A Heart for the Taking (29 page)

After the way they had parted, Chance had not been certain of his welcome. He had fully expected her bedroom door to be barred and locked, and the fact that it was not gave him a tiny glimmer of hope that she had decided to be
. . .
reasonable
about their situation. That hope vanished when Fancy caught sight of him and, with a voice full of loathing, spat, “You. How dare you show your face to me?”

Suddenly relishing the battle to come—and the sweet victory he was determined would be his—Chance pushed himself away from the doorjamb. A crooked and far too appealing smile, as far as Fancy was concerned, curved his lips. “Ah, well, unfortunately, the face comes with the rest of me,” he drawled. His smile widened into a full-fledged grin. Suggestively he added, “And it really was not my, er, face that I had planned on showing you this evening.”

A
t his words, a shocking urge to burst out laughing suddenly whipped through Fancy. Only by biting the inside of her cheek, and reminding herself what an irrepressible rascal Chance could be, was she able to keep command of herself. From the gleam that leaped instantly into his dark blue eyes, she suspected that he had guessed her amusement. Speaking in her most disdainful tones, she said, “I presume that is some of your common colonial humor? You will forgive me if I do not find it amusing.”

“Sweetheart, when a woman looks as you do, I would be willing to forgive her anything,” Chance murmured, closing the distance between them, “even a lack of humor.”

Her amusement fading, Fancy tried to summon up all the anguish and anger she had felt as she had fled the solarium earlier, but it was a futile endeavor. She had faced some hard, unpleasant facts during the time since that dreadful scene between them, and there was no use pretending otherwise. She was married to this infuriating creature with the teasing blue eyes. And despite all the reasons to the contrary for it not to have happened, she very much feared that, if she were not already, she was perilously close to being in love with him.

And yet, loving him or not, she was not about to fall tamely into his arms. He had hurt her and had had things too much his own way for far too long. For her own pride it was important that she make a stand, and she stiffened when his arms slipped around her and he pulled her next to his steelhoned body.

Deftly she avoided his kiss, twisting her head slightly so that his lips grazed her cheek instead of her mouth. “Don’t,” she said breathlessly, hating the little surge of excitement that went through her as soon as his arms had closed around her. Keeping her eyes locked on the luxurious fall of lace at the front of his shirt, she said swiftly, “We do not know each other very well . . . and I think it would be a good idea for us to become more, more c-c-comfortable with each other before we become i-i-intimate.”

Chance snorted. “And I think that is the silliest damn nonsense I have ever heard come out of your mouth, Duchess. In case you have forgotten—we were married this afternoon. And unless my memory has completely deserted me, we have already
been
intimate.” A sensual smile curved his lips and his voice grew husky. “
Very
intimate.”

Fancy’s head jerked up. “And you are no gentleman to remind me of that horrid incident. You took base advantage of me.”

Chance grinned. “Duchess, I never claimed to be a gentleman. And as for the other, you were willing; you knew what I was and precisely what I was capable of when you came looking for me on that bluff.” His hands tightened ever so slightly on her shoulders. “Deny it if you will, but you wanted me as badly as I wanted you. No one took advantage of anyone.”

Fancy took in a deep, angry breath. “You do not have to tell
me
that you are no gentleman. I will tell you what you really are: you are the most arrogant, provoking, conceited, rude, aggravating . . .” Words failed her, and her topaz eyes snapping with temper, she attempted to break free of his hold. “Let me go,” she said furiously a second later when her efforts had proved futile.

“Let you go?” Chance repeated with an odd look on his face. “Let you go, Duchess, when I have gone to such great lengths to bind you to me?” He gave her a gentle shake and, his eyes holding hers, said softly, “You are mine. Do not ever forget it, and I will never, in this lifetime, let you go. You are my
wife.”

Fancy continued her struggle to escape him, grimly ignoring the sudden leap in her pulse at his words. Angry at her reaction, damning him for having the power to disturb and, yes, unfortunately, delight her, she fought against the nearly overpowering pull of attraction that existed between them.

She most definitely did not want to want him—did not want to acknowledge the spark of desire that fairly crackled in the air between them. Even more, she did not want him to be able to cloud her mind, to make her forget his trickery that had led to their marriage. She certainly did not want to
like
him, much less love him. She wanted to be able to view him coldly and impersonally, to hug all his deceits and faults tightly to her bosom. And when she was away from him, it was a relatively easy task to accomplish. But when he was near . . . when those glittering blue eyes were fixed on her and that long, mobile mouth was curved in that mesmerizing smile of his and his arms were holding her near to the seductive warmth of his lean body . . .

It did not help Fancy’s thinking process when Chance’s mouth moved warmly over the soft, responsive skin at the side of her neck and nuzzled the small lobe of her ear or when the close proximity of their bodies made her aware of his rampant readiness to make love to her. To her great dismay, her blood seemed to thicken, she felt flushed, a deplorable weakness spread slowly through her entire system, and she knew that if she didn’t take decisive action, her body would betray her.

With more desperation than anger, she suddenly pummeled wildly against his chest and managed to kick him on one knee. The kick caught him by surprise, and his leg half
crumpled beneath him, which loosened his hold on her. Fancy sprang free.

Bosom heaving beneath the gold silk and blond lace, her hands clenched into fists, she stared back at him defiantly as he slowly straightened. His smile was gone, and the gleam in the blue eyes made her decidedly uneasy.

“Stay away from me,” she said, half commanding, half pleading, as he advanced toward her. She began to edge backward away from him.

“No,” he said softly, his eyes fixed intently on hers, “I will not.” A bitter smile flitted across his dark face. “I cannot. I want you, Duchess. You have haunted my dreams for too long, and I will not be denied what is rightfully mine.”

Fancy’s back came up against the wall; there was nowhere else for her to retreat. The topaz eyes almost golden from the conflicting emotions rioting through her, she said desperately, “I will hate you, if you force me.”

Chance shook his head slowly, a frankly carnal curve to his lower lip. “I have no intention of forcing you. By the time I take you, you will be willing,
that
I promise you.”

“I want no promises from you,” she spat as he stepped nearer.

“And I did not want it to be this way between us,” he said gruffly, “but I am afraid you leave me no choice.”

Before Fancy realized his intent, he ducked, and to her humiliation and astonishment, she found herself slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

“What are you doing?” she cried, her fists beating against his broad back.

“Taking my wife to our marriage bed,” he said calmly as he strode from her bedchamber and through the sitting room.

Carried ignominiously over his shoulder, her fists and feet flailing with great energy, if little impact upon him, Fancy was helpless to stop his progress. Coolly ignoring her furious actions, Chance threw open the door to her rooms and began to walk down the wide hallway that led to his own.

Her face red, and not just from being carried upside
down, Fancy hissed, “Put me down, you great lout. Someone is going to see us.”

“No doubt,” Chance replied imperturbably, never slowing his stride. “And if you had behaved yourself, you would not have driven me to these, ah, indecorous lengths.”

Stunned by his provoking words, she ceased her struggles momentarily and gasped with sheer outrage. “I
drove you?”

“Yes,” he said with a smothered laugh, “you drove me to this desperate action, so it is all your own fault.”

Fancy fought an urge to shriek. Of all the unprincipled . . . ! How dare he make this her fault. So angry she could barely see straight, she gathered herself to continue the attack. But the scathing words she was ready to hurl at him died instantly when, to her utter horror, she heard a door open nearby.

A wave of scarlet deepened the already rosy hue of her face, and her heart sank to her little toes as she heard Sam say, “Oh. ’Tis you. I heard some, er, noise and thought ...”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Chance answered politely, just as if he did not have a night-clad female slung over his shoulder. “Fancy and I were just on our way to bed.”

“Ah. I see,” murmured Sam, amusement obvious in his voice. “Well, good night, then.” And he closed the door.

The hall seemed strangely silent after Sam had shut the door. Certain that she had never been so thoroughly embarrassed in her entire life, Fancy hung there limply over Chance’s shoulder, wishing she could just disappear into thin air and awaken in her familiar, comfortable bedchamber in England. How was she ever going to look Sam Walker in the eye again?

Apparently not the least abashed to have been found strolling down the hall with his bride carried like a piece of booty over his shoulder, Chance once again continued on his way toward his room. The silence continued for a few more minutes, Fancy having evidently given up her fight to escape from him—if her passive weight was anything to go by. Chance found to his annoyance that he preferred her furious and struggling with him than quiet and defeated.

Clearing his throat, he said gently, “Unlike me, you will find that Sam is a true gentleman. Gallant and considerate. Tactful, too. I would not let his having seen us prey on your mind.”

“Of course I am not letting the
most
humiliating moment of my life prey on my mind,” Fancy said through gritted teeth. “I am far too busy concentrating on all the ugly and
painful
ways that I might kill you to worry about it.”

Chance smiled, pleased that he had lightened her mood. He gave a hearty slap on the tempting buttocks near his cheek and said, “Excellent! I would not want you to have been brooding.”

He thought she snarled something exceedingly unladylike, but as he was occupied with opening the door to his room, he couldn’t be positive. Once inside the room, he shut the door behind them and locked it. Heedful of Fancy’s state of mind, he carefully removed the key and slipped it into a small pocket of his waistcoat.

Fancy wiggled uncomfortably on his shoulder, and after taking a few more steps into the room, he shifted her weight and carefully stood her upright. The instant her feet hit the ground, she sprang away from him, brushing back the tangle of wavy brown hair that had fallen over her face. A wary expression on her face, she said stiffly, “Well, here I am in your room. I hope that you are satisfied.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she had chosen unwisely.

The infuriating smile that quirked at the corners of his mouth made her long to slap it from his handsome face. She was shocked at the violence of her emotions. She had never been given to such unmaidenly and rude impulses. Yet Chance, by just the flick of an eyebrow, a twist of his lips, a gleam in the cobalt blue eyes, could rouse her to stunning fury.

Leaning against one of the tall mahogany posts of his bed, Chance regarded her as she stood in the center of his room. “Satisfied?” he asked mockingly. “Hardly, my dear. I suspect that it will take several decades, perhaps a lifetime, before I am fully satisfied with you.”

“If you find me so
un
satisfactory,” Fancy shot back hotly, “I am astonished that you went to such deplorable effort to coerce me into marrying you.”

“Ah, now, Duchess,” he replied softly, his eyes warm and caressing on her, “I did not say that I found you unsatisfactory. I merely said that it would be a while before I was satisfied with you. That is something far different.”

“More colonial wit?” she sneered.

He shook his head. “No, merely the truth.” He looked thoughtful. “You are very angry with me at the moment, and perhaps it is justified, but I think it is time for some plain speaking between us.”

Fancy’s chin lifted at his tone. “What do you mean?”

A thick black brow flicked upward. “I think you know exactly what I mean, but if you wish me to elaborate, I shall.” When Fancy remained stubbornly silent, he sighed. “Very well, Duchess, we shall play this farce out. You are my wife. I intend to be your husband in every sense of the word. This is my bed. I intend to have you in it, and I have every intention of sharing it with you. Now you can come willingly to me, or— ”