Once Upon a Wager (34 page)

Later, when their breathing settled, he pulled her against his chest, her breasts nestled against him, his arms enfolding her in a possessive embrace. “Do you know how long I have loved you?” he whispered.

She smiled into the crook of his shoulder. “This will be a competition between us, then. Because I have always loved you.”

• • •

There was a hesitant knock upon the door. “Potter,” Alec called out. “Whatever it is, it will have to wait.”

“I am afraid that's impossible, my lord,” came the stern reply. “Miss Layton's aunt has come to call, and she wishes to speak with you.”

In truth, Alec was surprised she'd only just arrived. As Annabelle let out a squeak of dismay, he gave her a gentle, lingering kiss, easing from the bed to wrap himself in a dressing gown. Because he couldn't seem to stop himself, he stole a glance at her, his heart skittering wildly. She'd said she loved him—

“If you are trying to preserve my maidenly sensibilities,” she said with a naughty grin, “you're too late.”

“Your aunt will probably beat me to death for that very reason. But the pain will have been worth it.”

He dressed quickly and slipped down the stairs, smoothing his hands over his hair before proceeding into the front room to greet the countess, who was a vision in a blood-red day gown. “My dear Lady Marchmain, may I compliment you on the color of your dress? It's stunning with your complexion.”

She gave him a sly smile. “No wonder my niece is so enamored with you. You're the picture of vitality at this early hour of the morning. However, flattery and your impressive good looks will not distract me. I understand Annabelle has been here since before the daybreak.”

“I am afraid so. But your niece behaved with the upmost propriety. She has done nothing but conduct herself with dignity, and I've tried …” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I tried to act the gentleman.”

She considered him for a long while before answering. “If you have acted the gentleman this entire time, you're not the man I thought you were. If you've squandered these few hours alone in each other's company, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I didn't precisely squander them,” he admitted. “But you must know I love your niece desperately. I've asked her to marry me.”

“And of course she accepted. I'm something of an expert on marriage, and I know love when I see it.”

“I'll give her the world if I can,” he declared, only faintly embarrassed by the excessive, extravagant promise.

“That won't be necessary. I rather think the only thing she wants is you.”

Nine months later

Sophia Marchmain took a brief sip of tea as she studied the two-day old news sheets from London. Lord, the stuff was ghastly. Civilized people took a bracing shot of brandy at this hour of the day, but she was in the country, and she needed her wits about her. Annabelle would give birth at any moment. At least Mrs. Chessher had finally allowed Alec into the bedchamber to stand by his wife's side. Sophia had almost been tempted to violence by his ceaseless pacing up and down the hall, like a restless animal.

He'd certainly gotten Annabelle pregnant in short order—not that she'd doubted he would, strapping specimen that he was—but surely Alec's decision to witness the birth was unwise. That called for an especially strong stomach. She'd be there the instant the child was cleaned up, and not a moment sooner.

There was a certain comfort in reviewing news of no import on this unsettling morning. Lady So-and-So's soiree had proven a success. Miss Ingenue had created quite a splash. Lord Down-on-His-Luck was making a move for Miss Money. And the season, thus far, had been accounted quite dull since the marriage of the luminous Annabelle Carstairs, Countess of Dorset.

The wedding, of course, had been lovely. Alec and Annabelle had invited only their closest friends to a morning ceremony at St. George's. Handsome Lord Marworth stood with Alec, while Jane Fitzsimmons acted as maid to Annabelle. That girl had been shamefully treated by society since “The Incident,” as Sophia called it. Her father was an outcast, censured in the House of Lords, but Sophia had plans for Jane, a woman of rare courage and substance.

She and Lady Dorset had stood in the first pew behind the happy couple, and Frederick had also been in attendance. He and Annabelle were slowly finding their way back to the closeness they'd once shared, although the path was a difficult one. In a particularly moving moment, he'd released dozens of colorful butterflies into the air after Annabelle and Alec repeated their vows. How the creatures found their way out of St. George's, she couldn't say.

A number of “mourners” had gathered outside of the church during the ceremony. Lord Petersham, still garbed in fabulous shades of gold, wore a black armband to signal his loss, and Thomas Rowlandson, the famed print artist, had also commemorated the occasion. His etching of Annabelle as a bride had caused a near riot at Ackermann's Repository upon its release.

Sophia heard her niece cry out in pain, and she steeled herself against the weakness of tears. If anyone could triumph over the rigors of childbirth, it was Annabelle. And Alec would never leave her side.

When another cry rang out, Sophia returned her attention to the news, convinced now that a review of weightier matters was called for. There were reports that French forces had been defeated at the battle of Vitoria, dealing a death blow to Napoleon's hopes in Spain. Perhaps soon, she'd once again be enjoying brandy in the shade of her olive orchard there! Another article was devoted to Alec's bill, which was officially law now, but she already knew everything there was to know about that, so she moved on to the next page, only to find the death notices from the war.

Such a dreary topic. Hopefully, the fighting would be over soon, the lists vanishing all together. She gave them a cursory glance, and would have gone on to yet another page if one name hadn't caught her eye. Corporal Damien Digby. Lost at sea. Evidently, his transport ship had gone down off the coast of Spain. He was the only man who hadn't been rescued. No doubt his fellow soldiers left him to drown on purpose.

What a lovely start to the morning! The news would be one of her gifts to Annabelle. When she heard the cry of an infant, however, all thoughts of Digby vanished. She threw aside the paper, rushed out of the chamber, and ran down the hall to her niece. When she swept into the room, Alec was holding his wife as if the world would be lost without her, while Annabelle held their newborn son in her arms, smiling so brightly that she sparkled.

Natchez, Mississippi

September 1863

Shaelyn Cavanaugh leaned against the railing of the second-floor gallery of her home and focused on the two men coming up the road, their blue uniforms unmistakable. They rode at a swift pace, a trail of dust behind them.

Since Natchez, Mississippi, surrendered to the Union forces, it wasn't unusual to see blue uniforms, especially since they'd made Rosalie, the home next door
,
their headquarters. But the two men didn't turn into Rosalie's drive as she expected.

Her breath caught in her throat when she glimpsed light auburn hair, much like her brother's, gleaming in the sunlight. “Ian!”

His companion had raven-black hair, though it too reflected the sun's light. Traveling with Ian, he could be only one man—the one she had promised to wait for. “James.” Her hand gripped the wrought-iron railing, her knuckles white. Tears blurred her vision. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm in her chest as excitement surged through her veins.

“They're home!” she cried. “Mama!”

She lifted her skirts and ran for the outside staircase at the back of the house. “They're home!”

She jumped, missing the last few stairs, and hit the veranda at a run, her skirts held high as she ran into the house through the French doors in the small sun parlor.

“Mama!” Shaelyn darted into the central hallway, her footsteps clicking on the marble tiles as she ran to the front door, flung it open, and rushed headlong into a pair of strong arms. She rested her head against a firm, hard chest, and squeezed tight. A button pressed into her cheek, but she didn't care. They were home. “Thank God,” she whispered into the uniform.

“Well, that's quite a greeting,” a deep, rich voice as smooth as drizzling molasses responded. Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Not expected, but certainly welcomed.”

“Hmm. Where's mine?” his companion asked in the clipped tones of New England.

Shaelyn recognized neither voice nor accent and turned her head to glance at the auburn-haired man. Ian Cavanaugh did not look back at her, which meant she did not have her arms around James Brooks.

Her face hot with embarrassment, Shaelyn pulled away from the man. She drew in a shaky breath and stared. The most beautiful pair of soft blue-gray eyes she'd ever seen stared back. “Forgive me. I thought you were someone else.”

“Obviously,” the man replied. “Perhaps introductions are in order, although after your greeting, it may be too late.” Amusement gleamed from his eyes as a wide grin showed off his white teeth in a charming smile. She wanted to touch the dimple that appeared in his cheek. “Major Remington Harte.” He gestured to the man beside him. “This is my second in command, Captain Vincent Davenport.”

“Miss.” Captain Davenport bowed from the waist.

Shaelyn nodded in his general direction, but her focus remained on the major. She'd never seen hair so black or so thick. An insane impulse overwhelmed her—she wanted to run her fingers through that mass of thick, shiny hair and feel its silkiness. Struck by her own inappropriate thoughts, she stilled. He wasn't James. She shouldn't want to run her fingers through his hair.

“Are you Brenna Cavanaugh?”

“What?” Startled, Shaelyn shook her head. “No, I'm her daughter, Shaelyn.”

Footsteps rang out down the hallway. Shaelyn dragged her gaze away from the man in uniform for just a moment as her mother joined them at the door. “I am Brenna Cavanaugh.” A sweet smile accompanied the hand she offered the major. “May I help you?”

Introductions were quickly made, and Shaelyn watched the exchange of pleasantries, but her gaze was drawn back to the major. He looked dashing in his uniform. The dark blue complimented his eyes quite nicely. The material molded to his body, emphasizing his broad shoulders, lean waist, and slim hips. He stood tall, well over six feet she guessed, as her gaze swept the length of his body with admiration. She noticed a silver-tipped cane in his hand, which he leaned on. He must have been injured in battle.

She had always loved seeing a man in uniform. They stood differently: straighter, taller. Proud. They acted differently, too, as if wearing a uniform had something to do with how the world perceived them.

Her gaze met his and she felt the warmth of a blush creep up from her chest. A smile parted his full lips and her face grew hotter. She'd been staring at him and he knew it.

“Is this about Ian, my son?” Hope colored her mother's tone, a hope she had tended carefully, like one tends a garden.

“Or James Brooks?” Shaelyn added.

“May we go inside?” Major Harte gestured toward the open door.

“Where are my manners?” Brenna smiled. “Of course.” She turned to Shaelyn. “Please show our guests into the sun parlor, dear. I just finished making tea.”

With effort, Shaelyn dragged her gaze away from the major and the pulse throbbing in his neck, above the collar of his uniform, which had mesmerized her. “Please follow me.”

Major Harte's uneven footsteps echoed in the hallway and the tip of his cane tapped on the marble tiles as Shaelyn showed them into a small, comfortable, sun-filled room at the back of the house, while Brenna pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

“Thank you.” The major moved to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantle while Captain Davenport sat on a rattan love seat.

Shaelyn sank into a chair across from the captain, her fingers settling into one of the rattan grooves, and let out a slow breath—anything to still the anxiety plucking at her spine with its icy fingers and chilling her from the inside out. After a moment, the heat of the major's gaze rested on her, negating that chill. He didn't speak as she turned to face him, nor did he smile, but the warmth in his slate-colored eyes captured and held hers.

She opened her mouth, but no words issued forth. She didn't know what to say. Or do. She'd never had to entertain Union officers, although her brother had marched off to war wearing blue. In all truth, she hadn't entertained in a very long time, and the lessons her mother had taught her about proper decorum and genteel manners simply escaped her.

Captain Davenport didn't speak either, and a heavy stillness filled the room, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. An ominous sense of foreboding stole through Shaelyn with each passing minute. Her heart pounded, not with excitement now, but with dread. A lump rose to her throat. She knew, deep down, whatever the reason for these men to be here, no good would come of it.

Brenna entered the parlor and broke the silence. “Shaelyn, would you please pour?” Her mother placed a silver tea service on the table in front of the divan and took a seat in her favorite wicker chair.

Shaelyn rose from her seat, though her entire body trembled. With shaking hands, she lifted the teapot and started to pour. A few drops of the dark brew spilled onto a linen napkin on the tray and stained it brown.

She glanced up and caught the major's wince before he addressed his second in command. “Captain, would you be so kind?”

“Of course.” Captain Davenport leaned forward and took the pot from her hands.