It Happened One Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  Damnation!

  And what had suddenly gone wrong up there in their room this morning? It was puzzling. They had not quarreled, and yet…

  He had ended their conversation about the past abruptly by announcing that he was going to get dressed, and suddenly there had been a horrible silence between them.

  Just when he had discovered that she was an innocent victim of it all. Just when she had discovered that perhaps he was.

  And was he now running away?

  Was she?

  The passengers were being called for with some impatience. Some of them had already gathered and were taking the best places by the windows.

  He stepped inside the inn. He would go up and fetch her. He would carry down her valise and take a civil farewell of her.

  But why?

  She was already at the foot of the stairs, her valise in hand. Their eyes met as he strode toward her and took the bag from her.

  “You heard the call, then?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  She was looking slightly pale. Her eyes looked enormous. Her hair had been ruthlessly brushed back beneath her bonnet.

  Was he going to let her go without a fight?

  He could clearly see those six months following their wedding exactly as they must have appeared through her eyes. He had meekly allowed her father to take her back home with him and declare their marriage invalid. He had made no attempt to follow her or to see her afterward. He had not written to her. And then, after she must have heard about the change in his fortune and after she and her father had become poor, he had written out of the blue to offer her marriage. To gloat. Her father must have done all in his power to coerce her into accepting. Her own common sense must have told her what the alternative would be. She had had the courage to refuse him anyway.

  Not because she no longer loved him, but because she believed he had never loved her.

  She was staring into his eyes.

  “Miss Ryder?” It was the coachman’s voice, loud and impatient, calling from the door. “Is Miss Ryder in here?”

  “Nora,” Richard said, “that letter was not written to insult your father. Or to gloat. It was a last despairing attempt to persuade you to come back to me.”

  She stared mutely at him.

  “Miss Ryder?” The voice was coming from out in the yard now, irritated, angry. “Does anyone know where the blasted woman stayed last night? Does anyone know what she looks like?”

  “I wrote to you every day for the first month,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Every single day. But not one of the letters was sent. I had nowhere to send them. I did not know where you were. You had simply vanished. Without me. And not a word from you. Not one. I am sometimes lonely now—the life of a lady’s companion is not a delightful one. But I have never known loneliness as I knew it during those months. I had been married and then—nothing. And then that letter out of the blue, so cold, so formal.”

  “Written a hundred times over before that particular draft was sent,” he said. “It was my one final chance. I did not want to squander it. But I did anyway.”

  “Miss Ryder?”

  The coachman appeared in the doorway again. He had bellowed the words. “Drat the woman! Where is she? Do you know anything of her, landlord?”

  “Not me,” the landlord said.

  “I am going to have to go without her and serve her right,” the coachman said. “I can’t keep everyone else waiting. Not again.”

  Nora looked beyond Richard’s shoulder, and for a moment there was something like panic in her eyes.

  “Don’t go,” he said, setting a hand on her wrist. “Don’t go, Nora. Stay with me. Stay for the rest of your life.”

  She shook her head slightly.

  “Mrs. Kemp, ma’am.” The landlord appeared beside them. “May I have your bag carried out to the curricle? And may I have yours brought down, sir?”

  She bit her lower lip and kept her eyes on Richard’s.

  From outside came the sounds of wheels rumbling on cobblestones and horses’ hooves clopping and the deafening blast of a yard of tin being blown to warn other vehicles away from the gateway onto the road.

  The stagecoach was on its way.

  Without her.

  “Yes, if you please,” Richard said, and the landlord scooped up the valise and hurried outside with it, calling to someone unseen to go up and bring Mr. Kemp’s bag down without further delay.

  “You are my wife, Nora,” Richard said.

  Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears.

  “That marriage was not valid,” she said. “It was—”

  “Valid,” he said firmly. “Though I do not doubt that some money changed hands and all documentary evidence disappeared. That does not make it less of a marriage, Nora. You are my wife.”

  “Richard—” she said.

  “I love you,” he told her, his voice low and urgent. “I always have. I have hated you, too, I suppose. But always, always I have loved you. Last night was all about love, Nora. You must know that. Come with me.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “I ought to go on the coach.”

  “Too late,” he said. “It has gone.”

  “Has it?” Her eyes widened.

  Incredibly, she had not heard it leave. She had been too focused on the drama unfolding between them.

  “You are stuck here again,” he said. “Stranded. With me.”

  “Oh,” she said. “For the rest of my life?”

  “For at least that long,” he told her.

  They stood staring at each other—until he smiled at her, and slowly an answering smile first tugged at the corners of her mouth and then lit her eyes.

  “But not necessarily here in Wimbury at the Crook and Staff,” he said. “I have a curricle and horses ready to go outside.”

  “Where will we go?” she asked him.

  “On a long journey to the rest of our lives,” he told her. “But first to London, where I will procure a special license as soon as I possibly can. We may know beyond any reasonable doubt that we are not living in sin, but the rest of the world may not be so willing to believe it.”

  “Oh, Richard,” she said.

  He took her right hand in both of his.

  “Will you marry me, Nora?” he asked her. “Again?”

  He was grinning at her. Suddenly he was feeling exuberant with happiness.

  “Oh, I will,” she said. “But only once more, Richard. I positively refuse to make a habit of this.”

  They both laughed, suddenly giddy with joy, and he leaned forward to set his lips to hers at the exact moment when the manservant who had been sent upstairs came clattering back down with Richard’s bag and the landlord stepped in from the yard outside, having just stowed Nora’s valise in the curricle.

  The manservant hastily and noisily retraced his steps, and the landlord coughed and discovered something else outside that needed his urgent attention.

  Richard wrapped his arms about his wife’s waist, and she twined hers about his neck. And they indulged in a lengthy and really quite scandalous display of public affection.

  For the moment the rest of their lives could wait.

  Only You

  Jacquie D’Alessandro

  For Mary Balogh, for sharing her fabulous idea during our wonderful Levy adventure. And to Stephanie Laurens and Candice Hern, who, along with Mary, made this project so much fun. And as always, to my fantastic, supportive husband, Joe, who stole my heart one magical night. And to my extraordinary son, Christopher, aka Heart Stealer, Junior.

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt thanks to the wonderful people at Levy Home Entertainment, who brought me, Mary, and Candice together: Pam Nelson, Justine Willis, Kathleen Koelbl, Krystal Nelson, Janet Kray, Emily Hixon, and Devar Spight. Thanks also to Susan Andersen, Sue Grimshaw, and to all the people at Avon Books for supporting this project.

  Chapter One

  “Stop the coach!” Cassandra Heywood, Cou
ntess Westmore, demanded, pounding her fist against the carriage ceiling to gain the driver’s attention.

  “What’s wrong, milady?” asked Sophie, her maid’s pretty face clouding with concern. “Ye look pale. Are ye unwell?”

  The carriage rocked to a halt, and she heard Mr. Watley, the coachman, clamor down from his perch. “I’m…” Panicked. Unsure. Dear God, am I making a terrible mistake? “…feeling a bit unsettled.” A humorless sound caught in her throat at the understatement.

  Mr. Watley opened the door, and a blast of cool, sea-scented air swirled into the warm interior. “Somethin’ amiss?”

  “Lady Westmore is feelin’ peaked,” Sophie said. “How much further do we have to go?”

  “The Blue Seas Inn is less than a mile ahead,” reported Mr. Watley.

  Less than a mile ahead. Cassandra’s gloved fingers tightened their grip on the black gabardine of her mourning gown.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t stop at the inn,” Mr. Watley said, a frown puckering his weathered face.

  Precisely the words that had repeatedly circled through her mind since they’d climbed into the coach this morning for the final leg of their arduous three-week journey to Cornwall.

  “Gateshead Manor is only another two hours away,” he continued. “I know ye planned to spend the night at the Blue Seas, but if yer gettin’ ill, might be best to press on and get ye home.”

  It wasn’t illness knotting her stomach, but she couldn’t deny that it might indeed be best to continue. Coward, her inner voice sneered. Indeed, she was. But she didn’t want to be. Not anymore. Yet old habits died hard.

  “I think…I just need some air,” she murmured. She accepted Mr. Watley’s large, callused hand and exited the carriage. Warm sunshine and cool air fanned over her, and she stretched her back. Her muscles ached and her temples pounded from the endless jouncing on the leather seats and the monotonous grinding of the wheels.

  Walking several yards away, she peered over the hedges lining the narrow dirt road and drew in a quick, delighted breath at the view. The sparkling wonder of St. Ives Bay greeted her gaze, an expanse of blue that melted into the indigo of the Atlantic glittering on the horizon. Gulls swooped over the sand dunes below, then skimmed over the white-capped waves. Golden ribbons of early afternoon sunshine shimmered over the boats bobbing near the shore, the vessels awaiting men to draw them out to catch pilchards and haul up lobster pots.

  Cassandra drew a slow, deep breath and briefly closed her eyes, savoring the hint of salt that scented the summer air. Nostalgia tightened her throat, and for the first time in ten long years, the viselike grip of homesickness for her beloved Cornwall loosened just a bit. Gateshead Manor in Land’s End, the childhood home she hadn’t seen in a decade, was only another two hours away. A place she looked forward to seeing with both anticipation and trepidation. A place saturated in memories, the site of some of her happiest days, and her most heartbreaking.

  The place where she’d be forced to come face-to-face with her uncertain future.

  Yet no matter how uncertain that future remained, it couldn’t be worse than the past she’d left behind three weeks ago when she’d escaped from the nightmare into which her life had deteriorated.

  But should she continue on to Land’s End today? She’d planned to spend the night here in St. Ives, but now that the moment was upon her, misgivings plagued her. Her better judgment, her common sense warned her that stopping here was unnecessary. Was foolhardy. Wrong. Highly improper. And might even prove dangerous. That the past could never be recaptured. Yet despite all those warnings, her heart…her heart refused to listen.

  And then the single question that had haunted her during the entire three-week journey whispered through her mind once again: Would he be at the inn?

  She tipped her head back to capture the sun’s warmth and squeezed her eyes shut. There’s only one way to find out, Cassandra.

  Opening her eyes, she looked out at the water, and allowed the memories to overtake her. Memories that, after several minutes, dispelled her doubts, making her choice clear. For years decisions had been made for her, regardless of her feelings. This was her chance to find the answers she sought. To finally do what she wanted. What she needed.

  God knew when she might have such a chance again.

  And what she wanted, needed, was to stop at the Blue Seas Inn.

  Would he be there? And if so, would he remember her? A long sigh escaped her. Of course he would remember her. But in what way? With fondness—or indifference? Most likely he hadn’t thought of her in years. He undoubtedly had a wife. Children. A happy, fulfilling life. They’d probably run out of conversation within five minutes.

  Yet something inside her insisted that if she allowed this opportunity to pass her by, she’d regret it.

  And she’d promised herself no more regrets.

  Her decision made, she straightened her spine and walked back to the carriage where Mr. Watley and Sophie awaited her with questioning expressions.

  “We shall spend the night at the Blue Seas Inn,” she said, proud of how sure and steady her voice sounded.

  “As ye wish, milady,” said Mr. Watley.

  He handed her and Sophie back into the carriage, and they resumed their journey. A quarter hour later the carriage jerked to a halt. Slipping on the mantle of outward calm that for years she’d worn like a second skin, Cassandra once again placed her hand into Mr. Watley’s and stepped from the coach.

  Bright sunshine flooded her eyes beneath the short brim of her bonnet, and she lifted her hand to shade the glare.

  Two stories of aged stone, mellowed to shades of soft gray, indicated the Blue Seas Inn dated back at least one hundred years. Yet the building was beautifully maintained, its mullioned windows sparkling clean, the modest flower beds flanking the walkway well tended and blooming with a profusion of colorful wildflowers. A livery, clearly a fairly recent addition, stood directly next to the original building.

  As she looked at those stables, a memory flashed through her mind, so strong, so vivid, it nearly stole her breath. Ethan’s dark eyes smiling down into hers as they shared a joke while currying her chestnut mare, his strong hands sure yet infinitely gentle with the animal.

  She blinked away the image, and her gaze shifted to rest on the hand-painted sign swinging gently in the salt-tinged breeze. It depicted a gull gliding over white-capped waters, the bird’s gray-tipped wings reflecting the shimmering sunshine. “Blue Seas Inn” was scripted in indigo letters, the perfect name for this charming setting, with the smaller letters beneath: “Ethan Baxter, Proprietor.”

  Her gaze riveted on the name, and she had to grip her fingers together to keep from brushing their tips over the letters.

  “Shall I accompany ye inside to arrange ye rooms, milady?” asked Mr. Watley.

  Cassandra dragged her gaze from the sign and turned toward the coachman. Her initial reaction was to pounce upon the offer, to grasp the excuse not to venture inside the inn alone. But she firmly shoved aside the yes that rushed to her lips. She’d come too far to hide behind anyone now. Still, nervousness had her swallowing to locate her voice.

  “No, thank you.” She turned to Sophie. “Please show Mr. Watley which pieces of luggage we’ll require for our stay.”

  “Yes, milady.” Sophie turned her attention to the carriage, and Cassandra forced her less than steady legs to move up the cobblestone walkway toward the front door, her mind swirling with that haunting question. Would he be here?

  Ethan Baxter wiped at his sweaty brow with an equally sweaty forearm, then rolled his aching shoulders. Nothing like an afternoon spent mucking out the stalls and currying horses to exhaust the body. But it was a good exhaustion, one that came from an activity he loved, one he didn’t do often enough since he’d hired Jamie Browne to run the livery. But when word had come at noon that Jamie’s wife’s labor had begun, Ethan had sent the young man home. A smile tugged at his lips as he recalled Jamie’s expression—a combination of awe, ex
citement, and complete, utter panic. A fissure of envy suffused Ethan, fading his amusement, echoing through the hollow space inside him, the space that longed for what Jamie and Sara had—a loving marriage. A child on the way. A real family.

  His jaw tightened with annoyance. That cursed hollow space. ’Bout bloody damn time he did something about it. And after much soul-searching, he believed he knew just the thing.

  Ethan left the livery and walked into the bright sunshine. He immediately noted the unfamiliar carriage outside the inn, the coachman removing a portmanteau from the stack of luggage, a lady’s maid pointing to another for him to remove. As the carriage was empty, the rest of the party was clearly already inside to inquire about rooms, of which, based on the coachman and the maid, they’d require at least two. Excellent for business, which he always welcomed. The Blue Seas had a reputation for being a clean, respectable, well-run establishment, and it was a distinction he’d worked hard to establish over the past four years since he’d first opened the inn’s doors.

  Having no desire to greet the newcomers smelling like horse and feeling gritty with sweat, he headed toward the inn’s side door, intending to head immediately for his own room to make himself presentable. Certainly Delia was fully capable of handling things and seeing to their comfort. Indeed, the inn’s housekeeper was so efficient, Ethan could probably leave St. Ives for a month and not be missed. Not that he had any intention of leaving for so much as a minute. St. Ives, the Blue Seas, was home—a place he’d searched long and hard to find. A place where he’d finally located a measure of the impossible-to-find tranquility he’d desperately sought. And if at times his work didn’t exhaust his mind and body enough to forget the past, it at least brought him a modicum of peace he hadn’t found anywhere else.

  Of course, he suspected that Delia would note his absence if he were to leave. He huffed out a breath and dragged a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Suspected? Hell, he knew it. Over the past year—and more frequently of late—she’d made comments, looked at him with a certain expression, both of which left no doubt that she wouldn’t mind being more to him than an employee, more than a friend. She was an attractive woman, and God help him, he’d been tempted more than once to quit pretending he hadn’t noticed her subtle hints.