The Accidental Bride (7 page)

‘Especially for English tea again,’ added John, with a smile that clearly had a powerful effect on Mary. ‘Thanks for this, Mary. It all looks lovely. I think we can manage for ourselves now, though. We’ll ring if we need anything else.’

Mary drifted out, with a dreamy smile on her face. That was what the John Smith wonder-smile seemed to do to most women.

Sinking back into the comfortable upholstery, Lizzie
sighed with appreciation. Suddenly, a wave of tiredness swept over her. She could feel herself decompressing. France had been an amazing, intense sexual marathon in lush, beautiful surroundings, but in spite of all her qualms and misgivings, Dalethwaite did feel like home. It
was
home. Things were new and strange, but for all that, she was right where she should be, and with exactly the man she was meant to be with.

‘Tired, love?’

Her eyes snapped open, and she realised she’d almost been on the edge of dozing. John was holding out a cup of tea to her, one with just the right degree of milkiness. He never forgot anything.

‘Yes, a bit. Well, a lot. The villa was fab, but … um … we seemed to be having sex almost all the time we weren’t sightseeing or swimming in the villa’s pool or walking or cycling or whatever. I feel as if I need a holiday here at home to get over our holiday abroad.’

John laughed. ‘You know, I feel just the same.’ He picked up his cup, sipped, then sighed happily. He was just as much a tea lover as Lizzie. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I loved every moment of our time together, because you’re just like an irresistible drug to me. But I love being back here too, and us just hanging out together.’ He winked. ‘That is, until I get horny … which won’t be long … In fact, the way you’re sitting, in those trousers …’ He paused and, for a moment, laid a hand lightly on her thigh. ‘But seriously, I love it that you’re able to think of Dalethwaite as “home”. I want you to be happy here. I think we can both be happy here. But I know this life is an adjustment for you, and I’ll do anything I can to make you feel comfortable and able to live how you want to.’

Lizzie drank some tea. It was perfect. She hadn’t been hungry when she arrived, but all of a sudden, the slices of lemon cake on the tray looked infinitely enticing. Without being asked, John slipped one on a plate for her.

His blue eyes were lambent, and the gracious light of the sunny room made him look more the golden god than ever, with his blond hair and his confident, sparkling smile. But he looked serious too.

‘You mean the world to me, Lizzie, and I know that you’re the one having to make the biggest changes, just to be with me. But never forget that I appreciate that.’ He looked away for a moment, less sure of himself somehow. ‘And if you ever want to take a few days out, spend time with your friends again … Well, I understand that. I’d miss you like hell, but I want you to feel that you’re free. Free to do what you want. You’re not just an “accessory” of mine; you know that, don’t you?’

Lizzie swallowed, her eyes a little blurry. For all his faults, for all his compulsion to be in control, and to act first, then ask questions later, his intentions were good and true. Now was not the time to get into a discussion with him over buying new premises for New Again, or to succumb to the ever-present niggling itch to ask him questions. More questions about his past. About prison. About his rift with his family. About his bloody ex, Clara, whom she simply could not make herself think about without animosity, even though Lizzie usually tried to give just about anybody the benefit of the doubt.

She put aside her cup, and leaned in towards him, touching his handsome face, now a little kissed by the sun, and cradling his cheek. When he set his own cup on the table, she plunged in, kissing him hard on the lips. It was
complicated to put into words what she felt, but with a kiss, she could say just about anything. He slid his arms around her, responding but letting her lead, for now. She tasted tea and a hint of lemon from the cake as she slipped her tongue into his mouth, exploring.

Pushing him back onto the long, low sofa, she half climbed on top of him, still kissing, and digging her fingers into his golden hair, loving its silkiness and the way it curled in a wild, youthful way. She smothered his face with kisses, and slid a hand down his body, to find him hard, inevitably, risen to her in the space of seconds. For just a heartbeat, she hesitated. What if someone came into the room? Mrs Thursgood, or Mary? But then, she relaxed again. She would have to learn to live with this, and trust that the people who worked for John, and for her, were no fools, and also the very souls of discretion. They knew that their employers needed to be left alone like this, because they were new lovers, and … well … they were likely to get frisky quite a lot, and very often.

This was the new reality, but in this thing at least, it wasn’t any different to the old reality. She would often want John, and he would often want her.

Breathless, she pulled a little way away from him, and was rewarded by that smile, that beautiful, evocative ‘I want you’ smile. The gilded grin that went with the hard knot of his erection, pushing up against her belly.

‘What did I tell you?’ he said softly, reaching up, digging his hand into her hair as it trailed over him, like an inky curtain. ‘And you haven’t even had a slice of cake yet.’

‘Ooh, that lovely cake,’ she said with a sigh. John was infinitely more delicious to her, but Mrs Thursgood’s lemon drizzle cake was almost as addictive in a different
kind of way. Lizzie straightened up, a knee on either side of his pelvis, and one foot on the floor. Lowering herself across his bulging groin, she reached for her cake, broke off a piece, and nibbled it. ‘Glorious,’ she purred. The sharp but sweet flavour was divine, and so was the erection pressing against her. She took another bite, and massaged John with her crotch.

‘Indeed,’ he agreed, his eyes narrowing salaciously. She licked crumbs from her lower lip, and could have sworn his cock kicked against her. ‘Have some more.’

As she broke off some more cake and conveyed it to her lips, John reached for the zip of her trousers and whizzed it down. While she was still chewing the divine confection, he crooked his wrist and wiggled his hand inside her trousers and her underwear both, burrowing unerringly between her sex lips. ‘Glorious,’ he said softly, finding her clit.

She started to ride his hand, but he said, ‘Uh oh, concentrate on your cake. Mrs Thursgood would be disappointed to know you weren’t fully savouring the results of her hard work.’

‘But, John,’ she protested, the words devolving into a demi-groan as he rubbed her with his fingers, working her clitoris firmly but with tenderness.

‘But nothing,’ he replied, steel in his voice.

Rocking against him, squashing his hand between his crotch and her pussy, Lizzie obeyed him, eating a little more cake, trying to concentrate, and to taste it. Her senses were awhirl. It was like a crossed circuit inside her brain; the intersection of two pleasures was making her feel dizzy. Lemon sweetness filled her mouth, while her sex was overtaken by gathering, gouging need, the assembling of pleasure and orgasm. John’s fingers were remorseless,
taxing her hard with a rough circular action one moment, the next minute rubbing back and forth.

‘Oh John,’ she gasped, aching for completion, bearing down.

But instead, he said, ‘Hup!’ and as she lifted, wild with frustration, he twisted his wrist again, reconfiguring his contact with her, and pushed two fingers into her vagina, while squashing his thumb mercilessly against her clit. Then he gripped, not cruelly, but with a wicked assertion, that thumb doing just the trick she was dying for.

Cake forgotten, Lizzie clapped a hand over her mouth, suppressing her cries as orgasm spiralled down through her, finding its ignition point where his hand cupped her crotch. She tossed her head, her hair flying around her as her flesh clamped down on him, pulsing in waves, rippling around his fingers. Still fighting to contain her voice, in this house full of people, she pitched forward, grabbing at the back of his neck with her free hand, and drawing their faces together, first forehead pressed to forehead, then closing, closing.

‘Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie,’ he chanted against her cheek, the scent of lemon beautiful as his breath twined with hers and his lips, settling on hers, stifled her moans.

What on earth had got into him?

John sat in his new office, staring at messages both written and digital that demanded his attention. A man like him could not go off the grid on holiday for two weeks without expecting a mountain of work to come back to.

But all he could think of was Lizzie, and how desire for her had got the better of him, both in the orangery and afterwards. He’d behaved like a randy lad – again – copping
a feel on the settee, then sneaking her away into the nearest downstairs cloakroom, to have her hurriedly, bent over the sink.

What the hell is the matter with you, man?
The whole idea of moving in together was to have time and space to make love, and to indulge in any kind of erotic play they fancied, in the comfort of a large and beautiful bedroom, a civilised, grown-up setting.

And here he was, grabbing her and rutting at the first opportunity, taking the risk of compromising her in an open part of the house, with staff around. He knew none of them would dream of intruding, and even in an emergency they’d make sure to announce their approach from a way off first. But still … He’d seduced Lizzie without thought for her sensibilities. He’d put her in danger of massive embarrassment. He’d been selfish, as usual, despite his intention not to be, and to put her feelings first, in all instances.

Fat chance of that, though. He was still waiting for the other shoe to fall in respect of the additional premises for New Again, for the bridal shop, if that was still the plan. He should have consulted Lizzie first, he knew that; but the property had cropped up, meeting the right criteria, and he just hadn’t stopped to think. He’d tasked Martin with securing it, and then making the offer to Marie Lanscombe. It’d been too good to miss, and he hadn’t wanted to interrupt Lizzie’s away-from-it-all holiday with ‘complications’. The mood at the villa had been too perfect, too hedonistic. He’d been greedy. Again.

Running his tongue over his lips, he imagined he could still taste the lemon cake, and his cock stirred, stiffening in his underwear.

Oh, how she’d been with him, though, risk of discovery or not. She hadn’t hesitated. She’d risen to his selfish demands like a beneficent goddess. Hell, really, she’d been the one to initiate it all. Despite the issues that they were exploring – his past, the changes they were both going through, the compromises, and the promise that lay ahead for them – despite all that, nothing could suppress his wild, beautiful, bold and savvy Lizzie. Nothing could put a damper on her sensual spirit, her generosity, her willingness.

They didn’t discuss the ‘L’ word much, and he still wondered whether he knew what the hell it really meant. But Lizzie showed it in everything she said and everything she did. And because she was brave, she wasn’t afraid to come out and say it freely either, goddammit.

But would she still feel the same if she knew about all this?

Messages. Ones that were nothing to do with deals and acquisitions and business.

La Condesa Sanchez de la Villareal rang.

La Condesa Sanchez de la Villareal would like you to ring her.

How many of them were there? Six? No, seven? Bland little notes on telephone message stationery headed with ‘Dalethwaite Manor’.

He could only assume she’d wheedled the Dalethwaite number out of his mother, or his sister-in-law, from Ma’s big address book of everything, that she kept in her morning room at Montcalm. He wondered what other contact information of his had been noted down by his parent; she was proud of the encyclopaedic nature of her ‘people bible’, and assiduously gathered every possible detail for everyone she knew.

Clara, I told you in New York that I was with someone now. And I told you it was serious. What is it that’s so important that you won’t leave me alone, all of sudden? And why ring Dalethwaite rather than my mobile? What point are you trying to make?

Licking his lips again, he sought the elusive taste of lemon, and from his memory he drew the sublime sensation of thrusting into Lizzie’s beautiful body as she leaned over the washbasin, grinning like a minx at him in the mirror over the sink.

His love was straightforward, not devious, and only she could help him expunge the dark memories. Only she could make him forget the pain of Clara and her emotional manipulations, and memories that still clung to him, even after all these years.

Closing the bathroom door, Lizzie padded through the little vestibule and back into the bedroom. Her bedroom. Would she ever get used to it? So spacious and comfortable. So beautifully furnished, yet somehow also homely. So tidy!

God, that was the weirdest thing of all. Would she ever get used to such neatness and order, a state that miraculously repaired itself thanks to the efforts of a superb household staff?

By the time she’d gone upstairs, all pink-faced and flurried after cavorting with John, her suitcases had been unpacked, her laundry whisked away and everything that needed hanging was hanging up in the wardrobe. All her personal items were symmetrically arranged on her dressing table, and her toiletries were similarly deployed in her bathroom.

A certain locked, leather-bound case sat innocuously on
a shelf in the wardrobe too. Lizzie grinned, wondering if Mrs Thursgood, or Mary, whichever of them had unpacked for her, knew what it contained. As John had pointed out on Lizzie’s first night here, there were some things that even the most broad-minded staff shouldn’t have to deal with. Specifically, stashes of condoms, sex toys, various leather items …

I wonder what they think is in it, Mr Smith? Surely they must speculate about what we get up to?

Speaking of getting up to things with John …

Where was he? She’d no doubt he’d come to her, even if they weren’t going to sleep together. His sleep ‘thing’ still stood between them, but they’d resolve it sooner or later, especially now she understood it better. She had to believe that.