“You’re right.” She would ask him. Whenever he appeared, she would ask not only where he’d been, but also why he was delayed.
Her pride was at stake. So was the future of her relationship with him. She loved him or so she had thought. But did she know what love was? Aside from her parents’ obvious joy in each other, she had no other examples. Her cousin Fiona’s parents were the worst example. Add to that the problems she understood Northington’s parents had in their marriage. His father was a notorious n’er-do-well with drinking and mistresses, a profligate with money and neglectful of his estate. What did Northington know of the joys and challenges of a happily married couple?
She bore the gathering as long as possible and made her excuses to Willa and her mother. She had to get away. To ponder the future.
Safely out of sight, she ran for the stairs to her rooms.
There, she shot the bolt in the door. She needed solitude. Time. Her intentions for her future with her husband were sound. She wished to marry and to make their union a serene and loving one. And for that to occur…
She must not only want him. His kisses. His caresses. His laughter and approbation.
She had to trust him.
Chapter 3
Northington spurred his horse ahead of his traveling coach.
His nerves ate at him. He needed the wind to clear his head. The sky to lift him up.
Bugger.
Not only was he a day late for this house party, but he’d been so disturbed by the argument with his father, he’d failed to send his groom out yesterday with a second and longer apology to Esme and her parents.
Christ, why did the man have to fight with him about his marriage?
But he knew why. Because the ignoble duke thought he had him to the wall when he’d learned (only God knew how) that he’d been in Paris these past four weeks.
“One last good boffing before the nuptials, eh?” Brentford had chided him yesterday. “These English fillies require too much breaking in. A wedding night should be one grand go so they’re primed. Tell me, does the gel know she’s to share you with a Frenchwoman?”
The duke understood so little about his only son. So damn little.
But His Grace had summoned him north to get more than smug satisfaction from his son’s compliance with the order to appear.
Oh, yes. I should have expected that.
First, it was for funds. Because the man always needed more money. Because his sire often bucked at the pursestrings Northington had his own solicitor, Chesters, put on his contributions to his father’s errant lifestyle.
Second, it was for the man’s pride. The old roué had the audacity to tell him that a clause in the marriage contracts with Esme’s father was unacceptable.
“Which?” Giles asked.
“You know which.”
“You want more,” he concluded.
“True. And unless you give it, dear boy, I will not sign!” The duke had swilled down the rest of his brandy and glared at him. “An extra thousand a year. You can afford it. Then I’ll order old Wendleton to give your man Chesters what he wants. I need the blunt, Northington. Need it.”
Northington dug his spurs in to the flanks of his very fine steed. Christ, how to tell Lord Courtland his father had not yet signed? The viscount would think him…
Weak.
That made him curl his lip.
He’d fought often with his sire. That was nothing new. Even Brentford’s effrontery to refuse to attend his only son’s nuptials had not roiled Northington as much as this latest outrage.
All this because I was not to hand.
But in Paris.
Doing his duty to King and Crown arguing with the new King Louis’s adviser, duc de Richelieu. That old aristo unwisely wished for retaliation against many of Napoleon’s supporters. Vengeance, Northington had counseled, would not endear the new king to his citizens. But Richelieu would not be moved. He wanted all Bourbon opponents in prison, politely but badly tortured—and dead. Northington had debated him daily, hourly, to no avail.
It was one thing to fail in his diplomatic efforts. Diplomacy was the finesse of a thousand words. What did not come to one the first time or the tenth, could bear fruit on the twentieth. But while he was away in the King’s service, his absence had given his father time to connive a means to get more of what he wanted.
Forget what I want. Forget my marriage. My needs.
The bastard.
He took the turn on the road at breakneck speed. The animal strained to comply and delight him.
Just then, from behind, he heard his coachman yell at his greys and crack the reins on them.
No use killing his fine horseflesh as well as myself because Brentford is an arse.
He slowed his mount and turned back toward the bend in the road to lift his head in recognition of his servants. His coachman at the reins—Jarvis with him eight years. His groom beside the coachman—Smythe with him four. Inside, his valet, Lymon—with him forever. And at the back, his feral little tiger—Henry. Henri—age ten with him two years now, ever since Toulouse when he’d unearthed him from the carnage upon the battlefield.
“Sorry, Jarvis.” He put his hand on his hip as his man brought the fine red lacquer conveyance alongside. “I forgot you’ve not been to Courtland Hall.”
“Not to worry, sir. I’d find it, I would.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“It’s why ye pay me so well, sir.” The old fellow gave him a wink.
Northington blithely considered the blue sky. “Indeed, Jarvis. Where would I be without you, eh?”
The fellow shot high his hoary brows. “Still in Calais, may’aps?”
“Or Toulouse,” came the statement from Smythe.
Northington chuckled. Then tipped his head to the road. “Only a mile or so more.”
“Bon! I need a bees-cwee.”
“Bis-kit, Henri. Bis. Kit!”
“Exactement!” was the boy’s reply.
Northington rolled his eyes. “Why do I try?”
“Because you love to spar,” came an explanation from his valet inside the coach.
“I can dismiss all four of you!”
From all of his men came snorts.
He suppressed a chuckle and urged his horse onward. At the Hall, all his men would be happy with a cup of wine, good food and stories to exchange with those in the employ of the jovial Courtlands.
Just like his staff, the woman who awaited him knew who he really was. She thought him wise. Perhaps even funny. He hoped she knew him as honorable. More honorable than his father. More commendable certainly. If not always punctual. Or fully truthful.
But he loved her. And he had the rest of his life and hers to show her how truthful…and yes, how punctual, he would henceforth be.
She could forgive him, couldn’t she?
Her maid ran pell-mell into the kitchens and skidded to a full stop before Cook’s butcher’s block. “He’s here, Miss!”
Esme dropped the menu for tomorrow morning’s wedding breakfast on the block, untied her apron and mustered a smile for Cook. “Thank you, Mrs. Walters. This looks complete. I’m certain it will taste superbly too.”
“And the wedding cake, Miss? You like it?” Esme had sampled a bit of the leftover batter. “Your mother’s favorite?”
Raisins with last year’s dried cherries and lemon rind. Savoy, Chantilly, any cake would do. Esme worried more about her bridegroom than dessert. “Just as I like it, Mrs. Walters. I think we can agree that this is the final list.”
“You’ll tell your mother?” the woman asked as Esme spun for the hall and stairs to the first floor.
“Indeed.” Her mother was often a stickler with Walters and social events made her even testier. She’d poured over this menu every day for two weeks and had left this morning’s final approvals to Esme so she could go off to the village with the guests. “Not to worry!”
She hoisted her skirts and took the stairs up at a run when ju
st before the landing, she stopped. Would it do to show him how worried she’d been that he had second thoughts?
She put a hand to her forehead. Steady on. I’m the one with those.
Bridal nerves. That’s all.
Foolish.
“Good morning!” She bid him when she spied him and ran ahead. He was dressed in riding attire, buff breeches, dark green coat and azure silk vest, hat off, his dark brown hair ruffled by the wind.
The grin he gave her put her heart beating anew—and all her fascination with him set her mind aflutter. This man would be hers. To have. To hold. My, my. How had she become so fortunate?
He bowed, courtesy demanding it as well as the presence of the Courtlands’ butler and a footman. “Good morning, my dear,” he said but his hazel eyes danced in a kaleidoscope of merriment as he took her hand and kissed the back. “You look wonderful. How are you?”
Better now that you’re here. “Very well. Happy to see you.”
“As am I—” He squeezed her hand, his grin saying more sweet things in welcome than any words could tell. “To look upon you is always a boon.”
The butler cleared his throat. “Your staff, my lord?”
“I took the liberty to tell them to drive round the back with my luggage as per my previous visit. Take good care of my horse, will you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You’ve put my men all together, I presume, as last time?”
“Yes, sir. Up in the stable quarters. Save your valet who is lodged in your private bathing room, sir.”
“Good. Ralston, is it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
With a nod of his head, Northington sent the butler and his man away.
With their disappearance, he drew her right up against his torso. The warmth of him, the strength, the virility sent her doubts scurrying away like testy little mice. And when he circled his arms around her waist and nestled her against him, she felt bold evidence he had missed her. And wanted her. “Hello, my sweet Miss Harvey. Baking bread, were you, my darling?” He thumbed away something from her cheek, lifted her chin and spoke on her lips. “May I kiss the bride?”
She hugged him close. “I wish you would!”
It was no quick affair. But a slow meeting of gazes and a delightful melting of breasts to chest and loins to hips and thighs to thighs, and only at long last the graze of his lips on hers.
“Giles,” she sighed his name, her eyes closing in want.
“Yes, my darling.”
“Do kiss me properly before I drift away.” And she sank her fingers into the soft mess of his hair.
“Esme.” He seized her mouth as if it were the last thing he needed in this world. His lips were hot, hard and insistent. He broke away too soon. “I’ve missed you.”
Did you? she wanted to say and yet, not. But his next kiss devoured all her qualms, giving her the torrid pleasures of his desire.
He broke away once more abruptly but she clung to him, defiant. On a ragged breath, he put his hands to her forearms and stepped back. “That is best saved for tomorrow.”
“I don’t want it to be saved.”
“Oh, Esme.” His brows arched in objection. “Soon enough, my darling. Then it will be legal, too!”
They both laughed.
“Where’ve you been?” She had to know. “I worried.”
He smoothed a curl from her cheek and pushed it behind her ear. She reeled with the tenderness of his touch. “No need to, sweetheart. I had business. Too long it took me, dare I say.”
“I wished you’d written with an explanation. I was hard-pressed to excuse your absence.”
He frowned. “I do regret that. My father’s demand that I attend him had me standing in his parlor.”
“I see.” She’d always seen how mention of his father brought stiffness to his spine and displeasure to his countenance. “And will he be joining us?”
“I am happy to say no. He will not.” Giles’s gaze locked on hers. “He chose it thus. To irk me. But truth be told, Esme, I do not want him here.”
She lifted her chin, conflicted over the duke’s decision. “He does not approve of me.”
“Listen to me, darling. He does not approve of anyone but himself. And that is a gross miscarriage of logic. Come here.” He wrapped her in his arms again and kissed her temple. “We will take our vows without him.”
Then he stepped away. And when he did, his brow was furrowed with concern though he did a pitiful job of smiling to hide it. “Show me to my rooms, will you? I rode alongside my carriage. I’m in need of a bath and a shave. Where is everyone? The village?”
“The May Pole celebrations have begun already. All the guests have gone.”
“Good. Do you go?”
“I must meet my cousin, Fiona. A talk. Most necessary. You won’t mind, will you, to go alone to the village?”
“No. Actually, I first must talk with your father. Where is he?”
“In the village.”
“Ah. Well. I will find him.”
As she accompanied him up the stairs to his rooms, she felt a prick of discomfort that talking with her father was his goal. Why was that? Were her bridal nerves imagining all sorts of problems? With him? With his love for her? With his father? Oh, the never-ending questions! Including the biggest challenge of the settlements. Their solicitors had haggled so much over the legalities of this marriage that she did not welcome any more problems of any sort.
“I want us married,” she whispered, so blunt with him about her needs. “Happy. Perfect.”
“Come here,” he whispered as he closed his door behind him and took her in his arms. “I know what is most perfect. Your lips.”
She sped down the hall toward the orangerie where Fiona awaited her. She was late, but it couldn’t be helped. Not when Giles had proceeded to kiss her into a blind desire for him—and for tomorrow.
“I must go,” she’d finally told him when his lips on the pulse at her throat made her think of nothing but removing every stitch of clothing.
He’d touched his forefinger to her lips and pushed away. “Yes, indeed.”
“You and I will dance tonight.” She’d wiggled her brows at him when she adjusted her décolletage and he looked deprived.
“With you and no other, Miss Harvey.” Then he’d given her a leg, she’d giggled and run toward the hall and her cousin.
Fiona had sent her a message this morning that she was feeling much better than she had after yesterday’s coaching accident. Esme did not wish to inconvenience or irritate her cousin. Indeed, before her wedding day when her whole life changed, she wished once and for all to end their childish pettiness.
Fifi sat waiting in the small nook in a bower of Mama’s roses. This was May but uncharacteristically grey and chilly. Yet in the glass-walled summer house, white and pink roses blossomed with an ethereal fragrance that lifted Esme’s hopes for this meeting.
"Forgive me for being late, Fee." Esme approached. "Mama had me talking with Cook about the refreshments for tomorrow's wedding breakfast." She didn’t want to speak of Giles just yet, wishing to keep his charm and kisses as treasures even while she questioned the details that had kept him away.
"I'm certain everything will be superb.” Fifi smiled at her with clear blue eyes. “Your cook is very talented."
"She is." She sighed heavily and advanced a few more steps. "I'm glad you agreed to meet me here. I'm sorry you're missing the festivities in the village."
"I'm not sorry. I didn't wish to go."
"Oh?" Fifi was not known to attend many social gatherings. And that was a shame because she was sterling company.
Fifi lifted her injured foot. "I dislike my inability to get around."
Esme perched on the edge of a chair and commiserated. "When I broke my arm last year falling from my horse, I suddenly understood why our Mary does not go too many places." Mary had suffered a broken leg when a child and the bone had not healed correctly. She limped and refused to use a
walking stick to assist her.
"Calling attention to oneself for all the wrong reasons, eh?" Fifi said nonchalantly.
"Exactly." Esme considered her hands in her lap. "In many ways, that's what I wanted to talk about with you."
"Calling attention to oneself?" Fifi was surprised.
"Yes. For the wrong reasons. In the wrong ways."
Esme knew what Fifi thought of her. Competitive, unnaturally so and driven to it by her mother. “When I was a child, I was silly. I was a fool, striving to be other than I am. I wanted to be like you. Competent. Strong. Resourceful."
Fifi stifled a laugh. "I assure you, Esme, whatever you saw was not strength."
"Mama told me it is."
That made Fifi sit taller in her chair. "Esme, if your mother saw me as strong, it was a façade."
"That I do not believe. Mama has not told me details.” She didn’t have to. I could see for myself that your parents were bitter toward each other. And that your father was a braggart, a bully and perhaps many things worse. “She has shared with me her own thoughts and fears about what you endured at home. Today, I wish to leave behind the many things I did wrong as a child. One of those is trying to compete with you. Oh, the others, too, but mostly you. I thought you superior in all things. French, arithmetic, tapestry, card games."
Fifi snorted. "Esme, believe me when I say that French and tapestry are useful skills. Cards, not at all!"
"You did not accept me."
"Oh, now that is true. And for that, I must make amends to you. We all were too critical. A clan of young girls. By shunning you, then ignoring you, we urged you on. It was also very childish of us. And wrong. I am long overdue to admit it and I hope to bring it up with the others so they can make amends as well."
"That is not necessary, Fee. I came today to make my peace with you. I want to begin my new life with a clear mind."
Fifi reached out and took her hand. "I know you will."
Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé: Four Weddings and a Frolic Page 3
