The Major's Faux Fiancee (19 page)

“Whatever happens between us…” she began, whilst fervently hoping everything that could happen,
did
. “You are officially a free man.”

He stepped back, frowning. “What do you mean?”

She bit her lip. “Did you bring the betrothal contract, as I requested?”

He gestured toward one of the tea tables. “It’s over there.”

The table he’d indicated was laden with roses and Queen Anne’s lace.

She peered up at him shyly. “You brought flowers?”

He lifted a shoulder. “It’s your birthday. All those roses were cluttering up my garden rather awfully, so I thought—”

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Do you even have a garden?”

He widened his eyes, the very picture of innocence. “Not anymore. Everything I had is over there on your tea table.”

Her lips quirked. “That was very thoughtful. The flowers are lovely. I do thank you for digging up your garden for me.”

“It’ll grow back.” He waved a careless hand. “Try not to have another birthday until next year.”

Until next year
.

Daphne’s smile fell. No more teasing. Next year, the months they’d shared together would only be a memory. It was past time to let him know.

“The bank finalized my inheritance.” Her voice was low and surprisingly calm, given the turbulence she felt inside. Once Bartholomew realized he need not playact any longer, there would be no reason to stay… except for her.

“Your finances are in order?” His eyes were shuttered, his face unreadable. “Then it is a very happy birthday, indeed.”

She nodded. Or meant to. She’d achieved precisely what she’d hoped for. So why did she feel torn in two directions at once?

“I am much relieved,” she said. “My portion is what I thought it would be. Not enough to rub shoulders with high society, of course, but more than enough to meet my simple needs.”

“Congratulations. You can finally tell that pirate cousin of yours to shove off.” He reached inside the breast of his tailcoat and removed a tightly rolled document. “I presume that’s why you asked me to bring this?”

“Yes. This morning, I received…” Suddenly realizing her hands were empty, her gaze darted about the parlor until she spied a corner of parchment protruding from beneath one of the chairs. The betrothal contract must have fluttered from her fingers during their heated kiss. She knelt to retrieve the fallen document and handed it to Bartholomew. “My father’s servants managed to liberate Captain Steele’s copy. I thought we might toss them into the fire together.”

Bartholomew didn’t exhale with relief at the end of their charade, nor did he laugh merrily at the servants’ ingenuity or the arrogant pirate’s certain disgruntlement once he discovered he hadn’t been as clever as he’d thought. Instead, Bartholomew simply handed back the captain’s copy and motioned toward the hearth. “After you.”

She gave a determined smile and strode up to the low iron grate. Lazy orange flames licked upward from a jumble of charred logs, warming her cheeks and fingers with their heat. She held the corner of the contract up over the grate, where it would be sure to fall into the flames. The lowest corner of the parchment instantly began to brown from the heat.

“Ready?”

In a single breath, Bartholomew was next to her, holding his own copy of the contract above the flames. Because it had been rolled, the edges curved inward, but it too would tumble directly into the fire.

He gave a sharp nod. “Ready.”

“To freedom,” she whispered, and released the parchment.

Bartholomew met her eyes as he let go of his copy. “To Daphne.”

The fire crackled and snapped as it hungrily consumed the new offerings. In seconds, both documents had browned, burned, and scattered as ash.

“It’s truly over. All of it.” She turned to smile up at him. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

He sketched a bow. “I am ever your servant.”

“If there is ever anything I can do for you…” Her voice trailed off. She cursed her awkwardness. That was not what she’d meant. She’d invited him in the hopes he would stay for a seduction and instead, she’d made it sound like good-bye. “The worst part about ending our sham relationship is that we no longer have any reason to—”

“No,” he interrupted, his blue eyes intense. “The
best
part about ending a sham relationship is that you’ll know for certain that what I’m about to do is because I wish to, and not for any other motive.”

Hope filled her. “What are you about to do?”

“This.” He hauled her against him and covered her mouth with his.

Elated, she wrapped her arms about his neck as she kissed him back, letting him feel with every lick, every nibble, every kiss just how much she wanted him, too.

She loved him even more for this, although she knew better than to say so and risk him walking away. They’d made each other no promises. Their betrothal contract was nothing more than a smudge of ash.

But even though their paths would diverge on the morrow, this was no idle coupling. She would love him passionately with her heart, her mind, and her body, just as she would if he were her husband. Hers to have and to hold. Hers to keep. If only for tonight.

She ripped his cravat from his neck. He unbuttoned her gown without breaking their kiss. His fingers were tender, his mouth urgent. Cool air whispered down her spine as he unlaced her stays and tossed them aside.

When his fingertips grazed her hardened nipples through the thin layer of linen, she shivered at the delicious sensation.

His mouth broke from hers. “Daphne. Are you certain?”

“I want it all,” she murmured against his lips, pushing her gown and chemise off her shoulders so that they puddled onto the floor, baring her body before him. “I want
you
.”

He swung her into his arms and over to the chaise longue, where he lay down beside her and slanted his mouth over hers.

She drank him in greedily. The chill on her flesh from the exposed air evaporated the moment his warm hand splayed against her ribs. Her breasts seemed to swell in anticipation of his touch, every inch of her body alive and tingling with expectation. Her heart swelled. She hadn’t been waiting to make love. She’d been waiting for
him
.

When at last he cupped her breast, she knew she was lost. As his fingers rolled across the peak of her nipple, toying, teasing, an answering tension surged between her legs, a sharp yearning unlike anything she had ever imagined.

He lowered his mouth to her breast and slid his fingers down her stomach to the cleft between her legs. Pleasure shot through her.

Her head fell back against the pillows, her eyelids fluttering in bliss at the twin sensations. She arched her breast into his mouth, let her thighs fall open to give him greater access. Longing stabbed through her as his fingertips stroked and dipped, teasing her with hints of the ecstasy to come.

As much as she wanted this—wanted
him
—a growing part of her desperately wished that it
could
be forever. That he could truly be hers.

“Bartholomew…” she whispered.

He slid two fingers inside her and conscious thought vanished. The pad of his thumb swirled against her slick nub as his fingers surged within her. She could barely breathe at the onslaught of sensation.

Her legs began to tremble as the pressure built to a crescendo, then burst in waves of pleasure. She grasped his hair with both hands, clutching his mouth to her breast as her inner muscles contracted around his fingers with delicious abandon.

When at last the tremors ceased, he slid his fingers from between her legs and covered her mouth with fevered kisses. Her heart warmed. This was only the beginning.

“Make love to me.” She tugged impatiently at the shoulders of his tailcoat, suddenly cognizant that she was completely nude and he was completely clothed. She yearned to feel the heat of his flesh against hers. Two bodies, two souls, with nothing between them. She reached for the buttons of his tailcoat. “Bartholomew, make love to me.”

He lifted his hips up off the chaise and slid his hand between their bodies. Rather than unbutton his waistcoat, however, he simply unfastened the fall of his breeches. As he settled his hips atop hers, the hard length of his shaft fell perfectly against the wet heat between her legs.

She frowned and tried to prop herself up on her elbows. “What are you doing?”

He tugged her lower lip between his teeth and smiled. “Making love to you. Just like you asked.”

She shook her head with frustration. “
Not
like I asked. I want you to make
love
to me.”

“Happily.” He reached between them and guided his shaft toward her core.

This was it. This was all he was willing to share. As close as he was willing to get. Disappointment flooded her, erasing all the pleasure of the moments before and leaving her with nothing but a great, yawning emptiness.

This wasn’t making love. This was him, fully clothed, already planning to leave her. Just like he left everyone. Just like everyone always left her.

If she let him.

The sudden shove to his solar plexus caught Bartholomew off guard. He grabbed the back of the chaise in order to keep from tumbling arse-first onto the carpet.

Daphne no longer looked like she wanted to make love. She looked like she wanted to kill him.

He refastened his breeches for safety. “You said you wanted—”

“Not like
this
.” Her voice broke.

The disillusionment in her eyes cut him to his soul. He realized she wasn’t angry with him. He’d hurt her. He just wasn’t sure how. “Daphne…”

“
Look
at you,” she hissed, her eyes welling with tears.

Look at him? His smile felt brittle.

It had come to this. He didn’t have to look at himself to know what a prize he wasn’t.

The body he’d once taken for granted was now broken and scarred. Incomplete. Even if he’d had the foresight to put out the fire and extinguish every candle, there was no hiding the truth. He didn’t deserve her.

And he’d never loved anyone more in his entire life.

He tried to put his arms around her, to show her with his embrace that he loved her with all of his heart, even if he no longer possessed all of his body.

She shoved him off the chaise.

The breath whooshed out of him as his head hit the floor. Heat raced up his neck. She’d taken advantage of his lack of balance and
pushed
him. As if he were of no substance at all. His fingers shook with embarrassment.

By the time he rolled to his knees, she was on her feet and snatching her chemise and gown from the floor. Their interlude was over. It had gone even worse than he’d feared.

Perhaps there was still a chance to save it.

He brushed off his breeches and faced her. “Are you going to tell me what the matter is?”

She swung her head to look at him, mouth open in disbelief. “Me? Are
you
going to tell me what the problem is? I am naked before you.
Naked
. Begging you to make love to me. And all you do is unbutton the fall of your breeches—”

“Actually a key step in the lovemaking process,” he murmured.

“A
step
, not the entire journey.” Her eyes flashed as she yanked her chemise over her trembling body. “Making love is something two people do together. Equally. I’m not going to bare myself to you and let you tup me like I’m a penny whore. I’d rather hoped we could tear each
other’s
clothing off.”

“I’m not disrobing in front of you. Now or ever,” he snapped. “Even my valet doesn’t see me naked. It’s nothing personal.”

A frown flickered across her forehead as if neither of those situations had ever occurred to her. She turned away and slipped her gown back on before facing him again.

“Making love
is
personal,” she said stiffly. “At least to me. I’m not your valet, and I’m not some two-bit strumpet who doesn’t care a button about intimacy or if she’ll ever see you again. Either we both are naked, or no one shall be. And it appears I am no one.”

He grabbed her hand and pressed her palm against his thudding heart. “When I first arrived, your fingers brushed against a folded paper in my breast pocket. Do you know what it is?”

She tugged at her fingers then glared at him when he didn’t release his hold. “My letter, I suppose? Requesting you come burn that horrid contract?”

“No.” He released his hold. This was not at all how he’d wanted the evening to go. “I’ve never wanted you to be temporary, Daphne. These weeks with you have been the happiest of my life. I
love
you. I was rather hoping you’d do me the honor of being my wife.”

He handed her the folded document, his heart in his eyes.

She opened the parchment without looking at him.

From this angle, he couldn’t read the scripted words. Not that it mattered. He already knew what each line said. He ought to. He’d rewritten them dozens of times.

The first draft had read:

BETROTHAL CONTRACT

I, Bartholomew Blackpool, enter willingly and joyfully into a betrothal with Miss Daphne Vaughan. What is mine, is hers.

I pledge to be faithful and loyal. Loving and kind. Joyful and tender. Smitten, until our dying day.

My money is hers to spend. My time is hers to command. My life is hers to share. My love is hers to keep. She already owns my heart.

Signed,

Bartholomew Blackpool

Obviously, it wouldn’t do. It was too poetic. Too embarrassingly honest. It appealed to emotions he wasn’t certain she shared, rather than to the intelligent mind she preferred over her heart. Daphne was too pragmatic for love. She needed to see how
practical
a union with him would be.

He had regained enough of his old confidence that risking the loss of the
ton
’s good opinion no longer concerned him. Losing Daphne, on the other hand, was the one rejection he wasn’t willing to risk. The odds were already against him. She intended to remain unwed. He might only have one chance to change her logical, goal-oriented mind.

After hours of tossing crumpled drafts into the fire, he finally settled upon:

BETROTHAL CONTRACT

I, Bartholomew Blackpool, enter willingly into a betrothal with Miss Daphne Vaughan. I pledge to aid her in her endeavors and be an exemplary husband in all things.

Anything she needs, she shall receive. Anything she desires, she shall have. Her money remains hers. Her time remains hers. Her freedom remains hers.

She and her charity work shall have the full support of my staff, my acquaintances, and myself whenever she has need of us, and complete autonomy when she does not.

Signed,

Bartholomew Blackpool

He held his breath while she finished reading.

She glanced up at him with empty eyes and tossed it directly into the fire.

His hopes plummeted.

“
Words
,” she spat. “You obviously don’t mean them.”

He reached for her hands, desperation coursing through him. “They’re not just words. They’re true. We would make a formidable couple. It’s an advantageous proposition.”

“‘Anything she desires, she shall have?’” she quoted, her tone mocking. “I hold nothing. You won’t even make love to me properly.”

“My love…” Bartholomew felt like his whole world was crumbling to ash. Just like the betrothal contracts in the fire. He had hoped to woo her with romance. With pragmatism. Anything but cold disdain. “Please listen to me. You hold my heart in your hands.”

Her eyes were wild, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You were still wearing your boots and your tailcoat. Give me one good reason why anyone would ‘make love’ in the privacy of a home, wearing boots and a tailcoat.”

“You can’t possibly understand.” His neck heated. “My leg—”

She shoved his chest. “Your leg isn’t everything, Bartholomew! Your leg isn’t
anything
.”

He shook his head. “You have no idea how unsightly—”

“You have no idea how much I don’t
care
.” She swept up his cravat and tossed it at his chest. “Your leg is not
you
. Do you know how often I think about your prosthesis? Never. That’s how often. I don’t worry about it, I don’t think about it, I don’t care one button.” She grabbed her stays up off the floor. “How often do you think about my spectacles? Do you fret when I misplace them and cannot read a word?”

“What?” He blinked at the sudden change in topic. “I don’t really notice when you’re wearing them or not. Your spectacles have nothing to do with who you
are
.”

“Neither does your prosthesis. The End.” She made a disgusted expression and turned toward the exit. “There are people out there with real problems. You’re no longer one of them.”

He clenched his cravat in his fist. “Tip-top condition, am I? Take a closer look. I’m scarcely
fine
.” He bounced his ruined knee to make the ankle joint clap. “If I keep myself hidden, it’s for a reason.”

Daphne unlocked the parlor door, then cast a long, pensive glance at him over her shoulder. “The only person who thinks you a lesser man is
you
.” Her lips tightened into a line. “Until you can give a woman everything you still
are
… Well. I wouldn’t sign any more betrothal contracts.”

She quit the room without another word.