Tonight or Never (9 page)

"John!" She struggled in his protective embrace.

"Easy, sweet.
I'm just taking you home."

Then why did his voice still have that hint of seduction in it?
Were his teeth nibbling on her earlobe
? Chloe froze in his lap.

It was at that point she realized he was going to have to marry her right away. For it wouldn't be long before he either saw through her ruse to her inexperience or the rogue seduced her.

"Now which way was home?" His mouth teased at her ear. Hot breath skittered down the side of her neck, leaving tingles in its wake. "Guess I'll have to take my chances and hope I find the way… eventually."

Chloe steeled herself for a long, torturous ride.

By the time they arrived back at the house—the trip taking much longer than it should have—Chloe was convinced she was right.

How to accomplish the deed swiftly was the problem.

Once again, it was Maurice who came to her rescue.

Apparently the marquis decided to take himself on a viscount hunt. That very day, he announced to John that he had procured a special license for them; they could be wed immediately. In fact, he told them the countess was already making the arrangements.

Lord John had been bagged.

Chapter Four

The Absurdity Begins

The marriage was to take place just before noon today on the estate.

At least, that was according to Sir Percy, who had diligently informed John late last evening of the time, place, and date of his own wedding.

John had no doubt whatsoever that the information was accurate, considering its impeccable source.

He fumed silently as he gazed out his bedroom window to the grounds below. The thought that this would soon no longer be his bedroom briefly crossed his mind.

His would be the master suite, with all the responsibility such accommodations entailed.

His nostrils flared.

It was not that he objected to wedding Chloe. In truth, now that he had gotten used to the idea, it sat rather well with him. What perturbed him was the speed with which everyone was moving to make sure it became a reality.

Yesterday, when he had ridden up to the house with Chloe, Maurice had been waiting for them. His uncle had taken one look at the way he had been cuddling Chloe on his lap, and delivered an ultimatum in the form of a very pointed stare.

The silent message he sent was clear:
Get your name on her before you cause a scandal
.

Ordinarily, his uncle had a tendency to overlook infamy. In this case, however, he was drawing the line.

Right across John's… foot.

At the time, John had acknowledged the challenge with a quirk of his eyebrow. He made especially sure to lower Chloe to the steps extremely slowly.

That was when Maurice had informed his nephew of the special license. Saying nothing, John had simply turned his horse toward the stables. It was a calculated stance, neither assenting nor dissenting.

Despite being irked that his uncle sought to take matters into his own hands, John recognized the simple truth. Regardless of what anyone believed, he was going to marry Chloe. If it made his uncle feel better to conclude he was controlling the situation, then so what? The fact of the matter was that John never did anything unless it was his own
desire
.

Wedding Chloe had become a desire.

Desire led to certain other thoughts. His imagination began to work on the evening's possibilities…

On the drive below him, a coach and four suddenly careened around the bend on two wheels, narrowly missing a servant girl.

John swore under his breath. It was the fifth time today they had almost lost a member of the staff to the traffic.

Somehow, word of his marriage had gotten out.

He could just imagine what was being bandied about.
Did you hear? The infamous Lord of Sex is getting married! What delicious thing could have precipitated such an unlikely event
?

Yes, that was what they were saying.

The proof was in the pudding.

Since early this morning, coaches, hacks, landaus, phaetons, gigs, barouches, and curricles had been making a demented dash for
Chacun
à
Son
Goût
. The ton was descending in all its mad glory.

The unannounced arrival of "the upper ten thousand" had sent the household into a frenzy of activity.

Excuses for their unannounced, uninvited, unwelcome appearances—which he had overheard before making himself scarce—had been laughable:

We were in the area and we thought we'd stop in for a quick visit.

Our coachman lost his way; might we impose on you for a few days?

Heard you were ill, Countess, and came immediately…

The ridiculous pretenses went on and on.

In the midst of all this, the countess had declared a
Fonbeaulard
custom and taken herself off to the conservatory garden, claiming she had to make an herbal posy for her granddaughter's wedding.
Some nonsense about the herbs ensuring a virile groom.

As if he needed that.

Poor Chloe had been pressed into service and was valiantly trying to find rooms for everyone while fielding impertinent questions about their intimate relationship. Some had even extended their condolences.

Good-naturedly, John had offered to rescue her by stealing her off to
Gretna Green so they could "go over the anvil."

Chloe had quipped that the Lord of Sex had only himself to blame for the furor the news caused—if his reputation hadn't been so noteworthy, none of this would have occurred. Therefore, she admonished with a shake of her finger and a reluctant grin, he'd best own up to the notoriety.

She had the right of it there, he supposed.

Besides, she had looked rather adorable rushing around the house, blowing the hair off her forehead, muttering under her breath in French. His sensuous lips twitched. It wouldn't be long before the hoyden took herself off to the back of her armoire to vent steam.

He couldn't count the number of times in the past he had gone searching for her, only to pass by the commodious piece of furniture, and hear French invectives issuing forth from behind the wooden panel.

Apparently the
Fonbeaulard
women did not air their dissatisfactions to the outside world.

They preferred to vent spleen on mahogany. Naturally, one would overlook a piece of furniture that had a disgruntled voice spewing from inside it! He chuckled. Chloe could be so enchanting—

A different voice reached him from the corridor outside his room. It was the noncommittal grunt of
Deiter
. This was not so enchanting.

"… Do not tell me you intend to appear at the wedding dressed entirely in black!"

That disdainful voice plagued his nightmares; it belonged to Sir Percy.

"It is just not done, my man!"

"It is acceptable,"
Deiter
grumbled.

A shriek of dismay issued forth.

John winced. He could almost hear Percy clutch the wall for support.

"Nothing is
so
unacceptable as something that is simply acceptable!" A
tsk-tsk
followed. "Where is your sense of style
? '
T won't do!"

John rolled his eyes. He almost felt sympathy for
Deiter
; Percy had fixed his fashion sights on him.

"What is wrong with clothes I wear?" The fierce voice held a snarl, the Germanic accent heavier than usual. Schnapps echoed the snarl.
In German.
Voof
!

Percy was undaunted by the ranks. "Well! Don't take my opinion! Who am I? I only happen to have the ear of the king."

A skeptical snort followed this declaration. "Your king suffers from bouts of madness."

There was a pause. John supposed one couldn't argue with that. "… Very well, let us ask Lord Sexton's opinion on the matter…"

John's eyes widened.
Bother it
!

The voices got closer.

Oh, no, you don't
. John scanned the room for a means of escape. He had no intention of being waylaid by the two of them.

Fortunately, he was an expert at escaping bedrooms. Half the husbands of the ton knew that.

Under the bed?
No, too obvious.

In the wardrobe?
Could be risky.

Behind the curtains?
Lacked finesse.

The balcony
.
Unlatching the doors, he dashed outside on the ledge,
reclosing
them just as the door to his room swung open. Sir Percy never knocked, considering it his God-given right to enter at will.

"John!" Footsteps traversed the room.

Lord Sexton flattened himself against the outside wall. "I say, I could have sworn I saw him come in here earlier."

More footsteps.

"Well, doesn't matter… look here,
Deiter
; this is what I mean."

John heard the sound of his wardrobe being opened. He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth.
Just as I surmised
—
too risky
.

Percy began rummaging through the contents. "Perfect! Try this on."

On guard, John carefully peered around the corner through the glass doors. The sight that confronted him made him grind his teeth.
That's my favorite waistcoat, damn it
!

Deiter
reluctantly tried on the gold satin garment. The shoulders swam on him and the waist wouldn't button.

"Here; allow me." Percy went to stand in front of the German. Taking both sides of the waistcoat in his hands, he gave a sharp tug, quickly buttoning the bottom button before
Deiter
could exhale.

Even out on the balcony, John heard the sharp ripping sound.

It appeared the back stitches had liberated themselves from the tyranny of the seams.

John's palm slammed silently against the brick masonry.

"Now see what we have here…" Percy, overlooking the rents in the back of the garment, turned
Deiter
toward the carved mirror on the wall.

Deiter
stared at himself in the mirror, giving a circumspect grunt.

"Do you not see the difference?" Percy circled his hand in the air with a flourish. "Notice how the color brings out the highlights in your hair."

Highlights
?
John shook his head to clear it.
What flummery
! The man's hair was
pitch
black.

Deiter
lifted a bushy brow as he inspected his image.

"And see how the tone gives you a forceful presence? Gold is, as everyone knows, the monetary standard that upholds nations!"

John's eyes crossed.
Give me strength
.

Stranger still, as
Deiter
continued to examine his reflection, the somber man began to actually preen.

Percy patted his shoulders. "
Ars
gratia
artis
," he intoned solemnly.
"Art for art's sake."

John had to stifle his laughter.

The two of them left shortly after the lofty proclamation.
With his waistcoat.

The odd part of it was that John could have sworn that he saw a hint of a secret smile on Percy's face right before he closed the door.

He also could have sworn the man looked straight toward the balcony when he did it.

John stood in front of the armoire in Chloe's room.

Muffled words were wafting through the wood.

"…
cherchez
Chloe! What do they think—I have nothing to do on my wedding day but see to their comforts? Is it my fault they are bored? So they come here!
Faute
de
mieux
! For want of something better! Are we
an
hors d'oeuvre for their insatiable curiosity?
Non
!"

The corner of John's sensual mouth curved into a deep groove. Just as he had suspected, Chloe was in a fine lather.