Seduce Me, If You Dare by Alyssa Clarke
Prologue
Miss Prudence Anna Merriweather did not have to marry for money. That much was evident in every detail of her attire tonight, from the jewel-tipped pins in her golden-streaked, dark brown hair to the elegant embroidery on her white dress and slippers. Her father might as well have put her on a velvet cushion and presented her to the fortune hunters of the ton. For it was one of them that she was expected to marry.
Not for money. Not for love, despite the open way her father doted on her mother. No, much the way her older sister, Mrs. Temperance Walters, had been given to a prominent businessman in her father’s circle, Prue was expected to ignore her heart and stand up at the altar with whatever man was willing to give an heiress of her less-than-exalted pedigree a title.
It bemused her that something so permanent as marriage should be given only the consideration of performing a routine business transaction. A marriage arrangement of that sort was intolerable to Prue. She would never be able to respect a gentleman who would enter a marriage solely for money. Did the gentlemen who pursued ladies only for their wealth ever pause to consider a lady’s likes and dislikes? It had been impressed upon her during the last several weeks what qualities she was to consider before accepting a proposal. These were exclusively a beau’s connections, title, and his pedigree. It had to be the opposite of hers.
Recalling those instructions from her mother and her indomitable aunt sent a fierce stab of pain inside her heart.
Oh, but I want so much more!
Prue wasn’t going to fall in love in a ballroom like this, with sharks circling her. That was how she saw her would-be suitors, with their impeccable manners and flashing pearly white teeth. Their eyes were those of calculating predators, and she felt little interest in receiving their supposedly flattering attentions. Between her debut two such events ago and this ball, word had circulated about the depths of her father’s pockets and how much he was leaving her. She had heard speculation on the amount of her dowry several times already this evening. It was humiliating. She couldn’t take two steps without some dandy stepping into her path and offering her a drink or a tour around the room or a dance. But none of them looked at her while they did so. They looked past her, seeking the approval of her Aunt Beatrice—a baroness who had sponsored her debut—and fastening her to their arms like the pretty jewel she had been trussed up to be this evening.
My debut was supposed to be different than this.
With a sigh, Prue shut away the disappointing thoughts. After Temperance’s arranged marriage, she shouldn’t have expected anything different. Yet, she had.
By some miracle, she had managed to sidestep the suffocating attentions of the men and snubs of the women and found a private moment of peace near the half-open doors leading onto the terrace. Still indoors, but close enough for the air to cool her overheated flesh, Prue hid behind the inadequate cover of a potted fern.
I am seventeen, not a child.I ought to be able to bear one more evening.
And how many after that?
To her left was a row of seats where several chaperones and their charges waited for the possibility of a dance partner. Among them was a woman in her early twenties with fiery red hair and either too many freckles or two acerbic a tongue to attract any gentleman to stand up with her. A few who whispered with the aim to wound had referred to her as a wallflower. Those ladies had spoken and giggled behind their fans, but the red-haired lady had steadfastly ignored their cruelty. Prue had been wishing to introduce herself all evening, hoping to find somebody who felt as outside the gathering as she did. Perhaps this was her opportunity?
Prue smoothed her gloves down her dress and patted at the edges of her hair. She wasn’t as slim as most of the girls in the room, not that that had seemed to deter any of the gentlemen who looked her way. Just as she’d worked up her courage to take a step forward and join that line of potentially cutting ladies, he stepped out of the crowd.
Her heart stuttered alarmingly, and her body flushed. To her mortification, that reaction was provoked whenever she glimpsed the man. Prue knew who he was, of course, even if they hadn’t been introduced. Everybody knew the devastatingly handsome and very eligible Earl of Wycliffe. His black hair curled devilishly onto his forehead, just far enough to shadow the color of his eyes, but his wicked smile and the cleft of his chin were enough to make him memorable. The way his shoulders filled out his evening coat was enough to make Prue’s mouth dry.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been one of the men to cluster for her attention. Nor she realized, as he angled to walk past her, was she his aim tonight.
Instead, he approached the young woman with the fiery red hair who had been sitting down without a partner since arriving. At his approach, his glib tongue and the hand he extended to her, the woman’s face brightened.
Prue felt a knot of warmth unravel just beneath her breastbone. Lord Wycliffe could have stood up with any woman in the room. He had the diamonds of the first water to choose from, though Prue knew with her rounded face and plump figure she wasn’t among those beauties. A “gentleman” had baldly mentioned to her face that her appearance did not tempt him much, but she made up for it with her fortune. His condescension had shocked her. Just once, she found herself longing to learn that a man needed her and not her money for his estate.
Prue’s family might not have a title. She might not compare to the delicate English beauties in looks or refinement, despite the upbringing her father had tried to give her. But in terms of money? She was the richest heiress in the room.
If the Earl of Wycliffe wanted you for your money, you wouldn’t want him.
As the gentleman in question offered the fiery young woman his arm, he happened to glance her way. From the ballroom proper, she was halfway shielded behind the potted fern and the graceful colonnade holding the orchestra aloft. From the position of the chairs where the chaperones sat, she was in plain view.
She felt the touch of his gaze like a brand. Her lips parted. Her fingers closed around the handle of her fan, the wood digging almost painfully through her glove as she fought not to hide her face. Not a single gentleman this evening had given her more than a cursory look, even the ones vying for her attention. But Lord Wycliffe looked. She supposed he tried to be discreet, but his gaze swept from the top of her intricate curls to the tips of her silver dancing shoes. And he lingered, as if he could not help himself. A frisson of awareness climbed down her spine and fluttering went off low in her belly.
Prue tried to turn away, but she stood there instead, returning his regard helplessly. His partner was standing now, yet his attention was still on Prue. At a word from the young woman, he turned away. The connection snapped, leaving her unexpectedly bereft. Even if the moment had been brief, the earl had stared at Prue like a man entranced. Suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, she moved blindly toward the terrace and the cooler night air beyond. The sky was overcast, and rather than being cool, the air was heavy and thick with summer heat, but she still found it preferable to being tethered like bait among tigers. Without thinking, she stepped past the couples sharing the short terrace. Her slippers clicked on the stone steps. The sound gave way to the crunch of gravel as she found the garden path. It was well lit, the lanterns at intervals having only started to collect insects. She turned down a passage leading between two tall hedges until she found a bench. It faced a round planting of flowers, each bough and petal carefully trimmed and arranged so none spilled over the line of stones forming the perimeter. It was beautiful and artificial, like everything else she had seen tonight.
She fitted right in.
“There you are!”
Prue jumped at her older sister’s voice. She pressed her hand to her chest to quell the rapid beating of her heart. Temperance might have been the exact image of the mature woman Prue was meant to become. A touch slimmer, an inch taller, but with the same golden-brown hair that wouldn’t curl no matter how long the curling iron was pressed to it, the same sharp chin and pert tilt to her nose. Prue had dimples though, whereas her sister did not, a fact she never intended to let Temperance forget.
Though now Prue wasn’t in the mood to tease. Especially not when her older sister looked so playful. With poise and confidence that Prue envied, Temperance crossed to the bench and sat hip to hip with Prue. Grudgingly, Prue moved over to make a little more room.
“You’ll never catch a marriage proposal out here.”
Prue sighed. “I don’t even need to be in there. I might as well hold a placard with the amount of my dowry in place of my head. The men will start the bidding with or without me.”
Undaunted, Temperance reached forward and squeezed Prue’s hand. “It isn’t as bad as all that.”
She sounded as though she believed it.
Prue snorted. “I don’t think there’s a gentleman who has looked at me beyond the quality of my dress or jewelry this evening. Certainly, none of them have thought to ask after my temperament or personality. Half of them fish for my connections in the ton and aren’t satisfied until I tell them the date and time of Aunt Beatrice’s marriage. And Papa expects me to marry one of them? Oh, Temperance, I want so much more.”
“Your popularity is a blessing.”
At that, Prue sighed. Even Temperance wasn’t on her side this time.
Temperance leaned forward enough to companionably bump Prue’s shoulder with her own. “It is,” she insisted. “It means you can have your pick. It means you have a say.”
For the first time in months, Prue recalled how frightened Temperance had been not to have a choice in her marriage. Despite how she’d threatened, she hadn’t run away, but had faced the day with grace.
Softly, Prue whispered, “I don’t want an arranged marriage. I most certainly do not want a man to marry me for my wealth. I want to marry for love. We must love each other. Isn’t that what a union, especially one so permanent, should be based on?”
The confession hung thick in the air between them. Temperance mustered a smile. “It isn’t all bad. You’ll be well taken care of. You will be a Lady in the end, with a proper title and everything.” She rearranged a lock of hair that had fallen free from one of Prue’s pins. “You’ll be the jewel of the family.”
“I’d rather it had been you.”
Temperance dropped her hand. “Papa needed my marriage to secure the business deal that made you into the heiress you are. Don’t turn your nose up at my sacrifice now.”
Despite the dour topic, her mouth turned up in a sly smile, and her tone was almost playful.
Prue looked her in the eye. “Are you happy?”
Perhaps she should have asked sooner, but she had been so terribly afraid of the answer.
Temperance looked contemplative, then an unexpected, dreamy smile touched her mouth. “Surprisingly…yes.” She turned the word over on her tongue as if shocked to hear it aloud. “I was lucky.”
Prue’s throat tightened again. “I may not be.”
Temperance shook her head. “I refuse to believe that. You have a choice. Tell me, isn’t there any man you like?”
When Prue remained silent, Temperance turned bolder.
“I’ve seen you casting secret looks at the Earl of Wycliffe all evening, Prue. You might as well admit it.”
She swallowed back the lump in her throat. Had she been that obvious in her admiration? Mortification swamped Prue and her cheeks heated against her will. “He is…handsome.”
Knowingly, her sister asked, “Only handsome?”
Prue bit her lip to hide her smile. “More than handsome,” she admitted. “Kind, too. He just stood up with a lady every gentleman has ignored all evening. I admit he makes my heart race. But he hasn’t approached either me or Aunt Beatrice.”
“Then perhaps you ought to approach him.”
Prue glared at her sister. “That isn’t helpful. You and I are both familiar with ton etiquette. It isn’t done.”
Temperance opened her mouth, but Prue cut her off. “We are grasping higher than our station just by being here. We cannot hope to align with an earl. Perhaps a baronet or baron, if we’re lucky. I could repeat Aunt Beatrice’s success.”
Temperance turned her head, and for a moment, Prue thought she was reaching for a rejoinder. Instead, she simply stood, smoothed her gown, and offered Prue her hand. “I suppose you’d best be getting back.”
She knew her sister was right, even if she wasn’t looking forward to another excruciating evening.
She took her sister’s hand, and from there, she wasn’t quite sure what happened. Prue could be clumsy at times, but never this much. How she could both clasp her sister’s hand and trip over her sister’s foot at the same time, she’d never know. However, the jarring pain in her ankle and the angry throb in her knees as she hit the gravel were proof enough. A soft cry tore from her, and she struggled to stand to no avail. This was a disaster.
With a gasp, Temperance crouched beside her. “Prue, are you okay?”
Prue grimaced. “Yes,” she said between clenched teeth and reached for her sister’s hand again. She had no idea which devil of ill luck she had offended, but this time her hand slipped from Temperance’s altogether. When Temperance blindly grasped to catch her, this time by the sleeve, Prue heard a resounding rip.
The sudden wash of cool air against her bosom shocked her enough to look down. Her sleeve was ripped from the seam across her bodice, which now gaped enough to expose half of Prue’s breasts. She sat there, agape, unable to muster the sense to laugh. And laugh she must, because if she didn’t laugh, she would cry.
She was the coveted jewel no longer. Chipped and tarnished, abandoned in the dirt. She might as well be ruined. What would people say when they saw her like this?
Her sister’s hands flew to her mouth. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be back in but a moment. I’ll—I’ll fetch your cloak and Aunt Beatrice, too. Just stay here and we’ll go home.”
At that moment, Prue wanted nothing more. She nodded, chin wobbling, and her sister dashed away, leaving her alone in the garden.
At least no one was around to witness her abject mortification.
The crunch of shoes on gravel came too quickly for Temperance to have left and returned, but Prue lifted her head, nevertheless.
And looked directly into the stunning dark brown eyes of the Earl of Wycliffe.
Oscar oughtto turn his back. He’d had an exhausting evening paying court to all the young women with a better-than-modest dowry. Most, from titled families, knew their worth and perhaps even knew how desperately he had been trying to hold together his estate since inheriting it several years ago. He needed to marry an heiress, and here was one tossed onto the ground at his feet, with her décolletage halfway undone already.
Bloody hell.
If only she wasn’t bloody well seventeen. Seventeen, four years younger than his youngest sister, which was why he couldn’t consider her—hadn’t considered her. It made him feel ancient. No matter the size of her inheritance, how could he marry such a young bride? He was nine and twenty years old!
Even worse was how beautiful she was, pretty in a mischievous sort of way with the tilt to her mouth and the dimples winking in and out of her cheeks as she accepted the compliments of her empty-headed entourage. He hated himself for the momentary attraction he’d felt then—and more so for the surge of attraction he felt now. It trembled through him with stunning force and sucking in a harsh breath he looked away from her prettiness. And the plumpness of her décolletage.
Briskly, Oscar turned his back.
“Forgive me. I didn’t know you were here.”
That sounded like a weak excuse even to his ears. Not to mention, she was sprawled on the ground with her dress torn asunder! All thoughts of the curves hidden by the dress disappeared at once. He nearly turned around but reminded himself of the eyeful he would get if he did. Better if he preserved the illusion of the young woman’s modesty. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said hoarsely. “I’m lying on the ground of my own free will.”
To his horror, he heard tears in her voice. Oscar had never known what to do with female tears, and his sisters shed them quite frequently with the right touch of histrionics.
She sniffled and said, “Oh, blast. Could this night get any worse?”
And that, as luck would have it, was when the rain started to fall.
The young lady gasped as the first droplets struck her. “Truly?” she demanded rawly.
He shut his eyes and imagined she sent that incredulous demand to the heavens. What hell had he unwittingly wandered into? Oscar wished he had remained in the ballroom. Yet now that he was here, he could not leave her like this. “Are you able to walk?”
He heard the rustle of cloth, and then her small, watery voice. “I don’t think so. My ankle hurts dreadfully and—”
Oscar cursed under his breath. With swift movements, he stripped himself out of his jacket and held it out to her. He stared at the hedge over her head as he waited for her to take it and tug it around her shoulders.
In a small voice, she whispered, “Thank you, my lord.”
“You can call me Wycliffe. Most of my friends do.” Most of his friends being the men he associated with at his club. Everyone there associated with each other by their titles, as if the man wearing it was of no concern. Even grown men he’d gone to Eton with now called him Wycliffe instead of Oscar. But he couldn’t very well ask her to call him by his given name. Even though he knew the answer, he prodded, “And you are…?”
“Prue.”
Her cheeks flushed as she realized she had given him her Christian name rather than her family name. Her stubborn chin came up. She didn’t take it back. The rain was starting to thicken, and her dress was turning alarmingly transparent. At least his jacket covered her chest. Mostly.
“May I carry you, miss?” He was not going to call her Prue, even if he was fascinated by the curve of her lips as she spoke the word. “You cannot stay here.”
“My sister will be here soon…” her words dwindled, and she lifted her face to the sky as the rain came harder.
Oscar swallowed his sigh. Fate was conspiring against them. “Your sister won’t make it to the house and back with help before you’re soaked through to the skin. Let me carry you around the back of the house and find you someplace dry to sit. I’ll fetch her for you then.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. Clutching with one hand at the lapels of his jacket, she turned her face away and nodded. He lifted her, doing his best not to notice the figure her dress was doing a poor attempt to hide. He recited old nursery rhymes in his head, jaw clenched, to distract himself as he made quick steps toward the house.
Unfortunately, he’d forgotten about the terrace. As unfamiliar as he was with this particular set of gardens, his only method of returning to the house was to retrace his steps, and that left them both in plain sight of the open terrace doors and the two women stepping out of them. Her sister and an older woman, both stopping in their tracks with gasps that rippled through the crowd behind them and drew more attention.
The older woman drew herself to her modest height and said sharply, as imperious as a queen, “Lord Wycliffe, what are you doing with my niece?”
Unfortunately, her voice carried. Quite deliberately. The glint in her eyes was calculating, and, for whatever reason, she was gambling on his honor. Prue turned her face into his shoulder, but from the shaking of her shoulders, he could tell that she had added up the consequences as quickly as he had. His reputation might survive—he was an earl, after all—but hers was in as poor a shape as her dress. Oscar could tell the truth. Leave the poor girl ruined, even more on the fringes of polite society than she already was. But that would be a very dishonorable thing to do, and the old biddy was hoping for that very reasoning to enter his head. He was bloody annoyed with the machinations of those caught up in the matrimonial fervor. It did not matter to them that marriage should be a beautiful union filled with comfort and respect. He was almost tempted to drop the delightful bundle in his arms on her buttocks, walk away and damn it all.
“Oh, God, I am going to be ruined,” she whispered in the crook of his neck, clearly stricken. “Please help me to explain—"
“Shh,” he crooned, not understating the fierce urge that rose inside of him. “I’ll protect you.”
She jerked her face from his throat and tried to slither down. “I do not need you to rescue me!”
Oscar tightened his grip. “Pray recall that your ankle is hurt, miss.”
He needed money to fix his estate, and this lady’s family clearly wanted to net a title. A mutually beneficial agreement. Tightly, he said, “Forgive the impropriety, madam. I was having a moment alone with my intended when she fell and twisted her ankle. I had no choice but to take her into my arms.”
The woman arched her brow, a hand fluttering to her chest. “Intended?”
Prue’s sister stared with mouth agape. “You’re going to marry her?”
She sounded shocked and delighted.
Without looking down at the young woman in his arms who sounded as if she were choking, Oscar said, “Yes.”
But he would be damned if he touched the girl before she became a woman, wife or not.
3 weeks later…
She was no longerPrue Merriweather but Lady Prudence Campbell, Countess of Wycliffe. The vicar had declared so, just a few hours ago. The wedding breakfast had finally ended, and the few guests who had attended their marriage at Fairfax Manor, the earl’s principal estate in Hertfordshire, made their way back to their own homes.
Prue had escaped the elegantly decorated dining hall a few minutes ago and now sat on a bench in the lovely eastern gardens. The estate was grander than any home she had ever seen, and she was now its mistress. Nerves cramped her, and she pressed a gloved hand over her mouth. She would be expected to manage this grand household and acquit herself well. Then she would have to bear the earl his heir and spare rather quickly, as per the advice of the dowager countess earlier this morning. It was clear to Prue that her husband’s mother did not approve of her, something about her connections not being what she wanted for their family. Still, the dowager countess and his sisters had been polite as they welcomed her into the family.
Her mother had also cornered Prue an hour ago to inform her that tonight, doing her duty might seem frightening, but it can be pleasant if she relaxed. That cryptic message had been haunting her. What duty must she perform that could be perceived as frightening? Those questions had only caused her mama to lift her chin and walk away.
A rustle of sound had Prue whirling around. She blew out a sharp breath when her sister came into view. “I thought you were Wycliffe.”
Even though she was not sure the earl would come looking for his new bride. He had barely paid her any attention at the breakfast table, and Prue couldn’t help feeling he resented marrying her after all. Blast the man. She had found the courage to call upon him in London a few days after their mishap in the gardens and urged him to reconsider marrying her merely because they were compromised. Though she thought him very handsome and appealing, she had an idea of the kind of man she wanted to marry. One who would dote on her as she doted on him, one who shared the same love of poetry and the theatre, and one who was good-natured and affable.
Her cheeks stung at the memory of the earl’s chilling indifference tinged with amusement when she had said she wanted to only marry for love.
“Love…, how naïve. A marriage connection has nothing to do with love. Your limited views and understanding of how the world operates will change as you mature. You are still wet behind the ears if you do not see that your reputation would be irrevocably ruined should you call the engagement off at this stage. Our alliance is a mutually beneficial one. There is certainly no need for this injured air as if you are losing something by becoming a countess!”
The memory of those words now brought an ache to her throat. Clearly, this was not a man who believed in love. Her family had wanted an illustrious title, and they had got it, but how had the earl benefited? When she asked her papa, he had shushed her away, claiming that was the business of men, and she was not to concern her pretty head about these matters. And her mother had supported his ridiculous assertions.
“Why are you hiding away here?” Temperance asked with a quick frown as she sat on the bench.
“I am not hiding,” Prue said. “I am breathing.”
“Your guests are leaving, and you are not by your husband’s side bidding them a safe journey.”
Prue sighed. “He said I looked a bit wan, and I should retire. I am taking his advice.”
Her sister smiled. “I think your earl meant you should retire to the bedchamber to rest for tonight.”
Tonight?Prue’s heart lurched. Of course, her sister would know the truth of it; she was also a married woman! “Mama mentioned that tonight will be frightening. I am not sure why she told me this, Temp, but I am very out of sorts and nervous. What does she mean?”
Temperance waved her words away. “Mama told me the same rubbish, and I urge you to forget her words. Nothing at all scary will happen.”
Despite the reassuring words, her sister seemed anxious.
“There is something you are not telling me. What is it?”
Temperance stood silent for several moments. then sighed. “It is just that you are such a ninny hammer sometimes. You are afraid of pain…and blood and—”
Prue shot to her feet staring at her sister in horror, but stumbled back to sit on the stone bench, fearing her shaking legs would not hold her upright. “It will be bloody? My God! What does he plan to do to me?”
“It is not at all dire as you are making it to be,” Temperance said, coming over to her. “Pray do not let your imagination run wild.”
“Then why the secrecy and grave warnings?” Prue thrust a loose tendril behind her ear. “You are a married lady, Temperance. Please tell me in full what tonight will entail.”
Her sister’s cheeks colored brightly, and the sight riveted Prue. Her sister was very self-assured and unflappable, yet she blushed and could hardly meet Prue’s eyes.
“I have said enough,” Temp muttered.
“I daresay you have not! You have left me with more anxieties than mama!” Prue had an accident many years before when she had been a child of six years. She had tumbled from her startled pony. There had been so much blood from a terrible gash along her arm, the pain agonizing. Since then, the mere sight of blood would send her into a swoon, and she found even the slightest pain intolerable.
“Prue—”
“Please, Temperance,” she whispered.
“Close your eyes.”
“Good God, it cannot be that awful. Every married woman does it, and they are walking around very much alive.”
“I merely do not want you to see my face and the infernal blushes!”
Prue actually smiled and ceded, letting her lashes flutter closed.
“Tonight, you must consummate your vows to be really married. If it is not consummated, you are not…you are not married in truth.”
Prue bit into her bottom lip. “I see. And what does this consummation involve?”
Temperance cleared her throat. “The earl will come to your bedchamber, or you go to his. This is after you have taken a bath and brushed your hair out. He will place you on the bed and push the nightgown to your waist.”
Prue’s heart lurched in mortified shock.
“He will join your bodies together.”
“What does that mean? How?”
“Upon my word, this is insufferable,” Temperance muttered. “I cannot explain that part in much detail, but when he does it, there will be pain.”
Prue gripped the edges of the stone bench until her knuckles hurt. “And blood?”
“Yes, but not a lot.”
“How long does it last for?”
She braced herself for the answer.
“I…the first time, it was only a few minutes.”
Prue’s eyes flew open. “The first time?”
Her sister seemed like she would eat bugs before continuing this conversation. “It depends on how often your husband…takes you to his bed for marital relations. I promise, Prue, that it becomes very pleasant after that first time, and that is how children are made.”
Oh!She did not believe her sister that this marriage relation would eventually become pleasant. Still, Prue did not want the earl to see her as naïve or foolish. She would do her duty, and she would damn well do it satisfactorily. There would be no hysterics on her part. “Thank you for letting me know,” she said, leaning over to hug her sister.
“You are welcome; now promise me you will not faint at the sight of blood.”
Swallowing down the sick feeling rising inside, she said, “Of course I won’t. I am the Countess of Wycliffe, not a child.”
They chatted for a few more minutes before Prue made her way inside and used the stairs to prepare for her husband.
Several hours later,Prue accepted that all her preparation was for naught. She had been bathed in rose-scented water, her long dark brown hair with its gold highlights brushed with over a hundred strokes. Her nightgown was also not the usual cotton, but a light blue silky shift that revealed more than it covered. When she had stared at her body in the oval mirror, her dark green eyes had glittered with nerves and anticipation.
Pushing off from the bed where she had been sitting since she heard her husband moving about in his adjoining room, she padded across to the connecting door. Temperance’s words had implied Prue might be the one to initiate consummation. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door, stepped over the threshold, and quickly closed it behind her. Her husband swiftly turned from where he stood by the window with a glass in his hand.
Her throat dried, and her belly went frightfully hot. He was naked. Well, at least his shoulders and chest were. She was too frightened to lower her gaze to see if he was naked everywhere.
“What are you doing here?”
Confusion rushed through her. “To consummate our vows,” she murmured huskily.
His eyes flared, but he only watched her with that hawk-like stare. What was he thinking? Prue walked over to him, grateful that her legs did not wobble and show her uncertainty. She stood only inches from him, and she inhaled his evocative, masculine scent and felt the heat wafting from his body. She noted that his eyes had darkened, obliterating the golden-brown striations normally at its center. His long fingers curled around a glass of what looked like brandy, and his throat worked on a tight swallow.
She found his reaction curious, and inexplicably her body responded. Prue felt warm all over, and her heart shook beneath her breastbone. Digging deep for courage, she pressed her hands flat against his chest. He inhaled harshly, then only silence lingered in the bedchamber. The merry cackle of the fireplace mocked the perilous tension that coated the air.
“I planned to wait,” he said, almost harshly, a tinge of red covering his sharp and very elegant cheekbones.
You are very handsome, aren’t you, husband?
“Wait?”
“Yes, until…until you are ready.”
“I am ready now,” she refuted, tentatively sliding her hand up over the hardened wall of muscles.
“Do you even know what bedding entails?”
“Yes.”
A soft groan whispered from his lips, and he lowered the drink onto the ledge of the window with a clink.
He took a single step toward her, and now their bodies were flush together. She had to tilt her head to see his expression. He was taller…larger, and suddenly she felt surrounded by him. Yet, it was not an unpleasant sensation. Perplexing fluttering went off low in her belly, and her breasts felt suddenly heavy and a bit tender.
He threaded his fingers in the length of her hair and nudged her, so she met his gaze.
“You are just a girl—” he began gruffly as if he struggled with something.
“I am a woman!” Prue inhaled raggedly, for it was most important that he saw her as a woman…his wife! Not as a girl who he believed was still wet behind the ears. “Your woman,” she said with instinctive provocation.
The fingers in her hair tightened even further, and he spun with her to press her against the wall. Something hard dug into her stomach, and she knew this is what he would use to join them during consummation. A slow, torturous ache rolled through her, and she inhaled sharply.
Prue darted her tongue to wet her dry lips. “I…” her throat closed. What was there to say. “I am ready.”
He groaned, bunched her hair into his hand and shifted her head. Oh, God, he was going to kiss her…and then take her to the bed where that impossibly hard thing pressing in her belly will make her feel pain and bleed. And his eyes, they gleamed with something that seemed almost savage. There was nothing tender in his stare. It was pure…pure…? She didn’t know what it was, but it was intoxicating. A roaring began in her head, and her entire body shook with nerves, alarm, and anticipation. To Prue’s horror, darkness started to edge her vision.
“Oh, no,” she whispered before succumbing to the darkness into a dead faint.