A Decision

 

LOVE. CARRICK HAD NEVER uttered that word in a woman’s presence before. In fact, he’d taken great care to avoid it. With Juliet, the word flowed effortlessly from his lips. At first, he’d thought his mother had planted the fool notion in his head. She’d surprised him that day in the breakfast parlor. He’d opened his mouth to inform her he would no longer entertain her matchmaking attempts, but she’d announced she no longer felt her services were needed on that particular subject now that he’d found love.

Love. He’d thought his mother quite mad, but now, he was no longer so certain.

The more he thought about Juliet, the more he found the word suited her.

“You’re not paying attention,” Juliet’s scold shattered his thoughts.

Carrick lifted an eyebrow. They lay in her bed with the early afternoon sun slanting through her bedroom window. Of late, they’d taken to playing cards and wagering articles of clothing, but he’d yet to win. Today would certainly be no different. He had only his shirt left while Juliet had only lost her under drawers.

He grinned. On the angle in which he lay, he had a fine view of her white thighs.

“Focus, Carrick.” Juliet laughed, even as she opened her legs to provide him an even more distracting view.

Indeed, how could he focus on the cards? She had his full attention.

“It’s time to show your hand,” she said.

He lay his cards face up on the bed. Three jacks and a deuce.

Juliet snorted and tilted the cards in her slim fingers. Queens. Four of them. It was the third time he’d seen them that round.

“You’re cheating,” he said.

“Am I?”

She said the words with such confidence that he momentarily wondered if he’d erred. “Well, aren’t you?”

“You’re asking? Then you can’t prove a thing.” She giggled.

He rolled his eyes. How could a man concentrate on anything save her luscious body? He should have known never to second guess himself.

She dropped the cards on the bed and nodded at his shirt. “Take it off.”

Och. As usual, he was the first one naked…but not for long.

As he unfastened his buttons, she rose from the bed and lifted the lid of her sewing basket, which rested on the bedside table. She pulled his cravat from the basket, turned back to him and ordered, “Lay back and close your eyes.”

He lifted a brow but obeyed, his cock hardening even more. “As you wish, my love.”

There it was again. Love.

Juliet didn’t seem to notice. She laughed and hurried around to his side of the bed, then leaned over and tied the cravat like a blindfold.

Her breasts brushed his shoulder. He reached for the soft mounds, but she evaded his grasp. “Now, now, don’t move, Carrick. Not yet.”

The perfume of her hair floated around him. She smelled like roses. The soft rustle of cloth told him she undressed. The thought only heightened his need.

A delicate finger touched his shoulder then trailed down the center line of his chest and circled the base of his cock before she wrapped her small hands about his cock. He shuddered in anticipation, but then a thought crossed his mind.

“Tell me, lass, did you have this in mind when you claimed my cravat at the Midnight Ball?”

She gave a quiet laugh, then murmured in a low, sultry tone, “No. I intended to win the wager and be rid of you.”

Her soft, wet lips closed over the tip of his cock as she drew several inches of his length into her mouth and began to suck.

He groaned. “What a luscious mouth,” he gasped.

Slowly, she licked the length of him, before once again arriving at the tip. He drew a sharp breath and fought for control, but to no avail. He pumped faster. Pleasure—need—rushed to the surface. He needed her. His breath hitched as his orgasm started to crest. God help him, she was merciless. Carrick yanked his member from her mouth and ripped the blindfold from his face.

She knelt on the bed, naked. With a growl, he flipped her onto the mattress and mounted her. She arched into him and, to his surprise, within half a dozen strokes, she whimpered with pleasure. In seconds, his orgasm shuddered through him.

Carrick threw back his head and filled her to the brim. As the last ripples of pleasure subsided, he slid aside and held her close. They lay, drowsy and sated.

Never in his wildest dreams had he thought to find a woman who could match his passion stride for stride. Just as tantalizing, her mind was sharp.

He had to do something about that damn contract, and soon. A year was not long enough.

He needed Juliet to be his mistress—for a lifetime.

Realization struck with an intensity that took his breath, then settled over him as natural as breathing. There was only one solution: he had to marry her.

That presented a challenge. Not due to her lack of noble birth, but from her madam of a mother. Surely, he could find a way past that world-wise warden.

Sleep blurred the edges of his consciousness. If anyone could help him dance through this mire of the heart, it would be Sir Stirling James.

 

* * *

Two weeks later, Stirling entered Carrick’s library. “My dear fellow,” he boomed in a laughing voice as he strode through the door. “I have come to collect my prized stallion.”

Carrick closed the book he’d been reading and rose from his desk. “I should have known you would come yourself. You’ve an uncanny talent for matchmaking. I should never have doubted you.”

Both men laughed and clapped each other on the back.

A maid entered carrying a silver tray with a decanter and two full glasses of claret. They settled comfortably in high-backed mahogany wing chairs near the window and the maid set the tray on the small rosewood table between them.

Carrick took a glass and raised it in salute. “Something special I just received from France,” he said.

Stirling picked up the remaining glass. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I’ve found a solution for your problem, Carrick. Well, several solutions, as you have more than one problem.”

His friend drained his claret and returned the empty glass to the tray. “France,” he said in a tone of finality. “It just so happens that Victor de Balzac, playwright extraordinaire, has had difficulties finding a passionate enough woman to, shall we say, satisfy his needs. I have discovered that Madam Aphrodite has always dreamt of living there as a woman of means...” He let his voice trail off.

Carrick snorted. If Juliet’s mother was a tenth as passionate as her daughter, then Victor de Balzac would live the remainder of his life a very happy man. “What does Madam Aphrodite have to say about this?” he queried.

“The deed is already done,” Stirling assured with a laugh. “They became besotted the moment they met. One of the best matches I’ve ever made. She’s off to France, though you have agreed to see her girls settled.”

“How many dowries am I financing?” he asked dryly.

“A small fortune.” Stirling offered a droll smile. “Count yourself lucky there is nothing your money will not buy.”

Carrick shrugged. To secure Juliet’s hand in marriage, he would sign over his estate. The thought of spending nights carousing and gambling at card tables had lost all appeal.

“When will you ask her?” Stirling asked.

“Soon,” Carrick murmured.

A smile played over his lips. The time had come to play another round of cards.