A Sham Engagement (The Mismatched Lovers #1)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

E lenora looked down at her hands and her short-chewed nails. If Mama had been able to come up from Penworthy for the wedding, she would have been horrified at their state. But she hadn’t, as Phoebe had taken a turn for the worse and Mama refused to leave her, even for her oldest daughter’s nuptials, which were, perforce, more than a little hurried.

Which had to be a good thing, as her presence would have only served to irritate both Elenora and Jack. Elenora because Mama would be clucking away like a hen with one chick at how well she’d engineered the match, which she hadn’t. Jack because he didn’t tolerate fussy women, not even if they were the mother of his beloved. He’d confided this to Elenora when she’d apologized for Mama’s absence.

And now, the wedding was over. She and Jack had been married in the rather imposing church of St James in Piccadilly, by the Reverend Gerrard Andrewes, not far from Arlington Street, and only around the corner from Jolyon’s lodgings. Which had meant that on Elenora’s side there had been Aunt Penelope, a singularly green with envy Petunia, and both Jolyon and Matthew, who had persisted in offering up conspiratorial winks to Jack throughout the service.

Of course, Jack’s parents had been there as well—the white-haired earl and his intimidating wife, although after a week of getting to know her prospective mother-in-law, Elenora was no longer finding her quite so overbearing. At least that was what she’d told Jack.

They’d returned to Portland Place for the wedding breakfast, none of which Elenora had been able to touch, and now their guests had departed and they were alone.

Elenora fought to control the impulse to start nibbling her nails again. If only Jack had not been so determinedly decent a week ago. In the heat of the moment, with her blood heating in her veins and every nerve singing with desire, she’d have been happy to have continued and given herself to him. But he’d pulled back, insisting on them waiting for their wedding night. And, for the last week, that night had been growing to monstrous proportions in Elenora’s head, taking on a personality of its own. A frightening, off-putting personality.

She’d tried once or twice to rekindle the way she’d been feeling about Jack as they’d kissed on the chaise longue, and failed. Would those feelings ever recur? And what would her wedding night be like if she continued to feel like this? She thought about Jack all the time, but she just couldn’t rekindle the way she’d felt about him last week, and it was beginning to frighten her. Above all, she didn’t want to disappoint him.

She was about to find out, and this time, unlike a week ago, her heart was pounding from fear, not from desire.

Jack closed the bedroom door behind them. He’d dismissed Elenora’s maid and his own valet, and his parents had taken Edward home with them. The room, his room, which she’d never seen before, felt terrifyingly empty of anything that might mollify her fears.

From behind, he put his hands on her shoulders. She was wearing the new gown Aunt Penelope had insisted they order for the wedding, gold silk rustling about her body and leaving her shoulders bare. His hands were hot on her skin. Almost, she shook him off, out of instinct, that scratchy feeling resurfacing for a moment.

His thumbs massaged her back and her breath came quickly. She did like his touch. She did. The scratchy feeling vanished. Phew. That at least hadn’t changed. But could she ever manage to feel the way she’d felt a week ago? Or was that something gone and forgotten, only to be given that once? Something they should have taken advantage of at the time.

His hands slid down her to her arms, raising goosebumps of anticipation. Maybe… just maybe… “You have the most beautiful skin.”

If she didn’t look at him, she wouldn’t have to think about this.

His fingers traced a fiery line across her back above the bodice of her dress. What was that? The fire whispered down into her stomach, turning it over. Yes. She liked that. Remembrance of the way he’d touched her a week ago came slipping back and a warm feeling started in her stomach, and dived lower.

Warm breath on the back of her neck. The touch of lips. He was kissing her neck.

A part of her she didn’t have a name for suddenly became the center of her focus.

His kisses trailed across her back, down her right arm, and his hands slipped round to caress her breasts. She closed her eyes. If she opened them in this strange bedroom, the magic would die, and magic it was indeed. The magic from last week, returning.

All week they’d been like strangers with one another, which hadn’t helped, only coming together in the company of Aunt Penelope, who’d kept Elenora close and well-guarded after her adventures. No kisses, no loving looks, no touches possible. And now… could they go back to what they’d had a week ago? Could she?

What was love, after all? He’d said he loved her, and he’d said what they’d both been feeling had been lust. Was it love or lust cascading through her body right now? How was one supposed to tell, and did it even matter if one couldn’t?

His lips found her throat, soft and gentle, as he pressed his body against her back. “Oh, Elenora, I’ve been longing for this day for so long.”

Then, everything had been natural, as if the order of things need only be followed and all would be well, even to the point of giving herself to him before they were married. Until he’d stopped them. Tonight, it felt contrived, planned, lacking in the spontaneity they’d had before. Expected. So how could it be the same?

His fingers slid down inside the front of her gown and found her breasts, sending trails of desire through her entrails. Perhaps… perhaps you could have those feelings more than once?

“Let me undo your gown for you.”

Eyes still firmly closed, she stood still while he undid the fastenings and let the gown pool in a golden heap of decadence around her feet. She heard his indrawn breath and felt his fingers fumbling with the ties on her petticoat. That too rustled to the floor. Now she only wore her stays and slip.

He gave a little, throaty chuckle. “I’m thought to be very good at unlacing stays.”

Of course. All those mistresses would have given him that skill. If her mouth hadn’t been bone dry, she might have commented on this.

He had hers unlaced more quickly than Agnes had ever done, and they followed her gown and petticoat to the floor at her feet.

He was breathing hard now as his hands settled on her waist and slid upwards across her stomach, the filmy muslin no barrier. His touch seared her skin, but not in a way she wanted to shake off. When he reached her breasts, cupping one in each hand, a little moan escaped her lips and she leaned back against him, her head resting on his shoulder, his cheek against hers, his musky, masculine scent in her nostrils.

“I want this to be right,” came his whisper.

Her heart was soaring. You could feel like this more than once, and it wasn’t difficult to do. His touch had done it to her. The ridiculous thought that if they went out together to a ball or dinner, and he touched her hand, even, she might feel like this in public, brought a chuckle to her throat.

“Come. Let’s go to bed.”

She obeyed, lying back on the pillow, heart pounding, and keeping her eyes shut as the unmistakable sounds of him undressing came to her. His boots clattered away. Was that his coat being thrown to one side? The mattress shifted as his weight moved onto it. He was so tall… so naked, his skin so warm under her touch. Her fingertips brushed against his chest, finding little curling hairs and nothing else. He’d even removed his shirt.

She could sense him leaning over her, his face hovering above hers. “Tell me I can kiss you.”

“You have been already.” Her voice was croaky with dryness.

His throaty chuckle came again. “That was your body. Now I would like to kiss your lips.”

For answer, she reached up a hand and slipped it around the back of his head, drawing his face toward her. Their lips met, fire tingled through her like molten lava to her central core, and a gasp of shock escaped her. Their tongues met, the kiss deepened, and she arched her back toward his body, feeling the length of his arousal pressed against her stomach. A little tremor of fear ran through her.

Jack released her mouth. “Don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you.”

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Whatever you do, don’t stop this time, or I might change my mind, and I don’t want to.”

Jack slid his hand down her stomach toward the dampness between her legs. “Don’t worry, I have no intention of stopping this time, Lady Broxbourne.”

THE END