Seven Nights to Forever (40 page)

Ashton didn’t question him further. The man only said three words, a smile tugging on his lips. “Bedfordshire. Paxton Manor.”

It took a moment for James to realize the significance of what Ashton had said. Then his entire being leapt eagerly onto those three words. “You have my utmost thanks.” He was at the door, knob in hand, when he turned back.

Ashton still stood beneath that length of chain. He was the same man he had met at the park, yet it was difficult to reconcile the image of that polished young gentleman with the man who stood in this room. He couldn’t shake the impression that the man didn’t belong here. In an odd sort of way, Ashton reminded him of Rose.

“Why do you work down here?” The question popped out of his mouth before it even formed in his head.

The smile tipping his lips turned melancholy. “Those who pass through that door do not fool themselves or attempt to fool me with their reasons for being here. They are brutally honest in their pursuit of pleasure. No whispered words, no polite games, no illusion of intimacy. It may seem harsh, even cruel, but to me it is the safest room in the house.” He looked to his bare feet. A wince crossed his brow. “You broke her heart,” he whispered.

“It was not my intention.”

“But you did so nonetheless.”

“It will not happen again,” he vowed. He would never again do anything to cause her even the slightest bit of pain. She had already borne enough in her life.

Perhaps Ashton held another answer Rose had refused to provide.

“Rose had a protector before she came to this house. Do you happen to know his name?”

“Lord Wheatly. Why do you ask?”

James kept the satisfied smile from his lips. “She was with him for a year, correct?”

“Yes.”

“The second protector, not the lord who was married, correct?” He needed to be certain he had the right name. She had provided the identity of her first protector, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the gentleman’s name.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” He opened the door.

“Archer,” Ashton said, calling him back. “Why do you need his name?”

James turned, hand on the knob. “That man hurt her,” he growled.

A couple of hours later found James waiting in the midnight shadows outside of a nondescript town house on the edge of Mayfair. A few discreet inquiries had garnered him the address of the man’s current mistress.

He knew of Wheatly. Had seen him at various functions recently, though fortunately he had never shown an interest in Rebecca. He had an edge about him that led James to believe his polite manners didn’t go beyond the surface. And now he knew his assessment of Wheatly’s character had been correct.

The front door opened and Wheatly emerged, tugging on his gloves. The rage that had been simmering boiled to the surface. Without a word, James stepped from the shadows, right fist clenched and ready at his side.

The crunch of the man’s nose breaking beneath his fist was one of the most satisfying sounds James had ever heard.

ROSE
rubbed the rag harder in an effort to get the tarnish out of the intricate engraving on the large silver platter. It was a beautiful piece. All of it was. She cast her gaze over the table covered with dishes and platters, vases and candlesticks, silverware and goblets. She could still remember how the dining table had once looked, set and ready for guests. The long mahogany table gleaming with a fresh coat of polish, the heavy crystal stemware catching the light from the chandelier above.

But it was an image she hadn’t seen for well over five years, and one she would never see again.

When the platter finally gleamed to her satisfaction, she set it down and picked up a candlestick. Sarah was seated a little ways down the table, her head bowed over a punch bowl, the sleeves of her brown dress shoved to her elbows. Polishing the silver was a task neither of them looked upon with relish, but it was a necessary one. She couldn’t very well leave the potential new owners of Paxton Manor with a cupboard of dirty silver.

She wouldn’t deny she would miss the house, but she certainly would not miss the work that went along with it. Dash had left just that morning to return to London to hire someone to manage the sale of the house for them.

To her surprise, he had stayed a few days and promised to return shortly. While they had spent a fair number of hours devoted to discussing the estate, it had been nice to have him home. It had been so long since she had spent an extended amount of time with him. Since he had gone to school, it had only been short visits, an hour here and there. That had been all.

The lure of the gambling tables and late nights devoted to who knew what sort of debauchery with his acquaintances had caused her to worry about him going to London alone, but he had assured her the worries were for naught.
I won’t let you down again
, he had repeated. Though she would admit to a bit of lingering worry at the way he evaded her question when she asked if there were any debts she wasn’t aware of. She had a niggling suspicion he had made use of his repaired credit, but she didn’t press him.

The candlestick now gleaming like new, she put it down and picked up a serving spoon. It felt odd to be in the house today. The ingrained habit of four years made her a tiny bit restless at having denied it.

Had James gone to Rubicon’s last night? Simply the barest shadow of the possibility, even if so very remote given their parting, it pulled at her heart. She could well imagine the hurt that would cross his face when Rubicon denied his request. She knew she could never return to that house, never see him there again, yet . . .

With a firm shake of her head, she dismissed the thought and concentrated on the stubborn tarnish clinging to the handle of the spoon.

Late afternoon turned into early evening, the sunlight streaming through the windows now a rich golden amber. Half of the mahogany surface of the table was now visible, physical proof of her and Sarah’s labors. Dropping her rag, she gathered the pieces they had just finished cleaning. She’d take them to the silver cupboard and then go help Sarah with supper. Arms laden with candlesticks and candelabras, she turned from the table, but stopped short.

There it was again. A knock at the door.

She put down her burden and went out into the entrance hall, footsteps ringing on the marble floor. She wiped her hands on her apron that was no longer white but marred with thick, iron gray smudges, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and then opened the door.

She blinked.

Yes, that was James standing on her doorstep wearing the broadest of grins.

Her heart leapt. Every bit of the emotion she had tried to tamp down for the past fortnight flooded her senses.

“Good evening, Rose.”

She gave her head a little shake. His lips were moving. He must be speaking to her.

“Rose? Are you all right?” That broad grin had dimmed.

“Yes, quite well,” she heard herself reply.

“Good. You had me concerned there for a moment.”

“I did not expect to find you on my doorstep.”

“You did make it rather difficult to find you, but here I am.”

“But, James, why are you here?” He had returned to Rubicon’s last night. She knew it without a doubt. A quick glance around his broad shoulder revealed the familiar traveling carriage stationed just beyond the foot of the stone stairs. “I hope you did not make the journey to Bedfordshire under the false assumption that I was not sincere in my intentions. I will not accept your money again,” she said with a conviction she did not feel in the slightest.

To have him standing before her once again. So close, if she but reached out, she could press her hand to his chest, feel the heat of his body seeping through the navy coat, the strong beats of his heart against her palm.

“That’s not why I’m here. I respect your decision and understand why you stood so firm against my protests.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “I have done what I should have done long ago,” he said gravely.

She took the proffered note warily. The paper crinkled as she unfolded it. A page from the
Times
? Why would he give this to her? It was dated April twenty-seventh. Two days ago. If she had the time to spare to peruse the news, she could have read this yesterday. The post only caused a day’s delay.

Her gaze skimmed down the page, coming to an abrupt halt at the last article.

The rapid beats of her pulse echoed in her ears. “James?” She looked up at him with pleading eyes, so very afraid to hope.

“I am divorcing her.” He couldn’t disguise the pleasure it clearly brought him to say those words.

“Why, though?”

“I could no longer tolerate her venom, and she was foolish enough to threaten the loss of Rebecca’s reputation.”

“But what about Rebecca? Won’t you lose your wife’s sponsorship?”

“Yes, but it’s no longer needed. Within a few months’ time, Rebecca will become the Countess of Brackley. She wants a grand wedding at St. George’s,” he lifted a shoulder, as if to say nothing less would have been expected, “and I’m certain my father will give it to her. I, however, do not have such a fondness for grand affairs. I prefer the country, something simple and quiet in a small church with only a handful of family members.”

He paused. Held her gaze. That grin flittered, just teasing the edges of his mouth, his eyes soft and warm and filled with an anticipation she was afraid to name.

“I love you, Rose.”

I love you, too.
But the words were stuck in her throat. She had convinced herself she would never be able to speak them again, and now that the opportunity was remarkably, unbelievably presented to her again, they refused to lodge free.

“May I have your hand, my dear?” he asked, holding his out, palm up.

In a daze, she tucked the newspaper into her apron pocket. The moment her hand slipped into his, sensation shot up her arm, wrapped around her heart. His grip strong yet gentle. The calluses on his palm and on the tips of his fingers an exact fit to her memories.

His gaze never left hers as he dropped to one knee. “Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

Her other hand flew up to cover her mouth, fingers trembling against her lips. “Yes,” she whispered, and then stronger, infusing the word with all the love she held for him in her heart, “Yes!”

The next thing she knew, she was in his arms, her fingers gripping his shoulders, and he was giving her the kiss she never believed she’d ever have again. The kiss continued on and on. His lips gliding over hers, sweet and silken, soft yet firm. Determined yet gentle.
James.

With a little teasing nip to her bottom lip, he pulled back enough to break the kiss.

“Thank you. You have made me the happiest of men.” Then a bit of gravity seeped into his gaze. “It will be at least another month or two before I am fully free. I’m pushing my solicitor as fast as he can go, but these matters take time. You do understand?”

“Of course.” The wait mattered not. What mattered was that someday the man she loved would be hers and she would be his.

“Thank you,” he murmured. Those olive green eyes drifted down, paused on her lips, and then lower. He unwound one arm from her waist and reached up, fingertips brushing her neck, sending a delightful shiver down her spine. With a little tug, he pulled the stone from beneath her bodice, held it in his palm. “You’re wearing it.”

At the awe, the trace of disbelief in his voice, she said, “It is the most precious gift I have ever received. I could never part with it.”

To do so would be akin to giving up his love, something she could and would never do. His love gave her hope, and his love gave her strength. Enough strength to leave her old life behind, and now she could start anew. With him. Have the husband, the family, that had filled a young girl’s dreams.

Looking deep into his eyes, she covered his hand with hers, the stone pressed between their palms, and pledged her heart, her very self to him. “I am forever yours, James.”