The Bride of Larkspear
Table of Contents
About A Gentleman of Indiscretion
Extras
-Excerpt from
Tempting the Bride
Foreword
T
HE
B
RIDE OF
L
ARKSPEAR
STARTED
as a story within a story, an erotic manuscript given by David Hillsborough, Viscount Hastings, to Miss Helena Fitzhugh, both of whom feature prominently in the Fitzhugh trilogy, three interconnected novels by Sherry Thomas.
Lord Hastings and Miss Fitzhugh have long had an antagonistic relationship. But unbeknownst to Miss Fitzhugh, Lord Hastings loves her. She, on the other hand, is in love with a most unsuitable gentleman.
Lord Hastings comes to fear that she will ruin herself over said gentleman. Should that happen, he would, of course, step in, offer his hand in marriage, and save her from being cast out by Society. And she would, if only for the sake of her family, accept him.
The prospect of such a marriage of necessity, with Miss Fitzhugh certain to be unhappy and he himself perhaps no less miserable, troubles him. And it is his fear—and his unvoiced hopes—that compels him to write this story.
(At some point in the future, Lord Hastings will learn, much to his surprise, that Miss Fitzhugh is still a virgin. But at the time of the writing of
Larkspear
, he is of the belief that she is experienced in carnal matters.)
Chapter One
1896, England
I
SHALL BEGIN WITH A DESCRIPTION
of the bed, for one must make the setting of a book clear from the first line. It is a bed with a pedigree. Kings have slept on it, noblemen have gone to their deaths, and brides beyond count have learned, at last, why their mothers ask them to “think of England.”
Tonight another bride will receive her lord and husband on this bed in the manner ordained by God.
My
bride, the woman I have desired for nearly half of my life.
The bedstead is constructed of oak, heavy, stout, almost indestructible. Pillars rise from the four corners to support a frame on which hang heavy curtains in winter. But it is not winter; the heavy beddings remain in their cedar chests. Upon the feather mattresses are spread only sheets of French linen, as decadent as Baudelaire’s verses.
Fine French linen is not so difficult to come by these days. And beds with pedigrees are still only furniture. What distinguishes this bed is the woman standing next to it—her back against one of the excessively sturdy bedposts, her wrists tied behind.
This being a work of Eros, she is, of course, naked.
My bride does not look at me. She is determined, as ever, to shunt me to the periphery of her existence, even on this, our wedding night.
I touch her. Her skin is as cool as marble, the flesh beneath firm and resilient. My hand on her chin, I turn her face to look into her eyes, haughty eyes that have scorned me for as long as I remember.
“Why are my hands tied?” she murmurs. “Are you afraid of them?”
“Of course,” I reply. “A man who stalks a lioness should ever be wary.”
A lioness—the way I always think of her, a creature of power and danger.
Earlier in the day she had been dazed, her eyes almost vacant, as we went through the motions of the hasty wedding ceremony that bonded us as husband and wife. It was as if she could not believe that her life had taken this particular turn, this disastrous plunge into the abyss.
But now that we are alone, in the midst of one of the most pivotal encounters of our lives, she has chosen to display neither hesitation nor fear. Instead her eyes glitter with calculation, as if assessing how she might turn being tied to a bedpost into an advantage for
her
.
“And what does that man do when he has caught said lioness and put her in her cage?”
It is high summer, but a fire has been lit in the grate. Her skin glows in the firelight. I brush aside a coppery strand of hair that has fallen before her eyes. “He teaches her that captivity can be wonderfully enjoyable—and trains her to become a tame house cat, a sweet, willing little pussy.”
Her eyes narrow at my not-so-subtle double entendre. “Lionesses do not become house cats—or have you not heard?”
My hand travels down and skims her rib cage. Her gaze follows my touch intently. As my knuckles brush the side of her breast, she shivers.
“Why belittle your ability to change?” I ask. “It is only your first hour of captivity.”
That we are sparring heartens me. We had spoken barely two words to each other during the rail journey to Larkspear Manor. She stared out of the window and I had pretended to be interested in my newspaper. I have a habit of needling her, but suffocating inside our rail compartment, I could find no lighthearted words to ease the tension, nor enough cruelty to remind her that had she listened to my advice and been more prudent in her conduct, she would not have needed to marry me to avoid being cast out.
She had been similarly silent and stoic as we dined underneath a thirty-foot-high ceiling, at two ends of a table so long we might as well have been on opposite shores of the English Channel. That resignation had remained in place even as I’d disrobed her, exposing her beautiful body inch by inch.
But now that I’ve tethered her to a bedpost, the lioness has reawakened.
“Surely you don’t take me for a silly female who doesn’t know her duties. You will have everything from me that a wife owes her husband.” Her tone is light, but there is a challenge to her voice. “Or is this the only way you can get other women to sleep with you?”
I smile in genuine amusement at her charge. “Do you want it to be the case, my dear? Would that make our wedding night more exciting?”
She pitches a haughty brow. “Can anything make a tonsillectomy more exciting?”
I rest my hand at the indentation of her waist. “How about when you find out that you won’t be getting a tonsillectomy, but instead a most pleasurable night of lovemaking?”
“And do you expect that by the end of this magical night,” she answers in a sardonic, yet almost seductive whisper, “I will have turned into your pet, your sweet, willing little pussy?”
Her words, her insolence, her soft, rosy lips as they move in speech—lust swells in my blood.
“Yes.” I step closer, my lips nearly caressing the shell of her ear. “Maybe not by tomorrow morning, but by the end of the week, you will be thinking of my lovemaking day and night.”
I do not feel quite as confident as I sound. But if this is a battle, then I might as well approach it as the ancient Greeks did, with much boasting of victories to come before a single chariot had been unleashed.
My bravado is not without its intended effect: The pulse at her throat accelerates; her breasts rise and fall with greater rapidity.
I am reminded of the one time we kissed, six months ago. She’d panted afterward, entirely out of breath, even as she glared at me.
I want to make her pant again. I want to make her lose herself entirely.
Perhaps she intuits my intentions, for she inhales sharply. “You are a pervert, Larkspear.”
I bite gently on her earlobe. “And you are just the sort of woman to appreciate one, Lady Larkspear, whether you realize it or not.”
Her nipples tighten. Now I am the one to lose my breath. My lust threatens to burn out of control, like a forest fire in the midst of a windstorm.
“Don’t be so excited for me,” I murmur. “You will make it less fun to prove that you have wanted me all along.”
“You cannot prove what doesn’t exist, Larkspear.”
It isn’t easy to tear my gaze away from those thrusting, gorgeous nipples, but I raise my eyes to hers. Familiar ground, this sort of verbal skirmish, even if this is our first time at it with one of us naked. But the engagement is an old one—we have been putting each other down with such speech for years. And for all the apparent fireworks it generates, I must still measure the distance between our hearts in light-years.
The time has come to break the cycle.
“Fortunately that is not my task here, which is only to prove the existence of something that you choose not to acknowledge.”
She tosses her head. A strand of her hair strikes me across my cheek. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
That is what I would love to prove to be true, but I do not inform her of my doubts. Instead, I hold out my hand and make as if to touch one nipple, but stop a fraction of an inch short. She half gasps, her eyes fastened to the sight of my fingers not quite fondling her.
“No,” I answer. “It’s what your body tells me.”
I settle my hand between her breasts and trace a line up along her sternum, lightly caressing her throat as I make my way to her lips. My thumb pulls down her bottom lip, revealing her small white teeth. Her breaths, rapid and shallow, tickle my hand. A flush spreads beneath her skin. Her eyes, raised to mine, darken—her pupils were dilating.
I lean in—and barely restrain myself from kissing her. This is not the time to betray my own sentiments, but to force a reaction from her so enormous and unmistakable that she will have no choice but to see me in a different light.
Our lips almost but do not touch. The timing of our breathing somehow aligns; we inhale and exhale with the exact same agitated rhythm. My eyes never leaving hers, I roll her nipple between my thumb and index finger.
Her eyelids flutter. Her toes dig into the Persian carpet. And behind her back, reflected in a mirror on the far wall of the room, her hands clench. I am unbearably aroused by her involuntary reactions.
I slide my palm across her nipple. Her lips part and quiver, her face the exquisite grimace of a woman trying not to moan aloud. My cock is as hard as a cricket bat, my heart aflutter with a nervous thrill: When I touch her, she cannot ignore me.
I lift her breast and bend close. “‘With my body I thee worship’—did not my vows thus command me?”
She trembles at the sensations caused by my breath. I lick her nipple, sweet and satiny upon my tongue, erect with her body’s interest in mine.
I look back at her face, even as I slide my tongue over her nipple. Her eyes are shut tight, her teeth gritted. But as soon as she senses my attention on her, she opens her eyes and stares back at me, refusing to acknowledge that anything I do can possibly have a significant effect on her.
I insert my hand between her thighs. She jerks but holds my gaze.
“You have beautiful eyes,” I tell her, intoxicated with my new powers. “It’s like looking into the heart of a galaxy.”
I regret my words immediately—they are too much those of a besotted man. A besotted man I am—and have long been—but I refuse to let it be known until her heart is mine. My pride cannot allow any other course of action.
Her reaction is one of suspicion: She fully anticipates that I will follow my compliment with something snide, possibly nasty. I have only myself to blame for her distrust: Instead of confessing the contents of my heart, at every turn I have insulted and slighted her, believing that any reaction from her was better than none at all.
