Harlequin Historical May 2020--Box Set 1 of 2

by Sophia James

  She expelled a breath. ‘We’ve digressed. It’s my turn to pick one of your myriad pockets.’ Audevere bit her lower lip as she contemplated his person, letting her eyes rove over him, stopping now and then on a pocket. Her gaze returned to his midsection. ‘That one. The little pocket on your waistcoat.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to pick a bigger pocket?’ Inigo encouraged. ‘Perhaps I don’t have anything in this pocket. It’s so small.’

  ‘The best things come in small packages, don’t you know that?’ Audevere laughed. ‘I am sure. That’s my choice, especially when I think you protest the choosing of it too much.’ What kind of secret did the honourable Inigo Vellanoweth hide in his pocket? She was on the edge of her seat, suddenly filled with twin measures of intrigue and trepidation. Perhaps it was a token from a lover? Past or…present? Surely not present. Surely she’d not misjudged him. There was only her, but what if she was wrong? What if he had lied or she had somehow misunderstood? What if Inigo Vellanoweth wasn’t any better than any other man in the end and she’d trusted with him the most important parts of her?

  Every nerve, every thought was raw and waiting. She’d never felt more exposed than she did right now. But perhaps this was what happened when one threw caution to the wind. It was her fault. He’d hinted it was the pocket he’d least wanted her to choose, the pocket that exposed him the most.

  She watched as Inigo unbuttoned the pocket and put in two fingers to retrieve the single item that resided there. He brought it out in a closed fist. She could not see it as he rolled it around in his hand, her mind running rampant through options. Was it a stone? A piece of jewellery? What might be so small and so meaningful? He held out his closed fist and opened it to reveal the ring sitting in the palm of his hand. The antique gold patina of the band caught the light, the square sapphire in its centre flamed with the sun. ‘This is Richard Penlerick’s ring,’ he said, as if those words alone explained everything.

  The dead Duke of Newlyn. One of the Cornish Dukes. Inigo’s mentor. She knew without question when she looked upon that ring that she was looking upon Inigo’s heart. The old expression of holding one’s heart in one’s hands took on new and literal meaning.

  ‘May I?’ Audevere asked. Perhaps he did not intend for her to touch it. He nodded and she gingerly held the ring up to study it, turning it towards the light. It was gold and heavy, elegant, expensive, a man’s ring. But she did not think that was why Inigo treasured it. For a man who made money, he had a unique tendency to value sentiment over treasure: honour, love, loyalty, friendship. She tilted the ring. Inside the band there was script, tiny, neat. It looked like Latin. ‘What does it say?’ She offered the ring back to him.

  ‘Ad honorem.’ Inigo tucked it safely back into his pocket. ‘For honour. Each of the four Dukes have a similar ring. The sapphire represents truth and loyalty, which are the pillars of honour.’

  ‘He did not leave it for his son?’ Audevere thought it odd that the ring had come to him and not the Duke’s heir.

  ‘The Duke gave it to me when I finished at Oxford, as a gift,’ Inigo explained. ‘I think he meant it as a talisman to ward off greed and avarice. I have a talent for making money. I think he meant this as a reminder to use that talent for the benefit of more than just myself. A reminder, too, to honour my family in all things. Money can be a dirty subject among peers. I am careful not to shame my family with my “dubious” talent.’

  He gave a wry smile that made Audevere laugh as he continued. ‘Peers are just supposed to have money and not know where it comes from. It’s a naive attitude if you ask me. It’s no wonder so many peerages are impoverished these days. So, I have discreet businesses and investment groups made up of other like-minded souls who don’t expect their family fortunes to magically multiply in the dark.’

  ‘Oh, I thought it had come to you after he died.’ Audevere hesitated over each word, aware that she trod on difficult ground. The Duke’s death had been sudden and violent. It had shaken London. She could only imagine how it had affected those closest to him.

  ‘No, but his death certainly adds more meaning to the ring, a way to keep him close to me. He was a mentor to all of us, just as each of our fathers are.’

  ‘You are very lucky.’ Audevere was silent for a moment, overwhelmed by the juxtaposition he presented to her. It was a stark reminder that Inigo Vellanoweth was the complete antithesis of her father in all ways. Inigo was a man who had found a way to bring honour to his money making, whereas her father sought only to benefit himself and anyone who stood in his way be damned.

  ‘You are so very clean, Inigo,’ she said at last, soft envy in her tone. ‘I am not like you. I am so very dirty. I’ve been surrounded by corruption for years.’ He’d been surrounded by those who’d nurtured a strong sense of duty and civic pride while she’d been boxed in on all sides by men who worshipped only money. ‘And I’m selfish. You seek to help others, but, by running away, I am only helping myself.’ The old guilt was back. Perhaps the things she wanted to run away from couldn’t be outrun. ‘Like father like daughter. Perhaps I can’t change that.’ It was one of her greatest fears, that after all this it simply wouldn’t matter.

  Inigo shook his head. ‘You are good and brave and kind, Audevere. You are not defined by your father. Leaving proves that. The way you treated your maid, the way you worried over her, the way you worried over Collin. You have a heart, a good heart, Aud. You left to protect Tremblay, to protect unknown others that might have come after him. You gave up a life of ease and luxury. Those are selfless acts.’

  That’s because you don’t know, her mind whispered. She wasn’t only tainted by association, nor was it tied to her father’s dirty dealings. She’d been tainted since birth.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They reached Exeter an hour before dusk on market day. The innyard was bustling as Inigo went in to check on their room. Tomorrow they would arrive at Merry Weather, seat of the Boscastle Dukes, by afternoon. Their sojourn on the road would be over and Inigo couldn’t help but wonder what else might be over with it.

  They would have to stop pretending to be man and wife. They would have to stop pretending the road could go on for ever, that they didn’t have to deal with the threat posed by her father. Inigo wondered if her disclosure today in the carriage had been an attempt to start establishing distance between them. Perhaps she’d expected him to be put off by a glimpse into her life with her father and how she’d been used. If that had been the case, it had most definitely failed. If there’d ever been anyone in need of protection, it was Audevere Brenley. She’d been robbed of so much, treated so vilely, that it broke his heart. It made his blood pound and his temper flare. He wanted to challenge every man who’d wronged her until there was no one left to hurt her, including her own father. He wanted to gather her to him and keep her safe until she believed she was safe. Was she any closer to believing that at the end of their journey than she had been at the beginning?

  The innkeeper came back with a key and Inigo left instructions for their luggage to be taken up. He wasn’t quite ready to retire yet. He wanted one more walk with his ‘wife’.

  At the carriage, Inigo helped her down, taking care to avoid the dirtier parts of the yard. ‘Shall we walk through the market before it closes?’ Inigo suggested. ‘I thought we could put together a dinner of our own, unless you fancy eating in the taproom? There’s no question of obtaining a private parlour tonight, we’re too late to bespeak.’ He felt himself smile as he said the words, though, recalling the reason they were too late.

  ‘A picnic dinner in our room sounds perfect.’ Audevere smiled, perhaps her own thoughts running along similar lines as his—that this was their last night before everything changed, before real life returned.

  They made smart bargains at the market, bartering for deals with the merchants who were eager to sell the last of their goods, close up shop and go home for
the evening. They filled their basket with a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, pears, half a chicken still warm from the spit and the last of the baker’s blackberry tarts.

  ‘It might be more food than we can eat!’ Audevere exclaimed with a laugh, but both of them were loath to leave the market. To eat their last supper together was one step closer to an ending they didn’t want to discuss. They lingered over the craft booths. He caught Audevere admiring a necklace—a polished aventurine pendant that hung on a thin silver chain.

  ‘You should have it,’ Inigo whispered at her ear. ‘Will you allow me to buy my wife a gift?’

  Audevere turned with a shake of her head, her own voice low. ‘I am not really your wife.’

  He kissed her then, not caring who saw. ‘Tonight you are.’ He gestured to the silversmith. ‘We’ll take the necklace. Wrap it up for me; it matches my wife’s eyes.’ Then he took her hand and pulled her to another booth.

  ‘Inigo! What are you doing?’ she scolded with a laugh that said whatever he was doing she didn’t mind too much.

  ‘I am in the mood to give gifts, dear wife.’ He gave her a teasing smile as he called the man at the booth over. ‘My wife needs a little knife, something sharp and wicked she can carry with her when she goes out,’ Inigo told the man.

  ‘If my wife was that pretty, I’d never let her go out alone. Let me see what I have.’ He came back with a collection of flat, slim boxes and took the lids off each one. ‘A sgian dubh would serve your wife well. It’s small and sharp.’

  * * *

  Oh, sweet heavens, Inigo meant to buy her a knife! Because of her story today. Her throat thickened and tears welled up. She’d barely kept from crying when he’d bought her the necklace. But what this meant was beyond words. Inigo hefted one of the blades, testing it for balance, and handed it to her. ‘Try this one.’ It had a claddagh symbol done in pewter on the hilt and the blade gleamed. It was a pretty but lethal weapon.

  She took it tentatively. What did one look for? What was she supposed to notice? She felt clumsy and a little foolish. She handed it back to Inigo. ‘You choose for me.’

  ‘This one, then.’ His eyes lingered on hers in a way that made her wish they were already back in their room. ‘No one will ever touch you again against your will, Audevere,’ he murmured, making her blood heat with desire. All she wanted was for him to touch her, for him to be the only man who ever touched her again. ‘This blade is my promise. You will never be helpless again.’

  It was a generous gift, a kind gift, but the words brought home the reality of what they faced. Was he preparing them for goodbye with those words? When I’m not there to protect you myself. She did not want to think about that time to come and yet she must. Her last secret still sat between them and, once it was revealed, he would see it, too: there was no future for them.

  She slipped the sgian dubh into her skirt pocket. The weight of it was reassuring, just like the feel of Inigo’s arm beneath her hand as they made their way back to the inn. Steel and muscle and hers for one night more.

  They reached the top of the stairs and Inigo unlocked the door, ushering her inside. The room was clean but tiny. A small fire had already been lit to warm the room. ‘Penny for your thoughts, Aud? Or are they worth more than that?’ Inigo set the basket on the small table by the window. ‘You’ve been quiet since we left the market.’

  ‘I’m not ready for this to end. I’m not ready for real life, for my father’s threats. None of it.’ Audevere sank down on the dark-blue-and-white counterpane. She had difficult decisions to make in the days ahead. Secretly, in her heart, she didn’t want there to be a time when Inigo wasn’t there to protect her. But that time couldn’t exist, didn’t exist. Disappearing meant letting go of this incredible man. It could not be otherwise.

  ‘We don’t have to be ready just yet.’ Inigo came to her. He knelt before her, working off her half-boots and setting them aside. He stripped off her stockings, taking her feet in his hands and rubbing them. ‘Are you hungry? Can dinner wait?’ His cool blue eyes fired, sending a shaft of hot awareness through her.

  She gave him a coy smile in answer. ‘It depends on what dinner is waiting for.’

  ‘Me.’ Inigo rose up and bore her backwards to the bed, taking her mouth with his, finding the place at her neck where her pulse beat. He kissed it and she felt it flutter. Yes, this, a thousand times this, her heart cried out. This and only this could keep away the inevitable. He undressed her as he went, his hands working open the frogs of her jacket, the buttons of her linen blouse beneath, pushing the silk chemise up and over her breasts until they were bare for his mouth, for his tongue, for his teeth. He licked her, sucked her until she cried out from the heat he built inside her, from the warm damp that he caused to pool between her legs and the thrum that hummed at her core. But he did not relent.

  He was on his knees before her, pushing up her skirts in great bunching fistfuls until his mouth could find her, claim her. His tongue ran a tickling, torturing line up her seam to the hidden nub of her, working her to a frenzy until she begged him to complete it, to push her over the edge.

  ‘Not without me, not tonight,’ Inigo panted, his own breathing shallow from exertion as he rose up from her thighs, covering her, reaching her hands and shackling them as he thrust into her hard. Yes, this was so much better. To explode with him inside her, to have him with her in that final moment. Her hips arched into his, the pace they set, frenetic, as if they could not explode fast enough, hard enough. But even pushed to their limits, his first thoughts were of her. While she screamed her release, his own body taut beneath her fingertips as he reached his achievement, he spent himself into the sheets before they both lay back exhausted.

  She wanted to be exhausted for ever. She couldn’t think, couldn’t form words, couldn’t even form thoughts. She was aware of Inigo drawing a blanket up over them, of nestling against his shoulder, both of them in varying stages of undress.

  Then she was aware of little else until the room was full dark and a candle flickered on the little table by the window, a table that had been transformed with plates and silverware, their findings from the market laid out on a platter. The common meal had been transformed. As had the man who’d prepared it.

  Inigo turned from the window with a smile. ‘You’re awake. When I said dinner could wait, I had no idea it might be a couple of hours.’ He’d washed and changed, discarding his travelling clothes for his blue banyan. It belted at the waist, but where it gaped, she could see he was wearing nothing beneath it. ‘I’ve laid your things out and there’s warm water for washing,’ he offered. ‘Change into something more comfortable and I’ll pour the wine.’

  It might have been the most decadent meal she would ever eat, Audevere thought as she took her seat, dressed in her nightgown with her hair down. Across from her, Inigo looked darkly handsome and entirely wicked as he served her. ‘You’re far more romantic than I ever thought.’ She wanted to remember him like this, his passionate nature on full display. ‘It’s always the quiet ones who have the wildest sides.’

  He met her comment evenly. ‘And it’s always the boldest who have the most to hide. You’re far less of an open book than you pretend.’ He handed her a wineglass. ‘Here’s to discoveries. Here’s to wild sides and hidden sides.’

  ‘Here’s to making them last,’ Audevere answered as their glasses clinked. There were other things she would say if she were braver, other stories she would tell him, other words she must utter. But she could not bring herself to do it. They were both desperate tonight, desperate to make the night last, to put off tomorrow, to hold on to the wonderful things they had discovered amid the difficulties they faced. She recognised his desperation in the gifts he’d bought her. They were not the sort of presents a man could give a woman who was not his intended or his wife. But he wanted her to have something to remember him by; the gifts, even the lovemaking
, had carried the message of goodbye. She wondered if this was how honeymooning couples felt when a return was imminent. But while they had their whole lives to look forward to, Inigo and Audevere had only hours.

  She sipped her wine. ‘Tell me about your family, Inigo.’ She might as well start preparing. Forewarned was forearmed and perhaps it would be easier to do it by candlelight; perhaps the plunge to earth would be softer. ‘You mentioned you had sisters? A little brother? For the longest time, I thought you were an only child.’

  Inigo leaned back in his chair, the candlelight playing over the smooth expanse of the chest she knew so well where his banyan gaped open. ‘Well, I was an only child for several years—fourteen of them, to be exact.’ His smile faded and sadness touched his eyes. ‘There was a long gap between me and my sisters. You should know, since you’ll no doubt see the crosses in the Merry Weather cemetery, that after me there were two brothers and a sister who didn’t live past infancy.’

  ‘Do you remember them being born?’ Audevere asked softly. She couldn’t imagine such tragedy touching the Vellanoweths. They seemed above it somehow.

  ‘Two of them. The first was born when I was barely two. Then I was five and eight. I held them, with my father’s help, of course.’ He made a cradle with his arms and her heart constricted a little at the thought of Inigo with a child. ‘I was excited to have a brother and a sister,’ he told her. ‘Eaton and Cassian had sisters and a little brother each. It seemed like that was how it was supposed to be, but not for us.’ He remembered when they’d died, too. But she didn’t ask. She didn’t have to. She saw it in his eyes. How sad for him growing up. But he wouldn’t let her pity him.

  ‘Vennor was an only child, too. I didn’t feel alone. I had Cassian and Eaton and Vennor, and for many years they were the only brothers I had. In many ways they still are. My brother, Benny, is only ten years old,’ he told Audevere. ‘A late-life surprise, my mother likes to say. It was a worrisome pregnancy, though, so unexpected at her age.’