Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
“Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars.”
Dante’s Divine Comedy
“ W hat about a special license? How long would it take to procure?”
The baron cocked his head thoughtfully. “Given my rank, I believe we could secure it within a day or two. Simon arranged for Vicar Stone to conduct his ceremony in the garden, so we might call upon him to perform the service. However, it would require that you convert formally to the Church of England.”
“I am already baptized in the church,” Marco replied. “My mother converted before marrying my father during their time in England, and we attended Anglican services in Florence.”
The baron’s brows lifted, clearly pleased by this revelation. “That is excellent.”
“But … I should like Madeline and Simon to attend,” Molly interjected, to Marco’s quiet dismay.
He could not stop thinking about how she had felt, her silky-smooth skin, or … her taste. He was determined to leave her virtue intact until their wedding night, but sending word for Simon and his bride to return could take up weeks at this time of the year.
Molly must have noticed his frustration, her fingers reaching out to touch his. He glanced down to find she had made sure the folds of her skirt disguised the motion.
“I cannot wait that long, mia bella .”
Molly colored, and her lashes dropped to fan her cheeks. Her blush brought to mind her glow of satiation in the aftermath of their lovemaking, and Marco suppressed the urge to roar with the satisfaction of a feral jungle beast. Molly was astute and knew what his haste was in aid of. His groin tightened at the recollection of what they had done in his bedchamber. In his bed. His heart picked up a beat at the memory of her writhing naked in his sheets.
“Oh.” She sounded rather pleased.
“We should send word for them that it is safe to come home, I suppose,” mused John. “It seems the danger has finally passed.”
Marco nodded. “I sent a letter this morning.”
“Then summon our man of business; I shall have him procure the special license. A letter from me should be sufficient to persuade the archbishop. I will explain that it is a matter of urgency to secure your position in England because of my health. We must present a unified family front, and your marriage to an Englishwoman will be advantageous to establishing your place within high society and strengthening your claim to the title.”
Molly leaned forward, her lovely face creased with concern. “I thought your health was improving.”
The baron grinned with a mischievous glint. “I am, but he does not know that, does he?”
Marco rose from his place to ring for a servant, impatient to get their nuptials under way now that he knew what he wanted.
Molly. I want Molly.
He rubbed his cheek, a little mortified to discover how obsessed he had become with bedding Molly since seeing her naked in his bedchamber. This wedding could not happen fast enough!
Molly and Miss Dubois were getting along much better since Marco’s intervention. The servant’s skills were far more suited to lady’s maid, and she did excellent work as such. In fact, Molly was on the verge of tears as she examined the gown she had picked for her wedding vows which the servant had taken from storage and refreshed for this evening’s ceremony. It was the gown she had purchased with her mother when they had planned to finally bring her out in society, and she had never worn it because shortly after ordering it, Molly had entered the mourning period for her beloved parent.
Blazes!
She pressed a lacy square to dab at the tears, which no longer threatened, but had arrived. How she wished her mother could have lived to see this day. Then Molly realized, if her mother had not been called to glory, she would not have arrived to live in the baron’s household. And without the macabre events of recent weeks, she would not have met Marco. Everything that had transpired had led to this moment where she could weep like a ninny over a pretty garment.
From the ashes of the past, they would build anew.
“Ah, you will be beauteeful in zis!” The exuberant declaration from Claudette Dubois was unexpected but appreciated. For once she agreed with her French poodle, who had become quite tolerable within the past day.
“We shall see.”
Miss Dubois assisted her, buttoning up the bodice and tweaking the folds and sleeves, until she bobbed her head to the mirror in satisfaction.
Molly shut her eyes, hoping that the gown would not disappoint now that she was in it—a key component of the final presentation. Turning toward the mirror, she glanced up and gasped with awed delight.
A rich, deep shade of amethyst perfectly complemented her warm brown hair and hazel eyes, bringing out the green and golden flecks in her gaze.
The gown was of the finest silk, catching the light with a soft, elegant sheen. The bodice was delicately gathered to enhance her figure, with a square décolleté edged in intricate lace to draw attention to her collarbone and shoulders. Subtle puffed sleeves sat just off her shoulders, adorned with tiny seed pearls to add an air of tailored charm.
A high waistline was cinched with a matching silk sash that accentuated her taller silhouette and flowed into a graceful skirt that flared slightly as it reached the floor, embellished with a hint of pearl-beading along the hem. Enough to catch the eye, but not distract from the gown’s simplicity.
Turning, she viewed the back where a column of small, cloth-covered buttons ran down the bodice, allowing the gown to hug her figure in an elegantly understated way.
Miss Dubois sighed in happiness, stepping back to admire her handiwork.
“ Oui , it is très élégant , fit for a future baronezz!”
Molly nodded in agreement, reflecting that the change in her lady’s maid’s behavior was rather remarkable. She might even relent to addressing her as Claudette, since she was no longer gritting her teeth every moment they spent together. Which were significantly fewer moments since Miss Dubois—Claudette—had her old quarters back. Perhaps she had been just as aggravated with their enforced proximity as Molly had been. Their disparate temperaments were easier to manage with the increased distance between them.
Miss Dubois brought out a delicate pearl necklace from Molly’s jewelry box and strung it around Molly’s neck, balancing on her tiptoes to reach.
“Ah, pearls—just right for a bride. Zey show purity … to tell Meester Scott he has found ze one he love, forever.”
Molly smiled in acknowledgment, too overcome to respond. Claudette was an artiste, having styled Molly’s hair in a soft chignon at the nape of her neck, allowing a few delicate curls to frame her face and highlight her hazel eyes. This simple yet refined style supplemented the squared bodice and intricate lace detailing, while creating an air of sophistication befitting a future baroness. Along with a pair of white gloves and a soft, gossamer shawl in sheer silk, this dinner gown was a wondrous choice for a quiet, romantic wedding.
Sighing with joy at her reflection in the mirror, Molly prepared to leave. As she reached the door, she turned back.
“Would you like to attend the ceremony … Claudette?”
Claudette’s mouth fell slack, her expression stunned.
“Ah, truly—you mean zat, Mees Molly?”
Molly pursed her lips and thought about it. She was not one to hold a grudge, and considering their new circumstances, it seemed appropriate. Given the other woman’s occupational aptitude, attending a noble family’s nuptials would be of great interest to someone so fashion-minded, and Molly supposed she did not mind if it resulted in detailed recounting belowstairs from the gossiping servant.
“I do.”
“Zen, oui ! I would be honored to bear witness!”
She beckoned for the servant to follow her in her progression to the formal drawing room where she found the baron waiting for her out in the hall. Smiling with sheer happiness, Molly hurried over to take the arm he offered her. John had asked to give her away, which had touched her deeply.
“Molly, you are … utterly ravishing, dear!”
With a nod to Campbell, the doors to the formal drawing room swung open, revealing tall windows glittering in the candlelight from flickering beeswax tapers set into silver candelabras—candelabras Molly remembered last seeing stored in the butler’s pantry. Elegant vases filled with hothouse flowers: soft pink roses, lavender, and white lilies, symbolizing passionate love, loyalty and grace, purity and new beginnings, enriched the restrained opulence of the room.
A fire crackled in the grand fireplace to fight back the chill, and their guests were seated on plump armchairs that had been collected from around the house. Molly felt the prickle of threatening tears to see so many gathered to celebrate this special occasion, as the guests rose in acknowledgment of her entrance.
His Grace and his duchess stood in the front row of the impromptu seating, the duke towering over Lord and Lady Saunton. Molly did not know Her Grace or Lady Saunton well, having met them only once in the past few weeks, but she appreciated their attendance because she and Marco would need help to enter British society. From the next row, Lord Trafford and his wife smiled broadly in greeting despite the proprieties of such an occasion, but the couple was unconventional and had been instrumental in saving their household just weeks earlier, so Molly beamed back.
Lord Sebastian was tugging at his cravat with the nettled air of someone who had grown unfamiliar with the starched rigidity of British attire, while Mr. di Bianchi leaned against the back of his seat with the flippant posture of an artist unimpressed with such goings-on. Nicholas gave a curt bow of his head, his recent foul moods not in evidence as he glanced at her up and down before tilting his head in approval.
But Molly paid little mind to their guests because her eyes were riveted to Marco, who was smiling with great appreciation at her entrance. He wore black trousers and a matching cutaway coat that revealed crisp, white linen and a luxurious silver silk waistcoat which perfectly accentuated his olive skin. His high-standing collar was pristine, while his cravat was intricately tied in a style she was unfamiliar with but assumed to be Florentine. Silver and black onyx pinned its folds, the perfect complement to his soulful eyes, and Molly grew lightheaded with disbelief. This man, with his slightly tousled black waves and refined Latin features, was to be her husband, and she was sure she was marrying the handsomest man in England!
John patted her arm and began their walk up the aisle, which provided Molly the opportunity to note the vicar who had wed Simon and Madeline last month. Dressed in simple ecclesiastical robes, he held his Book of Common Prayer while watching her approach with a welcoming smile on his rounded face.
Finally, they arrived and John deposited her by Marco’s side, whose expression was that of a man well-pleased. The vicar cleared his throat and spoke in a soft but resonant tone while Molly did her best to quell the elation threatening to overwhelm her.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony …”
Marco’s impatience to get Molly alone had been growing over the past hours. Since the moment she had walked into the drawing room, he could scarcely think. His head swam with repressed passions as it had all through dinner. Now he was finally headed up the stairs with Molly’s hand clasped in his. The smell of cinnamon toyed with his senses, while the feel of her delicate fingers wrapped around his made him think of her soft touch on his aching body.
With undignified haste, he dragged her down the hall, but he noted Molly raced along with him eagerly.
They finally reached her chambers, and he flung the door open. A shriek sounded from inside, and he found the French lady’s maid holding a fall of satin with eyes widened in shock.
“Miss Dubois.”
“Meester Scott.” She dropped a curtsy, but Marco’s gaze was riveted to what appeared to be one of those French négligés , relishing the thought of Molly poured into such a garment. He had planned to undress her himself, but now he was tempted to allow the lady’s maid to do her duty as he considered the ivory silk and lace confection pouring through Miss Dubois’s fingers.
“I shall be in the hall,” he announced, releasing Molly to exit and shut the door behind him—the tightening in his groin urging him to return to his own room so he might strip down. He did not bother ringing for the baron’s valet when he reached his bedchamber, removing his clothing to place it carefully over an armchair before pulling on loose linen trousers that he tied off at the waist. Rifling through his closet, he found his banyan, embroidered in black and red with the heraldic symbols of Florence, and drew it on before returning to wait outside Molly’s door.
In the morning, he would speak with the baron about getting his old rooms repaired—they were far larger to accommodate him and Molly. He knew these Englishmen of the upper classes preferred to live in separate rooms, but now that Molly was finally his, he was not about to release her.
Eventually, the handle turned, and Miss Dubois exited with a smug expression.
“Ah, Madame Scott ees very beauteeful tonight, non ? Truly, fit for a baronezz!”
Marco arched a brow, astonished at the maid’s change in temperament—she seemed almost happy? Had the role of chaperon been as difficult for her as it had been for Molly? Her improvement in mood would suggest so, which he could accept, but he would not forget the many hours she had waited to inform him of Molly’s disappearance. However, as lady’s maid, her personality flaws were not as relevant as they had once been.
He smiled politely, then waited for her to disappear around the corner before he entered Molly’s chambers.
She was not in the small drawing room that had been Miss Dubois’s, so he crossed over to the next room to lean against the doorframe and smile at his bride. He was afraid his expression might be akin to that of a ravenous wolf as he took in his lithe beauty in the glow of the oil lamp and the flickering light from the fire in the hearth.
Molly was gorgeous, ravishing with her hourglass figure draped in her ivory nightgown, waiting for him with her delicate bared feet peeking out from beneath the silk folds. Miss Dubois had proved her merit as he took in the flowing fabric with discreet panels of lace that framed her décolletage , her olive skin a striking contrast in the shadowed room. Rich brown hair cascaded over one shoulder to coyly hide one of her rounded breasts while the other … maledizione ! The outline of a tawny nipple was visible through the thin fabric, causing his mouth to water as he recollected the taste of cinnamon, woman, and creamy skin.
Then he realized a facet of tonight he had not considered—Molly was an innocent maiden. How precisely would he remove her of her maidenhood? It was not like he had any experience doing so.
He folded his arms and considered his bride, calculating what was the best method to ease her into married life.
“I shall describe what I plan to do,” he announced, striding over to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her into a tight embrace. Molly’s head fell back, and her opalescent eyes focused on his mouth. He had noticed her inclination to do so before, his lips curling into a smile of triumph—Molly’s intense desire for him was matched only by his own for her. Tonight would be the culmination of heated glances and magnetic intensities of the past days.
“I shall worship your … contorni ?” He knew the word he wished to say, but the sound of Molly’s husky voice translating his salacious musings was too enticing to resist.
“Contours,” she breathed, a blush of color settling on her cheeks.
“Until you are … cantando le mie lodi ?”
“Singing my praises.” Her lashes fluttered, and she swallowed hard, appearing dazed by his proposal.
He gave up all pretense at the Anglican tongue, leaning down to whisper into her ear, “… con quei gemiti gutturali che tormentano il mio sonno …”
She began to pant as he nuzzled against her cheek. “With those guttural moans that haunt your sleep …”
“… e poi ti reclamerò con il mio acciaio …”
She gasped, blinking in confusion as he himself was almost unmanned by the very image of what he described and the thought of hearing it in her melodic voice. “… and then you shall claim me with your steel …”
“Fino a quando i cieli stessi tremeranno al suono della tua passione.”
“Until the heavens themselves quake with the sound of my passion,” she finished weakly, both fearful and excited.
“Sì.”
He cupped her face, large palms wrapped around her delicate structure, lowering his head with a loud growl. Marco captured her mouth with his, merciless as he demanded entrance to the soft cavern. She moaned, as he had predicted, and he took advantage of that slight parting of the lips to tangle his tongue with hers, his frustrated craving from when he had brought her to her peak finally unleashed as he cradled her head with his palm and walked her back. A bump informed him that her knees had found the bed, which was all the encouragement he needed to lower his free hand over her luscious curves to reach down as far as he could.
Molly mewled, kissing him back with a fervor that lit his passions, and he could feel himself growing and lengthening with pulsing desire as he slowly took her silk nightgown between his fingers and began to work the fabric upward with agonizing patience.
He may have adopted this foreign land, but his Latin nature howled in his breast to tear the garment in two and toss it aside like a marauding god laying waste to a mortal woman. But he banked those fires of lust to continue his painstaking raising of her skirt until finally it was bunched in his hand.
Releasing her skull, his mouth moved to stroke her delicate jaw while he reached down to caress a velvet thigh that had been bared by his careful work, fondling the smooth skin until he found the damp curls between her thighs. Throwing his head back, he howled softly at the feel of slick petals against his fingertips, returning his mouth to find the frantic pulse in her throat as he continued to explore her as the most fascinating of treasures.
Molly was mindless, moaning loudly, and Marco was thankful that the room was recessed from the hall by her small drawing room because he had no desire to silence such glorious cries. Lowering his head farther, he took a diamond-hard nipple in his mouth through the silk and lace to swirl and lap until her hips were gyrating against his with the instincts of a female who knew what she wanted. And what she wanted was him. The evidence was there in her blushing skin, the slick nectar between her legs, and the rhythmic grind of her hips against his erection as she sought their joining.
Marco straightened up to pull the counterpane and sheets back, coaxing her to lie down. Her négligé was up around her hips, her shapely legs bared and her silk garment transparent, where he had soaked it with his hungry mouth to reveal the very shape of her pleading nipple. He untied his robe to toss it aside, then undid the tapes of his cotton pants, which dropped without the benefit of their restriction, baring his manhood to her with the full strength of his desires on display.
Her eyes moved down over his exposed chest, down over his flat abdomen, and widened when they came to rest on the erection that spoke of his unfulfilled passion. An audible inhalation could be heard as she stared, enthralled, before finally lifting molten eyes to his and licking her lips as if they had gone dry.
Holding her gaze, he approached. Settling onto the bed, his hard body pressed her soft curves down into the mattress as her legs fell open in mute invitation. His flesh was throbbing and heavy, urging him to claim her as it came into contact with her slick crease. With great difficulty, he restrained himself to find her mouth with his, and he reached down to explore the lush petals that had released the subtle scent of womanhood until he was drunk with lust and realized he must bring her to her peak before he lost control!
He circled the nub that controlled her pleasure, stroking with deliberation while Molly grew more agitated beneath him, continuing without mercy until she finally yelped and stiffened; waves of gratification racked her slender form as he smiled against her mouth in masculine victory.
When she finally relaxed, he renewed his exploration, his finger nudging at her entrance to coax her acceptance of his invasion. She was tight—so very, very tight—which in turn made him harder than he had ever been, his cock demanding immediate satisfaction as he worked a forefinger into her pulsing channel, then another, to massage her into acceptance.
When he was satisfied that she was ready, he lined her up with the hard ridge of his arousal, nudging at her intimate entrance with suggestive thrusts that made her rub and pant in pulsing unison with him until he finally penetrated her with a long thrust, deciding decisiveness was the best strategy. She stiffened, grunting in surprise at what must be a rather painful sensation as he held himself still inside her.
The clasp of her slick sheath was agony as he waited, every nuance of motion acting as a seismic deluge of teasing sensation, but he gritted his teeth and buried his face into her shoulder, determined to wait for her signal. Eventually she relaxed, her touch trailing down his taut back to dig into his buttocks, and gyrated against him to encourage his resumption. He began to move and thrust with tightly controlled passion, settling into a delightful rhythm that made her sheath ripple around his staff. He continued on, a man with a mission, reaching down to slip his fingers through her slick petals again, until her moans resumed. And on he continued, finding just the right angle to work the secret pearl hidden in those folds as he thrusted, until she emitted a loud shriek and peaked with deep spasms gripping at his swollen flesh.
Marco finally released all self-control, thrusting frantically into her wet heat until he groaned loudly and the waves of climax took him to the heights of paradise where he spent his seed deep into her waiting womb—aroused to hitherto unknown heights by the thought of Molly rounded with his babe in her belly.
He rolled to the side, bringing her with him in a tight embrace as he buried his face in her hair and sniffed the spice of cinnamon as a man obsessed with the woman who repeatedly visited his dreams as if she were some sort of emissary of the great Dante Alighieri, and tasked with escorting him to paradise itself.