Ryder stepped back, and she stepped forward.
Out of one life and into another—and not a hint of panic stirred.
Frederick’s lips lifted in his slow, sensual smile as his fingers closed firmly around hers, then he turned, and she turned with him to face the altar and the Bishop of London, who, beaming, came forward to conduct the service.
She listened in a daze of awe and wonder as the familiar phrases rolled resonantly off the bishop’s tongue, and she and Frederick made their responses and their vows in clear, confident voices. Then came the moment when Frederick raised her left hand and slipped a delicately worked gold band onto her third finger.
And he and she were married. The bishop declared it was so, and she looked up and saw relief, expectation, hope, and happiness in Frederick’s hazel eyes and felt the same emotions bloom inside her.
This felt right—so very right. She’d made the correct decision.
Then, still smiling, Frederick tipped up her chin and bent his head, and his lips found hers in a kiss that spoke of promises—all those promises they hadn’t discussed but which were there, nonetheless, intrinsic parts of their bargain.
When he raised his head, she felt giddy. He searched her eyes and grinned—a very male expression.
Then he took her hand and turned her to meet their well-wishers, and the crowd, gay, happy, and delighted, swamped them.
For several minutes, a melee of congratulations, kisses, and slapping of shoulders held sway. The bishop joined them, as did the rector and the organist, but eventually, the group found their way onto the porch and into the line of carriages waiting to ferry them to Mount Street and the wedding breakfast.
Frederick and Stacie traveled in the first landau. As the top was down, several ladies walking along the fashionable pavements of Grosvenor Street spotted them, took in the profusion of her ivory lace veil and the pearl diadem anchoring it in her hair—saw Frederick in his morning suit sitting beside her—and halted, gasping, then, as they passed, immediately fell into rabid conversation.
She glanced at Frederick, and he arched a laconic brow. “I expect,” she said, “that our secret wedding will be the talk of the ton this evening.”
He lightly shrugged. “I don’t care. By then, we’ll have quit town.”
She blinked her eyes wide. She hadn’t thought to ask… “Where are we going?”
The curve of his lips deepened. Looking ahead, he raised her hand, the one he hadn’t yet let go, pressed a kiss to her fingers, then lowered their linked hands to rest on his thigh. “I thought we should go to Brampton Hall. It’s only just over two hours away, and it’s quiet there, and as I spend most of the year there, I thought you would like to get to know the place.”
She smiled and faced forward. “I would like that.”
Now she’d taken the plunge and they’d married, she found that she was eager to get on—to learn more about him, about his households and estates. Not just so that she could be the most perfect wife but also because she was curious as to what those places would reveal of him.
Their wedding breakfast proved all she’d hoped it would be—a warm, joyous, family affair. Even Aurelia Brampton unbent enough to smile, and she seemed surprisingly uncensorious over the antics of Julian and Arthur, let alone Clarissa’s insistence on depositing rose petals on every lady’s lap.
With just over forty sitting down to dine, the company was easily accommodated in the formal dining room at Raventhorne House—the house Stacie considered her childhood home. A portrait of her father looked down the length of the table; once the formal toasts were completed, Stacie seized a moment to turn to the portrait and raise her glass in a silent salute to her sire.
As she turned back to the table, Frederick arched a brow at her. “Your father?”
She nodded and leaned her shoulder briefly against his. “He would have approved of you—he would be very happy that I’ve married you.”
He met her eyes, then closed his hand over hers and lightly squeezed. “I’m glad.”
Later, a string quartet from the music school played a collection of waltzes, and they danced.
She had refused point-blank to throw her bouquet; aside from her lack of enthusiasm, as she’d pointed out, there’d been no unmarried young lady of suitable age present to catch it. “Not unless you count Clarissa.”
As she’d made that comment in Ryder’s hearing, she’d immediately had his support, and consequently, there was to be no tossing of her bouquet.
“Thank God for that,” Godfrey had said when she’d mentioned it. “Given the recent spate of results—Sylvia catching Felicia’s bouquet, and you then catching Sylvia’s, and both of you ending up married within months—I would have felt forced to leave the room, just in case.”
She’d laughed and told him he wouldn’t escape forever, and cited herself as proof of that, which had only made Godfrey look even more wary.
Frederick spent his wedding breakfast never far from his bride—something he discovered was no hardship. She captured and held his attention in a way no other lady ever had; he tried to tell himself it was because she was now his wife, but knew it was simply because she was Stacie.
She’d caught his attention from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her and, now, had fixed it for all time.
While riding to Mount Street in the carriage beside her, he’d imagined that having to rein in his desire, stoked to fresh and eager heights by the knowledge that she was now his, would be his principal distraction over the hours of the extended luncheon; instead, his overriding impulse was to ensure nothing—but nothing—disturbed his new wife’s peace. He hovered close enough to ensure that no one said anything to upset her in any way and, especially, that no one referred to her likeness to her mother. Luckily, doubtless because everyone present was close family and had already made such comments often in the past, no one raised the specter of the late marchioness; had any done so, it might have tested his resolve not to react overly protectively—possessively protectively.
Indeed, managing to appease his instincts where Stacie was concerned without triggering her suspicions over why he was reacting in such a way loomed as his biggest hurdle going forward. He could only hope that her expectations of what constituted normal behavior in husbands had been gleaned primarily from observations of her married brothers’ reactions, and that she wouldn’t dwell on the emotion that gave rise to such actions.
Yet while they were surrounded by others, especially other males, he felt as if he were walking on eggshells. The sooner he could whisk her away to Brampton Hall, where they would be effectively alone, the better.
Until then, he had to grin and bear with the constant pricking and flaring of his instincts.
By the time she stopped beside him and, with a laughing smile, informed him she was about to go and change out of her delicate wedding gown into a dress more suitable for driving into Surrey, he was more than ready to depart.
Twenty minutes later, he handed her up into his curricle, joined her on the seat, and with her waving madly to the crowd clustered on the Raventhorne House steps, he flourished his whip and gave his bays the office, and finally, they were away.
As he tooled the carriage out of Mayfair, through Kensington, and out along the road to Guildford, he felt all tensions ease, then slide away.
He glanced at the lady beside him—his wife. His marchioness.
She’d settled on the seat and was looking about her with evident interest, apparently intent on noting the landmarks they passed.
He smiled and gave his attention to his horses.
Brampton Hall and their wedding night lay ahead, and that was one challenge he was more than ready to meet.
Twilight was falling by the time Frederick turned his horses between the stately gateposts that flanked the winding gravel drive that, Stacie assumed, would lead them to his home—the marquessate’s principal seat of Brampton Hall.
She sat straighter on the seat and looked around, surve
ying all she could see in the gathering dusk.
Frederick glanced her way. “The ornamental lake is behind the house—you can’t see it from here.”
“Is this area all lawns and trees?” She waved to both sides of the drive.
He nodded. “The formal gardens are clustered around the house—if anything, they extend more to the other side, the west.”
Everything she could see was well-tended, the lawns neatly clipped, the trees mature but trimmed.
She suddenly thought to ask, “Did you send word you were marrying today—that we would be coming to stay?”
He chuckled. “I did—they’re expecting us.”
“Oh, good.” She told herself that was better than them arriving without warning and throwing the household into utter chaos. Still, the notion of formally meeting a full household of staff as their new mistress was distinctly daunting.
Frederick reached across, closed his hand about one of hers, and squeezed reassuringly. “Most here have known me all my life. They’ll be relieved I’ve married someone like you—someone who will deal with them reasonably and whom they can respect—they’ll welcome you with open arms.” He paused, then added, “Figuratively speaking, at least.”
She smiled and turned her hand in his and gripped lightly, then released her hold so he could steer the horses around the next curve. How had he known that she was having a minor panic and specifically over that? Such moments made her increasingly grateful to Fate for having steered her his way.
The horses trotted around a corner, and the house rose before them. It was a surprise—not a Palladian mansion but an older hall that sprawled in all directions, two stories high in a composite style that was neither this nor that. Constructed primarily from honey-colored sandstone with a sound slate roof, the central block faced an oval forecourt, while the wings extending to both sides rambled into leafy gardens. Roses climbed walls and wreathed around balconies in several locations.
Most windows sported shutters, although none were closed, and warm lamplight spilled through the gleaming ground-floor windows as Frederick halted the curricle before the shallow front steps that led up to a wide porch and a pair of arched oak doors.
Wide-eyed, Stacie stared, drinking in all she could see. All she could feel. The place was old enough to have developed an aura—one of peace and tranquility.
Frederick turned to her; she felt his gaze roam her face, then from the corner of her eye, she saw his features ease, and his lips curved, and he said, “Welcome to Brampton Hall, my lady.”
She drew her eyes from the house and met his gaze. “It’s lovely.”
His smile deepened. “I’m glad you approve.”
A groom had come running to take the reins; the lad bobbed and beamed at Stacie, and she smiled and nodded in reply. Frederick descended, rounded the curricle, and handed her down, and with her arm in his, she walked up the steps and across the porch.
The double doors were pulled open before they reached them. Lamplight filled the high-ceilinged hall, illuminating the staff drawn up in two rows forming a path to the bottom of the stairs.
She didn’t have time to be nervous before Frederick was introducing her to the butler, Hughes, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes. To Stacie, the couple seemed a reflection of the house—eminently capable yet comfortable. Hughes was of average height and solid girth and exuded an air of competence, while Mrs. Hughes was a touch shorter—not much taller than Stacie—with apple cheeks, a round, cushiony figure, and steel-gray hair drawn back in a bun.
As Frederick had intimated, the Hugheses appeared very happy to welcome Stacie and seemed genuinely delighted at the prospect of having her as their mistress. They accompanied her down the lines of staff, not just introducing each member but giving her a snippet of information as to that member’s duties and also how long they’d been connected with the estate; Stacie noted that, for many, the latter was all of their lives.
Eventually, they reached the stairs, and Frederick reclaimed her hand, led her up two steps, then turned and addressed the staff, thanking them for their congratulations and felicitations.
Stacie gripped his hand and, smiling on the small crowd, added, “Thank you for your welcome.” She let her gaze sweep the hall, with the family’s richly colored baronial pennants and shields decorating the walls. “This is a lovely house, and I can already tell I’m going to enjoy living here. I look forward to working with you in the days, months, and years to come.”
Faces lit, and a cheer went up.
Smiling still, she let Frederick tow her on up the stairs.
When they stepped into the gallery, he looked at her. “Did you mean that? That you like the place and think you’ll enjoy living here?”
“Yes.” As he drew her along, she swung the hand she held and looked at the portraits and pictures and through the long windows they passed. “If you must know, I felt at home the instant I stepped over the threshold—it felt as if I was stepping into a community living inside an old oak tree that has sunk its roots deep into the soil and grown strong enough to weather anything that comes its way.” She paused, then added, “Some houses have an atmosphere so strong you can feel it. When I stepped into the hall…it felt as if the house embraced me.” She caught his eye and smiled self-deprecatingly. “Silly, I know, but there it is.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s silly at all.” He met her eyes and returned her smile. “I prefer to live here for a reason.”
He’d led her down a long corridor. He stopped before the doors at its end, then glanced at her, a slight frown on his face. “That door”—he tipped his head at the door to their left—“leads to the marchioness’s apartments, but I honestly don’t know what state they’ll be in. I didn’t specifically tell the Hugheses to prepare those rooms, and of course, everything in there hails from my mother’s time.”
She drew in a suddenly tight breath. “Where are your rooms?”
He nodded to the double doors before them.
With a boldness that was entirely feigned, she stepped forward. “Let’s use those.”
Her maid, Kitty, was still on the road, following them down from London in a carriage, with Stacie’s trunks and boxes and Frederick’s valet for company. There was no lady’s maid to assist her to undress and no nightgown for her to don.
She doubted she would need either.
Frederick opened one of the double doors and ushered her into what was obviously his domain; the decor was a blend of golden browns that instantly brought his eyes to mind.
The large room spread across the end of the wing, with wide windows overlooking the lawns that led down to the lake. A huge four-poster bed, hung with brocades and satin in shades of gold and rich browns, dominated the left half of the room. The smaller windows flanking its head gave a view of the gardens on that side; in the last of the fading light, Stacie could just make out the pale blooms of roses bobbing on the canes of massive, old bushes.
The other half of the room contained a comfortable grouping of two armchairs and a table set before the fireplace, which was flanked by windows framing views of mature trees.
Nearer to hand, chests of drawers sat to either side of the main door, their tops strewn with an assortment of music sheets, loosely stacked, while across the room, beneath one end of the wide windows, sat a desk with several large books piled upon it.
Frederick shut the door. Stacie barely had time to catch her breath before his arm slid around her and he turned her to face him.
She looked up, into his eyes—eyes that, from the first, had truly seen her. Her gaze locked with his, and she felt warmth bloom, swell, and spread beneath her skin, not a blush but a more elemental heat.
He arched both brows at her, the faintly amused expression on his face contradicted by the intentness in his eyes. Then slowly, he drew her closer—and she went, setting her palms against his chest and letting him draw her fully against him as he bent his head.
Warmth wrapped around her, la
pped at her senses, and tempted.
She wanted this.
She stretched up and offered her lips—invited his kiss—and his lips settled on hers, warm and persuasive, and she mentally sighed and let go.
She set herself free to follow his lead into passion, into intimacy, into whatever lay in store for them in this marriage of bodies and minds.
Until the moment Stacie surrendered her mouth, surrendered herself fully to his embrace, Frederick hadn’t had any plan in mind, but now instinct rose and prodded, prompted, and he recognized its wisdom and followed that path.
He needed her, but she needed him more. Reining in all inclination to rush, he took his time savoring her lips, her mouth, let the minutes spin out as their tongues tangled and played and her breath grew shorter and shorter.
Her hands slid upward, palms sliding over his shoulders, then her fingers tunneled into his hair. He deepened the kiss, edging the exchange into more deeply evocative, provocative territory; only when she was well-nigh desperate and her hands clenched tight in his hair did he send his hands roaming over the swollen mounds of her breasts, caressing and possessing, before tracing the indentation of her waist, neat and taut beneath her carriage dress and light stays, then sending his hands sliding still lower to explore the luscious curves of her derriere, screened by layers of skirt and petticoats.
He hid a smile when she wrenched back from the kiss, gasped, “Too many clothes!” and fell on the buttons of his shirt and waistcoat. Inwardly grinning, he set his fingers to the long line of tiny buttons running down her spine.
He had her gown gaping and loose by the time she opened his coat, waistcoat, and shirt and tried to push the garments off his shoulders.
He stepped back and stripped off coat, waistcoat, and shirt in one fell swoop. He had to look down to free his hands from the cuffs, then let the garments fall to the floor.
He looked up—to find her staring at his bared chest, a strange expression on her face and something like wonder in her eyes. Then she reached out and trailed her fingertips across his bare skin, and he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw to hold back a shudder.
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 26
