The Untamed Bride

walked to the corner of the salon where four mirrored panels were arranged to allow ladies to view the gowns they wore from several different angles.

Deliah turned this way and that, her gaze following the lines of the gown, from the tightly fitting bodice to the trim raised waist, to where the skirts caressed her hips before falling to sway about her very long legs.

Del’s gaze followed hers. Lingered. Appreciatively. “Very nice.”

She stiffened, glanced at him in the mirror.

Then she turned to the hovering modiste, nodded curtly. “Yes-I’ll take this one.”

Without again glancing his way, she stalked past him and back behind the curtain.

The parade that followed left Del questioning his sanity in remaining to view it and simultaneously pleased he had. While the more rational, logical side of his brain continued to insist she was nothing more than a female his aunts had thrown in his path, someone to be smiled at courteously and deposited safely back with her parents in Humberside, another, more primal side was far more viscerally interested in her on a personal, not to say primitive, level.

Of course, he couldn’t resist giving her his opinion on her appearance in the various gowns. Couldn’t resist giving himself the excuse to run his eyes down her evocatively feminine length, from her nicely rounded shoulders, bared by the evening gowns, over the womanly swells of her breasts, the subtle curve of her neat waist, her sweetly rounded hips, and the fascinating length of her long legs.

The sum of her made his mouth water.

He would have suffered in relative silence had she not reacted. Had she not, after the first faint blush rose in her cheeks, decided to torment him. After modeling a carriage gown, to which, admittedly with his gaze fixed on the tightly fitting frogged bodice, he’d given his verbal stamp of approval, she’d shot him a look, whisked back behind the curtain, a definite tinge in her cheeks, then minutes later swanned back out in a gown of flame-colored silk and a temper equally fiery.

The fabric clung to every curve like paint. Man of the world that he was, that wouldn’t, normally, have affected him all that much.

She, in that gown, in a mood part anger, part reaction, and all challenge, did. She swished, she swanned, she glided and pirouetted. Played to the mirror, to her gaze, and his. Then, over her shoulder, she glanced at him and brazenly asked his opinion.

He met her gaze and equally brazenly gave it. “Revealing. You should definitely indulge in that one.” As he had no wish to shock Madame, he didn’t specify exactly what he was recommending she indulge in, yet Deliah comprehended his meaning.

Her eyes glittered, then she looked back at the mirror, shamelessly twirled some more. Then she nodded decisively. “Yes, I believe I will.”

With that, she swayed back behind the curtain.

Deliah let the silk gown slide down her body, felt its caress like a lover’s hands, and knew responding to his blatant interest was madness.

A madness she hadn’t felt for years. No-a madness beyond anything she’d felt before.

There was…something in the way he looked at her. Something that made her feel heated. Wicked. Wanton.

She’d known from her first sight of him that he was dangerous. That he could connect, draw forth, lure her-the real her-from the cavern she’d hidden in for seven long years. She hadn’t told him why she’d gone-been sent-to Jamaica, that an old scandal had been to blame. That she’d been seduced, then betrayed, by a viscount’s son on a repairing lease. That, innocent and wantonly passionate, she’d given her heart as well as her body, only later to learn that for him it had all been merely a challenge, a way to fill the time.

Her parents had railed, her father especially, church elder that he was. She’d had it drummed into her, in so many ways, that her inner self was bad. That she had to hide it, subdue it, suppress it at all costs.

She’d been packed off to Jamaica, and she’d never felt that inner self stir again. She’d thought it had died-of shame, of rejection.

Of imprisonment without succor.

Thanks to Colonel Derek Delborough, she now knew otherwise.

But while part of her rejoiced, the wiser, more cautious side of her foretold disaster.

Yet she was sick, so sick, of being only half alive.

So she let Miss Jennings-Madame Latour as she’d styled herself-slip the next gown, the gold satin evening gown, over her head. It fell with a soft swoosh over her limbs. She surveyed the effect in the mirror, as Miss Jennings, with pins between her lips, nipped and tucked.

The particular shade of gold made her skin glow like the costliest pearl, made her hair appear more intensely garnet-red.

She looked…like a king’s ransom.

Lips curving, she turned and glided out to show Del, who sat like a pasha relaxed on the sofa, his eyes-richly dark and intent-locking on her, tracing her curves as, with flagrant disregard of his regard, she swept to the mirror. And performed.

Like a houri. A very English houri, yet a houri nonetheless. Del was finding it increasingly hard to catch his breath, to breathe freely. With effort he maintained his pose, his facade of relaxed ease, even though every muscle in his body had long ago tightened with sheer lust.

He was almost certain she knew.

Then she swirled, hips circling beneath the shimmering satin, and let her gaze meet his in the mirror, sending a shot of heat straight to his groin…oh, yes, she knew. She definitely knew.

Teeth gritted behind his easy smile, he waited until she slipped behind the curtain to stand, to force himself to walk to the window-to ease his mounting discomfort and try to get his mind back on the game he was supposed to be playing.

Away from the game he’d rather be playing with her.

Standing to one side of the window, he looked down on the street. The two men in brown coats and the man in the shabby bowler had given up waiting separately. They were standing, pretending to be chatting, on the pavement opposite Madame Latour’s door. The occasional, surreptitious glances they cast toward the door foretold their plan.

Perfect.

Looking up the street, he saw a lounging figure chatting-with much greater success at projecting nonchalance-with two street sweepers. Tony.

And on the other side, the man leaning against the wall just this side of Bond Street and talking to two lads was Gervase.

Everyone was in place. It was time for action.

He turned from the window as Deliah swept back in.

In a pale green gown that nearly stopped his heart.

Deliah saw him by the window-instantly her need to tweak his nose fell away. “What is it?”

He held her gaze, then, as Miss Jennings followed her through the curtain, reached into his pocket. Pulling out his fob watch, he glanced at it, then tucked it back. “Time’s getting on.”

For one long instant, he let his eyes-his hot gaze-slide, long and lingeringly, over her body, over the pale green silk that clung lovingly to her form…then he raised his eyes, captured hers. Nodded. “That’s my favorite. I’m going to go down and hail a hackney while you change.”

With that, he strode for the door.

She started after him. “Wait-” But he was already gone.

Beneath her breath, she swore, then turned to Miss Jennings. “Quickly. I have to get out of this and into my clothes.”

Miss Jennings fluttered after her as she strode back behind the curtain. “If you’re late, I can pack them and send them on-”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes to make my selection. Here, hurry-help me out of this!”

Miss Jennings jumped, then responded to the voice of one used to giving orders. With her help, Deliah climbed out of the green silk, flung it aside and scrabbled through the welter of gowns for her own. “Damn him! I should