The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Read online

  “Dessert.”

  His grin widened, dazzling her with a flash of white, perfectly straight teeth. It was a pirate’s smile, a rake’s smile, the smile of a man thoroughly pleased with his prowess in bed. She had seen men use such smiles on other women and had considered herself immune to their effects. Apparently not. His smile made her pulse rocket and sent all sensible thoughts fleeing from her head. Her stomach buzzed as though she’d swallowed a hive, and her knees felt as sturdy as butter left in the sun.

  She swallowed hard and spun away, staring blindly at the assortment of platters spread over the sideboard. “Why don’t I fix us both a plate?” she managed, hating the high-pitched, breathless sound of her voice.

  She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. She did not fall apart in the presence of a handsome, powerful man. Her sisters did. Her mother did. She did not—regardless of the intimacy they’d shared the night before.

  She grabbed two plates and began haphazardly piling them with an assortment of breakfast foods. She worked unseeingly, too intent on regaining her composure to pay proper attention to what she was doing. Therefore it wasn’t until the food she’d piled on grew so high it began to topple over that she wrenched her focus back to her task.

  Drat.

  She bit her lower lip in frustration. After a slight pause to consider her options, she placed the lesser disaster before her husband.

  “Enjoy.”

  His eyebrows shot up at the veritable mountain of food, but he remained mercifully silent. He carefully unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap. He lifted his fork, studying his plate with the intense concentration of an army general trying to determine the best plan of attack.

  Calla turned her attention to the enormous pile heaped before her. Dear God, had she really taken two of everything? Choking back her embarrassment, she reached for a scone, broke off a corner and popped it into her mouth. The confection dissolved like sawdust on her tongue. She washed it down with a gulp of scalding tea. Injecting a note of forced brightness into her voice, she broke the silence with, “I don’t suppose we’ll see snow today?”

  The weather. Hardly an inspired topic, but at least it was safe.

  “Perhaps.”

  “The cold doesn’t seem to bother you. No coat?”

  “Not on my morning rides.”

  Of course not. Not with muscles like his. Calla instantly recalled the feel of his embrace. His body burned like a furnace, throwing off a steady heat. And that had been before they’d exerted themselves.

  “Speaking of the weather,” he said, “I assume you brought something heavier?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your gown.”

  Calla frowned down at herself. It was the first new dress she had had in years, and she adored it. Unlike her wedding gown, a soft rose chiffon hand-me-down which her elder sister Rose (hence the color) had worn on her own wedding day, the dress Calla currently wore had been specifically designed for her. Constructed of pale blue linen, Hyacinth had cleverly stitched tiny pleats around the bodice to enhance her modest bust, while dozens of embroidered forget-me-nots drew one’s eye to her slim waist.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s lovely. Just better suited to Calcutta’s winter climate than London’s.”

  “I see.”

  “Perhaps you brought along something heavier?”

  She shook her head. She had protested the extravagance of the single gown, but her sisters had insisted on the gift. She had other frocks, of course, and a cloak, but they were all equally lightweight. “I’m certain I’ll get by.”

  “There’s no reason to want for anything. Several shops in the city carry first quality, ready-made garments that can be tailored to fit. I’ll give the addresses to my driver and direct him to take you and Mrs. Singh this afternoon.”

  “That sounds expensive.”

  He shrugged. “I can afford it. Once you’ve acquired the essentials, you’ll need a clothing allowance. Will one hundred pounds a month be adequate?"

  One hundred pounds a month. Calla’s mind reeled at the figure. A small fortune. She considered for a moment what she would have done to have gotten her hands on that sum back in Calcutta. The irony, of course, was that if she had been able to do so then, she never would have left. She wouldn’t be married to Derek. How strange the paths that life took.

  Returning her attention to the matter at hand, she sent him a small smile and shook her head. "I appreciate your concern, but it’s not necessary. I am perfectly satisfied with my wardrobe."

  "I, however, am not." His gaze swept over the gown she wore. “Invitations have begun to arrive. This week will be your first introduction to society as Lady Keating. I suspect you would like to be presented wearing something other than a simple linen frock”

  “Thank you, but it’s simply too soon to accept your generosity. I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

  “Nothing?” He arched a single dark brow. “You’ve already forgotten yesterday?”

  Calla felt heat bloom in her cheeks and radiate through her chest. She cut a glance at the formally attired servants who stood at attention on either side of the buffet. As she had been content to serve both herself and Derek, the pair hadn’t moved, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He could tease her all he liked, but some standards needed to be set. She leaned forward and hissed, “It is highly indelicate of you to bring that up.”

  Derek set down his fork. Seconds ticked past. Keeping his gaze locked on hers, he leaned back in his chair and uttered a single word. “Dismissed.”

  The servants removed themselves from the room.

  “Nicely done,” Calla said, making no attempt to disguise her irritation. “In the future, might I suggest you dismiss the servants before you broach such an intimate topic?”

  “I was referring,” he returned coolly, “to our wedding vows, nothing more.”

  She blinked. “Our vows?”

  “As delightful as last night was, I do know better than—how did you put it?—to broach such an intimate topic before the servants.”

  Calla’s embarrassment soared to new heights. “Oh. I…see.”

  He leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his hands, idly drumming together the pads of his fingertips. “Though I must admit, I find it highly enlightening that your thoughts would take such a deliciously carnal bent. Most intriguing. I wonder what other deviant ideas are whirling through that mind of yours. Perhaps you’d care to share them with me.”

  Determined to retain the last shred of her dignity, she brought up her chin and said, “I don’t have any deviant ideas.”

  “Really? I do. Several deviant ideas, in fact. A few that might be considered debauched, perhaps even depraved.”

  He pushed back his plate and reached for her. He caught her wrist and idly brushed his thumb over the silky inner skin. Her pulse jumped, then began to hammer erratically.

  “How do you do that?” she asked, her voice registering a mere notch above a whisper.

  “Do what?”

  “Make my pulse race with just a single touch.”

  A smoldering intensity entered his steel gray eyes. Moving with infinite gentleness, he drew her from her seat and pulled her to him, positioning her so that she stood with her legs between his thighs. As he had remained in his seat, she had the temporary advantage of height, but she wasn’t sure how to use it. Feeling absurdly self-conscious, she brought her hands down to rest on his broad shoulders.

  As she’d predicted, the frosty air surrounding him earlier had evaporated. His body radiated heat. He smelled faintly of leather and soap, combined with the rich, musky scent of his shaving cream. Intoxicating. Calla had no other word for the impact he had on her senses. The man’s very presence was enough to set her mind spinning. She stood motionless, waiting with breathless anticipation for him to move, for him to break the spell he wove around her.

  Finally, he did. He leaned forward and pressed his mout
h against her chest, nuzzling the shadowy cleft between her breasts. Then he moved higher, lip lips tracing a light path along her collarbone. His kisses sent an odd response roiling through her—a feeling that was part tickle, part tension. As divine as the sensation was, a small part of her held fast to propriety. It wasn’t appropriate to allow Derek to touch her that way. Not in broad daylight. She might be thoroughly unschooled, but even she knew that much. Everyone knew that much.

  “We should stop,” she protested softly.

  “Do you want me to?” His breath fell warm and soft against her skin.

  “Absolutely.”

  She felt, rather than saw, his smile. “Absolutely yes, or absolutely not?”

  In answer, she gave a low, dreamy purr and tilted her chin to allow him greater access to her throat.

  He nuzzled her neck, then his fingers curled around the shoulders of her gown. He gently tugged the fabric lower.

  Startled, she reached up to stop him. “What about the servants?”

  “What about them?”

  “They might disturb us.”

  “Not if they value their lives.”

  Her gown and chemise pooled about her waist, leaving her naked from the waist up. Had she imagined this moment merely a week ago—her breasts bared to her husband as morning light streamed through the windows, the newssheets still untouched and their breakfast dishes scattered across the table—Calla would have sworn she would feel embarrassed about it. Shamed, perhaps.

  Instead, as she watched raw desire darken his eyes, a feeling of intense arousal stole over her. Her bodily functions shifted of their own accord. Her lips parted and her breath became shallow; her lungs seemed to lessen their capacity for air. Her blood no longer traveled to her brain, but the effect was not unpleasant. She felt deliciously light-headed, yet more physically alert than she’d ever been in her life. Heat pooled between her thighs. Her nipples hardened beneath his gaze, rising like twin beacons on the soft, milky white globes of her breasts.

  Derek’s gaze flitted to her face. Last night they’d made love in the dark, with nothing but the dim flicker of candles to guide them. Now he could see her. Truly see her. Calla felt her breath catch in her throat as his eyes locked on hers. He drew his fingertips lightly down her upper arms.

  “Exquisite,” he breathed. “My perfect, my beautiful jaanu.”

  Calla’s knees nearly buckled. It wasn’t true. She knew better than to believe she was exquisite, or beautiful, or perfect. The words used to describe her were capable, confident, determined. But she could pretend, just this once. If nothing else, she could be the last: his jaanu. It was enough. More than enough. Her whole body ached, desperate for her husband’s touch.

  He cupped her breasts and strummed his thumbs over her nipples. “This,” he said, “is what I want for breakfast.”

  He lowered his head and drew one hard, puckered nipple into his mouth.

  Calla dug her fingernails into his shoulders, certain she’d collapse completely if not for his support. “Oh,” she breathed, as liquid bursts of pleasure shot through her. “Oh.” He licked and suckled, first one breast then the other, teasing her nipples with his tongue and his lips until she was straining against him, silently begging for more.

  She let out a shaky breath and shut her eyes, losing herself in the sensation, in the rich satisfaction that washed over her like waves. This was marriage? This touch? These feelings? No wonder her sisters gave themselves over so completely. No wonder mothers took such great pains to shield their young, vulnerable daughters. She had never experienced anything like it before. She had never been so out of control of her own body that she arched her back and moaned softly, without meaning to do either.

  His hand reached out to curl around her waist as he pulled her onto his lap. He brought his mouth to hers, driving his tongue between her lips as he molded her half-naked body to his. His hands, so large and powerful, drew her closer until her breasts flattened against the solid wall of his chest.

  Desire collided with caution. Calla gave full rein to the restless, aching need that swelled within her. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pressed herself closer, kissing him back. He angled his head to allow even greater intimacy. Their tongues met and battled, swirling and crashing, exploring all the dark, silky recesses of each other’s mouth.

  He grabbed a fistful of her skirt and began edging it upward. The pale blue linen brushed over her knees and pooled about her thighs, exposing her delicate white stockings, the matching blue ribbons of her garters, and her soft cotton drawers. Derek gave a low murmur of approval. He slipped one finger beneath the band of her stocking and massaged the warm, satiny flesh of her thigh. Then he stripped the ribbons and silk away, leaving her legs bare and exposed, her stockings pooling about her ankles.

  Following his lead, Calla tugged at his shirt, recklessly popping buttons free as she pulled it open. She stared in awe at the broad, muscular wall of his chest. Initially she’d been intimidated by Derek’s size, by the formidable maleness of his body. No longer. In the span of a single night, everything had changed. Now that very body thrilled her.

  She ran her hands over his mahogany skin, watching his muscles quiver in response to her touch. She saw a nerve flex in his jaw as he held himself still, letting her touch him and explore his body as he had explored hers. Letting her marvel at the masculine strength and tightly leashed power she found there. Beneath the folds of her gown, Calla felt the firm ridge of his arousal announce itself, thrusting against her thighs. Her gaze shot to his. She read pleasure there, and tension, and need. Fierce, pulsing need.

  She brought her hand lower.

  A subtle noise from across the room, something that sounded like a cross between a cough and ahem, stopped her in mid-motion.

  “Unless someone has just died, Bellowes—”

  “I’m afraid, my lord, that is precisely what has transpired.”

  Chapter Eight

  Calla froze, as did Derek.

  Silence rang through the room.

  Slowly, Derek felt his senses return. The erotic thunder that pounded through his brain dimmed to a dull roar. He watched as Calla blinked and shook her head, as though waking from a drugged sleep. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips ruby-stained and swollen. As she shrugged into the bodice of her gown, Derek swept her skirts over her bare thighs. Then he gently set her off his lap and stood.

  “Explain.”

  Bellowes, who until that moment had been staring directly ahead, focusing his gaze on the shrubbery outside the breakfast room window, took that as his cue that it was appropriate to turn.

  “Inspector Nevins of the Metropolitan Police, is here, my lord. Apparently there was some trouble down at the docks last night.”

  “Aboard the Makara?”

  “The gentleman did not elaborate. He requested an immediate audience. He said it was most urgent.”

  “Very well. Show him into the west parlor.” Derek glanced down at himself. His erection had subsided, but his clothing was hardly in a fit state for company. “Tell Rahul I’ll need a fresh shirt, cravat, and a jacket. Then you may inform the inspector I will join them directly.”

  Bellowes gave a small, discreet cough. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  “Yes?”

  “It is Lady Keating the gentleman wishes to see, my lord.”

  Derek stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  “He was quite adamant. He said it was most urgent that he speak with Lady Keating.”

  Derek’s gaze shot to Calla. He watched as shock and confusion warred for prominence on her delicate features.

  “Me?” she said. “I don’t understand. Why would he possibly want to speak with me?”

  An excellent question. One that Derek had no ready answer to. “Make our guest comfortable,” he said to Bellowes. “Lady Keating and I will join him shortly.”

  Bellowes bowed out of the room. In short order, Derek’s valet returned with the clothing items he’d requested. They readie
d themselves in silence made awkward by their interrupted intimacy. Calla took a moment to restore her hair to its tidy bun, fasten her garters, and smooth the wrinkles from her skirts. Once presentable, Derek drew Calla with him to the west parlor.

  The inspector was short and dark, somewhat small in stature. Derek guessed the man to be somewhere in his mid-forties. He sat with a cup of steaming tea balanced on his thigh, his dark eyes moving about the parlor as though absorbing every detail.

  Unlike the majority of London’s police officers, who dressed in bulky blue coats and carried wooden truncheons at their sides, the inspector wore a smartly tailored checkered brown wool suit. Derek could detect no sign of a weapon carried on his person. Something about his sharp gaze and fastidious manner of dress reminded him of the legions of clerks who swarmed the vast warehouses of the East India Company, burying their noses in customs reports and accounting ledgers.

  Upon hearing their arrival, Nevins set aside his tea and came to his feet. "Lord Keating, Lady Keating. Good of you to see me," he said briskly. "Nigel Nevins, Metropolitan Police, Thames Division.”

  “Inspector.” Derek inclined his head in greeting. He seated Calla, then took a chair across from the inspector. Dispensing with the normal pleasantries, he said, “I understand there is an urgent matter you wish to discuss.”

  “Yes. I have been investigating the series of unfortunate incidents that have recently occurred at the docks. I apologize for the intrusion, but time is of the essence, and my options in the matter are somewhat limited.”

  Derek frowned. “What do you mean by ‘series of incidents’?”

  “I will get to that presently. If you would indulge me for just a moment.” Nevins reached into the top pocket of his suit and removed a slim piece of parchment. “I wonder, Lady Keating, if you would be so kind as to identify this for me?”

  Calla flicked a glance at Derek, then cautiously reached for the paper. As she opened it, her eyes flew wide in startled surprise. “Why, it’s the note I wrote to Ram Daas!”

  “Ram Daas?”

  “Do you remember, a few nights ago, I asked you how I would go about finding a crewman recently arrived from India? You suggested I send a note via the ship’s bosun.”