The Flighty Fiancee (5 page)

“Oh, India, you will, don’t ever doubt it.”

“What—”

He cut her words off with a kiss. Their first kiss.
But Bartholomew made no concessions to that. He took her lips in
his with all the passion and fire that had built all those long
months. He thrust his tongue into her open mouth, the penetration
both a warning, and a promise, of what was to come.

She went limp in his arms and Bartholomew pressed
her closer. His erection was straining against his breeches,
desperate for relief, and he deepened the kiss, devouring her with
his mouth.

She moaned and rotated her hips, the age old rhythm
guiding her. Bartholomew nibbled her lower lip, his hands moving
downward to cup her ass above her skirts, his fingers brushing the
juncture between her legs. Only the layers of fabric stopped him
from hiking the skirt up and burying a finger in her wet quim.
And it would be wet,
he told himself. He could taste the
desire in the air.

Just give her enough to leave her wanting.

The moment she began to move under his hands, to
press against his curved hand, Bartholomew pulled back. Nothing had
ever been as difficult, but he knew it was necessary. Lady India
had to learn, and no one was better placed to teach her, no one
else had the right.

She gazed up at him, green eyes clouded with desire,
curls falling around her shoulders.

Bartholomew didn’t think he’d be able to contain
himself even a moment longer, and his gut clenched at the image of
her wet and wanting beneath him.
What will it be like to see her
spread naked in front of me? To taste her desire?
He shuddered.
He had to know, there was no way he could let any other man have
that. The thought was repugnant.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because I’ve wanted to for so long,” Bartholomew
said softly, running a finger along the curve of her jaw. “So long
waiting for you.”

Her eyes widened in confusion. “But—”

He’d said too much. India did not deserve flowery
compliments or words of love, no matter what he felt. She needed
one thing and one thing only—that was clear to him now. “But
nothing, India,” he bit out. “Heed me now, you belong to me, no
other man will ever touch you again. I’ll be round in the morning
to collect you. We’ll leave for the country first thing.”

The confusion and desire cleared, anger once again
filling her eyes. “You can’t tell me what to do, damn you.”

“You really must learn to guard you tongue,” he
chided. “That sort of language is not fit for a lady.”

“You—”

“Once we’re in the country,” Bartholomew continued,
stemming whatever insult she undoubtedly planned to throw at him
next. “I’m going to ravish you, my dear. You will not leave our bed
chamber until the time comes to say your vows.”

She spluttered before finding her voice. “You
can’t,” she protested. “My father—”

“Thinks it is long overdue I warrant, and be in no
doubt, sweetling, I can and I will. Make sure you’re ready.”

And with that Bartholomew turned and walked away
from his flush faced bride to be, leaving her exactly where she
stood.

“Bartholomew,” she screamed. “You come back here
this instant.”

Where once he would have run to her bidding
Bartholomew did not break his stride. India was going to understand
exactly how things stood. Clearly she wanted excitement, was long
overdue it in fact.

He smiled wickedly. It was his duty to ensure she
got it, and Bartholomew always took his responsibilities very
seriously.

Chapter Five

India paced her bed chamber, her whole body
thrumming with pent up tension. She reached up intermittently to
touch her lips—where she was sure she could still feel the tingle
left from Bartholomew’s kiss—before grabbing her skirts in her
hand, crushing the silk beneath her frantic fingers.

Why now? After so many months? To finally show his
real feelings? India couldn’t work it out, couldn’t understand the
manner of the man who meant to take her as wife. She tilted her
head and considered. Perhaps seeing her on Rockwell’s lap had been
enough to finally break his composure? If that was the case India
wished she’d done it at the beginning of the season, when his
attentions would have been welcome. Because they certainly were not
now, absolutely not!

She ran a finger lightly across her bottom lip—which
was still red and swollen from the graze of Bartholomew’s teeth—and
shuddered. She’d never imagined he could become so angry, or so
passionate in real life. In her thoughts, yes, but in reality? No,
she’d never suspected.
Lady India is mine.... No other man will
touch you....
She shook her head, trying to ignore the thrill
of pleasure that had shot through her at his words
.

Instead she smoothed down the wrinkles around her
thighs and cursed—
another ruined dress
—and it was all
Bartholomew’s fault. A year ago she would have fallen at his feet,
now though? Bartholomew would learn that she wasn’t the sort of
woman who could be won over by a simple kiss. Outrage filled her.
For him to leave her achy and dangling for so many months. To spend
his time no doubt tangling with the likes of Lady Hammersmith or
Mrs. Pennycrew, and then to think one kiss was all it took to make
her beg for more!

How dare he!

But,
ah
, what a kiss
, her mind
whispered. The feel of Bartholomew’s body pressing against hers
filled her mind, the hard nudge against her belly, the tension she
could feel in his body. Innocent of a man’s touch she might be,
India knew enough, had seen enough, of human anatomy to know what
it meant. He did desire her after all. Desired her enough to claim
her as his own.

He really does want me.

She shook her head and played the image of his face
over in her mind. Who knew he would be so angry? So passionate? He
had not intention of ever letting her go now, she realized that.
The marriage would happen whether she wanted it to or not. It was
merely a question of whether she made it easy, or hard.

The reflection on the full length mirror caught her
attention, and India gasped at the person who stared back. After
the kiss she’d found her father, pleaded her excuses to her
hostess, and fled home, not even noticing the wide-eyed looks she’d
received. Now she understood why the ladies had looked at her agog,
the men with knowing smiles on their faces.

Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, nearly all of
the emerald pins having fallen loose on the terrace, her usually
pale skin was flushed a deep pink and, she swallowed, moved her
gaze lower, her chest was flushed bright red and she could feel her
nipples hard beneath her corset. The fabric pricked them and she
wanted nothing more than to free them and tweak them between her
fingers. Hard and wanting, they were.
Bartholomew did
that.

She ran a hand over her chest, shivering when her
nipples puckered further under her bodice. Her hand continued,
moving lower, until it found the heat between her thighs.
Excitement coursed through her, the same excitement she’d felt as
Bartholomew kissed her.

India lay back on the bed, her mind filled with
thoughts of him. She pulled her voluminous skirts up around her
thighs and ran her fingers along her drawers until she reached the
area that ached. It always ached whenever she thought about the man
who was to be her husband.

Slowly she ran one finger along the thin fabric,
shivering when she touched the most sensitive part, the tiny nub
that lay nestled in her curls. She’d discovered exactly what the
nub could do on her eighteenth birthday, and though she suspected
it was wrong to be touching it in this way she could not resist.
Before meeting Bartholomew she’d thought of nothing but the
sensations that nub created, but since then he was always in her
thoughts when she touched it. His face, his body, and now his
erection….

She rubbed it in slow circles through the fabric,
moaning when little sparks of pleasure began to build. Along her
thighs, up her belly, her whole body tightening. Her other hand
reached up and cupped her breast, heavy and taut beneath her
bodice. How she wished she could free it. For Bartholomew to grasp
it and to squeeze it—hard.

She squeezed herself and gasped as the pleasure
intensified. It seemed almost like a direct line between the nub
and her nipple, sparks of pleasure shooting between them and India
moaned again.

Bartholomew’s face filled her thoughts and she
imagined his hands on her breasts, his fingers rubbing between her
legs. Her movements sped up and she rubbed faster, desperately
searching for the something she could feel so close. Her head fell
back, her spine arched and she groaned.

“Bartholomew….”

Faster still until the pleasure filled and burst in
one amazing spark that shivered through her body and she bit down
hard on her lip to keep from screaming. Her hands dropped to her
side, her breath coming in short pants.

“Bartholomew…” his name fell from her again and she
shuddered.

The ache intensified but she didn’t know how to ease
it. Nothing she did, not the frantic rubbing, or the squeezing
would appease it.

If only he hadn’t kissed me!

With just one touch of his lips he’d broken down all
the barriers she’d erected over the last few months. The taste of
his lips, the scent of his desire had tipped her over the edge.
Which made no sense! Certainly the one she’d received from Lord
Rockwell mere moments earlier hadn’t unbalanced her at all. It
hadn’t made the ache scream. But Bartholomew’s kiss…. Lady
Hammersmith had been right, he would know how to pleasure a woman,
and India shivered as she imagined what delights he might have in
store for her.

Her gaze strayed to the clock. How soon would he
come calling? How long before he whisked her off? Until he ravished
her? Until he stopped the ache? Her knees trembled at the very
thought.

India sat up, a thousand thoughts racing through her
mind. If Bartholomew really did desire her, if, as he said, he’d
waited for so long to touch her, all her concerns were for nothing.
The last few months of recklessness suddenly seemed a waste of
time.

If only Bartholomew had told her!

Sighing, India slumped back down on her bed and
closed her eyes. An uncharacteristic moment of weakness overcame
her, and she wondered for just a moment whether she should just
submit to Bartholomew. It would, after all, be so easy to lean into
his strength.
To feel his arms around me, his fingers cupping
me...to experience more of that heat thrumming through my
body.

The moment went as quickly as it came. India was not
that sort of woman, hadn’t been for months. Squaring her shoulders
she kicked off her kid slippers and began to remove her drawers.
No, she would not put up with being ignored for so long, being cast
aside for who knew how many other women. Women like the blonde
haired chit of this very night!

She had her own plans to make, and those plans would
not ally with his.

Lady India is mine….
She’d see about that!

Chapter Six

Bartholomew sat by the dying embers of the fire,
looking into the bottom of his brandy glass. The dregs of the amber
liquid glinted wickedly under the last of the fire’s glow, but gave
him no answers.

He realized that he could still taste India on his
lips. The brandy had not chased her away. That sweet, floral scent
that always surrounded her—he could smell it on himself now, and
his body clenched with unspent desire.

The image of her, lips parted from his kiss, eyes
glazed with passion, teased him and he swallowed down the last of
the brandy in an effort to dispel it from his mind.

Lady India had indeed become the passionate woman he
had both feared and wished for. On the drive home, he’d found
himself tortured by the thought of her in another man’s arms,
hoping that her virtue remained in tact.

It was a mistake to leave her alone for so long.

Even now, knowing this to be true, Bartholomew
wondered if his desire had scared her. Was she even now trying to
find a way to escape from him? He’d put nothing past a woman like
India, and wouldn’t be surprised to find her climbing out of her
window, or racing off who knew where. Any other time the thought of
her distress would be enough to pain him, but at this moment though
those tender feelings were firmly subdued. Bartholomew knew that
nothing could move him from his course. Nothing, barring a
contingent of her majesty’s finest, would stop the plans he’d
rapidly put in place earlier in the night.

What has she done to me?
Bartholomew wished
he knew the answer, wished he could understand how—since that
fateful day a year ago—India had become so important to him.

It wasn’t just the never ending desire. He’d known
for months that it was more than that. Those first weeks they’d
spent together she’d intrigued him. He’d found himself looking
forward to seeing her, aching to talk to her. She’d travelled more
than him and seen things he never would and he liked nothing more
than coaxing stories out of her. Watching the flash of intelligence
cross her face, the smile so free and natural.

But he hadn’t seen that girl for months. Where had
it all gone wrong? He couldn’t quite work it out. She wanted him
sexually, her response told him that, and she’d enjoyed his
company, he was sure of it. So what had happened to turn everything
on its head? And more to the point how could he fix it?

His prick pulsed in his breeches as if answering him
and he growled. Of course there was only one way to fix it, just
like he’d told India earlier. He had to seduce her so thoroughly
she’d never dare question his devotion again. He’d keep her sated
and happy and that would be that.