Lisa Cach - Wish List

Andrew kissed her lips and settled between her thighs. She moaned in encouragement as she felt the plum-shaped head of his sex wedge against the slick core of her body. He pushed gently, filling her… hesitating as she gasped with discomfort. "No," she said, clutching frantically at his hips, "don't stop… I need you… please, Andrew…"

He groaned and thrust forward, burying himself completely, while her flesh throbbed sweetly around him. "Sweetheart," he whispered, breathing hard, while his hips pushed forward in gentle nudges. His face was damp, suffused with perspiration and heat, his long, dark lashes spiky with moisture. Caroline was transfixed by the sight of him- he was such a beautiful man… and he was hers. He invaded her in a slow, patient rhythm, his muscles rigid, his forearms braced on either side of her head. Writhing in pleasure, she lifted her hips to take him more deeply. His mouth caught hers hungrily, his tongue searching and sliding.

"I love you," she whispered between kisses, her wet lips moving against his. "I love you, Andrew, love you…"

The words seemed to break his self-control, and his thrusts became stronger, deeper, until he buried himself inside her and shuddered violently, his passion spending, his breath stopping in the midst of an agonizing burst of pleasure.

Long, lazy minutes later, while they were still tangled together, their heartbeats returning to a regular rhythm, Caroline kissed Andrew's shoulder.

"Darling," she said drowsily, "I want to ask something of you."

"Anything." His fingers played in her hair, sifting through the silken locks.

"Whatever comes, we'll face it together. Promise to trust me, and never to keep secrets from me again."

"I will." Andrew raised himself up on one elbow, staring down at her with a crooked smile. "Now I want to ask something of you. Could we forgo the large wedding, and instead have a small ceremony on New Year's Day?"

"Of course," Caroline said promptly. "I wouldn't have wanted a large wedding in any case. But why so soon?"

He lowered his mouth to hers, his lips warm and caressing. "Because I want my new beginning to coincide with the new year. And because I need you too badly to wait for you."

She smiled and shook her head in wonder, her eyes shining as she stared up at him. "Well, I need you even more."

"Show me," he whispered, and she did just that.

Christmas Eve, 1818

Copley Grange

Near Corfe Castle, England

"Oh dear. Is that the best you have to wear, Miss Ambrose?"

"Your pardon, ma'am. I'm afraid it is," Vivian admitted, holding her hands clasped tightly in front of her and refusing to give in to the urge to smooth the skirt of her navy wool gown. It was a gown meant for a governess or a paid companion, or for what she was: a poor relation.

"Dear me, dear me, this won't do. This won't do at all!" Mrs. Twitchen, her distant cousin, fretted. "We are having Mr. John Sudley, baronet, for dinner, and his wife is the granddaughter of an earl. This won't do!"

"Perhaps, ma'am, it would be better if I did not attend?" Her stomach growled and gurgled beneath her clasped hands. She could, though, feed it just as well off a tray in her room as at the table.

"Nonsense," Captain Twitchen spoke up, sitting by the fire where the oak yule log burned. He placidly read his paper, a bull of a man around which maids and footmen flowed as they hung greenery and positioned silver candelabra newly polished. "If your gown is not suitable, wear one of Penelope's. She won't mind. Will you, girl?"

"Papa!" Penelope, aghast, turned from her inspection of a towering centerpiece of sweetmeats with sprigs of poisonous mistletoe tucked here and there in a creation of the girl's own design.

Vivian's eyes lingered longingly on the pyramid of goodies even as she felt the heat of humiliation in her cheeks. It was bad enough to be sent from one branch of the family to another, treated like a hungry beggar. It was worse yet to land upon a new doorstep only a day before Christmas, when a family had its mind on entertainments planned weeks in advance, and on private traditions. But worst of all was to feel that her presence was an annoyance and an intrusion.

"They would not fit," Penelope said. "Miss Ambrose is much larger than I am, and the colors would be all wrong. She cannot wear one of my gowns."

"I don't see why not," Captain Twitchen disagreed, folding his paper in half to better read an article of interest. "You've got more already than you need for the season, and you'll be having a bushel more made when we return to town, I warrant." He glanced up from his reading, examining his daughter and his wife's cousin. "You look near enough in size to me."

"Might there be one you could spare?" Mrs. Twitchen inquired cautiously of her child.

"Let her stay in her room! You do not wish to dine with a baronet, do you, Miss Ambrose?"

Vivian supposed she didn't much care where or with whom she dined, as long as dine she did. It had been ages since she'd last eaten.

"Penelope," her father said warningly, and gave his daughter a long look.

"But, Papa, it isn't fair! I suppose you'll want me to share all my gowns with her for the season as well, won't you?"

"Hush, child," Mrs. Twitchen said, coming and putting her hands on her daughter's shoulders and steering her out of the room, then gesturing to Vivian to follow. "You'll give him ideas."

Vivian cast a look back at Captain Twitchen and found him once more absorbed in his paper, the troubles of the females of his house best left to its females. For a brief moment, she had a feeling that the man was a sleeping dragon best not wakened.

Turning, she gave a last, loving look at the tower of treats, then followed the fiercely whispering, protesting Penelope and the shushing Mrs. Twitchen up the oaken staircase of Copley Grange and down the hall to Penelope's room.

Her prideful heart wished to refuse a gown so grudgingly lent, but her reasonable mind ordered her to follow the dictates of the captain and his wife. Those two were the ones she needed to please, not Penelope, although she suspected the Twitchen girl could make her life a misery easily enough.

It felt as if it had been a month ago, but it was only this morning that she had arrived here at the home of her first cousin, twice removed-Penelope's mother. They had never met before this day, although the arrangements for Vivian's arrival had been made some weeks past, as soon as old Ann Marbury had died.

Miss Marbury had been the spinster great-aunt of a previous set of cousins-cousins who had found Vivian useful as a companion to their wicked, dotty old relative. For nine years she had fetched and carried, read aloud, and played at cards with the beastly old woman, had endured increasing insults and pinches, and had had food thrown at her as the lady's mind deteriorated.

It had been a blessing to them both when the woman died. Vivian did not think herself hard-hearted for believing so, for as often as Miss Marbury had been cruel and suspicious, she had equally as often spent her days in tearful confusion, inconsolable, asking after those who had died long before Vivian had been born.

Farewell, unfortunate Miss Marbury! And may the angels keep you in good company!

And farewell also, horrid cousins, who kept me caged with an old woman for your convenience and never spared a thought for me or my future!

She was twenty-five years of age, and had never once attended a dance or an assembly, although her family were gentry and such should have been her right. The horrid cousins had preferred keeping her as unpaid help to spending the money to garb her and help her catch a husband and thus be free of their charity.

But now that Miss Marbury was dead and Vivian's usefulness gone with her, Vivian had been passed on to the next relatives willing to take her in and provide for her. She could only hope the Twitchens proved kinder and more generous than her other cousins.

"Penelope, do stop pouting and fussing. You will put wrinkles in your face with such expressions," Mrs. Twitchen said, and opened her daughter's clothespress to examine the possibilities therein.

"Not the green silk-that is my favorite," Penelope said, seeing her mother reaching for the garment. "It brings out my eyes, and would not suit another."

"Miss Ambrose has green eyes as well," Mrs. Twitchen mentioned.

"She cannot!" Penelope cried, then turned to examine Vivian and contradict the distressing statement. But she could not.

Vivian was equally surprised. The two girls were opposites: she herself had dark hair where Penelope had fair; she had a strong build that was underfed where Penelope had a fine build that was too plump. She would not have thought they shared any traits at all. Yet as her seventeen-year-old cousin came near, Vivian saw that indeed they had the same sea green eyes with dark gray rims.

Penelope's face grew red with anger, and she turned away with a flounce.

Mrs. Twitchen was still talking. "She is our cousin, after all, and blood will show. Dear me, we must dress her suitably. I will not be embarrassed in front of the baronet!"

"It is only Cousin John, Mama. I do not see why you need make such a fuss."

Mrs. Twitchen chose several gowns and laid them out over the bed and two upholstered chairs, then spoke to Vivian. "My husband's sister made an excellent match in a baronet. The title has since passed down to Sir John, Captain Twitchen's nephew, whom we have had the great good fortune to entertain on many an occasion, as he adores his uncle so. His wife is descended from the Earl of Surrey."