Marry the Man Today (27 page)

"You smell of cinnamon, Ross." Her nostrils flared as she nibbled at the underside of his chin.

"Your . . . assistan
t
. . . Ah, hell!" He'd endured the pussyfooting, gut-knotting restraint long enough. Tossing away all sense of decorum, he filled his aching arms with his bride, caught her hips between his bent legs, then pulled her belly tightly against his groin.

"Ahhh, there it is again, Ross." She was looking up at him from beneath her fawn-colored brows, the sultry vixen, fragrant with honey and steamy vanilla. "That hard place of yours I've suggested wives must become well acquainted with."

"You seem well acquainted." Downright possessive, with the pressure she was wielding against him. A rolling motion. A music hall dancer.

She shook her head gravely, wetting her lips with her tongue. "Not well enough at all, husband."

Dear Lord, would he live through this long day? Would he survive the restraint? Would he make it to their bed without taking her here on the floor of the library, or there on the table? Right here against the wall of bookcases?

"May I take that as an invitation?" May I take
you,
wife? Swallow you whole, drink at your lips, drown in your bosom?

"We have to start somewhere, Ross. Someplace." She pulled away from him just slightly, but only to stagger him breathless as she reached up to put her fingers flat against his mouth, as though trying to memorize their shape.

"That's a good place, wife. Very good." His muscles had long ago seized up in his arms, in his thighs as they gripped her around her lithe hips, ach
i
ng with the dizzying need to mount his own exploration of her mounds and valley. But this was a busy, bustling library.

And he wanted to strip her to her bare skin. Rip off his own clothes. Naked love.

"Now, husband, for that kiss." Then his thoroughly bewitching wife smiled like a wily cat, rose up the rest of the way on her toes.

He was beyond waiting, beyond starving for a taste of her. As she wrapped her fingers indelicately in his hair and pulled him closer, Ross cradled the back of her head with his hands, covered her full mouth with his own, then dove deeply into her kiss.

Plunging into her softness, then nibbling, tugging, dancing with tongues and teeth.

"Oh . . . Ross!" Her little moan came immediately, burst into his chest like sunlight. She broke off a moment and looked at him with startled eyes.

Then she smiled and met his mouth again, her kiss wet and torrid, as hungry as his.

Lord, and there was all that smooth, unexplored skin beneath her chemise, lean legs beneath her petticoats, silky thighs, the humid heat of her.

But he repeated to himself inside the steaming muddle of his brain:
we're in a library just now.
A library. As public as the Reading Room at the British Museum.

"Enough for now, Elizabeth," he whispered against her delving kiss, whispered over and over, "Enough, enough." And then caught his lips against her ear. "Tonight."

But he suddenly sensed something out of place in the room. Something crowding them. And when he finally glanced up from the heat of her searing kiss, over her head, he realized they were no longer alone.

"Ah. 'Morning ladies," he said to the three pairs of bright eyes staring at them from the doorway.

"Will you look at that, Skye!"

"Am I seeing right, Jessica?"

"It's the earl!"

Already light-headed and breathless from Ross's intoxicating kiss, Elizabeth felt the room spin as she turned quickly inside the circle of her husband's embrace. She tried to focus on the figures in the library door but all she could feel was Ross's thick erection, throbbing against her bottom.

"Ah, there you are, ladies." Her skin still on fire, she drew his jacket together from behind, then popped out of Ross's arms and strode toward her three gape-mouthed assistants. "Can I help you? His lordship and I were jus
t
. . . discussing something."

And her knees weren't working.

Cassie nodded, obviously unconvinced. "We just came in to let you know that your . . . uhm . . . your
gown
for the charity ball tonight has arrived."

"Ah! Good. Thank you." She'd forgotten all about Lady Maxton's Charity Ball. Had good reasons to have forgotten so many things in the course of the last day.

Tonight was the scheduled night of their Turkish trousers fashion rebellion. Not enough time to send out messages to her members to change their plans now.

Certainly no time to consult her handsome privy counselor. He would just have to be surprised along with the others.

Jessica pointed weakly toward the upper floors. "The seamstress is upstairs in your sitting room, Miss Elizabeth, ready for your final fitting."

"Very good." Since she was still wearing the same clothes she'd worn to jail yesterday. With a too short visit inside her husband's nightshirt.

"Shall I tell her that you're coming right up?" Skye was still staring between Elizabeth and her husband.

A man who seemed a giant presence just a dozen feet at her back.

"Yes, please." She glanced back at Ross, and found herself marveling at his easy composure when only moments ago his large hands had been everywhere, inside every tuck and fold of her dress, his mouth breaking boundaries with his pleasures, and unstringing her knees. "His lordship was just leaving. Weren't you?"

He smiled slyly as he pushed away from the bookcase. "Ah, yes, Miss Elizabeth. Though I'll be back at, say, eight, to pick you up for the ball."

She hadn't thought about tonight, let alone tomorrow. Where they would live, their social calendar, their acquaintances. Lydia. And of course, Ross was due to appear on Lady Maxton's auction block.

Her husband! Hers! Slave to another woman's desires.
I think not,
came the sudden thought. As shockingly possessive and jealous as a fishwife.

"Yes, of course, your lordship," she managed, as the man who was now bound to her by every means possible took her hand and put it to his lips, dizzying her with the pleasure of it all. The significance of it all.

"Good day, ladies," Ross said from the doorway, nearly knocking them all into swoons with the casual elegance of his nodded exit.

Elizabeth stared after him, as immobilized with awe as were her three faithful assistants.

Until they finally broke into a tangle of questions and surrounded her with speculation.

Skye waggled a chiding finger at her. "That man was kissing you."

"He was." He was fondling her.

Cassie looked utterly scandalized. "And you were kissing him back."

"Yes, I was." And fondling
him.
Wanting him so fiercely she could still feel the pressure of his hard places, his ridges and heat.

Jessica frowned. "Where were you last night, Miss Elizabeth?"

"With him?" Cassie jerked her head toward the door. "The earl?"

"That very earl. My husband."

They gasped together like a great, sucking furnace bellows.

"I married the Earl of
B
lakestone last night."

Another gasp of disbelief.

"That's amazing, my lady!"

"And wonderful!"

"But what about Mrs. Bailey?" Jessica asked. "And all others who need our help?"

As bright a star as her husband might turn out to be among the constellation of men, there were surely some details that even a queen must keep from her privy council for as long as possible.

And damn the consequences.

More than the simple fact that a pair of Turkish trousers were waiting upstairs for her to try on for tonight.

"Come then, ladies, the seamstress is waiting. I'll tell you all about everything on the way upstairs."

******************

The seamstress did the last of her tucking and stitching under the watchful eyes of Elizabeth's entourage. She was gone within the hour, leaving careful instructions for putting it back together for the ball.

That was hours ago. Now it was after seven and the minutes were flying past. Ross would be here any time now, and she didn't want to give anything away before the last possible moment.

"Oh, it fits perfectly, my lady! Turn! Turn!" S
k
ye laughed as she clapped her hands, setting off Jessica and Cassie with their ooos and ahhhs.

"You'll be the talk of the ball," Jessica said as she tried to catch up with the unruly curls let loose against Elizabeth's nape.

"Let's hope there'll be more women than just me to set tongues wagging tonight."

Please let her husband approve. At least a little.

Whatever the outcome, the Turkish trousers made Elizabeth feel utterly exotic. The blouse was richly cut in the sleeves, the bodice set off by a short vest with a tasseled hem.

The folds of silk sluiced against her bare skin when she moved, like cool, cascading water. The fabric draped freely around her limbs like a heated caress from an unblushing lover. The colors were a celebration of autumn, with sunny yellows and deep violets, oranges and browns, all of it shot through with leafy designs in the finest gold thread.

"And now the skirt that will hide my shocking little act of rebellion until the most prope
r
—
o
r dare I say
imprope
r
—
m
oment."

Her three assistants giggled and gossiped as they hooked and tied and tucked the elegant skirt to its waistband, then put the rest of her costume together, just as the seamstress had shown them earlier. A dashing cap of lush velvets adorned the crown of her hair, exotically hued, yet subtle enough not to draw attention to her.

Although when eight o'clock and her husband arrived at the same time, and she appeared at the top of the stairs, she thought at first that he'd caught on to her ruse.

He stood unmoving in the foyer below, magnificent in his evening clothes, his gaze locked on hers, following her every step as she descended.

He met her at the bottom of the stairs, his gloved hand extended toward her. He slipped it into the warmth of hers, then tucked it into the crook of his arm.

His eyes were hot with something that she had come to learn was desire for her.

"You will dazzle them tonight, my love," he said with a prideful smile.

Oh, I intend to, my lord husband.
The rebellion had been set in motion long ago. Like an avalanche on the brink, she couldn't send it backward now.

She could only hope that she didn't dazzle her husband beyond his capacity to forgive her.

Chapter 16

The time draws nigh, and is at hand,

When females will with courage stand!

Each heart united will decree,

We'll have our rights, we will be free!

We'll sever ne'er, but steadfast be!

We'll die to have our liberty!

Mrs. Collie, "Chartist Song"

Scotland, 1840

“We
leave the ball at the stroke of midnight, wife," Ross whispered in the wake of his beautiful bride, who had once again been swept away from him and onto the dance floor by another lumbering oaf.

His skin had always felt too tight whenever he was forced into the midst of London society, the balls and soirees and other such dry-boned galas. But this particular charity affair was proving to be of an even more diabolical nature, conspiring to remind him that he had by the dumbest of all good luck married the most bewitching woman in the kingdom.

She hadn't merely dazzled them tonight, she had laid them flat.

And yet finding an empty slot on her damnable dance card had been nearly impossible. Worse than that, not a soul yet knew that she belonged to him, lock, stock, barrel, and bookstore, as Elizabeth would doubtless accuse.

Because this truce of theirs was untested. As untested as their marriage.

So far, three eligible bachelors had fallen to Lady Maxton's charitable endeavors. With any luck, he'd be long gone, in bed with his wife, by the time his own name came up. He would have pulled it from the auction already, but then he'd have had to admit that he was no longer an eligible bachelor.

Gossip that would have spread like wildfire. And he owed it to Jared and Drew to tell them in person about his hasty marriage to Elizabeth.

And, bloody hell, he dreaded the moment that Kate and Caro found out they hadn't been invited to the wedding.

Fortunately, the two couples hadn't yet arrived. At least he hadn't heard their names announced. And these charity ball matrons always made a great deal of noise over the attendees, hoping one donor would choose to outdo the next one who ventured down the stairs into the pit.

He'd been willing to pledge his left arm to the orphans, but Elizabeth had insisted that he pledge his right leg as well, and so he had.

Indeed, Lady Maxton was the consummate professional. The manor house looked like a pasha's palace, from the filigreed arch at the front door, to the staircase, to here in the ballroom. There were delicate lanterns and potted palms, huge brass platters and be-jeweled jugs, tendrils of incense and pantalooned footmen. Every spare inch had been richly draped, dripping in deeply hued silks, colors much the same as his wife was wearing.