Read Online The Wedding Chase by Rebecca Kelley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Kelley
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hers, a soft question she answered with parted lips. Countering with his tongue, he tenderly outlined the opening of her full mouth, arms pressing her gracile form to his. His senses filled with her pungent spice, tart as gingerbread. Zel’s arms circled his shoulders, fingers tangling in the hair drawn loosely at the back of his neck. He inhaled sharply, her warm breath flowed over his lips and tongue.
A branch crackled behind them. Releasing her, he spun about as Melbourne appeared from the grove of trees beyond the meadow. As he neared, Melbourne was obviously taking in Zel’s flushed skin, Wolfgang’s hand still at her waist, the chip-straw bonnet lying among the buttercups.
He cleared his throat, struggling to suppress a grin. “Luncheon’th ready, if you thtill have an appetite for it.”
Zel bent to retrieve her bonnet, but Wolfgang grasped the hat and placed it on her head, fastening it beneath her chin.
“My eyeglasses, please.” Her voice was a mere husky breath.
Wolfgang lodged the bridge of the glasses firmly at the top of her straight little nose as she reached to wind the temples through her hair and over each ear. She marched past Wolfgang, tucking a hand into Melbourne’s elbow. The foppish man walked her back to the picnic speaking in a stage whisper Wolfgang knew he was meant to hear. “Thtay away from him. Man’th got the motht awful rep. Dangerouth. Not for a thweet thing like you.”
Wolfgang scarcely registered Melbourne’s remarks. He walked several paces behind Zel, focusing on her slender form, the regal set of her head, the narrow, straight back, the unconsciously graceful flow of her hips and legs.
In her venomous stupidity Isadora had stumbled ontothe secret to Zel’s appeal, a heady mixture of passion and innocence. A mixture he should have recognized this morning when she brazenly read Rochester’s poem, then ran away at the impromptu embrace. And yesterday when she, without hesitation, undressed him to examine his wound, yet earlier jumped when he touched her lip. Zel was not a libertine, nor was she a naive miss. And, on top of it all she bluntly admitted to being a fortune hunter. The lovely Zel Fleetwood was a hybrid to be cultivated and nurtured, sure to bear a rare fruit. His for the plucking.
Wolfgang slowed as they reached the trees, falling farther behind Zel and her determined escort. Didn’t he deserve a hybrid, in a life populated by weeds? His wife had been a weed, deceptively lovely, yet nothing but a weed. If she had lived, she would have choked all the life and love of beauty out of him.
Gwen, his sister, had been a hybrid. Alive with contrasts he could never understand. She could be so passionate, gay, and fun loving and still so pious, wise, and restrained. How such extremes survived in one body, one soul, he could not fathom, especially in one so young. He had adored her and still felt the pangs of sorrow and guilt he had never been able to bury. If only it had been him that day, instead of her. If only …
He tossed his head violently, as if he could shake off the memories as easily as an animal emerging from a stream could shake off the water clinging to its coat.
Wilmington Hawthorne, Lord Newton, lifted his nose and stiffled a yawn, barely listening to the chatter of Melbourne and Isadora, as he surveyed the occupants of the gilded drawing room.
But Melbourne’s next lisping words, even in an undertone, drew his full attention. “… and she was kithing him back. No little peck on the cheek either.”
“Who was kissing whom?”
“Newton, you haven’t heard a word. You ignore us cruelly.” Isadora simpered from her perch on a spindly legged sofa.
“Don’t try your wiles on me, I’ve known you too long.” Newton emphasized his affected nasal tone. “Now kindly repeat your gossip.”
“Mith Fleetwood kithed Northcliffe in the woodth. They were wrapped up tight and their mouth were open.” Melbourne’s fawning grin looked positively
A branch crackled behind them. Releasing her, he spun about as Melbourne appeared from the grove of trees beyond the meadow. As he neared, Melbourne was obviously taking in Zel’s flushed skin, Wolfgang’s hand still at her waist, the chip-straw bonnet lying among the buttercups.
He cleared his throat, struggling to suppress a grin. “Luncheon’th ready, if you thtill have an appetite for it.”
Zel bent to retrieve her bonnet, but Wolfgang grasped the hat and placed it on her head, fastening it beneath her chin.
“My eyeglasses, please.” Her voice was a mere husky breath.
Wolfgang lodged the bridge of the glasses firmly at the top of her straight little nose as she reached to wind the temples through her hair and over each ear. She marched past Wolfgang, tucking a hand into Melbourne’s elbow. The foppish man walked her back to the picnic speaking in a stage whisper Wolfgang knew he was meant to hear. “Thtay away from him. Man’th got the motht awful rep. Dangerouth. Not for a thweet thing like you.”
Wolfgang scarcely registered Melbourne’s remarks. He walked several paces behind Zel, focusing on her slender form, the regal set of her head, the narrow, straight back, the unconsciously graceful flow of her hips and legs.
In her venomous stupidity Isadora had stumbled ontothe secret to Zel’s appeal, a heady mixture of passion and innocence. A mixture he should have recognized this morning when she brazenly read Rochester’s poem, then ran away at the impromptu embrace. And yesterday when she, without hesitation, undressed him to examine his wound, yet earlier jumped when he touched her lip. Zel was not a libertine, nor was she a naive miss. And, on top of it all she bluntly admitted to being a fortune hunter. The lovely Zel Fleetwood was a hybrid to be cultivated and nurtured, sure to bear a rare fruit. His for the plucking.
Wolfgang slowed as they reached the trees, falling farther behind Zel and her determined escort. Didn’t he deserve a hybrid, in a life populated by weeds? His wife had been a weed, deceptively lovely, yet nothing but a weed. If she had lived, she would have choked all the life and love of beauty out of him.
Gwen, his sister, had been a hybrid. Alive with contrasts he could never understand. She could be so passionate, gay, and fun loving and still so pious, wise, and restrained. How such extremes survived in one body, one soul, he could not fathom, especially in one so young. He had adored her and still felt the pangs of sorrow and guilt he had never been able to bury. If only it had been him that day, instead of her. If only …
He tossed his head violently, as if he could shake off the memories as easily as an animal emerging from a stream could shake off the water clinging to its coat.
Wilmington Hawthorne, Lord Newton, lifted his nose and stiffled a yawn, barely listening to the chatter of Melbourne and Isadora, as he surveyed the occupants of the gilded drawing room.
But Melbourne’s next lisping words, even in an undertone, drew his full attention. “… and she was kithing him back. No little peck on the cheek either.”
“Who was kissing whom?”
“Newton, you haven’t heard a word. You ignore us cruelly.” Isadora simpered from her perch on a spindly legged sofa.
“Don’t try your wiles on me, I’ve known you too long.” Newton emphasized his affected nasal tone. “Now kindly repeat your gossip.”
“Mith Fleetwood kithed Northcliffe in the woodth. They were wrapped up tight and their mouth were open.” Melbourne’s fawning grin looked positively
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