Not Quite Married (3 page)

had a nimble wit . . . and was educated beyond the norm.

Her heart sank.

If Ella were to be believed, men cared little for such qualities in a woman. They wanted demure smiles, not wit; reverent attention, not conversation; and physical charms, not inner beauty. She sighed and sat down on the bench before her dressing table, staring at the big eyes searching her from the looking glass.

Ella’s summary of men depressed her. Surely, somewhere, there were men of intellect and wisdom and honesty—men that would appreciate a capable, educated wife.

But what if there were? A stab of realism pierced her. Her future contained only
one
man. Raoul Trechaud. How likely was it that he would be the “prince” that Ella had hoped for?

Three

ENCHANTÉ, MADEMOISELLE.”

Brien was speechless as Raoul Trechaud brushed her hand with his lips.

He was taller than she by several inches, with black hair gathered into a pale ribbon at the nape of his neck. His broad shoulders flexed as he presented a knee and bowed, emphasizing the narrow taper of his waist above long, slender legs. His gaze engaged hers boldly as he continued to hold her hand.

“Monsieur,”
she managed, dismayed that her fluent French had deserted her completely. “I hope your journey was not too taxing.” Her voice sounded oddly honeyed in her own ears. She stood straighter in her pale blue silk gown, feeling utterly exposed by her low neckline and upswept coiffure of ringlets, and longing for a second chance at the looking glass she had shunned minutes before.

“In your presence the discomforts of the journey are forgotten.”

His deep, lightly accented voice had a strange, lulling quality.

Brien had tried not to think about her future husband until word came that he and his brother would not arrive until the very evening of the Hunt Ball. Feeling only a guilty sense of relief at the delay, she had promised herself that when the time came, she would welcome him cordially and try to make the best of the situation . . . no matter how many heads sprouted from his shoulders.

Now that Raoul Trechaud was standing before her, her pride reeled from this unexpected vindication of her father’s judgment.

By any standard he was a handsome man. She had to drag her gaze from him to avoid embarrassing her-self. The sight of his features came with it: noble brow, slightly arched nose that complimented perfectly his square jaw and broad, elegantly curved lips. But it was his eyes that intrigued her . . . bold and dark, mesmerizing as he gazed at her with undisguised interest.

She scarcely noticed his pallid, lean-featured brother, Louis, who was introduced next.

As they entered the coach, she felt her father’s gaze on her and looked up to find him watching her intently, assessing her reaction to her intended husband. She flushed in spite of herself, knowing that as she did so she answered his unspoken question.

She did indeed find the Frenchman acceptable.

THE HUNT BALL initiated the fall hunting season and signaled the beginning of the fall social season in the county. The neighboring Lord Pendrake, with six less-than-handsome daughters to marry off, thought it prudent to be generous with his hospitality and always hosted the event. Adding to the usual flurry of interest in this year’s event was the emergence of the earl of Southwold from his self-imposed exile. Throughout the county there was eager speculation about the earl and his reclusive daughter.

Brien sat beside her father in the stuffy, overwarmed carriage, feeling Raoul’s gaze on her and self-consciously refusing to meet it. What did he see when he looked at her? Did she meet his expectations? What was the man behind that handsome face like?

A thousand questions, banned from her consciousness in these last three weeks, now clamored for answers. Despite the lingering warmth of the late summer evening, she shivered under his oddly tactile gaze and fanned herself to mask her unsettlement. She caught a glimpse of his hand lying on his thigh and experienced a strange burst of warmth against the underside of her skin. What would it be like to take a turn around the dance floor with him?

To feel that muscular hand at her waist?

Banishing those shocking thoughts, she flushed visibly and heard Raoul chuckle. She glanced up in spite of herself and had the fleeting thought that the smile he aimed at her somehow did not quite reach his eyes.

They were received just as she had suspected they would be, with polite face-to-face smiles and curious sidelong glances. Her father escorted her through the drawing room, salon, and upstairs ballroom, exchanging pleasantries and introducing both her and their guests to old acquaintances. It was clear from the pointed questions and comments that the doyennes of local society had already guessed his motives for reemerging into society. And they quickly turned their curiosity on her and Raoul.

After a time she managed to escape her neighbors’ intense scrutiny by retiring to one of the upstairs bedchambers where servants awaited the lady guests. But the chamber was soon invaded by a drove of fashionably dressed girls and matrons who straightened coiffures, loosened lacings, and shed tight slippers for a few blessed moments of relief. The chatter rose to a din as the rooms filled with wails about lost ribbons or misplaced combs. She watched with fascination until two voices loudly whispering behind a nearby screen stole every bit of pleasure from the experience.

“. . . two of them! Imported from France, no less. It must be costing her father a fortune.”

“And that gown,” a second girl responded. “The cost of the yardage alone must have been staggering!” Both girls tittered.

Brien felt something inside her go cold. She knew jealousy when she heard it, but her own awareness of her shortcomings prevented her from simply dismissing their spiteful words. She waited until everyone else had gone and she heard the music begin again downstairs before she emerged from behind the screen and headed for the door. On the way she caught a glimpse of herself in a pier glass and stopped.

Staring back at her was the image of an attractive young woman in a stunning silk gown that blued the pale gray of her eyes. Even to her critical gaze her lush moiré trimmed in silk brocade shot with strands of gold surpassed the gowns worn by every other woman at the ball, married or unmarried. Taking a deep breath, she set aside her embarrassment and determined not to let a few cruel words mar her evening.

Raoul spotted her the moment she reentered the ballroom. He watched his brother Louis claim her for a dance and watched her smile and slowly begin to relax and find the rhythm of the music and movement. He strolled around the room, drawing admiring glances and returning polite nods to those ladies bold enough to smile at him from behind their fans.

When the music ended, he appeared at Brien’s elbow.

“Monsieur Trechaud, you startled me.” Her cheeks were pink from the exertion of dancing and hid her blushing as she plied her fan.

Her first impression of him—handsome—now seemed a paltry description. The man was nothing short of devastating. He knew how to use the color of his raiment to advantage and had chosen a rich, blue-gray velvet coat and dark blue breeches for the evening’s festivities. There wasn’t a woman in the ballroom who wouldn’t trade places with her at that moment.

“The party is lovely.” His accent poured over her like cream.

“The next dance is mine, yes?” He stood so close that she inhaled the masculine warmth of him on her next breath. Their eyes met and held for a moment. His intriguing brown-black eyes that she found difficult to read, she also found impossible to refuse.

“Yes, I believe this one is yours.”

When the music began, she absorbed the warmth of his hand as it brushed her waist and marveled at the ease with which he led her through the movements. From the corner of her eye she could see the other ladies and unmarried girls staring enviously and whispering behind their fans, and felt a vengeful twinge of pride at having him for a partner. She nearly stumbled in the midst of a promenade when she realized that he was intended to partner her not only in this dance, but in life as well.

When he claimed the next dance also, sending the clear message that his attentions were already claimed, the sound of hearts breaking about the room was nearly audible.

The second set ended and they made their way downstairs toward the refreshments laid out in the dining room. Brien pressed the back of her hand against her hot cheek and said she was thirsty. When he brought her a cup of punch, she drank deeply and felt grateful for the cool sweetness. But the wine in the punch soon conspired with the heat of the room to make her dizzy. He noticed.

“Perhaps the air of the terrace would refresh you?” He steered her through the overheated rooms to the terrace doors. As they made their way into the cool September evening, Brien was acutely aware of his hard, muscular arm beneath her hand and of the faint masculine musk of him. This delicious bit of anticipation was not at all what she had imagined when her father sentenced her to an arranged marriage.

In the darkness of the terrace she glimpsed several couples strolling, laughing flirtatiously, and whispering with their heads close together. A flattering light played off their faces and forms, courtesy of a silver moon drifting in and out of thin, scattered clouds. Her eyes, too, caught the light and Raoul noticed her relaxed mood and smiled.

“You are very quiet,
monsieur,
” she said. “Do you miss Paris already?”

“Raoul, please.” He gave her a smile. “I make my home wherever I am, Brien.”

The sound of her given name on his lips caused a sudden tightness in her throat. She started to walk again, searching for a subject that might distract them both.

“This is the start of the hunting season. I’ve never been able to fathom just what pleasure grown men can find in chasing a small fox with heavy-footed stallions and snarling packs of dogs.”

He had stopped a pace from her and when she looked up she found him watching her closely. “Some creatures were made for hunting, others to be hunted.” His dark, probing eyes made her wonder briefly into which class he would put her.

When he reached for her shoulders, she brought her hands up instinctively. The hardness of his body against her palms was something of a shock. Then he slid his arms fully around her and whispered her name, drawing her eyes to his. It was an irresistible silk-and-steel sort of sound that penetrated her skin and flowed unhindered along every nerve and sinew of her body.

She felt helpless, mesmerized. His mouth came down softly on hers and then pressed harder, reshaping her lips to accommodate his desire. Her attempt to pull away only brought her closer to his chest until she rested fully against him. His tongue traced the outline of her lips, seeking passage inward and at last finding it. It was a startling sensation. Pleasure warred with surprise at the heat and wetness of his mouth on hers, and she remained tense against him.

His hands slid down her back and relaxed, allowing her to break away. She clasped her trembling hands and felt their quaking begin to spread through her. Her first kiss was not at all what she expected. It produced curious melting sensations in her lips and sent alarming spirals of warmth winding through her skin.

“Raoul,” she breathed, “we should go back.”

“Not yet,
ma chérie.
” His voice was husky and in the moonlight she could see his lips were parted in what seemed to be a smile.

“We must settle something between us.” In spite of her resolve to see this through, she turned and fled up the steps of a nearby gazebo. He followed, pausing at the bottom of the steps.

Did he think her silly and unsophisticated? Her body hummed with expectation and the heat of his kiss still burned her lips.

Well, she
was
unsophisticated. And ignorant of the sort of intimacies men expected of women they intended to wed.

“What is it we must settle? Have I done something to offend you? I assure you—”

“
Au contraire,
Brien. You are a lovely and charming young woman.” His voice deepened. “You know the banns for our marriage are to be read tomorrow, yes?”

Her heart pounded as he mounted the steps and closed the distance between them. She found her back against a post and froze. He dragged his fingertips over her lips, across her cheek, through her tawny curls, and then down the smooth skin of her bare shoulders to her breasts. Then his eyes returned to hers, and he smiled while probing the fear and excitement that burned within her.

“I must know . . .” He put his hands on her waist and drew her toward him.

She felt splintered, unable to collect herself enough to respond properly. It was not in her power to resist; the lure of the unknown and the promise of pleasure were too strong. He crushed her to his chest and he deepened the kiss. One hand stole up her side and over her breast, toying with the bare skin above the provocative edge of her bodice. She stiffened and tried to push back in his arms, but stopped at his muffled laugh.

He raised his head to look at her and gave her a knowing smile.

She sensed that he knew both the pleasure and the discomfort she was feeling. His hold on her loosened, but she could not bring herself to pull away.

“Our fathers have planned this marriage.” He searched her face in the pale light, but his own was cloaked in shadow. “But I want to hear from your own lips that you will have me.”

She had no idea what to say and in the silence he bent his head and claimed her lips again. His mouth left hers to trace the curve of her neck and shoulder. She whimpered as tongues of fire darted through her.

“Tell me, do you want me?”

She was reeling, awakened to a wealth of new sensations, filled with longing and confusion . . . incapable of rational thought. But in the end, reason was not required.

“I do.”

He stroked the curve of her cheek and her skin glowed under his touch.

“Your father will be most pleased.”

Only during the short walk back to the great house did she fully comprehend all that had transpired. He had kissed and caressed her and, in effect, asked her if she were willing to marry him.