Wed Him Before You Bed Him (7 page)

Heedless of anything but how wonderful it felt, he grabbed her head and took her lips with more boldness. Before he'd even realized it, he was sliding his tongue inside her mouth.

She jerked back, her eyes huge. “What are you doing?”

He came reluctantly to his senses. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so forward,” he blathered, wanting to kick himself for alarming her yet again. “I just wanted to give you a real kiss—”

“A real kiss?” Instead of looking shocked or alarmed, she looked intrigued. “All right.”

His pulse jumped into triple-time. “All right, what?”

She curled her fingers into his lapels with a tremulous smile. “Show me what a real kiss is.”

Heat roared through him. Bending his head again, he brushed her lips with his. “Open your mouth to me, sweeting,” he murmured, “and I will.”

She did. And he did.

God help him. Charlotte's mouth was a heady feast. She was warm and luscious and unbearably sweet. And when she looped her arms about his neck and gave herself up to his now ravenous kiss with a shy excitement that fired his blood, he realized he was in trouble.

No night with a barmaid compared to this, the luxurious pleasure of kissing a woman who wanted him for himself, not for the money he could pay or the title that would one day be his. He could grow very used to this.

Bloody, bloody hell.

C
harlotte had never dreamed that a respectable woman could find so much enjoyment from a kiss. She'd assumed that only the shameless females Papa consorted with were capable of that.

Judging from the soaring pleasure David was giving her with his mouth, relations between men and women might be very different from what she'd thought.

“Oh, sweeting,” he murmured against her lips, “you're driving me mad.”

“Me, too,” she whispered.

It was all she got out before he took her mouth again, his tongue toying with hers, then delving in and out in silken strokes that made her quiver in odd places. Real kisses were even better than the other sort, and the other sort had been quite nice indeed.

His hands began to roam, at first just down to her shoulders, then up and down her sides as if he were counting her ribs. He was breathing hard—so was she, for that matter—and a strange lump had pressed up against her bottom.

Abruptly, he broke the kiss. “We have to stop this.”

“Why?” she asked, still dazed by the deliciousness of being kissed so thoroughly.

He gave a shaky laugh. “Because I don't wish to deflower you here on the bank in front of God and everybody.”

“Oh.” Heat crawled up her cheeks. She wasn't sure what
deflowering involved, but it had to be scandalous. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Hardly.” He cupped her face tenderly. “But I don't think we should keep sitting here like this.”

In an instant, she realized that she was perched on his lap like some…some doxy, with her arms about his neck. Merciful heavens, what he must think of her!

Scrambling out of his lap, she said, “I'm sorry. I-I didn't—”

“Don't you dare apologize.” He got up, too, and dusted off his breeches. “I don't regret one minute of those kisses. I hope you don't either.”

A cautious smile crept over her lips. “No.” So
this
was what it was like to do something naughty with a rogue. She rather enjoyed it.

She mustn't do it ever again, of course, especially if there was a risk of “deflowering,” but she could see why young women were tempted. Kissing was awfully exciting.

“But I do regret ruining your lovely picnic,” she went on.

“Nonsense, it's not a bit ruined.”

Her gaze flew to his. “I can't go out there.”

“I know.” He grinned. “Wait here. I'll be right back.”

She watched in confusion as he leaped into the boat and released it from its moorings. When he took up the oars and began pulling toward Saddle Island, her heart jumped into her throat in fear for his life.

But as he navigated the coursing waters of the river with expert ease, her blood quickened for another reason entirely. David was the very picture of virile male, all flexing muscles and windblown hair. She hated to admit it, but he was even handsomer than Captain Harris.

Captain Harris! Lord, she'd forgotten all about him.
What did that say for her character? She must be quite a wicked girl.

Now that she had the captain in mind, however, she couldn't help comparing the two men. In some ways they were similar—both attractive, both gentlemen, both strong and virile. Certainly, both of them made her laugh, which she considered very important, since Papa only made her angry.

But David was a thoroughbred stallion next to a gelding like Captain Harris. The captain had none of David's heat or restless energy—he was amiable, but not serious, the way David sometimes could be. Of course, David also had a roguish side, which, while entertaining, didn't speak well for his character.

David disappeared into the gazebo, emerging moments later with a big bundle that he placed in the bottom of the boat.

A smile touched her lips as he rowed back. He must have arranged this picnic ahead of time with his servants. Imagine that! For
her
. No wonder he'd been so determined to go out to Saddle Island.

Yet he'd changed his plans at her request. Any man who would do that for a woman couldn't be too lacking in character, could he? He liked the same books she did, and he dabbled in architecture. Surely that spoke well for him, too.

He reached the dock and moored the boat, then tramped up the bank with the bundle, which made clinking noises as he walked. “We can still have our picnic,” he said. “And we needn't even have it here, if you don't want.”

“Here is fine,” she said gamely. It was the least she could do. “I can bear to
look
at the river, as long as it stays a healthy distance away from me.”

For the next hour they had a pleasant time. He'd had the servants prepare a veritable feast—cold ham and cheese, bread and butter, peaches with cream, and some delicious little lemon cakes, washed down with wine from a silver flask. They talked about all sorts of things—his school, her governess, his hopes for the estate after he inherited.

She told him something she'd never revealed to anyone, that she secretly dreamed of opening a school for girls to teach them science and history and mathematics, the same things that men learned. He didn't mock her as another man might. He even seemed to understand why she was so passionate about the idea.

Once they were sated and the sun had slid down alarmingly, he reached into his coat and removed a snuff box. She'd seen him with it before and wondered if he took snuff. But he opened it to reveal a number of what smelled like lemon drops.

He offered her the box. “A sweet for the lady?”

“Is that what you always keep in there?” She took one and popped it into her mouth.

“Lemon drops. Peppermint drops. Bergamot drops.” He grinned at her. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“I did notice your liking for desserts,” she teased as she took another and held it out to him.

With eyes gleaming, he caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, taking the sweet from her fingers.

As her breathing grew labored, he turned her hand over to kiss the palm, then kept hold of it. “I need to ask you something.”

“That sounds serious,” she said, struggling for nonchalance.

“It is.” He threaded his fingers through hers. “I know
this is too soon, and you'll probably think me quite mad, but I want you to at least consider what I'm about to say.”

For the first time since she'd met him, he looked uncomfortable. It was rather endearing.

“I want to marry you, Charlotte,” he said bluntly.

Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't know whether to shout for joy or flee in alarm. “David…”

“Don't say anything yet.” His eyes bore into hers with an intensity that made her shiver delightfully. “All I'm asking for right now is that you give me a chance. We have three more days before your family leaves. Just spend time with me, get to know me. Don't set your mind against me.”

She flashed him a shy smile. “I'm not the least set against you, David.”

Relief flooded his features. “Thank God.”

“But…” She chewed on her lower lip. “I do have a few concerns.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” he quipped, then added more soberly, “What sort of concerns?”

“I don't want a rogue for a husband,” she told him, thinking of the flirtatious maid at breakfast. How many such maids vied for his attention every day? And how many did he kiss in the passionate way that he'd just kissed her?

His look of offended dignity reassured her a little. “I'm not such a rogue as all that,” he growled. “I wouldn't marry a woman if I couldn't be faithful to her.”

She wanted to believe him. “I have other concerns, too, like your gambling.”

“I play the occasional game of cards, but no more. I hardly think it's enough to worry you.”

“And your drinking?”

“Charlotte,” he said firmly, “all I can promise is to be moderate in my habits. But I'm not going to turn into a monk, if that's what you want.”

“No, it isn't,” she hastened to say. Thinking of his feverish kisses, she added, “I'm not sure I'd like you as a monk. I just—”

“You're worried, I know. I understand that. And I promise not to force you into anything. For the time being, I only ask that you let me court you, so you can get to know me as I really am. All right?”

She squeezed his hand. “I can do that.”

“Good,” he said in a husky voice. “That's good.”

In the days that followed, David proved true to his word. He never again raised the subject of marriage, but he courted her with a vengeance. He brought her violets and wrote her a very bad sonnet. He rose before everyone else to take her riding. They spent hours talking, spinning wild dreams of a school for girls that he would build and that she would run.

It was all nonsense, of course. They had their prescribed roles. He was to be a great lord, and she was to marry one. Yet she enjoyed their fanciful talks—too much. She was afraid of falling in love with him, of being in love while he was only interested in making a good match.

Or in placating their parents. Their fathers were inordinately pleased to see them together, as was Mama. David's mother, however, didn't seem too happy about it. After their picnic, Lady Kirkwood ensured that they were always chaperoned.

Yet being with David, even with others around, was heady stuff. Although occasionally Charlotte felt guilty for
having shifted her affections so quickly from the captain to David, she tried not to think about it.

The only dark spot on their courtship was when she came down on her last full day at Kirkwood Manor to find David in deep conversation with the maid, after which Molly hurried off, blushing furiously. When Charlotte asked him what they'd been talking about, he said it was a matter of household business and changed the subject.

Though the incident nagged at her all morning, she told herself she was seeing problems where there were none. In every other instance, David was showing himself to be a man of character.
That
was what she focused on.

That night, while the ladies were still in the drawing room and the gentlemen in the study, she slipped out to go to the retiring room at the same time as David left the men to retrieve another bottle of port from the cellar. Seeing her alone, he dragged her into an alcove and proceeded to kiss her senseless.

He met no resistance—she'd spent two days dreaming of being alone with him again, of kissing him again. To have this private interlude foisted upon her unexpectedly was like stumbling upon a well in a desert. All she could do was drink and drink and drink some more.

When at last they broke apart, he rasped, “Must you leave tomorrow?” He gripped her waist fiercely, his gaze raw and hot. “Surely if you asked your father, he'd prolong your stay another week.”

“David,” she said, having given that very matter some thought, “I need time apart from you to be sure about what we're doing.”

His fingers dug into her waist. “You mean, time to compare me to your Captain Harris.”

She laughed. “I assure you that Captain Harris is the furthest thing from my mind.” But she didn't want to leap into marriage with a man she barely knew, especially while he was fogging her brain with his presence. She needed to consider the matter in the cold, rational light of her home, far away from David and his drugging kisses.

“Besides,” she went on, “your father said you'll be going to town in a week. You can call on me then.”

“All right. But in the meantime…” He kissed her again, so long and hard and deep that he left her half-swooning. When he drew back, his eyes were alight with a passion that sent shivers to her very toes. “
That
is to keep me fresh in your mind. Especially when you're consorting with that damned cavalry officer.”

“Consorting! I do believe you're jealous, David Masters.”

His mouth was set in a belligerent line. “So what if I am? I have some right to feel proprietary about you, don't I?”

She caught her breath. It was the first time he'd hinted at marriage since that day at the river. She knew what he was really asking, too—for a sign that they had, at the very least, an understanding.

“Yes,” she said softly. “You do have some right.”

The tension left his face. He was bending toward her once more when his mother appeared behind them.

They sprang apart, and he mumbled something about going to fetch the wine.

As soon as he'd left, Lady Kirkwood frowned at Charlotte. “If I were you, Miss Page, I'd be careful.”

Fighting a blush, Charlotte tipped up her chin. “About what?”

“What you do with my son. The wrong sort of woman can easily tempt him into behaving badly.”

The warning stung. “Then it's a good thing I'm not the wrong sort of woman, isn't it?”

The viscountess gave a thin smile. “What makes you think I was speaking of you? I merely thought you should know that my son came by his reputation honestly.” She held out her arm. “Now come, your mother needs you.”

Charlotte pushed past her to walk back into the drawing room with her head held high, but inside, she was a wreck. She had done everything to make her ladyship like her, but the woman seemed bound and determined not to. That was the only reason she would say such horrid things about her son. Wasn't it?

Lady Kirkwood's words kept Charlotte up that night, dry-mouthed and anxious. Charlotte had only known the adult David for less than a week. How could she be certain she was seeing the real him and not some version of him he took out for company?

Worse yet, Papa had chosen David as a husband for her—that in itself ought to put her on her guard. Except that David didn't like Papa, which showed David's discernment. Besides, she could judge a man as well as Papa, and her instincts told her that David was exactly what she thought—a sometimes roguish fellow with a good heart and a fine character. It was merely a trick of fate that Papa wanted them to marry. Letting that influence her either way would be foolish. Wouldn't it?