Her Prodigal Passion (17 page)

Before he knew what he was doing, he was backing her against the trunk of the tree.

He explored her mouth some more, groaning as her little tongue rubbed against his. So
good
, this kissing. What harm would it do to take things a bit further? He wouldn't take her here in his mama's garden; he had more self-control than that. But he
could
pleasure her, give her a preview of the delights ahead.

Hungrily, he tasted her jaw, the smooth curve of her neck. Her primly fresh scent made him giddy. As did the little moan she made when he plucked off her fichu to reveal more of her downy skin. Her hands planted against his shoulders.

"What if someone sees us?" she said breathlessly.

"Hang 'em. We're engaged. How much more trouble can we get ourselves into?"

She bit her lip. He wasn't going to let her ponder the matter, not with his blood pounding and his cock jutting like a steel pike between his legs. So he took matters into his own hands: two small yet enticingly perky matters. Her eyes grew unfocused as he squeezed her tits, rubbing the excited peaks through the lilac muslin.

"Like that?" he growled.

"Mmm."

He'd take that as a yes. "What about this?"

He trailed his tongue across her décolletage, around her silver locket. Her fingers grasped his hair, pulling him close. Groaning, he obliged, licking more of her fragrant skin. When she squirmed restlessly against him, he gave her a gentle bite just above her modest neckline. Her sigh travelled straight to his erection. Lost in her sweet wantonness, he wedged his leg between her skirts. Lifted her so that her sex rode his thigh. He rocked her against him.

Her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers tightening in his hair.

"God, you're beautiful. Keep going," he urged.

Lungs burning, he continued to grind his thigh against her, kissing her ear, her neck. She wriggled desperately against him, panting and whimpering and making him mad with lust. Somehow doing this fully clothed made it all the more erotic, their bodies restrained by layers, straining and heaving to get closer. His imagination fired: what would this be like naked, skin against skin, his prick driving not against his trousers, but inside her tight, wet little pussy ...

With a groan, he drove his tongue deep, taking what he could. She shivered and shook, and when her crisis hit, he swallowed her abandoned cry, triumph raging through him. He felt a hot spurt against his smalls ... and realized that he was a hairsbreadth from losing his seed. From coming in his trousers like a green lad with his first wench.

All from a fully clothed kiss.

Devil and damn.

He dragged in breaths, holding her until they both calmed. When she lifted her head from his shoulder, the dazed expression in her eyes made his lungs expand once more. His cock, too. To distract himself, he straightened her dress and replaced her fichu. His finger brushed the small love mark he'd left on the slope above her right breast ... and he quickly tucked the linen over it.

"I take it back," he said abruptly.

She blinked. "Take what back?"

He bent to retrieve the rose that she'd dropped in the throes of passion. As he handed it to her, he said with a rakish grin, "We've more than a
fair
shot, my sweet. You and I—we're going to rub along famously."

She blushed, fairer than the blossom she held, and gladness unfurled within him.

SEVENTEEN

On Thursday, two days before the wedding, Charity found herself in one of the changing rooms at the back of Madame Rousseau's exclusive establishment. Left to her own devices, she wouldn't have dreamed of seeking the services of the famed modiste, but Percy had insisted.

"Where else are you going to get a stylish trousseau?" her friend had demanded.

"I thought I might make over my white muslin. I've hardly worn it, and with the addition of a few tucks and a bit of trim—"

Percy's eyes had rounded with horror. "Charity Sparkler, this is your
wedding
we're talking about. And you're marrying my brother,
the
most fashionable buck in Town. Do you really want to march down the aisle toward him wearing last season's frock with ribbons you've tacked on?"

Presented in that manner, Charity had reconsidered her initial plan. Ever since the passionate embrace with Mr. Fines in the garden, she'd been giddy with newfound hope. He'd kissed her—and he hadn't apologized! He'd called her
beautiful
whilst he was sober. He'd touched her with heat and hunger and need, and it hadn't been for Rosalind.

This time, it had all been for
her
.

A tingle worked up Charity's spine. At the same time, her practical mind set in. Mr. Fines had been clear that there was to be no possibility of love ... but one couldn't wish for the moon. She'd already planned to keep her feelings to herself anyway. If she felt a twinge of guilt for not telling him about their kiss at Spitalfields, she pushed it aside. That incident was too revealing of her love for him, and he'd told her that he was done with that "nonsense". Yet the things he had wanted—loyalty, honesty, respect—well, if they could have those, it would be enough.

More
than she'd dared to hope for.

Thus, she was determined to not let him down, to be the bride he wanted. That included not looking like the veriest dowd. Yet she'd balked at the idea of incurring such expense for the sake of vanity.

"Father won't pay for a trousseau," she'd said, "and my allowance won't cover much."

Though her papa now seemed resigned to the marriage, it didn't mean that he approved of it. He'd hardly spoken to her since her return, a fact that filled her with anxious guilt. In the shop, over supper, he seemed so preoccupied that he barely noticed her presence. She prayed there was some way she could earn his forgiveness and resolved to work twice as hard to ensure Sparkler's survival.

"Don't worry about the cost," Percy had said. "'Tis my gift to you."

"Oh no, I can't allow you to—"

Percy had clasped her hands. "You are my bosom chum, Charity Sparkler, my sister in every way but blood—and now we're going to have that too." Her friend had looked at her with teary joy, and Charity's own eyes had dampened. "You've seen me through thick and thin, and now you're going to make my brother so happy—the
least
I can do is give you a small gift. I won't take no for an answer."

That had been that.

Now Charity stood on a dais before a full-length looking glass as Madame Rousseau fussed over the final fitting. Percy, Helena, and Marianne—the latter two having just arrived from Hertfordshire—watched on from ivory curricle chairs. Normally, Charity avoided mirrors, but now she couldn't tear her gaze from her own reflection.

"And there she is: the true Charity Sparkler," Marianne said.

"My brother is going to expire from shock when he sees you," Percy said gleefully.

"You put me in mind of a faerie creature," Helena said, smiling. "Positively radiant."

Dazed, Charity mumbled her thanks, her eyes still riveted on the image. Though she was no arbiter of fashion, even she knew magic when she saw it. Madame Rousseau's creation was
extraordinary
. The lacey bodice gave the appearance of flowers and leaves clinging to her bosom; beneath, the eggshell muslin cascaded like a fall of water, skimming over her hips to swirl at her ankles. Subtle lace inserts along the hem completed the masterpiece.

"
C'est parfait
." Dressed in chic black, the French dressmaker gave the skirt a final twitch and stepped back. Satisfaction gleamed in her dark eyes. "One detail more and it would be gaudy. One less, dull."

"Thank you, Madame. You've managed a miracle," Charity said in wonder.

"My talent is undeniable,
oui
, but the true miracle is what
mademoiselle
has managed to hide." The modiste gave the gown Charity had arrived in the look one might a dead animal at the side of the road.

"On that, we are agreed," Marianne said, "which brings us onto the next item on the list. This afternoon, we consult Signore Antonio."

"
Bien sûr
. He is the best," Madame Rousseau agreed.

"At what?" Charity asked.

"Dressing the hair." At Charity's horrified look, the modiste said with a frown, "Surely you are not considering pairing my creation with,"—she waved her hand at Charity's topknot—"
that
. 'Twould be like serving English wine with French cuisine: an absolute insult to art."

"It'll just be a snip here and there," Helena said in a reassuring tone. "Don't worry, we won't let the signore get carried away."

Charity gave a hesitant nod. In for a penny, she supposed.

Madame Rousseau snapped her fingers at an assistant, who helped Charity back into her regular clothes. Another assistant gathered up the bridal gown, travelling dress, and unmentionables that made up Charity's trousseau. Looking at the pile, Charity bit her lip; Percy had been far too generous. As if sensing her disquiet, Percy winked, placed a finger to her lips, and followed the modiste out of the dressing room before Charity could say anything.

"Come have a seat," Marianne said. "Helena and I wish to have a little chat with you."

Charity did as she was asked. "What would you like to discuss?"

Marianne smoothed the skirts of her white and green striped carriage dress. "It's not so much what
we'd
like to discuss, but what questions
you
might have for us."

Charity blinked. "Er, questions?"

Helena leaned forward. "The thing of it is, dear, you've grown up without a mama. And mamas are typically a young lady's source of advice concerning ... marital matters." The marchioness paused as understanding caused Charity's cheeks to warm. "Marianne and I would like to give you the opportunity to express any concerns and curiosities you might have. Being married ladies, we have some, er, information that you might find useful on your wedding night."

"There's no aphrodisiac like knowledge," Marianne said.

"What's an aphrodisiac?" Charity said.

Marianne slid Helena an amused look. "She has a lot to learn."

Over the next half an hour, Charity discovered that truer words were never spoken. Being a sensible sort, she listened with keen concentration as the facts of married life were described to her. By the end of the lecture, all three of them were pink-cheeked.

"Well," Marianne said, fanning herself, "I do believe you're now the most informed virgin in all of Christendom. Any last questions?"

Charity's head was spinning. Yet she couldn't deny that her newfound knowledge did lessen her anxiety ... and provided her with greater confidence to greet the intimacies ahead. She'd already been determined to be the best wife she could; now she had some specific strategies with which to do so.

One can never have too many tools in one's sewing box
, she thought prosaically.

"Thank you," she said. "I've got it all down, I think."

Lady Helena laughed. "Poor Mr. Fines. He won't know what hit him."

*****

"Case of the jitters?" Nicholas said in a low voice. "Don't worry—'tis perfectly natural."

"I'm not nervous," Paul muttered.

"In that case, I'd suggest not tapping your foot like a debutante waiting for her first dance."

Devil and damn. Paul stilled his foot. His nerves, however, refused to quiet. Who could blame them, given that his own wedding ceremony was about to take place?

Morning light filtered into the elegantly appointed drawing room of the Harteford's townhouse. The place had been done up for the occasion, festooned with flowers and swaths of white gauze. The intimate gathering included family and friends, all seated facing the front of the room where he, Nicholas, and the minister stood. His mother and Percy waved at him from the first row, and he managed a nod back.

Next to him, the rotund minister was dressed in ceremonial robes, smiling beatifically—and well the chap ought, given the king's ransom Paul had paid for the special license. He'd insisted on reimbursing Nick, for the use of the Harteford title to obtain said hasty license was favor enough.

Hasty. License.

Out of nowhere, a voice whispered in his head,
Act in haste, repent in leisure.

Blast it, when had his inner monologue started spouting aphorisms? The restless feeling in him grew. His stomach, empty except for the carafe of coffee he'd downed earlier, churned uneasily.

"Easy, lad. Fellows get married every day," Nicholas said in an undertone.

Yes, but it wasn't some deuced fool standing there at the moment—it was
him
. He, Paul Fines, who'd never done anything right in his life, was going to plead his troth to a young, innocent girl who obviously didn't know what she was getting herself into. So what if he'd saved her once or twice? He'd landed her in trouble just as often. So what if they got along and enjoyed each other's company? He'd irked her more than once and was bound to annoy her again in the future; he seemed to have a talent for it.

And so what if kissing her was the hottest, most sensual experience of his entire life?

He was supposed to stay in check, wasn't he? Wasn't that his plan? Convince her to marry him (check), be a good husband (likelihood debatable), and, above all, stay in control (in serious question at present moment). The realization slapped him in the face: he'd been so intent upon wooing Charity that he'd only focused on the first item on his list. Now the other two requirements loomed.

What if he bollixed this up? He'd never been a husband before.

Worse yet, what if his neck-or-nothing self raised its ugly head again? The business with Rosalind had nearly killed him; he couldn't go through being a lunatic again. Nor did he wish to expose Charity to his true demented self.

And what if he failed to keep Sparkler's in business? What if he failed at boxing? What if, at the end of the day, he proved ... unworthy of her?

Once they were married, she would be stuck with him. This wasn't some casual affair they could put an end to—this was
until death do us part
.