An Old Fashioned Romance

From The Whispered Kiss by Marcia Lynn McClure

Coquette sensed the Lord of Roanan was near.  She heard his boot steps as he moved to her, yet she could not turn—she could not face the man who was now her husband.  She grimaced, her determination wavering as she felt him take her hair in his hand, lift it to his face and inhale its fragrance.  Tears welled in her eyes, and she thought of all the young women in the world who had known her fate—given to a man she knew nothing of and expected to endure lifelong.

…She startled when warm fingers touched her neck from behind, slowly sliding down over her shoulder to her arm.  Without turning her head, she yet ventured to glance at the hand resting on her arm.  It was large, sun-bronzed, with the look of strength and power.  She frowned, curious as to the rather rough condition of the hand and fingers—clean though they were, the remains of a small wound on the back of the hand near the palm surprised her with its presence.  Likewise, these fingernails, although unsoiled and trimmed, were quite lacking in pampered care.

Coquette held her breath as she felt the Lord of Roanan’s free hand brush her hair to one side.  She winced, trying not to cry out as she felt moist lips press against the flesh of her shoulder.  She could not endure!  She could not!

“I am the Lord of Roanan,” the man mumbled, his lips lingering near her shoulder.

“I…I am Coquette de Bellamont,” Coquetted stammered—breathless, terrified, close to panic.

“You are now the Lady of Roanan,” the man said, and she bit her lip as she felt a strong hand slip beneath her hair at the back of her neck.  “And, you will respectfully turn to face me…”

…Swallowing hard and casting her gaze to the floor, Coquette slowly turned to face the dark Lord.  Her eyes first caught sight of his boots.  Large they were and she looked from the rather dusty black tips of them to the red leather cuff just below his knee.  His breeches were black as well, and she shuddered at the pure size and apparent power of his long legs.  Slowly, for her courage was shallow, she began to raise her head, studying the broad expanse of his torso and shoulders, the length of his arms covered in the billowy white of a gentleman’s shirt.  He’d stripped himself of his coat and vest, and released the upper half of the buttons of his shirt.  The solid contours and muscular definition of his exposed chest and flesh further unsettled Coquette, and she tightened the lacing of her fingers at her waist.

By the time her gaze traveled the length of him to his throat, her courage abandoned her.  She could not look to his face.  Indeed, he was a beast of a man from the neck down—tall, muscular, profound in his physical perfection.  Still, she paused before witnessing his face.  Such a form could only belong to the handsomest of men, and yet, it mattered not to Coquette—handsome or vile in appearance, her body and soul were abhorrent to know him.

… “Look then.  Look to he who now owns you as wife.”

She raised her gaze to see, for the first time, the face and features of the Lord of Roanan.

Her breathing stopped, her breath dying as she gazed on his perfect face, the intense amber of his eyes, narrow and straight nose, square jaw, strong chin.  The brown of his hair, windblown, gave him the look of some wild predator.  Still she did not breathe.

“Draw breath, girl, before you expire,” he demanded.

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