The Flighty Fiancee (3 page)

“Are you planning to spend the entire evening by my
side?” India asked, as she waved at a group of passing debutants,
her tone saying quite clearly that she hoped not.

“I hope to enjoy some of my fiancée’s company, yes,”
Bartholomew replied. Lady India was clearly spoiling for a fight,
though he had no idea why, and he had no intention of giving her
the satisfaction of one.

“How…fortunate I am.”

Her mocking tone did nothing to ease the feeling
that once again prodded him in the gut. A feeling that had been
teasing him for weeks.
Take her now.
“I like to make you
happy, my dear.”

She looked up, her head titled to one side. “Do
you?”

“Of course. You need only to tell me what you desire
and I will see that it is yours.” Did she not realize he would do
anything to bring the back the smiling lovely he’d fallen for? To
see her run her fingers along his arm, down his chest, to his
breeches….

“You have no comprehension of what I desire, Lord
Bartholomew,” India said.

He coughed, desire warring with anger.
So the
claws are out
. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?”

“What would be the point?”

“The fact that we’ll be spending our life together,
perhaps?”

A smile so false it may well have been a scowl split
her face. “How fortunate I am.”

In that moment, with India’s words ringing in his
ears, his cock straining for release, and she smiling openly at the
passing Lord Rockwell—the rake—Bartholomew knew that enough was
enough. She was his. She shouldn’t be smiling at another man. The
feeling would no longer be denied. The end of the season was far
too long, ready or not, honor be damned, it was time for India to
submit.

Gently steering her into an alcove Bartholomew
cleared his throat. Exhilaration and desire thrumming though him.
Why did I wait so long?
It was all clear to him now. “It is
my intention to call on you on the morrow to discuss plans to move
out betrothal forward.”

“Surely we can discuss this at the end of the
season, my Lord?” she said without looking at him.

“I have decided it is preferable we wed before
then.”

Her eyes widened in shock and Bartholomew felt a
small measure of satisfaction slither down his spine. India had
been spoilt and pampered for far too long by Lord Grayson. It was
his turn now.

An image of her bent over his knee, voluminous
skirts lifted assailed him and he shuddered. It was surely wrong to
think about spanking his fiancée’s rounded buttocks, but he
couldn’t help himself. India did that to him.

“But why?” she whispered, her gaze finally meeting
his.

“The end of the season is still several weeks away,
it no longer makes sense to wait,” he said, for what else could he
say? ‘I can wait no longer to bed you?’

“But I—”

She looked suddenly much younger than her years and
Bartholomew felt a slight twinge of guilt at his hasty actions.
You should have
told her she looked beautiful, that
you’ve wanted her for so long.
He didn’t of course; men of his
position did not talk coarsely to the women they were betrothed to.
They thought it yes, but did not say it. That sort of thing was
reserved for mistresses. Not that he had one—maybe if he had he
wouldn’t have spent the last several months walking around with a
perpetual erection. “It’s been a whole year since you accepted my
offer,” he said instead.

“But I thought you were happy to wait until the end
of this season, wasn’t that our agreement?” India asked, and
Bartholomew’s heart sank even whilst his anger stirred. She wasn’t
ready.

I should have married her as soon as she
accepted
, he thought. Honor be damned. She’d be with child by
now, settled on one of their estates and he’d be bedding her
nightly. Enjoying her delectable curves and perfect breasts. He
shuddered at the thought. It didn’t matter now of course, those
months were lost. All that counted now was that they would marry,
that was not in question. Her response to his words was enough to
quell any lingering honor or doubts. She needed taking in hand. So
Bartholomew took a deep breath and steeled himself to say the word
he knew she didn’t want to hear, but were past time for saying.

“Lady India, you’re now twenty and two years old,
you’ve had nigh on a year in the capital and several jaunts around
the county. Not to mention all the years you spent traversing the
globe with your father. Likely you’ve seen and done more than any
other debutante in this room. How much more do you expect?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know…I thought....”

“I’ll be approaching my thirtieth year very soon,”
he added, ignoring her words. “I have duties and responsibilities
to my estates. Not least the requirement to provide an heir for
both our fortunes. It is high time matters were settled between
us.” No need to add that his desire was becoming unmanageable. That
he needed to bury himself in her wet folds before he ran mad.

Her eyes flashed. “Do I have no say in this?”

He gritted his teeth. “This decision was made and
agreed on, India. You accepted my proposal and the world expects a
marriage from us.”

“I don’t understand the hurry. We’re hardly in our
dotage.”

“No, but we’re both of an age to be married. Why
wait any longer?”

She looked out at the ballroom and the tension in
her lithe, delicious little body was obvious.
What’s going
through that mind of hers? What is she plotting?
Because
Bartholomew knew her well enough to know that she was planning
something.

Unconventional was the only word he’d ever been able
to find to describe India properly. Lord Grayson’s fault. The only
time as far as Bartholomew could see that the older man had
insisted on something normal for India was their marriage, but then
he was getting older and he wanted to see his daughter settled.
Bartholomew understood that.

“India?” he prompted, unable to stay silent.

She shook her head, pulled her gaze from his and
spoke, “You should never have offered for me.”

Shock stabbed through his gut and Bartholomew’s
chest heaved in the strangest of manners. Where the hell had this
come from?

“You accepted readily enough, Lady India,” he
said.

She shook her head again, her curls dancing around
her face. “I didn’t realize then.”

“Realize what?”

She turned and glared her cat’s eyes back at him.
“What it was you really wanted.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked.

“A marriage of convenience.”

Bartholomew was baffled by her words. Yes, theirs
was to be a marriage with benefits on both sides, but surely India
knew how much he desired her? How much he longed for her? He’d
trailed after her for months, his dick seeming to point the way. He
accompanied her to balls, parties, routs—events he would normally
had given a wide berth he’d put up with for her. How much more did
she want, damn it!

“You know I wish you to be my wife, India,” he said
in an attempt to reassure her.

“Yes, I know that,” she replied, but her tone did
nothing to dispel Bartholomew’s unease.

“Then I don’t understand your reluctance.”

“You understand nothing about me, Bartholomew, that
is the point.”

Bartholomew shook his head, his anger rising, He had
no patience for any more of Lady India’s games. His blood was at
boiling point, his frustration sending him over the edge. She’d had
ample time and more to get used to matters and he would wait no
longer. He’d chip away at whatever had hardened her and leave her
trembling in his arms. Or better yet with her legs shaking around
his head as he buried himself in her sweet quim.

Steeling himself to say the words which, suddenly,
made perfect sense, Bartholomew gritted his teeth. “I shall inform
your father directly, we’ll be married by the end of the week.”

Chapter Three

India couldn’t concentrate on her steps as Lord
Rockwell whisked her around the room. Dancers flashed before her
eyes, a riot of silks and satins all blurring in front of her. The
constant noise of hundreds of people ringing in her ears made her
head ache but it was still not enough to drown out Bartholomew’s
words.

We’ll be married by the end of the week.

India gritted her teeth and tried once again to
concentrate on her steps but her mind refused to comply. How the
hell had this happened? Had she not come to the ball intent on
finding a way out of their marriage of convenience, and instead
Bartholomew had issued an ultimatum! She played his words over in
her mind. His voice sterner than she’d ever heard, and that strange
light dancing in his eyes. It made no sense. None of it. Why was
Bartholomew insisting on this marriage when she knew full well that
he didn’t really want
her
?

Her head ached and she wished she could reach up to
rub it, but Lord Rockwell held her tight and she had no other
option but to finish the dance with him and wince inwardly.

It had to be her inheritance, small though it was,
and the fact that their estates adjoined one another. She could
think of nothing else. Certainly when they’d met she’d thought—for
a few heart stopping weeks—that he wanted her for herself, but she
was wrong.

To be married to such a man.…
India had never
seen Bartholomew’s eyes flash with desire, his lips part as if to
kiss her. He’d always been so proper and correct, never doing more
than brushing her hand to his lips.

After so many years of seeing couples who loved one
another across the world, India would settle for nothing less than
the same for herself. Anjika was right, she wanted the grand
passion. Hadn’t her own parents had enjoyed a passionate
relationship before her mother’s death? Well India wanted that too.
The strange English convention of marriages of convenience was
abhorrent to her. But she knew now that it was exactly what she’d
end up with if she allowed Bartholomew to marry her. After a whole
year India felt sure that if he wanted her he would have tried to
have her by now. Surely a man in a deep passion with his betrothed
would not wait so long to claim her? Hadn’t girls been ruined
because of that very thing?
If only he’d shown some desire for
me.

As Rockwell twirled her past her fiancé—who was in
deep conversation with a blonde haired beauty—India couldn’t help
but acknowledge the fact that Bartholomew was a handsome specimen
of a man. Tall, muscular and dark, he exuded a sense of power. If
only he was more ardent India could easily have envisaged him as
her future husband. Even now she recalled—with perfect clarity—the
first moment they’d met.

After a decade seeped in the Indian culture and all
the freedoms that had given her, India lacked many of the social
conventions expected of a young lady her age. She’d bounded over to
him, skin as brown a nut, all exuberance and excitement, ready to
greet the man she’d known briefly during her younger years.

He was changed, much changed from the gangly young
boy she remembered only dimly. Dressed exactly as a gentleman of
his standing should be, his presence had struck her forcibly and it
was only after when she’d sat down to consider their meeting that
she’d realized why.

Attraction. Immediate and obvious sizzling across
her skin. For her at least, looking back with hindsight, maybe not
for him. Shock had been written plainly across his face.
Disapproval evident. Clearly he did not look kindly on her childish
enthusiasm. Still disapproval or no it hadn’t taken long for India
to fall under his spell, to let the attraction have free reign, and
she’d had tried to moderate her behavior, to become the sort of
woman he would want.

India recalled the moment he had proposed, she’d
thought he’d fallen for her as much as she had for him—she’d been
so happy, full of longings and dreams. She hadn’t realized the
truth. That for him it had been nothing more than a damn business
transaction—as it seemed to be for most men of the
ton
.

Lord Rockwell completed a circuit of the room, India
still held tightly in his grasp and she was confronted once again
with the imposing figure of her fiancé. How attractive he was, damn
him. But then she wasn’t the only one who thought so was she? Her
mind skipped back to the first weeks of the season at Lady
Mardale’s ball and the old jealousy and anger filled her again. She
tightened her hold on Lord Rockwell and saw a flash of surprise on
his face. No matter though, he’d do nothing but dance with her,
hadn’t her Papa said as much—all thanks to Bartholomew.

Bartholomew, who thought nothing of doing exactly as
he pleased. Lady Mardale’s ball had shown her that. She’d been in
the retiring room, fixing a flounce or something of the sort, she
forgot now exactly what. She could remember though, straightening
from her seated position, pleased to have fixed whatever was wrong,
only to be assailed with the screeching tones of Mrs. Pennycrew, a
widow of shady repute. Not wanting to have to converse with the
woman India had stayed behind her screen and waited. How she wished
she hadn’t.

“I see Bartholomew has been snared at last,” Mrs.
Pennycrew had said. “I hadn’t thought to see that for some
years.”

“Yes it seems so.”

Was that Lady Hammersmith? India leaned a little
closer to the screen to fix the voice in her mind.

“I must say I’m surprised that he has chosen
her.”

A tinkling laugh from the unknown lady who may or
may not have been Hammersmith. “It does indeed baffle one’s mind.
That brown skin of hers and those God awful freckles.
Unconventional, just like her Papa.”

Anger, swift and shocking hit India. She knew some
of the other ladies disapproved of her exotic looks and manner but
up until now it hadn’t bothered her. She had her Papa and she had
Bartholomew, what more did she need?