Tonight or Never Page 6

  "John!" She struggled in his protective embrace.

  "Easy, sweet. I'm just taking you home."

  Then why did his voice still have that hint of seduction in it? Were his teeth nibbling on her earlobe? Chloe froze in his lap.

  It was at that point she realized he was going to have to marry her right away. For it wouldn't be long before he either saw through her ruse to her inexperience or the rogue seduced her.

  "Now which way was home?" His mouth teased at her ear. Hot breath skittered down the side of her neck, leaving tingles in its wake. "Guess I'll have to take my chances and hope I find the way… eventually."

  Chloe steeled herself for a long, torturous ride.

  By the time they arrived back at the house—the trip taking much longer than it should have—Chloe was convinced she was right.

  How to accomplish the deed swiftly was the problem.

  Once again, it was Maurice who came to her rescue.

  Apparently the marquis decided to take himself on a viscount hunt. That very day, he announced to John that he had procured a special license for them; they could be wed immediately. In fact, he told them the countess was already making the arrangements.

  Lord John had been bagged.

  Chapter Four

  The Absurdity Begins

  The marriage was to take place just before noon today on the estate.

  At least, that was according to Sir Percy, who had diligently informed John late last evening of the time, place, and date of his own wedding.

  John had no doubt whatsoever that the information was accurate, considering its impeccable source.

  He fumed silently as he gazed out his bedroom window to the grounds below. The thought that this would soon no longer be his bedroom briefly crossed his mind.

  His would be the master suite, with all the responsibility such accommodations entailed.

  His nostrils flared.

  It was not that he objected to wedding Chloe. In truth, now that he had gotten used to the idea, it sat rather well with him. What perturbed him was the speed with which everyone was moving to make sure it became a reality.

  Yesterday, when he had ridden up to the house with Chloe, Maurice had been waiting for them. His uncle had taken one look at the way he had been cuddling Chloe on his lap, and delivered an ultimatum in the form of a very pointed stare.

  The silent message he sent was clear: Get your name on her before you cause a scandal.

  Ordinarily, his uncle had a tendency to overlook infamy. In this case, however, he was drawing the line.

  Right across John's… foot.

  At the time, John had acknowledged the challenge with a quirk of his eyebrow. He made especially sure to lower Chloe to the steps extremely slowly.

  That was when Maurice had informed his nephew of the special license. Saying nothing, John had simply turned his horse toward the stables. It was a calculated stance, neither assenting nor dissenting.

  Despite being irked that his uncle sought to take matters into his own hands, John recognized the simple truth. Regardless of what anyone believed, he was going to marry Chloe. If it made his uncle feel better to conclude he was controlling the situation, then so what? The fact of the matter was that John never did anything unless it was his own desire.

  Wedding Chloe had become a desire.

  Desire led to certain other thoughts. His imagination began to work on the evening's possibilities…

  On the drive below him, a coach and four suddenly careened around the bend on two wheels, narrowly missing a servant girl.

  John swore under his breath. It was the fifth time today they had almost lost a member of the staff to the traffic.

  Somehow, word of his marriage had gotten out.

  He could just imagine what was being bandied about. Did you hear? The infamous Lord of Sex is getting married! What delicious thing could have precipitated such an unlikely event?

  Yes, that was what they were saying.

  The proof was in the pudding.

  Since early this morning, coaches, hacks, landaus, phaetons, gigs, barouches, and curricles had been making a demented dash for Chacun à Son Goût. The ton was descending in all its mad glory.

  The unannounced arrival of "the upper ten thousand" had sent the household into a frenzy of activity.

  Excuses for their unannounced, uninvited, unwelcome appearances—which he had overheard before making himself scarce—had been laughable:

  We were in the area and we thought we'd stop in for a quick visit.

  Our coachman lost his way; might we impose on you for a few days?

  Heard you were ill, Countess, and came immediately…

  The ridiculous pretenses went on and on.

  In the midst of all this, the countess had declared a Fonbeaulard custom and taken herself off to the conservatory garden, claiming she had to make an herbal posy for her granddaughter's wedding. Some nonsense about the herbs ensuring a virile groom.

  As if he needed that.

  Poor Chloe had been pressed into service and was valiantly trying to find rooms for everyone while fielding impertinent questions about their intimate relationship. Some had even extended their condolences.

  Good-naturedly, John had offered to rescue her by stealing her off to Gretna Green so they could "go over the anvil."

  Chloe had quipped that the Lord of Sex had only himself to blame for the furor the news caused—if his reputation hadn't been so noteworthy, none of this would have occurred. Therefore, she admonished with a shake of her finger and a reluctant grin, he'd best own up to the notoriety.

  She had the right of it there, he supposed.

  Besides, she had looked rather adorable rushing around the house, blowing the hair off her forehead, muttering under her breath in French. His sensuous lips twitched. It wouldn't be long before the hoyden took herself off to the back of her armoire to vent steam.

  He couldn't count the number of times in the past he had gone searching for her, only to pass by the commodious piece of furniture, and hear French invectives issuing forth from behind the wooden panel.

  Apparently the Fonbeaulard women did not air their dissatisfactions to the outside world.

  They preferred to vent spleen on mahogany. Naturally, one would overlook a piece of furniture that had a disgruntled voice spewing from inside it! He chuckled. Chloe could be so enchanting—

  A different voice reached him from the corridor outside his room. It was the noncommittal grunt of Deiter. This was not so enchanting.

  "… Do not tell me you intend to appear at the wedding dressed entirely in black!"

  That disdainful voice plagued his nightmares; it belonged to Sir Percy.

  "It is just not done, my man!"

  "It is acceptable," Deiter grumbled.

  A shriek of dismay issued forth.

  John winced. He could almost hear Percy clutch the wall for support.

  "Nothing is so unacceptable as something that is simply acceptable!" A tsk-tsk followed. "Where is your sense of style? 'T won't do!"

  John rolled his eyes. He almost felt sympathy for Deiter; Percy had fixed his fashion sights on him.

  "What is wrong with clothes I wear?" The fierce voice held a snarl, the Germanic accent heavier than usual. Schnapps echoed the snarl. In German. Voof!

  Percy was undaunted by the ranks. "Well! Don't take my opinion! Who am I? I only happen to have the ear of the king."

  A skeptical snort followed this declaration. "Your king suffers from bouts of madness."

  There was a pause. John supposed one couldn't argue with that. "… Very well, let us ask Lord Sexton's opinion on the matter…"

  John's eyes widened. Bother it!

  The voices got closer.

  Oh, no, you don't. John scanned the room for a means of escape. He had no intention of being waylaid by the two of them.

  Fortunately, he was an expert at escaping bedrooms. Half the husbands of the ton knew that.

  Under the bed? No, too obvio
us.

  In the wardrobe? Could be risky.

  Behind the curtains? Lacked finesse.

  The balcony. Unlatching the doors, he dashed outside on the ledge, reclosing them just as the door to his room swung open. Sir Percy never knocked, considering it his God-given right to enter at will.

  "John!" Footsteps traversed the room.

  Lord Sexton flattened himself against the outside wall. "I say, I could have sworn I saw him come in here earlier."

  More footsteps.

  "Well, doesn't matter… look here, Deiter; this is what I mean."

  John heard the sound of his wardrobe being opened. He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth. Just as I surmised—too risky.

  Percy began rummaging through the contents. "Perfect! Try this on."

  On guard, John carefully peered around the corner through the glass doors. The sight that confronted him made him grind his teeth. That's my favorite waistcoat, damn it!

  Deiter reluctantly tried on the gold satin garment. The shoulders swam on him and the waist wouldn't button.

  "Here; allow me." Percy went to stand in front of the German. Taking both sides of the waistcoat in his hands, he gave a sharp tug, quickly buttoning the bottom button before Deiter could exhale.

  Even out on the balcony, John heard the sharp ripping sound.

  It appeared the back stitches had liberated themselves from the tyranny of the seams.

  John's palm slammed silently against the brick masonry.

  "Now see what we have here…" Percy, overlooking the rents in the back of the garment, turned Deiter toward the carved mirror on the wall.

  Deiter stared at himself in the mirror, giving a circumspect grunt.

  "Do you not see the difference?" Percy circled his hand in the air with a flourish. "Notice how the color brings out the highlights in your hair."

  Highlights? John shook his head to clear it. What flummery! The man's hair was pitch black.

  Deiter lifted a bushy brow as he inspected his image.

  "And see how the tone gives you a forceful presence? Gold is, as everyone knows, the monetary standard that upholds nations!"

  John's eyes crossed. Give me strength.

  Stranger still, as Deiter continued to examine his reflection, the somber man began to actually preen.

  Percy patted his shoulders. "Ars gratia artis," he intoned solemnly. "Art for art's sake."

  John had to stifle his laughter.

  The two of them left shortly after the lofty proclamation. With his waistcoat.

  The odd part of it was that John could have sworn that he saw a hint of a secret smile on Percy's face right before he closed the door.

  He also could have sworn the man looked straight toward the balcony when he did it.

  John stood in front of the armoire in Chloe's room.

  Muffled words were wafting through the wood.

  "… cherchez Chloe! What do they think—I have nothing to do on my wedding day but see to their comforts? Is it my fault they are bored? So they come here! Faute de mieux! For want of something better! Are we an hors d'oeuvre for their insatiable curiosity? Non!"

  The corner of John's sensual mouth curved into a deep groove. Just as he had suspected, Chloe was in a fine lather.

  He opened the cabinet door and rested against the jamb. Arms folded over his chest, he waited.

  A few seconds later Chloe's head poked through the clothes, red hair mussed.

  "How did you know I was in here?" she asked seriously.

  He quirked his brow. "Lucky guess," he intoned dryly.

  Chloe was still cross from the unexpected arrival of so many demanding guests, several of whom she had never seen before. She did not have time for this! She needed to concentrate on what she was going to do about tonight.

  Her wedding night.

  How was she going to get around her virgin state? There was no hope that John wouldn't notice. The man had a tendency to pay attention to minute details, especially when those details had to do with women! There wasn't a chance he would overlook the small… inconvenience.

  A line furrowed the center of her smooth forehead. She had to come up with a plan and quickly!

  Her heart hammered in her chest as she gazed up at him. John was put together like a work of art… what would it be like to touch him as she had always wanted to?

  She squelched the image immediately; she didn't have time now to fantasize, either.

  Anyway, her fantasies were about to become a reality. She needed a plan!

  "What do you want?"

  As if he read her libidinous thoughts, he rejoined silkily, "Go and find your grandmother, sweet."

  "What for?"

  "Tell her not to put too many herbs in the bouquet… we won't be needing them." The captivating green eyes sparkled with blatant implication. All sexual.

  Chloe had never seen that suggestion on John's face.

  Oh, well. Add it to the growing list of intriguing expressions he had been sending her way lately.

  All things considered, she supposed she had asked for it. More than asked for it.

  She had fought for it.

  Her palms got moist. She rubbed them on the front of her gown. She needed a plan! Inhaling deeply, she gathered her frayed nerves. It was just a first night—nothing to be alarmed about.

  The one positive aspect of her intended's vast experience was that he would make it as enjoyable for her as he could.

  In that regard, she had complete confidence in John. His capabilities were legendary.

  The other little matter, though, needed some tending.

  How do I stop him from discovering it?

  Getting him inebriated was out of the question. John had an amazing capacity to hold his drink, and something told her he would not be persuaded to overimbibe today.

  Finding Grandmere might not be such a bad idea; perhaps she could lure her into divulging some boudoir secrets that would allow Chloe to come up with a workable plan.

  She would have to be extremely careful; Grandmere must not suspect her real reason for seeking such advice. The countess might not readily accept that her granddaughter was trying to hide from her new husband the fact that she was untouched. Chloe had no intentions of explaining the strange business.

  Course of action settled, she elected to hide her present nervousness with brashness. She placed her hands on her hips. "You might help with the guests, John, instead of standing there like a stallion on loan to stud!"

  His jaw dropped. He couldn't believe his ears. "Chloe."

  Chloe squirmed out from under a pile of clothes and pushed past the dumbstruck viscount. "I'm very busy, John; I don't have time for this." She neglected to clarify exactly what "this" was.

  "The ceremony is in two hours." She pointed a stern finger at him as she headed out the door. "I expect you to be ready and… and… prepared."

  With those cryptic words, she disappeared from view.

  John watched her leave with a knowing glint in his eyes. He idly wondered if she had any idea how prepared a stallion he could be.

  Chloe found her grandmother in the conservatory.

  It was a truly beautiful room and Chloe's favorite. No matter the weather outside, plants and flowers bloomed profusely inside the glass walls of this airy space.

  Her grandmother was something of an amateur perfumer, having been intrigued from an early age by the stimulating and enticing powers assigned to the efflorescence of plants. The lands around her ancestral estate flourished with these plantings, and the family had sponsored their own perfumery for ages.

  Here in England, she grew many aromatic varieties; roses, true myrtle, jasmine, and, of course, French lavender.

  The countess also took great pleasure in concocting fragrant oils for the skin and bath. Scores of the little odd-shaped bottles lined the stone floor of the room.

  Chloe was especially fond of a scent Grandmere had made just for her, containing jasmine, tuberose, and lilac oil, with a hint of exo
tic spice. Apparently John was fond of it too, for he had commented on it on more than one occasion.

  "Grandmere, I need to speak with you."

  The countess looked up from the lovely herbal posy she was fashioning for her granddaughter. "What is it, ma petite?"

  Chloe bit her lip. How to start? "Well… it's about… you see… tonight."

  Grandmere put down the bouquet, smiling gently at her. "You are worried about the wedding night, my angel?"

  Chloe started to shake her head no; the countess's arm coming around her shoulders stopped her.

  "There is nothing to fear. You will be just fine. I am positive John will know exactly what to do." She winked at her granddaughter. "Even if he is not French."

  "But—"

  "Do you think I would entrust you to just anyone? Non, you will see; John has always taken care of his Chloe and he will tonight—listen to your Grandmere. Of this I am certain."

  "I'm not sure what—"

  "He will lead you; follow his direction."

  She intended to. This was very nice but it was not helping her with her problem. "How shall I… handle him, Grandmere? Everyone knows he goes his own way."

  "Ah. It is an age-old problem, this." The countess nodded sagely. "The woman must be in control, of course."

  Now we are getting somewhere. Grandmere was extremely knowledgeable in the ways of men. "And how do I do that?" she asked candidly.

  "You must give him everything," the countess stated with the conviction of the femme fatale.

  "Everything?" That sounded dangerous.

  "Everything." The older woman grinned slowly. "But…"

  "But what?" Chloe leaned in to get this priceless bit of advice.

  "You must let him think you are holding something back."

  She considered the wisdom in this. "What good would that do?"

  "It will drive him crazy! He will keep wondering what it is you are not giving him; and if he is a real man, he will always come back to claim what he believes should be his."

  "Even though it does not exist?"

  "Mais out The man seeks to conquer the woman—to make her his. By letting him think he hasn't fully done so, you are engaging him in a contest of wills. Men adore challenges—it keeps them lively."