It Happened One Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  “I assure you, you’d have one hell of a time doing so,” came Ethan’s quiet reply, no less threatening due to its softness.

  “Ten years ago you thought you could get away with kissing my daughter—you who are worth even less than what you mucked out of my stalls. I saw the way you looked at her. Given the chance you’d have lifted her skirts, and she was just stupid and useless enough to let you.”

  “You won’t talk about her that way in my presence.”

  Her father gave a bark of harsh laughter. “I’ll do exactly as I please, which includes not listening to any more from you. Get out. Now. Before I have you thrown out.”

  “Again, I assure you you’d have one hell of a time doing so before I speak to Cassie.”

  Another short silence followed, during which Cassandra snapped out of her stunned state. She started toward the library, but before she’d taken even two steps, the door opened, hard enough for it to bounce back on its hinges, and Ethan strode into the corridor, his face set in grim lines, looking large and dark and dangerously determined. He halted for several heartbeats when he saw her, then moved swiftly toward her. Seconds later he clasped her shoulders.

  “Cassie,” he said, his gaze anxiously searching her face. “Are you all right?”

  God help her, she didn’t know. The things her father had said, the ramifications of those words…but she’d have to think on that later. She jerked her head in a nod. “I’m fine. I cannot believe you are here.”

  “I need to talk to you—”

  “Take your hands off my daughter.”

  She and Ethan turned. Her father was advancing on them, his eyes iced with fury. Ethan stepped in front of her, but she moved to stand next to him, feeling strong with him near and her anger further fueling her courage.

  Her father stopped an arm’s length away. He didn’t even spare her a glance, instead fixing his glare on Ethan. “This is your final warning. Get out of my house.”

  “No.” The word erupted from Cassandra. She was so angry she was shaking. “I heard what you said in the library, Father. That you ordered Ethan away ten years ago. That you caused the injury to his face.” Her voice vibrated with disgust. “You’re a cold, evil man, and I’m ashamed to be your daughter.”

  He whipped up his hand, clearly intending to strike her, but in the blink of an eye Ethan deflected the blow, then lifted him up by the front of his shirt. In two long strides he thumped her father’s back against the wall. Her father gasped, but before he could utter a word, Ethan shoved his forearm against his throat.

  “This is your final warning,” Ethan said, his voice low and deadly calm. “First, if I ever see you raise a hand to her again, I’ll break your damn arm. For starters. Second, I’m going to talk to Cassie, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. Not with a knife, not with a pistol, not with a battalion of your servants, or anything else you might think of. I’m not the same green youth I was ten years ago, and believe me, if you try to interfere again, I won’t hesitate to carve up your face to match mine.”

  Her father’s face resembled a beet, and a combination of fury and fear blazed from his eyes. He tried to jerk out of Ethan’s grasp, but he might as well have been attempting to move a granite boulder.

  “Someday you’ll rot in hell,” her father spewed in a strangled voice.

  “Maybe. But if you attempt to hurt her in any way or interfere again, I’ll make certain you get there first.” Ethan released her father, so abruptly he crumpled to the floor, clutching his throat and breathing hard. Ethan moved to stand before her. “Are you all right?”

  “Y-yes.” This time she grabbed his hand, anxious to get away. They exited the house, and when she hesitated, not sure which way to go, Ethan led her to a beautiful chestnut mare tethered to a gatepost. After he mounted, he reached down and plucked her off her feet as if she weighed no more than a daisy, and settled her across his lap, wrapping his strong arms around her. She leaned back against his chest, and his warmth and strength surrounded her. She didn’t ask where they were going as his heels set the horse in motion at a brisk pace. It didn’t matter. She was with him, and that was enough.

  He said nothing, and she had to press her lips together to keep from asking him the plethora of questions racing through her mind. A quarter hour later he slowed the horse when they arrived at the stretch of beach on the estate’s grounds, a place where they’d spent many hours together. He swung down from the saddle, then reached up for her, clasping her waist. With her hands braced on his shoulders, he lowered her, her body dragging slowly along his. When he set her on her feet, he continued to hold her, for which she was grateful, as her legs felt less than steady.

  She looked up at him, and a swell of love washed through her. His hair was wildly windblown, his skin browned from the sun…except for the slash of white on his left cheek. She reached out with unsteady fingers and brushed them over the marred, puckered skin.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered.

  “It happened a long time ago.”

  A fresh spate of anger arrowed through her. “I’ll never forgive him for how he treated you.”

  “I’ll never forgive him for how he treated you.”

  “The way you stood up to him, the way you defended me…you were magnificent. No one has ever taken up my cause like that. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m only sorry I wasn’t around to do so for the past ten years.”

  Dear God, so was she.

  “The way you defended me was also quite magnificent,” he said, his voice solemn. “Thank you.” He clasped her hands, entwining their fingers, then regarded her through very serious dark eyes. “Before I arrived…did he hurt you in any way?”

  “Not physically.” She quickly told him of her father’s plan to marry her off to the Duke of Atterly.

  His expression tightened, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “What did you say?”

  “That I refuse to marry again.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “I…see.” He gently squeezed her hands. “He was wrong when he said you don’t have a choice, Cassie. You do. Come with me. Come back to the Blue Seas Inn.”

  The relief and love that swamped her snatched her breath. “I’m so glad you said that, Ethan, because I was planning to return to the Blue Seas Inn today.”

  His brows shot up, and he seemed momentarily at a loss for words. “Because of your disagreement with your father?”

  “No, although in the end that proved the spark which fired my decision, so perhaps I should thank him.” She drew a bracing breath, then plunged ahead, “I was returning to the Blue Seas to tell you that I love you, Ethan. But not just that I love you—I’ve known that for years—but that I’m in love with you. Painfully so.” The words came faster, spilling out of her like water pouring from a widemouthed pitcher, afraid that if she so much as paused for breath, she’d lose her courage. “In the course of one magical day and night you erased ten years of empty loneliness. And you made me realize not only things that I want, but things that I don’t want. I don’t want to live at Gateshead Manor without you. I don’t want to live anywhere without you. As for what I do want—I want you. Every day. Every night. For as long as you want me.”

  She paused for breath, but found she could barely draw air into her lungs as she searched his stunned gaze, waiting for his reply. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Good God, what did that mean? The silence dragged on until she wanted to shake him. Why didn’t he say something?

  Finally he opened his eyes, and the heat flaring in them instantly gave her hope. “For as long as you want me,” he murmured, repeating her words. “Cassie, you realize that’s forever.”

  Relief nearly buckled her knees. “Dear God, I hope so. But Ethan, I must remind you that I have nothing. No money. And I’m barren. You’d make a wonderful father—”

  He cut off her words by laying a single fingertip over her lips. “The one benefit of not being titled is no
t having to produce heirs.”

  “It would only be you and me.”

  He yanked her against him and touched his forehead to hers. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

  She framed his face in her hands and leaned back in the circle of his arms until their eyes met. Joy rushed through her, so swift it threatened to sweep her off her feet. “Ethan, will you marry me?”

  Again he squeezed his eyes shut, and then his mouth was on hers in a hard, hot, passionate kiss that stole her breath. When he finally lifted his head, she felt utterly and deliciously dazed. “Is that a yes?” she whispered.

  He kept one strong arm wrapped around her and lifted his other hand to brush back her disheveled hair. “Before I answer you, don’t you want to know what I came here to tell you?”

  “If you still wish to tell me.”

  “Oh, I do. I came here to tell you that I love you. I’ve always loved you. Only you. You’ve held my heart in your hand since that first day when you asked me to be your friend. I always believed there could never be anything between me and a countess, but after seeing you again, hearing about your marriage, I realized I couldn’t let you go without at least telling you how much I love you. And letting you decide if the very little I have to offer is enough. I’ll never be able to afford the sort of luxury you’ve always known, but I’ll make sure you’re always warm and well-fed. I don’t have much, Cassie, but all I have I offer to you.”

  Her lips trembled, and a half laugh, half sob escaped her. “The estates, the title, the place in society—none of it has ever brought me happiness. All I want is your love, Ethan.”

  “You’ve always had it. You always will. For a long time I believed that loving you was mistake. But now I know it wasn’t—my error was in letting you go.” Clasping both her hands, he dropped to one knee before her. “Cassie, will you marry me?”

  Tears of pure joy rolled down her face and plopped onto their joined hands. “I asked you first.”

  A grin curved his lips. “My answer is yes.”

  “My answer is yes.”

  “Thank God.” He rose and gifted her with another heated, passionate kiss, then lifted her off her feet and twirled her around until they were both breathless and laughing.

  After he set her down, Cassandra looked up at him and saw all the love she’d ever dreamed of beaming at her from his beautiful dark eyes. “So this is what happiness feels like,” she said, smiling into those eyes.

  “My sweet Cassie, this is exactly what it feels like.”

  From This Moment On

  Candice Hern

  Dedicated with thanks to all the readers who wrote to me asking for Wilhelmina’s story

  Chapter One

  October 1814

  Buckinghamshire

  The crunch of wheels on gravel and the clip-clop of a slowing team heralded the arrival of yet another coach. Captain Samuel Pellow, late of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, nursed a tankard of ale in the public room of the Blue Boar, and watched from the little windowed alcove overlooking the inn yard as the new carriage pulled to a stop. The innkeeper rushed out to welcome yet another unexpected party compelled to halt their journey due to the downpour.

  Sam had pulled into the yard driving his own curricle not half an hour earlier. After so many years at sea he didn’t mind getting wet, but he was much more comfortable on a rolling quarterdeck in a high storm than he was navigating sloggy, uncertain roads with an irritable team. He’d decided to ride out the squall in a dry taproom with twenty or thirty like-minded travelers.

  Grissom, the innkeeper, was quite obviously delighted to have so many customers, as the village of Upper Hampden was between regular stops on the coach road, and Sam guessed the Blue Boar did not often have such a full house. It was an old inn, had probably been built over two hundred years ago: black and white timbered, steep-pitched gables, with projecting stories leaning drunkenly over the inn yard. Even so, it was a surprisingly well-appointed and comfortable inn for such a small village. The stables, though, were already overcrowded with carriages and carts and gigs, and more horses than they were built to handle. The situation did not dim the innkeeper’s mercenary smile as he stood holding a large umbrella, ready to escort the new arrivals inside.

  Through the rain-streaked mullioned window, Sam could see that there were actually two carriages in the yard, each of them large and elegantly appointed, with a crest on the doors. He couldn’t make out the crest—not that it would make any difference if he could; one coat of arms looked much the same as the next to him—but it was clear from his deferential attitude that Grissom was aware he had a member of the aristocracy in his inn yard.

  A liveried footman, soaked to the skin, jumped from his perch on the back of the first carriage, pulled down a portable set of steps, and opened the door. Shielded by the innkeeper’s huge umbrella, a lady stepped down and was rushed inside the inn. Another woman followed, obviously a maid as she didn’t warrant the courtesy of an umbrella. Pulling a cloak over her head, she made her way indoors, carrying a leather box tight against her chest. A bull of a man stepped from the second carriage, conferred with the other footmen and the ostlers who were seeing to the horses, then rushed inside.

  Sam settled back in his chair and proceeded to enjoy his ale in peace while the entry hall became a frenzy of activity. He could hear Mrs. Grissom, somewhat less delighted with today’s parade of customers than her husband, shouting out orders to her small staff. Her voice rang out with an authority that made Sam smile, thinking she might have done quite well as a gunnery officer during a close action.

  Amid the bustle and shouting he caught the words “best room” and “Your Grace.” So, the newcomer was a duchess. The tiniest twinge of anxiety gripped the muscles of his abdomen. He had met a few duchesses in his day, but there was one who still held a tiny corner of his heart, though he had not laid eyes on her in many years. And their last meeting had not been one of his better moments. He was foolish to hope that this particular duchess was his duchess. She was a creature of London, which was one reason he’d avoided going up to Town whenever he was in England. He hadn’t wanted to meet her again. Their last encounter had been too awkward. He never quite knew what he felt for her, and that uncertainty always tied him into knots. No, this far from London, it would be some other duchess. England was crawling with duchesses.

  But he could not tear his eyes from the doorway that opened into the entry hall. Several figures were crowded into that tiny space. It was easy enough to identify the duchess. She was the center of attention. The innkeeper’s wife was bobbing up and down like an anchor buoy in front of the lady, when she wasn’t shooing a maid in one direction or another to prepare for their grand guest. And the bullish fellow from the second coach was hovering close and keeping the riffraff at bay.

  The lady herself seemed unperturbed by the fuss and bother. Her back was to Sam, but there was that indescribable something about her bearing that marked her as Quality. She wore a full-length pelisse of deep blue velvet with several short capes at the back, in imitation of a man’s greatcoat, and a matching bonnet. Sam knew next to nothing about ladies’ fashion, but even he could see that this was a very stylish ensemble, and no doubt very expensive.

  She nodded to the innkeeper, then turned to speak to the bullish man. In doing so, her face came partially into view, and Sam sucked in a sharp breath. Dear God, it was his duchess. Or rather, the Duke of Hertford’s duchess. Sam had no claim to her at all. Except that they had once loved each other, a very long time ago. Almost twenty-five years ago. Gulfs of time and experience separated them, and yet she still had the ability to set his heart beating to quarters.

  Almost without thinking, he rose from the bench, stepped down from the raised alcove, and walked toward her. Toward Wilhelmina, Duchess of Hertford.

  Blast the rain! Wilhelmina had hoped to make it home tonight. But there was nothing more dismal and uncomfortable than traveling in a rainstorm. It was only just past noon and the storm migh
t pass in an hour or so, but the delay would mean an even later arrival in London. Instead, she preferred to take advantage of whatever accommodations could be had in this quaint little village and settle here for the night. They could start out for London in the morning when the weather would hopefully be more cooperative.

  She was giving Smeaton, her long-suffering factotum, instructions to arrange rooms for her small entourage of servants when, out of the corner of her eye, Wilhelmina saw a movement in the adjacent public room. Something, some inexplicable pull, compelled her to turn and look. A man was walking toward her. He was silhouetted in shadows against the bright blaze from the large open-hearth fire behind him, and she could not make out his features. But in less than an instant, she assessed what she could see of him with a practiced eye.

  He was tall with broad shoulders and a trim waistline, his straight-backed posture lent him a military air. His purposeful stride in her direction made Wilhelmina think she must know him.

  Who was he? If he was one of her former paramours, she might find some pleasure in this pokey old inn by reminiscing with a friend. She hoped to God that it wasn’t some fellow she’d once rejected—and they were legion—who would make the day even more miserable than it already was.

  As he came nearer, a jolt of familiarity shot through her insides. By the time his face came into the light, knocking the breath clean out of her, she had already guessed who he was.

  He smiled, that crooked smile she had once known so well, and said, “Willie.”

  She was no longer a young girl who swooned with emotion, but Sam Pellow always managed to make her feel unsteady on her pins. He was still good-looking. In fact, he seemed to have grown handsomer over time, or maybe it was her own notion of handsome that had changed. A man of years and experience, with wisdom and character in his face—that was what Wilhelmina now found attractive. It was a mark of her own years, she supposed, that fresh-faced, untried young men no longer held much appeal for her.