His at Night (46 page)

He was full of gratitude toward her. But it was yet another sign of how secretive he’d become that
she
had no idea of the changes she’d wrought in him.

“It’s wonderful that I could be of some help,” she said, sounding both pleased and embarrassed. “But I must protest that I don’t deserve nearly the credit you give me. You saw it: Just now I had another nightmare. I’m nobody’s shining example.”

“You are mine,” he said firmly. “Besides, I came equipped for the nightmare, didn’t I?”

“I was just going to ask! How did you happen to know one of my favorite books by heart?”

“I asked your mother if she remembered any books on Capri you liked. She quoted me a passage, but she couldn’t recall the name of the book, only that you loved it. So I set to work.”

He had seven bookshops deliver to his hotel every single travel guide they stocked that so much as mentioned Italy. After he and Mrs. Douglas returned from the Savoy Theatre, he stayed up most of the night perusing any and all pages that dealt with Capri, until he came upon the passage Mrs. Douglas had recited.

“I found the book with the intention of reading it to you until you fell back asleep, should you have your nightmare again. But then I realized that reading would require a light. Better just to commit it to memory, which was what I did on the train going back to Devon.”

“That is—that is incredibly sweet.” The bed creaked. She pushed a little off the mattress and kissed him on the lips.

“I have only two more paragraphs of text left in me. But had I known that travelogues had such erotic properties, I’d have memorized the whole thing.”

She chortled. “Oh, you would, would you?”

He combed his fingers through her cool hair. “If you want me to, I would—even if I’m banned from ever seducing you with Capri travelogues again.”

She leaned her cheek against his, a simple gesture
that almost caused his gratitude to spiral out of control.

“Would this be a good time to apologize to you for my having been a complete ass when we were in the castle ruins?”

His conduct that day had chafed his conscience ever since.

She pulled back slightly, as if to look him in the eyes. “Only if it’s also a good time to apologize to you for having forced you to marry me.”

“So I’m forgiven?”

“Of course,” she said.

He used to believe that to forgive was to allow an offense to go unpunished. Now he finally understood that forgiveness was not about the past, but the future.

“And me, am I forgiven?” she asked, a note of anxiety in her voice.

“Yes, you are,” he said, and meant every word.

She exhaled unsteadily, a sound of relief. “Now we can go on.”

Now they could look forward to the future.

W
hat does
‘Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo’
mean?” Elissande asked, as they hiked up the steep path that led to the top of the Hangman Cliffs.

The day had dawned sunny and beautiful. And the coast had been a revelation of untamed headland and feral sea. She had been instantly captivated.

After breakfast, they’d hired a coach and driven to Combe Martin, the closest village to the Hangman Cliffs, and from there they had set out on foot, tramping across the green moors on a path dotted with surprisingly white goats.

Her husband had been taking a sip from the canteen of water he carried. At her question, he choked, as badly as his brother had the night he’d brought up the phrase as the family motto for the Edgertons of Abingdon. Elissande had to forcefully smack his back to help him clear his airway.

He panted and laughed at the same time. “My God, you still remember it?”

“Of course I do. It is not anyone’s family motto, is it?”

“No!” He doubled over with mirth. “Or at least, I hope not.”

She adored his laughter. All the more so for the long, lonely path he’d trudged to reach this day, when they could enjoy the coast of the West Country arm in arm. She picked up his hat, which had fallen onto the trail.

“What is it then?” She smoothed his hair with her fingers and put the hat back on his head, adjusting the angle for it to sit properly—she was largely unfamiliar with a man’s toilette.

“It’s from a poem by Catullus, probably the rudest poem you could ever hope to read in your life,” he said, playfully lowering his voice, “so rude I don’t think a translation has ever been published in English.”

“Oh?” This she must hear. “Do tell.”

“A nice young lady like you shouldn’t ask,” he teased.

“A nice young gentleman like you shouldn’t withhold—or the nice young lady might be driven to ask your brother.”

“Ooh, blackmail. I like it. Well, if you
must
know, the first verb refers to buggery.” He burst out laughing again, this time at her expression. “Don’t look so shocked; I already told you it’s rude.”

“Clearly I’ve led a sheltered life. My idea of rudeness is calling someone ugly and stupid. Is there a second verb?”

“Indeed there is. It refers also to a sexual act, one of somewhat lesser infamy—but would still have roomfuls of ladies braying for their smelling salts if it were ever mentioned.”

She gasped. “I think I know what it is.”

He drew back in astonishment. “No, you most certainly do not know what it is.”

“Yes, I do,” she said smugly. “The night you were drunk as a skunk, you mentioned withdrawal. And you said that if you were in a really terrible mood, you’d make me swallow your seed.”

His jaw dropped. “I take it back. You do know what it is then. My God, what all did I say to you that night?”

A young shepherd appeared on the path, walking toward them with his flock.

“On second thought,” said her husband, “let’s wait until tonight. I have a presentiment that speaking of my precise words and actions that night might lead us to activities that would get us arrested.”

She giggled. He gave her a mock glare. “Be serious. It’s
your
reputation I’m worried about.”

She cleared her throat and set her face. “Was this the sort of Latin verse you were looking for to put yourself to sleep when you were at Highgate Court?”

“Indeed not. This is the sort of Latin verse I read when I want to choke on my water, obviously.”

She chortled. “Speaking of looking for Latin verse, what
were
you doing in my uncle’s study that night?”

His expression turned sheepish. “It was right next door to the green parlor. I was hoping to come in on
you after Lady Avery had caught you all by yourself. I thought it would be amusing.” He sighed. “See, my own vengefulness led to my downfall.”

She patted him on the arm. “You are still a good man.”

“You think so?”

He had probably meant for the question to be nonchalant, but it had emerged laden with both hope and doubt.

She understood him. She’d never thought of herself as particularly good—how could anyone good be so adept at lies and deceit? But she did not doubt
his
goodness: She needed only to look at the way he took care of her mother.

And he gave himself too little credit. To recognize the change he needed required insight; and to confess before Freddie, after all these years, took true courage.

“I know so,” she said.

He was silent. The path turned. He held out his hand to help her over a rock that jutted from the ground. She gazed upon him, her strapping, handsome man, golden and pensive, and felt a ferocious protectiveness.

They walked on for almost five minutes before he touched her shoulder and said, “Thank you. I’ll live up to it.”

She had no doubt he would.

The top of the Hangman Cliffs gave onto a stunning vista: miles of verdant headlands towering hundreds
of feet high, a twilight-blue sea upon which the sun glimmered like silver netting, and in the distance a pleasure boat, all its sails unfurled, gliding across the water with the leisurely grace of a swan.

She could not take her eyes off the views. And he could not take his eyes off her. Her face was flushed, her breath still slightly uneven from the strenuous climb, and her smile, ah, her smile—he would have crawled across broken glass for it.

“It’s even more beautiful when the heathers are in bloom,” he said. “Then the slopes turn a glorious purple.”

“We must come back then, when the heathers are in bloom.”

Her skirts whipped in the fresh, briny breeze. A particularly lively gale almost blew her hat away. She laughed as she clamped onto the crown of the hat with one hand. Her other hand slipped into his, her grip warm and light.

His heart lurched: It was her. It was always her for whom he’d waited all these years.

“I used to have this idea of a perfect companion,” he said.

She glanced at him, a mischievous look in her eyes. “I’m going to bet she is nothing like me.”

“Actually, she was nothing like
me
. I made her my opposite in every way. She was simple, content, with no deceit to her—no darkness, and no history.”

She turned more fully toward him, her expression now a solemn curiosity. “Was she your Capri?”

Of course she would understand, but his heart still
swelled with gratitude. “Yes, she was my Capri. But whereas your Capri was an aspiration, mine had become a crutch. Even after I’d fallen in love with you, I tried to cling to her. In fact, I opted to drive you away and lose any possibility of a future together rather than acknowledge that perhaps my Capri had a limited life span and the end of its time had come.”

Her hand squeezed his. “Are you sure you are ready to let it go?”

“Yes.” At long last. “And I’m going to let go of far more than that. I think it’s time I had another ‘accident.’”

Her jaw dropped. “You are resigning your service as an agent to the Crown?”

“I’d always wanted a seat in the House of Commons until the day came when I had to take my father’s in the Upper House instead. And then I learned the truth about my mother’s death. My own plans became irrelevant. Instead, I devoted myself to a vengeance that could never be mine. But with another ‘accident,’ I could claim that I’d recovered and go from there.”

She only gazed at him, wide-eyed.

Doubt suddenly assailed him. “Do you think it’s too extravagant an idea, to take my seat in the House of Lords?”

“No, absolutely not. I’m only amazed at all the changes that have been and will be taking place in your life.” She touched a hand to his brow. “Will you be happy in the House of Lords?”

“No. It’s full of self-important reactionaries: I was ever so incensed when they vetoed the Irish Home
Rule bill in ’ninety-three.” He smiled at her. “But somebody should be there to tell them that they are nothing but a ragtag collection of self-important reactionaries.”

“In that case, I shall act appropriately mystified in the beginning, as my husband abruptly metamorphoses from the idiot I much esteemed to a man whose intellect and learning are quite beyond my grasp. And then, under his patient, obliging tutelage, I shall discover hidden cerebral prowess of my own.” She nodded. “Yes, I think it’s doable. When is this new ‘accident’ of yours to take place?”

He was torn between mirth and admiration at how she planned to handle the demands of this, her last great role.

“The timing and the precise tactics we can decide later. There is something much more urgent I must take care of first. Now, in fact.”

She tilted her face up. “What is it?”

The bruises were still faintly visible, but they did not distract from her beauty: He only loved her more for her valor.

“As much as I subsequently tried to deny it, I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. Lady Vere, would you do me the immense honor of remaining married to me?”

She gasped softly, then giggled. “Is this a
proposal
, Lord Vere?”

“It is.” He hadn’t expected it, but his heart was beating fast. “Please say yes.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I would. Nothing would make me happier.”

He took off her hat, then his own, and kissed her, this one woman he loved the most, in his favorite place in the entire world.