The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (51 page)

He wasn't smiling, wasn't teasing. She nodded, managed a hoarse, “Yes.”

He hesitated, then, voice low, said, “Would it help to know that it scares me, too?”

She could see his face clearly, knew he wasn't lying, yet . . . “I can't imagine you being scared of anything.”

Again he looked at her with that wry, resigned amusement. “Not even of something that might bring me to my knees?”

“Your knees.” The image was a potent distraction.

His lips quirked. “In more ways than one.”

Eyes still on his, she tilted her head. “That, I'd like to see.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “
Peste
.”

When she just looked at him, brows faintly rising, he heaved a put-upon sigh, then catching her hands in his, he went down on his knees before her.

Holding her hands, he looked up at her. “There—you have it. Margaret Dawlish, will you do me the honor of being my wife, my lover, my heart—my duchess?”

He was trying to make it easier for her. They were skirting the issue—or rather she was, and he was letting her.

She stared down into his face—a face that had inhabited her dreams for years, ever since she'd first seen it. Knew he was being brutally honest, while she . . . she gripped his hands, looked into his eyes. “Gaston—I . . . it's not you, not—” Tugging one hand free, she waved. “It's not about households, and you and me. It's . . .” Eyes locked with his, drawing strength from the connection, she dragged in a breath and said, “I've never liked losing control, and what's between us—”

What flared between them was overwhelming, and she had no words to encompass what she felt, the sheer terror of simply letting go, of ceding control so completely to some force she had no reckoning of, no understanding.

He rose and recaptured her hands. “Listen to me,
mignonne.
There is nothing to fear. Yes, we can't control it—no one can. That would be the equivalent of controlling the moon and stars. Yes, it will, to some extent, control us. That's its nature. But if we want to be together, to live as we should, together, and make all that we can of the chances life has blessed us with, then surrender we must. It's more powerful than both of us.”

She inwardly teetered, gripped his hands. “What do you mean when you call me
mignonne
?”

He didn't shrug the question aside, but held her gaze solemnly. “My native tongue, the dialect, is derived from what scholars term Middle French. In that language,
mignonne
means lover, darling, beloved.” He hesitated, then said, “I love you,
mignonne.
I always have. And you love me. I could not let you go.” He paused, then more quietly added, “I cannot let you go.”

And she couldn't step back from this—from the precipice he'd brought her to—any more than he could. Not now.

Holding her gaze, he drew a deep, tight breath. “Trust me,
mignonne.
Place your hand in mine and step with me into the fire and the flames—and let them have us.”

She was caught in his passion, his certainty. Clung to it. “Here? Now?” She asked only to be sure. If he would accept the risk, how could she not?

He nodded. “Here. Now.”

The breath she drew was shaky. She raised her head. Nodded back. “All right.”

He lifted her hands to his lips, kissed. His eyes burned into hers. “You will never regret this.”

Her smile wobbled. “Make sure I don't.”

He smiled and bent his head.

His lips were still curved as they met hers.

And he waltzed her into the conflagration of the fire and the flames.

Through the long hours that followed, through the searing passion and the scorching desire, she saw, again and again, that all he'd told her was true.

They were equals even in this—equally bound, equally conquered, and at the end, equally blessed.

And there was, as he'd told her, nothing to fear, because even when they reached that pinnacle beyond which there was no beginning and no end, there was always one shining truth remaining—one beacon to guide them through oblivion and back to earth, to the bliss and joy of each other's arms.

That truth would always be with them, engraved on both their hearts. He was hers and she was his, and between them, finally set free, their love shone in all its brilliant splendor, bright, strong, passionately fierce.

The years had never dimmed it, and no years to come would see it sundered.

No threat, no weapon, could ever come between two lovers love had chosen, who had the courage to embrace and surrender to love.

June 18, 1820, 11:00
A.M.
, the day of the wedding

St. James Chapel, Manchester Square, London

T
he ceremony uniting Robert, Prince du Garde, of the House of Bourbon, and Juliette, only daughter of the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Rocher, went off splendidly, without a single hitch.

As expected, the senior groomsman handed over the vital gold ring at the appropriate moment, and countless sighs were heard as the handsome bridegroom slipped the ring on the radiant bride's finger.

Later, outside the chapel, many guests, either while congratulating the happy couple or congratulating themselves on the felicity of being invited to attend such a signal event as a royal wedding, noted the absence of Lady Margaret Dawlish, but all assumed that her ladyship, having overseen the ceremony from some concealed spot, had rushed on to wield her magic at the ballroom in which the wedding breakfast would take place.

Fewer guests remarked on the nonattendance of the Duc de Perigord, assuming his visit to London had been fleeting, perhaps cut short, or that matters of state had intervened, keeping him busy elsewhere.

Had they but known it, all the above were true.

Luckily, none but their families knew of any reason to connect Lady Margaret's invisibility with the Duc de Perigord's defection, and as said families remained sunnily unconcerned, deflecting all inquiries with transparent confidence, no one in the wider ton paid the matter any heed at all.

June 18, 1820, 1:00
P.M.

Old Minstrel's Gallery above the Ballroom

Durham House, London

“S
ee?” From over Meg's shoulder, Gaston looked down at the wedding breakfast in full swing in the ballroom below. “I told you they would manage perfectly well without us.”

Meg scanned the faces. “God only knows what happened at the ceremony.”

“Do you see any unhappy faces there,
mignonne
? No. Because all went perfectly, exactly as you had arranged.”

Meg glanced at him, eyes faintly narrow. “I hate it when you're right.”

He grinned at her. “You will have to learn to get used to it—just as you did last night.”

Meg felt a blush climb up her throat and into her cheeks at the reminder of exactly what had filled their night, and most of their morning, too, resulting in her missing the only royal wedding she'd ever organized.

Not that she truly minded; Gaston, and all he'd shown her, was more than adequate compensation.

But it hadn't been until fifteen minutes ago that she'd realized that none of their respective families had expected them to make an appearance at the ceremony, or indeed, at the breakfast. She and Gaston had slipped into the house through a side door, and gone straight to her room so she could change. He had a yacht standing by to catch the afternoon tide, and she had agreed to go with him.

On entering her room, she'd come to an abrupt halt. Gaston, following, had propelled her farther in and shut the door. Leaving her gawping at her traveling trunks, all packed and ready, waiting.

There'd been notes, too—from Cicely, Rosalind, and Miranda, her sisters, from her two brothers, and her mother and father, too. From Juliette and Robert, and the de Rochers.

But it was the present Cicely, Rosalind, and Miranda had hidden in the top of her night case that reduced her to tears. A scandalous nightgown of silk and lace, all but diaphanous, with a note pinned to the abbreviated neckline:

You gave us our dreams—we hope this helps in making yours come true.

She'd been laughing and crying at the same time.

Gaston had looked at her warily, then carefully taken her into his arms. He'd kissed her forehead, then after a moment murmured, “I know you are crying because you are happy,
mignonne,
but I cannot say that I like to see you cry.”

She'd cried even harder then.

After she'd dried her eyes, and with Gaston's help changed into the traveling gown someone had helpfully left out, while she'd checked her jewelry, brushes, and combs, Gaston summoned the footmen and sent her trunks down to the carriage waiting to whisk them to the coast.

At her insistence, they'd come up to the tiny gallery; Gaston had seen no reason to go anywhere near the wedding breakfast and the hordes of people attending, but she'd pressed and he'd bent and agreed she could look from afar.

Now that she knew her family and the de Rochers, and Robert, too, had been in on his plan all along, she wasn't so surprised to see no anxious glances being cast about, no hint of any tension marring the joy of the gathering below.

His gaze on her face, Gaston said from beside her, “The organization was done—your role, and mine, too, were played and complete.”

She nodded.

He stepped back to the curtains at the rear of the gallery.

Hands on the railing, she turned.

He captured her gaze, his eyes dark and intent, and held out his hand. “Come. You have started enough couples on their roads to happiness—it is time to step out along your own path.”

She held his gaze, then without a single glance back, she turned from the railing, turned her back on the noisy gathering below, placed her hand in his and let him draw her on—into life, into love, into their shared future.

August 1820

Drawing Room, Lady Osbaldestone's town house, London

“ ‘I
n an exclusive report, this publication can advise its readers that Lady Margaret Dawlish, eldest daughter of the Duke of Durham and widely regarded as the ton's most successful organizer of exclusive weddings, has married the Duc de Perigord in a very private ceremony in Paris. It is rumored that the bride and groom, both having reached a certain age, saw no reason to indulge in the pomp and circumstance customarily attendant on marriages of such eminent scions of ducal houses, and thus chose to marry quietly.

“ ‘An alternative hypothesis is that, having just concluded the organization of the recent royal wedding of the Prince du Garde, a close relative of the duc, in London, Lady Margaret and the duc opted for a smaller family ceremony in order not to be seen as in any way competing with the younger couple for society's attention.

“ ‘Regardless of which of these theories holds most water, it is known that the couple, having been granted the required royal assent from Louis XVIII, were married in the family chapel of the elegant Hotel de Perigord in Paris on the sixteenth of July. The bride's family is known to have been vacationing in Paris over that time.

“ ‘Sadly for all young ladies in any way connected with the House of Durham, we must report that our sources have indicated that Lady Margaret is unlikely to resume her previous hobby. She is believed to have returned with her husband to his estates in the south of France with the stated intention of devoting her considerable energies henceforth to assisting the duc in ruling over and rebuilding the far-flung de Perigord family holdings.

“ ‘It is with sincere regret that we at this publication bid Lady Margaret a fond adieu. In view of the many events she has organized which have provided our readers with such vicarious excitement over the years, with all due regard we take this opportunity to wish her well.'

“Well! That was very nicely put, I must say.” Cicely laid the morning paper aside. “I must remember to post a copy to Meg—she'll appreciate that last bit.”

“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone's black eyes gleamed. She nodded at Cicely with overt approval. “You did well, child. There are weddings, and weddings, and while Meg may have been expert in organizing the first sort, you did very well. Clearly she isn't the only Dawlish who can plan a wedding and pull it off.” Catching Cicely's eye, Lady Osbaldestone asked, “Are you going to tell her? Confess that it was you that devil Gaston enlisted to aid him?”

Cicely thought, then, smiling fondly, shook her head. “I don't think so. There are some secrets between sisters that are best left . . . secret.”