Sylvia Day - Perfect Kisses

It took her a moment to reply. Unlike Ormond, she was no gambler. “You’d be sorry within the week. You would soon find me no different from all your other women. Admit it-you are even now wondering why you said what you said.”

“I beg to differ with you. As for me not knowing the difference between one woman and another-” his brows rose-“I am an authority on the subject.”

“Kindly don’t remind me,” she said, half pettishly, half teasing because he was lying beside her in all his godlike splendor with his lazy, sardonic smile directed at her. “I would much prefer you were a virgin.”

He laughed. “Surely, you jest. You like to play-admit it.”

“Perhaps…just a little.”

“More than a little.” He grinned. “I have had to utilize all my-if I do say so myself-considerable resources to keep you happy.”

“And I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

He smiled. “The feeling’s mutual, believe me. In fact, I’m feeling all warm and cozy when I’m usually looking for the nearest exit. It must be a sign. So what do you say?” He’d spent his life taking risks. “Come darling, Fortune sides with him who dares. And what do you have to lose? Life with your aunt?”

She sat up as though if she were upright, she would be more rational. “You wish me to elope with you on a dare?”

“You were cautious once-and lost,” he gently noted. “Think of that.”

She had been; he was right. And the years since then had offered her little. “So I should throw caution to the winds?” she whispered.

He smiled. “The scandal sheets would be pleased if you did.”

“Because I have brought the infamous Ormond to heel?”

He grinned. “I couldn’t have said it better. We will save the editions for our grandchildren to see.”

“Grandchildren?”

“Believe me, I’m as surprised as you. I’ve never wanted children; I’ve been scrupulously cautious as you know. And suddenly the notion of your children-our children-” he smiled-“pleases me. Say yes and I will see that we are married.”

“Just like that?”

“Say, yes.”

“I don’t know-”

Reaching up, he stopped her protest with a finger to her mouth. “Yes-say it.”

She saw something in his eyes that she’d never seen even with John whose memory she’d cherished for so long. It was a wild and heady consciousness that life was for living and Ormond was offering himself to her in all his prodigal beauty and entanglements.

If she but had the nerve.

“You are rash,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“And headstrong.”

He nodded.

“Bold and audacious, too,” she murmured, uncertainty in her voice and eyes.

“But I will make you happy.” He was not a man who harbored doubts. “Now, say it,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms so his scent filled her nostrils, so his breathtaking beauty overwhelmed her-so she could no longer pretend she didn’t want what he wanted.

“Yes.”

It was the smallest, most trifling of sounds, but he heard it with the clarity of thunderous artillery. “Don’t move,” he muttered, quickly kissing her before leaping out of bed and bellowing for his valet.

They were married in the drawing room three hours later, the bride attired in a sumptuous gown of gold-embroidered lace, the groom point-de-vice in somber black. The minister had been dragooned from the king’s own household, the witnesses Ormond’s servants, the special license signed by the bishop of London.

It was a quiet affair, but joyous in every respect for the bride and groom knew better than most that happiness was exceedingly rare in the world.

They were grateful beyond measure.

The scandal sheets were even more grateful.

Every detail of Ormond’s life was hashed and rehashed in the following fortnight, while his new bride was portrayed as a sorceress of mesmerizing charms to have bewitched the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom.

Not that the Viscount or Viscountess Ormond paid any mind to the tittle and tattle that passed for amusement in the ton.

They were at the viscount’s country house, busy making babies.

Thank you to my critique partner, Annette McCleave (www.AnnetteMcCleave.com), for her help, and to my friend Renee Luke for the much appreciated support.

Northamptonshire, 1817

For most men, spinsters were a breed of female to be avoided at all costs, and under any other circumstances the Marquess of Fontaine would be in hearty agreement with that sentiment. But not in this circumstance. And not in regard to this particular spinster.

“The years have been kind to her,” the Dowager Lady Fontaine said, peering out the window beside him. “She is more beautiful than before, despite all that she has suffered.”

“It pleases me to hear that,” he murmured, his gaze locked on the willowy figure strolling through his rear garden.

He wished he could see her face, but it was shielded from the sun by a wide brim hat and the distance from the second floor window to where she stood made the cataloging of finer details impossible. Lady Sophie Milton-Riley had been barely a woman the last time they met, soft and sweet with a penchant for mischief that had once goaded him to say, “Why can you never be serious?” To which she had replied, “Why can you never relax?”

She seemed too serious now. She once traversed rooms with an elegant glide that forced him to stare and covet, but her present stride appeared to be confident, sure, and firmly grounded.

“How long will they be visiting?” he asked.

“Presently, a fortnight. But this is the first occasion Lady Sophie has ventured away from home since the scandal. I cannot be certain they will stay the duration.”

Sophie had come with her grandmother, who was in collusion with his mother in this poorly veiled matchmaking scheme. The two women had been the best of friends for as long as he could remember. He was certain that in their minds the joining of their progeny in marriage was absolute perfection. Once, he had thought so, too. Back when he was a young lad hopelessly infatuated with the vivacious Sophie. Her feelings for him had been nowhere near as amorous, however, and when she had come of age, it was Lord Langley who had won her favor and her promise to wed.

“If you had not been so rude as to avoid their arrival,” his mother said with undisguised chastisement, “you might have made her feel more welcome.”

“You told me of their arrival only moments before the fact. It would have been far more appalling for me to greet them when I was mud-stained.”

His mother could say nothing to that without admitting more than she wished to. The truth was, she had feared his refusal and so had hidden her actions. He understood why she had resorted to subterfuge, but the precaution was unnecessary. Sophie was welcome here. He held no ill will toward her and wished her nothing but happiness.

The marquess turned away from the velvet-framed window. “My presence is required in London, so I will be departing tomorrow.”

“You will not.”

He arched a brow. His blond hair was a maternal trait, as were his blue eyes. His mother’s angelic features were hardly touched by time and she remained a lauded beauty, the liberal strands of gray in her tresses adding maturity to her youthful appearance. Today she had dressed in soft pink, and she looked not much older than his score and ten years.

“Why must you be so difficult?” she lamented, shaking her head.

“You had a spouse and two sons. How can you not understand the duress placed upon a male alone in the company of three females?”

The dowager mirrored his raised brow. “My dear boy, if you think I am unaware of how often you pay for the dubious privilege of spending time alone with multiple females, you are sadly mistaken.”

“Lord save me,” he said dryly, moving to sit in the nearby gilded chair with its elaborately carved arms and curved legs. “The horror of discussing my carnal proclivities with you is upsetting my sensibilities. The urge to flee is now overwhelming.”

She snorted. “Nonsense.”

“I am departing tomorrow, Mother.” He lounged, stretching his long legs out and crossing one ankle over the other. “This evening will be sufficient enough time to renew our acquaintance.”

“And if is not sufficient,” she asked with obvious hopefulness, “will you stay?”

Justin sighed inwardly. “I am not inventing the affairs I am required to attend to. I was not expecting visitors, so I made no accommodations for any.”

“But these affairs could be delayed, yes?”

“I refuse to speak any further on the matter,” Fontaine muttered, “to avoid saying something I may later regret.”

His mother joined him, sitting primly on the edge of the opposite cream and gold settee. Her gown was showcased to advantage in the setting of the family parlor, which had been spared the attentions of a decorator for many years.

The baroque style of the room with its elegant moldings and lavish abundance of gilt soothed him. His lineage was old and a source of great pride. This room reminded him of those who had preceded him and strengthened his desire to do justice to those who would follow.

“I was so hopeful when you were courting Lady Julienne,” she said morosely. “A shame she is a bit touched.”

“Oh?” Both brows rose. “Desiring a love match is a sign of insanity?”

She lifted her chin. “Wedding for love is all well and good, but the girl hadn’t the sense to fall in love with you, instead of that Remington scoundrel. I still cannot collect it. What was she thinking?”

The marquess looked away to hide his smile. “That is your maternal pride talking.”

“It’s common sense,” she retorted, “which she is obviously lacking. It is in a female’s base nature to choose the strongest, handsomest, most established male in the herd.”

“Ah, my day improves,” he drawled. “What a relief it is to learn that I am the most impressive bovine in the marriageable lot.” He refrained from pointing out that Sophie hadn’t selected him either, choosing to betroth an earl of far lesser circumstance.

“You are incorrigible.” His mother shook her head, setting the pale gold and silver curls at her nape to swaying.

“And you wish to marry me off to your dearest friend’s granddaughter. What does that say about you?”

“I never said anything about marriage,” she argued, but her blush betrayed her.

Justin knew when it was best to let a matter rest, so he said nothing, choosing instead to think about Sophie and the scandal that ruined her.

“You have no cause to be nervous,” the Countess of Cardington reassured under her breath. “We are among friends.”

Lady Sophie Milton-Riley managed a shaky smile against the lip of her sherry glass. “Nervous, grand-mère? Never.”

She was very nearly terrified, but refused to say so aloud. Her memories of Lord Fontaine were clouded by years and the distorted memories of a child. What she had were mostly impressions, those of a tall youth whom she’d fancied as a golden prince, albeit a rather stern one.

The countess shook her head and shot her “the eye,” the look filled with love that said she did not believe a word she was saying. Sophie leaned over and pressed her lips to a wrinkled cheek. “I intend to enjoy myself. I promise.”

“Good. Oh!” The countess straightened and her voice lowered. “Here he comes.”

Sophie glanced up as the Marquess of Fontaine entered the lower parlor. Her breath caught, and when his gaze sought her out, she reached quickly for the pianoforte behind her for balance.

Dear God, had he always been so handsome?

He smiled, and she set her glass down before she spilled its contents.

How the devil could she have thought he was a prince? Princes were mortal. Fontaine was a golden god, with a body built for carnal sin, wrapped in the chilly infamous English hauteur she had never forgotten. How he used to intimidate her with that steely-eyed stare!

And how very different was her reaction to that same stare now.

Who knew aloofness and aristocratic arrogance could be such a potent lure when mixed with the body and face of Apollo?

There was a very substantial reason why the Marquess of Fontaine was not suitable husband material for her. Sophie was willing, however, to set aside such vital concerns for a moment so that she could admire him properly.