With Leo’s uncle, the Duke of Aubrey, and the Edgerton man of affairs as witnesses, Chloe and Leo were married one hour and eighteen minutes later.
For all the impossibilities of the terms she’d put to Leo and the unlikeliness of the timing to secure a license, witnesses, and a vicar, he’d managed to secure all… and in that short time.
It was another incongruity that didn’t fit with the rake barred from more than most of Polite Society’s functions.
It was far easier to focus on those puzzles and make sense of them than the fact of what she’d just done.
I’m married.
Her pen skidded, leaving a squiggly line of ink upon the marriage documents she now signed.
“My lady?” Clarke, the gray-haired, heavily wrinkled solicitor, asked in pained tones. “Are you all right?”
Blinking slowly, Chloe looked up at the loyal Edgerton servant. Leo had located the solicitor, dragged the man to his residence, and set Clarke to work on a contract.
“Fine. I am fine,” she managed.
Clarke winced.
Yes, fine was hardly the attitude a bride should have on her wedding day. One was expected to be joyful and blushing and beaming… just as her friend, Imogen, had been and sister, Philippa, had been with her latest marriage.
“His lordship is going to have my head,” he whispered, his jowls moving with his spasmodic swallowing.
That he’d assisted Chloe, without regard for whether he’d earn his employer’s wrath, spoke volumes about the man’s character.
She patted his hand. “He’ll not.” Chloe wouldn’t let Gabriel have his pound of flesh from a man who’d merely sought to help her. “I’m happy,” she said belatedly. “I wanted to marry the marquess.” At least that much was true. In a sense. Marriage to Leo represented freedom and control of her future.
Clarke perked up. “Y-you’re certain?” he asked. Hope tinged his words.
She wasn’t certain of anything anymore. Which way was up, down, sideways, or in between. “I am.” For, at least this decision belonged to her.
A marriage of convenience to a gentleman wholly uninterested in her.
Mr. Clarke’s attention was called back by the vicar. As they conversed, their discourse was lost to the words now reverberating around her mind.
I’ll show you all the pleasures you’ve not yet explored. I’ll open your body to a passion that will sear your soul and leave you hungry and craving the rhapsody to be found in my arms…
Her heart galloped, and a warmth settled low in her belly. No, those were not the promises of a man who wanted nothing to do with her.
And she didn’t know what to do with that realized-too-late consideration. She’d always had more than a distant curiosity of those forbidden acts that so many women explored. But she’d not given thought to experiencing any of those feelings herself.
Until now.
From where he stood conversing with the Duke of Aubrey, Leo paused mid-discourse. She braced for the lascivious grin or leer he’d donned during their first chance encounter at Lord Waterson’s.
Instead, a question filled his eyes.
Had he sensed her nervousness? And more, why should a professed heartless rake even care?
Disquieted by the unexpected response, Chloe swiftly dedicated all her attention to the next page requiring her signature. The marquess’ sensual grin would have been safer. Indolent lords weren’t supposed to note the squeak of a pen or the unease raging in the breast of a mere stranger. And she’d wager it was unlike him to concede to the very points she’d put to him, plus agree to the use of her family’s man of affairs.
“Ahem.” The kindly, fleshy-cheeked vicar smiled. “If you would place your mark here, my lady.” He motioned to the requisite space on the forms.
While she continued signing, Chloe peeked out the corner of her eye at Leo—her husband—and his uncle, the powerful Duke of Aubrey. That had been the benevolent uncle whose favor he needed to curry in order to have assistance with his debt and creditors.
And yet, as they spoke, they carried on easily with a familiarity and almost warmth that was neither strained nor for show. Oh, there was the perpetual bend of cynicism to Leo’s lips, but there was an ease in his shoulders and entire frame as they spoke.
Riveted by the unexpectedly companionable exchange between uncle and nephew, she boldly watched. She cocked her head. Theirs was hardly the stilted tension and simmering fury she had expected of Leo and the uncle who’d threatened to not pay his creditors.
Just then, the duke caught Leo’s upper arm and gave it a slight, affectionate squeeze.
A dull flush stained the younger man’s rugged cheeks, giving the marquess an almost boylike quality. And for the first time since he’d stumbled upon her in the corridors, she saw beyond the rake he was. Who had he been before he was Society’s most scandalous scoundrel? People were not born hardened, but rather they were shaped by life and all its hardships—just as she had been. What had made Leo Dunlop, the Marquess of Tennyson, into the man he was now?
I do not want any personal questions about me or my past or my present or future. Nothing…
As she turned his demand over and over in her mind, her intrigue doubled.
Both gentlemen looked in her direction.
Oh, bloody hell. Her cheeks fired hot.
“My lord?” The vicar called Leo over, and she gave thanks for the timely rescue.
Leo joined her, standing so close their legs brushed.
Chloe fiddled with her skirts. Aside from her brothers, she’d never stood so close to another gentleman. In fact, as a rule, she’d made it her mission to avoid those unpredictable sorts—whenever she could.
As such, she didn’t know what to do with her body’s reaction to this man. The intimate press of his thigh and the sandalwood cologne that clung to his person did odd things inside her belly.
And she, who’d never given thought to being in a man’s arms, wondered. Wondered what it would be like to be with this particular gentleman.
While the marquess quickly and methodically slashed his bold letters upon the page, she inched away and knocked into a solid wall.
Gasping, Chloe wheeled around, steadying herself with her cane.
“My apologies,” the duke murmured.
She pressed a hand to her racing heart. Was it a familial trait to move with such stealth? “No apologies required. I’m afraid I was woolgathering, Your Grace.”
He held out an elbow. “Accompany me on a walk about the room, Lady Chloe.”
There could be no taking that as anything less than a ducal command.
Leo paused. “The lady suffered an injured ankle,” he said tightly.
The duke widened his grin. “Then I’ll escort the lady to a seat.”
Uncle and nephew were locked in battle… that ultimately the duke won.
Chloe placed her spare palm onto the duke’s sleeve and allowed him to escort her to the same sofa on which she’d worked out the terms of her arrangement with Leo.
I am married…
All the oldest fears she’d carried for the whole of her life resurfaced. They slammed into her, freezing the air in her lungs until a deep pressure built there.
She’d been so fixed on her hopes for the future and freedom and Mrs. Munroe’s that she’d not allowed herself to linger on the price.
The duke took up the King Louis XIV chair closest to hers. He steepled his fingers and rested them upon his flat stomach. “You are the young woman who’s managed to bring my nephew ’round to marriage.”
She didn’t delude herself into believing that a man of his power and prestige wouldn’t have heard the details surrounding their hasty union. “We were discovered in a compromising position, Your Grace,” she said carefully, studying his deadpan expression. She couldn’t make out a hint of what he was thinking.
They sat, gazes trained forward on Leo, his back presented to them while he continued to sign the marriage documents. “When Leo was ten, his father purchased him his first horse,” His Grace said quietly, unexpectedly.
Chloe blinked slowly and glanced to the older, but handsome, duke. “Your Grace?” she ventured. Her husband had forbidden her to ask for any information—from him. Therefore, every piece offered by his uncle was an unlikely glimpse.
The duke stared off at his nephew. “My brother-in-law was insistent that Leo learn to, at last, ride. Leo declined the offering. He was quite content with his books and studies, and little else interested him.”
She started. “His books and studies?” She was unable to keep the shock from creeping into her tone.
A glimmer lit the duke’s eyes. Leaning toward her, he dropped his voice to a secretive whisper. “From before the sun rose to the moment it went down, Leo could be found with his head bent over a book. He was quite the student.”
Chloe whipped her gaze back to her husband, and she tried to imagine him with these new, unlikely strokes painted by his uncle: Leo, as a boy, burning the midnight oil. “Indeed?” she murmured.
The duke chuckled, bringing her gaze reluctantly away from her husband. “Don’t let him convince you otherwise.” He winked. “He’s kept that secret rather close.”
The Duke of Aubrey paused for a moment before he continued the story. “He refused to go near that horse, no matter how many times his father demanded it.” A palpable fury flickered in the duke’s eyes. “So, he took Leo’s books away, one at a time. He found out which were Leo’s favorites from the boy’s tutors. He started there. And he systematically moved on through all the books in their household.”
A sharp pang struck her heart as that imagery called forth a young Leo watching all those gifts he loved carted away. “But why did he not simply ride the horse?” Why, when nearly every English boy yearned to ride, had he fought his sire at the expense of his own pleasures?
“Because he’s Leo,” his uncle said matter-of-factly. “He wouldn’t ride and had nothing to read… so do you know what he did?” Incapable of words, Chloe shook her head. “He wrote five books that summer.”
Her mouth fell open. How odd was this explanation of Leo’s youth compared with the rake Society knew him to be. “How did his father respond?”
The duke swiftly schooled his features. “That is a question for your husband.” He intended to say nothing more, and she wanted to stamp her foot in frustration.
“We are done here.”
They looked up. Leo towered above them, suspicion heavy in his gaze.
“Lady Chloe,” the duke acknowledged, coming to his feet.
Grabbing her cane, Chloe stood.
“It was a pleasure,” he murmured, gathering her fingers. He raised them to his lips for a kiss. “My wife will insist upon a wedding breakfast.”
Leo snorted. “There’ll be nothing of the sort.”
“It was a pleasure speaking with you, Your Grace,” Chloe said softly. There had been a calming reassurance to both his presence and the tale he’d told about her husband that had made Leo real. But then, mayhap there was a greater danger in that…
The three men who were witnesses to her wedding departed in a flurry, leaving in their wake a weighty silence.
Alone. She was alone with this man—her husband.
Chloe clenched and unclenched the head of her cane, searching for something to say, a question, an observation, a casual utterance. What was one to say? Or how was one to be?
“You’ve gone quiet,” Leo observed in that seductive purr she despised, for its effect on her and its falsity. He drifted closer.
“Did you practice it?”
Her question brought him to a staggering stop.
“Your speech, that is,” she clarified. “It’s dark and cynical and is surely the stuff of practice.”
“It comes with experience,” he said. This time, his words were spoken in his smooth, melodious baritone.
Her heart fluttered. There was far greater danger to a lady’s sensibilities than those natural tones that infused warmth and realism grander than the icy veneer he so often wore.
She wet her lips. “I should…” Her mind raced. What should she do? The immediate answer was… run. But from what? Her body’s response to him? Their marriage? The uncertainty of both? Of all?
“What should you do?” he enticed, lightly cupping her nape in a tender grip that allowed her all the power. One that she was free to separate from—if she wanted. “Leave?”
So why did she not draw back?
“Or do you wish to remain here, with me, so I can show you what we should do?” he whispered against her mouth.
Shake your head. Push him away. For, with every sway of her body closer to him, she broke the terms she herself had set forth between them.
“We’ve not yet sealed our arrangement.”
“H-haven’t we?” she asked weakly. “I… we signed our contract, and there were the marriage documents and—”
Leo flicked the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, quelling those ramblings. Her breath quickened. It was just a small touch, and yet, that subtle caress seared her flesh. “Where is the fun in merely inking one’s name to a sheet of parchment?”
His uncle’s earlier revelation drifted forward.
He wrote five books that summer…
“You once enjoyed writing, though, didn’t you?”
It was hard to say who was more shocked by her question—Chloe, for letting those recently shared words tumble free, or Leo, who stumbled back a step.
His previously heavy lids snapped open. “You were speaking to my uncle,” he said bluntly.
Unease gripped her, and she retreated, as every age-old fear she carried resurfaced. “He volunteered information, and I listened.” Gladly listened. She’d be mad to turn away information about the gentleman she’d wed. “You enjoyed books.” He jerked his gaze about, as if he feared they were being spied upon even now, and his reputation would be ruined from that reveal. “There is no shame to be had in that. Nor should you make apologies for—”
Leo cupped her nape and slammed his mouth onto hers.
Heat.
Burning, searing heat, hotter than the summer sun on its warmest day, scorched through her as he slanted his lips over hers again and again.
Chloe stilled. Then, with a moan, she released her cane and gripped the front of his jacket. He devoured her. His lips molded with hers, and God help her, this was what he’d spoken of. Passion. She melted against his chest, absorbing his strength, clinging to him for purchase as he parted her lips and slipped his tongue inside.
That hot, velvety flesh stroked hers in a primitive meeting.
She tentatively touched the tip of her tongue to his.
A masculine groan of approval filtered from his lips, vibrating her mouth, emboldening her. And Chloe let herself go, turning herself over to the desire within.
Climbing her arms about his neck, she looped her hands there and clung to him for all she was. She’d never known it could be this way. Hadn’t bothered to think of what a kiss could be beyond a curiosity about women who traded their freedom for a man’s embrace.
Leo broke away, and she whimpered at the loss. But he swept her into his arms and guided her back down upon the sofa. He swiftly lowered himself above her. The springs of the sofa squeaked under the weight of his knee as he anchored it between her and the back of the seat.
It was time enough for reality to intrude, but God help her, she wanted more of him… and this. He trailed slow, lingering kisses from the corner of her mouth, lower, to her neck. Gathering the flesh between his lips, he gently sucked and suckled at the place where her pulse pounded.
She panted and tangled her fingers in his lush golden hair.
“I’ve wanted to do this since I had you in Waterson’s offices,” he rasped against her.
Chloe closed her eyes and angled her neck so he could better access her. “In-indee—shsh…” Her speech dissolved as he pressed a hot kiss to her modest décolletage.
All these years, she’d prided herself on taking control of her life… and living for herself, when her mother and sister had once existed only for another. Now, lying in Leo’s arms, she reveled in the exquisite bliss of knowing this passion.
Reaching between them, Leo guided her skirts higher and higher. A blast of air slapped at her stocking-clad legs, providing a welcome cool to the conflagration he’d caught her in. That relief was short-lived as Leo caressed a searching hand from her calf all the way to her thigh. Then, sliding his hand under her, he filled his palm with her buttocks and drew her exposed lower legs around his thighs.
A keening moan spilled from her, wanton and shameless and wholly foreign as he pressed the rigid length of his shaft to the flimsy barrier provided by her undergarments. He rocked against her, and the heavy ache at her core deepened.
“Leo,” she pleaded, unknowing of what she begged for, but trusting implicitly that this man could show her.
A proper lady would have been riddled with horror for the reminder that they were largely strangers.
Chloe had never been proper, nor had she aspired to a decorous state.
His mouth found hers once more, and she wrapped her arms about him. She eagerly met the bold thrust and parry of his tongue.
He continued that quixotic movement, grinding himself against her until her hips lifted and fell of their own volition. The pressure grew—
The air hissed from between her lips as he palmed her center.
“You are so wet for me,” he purred as masculine pride dripped from that revelation. He parted the slit in her undergarments and slipped a finger inside her.
She cried out, reflexively clenching around that long digit.
He took her mouth again, his fingers moving in time to the stroking of his tongue.
Moisture beaded on her brow as she lifted into his touch.
He was a stranger. He was a rake. But her body didn’t give a damn for propriety. It knew only what it wanted. And Chloe wanted him.
Panting, Chloe frantically arched. The yearning between her legs needed to be sated. She was so close. So close to some unknown goal.
“Let yourself go,” he ordered hoarsely.
His urging pulled her across that invisible barrier. Chloe exploded in a flash of blinding white light. A scream tore from her, echoing from the rafters in a symphony of keening moans and rapture. He continued to stroke her, wringing every drop of pleasure from her lips.
Her breath coming hard and fast, Chloe collapsed into the comfortable squabs of the sofa.
As the tremors abated and the remnants of her pleasure went with it, reality intruded, and horror seeped in.
Leo removed his fingers from between her legs, and she shrank against the sofa.
She’d demanded a pledge from him, one that he’d given, and she’d faltered not even thirty minutes after being married.
Gripping his shoulders, Chloe used all of her body to roll him off of her.
He grunted, landing hard on the floor. From where he lay, Leo trailed an appreciative gaze over her naked limbs.
She gasped and swiftly lowered her skirts into place.
If he uttered one triumphant word. If he spoke one single, rakish jest, she’d clout him. “There is the matter of my family,” she said quickly. “I have to let them know… That is, I must…”
He lingered his eyes on her legs before meeting her stare. “Should I accompany you to—”
“No,” she squawked, her own surprise reflected back in his eyes. “That will not be necessary. My brother is gone to gather my mother, and I should speak to them alone. When the time comes. When they return. Simply because…” You are still rambling. She went silent.
He leaped to his feet. “Of course,” he said stiffly, adjusting his cravat. “I will… if you’ll excuse me?”
And as though the devil himself were at his heels, he bolted.
A short while later, in her wrinkled brown skirts that had served as a wedding dress and curls freed from her plait, Chloe took the coward’s way out—and sent her family a note.