he kissed her hard again, what little control he had left fraying by the second.

“Then come upstairs with me,” he whispered urgently. “Now, to my bedchamber. No one will know.”

She looked at him, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire, yet still shook her head.

“I shouldn’t, Harry,” she said reluctantly. “Tomorrow’s the wedding, and I promised I’d behave until then.”

“Damnation, this isn’t about
behaving
, Gus,” he said roughly, and kissed her again. How else could he make her understand? To have her with him now, tonight, was exactly what he needed most, and blindly he yanked at the drawstring closing her nightgown’s neck, pulling it open and down. He cupped his hand around her breast and tugged gently at the nipple. At once it tightened into a furled bud beneath his fingers. He tugged harder, caressing her breast at the same time, and she whimpered into his mouth and arched her back, shamelessly pressing her breast against his hand for more.

Suddenly a wedge of candlelight cut across the floor not far from where they stood. He heard Wetherby’s voice, singing some lewd doggerel verse, and his own father’s laughter, all coming closer by the second.

Gus heard it, too. She gasped with alarm, pushed herself free of him, and bent to pick up her shawl while he swore with frustration. Once they were wed, he’d make sure that every single room in his house had a lock so that he could enjoy his wife any time and way he chose without any meddlesome interfering.

She seized the candlestick and darted forward, around the corner, to intercept the others.

“Is that you, Gus?” Wetherby asked as he and Father came into the hall. “What are you doing about at this hour?”

“There was a small fuss in the kitchen that needed my attention,” she said. “It’s all resolved now.”

Harry stood in the shadows, breathing hard. He should be the one defending her, not skulking here like a powerless coward. Yet if he stepped forward now, she’d be the one shamed before their fathers, leaving Harry no choice but to remain where he was. He could see her from the back, the very picture of bridal innocence, her head slightly bowed, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and the candlestick in her hand. The nightgown revealed just a hint of her delectably round bottom, and he barely stifled a groan of frustration.

“Trust you to make certain everything’s settled for the night,” Wetherby said proudly, “and the day before your own wedding, too. Ah, Gus, what shall I do without you? I hope that young Harry understands the prize I’m giving up to him.”

“I believe he does, Papa,” she said. “But to me, Harry’s the real prize.”

Her father sighed deeply. “Then he’s the most fortunate gentleman in England, Gus. Come, then, let me see you to your room for the last time. Hah, how I hate to say that!”

She joined him, the light from her candle fading away as together they walked up the stairs.

Harry stood against the wall until he was sure they were gone, letting the darkness settle around him. Then, finally, he took his crutch and made his slow way to his own room, with only his thoughts and despair for company.

“I know
they say that every bride’s a beauty on her wedding day,” Julia said, watching as Gus stood before her looking glass for the last time. “But you truly
are
beautiful today, Gus, and I vow I never thought I’d say that.”

Gus smiled, for she’d never thought she’d hear her sister say that, either. But Julia was right: today she was beautiful, and not even she could find fault with herself. Her gown was breathtaking, white silk with gold and silver embroidery that sparkled in the morning sunlight. Over the widest hoops she’d ever worn, the gown’s spreading skirts were trimmed with silver silk ribbons and little puffs of golden gauze, centered with white silk flowers, and deep flounces of lace fell gracefully below her elbows. Even the duchess had had to admit that the mantua maker from Norwich had done better than anyone had expected.

She wore her mother’s pearl earrings, a gift this morning from Papa that had made her cry, and around her throat and wrists were the diamonds that Harry had had delivered to her this morning, another gift that had made her weep. The necklace and twin bracelets were magnificent pieces that truly were worthy of a peeress, but what had touched Gus far more was the card he’d enclosed, telling her the pieces had belonged to his mother, and how honored she’d be to see them now on her new daughter-in-law. That made Gus feel as if the two mothers, though gone, would be with her in church, and what better blessing could she have than that?

“How odd it is to think that by noon I shall have to call you ‘my lady,’” Julia said. “Lady Augusta Fitzroy, Countess of Hargreave!”

“It sounds very grand, doesn’t it?” Gus said, trying to swallow her nervousness. She knew that as a bride, she was supposed to be the center of attention, but she wasn’t comfortable with it, and she longed for the day to be done so she could simply be alone with Harry.

“Someday—though not too soon, I pray!—you’ll be the Duchess of Breconridge, too,” the current duchess said. “Then the only other woman in Britain that you’ll have to curtsey to will be Her Majesty herself.”

That was far too much for Gus to consider now. “Has anyone seen Harry this morning?” she asked anxiously. “Is he ready, too?”

“I have,” Julia said. “He’s already left for the church, looking solemn and handsome as sin itself, though perhaps a bit pale. I’d wager he’s nervous.”

“What cause for nervousness could he possibly have?” the duchess asked. “He loves Augusta, and she loves him, and there’s no better grounds for a happy marriage. If he’s pale, it’s likely because the other gentlemen poured far too much liquor down his throat last night in the name of bachelor sport.”

Gus nodded. Harry hadn’t seemed drunk at all when she’d seen him last night in the hall. But the curious humor that had plagued him all afternoon and evening had remained, a dark, possessive, almost angry mood that seemed to have no reason or cause. She wished he were happier for their wedding, but perhaps it was simply the way he showed his nervousness—though Harry had always seemed so self-assured that she’d a difficult time imagining him being nervous about anything, even their wedding. If how he’d kissed her last night was any indication, he certainly wasn’t nervous about their wedding night.

“There’s the carriage,” Julia said, gazing out the window, “and Papa’s down there as well, already giving orders to the poor driver. Oh, how fine the footmen look, Gus! Every one of them has a white flower pinned to his livery coat and another to his hat, and even the driver has a white bow on his whip, all in your honor. If you’re ready, we should go down.”

“I’m ready,” Gus said as firmly as she could, as much to convince herself as anyone else. She took her bouquet from Mary, praying that no one else could see how the flowers—roses from Mama’s garden—trembled in her hands.

Her heart was racing so fast that she felt nearly lightheaded, and it didn’t calm as she walked down the stairs and into her father’s carriage for the final time as Miss Augusta Wetherby. It raced still as they drove to the little church on the edge of the abbey’s lands, and as she walked down the aisle she was sure she would have toppled if she hadn’t had Papa’s support. Only the two families were gathered to witness the service, yet even their familiar faces were a blur to her.

Then Harry took her hand. Harry, her Harry, solemn and impossibly handsome, his blue eyes bright with love and desire.

He leaned down to her, whispering so that no one else heard.

“My own dear Gus,” he said. “I thought I couldn’t possibly love you more, but I do.”

She smiled, the joy swelling up within her to take away every doubt and fear. His hand was her lifeline, the same as hers had been to him, and she clung to it, never wanting to lose him or his support.

The rest passed with a speed that astonished her. The ceremony, the new gold ring on her finger, the toasts and the bride cake, the tears and hugs as they said good-bye, the servants standing in a line on the drive to wish her farewell as she and Harry were driven away in his carriage, and her last glimpse of the only home she’d ever known.

She sat back against the pale leather seats and looked down at her hand, still holding tightly to his. She was Harry’s wife now, and he was her husband, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as they both shall live. They were
married
. There was no turning back now, and with a tremulous smile she raised her lips to kiss him.

“Here we are,”
Harry said as the carriage slowed before the inn. “About damned time, too.”

Under ordinary circumstances, he would have driven straight through to London, stopping only for fresh horses and meals. But because this was his wedding night and, for Gus’s sake, he’d decided not to spend it in a lurching coach. He’d made arrangements for them to stop for the night in Mildenhall, about thirty miles and six hours into their journey.

The Ox & Plough was a tolerable inn on the market cross, and while it was hardly the most romantic of places, the innkeeper was a forthright fellow—and, more important, his wife was a stern taskmistress. The beds would be fresh and the food acceptable, which was the best one could ever hope for on a public road. Besides, Harry expected that he and Gus would be so enamored with each other that the amenities wouldn’t really matter.

But he hadn’t counted on the toll that thirty miles and six hours of riding in a coach—even his well-appointed coach—would take on his leg. As the afternoon had worn on, the jostling of the road had made the barely healed bones ache as badly as they had weeks ago, with each bump and jar reminding him yet again of how disappointing a husband he must be. He had tried to continue as usual with Gus, but he’d been relieved when she’d fallen asleep against his shoulder and he’d no longer had to pretend.

“Where are we?” she asked, groggy, as she slowly sat upright.

“Mildenhall,” he said. “We’re stopping here for the night.”

“Good,” she said, reaching for her hat from the seat beside her. “I never thought I’d be so weary from simply sitting in a carriage all afternoon. How is your leg?”

“Perfectly fine,” he lied, not wanting her sympathy, not today. “I’m looking forward to supper. Among other things.”

She smiled and blushed. “It’s our first time among strangers as husband and wife. Do you think anyone will know we’re just married?”

“They will,” he said as the carriage stopped in the inn’s yard, “because they’re expecting us. You’re a Fitzroy now, Gus, and you’ll soon learn we don’t do anything halfway.”

Already the inn’s stablemen were hurrying toward the carriage, and Greene, the innkeeper, was striding out to greet them, too, the green apron that marked both his trade and his name flapping in the breeze, while other guests appeared at windows and doors to gape at the titled newcomers. There was nothing like a carriage with gilding on the wheels and a noble crest painted on the door to draw attention in a stable yard, and he wanted Gus to enjoy the attention that her new status brought her.

But right now she did not appear to be enjoying it at all. “Goodness,” she murmured, her eyes round and serious. “All those people wish to see us?”

“It’s you they wish to see,” he said proudly. “They know you’re the new Countess of Hargreave. Everyone loves a new bride.”

“I hope they will not be disappointed when they see me,” she said, her voice small as she sat back against the squabs and away from the window.