The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Page 14

  As she waited for her cloak and gloves to be retrieved, she considered her purchases. Only a few minor alterations were necessary, so the garments would be delivered to her by early evening. Standing at the threshold of Madame’s shop, sudden doubt assailed her.

  “Will I be in fashion?” she asked.

  Madame LeReau brought up her chin, triumph blazing in her dark eyes. “You will make the fashion, Lady Keating.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so irritated. Beyond irritated, actually. Nearly ready to crush the skull of a man he considered one of his best friends. All because of the way Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, was smiling at Calla. Not leering at her, not touching her, just smiling at her.

  The trouble was, Derek knew that smile. He had watched Jonathon employ it on countless occasions to entice all manner of women, from lowly barmaids to lofty duchesses, to his bed. In their raunchier past, he and Jonathon had even shared a woman—not on the same night, but close enough. It hadn’t bothered Derek in the least that they had both courted and bedded the woman within days of each other. The three of them had even enjoyed a sophisticated laugh about it.

  But Derek wasn’t laughing now. Bloody hell, Calla was his.

  Worst of all, he had no one to blame for his predicament but himself. He had invited Brooksbank for a casual supper to discuss a joint business venture, something he’d done on countless other occasions. But all notions of commerce were driven from his mind when his bride drifted downstairs dressed in a gown of rich indigo blue. A gown that displayed a mouth-watering amount of décolletage, encircled her slim waist, hugged the graceful swell her hips, and swirled about her ankles with such natural fluidity she appeared to be walking on air.

  Good God. Apparently her afternoon at Madame LeReau’s had been successful. He had wanted Calla when she’d appeared at the London House dressed in the garb of a traveling missionary. This was simply too much.

  Calla effortlessly slipped into the role of hostess, presiding over the table with warmth and grace, ensuring that the meal was properly served and conversation flowed smoothly. They touched on weather, politics, the state of trade, foibles of the wealthy and titled. A footman removed the beef course and set a plate of pickled vegetables before each of them. Calla lifted her fork and smiled at their guest. “I understand you and my husband met at Eton.”

  “Yes,” Jonathon replied. “Though I suppose ‘met’ isn’t precisely the term for it. Collided would be more apropos.”

  “Oh?”

  Ignoring Derek’s warning glance, Jonathon baldly continued, “Fisticuffs.”

  “You fought one another?” Calla looked appalled.

  “With all the fury contained within our scrawny, thirteen-year-old bodies.”

  “But…why?”

  “What choice did I have?” Jonathon replied with a shrug. With a cocky grin, he lifted his wineglass and gestured in Derek’s general direction. “Just look at him: a dark, brooding, hulk daring to trespass on the sacred, glittering shores of Eton. It was my duty—handsome, intelligent, wealthy, and titled young lord that I was—”

  “I could think of a few other adjectives,” interjected Derek.

  “To defend our territory against all manner of unwelcome foreign invaders,” Jonathon finished without missing a beat.

  “What happened?” Calla asked.

  “I trounced him.”

  “Not precisely the way I remember it,” Derek returned dryly.

  Jonathon dismissed his objection with a casual wave of his hand and continued to address Calla. “He may appear a scoundrel of the first order, but you needn’t worry. Once you get to know Keating, he’s nearly tolerable. Despite all rumors to the contrary.” He turned to Derek, his face a mask of innocence. “What is it they call you? The Black Baron? The Dark Peer? Or is it the Dark Baron and the Black Peer? I can never keep it straight.”

  “It will be your spine you can’t keep straight unless you cease.”

  Jonathon gave a good-natured laugh and dutifully steered the conversation in a more benign direction, regaling Calla with stories of the daring pranks they’d pulled at Eton, moving from there to the juvenile absurdities they’d engaged in once they’d reached young adulthood (when they certainly should have known better). He skirted dangerously close to the topic of their ribald nights spent drinking, gambling, and womanizing, but upon receipt of Derek’s warning glower, seemed to think better of it and asked instead, “What do you miss most about India?”

  Calla tilted her head to one side and considered the question. “Well—aside from my family, of course—I suppose it would be the chaos.”

  Derek frowned. “The chaos?”

  She turned to look at him, her deep blue eyes sparkling. “You do remember, don’t you? How each day brought such endless possibilities.” She released a soft, wistful breath. “I never knew what a ship would bring to into port, or what would be for sale in the market from one day to the next. It was always something different. Consider my last week in Calcutta. On Monday morning I rounded a corner to find a vendor selling gorgeous lengths of silk. Wednesday morning the man offered fine wines for sale. And on Friday…”

  “Yes?” Jonathon prompted. “What was he selling on Friday?”

  “A tiger,” she gushed. “He had a fully grown, male tiger for sale. The creature was leashed by chain to his stall. I came around the corner so fast it nearly had me for breakfast.”

  Derek smiled. His gaze drifted over her face, noting how the flickering candlelight warmed the pale ivory of her skin and enhanced the ripe cherry fullness of her lips. His attention moved to the scar that ran just below her jawline. He fought a ridiculous urge to pull her into his lap and brush his tongue along the length of that scar, to stroke her and pet her and kiss her until she was writhing atop his thighs, her breath coming fast and hot against his ear.

  “And London?” Jonathon asked, interrupting his fantasy. “What do you like best about our fair city?”

  “Well, that’s easy.” Impish delight shone in her eyes as she replied, “The fact that I won’t round a corner and find myself face-to-face with a hungry tiger.”

  Derek and Jonathon shared an appreciative laugh. She’d thoroughly charmed them both. More than that. She had them both eating out of the palm of her hand. Derek couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever enjoyed a meal as much.

  “You’re not what I expected,” Jonathon remarked after a moment, eyeing her curiously.

  “Really? What did you expect?”

  “I’m not sure,” he mused. He lifted his fork, absently toying with the tines as his gaze moved from Calla to Derek. “You can imagine how astonishing it was to learn that Keating had a fiancé hidden away all these years. Particularly one as lovely as you.”

  “She wasn’t hidden away,” Derek returned, not bothering to hide his irritation.

  “The truth is,” Calla said, “our engagement came as much a surprise to Lord Keating as it did to anyone.”

  “Oh?”

  She turned toward Derek, her lips curved in that wry, engaging smile that had enchanted him the first time he’d seen it. “Shall I tell him?”

  “Yes,” Jonathon answered for Derek, leaning forward. “You certainly shall.” He sent Calla a conspiratorial wink. “Whatever the secret is, I can assure you it’s safe with me.”

  “There is no secret,” Derek interrupted, instantly annoyed by the implied intimacy of Jonathon’s wink. “Ours was an arranged marriage. My wife simply arrived before the missive informing me that she was en route.”

  “I see,” Jonathon replied. His rakish grin returned. “Pity no one ever sends me such a delectable package.”

  Calla blushed prettily. Before Derek could throw his guest out on his ear for his outrageous remark, Calla leaned toward Jonathon and announced, “As it happens, I have three unattached sisters at home.”

  “Matchmaking, are you?”

  “Shamelessly.”


  Jonathon gave a light chuckle and leaned back in his chair. “All right, then.” He sipped his wine, regarding her steadily over the rim of his glass. “Are they all as lovely as you?”

  “Far more attractive, actually.”

  “Not anywhere near the same caliber,” Derek countered.

  Calla blinked in surprise, then turned toward Derek and gave a thoughtful frown. “That is either a charming compliment to me, or a shameful slight against my sisters. I can’t decide which.”

  Derek inclined his head. “Naturally I meant it as a compliment of the highest order.”

  Calla hardly looked mollified, but he supposed couldn’t blame her. His words had sounded stiff and pompous even to his own ears.

  “Come, now, Keating,” Jonathon prompted. “Surely even you can do better than that.”

  Derek opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly closed it, feeling as awkward as a schoolboy goaded into declaring his devotion for a schoolyard crush. Ridiculous. He’d courted countless women before Calla and wooed them all with lavish tributes to their beauty, their grace, their charm. His words had slipped effortlessly from his tongue, empty tokens of praise and affection that had garnered him entrance to their beds.

  But not now. Now that he needed the words, now that they actually meant something, they lodged in his throat, refusing to come out. He’d used phrases of seduction so freely he’d cheapened them, squandered their value entirely. He had nothing left to say to his wife.

  Calla forced a tight smile and waded bravely into the ensuing silence. “It’s not necessary,” she replied, attempting a tone of breezy cheerfulness. She gave a light shrug. “As my husband said, ours was an arranged marriage, not a love match. That suits me perfectly. Truth be told, I’m not unhappy.”

  Jonathon’s eyes widened. “Not unhappy,” he echoed. He broke into a wide smile. “Yes, Keating does have that rapturous effect on women.”

  Derek ignored the jibe. “I have words,” he said, looking directly at Calla, “but they are only for your ears.”

  He switched to Hindi, reaching back once again to the language of their childhood. A language Jonathon didn’t share. Thereby reducing the evening to just the two of them, as he’d wanted to do from the moment he watched Calla drift downstairs looking like something out of a dream.

  “You are the sun that warms my day and the moon that lights my night,” he began, reciting the lyrics to an ancient Indian love song. He was amazed he remembered the song at all. He had never been a sentimental man. Yet the words seemed to have buried themselves in some deep, forgotten chamber in his heart, waiting for just this moment.

  “You are the sky above my head and the earth beneath my feet. You are the stars that guide me and the sea that carries me home. You are my wife.”

  Calla’s eyes brimmed with emotion. She took a deep breath, then let out a soft, slow sigh. A single word, like the note of a song, slipped from her lips. “Oh.”

  “Very nice,” Jonathon drawled. “I’ve no idea what you said, but perhaps you could teach me to mimic the words. They seem to be very effective.”

  Derek spared him a brief glance, then returned his attention to Calla. “There’s one other thing you should know,” he continued in Hindi.

  “Oh?”

  “Your sisters can do better. Trust me.”

  Calla gave a sharp peal of laughter. Her eyes darted toward Jonathon, then she clapped her hands over her mouth and composed herself.

  “Excellent,” Jonathon drawled. “Evidently you were able to find some note of humor at my expense. How delightful.”

  Derek shrugged. As Jonathon had been goading him all night, he felt little remorse for it.

  The footman entered and gave a formal bow. “Would you care for coffee and brandy in the front parlor, my lord?”

  Unwilling to postpone the satisfaction of taking Calla to bed another moment, Derek shook his head. “It’s late, and I’m sure our guest would like to depart.”

  Jonathon arched one dark golden brow and consulted his pocketwatch. “Ten o’clock is late?”

  “For you it is.”

  A knowing smirk touched Jonathon’s lips. “In that case, I suppose I must go.”

  “Must you?” Calla asked.

  “Yes,” Derek said flatly, “he must.”

  Jonathon rose and bent over Calla’s hand. “Lady Keating—”

  “Please, call me Calla.”

  “Calla, then. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  Dismissing the footman, Derek escorted Jonathon to the front foyer. Jonathon shrugged on his heavy woolen overcoat, then paused to collect his thoughts. His expression sobered as he looked at Derek. “You’ve been quite the subject of talk lately.”

  “What kind of talk?”

  “Rumors that you’ve been stirring up trouble. Spending too much time down at the docks. There, and in the East End.””

  Derek absorbed that. “Sounds like someone is getting nervous.”

  “It’s true then? You mean to bring down the Custom House?”

  “Not the entire branch of government,” he returned dryly. “Just the few who’ve been stepping out of bounds.” He briefly related Inspector Nevins’ visit, his run-in with Henry Cecil, and the plight of Ram Daas.

  “Continue down this path and you’ll be starting a war.”

  “No. Just finishing one. One I should have finished long ago.”

  “All for one boy? A boy you’ve never met?”

  “It’s become larger than that.”

  Jonathon studied Derek with open curiosity. “You never cared about the lascars before.”

  “I do now.”

  “I see.” A beat, then Jonathon slowly smiled. “Pity the men who get in your way.” He tilted his head in the direction of the dining room. “That new bride of yours,” he said. “Still trying to decide if you should send her back to India?”

  “I think I’ll keep her.”

  “Very wise decision.” Jonathon put on his hat and gloves and stepped outside. “Enjoy your evening, Keating.”

  “You as well, Brooksbank.”

  Derek shut the door and went in search of his wife.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Calla sat perched atop a delicate parson’s chair in the center of her bedchamber. Derek stood behind her, having dismissed her maid with assurances that he would help his wife undress. But he had yet to undo a single button. Instead, he turned her to face the ornate gilt-edged mirror that hung above her dressing table.

  Their gazes locked in the candlelit reflection. While Calla had always appreciated her sisters’ beauty, she found very few physical attributes to admire in herself. But with Derek standing behind her, that all changed. She had not expected her emotions to translate themselves so profoundly onto her face. Yet they did. She read contentment there, pleasure and satisfaction, all underlain with simmering sexual tension. Her cheeks were flush with excitement, her lips parted, her gaze lit by erotic fever. The result was an image of a woman so hungry for her husband’s touch she nearly trembled with abject longing.

  She had no idea raw desire could be so beautiful.

  Calla recognized an almost feline quality about her pose as well, as though husky purrs of need might issue at any moment from her throat. Or perhaps she would simply arch her back, rubbing her shoulders—the creamy skin daringly bared by the décolletage of her gown—against the dark cloth of Derek’s evening jacket. Or drag her fingers, claw like, through his ebony hair. Even that wouldn’t be enough.

  She wanted to pounce on him, trap his large, masculine body beneath hers. She wanted to lick the salt from his skin, nibble the strong line of his jaw, kiss him breathless. She wanted to taste and tease. She wanted to shove her nipples in his mouth and lock her thighs around his waist. She wanted his thick cock inside her, stroking the slick walls of her sex over and over until her breath caught and shards of pleasure shattered her nerves like broken glass.

  A week ago such thoughts would have appalled her. But no longer. U
nder Derek’s tutelage, she was a new creature. A creature awakened by lust and fed by desire. She’d developed appetites she’d never known she possessed.

  “Patni,” Derek murmured, breaking the silence that hung between them. Wife.

  In the mirrored reflection, his gaze met hers. Burning within those smoky gray depths she read approval, savage longing, and an unspoken promise of what the next few hours would hold.

  She tilted back her head to brush against him, aching for the gratification of his touch, however slight. A smile curved Derek’s lips. Moving with deliberate precision he dislodged a single hairpin from her upswept style, allowing a dark curl to spiral free and tumble past her shoulder. Another pin followed, then another, freeing her from the weight of the elaborate coiffure. He gently massaged her tingling scalp, then combed his fingers through her hair, spreading the thick chestnut masses over her shoulders, his knuckles brushing lightly over the tops of her breasts as he worked.

  His hands. So large, powerful, masculine. So deliciously rough against the velvety softness of her skin. He ran his thumb lightly along the neckline of her gown, then dipped it beneath the laced edge, lightly brushing her nipple. A jolt of pleasure shot through her. She shivered. Her eyelids fluttered shut and her head lolled back. She pressed her shoulders more firmly against the flat planes of Derek’s stomach, silently entreating him to continue.

  He remained standing behind her, a rock in the stormy sea that threatened to sweep her away, his posture one of utter control. His fingers flowed over her exposed skin, warming her flesh. Moving with infinite care, he unfastened the row of tiny buttons that ran down the back of her gown and gently tugged the garment, along with the silk chemise she wore beneath it, past her shoulders, leaving her naked from the waist up. He cupped her breasts and massaged them, hefting their soft weight in each palm, his touch both teasing and firm. She bit her lip and arched forward, straining for more, thrilled by the sensation of the rough calluses of his palms rubbing against the tight peaks of her nipples.