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Jilted bride Lady Louisa Bennett seeks a quiet chapel and instead finds the subject of her secret fantasies: best man Alistair de Roche, Earl of Holyfield. Knowing the wedding will be rescheduled, Alistair tries to ignore his lust for the voluptuous beauty.
But temptation proves impossible to resist, and the two indulge in a single afternoon of carnal bliss. Behind him, the shuffling footsteps and grumbling whispers of the guests echoed as they exited the cavernous cathedral.
Thwarted in their hopes of witnessing the wedding of the Season, the rumormongers would have to find their amusement elsewhere. No doubt in ripping the unfortunate bride to shreds with vicious speculation as to the reason her intended had failed to appear at the altar. Alistair nearly fell off the narrow bench. Though he could discern only the outline of a figure in the far corner of the dimly-lit niche, he recognized her voice instantly.
He opened his mouth, attempting to frame a suitable response to her question, and then, finding nothing to say, closed it. After taking a deep breath, he tried again.
Lady Louisa emerged from the shadowy recesses into the light streaming through a stained glass window set high in the wall. A rustle of silk and satin accompanied her movement. Bathed in the multicolored glow with her dark hair arranged in artful curls about her face and her large, round eyes glaring at him, she looked every inch a vengeful angel. An angel with a form so lush, she could tempt the devil into an alliance with the other side.
Grenville was an idiot. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, forcing the ivory mounds upward until they threatened to spill forth from her bodice. He had no business thinking about her breasts, in or out of her dress. Although now, he could think of nothing else. A reasonable question. Alistair was the best man and it was his duty to see the groom to the altar.
He shrugged to cover his unease. Provided an emergency included sleeping off a night of debauchery. Alistair had skulked away from the rest of the wedding party when no one was looking precisely to avoid that thankless—and likely protracted—task. She closed her eyes, dark, expressive eyes he knew to be the color of rich chocolate.
Her plush, upper lip crumpled in on the lower one. She shook her head. Alistair blinked, dumbfounded. The words were spoken with such flat conviction and self-loathing, he felt them like a fist. No, surely not. Voluptuous, ample, and yes, perhaps a trifle plump. No man wishes to bed a fat girl, especially for the rest of his life. He wanted, quite inappropriately, to laugh. All it would take to disabuse her of her foolish misapprehension would be to lay her hand on his breeches where his nascent erection strained to escape his fall.
The idea thickened his cock even further. Instead, he shook his head vehemently against her words. Alistair ran his fingers through his hair, knowing he made it stand up on end. If only his prick would stop sapping energy from his brain, he might be able to form a cogent sentence. She spread her arms and executed a pirouette. Before he could think better of it, he was on his feet. The click of his Hessians against the marble echoed loudly in the now-empty church.
He reached her in four long strides. She turned away as he approached, but he wanted—needed—her to look at him. He grasped her shoulders and brought her about to face him. Wide, startled eyes, glistening with unshed tears, met his.
She gasped in surprise. He hauled her closer, until their bodies touched, and then released her shoulders. She seemed too astonished to pull away. He cupped her arse, the object of so many of his lurid fantasies, and pressed her tight against him.
The heady scent of her—citrus, cloves, and woman—assailed his nostrils. Her nose wrinkled and she sniffled. He nodded. Since the moment Grenville introduced us. She stared up at him, her lips parted, her breath coming in short puffs. Her pupils, already dilated to accommodate the dim light in the chapel, increased in diameter, nearly engulfing her rich brown irises in blackness.
Her breasts seemed to surge forward with anticipation and he imagined her nipples puckering and hardening beneath the layers of silk, linen, and cotton. After a long, thick pause, her mouth curved upward, her eyes sparking with challenge. Book 2 Wickedly Ever After. Book 3 Scandalously Ever After. Book 4 Sinfully Ever After. Excerpt St. Out of her dress held the greater appeal. He grimaced owing to the increasingly snug fit of his breeches.
She honed in on his expression. He fancied nibbling at them with his teeth. They were alone. Her wide eyes grew wider.
Carnally Ever After
Jilted bride Lady Louisa Bennett seeks a quiet chapel and instead finds the subject of her secret fantasies: best man Alistair de Roche, Earl of Holyfield. Knowing the wedding will be rescheduled, Alistair tries to ignore his lust for the voluptuous beauty. But temptation proves impossible to resist, and the two indulge in a single afternoon of carnal bliss. Behind him, the shuffling footsteps and grumbling whispers of the guests echoed as they exited the cavernous cathedral. Thwarted in their hopes of witnessing the wedding of the Season, the rumormongers would have to find their amusement elsewhere. No doubt in ripping the unfortunate bride to shreds with vicious speculation as to the reason her intended had failed to appear at the altar.
Nathaniel St. Clair is infamous for his wicked ways--drinking, gambling, and fornicating--but he's willing to give up all but one of his vices to initiate the lovely Miss Palmer into the joys of lust. Maybe a little dirty Latin poetry will aid his cause. There's just one catch.