Nicole Jordan - Desire

The elderly Gypsy woman was a descendant of the curse’s original creator. For the past century her small band had been allowed to camp on the Caldwell estate when they visited the district, in hopes of making amends for Flaming Nell’s offense.

When Brynn’s first suitor died, she’d gone to Esmerelda to interpret her dark dreams. The Gypsy’s cryptic insights had proved both confusing and contradictory, but Brynn had come away with the firm conviction that she was to blame for her suitor’s death.

She couldn’t consult the old woman this time, however, for she had no idea where to find her. Her band roamed the south of England from Cornwall all the way to London.

Closing the locket, Brynn returned the piece to the jewel case. Perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps her troubling dream of Wycliff didn’t mean he would actually die, but was merely a warning that she had to take care. If so…

She didn’t want to agree to his marriage proposal, yet did she really have a choice? If she wed Wycliff, she could free Grayson of the threat of debtors’ prison. Moreover, Theo would have the education he’d always wanted, the future she’d always hoped for him. If not, he would remain under her inadequate tutelage at home, where his life would be at risk. He would be sucked into the dangerous underworld of smuggling.

Torn by her conscience, Brynn squeezed her eyes shut. For her beloved brother’s sake, she would have to concede. She would have to become Wycliff’s countess, bear him a son. Sweet heaven.

Opening her eyes, she lifted her chin with grim determination. Very well, she would wed him. She would give Lord Wycliff the heir he wanted in exchange for a marriage settlement that would put paid to her family’s debts.

Yet caution was imperative. She would have the responsibility for saving Wycliff from his lust, and from her own. Most critically, she would have to prevent any affection whatsoever from forming between them.

She could manage that, Brynn fervently hoped, drawing a deep breath. She only prayed he wouldn’t come to regret entering into such a dangerous union.

Brynn formally received Lord Wycliff in the drawing room the following afternoon. If she thought to postpone the issue of his marriage proposal, however, she was doomed to disappointment, for he came straight to the point.

“May I hope you have reconsidered my offer?”

“Yes,” she replied stiffly. “You know very well that for my family’s sake, I cannot afford to refuse.”

“Then you consent to become my wife?”

“Yes.”

“I am honored,” Wycliff said pleasantly, as if he had never doubted her answer.

Brynn felt her frustration return at his certitude. She took a steadying breath, knowing she had to attempt once more to persuade him of the danger he faced in wedding her. “Truthfully, I don’t wish to honor you, my lord. I would prefer to make you see reason. You would be much wiser to withdraw your suit before it is too late.”

“I want a son, Miss Caldwell. A legitimate heir. Unfortunately that requires I wed someone of the female persuasion. Preferably a lady.”

“But it needn’t be me. By all reports, you could have any woman you want.”

“I want you. I thought I had made that perfectly clear.” The slow half smile that shadowed his mouth was meant to disarm her, but Brynn refused to be disarmed. His attempts to charm her could be fatal.

“And I,” she retorted, “made it perfectly clear, my lord, that your lusts are irrational.”

“Since we are soon to be wed, surely we needn’t be so formal. My name is Lucian.”

She stared fixedly at him. “Lucifer, did you say?”

A hint of amusement lit his eyes. “I have been called worse.”

Brynn raised her gaze to the ceiling, summoning patience. “I wish I could make you understand the danger of the curse.”

“Lamentably, I am not the superstitious sort.”

“Perhaps not, but there is proof. If you don’t believe me, you should examine the church records. Nearly every generation of women in my family has faced a tragedy in love.”

“So you said. But I expect those tragedies can be explained by mere coincidence.”

“You dream about me, don’t you?”

The expression on Wycliff’s face suddenly turned enigmatic, and Brynn could see she had struck a nerve. “Your dreams are not mere coincidence, I assure you. I haunt men’s dreams, as did my other female ancestors.”

He glanced across the drawing room at a portrait hanging on the wall. “Is that a relation of yours?” The portrait was of an elegant woman with auburn hair and a look of sadness in her dark eyes.

“That was my mother.”

“She is very beautiful. It would not have taken a curse to make men dream about her, or even to lose their heads over her.”

Clenching her hands together, Brynn exhaled slowly. She was obviously not going to persuade Wycliff. “Very well, ignore the danger, if you will, but don’t expect me to. My first suitor died because I showed a partiality toward him, and I cannot allow that to happen again. I won’t have your death on my conscience. Ours must be a marriage of convenience, nothing more.”

Wycliff hesitated a moment. “A marriage of convenience would be perfectly acceptable on my part,” he said lightly. “I am not interested in a love match. I only want a son. But I won’t be ruled by fear, either, siren. I am not afraid of your developing a partiality for me.”

“But don’t you see-”

He held up a hand, forestalling further argument. “I consider myself warned and absolve you of any responsibility.”

His easy smile was meant to take the sting out of his dismissive words, but she wasn’t mollified. Nor was she pleased when he abruptly changed the subject.

“Now then, perhaps we should discuss our upcoming nuptials. Do you object to marrying by special license?”

It was Brynn’s turn to frown. “A special license? It is usual to be married in a church.”

“The ceremony can still be held in church. I prefer not to wait for the banns to be read. I thought Friday next a good date. Six days from now.”

“Six days!” Brynn’s mouth dropped open as she regarded him in dismay.

“That should allow me sufficient time to send to London for a special license.”

“Surely there is no reason for such haste!”

“Regrettably I cannot afford the time away from my pressing affairs.”

“An appointment with your tailor, no doubt?”

She saw his eyes narrow momentarily at her barb, but she didn’t apologize. She already resented Wycliff’s highhandedness, and a dashed, slipshod wedding was one more mark against him.

“A rushed union will only seem rash and give rise to gossip,” Brynn pointed out.

“I expect my consequence is great enough to ward off most gossip. Earls are generally accorded more license in bending the rules.”

“More than mere mortals, you mean?”

Not responding directly to her tart tone, he rose gracefully to his feet. “Does sea travel make you ill?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“I came to Cornwall by sea. My yacht is docked at Falmouth. I thought we would return to London that way, since sailing will be faster than traveling by coach, and more comfortable as well.”

Brynn felt a surge of panic rise in her at the realization that she would have to travel with Wycliff. Sweet heaven, she would soon become his wife. Their marriage was truly going forward.

“Are you agreeable to sailing?” he prodded when she sat silent.

“Either way makes no difference,” she murmured, her thoughts distracted.

“Very well.” Moving to stand before her, Wycliff reclaimed her attention by reaching down for her hand. Holding her gaze, he brought her fingers to his lips, totally unsettling her composure.

Brynn snatched her hand away, feeling the sensual tingling of her skin.

“Forgive me for leaving you so abruptly,” he murmured, “but I should see to the details of our nuptials.”

“I don’t mind in the least if you go,” she declared. “Indeed, the less I see of you the better.”

His lashes lowered slightly over his blue eyes as he studied her. “It does not bode well, sweet, for our marital bliss if we are constantly doing verbal battle.”

“That presumes marital bliss a worthy goal,” Brynn returned coolly. “I told you, I have no interest in a blissful union. A discordant marriage will be much safer for you.”

“But not nearly as pleasant,” he returned smoothly.

“I will not fall for your practiced charm, my lord Wycliff,” Brynn said stubbornly. “You cannot make me succumb.”

His beautiful mouth eased into that potent, masculine half smile she was coming to know. “I see I will have to enlist all my powers of persuasion to convince you differently. I must confess,” Wycliff added in a wicked murmur, “I look forward to the challenge.”

The following six days passed with deadly swiftness. Brynn alternated between dread of her upcoming nuptials and attempting to convince herself that she had exaggerated the possible danger.

The arrogant Lord Wycliff was constantly underfoot at Caldwell House, putting himself out to be charming. By the time the wedding grew close, he had won over both her youngest and oldest brothers.

Theo was eating out of his hand and suffering a severe case of hero worship, in part because Wycliff willingly spent time in the boy’s precious laboratory. Even Grayson seemed at ease, despite his humiliation of needing the earl’s generous settlement.

Only Brynn refused to relent. She had to maintain a strict aloofness from Wycliff. She couldn’t allow any amount of devilish charm or seductive smiles to sway her or to penetrate her defenses.