To Marry an Heiress (8 page)

“It can’t be both, Papa.”

“It can and it is. You’ll see, gal.”

He pressed a hand to his chest and released a low groan.

“Are you all right, Papa?”

He nodded. “Something I ate isn’t agreeing with me.” He took a breath and shook his head, as though whatever discomfort he’d been feeling had passed. “I just wish the fella hadn’t been so quick to ask.”

“I’m glad he did.” If either of them spent too
much time thinking, they might change their mind. “Doesn’t give me much time to get nervous waiting for the big day.”

“You’re gonna be a beautiful bride, Gina.”

She flung her arms around his neck, hugging him close. What she loved best about him was that he had a tendency to see beauty where none existed.

S
itting astride his black gelding in a secluded spot away from the main thoroughfare, Devon watched with fascination as Gina trotted her horse along Rotten Row.

After hearing of her penchant for riding, a few coins discreetly placed in the palm of the lad who readied her beast had provided him with the time of her outings. It seemed she always rode through Hyde Park at this horrendous hour, the twilight of dawn, when night still hovered and the sun was only just beginning to break through the mist in order to awaken the day.

Unlike the more genteel women of his acquaintance, she avoided the Ladies’ Mile as though she feared it harbored the plague. Neither did her morning ritual include riding a pony—favored by most women—or a mare—for those who exhibited
a bit more daring. No, indeed. His Gina preferred a gelding.

And no saddle.

He’d watched in stunned enchantment as she’d stolen into the park, darted a quick glance around, dismounted, and removed the sidesaddle. With a most unladylike grace, she’d scrambled back onto the horse, her skirt hiked up past her shapely calves. At that precise moment he’d realized the woman possessed long, slender legs, legs a man could wrap around his waist three times over. The prospect intrigued him, if only because he’d gone too damnably long without nestling himself between a woman’s thighs.

Obviously under the mistaken impression she was alone in the park, she hadn’t bothered with decency but had left those enticing calves exposed and immediately urged the horse into a canter.

He had the distinct impression she would have selected a stallion as her riding companion if his cousin had any available in his London stables. But Ravenleigh was nothing if he was not cautious. With a house overflowing with brash females, he no doubt thought keeping stallions beyond their reach was his best means of protecting them.

An inane notion. As Devon was well aware, women were their own worst enemy. They cajoled, pleaded, and wept to distraction in order to acquire what they desired, to convince a man they relied on his strength and wisdom wholeheartedly. Yet when those ploys failed, they invariably went behind his back to achieve their goal.

A woman seldom cared whom she betrayed along the way: be it the man who loved her, the children who adored her, or herself.

Or at least that had been his experience before Gina. She did not quite fit into the mold. He wanted to decipher her moods. She was strong, determined one minute, shy, unsure of herself the next.

She hadn’t a clue how to flirt, and he found that aspect of her character charming. He had not expected he would actually like her as he came to know her better. But the possibility lingered before him, resembling a beacon at the edge of a storm, drawing him toward a safe harbor.

He knew the moment she spotted him through the fog. Her body gave a little jerk before she drew the horse to a halt and glared at him, as though his presence spoiled her morning.

He urged his horse forward until he was even with hers.

“You are aware, are you not, that riding at this time of morning could be dangerous?” he asked.

“I have my gun.”

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d suddenly drawn it on him and fired. “Indeed?”

She lifted a small bag hanging from a sash around her waist. “Derringer. My own personal chaperone.”

“I daresay. I’ve never known a woman who carries a pistol.”

“Not only do I carry it, but I know how to use it.”

“Indeed.”

She narrowed her eyes with displeasure. “Why do you question everything I say?”

“I didn’t realize I did.”

“Indeed?” she snapped with such force that he was certain she’d caused the fog to swirl around her.

“Ah, I see. It’s simply a comment, not an expression of doubt.”

She looked contrite and subtly disappointed. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood.”

“Indeed.”

A corner of her mouth quirked up, and he realized something he hadn’t before. She possessed an incredibly luscious set of lips. A lower lip that was full to the point of pouting and an upper one that would never totally disappear, no matter how tightly she pressed them together in anger. It would always be visible, taunting a man, reminding him of her kiss.

He also noticed she hadn’t dressed in a provocative manner yet she was enticing. The simple cut of her riding habit left absolutely nothing to his imagination. She was shaped like a finely sanded plank of wood. Her hips didn’t flare out nor did her waist dip in. Whatever she wore beneath the clothing was designed for comfort, not to set a man’s blood to boiling. He wondered if, with her, his blood would ever heat to the point of distraction. Or would they simply go through the motions without ever eliciting the passions?

Her breasts were quite small, gentle swells that would fill his palms. Nothing more. But then why would he need more? With her, nothing would be wasted.

Perhaps because of the early hour, she hadn’t bothered to pin up her hair but had braided it in one
thick rope that dangled down her spine and reached past her waist. There was so much of it. Little wonder she had trouble keeping it in place on top of her head. He suddenly had an unexpected desire to see it loosened and flowing around her.

During his perusal, her eyes had not left him, but her half-smile had withered and her dark brows had drawn together, as though she feared what he might discover about her. Her brows had a fine arch to them that was easy to miss because her large, brown eyes drew a man’s attention long before her brows did.

He had looked at her for so long simply as a means to an end that he’d overlooked the fact she was a woman. He’d fenced off his desires out of loyalty to Margaret, to her memory. Yet Margaret’s loyalty to him had quickly withered once she’d discovered the truth of his circumstances.

But here sat a woman who wore atrocious gowns because they pleased her father, a lady who had agreed to marry him not for her happiness but for her father’s. A lesson in loyalty that truly served to humble him.

“You’d mentioned that you’d never been kissed.”

“That’s right.”

“Where would you like to experience the first one?”

She stared at him with round eyes, terrified eyes.

“What?” she asked, as though she fought for each breath.

“Your first kiss. Where would you like it to be?”

He could see the blotches of embarrassment sweep
ing over her face, a flustered hand patting her skirt, her hair, before coming to rest at her throat. She averted her gaze before saying softly, “I guess on my mouth.”

Certain he had misheard, he leaned toward her. “Pardon?”

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and held his gaze. “I’d like for the first kiss I get to be on my mouth.”

He felt as though he’d walked in on the wrong end of a bad prank. “Where else might the first kiss be?”

She swooped her hand from the top of her head toward her feet. “I’ve heard men kiss…everything.”

Indeed. He found that little tidbit of information interesting. He wondered with whom she’d been discussing kisses. Lauren, perhaps. Yes, indeed, these Americans were a delightful surprise on occasion.

“Did you wish for me to kiss you every where?”

“Depends on whether or not you expect me to do the same.”

Chuckling, he cradled her face and stroked his thumb over her cheek. Ever since yesterday he’d longed for another touch of her softness. “Typical of a woman to fear giving more than she receives. I promise you, sweeting, you’ll never have to kiss any portion of me you don’t want to.”

She ducked her head as though embarrassed. As usual with her, this conversation had not gone at all as he’d planned, but he’d found it informative to say the least. And delightful. How could a woman reach her age and remain as innocent as a young girl?

Educating her might turn into an unexpected pleasure.

“Regarding your first kiss, I was curious as to whether you wished to experience it following our exchange of vows or if you wanted me to kiss you before then.”

“Oh.” Horror etched itself into her features. “You were asking
when
I wanted to be kissed, not
where
.”

“Yes, I suppose my question was in bad form.”

“Absolutely. I misunderstood—”

“Then allow me to be a tad clearer. Do you want your first kiss to take place at the church or here in the park—at this precise moment?”

Her mouth opened slightly, a soft whisper of breath escaping into the chill of the morning. Her gaze darted quickly around, as though she expected the people of London to have lost their wits and suddenly arrive in the park.

“We’re quite alone, sweeting.”

Her attention snapped back to him. She licked her lips in a provocative manner that caused his insides to tighten simply because he was certain she was unaware of how alluring he found the slow movement of her tongue.

And quite suddenly he discovered he wanted to kiss her with an urgency that might have frightened him if he had been an untried lad.

“I should think your wedding day will be nerve-racking enough without having to worry about that first kiss,” he prodded.

“Is it something I need to worry about?”

For some strange reason the alarm in her voice de
lighted him. Not because he wished to frighten her, but because she possessed the naïveté to harbor any concerns at all.

“No,” he assured her calmly, “but it’ll be one less thing preying on your mind.”

She nodded slightly. “Then I suppose getting it over with is a good idea.”

“Splendid.”

He dismounted, walked around his horse, came to stand beside hers, and held up his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Standing would work best, I should think. Horses tend to get skittish if too close.”

“Of course.”

She cupped his shoulders while he wrapped his hands around her waist. Dear God, but she had a tiny waist. He brought her slowly, gently to the ground. She weighed no more than he imagined a billowy cloud on a clear summer day might. She seemed to be proving false all he’d assumed about her.

“Are you certain you’ve never been kissed?” he asked.

“Never,” she rasped in a small, breathless voice.

He could see her chest rising and falling with her short breaths. She was nervous, apprehensive, perhaps even a bit anticipatory. He couldn’t explain what had prompted him to initiate this moment, why he wanted to alleviate her fears. He supposed, like her, he had a desire to get their first kiss over with. He couldn’t imagine marrying a woman with whom he’d had no physical contact whatsoever.

A waltz in a crowded ballroom certainly didn’t qualify.

If they had possessed the luxury of time, he would have taunted her with forbidden kisses behind those fronds for which she seemed to have a fondness. He would have arranged illicit moments in darkened corners and hallways. He would have taught her the advantage of wearing a low-cut gown to a ball. Ah, yes, he would have kissed her elsewhere and made her extremely glad he had.

But the wooing he started now would have to be finished later, after they were wed. The sun was rising, and he could hear the distant din of people getting about their day. For now, all he truly wanted was to reassure her that kissing him would not be torment.

“Then we should do it right, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Is there a wrong way?”

“Hardly.” He took her braid and began to unravel the plaited strands. “But some ways are more pleasing than others.”

Dear God, but her hair was more glorious than he’d imagined, reaching past her bottom, a thick luxurious curtain of liquid mahogany. Who the deuce established the rule that women should wear their hair up?

Combing his fingers along her scalp, he brought her hair forward. Surrounded by a frame of dark reddish-brown tresses, the harsh planes of her face retreated, her eyes grew softer, her cheeks not so sharp. Younger. She appeared remarkably younger.

He hadn’t expected the loosening of her hair to change his perception of her to such a degree. She wasn’t beautiful; he didn’t think she’d ever be a beauty. But neither was she stark lines. Neither was she unattractive.

He cradled her delicate face between his large hands. He hadn’t realized until he tilted it toward him that it did indeed appear fragile, like hand-blown glass that could be easily shattered by carelessness. He’d deliberately not worn his gloves, wanted to give her an opportunity to demand a chaste marriage if his touch offended her, but she seemed not to notice the roughness of his palms.

Instead her eyes took on a dreamlike stare, as though she thought he was about to bestow upon her some fine gift. A part of him wished he’d never instigated this moment; another part of him was terrified of disappointing her, failing her as he’d failed Margaret.

But no hope existed for him now, no possibility of turning back. He’d set his course, suggested they get this phase of courtship out of the way. No turning back, he thought again. Even if she didn’t relish his kiss or his rough hands. He would take her father’s money, give her a child, and kiss her while doing it.

He lowered his mouth to hers.

The brush of his lips over hers jolted Georgina into awareness. She’d begun to think he’d never get around to it, and when he finally did…such a brief thing. Like a butterfly landing on a petal and then deciding it saw a prettier flower.

After all the preparation of removing her from her horse, loosening her hair, cupping her cheeks, and angling her face as though he didn’t trust her to know how to meet his mouth—which she didn’t, but that was beside the point—she’d expected something more.

His mouth returned to hers, the pressure subtly more as his fingers slid into her hair and his thumbs skimmed over her cheeks in slow, sensuous circles. His mouth was larger, and yet it somehow seemed to fit perfectly.

Then he parted his lips slightly and whipped his tongue along her mouth, from one corner to the other, over the top, along the bottom, across the seam, claiming territory that until this moment had belonged exclusively to her. She’d never expected a kiss to entail a man taking this much liberty. Was this what he’d meant by doing it right?