The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories (27 page)

“I'm feeling much better, Mama.”

“It isn't Halston, is it, Blossom? Your father and I have noticed that he's been suspiciously absent by your side. We didn't think that you cared for him in that way.”

Oh, dear. She had no wish to think of Lord Halston. He most likely thought her the biggest flirt—and that was being gracious. No doubt he had told everyone that she had flung herself into Jase's arms like a doxy tart. How could he not stay away from her?

“Or is it someone else entirely?”

The tone of her mother's voice made Blossom look up sharply. One thing her mother was not was naive. She knew about Jase. How could she not?

“Blossom?”

Blowing out her held breath, Blossom leaned her head
back against the wall. “If you must know, then yes. It is Jase.”

“I thought so.” Her mother's smile made the hair on her arms rise to attention. “He has talked to your papa, you know.”

“I can't accept anything he offers. I…I think he's only wishing to marry me as he feels obligated to because of Samuel.”

“I don't think so, my love.”

“What else can it be, then?”

Her mother's head dipped low to capture her gaze. “A legitimate desire to be your husband?”

She snorted. “Rakes don't want wives, Mama. They desire conquests.”

“Rakes don't go about the manner of securing a conquest while said conquest's parents look on, dear.”

Oh, damn him. His attentions were blatant. Marked. He had scared off all her other admirers and now he was ensuring her parents knew of his intentions.

“And what makes you think Jase's intentions aren't honorable? We've known him for years, and have never believed him to be anything but a gentleman.”

“Mama,” she snapped, feeling irritable. “That is just the point. I've known him for decades and never once did I get the impression that he desired anything more than friendship between us. And now, four months after my engagement ends, he's mad to marry me. It's convenience or obligation. I just haven't figured out which yet.”

“Oh, darling,” she whispered. “Nothing I say will make it right, will it? I guess you will have to discover the truth for yourself.”

And she would, too. If it was the last thing she did, she would discover Jase's true motive in this preposterous game he was playing.

“Well, you do look pale. You've had many late nights
and I know you're used to country hours. Why don't you stay up here? I'll make your excuses.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

Hiding from Jase was exactly what she needed. She couldn't face him tonight. She was too weak-willed to resist him.

The door closed behind her mother, and Sally, her maid, came in to undress her. The blue satin gown was discarded for her night rail and wrapper, and a freshly laundered apron. “I shall be in my studio, Sally, if you need me.”

“Very good, miss.”

Opening the connecting door to her chamber, Blossom entered her studio and lit the glass lamps. She had started a new painting this morning. A landscape of the garden at night. Silently she sat on her stool and positioned the easel toward the light. Then picking up her brush and dabbing it into the yellow paint, she began to paint the fireflies that dotted the backdrop. With a few strokes of her brush, she was relaxed and calm, and all thoughts of Jase Markham were replaced by her painting.

H
E WAS WAGING A CAMPAIGN,
and Jase was not one to be easily thwarted. When the Duchess of Torrington came to him not more than hour ago with the news that Blossom was unwell and would not be joining them, he knew his battle plans would change that night.

Coward. He grinned to himself as he climbed the servants' staircase that lead to the family's private quarters. That was the advantage of years of friendship; he knew precisely how to get to Blossom's room without anyone discovering him. He had to admit, he hadn't thought Blossom the type to turn tail and hide. She was so certain of herself in everything she did, he couldn't help but wonder at why she would not face him tonight.

He hoped she was not truly adverse to him. He paused on the threshold of Blossom's chamber door. His hand was on the brass latch, and he stopped, taking stock of the thought. He thought back to the kiss by the lake, the kiss he hadn't been able to stop thinking about. The kiss that haunted his dreams and made his body ache. He also recalled the little touches, the graze of his hand on hers, the brush of his knee, the glide of their bodies during a waltz. No. She was not adverse to him; she was afraid of her own passionate response. She was a virgin—not a missish one—but an innocent nonetheless. It stood to reason that her passionate response frightened her. She obviously hadn't felt those things for his brother. Not for the first time he found himself wondering what the
devil the two of them had gotten up to during their long courtship? How had Samuel resisted such temptation? He ought to be nominated for sainthood as far as Jase was concerned.

Lifting the latch, he quietly stepped into Blossom's room. It was empty. But the connecting door was opened, and he silently crept across the carpet and leaned against the doorjamb, studying the sight before him. Blossom, dressed for bed, her hair long and unbound spilling down her back, painting.

She was humming to herself while her brush moved in slow, sweeping glides against the canvas. He was transfixed by the sight, by the sounds she was making. He imagined her in his house, painting, and him lying on the settee with a whiskey in his hand watching her. Soon, he promised himself.
Very soon.

Uncrossing his arms, he made his way to her. She didn't pause or stop her humming, but carried on painting. He now stood behind her and allowed his hand to lift her hair and watch the long black strands slide through his fingers.

“‘She walks in beauty, like the night,'” he said, murmuring the opening line to Byron's poem. “Yet she hides from me and forces me to come in search for her.”

Her hand was frozen, the brush tip poised just an inch above the canvas. Whirling around, she confronted him. “What are you doing here? Are you mad?”

“Desperately so,” he said as he took the brush from her hand and placed it in the jar of turpentine. “I've been waiting hours to speak to you, and here you are, hiding in your sanctuary.”

“I'm not hiding,” she snapped.

He smiled and reached for the ties of her apron. The bow came free, and the bib of the apron fell, revealing the
white lace wrapper beneath. “Then what are you doing up here—avoiding me?”

“Yes, if you must know. I'm tired of your constant stares, and you're brazen touches. They aren't welcome.”

“Aren't they?” He could see her pulse wildly beating at the base of her throat, saw the way her pupils had dilated with desire.

“I'm not interested in anything you have to offer. Most especially a sordid liaison.”

“I'm not offering a liaison. What I'm offering is honesty.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want you, Blossom. You're not naive, you know what that means. But how I want you is as my wife and lover. I want to marry you. Have a life with you. I want to have a home and children. And I want it all to be with you.”

She snorted disbelievingly. “After, what, three days? Your heart must be easily engaged, my lord.”

That angered him, and he caught her about the shoulders, stilling her, forcing her to glance up at him in shock and perhaps alarm.

“Try years, Blossom. I've wanted you for years, but it's damned impossible to admit that when your brother is engaged to you.”

Her mouth opened and closed. He saw the disbelief. Followed by shock. He had blurted that out, and hadn't meant to. It was too soon. He was too uncertain of her to make himself so vulnerable. But there it was. It was out in the open now.

“What is your hesitation, Blossom? Is it me? Do I disgust you? Tell me so I can right it. So that I can fix whatever it is and we can be together.”

“Your reputation. You're hardly the type of man who could make a good husband.”

“Give me a chance. I promise I can be faithful and true. Give me your dreams and I'll share them with you. I'll make them happen. You know me, Blossom, better than anyone ever has. You know I won't make you stop painting, you know you can do as you damn well please with me. Wear trousers, go fishing, ride astride. I don't give a damn, just as long as I can be there beside you when you're doing it, that's all.”

The silence stretched on, and Blossom felt her blood rushing to her ears. For years he had desired her? Could it be true, or was this another ruse?

Her heart was beating so fast she didn't know what to do. She only knew that Jase appeared utterly sincere, and breathtakingly beautiful. But that was now. What would it be like twenty years from now?

“Desire if fleeting. Once passion is spent, it is gone.”

“Not what we'll have Blossom. That isn't fleeting.”

“What do we have?”

“Let us make a bargain,” he murmured. “Give me one week to show you that I am sincere. Let me show you what sort of husband I could make you.”

“I don't know…” Biting her lip she looked away, her cheeks crimson.

“Seven nights, Blossom, to prove that my offer has nothing to do with familial obligations or the desire for an easy, advantageous match, but a burning passion that I can no longer keep hidden. I offer you not a liaison, but a prelude of what our married life could be.”

Oh, it all sounded too decadent and tempting. But was a week long enough to know a man well enough to marry him? Anyone could be on their best behavior for a week—even her.

Reaching for her hands, he brought them to his mouth
and closed his eyes as he kissed her knuckles. “You know me,” he said in a tortured whisper. “You know the man I am. I've always been that man with you. You can trust me, Blossom. I swear it.”

The scrape of his night beard against her fingers made her body ache in a strange way. He released her hands, but Blossom let her fingers uncurl, and skim across his lips. “My heart and mind tell me that this is a terribly great risk. To trust you with myself, my dreams. You have all my hopes for the future in your hands. But my body…it desires what you're offering. It wants me to ignore the warnings and rush headlong into this offer.”

“Trust me,” he whispered as he pulled her close. “I'll take care of you, Blossom. I won't force you. I'll let you lead in this bargain. Take what you want of me.”

What she wanted was everything. Not just his body. He would readily give that, she knew. But she wanted something more. Devotion. And, God help her, love. Passion was all well and good, but without love to support it, it wouldn't last.

“I can see the wheels of your mind turning, Blossom. You're thinking too much. There is a future here for us. You just have to believe it.”

She nodded, for faith was all she had. “All right, Jase. I'll trust you. Seven nights, then.”

“You won't regret it. I swear, you'll never want it to end.”

His mouth came down slow, deliberate, and he kissed her with controlled passion. Opening to him, Blossom pressed her tongue against his and he moaned, clutched her firmer against him as he hungrily took her mouth in his, kissing her as though he were starved for her.

Oh, God, he was beautiful like this—his mouth, his hands caressing her back. They were sliding lower, grasping her bottom, and she held on to him tight, clutching
at his shoulders, as his palms moved lower to pull up the hem of her nightclothes.

The heat of his hands on her backside made her moan, mewl against him, and he broke off the kiss on a gasp and moved his lips to her throat, then his tongue flicked out, trailing a scorching line along her skin. She was wet between her thighs, aching there. She didn't know what to do with it, how to alleviate it, so she clutched him harder, shuddered as she said his name.

In a swoop he came up and captured her mouth in a hard kiss, just as one of his hands came free and shoved the wrapper and night rail over her shoulder. The warm air caressed her breast, and she looked down to find Jase staring at her.

“More beautiful than I have ever dreamed, and this nipple. Dark, like cherries.” His thumb circled her, and the nipple budded even more. She watched in fascinated wonder as Jase's tongue came out and circled the tip of her breast. Her fingers flew from his shoulders to his hair, which she clutched in great handfuls. When he slipped her nipple into his mouth and sucked, Blossom was frozen, watching as he made love to her. She had no idea if it was wicked of her, but never had she imagined such a thing. Never had she thought it would feel this wonderful to have her breasts touched.

“So responsive,” he murmured as he pulled her other shoulder free. Her upper body was now bared to him, and he spent long minutes studying her, touching her with his fingertips in a teasing fashion and cupping the heavy weight of her breasts in his palms.

“Jase, the bed,” she whispered, and he smiled, then allowed his lips to skim over her straining nipples.

“We have seven nights, Blossom. There is no need to rush. I could spent an entire night loving your breasts and still not be satisfied.”

She moaned, pulled at his hair, her body restless. “You tease me.”

“No,” he groaned. “Do you think that I don't want to carry you to your room and lift your nightgown and sink deep inside you? I would give my soul for that, but it isn't what you need. Not yet. Trust me to know that, Blossom.”

She didn't know what she needed, but her body felt restless and taut. She actually ached deep in her belly and between her thighs.

A door slammed down the hall; it was followed by heavy footsteps. No other person had footsteps like that.

“My father,” she whispered, straightening from him and tugging her gown back into place. “Hurry, he might come in to check on me.”

Kissing her quick, Jase brought her up against him. “Remember, I'll share you during the day, but the nights, they belong to me, Blossom. To us.”

Blossom watched him leave, and as she did so, she brushed her fingers against her lips. She was strangely aware of the keen sense of loss. She liked being in Jase's arms. The feel of him. The strength. She realized then that tomorrow night could not come soon enough.

 

F
OR SOMEONE WHO WAS NOT
skilled in the art of seduction, Blossom was doing a damn good job of it. He was wound tighter than a spring-loaded clock, and this, just two nights into their bargain. Good Lord, how would he endure the next five? He was going insane, and Blossom was the reason.

For the past two nights he had lain awake reliving every moment in her arms. She was beautiful, and her body… He was right. It was made for carnal sin. That first night, in her studio, he had seen her breasts, had liked and
been aroused by her dark nipples. Last night, he had felt her, the sweet, damp place between her thighs. Her folds had been thick with desire; she'd been wet, and panting, and then they had been interrupted as the guests came out to enjoy the evening air. There had been no other opportunities for them, for the duke was a constant presence by his daughter's side.

As he prowled about the ballroom, watching Blossom dance a waltz with Thornton, Jase realized that there would be no interruptions tonight. He would give Blossom her first real taste of passion tonight, when he pleasured her to her first climax. And if he was lucky, he would get her to touch him, too.

The waltz ended and he was at her side in a flash. A light supper was set up in the next room, and he strolled with Blossom, allowing them to get lost in the guests. When he was certain no one was noticing him, he reached for her hand and dragged her away to the hall, where he tugged her inside the library, which was empty, and took her into his arms.

“My God, you torment me.”

She smiled and allowed herself to be caught up in his arms. “You're being silly.”

He glared at her. “No, I'm not. I'm actually crazed for you. Come here, Blos. Kiss me,” he commanded, his tongue finding its way into her mouth. He gripped her tighter as one hand left her belly and cupped her chin, holding and positioning her the way he wanted.

“Put your hands on me.” Taking her fingers in his, he slid them up his chest. Her fingers swept over a muscled chest until they reached the starched cravat and folded collar that shielded his throat. A rivulet of perspiration trickled down his neck, and she followed its path with her fingertip until it disappeared beneath his collar.

His breathing was harsh. She could hear it in the quiet,
could hear his beating heart over the hum of the crickets. She could smell the maleness of him despite the earthy, humid breeze.

Blossom couldn't suppress the shiver that snaked along her skin as he twirled his fingers along her curls. He brought her closer to him and she felt his lips nuzzling her hair.

“Such beautiful skin. I want to touch every inch of you. I have to touch you.” The tip of his finger trailed down her throat, slowly, inexorably, to rest at the junction of her breasts. His lips met her skin, gently brushing the swells of her breasts. “I have lain awake at nights dreaming of you.”

“And I you.”

He grasped her waist and brought her tightly up against him. “I want to touch you and kiss you and feel your body beneath mine. You're wet for me, aren't you? I can feel it, your passion, your passion for
me
.”