The Heir and the Spare (23 page)

Throughout the ceremony, Devon was only vaguely aware of vows being recited, of being prompted to hand George the ring, of the minister announcing the groom may kiss his bride. Devon saw only Emilia; he could focus only on her. And for every second that she returned his gaze, he dared to hope a little more.

The wedding breakfast was held at the Stillmore residence. In the main hall, the newlyweds stood to greet their guests as they arrived.

Devon was the first in line, and intent on ignoring the whispers behind him.

“Congratulations, Lady Winsworth,” he said, kissing her hand.

“Thank you. Are you going to tell my guests who you are?” she asked in a whisper.

“And ruin their amusement as they try to guess and set wagers?” he responded.

Annabelle laughed, and also slipped a piece of paper into his hand. Looking at her questioningly, she only smiled and waved him away.

George managed to stop beaming at his wife for a second to talk to Devon and accept his congratulations.

“Thank you, best man. Do have a good time misleading my guests.”

“I shall indeed,” Devon replied with a grin.

A few moments later it was Emilia congratulating the newlyweds.

“Oh, Annabelle, your gown is so beautiful!” Emilia exclaimed. The girls embraced. “I’m so sorry, I’ve wrinkled your dress now.”

“Not at all,” Annabelle replied.

“It will be far more wrinkled later,” George murmured in a low voice, making Annabelle blush furiously.

Giving the bride’s hand a squeeze, Emilia turned to George. “Congratulations,” she said. “And I never got to properly thank you for your kindness at Cliveden. I daresay you saved my life. Annabelle is lucky to have you.”

George paused for a moment, smiled, and reached into his pocket and slipped her a piece of paper.

“What is this?” she asked, perplexed.

“Perhaps I am saving your life once again,” he replied.

“Dear niece, you are holding up the line!” Lady Palmerston said, ushering Emilia into the ballroom after flashing a grin at the newlyweds. They smiled and nodded in response.

Devon accepted a glass of champagne and slipped behind a pillar to read the note.
Meet me in the library,
a female scrawl dictated. It was signed
Emilia
.
When the opportunity presents itself . . .
he heard Lady Palmerston’s voice in his head . . .
try very hard not to be a bungling idiot.

He set his glass of champagne down, half full, stashed the note in his pocket, and made his way to the library.

Emilia told her aunt that she was going to the ladies’ retiring room. Once inside, she opened the note.
Meet me in the library,
it read. It was signed by Devon.

After one wrong turn, Emilia found the library. It was empty. The drapes were open, revealing large windows with a view to a serene garden. She stepped across the plush carpet to the settee, sat down, and folded her hands in her lap, but her nervous energy begged her to stand up again. She wandered to the large desk and leaned against it while she looked at the bookshelves lining each wall.

The door opened.

Devon closed the door behind him. The sunlight streaming into the room illuminated strands of gold in Emilia’s red hair.

“I’ve made a mistake,” Devon said. “No, not now, in coming here. I’ve made many mistakes with you, with us. But the thing is . . .” His voice trailed off, and he pushed his hair back. “The thing is . . . Oh, hell,” he muttered.

He crossed the distance between them.

Emilia felt a shiver of anticipation. And now he was standing right there, oh so close, and she could hear him breathing softly. His hand was on her waist, and just as her brain began to register the sensation, his mouth came crashing down on hers.

He was not gentle, did not go slowly, but he seemed to savor her all the same. She tasted his apology, she felt his promise everywhere. With his kiss, he told her that she was the one. And she kissed him back, telling him she was sorry, too, and that he was the one for her.

This kiss was perfect, just perfect, she thought. Needing to be closer to him, she pressed herself up against his hard chest. She slipped her arms around him. With his strong arms around her waist, he lifted her up to sit on the desk, without once taking his mouth from hers.

She cradled him between her legs, her skirts lifted and tangled. She could feel something hard pressing against her, there. Something about it made her slightly uncomfortable, but in a very new, very pleasant way. She moved against him and he groaned. Emilia caught the sound with her tongue and taunted more.

Devon slid one hand from her waist, slowly skimming along her curves, to sink into her hair. She could feel hairpins loosening, and locks of her hair falling free. Her hair-style would be ruined. She didn’t care. And she knew if this kiss continued, she might be ruined, too. But she rather felt like she was being saved.

He pulled back for a second, just to look at her. He laughed softly, pushing a wayward strand from her face. “Perfect,” he murmured.

“More,” she moaned, pulling him back to her. His lips met hers again.

This time, he went slow, delicately catching her lower lip with his. Tracing his tongue along lines, dipping in and out, teasing her desire until she just could not take it anymore.

Devon kept kissing her, not just because he wanted to, but because he could not stop. Trying to keep his touch light and trying to refrain from ripping her gown off was excruciating. But slowly, giving her the chance to say no, and offering prayers that she wouldn’t, he cupped her breasts in his hands with as gentle a pressure as he could possibly manage. She arched her back in response, sighing into his kiss, and so with her command he tugged down the bodice and traced the tip of his finger over one of the exposed pink centers.

The cool air on her naked breast mingling with the heat of his touch drew a gasp from her lips. His mouth was moving lower, feathering kisses along her neck, pausing to kiss the hollow of her throat, lower and lower still. Emilia thought he wouldn’t possibly do what she was thinking he might, what her body was hoping he might do, but . . .

Oh.
His hot mouth closed around it. He flicked the center with his tongue, and she writhed so that she could be closer, so he could do more of that positively delicious thing.

He did. And then his mouth found hers again. Emilia was thoroughly lost in his kiss. She didn’t think she would ever find her way out. She wasn’t sure if she even wanted to.

Perhaps she didn’t even have a choice.

Their kiss was broken by the unromantic sound of Lady Palmerston clearing her throat from where she stood in the doorway, with Annabelle, George, and Lady Palmerston behind her.

Emilia couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely even comprehend what was happening. Fortunately, Devon wasn’t frozen in panic. He shielded her with his body.

He then declared to the intruders that they were going to be married.

“You most certainly are,” Lady Palmerston said, assessing the scene before her.

“Finally,”
Annabelle muttered.

“Perhaps we ought to give them a moment to compose themselves,” George said, stepping forward to close the door.

“This is all happening so fast. I didn’t think, I wasn’t thinking . . .” Emilia started, once they were alone again. She stopped speaking in order to stifle a surge of panic. They were going to be married. She wasn’t sure how he felt about her. She wasn’t even sure how she felt herself. Kissing him seemed to annihilate the rational part of her brain, and now that he had stopped, she realized that she would be spending the rest of her life with this one man because of one kiss.

At least it had been a spectacular kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he said, adjusting her bodice before helping her pin up her hair. He was gentle and affectionate, and it went some way toward soothing her.

Lady Palmerston knocked and entered the room before Emilia could ask what, exactly, he was sorry for.

“We will have the wedding one week from today,” her aunt declared, standing arms akimbo before them.

“Can’t we wait a little longer?” Emilia asked. “I would like my father to be at my wedding.”

“Perhaps we ought to wait to see if Harold gives his blessing,” Devon added. That he was stalling, too, did not make Emilia feel better about this situation.

“Under the circumstances, I’m afraid it is not possible. Besides, Harold gave me leave to encourage this match.”

“I’ll get a special license,” Devon said.

“See that you do. Call tomorrow and we shall discuss the details of the wedding. Emilia, try not to look so ravished. We are going to fix your hair. It is an absolute disaster.”

Lady Palmerston started toward the door. She glanced behind her and saw that neither had moved. “Very well, I shall give you one more brief moment. I will be waiting in the hall.”

“How are you feeling?” Devon asked.

“Ravished,” she replied.

“You’ll get used to feeling that way,” he said with a slight smile.

“I’m sure I will,” she answered, feeling certain of that, but of nothing else.

And
so began the inquisition, Emilia thought, as her aunt’s drawing room filled with callers. As word of her betrothal, and to whom, spread through the ton, one could see the change in the visitors—gone were the obsequious gentlemen, and in their stead were Lady Palmerston’s competitors for the title of biggest gossip in all of England.

They came calling with the pretense of felicitations and with the hope that they would catch a glimpse of the mysterious groom, or snatch a crumb of gossip with which to regale their friends.

And as they probed and questioned, Emilia realized that some of them didn’t believe that Devon had returned. Others couldn’t fathom that she had turned down the opportunity to be a duchess.

“Miss Highhart, there is a rumor that Phillip did indeed compromise you, and that his brother is marrying you in his stead. I just thought you might like to know what the others are saying.”

“It’s not true,” Lady Palmerston said.

“Mr. Kensington and I . . .” Emilia was about to say that they were in love. And it dawned on her at that moment that he had never said those words to her. She had confessed them, in writing, on a page that was to be burned, not sent. She felt a wave of panic wash over her. What if she had made a mistake? Again? Emilia took a deep breath. She loved him, and she would love enough for both of them until he murmured those words to her.

“You were saying, Miss Highhart?”

“Mr. Kensington and I suit. We are very happy,” she said, even though she wasn’t quite sure of it.

“Where is Mr. Kensington? We’re all terribly excited to make his acquaintance.”

Emilia took another deep breath. She did not know where her fiancé was, and she was too exhausted to make up an excuse. And he should be here! Why should she have to endure the torture of incessant questions and insinuations. He had ravished her, and now he had left her to deal with the vultures of the ton alone.

“Here I am,” Devon said from the doorway, in answer to one of the caller’s questions. Emilia let out a sigh of relief. He was saving her from the inquisitors. And he was saving her from panicked thoughts that he might have changed his mind.

“You look exactly like Lord Huntley!”

“How do we know you are who you say you are?”

Emilia poured herself a cup of tea and enjoyed being out of the spotlight as all the women turned to question Devon. As the minutes ticked by, his tone of voice revealed his patience was running out. Still, they gossiped and questioned. Finally, Lady Palmerston put an end to it all, declaring they had a wedding to plan.

When the room was clear, Devon turned to Lady Palmerston. “Your butler told me to inform you that there was an urgent matter that required your attention.”

“And you waited until now to tell me?” Lady Palmerston replied, eyes narrowed in skepticism.

“I didn’t want to alarm you in front of your guests.”

“I don’t believe you at all, but I can take a hint. I will not be gone long.”

“You seem exhausted,” Devon said to Emilia once they were alone.

“I am. You only had to endure their interrogation for ten minutes. And they’ve been plaguing me for an hour with their frivolous questions about the color of my wedding gown and the location of the wedding, and if I am disappointed about not being a duchess.”

“So what color is your wedding dress?” he asked, mostly to avoid wondering if she was disappointed not to be a duchess.

“I’m not telling. I spent two hours being fitted for it yesterday, and I can look forward to another fitting tomorrow. I feel like a pincushion,” she said with a laugh.

“I might have something to make you feel better,” he said, smiling slyly.

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“This,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her. “And this,” he murmured, pulling away and retrieving a small box from his pocket that he placed in her hand.

“Oh my Lord,” she whispered after opening it. Upon a gold band was a large ruby, flanked by two diamonds of equal size. The way it sparkled was positively blinding.

“Do you like it?” he asked nervously. He had spent hours at various jewelers, searching for the perfect ring. And now she was staring at it, not really saying anything at all. She had yet to take it out of the box. “If not, we can select a different ring. Or something else,” he said.

“Oh, no. It’s just perfect.”

He took her slim little hand and slipped the ring on her finger. She held her hand up to the light, admiring the way the bauble sparkled, while he imagined her hands on his skin. He could not wait to get married. Perhaps getting caught in a compromising position was not bad at all, for if he had proposed he would have had to wait far longer than a week. As it was, he didn’t know how he would manage to wait.