The Spring Bride (30 page)

Jane, cradling the ring on her hand, kissed Lady Beatrice, then showed it to all her sisters, and they exclaimed and admired and hugged her all over again.

She paused, and looked at Lady Beatrice. “You never mentioned this ring when I was betrothed to Lord Cambury.”

“No,” the old lady said. “The rings I've given each of you gels are for love, not show. An emerald for Abby, a sapphire for Damaris and now a ruby for Jane, the girl who tried to deny her warm and loving heart”—she winked at Zach—“and was foiled by a handsome gypsy.”

And then the champagne flowed. It was a large, happy gathering, with Lady Beatrice, all Jane's sisters, Max and Freddy, Gil, and Cecily and Michael and Winnie, who was reluctantly allowed by her father to have her first ever sip of champagne. The only missing member of their loose extended family was
Flynn, who was spending a few weeks at the country home of a certain Lady Elizabeth, daughter of an impoverished earl. An interesting announcement was expected.

Over a dozen courses they rehashed the events of the day, Zach thanked everyone again, Jane described her trip to Wales, and then Cecily and Michael quietly announced they were going to marry again, and more champagne was brought out.

“You must have a honeymoon,” Jane said.

“Oh, no,” Cecily demurred, but she looked at Michael with a hopeful expression.

“No,” he said, “simple country ministers don't go on honeymoons.”

He meant they couldn't afford it, but Jane could see Cecily loved the idea. She looked at Zach, who picked up her silent message beautifully. “It would be my pleasure to have you holiday at Brighton for a couple of weeks, if you would permit it, Michael,” he said. “A small thanks for saving my neck from the noose. And a tiny part of what the Wainfleet estate owes Cecily. That's what I meant to talk to you about, Cecily—as my father's widow, you are owed money.”

“Oh, but—” Michael began.

“All drawn up in the settlements before her marriage to my father,” Zach told him firmly. “Legal and binding—no choice in the matter at all. But the Brighton trip would be a wedding gift from me, if you will accept it.”

Michael and Cecily looked at each other. Cecily's eyes were shining.

“And if you will permit,” Jane added, “Winnie can stay here with us, and Zachary and I can show her around London. Lady Beatrice?”

“Can't think of anything more delightful,” the old lady said promptly. “Charming gel. Fond of her already.”

Cecily turned to her daughter. “Would you mind staying here while your da and I go away for a little holiday?”

“
Mind?
” Winnie exclaimed. “Stay in a house with
three
cats, a
dog
,
two
sisters and an
aunt
—and be shown around
London
by my
brother
?”

They all laughed. “Then it's settled,” Zach said.

*   *   *

W
hile Cecily and Michael were away on their honeymoon, the household at Berkeley Square swung into preparation for Jane and Zachary's wedding. It was to be held at St. George's Church in Hanover Square, the parish church for Mayfair and the setting for all the fashionable weddings, but no banns were called there for Jane and Zachary's wedding.

“It would be too embarrassing to have the banns called for my wedding to Lord Cambury one week, and then the banns for my wedding to you the next,” Jane told Zachary and he laughed.

“Suits me. The sooner we're wed, the happier I'll be.” And he obtained a special license. The date was set for two weeks—just in time for Cecily and Michael to attend and, more to the point, Winnie.

In the short time they'd known her, they'd both become so fond of their little sister. She was sweet and shy, and expected so little.

The day after her parents had left for Brighton, Winnie had been sitting upstairs with Daisy and Jane, watching a fitting of Jane's wedding dress. Luckily Daisy had been working on it for weeks, and the change of groom and date didn't bother her in the least.

“Jane,” Winnie said diffidently, “I don't suppose . . . I mean . . . I know children aren't usually invited to weddings, but I was wondering . . .”

“Oh, dear,” Jane said, keeping a perfectly straight face. “I didn't plan on inviting you as a guest, Winnie.”

“Oh.” Her little face fell. She mustered a brave smile. “That's all right, I didn't think—”

“I hoped you would be a bridesmaid.”

There was a moment of silence. Winnie's jaw dropped. “
Me?
” she squeaked. “You want
me
to be a
bridesmaid
?”

Jane hugged her. “Of course I do. We've already started on your dress. Daisy and you will be bridesmaids, and Abby and Damaris will be my matrons of honor. I want
all
my sisters with me on my wedding day.”

You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.

—
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
(FILM SCRIPT)

Z
ach stood with his best man, Gil, waiting at the altar. The church was filled with spring flowers and their scent, brass cleaner, incense and beeswax formed a heady mix.

“Have you got the ring?” he asked Gil.

“For the fifth time, yes.”

“She's late.”

“She's not.”

Behind him stood his brothers-in-law to be, Davenham and Freddy Monkton-Coombes, looking perfectly relaxed and a little smug—damned married men. They had no idea how blasted jumpy he was feeling. Flynn now, he seemed almost as nervous as Zach. With four bridal attendants, he'd had to have four groomsmen, and Jane had suggested Flynn. Zach didn't care who was in the wedding party, as long as Jane was.

Where was she? What if she'd changed her mind?

The church was packed, almost all there for Jane and her sisters, half of them from the literary society, but some of Zach's relatives had turned up, relatives he barely remembered, but seeming glad to see him, much to his surprise. Even Cousin Gerald had graced the event with his presence, though he wasn't exactly exuding sweetness and light. Fences to mend there, Zach thought.

But where the devil was Jane?

The organist, who'd been playing some blasted creepy tune for the last ten minutes, fell silent, and then—Mendelssohn's “Wedding March.”

He turned, and saw his little sister, slender and earnest, marching with slow, careful steps down the aisle toward him, holding a bunch of freesias and some kind of white blossom in a death grip. His throat swelled. She was followed by Daisy, and behind her . . . the love of his life.

Jane, walking toward him in a dress of some white stuff, silk maybe or satin, with a foam of lace that cupped and caressed her breasts and shoulders . . . Aphrodite rising from the waves. He swallowed. Was there ever such a beautiful sight?

For a moment he couldn't breathe.

And then she smiled, and he thought his heart would burst.

His Jane. His wife. His life.

She was accompanied by Lady Beatrice and her cane on one side, and by her grandmother, Lady Dalrymple, on the other.

She handed her flowers to Winnie, while Daisy and the other two sisters arranged her train. Jane took no notice; she had eyes only for Zach.

Outside it was a gray spring day, but in the dimness of the church, her eyes shone blue as the sky over the Aegean, shining and full of love. And he was happily drowning . . .

“Dearly beloved . . .”

Zach held Jane's hand and tried to breathe.

“Who gives this woman . . .”

“We do.” Lady Beatrice and Lady Dalrymple stepped back.

“Will you, Adam George Zachary Aston-Black, Earl of Wainfleet, take this woman . . .”

“I will.”

“And will you, Jane Sarah Elizabeth Chantry, take this man . . .”

“I will.”

He fumbled with the ring, his hands were shaking absurdly—why, when he wanted this so much—but it slipped smoothly onto her finger. She smiled up at him, and Zach gazed down at her and heard nothing more until, “You may kiss the bride.”

At last.

He cupped her face between his hands, and made her
another, silent promise with his eyes, and then he lowered his mouth to hers.

At last, after twelve years of wandering, homeless and alone, Zach was home.

*   *   *

F
or his wedding night, Zach had booked a suite at the Pulteney Hotel.

Jane had never stayed in a large hotel before, and the Pulteney was the grandest and most fashionable hotel in London. The Czar of Russia himself had stayed there only a few years before.

Zach slipped the porter a guinea, and leaned against the door watching his bride as she explored the suite in delight. A bottle of champagne had been opened for them on arrival and she lifted a gently fizzing glass, drank it down all in one gulp, then shivered deliciously.

“Lovely,” she exclaimed. Then turned to look at him. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You told me
weeks
ago you'd have your wicked way with me and I'm still waiting. Isn't it time?”

“It certainly is,” Zach said and, striding forward, swept her up into his arms.

Jane laughed as he caught her up and fell with her onto the enormous bed. She was eager to make love with Zach, but also a little nervous. Her sisters had told her not to worry, that it might not be comfortable at first, but with a little practice, it was utter bliss.

She remembered the look on Abby's face as they were riding to the masquerade. The love, the connection between Abby and her husband, had almost been tangible that evening. Damaris and Freddy had it too, and Jane wanted to know their secret.

She wanted to know it with Zachary so very much.

As he scooped her up and fell with her to the bed, she expected him to pounce, and to be ravenous, the way he'd been the day he proposed. Instead, he was heartbreakingly tender.

In an echo of her wedding kiss in the church, he cupped her face between his hands, as if cradling something precious and fragile. His fingers were cool against her suddenly heated skin. Gently he tilted her face toward him.

“I love you so much,” he murmured, and with achingly slow deliberation, he lowered his mouth to hers.

He brushed his lips across hers, so lightly that she could barely feel it, a warm, spicy drift of gossamer. She wriggled and pushed closer, and he smiled at her impatience.

“‘
Come live with me and be my love, And we shall all the pleasures prove
,'” he quoted softly. “The pleasures, love, all the pleasures.”

She smiled. “That sounds nice.”

“Better than nice . . .” Again, his mouth drifted over hers, caressing her lips so lightly; it was a tease, a slow, tantalizing temptation. The delicate friction of his mouth over hers, his warm breath, the hint of his enticing masculine taste shivered through her. And in between, his deep, murmured words of love.

She sighed, closed her eyes and gave herself up to him.

The delicate tease of his mouth soon turned into slow, hot, deep, drugging kisses . . . and she slowly turned into a hot puddle of desire. It was utter bliss. His hands roamed over her and she plucked impatiently at his waistcoat, his shirt.

“Yes, I think it's time to get rid of these.” He rose from the bed, and without taking his eyes from her, he pulled his coat off, his waistcoat, his shirt. And he was bare from the waist up.

He turned and sat and pulled off his boots, then he stood and pushed his breeches down his legs and kicked them away. He turned and stood before her, clad only in a pair of white drawers. She lay on the bed, boneless, feasting on the sight of him. Lord, but the man was beautiful. He smiled, that slow, irresistible smile that never failed to make her insides curl with pleasure.

“Now you.” He held out his hand, and she allowed him to pull her upright.

He kissed her again, but her knees sagged and she sank helplessly back to the bed.

With a soft, deep laugh, he reached around her for the buttons down the back of her dress. “There must be a hundred of these things,” he murmured as he fought with the buttons. “Daisy likes to make things difficult, doesn't she?”

“It's a beautiful dress.”

“I'm more interested in the beautiful woman inside it.”

Jane was too busy exploring his beautiful naked chest to
care. So this was how a man was built, all hard, elegant planes, lean and powerful. Sculptured. Beautiful. She leaned forward and licked one tiny, hard male nipple and he gasped.

“If you care about this dress, I wouldn't do that,” he warned her with a look of dark promise.

“I care about it. But would you please hurry?”

For answer, he drew her to her feet, pulled the dress over her head and tossed it aside. And frowned at her corset and petticoat and chemise. “Wish I had my knife,” he muttered, and got to work on her corset strings.

Jane was more interested in what was happening inside his drawers. Something was . . . different. She longed to pull them down and look, but she was too shy. Yet. She wished she'd drunk a little more champagne.

And then her corset fell away. He tossed it aside, and in one swift movement he lifted off her petticoat and chemise. She was naked. She ought to be embarrassed, ought to have moved to cover herself modestly from his hot, masculine gaze, but somehow she couldn't move.

He devoured her with his eyes. And then he dropped his drawers and she forgot all about her own nakedness in the fascination of his.

He was magnificent. She stared at that part of him standing proud and unashamed and longed to touch it, but she wasn't sure whether he would mind or not.

He brushed the back of his fingers lightly over her breasts and her breath hitched in a series of escalating gasps as his knuckles moved back and forth and she ached where he touched her, and her insides clenched with wanting.

Pushing her back on the bed, he lay down beside her, skin to skin, kissing, his hands roaming over her, her skin so tender and sensitive, each touch seemed to shiver through her.

She squirmed to get closer to him, exploring his big, beautiful, masculine body, her hands feverishly stroking, squeezing, learning him. And all the while they were kissing, kissing, and she could barely think, only touch, only taste, only feel.

His mouth moved to her breasts and she gasped and shuddered beneath his tender onslaught, barely remembering how he'd reacted when she'd licked him there. But she did remember, and pushed his head away so she could taste him there, to
nibble and suck on his small male nipples, and it was his turn to groan and shudder.

“Not me, not yet,” he muttered, and lifting her face, he kissed her deeply, possessively, and then kissed his way down her throat and back to her breasts. His mouth closed over a hot nipple and sucked; she arched against him, pulsating with need, with pleasure, with . . . something.

His fingers slipped between her legs, stroking and teasing and she heard the sound of wetness and made a little sound of embarrassment.

“No,” he reassured her, his voice a dark rumble of love, “this is perfect, you're perfect, love.” He moved his fingers and deep ripples shuddered through her. “You're beautiful. All beautiful.”

And he stroked, and his clever, insistent fingers drew such response from her that all awareness, any self-consciousness, simply evaporated under the demand, the rising tide of . . . the insistent drive to . . . to . . .

“Please, please . . .” she pleaded, not knowing for what. Her legs thrashed; shudders ran through her body.

And he claimed her with his mouth, and his fingers moved and she thought she could not bear any more and then . . . she shattered, in a million sunbursts.

And before she could recover, he moved over her, and he was there, between her legs, thick and hard and hot. “Easy, love, easy,” he murmured, and he stroked her and again she felt the pressure inside her building.

Now she wanted to feel that thickness, that hard, blunt masculinity, inside her, and she thrust up against him, and as he entered her in one long, smooth movement, she felt a sharp sting, but then he was moving, and it felt right. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, gripping tight, and suddenly they were moving together in a rhythm some deep primeval part of her recognized.

The shudders deepened and the pressure rose, and she hung on tight and felt him moving deep within her, and it built and built even more than before until she was swept away in a maelstrom of sensation. The world splintered into a thousand glittering shards, and he gave a harsh groan and shattered within her. And for a moment she knew nothing more.

When she opened her eyes, the worried expression in his eyes faded, and he smiled and kissed her gently. “The French call it
la petite mort
, the little death. Are you all right?”

She went to stretch and found herself still wrapped around him. He'd turned so he was on his back and she was lying on top of him. It was a position that she decided she liked very much. “Perfect,” she murmured, and planted sleepy kisses on his chest. “Just perfect. Bliss . . .” And she lay her head over his heart and slept.

Zach pulled the bedclothes over them, careful not to wake his precious burden.

He lay there, trying to come to terms with how his life had changed. He'd come to London with nothing, no name, no future, no family, and now . . .

This loving, sweet-faced girl had given him . . . everything. He was the luckiest man in the world.

He went to shift out from under her.

“No,” she murmured sleepily. Her legs and arms tightened around him. “I don't want you to move . . . ever.”

In the morning he awoke to find her standing by the window, wrapped in nothing but a shawl, looking out at the gray drizzle of a London spring. He slid out of bed and, naked, padded silently toward her. He wrapped his arms around her and planted a slow, heated kiss on the nape of her neck.