A Wedding In Cornwall

by Pamela Sherwood

  Sophie shook her head, smiling. “No, it’s lovely! James and Aurelia spent their own wedding night here, and they’ve been so happy together. I’d like to think it will be a good omen for us as well.”

  “I’m glad you approve. And talking of James and Aurelia, they’ve assured me that this house possesses every imaginable comfort. Especially,” his voice grew low and intimate, “in the bedchamber.”

  Sophie gazed at him from under her lashes. “Then what more could we possibly require?”

  The carriage came to a stop before the front steps. Robin climbed out first, then handed Sophie down—just before catching her up into his arms.

  “Robin!” It emerged almost as a squeak, and she clutched at him reflexively. “What are you doing?”

  Again he grinned boyishly. “Complying with tradition. This may not be our house, but it has a threshold nonetheless.”

  “There’s no need for all this!” she protested, half-laughing.

  “On the contrary,” he replied as he carried her towards the steps, “this is my second and last marriage, and I intend to do everything right this time.”

  She smiled, winding her arms about his neck. “Dear heart, I’d say you already have.”

  ***

  Several years earlier, James had engaged Mr. and Mrs. Penrose, a middle-aged couple, to look after Chenoweth. They welcomed the newlyweds warmly and offered refreshment, which Robin declined. After such a busy day, he and his bride found themselves in need of rest, though a light supper—much later—would be appreciated. He and Sophie were subsequently escorted upstairs to adjoining chambers and left to their own devices.

  In her pretty blue-and-cream chamber, Sophie sponged herself down with warm water—to which she’d added a drop of essence of violet—before donning the rose silk negligee that Robin especially admired. Despite its sheerness she felt no chill, thanks to the fire burning brightly on the hearth. She was just brushing out her hair before the vanity, when she heard a light knock on the connecting door.

  Smiling, she laid down the brush. “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Robin padded in, soundless as a shadow in his robe and slippers.

  Sophie sat where she was, feasting her eyes on the sight of him. Her husband. The man she’d loved since she was seventeen. Sometimes in vain, she’d feared—yet here they were, six years later, their future before them and all the heartache, separation, and self-denial behind them. Here, on their wedding night. If that wasn’t a happy ending, she didn’t know what was.

  His midnight-blue eyes widened in appreciation when he saw what she was wearing. “And I thought you looked beautiful on our wedding day.”

  “It’s not yet night,” Sophie pointed out, rising from her chair in a whisper of gossamer. “Do you think the Penroses will be shocked—that we’ve gone to bed so early?”

  “Given how long they’ve been married, I doubt they’d be shocked by anything of the sort.” He drew her to him, his hands skimming down her bare arms. “And I think, if you’ll agree, that it is not too early.”

  Sophie swallowed, desire coursing through her at his touch, and reached out to untie the sash of his robe. By now she knew his body intimately, as he knew hers, but the sight of his naked form still made her mouth dry and her pulse quicken. Long, lean, hard-muscled—and most gratifyingly erect, though that part of him currently wore a rubber sheath. Sophie had taken similar precautions; they had both agreed to wait until their family was more settled and secure before trying for another child.

  In any case, preventive measures did nothing to lessen their ardor, perhaps even heightened it. Robin’s eyes kindled as he removed her negligee, sent it sliding to the floor alongside his robe. Sophie caught her breath at the promise she saw there, even as a small part of her wondered how things would be now that the knot was officially tied.

  Then she had no time left to wonder, because he was kissing her, over and over again, the heated caress of his mouth stealing her breath and clouding her senses. She leaned into him, returning his kisses just as passionately, running her hands over every part of him she could reach and reveling at the familiar textures of his hair and skin.

  The first time they made love, they’d never reached the bed. This time, they sank together onto the cool, lavender-scented linens, lying skin to skin as they continued to kiss and fondle. Some definite advantages to familiarity, Sophie thought hazily as Robin’s fingers stroked her in a place that never failed to coax a response from her—a throaty purr like Tatiana’s when she was having her tummy rubbed.

  Her body was still humming from his attentions, anticipating the deeper fulfillment to come, when he drew back just a little, to smile down into her eyes.

  “Tonight,” he said, “I intend to kiss every inch of you, my wife.”

  She pulled him down to her until his lips rested on hers. “Then start here, husband.”

  ***

  Later, when the grey of twilight had stolen into the room, Sophie roused and stretched luxuriously—replete, she thought with drowsy contentment, as only a woman who’d been thoroughly made love to could be. The gold band on her finger shone even in the gloom, and she smiled at the sight of it.

  Robin had made good on his promise, and she’d been more than willing to return the favor. They’d pleasured each other with lips, tongues, and hands, fanning the flames between them ever higher until the moment he had entered her, sliding home in a single powerful thrust, and the conflagration had consumed them both. Afterward, they’d drifted off to sleep, still entwined, lulled by the rhythm of each other’s breathing.

  Attuned, it seemed, to her every movement, her husband stirred beside her. “Happy, my darling?” he inquired, his hand trailing over her back in a slow, sensuous caress.

  “Oh, yes—completely.” Sophie snuggled closer, pillowing her head upon his chest. “Although…”

  “Although?” he prompted, regarding her with just a trace of anxiety.

  “Well,” she began judiciously, “I couldn’t help wondering—before—if our wedding night would be the equal of what we’d shared in the Cotswolds.”

  Robin’s brows drew together, just a little. “And was it?”

  “No.” She gave him a dimpled smile, then embraced him with all her might. “It was even better!”

  The Tenant of Tidewater Cottage

  I like this place

  And willingly could waste my time in it.

  —William Shakespeare, As You Like It

  Cornwall, April 1897

  NOTHING like an early morning ride to whet the appetite, Harry decided as he strode into the breakfast parlor. He hoped that Cook had made kedgeree today, along with her usual offerings of ham, eggs, and potatoes.

  His mother, the only other occupant of the room, looked up at his entrance.

  “Good morning, my dear. The post has already arrived, and I’ve had a letter from Sophie!” she reported, brandishing it with a smile.

  “Ah, how are things in Paris?” Harry asked as he headed towards the sideboard.

  “She says that rehearsals for Figaro are going well, and Sara is actually enjoying the experience of watching the company put their production together.”

  Harry lifted the lid off the nearest chafing dish, pleased to see that it did in fact contain kedgeree. He served himself a generous portion, moved on to eggs and sausage. “I hope she and Rob are finding time to enjoy their honeymoon, all the same.”

  “Oh, yes—they’ve been to Maxim’s and the Eiffel Tower. And the three of them go riding in the Bois de Boulogne in the afternoon.”

  “Sounds positively idyllic.” Harry carried his plate over to the table, sat down, and poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver service.

  “There’s a letter for you as well,” Lady Tresilian observed, pushing the tray towards him.

  Harry picked up the envelope, smiled when he saw the direction and the now-familiar hand. Breaking the seal, he extracted the folded pages and began to read.

  Ma
y had settled into Kent with relative ease; he suspected that the presence of her sister had been a factor. They had apparently been close as children, before their respective marriages had distanced them from each other, physically and emotionally. Now, as widows, they were rediscovering their earlier bond, and Harry was glad of it. May had never made a close female friend during her time in St. Perran.

  The overall tone of her letter was brisk and friendly, without the least trace of sentimentality or regret for what was past. Harry thought that, eventually, he would come to share those feelings and think of May more as a friend than as his former mistress. Perhaps that day was even closer than he thought, because he felt more of a gentle nostalgia on reading her words than a heart-rending anguish over her absence. Which meant, he supposed, that they’d made the right choice—for both of them—to move on.

  “Is everything… all right?”

  Harry glanced up from his letter to find his mother regarding him with mingled curiosity and concern. He did not doubt that she’d noticed that his letter had come from Kent, but May would never be one of his mother’s favorite topics, so he only smiled before tucking the letter away. “Just fine, Mother.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Lady Tresilian said, after a moment.

  Harry busied himself with his breakfast; the kedgeree was delicious. “Any other news, from Paris or elsewhere?”

  His mother rallied at once, “Well, now that you mention it, my dear, I thought I’d let you know I’ve found a new tenant—short-term—for Tidewater Cottage. You know it’s stood empty since Mrs. Permewan passed away last summer.”

  “Weren’t you thinking of selling it?” he asked.

  “Briefly. But I decided it made more sense simply to have it repainted and refurbished so it could be let out again. According to the land agent, quite a number of people are looking for summer places by the sea. And they could hardly improve upon Cornwall for that!”

  Harry shrugged as he poured cream into his coffee. “Well, it was your property—yours and Father’s—so do as you like with it. Who’s the new tenant?”

  “A widow, by the name of Mrs. Angove,” Lady Tresilian replied. “She wants to stay in it for at least part of the spring, and she would be coming down at Easter—that’s about a fortnight hence. I’ve already written to accept her terms, and I hope you won’t mind calling on her once she’s in residence, dear, and make her feel welcome in St. Perran…”

  Harry smothered a sigh. So it was to begin again, now that May was gone and he was “fancy-free.” Well, with any luck, the widow might turn out to be as elderly as the late Mrs. Permewan and have a confirmed taste for solitude! Still, there was no harm in being polite or even hospitable. “Naturally, Mother, I will show Mrs. Angove every courtesy during her stay.”

  ***

  London, two days later…

  HERS. Her own little cottage by the sea! Rose hugged the letter to her in something close to ecstasy.

  For a few blessed weeks, she’d have all the peace and privacy her heart could wish. No crowds, no limelight, no endless scrutiny of her every word and movement. No unwanted admirers, importuning her with expensive gifts and highly questionable proposals. She felt like a schoolgirl on the brink of holidays—free to do as she pleased and to go wherever she chose, to be Rose again and not the all too public figure circumstances had forced her to become.

  If only she could truly be herself.

  The thought sobered her at once. But she’d turned the idea over and over in her head these last few weeks, before arriving reluctantly at the conclusion that there was no other way for this to work. Biting her lip, she turned to face her reflection in the cheval glass.

  Her hair cascaded in loose ringlets over her shoulders, golden-red even by gaslight and far too distinctive and recognizable. That would have to be the first thing to go.

  Frowning, she held out a lock of it for closer inspection. Blonde would still be too noticeable, and auburn far too dramatic—no, what she needed was a plain, nondescript brown, of a shade that wouldn’t look too jarring against her fair skin. And she’d have to darken her brows and lashes as well. For once she was glad that she had brown eyes, rather than the more unusual blue or green, which would make it far easier to pose as a natural brunette.

  Fortunately, her disguise need not be much more elaborate than that. She had no distinguishing marks to conceal upon her face or any part of her that would be visible to strangers. Besides, she knew from experience that people tended to overlook the ordinary rather than the hideous. To that end, she’d selected the simplest and least conspicuous garments for her holiday, clothes that would help her to blend in rather than stand out. Thank heaven Society accounted Cornwall such a backwater, though Rose knew of only one other place as lovely!

  A knock sounded on her door. “Mrs. Langley! Fifteen minutes to curtain.”

  “Thank you!” she called back in acknowledgment.

  Tucking the letter away in a drawer, she returned to the mirror and, as was her practice, tried to think herself into the part she would play tonight. She only hoped that, when the time came, she could enact the role of “Mrs. Angove” every bit as convincingly…

  Thank You!

  Thank you for reading A Wedding In Cornwall! I hope you enjoyed it.

  Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can find out by signing up for my newsletter at http://www.pamelasherwood.com. Or follow me on Twitter at twitter.com/pamelasherwood or like my Facebook Page at www.facebook.com/PamelaSherwoodAuthor.

  Reviews help readers find books, so I hope you will consider leaving a review at your venue of choice. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative.

  A Wedding In Cornwall is a novella in The Tresilian Series, which includes Waltz With A Stranger, A Song At Twilight, and A Scandal In Newport (novella; scheduled for 2016). A Wedding In Cornwall follows A Song At Twilight, but precedes Beauty Takes A Holiday, which will continue Harry and Rose’s story.

  In addition to my historical romances, I have written and published a collection of fantasy short stories, Awakened And Other Enchanted Tales, More information on future works will be forthcoming on my website and in my newsletter.

  Read on for an excerpt from The Advent Of Lady Madeline, a novella introducing my new historical series, The Lyons Pride.

  Excerpt - The Advent Of Lady Madeline

  Responsible, level-headed, and invariably good-humored, Hugo Lowell, Viscount Saxby, has his plans for Christmas—and his future—all mapped out. Until a surprise invitation lands him at the country estate of Harold Lyons, the rich and powerful Duke of Whitborough.

  Drawn into his host’s charming, often contentious family circle, Hugo finds himself matching wits and words with the Duke’s eldest daughter, Lady Madeline. Striking, clever, and as sharp-tongued as she is sharp-witted, Madeline is the polar opposite of the placid, proper beauty Hugo intends to marry. So why can’t he get her out of his mind? And how is it that she can persuade him to attempt things he’s never tried before? As Advent yields to Christmas, Hugo’s future becomes far less predictable…and infinitely more exciting.

  ***

  Chapter One

  How stands your disposition to be married?

  —William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

  Buckinghamshire, December 1879

  “BUT you must go, Hugo!” Lady Branscombe exhorted her older brother. “Please say that you’ll go!”

  Hugo, Viscount Saxby, raised astonished brows. “Charley, my dear—I scarcely know the Whitboroughs. On what pretext could I join their house party?”

  “Robert’s been invited,” she explained. “And he’d be so grateful for your company, especially since I can’t join him now.” She rested a hand upon her rounded abdomen, unmistakable proof that Branscombe’s potential heir would be making an appearance within the next three months. “And I do want him to attend. Whitborough’s offered him some excellent advice about investments in the past—I should like to see thei
r acquaintance thrive.”

  Hugo could hardly blame his sister for that wish. Whitborough’s business acumen and numerous successful enterprises had earned him the nickname of “The Golden Duke.” Fortunate indeed was the man admitted to His Grace’s circle of friends and associates.

  “And then, there’s Wilf,” Lady Branscombe continued with a somewhat doom-laden air.

  “Wilf? What has our brother to do with this?”

  “He’s going too—as a guest of Lord Denforth’s.”

  The reason for his sister’s misgivings became abundantly clear. Whitborough’s eldest son was accounted a young man of great charm and spirit—possibly too much spirit, Hugo mused ruefully. A daring rider, a proficient marksman, and a graceful dancer… who spent money like water and showed an immoderate fondness for games of chance. And the other fashionable young gentlemen drawn into his orbit shared his extravagant tastes. “I thought our Wilf might be a little too young for Denforth’s set.”

  “He’s of age now—just. We can’t exactly pick and choose his friends for him. But if you went to the Whitboroughs—”

  “You think I might provide a mitigating influence?” Hugo inquired skeptically.

  “I know you would! He does look up to you, for all he pretends not to.”

  “Mm.” Hugo drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “You know that I’m promised to Earl Clement’s for Christmas?”

  His sister did not quite meet his gaze. “I—had heard something of that nature…”