The bluestocking brides, p.40
The Bluestocking Brides, page 40
Lacing her hands around his head, she took in the feel of his strong body atop hers. A hand skimmed her side and came down to grip her rear. She sucked in a sharp breath, but he swallowed the sound with a deep kiss.
His tongue tangled with hers, sweeping and exploring while she writhed underneath him. She felt his hardness against the juncture of her thighs and the ache there increased.
“We must marry quickly,” she breathed.
“Yes,” he agreed. “With as much haste as possible.”
His hand slid down the outside of her gown and he bunched her skirts up impatiently, finding the top of her stocking. She shuddered when rough fingers touched skin. His fingers trailed higher while he showered kisses on her cheek, ear, and neck.
Staring up at the ceiling and eyeing the patterns molded into them, Catherine bit down on a moan when his fingers found her sensitive flesh. She could hardly believe it. A marriage proposal and a scandalous liaison! Thorne would keep her on her toes with the unexpected, there was no doubting that.
He flicked and teased, and she clamped her bottom lip under her teeth. He kissed her firmly and eased one finger inside her. The shocking sensation made her buck into the touch. Thorne moved that finger in and out while circling her sensitive nub with a thumb.
Catherine met his gaze and felt herself being swallowed up by the power of it. Thorne would never do things halfway and it seemed the same was true for his lovemaking. He brought her to the brink several times. The thought that her mother could return at any moment had her anxious and excited all at the same time. Digging her fingers into his arms, she silently begged him for more.
He gave her all he could give, leaning down to tease his lips across her mouth while he brought her higher and higher until she felt she could not go on any longer. Legs shuddering, sweat tickling her forehead, she gave herself up to him, letting him take her all the way to the peak and over.
Breaths ragged, she waited for the world to come back into focus. Thorne grinned and pressed a kiss to her head.
“You are a shocking influence on me, Catherine,” he said as he rearranged her skirts.
“And I always intend to be.”
“I would not have you any other way.”
Epilogue
If Thorne had planned it more carefully, he would have chosen a day when the entire Chadwick clan were not visiting with their parents. Every time he glanced at the window behind Mr. Chadwick’s desk, one of the sisters peeked in. He was fairly certain he could hear shuffling footsteps outside, likely from Mrs. Chadwick who Catherine had warned would have her ear pressed to the door.
Mr. Chadwick clasped his hands behind his back and peered at Thorne. “Are you quite sure?”
“Yes, sir, quite sure.”
“And Catherine has agreed to this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You realize she is a quite a handful?” Mr. Chadwick held up a hand. “I do not mean to dissuade you, but I would not see Catherine hurt by a…a broken engagement.”
“I am fully aware of what I am doing,” Thorne assured him.
Mr. Chadwick sank down on the chair behind the study desk. “She will make a terrible marchioness.”
Thorne could not prevent himself from smiling. “Yes, she will.”
“Well, far be it for me to deny you if this is what you both want.”
“It is, sir.”
Mr. Chadwick smiled. “You know, you are the first to come and ask for my daughter’s hand. All the others were done by letter. I always thought Catherine would be the one to run off or do something else scandalous. I am gladdened she will have a man who understands how things should be. Perhaps you shall be a good influence on her.”
“I think it more likely she will be a good influence on me.”
Catherine’s father shook his head. “You really must be in love.”
“I am, sir.”
“Well,” he stood and offered a hand. “Good luck to you, my lord. Goodness knows you shall need it.”
A screech came from outside the room. Out in the garden, excited feminine chatter sprung up.
“I knew it, did I not tell you?” said Mrs. Chadwick from outside the door. “All gentlemen who arrive here marry my daughters.”
Mr. Chadwick rolled his eyes. “Welcome to the family, Lord Thornefield. I hope you have a strong constitution. You are going to need it.”
THE END
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Want more Chadwick sisters? Read Lavinia’s story in the Bluestocking Brides prequel here.
Read on for Chapter One of Temptations of a Duke's Daughter
Chapter One
Chastity paused in the shadows between the lanterns strung about the garden, gaze searching. Inviting amber light flickered into the dark night and illuminated late spring flowers. But it did not reveal her sister. She scowled. Eleanor had been in the ballroom at the top of the hour, clinging to the wall to avoid their eccentric Aunt Sarah’s demands that they dance together.
Of course, Aunt Sarah, who never embarrassed, was oblivious to the humiliation it would cause Eleanor. But Chastity hadn’t missed the flash of hurt crossing Eleanor’s face at muttering about her lineage or eligibility.
She would have said something but she could not bear to cause a scene. She may not think much of the institution of marriage, but she would not ruin her sister’s happiness for anything.
Now if only she could find Eleanor…
Hands to her hips, she pressed out a breath and forced her jaw to unclench. The only reason Chastity had not demanded an apology from said uncouth persons was because she could not bear to cause a scene at Cassie’s wedding ball. She had never seen her sister happier. Chastity did not think much of the institution of marriage but she would not ruin her sister’s happiness for anything.
Now if only she could find Eleanor. The toasts were about to begin, and her absence would be noted.
She hastened down the path, the gravel crunching underfoot. A welcome breeze lightly scented with lilacs brushed her bare arms and ruffled her coiled hair, reminding her how tight the pins were and how painfully they pressed into her scalp. Still, it did not matter if she wound up with a headache at the end of the night. So long as everything went perfectly for Cassie.
A hand to her silken skirts, she dashed up the stone steps toward the building. Their father’s townhouse offered the ideal setting for a wedding ball, she had to admit. The grand building had never looked more handsome, the lower windows glowing and dancing with the shadows of guests and the fragrance of hundreds of flower arrangements sifting sweetly into the air.
Even Demeter had looked forward to the ball after seeing the house dressed in her endless decorations.
Perhaps Eleanor really had retreated to the library. Or the boot room. She could often be found tinkering with a new contraption down there. But Eleanor would not be so thoughtless a to miss Cassie’s wedding ball surely? They were not only the closest in age but the closest of friends too.
Her sisters were no different to her. They would do anything for one another. Therefore, she had to conclude Eleanor was somewhere in the ballroom and Chastity had simply missed her in amongst the crush of excited guests. She hurried back to the ballroom.
A cluster of elderly women, their bright, jewel-toned colors and voluminous feathers ensuring no one missed them offered their congratulations as she hastened inside. She paused, smiled politely, and dipped her head briefly.
Now was not the time for conversation. Cassie needed her. She turned, hastened forward, and slammed, chest first, into a wall.
“Oof.”
She staggered back a few steps and eyed the offending wall.
And found it to be decidedly un-wall like.
Peering down at her from quite a height, the gentleman’s lips were pursed tightly. His long nose seemed made to stare down at people. Which was precisely what he was doing now. She backed up a step and felt a rip, almost toppling backward when her foot caught. She flailed for a second and straightened herself when no considerate grab of her wrist or arm saved her.
Brow furrowed, she glanced down. The man had only gone and trodden on her toes—his large, polished shoes defeating the fragile fabric of her brand-new slippers, tearing them.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the man said, his voice edged with irritation.
She opened her mouth. He was annoyed with her? He had trodden on her toes—toes that now throbbed thanks to the ill protection of the pale satin fabric.
She narrowed her gaze at him. Black hair tinged with silver at the temples carefully tamed into submission touched his collar, as though he had not had time to have a haircut. His eyes were almost as dark in the dim lamplight, great black holes of annoyance. Lines lingered between his brows, like a permanent sign of annoyance.
She suspected they were always there as though this man disliked the world so much he wanted to ensure everyone knew it. Despite that, he was handsome enough that she could not fathom why she could not place him. He was vaguely familiar.
It did not mean much, though, she supposed. There were plenty of guests here with whom she only had a passing acquaintance and her brother Anton had invited plenty of friends from the gentlemen’s clubs and his business dealings.
“Do I not even get an apology, sir?” She gestured to her shoe. “These were new.”
“Pardon?” His scowl deepened and he spared the briefest look at her wounded shoes. “I see. Forgive me.” He addressed her shoes with a little bow, his lips pulled into a smirk.
Good Lord, the gall of the man. She could not claim to adore the bowing and scraping that came with her being the duke’s eldest daughter, but she expected a little more graciousness from whoever this hard-chested, strong-shouldered man was.
She sucked in a deep breath. And froze.
Floris’s Lime. She would recognize the smell anywhere.
She hated that scent. Loathed it. With every fiber of her being. But of course this man would be wearing the cologne favored by her late husband. It was most fitting really. Only rude, arrogant, horrible bastards wore it.
Very well, that was not wholly true. But John had worn it and now this man did. Enough evidence in her mind that it was the scent of choice for men wishing to make her feel small and useless.
Well, no matter how much this man towered over her, she would not be cowed.
Chin lifted, she set her jaw. “That is hardly an apology, sir,” she said firmly. “You have torn my slippers asunder. I should think you owe me, at the very least, a proper apology.”
***
Valentine scarcely held back a smirk. Christ, she probably owned a hundred pairs of slippers and would likely have forgotten all about this pair had he not trodden on them.
The woman stood a good head shorter than him, barely reaching his shoulders, but the firm gaze and determined point of her chin gave her an air of cool authority.
Valentine did not doubt the substance behind it. He knew well with whom he was speaking. Chastity Whitaker, eldest daughter to the Duke of Daventry. Though only thirty, she had been widowed for some time. He might avoid Society and all its trappings, however, as an earl, he could not avoid knowing a little something about the high-ranking members of the ton.
And this lady was one of the highest. Though she had lost her title upon marriage, it did not change the pedigree of her lineage. Lineage that dripped from every earlobe and wrist in the form of sapphires and diamonds—no doubt carefully chosen to match the deep blue of her evening gown.
He pressed his lips into a thin line and eyed the damaged slipper in question. Pale blue, trimmed with gold, and decorated with a faux flower of some kind. He didn’t need to know much about women’s shoes to know they would be worth a sizeable fortune.
A waste of a fortune to his mind. Ladies dancing shoes were always made from the most impractical of fabrics and even had he not trodden on them, they might well have been ruined from vigorous dancing by the end of the evening.
“It was hardly my fault you ran into me,” he pointed out.
Her mouth opened and closed, bringing his attention to plump lips, perfectly formed into a cupid’s bow that made one’s fingers itch to trace the outline of them.
“You should have been paying attention.” Those intriguing lips twisted.
“As should you.”
He wasn’t going to admit that his focus had been on the open doorway and escape from the claustrophobic ballroom and the wretched event that was this wedding ball.
“Will you not even apologize?”
“I believe I just did.”
She folded her arms. “That was hardly an apology. You did not mean it.”
“I do not believe we are acquainted, so how can you know what I do and do not mean?”
Her cheeks turned rosy. No doubt she was not used to anyone—even men—speaking to her so.
Well, it was about time. He’d met plenty of women like Mrs. Whitaker in his previous years in Society.
Rich, spoiled, with an air of arrogance that accompanied their good looks and fine figure—as though they themselves somehow had a hand in what God had dealt them.
Admittedly, not all the women had been quite as handsome as Chastity Whitaker. Her tightly coiled hair offered varying shades of brown and gold that glimmered in the lamplight. He preferred fair-haired women usually but there was something intriguing about the way hers seemed to change color with the flickering light. What would it look like in daylight?
Valentine frowned and shook away the thought. Who cared? He’d likely never have a conversation with her again after today. As soon as he escaped, he would return to his townhouse then back to the country and wait until the next invitation that he dare not refuse. With any luck, it would be several years, as he was excellent at avoiding conversation with anyone in Society.
“I am no fool, sir, and I know what a real apology is.” She took a step closer, drawing his attention down toward her decolletage.
He was no monk. He had all the desires of any other man, and he knew well why Mrs. Whitaker never lacked for admirers. Her generous curves were the sort that portrait artists salivated to paint.
And no doubt, many a man salivated over her, artist or not.
While he might not like brunettes, he loved curves, loved soft thighs, and his fantasies often included the give of a waist as he pressed his fingers into a woman’s flesh.
Tightening his jaw, he forced his gaze upward. If she noticed him drooling like a whelp, it would only increase the arrogance he saw in her firm gaze and determined stance. This woman would not let up until she had him groveling at her feet.
Well, she had a long wait ahead of her. He did not care what she thought of him or his apology. He didn’t care what any of the ton thought. They could all go hang as far as he was concerned.
He took another step forward and pulled his shoulders straight, affecting his most overbearing posture, and peering down the length of his nose. He ensured he remained expressionless, with only the tiniest arch of a brow. A look that said—I am a peer of the realm and woe betide anyone who gets in my way.
When she did not shrink away, the tiniest pang of admiration speared through him.
“Very well,” he said. “I am not sorry. I do not give a fig about your slippers, and you ran into me.”
Her eyes rounded. If he was not so aware of how green they were, he would have allowed himself that smirk finally. He struggled to pinpoint the color and could not fathom why such a matter had become important. Who cared if they were leaf green or sea green?
Her chest rose and fell in the periphery of his vision, straining against the seams of her dress. Very well, not quite in the periphery because he could not help but glance down. He loathed the stupid confines women of society put themselves in. She should be dressed in loose cotton, something that flowed about her curves in a gentle caress.
A picture he did not need right now. His gaze snapped up and he forced himself to maintain eye contact. If this woman could learn one lesson today, it would be that not everyone was cowed by her rank and wealth.
“You must be about the rudest man I have ever met,” she declared.
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Who on earth do you think you are?”
“No one of consequence.” He gave a tilted smile. “Which means I do not care if you believe me to be the rudest man in the world.”
Her reply was cut off by a sudden rush of people from the ballroom. They barged past like the ocean swirling about a rock. She was implacable, to be sure, her firm stance at odds with the far-too-appealing softness of her figure and features. He could not spot a single part of her that did not warrant touching, from the even lips to the curving cheekbones to her sightly upturned nose.
She frowned as more people pushed past. “What is going on?”
He took the arm of a young gentleman. “Where is everyone going?”
“They found a body,” the man declared with far too much delight.
“A body?” Mrs. Whitaker’s face paled.
“You should stay here,” Valentine ordered. He might not care about her slippers but even he did not think a lady should see a body, especially if this was more than some old chap having danced too much and given himself a heart attack.
“Certainly not.” She twisted away from him and pushed through the crowds.
He grimaced. This was his chance. He could escape the ball and pretend he’d never set eyes on her.
The cluster of people swarmed around the side of the building toward the stables. He followed the duke’s daughter toward the circle of people and her complexion grew ghostly when she stopped at the edge of the crowd. Valentine shoved his way through, took her arm, and tried to urge her back.
“This is not a sight—” He stilled when he caught a glance of the body on the ground and his heart slammed against his ribs.
