A Wicked Lord at the Wedding Read Free Page A

she needed help unloading her father’s supplies or help sitting in an ambulance wagon, Sebastien found a way to assist. When his company marched to another village, he lingered to make sure she hadn’t fallen too far behind. The French troops had assaulted several women on the campaign. Sebastien vowed no one would lay a hand on Eleanor.
    They met a few times at the river, too, right before dawn. She carried a passport that enabled her to leave camp. He was an officer. He helped her carry buckets of water back and forth to her father’s shelter. Often they wouldn’t see each other for days, although Sebastien managed to keep an eye on her.
    “I think you should stay in England after we get married,” he once said, when she was leaning back against an olive tree.
    He was kissing her face. His knuckles drifted from her jaw, across her collarbone, to the inside of her cloak. The next thing she knew he had thrown his coat on the ground and had drawn her down underneath him. She was exhilarated, shaking, about to fall and no force in the world could save her.
    “You have some gall,” she breathed between kisses that beguiled her like black magic. “You never even proposed to me.”
    “I know your answer.” His hands stoked theinstincts she kept trying to subdue. She wasn’t in control. She wasn’t sure how far she would go. But when his fingers caressed the tender hollow between her thighs, she was his, wracked with longing, her instincts trampling everything she had been taught about virtue and men no one could resist.
    He resisted her. “Not here,” he whispered roughly. “Not like this.”
    Years later they would compete to prove which of them was the stronger one. But on that day, Sebastien won their first battle of wills by proving that her body wasn’t all he wanted. He pulled her to her feet and back into his arms. Her legs shook while he stood as solid as the tree behind her.
    “Listen to me.” His voice barely penetrated her thoughts. “I’m not going to be alone with you until after we are married because the next time I won’t be able to stop.”
    She pressed her face to his chest. If she listened hard, she could hear his heart beating against her cheek. Wild. Strong. Stronger than she wanted to be.
    He drew her cloak around her shoulders—to shield her from his desire or the morning damp, she wasn’t sure. “What if I make you pregnant and get killed before we’re married? I don’t want you to be a campaign wife, either.”
    He was right.
    She was practical. Her father had raised her in a world that was not always kind. And yet she dreamed about Sebastien every night after their encounter at the river. She lost herself in hot, misty visionsof what they would have done had he not been stronger than her.
    They tried to avoid each other. It didn’t work.
    He invented excuses to talk to her. No soldier had ever suffered as many inexplicable medical ailments as Sebastien did that summer. He made medical history. The pungent scent of witch hazel might have been the most prized aphrodisiac. When Eleanor dabbed it on his face, he had to clench his fists and hope to God she couldn’t tell his whole body had turned to stone. But, hell, the woman could have slapped pond slime on him for all he cared.
    She listened for his name to be called after every battle, sometimes so immobilized by dread she could not breathe. She lived for the moments they met, at a memorial service, a dinner, or during the rare moments when General Wellesley appeared in camp to rally spirits.
    Desire grew glance by glance. So did trust. One meaningful stare, a few words, one smile at a time, Sebastien Boscastle and Eleanor Prescott fell deeper and deeper in love until neither of them bothered to deny it.
    Soon, no other officer in the company dared to flirt with her. One dark look from Captain Lord Boscastle kept his competitors at bay.
    He pursued her with the same unfaltering determination that had earned him his early