Stormswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

Northcliffe faced them. “ ’Tis still mostly my doing. I toyed with people’s lives and coerced Overton into doing the same. For that, I can only offer my deepest apologies.”

  Juliana glared at him. “You think your apologies will wipe out all that my husband suffered? That it will bring back the years of marriage we lost, the times I wept for Rhys while he withstood flogging after flogging? How dare you offer something as meager as apologies! ”

  When Northcliffe looked stricken, Rhys lifted Juliana’s hand to his lips. “It’s all right, love. I appreciate and share your fury. But I have a more productive response to your brother’s offer.”

  He leveled a solemn gaze on Northcliffe. “Though you and St. Albans can do nothing to repay Juliana and me for those years, you can do something to show your remorse. At Llynwydd there’s a Welsh boy whose genius is being wasted, thanks to the shortsightedness of his father and the refusal of your countrymen to provide for his education. I’m sending him to Eton, because there is nowhere here in Wales for him to find such an education.

  “But there are others who yearn for schooling and have no chance of it. So take some of that money and influence you’ve gained by walking over people, and turn it toward opening a school as respected and prestigious as Eton, where Welsh children can go to learn about their own country’s glories.”

  He glanced at Juliana, who nodded. “That would satisfy us far more than any apology. And you may find that it will satisfy you more, as well.”

  “It will be done,” Overton vowed.

  Northcliffe hesitated, then nodded. “I will make sure that it is done.”

  Rhys smiled. At present he felt charitable toward the whole world, even Juliana’s family. His wife was at his side, full of love and hope for the future. They had Llynwydd and each other. And one day soon, perhaps, they would have children.

  Indeed, life was good.

  Overton stepped forward. “And now, my friends, let us seal the agreement with dinner. I fear if we linger here much longer, Mother will wash her hands of us.”

  Northcliffe turned to the door and Juliana started to follow.

  Rhys caught her arm. “We’ll be there in a moment. I’d like a word with my wife in private.”

  As soon as they left, Rhys slipped his arms about her waist and kissed her long and deep, reveling in the ardency of her response.

  Then she drew back, laughing. “I thought you wanted a word? It appears to me, my impatient husband, that you wanted to do something else with your mouth. But now is not the time or place.”

  He thought of the long two hours ahead before they could even think of excusing themselves. With a grin, he walked to the door. After everything her family had made him suffer, they could wait awhile longer to watch him play the dutiful in-law.

  Shutting the door, he turned the key in the lock.

  “Rhys! ” Juliana scolded.

  Yet her eyes smoldered as he stalked back to haul her into his arms, sliding his hands down to cup her bottom and pull her up against him.

  “My life on’t, you’re a wicked man, Rhys Vaughan! ”

  He nuzzled the top of her breast. “Aye, cariad. But no more wicked than my wife, I suspect. Shall we find out?”

  Her breath was already quickening, and she slipped her hands around his waist. “Well . . . I suppose we can always join the family for breakfast . . .”

  Then she smothered his laugh with her kiss.

  EPILOGUE

  And though in the desert night

  I’ve wandered many a year

  And often had to drink

  Of the bitter cup, despair;

  The yoke I suffered was my gain

  And not for nothing came that pain.

  —WILLIAM WILLIAMS PANTYCELYN, “FAIR WEATHER”

  Mother, I want to go home! ” Five-year-old Owen threw himself across the bed in Northcliffe Hall’s nursery. Enveloped from head to toe in a flannel nightshirt, he tossed his auburn curls and crossed his arms, looking for all the world like his father.

  “Shh! You’ll wake the baby, and I had a wretched time getting her to sleep.”

  Thankfully, Margaret merely turned over and chewed on the corner of her blanket before settling down once more.

  Owen lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I’m not sleepy. Can’t I stay up?” A wily look crossed his face. “Mrs. Pennant is letting Edgar come over tonight, and Uncle Overton is going to let Edgar look at his French pictures. I want to see them, too! ”

  Juliana sighed. Much as she loved her brother, he was such a bachelor. French pictures indeed! Lettice would be appalled to know her son was being corrupted by Overton while Morgan was away. It made Lettice uneasy to have her son at Northcliffe Hall, even though Darcy spent little time here now and was in London at present.

  “No, you may not stay up. Tomorrow your father will be back and there will be plenty of things to do, not to mention the ride to Llynwydd. So be a good boy and go to sleep.” She blew out the candles in the sconce by the bed.

  “But I’m not sleepy.” He yawned wide enough to swallow a small cat and settled against the pillow. “I’m . . . not . . .”

  She watched him a moment. Although he’d gotten his auburn hair and green eyes from her, he was like his father in every other way—cocky and confident and arrogant.

  And utterly lovable. With a sigh, she tucked the covers around him. “Sleep well, cariad.”

  Picking up the brace of candles, she headed for her own bedchamber. Only one more day until Rhys returned. Although she was glad that he’d won a seat in Parliament as M.P. for the shire, joining Morgan as M.P. for the borough, she hated the long absences when Parliament was in session.

  Coming to Northcliffe for part of the session had been a good idea, since it provided a change for the children and allowed her to visit with her family. And it was always nice to see Lettice. Between Lettice’s son and daughter and Juliana’s own two, there was plenty to talk about. But like Owen, Juliana was eager to return home. Even after years with Rhys, she couldn’t get enough of his lovemaking.

  With a sigh, she entered her bedchamber and began to disrobe. It was still early, but she didn’t feel like dealing with her family tonight. She wanted to lie in bed and read. And dream about tomorrow.

  A noise at the window startled her. It sounded like . . . like . . .

  She whirled toward the window, her heart jumping into her throat as she saw Rhys perched on the branch outside, tossing pebbles at the glass with a rakish grin.

  She flew to open the windows. “Rhys! You’re here! ” Then she looked down. “Are you mad? You could fall and break your neck, you blasted—”

  “I’m coming in.” He gave her only a second to back away before he swung onto the sill and into the room. He kissed her soundly, then murmured, “God, how I missed you.”

  She covered his face with kisses. “I missed you, too. But if you’d broken your neck coming in that window—”

  He laughed. “I’ll leave the tree-climbing to Owen from now on, but I couldn’t resist tonight. I saw the light in your window, and I knew if I entered downstairs, I’d have to endure an hour of Overton’s questions and your mother trying to force food on me, before I could finally get you alone.” His voice dropped to a husky murmur. “And I very much wanted to get you alone, cariad.”

  He began to loosen the ties of her night rail.

  “Why are you back so soon?” she whispered. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  He quickly shed his clothing. “The session ended early. I am yours for the next year.” His eyes gleamed as he jerked down his drawers. “All yours.” Then he carried her to the bed.

  Much, much later, she lay beside him, sated and content, their bodies curved together spoon-fashion. His legs were draped over hers as he kissed her shoulder.

  He splayed his hand across her belly. “Do you realize it’s been almost exactly six years since I returned to Wales? Yet we’ve been married twelve.” He nuzzled her neck. “H
ave you ever wondered what might have happened if the coach hadn’t been late? If we’d been able to leave together as planned?”

  She covered his hand with hers. “We’d have had six more years together. Sometimes I hate Darcy for taking them away from us.”

  “Me, too.” He laced his fingers with hers. “But other times, I wonder if our years apart made our marriage stronger. Perhaps we wouldn’t have known the depths of our love without our separation.”

  She turned to face him. “An interesting thought, my love. You are either the wisest man I know . . . or utterly mad. I’d have rather had the years with you and saved us some pain.”

  He chuckled. “I figured I should find some silver lining in the cloud Darcy created, since he’s established not just one but several schools in our names.” He sobered. “But really, don’t you think our marriage might have faltered if we’d been left to our own devices? We were so young and foolish.”

  She stared up at the man she loved more than life itself. Was it possible their marriage might not have been so full and rich if they’d thrown themselves recklessly into it from the beginning? If they hadn’t been forced to overcome so many obstacles to be together?

  “I think, my dearest husband, that time and place have had little bearing on our love. If we’d spent one hour apart or an eternity, I know I would have always loved you. We were meant to be together. Compared to that, six years apart means nothing, don’t you think?”

  He smiled as he pulled her into his embrace. “Aye, my love,” he murmured. “Nothing at all.”

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  1

  London

  August 1830

  When Warren Corry, Marquess of Knightford, arrived at a Venetian breakfast thrown by the Duke and Duchess of Lyons, he regretted having stayed out until the wee hours of the morning. Last night he’d just been so glad to be back among the distractions of town that he’d drunk enough brandy to pickle a barrel of herrings.

  Bad idea, since the duke and duchess had decided to hold the blasted party in the blazing sun on the lawn of their lavish London mansion. His mouth was dry, his stomach churned, and his head felt like a stampeding herd of elephants.

  His best friend, Edwin, had better be grateful that Warren kept his promises.

  “Warren! ” cried a female voice painfully close. “What are you doing here?”

  It was Clarissa, his cousin, who also just happened to be Edwin’s wife—and the reason Warren had managed to drag himself from his bed at the ungodly hour of noon.

  He shaded his eyes to peer at her. As usual, she had the look of a delicate fairy creature. But he knew better than to fall for that cat-in-the-cream smile. “Must you shout like that?”

  “I am not shouting.” She cocked her head. “And you look ill. So you must have had a grand time at St. George’s Club last night. Either that, or in the stews early this morning.”

  “I always have a grand time.” Or at least he kept the night at bay, which was the purpose of staying out until all hours.

  “I know, which is why it’s really unlike you to be here. Especially when Edwin isn’t.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Wait a minute—Edwin sent you here, didn’t he? Because he couldn’t be in town for it.”

  “What? No.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “Can’t a fellow just come to a breakfast to see his favorite cousin?”

  “He can. But he generally doesn’t.”

  Warren snagged a glass of champagne off a passing tray. “Well, he did today. Wait, who are we talking about again?”

  “Very amusing.” Taking the glass from him, she frowned. “You do not need this. You’re clearly cropsick.”

  He snatched it back and downed it. “Which is precisely why I require some hair of the dog.”

  “You’re avoiding the subject. Did Edwin send you here to spy on me or not?”

  “Don’t be absurd. He merely wanted me to look in on you, make sure everything was all right. You know your husband—he hates having to be at the estate with Niall while you’re in town.” He glanced at her thickening waist. “Especially when you’re . . . well . . . like that.”

  “Oh, Lord, not you, too. Bad enough to have him and my brother hovering over me all the time, worried about my getting hurt somehow, but if he’s sent you to start doing that—”

  “No, I swear. He only asked that I come by if I were attending this. I had to be in town anyway, so I figured why not pop in to Lyons’s affair?” He waved his empty glass. “The duke always orders excellent champagne. But now that I’ve had some, I’ll just be on my way.”

  She took him by the arm. “No, indeed. I so rarely get to see you anymore. Stay awhile. They’re about to start the dancing.”

  “Just what I need—to dance with a lot of simpering misses who think a coronet the ideal prize.”

  “Then dance with me. I can still dance, you know.”

  No doubt. Clarissa had always been a lively sort, who wouldn’t be slowed by something as inconsequential as bearing the heir to the reserved and rather eccentric Earl of Blakeborough.

  Clarissa and Edwin were so different that sometimes Warren wondered what the two of them saw in each other. But whenever he witnessed their obvious affection for each other, he realized there must be something deeper cementing their marriage. It made him envious.

  He scowled. That was absurd. He didn’t intend to marry for a very long while. At least not until he found a lusty widow who could endure his . . . idiosyncrasies.

  Clarissa stared off into the crowd. “As long as you’re here, I . . . um . . . do need a favor.”

  Uh-oh. “What kind of favor?”

  “Edwin would do it if he didn’t have to be in Hertfordshire helping my brother settle the family estate, you know,” she babbled. “And Niall—”

  “What’s the favor?” he persisted.

  “Do you know Miss Trevor?”

  Miss Trevor? This had better not be another of Clarissa’s schemes to get him married off. “Fortunately, I do not. I assume she’s one of those debutantes you’ve taken under your wing.”

  “Not exactly. Although she was just brought out this past season, she’s actually my age . . . and a friend. Her brother, Reynold Trevor, died last year in some horrible shooting accident, and she and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Trevor, have been left without anything but a debt-ridden estate to support. So Miss Trevor’s aunt, Lady Pensworth, brought the two of them to London for the season.”

  “To find them husbands, no doubt.”

  “Exactly, although I think Lady Pensworth is more concerned about Miss Trevor, since the late Mr. Trevor’s wife has already borne him a child who will inherit the estate, such as it is. To make Miss Trevor more eligible, Lady Pensworth has bestowed a thouand-pound dowry on her, which ought to tempt a number of eligible gentlemen.”

  “Not me.”

  She looked startled. “I wasn’t thinking of you, for heaven’s sake. I was thinking of someone less wealthy, with fewer connections. And decidedly younger. She’s only twenty-four, after all.”

  Decidedly younger? “Here now, I’m not that old. I’m the same age as your husband.”


  “True.” Her eyes twinkled at him. “And given your nightly habits, you apparently possess the stamina of a much younger man. Why, no one seeing you in dim light would ever guess you’re thirty-three.”

  He eyed her askance. “I seem to recall your asking me for a favor, dear girl. You’re not going about getting it very wisely.”

  “The thing is, I’m worried about my friend. Miss Trevor keeps receiving these notes at parties, which she slips furtively off to read; she falls asleep in the middle of balls; and she seems rather distracted. Worst of all, she refused my invitation to our house party next week, which I had partly planned in hopes of introducing her to eligible young gentlemen.”

  “Perhaps she had another engagement.”

  Clarissa lifted an eyebrow at him.

  “Right. She needs a husband, and you’re nicely trying to provide her with a selection of potential ones.” He smirked at her. “How ungrateful of her not to fall in with your plans.”

  “Do be serious. When was the last time you saw any unmarried woman with limited prospects refuse a chance to attend a house party at the home of an earl and a countess with our connections?”

  He hated to admit it, but she had a point. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Ask around at St. George’s. See if anyone has heard any gossip about her. Find out if anyone knows some scoundrel who’s been . . . well . . . sniffing around her for her dowry.”

  The light dawned. During her debut years ago, Clarissa had been the object of such a scoundrel’s attentions, and it had nearly destroyed the lives of her and her brother. So she tended to be overly sensitive about women who might fall prey to fortune hunters.

  “You do know that if I start asking about an eligible young lady at the club,” he said, “the members will assume I’m interested in courting her.”

  “Nonsense. Everyone knows you prefer soiled doves to society loves.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. He did occasionally bed bored widows or ladies with inattentive husbands. There were a great many of those hanging about—one reason he wasn’t keen to marry. He had a ready supply of bedmates without having to leg-shackle himself.