The first banns would be read tomorrow afternoon, and the unhappy marriage would take place a fortnight hence… unless Mr. Alsop was so eager to gain possession of the promised land that he procured a special license and married Gladys within days.
Whichever suitor was first to present himself to her father would be the one Gladys ended up married to. It couldn’t be Mr. Alsop. Not now and not ever. She wanted this. She needed Reuben Medford. But how could she convince the man every unmarried young lady lusted for to choose her?
Wait! A wave of relieved laughter bubbled up inside her and she had to tamp it down. For goodness sake, Gladys was tying herself into knots over nothing! She wouldn’t have to convince Mr. Medford to make an explicit offer for her. This was his offer.
After all, this was a matchmaking ball at a matchmaking festival. Mother had explained dozens of times that the only rakes present were of the reformed variety. Every unwed gentleman in this assembly room was not only perfectly marriageable but actively on the hunt for a bride—Mr. Medford included. He’d said out loud and to her face that he’d been dying to make her his all night. What clearer sign did Gladys need that Mr. Medford had chosen her as his bride?
Gladys couldn’t begin to guess what had made her stand out from all the rest, but she supposed that was the power of love at first sight. Logic didn’t enter into the matter. When in the presence of one’s true match, the heart knew what it wanted.
“I could lose myself in your kisses forever, Lady Midnight,” Mr. Medford murmured against Gladys’s lips.
Doubt crept along her skin. She pulled away from his kiss. “I’m Gladys Bell, not Lady Midnight.”
He cradled her face and kissed her again. “Mm, yes, I know. Obviously Lady Midnight isn’t your real name. It’s a private jest between lovers, isn’t it? At least, it will be, once I get you out of this gown…”
He knew her name. Her head swam with relief and euphoria. He hadn’t confused her with someone else. Lady Midnight was only a nickname. He was aware she was Gladys Bell, and the knowledge didn’t repulse him. The opposite! He wanted to make love to her. No one had ever wanted to make love to her before! This boded very well for a happy marriage. No reluctant begetting of heirs, here. Mr. Medford would visit her bedchamber frequently and lustily.
If part of his love play involved a silly pet name, well… Who was Gladys to complain? She’d actually never had a pet name before. Well, other than her sister calling her “Gladdie the Laddie” the time a nine-year-old Gladys had strutted around in their father’s supper coat, its black tails dragging along the parquet behind her. “Lady Midnight” was ever so much nicer than that.
“How about a special midnight kiss?” Mr. Medford murmured against Gladys’s throat.
“You’ve been kissing me,” she said in confusion.
He lifted his eyes to hers. “I’ll never have enough of your kisses.”
“Then kiss me again, Lord Midnight,” she said boldly and breathlessly.
“That’s Lord of the Stars to you,” he teased, then claimed her mouth anew. “I’ve been eager for you all night. I feel as though I’ve been waiting for you all of my life.”
Well, if that wasn’t the most romantic proposal Gladys had ever heard! “Well, now that you’ve found me, we can spend the rest of our—”
Mr. Medford’s kiss swallowed up the last of her coherent thoughts.
By the time her brain managed to string a few syllables together, their frantic embraces had become delightfully—if worryingly—torrid. Gladys’s painstakingly curled hair was now hopelessly disheveled. Mr. Medford’s hand was now… Good God… on her breast?
There was no hiding the state of her nipples from him now. They were poking out in the night air, taking turns being toyed with between his fingers.
The sensation awakened all sorts of things she was pretty certain ought to stay dormant at a public venue, which was neither the time nor the place to act on this avalanche of new feelings.
Mr. Medford could not possibly intend to consummate their betrothal out here in the garden… Could he? In any case, Gladys could not possibly do so, not until the betrothal contract was signed.
Then again, she supposed that by ton standards, she was already well and compromised. Had been so, in fact, ever since they shared their first kiss. Progressing from kissing to touching guaranteed a wedding was imminent. Perhaps Mr. Medford was the one with a special license in his pocket, just waiting for the first chance to tug Gladys down the aisle.
Her unfathomable success tonight made her head spin. She’d known the week-long fête was a matchmaking festival, and she’d heard that every bachelor present was on the hunt for a bride, but she hadn’t understood what those circumstances meant for her until tonight. She’d barely been here an hour, and had experienced one first after another. Her first dance, her first proposal, her first kiss, her second suitor…
If this were London, she might have feared she’d found herself in the arms of a rake. But no rakehell, London-bred or otherwise, would have picked Gladys above all the rest or even recognized her name. Mr. Medford didn’t only know exactly who she was, he had been seeking her all along. His kisses were nothing short of transcendent. It wouldn’t feel this good if it weren’t true love on both sides.
His accelerated time frame might not be the traditional courtship Gladys had always dreamt of, but it was certainly expedient. Why drag out the suspense for the entire week of the festival, if they were ready to pick permanent partners here and now?
“Lady Midnight…” His kisses trailed down her neck toward her exposed bosom. “Why don’t you wrap those gorgeous legs about my hips whilst I—”
“Gladys!” called a voice from the other side of the garden. Kitty’s voice. Yelling for her sister from the open doorway of the ballroom. “Gladys, are you out here?”
Oh, she was definitely out here.
“Gladys?” Mother’s voice joined Kitty’s. “Gladys Maria Bell!”
Her parents were going to be thrilled to learn their eldest daughter’s future husband was in line to a title. Gladys’s sister would positively goggle to discover Gladdie the Laddie had hooked the finest catch in all of England.
