“I love her,” he said to the ground, needing to hear himself say it again.
He thought he heard something and looked up. The garden was empty.
He exhaled. “My Scottish.”
The trees rustled slightly, a breath of a breeze whispering, “Alec.”
He looked upward at nothing. But he could have sworn ‘twas her voice.
“Alec.”
Frowning, he looked before him, some small amount of hope still flickering inside him. There was nothing. An empty garden.
“Alec.”
God . . . He was insane. He’d go through life hearing her voice.
“My Alec.”
At that, he straightened and turned around.
She stood there. Scottish stood there, a smile on her face, that wonderful face. Three mindless steps and she was in his arms. Real. Alive. He gripped her so tightly she gasped.
“I love you.” He buried his face in her sweet neck and said, “God, Scottish . . . . How I love you.”
Her hands held his head. “My Alec,” she whispered, then their mouths touched and he knew this was real, for he tasted all he loved, his world, his life, his wife. Eternity.
Long moments later, he pulled back, looking at her, touching her, holding her, afraid for an instant to let go lest she disappear again. As if reading his mind, she smiled and whispered, “‘Tis forever this time.”
The notes of the waltz drifted on the air. He pushed back, looked at the golden light of the ballroom, then back at her face. That face.
A second later he pulled her with him. “Alec! Where are we going?”
He said nothing, just ripped open the terrace doors and stormed inside until they stood in the middle of the dance floor. The dancers slowed, then stopped.
Surrounded by the ton, he gripped her head in his hands and finished kissing her.
A gasp ran through the room, the ton suddenly witness to a new scandal. The music ceased. Voices twittered. Fans flew up to shield ladies’ faces, yet their curious eyes peered over, watching. Some ladies fainted. Some ladies smiled. Most ladies envied. He didn’t notice. He didn’t care.
There was the feeble sound of applause, and at that, Alec broke the kiss, looking a few feet away where three people stood—the only people in the room beside Scottish whose opinion mattered. Stephen hung his head and muttered “mush.” Seymour grinned and held up his crossed fingers. Downe leaned on his cane, but it was he who was awkwardly clapping.
Alec felt Scottish shift, then turn slowly, following his gaze. He saw her look at the earl’s cane, then she turned back to him. There was a pause, a flash of laughter in her eyes. They both spoke at the same instant: “Letitia Hornsby.”
He caught her laughter with another kiss, held her close and ignored the mumble of outraged sensibilities.
He swept her into his arms, and she pulled back, smiling up at him as he carried her through the stunned crowd.
“Alec?” Sighing, she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Hmm?”
She placed her hand on his heart. “You do that so very well.”
Part VIII
And They Lived Happily Ever After
Should all men pile their joys up on a single spot,
mine would surpass them all.
—Juventius
Epilogue
How happily? Well . . .
All Hallows Eve was a very special holiday at Belmore Park. If one looked down from the fanciful roofline, through the leaded glass windows that sparkled like starlight, and into the great room—the busiest and most lived-in room inside the ducal home—one would see that there was magic in the air. It floated through the room along with a table, a book or two, and a few chairs, including the one occupied by His Grace, the Duke of Belmore.
“Marianna.”
“Yes, Papa?”
“Put the chair down, please.”
A floating book sailed past his head. “Marianna.”
“Sorry, Papa,” she said, then he heard her mutter, “I need to concentrate.”
Alec stifled a groan and leaned over the arm of the chair to look down at his eight-year-old daughter. Standing about eight feet below him, she was dressed for the holiday celebration in green silk taffeta and lace, and her black hair was held back from her innocent face with bright green ribbons that matched her eyes, those gamine green eyes. She stared up at him as he hovered above her, bit her lip, then gave him a small wave. “Hallo, Papa.”
He smiled down at her. “Having a problem?”
She nodded.
“You can do it, sweet. I know you can.” He gave her a nod of confidence he was far from feeling.
She smiled up at him as if he had just given her all the stars in the sky. She raised her chin a notch, closed her eyes so tight that her small face twisted with her effort, raised her hands high, then slowly lowered them.
The chair slammed to the floor. He shook the ringing from his ears and loosened his tight grip on the chair arms. He’d had plenty of practice landing over the years. His daughter opened her eyes, as if she expected to have failed again. But one tentative look and delight shone from her face. She ran into his arms. “Oh Papa! I did it! I did it!”
He held her tightly. “Yes, sweet, you did it.” He raised his eyes to the doorway where his wife stood smiling, her love for him showing in her face. That face. She still looked as young and bright as she had that day in the forest, despite the fact she was the mother of six. She hardly changed, but she’d changed him, had shown him what it was to live, and over the past thirteen years they’d made plenty of memories.
She mouthed a thank-you, then cleared her throat. “Everyone’s waiting.”
Nodding, he stood and stooped down so his daughter could climb onto his shoulders. Her giggle bubbled through the room and she turned to her mother as he ducked under the doorway, her small hand patting his head. “Papa does this so well.”
Hours later, after the songs, the bonfires, the dancing and games, the whole family returned to the great room where a tall clock chimed eleven, the ormulu clock on the mantel chimed four, and the walnut century clock chimed midnight. The Duke of Belmore checked his pocket watch. It was nine o’clock.
Shaking his head, he leaned back in a chair, a grounded chair, and watched his children—a mixture of mortals and witches who were loved and cherished by their parents. They were his life, his blood, his pride, and he made sure they knew it. Jonathan, the eldest son and heir, now age ten, glanced up at the mantel and with a casual wave of his warlock’s hand fixed every clock in the room. It was said his magic was even stronger and more flawless than that of his great aunt, the MacLean—Mary MacLean—whom all their daughters were named after and who sat across the room examining Gabriel’s newest bald spot. Over the years Alec had come to know the woman who’d given him Scottish. He’d learned to ignore her and her familiar’s penchant for taking other forms—haggard old flower women, inn-keeping giants and dwarfs, Caribbee servants, and deaf butlers.
His warm gaze drifted to a quiet corner. Marian’s corner. She was the eldest child at twelve and the tradition breaker —the only female firstborn in the Castlemaine line in seven hundred years. One finger idly twisted her mink brown hair while she read about knights and ladies and dragons, occasionally glancing up with a dreamy look in her midnight blue eyes. Marianna was now playing draughts with her seven-year-old brother, James. He was the only mortal in the Castlemaine lot, but he was sharp and quick and could usually outmaneuver his siblings’ magic—with the help of an ermine weasel named Beezle.
Six-year-old Marietta sat in her Uncle Stephen’s lap while he slowly read to her about meanings and symbols of all the flowers and plants in the gardens. Her eyes began to drift closed, and Alec smiled, watching his brother read on while she fell fast asleep. Just that afternoon she’d proudly announced that she’d zapped the warts off every toad in the lake.
Alec stood up, dusted the gingerbread crumbs off his coat, and walked across the
room just as four-year-old Rosemary galloped in on a willow broom. She blew him a kiss as she trotted by. Shaking his head, he mounted the stairs and heard the MacLean clear her throat and chide, “Subtlety, Rosemary. A witch must learn subtlety.”
He laughed to himself and greeted by name each of the servants he chanced to pass as he continued up the flights and down the hallways. He opened the roof door and stepped outside where his Scottish was waiting.
For it was there, among the fanciful beasts, under all the glimmering stars in the clear night sky, and amidst a sprinkling of pink rose petals that the Duke and Duchess of Belmore made magic.
Preview Dreaming
Book 2 of Regency Magic Series
London, England, 1813
She believed in dreams, but this evening was fast becoming a nightmare. Alone in a small alcove of the crowded ballroom, Letty Hornsby watched the crush of English society swarm onto the dance floor for another set. Dripping in feathers and finery, they laughed and danced, flirted and fanned, all to the accompaniment of an orchestra of strings and woodwinds.
Anxious dandies fluttered around this season’s bouquet of fresh females like butterflies in search of the richest nectar. They moved through the crowd, bowing and filling in dance cards, arguing in gentlemanly style over who would pluck a treasured waltz from this season’s Incomparable.
Her first ball of her first season. Yet she had never felt so alone and far from home. She had wanted her father to be with her, but on that morning so many months past when they’d first spoken of her coming out, he had raised his head from behind the latest issue of Roman Antiquities and said he was long past balls and the season’s pleasures. She’d do much better with her mother’s aunt providing her introduction.
However, Aunt Rosalynde hadn’t introduced her to anyone except the hostess, then she’d shuffled Letty over to this side of the room whilst she scurried off to hear the latest on-dit, leaving Letty to fend for herself in a ballroom filled with strangers.
She might be standing in a lonesome corner, but in her mind she twirled and spun and schottisched to the music. Beneath the long skirt of her gauze gown, hidden under a satin underslip and petticoat, she tapped a silk-slippered toe to the tune of a country dance. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was dancing and laughing and smiling, the belle of the ball, the princess she’d always dreamed she’d be, with long, flowing titian hair and an even longer line of admirers waiting to dance with her.
The music ceased, the dance ended, and so did her dreaming. She sighed for what she wished would happen and opened her eyes to face sad reality. She wasn’t a titian-haired princess and the belle of the ball. She was Letitia Hornsby, with nut-brown hair, long and curly as a pug’s tail, and she was standing in a corner at her first ball, alone and forgotten.
From nearby, a girl’s gay laughter rippled into the air. Intrigued, Letty took a couple of steps out from the shadows, leaving a tall marble statue of Cupid alone in his alcove. Standing next to this icon of romance had done little to improve her situation.
The laughter sounded again. She watched a lovely blond girl snap open her fan, wave it playfully, and then, skirts in hand, sink into a deep curtsy before a group of doting young men. She fluttered her eyelashes slightly, then smiled up at her swains, who fought over themselves to offer her a hand up.
The girl denied them all, then rose so smoothly even Letty felt the urge to applaud. The men did applaud and argued over who would lead the divine and graceful miss in the next set.
Letty wished she knew the girl, then perhaps she could ask her to share. One dance was all she wished for. Just one.
As if in answer to her wish, a young dark-haired man stepped from the crowd and scanned the room, searching until his gaze stopped on her. His look changed to one of decided interest.
Every muscle in her body tensed in anticipation.
He slowly, purposefully, strode toward her.
Oh, this was it! Her breath caught in her chest and she prayed she wouldn’t do something shameful, like burst into tears or swoon, especially before he reached her.
Beneath her gown she could feel her skin sweating nervous tears of its own. She supposed she should have fanned herself—she had made an attempt to learn the art of fanning—but at that moment her fan hung uselessly from Cupid’s drawn arrow.
With each step the dandy took, Letty’s heart pounded louder in her ears. In a flash of fancy she imagined it was a drum roll signaling the joyous moment she’d been awaiting. To dance. Oh, to finally dance!
The violins sang out an introduction to the next set. He was almost there. Not realizing she had even done so, she took a step toward him and stumbled, then felt his glove on her arm as he steadied her. She gazed up into his face and smiled her gratitude.
“Beg pardon, miss.” His voice was so welcome a sound after no conversation for two hours. But not half as welcome as he himself was.
Still smiling a thank you, she raised her left hand, her dance card dangling from it by a pink silk ribbon.
“Pardon me,” he repeated.
“’Twas my fault,” she said in a nervous rush. “I stepped on my hem. It’s a bit long, you know. I told Aunt Rosalynde—she’s a Hollingsworth, of the Exeter Hollingsworths? I told her it was too long, but she wouldn’t listen, just told me to hush because I chatter too much and to let her handle everything since she knew what she was about.”
Letty took a badly needed breath and raised her hand with the dance card a little higher. Now, standing inches from him, she waited for the question she’d been waiting for all evening.
“Beg pardon, Miss Hollingsworth—”
Her smile shined with pure joy. “Oh, I’m not Miss Hollingsworth. I’m Miss Hornsby.”
Standing more stiffly, he said, “Miss Hornsby.” He gave a sharp nod. “I need to pass by.” His voice was curt.
Pass by? Letty looked into his eyes and frowned. He was looking over her shoulder.
With a sinking feeling of dread, she followed his avid stare. He wasn’t looking at her, but instead at a raven-haired girl who stood behind her.
Letty turned back to him and blurted out, “You want her?”
His look turned hard as stone.
He hadn’t wanted Letty.
She recovered herself quickly and stepped out of his path. “Excuse me.” Her voice was so quiet she could barely hear it herself. To hide her humiliation, she averted her eyes. She could feel them well with moisture, and in a matter of seconds the small rosettes that decorated her hemline looked like nothing more than a pink blur.
The orchestra began anew with Letty still standing there, staring down, taking deep quivering tight breaths, and searching desperately for the strength to endure this long night completely alone.
There would be many more balls and routs, a thought that did nothing to improve the knot in her stomach. If anything, the thought of more nights like this made her even queasier.
Perhaps it was best she was alone. She didn’t think she could speak to anyone at that moment and not make an utter fool of herself by sobbing uncontrollably on their shoulder.
She took one more fortifying breath, then another, and looked up again, her gaze drawn to the dancers on the ballroom floor, watching them with the same rapt hunger of an orphan watching a family celebrate Christmas.
Within seconds, she found herself looking at the young dandy and the girl of his choosing. Their dark hair caught the golden gleam of light from the hundreds of candles burning high above them. There was a magical quality to the way they glided and twirled through the intricate steps of the dance.
After a turn Letty met the girl’s gaze, and she fervently wished the floor would just open up and swallow her. There was pity in the girl’s eyes. Pity.
Biting her lips, she turned quickly, needing somewhere to go. She glanced at the terrace doors, but it was still pouring rain outside. Chin up and shoulders back, she snatched her fan from Cupid and strolled toward the refreshment table with what she
hoped was the correct amount of panache.
Once near the table she just stood there, not wanting to be gauche and fetch her own cup. Her aunt had drilled the rules of etiquette into her head until she could repeat them in her sleep: A young lady always waits for a gentleman to help her down from a carriage. A young lady always waits for a gentleman to open the door. A young lady always waits for a gentleman to serve her. It seemed to Letty that a young lady’s sole purpose in life was to wait for a gentleman to read her mind.
A young man walked up to the table. A moment later he turned back around, a cup of lemonade in each hand.
Letty glanced at the cups, then met his look with a smile.
He smiled back. And left.
Apparently, he was no mind reader.
She tapped her fingers impatiently on her ivory fan and turned back to the table. Cups of lemonade were lined up like palace guards in neat regimented rows. She wondered what dire thing would happen if she just leaned over and picked up her own drink.
She cast a casual glance toward the wall where the turbaned chaperones sat gossiping and speculating. Referred to by many as the old crows’ nest, it was from that illustrious corner that sight of one wrong move, one faux pas, could ruin a girl.
Letting her fan drag casually atop the tablecloth, Letty sauntered around the table until she was sure her person blocked their view. With the tip of the fan, she covertly pushed a cup toward the edge of the table, where, with just the right speed of movement, she could snatch up the cup without them seeing her.
One deep breath, and very slowly she slid her hand toward the table.
Closer.
And closer.
And closer.
“Thirsty, hellion?”
She gasped and snatched back her hand. There was only one person who called her “hellion.” There was only one person with that voice. The sound of it always made her feel as if she had drunk an entire pot of hot chocolate. Warm. Sweet, and a little sinful.
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 42
