Gayle Buck (27 page)

It was late when at last Lord Randol and his bride were able to depart London for his lordship’s country estate. Michele put on a white satin pelisse trimmed in swansdown over her wedding gown. With the shouted good wishes of family and friends still ringing in her ears, she leaned back against the squabs with a weary sigh. She felt her husband’s arm slide about her as he pulled her snugly against his side. His hand came up to lightly encircle her breast. Michele started up, pushing him away in blushing confusion. “Anthony!”

He laughed and firmly pulled her back to her former half-reclining position. His breath was warm against her face. “My dear love, certain conventions may be relaxed between husband and wife. Have you forgotten already the ring on your finger?”

“I think that for a moment I did.” Michele regarded the thin gold band on her finger with wonder. “It is still all a dream.”

He tipped up her face with his hand. “I assure you, it is no longer a dream.”

He lowered his head and kissed her with such tender passion that it brought tears to her eyes. “Oh, Anthony.” Michele brought up her fingers to place against the side of his face, unconsciously caressing the slash of scar that accentuated his face. She was startled when he caught her wrist and took away her hand. “Anthony, what is it?” she asked.

For reply, he gave a laugh and put her hand about his neck. His arms tightened about her and he kissed her with greater urgency. Even as Michele melted into his embrace and wholeheartedly responded, there was an uneasy question in her mind. But the answer to it would have to wait for a better moment than this, she knew.

Lord Randol finally released her. Michele shifted her position, and the hard brim of her bonnet connected with his nose. He gave an unhappy howl. She turned her head swiftly, voicing instant concern, and he yelped again. Protectively covering one eye, his lordship glared balefully at the bonnet on her head. “Do you know, as delightful as that contraption is, I shall do it injury if it is not immediately gotten rid of.”

Michele laughed and undid the ribbons to her bonnet.
“Oui,
my lord. Naturally your every wish is my command,” she said demurely, tossing aside the offending headgear.

Lord Randol flashed a sudden grin. “I am most happy to hear it,” he growled in mock severity. “For I mean to be a most exacting husband.”

“I do not doubt it in the least, my lord,” Michele said, laughing deep in her throat.

The newly wedded couple passed the journey in the making of happy plans for their future. They sat close, their hands clasped, occasionally sharing a sweet kiss, but always content in one another’s company. Michele at some point dropped into a light doze. She was drowsily aware when Lord Randol gathered her closer so that she could rest with her head on his broad shoulder.

Dusk began to fall. When the carriage stopped, Michele wakened immediately and peeked out the window. She was surprised when she did not see the manor house, as she had expected. The carriage was opened and the driver invited them to step down before a small hunting lodge set within deep woods.

As Lord Randol handed her inside the door of the hunting lodge, Michele looked around in some puzzlement and curiosity. She turned from her contemplation of the rustic comforts. “What is it you have planned for us, my lord?” she asked.

Lord Randol smiled. Walking forward, he placed his arms around her. “I have merely obeyed to the letter your wishes, dear wife. You shall not be required to share me with society or even with my extensive household. This hunting lodge is on the estate grounds, but it is a perfectly private retreat for our honeymoon.”

At the warm teasing note in his voice, Michele blushed. She felt his hands moving slowly along the curve of her spine. Over his shoulder she saw that the other carriage, containing their baggage and the valet and her maid, had arrived. She pushed urgently against his chest. “We are not entirely alone, my lord,” she said, warning him.

Lord Randol looked at her with the glimmer of a smile in his eyes. The scar down the right side of his face made him appear dangerously rakish. “We soon shall be,” he promised.

Michele discovered that the lodge was to be staffed only by Lord Randol’s valet, her own maid, and the cook. That evening she and her new husband dined in solitary splendor. Their conversation flowed easily, broken only by occasional comfortable silences. Afterward she and Lord Randol together ascended the stairs and he showed her to a bedroom. A massive four-posted canopied bed dominated the center of the room, and Michele realized that she stood in the master bedroom. She noticed that the coverlets and sheets had been turned down. The pulse began to beat more rapidly in her throat.

“I shall leave you to your privacy now. I will be next door in the dressing room,” Lord Randol said as he bowed her inside the bedroom. Michele moved past him with her eyes lowered in sudden shyness. She heard him laugh softly as he shut the door.

  Her maid was waiting to help her out of her pelisse and gown. Michele bathed leisurely in the large tub before the warm fire. Afterward the maid drew a thin lawn gown over her head, followed by a lace negligee that could be tied by satin ribbons under her full breasts. Michele laced the ribbons herself while the maid brushed her soft curls to gleaming black. When Michele’s toilette was complete, the maid quietly withdrew. Michele stood before the grate, contemplating the flames of the fire.

The door opened softly, then closed again. Michele turned, her heart beating hard. She watched as Lord Randol walked slowly toward her. His dark hair glistened with tiny droplets of water. He had put on a quilted satin dressing gown over his pantaloons and he was barefoot. He stopped within touching distance of her and they regarded each other solemnly. Each was acutely aware of how much they had wrested from the ashes of hatred and revenge to arrive at this moment.

But Michele knew that before anything else was said, there was still one more question, one more fear, to be set to rest. In a low voice she said, “I want to see your wounds.”

Lord Randol regarded her with pained hesitation. Then without a word he freed his right arm of the dressing gown. He had taken off his shirt, and the firelight played over ragged scars that twisted over his shoulder and his lean ribs. His eyes were inscrutable as he watched her face.

Michele reached out. With gentle fingers she traced the ravaging furrows. She knew that the remaining angry color would fade completely away to silver with time. It was symbolic somehow of their relationship. Their shared passion, born out of the urgency of war and tested by misunderstanding and adversity, would over the years come to shine as brightly as polished silver.

There were tears in her eyes when she looked up to meet his dreading and waiting gaze. “You do not know how very much I love you,” she whispered.

Lord Randol reached out with a shaking hand to frame her face. “My dearest sweet wife,” he said huskily. With her simple words, all his uncertainties were finally and completely laid to rest.

Michele wound her arms around his neck, a throaty laugh emphasizing the happy light in her eyes. “Kiss me as you never have before, Anthony!”

        “Gladly, my lady.” Lord Randol crushed her to him and bent his head to kiss her with all the passion demanded of him.

Copyright © 1991 by Gayle Buck

Originally published by Signet (ISBN 0451168763)

Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.