“Phyllida Tallent, will you marry me? Will you help me tend this garden over all the years to come?”
He’d pitched his voice above the roar of the wind, above the wild threshing of the leaves.
Phyllida looked down, into his face. He’d spun her world around, then steadied it; he’d taught her so much, answered so many questions. She had only one left. “This garden needs constant love to keep it blooming. Do you love me that much?”
He held her gaze. “More.” He kissed the backs of her hands, first one, then the other. “I’ll love you forever.”
Phyllida pulled him to his feet. “Just as well, for I’ll love you for even longer.” She went into his arms, forever safe where she belonged. “I’ll love you for longer than forever.”
His arms closed around her. Their lips met, melded; their bodies eased against each other, seeking remembered delights.
Lucifer broke the kiss to ask, “When can we marry?”
Phyllida drew back. “It’s Saturday. If we speak to Mr. Filing tonight, he could read the banns tomorrow. Then we could marry in just over two weeks.”
They looked up the common at the Rectory. The small house lay in darkness. “I really don’t think,” Lucifer said, “that Filing will mind being woken—not for this.”
He didn’t; the curate was delighted when he heard their reason for hauling him from his bed. He assured them that the banns would be called in the morning. Declining his offer of a celebratory sherry on the grounds of the imminent downpour, they left the Rectory and raced down the common—anticipating a celebration of a different sort.
They reached the duck pond and the skies opened. They were soaked, dripping and bedraggled by the time they reached the Manor’s front porch. The smell of rain-washed greenery and the ever-present perfume of the garden—their garden now—swept over them as they stood catching their breath while Lucifer hunted for his key.
He unlocked the door and swung it wide. Phyllida entered; Lucifer followed and reset the lock. Turning, he saw Phyllida standing just outside the open drawing room. He joined her as she stepped into the doorway. Slipping an arm around her waist, he held her back against him.
Phyllida crossed her arms over his and leaned back to whisper, “It’s peaceful here now—can you sense it?”
He could. He rubbed his chin over the wet silk of her hair. “Horatio’s gone to talk to Martha about her pansies.”
Phyllida turned her head and smiled. Sliding around in his arms, she touched his cheek. “You’re the most fanciful man.”
He kissed her, then murmured, “I know what I fancy at the moment.”
So did she. Her sigh was just a little skittery, just a touch breathless. “We’d better get upstairs.”
“If you insist.”
Phyllida led the way with him padding at her heels like some obedient jungle cat. She detoured via the linen press to fetch two large towels, then led him, not to her room, but to his. He made no demur but went past her to light the lamp that sat atop one tallboy.
It was pouring outside. Lightning still flickered and thunder rolled, but the storm front had already swept past. Rubbing her hair with the towel, Phyllida pushed the door shut, then turned—just as Lucifer adjusted the wick so the lamp shed a golden glow through the room.
“Great heavens!” She stared. “That’s it!”
She walked toward Lucifer, her gaze fixed beyond him. He glanced around to see what had so excited her. “It, what?” Then the penny dropped and he stared, too.
“Don’t tell me it’s always been here.” Phyllida reached up to lift the traveling writing desk from its perch on the corner of the tallboy.
“All right, I won’t tell you,” Lucifer replied. “But you didn’t say traveling writing desk—I’ve been looking for something with four legs.”
With the polished wooden box in her hands, Phyllida turned. “I must have said . . .” She caught his eye and grimaced. “Well, maybe I didn’t. But I meant a traveling writing desk—I knew what I was looking for.”
“Anyway, I thought you’d searched the whole house.”
“I didn’t search in here. I didn’t imagine you’d miss a traveling writing desk if it was sitting in your room. The only other time I’ve been in here was at night in the dark.”
“I didn’t miss it—I knew it was there. It just never occurred to me that that’s the sort of desk you meant.” He studied the box. “Where’s this secret drawer? It doesn’t look big enough to have one.”
“That’s why it’s such a good hiding place.” Phyllida sat on the bed and placed the desk on her thighs; Lucifer sat beside her. “It’s here—see?” Running her fingers along one of the back side panels, she found the catch and pressed it. The panel swung outward. Sliding her fingers in, she felt around, then gripped and pulled a sheaf of papers into the light.
She stared at them. “Good Lord!” She dropped the bundle between them on the bedspread.
They both sat, transfixed, not by the bundle of letters predictably tied with a pink ribbon, but by the small rolled canvas that had been tucked in with them.
It had unrolled just a little. Just enough to show the deep browns and rich reds of oils, and part of a hand.
Lucifer recovered first. “Careful—we’re both dripping.”
Phyllida wriggled off the bed. Lucifer stood and grabbed the second towel. While he rubbed at his hair and mopped his face, Phyllida shut the secret drawer and put the writing desk back on the tallboy. Returning to the bed, she swiped up her towel and dried her hands and reblotted her face, then twisted her hair up in the towel. Then she gingerly picked up Mary Anne’s and Robert’s letters and deposited them beside the writing desk. “Don’t want to get them wet and have the ink run, not after all this.”
Lucifer humphed. He joined her as she went back to the bed.
Phyllida eyed the rolled painting, then gestured. “You do it.”
Lucifer picked up the canvas; touching only the unpainted edges, he unrolled it.
Even in the lamplight, the jeweled tones glowed. A woman—a lady by the richness of her dress—sat smiling at the painter. Her gown of wine-dark velvet had a square, heavily embroidered neckline; her headdress was a form of wimple, artfully folded. Her forehead was high, plucked, as had been the fashion centuries before.
Phyllida drew in a breath. “This is what was in Aesop’s Fables, isn’t it? This is the item Horatio invited you down here to appraise. The miniature—the old masterpiece—that Appleby killed three men for.”
Lucifer nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t the first to have killed for this lady.”
Phyllida looked from the miniature to his face, then back again. “It’s genuine?”
“It’s too perfect not to be. Too much like his other works.”
“Whose work? Who painted it?”
“Holbein the Younger, court-portraitist for Henry the Eighth.”
They spent the next hour talking, speculating, deciding that the miniature belonged in a museum. That resolved, Lucifer returned the painting to the secret drawer, then fetched the lamp and placed it on the table beside the bed.
He’d pulled off his wet boots and stripped off his coat and shirt long before; Phyllida was still in her damp shirt and breeches. She regarded him speculatively, fascinated by the way the flickering lamplight played over the muscles of his chest. She let her gaze drift downward, to where the wet fabric of his breeches molded lovingly to his form, then languidly brought her gaze back to his face—to his eyes, smoldering blue.
She raised a haughty brow.
He smiled. Intently. His fingers closed on the buttons on his waistband. He held her gaze as if daring her to watch as he peeled the wet breeches from him. Phyllida raised her brow higher—and did. His breeches hit the floor with a splat. He came onto the bed in a prowling crawl. With an ease that still shocked her—tantalized her and left her breath stuck in her throat—he picked her up and rearranged her so she was kneeling, sitting back on her ankles
, her back to him as he knelt behind her, his naked thighs outside hers. She was facing the end of the four-poster bed. With the curtains tied back, she looked out at her reflection in the long, wide mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
The sight was mesmerizing. His shoulders showed above and beyond hers; she looked fragile and vulnerable all but surrounded by him. Female and male, one dressed, one naked; the contrasts were dramatic. His hands looked very large clamped about her waist. He checked the vision he was creating, then glanced down. Phyllida watched as his hands rose and his fingers busied themselves with the buttons of her shirt. At least, this time she wouldn’t have to sew them back on.
“I’m going to strip these wet clothes from you, then I’m going to dry you, then warm you up—we wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”
Phyllida had no wish to argue. She leaned her turbaned head back on his shoulder and, watching from under half closed lids, let him get on with it.
Let him peel the wet shirt from her, then unwind her sodden bands. Watched him grab a towel and apply it to her breasts in a slow, circular motion. When her breasts were not only dry but swollen and warm, peaked and firm, he dropped the towel and started on her breeches. Removing them required a little more cooperation; giggling at the curses and inventive suggestions he murmured between laying kisses along the back of her bare shoulders and licking errant drops from her skin, she helped him ease the cold, clinging fabric from her hips and down her thighs.
Without warning, he lifted her, whisking the wet garment over her knees and calves; it went flying to join the pile on the floor. He picked up the towel as he set her down before him, still on her knees, still facing the mirror. Fragile, vulnerable, and naked, surrounded by his strength.
He wielded the towel to telling effect, using the lightly abrasive pile to tease and tantalize until all of her body was flushed and heated, until every inch of her skin was sensitized and aching, until she was awash with a wanton desire that only he could slake.
Then he dropped the towel.
She was dry. He set his clever fingers, strong hands, wicked lips, and even wickeder tongue to the task of warming her up. Until she was gasping, heated to the point where her skin felt afire and molten need had spread through every vein. Through her lashes she saw her body flushed with desire, a glow unlike any other. She needed him, wanted him—she arched in his arms, sank her fingers into his thighs, and dropped her head back to his shoulder.
He shifted her, urging her on, molding her as he wished, showing her how to be as wanton as she dared.
Then he joined with her. So easily, so perfectly, so completely. He closed his arms around her and rocked her, rocked into her; she closed her eyes and savored the feel of him buried so deep within her.
He was as hot as the sun, burning up all around her, muscles flexing like hot steel all about her. He showed her what could be, then let her choose, let her turn and clasp her long legs about his hips and take him deep, let her wrap her arms about him and find his lips with hers, let her take him with her into oblivion.
Together. Forever.
They were married on a Monday, the day after Mr. Filing read the banns for the third time. Mr. Filing officiated before a church packed to the rafters. Everyone from the village, everyone from the surrounding farms and houses, was there, as were numerous Cynsters who had moved heaven and earth to be present.
Gabriel stood beside his brother and happily handed him the ring. Flick and Mary Anne were bridesmaids. Demon was the second groomsman.
In the body of the church sat Gabriel’s wife, Alathea, smiling fondly, and Celia Cynster, Lucifer’s mother, who cried happily throughout the short service. Beside her, Martin, Lucifer’s father, looked smugly satisfied as he handed clean handkerchiefs to his spouse. Lucifer’s three sisters, Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, all beamed.
Then it was done, and the last member of the Bar Cynster was wed.
Lucifer bent to kiss Phyllida; the sun broke from the wispy clouds to pour through the oriel window, enclosing the bride and groom in a nimbus of jeweled light. Then they smiled and turned, man and wife, to greet their family and friends.
At the bride and groom’s insistence, the wedding breakfast was held at the Manor. The guests spread through the house, spilled onto the lawns, and strolled the wonderful garden. Standing at one side of the lawn with his father, Gabriel, and Demon, Lucifer watched as Celia all but paraded her new daughter-in-law, her delight in her second son’s choice plain to see. Phyllida had, to the last, remained nervous of her reception into the ducal dynasty; it had taken Celia only three minutes to lay such trepidations to rest. In doing so, she’d earned her second son’s enduring gratitude, but that wasn’t something he intended to tell her. As a Cynster wife, Celia had weapons enough.
Beside him, Martin chuckled, the sound fond but wary. Lucifer, Demon, and Gabriel glanced at him, then followed his gaze to where Celia and Phyllida had met up with Alathea and Flick. They had their heads together.
Lucifer straightened. Demon sighed. Gabriel shook his head. It was left to Martin to put their thoughts into words. “Why we bother fighting it, the Lord only knows. Inevitability, thy name is woman.”
Lucifer’s lips lifted. “Actually, for us, I believe that should go: Inevitability, thy name is wife.”
“Too true,” Gabriel murmured.
“Indeed.” Demon watched as their four ladies broke from their huddle and headed their way. “What now?”
“Whatever it is, we can’t escape,” Martin replied. “Take my advice—surrender with good grace.” He strolled forward to intercept Celia.
Gabriel grimaced. “I wish he hadn’t used that word.”
“ ‘Surrender’?” Demon asked.
“Hmm. It might be the truth, but I don’t want to hear it.” So saying, Gabriel gracefully deflected Alathea, turning her toward the shrubbery.
“There’s a secluded little folly down by the lake,” Lucifer murmured to Demon.
“Where are you headed?” Demon murmured back.
“There’s this arbor in the garden I’m working on filling with pleasant memories.”
Demon grinned. “Good luck.”
Lucifer saluted as they parted, each to his own special lady. “Good luck to us all.”
And with that, the Bar Cynster surrendered gladly, each to his own, very special, fate.
August 1820
Somersham, Cambridgeshire
It was nearly two years to the day that she’d first sighted this house, first strolled the wide lawns. Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, stood on the front porch of her home, Somersham Place, and looked about her, marveling at the changes, and at how much, despite all, remained the same.
The side lawn was filled with family and connections, the froth of summer gowns scattered like confetti over the green. Many had taken advantage of the shade offered by the ancient trees to lounge at ease; others strolled, stopping by the various groups to chat, to learn the latest news, and, most of all, to greet the new family members.
There were many of those. That fact infused the gathering with an untempered joy, an effervescent sense of burgeoning life that was tangible.
Two years ago, many of those present had gathered here to mourn. Although Tolly, and even Charles, had not been forgotten, the family, like all great families, had moved on. They’d prospered, they’d conquered—now they were enjoying the fruits of their labors.
Cradling one such apple in one arm, Honoria raised her skirts and descended to the lawn. Before she’d taken three steps, her husband detached himself from one group and strode, fiendishly handsome and arrogantly confident as ever, to join her.
“How is he?” Devil bent his dark head to peek at his second son.
Michael blinked, yawned, then grabbed his sire’s finger.
“He’s fed and dry and therefore content. And I believe it’s your turn to play nursemaid.” Honoria divested herself of the shawl-wrapped bundle. Devil accepted the charge with alacrity. Honoria hid her gr
in; she knew he’d been waiting to play the proud father. It never ceased to amaze her that he—indeed, all the males of his family—while so strong and powerful and so arrogantly assured, so totally dominant, could and would, at the wave of a tiny hand, readily devote himself so completely to his offspring.
“Where’s Sebastian?” She scanned the lawns for sign of their firstborn. He’d recently started to walk; running could not be far behind.
“He’s with the twins.” Devil lifted his head and located the girls. “They’re on the steps of the summerhouse.”
There was a frown in his eyes; Honoria knew it wasn’t because he doubted the twins’ ability to watch over Sebastian. She patted his arm; when he transfered his pale green gaze to her face, she smiled up at him. “Consider this. Better they dream of having children of their own, therefore accepting all the steps that come before, than that they don’t.”
It took him a moment to follow her reasoning, then his eyes hardened. “I’d rather they didn’t think about any of that at all.”
“You’ve as much chance of achieving that as of holding back the sun.” She squeezed his arm, then waved imperiously toward the guests. “Now go and play host and show off our son, while I go and admire the others.”
Majestically established in a wrought-iron seat placed at the center of the lawn, the Dowager and Horatia held court. Between them, they lovingly juggled three tiny, shawl-wrapped bundles, exclaiming fondly, displaying their grandchildren for the edification of the surrounding crowd that, for the past thirty minutes, had constantly changed but not diminished in the least.
In a lounger to one side of the seat, Catriona, Lady of the Vale, lay resting, still pale, her hair a fiery halo around her head. The glow in her face as she watched Helena cradle her babies rendered her nothing less than radiant. She looked precisely what she was, a madonna who’d been blessed.
Richard stood beside the lounger, his fingers entwined with hers. His gaze constantly switched from his wife to his children and back again. The expression in his dark eyes, on his lean, harsh-featured face, spoke louder than words of his pride and his joy.
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