She shook her head. “No.”
“Don’t cry for me, Serena. I am one of the lucky ones.”
“This is why you wanted to marry well—to influence our government to do something about these horrid men?”
“Yes, that was one idea.”
“I’m so sorry my reputation and connections will not bring you all the influence you hoped for.”
“You don’t understand, you will give me the strength I need to persevere. I don’t need to marry an aristocrat’s daughter; marrying to secure political influence is a coward’s way.” He turned her in his arms, until her breasts pressed against the sleek hardness of his chest. “Sleeping alone in a blazing room was another act of cowardice.” He kissed her when she opened her mouth to demur. “No, do not argue and try to make me feel less of a fool. I cannot promise I will not wake you up with my shaking and yelling some nights, but I will not let the thought of it unman me—certainly not at the expense of doing without you in my arms.” He covered her with kisses and she never wanted him to stop. But she still had one last thing to tell him.
“Gareth? Darling?”
“Hmm?” he murmured from somewhere near her right breast.
“You’ll need to be extra gentle with them for a while, Gareth.”
He stopped and his head pushed up from beneath the covers, a pucker of concern between his beautiful gray eyes. “Have I been too rough?”
She smiled and stroked his jaw. “No, they are just very sensitive right now.”
His head cocked. “Is aught amiss? Should I call back Doctor—”
She laughed. “No, if I am correct it is nothing he can cure.” She hastened to assure him when she saw the horror in his eyes. “It is nothing bad, do not look like that! It might be nothing at all, but I think—” she broke off, now wishing she had said nothing at all.
“What? You think what?”
“It has only been three weeks but the last time they became this sore I was with child.”
His expression was beyond comical. And he’d stopped breathing.
“Gareth? Gareth?” She shook his shoulder.
He blinked. “I’m going to be a father.”
“Well, possibly. Probably, if I am reading the signs correctly.”
“I’m going to be a father.”
She laughed. “You seem to have become stuck in something of a rut.”
“Oliver is going to have a little brother or sister.”
“Well, those are the usual two options.” She paused, drinking in the beauty and strength in his face. “I love you, Gareth.”
His lips began to curve, not stopping until he was grinning. “You have made me a very happy man. I love you, Mrs. Soon-to-be-Lockheart.
“Oh?” she teased, as his rare and beautiful smile melted her heart into a puddle. “How much.”
Still smiling, he slowly backed away, until he disappeared under the covers. And then he commenced to show her just how much.
Epilogue
Three Weeks and Two Days and Nine Hours Later . . .
Declan sealed the brief note with one of Gareth’s wafers and propped the envelope against his inkstand, where he would be sure to notice it. He’d celebrated Gareth and Serena’s wedding with true gladness in his heart. Even a blind fool could see the two were madly in love. But now he needed to take his misery and anger and burning desire for drink somewhere far away—someplace where he wouldn’t taint his best friend’s hard-earned happiness. His note said he needed time to himself, but he told Gareth not to worry and promised he would be here at Christmas.
He was making his way out of the vast library, which no longer blazed with half a hundred candles, when he heard a distinct burp, followed by a groan.
As usual, he let his curiosity get the better of his sense—he needed to be off, but he apparently needed to see who was in the library even more. He retraced his steps to the big desk and then to the long brown leather settee that faced the barely glowing hearth.
The Earl of Avingdon lay stretched out, a champagne glass balanced on his chest. His eyes swung lazily up to Declan.
“Champagne always gives me gas.” The aristocrat swung his feet onto the floor and his body into an upright, if wobbly, position. He gave Declan an engaging grin. “Sit and have a drink with a man soon to be shackled?”
Declan laughed, he couldn’t help it. People rarely surprised him, but this man had. An honest-to-God earl wanting a drink with the likes of him?
“Why not?” he said, even though he knew why—he needed to get the hell out of here.
The earl tried to push himself up but didn’t have much luck.
“You sit, I’ll pour.” He went to the decanters. “I’m afraid there is no champagne.”
“Thank God. Whiskey if he has it.”
“Oh, he has it.” Declan poured two glasses from a bottle he knew Gareth had paid triple digits for and carried both toward the other man. He handed him one and raised the other high, “To your upcoming nuptials, may they be as joy-filled as those we witnessed today.”
Avingdon tipped his head back and poured the contents of the glass down in one big gulp. He grimaced as the liquid burned its way down, the expression in no way diminishing his perfect features.
Declan had always been secure in his ability to attract members of the opposite sex but the earl was the type of man to make other men feel like inelegant oafs and get every woman in the room swooning. Still, Dec couldn’t help noticing his battered Hessians and threadbare coat. Everyone—even men who looked like this and had a title to boot—had their problems.
He glanced at the empty glass in the earl’s hand. “Another?”
Avingdon reeled back a little. “No shank, er, thank you, I had better not.”
Dec shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He took the chair across from him.
“I don’t know your friend well, but I believe they make a fine couple, don’t you think?”
Declan agreed, although he hadn’t always. Of course he now knew some of that was fear at losing Gareth’s friendship, a foolish fear. “Yes, I believe they will rub along quite nicely together. What about your future wife?”
Avingdon blinked. “What wife?”
“I thought you said you were soon to be shackled?”
He watched with amusement as realization dawned slowly in the man’s enormous blue eyes. “Ah. Yes. That wife. Well,” he raised his glass and then saw it was empty. “I have not spoken the necessary words yet.”
“Are you worried she will not have you?”
An expression of anger or something like it flickered across his face. “No, I’m afraid she will.” He shook himself, as if he’d just heard what he’d said. He grimaced. “Dear me, that sounds quite dreadful. I’m afraid I may have given you the wrong impression. I have no particular woman in mind. You see, I have only recently come into my title.”
Declan had heard the man’s brother died unexpectedly not long ago. “I’m sorry for your loss.” That’s what people said, wasn’t it?
The other man waved away his condolence.
“Bloody shame it was, although there are more than a few in my family who think he was damned lucky to get out of it.” He burped. “’Scuse me. ’Course I planted the last bastard who said that a facer. Not good, not good. Not at a funeral.”
Dec was beginning to wish he’d poured himself a larger drink. He’d had no idea aristocrats did interesting things like engage in brawls at funerals.
“Aunts, cousins, nieces, sisters, and even a brother. Every last one needs it.”
“It?” Declan repeated.
He looked up and blinked, as if surprised to find he wasn’t alone. “Brass. I need brass.”
Ah, he was skint. Declan took a sip. “Well, I daresay the heiresses will be queuing up for a chance at being a countess.” Not to mention for a chance to marry a man who didn’t look like a bloated trout, which was what most of the aristos he’d met resembled.<
br />
His words seemed to depress the other man. “Ne—hic—never wanted to auction myself off like a side of pork.”
Declan laughed and the earl scowled at him. “Whasso amusing?”
He shrugged. “You, I guess.”
Avingdon flinched back as if he’d been slapped, and then he threw his head back and laughed—far louder and with more gusto than the small comment deserved.
“You’re right,” he finally said. “You’re right. I’m bloody pathetic. Men of my sort marry for money all the time. All the bloody time.” He nodded owlishly. “And what a bargain I’ll be for some downy young miss, eh?” He stared through Declan, his eyes bleak.
The man was beyond foxed and blue-deviled to boot. He needed to go to bed and sleep it off. Not that it would be any better in the morning, of course. No, no matter how much you drank, you woke up with yourself—even after all that effort to leave you behind. Nobody knew that better than Declan.
He finished the little bit that remained in his glass and struggled against the pull to have another. And another. He put the glass down with a thump that made the other man look up.
“You off then?”
Declan nodded. “I am.”
Avingdon peered at the windows, which were covered by heavy drapes, and then at the giant long clock, whose face was big enough for even a drunk to see. “Late for a ride, issnit?”
“Aye, but the moon is bright and the night is clear.”
“Where you going?”
Declan smiled, “I have no idea.” When the earl didn’t answer Dec looked at him. He was sleeping, his mouth open. He stood and smiled down at the man. “Good luck, mate.”
A soft snore was his only answer.
Declan had a feeling the handsome aristocrat would need some luck. But then again, who didn’t?
Thanks so much for reading
A FIGURE OF LOVE!
If you enjoyed reading about Gareth and Serena’s world you can meet more of their friends in
THE ACADEMY OF LOVE series—seven romantic Regencies about out-of-work schoolteachers who are about to get some serious lessons in love!
Here’s an exclusive excerpt from
A Portrait of Love
BOOK 3 in
THE ACADEMY OF LOVE SERIES…
Chapter One
London
1803
Honoria ran down the stairs as if winged death was snapping at her heels.
It was ten minutes past noon; he would be here, already! She would have missed ten entire minutes of his company. Of staring at him. Of worshipping him.
She skidded to a halt outside her father’s studio and checked her reflection in the shiny brass urn that sat on a plinth across from the door. A distorted, yellowed image of her face looked back at her. The belly of the vase stretched out her eyes and made them look long and exotic while shrinking her overlarge mouth into a prim, bow-shaped moue. Honey wished she looked like this imaginary girl instead of the pale, gangly, and big-mouthed reality that stared back at her.
She wrinkled her stubby nose at her brass reflection and hissed, narrowing her eyes and giggling at the evil image she’d just created. All she lacked to be truly horrifying was fangs.
He’s in there, an unamused part of her mind pointed out.
Honey pinched her cheeks to give them a bit of color and pushed her waist-length and far-too-curly hair back over her shoulders. Her father would not let her wear it up until her next birthday, when she would be sixteen. For an artist Daniel Keyes could sometimes be a stickler for propriety and—
“Hello.”
Honey jumped and yelped, no doubt resembling a huge startled mouse in her hideous brown painting smock.
Correction, a huge mouse with a red face.
She didn’t want to turn around but she could hardly stand here all day. She swallowed noisily, as if her throat had rusted shut and slowly, ever so slowly, turned on one heel.
Eyes the color of hydrangeas stared down at her, their corners crinkling.
Lord Simon Fairchild.
Even his name was beautiful.
But nothing compared to his face and person. Not only was he beautiful, he was taller than her. At over six feet Simon Fairchild didn’t exactly tower over her five foot ten-and-a-half inch frame, but it was near enough. And it made Honey feel—for the first time in her fifteen and three-quarter years—petite.
He was golden and broad-shouldered and graceful and he looked like a hero out of a Norse epic, all chiseled angles and fair perfection. His sculpted lips curved into a smile that released butterflies into her body.
“My lord,” she croaked, dropping the world’s clumsiest curtsey.
He grinned and took her hand, bowing low over it before releasing her. “Good afternoon, Miss Honoria.” His voice was warm honey and it pooled low in her belly, the sensation . . . disturbing.
She blurted out the first words that leapt to mind—“You remembered my name”—and then wanted to hide.
His lips twitched and Honey only just stopped herself from smacking her palm to her forehead or crawling behind the big moth-eaten tapestry which covered much of the opposite wall. Of course he remembered her name, she’d only met him yesterday.
He clasped his hands behind his back, his gorgeous shoulders almost blocking the light from the cathedral window at the end of the hall. He was dressed for riding, which meant he would change into his portrait clothing once he entered her father’s studio.
Thinking of Simon Fairchild changing his clothing gave her an odd, swirly, hot feeling and made her palms sweat. And she seemed to be salivating more than was necessary, as if her mouth were anticipating a delicacy.
Say something, you fool! Ask him something. Keep him here. Don’t let him get—
“Are my sittings keeping you and your father in the city this summer, Miss Honoria?”
“Oh. No, we will stay here. We stay here most of the time.”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded encouragingly.
“We rarely go into the country,” she added lamely, unable to come up with anything better. And then inspiration struck. “Will you be going to the country, Lord Saybrook?”
“I no longer hold that honor, Miss Keyes,” he reminded her gently.
Her face became hot yet again. “Oh, yes of course. The duke now has a son. You must be very . . .” Honey broke off—he must be very. . . what? Would a man be happy that he was no longer a duke’s heir? She bit her lip.
Lord Simon grinned. “I’m very happy and relieved.”
“You do not wish to be a duke?”
“No, I do not. Not only would it mean my brother’s death, but the position entails altogether too much responsibility in my view. Besides, I have other plans.”
“Other plans?”
“Yes, I wish to live at my country estate and breed horses.”
Honey could not imagine the elegant man-god across from her rusticating and living the life of a mere country squire. She leaned against the doorframe to her father’s studio, aware it was rude to keep a guest in the hall, but not wishing to share his attention with her father just yet.
“And you cannot do that and be duke?”
“Oh, I suppose the right kind of man could, but I wish for a quiet life, not responsibilities in Parliament and the management of hundreds of lives. No, the country life is the life for me. I’ll be happy on my much smaller estate.” He paused, his look speculative, as if he suddenly realized he—a man of twenty—was confiding his aspirations to a mere fifteen year-old. Honey had seen the look before—every person she associated with was older than her. She’d never gone to school, had no close relatives her age, and only socialized with her governess or her father’s friends. Being young had never bothered her before—but, suddenly, it felt . . . limiting.
He bent low to catch her eyes, which had dropped miserably to his feet. “But you can’t possibly find my boring plans of interest. While I�
�m off mucking about in my stables you’ll no doubt be whirling around ballrooms and breaking young men’s hearts.”
Honoria could not think of a single thing to say that would not be humiliating.
So—” he said when she remained stupidly mute, his shapely mouth ticking up at one side, his eyes warm yet gentle.
It was impossible not to smile when he was smiling. “So?” she echoed as the two of them stood staring at one another.
He chuckled and shook his head, as if she’d said something amusing. He gestured behind her to the studio door, which she was blocking with her body.
“I’d better get inside. I believe I’m late and your papa is probably going to give me the raking I deserve.”
Honey stepped aside, gawking like the smitten fool she was. He opened the door and again gestured. “After you, Miss Honoria. That is if you are going to join us again today?”
“Of course she is,” Honey’s father boomed from inside the brightly lighted room, where he was preparing his work area. His voice acted like a catalyst and Honey tore her eyes from Simon’s perfect features and bolted into the room.
“Good afternoon, Papa.”
Daniel Keyes gave her an approving smile as she went to her easel and then turned to Simon Fairchild. “My daughter will one day be England’s premier portrait painter,” he said, speaking with such certainty, pride, and love that Honey’s heart threatened to grow right out of her chest.
Lord Simon cut her one of his devastating smiles. “So, you will be painting a portrait of me while your father paints his?”
“Yes,” Honey said, pulling the cover off her much smaller canvas. She was glad to look away from Lord Simon’s distracting person; her wits were already scrambled from their brief conversation in the hall.
A Figure of Love Page 31
