Fortune's Lady (28 page)

T
HEY AWOKE AT THE SAME
moment,  sharing the  pillow blinking into each other's faces. Identical expressions of confusion, recollection, and gladness strayed over soft gray and dark blue eyes in unison. They might have been looking into mirrors. Then the realization of what had woken them made them smile, again in harmony. Through the open window came the strains of a serenade, sincere but profoundly unsteady.

“Our dear friends,” Riordan murmured sleepily.

“Mmm.” Cass rubbed her cheek against his knuckles with drowsy pleasure.

“I suppose I'll have to go out and say something to them.”

“Mmm.” She twined her fingers in his and brought his hand to her lips. “But I don't want you to go.” She loved the lazy way the corners of his mouth turned up when he smiled.

“But the sooner I do, the sooner I can come back and make love to you.”

Gray eyes darkened to slate. “In that case, what are you still doing here?”

He meant to give her a peck on the nose, but before he knew it he was wrapped up in her arms and legs, and kissing her as fervently as a soldier bidding his wife farewell before setting off to war. Laughing and breathless, they let each other go. She watched while he went to his portmanteau and drew out a jade-green dressing gown. Knotting the sash, he padded barefoot to the door, opened it—causing the serenade to break off in a sudden rising cheer—and closed it quickly behind him.

Cass stretched hugely, extending a limb into all four corners of the bed. She turned her face into the pillow and breathed the faint, fresh scent of her husband's hair.
Her husband.
Radiant, unexamined happiness washed over her in a dizzying gush. She sat up, unable to contain herself. Outside the voices were growing raucous again, and presently she could make out the words: “We want the bride! We want the bride!” She giggled and put her fingers to her lips, considering. Then she threw her legs over the side of the bed. If they wanted the bride that badly, they should have her.

She put on her old robe of worn apricot silk, wishing she had something finer. But then, she hadn't known six days ago when she'd set out from London that she would soon be a married lady. Consciously avoiding the mirror, she went to the door.

Riordan had planted himself sturdily in front like a sentinel; he glanced back in surprise when he heard the door open. A ragged hurrah went up from the small clump of well-wishers gathered in front of the cottage. Wally and Tess and Tom and Cora were there, as well as half a dozen sympathetic revelers drawn to the celebration by the powerful incentive of free beer. It was almost dusk; the slanting sun on the pond had turned it a bright gold. Birds called across the evening sky, signaling the end of the day. The air was as soft as a lover's breath.

The cheering died away to stunned silence. Sleepy-looking and tousled, her skin flushed, Cass smiled a sweet smile and slid her arms around her husband's waist. Riordan didn't need their envy, but it was an undeniable pleasure to know there wasn't a man there who wouldn't have given a great deal to be in his place. He smiled down at his bride. She was the most desirable woman he'd ever known, and particularly so at this moment. Her lips were pink from his most recent kiss and there was a dreamy look in her eyes. Her hair was loose and hung around her shoulders like a dark cloud. Her long white toes poked out, bare and vulnerable, from under the hem of her robe. Squeezing her close, he addressed himself to the crowd, hoping to dispatch them quickly.

It worked. But then, he'd rarely been more eloquent, not even on the floor of the Commons. With a satisfied smile he watched them trail away, full of mellowness and good will toward everyone, over the bridge and back to the inn.

“Wally!” he called out, remembering. “I'll only be a second, love.” He kissed the top of her head before walking out to meet his friend, who waited for him beside the bridge.

Cass watched them speaking, unable to hear the words, her eyes on her new husband. The sunset was fiery on his skin, turning his face ruddy. The color of his robe complemented his dark-blue eyes so handsomely, she wondered if a woman had given it to him. That brought a little stab of pain. Followed by a slash of guilt. He'd given up so much in marrying her, and now he was doing a heroic job of making the best of a tragic situation.

She ought to have stopped the wedding. Oh, she knew it, she knew it. But she hadn't wanted to, she'd wanted him any way she could have him. All the nonsense about upholding his honor or sparing him embarrassment had only been an excuse. Selfish, selfish. But she loved him! Was it so wrong to reach out and take your heart's desire when it was handed to you?

She would make it up to him; she'd be the best wife any man ever had. She'd prove to him and all his friends that she was a decent woman, deserving of their respect. It would take time, perhaps, but she had limitless patience. And one day, if it killed her, Philip Riordan was going to fall in love with his wife.

He and Wally were shaking hands. Riordan looked grateful, she had time to think, before he turned and came toward her, ending her speculation on what that might signify.

They embraced as soon as the door closed.

“I missed you,” Cass said, throwing away caution. “You were gone so long.”

“I know. I thought they'd never leave.”

“The way you spoke to them was wonderful.” She rubbed her cheek against his chest softly. “What did you say to Wally?”

“I impressed upon him our urgent desire that he depart the neighborhood tomorrow morning. The earlier the better.” He left out the part of the conversation in which he'd sincerely thanked his friend for his energy and persistence. If Wally had been surprised by that, Cass would be thunderstruck, and Riordan wasn't ready to share his new feelings with her just yet. In truth, he was terrified. That he'd married the traitor's daughter with the deplorable reputation was a shock. That he was falling in love with her was incredible. He needed time to get used to the idea. And cowardly or not, he wanted to understand better what her feelings were before he handed her his heart on a plate.

He pulled away to look at her. She was biting her lip. “What is it?”

She shrugged one shoulder in that totally French way she had. “So, you're anxious to be away. I only thought—”

“Not
us
, silly, them. I want
them
out of the way by tomorrow. Then I can have you all to myself.”

“Oh!” She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him exuberantly.

He hugged her hard, deepening the kiss. “Do you like me at all, Cass?” he asked lightly, as if everything didn't depend on her answer. He kissed her eyes shut and ran his tongue along her lashes. “Do you think you can stand being married to me?” The question made her want to cry. Her heart filled to bursting; she almost answered with her terrible truth. “It's not fair to ask such a question when you're kissing me this way,” she parried breathlessly.

He smiled, moving back to her lips. “Why do you think I chose this moment to ask?”

“Answer a question for me,” she said a moment later. “How will you explain to your friends that your wife won you in a card game?” She kept her tone airy to match his, but every nerve was taut.

Riordan knew the question wasn't idle. He didn't give a damn what his friends thought of him, but he already had a shrewd idea of what they were likely to think of her. “I'll tell them I never played a luckier hand,” he whispered, nipping her earlobe and then salving it with his tongue.

Cass shivered with delicious pleasure. He backed her to the bed, slowly but steadily, kissing her all the while. Her knees struck the mattress and he tumbled her back, following her. She turned her head when his mouth came down again. It was difficult to keep up the conversation, but she wanted to know more. “And your family? What will you tell them? I suspect the Earl and Countess of Raine will be a teeny bit disappointed in your choice.”

“Someday I'll tell you all about my family, and then you'll understand why their approval is a matter of monumental indifference to me.” With one smooth, downward gesture he undid the sash of her dressing gown and spread it open. His eyes glittered with purpose, and she was fast losing her train of thought. “Cass, you have such beautiful breasts.”

“And Quinn?” she gasped, clutching the coverlet, unwilling to let the subject drop but unable to concentrate on it. “Won't he disown you or something?”

“Probably. Or cane me. Oh Christ, you taste good.” He moved to her other breast. His voice was a ragged murmur. “A little while ago I thought you'd had dozens of lovers, and I said I didn't care.” He shifted so that he half-lay between her thighs, bent over her. “Forgive me, Cass, I'm such a fool. I've got no right to ask.”

Her fingers were in his hair, holding his head where she wanted it. Her toes curled and uncurled, a few inches from the floor, she couldn't bear this much longer. “What?” she almost sobbed.

“How many men have touched you this way before me?” His tongue made excruciatingly slow circles around her nipple before his lips pulled gently, sending a sweet, aching arrow of wanting through her.

It might have been fun to tease him, but she was incapable of anything but the unadorned truth. “No one,” she panted. “Once Jacques Toussaint tried to—do this, through my gown, but his aunt came in and we—”

He stopped the rest with his mouth, laughing with relief, ashamed of himself but unspeakably happy. “Oh, sweet, sweet, Cass. How I adore you.”

Her heart missed a beat or two. She couldn't help herself, she wrapped her bare legs around his hips. It felt so wanton and wonderful, soothing her calves back and forth over the silky material of his robe. His unmistakable reaction gave her a first taste of feminine power. Awed by her own boldness, she put a hand between them and untied his robe—not with his practiced skill, but with a shy enthusiasm of her own that charmed him utterly. Without thinking, she asked, “And how many women have done that to you? No!” She put her hand over his mouth. “I retract the question. Please don't answer.”

He shrugged out of his robe and let it fall to the floor. By now there was a sizeable heap of clothing beside the bed. “The question's irrelevant,” he told her as his fingers stroked her hip, her strong thigh, urging her legs farther apart. “A better one is how many will do it in the future.” He slid both hands under her buttocks and lifted her. “The answer is one. Only one.”

She gasped, her chin pointing to the ceiling. “Philip!” He withdrew slowly, returned, withdrew again. He was huge, he filled her completely. This was perfect. She brought his mouth down and kissed him, moving to his rhythm. For a few moments she enjoyed the illusion of control, even a suggestion of authority. But as the patient, merciless assault went on and on, her self-command floated off and disappeared, a forgotten cloud, leaving nothing but pure sensation. Never had she been more aware of her body, less able to think.

That was how he wanted her. Again and again he took her to the brink and held her there, the ruthless expert, savoring his power to drive her beyond endurance. She was weeping, almost mad from the pleasure and the wanting, and he wanted to keep her there forever. Using his body and his mouth, his whispered words, he made her wild. “Do you like this, Cass?” he murmured against her throat, holding himself away, not moving. Her answer was unintelligible. His dark-blue gaze pierced her, wouldn't let her look away. He teased her with a touch; she groaned in frenzied frustration, twisting. “Do you like it?” He wanted his answer. Another touch, light and tantalizing, meant to torment her.

But it was enough. Abruptly she burst free, with a low, rising moan that ended on a note of triumph, cheating him of the pleasure of releasing her. He felt the storm rage inside her until, like her, he was goaded past restraint. Shuddering, quaking, he started his own perilous fall. But he'd never dived from such a height before. “
Cass
!” he ground out, holding to her frantically. And with sweet, feminine graciousness, she cushioned his fall and saved him.

“How does it come about, wife, that you're not what you're reputed to be?”

Cass swung around from a dreamy contemplation of the black, star-filled sky and regarded her husband thoughtfully. She took a tiny sip of wine and replaced the glass on the rail behind her. “Perhaps that's a question you should ask Mr. Quinn.”

“Oh, believe me, I shall.” He slid down a little farther in the chair and steepled his fingers, resting his chin on top. “I suppose this means you never jumped naked into the fountain in the Tuileries while scores of young men looked on, clapping and cheering?”

Her eyes twinkled. “That's something you'll never know.”

“Too bad. It was such a lovely fantasy.” He sobered. “Why didn't you tell Oliver his conclusions about you were false?”

“I did, in the beginning. Not very forcefully, I suppose.”

“Why not?”

She thought back to her first meeting with Quinn. “I think because I was proud. And hurt. My father had just died and I…didn't have much energy. My aunt had told me that my reputation in this country was in a shambles, and what Quinn said merely confirmed it.” She shrugged, smiling a little, telling him it wasn't important.

Riordan remembered his last interview with Lady Sinclair. “But your aunt as good as told me your reputation was deserved. Doesn't
she
know better?”

“She did, before. But she really thought you and I were lovers. And Colin and I, too.” It was the first time Wade's name had been mentioned between them since they'd left Ladymere. They both ignored it. “Anything else she might have said was for spite.” She frowned. “When did you speak to her?”

“The day after you left.” He got up and came toward her. “I'm not angry anymore, Cass, but when I found out you'd left without telling me or leaving any word, I wanted to—”