A Wedding By Dawn. Alison DeLaine

stayed with Father. “You would need a fortified tower to keep me imprisoned,” she warned. “Or a dungeon.” She would not be locked away again—not by him, or Father, or William or anyone else.

      He eased his grip, smoothing his palms down her arms an inch or two. “Perhaps I shall build a tower just for you.” In the dim light she saw his lips curve, and the hair prickled on the back of her neck.

      “With the fifty thousand pounds you get from Father? I should think most of that will go to Mr. Holliswell.”

      “Indeed it will.” His thumbs moved lightly, caressing the place where her arms pressed against her breasts, and—

      Oh. The sensation of his touch against the sides of her breasts shot through her like fire, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

      “I—” Suddenly it was a struggle to form words. “I shouldn’t think, in the long run, it would be worth it. You’ve endured weeks at sea when you obviously can’t stand even five minutes on the waves. Now you’re set to endure weeks more. You’re willing to commit an illegal act—and forcing someone into wedlock does not create a legal marriage, Mr. Warre—and even more than that, once your debt is paid you will still have me to contend with.” His thumbs ventured lower, whispering around her fullest curves. She swallowed. Hard. “You will have me for the rest of your life, which promises to be a considerable amount of time despite your advanced age. You will regret it bitterly, I assure you.”

      “No doubt I will.”

      “A sensible man would change his mind about wishing to marry me.” The ship lolled, creaked. Outside, the nighttime sea splashed against the hull. Her breasts grew heavy with an odd kind of ache.

      “Let us have one thing perfectly clear between us, Lady India. I do not wish to marry you. I need to marry you.” His caress circled up, around. A nerve pulsed in a place much lower, much more secret. “No amount of your hoydenish tricks will change that fact.”

      “Oh, yes—I’m fully aware that I’m to be a casualty of your embarrassed circumstances,” she breathed. His touch lulled her, made her want more, tempted her toward him in ways she couldn’t quite resist.

      “If you choose to see it that way,” he said.

      “That is the only way to see it.” She needed to pull away from him. Now. But the sensations he was creating held her transfixed, rooted to the floor, too willing to debate him. “At least do me the honor of explaining what, exactly, I am to be sacrificed to save.”

      “I have a vision of you trussed like a pig and stretched across an ancient pagan altar.” And oh—his thumbs brushed the tips of her breasts, shooting pure sensation straight to a point between her legs. He leaned close, lowered his voice. “We are talking of marriage, Lady India—a simple contract. In exchange for my protection, you agree not to bring me shame.”

      His words cut through her pleasure-fogged mind even as her breasts screamed with need. She broke from his grasp. “That is your idea of marriage?” Her voice felt thick, clogged with the pleasure he’d stoked.

      “I rather think it’s most people’s idea.”

      It wasn’t hers. Not that she had any idea of marriage—quite the opposite. Dread coursed in, lapping icily at the desire burning across her skin. “I need protection from you,” she managed. “And as for my bringing you shame...perhaps you should have considered that before you agreed to marry a young lady as well acquainted with the ways of the world as I am. I’ll not return easily to a life of drawing rooms and embroidering cushions.”

      She’d told Father as much in London, but he hadn’t cared. A daughter married was a daughter tamed...or so he thought. And so Nicholas Warre thought, as well.

      “It’s all too clear you need protection from yourself,” Mr. Warre said calmly. “Little wonder your father was reduced to such desperate measures. But know this...” His voice turned flinty. “You will not shame Taggart, Lady India. I’ll not allow it.”

      You’ll not bring shame on this family, India.... The echo of her childhood pooled coldly in her belly. She would not endure that again—she couldn’t. “From the sound of things, it’s too late for that,” she scoffed. Anger flashed dangerously in his eyes. “If you insist on forcing our marriage, I daresay I shall only be adding to Taggart’s shame. What will happen if you cannot pay your debt to Mr. Holliswell?” she taunted.

      “Oh, it will be paid,” he said flatly. “It’s merely a question of whether he’ll be paid with the dowry I receive from our marriage or with Taggart itself—and Holliswell will never seat his greasy, self-satisfied arse at the head of Taggart’s table.” He pointed at her. “No matter if I’ve got to drag your pretty behind in front of a priest and have an altar boy move your jaw up and down while reciting the vows in falsetto. This wedding will take place.”

      “And you accuse me of shameful behavior.”

      He made a dismissive gesture. “For God’s sake—you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

      “Gain?”

      “For the price of a few meaningless vows, you’ll have Taggart’s name and you’ll live as any other young woman would be content to live, and in ten years at least some of Society will have forgotten your transgressions. It’s more of a chance at redemption than most ever receive.”

      “I don’t need redemption.” She made herself laugh. “But you will, sir, if you do not quickly repent the grave mistake you’re making.”

      “Oh, I don’t know that I would call it a mistake,” he said. His shadowed eyes dropped to her breasts, lingering. Her breath hitched, and her sensitive peaks came alive with fresh, unwanted desire. “Especially if I am to find such pleasure at my fingertips,” he added huskily.

      A heady yearning curled inside her. She never should have allowed him to touch her. But it was too late to take it back now, and it was too clear that he may not have wished to marry her—but he did want something else.

      She forced her feet to move and went to the door. “Good night, Mr. Warre.” The ship banked with a large wave, and she turned, smiling back at him. “Do sleep well.”

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      INDIA LET HERSELF into the passageway and crept back to her cabin, trying to ignore that her body hummed with the lingering effects of Nicholas Warre’s touch.

      Gain. He thought she would gain from marrying him, when he’d made his expectations perfectly clear.

      Oh, God. She stopped, suddenly, in the middle of the passageway. Leaned against the wall outside her cabin, taking a moment to compose herself, aware of her breasts in a way she had never been before—but even more aware of the things he’d said, and the fact that she could never, ever allow this marriage to take place.

      She knew all about the things a man would do to avoid being shamed.

      Your hoydenish tricks...that was how he saw her. He did not see her accomplishments, her skills. He was already ashamed to take her to wife—just as Father had been ashamed when she’d returned to London and locked her up in her apartments.

      Only imagine how Nicholas Warre would treat her if he discovered her biggest failing. Except she didn’t need to imagine, because she had an entire childhood of memories to draw on.

      You may redeem yourself, India—and have your dinner, as well—the moment you decide to apply your efforts and read me these stanzas from Pope. It hadn’t mattered to Father that applying her efforts had never done any good.

      It wouldn’t matter to Nicholas Warre, either. When he learned she couldn’t read, he would try to force her just as Father had, and withhold every pleasure from her, and it wouldn’t work because no matter how hard she tried it never worked. And he would prevent her shaming Taggart by keeping