Secrets of a Scandalous Bride (24 page)

He somehow managed to open the door, and kicked it shut with the back of his boot. She dared a peek at him through her lashes only to find brooding eyes.

She glanced about the chamber with curiosity. One wall was covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, slightly swayed in the middle from the number of volumes. She swung her gaze back to his shuttered expression. On the opposite side, she found only four pieces of furniture: a washstand, a small desk, a chair, and…she swallowed.

White mosquito net draped from the ceiling, encircling a very large bed with plain white bed linens. There was something very spare yet very large about it—sort of like the man she had married.

No carpeting was in evidence. No paintings relieved the expanse of the white walls. It was the room of a scholar. The room of a hardworking man.

He swept aside one end of the netting and placed her in the middle of his bed, an intense expression carved onto his harsh face—like a man intent on having his way.

With her.

A mere five minutes later, she found herself still in the middle of Rowland’s massive bed, on top of more pillows than she knew existed in London town, without a single stitch of clothing to hide her in the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon. He had said not a word as he had helped her undress. Tension engulfed them, like fog before a battle.

She watched him slowly tug at one end of his neck cloth as his eyes stared back at her. With his sure hands, he undressed in an economical manner just as he did everything else in his life, before he eased onto the bed beside her, and stretched out without touching her.

His body was like that of the marble statues at Windsor’s gallery, with only his chest rising and falling to give away his vitality. He lay there quietly. Waiting.

“Elizabeth, what is wrong?”

She answered a little too quickly. “Nothing. Why would you—”

“You have that look about you,” he said.

She picked at the bed linen and tried to cover herself, only to stop when he stilled her hand. “It’s just…so much has happened so quickly. And I guess I’m just a bit anxious.”

“About what?”

“Perhaps you lament…” she began. “Well, not regret, but, it wasn’t as if you were given any sort of alternative to marrying me. Everyone assumed—”

His lips cut off her words and he kissed her intently, showing instead of telling her that he had no regret, no doubts about the day’s work. His hands followed suit, touching every inch of her. Reverently. He looked down into her face, finally. “
Mhuirnin
…never doubt me. Ever. You, of all people, know I never do anything I don’t want to do. You might have your work cut out for you trying to make a gentleman out of me, but I am not a quitter. And I never change my mind. You left your mark on me, and I will never let you go now.”

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Come to me, then.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, before she tugged at him to cover her. He deftly slid between her thighs, and she eased her knees wide. “Elizabeth, wait…I would—”

“I want you. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been waiting forever.”

Without further preliminaries, he grasped her hips, and suddenly, the large blunt end of him pulsed against the juncture of her.

The moments he waited, just outside of her for a final signal of her absolute desire for him, were of a poignancy unknown to her. She raised her head to brush her lips against the slight roughness of his hollow cheek, and he surged forward, his head thrown back.

She gasped at the force of his entry. It was as if he wanted to replace any of her remote fears with the strength of a lifetime promise of happiness.

There was something in his countenance that suggested he would not stop until all of her anxiety of the last weeks and months was obliterated by his intense desire for her. It would be something neither of them would ever forget.

And that was how the long afternoon and early evening went until it grew so dark he reached to light the sole candle in the room. Elizabeth was exhausted amid the rumpled bed linens. She had never been so happy, never felt so wanted, so protected and cherished in her entire life. Searching for a cool spot, she slowly turned onto her stomach, only to hear a surprised sound from him.

She turned her head on the pillow.

“What is that?” he whispered, shock reflected from his face. “What have you done?”

She was suddenly worried about her recklessness. Perhaps it would be a terrible reminder when she had meant it to be something else entirely. “I’m sorry,” she said burying her face in the pillow. “It’s just that I thought—”

“You haven’t answered the question.” His voice was cool, distant. She could feel him peering closer.

“The family crest,” she whispered.

“The
what
?”

His large warm hand rested on the small of her back, holding her down so he could better inspect the tiny black
B
in a simple script she now had on her bottom.

“I require a name,” he said hoarsely.

“A name?” Her voice was muffled even to her own ears.

“The name of the blackguard who put this on you.”

She could not mistake the soft menace in his voice. Now she well and truly regretted her impetuous action. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to ignore his lingering scent on the pillow. “A better question would be why I did it.”

He waited for her answer.

“We are to be Lord and Lady
Balreal
, remember? And…I didn’t want you to always feel so different. Different from…” She swallowed, “From me, and from the rest of humanity, as I think you do sometimes.”

He said not a word but she could feel the tip of his finger smooth the still sensitive skin.

“You said that letter was placed on you so you would not forget who you are.” She quickened her speech, “Now you are not alone. This is my own reminder of the name we will share. And I should also like it very much if it would also remind you how much I…”

Her voice stuttered to a stop as she felt his hot breath just above the tiny
B
etched on the sensitive skin of her bottom. “Yes?” he coaxed roughly.

“How much I never want to be parted from you…” She shuddered as his lips brushed against the tiny new mark. “Ever again.”

“Do you have any idea…” His voice trailed off in suppressed emotion. “…how much I’ve missed you this last week? Of how much I’ve missed you every day of my godforsaken life?”

His words made her want to weep. She closed her eyes at the exquisite sensation of his strong, supple hands now stroking the length of her spine.

“Go to sleep,” he said gently. “I’ve overtired you.”

“I shall soon,” she said exhausted. “But perhaps not just this moment.” She did not want to tell him—worry him—about the nightmares. The one she had had several times this last week. It was always of Pymm at Carlton House. He would reach for her hand with his pristine glove, and a drop of blood would appear, growing ever larger until she would come awake, shaking. The dream was too vivid—too soon after her near miss with disaster.

As if he sensed her ill ease and exhaustion, he gath
ered her close in his arms. “Well then, I shall wait with you…” he whispered.

No argument. No teasing. Just simple reassurance.

He held her in silence, but she could tell by his breathing that he did not sleep. As she drifted, she reveled in the comfort of his sheltering arms. It had been so long since she had been allowed to rely on someone else to ease the burden of her life.

Memories such as these, she would keep close to herself in the dark hours, when a person had no choice but to tuck oneself into the privacy of their thoughts.

And their nightmares.

H
e just could not stand having her out of his sight for very long. He felt like a bloody fool, a bloody helpless, mewling infant as he sat behind his old desk in the main building—alone for the first time in almost a week.

Even the knowledge of how idiotic he was being had not stopped him from seeking her out, or sending for her dozens of times each day.

At this rate he would be as fat as the Prince Regent, for he had not missed one meal—not even one bloody mid-afternoon cup of tea. And it was solely done to see her. His men delighted in every ridiculous change in him.

But he was a smart man. During that short period he had been forced to endure away from her, due to the machinations of that puerile dowager duchess, he had learned that he was going to have to surrender to the obvious—of being constantly terrified of losing her—of losing happiness after finally finding it thirty-eight years into his existence. Surely, he would stop playing the idiotic fool in time. Nothing was ever permanent in life. One had to guard against every eventuality.

Well, at least he had a host of new things vying for his attention, which worked fairly well as a distraction between rounds of succulent meals with his wife. His additional set of duties now as Master of the Horse made for an astonishingly overtaxed daily schedule. A phalanx of the Prince Regent’s men reported to him each afternoon in the royal mews.

And now, after the extraordinary events at Carlton House, Rowland slowly came to the realization that he had managed the unthinkable. He had somehow exchanged places with General Pymm in the fickle London populace’s opinions. Indeed, Manning’s was suddenly considered the
only
place to see horses and be seen. Most importantly, it was considered the place to
buy
horses. Indeed, Lefroy had laughed long and loud when a gentleman’s sporting journal had proclaimed him “Prince of the Equines” and had called on all patriotic Englishmen to buy his cavalry-trained horses.

Lost in thought, Rowland absently ran his hand over the end of his plain desk, his first possession. His mother’s etched words of advice along the edge brought a flood of memories.

Forget not-want not.

And yet, he wanted to forget. There was no reason to remember his wretched beginnings.

He did not want for anything anymore. He never would, for he had everything now. And so he wished to forget.

And yet, his mind was like a magnet, drawing him to those words Maura Manning had carved. She had put them there to serve as a daily reminder of the importance of hunger and need, and how it could drive
him to find a way out of poverty if he worked hard enough.

But unknown to his mother, it had also reminded him of Mary and how he’d been unable to save his beloved sister. Both his sister and mother had been taken from him because he had not been strong enough to protect them from the brutalities of poverty.

Suddenly, he grasped the knife from the breakfast tray Elizabeth had brought to him earlier and began to stab at the carved letters. He obliterated every trace of them in short order.

So intent was he, he didn’t hear his wife enter the library until she was standing over him, looking at the havoc he had wrought.

She went behind him and wrapped her arms about his shoulders. “I never liked that desk either.”

He bowed his head. “I just want you to know that I shall always protect you—take care of you. I don’t want you to fear anything ever again.”

“I know you will, Rowland,” she said gently. “You already have saved me from a lifetime of unhappiness. You were the only one capable of it.”

Brooding, he absently caressed her forearms.

“The landaulet awaits,” she began. “The picnic goods are tucked inside. Shall we not go? The others are surely there already and—”

He drew her into his lap and pressed his lips against the soft column of her neck. He delighted in holding her—touching her when she least expected it. She was his wife…his life.

“I’ve seen to your favorite. Perhaps we should hurry, since the food might spoil in this heat unless—”

“Mmmm…” he interrupted. “Strawberry Fool?”
He was looking at the gathered edge of her bodice and remembering.

“No, gingerbread.”

“I prefer Strawberry Fool,” he murmured, and considered doing something unspeakably wicked with the tip of his tongue. It would make him forget all about the blasted words under the wreckage of his desk.

“I do too,” she whispered. “But if we don’t leave now, you shall have to endure the ribald comments of your brother and the duke all afternoon.”

He groaned, his body disinclined to return to some semblance of decorum. “It would be worth it.”

His wife cocked her head, and an impish smile complete with dimples overspread her beautiful face. She reached for the ends of his neck cloth and tugged; an impossibly innocent seductress at work. It was moments like these that were most painful to him. He was not meant for such happiness.

Elizabeth glanced about herself, and enjoyed the utter contentment of being among friends in the lazy haze of the park on a summer day. They were all there, the widows of the club—Ata, Rosamunde, Georgiana—looking pale and tired but radiant nonetheless, with her infant tucked in her arms. And of course, Grace and Sarah were in attendance. All the gentlemen who loved them were there too: Luc, Quinn, Michael, and Rowland, who lay sprawled beside Elizabeth on a length of cloth. They were gathered in a secluded corner of the Serpentine’s western end, looking toward Kensington Gardens.

In the distance, Michael and Grace’s two adopted children and Quinn’s daughter, Fairleigh, tugged
paper boats on strings along the water’s edge, while Luc and Rosamunde’s raven-haired twin cherubs napped in the shade. It had been far too long since they had all gathered together in one place.

She knew it was the nature of life—that fate brought people together for a time and then, seemingly on a whim, scattered them onto new paths. And so she treasured moments like these—celebrations of friendship.

In the late afternoon lassitude of abated hunger, plans were already being set in motion for separation.

“It is settled then, Sarah. I’ve informed the servants,” Ata said, determined. “You and I are for Cornwall in a fortnight. Oh, how I long to feel the brine of sea air on my face, and savory pasties on my lips.”

“I am looking forward to it too,” Sarah murmured. “We spent so many happy days there. You are very kind to invite me to go with you.”

Luc chuckled. “It is you we must thank. My grandmother is withholding from you the joy of discovering what the Prince Regent bestowed on you.”

“Why do I suspect,” Rowland interjected, “my wife is about to suggest a tour of Cornwall this winter?”

Georgiana sat beside Rowland, with Quinn behind her, supporting her back. She was clearly enjoying this chance to better know Elizabeth’s new husband. Georgiana shifted her position and the infant opened his eyes and made known his discomfort in the heartrending, bleating cries of a new-to-the-world babe. To everyone’s shock, Georgiana leaned forward and held the infant in front of Rowland, who had no choice
but to grasp the baby. “My arms are tired, Mr. Manning. Oh, Quinn? I think we need”—she lowered her voice—“new linen.”

Elizabeth watched Rowland’s startled expression as he gazed at the tiny infant he held at arm’s length. Ever so slowly, he brought the child to his chest and cradled him. He smoothed his wrinkled brow with one finger and the baby stopped crying instantly.

She should not have been surprised. Had she not watched every last horse at the stable respond to his touch and his commands? But seeing Rowland here, with a tiny boy child in his arms…

As Quinn searched the baskets, Georgiana sent Elizabeth a secret smile. It was obvious she approved of Rowland. Very much. “Ata?”

“Yes, my dear Georgiana?”

“Quinn, Fairleigh, and I shall follow you in a month’s time—as soon as the physicians advise it. My parents and brother long to see little John Matthew and I miss our own home in Cornwall more than I can say.”

Elizabeth spied a trace of sadness in Ata’s eyes, and so turned the conversation. “Rosamunde, I can’t tell you how happy I am to have this afternoon with you, Grace, and Georgiana.” Her gaze wandered to the latter. “I have missed you all so much. A fine friend I have been. I feel as if I haven’t seen any of you this entire summer.”

Rosamunde laughed and her black curls shined in the afternoon sun. “I think I speak for all three of us when I say that you are being entirely ridiculous. Darling infants and children are the ones to be blamed
for interrupting perfectly good friendships. But,” she cocked a slender brow, “I predict you shall find out all about it. Well, you won’t be able to say you weren’t warned. And I do think you went along perfectly well without us. Mr. Manning, I must personally thank you for saving our dear Elizabeth, as I’ve not had the chance.”

Rowland relinquished Georgiana’s child into the anxious arms of the father. “No need to thank me. But if you must, perhaps you would consider doing me the great favor of—”

“You are not to do him any favors, Rosamunde,” Luc said darkly. “He is not fully reformed.”

Rowland chuckled. “Still flummoxed by your grandmother’s wedding gift, Helston?”

“Vespers was not a wedding gift,” the duke insisted.

“Really? What was it then?” Rowland picked a piece of lint from his coat.

“
A loan
.”

Rowland nodded. “I see—like the wedding ring.”

“My
ring?” Elizabeth darted a glance at him.

“No,” Luc said, put out. “Not at all like Grace’s ring. That was a mere bauble. Vespers is—”

“Why is he saying my ring belongs to Grace?” Elizabeth interrupted.

“Don’t listen to him, my darling,” Rowland replied with a devilish smile. “This is a conversation between gentlemen about the joys of gift giving among nobs. No need to—”

“Well, if you’re going to exclude ladies, we shall just have to see to ourselves. Rosamunde, I’ve been
meaning to ask if you would like to have a very unladylike race ’round the lovely little track behind the—”

“I’m afraid she won’t have time,” Luc ground out.

“Really?” Rosamunde questioned, her eyes brimming with laughter. “And why is that, my love?”

“We are setting sail.”

A half dozen voices babbled shocked questions at the suddenly heavy-lidded, mysterious duke. He held up his hand. “I promised my bride an extended sailing trip a very long time ago. Now that everyone is settled, and old Boney’s on Elba, we’re for—”

“Where?” Rosamunde’s aquamarine eyes lit up as she interrupted her husband in excitement.

“Wherever your heart desires,” he answered. “As long as there are no bloody widows within a hundred miles of any port where we dock.”

“Paris!” Rosamunde shouted with glee. “And then the West Indies. And Vienna. Perhaps—”

Luc’s head was in his hands. “I see a lesson in navigation, and plotting a straight course will be the first order of business.”

Elizabeth’s eyes drifted toward Ata again, and all of a sudden she realized why the dowager appeared ill at ease. Of course.

Mr. Brown.

He was in Scotland. And the dowager had given up all hope of his returning to her.

A boy’s shout interrupted Elizabeth’s thoughts, and she half turned to see Michael’s son James from the orphanage hopping up and down on one foot, the two girls laughing behind him.

Sarah jumped up before Michael could disengage
his arms from around Grace. “No, stay where you are.”

Michael chuckled. “All right, Sarah. You are the master paper boat maker after all, and I do believe James would be far happier to have your help than mine.”

Sarah was already on her way to the children in the distance when Grace looked at Michael with such devotion in her eyes. “I shall ask Sarah to teach me before we return to Yorkshire, my love. James and Lara will surely sink a thousand ships in our pond, and then where will we be?”

So, it was as Elizabeth had suspected. They had all been waiting for her to find happiness before they departed.

They all loved her as she loved them. And she knew in that moment, that no matter how many miles separated them from one another, there would always be fellowship to tie them together. As she reached for Rowland’s hand, she watched Sarah, the woman she loved more so than any of these perfect friends, drift far away into the late afternoon rays of sun.

Sarah ran lightly toward the band of laughing children in the distance. She was going to have to make another boat for the boy. She could already see that one of the three boats was half sunk.

She was actually grateful for the distraction. She did not want to go to Cornwall. She did not want to go to her empty, unknown property in the northern Lake District either. And yet, she did not want to stay in London. She was being ridiculous and she knew it.

She had done what she had set out to do. She had seen to Elizabeth’s future when her own life had disintegrated two years ago. And now that was done, she had not a new goal. That was the problem. She had but to set her mind to something new.

She looked down into the smiling face of young James and saw all the promise of youth.

“Did I do it properly, Mrs. Winters? The ends won’t come together the way you did it.” He offered a fairly well-constructed boat.

She inspected it, moving to the shade of a nearby willow tree to kneel in the grass. He followed her, watching intently as she rearranged the ends.

“I see now. Thank you, ma’am.” He ran off to join the two young girls at the water’s edge, and she stared at the jovial trio.

She wished she’d had a child with Pierce. It had been impossible, of course. A string of battlefields was not the place to raise a child. And now there was no chance. She was too old, at thirty-four—and without any desire for someone to replace her husband in her heart.

She was so weary of pretense in front of her friends. And yet she was afraid to be alone, for then she would have no reason to wear the façade of someone who was content.

She plucked a tiny daisy from the grass, and tugged at the petals, watching them flutter in the wind to be lost to the dark water beyond. Like all her dreams.