His Bargained for Bride (Regency Matchmakers Book 4)
What’s Inside
We both ended up on the bed, he hovered over me, his mouth claiming my lips savagely. As though his life depended upon it and I responded in kind.
Longing and yearning, loneliness and anxiety all coalesced in that moment upon his large bed. I grabbed at his neckcloth, my fingers fumbling with the knot. He pushed my hands away and opened the knot himself. “Hmm. What an eager bride you are, Amy.” Unwinding the length of silk, he revealed the flesh of his throat and a few dark hairs in the opening of his shirt.
Rather than toss the cloth to the side as I had expected, he bound my wrists together above my head. I gasped in protest.
“That is what happens to wives who are too eager. Who cannot keep their hands to themselves. You need a lesson in self-control, Amy. Are you ready to learn it?”
Tingles of delicious anticipation roiled through my body, though being at his mercy without the use of my hands gave me a few flutters of anxiety. Not to mention my eagerness to reach out and touch his body.
After securing my hands, Drake left the bed and I ached for the loss of the weight of him over me. Though I could not use my hands, I watched eagerly as he shrugged off his coat and loosened the ties of his shirt, lifting it over his head to reveal the firm planes of his chest and the muscles of his arms. No wonder he had carried me up the grand staircase of Jade River Hall with such ease.
My chest heaved up and down, my breathing shallow. The heat in my womanly core felt like it might set the mattress aflame and I writhed from side to side. Drake removed his boots and tossed them aside, then, his gaze holding mine, he slid his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers. I moaned, imagining the feel of his hot flesh, narrow hips and hard thighs beneath my touch.
In one rapid motion, his pants were off and added to the pile of his discarded clothing. His manhood stood rigid, the tip of it nearly reaching his navel. I whimpered and arched my hips in that direction. He reached over and flipped me onto my stomach, raised my skirts, tore away my pantalettes, tossing them to the growing heap of clothes on the floor and set about swatting my arse.
“Ouch! What is that for?” The surprise only heightened my arousal and the sharp swats on my flesh sent stinging bolts of lightning straight to my pleasure center. Still, I did not care for his high-handed manner with my buttocks. Were not spankings meant for punishment? What had I done wrong?
His Bargained For Bride
Regency Matchmaker Book Four
Celeste Jones
Published by Blushing Books
An Imprint of
ABCD Graphics and Design, Inc.
A Virginia Corporation
977 Seminole Trail #233
Charlottesville, VA 22901
©2019
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The trademark Blushing Books is pending in the US Patent and Trademark Office.
Celeste Jones
His Bargained For Bride
EBook ISBN: 978-1-64563-116-3
v1
Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book contains fantasy themes appropriate for mature readers only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual sexual activity.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Celeste Jones
Blushing Books
Blushing Books Newsletter
Chapter 1
London
Early spring
Amaryllis
The woman on the other side of the counter glared at me, her lips pressed into a firm line, however I was equally resolute. I had learned my lesson well, and often the hard way. No more would I allow others to dictate the terms of my existence, whether it was my choice of marriage partner—if any at all, if I may be so bold—or something so mundane as my coiffure. The goods which I had provided to the proprietress of the wig shop were first quality and I expected to be compensated accordingly.
I held her gaze and spoke not a word. My confidence was manufactured, yet effective. With a grumble she reached into her pockets and pulled out the coins I had demanded and placed them in the palm of my gloved hand.
Though her demeanor reflected pique, it did not hide the glint in her eye as she fingered the braid of flaxen hair of which she was now the owner. We both knew it would fetch far more than what she had paid for it, and I turned and left the shop pleased I had stuck to my price.
As I stepped into the fresh morning air, I breathed deeply for the first time in a great while. With the sale of my own hank of hair, I had, literally, cut all ties to my past life. The future beckoned and I moved toward it filled with hope and optimism. At last, my freedom was at hand.
The weight of the past dropped from my shoulders and I strolled along the boulevard with nary a care in the world.
In retrospect, I ought to have been a bit more attentive to my surroundings. A young street urchin came forward, begging coin or crust. It seemed serendipitous that a waif in need would be waiting for me, as my new life would be spent caring for the less fortunate. Smiling down at her and admiring her large brown eyes, I reached into my pocket intending to share my good fortune.
So caught up was I in the child’s enthusiasm at the prospect of a gift, the approach of several people, presumably her compatriots in larceny, occurred without raising my suspicions, much to my bad luck.
A firm grip upon my arm halted my progress in retrieving a coin from my pocket. “All of it,” a menacing voice whispered in my ear, the heat and stench of his breath making my skin crawl.
Brought up short by this sudden change of events, I paused, wrapping my fist around a small knife which I carried in my pocket. Hoping to surprise my assailant, I yanked my arm from his grasp and stepped away at the same time I drew the knife from its sheath and prepared to defend myself, as well as my life’s savings.
“Aye,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing into black beads in his head. “I didna take you for a fighter. You must be carrying even more money than what you got from the wig maker.” He drew a knife from the waistband of his trousers and assumed an aggressive stance.
The bright sunshine, which moments before had filled my heart with joy, glinted off the blade of his knife, which made my weapon look like a child’s plaything. Regardless, I refused to back down. I had not come this far toward my goal to have it stolen by a man with filthy hair and missing teeth.
Rather than wait for him to decide on a means of attack, I took a step toward him and thrust my knife at his gut in a long sweeping motion.
My attacker, however, was not alone. As my arm moved through the air, another of the disgusting band of robbers shoved me to the ground. The impact sent my own knife flying from my hand while the beady-eyed leader leaned over me, the blade of his weapon poking the flesh beneath my chin. “I said, give me all your money.”
His instruction was hardly necessary as the foul wretches who accompanied him had already turned my pockets inside out, whooping with glee over their bounty. “Looka here,” said one, his hands filled wi
th my money, “I never ‘spected this much. You got a good eye for marks, boss.”
“Shut yer yap,” boss said, removing the knife from beneath my chin, he gave a hard kick to my ribs and then backhanded his underling and grabbed the loot from his hands. Pain shot through my body and I bit my lip to keep myself from moaning. For some reason, the idea of letting this miscreant know his actions had caused me pain seemed worse than the injuries he inflicted.
He turned to the rest of his gang. “Get a move on.” He gestured with his head. “We’ve spent too much time out here already. We be drawing too much attention.”
As if on cue, I heard a commotion from somewhere near the street. I stretched my neck out and saw a middle-aged woman with a hat the size of a serving platter approaching at a rapid clip, her parasol swishing through the air in an ominous arc. She landed one blow on ‘the boss’ and then gave him a jab with the pointed end as well.
“Mind yer business,” he growled. “Get back in yer carriage and get out of here. This don’t concern you.” To emphasize his point, he gave me another kick in the side.
“Oh, young man, I believe you are very much mistaken.” From my vantage point flat on my back on the ground, I watched as she tucked her parasol under her arm and reached into her reticule.
Seeing her put down her weapon, the louse jabbed his knife in her direction. “Good, give me everything you got in there too.”
“Why of course,” she said, completely nonplussed by his aggression. “I intend to.”
My assailant’s grin of greed soon turned to wide-eyed wonder. I moved my gaze from him to the woman with the parasol, though instead of brandishing her feather adorned accessory, her palm contained a revolver which she pointed at the man’s chest. “I believe you had best be on your way, young man. I should hate to fire my weapon and get gunpowder on my new gloves.”
“You ain’t got the nerve.” He put his hands on his hips and glared, a smug grin on his face, as he took a menacing step toward her.
A shot rang out and a cloud of dust fluttered around his feet. “I assure you, I do. Now, please be on your way before I take aim a bit higher.”
I awoke with an atrocious headache and soul crushing pain in my ribs. As I regained consciousness, my eyes focused on the bedchamber in which I lay. Glancing to the window, I could see that night was falling. Much of the day had passed while I had been unconscious.
Still in the haze of my traumatic experience, I struggled to recall the balance of the incident. Forcing my mind back to the scene on the sidewalk, I had an image of the scoundrel who had attacked me rushing off after my rescuer fired a weapon at his feet. I could not help but find a bit of humor in the unexpected and unconventional woman who had come to my aid.
The sound of the gunshot had roused a great deal of curiosity and as my assailant fled, my heroine’s footmen had loaded me into her carriage. I might have wished for them to be more careful, but a crowd had gathered and it seemed the constables would arrive imminently and my pistol packing benefactress did not wish to tarry.
I was in no position to object, nor would I have, as I wished to remain anonymous as well.
The carriage had lurched into traffic. I opened my mouth to speak to my mysterious new friend, but overcome by shock and pain, I had lost consciousness.
As I endeavored to make sense of my current situation, I felt someone working the fastenings of my clothing. With a shock, I glanced down to see a man attempting to lower my trousers.
In my groggy state, I did not move as quickly as I ought and soon the man had bared me past the hips. At that point, he stole a peek at my privates, shrieked and jumped backward, shouting, “Bloody hell!”
A painting on the wall fell and landed on his head creating quite a gash along his temple.
Though I was concerned for his injury, I cared more for my own modesty and pulled the covers across my person.
Despite my injuries and throbbing head, I pushed myself to a sitting position and grasped the nearest object within my reach, in this case, a vase of flowers. I had no idea where I was or what this man’s intentions were and I raised my hand to defend myself with porcelain if need be.
Never in all my nineteen years had I experienced such a day as this. Were enemies lurking at every corner?
The man stared at me, wild-eyed and dabbed at his injury with a handkerchief. As we assessed each other, the door to the room flung open and my rescuer stood in the doorway, a tray of food in her hands, her mouth agape.
“Good heavens. Whatever is happening in here?”
The man, who upon closer inspection I noted wore servants livery, responded first. “My lady, I was doing as you asked, but he—” the man paused and a scarlet flush covered his face, “he... is a she!”
I lowered my arm and returned the flowers to the table next to the bed, though I kept a wary eye on the blushing servant.
My hostess appeared completely unfazed by this turn of events. “Thank you, Thomas. Perhaps you ought to see about your own tea and tell cook I have given permission for you to have an extra pint of ale.” The man nodded and exited the room while she set the tray on a table near a window and beckoned me to join her.
I fastened my pants and considered following the servant out the door, but something about the kindly lady in the wildly flowered dress filled me with a sense that she could be trusted. Not to mention I had not eaten in at least a day.
Taking a seat opposite her, I waited as she filled a teacup for me as well as a plate of meat and cheese which she laid before me with a smile. “I am Lady Ambrosia,” she said. “Welcome to my home.”
Surely, she had more than a passing curiosity about my choice of attire—and coiffure— yet she added copious amounts of sugar and cream to her tea as though nothing was amiss.
Despite outward appearances, I could behave in a ladylike manner. “Thank you, Lady Ambrosia,” I said, spreading a linen napkin across my lap. “I am Amaryllis Montlake.”
“How nice to meet you, Miss Montlake. I am pleased to see you are awake. Those ruffians gave you quite a thrubbing.”
“Yes,” I said, touching my fingers to my temple, “my head is pounding still and my ribs are sore, however I am most grateful to you. I hate to think what might have happened if you had not come to my rescue.”
“I am gratified to have been able to assist you.” She gave me a pointed look before continuing, “I should hate to think what might have happened if your assailants had realized you were more than you appeared to be.”
The stench and sight of the leader of the gang flashed into my brain and I shuddered at the implications of her statement. She was, of course, completely accurate and I had been exceedingly fortunate things had not turned out much worse for me.
Perhaps I had not thought through my charade as carefully as I had believed.
“Now,” Lady Ambrosia said, her countenance brighter as though she was finished with talking of unpleasant matters, “I do not wish to pry, but I am rather curious about your choice of apparel.” She split a scone, then slathered it with strawberry jam and cream before popping a large morsel into her mouth, a dab of cream lingered at the corner of her lip which she dispatched with a swipe of her tongue. Lady Ambrosia was clearly a woman who savoured her food, and I suspected she had a particular proclivity for sweets.
I found myself intrigued by my hostess, a woman who fearlessly took on a street gang, wielded a pistol with a surprising amount of skill and ease and who accepted my unusual choice of clothing as curious but not shocking. I had an eerie feeling that unusual occurrences were part of Lady Ambrosia’s daily life.
Her query hung in the air between us. I owed her at least a minimal explanation, considering her kindness to me, a complete stranger whom she had taken in without the slightest hesitation.
I decided to change my life by literally discarding my identity as Amaryllis Montlake and becoming a non-descript, inconspicuous gentleman en route to America where he intended to assist his sister in the operat
ion of a home for unfortunate and unwanted children.
It was a daring plan. Truly shocking. Just two days into my new endeavor, I had been robbed and revealed. With a sigh, I decided to unburden myself in an uncharacteristic way to Lady Ambrosia. She inspired confidence and I suspected I was not the first to reveal their deepest secrets to her.
I finished off my tea, and enjoyed a bit of meat and cheese as I contemplated where to begin.
“My father was a vicar. A kind man of great faith and a true asset to his community. My mother was the perfect wife for him, sweet and adoring. They gave my sister and myself a lovely upbringing.”
“Why, that sounds ideal. But I assume something went amiss along the way?”
My face heated with a flush of shame. I wiped the corners of my mouth with my napkin, then held it in my lap, twisting it between my fingers as I confessed all.
“My sister is a few years older. She married a noble man of God and the two of them ventured to America to serve the poor. They opened a house and school for orphaned children.”
“Oh, what a grand calling,” Lady Ambrosia said. “However that does not explain why you are so obviously aggrieved by telling me about yourself. There is no shame in having a sister and brother-in-law devoted to the betterment of society.”
“That is very true. My sister, Diana, has great virtue.”
“And, do you take after your sister?” Lady Ambrosia pressed, leaning toward me.
I continued to strangle the linen napkin, then screwed up my courage and looked directly at Lady Ambrosia. “No, ma’am, I am not at all like my sister. I am… depraved.”