The Flighty Fiancee (2 page)

“You’re ready at last, my dear.” The words came from
her father, Lord Grayson, who waited patiently at the foot of the
stairs. “Though I’m not sure why your pretty face is scrunched up
like that.”

India tore her gaze from the portrait, pasted on a
smile and clutched her reticule a little tighter. Unusual though it
might be Lord Grayson accompanied India on most of her jaunts—a
habit acquired from dragging her around the world throughout her
childhood. He wouldn’t stay long of course, just until he could
hand her over to
him
. “Did I keep you waiting, Papa?”

“Not me,” Lord Grayson replied affably. “But others
will be eagerly awaiting your arrival at the ball. We don’t want to
keep them waiting, do we?”

He means him. Bartholomew.
India shivered;
her nipples hardening beneath her bodice. Why Bartholomew should
make them do that she didn’t quite know, but every time he entered
her thoughts her belly throbbed or her nipples stiffened. How many
nights had she imagined him running his fingers along them? Making
them stiffen further?

“I can’t think who you’re referring to, sir,” India
said, anger with Bartholomew making her sharp with her father.

“Come now, India,” Lord Grayson said, tenderly
placing the matching green wrap over India’s bare shoulders. “We
must have enough of this. Bartholomew has been most patient. He’s
allowed you far freer reign than many in his position would.”

“He has no say in what I do,” India declared. “Not
yet at least.”

The look Lord Grayson gave her changed from parental
indulgence to something close to parental disapproval, and would
have been enough to quell a faint hearted debutante. But India had
never been faint-hearted and was hardly a debutante, and so gave
back look for look.

“Not legally,” her father agreed with narrowed eyes.
“But morally, India, indeed he does. The time is fast approaching
for matters to be settled between you, and the sooner you accustom
yourself to that fact the better. And the sooner you moderate your
behavior the happier I, and Bartholomew, will be.”

“Matters are not settled yet, Papa,” India replied,
both fuming and quivering inwardly. “And I do not see any reason
for Bartholomew to fault my conduct. You’ve scared away anyone of
dubious character who might have propositioned me. What can he
possibly have to rally about? I’ve been the very model of virtue.”
Despite my best attempts to tempt him otherwise. Despite the
constant ache and the never ending throbbing.

“Matters are settled,” Lord Grayson replied, steel
obvious in his tone for once. “And it’s hardly my doing.”

“What on earth do you mean?” India asked, ignoring
his first words.

“I may still be a force to be reckoned with in
academic circles, India, but I doubt I would be enough to stop the
most determined of rakes in the
ton
,” Lord Grayson replied.
“No, dearest, the lack of harassment you’ve enjoyed over the last
few months is courtesy of Lord Bartholomew.”

India paused at their carriage, shock holding her
stock still. Yet underneath that initial shock was a sense of
obviousness. Of course, how could she not have seen it? Bartholomew
may not want her
that way
but he was going to marry her, of
course he would ensure no one else could compromise her. His
innocent, virginal bride….

“So perhaps you’ll consider that when you see him
tonight,” Lord Grayson continued, oblivious to her thoughts.
“Consider it and be a little more appreciative than you usually
are.”

Anger rose in India like the waves of the Red Sea
she’d paddled in as a child.
Appreciative?
All along she’d
thought Lord Grayson had been the reason for the lack of admirers,
the longing looks that amounted to precisely nothing, the smiles
that were never followed up on. Now the truth was out, and she was
just as angry with herself as him for not realizing sooner.
Damn
it.
Bad enough that Bartholomew didn’t want to show her any
passion, give her any excitement—but to stop it from others! To
leave her bored and waiting for the day he would finally seal their
stupid marriage of convenience! It was beyond the pale.

“Are you saying, Papa,” India said slowly. “That the
reason I’ve lacked in the attentions every other simmering miss has
enjoyed is down to him?”

Lord Grayson nodded, seemingly perplexed by India’s
words. “Yes, he’s ensured you’re protection while you found your
place in the world. Something he insisted on before matters moved
apace.”

“How long have you known this?”

He shrugged, confusion writ across his face. “What
does it matter? This was all decided on before the season
began.”

Long before I realized the truth!
India
clutched at her skirts, not even noticing as the fabric wrinkled
under her fingers.

“Bartholomew is a good man,” her father added. “You
have every right to his protection.”

Yes he was a good man. She’d once thought him the
best of men and would have done anything for a smile, a touch, a
crumb of something.
Damn him!

“A sensible man,” Lord Grayson continued. “He’ll
make you a good husband. And it is my wish, my strongest wish, that
you do as you agreed and marry him, India.”

India clenched her fists her as her father helped
her into the carriage, her mind a whirl of frantic thoughts. Had
she known the sort of man Bartholomew was she would never have
accepted his proposal; that had never been clearer to her than it
was now. She’d have smiled, held out her hand and told him that she
didn’t think they would suit, all the while cursing the fates for
making it so. Because he’d never run his fingers down her belly,
kiss her with the sort of passion she’d seen between other couples.
And she’s seen plenty. Dragged around the world most of her life
India knew what a real marriage should be like. She knew she was
unconventional and so a conventional marriage simply would not do.
She’d ache forever. Passionless, dreary, dull.

If only he’d told her!

In that moment everything seemed to coalesce. To
India all the tension and longing of the last few months threatened
to spill out of her, to make her do something truly outrageous, and
she knew right then that she could not marry Bartholomew. She
simply couldn’t.

What will you do, India?
her mind whispered.
What will you do? Her papa would never allow her to break the
betrothal—despite her pleadings over the last months—in this he was
as stern as India had ever seen him.
It had to be Bartholomew to
cry off,
she realized. She had to find a way to make him. She
couldn’t be branded a jilt, no man would ever look in her direction
ever again, she’d be ruined. And it had to be now, before the end
of the season, before her anger and her longing overwhelmed her,
before she was trapped forever.

But how to do it? India clenched her fists around
her skirts, plots and schemes bouncing around her mind and resolve
settling across her. She’d find a way. She’d get him to break the
damn betrothal, and if that meant she had to increase her reckless
behavior to do so, so be it!

Chapter Two

Lord Bartholomew watched from the foot of the
stairs, a position he’d staked out some time ago, as Lady India
entered the ballroom. She moved with an innate grace and
Bartholomew, as always, felt his throat run dry. Red curls framed
her face, arched brows drew attention to her emerald green eyes,
and that figure…Bartholomew swallowed. He’d spent many nights
imagining her body beneath him, his lips on her nipples, his hands
running down those curvy hips, kneading the soft flesh of her
thighs....

Trying to ignore the thought of opening those thighs
and burying his cock as far as possible—something that he spent far
too much of his free time doing—Bartholomew abandoned his spot and
moved forwards towards the receiving line, where India was making
her introductions to her host and hostess. Bartholomew observed as,
with a twirl of her skirts and a smile flashing across her heart
shaped face, she charmed the Duke and Duchess of Richmond, and
anyone else in the vicinity.

If only I could persuade her to direct some of that
charm at me.

“Lady India?”

She turned, and Bartholomew bit back a curse as her
smile slipped from one of genuine pleasure, to that which would
have been taught by her governess—had Lord Grayson employed one—as
soon as she could bob a curtsy. A social smile, lacking in any
warmth at all. Bartholomew gritted his teeth to stop the words he
so desperately wanted to say.

“My Lord?”

What would it be like to have her sigh his name, her
hair in wild abandon around her shoulders, her cat’s eyes glinting
with lust? Bartholomew gritted his teeth and took a deep breath.
“May I accompany you into the ballroom?”

Looking around her, Lady India gave no doubt to
anyone watching that Bartholomew was the last person she wanted to
lead her in. But the presence of her hosts was enough to remind her
of her duty and so she slipped an arm through his. “Thank you, my
Lord. Though I must confess I am at a loss as to why you insist on
accompanying me into every single ball I attend.”

“I know my duty to my betrothed, Lady India.”

Too well.
How long had he waited for her? To
run his hands up those endless legs, to taste the freckles running
down her neck? How many nights had he spent pumping his own prick,
thoughts of her filling his mind? Imagining her rosy lips wrapped
around his head, her dusky nipples on his tongue…. He closed his
eyes and thought about that day nearly a year ago when he’d
approached Lord Grayson with an offer for her.

At twenty and one, late to her debut after many
years traversing the world with her eccentric father, India was
already a perfectly formed beauty. One look at the Grayson’s
welcome home dinner had been enough for Bartholomew to know that
she was his. He had stood at the front door, dumbstruck, as India
wound her way down the stairs. Her skin still darkened from the
Indian sun, her fiery curls glinting in the light. His cock had
hardened to the point of pain and he’d hastily removed his hat to
cover his strained breeches. He wanted her immediately, knew he had
to have her.
She was always meant for me.

“Duty,” India replied, pulling his thoughts back.
“Such a tiresome word.”

“But one we must all abide by,” Bartholomew said.
“Our place in the world demands it.”

Did she roll her eyes? He frowned, images of putting
her over his knees and spanking the fire out of her filling him.
There was no doubt she needed taking in hand. Lady India was
becoming more and more difficult to manage as the weeks went by,
and day by day he regretted his decision to wait for her.
Hell,
you’ve regretted it since the second you agreed to it.

Of course Lord Grayson had been more than happy to
hand Lady India over to a man of Bartholomew’s rank and fortune,
would have allowed them to marry immediately—the moment Bartholomew
had made his offer. But Bartholomew hadn’t wanted to deprive India
of a chance to enjoy all the things young girls her age looked
forward to. She may have seen most of the world but he’d wanted her
to experience a London season, to be swept off her feet by all the
delights the capital had to offer. And she’d been so sweet during
the beginning of the season, Bartholomew recalled. The wide eyed
wonder, the laughter—he’d drunk it all in and it had taken every
ounce of control at his disposal to treat her with the respect and
courtesy she deserved. Oh, he’d teased her and played with her.
Hoping to stoke the same desire he felt in her, but he hadn’t gone
beyond the bounds of that—mindful of her innocence. But as the
season moved apace something changed. The exuberant, merry girl
he’d fallen for was replaced by a brittle beauty, and he was at a
loss to understand why, or how to snap her out of it. She no longer
responded to his teasing, or encouraged his attention.

His instincts had said to marry her there and then,
to seal the deal. But the decision had been made, a promise to wait
until the end of the season, and Bartholomew tried, where possible
to abide by his promises.

Now several weeks remained, and watching
her—simmering by his side—Bartholomew didn’t know if she was ready.
But he was. He honestly didn’t think he could wait much bloody
longer. There were only so many times he could take himself in
hand, pumping himself to satisfaction, before frustration reached
boiling point.

The noise of the ballroom washed over them as they
entered and India made to move her arm from his. Bartholomew had no
intention of letting her go yet, so placed a hand over hers. A
shiver ran through his body at that one small contact. Her hand, so
tiny and delicate beneath his, was enough to remind him of all the
places he had yet to touch. Blood flowed to his breeches and he bit
down on his lip to halt the stiffening of his cock. He had no hat
handy to cover it.

He needn’t have worried she’d notice though.
Ignoring him completely, India smiled and curtsied at various
acquaintances. Bartholomew sighed. It didn’t help matters that
everyone in the capital knew of their engagement, and her less than
happy response to it over the last couple of months. The scrapes
she insisted on getting into were becoming increasingly difficult
to cover up. Riding too fast in the park, dresses scandalously
short around the bosom, seen leaving the theatre unescorted.
Nothing that would ruin her but she played dangerously close to the
edge. Bartholomew wondered if she knew how much his protection
counted. No one would shun his future Lady…but they would express
themselves in other ways.

The pity he saw in his friends eyes niggled at him
every day.
How much more does she expect me to put up
with?