“Thank you,” Stacie said. “That would be a great help.”
Frederick managed a nod of assent; with the way his head was thudding, it was the best he could do.
With a salute, the horseman rode on.
Two minutes later, two eager young ostlers came running up the hill. Their eyes rounded; in happier circumstances, their expressions of awe would have been comical. They took charge of the bays with all due reverence, which seemed to calm the flighty beasts.
Relieved of the horses’ reins, Frederick didn’t have to concentrate on anything beyond taking the next step, and they progressed without incident to the inn, where they were received with exclamations and assurances of the very best of care for the horses and for themselves.
By then, the pain in Frederick’s head had reduced to a dull ache; the walk had, indeed, helped.
Stacie was relieved when, on entering the inn, Frederick released his hold on her shoulders and, standing straight and tall, with his usual commanding air, issued crisp orders that saw the two ostlers riding his bays back to Albury House, a crew of stable hands dispatched to remove and dispose of the wrecked curricle, and a groom and coachman off readying a carriage to transport him and her back to Albury House.
He looked at her, then ordered tea to be served in a private parlor while they waited for the carriage to be prepared.
Having realized by then that they had real nobility gracing their small inn, the innkeeper’s wife broke out her special tea service and served them hot tea and quite scrumptious scones with homemade jam.
Stacie thanked the woman, and she bobbed and withdrew. Stacie poured and was relieved to see Frederick not just sip the tea but devour three scones with obvious relish.
She knew she was staring, but couldn’t stop. Relief was like a drug, seeping through her veins as the realization sank in that he was recovering as well as might be expected. The effect of that relief, its depth and intensity, threw the power of her earlier emotions—the shock, the panic, the expectation of devastating grief—into sharp focus.
As she sat staring at her husband—who was looking more disheveled than she’d ever seen him, yet, to her eyes, was the most glorious sight she’d ever beheld—she couldn’t avoid recognizing the obvious truth.
Sometime over the past weeks, she’d fallen in love.
They reached Albury House after the bays, the arrival of which—sans curricle—had, understandably, caused considerable consternation.
Stacie realized they should have sent a message with the ostlers. “Our apologies, Fortingale—we had other things on our minds.”
As Fortingale had, by then, taken stock of his master’s state—and Stacie’s dusty skirts as well—he regally forgave her. “Quite understandable, my lady.”
One hand at his temple, Frederick asked, “Is my mother in, Fortingale?”
“No, my lord. She and Mrs. Weston are attending a luncheon at Lady Harborough’s. I could send word, if you wish?”
“Good God, no.” Frederick met Stacie’s eyes. “It’s late for luncheon, and I’m famished.” He glanced down at his clothes. “I’m in no fit state to sit down at anyone else’s table, but I’d rather eat before going up to change.”
She interpreted that as meaning he was still feeling shaky and needed the bolstering food would provide. She looked at Fortingale. “I’m sure Mrs. Macaffrey and Cook can put together a cold collation for us.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Fortingale bowed. “If you and his lordship will go through to the dining room, I will bring in their offerings within minutes.”
Fortingale—and Mrs. Macaffrey and Cook—were as good as his word, and once the food was set before Stacie, she discovered she was ravenous, too. Between them, she and Frederick made decent inroads into the dishes provided, then both sat back with somewhat weary sighs.
She studied Frederick’s face; although some of the pain-induced tension had eased, to her, his features still appeared tight. “How’s your head?”
He glanced at her, considered, then replied, “Better.” He set down his water glass and stretched his back and arms. “I daresay I’ll feel better yet after I change.”
She readily rose and walked with him slowly up the main stairs and to the large bedroom they now shared. Frederick continued on into his dressing room; Stacie trailed after him and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. He seemed recovered enough—steady enough—yet her concerns remained.
While Frederick shrugged out of his dusty coat and tossed it on a rack for Elliot to resurrect, she seized the moment to revisit the revelation that had struck her in the inn parlor; she wasn’t sure she was yet ready to deal with it—to assess what her falling in love with Frederick might mean, whether it would necessitate any change in how she dealt with him or in how they conducted their marriage—but for now, she was rattled enough to discover that the feeling was still there and all too real.
It hadn’t been any ephemeral emotion evoked by the danger he’d been in. No—it was solid and visceral and powerful…
She hauled her mind away and refocused on Frederick. He’d peeled off his waistcoat and dropped it on his discarded coat. He reached for his cravat and started tugging the simple knot loose, then he frowned and, holding out one section of the linen band, peered down at it. “What’s this?” The tips of his fingers speared through a slit in the material. “How on earth did that happen? It couldn’t have been there this morning—Elliot would never have missed it.”
Stacie’s mind flashed back to the moments in the road—to the glint she’d seen and batted away. “Oh, God.” She slumped against the door frame.
Then Frederick was there, standing before her. “What is it?” His eyes searched hers. “You’ve gone deathly pale.”
Her eyes locking with his, she moistened suddenly dry lips. “In the road, when you were still unconscious, lots of men gathered around, and at the edge of my vision, I saw a hand and a flash of something silvery dart toward your throat, and without really looking, I batted it away. By the time I turned my head and looked properly, there was nothing there, and I wasn’t sure it hadn’t been the light reflecting off a shoe buckle or something similar…” She shoved away from the door frame, raised her hands to the remaining folds of the cravat, and pushed them aside.
His fingers followed hers as they found unmarked skin.
“Not a scratch,” he said, his eyes darkening. “Thanks to you.”
She stared into his eyes; she had no idea what he might see in hers. “The axle shouldn’t have broken, should it?”
“No. It was almost sawn through.”
“But…” She felt confounded. “How? Where?”
His lips tightened. “I think it must have been while the curricle was in Brougham’s stable. My carriage house is secure—the stablemen sleep there, and there’s always someone around.”
“You think Brougham…?”
She was relieved when he shook his head decisively.
“No. But while Brougham and I were on the terrace, I saw his groom, coachman, and stable boys hanging on a paddock fence admiring my bays. They were there for quite a while—long enough for someone who had been following us to slip into the stable and saw through the axle.”
He paused, then went on, “Whoever it is, they’re opportunistic, seizing on any chance that offers.” After a moment, he added, “Thus far, we’ve been lucky. If the axle had held for longer and broken when we were in town, on cobbled streets rather than macadam, and with many more carriages, horses, and people about…”
“I just remembered.” She felt suddenly giddy and tightened her fists in his shirt to anchor her. “The first men who reached us asked if you were dead, and I said no. It was after that that everyone gathered around and the knife appeared.”
He nodded. “He—whoever the blackguard is—was following close enough to be there when the carriage disintegrated, to see if I was killed outright and, if not, to finish the job.” He caught her eyes. “Thanks to you, he didn’t succeed
.”
She released her hold on his shirt, raised her hands, and framed his jaw. “You! It’s you they’re after.” Uncaring of what he might read in her face, she clung to him, with her gaze desperately willing him to accept that truth.
Frederick couldn’t name the emotion that rose inside him as the meaning of all he could see in her features, in her blue eyes, registered. His hands settled on her waist. “Stop panicking. They’re not going to kill me—especially not when I have you by my side.”
She wasn’t soothed. Her panic seemed to be escalating.
He bent his head and set his lips to hers, demonstrating in the most unequivocal way that he was still there, still hers.
Hers.
That thought—that truth—resonated inside him, and when she returned his kiss with fervent kisses of her own, he saw no reason not to follow their prompting and show her, prove to her, the full gamut of all that undeniable truth meant.
He set aside all reservation, embraced the passion that so readily flared between them, and shaped it—orchestrated it into a display of all he felt.
Emotion was made real, manifesting in increasingly heated kisses, in the possessive need that infused his touch—and hers. He didn’t miss that—mistake that. And the realization sent his own heart—his passion and desire for her—soaring.
Unable, it seemed, to break from the hungry, greedy exchange, by stages, they made their way to the bed, divesting each other of their clothes as they went.
They fell on the silken coverlet in a tangle of limbs and searching hands. Hands intent on using stroking caresses to impress on the other the reverence and devotion that had flowered in their hearts.
Need built, and passion swirled about them.
Desire sharpened to a whip and drove them on.
They came together on a gasp and a cry, fusing their bodies with one aim in both their minds.
To hold, to possess—above all, to love.
There were no reins capable of holding them—they plunged into the heat and the fire and let the conflagration have them, let the flames of a passionate love too searing to deny envelop and consume them.
Fast, hard, they raced to the peak and, with an abandon beyond any either had ever known, flung themselves from its pinnacle.
Into shattering pleasure and scintillating joy.
Into ecstasy so far-reaching and profound it metaphorically stopped their thundering hearts.
Slowly, the starburst of their senses faded, and they fell.
Into an abyss of bliss, fathoms deep.
Untold minutes later, drifting in the calm in the wake of their storm, with her eyes closed, Stacie lay slumped by Frederick’s side and, with her head resting against his chest, listened to the steady thud of his heart.
She adored moments like this—held them close in her mind—those times when he was with her, but not aware, and she didn’t have to hide…
What she felt for him.
How long had she been in love with him?
Looking back, she couldn’t say. Love had crept into her quietly, making no fuss, doing nothing to draw her attention while it found its place and put down roots.
Her love for him was now an intrinsic part of her.
She couldn’t rip it out, couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t there—not when it had grown to possess power enough to rule her.
And it had.
Oh yes, it has.
She’d always recognized that love was a protective emotion—the events of the day, the threats to him, were what had brought it rising so strongly to the surface that she couldn’t overlook it, couldn’t mistake it or doubt its existence. Couldn’t deny that love now very definitely lived in her.
Has he seen it?
She’d learned that he was observant and perceptive—and when it came to her, very much so on both counts. If he’d seen and correctly identified what she now felt for him…she doubted it would bother him. He might even be pleased in a smug male way that his wife’s heart as well as her body was his.
Regardless, what did her loving him mean for them?
She’d never imagined falling in love herself. While she’d made him promise not to fall in love with her, she hadn’t made any counterstipulation about not falling in love with him. It hadn’t occurred to her to do so.
Because it isn’t necessary.
That understanding rose through her, and she fell on it with relief. Of course. Her loving him meant she would protect him, including from herself, at least as far as she was able. Her loving him was a positive development she hadn’t imagined might come to be, but it had, and for that, she could only be grateful.
As had always been the case, the only true threat to him and their marriage lay in him falling in love with her.
Admittedly, he was protective of her, but men of his ilk were innately protective of their ladies and possessive, too; neither protectiveness nor possessiveness necessarily indicated love on his part, and thus far, he’d shown no sign of deviating from his word. She felt confident she could trust him on that; men like him didn’t seek to fall in love when they didn’t need to.
Feeling soothed, reassured, and secure, she mentally wrapped the knowledge of her love for him around her, curled more definitely against his hard body, and let sleep claim her.
Frederick woke in the late afternoon. Somewhat warily, he shifted his head and looked down at Stacie.
She was still asleep, the lingering remnants of desire a delicate tinge on her alabaster cheeks.
He considered the sight, considered the intensity of their most recent lovemaking, and prayed that her lack of prior experience continued to leave her unaware that the emotion that drove him—that invested his every touch and was, to him, so apparent in his worship of her—was anything especially noteworthy.
In truth, he’d had no idea love—the force encompassed by that simple word—would prove so powerful, so impossible to control, so undeniable and compelling.
That she’d been in danger, that she’d been close to some assailant wielding a knife, had chilled him; he’d been battling to hold his reactions inside, but her distress had ripped through all the screens and veils he’d fought to keep in place, and his love had surged free, and he’d reached for her.
He hoped she hadn’t seen the truth; he was perfectly certain she hadn’t yet reached the point that he could with impunity confess to having slid around her stipulation. Regardless, he was going to have to be more careful in the future.
Love wasn’t an emotion to underestimate. There was now very little he would not do to protect her—to hold on to her and keep her safe.
In the middle of the following morning, Stacie started down the main stairs and heard distant notes falling upon the air—Frederick was playing the piano in the music room.
She’d just finished her usual morning meeting with Mrs. Macaffrey. When Stacie wasn’t in residence, she’d discovered that Mrs. Macaffrey operated at her own discretion; apparently, the dowager had declared some years ago that she no longer considered herself mistress of the house, so Mrs. Macaffrey was free to organize as she wished. However, once Stacie had arrived, the housekeeper had insisted proper protocol be observed, and so they had to meet every morning to review the menus and any pending household business.
On reaching the last step, with her hand on the newel post, Stacie paused to listen. The piece Frederick was playing—practicing, it seemed—had a beautiful lilting melody. As she listened, she realized she’d heard segments of it over the past weeks at the Hall. She wondered what the piece was—it didn’t sound like Mendelssohn or Haydn, much less Beethoven. Possibly Bach, although she couldn’t place it.
After the excitement of the day before, she and Frederick had enjoyed a quiet dinner with the dowager, Emily, and Ernestine; they’d agreed there was no need to worry the ladies with news of the incident with the curricle, and it was unlikely they would otherwise hear of it.
A series of delicate trills, leaping and dancing, tugged her on.
She stepped onto the hall tiles and turned toward the music room, but before she reached the corridor that led into that wing, the music cut off, then she heard Frederick’s footsteps coming toward her.
She halted and waited and was ready with a smile when he emerged from the corridor and saw her.
His answering smile was relaxed and, despite the lurking problem of their unknown villain, held a measure of content. “Ah—you’re down.”
Before she could ask him what he’d been playing, Frederick continued, “I wondered if you wanted to visit the music school—you mentioned you intended to, and checking up on our protégés sounds an excellent idea, especially if you hope to hold another of your evenings in a few weeks’ time.”
“Indeed.” She widened her eyes at him. “Are you free to accompany me?”
Frederick had decided that, henceforth, nothing would keep him from her side, not until they’d solved the riddle of who was behind the attacks. He wasn’t convinced that he was the sole target; she’d always been present as well. “I am. We’ll have to take the town carriage, as my curricle is no more.”
Fortingale appeared, and Frederick gave orders for the carriage to be brought around. Stacie declared her lemon morning gown perfectly appropriate for the visit; Frederick helped her don her half cape while she quizzed him about ordering a new curricle.
Once in the carriage and on their way, he instigated a discussion of the performers she’d mooted adding to her next event and on whether it might prove useful to focus on the works of one composer per evening and, if so, which one.
She was as easy to distract with music as he was. The options kept them engrossed as the carriage rolled smoothly along Piccadilly, down Haymarket to Pall Mall, and eventually, circled Trafalgar Square.
Jenkins, Frederick’s coachman, was an experienced driver; he successfully negotiated the tangle of traffic and pulled up the carriage beside the curb before the steps of St Martin’s colonnaded porch.
Frederick opened the door and stepped down. As was usual during the day, the pavements surrounding the raised square with its monumental column were filled with a busy, jostling throng, everyone bustling about their business. Instinctively, he glanced around, then turned and gave Stacie his hand.
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 34
