Improper Wedding: Scandalous Encounters Read online

  “Rose,” James said patiently.

  “It certainly makes things very complicated.” She sighed. “The dances I’ve been to didn’t have so many steps. It was simple: circle around and back.”

  She showed him, rising up slightly on her toes for one move then back down, moving in a circle. He didn’t bother to stop the smile as he watched her. Rose moved smoothly and elegantly through the simple steps, her arms perfectly poised, her wrists graceful. She watched him as she danced, that slight upturn of her lips he’d come to love tugging her mouth.

  When she danced back in front of him, James caught her about the waist and repositioned her before him. His smile hadn’t dimmed and when he looked down at her, he noticed hers had not either. Her eyes sparkled with mirth and interest; he wanted to see that smile on her face always.

  “Polite society,” he said with a haughty sneer and a quick wink, “has its own unusual rituals. Their small minds believe complicating and confusing the simplest things keep them above the fray.”

  Rose laughed, her head back, eyes locked with his. Yes, he could easily drown in her.

  “In order to keep their vicious little tongues at bay,” he added and just barely resisted caressing her cheek, “we’ll entrance them in our dance.”

  Still grinning widely, she curtseyed once more. “All right,” she agreed. Rose cleared her throat and nodded. “Begin.”

  James showed her the way to “properly” turn her ankle for the allemande. She repeated it, slowly the first time then with more confidence.

  “Excellent. See?” he said and nodded. “A master of dance already.”

  “You are too kind, sir,” Rose said with a falsely simpering look. Then she sobered. “I’m still not certain I’ve the proper poise to be near the duchess.”

  James frowned at her words and her lack of confidence in herself. Rather, her lack of confidence in her own standing within society. He didn’t like hearing her talk about herself like that. Like she was less than anyone.

  “You need to forget she is a duchess,” he said quietly. His fingers brushed hers as they moved through the allemande. “She is our friend.”

  He wanted Rose to make friends, to accept the women in his life as her friends and confidants as well.

  “James,” she admonished sharply, “that is not something I can forget!” Rose shook her head, but continued with the dance. “Mercifully you occupy the duke’s time, but the duchess always seems to move to me, and I’m barely accustomed to being in Lady Octavia’s presence!”

  They continued to move through the steps across the ballroom. She picked up the steps quickly and moved smoothly beside him.

  “I wasn’t raised with any expectation of being in such company once in my life, much less so frequently!” Her voice rose at that last word, but still James had to choke back a laugh.

  Not at her expense, never that. At how endearing he found her worries. Rose was far more elegant and kind than any woman he knew outside his small circle of close friends. Her fears were not entirely baseless given polite society.

  “You shall become accustomed,” he promised as they finished the dance. “Having a duchess, even a royal, in the household will not be so vexing.”

  At the mention of royal, Rose glared outright at him. Once more James choked back his laughter. She utterly enchanted him.

  Crossing the ballroom to the side, Rose sat and looked at him. She watched him appraisingly for several long moments.

  “My highest expectation was to marry a merchant with his own shop,” she admitted quietly.

  He walked closer, not wishing to interrupt her. But he wanted to hear her fears. He wanted to hear everything she had to tell him.

  “Or perhaps the son of another builder,” she continued, shaking her head. “Not this, James. I thought I’d host parties at a warehouse, never a grand ballroom.” Rose waved her hand around the opulent room and shook her head. “So, yes. All of this is vexing.”

  “You’ve a natural poise about you, Rose,” he whispered, and could not stop his fingers from brushing her cheek.

  She didn’t pull back, and he considered that a positive step forward. He sat beside her, turning to fully face her. He didn’t take her hands or caress her bare shoulder or touch her in any other way, no matter how his fingers itched to do so.

  “It won’t be difficult for you to be a natural part of this society,” James said and leaned forward. “I won’t leave your side, Rose. I promise.”

  She softened. It was so visible, so obvious, yet it took James a moment to realize its implications.

  In these two weeks, he and Rose started each day with a tentativeness he abhorred. As if she waited for him to break his promises to her. There was one being on this entire planet he’d never break a promise to, and it was Rose.

  James didn’t know how to explain that to her, without sounding as if he offered more words and less actions to their budding relationship. The only way he saw to fully gain her trust—and her love—was to show her.

  So he did not reach for her or touch her in any way despite the relaxing of her shoulders and the continued sparkle of true happiness in her gaze. He still saw trepidation, but James knew it was not directed at him. They had built some trust, after all.

  No, her trepidation was for her new place in the world. He wanted to tell Rose her place was by his side and his by hers. The words tripped over themselves. Usually so elegant with speeches, when it truly mattered he didn’t know how to tell her how much she meant to him without sounding like a babbling fool.

  Or a mad fool.

  He certainly enjoyed spending his time with her. The way she laughed as if the sound surprised her as well and the way she smiled. It started out slow, as if Rose wasn’t certain, and then it bloomed across her face.

  They hadn’t attempted any balls or soirées, nothing more than casual teas with Octavia and Annabelle. James had wanted Rose to become friends with Isabella as well, but she claimed the duchess intimidated her. Ah, if only Rose knew Isabella’s story. But that wasn’t his to tell, not even to his wife.

  Now, sitting along the ballroom’s wall, only the pair of them after a morning of adding complication, as Rose declared, to her dances, James felt that comfortable intimacy he so desired.

  Craved might’ve been a better word, stronger and more apt. But it felt right. So very right, sitting here with her as if they did this every day.

  Rose tentatively moved her hand atop his. James stilled at the touch. Just as slowly, she squeezed his hand, her fingers cool over his. He swallowed and forcibly stopped himself from holding onto her. With carefully controlled strength, he gently squeezed her hand back.

  “I know you won’t let me make a fool of myself,” she whispered.

  All the breath left him. The honesty and trust in her words humbled him, meant so much to him, and James had no words to describe how he felt.

  He swallowed hard, past emotion and longing, and simply wanting more. “I’ll never allow anything to harm you,” he promised, his voice soft in the echoing room.

  Rose nodded. “I know,” she whispered.

  They stayed like that for a moment more, then she cleared her throat and stood. Her hand slipped from his and he felt the loss, quickly standing beside her. His brain raced to keep her close, but all he could think of was more dancing.

  “Would you like to try the steps again?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

  Rose looked up at him, her eyes darker and head tilted slightly to the side. She didn’t speak for a long, long moment; when she moved, it was not to take up her position on the dance floor but to step closer.

  Her lips grazed his lips in the lightest of touches.

  James heart skipped a beat, and damn if he didn’t forget how to breathe. He met her gaze, eyes wide in surprise, but she didn’t pull back, didn’t retreat.

  His movements obvious, he slowly leaned down. His hands cupped her cheeks, thumbs brushing the soft skin. Rose didn’t move away, her gaze sti
ll steady on his. He didn’t know what he expected when their lips met, but it wasn’t the shock of recognition that ran through him.

  His lips moved over hers, gently at first and simply a touch. He felt a shudder go through her, and she opened her mouth beneath his. James struggled to keep the kiss soft, but when her tongue tentatively touched his, all rational thought left him.

  He deepened the kiss and pulled her closer, tasting her mouth and wanting more. Her fingers wrapped around his arms and she opened further to him, kissing him back with a fervor that surprised and aroused him.

  Breathing heavily, he slowly broke the kiss. He pressed his lips to hers again, wanting one more taste, then pulled back just enough to see her clearly.

  Rose licked her lips, her darkened gaze on his, and offered a small smile. “I’m not ready for more,” she admitted, her voice catching. “But I was ready for this.”

  She stepped from his embrace, and James let his hands fall back to his sides. Her fingers brushed his lips, a feather-light touch that set his skin on fire. James grabbed her hand, held it to his lips, and pressed a kiss against her palm.

  He felt more than saw her breath catch, but she didn’t yank her hand away or run from the ballroom. James slowly lowered her hand, his fingers catching hers until the last moment when it fell to her side.

  “You may have whatever time you need,” he told her, promised her. “But know I’ve already fallen very deeply in love with you, Rose.”

  Rose blinked up at him, surprised. “Have you fallen for me?” she asked. “Or with some dream you had of me?”

  “A dream may have opened the doors between us,” he admitted. “But you have drawn me.”

  She nodded, a slight smile playing around her lips. But then she stepped back and said louder, “I’m certain Mrs. Shelley must wonder where I am. I was to attend to the correspondence this morning and not spend all my time dancing with my husband.”

  “If Mrs. Shelley proves to be a difficult taskmaster,” he said with his own twitch of his lips, “I shall unleash the duchess on her.”

  Rose’s laugh was loud and sharp and entirely too short-lived. Without another word, she shook her head and left.

  James watched her leave, the sway of her hips beneath her gown, the set of her shoulders, the lightness in her step. “Progress,” he said aloud, fingers brushing his lips.

  He saw her then, walking away with the sunlight glinting off her hair and her laughter echoing across the heather. He wanted to race after her, to pull her back to him and kiss her smile. Or simply hold her as she laughed and let the sound wash over him.

  He blinked and the scene—the memory?—vanished, and he was once more alone in his ballroom. Shaking his head, James followed her to the morning room. He didn’t want her out of his sight, not yet. Possibly not ever.

  Rose stood over her desk, letter in hand. The midmorning sunlight caught her dark hair and made it shine much as it had in his memory. Or fantasy. He shook his head, unsure what had just happened.

  She stood, far tenser than she had when she’d left him moments before. Rose turned to face him and looked…nervous.

  “Distressing news?” he asked with a nod in the direction of her letter.

  “No,” she said quickly. “No. A missive from my father. He’s asked I pay him a visit.” She swallowed and managed a small smile. “I thought I would do that now.”

  “Leave us,” he ordered Mrs. Shelley, without bothering to glance in the woman’s direction.

  She hurried to do so and James stepped back, closing the door with controlled quietness. No longer did the room seem bright with fingers of sunlight caressing Rose’s hair. Now it was darker, his focus only on his wife.

  Everything inside him froze at her words, cold and brittle.

  “You will not visit him,” he snapped. His words were harsh and echoed in the morning room.

  “James,” she said reasonably, “he’s my father and has requested I go—”

  “I don’t care.” The words sounded like a rifle shot in the room. “You are my wife now. And I won’t permit it.”

  Rose looked stunned at his words for only half a heartbeat. Then her face darkened with anger. “You can’t stop me from paying my father a visit!” she retorted. “James, this fear you have, please put it aside.”

  Jaw clenched, he watched her for several long minutes. “If you must visit,” he said each word carefully, “then I shall accompany you.”

  Rose simply nodded. She didn’t say anything to his declaration, but watched him silently.

  Chapter Eleven

  THREE DAYS AFTER her first visit to her father since marrying James, Rose sat in the parlor and awaited her new friends. She still felt as if they were polite strangers, but they never treated her as such, as less than them, and always included her in conversation.

  Which was odd—she knew the vicious tongues of the ton. Truly they must be James’s closest friends. Sighing, Rose knew she’d make every effort to return the kindness of their friendship.

  Today, the Duchess of Strathmore was also coming to visit.

  Nerves jumped in her belly and made sitting still difficult. The duchess insisted Rose call her Isabella, but the informality of it caught in her throat. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been this nervous—perhaps when she first left home for finishing school? No, not even then.

  But today, James was out on business and she was alone, waiting for the three women who meant most to her husband.

  The word still sounded strange to her: husband. They’d grown closer, so much closer, since their rushed wedding. At first, Rose thought he stayed in the townhouse with her because he wanted to be with her, so she could get to know him.

  But after their visit to Robert, Rose was less certain.

  One moment James was wonderful. He made her laugh and treated her with respect and kindness, and Rose knew she could fall for him, come to truly care for him. The next, he was mad, wild as they quarreled. And their quarrels were always about her father.

  She didn’t know what to make of it, of James’s change whenever Robert was brought up or even alluded to.

  When they danced several days prior, it was light and fun. She enjoyed every moment with him and the easy conversation that flowed as they practiced these new steps. And the kiss. Even now, nervously awaiting Lady Octavia, Miss Annabelle, and the duchess, Rose vividly recalled their single kiss.

  Except it didn’t feel like a first kiss. It felt familiar.

  Rose never wanted to admit to James that he felt a bit familiar. Perhaps they met as children, and they didn’t remember? Whatever the reason, whatever the story behind his familiarity, Rose refused to tell him.

  Standing, Rose walked from the parlor into the dining room. She eyed the table and realized the silver candlesticks from the ballroom would look perfect here. She’d admired them several nights past as she and James danced by candlelight. Turning sharply, she headed for the ballroom.

  Halfway there, Rose stopped. Slowly, fingers tingling and heart pounding, she looked over her shoulder. Standing there, clear as day, a tall British soldier, musket in hand, watched her. James. James, dressed in a red coat and tricorn, watched her with such longing it stole her breath.

  Rose gasped, his name falling from her lips. “James.”

  But then she blinked and he vanished.

  Was she, too, going mad? Eyes narrowed, she looked around the ballroom, but it was empty. Vast and open and completely empty save her. She licked her lips and willed her heart to calm, her breathing to even out.

  Strange that…vision? Did James invade her thoughts at every turn now? What else could that image have been?

  Hastily snatching the candlesticks, Rose strode from the room and back to the dining room. It was more than James always on her mind. He was, true, but this felt different.

  A ghost?

  No, that was foolishness. Not a ghost. But it was something more and intangible, and it still made her heart race and her blood r
un cold.

  Rose hurried back into the dining room, only to run into Daniels, the footman. He looked from her to the candlesticks then back to her again.

  “I’ll be happy to fetch them for you in the future, ma’am,” Daniels said and took the candlesticks from her.

  “It was no trouble,” she assured him, her heart still racing from her strange encounter.

  Oh. It wasn’t that it was no trouble—it was that she had done it on her own, that she fetched the candlesticks herself rather than send a servant to do so. Rose floundered but nodded. She wasn’t about to admit to the footman that she’d grown up with only a small handful of servants and that sending one to fetch an item she could easily get herself was laughable.

  But then she heard the front door open and the laughing chatter of the women as the butler took their things.

  Rose froze. For a frantic heartbeat, she had no idea what she was supposed to do next. Was she supposed to wait there? Wait for them to go to her? Or was she to greet them in the foyer? Or the parlor?

  Her breath left her in a rush, and she shook her head at herself. Taking one moment to calm nerves still jumping from the strangeness in the ballroom, Rose exited the dining room and walked calmly into the foyer.

  And there, of course, was the duchess. Rose took another breath and curtseyed to the other woman.

  The duchess laughed. “I don’t stand on ceremony with my dearest friends,” she said and kissed Rose on both cheeks.

  And just like that, all the tension left her shoulders. They moved from the foyer to the dining room and settled around the table. No longer did nerves swarm in her stomach like butterflies, and Rose felt at ease as she sat.

  “Has James been behaving?” Octavia asked.

  The memory of their kiss still made her lips ache, and when she tasted them, Rose swore she could still taste him there. Unsure how to answer, she settled for something innocuous.

  “Very gentlemanly,” Rose assured the table as best she could.

  “When marriages are new,” the duchess—Isabella—said, “husbands are rarely gentlemanly.”