Annette Blair - Scandalous Brides

If she had married him yesterday, she might now be receiving her second lesson.

Alexandra knew from her lack of regret she must be in a bad way, for she did not pine for Chesterfield or his lessons. No, she had rather lie needy beside Hawksworth till the end of her days, than be set afire in Chesterfield’s arms even once.

She rolled to her side to regard her husband, his marred but no less striking features lit by the moon. He may no longer be perfect of face, but no woman capable of drawing breath would be able to resist his air of masculine danger and denied vulnerability. Especially not she, who had been unable to resist him at his arrogant worst, or best, however one considered it.

Then again, had there not always been something of a hurt-boy vulnerability about him, which had simply risen to prominence with his scars from the war?

Lord, had nothing changed? She loved him. She wanted to protect him, to heal his hurts.

She desired him.

His topaz eyes still shone more than the jewels themselves, especially when he gazed at her pensively or furiously, as if he wanted nothing more than to set her over his knee—the delicious way he appeared when she said she would live in sin with Chesterfield.

Alex shivered.

At the inn along the way, when Bryce left her to go upstairs and refresh himself, she noticed he was as small of waist, as broad of shoulders, and as firm of bottom as ever—good form for a man, in her estimation. And in his black brocade dressing gown tonight, which formidable sight stole her breath, as he snuffed the candle, she could not help think him the most tantalizing rogue she ever hoped to make her own.

She tried to touch his leg with her foot, just then, but she could not quite reach. Sliding surreptitiously closer, so as not to awaken him, she stretched and tried again, but encountered his dressing gown.

Moving closer still, Alex slid her toes beneath the brocade silk and touched his bare foot.

He stirred.

She stilled, her heart beating as fast as a careening carriage.

After a minute, she moved her seeking foot further upward, a bit past his ankle and toward his calf.

Bryce moaned. Alex warmed. This could work.

Afraid to go further, lest she rouse the self-proclaimed beast, she was cheered nonetheless by the possibility of seduction as a form of vengeance, which came very near—in her mind—to eating one’s sweetmeats and keeping them, too.

With a smile on her lips, Alex slipped as near Bryce as she dared, without disturbing him, to savor the simple joy of sleeping beside the man she loved.

She longed for him to hold her; again, as he did in the carriage, but perhaps her forwardness put him off. Perhaps he had rather be the seducer. It was something to think about, she supposed, perhaps.

Right now, however, unable to resist temptation, Alex reached over to place her hand against his chest, atop the blanket.

To her surprise, at the contact, Bryce swept her into his arms, clasped her tight and spoke her name.

With a grin of triumph, heart singing, head tucked beneath his chin, top to tail against various and sundry parts of his firm torso, Alexandra reveled in her unforgettable rogue’s possessive embrace.

Tears filled her eyes for all her years of missing him and for having him back, beyond all imagining. And when she calmed and emotion turned to joy, Alex realized a little something about seduction. It must have to do with figuring out what those various and interesting parts were for and why one of them seemed actually to be pulsing.

Hawk woke to the light of bright morning, shocked and erect, and clutching a handful of titillating breast. Alexandra’s knee was positioned against his naked and vulnerable groin, her hand riding dangerously low inside his dressing gown.

More than anything, he wanted to explore the possibilities, but he had not the right, if he planned to let her go, which he must. Besides, since his bride was unused to having a man in her bed—please, God—he was afraid that if he took to exploring, he might surprise her into moving her knee a little too hard and a bit too fast, which could injure him the worse.

While he pondered his precarious situation, Hawk noticed, between the hanks of hair in her face, that Alex was watching him. “Do not move your knee,” he said, softly, so as not to startle her. But she must have realized just where it rested, because she jumped and did exactly what he tried to avoid.

“Oomph. Ouch! Alex, be careful.”

Like a spring-wound toy, she shot up and knelt over him. “Bryce, I am sorry.” She tugged on the bedcovers to pull them down. “Did I hurt your leg? Let me see.”

Hawk fought for his modesty, and won, barely. “My leg is fine.”

“Are you certain? Because if it is festering, and I bumped it…”

“It is not festering, but fully healed and pain-free at the moment.”

Alex released her breath and lay back down beside him. “Thank God.”

Hawk shuddered at the throbbing soreness in his nether regions. “They should have put you in the bible—pestilence, flood, famine, and Alexandra Huntington.”

With a proud, man-slaying smile, his bride turned to face him across the pillow. “Make that, pestilence, flood, famine, and Alexandra Wakefield , thank you very much.”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“You forgot?” Again, she shot up… and shoved him from the bed.

Caught off guard, Hawk grasped the blankets and landed with a curse.

Alex rose and stepped right over him. “I am determined to cure you of that.”

“Of what?” he snapped, closing his dressing gown beneath the blankets, and trying not to stare at her in that appallingly diaphanous night rail.

“Of forgetting that I am your wife.”

“Oh.” Giving up the fight, Hawk pillowed his head in his hands and crossed his ankles, while his unrepentant bride fluffed her hair into a billowy curtain of cinnamon silk and stretched like a svelte and contented feline.

Like a practiced coquette, mischief in her glance, she watched him as she untied her bodice ribbons, not entirely unaware that the light of morning, behind her, turned her gown to air, and revealed every scintillating freckle on her lush and feminine form.

Hawk became aroused just watching, another very good sign, indeed.

He used to worry that the London doctor he visited when he returned to England was offering hope where only despair existed, but the medical man had been right after all. Time and rest did help. Last night had been his best night’s sleep in ages, entangled with Alex, as it were, and this morning, he felt new again. Not that he should be making a practice of such entanglements in the future, but the novelty of his sexual awakening was worth the risk.

Alex arched a wry brow. “With no more than the hint of a smile lighting your eyes, you still remind me of the proverbial cat that ate the cream,” she said. “But you should be hanging your head in shame for forgetting that I am your wife and a woman grown.”

Hawk quirked a brow. “You may safely assume that your womanhood has been made abundantly clear to me at this juncture.”

She tried to kick off his covers, but Hawk caught her foot and stroked her shapely ankle, until she closed her eyes and sighed.

When he made to slide his hand higher, she squeaked in surprise and Hawk let her go, knowing it was best, but before he realized what she was about, she succeeded in uncovering him.

Her turn to quirk a brow as she regarded the evidence of his manhood, as stark as her womanhood, though better covered. “Care to explain that?” she asked, with feminine satisfaction, of the arousal raising his dressing gown. “It used to happen to Judson all the time. Oh, but… where did it go?”