Where The Heart Leads (43 page)

Her eyes narrowed. “You intended to
make me change my mind
?”

Her tone made him snort. “Not even then, when I knew you less well, did I imagine I’d be able to do that.
I
couldn’t make you change your mind, but I hoped, prayed, that you’d come to see that marrying me would be a good idea. That you’d convince yourself to change your stance. As you did.”

He’d expected her to follow his comments forward in time, to the present; instead—as he should have known she would—she retreated to the point he’d revealed, but hadn’t explained.

“Why did you want to marry me?” She frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Almost from the start of our association, before we grew to know each other well…what possessed you to decide you wanted to marry me?”

It took more than an inward squirm—more like an inner wrestle—to force the truth out. “I don’t know.”

When she stared at him, disbelief in her eyes, he reiterated, “I
don’t
.” Jaw setting, he went on, “At that time, all I knew was that you were the one. I didn’t understand it—but I knew it just the same.”

“So definitely you acted on it?” She sounded…a touch fascinated.

A dangerous admission, but he forced himself to nod.

Her eyes, dark and luminous, softened. She tilted her head, her eyes on his. “And now?”

The ultimate question.

Looking into her eyes, he forced himself to speak. To confess and have done with it—to tell her all he’d never intended her to know. “I still don’t understand why any man in his right mind would tell any woman this, but…I love you. Before you walked into my life, I had no clue what love was—I saw it in others, even appreciated it in them, but I’d never been touched by it. So I didn’t know how it felt—would feel. Now I know.”

He hauled in a huge, not entirely steady breath. “When Cameron grabbed you and he had that knife—I literally saw red. I knew nothing beyond the fact that you—around whom my life now revolves—were in danger. That if anything happened to you, I couldn’t live—I might exist, but I wouldn’t be truly alive as I have been with you over the last weeks.”

He searched her eyes. “You didn’t say it before, so I will—
you make my life complete.
I love you, I need you, and I want you as mine—mine for all the world to see and know.”

To his surprise, the words had come easily. “I want us to marry. I want us to be man and wife.”

She looked into his eyes, then slowly, she smiled. “Good.” Reaching up, she drew his head down to hers. “Because that’s what I want, too, because I love you, too. It’s strange and unexpected, but fascinating and exciting, and I want to keep exploring it…with you.” Their lips a bare inch apart, she paused. Her ripe, luscious lips curved deliciously. “And you might want to remember that arguing with me is never wise.”

He would have laughed, but she kissed him. Kept kissing him when he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her back.

Joined with him—more, urged him on. All barriers fallen, all hurdles overcome, there was no longer any reason not to celebrate to the fullest all they’d found, all they shared—the love, the desire, the passion.

They let all three loose—his and hers combined. Together, as one, they let the tumult rage and devour them.

Let it sweep them into a giddy, desperate, wild engagement driven by their needs. Who took whom, who could more evocatively demonstrate, more effectively convey their devotion—as ever they argued,
wordlessly pressed, embraced the question and with abandon gave themselves up to pursuing the answer.

To their mutual delight, to their mutual pleasure and ultimate satisfaction.

To the culminating moment when he had her beneath him, when she arched and took him deep, when her hands clutched desperately as she crested the peak—in that moment, looking down on her face, on the rapture so starkly etched across her features, he couldn’t doubt—didn’t doubt—that her devotion, her commitment—her love—was the equal of his.

Then the maelstrom took her, shattered her, and glory poured through her—into him. Even as her hands slid limply from his shoulders, the tight clutch of her body drew him with her into the timeless void. Into that moment of exquisitely sharp sensation when nothing mattered but that they were one.

The moment fused them, wrapped them in warm clouds of bliss—in completion, in benediction, in the sureness that this was where fate had wanted them—slumped, helpless in the aftermath of something neither could deny.

Whole. Complete. In each other’s arms.

They were married, not as they’d wished within days, but in late January. December arrived and with it came snow—feet and feet of it. Even though their respective ancestral homes weren’t that far apart, their mothers jointly declared that too many others would have to brave the drifts to attend their nuptials; consequently, said nuptials had to be delayed until after the thaw.

As Penelope was heard to comment on the drive to the church, she and Barnaby had to count themselves lucky they’d been allowed to wed before April.

The weather did not similarly affect matters in the capital. Cameron was committed to Newgate, and left there to languish pending a full review of the charges to be laid against him; his trial would necessarily have to wait until those from whom he’d stolen so successfully returned to the capital to identify their possessions.

The day after Cameron had been arrested, Stokes and Huntingdon’s
staff had searched the house. Courtesy of a tweeny who had heard noises in the locked box room adjacent to her tiny room in the attic, they’d uncovered a cache containing the seven items Smythe and the boys had delivered into Cameron’s hands.

Riggs had confirmed that Cameron was an acquaintance, one who knew of his house in St. John’s Wood Terrace, and that his mistress, Miss Walker, was a slave to laudanum. Riggs had been confounded to learn of Cameron’s actions. “He was always such a good fellow, you know. Would never have suspected him of any such thing.”

That sentiment was echoed by many; it was Montague who eventually shed light on Cameron’s motives.

Cameron hadn’t been what he’d purported to be—not since his early schooldays. The son of a mill owner from the north who’d married the local squire’s daughter, his gentry-born maternal grandfather had taken some delight in sending him to Harrow.

Unfortunately, courtesy of his schoolmates, his schooldays had given Cameron a glimpse into the world of the haut ton. It became his burning ambition not just to gain entry to that gilded circle, but to belong. So he’d hidden his lowly origins, and had zealously concealed his damning lack of funds.

He’d made ends meet by gambling, which had stood him in good stead, until he’d hit a losing streak. His life had gone downhill rapidly. He’d landed in the clutches of London’s most notorious cent-per-cent, a usurer Stokes and his superiors would dearly like to see put out of business, but neither desperate debtors nor dead men tended to talk.

As Cameron’s scheme had been all his own invention, he wasn’t any help in that regard. Now that said scheme, and the façade he’d constructed, had tumbled down about his ears, Cameron had retreated into himself and largely refused to speak.

Given the seriousness of the thefts he’d planned, and his exploitation of his position as Huntingdon’s secretary to that end, knowing as he had that such actions would seriously damage the standing of the still-fledgling police force, and in light of the incitement he’d provided to Smythe and Grimsby to commit murder, kidnap innocent boys and induct them into lives of crime, transportation was the very best Cameron could expect; he would be lucky to escape the gallows.

On a happier note, Inspector Basil Stokes and Miss Griselda Martin were married early in the New Year. Having spent Christmas with
their families, first at Calverton Chase, then at Cothelstone Castle, and then having journeyed—commanded by duchessly edict—to join the revels at Somersham Place, there to be subjected to another round of congratulations and teasing, Barnaby and Penelope pounced on the excuse to flee. Braving the roads, they reached the capital the day before the wedding. Just as well, as Barnaby was Stokes’s best man, and Penelope stood beside Griselda as her maid of honor.

Penelope regarded the outcome as a triumph. She was quick to extract a promise from the happy couple that they in turn would attend her and Barnaby’s nuptials in due course.

Finally,
later that month, after she’d succeeded in dancing the wedding waltz at her own wedding—a waltz she’d enjoyed to the very depth of her soul—Penelope stood by the side of the Calverton Chase ballroom, and confessed to her sister Portia, who, with her older sister Anne, had been her matron of honor, “It was so
very
tempting, being in London, to have Barnaby get a special license and simply have done with the matter, but—”

“You couldn’t face your mothers’ consequent disappointment.” Portia grinned. “Neither of you would have ever lived it down.”

Looking down the ballroom to where their mother and Barnaby’s sat, resplendent on a chaise surrounded by other ladies of similar degree, delightedly receiving the congratulations of their acquaintance, Penelope frowned. “I can’t understand it—it’s not as if they haven’t presided over weddings of their children before. For Mama, this is her
fifth
time, and the countess’s
fourth
—surely the gloss should have dimned by now.”

Portia laughed. “You’re forgetting one thing. For them, this wedding represents a triple triumph.”

“How so?”

“First, you know perfectly well that the entire ton has considered you determinedly unweddable—by your own choice. Your change of mind is a huge triumph for Mama. And similarly for Barnaby—it was greatly feared he would join the ranks of the confirmed bachelors, so of course Lady Cothelstone is in alt. And last but not least, for both Mama and her ladyship, you two are their last. The youngest and last of their offspring.” Portia looked down the room to where the two ladies sat. “As of this morning, their work is
done
.”

Penelope blinked; that certainly cast their mothers’ happiness in a
new light. “But surely,” she said, thinking further, “they’ll have a similar interest in their grandchildren’s lives and marriages.”

“Interest, yes, but at one remove—I suspect they’ll leave most of the worrying about our offspring to us.”

Something in Portia’s voice made Penelope look at her more closely. After a moment she asked, “Is that the way the wind blows, then?”

Portia met her eye, and blushed—something she didn’t readily do. “Possibly. It’s too early to be certain, but…it’s likely you’ll be an aunt again in another seven or so months.”

Emily had two children already, and Anne had recently given birth to her first, a son, whose advent had reduced her husband, Reggie Carmarthen, to a state of doting idiocy. “Excellent!” Penelope beamed. “I can’t wait to see Simon fussing over someone else.”

Portia grinned. “Neither can I.”

They both dwelled on the vision, then Penelope substituted Barnaby for Simon…and wondered. Children were something she hadn’t thought about; they either came or they didn’t, but…the notion of holding an angelic little Barnaby with golden curls made her feel strange and fluttery inside.

She put the thought away for later examination—she’d barely grown accustomed to being so ridiculously and consumingly in love—as others came up to claim her attention. Everyone in both families, and all their connections, had attended; not only was the Chase full to overflowing, but many of the nearby houses and every inn within reach were crammed with guests.

The oldest was Lady Osbaldestone; despite her age, her black eyes were still sharp. She’d tapped Penelope’s cheek and advised her she was a clever girl. Exactly what act had demonstrated her cleverness Penelope hadn’t asked.

The afternoon wore on with music, dancing, and general gaiety. The grayness outside made the festive atmosphere inside only more pleasurable.

Eventually, having endured hours of ribbing on his change of heart regarding marriage—to which he had with perfect sincerity pointed out that, as Penelope was recognized as a unique young lady, his earlier dismissal of young ladies in general had never applied to her, which statement had given rise to unrestrained hilarity on Gerrard’s, Dillon’s, and Charlie’s parts—Barnaby found Penelope, deftly ex
cused them both from those with whom she’d been conversing, and whirled her into a waltz.

The dance floor was the one place she let him lead without challenge. Which brought him to his point. “I believe,” he said, looking into her dark eyes, “that we should depart. Now.”

“Oh?” She raised her brows, but she was smiling. “Where are we departing to? Are we following Stokes and Griselda back to town?”

“Yes, and no.” Stokes and Griselda had remained for the first hours of the extended wedding breakfast, but Stokes had had to get back to London; they’d left a few hours ago. “We’ll head to London, but by a different route.”

He owned a cozy little hunting box not far distant; he’d had it for years, but rarely used it. For tonight, he’d made arrangements to ensure it would provide the perfect venue for their perfect wedding night. He smiled down into her eyes. Before her advent into his life, he’d assumed he was devoid of romantic inclinations. Apparently not so. “I think you’ll like where we’re going.”

Her smile softened, deepened. “I know I will.”

She couldn’t have guessed; he raised his brows.

“Because all I need will be there—you.”

It was his turn to feel the glow that had turned her expression golden. He felt his heart expand, swell.

She saw it in his eyes. “Can I make a suggestion, to improve this plan of yours?”

As he’d expected. “Suggest away.”

“See that door over there—past the ornate mirror?” When he nodded, she continued, “If we sweep past after the next turn, we could simply halt, go out, close the door—and escape. If we don’t…if we try for a formal exit, we’ll be hours making our farewells and getting free. We’ve already thanked everyone for coming. I suggest we leave before we get trapped.”