A Heart for the Taking (22 page)

Frightened, excited, and half-dizzy with desire, Fancy was hardly aware of Chance sweeping her hat from her head and lowering her carefully to the sweet, soft grass. The sun beat lightly against her closed lids, and the scent of honeysuckle and magnolia wafted on the warm, humid air; but she was only peripherally aware of them, the welcoming weight of Chance’s big body as he leaned over her, the blunt demand of his mouth on hers, nearly blotting out everything else.

He kissed her many times, long, drugging kisses that fed the fire deep in her belly and banished coherent thought. Fancy wasn’t aware of her arms creeping around his neck, or of the faint encouraging sounds that came from her throat when Chance’s hand slid slowly downward to cup her aching breast. When he touched her, when his fingers plucked at her nipple through the fabric of her clothing, a jolt of pure feminine arousal went streaking through her. Heat pooled low in her belly, and between her thighs there was an insistent, needy hunger—a hunger completely new to her.

Fancy had never wanted a man before, never wanted, truly wanted, to be possessed by any male, but with Chance . . . With Chance, she seemed to have no control over her thoughts or her body. He had only to touch her and she became alive to emotions and sensations that were totally foreign to her. She had thought herself cold and indifferent to the elemental urges that bedeviled other people, but in Chance’s arms she discovered that she was as helpless as anyone else to resist the demands of passion. She wanted his hands upon her, wanted his mouth against hers, and even more, she wanted to touch him, to feel his hard, warm flesh beneath her own hand, to feel his heartbeat, to explore at will the entire muscled length of him.

She was astounded, terrified, and oh,
so
curious by what was happening to her. She knew she should struggle, and for one moment she tried to remember precisely why, but then Chance’s wandering hand slid to her thigh and began to travel lazily up under her skirts. Her breath caught and her hands clenched instinctively in his hair as his seeking fingers touched her there between her legs.

Sanity glimmered for a second as his mouth left hers and burned a trail down her neck. She stammered, “C- CChance, I d-d-don’t think this is—”

His voice dark with desire, his lips brushed her lips: “Don’t think, Fancy. Don’t. Feel.”

And she did, as his clever fingers brushed aside her undergarments to touch the naked flesh hidden by the thatch of curly hair between her thighs. Fire seemed to sear up through her, and as he caressed her, exploring between the soft folds, Fancy was lost, sweet sensation after sweet sensation crashing through her.

Need flooded her as his finger slipped into her moist depths, and she twisted wildly in his arms, her hands moving restlessly over his shoulders and back, plucking impatiently at his shirt. She wanted,
needed
, to touch him.

Feeling her response, feeling the damp warmth between her legs, the intoxicating taste of her on his lips, Chance lost whatever restraint he’d placed on himself. She had tormented his dreams for too long. Tempted him unbearably simply with her nearness. He had to have her. Now.

He fumbled with the fastening of his breeches, and when at last his swollen manhood sprang free, he gave a deep sigh of relief. With demanding hands, he pushed aside the delicate clothing that kept him from his goal and slipped between her legs. Cupping her hips, he raised her to him.

Fancy stiffened, the reality of what was happening suddenly bursting through the erotic fog that had clouded her thoughts. Her eyes snapped open. “No. Stop. Oh, I never meant to . . .”

His face fierce with desire, passion glittering in the blue eyes, Chance stared down at her, trying to comprehend
what she was saying. Stop? Was she mad? Or simply trying to drive him mad? She was soft and pliant beneath him, he knew she was aroused, he could feel it. His body was hard and aching, one swift movement and he would find the urgent release he so desperately needed. And she wanted him to stop?

He closed his eyes in near pain. Fancy wiggled slightly, her thigh brushing against his solid shaft, and a shudder went through him. She was asking too much of him. Of any man. And yet . . .

Gulping in a breath, he opened his eyes and looked down into her passion-flushed face, at the softly swollen contours of her mouth. His hands tightened on her buttocks, and bending his head, he gently suckled her nipple through her bodice, feeling with savage satisfaction the excited ripple within her that his action caused. His lips hot against her breast, he said thickly, “Fancy, don’t ask this of me. I want you—I am dying with hunger for you. Let me....”

He kissed her, his mouth melding urgently with hers, his body rubbing provocatively against hers, his big hands caressing her buttocks. “Let me,” he breathed into her mouth. “Let me.”

Ensnared by his kiss and the warmth of his body on hers, the boldly carnal sensation of his flesh rubbing against hers, Fancy forgot all about propriety, decorum, sanity.
She
wanted him.
Her body ached for him, yearned for him, and she wanted most desperately to find out if there was more to this dark spell Chance had woven about her. Not giving herself time to think, mesmerized by the hot demand singing in her blood, her arms fastened closely around his neck and her body moving in an invitation as old as time, Fancy offered herself to him.

Chance groaned, and his lips sought hers hungrily as he lifted her and positioned himself more solidly between her thighs, then slowly sank deep into her moist warmth. She was so tight. So snug. So perfect.

Hardly daring to breathe, Fancy felt weak and dizzy as he filled her, her body stretching and widening eagerly to
accommodate his substantial bulk.
Nothing
had ever felt like this before, and she trembled with giddy pleasure when he began to move, his body pumping lazily into hers, his lips crushing hers.

As Chance made love to her, his mouth moving erotically against hers, his powerful body driving more and more frantically into hers, the ache that he had first aroused in Fancy grew more persistent, more needy. In mindless hunger she met each thrust of his hips, pleasure she had never even imagined rippling through her every time their bodies collided. In wanton abandon she writhed beneath him, her tongue curling provocatively around his, her hands moving almost desperately over his back and breeches-clad buttocks. Every thrust, every meeting of their flesh, sent shocks of delight through her, and Fancy was staggered by her own passionate response. Never,
never
had she even dreamed that lovemaking could be like this. Unexpectedly a wave of intense pleasure erupted through her, and she cried out in stunned ecstasy and clutched Chance even closer to her.

Feeling her body clench and convulse around him brought Chance instantly to the brink. With a soft, shaken groan, he exploded inside of her, such pleasure as he had never known in his life flooding him. His breathing ragged and labored, he slowed his movements and relished the last faint eddies that rippled through him. Then he lifted his head and, bracing himself on his elbows, looked down into Fancy’s face.

There was a dazed, dreamy expression in her catshaped, topaz eyes as her lids lifted slowly, and Chance thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. Fancy’s cheeks were flushed, her mouth rosy and swollen from his kisses, and her gorgeous chocolate brown hair spread in wild disarray around her head. Staring down at her, at the innocently provocative sight she made beneath him, he felt something tighten in the region of his heart. To his astonishment, he felt his body, still buried within her, stir and begin to harden.

A look of startlement crossed Fancy’s features as she became aware of what was happening to him. Her gaze flew to his, disbelief widening her eyes. “S-s-so soon?” she stammered, blushing.

Chance smiled ruefully. “Probably not to completion. ’Tis just merely letting us know that the beast is not completely dead. He will live to service you another day, m’lady.”

Fancy had never shared any intimate teasing with her husband, and she was uncertain how to reply. She was also rapidly becoming aware of what had actually transpired, and embarrassment and guilt at her incredibly uncharacteristic actions were banishing any lingering pleasure. To her further embarrassment, she suddenly realized that Chance was still fully clothed—as was she. A burst of shame went through her. She, the Baroness Merrivale, had been tumbled in the grass like any common tavern slattern. And by a man she didn’t even
like.

Thoroughly mortified, her eyes looking anywhere but at Chance’s dark face, she pushed forcefully against his shoulders. “Get off of me,” she said raggedly.

Chance hesitated, but then, realizing that her mood had undergone one of those baffling feminine changes, he slid regretfully from her body. “Whatever pleases you, Duchess,” he said lightly.

Fancy’s jaw clenched, but she made no reply. Still avoiding looking at him, she sat up and with trembling hands rearranged her clothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him lounging on the ground beside her, propped up with one elbow, his breeches still unfastened. Thankfully there was no sign of the “beast,” but she was acutely uncomfortable and embarrassed. She was appalled by what had happened, hardly daring to believe what she had done. And she had done it. The small pleasurable ache between her thighs and the fuzziness of her lips plainly told her so. She had kissed him, caressed him, and allowed him to make love to her. Allowed him to seduce her. Al
lowed him to make the reason for their hasty marriage a fact.

Suspicion suddenly darkened her eyes, and glaring at him, she said accusingly, “You did that deliberately, didn’t you?”

Unaware of her meaning, and assuming she referred to the way he had made love to her, Chance merely grinned at her and drawled teasingly, “Oh, indeed I did, Duchess. I deliberately enjoyed it, too, and after we are married, I intend to
deliberately
make love to you as often as I can.”

Already angry and resentful at the entire morning’s events, Fancy lost her temper. Before she had time to think, she had twisted around and slapped him—hard. Eyes blazing, she spat, “You are the most aggravating,
hor
rid
man I have ever met in my life. And I cannot imagine how I will survive being married to you.”

Chance’s grin vanished the instant her hand connected to his face. Sitting up, he thoughtfully rubbed his smarting cheek. “You want to tell me what brought that on? A moment ago, you were willing in my arms and you gained as much pleasure from our coupling as I did—do not try to deny it. And I should warn you”—his eyes narrowed—“strike me again like that and you will not appreciate my reaction—that I can promise you.”

Fancy was outraged. “What brought it on?” she almost shrieked. “You deliberately compromised me by being found
uninvited
in my bed.” She took in a deep, furious breath. “And just now, you calculatingly set out to make this morning’s ugly farce the truth. And then you make light of it. And if that was not bad enough, you have the audacity to
threaten
me.”

“I did not threaten you,” Chance said carefully. “I warned you.”

Fancy surged to her feet and snatched up her bonnet. Jamming it on her head, she snapped, “And I am warning you: marry me and I shall make your life a living hell.”

Chance leaned back on his elbow and smiled up at her.
“ ’Tis an odd thing, Duchess, but I’ve always enjoyed playing with fire.”

Fancy’s teeth ground together, and with a sound halfway between a snarl and a snort, she spun on her heels and stalked furiously away.

Chance stared after her, his grin widening. Marriage to his duchess was going to be most interesting.
Most
interesting indeed.

T
he marriage between Frances Anne Merrivale and Chance Walker took place on August 26, 1774. It was a hot, humid day, the threat of a thunderstorm looming on the horizon, but no one seemed to pay the dark, ominous clouds any heed as Fancy and Chance exchanged their vows. Only Fancy, her face outwardly serene, felt that the weather was clearly indicative of her future as Chance Walker’s wife.

They were married in the late afternoon by a traveling preacher whom Sam had sent for and who regularly made a circuit through this sparsely settled area. Preacher Parker was a bluff, jovial fellow, and he was very happy to do a favor for his generous benefactor, Sam Walker.

Everyone, it seemed, was very happy to do anything that Sam asked of them. Staring moodily at the throng of laughing, lighthearted guests who crowded around the long tables that had been arranged outside under a stand of towering oaks and were filled to overflowing with all manner of delicious food and drink, Fancy scowled. The Walker men seemed to have a definite knack for getting their own way, she thought sourly.

All during the previous fortnight, Fancy had hoped and prayed fervently that something would go wrong, that some
how she could escape from the trap Chance had set for her. A trap she had helped spring when she had fallen into his arms like a disgustingly eager light-skirted trollop.