The Prince's Bride Page 12

  “You will have to speak to my brother when he returns,” she murmured. Until now, she hadn’t given her dowry a thought. It was substantial, although Jocelyn wasn’t certain of exactly what it entailed. After all, she hadn’t planned on marrying this season. She pushed aside a twinge of irritation that her dowry would be the first thing Rand mentioned. Still, she of all people could scarcely fault him for considering the financial aspects of marriage.

  “But that was not a prime consideration.” Rand got to his feet, strolled to the sideboard, and grabbed the open bottle of wine. “I suppose when I thought about the woman I would one day marry, most of all, I wanted someone with a fair amount of intelligence.”

  “How very odd of you.” She stood, picked up her glass, and held it out to him. “Most men I’ve met aren’t the tiniest bit interested in a woman’s mind.”

  “I gather you speak from your vast experience.” He refilled her goblet. “This was your first season, was it not?”

  “It was a very long season and nearly at an end,” she said loftily. “Besides, you needn’t be overly intelligent to recognize what is right before your nose.” She sipped her wine and studied her husband. “In spite of your claim that you value intelligence in a mate, tell me, Rand, the first time you meet a woman, are you thinking about her mind?”

  “Admittedly I might not—”

  “And when you ask her to dance”—she stepped closer—“or brush a kiss across the back of her hand in that well-practiced way you have, are you considering how witty and clever she might be?”

  He stared down at her with a smile of amusement. “You consider the way I kiss a lady’s hand to be well practiced?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I prefer to think of it as a natural gift.”

  “Call it what you wish. It’s scarcely relevant at the moment.” She pointed her glass at him. “And you, my lord, are evading the subject.”

  “If I am it’s because your questions are entirely unfair. You’re talking in generalities. Every woman is different and therefore my reaction to every woman is different.”

  “All right then, let’s be specific. When you met me was it my clever repartee that you noticed first or the low cut of my gown?”

  He choked on his wine and she hid a smile of satisfaction.

  “Well?”

  “I should say it was your bold manner,” he said smoothly, recovering nicely.

  She raised a brow.

  “Very well. The first thing I noticed about you”—he eyed her over the rim of his glass—“was your response to my quieting your scream.”

  “And would you have quieted me in the same manner if I had been as ugly as a troll?”

  He hesitated.

  “Aha.” Triumph rang in her voice. “I thought so.”

  “On the contrary, it was necessary and I would have done much the very same thing had you been as ugly as a troll. Or even uglier.” His eyes flashed wickedly. “I just wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much.”

  “But you enjoyed it because I’m pretty.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Very pretty.”

  “Some would say exquisite.”

  “It’s a natural gift.” She grinned and he laughed. “Emma was the artistic one, Marianne the dreamer, Becky the hoyden, but I have always been the pretty one.

  “It takes a bit of effort to be the pretty one, you know. You must be ever aware of dress and manner. And natural gift or not, one finds it necessary to practice the fluttering of a fan.” She fluttered her fingers as if she held a fan. “The artful tilt of the head.” She tilted her head and gazed up at him. “The flirtatious yet not too inviting smile.” She cast him her best enticing smile, the very one guaranteed to make men forget their own names.

  “It seems to me it takes rather a lot of effort to be the pretty one,” he said mildly.

  “Indeed it does.”

  “And you have perfected it to a fine art.” He raised his glass in a toast.

  She returned the salute. “Indeed I have. And all to one purpose.”

  “Making a good match.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Pity to have gone through all that trouble to end up with a mere viscount.

  “It is ironic, isn’t it. Aunt Louella would appreciate it. She does so love irony. However”—Jocelyn trailed her fingers along the edge of the table—“it may well be for the best.”

  “As your new husband, I find that rather encouraging.”

  “It’s not always easy to be the pretty one. The one expected to make an excellent match because, frankly, nothing else is expected of you.”

  “You were well on your way to doing just that until circumstances intervened.”

  “Yes, I was. But...” Just how much could she confide in this man? Her husband? She’d never told another soul, not even Becky. And she did want him to think better of her. “Lately, I had begun to wonder if there shouldn’t be more to life than fine gowns and eager suitors and grand parties.” She shot him a pointed glance. “Mind you, I quite enjoy fine gowns and eager suitors and grand parties.”

  “No doubt.”

  “It was what I had always wanted, always dreamed of. Yet it had all begun to feel rather insignificant and somewhat pointless.” She sipped at her wine and widened her eyes in feigned innocence. “I was beginning to fear I wasn’t nearly as shallow as I—and everyone else—believed.”

  He laughed. “It must have been something of a shock.”

  “You’re teasing me again, but yes it was extremely surprising. I had waited all my life for a season in London with the express purpose of being acclaimed a diamond of the first water. Of being the toast of the season and, eventually, making a brilliant match. And the first part, at any rate, did indeed happen.

  “It simply wasn’t as satisfying as I’d expected.” She studied him curiously. “Odd, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all.” Rand shrugged. “The problem might well be that you do think, even if no one credits you for it. I know I had not particularly expected it.”

  “I do hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “Not at all. It seems I may be the one who has inadvertently made a brilliant match. Beauty and brains. I could scarce want for more.”

  Nor could I. The thought flashed in her head. Perhaps, just as she’d said, it was indeed all for the best. Rand was an honorable man. Regardless of his less than lofty title or the minimal size of his fortune and every other thing she’d always thought necessary for a secure future, perhaps this was a man a woman could depend on. A man she could depend on.

  “Pardon me, Your Lordship, my lady.” Ivy stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, a murderous look in her eye. “If you don’t mind my saying, Cook won’t be pleased to know she’s ready to send in the rest of the meal and you two ain’t hardly touched what’s already here.”

  “We can’t have that,” Rand said in a serious manner that belied the twinkle in his eye. He stepped to Jocelyn’s chair and held it out for her.

  “It would be unforgivable.” Jocelyn returned to her chair and allowed him to seat her, ignoring the accidental brush of his fingers on her shoulder and the delightful shiver that raced through her at his touch.

  They turned their attention first to the remainder of their soup and next to the succulent roast of beef Ivy presented. They ate dutifully and drank rather a lot and laughed more than Jocelyn would have thought possible.

  And they talked. About all manner of things. He was impressively well read. And while she had never been particularly interested in books, she was surprised to find the schooling offered through the years from her aunt and her older sisters had well prepared her for intelligent discussion. It was something of a delightful shock to discover she could hold her own with him.

  Jocelyn had never talked to a man like this before. Without pretension or artifice. Without concern as to whether she said too much or too little. With more attention paid to the substance of her comments rather
than the delivery.

  The candles in the elaborate, old-fashioned candelabra on the table burned low. Jocelyn reluctantly noted the lateness of the hour. It was obviously past time to retire. Whatever that entailed. Jocelyn wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know.

  She drew a deep breath and stood. “Well, it has been a long day and ...

  “Indeed.” Rand got to his feet quickly. “And tiring as well.”

  “Then I shall be going.” She inched toward the archway leading to the stairs. “To my rooms. To our rooms.”

  “Quite right.” His brow furrowed. “Our rooms.”

  “Are you”—she swallowed hard—“coming?”

  “You know”—his expression brightened—“I do believe I should like a brisk ride before bed. Would you care to join me?”

  She stared at him. “It’s dark.”

  “Oh, I’m certain there’s plenty of moonlight or starlight. I’ve always enjoyed riding at night.”

  “Do you? It sounds rather ...” At once she realized exactly what he was trying to do and relief swept through her. Was he as nervous about what came next between them as she? She nodded eagerly. “It sounds delightful.”

  “Then that’s what I shall do then.”

  “Wonderful. And I shall”—she moved toward the exit—“go to ... that is to say ... retire.” She turned and tried not to race for the stairs. Tried to keep her steps measured and relaxed. As if her pulse were not racing and her heart was not beating wildly in her chest. As if she were not at once terrified he would change his mind and be no more than a step behind her. And just as terrified that he would not.

  ———

  Jocelyn pulled her wrapper more tightly around her and paced her bedchamber, their bedchamber. What exactly would happen when Rand joined her for the night? She had no doubt he would indeed join her. What she didn’t know was precisely what he would expect when he did.

  She glanced at the bed. It was immense, impressive, a remnant of another time. Dark wooden posts spiraled upward from each corner. Heavy brocade hangings draped from top rails. A more fanciful imagination would have likened it to the den of some giant, lurking threat. A creature of some sort. A dragon or other monstrous beast. Ready to devour. To consume. Pulsing with erotic menace.

  She blinked hard to clear the image. The bed once again was nothing more than a bed. And no more daunting than any other piece of furniture one would use for ...

  She pushed the thought from her mind and with it the accompanying vivid images of entwined bodies and low murmurings of intimate secrets and ...

  She wrapped her arms around herself and paced faster. There was no need to be nervous about this. Hah. There was every reason to be nervous about this. She’d never been a bride before. Never had a wedding night. Never shared a marriage bed. Never experienced anything more than a kiss.

  The bed drew her gaze like an irresistible force. Did it have to be so big? So overwhelming. Why, it quite dominated the room. A huge, looming portent of doom. The site of her demise. The place of her inevitable downfall.

  And surely it was the flickering candlelight and her poor vision that made the covers undulate like that?

  Perhaps she could avoid Rand altogether. Put off this—she cringed at the very thought of the word— consummation. Her husband was not a beast. He would never force her, take her, against her will. In truth, he was, well, rather surprisingly wonderful. With his dark, mysterious eyes that made her insides melt. And the square set of those broad, muscled shoulders that proclaimed confidence and power with every step he took. And the way he laughed and the way he listened.

  And the way he looked at her. As if she wasn’t merely the woman he had to marry but the woman he wanted.

  The woman he wanted.

  A delightful warmth washed through her at the idea. He was her husband and he did have certain rights and . . .

  And why not?

  The thought stopped her in her tracks. Certainly she was a bit apprehensive, but then wasn’t every bride? And when she considered it, in a completely honest way, weren’t her feelings right now as much excitement as dread? As much anticipation as unease? Perhaps ... more?

  She looked at the bed once more. Odd. It no longer seemed threatening but, well, inviting. Even tempting. Possibly ... seductive.

  And when Rand returned ... what?

  She stepped to the wardrobe and found her spectacles where she’d discreetly hidden them. She slipped them on, then moved to the window, sank onto the seat and stared out into the dark night. The glasses were of little help but at least at the window she would hear the approach of his horse. Her gaze drifted upward and her breath caught.

  The sky was alight with a hundred, no, a thousand stars. Bright, tiny points of pure magic. She’d never seen stars before and had never imagined the sheer glory of the heavens.

  She leaned against the window frame and stared up into the night sky. It was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen. Unexpected and enchanting and perfect.

  And she couldn’t help but wonder what else of enchantment the night might hold.

  ———

  Rand stood on a rise some distance from the castle and leaned against the ancient oak that had served as refuge and fortress and everything else a boy needed during the visits of his childhood. The tree was as much a constant through the years as the castle. Unchanging and solid and forever. A comforting anchor in an adventurous life.

  A life that once again had taken an unexpected turn.

  He gazed at the figure silhouetted in the window in the west wing of the building. His window. No, their window. It was a startling thought, at once odd and yet somehow right. He’d never before considered the day he’d share his rooms or his life. Never thought significantly about marriage. It had been ... what? Three days since their wedding? They’d passed in such a blur he’d scarcely had time to consider the full meaning of his actions.

  Oh, certainly between the discussions he’d had with Thomas and Nigel and even Jocelyn herself, he was well aware this marriage was forever. But had the truth really sunk into him before now?

  Lady Beaumont. His wife. That too was both strange and fitting.

  How did one go about getting one’s own wife to fall in love with him? Surely tonight had been a good start.

  He’d never been in love before so far as he knew. Certainly he would have noticed such a thing. Oh, he’d enjoyed the company of any number of women through the years, but love? No. He had hoped, somewhere in the back of his mind, to find what his parents had shared. He’d rather expected when the right woman came along he would be struck at once by love, like a bolt from the heavens. It was a ridiculous idea, of course, and had never happened, and now he was married.

  He had no idea how to make a woman fall in love with him. In point of fact, he’d always avoided women who might possibly do just that.

  Desire more often than not goes hand in hand with love.

  Perhaps that was the answer. Perhaps he had to make her want him before she could love him. In that respect this was very little different from any seduction. He’d never had any difficulty with seduction before, but when he thought about it, he’d never been involved with a woman when the attraction between them, and the desire, was not mutual. When the games, the rituals, of mating were not born of experience on both sides. With no expectation of a future and no commitment beyond the here and now.

  This was entirely different. Both the circumstances and the woman. In spite of Jocelyn’s flirtatious manner and air of confidence, she was very much an innocent. He’d never attempted to seduce a virgin before. Never tried to awaken desires never before experienced. Never particularly wished to.

  His uncle was right. He would have to be patient.

  Rand sank down on the cold ground and settled his back against the oak. He knew the meaning of patience. Knew the importance of waiting for the right moment to move or strike or put forces into play. Knew as well the failures that came with acting too quickly, with imp
ulse rather than thought.

  The shadow in the window hadn’t moved. What thoughts were on Jocelyn’s mind tonight? Did she share his growing desire? Did she wonder what it would be like when he joined her in their bed for more than slumber? Did she long for the heat of his body against hers? Ache for the touch of his hand on her naked flesh, the taste of his skin on her lips, the caress of his fingers where she’d never known a man’s touch before? Did she yearn for the moment when the passion of their kiss exploded into something more? Something uncontrollable. Something magnificent.

  He shifted uncomfortably and blew a long breath. That was enough of that.

  Win her heart first, Rand. And be patient.

  Patience? Was his character strong enough for that? With every minute spent in Jocelyn’s presence, and every minute away from her, he wanted her more. Wanted to run his hands along the curve of her hip, kiss the full swell of her breast, feel the long stretch of her legs entwined with his ...

  Rand groaned aloud. He would never be able to keep his hands off her if he continued to think along these lines. He had to focus on something else. He’d checked with his men again tonight, and as he’d expected, they had nothing untoward to report. And nothing further to occupy his mind for the minutes, even hours he was determined to wait here. He wanted her to be asleep when he returned. Otherwise ... well, he could not guarantee he could resist the temptation of the delectable Lady Beaumont.

  Would she resist if he came to her right now and took her in his arms and made her truly his? Perhaps not, given her response to their kisses. But would she then regret it?

  No, it was too soon. His plan to make her want him as much as he wanted her was sound. Or if not sound, it was at least a plan. And the only one he had. Besides, didn’t women always want what they couldn’t have? He ignored the thought that Jocelyn was turning out to be unlike any woman he’d ever met and unlike any expectations he’d had of her.

  Patience? Never had the word seemed so daunting. But if that’s what it would take, then so be it. His future and hers were at stake. It wouldn’t be easy. But then achieving anything of worth was never easy.

  He’d wait until she was asleep, then join her in bed. The same way he had on their first night. If it took night after night of sharing the same bed to make her want him, so be it. She’d be insane with desire. It was a good way to start a marriage and well worth the trouble.