The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy) (37 page)

She gasped out his name, and he groaned in reply. His mouth trailed hot hungry kisses against every inch of skin bared to him. She trembled in his arms. Shuddered. Nick's fingers played across that slick, heated skin, and he decided the time had come to show her what she was missing. To give her some of what he was aching to give her, dying to give her.

The weeks of slow seduction had taken their toll on Nick. Lust was a living, fire-breathing animal inside him. He wanted to use his mouth on her, to give her the most intimate of kisses and feast upon her until she screamed. He wanted to rip off his trousers and take her, to bury himself in her tight, wet passage and pound away the months—the years—of frustrated desire he felt for this woman alone.

But Sarah, he remembered—just barely—was a virgin. His frightened little virgin bride. She deserved better than a tumble in a darkened garden while hundreds waltzed in the ballroom only a shout away. No matter how badly he wanted it, wanted her, he couldn't do this. Not here and now, maybe not ever.

He would allow her the choice, even if it killed him.

But in the meantime, he'd give her something to think about. He slipped a finger into her weeping sheath and his thumb found that little knot of nerves. Slowly, lovingly, he worked her.

"Nick?"

"Let go, lass. Don't fight it. Give us this. You said it was my turn to remind you. Let me give you something you'll never want to forget."

Nick closed his eyes and submersed himself in the sensations available to him. Slick, satiny heat. A salty taste on his tongue. Soft, needy whimpers and the musky scent of sex. Moments later, he sent her flying. Sarah cried out as release found her and she shook in his arms like a tree in a gale.

"Yes, lass. Yes," he murmured fiercely, her satisfaction his own.

When she finally calmed, Nick cradled her gently and tenderly kissed away the tears that had slipped from her eyes to spill silently down her cheeks.

The last walls guarding his heart shattered.

From out of the pieces came the words that pride and self-preservation had kept silent.
I love you, Sarah. I love you. Don't leave me.

* * *

In the days following the engagement ball, the pace of life picked up considerably. Awnings went up on the grand flower-decked mansions of Belgravia as the gaiety of the Season shifted into full swing. Between the fashionable flower shows, luncheon engagements, appearances among the bustle of Rotten Row, visits to the theater, the opera, concerts, dinner parties, and balls, Sarah was busy with wedding preparations and trying to control Lady Pratt. The groom's mother was driving poor Charlotte to distraction.

Nick, on the other hand, was driving Sarah crazy.

After their exchange in the garden—which still had the power to bring a blush to Sarah's cheeks—the tone of their relationship had taken yet another turn. Her husband had resumed his Pillow Book entries, but rather than writing letters of seduction, he'd taken to telling her stories about his family. He wrote little snippets about his life either during his childhood or in the years since his return. Sarah enjoyed reading them, and she was happy for the view inside the family. It made her feel included.

But all in all, she rather missed the risqué letters, especially since she now had a clearer understanding of what he'd written.

Nick never referred to the incident in the garden, but then, she didn't see him all that much. His social calendar and hers seldom overlapped. Whether due to coincidence or his design, she couldn't say for certain, but she liked to think it was because of the differences in their individual pursuits. She was making wedding arrangements. He was tracking a suspected assassin—Lord Chambers.

Sarah still didn't believe Trevor had anything to do with a plot to kill the queen. The man didn't have a murderous bone in his body, despite the bloodthirsty looks he shot her husband whenever their paths had crossed since the night of Charlotte's ball. Trevor had caught her sneaking up to her room to tidy herself after her gambol in the garden with Nick, and her swollen lips and mussed appearance had left little doubt as to her activities. His pursuit of her had cooled since then, and he'd stopped paying his afternoon calls at Weston House, hence Nick's need to venture farther afield to keep track of his suspect.

Now if Sarah could do something to weed out the others who had taken his place in her parlor. What was it about these Britons anyway? Were there not enough women to go around? Why did so many feel compelled to pursue a woman whose annulment might yet take months to work its way through the legal system?

Yes, months. Perhaps even a year. After consulting with her attorney husband, Claire McBride had let Sarah in on that little fact. Sarah was still trying to figure out how to feel about that revelation. Claire claimed her difficulty in making a decision about her future was, in fact, a decision in itself. Jenny had agreed with her sister-in-law, saying if Sarah truly wanted the annulment, she'd have taken up residence someplace other than the bedroom next to Nick's.

On those rare occasions when Sarah allowed herself to think about it, she suspected they just might be right.

One of those moments when the annulment was very much on her mind occurred as she dressed one morning just a week before the wedding. Her gaze kept straying to the Pillow Book on the table beside her bed. Finally, she broke down and picked it up to read yet again Nick's entry from the night before. This one dealt neither with family nor seduction, and it touched her heart differently than any of the others.

My Dearest Sarah,

I spent an hour this afternoon playing ball with the McBride boys in the garden at Weston House. At one point, when young Bobby McBride overthrew his brother and the ball landed beneath a yew bush, they called upon me to save the day—something about trousers and dirt and their mother's happiness—by retrieving it.

While down on my hands and knees reaching for the ball, my fingers brushed the round leather surface and I found myself contemplating the nature of a sphere.

At first glance, a sphere is but a single entity—a ball, an orange, the moon in the sky. On closer study, one will see that it is, in fact, made up of an infinite number of circles. In life, those circles are home, family, friends, career... the list goes on. What those circles share is a midpoint. A common center. A common core.

I closed my hand around the ball and dragged it from beneath the bush. I sat in the grass and stared at the ball in my hand and thought of you.

Many circles make up the sphere of my life, Sarah. They have but one core.

That core is you.

Nick

Sarah sighed as she gently closed the book and returned it to the table. What exactly was he trying to say with that letter? She had a suspicion, but she shied away from the little four-letter word. The ramifications were too great, and she didn't have time to deal with them right now. "I have a wedding to arrange," she murmured.

And at last night's dinner party she'd learned of a little shop on Oxford Street that carried white grosgrain ribbon decorated with green four-leaf clovers, and she simply had to have it. She'd think of a way to use it somewhere, she felt certain.

As she made her way downstairs, she heard the rumble of masculine speech coming from the dining room. She recognized Nick's voice, and the other sounded familiar, too, though she couldn't quite place it until she entered the room.

"Good morning, Sarah," Nick said, rising from his seat at the table. "You remember Lord Kimball, don't you?"

"Of course. Welcome to Weston House, Lord Kimball. I know my husband has been anxious to speak with you."

"It's my pleasure to be here, my lady. Very much so. My trip to Ireland was..."—he paused, and his mouth twisted in a wry grin—"less than pleasant. I understand Lady Charlotte's engagement ball proved quite eventful."

Alarmed, Sarah darted a glance toward Nick. Surely he wouldn't have told about their... encounter... in the garden.

Her husband calmly poured her a cup of coffee and gestured for her to join them at the table. "I've been telling Kimball about your supper talk with Endicott."

She all but sighed aloud in relief. "I signed my house over to him last week. He sailed for home on Monday."

"Excellent. That leaves us with Lord Chambers as our only suspect."

"If such a plot even exists," Sarah said, setting down her cup. "I truly don't believe Lord Chambers would be involved in something this wicked."

Lord Kimball nodded. "You may be right, Lady Weston. My office is investigating this rumor from other directions, and as of now, we have failed to discover any information that corroborates the letter from Texas. However, in the case of bomb threats, I will pursue every warning, rumor, and whisper in the wind to its end."

The conviction in his voice gave Sarah pause. Lord Kimball had a personal stake in the matter of bombings.

His next words proved her suspicions true. "Six years ago I was slow to believe a threat that came across my desk, and as a result, a seven-year-old boy died in a bombing outside Salford Barracks. While this particular Texas connection to the Fenians is suspect, others are quite real. My recent trip to Ireland netted two criminals who admitted to a frighteningly similar plan. A third man died of wounds suffered in a knife fight with one of my detectives, who was also fatally wounded in the struggle. Until Lord Chambers is exonerated or proven guilty, he will be kept under surveillance." Turning to Weston, he added, "I trust you've taken measures to see to this?"

Nick nodded. "I've hired the best private security available. Although, now that you're back, if you can spare a man or two of yours I'd be happier. I'm not confident in these men's ability."

While Nick and the spymaster discussed the surveillance operation, Sarah checked the time displayed on the ormolu mantel clock and waited for a pause in the conversation. "If you will excuse me, I've some wedding business that needs tending."

The men stood, and Nick walked her to the door. "What are your plans for this evening?"

She thought a moment. "Lady Pratt has asked me to attend the Wainscott musicale. A cousin of hers has come to town for the wedding, and she wants to introduce us. Is there something you needed?"

"You." He smiled ruefully and gave his head a shake. "I'd like to have dinner with you tonight if at all possible. A simple meal and pleasant conversation for just the two of us. I feel the need for one peaceful evening before all the wedding madness commences."

"That sounds lovely."

"Eight o'clock?"

"I'll be here."

Sarah floated all the way to Oxford Street. She found the ribbon and bought the shopkeeper's entire stock. Then, with her dinner appointment preempting the upcoming wedding in her mind, she recalled a perfumer she'd visited last week, and decided she could spare the time for one more call.

Halfway between the ribbon shop and the perfumers, she spied a familiar figure peering at the silks and plushes displayed in Marshall and Snelgrove's side windows. At least, she thought he was looking at the fabrics. The way he moved his head made her wonder if he were actually primping in his reflection in the plate-glass windows.

Trevor Chambers always had been rather vain about his appearance.

Though her natural inclination was to greet him and exchange pleasantries, Lord Kimball's warnings of the morning caused her to hesitate. She was glad she did when, seconds later, he turned sharply away from the window and bolted toward a nearby alley. "Well," she murmured aloud. "That was certainly odd."

His motives became clear when she realized a street vendor had hurried after him. Trevor had spotted Nick's surveillance person.

His reaction bothered Sarah. Why would an innocent man act in such a manner? Maybe he wasn't as innocent as she thought. However, he could be acting guilty for a reason other than involvement in a plan to kill the queen. Maybe he was seeing a married woman, and he thought her husband was on his trail.

Sarah could certainly attest to the fact that he didn't mind courting married women.

The urge to follow the men was strong, but Sarah recognized the foolishness of the idea. If by some chance Trevor were guilty of the nefarious plot, and spying the spy had tipped him off that his secret was revealed, her former beau could be dangerous. It would be better for her to turn around and hurry home and tell Nick what she'd seen.

But she truly did want that new perfume.

Nibbling at her bottom lip, Sarah decided she wouldn't follow them. She'd simply continue on her way to the perfume shop and maybe glance down the alley as she walked past. She probably wouldn't see a thing, since they'd probably be gone by the time she reached them.

Justifications in place, Sarah resumed her walk. She made it halfway across the opening of the alley when the crash of an ash can and a human yelp of pain drew her gaze like a magnet down the passageway's narrow, murky length. At first she spied nothing more than spilling shadows, then as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, what she saw made her gasp in shock.

Trevor and the man were wrestling on the ground. Over a knife. They rolled in the muck, both of them grunting with exertion, turning the air blue with their curses and the cobbles beneath them red with blood. Sarah couldn't tell which man was wounded. Maybe both were.