My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) (9 page)

Bile rose in her throat. Her heart broke as she gazed into Simon’s eyes, fearing what this loss would cost her. She wouldn’t survive losing him a second time. Did he still love her? Could he?

She blinked back tears. “Holt did this.”

His mouth turned downward. He squeezed her hand and nodded coolly. “Yes.”

Simon looked as if he’d been to battle. His cravat hung low and crooked. Raw skin indicated he’d tugged the fabric one too many times around his neck. His cheeks were drawn above his stubbly jaw and a tear glistened at the corner of his charged green eyes as he stared down at her.

An ache unlike any she’d ever known before gripped her. “I am s-sorry,” she cried, her heart breaking for them both.

“I almost died with you.”

She reached out her left hand and stroked his cheek, wiping the moisture away. “Simon.”

“You promised me, Gillian.”

She’d promised him many things throughout the years. Often times whatever he wanted to hear. And she would say or do anything now not to lose him. That’s what scared her the most.

Her voice quivered, “Mayhap once or twice.”

“I believe I made it clear you were never to put yourself in harm’s way — if you could help it.”

“I couldn’t, my lord.” She laughed, the irony biting into her brain. Her actions had taken away the one thing they had hoped to someday share — a family. And yet, given another chance, Gillian knew she would do it all again to save Simon’s life.

He didn’t share her laughter.

She grasped Simon’s hand and placed it over her heart, feeling a familiar ache in her breast. “
You
are my life.”

He didn’t speak but watched her silently for unhurried moments. Then he did something she didn’t expect. Without removing his hand, he shifted to lay on the bed next to her, propping his head up on the adjoining pillow with his other hand.

“You are highly improper, my lord.”

His lip curled up at the corner. “
This
is where I belong,” he said, indicating her heart. “I am only an extension of your heartbeat.”

A tear escaped the corner of her eye. She had struggled long and hard to stake a claim on this gentle rogue. Had it all been for naught?

She removed her hand from his and placed it over Simon’s heart. “Two heartbeats, one soul. You are my life, Simon. Wherever you go, I will follow.”

He closed the distance between them, leaning his forehead against hers. Whenever he was near, she felt complete. But the power of this moment proved greater than ever before. Simon was alive, safe. She had succeeded. That alone made everything she’d sacrificed worthwhile. Didn’t it?

The dam burst.

He held her while she cried. When finally she regained control, he said, “No more running.” His command spoken like a caress, flowed over her with gentle firmness.

“No more running.”

He tilted his head back. His eyes smoldered, branding her with their intensity. “No more guilt.”

It would be sheer lunacy to agree. They were both plagued with guilt. He’d married another woman based on his father’s desire for an heir. She’d married Lucien at Simon’s behest. Her desperation to save his life, had taken the one thing certain to drive a wedge between them — the possibility of a child, their child. Could they survive it? Consumed with doubt, she shook her head again.

He wasn’t deterred. He whispered, “Will you marry me?”

Gillian’s breath caught in her throat. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. She’d waited a lifetime to hear Simon say those four words. But she couldn’t forget what had brought him to this moment. She angled her head to peer at him through her lashes, fearing the undeniable feeling of rightness arrowing through her. She loved Simon. His father, her past, their enemies, even Holt could not breach that bond. But frailty could. Hadn’t she seen what Edwina’s downfall had done to him?

“You convict me with your silence,” he said, a subtle hitch of insecurity in his voice.

Didn’t he know what he was doing to her? Didn’t he know a declaration of love held no sway in a society where restrictions forced lovers to live separate lives?

“Lord Nelson’s body hasn’t returned to England, and there are so many preparations to make,” she said trying to drum up excuses. She fought for control, for every word in her eagerness not to hurt him. “His burial will be at the forefront of everyone’s thoughts. And we’ve yet to celebrate Christmas.”

“Are you refusing my offer or delaying the inevitability? I will have you.”

Her heart beat like an erratic thunderstorm. She had to make him understand, had to be the voice of reason. Her inability to give him a child would only drive a wedge between them.

She tried to slow the quake overtaking her body. “In the public’s eye, a marriage between us will only bring about scandal.”

“I care nothing about the
ton
.”

“Your brother then?”

“What about Byron?”

“He was willing to marry Constance off to a brutal man to save his reputation. He will not allow a marriage between us until your season of mourning is at an end. And I will not come between the two of you.”

“Is he your only objection? It isn’t because I ordered Garrick to Spain and now you regret saving my life?”

Tears filled her eyes. His impassioned speech proved he was acting on impulse. Why wouldn’t he listen to reason?

“Have you fallen out of love with me so quickly?” he asked.

She inhaled deeply, which only succeeded in making her more aware of his masculine scent. “I will never stop loving you as long as I live, Simon. You are the air I breathe, my everything.”

His heartbeat raced beneath her touch. “Then why wait?”

“You know why.”

“No. I do not,” he said, his tone flat. “I cannot ignore my duty to you.”

His duty? She summoned her iron will. What didn’t he understand? There were social restrictions baring a marriage between them, his wife’s recent death and one year of mourning to observe. Nelson’s demise at sea had put the city in turmoil. There were extraordinary measures taking place to transport the admiral’s body back to London. A large public funeral would follow. War was still being fought abroad. Simon had sent Garrick to Spain. Percy was interrogating Holt. What would the ramifications of Percy’s actions reveal? The culprit who wanted Simon dead was still out there.

It was up to her to be the voice of reason. “Simon, we have no choice. Society as a whole is heartless in these matters.”

“The only heart deserving my concern is yours. I’ve based decisions on the
ton
. I’ve played the game better than most men have. I will follow tradition and wait a year, if that will ease your concerns, but what if you are already with child?”

She fought to speak. “According to Russell—”

“He is not a fortune-teller.”

“Remind me when he’s ever been wrong about something like this, Simon.”

“The fact remains we have been intimate, Gillian. My code of honor isn’t worth a damn if the one person it was meant to protect suffers cruelly for it. Life isn’t assured. We are stronger together than we have ever been apart. You know this better than I do. Marry me, Gillian.”

Gooseflesh prickled her skin. He removed her hand from his chest and clasped her slender fingers between his, raising them to his lips, kissing them tenderly. Warmth exploded within her and she fought back tears of joy. But there was still the matter of a child — the child they’d never have.

“This is highly unusual,” she said, pain keening in her hip.

“You are an unconventional woman, are you not?”

She took a deep breath. “You would do this — go against everything you stand for — for me?”

“Yes,” he said, astonishing her. “I’ve spent the last nine years protecting you. I will not stop now.”

Her heart hammered out of time. She wanted to agree with every fiber of her being, but knew what her answer would cost him. Speechless, she laid her head on Simon’s shoulder and breathed in his leather and spice scent, feeling weightless and cherished in his arms. It was enough for now.

“If you will not answer me, my lady rogue, I shall make it my mission to convince you.”

“Persuade me then.”

Some are born for the court and the city,

And some for the village and cot;

But, oh! ‘twere a dolorous ditty,

If all became equal by lot.

Here’s a health, &c.

~Song, Anon, The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXV February 1805

Three weeks later

Simon paced the
Turkish carpet in the Bolton Street townhouse study, taking time to stop and peer at the claw-footed ormolu mantel clock before pacing again.

Had only five minutes passed since he’d last studied the clock’s finely crafted enamel dial?

Percy swirled his quizzing glass chain. “My good man, you really should have a drink to settle your nerves.”

“I’ve had one. Or was it two?” Simon asked, touching his chin.

Henry coughed. “More like three.”

Taptap. Taptap. Tap. Tap. Taptap.

Five sets of eyes settled on Simon, who stopped in his tracks and listened for the final sequence.

Taptap. Tap.

Unable to wait, curiosity and nerves getting the best of him, Simon walked to the library doors, flung them wide, and stepped out into the foyer, watching expectantly as Goodayle answered the door. Within moments, a white-collared Mr. Crofton was revealed, standing on the stoop. Goodayle ushered the vicar inside.

It took you long enough.
Simon clapped his hands and rubbed them together before reentering the library. “Crofton has finally arrived,” he announced. “It’s about bloody time.”

“Uncle, you really should take Percy’s advice and have another brandy. Mr. Crofton traveled a great distance from St. Luke’s and will most likely need to refresh himself before attending to his duties.”

“Balderdash!” Adele shouted. “In my experience, vicars cannot wed couples fast enough.”

“You’ll have to forgive my wife’s manners, your graces, my lord.” Henry regarded Adele, his face a mixture of pleasure and annoyance. “Patience is not one of her specialties.”

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn,” Adele apologized.

“Nonsense.” Constance smiled broadly.

Adele dipped her head. “Thank you for understanding, your grace.”

“Call me, Constance. Shall I call you, Captain Belle or Adele?”

A hush settled over the room. Simon wasn’t sure who had shown up for his wedding today, pirate or lady. He was slightly hesitant to find out. Garrick’s sister was such an unpredictable creature.

“Adele, your grace.”

He sighed with relief.

“Constance,” his niece reminded Adele. “I predict we shall be close friends.”

Adele bowed her head demurely. “Please allow me to explain my outburst. I am not comfortable at weddings. Ours—”

“Took place in haste,” Henry quickly added.

Percy cleared his throat loudly. “It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt, old boy.”

Laughter filled the room.

Adele’s gaze narrowed on Henry, who didn’t miss a beat, adding with a wink, “In our defense, we did have a man to save.”

“And you did a magnificent job of it,” Constance broke in. Then as if Simon couldn’t hear her, she said, “You really mustn’t contribute to my uncle’s distress, Henry. I fear he hasn’t been the easiest man to be around for a fortnight.”

“I can hear you, niece,” Simon said without hesitation.

Henry picked up a decanter, poured two fingers of brandy, and handed the tumbler to Simon. “Have another drink, my lord.
Our
wedding might not have transpired under the best of circumstances, but Adele and I are living proof miracles do happen.”

Adele dipped her head and smiled fondly at Henry. “Indeed.”

Percy raised his tumbler and flashed Henry a mischievous smile. “The fox condemns the trap, not himself, old boy.”

Simon grinned, though he was too nervous to really pay attention to the good-natured roast between friends. Would Crofton refuse to perform the ceremony because Simon hadn’t observed a proper mourning period for his wife?

“What is taking Crofton so long?” he asked aloud, fearful Gillian wouldn’t go through with the wedding. He wouldn’t be right until Gillian stood at his side — as his bride. She’d only agreed to marry him on the condition they kept their marriage a secret until a respectable year of mourning for Edwina and Nelson had been observed.

“Everything in good time,” Percy assured Simon, moving to stand beside him.

Byron joined Henry and Adele near the hearth. Byron offered Simon a consolatory nod as Crofton entered the room
.
The vicar plowed forward like a mule cart, stopping in front of him. He adjusted the glasses over his nose as he set a bible and Fordyce’s Sermons on the settee.

“I got your message, my lord, unconventional as it is, and made haste to arrive as quickly as I could. I’m humbled by this opportunity, but—”

“What opportunity is that, Crofton?” Percy asked, a smile playing with the corner of his lip.

“To marry Lord Danbury, of course.”

Percy clucked then slapped his hands together. Dressed in a shot of embroidered gold and cream, he jockeyed his hip at an odd angle before the vicar then flipped open his quizzing glass and flicked Crofton’s collar.

“Odds fish, do my ears deceive me?” he asked Henry, swinging his arms wide. “I distinctly heard Crofton say, he is here to marry Danbury.”

“I heard that as well,” Adele agreed, placing fingers over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

Constance harrumphed and stepped between Percy and Crofton. She shuffled the vicar away from Percy, who grinned at her. Oliver whimpered from a nearby settee. Constance glanced back worriedly at the baby then rushed to his side, cooing to her son as she picked him up and held him in her arms.

Percy winked at Constance and smiled crookedly. “Never let it be said that Oliver doesn’t have capital timing.” He pulled out an ornate snuff box, opened it, lifted a pinch to his nostrils, then inhaled. “Like father, like son, eh?”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Must you tease?” he asked Percy, inclining his head to Crofton. “He’s a vicar, for goodness sake.”

Percy’s eyes darkened. “Indeed.”

Men dealt with their transgressions differently. Simon suspected, even on this joyous occasion, Henry and Percy grappled with the ugly choices they’d made during Holt’s interrogation.

This was a time of celebration. He didn’t want to focus on how the vicar had died, but Samuel Johnson’s words haunted him nonetheless.
“It matters not how a man dies but how he lives. The act of dying is of no importance, it lasts such a short time.”

“When is your bride going to arrive?” Byron asked, his arms crossed, tapping a finger on his elbow as if he’d run out of patience.

The question snapped Simon out of his melancholy.

Constance, carrying Oliver in her arms, moved to Simon’s side and grasped his forearm. “Take heart, Uncle. I assure you, the baroness will not miss her own wedding.”

“You have nothing to fear on that score, my good man,” Percy said. “I have it on good authority that the baroness is positively smitten.”

Goodayle arrived with glasses of sherry he passed around to the waiting guests.

Henry grimaced and took hold of a crystal goblet, downing it whole before snatching another.

Adele grabbed the glass from Henry and set it back on Goodayle’s tray. “I find the duke quite fascinating, darling. Blendingham has a way with words and everything he touches, doesn’t he?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

“If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have found you,” Henry admitted.

She tapped his chin with her fan. “Don’t you mean if Garrick hadn’t been captured? He did make our introduction possible, after all.”

“You had a hand in that, I’m thinking,” Henry said, gazing down lovingly at his wife.

Laughter rumbled from Percy’s chest. “My wife is right. I do believe we’re going to be fast friends, Lady Adele.” He bent down and kissed Adele’s gloved fingers. “Anyone who can prevail over Henry’s stoic nature deserves my admiration and respect.”

“Suffice it to say, Uncle,” Constance said, straightening her shoulders. “We are all gathered here for one very good reason. To see you happy at last.”

“Hear, hear!”

Glasses were raised to Constance’s toast.

Byron cleared his throat. “It is a rather good day for a wedding. Such a pity,” he said, glancing at each face in the room, “that it must remain our secret.”

Simon nearly spewed out his sherry. Byron supported his marriage to Gillian? What devilry was this? An ominous chill swept through him. What would happen if the truth of their nuptials did go public? Or worse, what if someone discovered they’d petitioned for and received a special license from Charles Manners-Sutton, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and blackmailed them?

Constance smiled broadly as she offered Oliver a rattle.

“Do not be vexed with me for stating the obvious,” Byron said. “Neither one of us has been happy. If I’d found Olivia after father had arranged my marriage to someone else, I would be walking in your shoes. No, brother. You took my advice long ago. Advice I wasn’t qualified to give. Now, after all these years, you’ve been given a chance to change your destiny. Do it. Marry the woman you love. Life is over too soon. But a warning. Be careful no one discovers your attachment before the year is out.”

Simon stepped toward his brother and put his hand on Byron’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Byron frowned and removed it. Then, as a slow smile crept over his face, he took Simon’s hand in his. “No. Thank you.”

Byron couldn’t know how closely their fates mirrored each other. Almost two fortnights had passed since he’d nearly lost Gillian. Her wounded side had begun to heal, giving her occasional twinges of pain as she walked the grounds. Together, they’d garnered agreements from the entire group to continue Nelson’s work, which was far from over. But Simon wasn’t going to waste another moment of their lives worrying about tomorrow. He’d wasted too much time as it was trying to fit his father’s mold. He was going to marry Gillian in a private ceremony, even if he challenged the
ton
and the gates of hell to do it.

Goodayle called from the doorway. “Ladies and Gentleman, the bride is ready. I give you Lady Gillian, Baroness Chauncey.”

Anticipation filled him as he spun on his heels and centered his attention on the library doors to get the first glimpse of his wife-to-be.

A dainty silver slipper appeared under yards of gathered white silk accentuated with an overlay of intricately spun white lace. A silver ribbon adorned Gillian’s empire waistline, leading his gaze to her bodice trimmed with interlocking silver ribbons. A starched lace collar rose from the gown’s neckline, fanning around Gillian’s face, bringing his attention to her dark chocolate eyes. An unusual array of ringlets cascaded along her brow, poking out from beneath a silver silk turban lined with lavender flowers.

She was a vision cloaked in mist as she moved unsteadily forward and clasped his outstretched hand.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting, my lord.”

“No, my lady rogue. It is I who have kept you waiting for far too long because of my stubborn pride. You need never fear. I am here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Crofton coughed then began reciting
Fordyce’s Sermons
.

Gillian’s eyes brimmed with tenderness and passion, a promise of much more to come as they faced each other, vaguely hearing anything Crofton had to say.

Powerful relief filled Simon. He’d wanted Gillian for so long, and now here she was, making the years that had separated them dissipate. He wanted to hold her, taste her lips, cherish her the way a man reveres a most precious gem.

He leaned toward her, filled with gratitude, drinking in every nuance of her captivating face. She briefly closed her eyes then reopened them, shaking her head. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He tightened his grip on her hand. Was she having a change of heart?

“What’s wrong, my lady?”

Gillian looked down at their intertwined hands. “I’ve dreamed of this day for such a long time that I cannot believe any of this is real.”

“I promise you I’m very real,” he said, lifting her chin.

She smiled then. Her expression warmed him to his toes. She was genuinely happy. She’d shown her mettle by more than half. She’d gained a title — freedom. Helped save the savior of England’s life.

His initial desire to keep her safe and settled without making her his mistress had unwittingly given her the tools to survive, to join him as a partner in every sense in this war they both had vowed to fight. And now, at last, she was going to be his.
His!

Simon placed her hand over his elbow and turned them both toward Crofton. Lucifer take anyone who stood in his way.

Sworn to secrecy, Percy, Constance, Byron, Henry, Adele, and Goodayle gathered around them.

Vows were uttered, though Simon heard none of them. He’d seen them reflected in Gillian’s tumultuous gaze from the moment he’d introduced himself. He’d said them a million times over the course of nine years every time he’d looked into Gillian’s eyes.