“No!” She searched his eyes and didn’t doubt his veracity. “I wanted to marry you.”
Anguish rang beneath her words. Robert captured one of her hands, drew his thumb soothingly over the back. “It doesn’t matter, darling Nell, because that was long ago and this, here and now, is where we are.” He held her dark gaze, the rich violet only just taking on color as the sun slowly rose. Raising her hand, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and spoke to those wonderful eyes. “I’ve never stopped loving you, and through these last days, as we worked side by side through our campaign, I came to hope that you still loved me.”
Her answer came without a heartbeat’s hesitation. “I’ve always loved you. Only you.”
“And as I love you in the same, all-consuming fashion, then it’s time, don’t you think, that we married?” He drew a breath, and it was tight. “And that’s the answer to your question—why I seduced you. Because, my darling Nell, you may draw back, fluster and bluster all you like, but this time, I’m not letting you go.”
Nell stared at him, then a laugh bubbled up—a happy, joyous laugh—and she had to let it out.
He smiled in return.
Then before she gathered her wits, he went down on one knee and looked up at her, draped in his coverlet with one shoulder bare and her hair cascading in a tousled mane, and said, “Marry me, Nell, and make me the happiest of mortals.”
She dropped onto her knees, too, pressing into arms that closed around her, steadying her and holding her, and smiled into his eyes. “My heart is yours, Robert Knightley. I’ll marry you and gladly, and I trust that you’ll hold me to this vow—to be your wife and stand by your side forevermore.” Then she leaned in and kissed him.
And he kissed her back.
Minutes later, he rose, lifting her in his arms, and carried her back to the bed.
The wedding of Hereditary Prince Frederick of Lautenberg to Frances Daughtry, daughter of the Duke of Pemberton, went off without a hitch.
Until he’d seen the evidence with his own eyes, Robert had privately questioned the assumption that the Vayne curse would vanish with the day’s dawn, but from the first—when he’d glimpsed her going into the private family breakfast—Frances had glowed, happiness and joy and delighted expectation rendering her nothing short of radiant.
Nell, gowned in deep violet satin of a shade that matched her eyes, followed Frances into the room, smiling and laughing at something Frances had said; she transfixed Robert’s eyes and attention effortlessly. Even walking in Frances’s train, to him, Nell was beyond compare.
Throughout the long day, he and she consulted frequently, working through an extensive list of items to be tweaked and last-minute matters to confirm.
As in any major diplomatic event, adjustments had to be made due to unforeseen happenings—like the elderly Grand Duchess of Bavaria, being unable to stand and so unable to see from her allotted perch in the gallery, having to be accommodated nearer the altar—but between them he and Nell rose to the challenge, and not a single disturbance marred the day.
Frederick and Frances made a perfect royal couple, the glow in their eyes and investing their expressions whenever they looked on each other clear for all to see. The populace of Lautenberg, many of whom had crowded into the streets of Kremunz, roared their approval.
The wedding breakfast passed off without incident, and then it was time for the newlyweds to depart on the royal barge on the first night of a romantic wedding cruise.
All those who could followed the royal couple and their attendant families to the docks, where the barge, suitably bedecked, bobbed on a gentle swell.
Half an hour of laughter, cheers, and a short thank-you speech from Frederick to his assembled countrymen, and the ropes were cast off and the barge eased into the river.
Robert watched the gap widen between the dock and the deck, and finally felt the pressure of the day slide from his shoulders.
Nell, standing beside him, sent one last wave toward her sister and her new husband, then linked her arm in Robert’s and heaved a heartfelt sigh. “It’s done.”
“Indeed.” Standing in front of Robert, Valeria turned and considered him and her daughter. “And what about you?”
As ever, her question was ambiguous, but, unruffled, Robert smiled and answered it as his future mama-in-law had intended. “As it happens, Your Grace, I’ll be returning to England with your party.” Raising his gaze, he included the duke, who had come to stand beside Valeria. “I intend to return to London, at least long enough to marry Nell.”
The duke smiled. “Excellent!” He clasped Robert’s hand and shook it heartily. “About time.” The duke beamed at his daughter.
Valeria looked at Nell expectantly, as did Robert. She was staring at them all, apparently struck dumb. Valeria arched her fine brows. “If she’ll have you, I suspect you meant to say.”
“No, Your Grace.” Meeting Nell’s stunned eyes, Robert placed his hand over hers on his sleeve. “Regardless of what she says from now until then, I will meet her before the altar at St. George’s. I have no intention of drawing back. Again. I love her, and I know she loves me, and”—raising her hand, he pressed a kiss to her fingers—“once I finally get my ring on her finger, I look forward to a long and happy life side by side.”
Valeria looked from him to Nell, then smiled delightedly. “Amen.”
July 7, 1826
The Deck of the Mary and Henry,
bound for the Rhine, crossing the English Channel
The wind blew fair and the schooner leapt through the waves. Clutching the rail a little short of the bow, Nell stood with Robert, a comforting shield at her back, and watched the coast of Holland take shape on the horizon.
They were returning to Lautenberg, to what would be their home for the foreseeable future, possibly for the rest of their lives. Robert’s masters at the Foreign Office had been beyond delighted to learn of his proposed alliance with the Daughtrys; the reassurance of having a sister to support Frances in her role, and the benefits of having a noble lady of Nell’s caliber to assist Robert in the delicate diplomacy predicted to be necessary to keep peace in the region, were considered unparalleled boons. As for Robert’s family, they, too, were in alt; he was the last of his brothers to wed, and the family had all but given up hope—a hard thing in a family steeped in diplomatic ways.
Her hair whipped by the wind, the tang of sea spray unrelenting, Nell glanced down at the shiny gold band on her ring finger. The last two weeks had been frenetic, hectic, and filled to the brim, but perhaps because their recent brief engagement was effectively the second time for her, she’d fallen prey to no more than several short bouts of frantic dithering, and they’d been married yesterday in St. George’s in a relatively small, family wedding; after Frances’s recent extravaganza, that had suited them both.
And now, soon, they would reach the mouth of the Rhine, and transfer to the barge that would be waiting to ferry them along the river and then up the Mosel to Kremunz and its fairy-tale castle.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
She smiled and leaned back, nestling her head against Robert’s shoulder, crossing her arms over his as they circled her waist and held her securely. “I was just thinking . . . this is very much my dream come true, but I never thought beyond this point.” She glanced up and caught his eye. “Beyond the wedding. And now we’re here, on the threshold of beyond, and I feel . . . so excited, so enthusiastic about what lies ahead.”
“About making a life together?”
She nodded. “That, and the challenges of managing whatever comes.”
His chin against her head, he was silent for a moment, then he murmured, “Just as long as we’re together, as long as I can hold you in my arms, I don’t care what fate flings at us.”
“Just as long as we’re together, we can triumph over anything.”
“And as we’ll always and forever be together, the future, my love, is finally ours.”
THE END
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PROLOGUE
Lord Julian Roscoe Neville Delbraith, second son of the Duke of Ridgware, was a wastrel. Indeed, profligate beyond belief, he gave the term new meaning. Tall, dark-haired, and dangerously handsome, he prowled the ton with the lazy grace of a well-bred panther whose appetites were perennially sated, as, indeed, he ensured they were. He was considered by the gentlemen to be a capital sort, one with whom many wished to claim acquaintance, while the ladies appreciated his ineffable elegance, his expertise on the dance floor, his ready charm, and his occasionally exercised rapier wit. His attire, naturally, was invariably exquisite, and his horses turned Corinthians green. Wine, women, and gaming, in reverse order, were his principal occupations, which surprised no one; the Delbraiths had a long and venerable history of spawning males with an addiction to wagering. It ran in the blood.
That said, Lucasta, Lord Julian’s mother, acknowledged Savior of the Delbraiths in the recent generation, was credited with having been sufficiently strong in her handling of Marcus, Julian’s father, to have preserved the family fortunes. Marcus would have liked to have gambled his income away, but Lucasta had put her foot down and vetoed it. Adamantly. More, her firstborn son, George, was the first Delbraith in generations uncounted to have escaped the family curse.
Some felt that Lucasta’s sterling efforts with Marcus and George had left her with insufficient reserves to effect a similar transformation with Julian, while others considered Julian’s headstrong will beyond even his mother’s ability to rein in, even had she been free to concentrate solely on him. In society’s eyes, Julian was the epitome of the archetypal male Delbraith.
Yet to society and the family, Julian’s enthusiastic embracing of the Delbraith curse mattered not at all. George was the heir.
Large, solid, quiet, and rather stuffily reserved, unlike his younger brother, George appeared to have no vices at all. While Julian could be counted on to be flippant, irreverent, and entertaining, George stood with his hands behind his back and said as little as he could. In short, George was boring, but that, too, wasn’t a concern, because, after all, George was safe.
Consequently, when, on Marcus’s death, George succeeded to the title, the family and society smiled. They continued to smile when George contracted an eminently suitable marriage with Caroline, daughter of the Earl of Kirkcombe, a sensible young lady well-regarded within the ton.
Caroline, following her mother-in-law’s lead, considered George a paragon, at least with respect to his lack of susceptibility to the family curse. That she found him significantly less of a paragon in more private arenas she kept very much to herself; outwardly, she championed George at every turn, and society nodded approvingly. Unsurprisingly therefore, Caroline had no time for the rakishly attractive, outrageously dissolute Julian; her attitude made it clear that she regarded him as a potentially corrupting influence, one she wished to keep well distanced from her husband, herself, and the child she was soon carrying.
Not at all insensitive, Julian bowed to his sister-in-law’s unspoken wishes; she, after all, was his brother’s duchess. His visits to the family estate, Ridgware, in Staffordshire, previously quite frequent when he would dutifully call on his mother and then stay to play with his three much younger sisters, grew further apart, eventually dwindling to rare. The great house’s staff, who saw far more than anyone supposed, counted that a real shame, but no one paid their opinion any heed.
Then Caroline’s baby was born and proved to be a son. Christened Henry George Neville Delbraith, the boy bore all the physical hallmarks of a true Delbraith. Viewing said signs with due concern, Caroline swore that, come hell or high water, her son would never be touched by the Delbraith curse.
On the morning of the christening, Julian arrived at the church, sat with his mother and sisters, then under Caroline’s baleful eye, feeling very much like the wicked witch of the fables, he passed his entirely innocuous christening gift to his mother to convey to his nephew, and immediately the service was concluded, shook his brother’s hand, civilly wished his sister-in-law and the bundle held tightly—protectively—in her arms well, and drove himself back to London.
Subsequently, Julian only called on his mother and sisters when Caroline, and preferably baby Henry, too, were not—at least at that moment—under the same roof. If George was about, Julian would look in on him, but with such dissimilar characters and the weight of the title on George’s shoulders, the brothers had never had all that much in common; a comment, a shared observation, and they parted, amicably, but distantly.
Meanwhile Julian filled his life with his customary round of gambling and dissipation; cards, dice, horse racing—anything racing—he was always willing to gauge the odds and sport his blunt accordingly. Dalliance, with Cyprians initially, but increasingly with bored matrons of his own class, filled whatever time he had to spare. His reputation as a wine connoisseur continued, but no one could recall ever seeing him in his cups. Then again, it was widely acknowledged that being three sheets to the wind while wagering large sums was never a winning proposition, and everyone knew Julian took his worship at the altar of his family’s curse very seriously.
And the years rolled on.
Through those years, if any had requested enlightenment as to Lord Julian Delbraith’s financial state from anyone in the ton, the answer would have been that Lord Julian was certain to be one step away from point-non-plus. From falling into the River Tick and very likely drowning. To all seasoned observers it was inconceivable that anyone could maintain such a profligate lifestyle, and wager so consistently and so extravagantly, without outrunning the constable. Gamblers always lost, if not immediately, then ultimately; everyone knew that.
Caroline, Duchess of Ridgware, certainly subscribed to that view. More, she believed her feckless brother-in-law was draining the family coffers, but whenever she attempted to raise the issue with her husband, George scowled and told her she was mistaken. When, driven by the need to protect her son’s inheritance, she pressed, George’s lips tightened and he coldly and categorically assured her that Julian received only the modest quarterly stipend due to him under their father’s will and nothing more—that Julian had never requested further funds from the estate, not even from George personally. Caroline didn’t believe it, but faced with her husband’s uncharacteristic flash of temper she had to accept his word and retreat.
In actual fact, only two people knew the truth about Lord Julian’s financial position—his gentlemen’s gentleman, Rundle, and Jordan Draper, the son of the family’s man of business. At Julian’s request Jordan had assumed the handling of Julian’s financial affairs, thus separating them from his brother’s ducal holdings. Only those two knew that Julian was one of the Delbraiths who cropped up every third or so generation. He was one of the Delbraiths who won. He didn’t win every bet, but over any period of time he always came out ahead. Not since he had, at the age of five, first discovered the joys of wagering had he ever ended a week a true loser; some weeks he only gained a farthing, but overall, he never, ever, lost money.
It fascinated Jordan Draper that no one had ever questioned why it was that a family as old as the Delbraiths, cursed with such a ruinous compulsion, had never run themselves or their estates into the ground. Through his association with Julian, Jordan knew the answer. Grandfather, father, son—over the three generations, one male at least would have the winning touch. Of course, that no longer mattered as, thanks to Lucasta and her influence on Marcus and subsequently George, the family was no longer hostage to the curse. The curse had been defeated . . . but in administering Julian’s accounts and investments, Jordan had to wonder if, all in all, the family truly was better off.
Consequently, Julian’s life, along with his extravagant lifestyle, rolled on largely uneventfully
. He was well aware of the ton’s view of him; the knowledge reinforced his natural cynicism and made him inwardly smile.
Until late one night in 1811, a knock fell on the street door of his lodgings in Duke Street.
It was November, and the weather had turned bleak. Few of the ton were still in town, which explained why Julian was sitting by his fire, his feet propped on a stool and an open book in one hand. At the knock, he’d raised his head; hearing Rundle’s footsteps pass the parlor on the way to the front door, he waited, vaguely wondering—
“My lord!” Rundle burst into the room without knocking, not his usual practice. “It’s Higginbotham from Ridgware.”
Looking past Rundle at the senior groom from his brother’s estate, taking in the man’s disheveled appearance and grave face, Julian straightened. “My mother?”
Higginbotham blinked, then shook his head. “No, m’lord. It’s your brother.”
“George?” Julian couldn’t imagine why George would have sent Higginbotham racing to town to summon him, the wastrel younger brother. “What’s he want?”
Higginbotham looked like he’d swallowed his tongue, but then he shook his head again. “His Grace don’t want anything. He put a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. He’s dead. We think you’d better come.”
Julian drove like the devil and reached Ridgware midmorning. Leaving his phaeton in the stable yard, he crossed to the house, entering via the side door. A pall had fallen over the mansion; the silence was oppressive. His footsteps echoed as he walked onto the tiles of the front hall. For a moment he stood silently, at a loss. Higginbotham had known nothing of what had driven George to such a rash and irreversible act. To an act so out of character.
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