Their Wicked Wedding (9 page)

Quietly, so as not to wake him yet, my fingers turn the doorknob.

His room is dark. I haven’t been in here since my first visit to the estate—and I have to admit that this room brings back some rather devilish memories. I grin as I move stealthily across the floor, my arm outstretched in front of me to guard against any unexpected pieces of furniture. By the time I reach the side of the bed, my eyes have started to adjust to the dimness. I can just make out his shape beneath the comforter.

I carefully peel back the bedclothes and slip into the bed next to him. My hand reaches out for him in the darkness.

And finds… a pillow.

Several pillows, in fact. Left haphazardly beneath the sheets of an unmade bed.

Calder’s not here. And the sheets are cold. He hasn’t been in bed for some time.

I flick on the bedside lamp. There’s no sign of him. And the door to the bathroom is wide open, so I can see that he didn’t just pop in there for an early shower or something.

Where the hell is he?
Is he out looking for me? Or did he storm off somewhere else to nurse his anger in peace? I wouldn’t blame him for wanting to spend an evening away from me. Maybe he just needed some time alone to cool off.  Still, he’s going to be disappointed when he learns what I planned to do with him. Unless…

I jump out of bed and leave Calder’s room, heading back down the hallway. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who had plans to make up.

My heart is racing again by the time I reach my room. And I really do expect to see him lying in my bed when I throw open the door. But my bed is as empty as his.

Disappointment seeps through me, and with it comes a new wave of exhaustion. I sink down on the edge of the mattress. My phone is on the nightstand, and I pick it up and call him.

There’s no answer. I sigh and toss the phone down again.

Who knows where he is at this point? Hell, for all I know he got in his car and went for a drive. Still, maybe I should do a quick search of the house. It might take me a good hour or two to find him, but I want to make sure that everything is okay between us again.

But it’s hard to find the energy to rise. The clock on the wall reveals that it’s nearly 4:00 AM, and my body is desperate for sleep. Now that the adrenaline has left me, I feel like a deflated balloon. My eyes drift to my pillow. Maybe I’ll just lie down for a few minutes.

We’ll sort this out, he and I
, I promise myself as I let my head sink down onto the pillow.
We always do.
But even as I drift off to sleep, that knot forms in my belly again, and even though I’m safe inside the house, my bed feels so cold.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CALDER

I wake to a headache that threatens to rip my entire damn skull apart.

I groan and sit up. My arm hits something—a bottle. It slides away from me—across the table? Desk?
Where the hell am I?
—and falls to the floor. I curse at my clumsiness, but as the grogginess leaves me, I’m relieved to find that the bottle is empty. I bend over and grab it up off the rug, then rub my face as I sit up again.

I’m at a desk in what was once my old office. I’m sure this room was used as a bedroom during the house’s brief stint as Huntington Manor, but it looks as if Louisa has started to put things right again. This desk really should be on the other side of the room, though. And they need some curtains on those blasted windows. The paint on the walls is a little too light for my tastes, but I know my opinions about this room don’t matter much anymore.

Still, this room serves its purpose. It’s a place to think.

For all the long hours at my job, it’s been a while since I fell asleep over a desk. In fact, if I’m remembering correctly, the last time this happened was right after my father died, when I spent days at a time pouring over his financial statements. It was a miserable night’s sleep then, and that much hasn’t changed.

And the throbbing in my head doesn’t get any better when I remember what drove me down here in the first place.

Last night’s encounter with Lily replays in my head, and I curse myself again for being such an idiot.

I should have told her everything
. I only thought to keep this Taran Harker business from Lily because I didn’t want it to spill over into the wedding. This bullshit has consumed me for two days. I didn’t want it to bleed into the rest of my life. Lily and this wedding are the most important things in the world to me, and as long as I keep them separate, I can protect them from the stain of this man’s lies.

But I realize now that decision was only ever for
my
sake,
my
peace of mind. It’ easier to compartmentalize my life. But that’s not how a marriage works, and I don’t want to start mine making that mistake. Whatever happens with Mr. Harker, Lily and I can survive it. Secrets, however, are another matter altogether. We’ve had enough of secrets in the past. I won’t lose Lily because some bastard decided to spout filth about my father.

I should have gone to her room last night. Better yet, I should have gone after her when she first stormed off. At the time, I let my frustration get the better of me. I thought I’d give her time to cool off. I took a long shower and then went down to the kitchen to find myself something to eat. My sister was nowhere to be found, and I was tempted to dive into the leftovers of the frutti di mare I found in the fridge, but I already had one woman angry with me. I wasn’t going to risk upsetting another. I made myself a sandwich and found a bottle of Scotch and dragged myself here to the office.

It was some three hours later before I finally ventured back up to Lily’s room and knocked on the door. It was late, long after she would have gone to bed. When she didn’t answer, I considered entering and crawling into bed next to her, but then I thought better of the idea. I asked her to spend the night with me, to give up that silly traditional idea that we should sleep apart until the wedding. Blatantly ignoring her wishes wasn’t going to win me any points.

And so I grabbed my father’s journal from my bedroom and returned here, to my office.

For a long time, I just stared at that damned notebook of his. I sipped at my Scotch and debated whether or not I should read any more. I told myself I’d put Mr. Harker out of my mind until after the wedding. There was no reason to go searching through my father’s journal for “proof” one way or the other when I wasn’t thinking about the issue to begin with.

But it also felt a lot like I was taking the coward’s way out. What was I afraid of? What did I think I’d find in those pages? I knew the truth. The journal would only confirm it. So why not just read it and put my mind at ease?

More than once I picked up the journal, prepared to open it, but I always ended up putting it down again. And then I’d pour myself another glass of Scotch and stare at it some more. That was my problem—I was so distracted by that damn journal that I wasn’t paying attention to how much I was drinking. I sipped myself into a stupor, and now I’m paying the price.

My head spins as I rise to my feet. I curse at the empty bottle of Scotch. And at the light coming through the window. Since when was the sun so damn bright? I really need to talk to my sister about the importance of curtains.

If Lily sees me like this, she’ll have more than a few things to say. I stumble up the back way to my room, listening carefully for anyone else. I make it to the room without discovery, and the first thing I do is duck into the bathroom and splash water on my face. The mirror is unforgiving. I look like shit.

But a few more splashes of water—plus a thorough brushing of my teeth—have me feeling slightly better. It’s the best I can do for now. I wouldn’t mind a long shower, but a quick glance at my watch reveals it’s already half past nine. It’s more important to find Lily. For all I know, she’s already come looking for me. I know she had some appointments today. I pray she hasn’t left already.

I pad down the hallway and knock softly at her door. When there’s no answer, I turn the handle.

She’s still in bed. And the sight of her sprawled there like that—so peaceful, so vulnerable—stirs something in me. I move quietly to the edge of the bed, my eyes never leaving her face. Her lips are slightly parted, her breath stirring the tangle of hair that has fallen across her face. I reach out and brush it away from her eyes, letting my fingers graze her temple. Her eyelashes flutter slightly, but otherwise she doesn’t move. She’s fast asleep, lost in some realm beyond my reach.

At first I thought she looked peaceful, but the longer I look at her, the more I doubt my initial assessment. There’s a slight tension in her face, and it breaks my heart to think our argument might cause her distress even as she sleeps.

She shifts slightly, her legs moving against the bedclothes. For the first time since I entered the room, my gaze drifts down her body. She’s lying on top of the quilt, and she’s still wearing the clothes she wore last night. She never even took off her shoes.

My stomach tightens. My mind fills with visions of her angrily throwing herself on the bed after our argument—or even of her curling up and crying into her pillow. I look quickly at her face again, and in the light coming through the window I can see the telltale streaks of tear tracks on her cheeks.

I reach down and touch her face again and silently beg her for forgiveness. This is my fault. I never meant to make her cry. I never meant to hurt her.

Perhaps the right thing to do at this point would be to leave her to her sleep. Maybe she’s finding some solace in her dreams, and waking to find me here will only bring back the unpleasantness of last night. But I can’t bear to leave her like this, fully clothed and sprawled across the bed. My mind tells me I should go, but my heart says a different thing altogether.

I start with her shoes. She’s wearing simple slip-ons, and she doesn’t wake as I slide them off of her feet, though her toes wiggle slightly. Under other circumstances, that might have made me smile.

My eyes move to her skirt next. I remember all too well that she’s wearing nothing underneath, and though I’d love another look at her—another
taste
of her—I can’t bring myself to even consider it after the way we left things last night. Instead, I reach across her to where her pajamas lie in a pile on the far side of the bed. At home, when we share a bed, she sleeps naked most nights. But I imagine she’s been cold in this big bed by herself.

I take the pajama bottoms—a pair of little shorts—and slide them over her feet, one and then the other. Her bare calves look so soft, so tempting. But I don’t dare touch her naked skin. Instead, I move the pajamas slowly up her legs, taking care not to wake her. I make it to her thighs before I’m forced to acknowledge that I’ll have to move her, but I do it gently, lifting her just enough that I can pull the soft cotton shorts over her sweet little ass. When they’re safely up, I undo her skirt and pull it off of her as delicately as possible. I’ve exposed a thin strip of skin between her shorts and her sweater, and I can’t help myself. I lean over and kiss her just above the belly button. Still, she sleeps.

The sweater provides more of a challenge. I try more than once to remove it, but she keeps stirring and I finally have to admit that any further attempts will probably wake her. Instead, I pull down the bottom hem to cover that bit of skin at her waist.

There’s an extra quilt at the foot of the bed, and I unfold it and spread it across her, taking care to tuck the edges around her body so she won’t get cold.

There.
Hopefully I’ve made her more comfortable. It’s a small gesture, but it’s the least I can do after the way I’ve handled things. Now I should go and give her the chance to finish sleeping. But I find that I can’t bear to leave her side. I could sit here for hours and watch her dream, counting the minutes by the number of deep breaths she takes in and out. I could lose myself in the fluttering rhythm of her eyelashes against her cheeks.

I shouldn’t have left her alone last night, and I’m not going to leave her alone now.

I bend over and pull off my shoes. Then my socks. My clothes come off until I’m down to my undershirt and briefs, and then I lean over the bed, carefully pull the quilt away from her body, and slide in next to her. The mattress sinks slightly beneath my weight, and her breathing hitches. But her eyes never open. After a moment, her breathing falls back into rhythm again.

I don’t get too close—still fearing I’ll disturb her—but at the same time, I find it hard to stay away. I lie on my side facing her and just watch her. Not touching, not speaking, just watching.

After a few minutes, she makes a sound in her sleep, then shifts toward me, her body seeking mine as it has on so many nights we’ve shared the same bed. When she moves, she’s right up against me, her shoulder against my chest, her face turned toward the base of my throat. I can just feel the brush of her nose against my neck, and her smell—that luscious smell that is solely
hers
—envelops me.

I can’t help myself. I reach out and pull her closer to me. I drop my head until my lips are against her hair, until I can taste her delicious fragrance on my lips.

Her body molds right against mine, just as it has on so many other occasions. And my body is quick to respond. There will be no more fighting and no more secrets between us, only this pleasure, this truth. We promise ourselves to each other in a matter of days, become one in the eyes of law and society, and yet at times like this, we are already closer than that. My cock is already awake, wanting to complete the union, to join me to my other half, but I won’t wake her. Not now.

I don’t move—no more than I must, anyway. I can’t stop my fingers from tracing her spine, or keep my lips from finding their way across her hair. And the way she murmurs in her sleep and presses closer to me only makes it harder.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against her hair, so quietly that I can hardly hear my own voice. And then, “I love you.”

Her lips open and close against my collarbone, but she’s still asleep. She must be exhausted. But I don’t mind. I can say my piece without waking her.

“I should have been honest with you,” I murmur. “I thought I was protecting you. But you don’t need my protection. You need my faith and my trust. And I do trust you. I know you’ll be with me through anything. That you’re strong enough.”
Stronger even than me
, I find myself thinking.

She nestles closer to me.

“It’s a hard habit to break,” I continue softly. “Feeling protective of you. I can’t help it. I’ve never had anything as precious as you in my entire life. I still fear every day that something might tear you away from me. And even the thought of that—”

I can’t even bring myself to finish.

“I never want to do anything to hurt you. Or make you cry. I never want to do anything but bring you the deepest love and happiness,” I tell her. “And I promise I’m going to spend the rest of my life making this right.”

She shifts again. “You better.”

The words are so soft that for a moment I think I’ve imagined them. But her arm comes around me and her face tilts up until her lips are right against my throat.

My arm tightens. “How long have you been awake?”

I feel her smile against my neck. “Does it matter?”

“No.”

She makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sleepy sigh. I press my lips against her hair again before pulling her away from me so I can look her in the eyes.

“Good morning,” she says, a groggy smile stretching across her face.

I respond with a kiss—a rougher, more passionate kiss than I should probably give her when she’s still half-asleep, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

After a moment, I force myself to break away.

“Before we say anything else,” I tell her, “I need to apologize.”

She starts to argue, but I cut her off.