The Flighty Fiancee (4 page)

“Perhaps Bartholomew likes unconventional?”

“What Bartholomew likes is a woman who knows how to
please him. I can’t see that chit being able to do so.”

Outrage followed the anger. India was not a
sheltered miss and she knew exactly what they meant by
‘please’.

“And you’d know all about pleasing him?” Mrs.
Pennycrew asked and India almost gasped at the tone in the older
woman’s voice. Both teasing and sly it was oddly…vulgar, and for
her to be talking about India’s fiancé, the man she was falling for
every single day. India clenched her fists intent on pulling the
screen aside and confronting the other women….

“Bartholomew and I have enjoyed time together, both
in bed and out. He is a man well able to please a woman and he
demands equal satisfaction.”

India halted.

“The things that man can do,” the woman continued, a
satisfied sort of sigh in her tone. “One can only hope his marriage
does not put a stop to it. I would certainly welcome him back in my
bed.”

India had slumped back down on her chair, her head
buzzing. The suggestion that Bartholomew would continue to ‘please’
others after they married was abhorrent to her. She rejected the
very idea. Why would he when he could do those things with her?

Only he hasn’t,
her mind whispered.
He’s
never tried to please you of for you to please him
. And how she
wanted him to. How she ached to feel his fingers on her constantly
stiff nipples, to kiss his way across her neck and slip his fingers
into her drawers….

Why doesn’t he want me to do those things with
him?

The question plagued her from that moment. She tried
to show him more affection, to illicit a response from him. Her
dresses became tighter, lower around the bosom. She flirted with
him in every way she could possibly think of. All for naught.
Bartholomew showed no desire her and India realized the truth of it
all.

The marriage of convenience.

And with that came something India had not
suspected. Was it heartbreak? Disappointment? Or just plain anger?
She didn’t know. But by the time the season reached full swing
India had convinced herself she felt nothing for the man she was to
marry. The conviction was shaky certainly, she could admit that,
but she held onto it as hard as she possibly could. And if the
dreams and the fantasies refused to fade completely, well that was
to be expected wasn’t it?

In public she buried the childish urges and pangs of
what she’d thought were first love under a layer of brittle
sophistication. She vowed to do exactly as she pleased. No longer
would she try and mold herself into the perfect wife. Bartholomew
could go to the devil for all she cared. She would find a man who
wanted her for herself, not for her meager inheritance or because
it was convenient. The thought of marrying him now created an odd
panicky ache in her belly. Part longing, part hate.
I have to
find a way to break this.

“You’re looking quite flustered, my dear,” Lord
Rockwell said, pulling her thoughts back to the ball. “Quite
flustered indeed.”

“Oh, it’s the heat no doubt,” India replied.
There must be a way.

“I should imagine such temperatures would be nothing
to an intrepid explorer such as yourself,” Rockwell teased.

India smiled slightly. “It is a different type of
heat to be found in a ballroom, my Lord.”

“Perhaps some fresh air might revive you?”

India tilted her achy head, something in Lord
Rockwell’s tone alerting her to an undercurrent she’d missed.

“There is not much fresh air to be had in here, my
Lord.”

“We could take a moment on the terrace, my dear. I
believe our hosts have arranged seating and lighting out there for
us. It should be most…convivial.”

Lord Rockwell was a rake; India had known this since
her first week in the capital. His name whispered throughout the
drawing rooms of London, his scandals relished by ladies of a
certain age. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have dared ask her to dance,
why he hadn’t this eve India didn’t know, perhaps because
Bartholomew was ignoring them?

“Lady India?”

India cast a quick glance around the ballroom.
Bartholomew was nowhere in sight, probably busy cosying up to the
blonde haired debutante. India’s anger rose and she felt her
impulsive nature coming to the fore.
This could be your
chance.

She glanced up at her partner. Rockwell was not the
sort of man even India would usually tangle with. He’d take far
more than a simple flirtation if permitted. Ladies were ruined by
him, sent off to the country until the scandals died down.

The country…Bartholomew would never take me as wife
if Rockwell ruined me…

Could she do it? Allow him to take her on the
terrace and then take liberties with her? Would it be enough to put
Bartholomew off once and for all? Panicky anticipation filled her,
and India wasn’t sure if it was due to the thought of allowing
Rockwell’s advances, or what Bartholomew would say...and do.

What choice do I have? Bartholomew doesn’t want my
kisses, my affection.

India smiled from under her lashes. Knowing full
well the effect that smile had. “Certainly, Lord Rockwell, I’d love
to stroll on the terrace with you.”

And in one impulsive decision, India placed her
entire future on the line.

Chapter Four

“Look, old chap, I don’t want to cause any trouble
but it’s high time you took that flighty fiancée of yours in
hand.”

Bartholomew frowned at his long time friend. Not
many men could get away with disparaging India in front of him, but
he’d known Lord Peterson since they were children, and so let it
pass. “It’ll be done by the end of the week. I’ve informed Lady
India that we’ll be married by then.” He clapped his friend on the
shoulder. “I hope you’ll stand up for me?”

Peterson fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. “Of
course, but well…if you’re expecting a virginal bride I’d suggest
you head out to the terrace immediately.”

“What do you mean?” Bartholomew asked, his voice
deadly.

Peterson ran a hand through his wheat colored locks
and cast Bartholomew a sympathetic glance. “She went off with
Rockwell—”

Bartholomew heard nothing more, already pushing his
way through the chattering crowd.
Damn that woman. How much
further is she going to push me?

He’d allowed her to dance with Rockwell out of
anger.
Let her see how she fares without my constant
protection.
But he’d never though she’d have the nerve to let
him lure her onto the terrace. He’d thought her more sensible than
that.

And why did you think that exactly
? he asked
himself as he pushed aside Lord Richards.
Because she is so well
behaved?
Because she does as you wish
? He growled, the
image of her bent over his knee finding prominence in his mind. If
anyone had ever needed a spanking it was her, his flighty
fiancée.

Shoving through the double doors onto the infamous
Richmond terrace, anger and desire growing by the minute, he
evaluated every nook and cranny conveniently shaded from the sparse
fairy lights. Movement in one of the sheltered alcoves caught his
attention and he strode across, fury making his movements
jerky.

A distinctly male groan floated across the last few
feet and Bartholomew saw red. Rage the likes of which he’d never
know filling every part of him.
Doesn’t she know she’s
mine?

India was sat on Rockwell’s lap, her hands in his
hair, his wrapped tightly around her tiny waist. From the look on
their faces Bartholomew had obviously interrupted an intimate
moment. Without pausing to think Bartholomew grabbed Rockwell’s
cravat, lifting the other Lord from his feet. India shrieked as she
fell onto the bench.

“You dare to touch what’s mine?” Bartholomew
shouted, not even recognizing his own voice.

“I—”

Rockwell did not get a chance to answer. Bartholomew
planted him a facer, his fist connecting with a satisfying thud, a
fierce thrill shooting through him.

“Bartholomew, don’t.” India shrieked.

He cast her the sort of look he should have long
ago. A look that promised retribution and possession.

“Damn you, Bartholomew,” Rockwell gasped, his hand
trying unsuccessfully to stem the blood spurting from his nose.
“There’s no need for this.”

“If you do not want to call your seconds I suggest
you leave immediately,” Bartholomew growled. How he’d relish
placing a bullet in the man who’d dared to touch the woman he’d
waited so long for.

“It was just a trifle,” Rockwell argued. “I
didn’t—”

“Lady India is mine.”

“I know that,” Rockwell said through a mouthful of
blood. “Everyone knows that, damn it. You’ve watched her like a
hawk all season! Followed her around like a blasted lap dog.”

India gasped. Bartholomew ignored her
.
He’d
deal with her in a minute.

“Then leave. Now.”

Casting India an evil look Rockwell turned on his
heel. “She’s not worth it anyway. All mouth and no action,
impertinent baggage.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I pity you
Bartholomew, you’ll be looking for amusement before the marriage
bed’s even cold.”

Bartholomew made to go after the other Lord but
India grabbed his arm. “Don’t. Think of the scandal.”

Whipping around to his errant fiancée Bartholomew
felt his blood fire. “Isn’t that what you wanted, India? A scandal?
Why else would you be on the terrace with one of the most hardened
rakes in London?”

“Not like this,” she hissed.

“Oh, you wanted a civilized scandal did you?”

She blushed and clutched at her skirts. The wrinkles
Bartholomew could see across them did nothing to ease his anger. “I
wanted you to realize.”

“To realize what, India?” Bartholomew growled. “That
you can humiliate me? Why is that a surprise? You’ve been doing it
all year.”

Her eyes flashed. “I have not!”

“Do you want to know what they call you in the
drawing rooms across London, my dear?” Bartholomew asked, anger
making his tongue loose. “The flighty fiancée. Only my reputation
has saved yours this long.”

She blanched. “You’re lying.”

“Do you have any idea what will happen if we do not
marry?” Bartholomew pressed. “They’ll call you a jilt. You’ll be
shunned by decent society.”

“I don’t care,” she replied hotly. “I’ll never be
your wife, Bartholomew. The sooner you realize that the better for
everyone.”

Grasping her by her arms Bartholomew pulled her
against him.
It’s time she understood.
“You don’t have a
choice, India. The sooner you see that the better for you.”

“My father will never force me!”

“If you believe that you wouldn’t be out here on the
terrace trying to ruin yourself. Your father is getting old, the
years spent beneath foreign suns has taken its toll. He wants you
settled with me.”

“He cares for me, he would never want me to be
unhappy,” India insisted.

“He knows that without this union you will be very
unhappy, India. He knows I will take care of you.”

She glared. “That’s a lie.”

“Did you think I would cry off once I saw the
results of your reckless behavior?” he asked, in no mood to
reassure her further.

The blush staining her now pale skin said she
did.

“You don’t seem to understand, India, there is no
longer any choice. I’ve done everything in my power to make this
easy for you. Leaving you to run wild and humiliate me in front of
everyone we know. Don’t rush her, I told myself. Give her time to
get used to you. Well your time has run out.”

“You can’t force me,” India cried.

“I won’t have to.”

She shook him off, bright spots of color chasing
across her pale face. “What, prey tell, is that supposed to
mean?”

It was clear to him now. He should have done this
long ago.
Should have shown her exactly who she belongs to.
“By the time I’m finished with you, Lady India, you’ll be begging
me to marry you.”

“How dare—”

“I’ve played nice for far too long. My honor
demanded it, but yours clearly did not.”

“How dare you talk to me about honor,” India
shrieked.

He clenched his fists. “Well those days are gone,
India. If you insist on playing the whore the only person you’ll be
doing it with is me.”

Outrage darkened her face, the curls she’d contained
breaking free, tangling around her flushed face. Bartholomew
thought she had never looked so beautiful. His prick stiffened,
straining against the front of his breeches. His balls seemed to
grow in size, tightening. How he wanted her.

“I wasn’t—”

“You’ll be my wife, India, and no wife of mine
sneaks around on the terrace like some common trollop.”

She reached up and slapped his face. The trifling
pain did not deter him, if anything it increased the flow of blood
to his breeches, excited him. His prick pulsed and he looked down
to see a flush spreading from her neck all the way to her bodice.
Her freckles were prominent and he imagined licking his way along
every single one.
I should have bedded her long ago. She’ll be
far easier to manage when she’s sated.

Bartholomew reached down and took her into his arms,
his erection prodding her belly. He knew, from the way her eyes
widened, that she felt it.

“That’s for you,” he said. “Feel how hard it is. How
much it wants to be inside you. And I can promise you, one you’ve
had it you’ll be mine.”

She blushed bright red. “How dare you!”

“I’m going to do a lot more than dare, India. A
whole lot more.”

“I won’t marry you, Bartholomew, and there’s not a
damn thing you can do to make me,” she insisted, but her voice was
weak, breathless.