The Accidental Bride (34 page)

Where had that question come from? Lizzie hadn’t meant to voice it, but the Champagne at lunch had loosened her tongue, and taken the brakes off her remaining subconscious fears.

She and John were out for a stroll. By unspoken agreement, they’d both needed time to themselves, together. Lunch had been a very jolly meal with Tom and Brent there too, and congratulations all round. The Marchioness and Brent already seemed to have bonded.

‘To the manor born, eh?’ Brent had said, giving Lizzie a hug. ‘You fit right in, like Cinderella into the glass slipper.’

‘Welcome to Montcalm,’ his lover had said. ‘You do know you’ve done Brent and I a huge favour, don’t you? With the black sheep shedding his grubby fleece to become the beloved son again, nobody’s going to make a fuss about me “getting engaged” too.’ He winked at Brent.

The Marchioness had been chatting away merrily with her gay son and his lover as Lizzie and John had left for their stroll. Lizzie was thrilled to see Brent as happy and
accepted as she seemed to be, although she wasn’t quite sure what Augustus’s thoughts on the matter would be.

So why, when the day was turning out to be such a spectacular success, had the spectre of Clara suddenly risen again?

‘No. They don’t,’ said John, his voice crisp and decisive. The Champagne didn’t seem to have affected him. ‘Maybe once they still harboured hopes that Clara and I would get together and marry. Probably for a long while. Both she and Caroline are still family friends … Well, my mother’s friends. The old man has probably forgiven Caroline now, at last.’ He paused, drawing her to a halt, looking down into her eyes. ‘But now … Now they see that you were the one worth waiting for. The right woman for me.’ He kissed her hand. ‘The true princess who finally came along and kissed me back to life.’ They fell back into step, meandering in the general direction of a folly John wanted to show her. ‘And in all honesty, even Mother, who was always fond of Clara, would be the first to admit that she’s flighty and unreliable … and can be cruel. And, of course, my mother doesn’t even know the half of it.’

Yes, the second time Clara had walked out on him. Dashing John’s hopes, and his pride too, when he realised he’d only been a diversion, for sex, while Clara had been teasing and snaring a bigger, better prospect, her American billionaire.

But we’ve got the last laugh. We have …

As they vectored towards the folly, a neo-Grecian construction nestled amongst trees at the edge of the park, clouds slipped in front of the sun, and the skies darkened. Lizzie laughed.

‘Yikes, we start talking about Clara, and suddenly the
sun goes in and it looks as if it’s going to rain. If this was a movie, that’d be a cliché.’

John laughed. ‘Yes, there should probably be a clap of thunder right about now. But stop worrying, love. She can’t touch us now.’ He looked up at the sky, held out his free hand. For a moment, Lizzie saw him back in the grounds at the Waverley, assaying the rain, that day they’d played spanking games in the dell. ‘It is going to rain, though. Could be a downpour … Come on, let’s hustle and get to the folly.’ He tugged on her hand, then released it. ‘I’ll race you!’

John was always going to beat her there. He often ran for fitness, whereas she preferred to swim each day. But she decided not to run as fast as she could; something in the twinkle in John’s eye told her she might need her energy for other things. It had been another of those days of behaving themselves, and that was tough, with John looking so glorious and edible in one of his soft grey-blue suits and a darker toning shirt. He was even wearing a sharp tie, out of deference to his parents, although he’d pulled that off now, and stuffed it in his pocket.

The folly was small, but ornate, built from gleaming pale stone like a mini classical temple, with a pillared portico flanking a fairly solid oak door. John stood waiting for her, beneath the under-hang, hands in his pockets, grinning.

‘You owe me a forfeit for not really trying,’ he announced as she reached him, then hauled her enthusiastically into his arms. ‘God, this business of being on best behaviour for the parents is killing me. This’s twice we’ve had to do it, and it doesn’t get any easier the second time around.’

‘Then stop messing about, will you!’ Lizzie reached up and cradled his head, drawing his face to hers. ‘Here’s your
forfeit.’ Exerting pressure, she compelled him to kiss her.

This! This was more intoxicating by far than the Champagne. Happiness fuelled by the relief of finding herself accepted at Montcalm. Crazy lust, but imbued with depth and wonder by the challenge of the years that lay ahead.

This was simple and beautiful. And hot. John’s tongue in her mouth, thrusting. His hands roving her body, rucking up her skirts, grabbing at her thighs and bottom. She was ready, so ready for him, in the blink of an eye.

‘I want you,’ he gasped, taking the words she would have uttered and giving them back to her.

‘Here?’ She asked, but she knew the answer. It was mad, but they had to. They had to christen Montcalm as their own, and here, away from the house itself, seemed the perfect place to begin. Here they were just John and Lizzie, not Lord Jonathan and Lady Jonathan-to-be.

‘Yes,’ he growled, kissing her hard again, then swirling round and reaching for the ornate brass doorknob. It turned easily and John flung the door open, to reveal the inner chamber.

It was a scruffy dive, for all its exterior glamour and classicism. Dust lay thick on the floor, and leaves had got in from somewhere, and piled up in the corners. A door to another chamber stood ajar, slightly, and in the centre of the room was a cluster of decrepit furniture. A bashed-up divan, two easy chairs, a low table. Some yellowing newspapers lay on the table, and an empty mineral water bottle on its side.

‘Does somebody come here?’ Leading John forward, Lizzie picked up a paper, and saw a date from around two years ago.

‘It’s a bolt-hole of Tom’s. From the time before he moved
into his own cottage. He told me he used to come here to get away from rowing with the old man.’ John leaned down and thumped at the divan, and dust rose. He rubbed his fingers, surveying the grime. ‘It’s on the list to renovate properly, but the main house has always taken precedence.’

Lizzie looked at the divan. It was grubby. ‘We’ll get our clothes filthy if we roll around on there.’ The patterned fabric of her dress was pale, as was the blue of John’s suit.

Her fiancé beamed at her. ‘Well, we’ll just have to take our clothes off, then, won’t we?’

‘Oh John, we can’t!’ It was an empty protest. The urge to strip was unstoppable. She’d been so prim and buttoned up all day, but now she wanted to be wild.

‘Yes, we can.’ John’s voice was low and thrilling, and in the shadowed interior of the folly, his brilliant eyes were lambent with lust. ‘In fact … I command it. I’m your lord and master now, young woman.’ He nodded to the ring on her finger. ‘Or near as dammit.’ He moved forward and cupped her chin, forcing her to look into face, his beautiful face. ‘Now do as you’re told.’ He was trying to act stern, but his fight against a happy smile was all but lost.

‘Perhaps you’re right, milord,’ she answered, her own lips quirking. ‘You know best.’

‘Of course I do.’ He gave her an admonishing look at the sound of the title, something in his bearing changing as he became Lord Jonathan again, the aristo he truly was. Lizzie had seen it the moment he’d walked into Montcalm – the subtle difference, an aura, bred in the bone – and despite the egalitarian tendencies fostered in her by her own father, she’d liked it. Liked it very much indeed. Lord Jonathan was every bit as hot, and just as much her love, as plain John Smith was.

She gave him a bold look. He might be what he was, but she was his match. ‘Oh, you love it really, don’t you? You’ve missed it … being Lord Muckety-Muck with adoring lackeys tugging their forelocks and hanging on your every word. Being the golden boy of the family.’

His eyes gentled, and he laughed softly. Lizzie knew he accepted his own foibles. ‘OK, yes, I have a bit.’ His grin widened. ‘Now, stop shillyshallying about. Clothes off, trollop!’ He stepped back, and crossed his arms, his eyes on her unwaveringly. To watch the show.

Lizzie’s mind flew back to their early days, not really all that long ago, but seeming distant because they’d travelled so far together. He’d been the sexy master then, just as he was now … But she’d known nothing else of him at the time.

Now she did know him, and he was a hundred times as sexy, and as masterful.

Carefully, she set her bag on one of the chairs, then attacked her cardigan buttons, before shimmying out of it. Frowning at the dustiness, she folded it inside out, then undid the zip in the side of her dress. Thus released, she undid the small buttons down the front, and then, plucking at the full skirt, drew it off over her head, revealing herself in her bra and petticoat.

About to fold the frock, she saw John’s hand out-held, and let him take it from her and fold it. He did a perfect job, even though he didn’t once take his eyes off her, following her every move as she eased off her petti and handed that over too.

Ridiculously nervous, she hesitated.

‘All off.’

Quickly, and not as elegantly as she would have liked, she peeled off her undies and tossed them in the
general direction of her folded clothing, then kicked off her shoes.

Oh God, she was standing naked in the centre of a folly, in the grounds of one of the greatest country houses in northern England. Someone might come by, some gamekeeper or groundsman or whatever. He might notice a flicker of movement, of pale flesh through the dusty windows – and conscientiously decide to investigate.

John looked at her. A long comprehensive look, as if re-cataloguing the body he now knew so well; the physical domain of which he was now lord and master, in their games.

‘Oh, my love, that’s a view I’ll never tire of.’ He let out a gusty breath, then seemed to galvanise himself. ‘Now, come on, lie down on that couch and play with yourself while I strip for you.’

‘With pleasure!’ Cautiously, imagining she could feel the dust grains, Lizzie complied, stretching out her legs, and resting her head on one arm behind her neck, in the style of a Venus or Goya’s naked Maja, while with the other she touched her pussy. She was wet and ready: no surprise there.

‘I hope so,’ said John, nodding in approval, his gaze tracking her fingers. His own first action was to reach into his inner jacket pocket and fish out a condom package, and with a flourish, toss it in Lizzie’s direction. It landed on her belly, an inch from where her hand was at work.

‘Ooh, your lordship, what would your mam say if she knew you’d had condoms in your pocket all the time?’ Lizzie gasped. Her clit was so sensitive; she was almost there already.

John gave her a wicked look. ‘I’m sure she’d be
scandalised. Now, make yourself useful, and get that unwrapped. I’ve waited too long, ogling you in that sexy flowery frock. I need to be inside you.’

In a series of swift, deft actions, he began to undress, dealing with his shoes and socks in a way that was more elegant than any man had a right to be. Next came shirt and jacket, not quite so neatly folded as her clothes, and dumped right on top of them, haphazard. Within a heartbeat he was stepping out of his trousers, then his underwear.

Oh hell … Oh hell …

She would never tire of this view either. The lean, well-shaped body, toned but not overmuscled. The smooth, firm skin. The heavy, but eager cock. He was already pointing right at her, ruddy tip gleaming.

‘Lordly,’ she remarked, grinning back at him, tearing open the condom wrapper as he advanced towards her and knelt on the edge of the couch to be enrobed.

Jutting forward his hips, he let her roll it on him, and then he seemed to pose for a second, teasing her with the goods.

Devouring him with her gaze, the years seemed to unfold before her, and she imagined a time when he was not so trim, and yet she would still find him utterly sexy. It was a long way off yet, but even so, she knew she’d love him and want him. Heck, even when his face was as lined and hawkish as his handsome father’s, and his golden hair turned as white as snow.

And he’d want her. She knew it. Even when she wasn’t as shapely; when her figure had probably spread a bit from having children, and there were streaks of silver in her black hair.

‘What are you thinking about? Should I be insulted? You
looked miles away then for a moment.’ John leant forward, then moved over her, smiling.

‘Don’t worry, it was about you.’ Parting her legs, she put her hands on him, urging. ‘I was just thinking that I’ll still fancy you when you’re an even older git than you are now.’

‘Thank you … I think,’ said John, positioning himself. ‘Are you ready, love? I’m feeling too selfish and horny to indulge in much foreplay. But don’t you worry …’ He pushed, long and true and sure. ‘When we’re back at Dalethwaite, just the two of us, you’ll get all the elaborate, protracted, kinky lovemaking sessions that your heart, and your delicious pussy, desire.’

Lizzie gasped, filled with him. At last. They’d made love beautifully last night, but it still felt like a century since this unique, gorgeous feeling. Even as her body shimmered in welcome, John took his weight on one elbow, wiggled his hand in between their bodies and sought out her clit.

His finger circled. ‘Yes, don’t you worry, my love. We’ll be the king and queen of perv again. A full programme of everything …’ He pressed hard, just to the side, ooh, just where she liked. Her sex fluttered. ‘Spanking, bondage, whatever you like. I’ll tan your gorgeous bottom with flip-flops, leather slippers, even that old blue ruler if I can find it. And we’ll use every little gadget in that chest of wickedness of ours.’ Angling his hips, he pushed in deeper, finding another, even sweeter knot of nerves. ‘I might even buy a pair of leather trousers, if you want me to.’

‘Oh … ah … Oh goody …’ Almost there, almost there. Her hips swivelled of their own accord, but John kept contact, moving with her. Their rocking bodies stirred up dust from the venerable upholstery and it drifted around them.