Married At Midnight (14 page)

She didn't recognize him.

Thom hadn't truly expected her to after all these years, though he'd hoped there might be some small glimmer of recognition

in her eyes when first they met again. He admonished himself that it was ludicrous to be disappointed over something so

absurd. Thom was a common enough name, and he'd used his mother's maiden name as a surname, besides—damn, Philip,

for nearly giving him away. Nor did the man he'd become bear any resemblance to the youth he'd been.

She had no bloody cause to be reminded of him a'tall, he assured himself.

It was apparent, by the crease in her brow just now, that she wasn't particularly thrilled at the notion of spending five minutes alone with him, less the entire carriage ride to Gretna Green, and even less exchanging vows with him.

And devil take the woman! she couldn't have chosen a more effective way to get her point across than to wear black to her own wedding. Gad, but it had been all he could do not to howl in laughter at her cheek when first he'd spied her standing

there in the doorway. Not that
it
wasn't a
perfectly
lovely gown—in fact, though its color was the expression of mourning,

the cut of it sent his pulses skittering and his heart to racing like a green boy with his first lover.

If the truth be known, he was pleased enough to see shades of the mischievous giggling girl she'd been—

if nothing else, in the simple fact that she'd chosen such a flippant manner in which to choose her husband.

The little minx. Though Blackstone's title and patrimony were not hers to give, nor even to keep, the unentailed estates alone amounted to a bloody fortune. She knew good and well that with her father's name and money backing her, she could choose her husband at will, and was certainly doing so with all abandon. Flouting in the face of society, she'd chosen but a lowly commoner to wed.

She'd chosen him.

He'd made certain of it.

Silvery moonlight sluiced within as the carriage turned along a bend in the road, illuminating her face along with the blush upon her cheeks. Even by the pallid starlight, it was more than apparent that her color was high, and he smiled wistfully, wishing he were privy to her thoughts. She turned to look at him, and he didn't glance away—even knowing that perhaps he should ...

lest she spy the truth manifest in his eyes. He fully intended that she should learn his identity, but not until
after
they were wed.

Damn her father for a despotic old fool, for Thom could see in the stern lines of her face that she'd forgotten how to laugh.

He'd like to kiss those pursed lips and make them tremble sweetly. He'd like to ease the stress from her brow with the

caress of his fingertips.

He'd like to be wedding her in truth, and not for convenience's sake alone.

While he'd been prepared to follow her dictates to the letter—to make this marriage one wholly of convenience—he was

no longer convinced it was propitious for her. And perhaps he should, but he damned well didn't feel the least compunction

for what he resolved to do. A passionless marriage would merely serve to drive Victoria deeper behind that haughty facade

she wore so easily. Watching her now, he was blindsided with the undeniable truth. He wanted her.

Loved her still. And he

was going to employ every and any advantage to win her.

Only he wanted her to win too.

Though her demeanor was haughty and her hair pulled much too tightly back, every curl pasted into place, deep in her heart Victoria Haversham was still that carefree child, struggling to be free of her father's restraints. Thom needed only look into her eyes to see the little girl he'd once known staring back at him. Lord, but what he wouldn't give just now to hear the elfin lilt of her laughter ... to run his hands through that luscious hair.

A familiar longing embraced him as he sat there watching her, and he marveled that this connection between them could

remain so strong.

On his part, at least.

He shifted within the carriage seat, stretching his legs, and her eyes met his through the shadows. He forced a smile, though

the effect of her beautiful gaze, even in the heavy shadows, sucked the breath from his lungs.

Christ only knew he hadn't expected to feel so acutely.

"Do you believe in frankness, Mr. Parker?" she asked abruptly.

"Over duplicity, and ambiguity? Of course," Thom replied, wondering at such a pointed question.

"Then please forgive my plainspokenness," she implored him, "but I was wondering ... well, you see ... I know what it is that

I hope to gain from this union. And I know what it is Mr. Goodman claims you hope to achieve, but I believe I'd like to hear

it from your own lips."

For a moment, Thom was taken aback by the abruptness of her question.

"I fully intended to conduct my own interview with you, you see, but Mr. Goodman seemed rather reluctant for me to meet you."

Thom knew, of course, precisely why Philip had put off their meeting-—at his request—lest she somehow recognize him—

but he wasn't about to say so.

"I thought, perhaps, it was because you were a toad," she announced rather flippantly.

Thom practically choked at her disclosure. "Did you now?" The little vixen. "You thought me a toad?"

"Of course, I did." She tilted her head. "Mightn't you have thought the same had I been so disinclined to show my face?"

He grinned. "Perhaps, I would, at that," he was forced to concede. "And did you find me a toad, after all?" he asked her

rather baldly, thinking to disarm her with playful banter.

He certainly didn't anticipate her response. She lifted her brows pertly. "I won't be ill over my breakfast, if that's what

you're asking. No."

Thom couldn't help himself; he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

"You didn't answer my question," she pointed out quite cheekily, her tone perfectly serious, despite his obvious mirth.

" 'Tis simple enough, really," Thom answered between chuckles. "You need my name, and I need yours."

"Nothing more?"

His laughter faded to an engaging grin. "Nothing more."

The little minx. She'd grown into a stunning beauty, with those exotic high cheeks and those entirely too kissable lips. And

that wit—sharp as it ever was. And Christ, that hair ... deceptively dark within the dimly lit coach, but Thom knew only too

well the way it looked when the sun played upon its unbound length, bringing it to shimmering life. Vixen.

He could spy her face at intervals by the flashes of moonlight that illuminated the coach. She was staring at his mouth, he thought, and God help him, it was all he could do not to draw her into his arms and kiss those sweet, pouting lips as he craved to do. The only thing that kept him from reaching out, cupping her face into his hands, and tasting the sweet warmth of her delectable mouth, was the simple fact that it wasn't merely her body he wished to win, but her heart, as well.

"Though I believe I've changed my mind," he remarked softly.

Her brow furrowed, and she bit into her lip at his pronouncement. God, but he had the almost

irrepressible urge to reach out and lift her chin, to lean forward and offer his own love bites. He wanted to slide his tongue across the seam of her lips, slip within to trace those satiny white teeth. He wanted to drink deeply of the sweet elixir of her mouth, and never to stop.

Damn, but he wanted to taste her.

She was frowning rather fiercely at him now. "Changed ... your mind? Whatever do you mean, changed your mind, sirrah?"

Victoria's heart beat madly as she awaited his response.

His lips twitched slightly, though he didn't bother to move from his reclined position, she noticed. He sat there before her

with an indolence that both calmed and provoked her at once.

"I believe I've a condition to add to our bargain," he said.

The cad. A condition? "How very amusing!" Victoria exclaimed and laughed softly.

He said nothing, merely stared, his gaze wholly unreadable through the shadows.

It took her an instant longer to realize that he was perfectly serious, and then she gasped in outrage.

"A rather innocuous condition," he added reassuringly.

Capital! Victoria thought, her hackles rising. The cad
would
wait until they were so near their destination, with scarce few

hours left before midnight.
Money in all probability.
Rotten knave. "And what, prithee, might that
innocuous condition
be?" Victoria asked him, her anger mounting over the lackadaisical way in which he continued to recline and watch her.

He grinned, his teeth flashing white through the shadows. "It occurred to me," he remarked, seeming unmoved by her

sarcasm, "just now ... as you were staring at my mouth—"

Victoria gasped. "I certainly was
not
staring at your mouth, sirrah!"

His eyes slitted. "—that I should very much like to kiss you ... and yes ... I believe you were."

Victoria sucked in her breath with indignation.
The rogue!
She had, in truth, though she could scarce admit as much. She

drew trembling fingers away from her mouth, and forced her gaze to meet his eyes, only to find them twinkling with an unsettlingly familiar light.

"How dare you?" she asked him. "How dare you make such a roguish demand!"

"Roguish?" His brows lifted. "Merely because I should wish to kiss my bride? I think not."

Victoria's heart began to pound traitorously. Good lord, he
wished
to kiss her?
And he'd called her his
bride; she hadn't thought of herself as precisely such until this instant.
The very thought left her reeling. "I believe you take this much too

far, sirrah! And no!" she declared. "The answer is no! I'd say you are in no position to make demands!"

"Of course I am," he answered easily. "You need me," he reminded her.

Victoria glared at him. It was certainly true; she did need him. But she was too angry, and much too offended by his impertinence to concede the fact.

"Wherever would you find yourself another groom at this late hour?" he pointed out unnecessarily.

Victoria continued to glower at him, wholly unsettled by their most unseemly exchange. "You might have spoken up before

now to voice this unreasonable demand—as any gentleman would have!"

"Unreasonable?" he asked her.

"You know very well that it is!"

"For a groom to wish to kiss his bride?"

Victoria straightened within the carriage seat. She didn't know any other way to address the issue than to speak plainly.

"We are both quite aware that this is merely a marriage of convenience, sirrah. A kiss is only reasonable between lovers—

and that we are not—nor shall we ever be!"

"I see." He managed to appear a little injured by her vehemence—and how dare he make her feel like a shrew for having to point out simple facts! "I somehow managed to forget," he replied rather dryly, and straightened within the seat. He stretched out his long legs before him. "Thank you for reminding me. In any case, I can see now that the prospect disturbs you so. Forgive me for asking."

"It hardly distresses me," Victoria countered, her cheeks burning in chagrin and anger. "I simply find your approach

distasteful, Mr. Parker!"

"Do you?" he asked her, blinking.

"Yes, I do!" Victoria replied quite fiercely. She was suddenly quite certain she was
not
going to cow to his ungentlemanly behest.

"Why should a simple kiss frighten you so?"

"It most assuredly does not frighten me," she answered as calmly as she was able.

His gaze never wavered from hers, and his lips curved into a knowing smile. "You're certain you aren't?"

A shiver coursed down her spine at the husky softness of his voice—not familiar, though strangely intimate, even so—not particularly soothing either— not when he was asking for kisses whilst they sat alone in a dark, unchaperoned coach, en

route to their wedding! It made gooseflesh tingle upon her arms. Rich and low, his voice seemed to whisper somehow into

her heart and the beat of it quickened unmercifully.

"Of course, I'm not afraid!" she answered, drawing in an unsteady breath. "Not a'tall!" She averted her gaze and willed to

slow the traitorous beating of her heart.

"Then why should a simple kiss distress you, Victoria?" he persisted, his voice low and entreating. " 'Tis a small enough favor