Annette Blair - Scandalous Brides

Would Bryce be there waiting for her?

As much as she wanted to give herself up to the promise of peace, someone called to her.

Alex shivered.

“Myerson, where did you put the lap rug?” That voice, again. Bryceson’s… but impossible. Alex was exhilarated and frightened by the sound. It could not be real. ’Twas not Lazarus, after all, she imagined hearing, but Bryceson Wakefield, Duke of Hawksworth, dead this last year and more.

She heard her own whimper as warmth covered her like a blanket, and she slipped blissfully back into that all-enveloping state of happy oblivion, there, in the only place where Bryceson’s arms could possibly remain around her.

“Myerson, Stephen’s Hotel, if you please. We will not be going on today, after all.”

Alex smiled at the sound of his voice and slipped deeper into the place where it dwelled.

TWO

HAWK SAW A SMILE curve his wife’s pale lips and he bundled her close as he regarded the two silent men by the open door of his carriage—Chesterfield, vigilant, scowling, the Vicar, a study in apprehension.

Hawk nodded. “I’ll just take her to bed, shall I?”

The Vicar’s lips thinned. Chesterfield growled and made to charge, but the Vicar stopped his forward surge. “You do not even know her,” her discarded bridegroom accused over the struggling Vicar’s shoulder.

Hawk’s heart beat at a frantic pace, for something in the accusation stung deep. He raised a speaking brow. “Not know her? I assure you that no man knows Alexandra better than I do.” After today, he no longer believed it, but he would not give her erstwhile suitor the satisfaction of hearing as much.

Someone shut the carriage door, severing Chesterfield from sight, but rather than the exultation Hawk would have expected, he experienced a flash of sympathy for the man. He, too, was about to lose Alex, though not quite so soon.

“She does not want you,” the malcontent shouted, negating Hawk’s compassion. “She wants me.”

Upon the blade-sharp echo of that sobering thrust, Hawk’s carriage began to rattle and dip, shiver and clatter, as it crept across the cobbled terrace before Holy Trinity Church.

When, at length, the vehicle pulled safely into London’s Sloane Square traffic, exultation filled Hawk, euphoria, followed by a shot of blind panic.

Yes, he had gotten Alexandra safe away, but Chesterfield’s parting volley, echoing in Hawk’s brain like a death knell, made him question every decision he had made since his father’s death.

Until today, he thought he could not fail Alex any worse than he already had, but suppose he was wrong? Suppose he had just broken her heart by stopping her from marrying the man she loved?

Could she love Chesterfield? It hardly seemed possible, given their dissimilarities. Then again, she might have changed, as he certainly did.

He had all but died and risen from the dead. Dying changed a man. War changed him the more. There were his scars, to begin with; how would Alexandra feel, once she saw the likes of them in the light of day?

She might take one look and run screaming into Chesterfield’s arms.

He and Alex had certainly switched places, and in more than looks, Hawk feared, for with his return, he might now become the thorn in her side.

And what would he do with her, now that he had her? Not that he did not know precisely what he wished to do. He was not so broken that he did not want to be her husband in every way, though desire and action were two entirely different matters. As were desire and duty.

Or trust and honor.

Hawk slipped a wisp of his wife’s rich nutmeg hair behind her ear and examined her in the fading rays of afternoon light filtering through the uncurtained carriage window.

During her growing up years, none of Alexandra Huntington’s features had seemed to match. Her eyes were too big and too bright for her small pale face. Her eyebrows, like unmatched wings, appeared drawn by an angry hand, brows one wanted to trace with a fingertip. Hawk did so now, amazed to see how much better they fit, nearly two years and one war, later.

Her mouth was still too wide, her lips too full, her nose elegant but tip-tilted. Yet the amalgamate had become all of a piece, falling into symmetrical and harmonious placement, all of a sudden, making of his ill-favored hoyden, a beauty, striking, and too remarkable not to be kissed.

Like the beast his scars proclaimed him, Hawk wanted to awaken the slumbering princess in just that way, or lay siege to her tower fortress. Or was beauty storming his beastly rogue’s lair, even in sleep?

Difficult to tell which tale fit. Hawk knew only that in this marriage he had created from whole cloth, he must take care not to play the jackal and claim her for himself.

Rogue wolf, after all, was the role for which he had been born and bred. But Alexandra’s role, and which of them would maintain the sturdier fortress, remained to be seen.

He already knew that there would be no happily ever after for them.

Still, to Hawk’s surprise, something akin to anticipation began to take root deep within him. He looked forward to every minute he would spend in Alexandra’s life, for however short the duration.

His decision to give her an annulment and set her free had been difficult. But not consummating their marriage might be easier than he expected, given his physical condition, and her penchant for staid, lumbering bridegrooms.

On the other hand, the course upon which he was determined might also be fraught with peril, for he could never tell Alex he was giving her up for her own good. If he did, she would fight him, rather than leave him, for she was in the habit of placing the welfare of others before her own. And he could not be so cruel as to pretend dislike, or worse, disinterest.

He could not dispirit so bright a flame.

A low, simmering flame, capable of flaring into blaze at any time, he remembered as he watched her sleep.

Unable to keep from stoking her fire and awakening her, Hawk touched his lips to hers in that age old, mythical rite. But Beauty turned the tale and awoke her astonished beast by deepening the kiss and bringing him to alert and rigid attention. A startling and extraordinary turn of events, in every respect, for Alex was exceeding eager, and he was sexually aroused for the first time since the battle of Waterloo.

Impatient to prove his prowess and taste her once more, Hawk parted her soft, sweet lips with his own, taking the kiss to a deeper, more intimate level, both testing himself and gauging his wife’s reaction.

Alex moaned. She sighed. She moved restlessly against him, enhancing his physical reaction. But rather than rejoice over his unexpected progress, Hawk worried about the lessons her blackguard of a bridegroom might have taught her.

He did not remember the imp kissing with such fervor before. Not that he had kissed her above twice, and then, in a brotherly fashion, except on the day of their wedding, when he had kissed her with promise, before saying goodbye.

How blind he had been, how foolish, kissing scores of others, when the flower of his youth could kiss like a dream.

Still, Hawk would give his fortune—if he were still in possession of it—to know the name of the man who had taught his wife this exquisite lesson.

To his delight, Alex sighed, then her lids fluttered, and her eyes, bright and soft as turquoise velvet, opened at last. For a moment, she appeared, for all the world, as if she were that princess of legend, waking from a years-long sleep… her eyes growing wider and wider as she regarded him.

As if seeking a touchstone to reality, she scanned the interior of the carriage with her gaze, the passing scenery, then his face, again, taking in and examining his every flaw.