The Wedding Chase (28 page)

“The Staffords are part of a fast crowd.” His lips brushed her hair. “They’ll probably think you’re my mistress. But unless we make love in the rose garden, they won’t blink an eye.”

Zel stiffened again, then sighed. “Are you sure my company is all you will ask of me? Can I trust you not to try to seduce me in the rose garden?”

“I don’t care for roses. The thorns can interfere dreadfully.” He frowned. Now he’d have to avoid flower gardens. “I’m asking you for a week, at a simple house party, spent wholly in my company.”

She pounced, her hands fisting on his chest. “Wholly in your company? Am I then expected to occupy your bed and confirm everyone’s opinions?”

He eased his hold on her and looked into her eyes, his jaw slack and eyes wide, feigning abject amazement. “My dear Miss Fleetwood, how you malign me. I told you, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that would cause you undue discomfort.”

“So I may refuse your company?”

“Ugh!” Wolfgang groaned. “Another unkindness. I insist you spend your waking hours with me. But I give you full veto power over our activities.” He raised her chin with his knuckle and watched her eyes, imagining how the gold specks would flash in stronger light. “You can do this. Or are you afraid?”

“I am not afraid of you.” She met his smile with a scowl. “But what is the point?”

“Need there always be a point?”

She lowered her gaze, her fingers splayed over his waistcoat, her voice husky and soft. “I agree to the favor. What
harm could a house party with the
fast
Staffords do? My reputation is already beyond repair.”

Wolfgang filled his lungs and exhaled slowly. “I’ll call for you in the morning at ten, in two days. Thank you.”

An unreadable expression flitted over her face. “I prefer to meet you there.”

“I’ll send my traveling coach for you and your maid.” He pinned her with a hard stare. “If you don’t wish me to ride within, I’ll play the part of outrider on Ari.”

Zel nodded her consent.

“We’ll return to the theater. Keep your head down till we get to the entry.” Regretfully stepping back from her, he took her arm. “Grandmama will be fretting.”

Zel leaned toward the window of the plush coach, watching as smoky air and dingy buildings transformed into acre upon acre of storm-washed greenery and crisp, clean sunshine. Wolfgang rode close to the silver-and-black carriage. The ease with which he sat his mount, combined with a jacket the same hue as the horse’s chestnut coat, gave him the air of a mythic centaur. His long, tapered fingers rested on the reins with a gentleness at war with the ready strength and power of his frame. She flushed when her eyes met the grin in his, knowing he was excessively pleased with her lengthy perusal. Zel quickly looked to Maggie, but his image remained fixed in her mind.

Tamping down the warmth rising through her body, she cleared her throat. “A week in his company! It will pass like this.” She leaned forward and clapped her hands. “Like nothing.”

Maggie sat opposite on the luxurious silver squabs, eyeing Zel dubiously. “Yes, Miss Zel, like nothing.”

Zel snorted. “Oh, so you agree with everyone else?” The carriage hit a rut, throwing her back in the seat. “I cannot
control myself? Ha! I will show you all. Woman of unharnessed passion! In a bloody pig’s eye!”

Last evening’s storm was only a vague recollection in the fluffy, scattered clouds overhead. The coach grew increasingly stuffy, but as hot and bored as she was, Zel would expire before she looked out again. She twitched around trying to get comfortable, finally throwing herself in a semirecline on the well-stuffed cushions.

“Maggie, if you tell me I should marry him, I shall scream.”

“I—”

“Do not start with me. You know my feelings on marriage.”

“Miss—”

“How you can possibly support the idea of marriage after what you have gone through, I cannot surmise.” Zel’s hand snaked unbidden to the black silk curtains, she paused then pulled them tightly shut. “My mother, my aunt, the women at the home, all victims of the unbridled passions of the male of the species.”

“But—”

“Reckless, uncontrolled emotions culminate in violence.”

“Not all—”

“Yes, all men, given the opportunity and motivation.” Zel blinked, attempting to exorcise the visions of strong hands gently examining her for injury, long fingers stroking the pain from her head. She shook her head vigorously, freeing a few pins from the loose chignon, but the image persisted, followed by another image of her mother’s hands, slight and pale. But the memories of being cared for by those hands were as fragile and faded as the hands themselves. Stronger were the remembrances of her own hands providing succor to the frail woman, battered of body and spirit. She swallowed a hard lump of anger, roundly berating herself for such feelings toward her mother. Her father, not her mother,
was the deserving target of her ire. Or better yet she could aim a little fury at her tall, handsome nemesis. She glanced to the curtains. An excellent target, and well within range.

“And that man out there on the stallion, he is an example of the worst sort.” Zel tightened her lips in smug satisfaction. “He is an undisciplined, voracious barbarian. Worse still, he finds his most deplorable traits to be humorous.”

“Miss, you—”

“I do not find him humorous in the least.” She bravely parted the curtains to face her foe. “I find him a pitiful creature. His persuasions will never prevail against my will.” She watched instead the little white-haired valet who rode with surprising grace and stamina beside the centaur. The centaur, of course, spotted her and smiled.

The journey to Abingdon, including an overlong luncheon stop, continued in near silence, a silence that Zel felt compelled to breach only with an occasional heartfelt treatise on the character of the centaur, and her complete indifference to the beast. And if she cared to leave the curtains open to enjoy the view, it mattered little, as she showed the beast with a haughty nose in the air when he turned to smile at her.

Damn that crooked smile! It symbolized all his impossible attractions: the recklessness, the boyishness, the touch of danger, the humor, the sensuality, and the tenderness. All the things she desired and feared. She felt herself a swimmer, caught in a riptide, sure to drown if she allowed herself to be carried out to sea, equally sure to drown if she fought the tide and exhausted herself before she could make the safety of shore.

Zel leaned stiffly into the cushions, shutting her eyes tightly, like a child feigning sleep. She doggedly refused to move, despite the carriage seat’s arrhythmic thumping against her tailbone and the perspiration pooling beneath her breasts.

Days rather than hours seemed to pass before the groom
helped her alight from the carriage in the Staffords’ gracefully curved drive. Wolfgang handed his mount over to a groom with barely a look in her direction, giving not the slightest indication of lending his assistance.

Zel took Maggie’s arm, her long stride causing the little maid to run to keep pace. As she passed him, Wolfgang took a step toward her. He did not take her elbow but allowed her gown to slide over his outstretched leg. Zel suppressed an urge to stomp on his toes, an action sure to do damage to her slippered foot, while only scuffing the polish of his black riding boots. He followed her up the steps and into the elegant three-story half-timbered Queen Anne mansion, his step so close at her heels she feared he would tread on her hem.

She was introduced to the guests gathered in a large rose-and-beige drawing room. She knew few of the company, but the ubiquitous threesome of Newton, Melbourne, and Lady Horeton greeted her with mocking affability.

Zel took a seat by the window, scanning the room for Wolfgang from beneath her lashes. As she turned back to the doorway she found her face inches away from tan breeches and a chestnut jacket. Following the firm line of his chest upward, she met that unholy smile playing on his generous lips and crinkling his silver eyes. She hid the color rushing to her cheeks from him by twisting back to her hostess.

“Lady Stafford, your home is exquisite,” she murmured, aware of the warmth of Wolfgang’s body beside her chair. “I have always admired the Queen Anne style.”

“I’ll be happy to show you the house and grounds tomorrow, Miss Fleetwood.” Lady Stafford’s wrinkled face creased in pleasure. “Now I will have you and Northcliffe shown to your rooms where you may rest a bit before dressing for dinner.” She nodded to the butler.

“Thank you, Lady Stafford.” Wolfgang took several steps toward the door before swiveling back to Zel. “Coming, my dear?”

She frowned at him, but rose and accompanied him through the door, his arm close enough to rustle her sleeve. But still he failed to take her arm as they followed the butler to her room.

Before the evening ended Zel would have done anything to remove that exasperating grin from the infuriating man’s face. Throughout dinner his knee bobbed precariously close to her leg. Again and again she could feel it brush against her skirts, but the anticipated pressure of a direct touch never came. He chatted to the woman on his left, smiling so amiably Zel found herself dreaming vividly of the pleasures of kicking his shin.

In the drawing room after dinner matters went rapidly from bad to worse. Whenever she turned he was there, a hair’s breadth away. As she sat straight, refusing to acknowledge his presence, she felt his breath stir her hair, his heat penetrate her clothing, his long fingers curl round the arm of her chair. Finally, tired and frustrated, she addressed her hostess. “I am still fatigued from the journey. Thank you for your hospitality, but I believe I will retire early.”

“Certainly, my dear,” Lady Stafford gushed. “You must be rested for tomorrow’s activities. We begin rehearsals for our theatrical after breakfast.”

“I’d be pleased to escort you to your room.” Wolfgang chirped in with obnoxious gallantry.

As she stood to take his arm, he bowed deeply, ignored her arm, and indicated the door. She smiled coldly and swept by him. What was wrong with the man? Did he fear she had the plague?

His footsteps kept pace with hers up the stairs. “I do hope you’ll have a marvelous time, Miss Fleetwood. The company tonight was a bit dull, but the Staffords are known to run with the fast literary and theatrical crowd, so the usual collection of poets, actors, and musicians will surely arrive tomorrow and the tempo pick up accordingly.”

“It sounds most amusing, my lord.”

“You’ve started ‘my lording’ me again.”

“And you are ‘Miss Fleetwooding’ me.” Zel reached for the latch at her door. His body was so near, she reflexively leaned back, seeking the muscular warmth of his chest and arms. Stopping herself, she listened to the flow of his breathing, sure for a moment she also heard the pumping of his heart. She circled to face him. His eyes were hooded beneath his dark lashes, his mouth quirked at one corner. He lowered his head with painful slowness until his mouth hovered over hers.

Zel closed her eyes reveling in the anticipated pressure of his lips molding hers, the moisture of his tongue claiming hers. She opened her eyes to find his eyes on her mouth, yet his own mouth floated a tantalizing distance from her own dry lips, never touching, only teasing her with hot, brandy-scented breath.

She jerked away, desperate to be free of his fraudulent lure. Yanking at the latch, she strode into the room and slammed the door. She braced herself against the hard surface, whether to keep him out or herself in, she couldn’t be sure. As his footsteps retreated down the hall Zel gasped in an unsteady breath.

What in the name of heaven was wrong with her? She seemed unable to control the slightest response around him. If she was not such a sensible woman, she would swear he was a sorcerer practicing his magic on her. She shivered, wrapping her arms about herself, holding on tight, warding off his spell.

“Wake up,” Zel whispered, tapping Wolfgang on the forearm. His jaw hung slack, his head bobbed loosely on his neck, the arm on the sofa behind her, settled onto her back. He breathed slow and deep with a tiny rattle. He was going to snore.

“Wolfgang.” She took careful aim with her elbow and rammed it into his ribs.

“Eeoww.” He jumped awkwardly, slipping halfway off the sofa. Zel smiled, ignoring the stares of their fellow tortured listeners, watching as Wolfgang became aware of his surroundings and tried to inconspicuously resume his seat. “Vixen.”

Her smile widened, the wretch deserved everything he got. “Stay awake, and listen.”

He moaned softly. “Why are you punishing me?”

As if he did not know. She looked straight ahead, the smile still dancing on her lips. A little revenge tasted so sweet, and he was due much more. Having to listen to the history of waterways and canals in rural England, with the occasional help of a tap or prod from her, did not come near to evening the score. She met his eyes, raising her brows. “But you told me Lady Stafford had such interesting guests.”

Moaning again, Wolfgang pulled his long frame erect, his hand brushing her shoulder as he draped his arm over the sofa.

The smile slid off her lips as she regarded him sourly. There was little of her he had not touched today. Those long wicked fingers, and other parts of his anatomy, had grazed, bumped, and slithered over her with most methodical chance. She had almost believed, at first, it was chance. Always in close proximity, partners at meals, audience in a tour for two of the Stafford mansion, ingenue lovers in the amateur theatricals, it was natural that they occasionally got in each other’s way. But after she had lost count of how many times his thigh brushed her leg, his knuckles skimmed the outer curve of her breast, his hip nudged her bottom, his shoulder stroked her back, and his elbow prodded her stomach, she could no longer deny his intent.

Zel would gladly drown him in the nearest pond, or rush
back to London to avoid his continuing siege. But a bargain was a bargain, and she would never withdraw in defeat.

His lips were at her ear. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll agree to any other penance you demand.” Wolfgang tucked his hand round her upper arm, pulling her to her feet and toward the door. Allowing herself to be removed, she ignored the sly smiles that accompanied them from the room. She had nothing to fear from either him or the gossips.