If Ever I Should Love You

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Why, thank you, Squire,” Leonie said. She shot Roman a look that said she realized the man was well into his cups. She gave a tug on her hand. He didn’t want to let go, but Leonie proved she’d been in these circumstances before. She knew how to extricate her hand and then wisely turned her attention to Mrs. Jones, the squire’s giggly wife.

  Roman took Leonie’s arm and led her to where couples were dancing. He was right to think that Squire Jones and his wife were not dancers. There was a measure of peace here.

  “You look fetching, wife. I adore your hair down.”

  She colored prettily and glanced around to see if anyone had overheard. He didn’t care if they did. He’d shout the words if he must. “Thank you,” she said, and then added, “You look fetching, too.”

  Her words made him laugh and when the dance started he could have flown through the steps he was so happy.

  The afternoon was a good one. The squire had set up tables under the trees and people ate and drank until they were full and more. Roman could see why this event was anticipated by everyone in the parish.

  In the beginning, Leonie was right by his side, but as time passed, she was pulled over to join some of her rose-growing friends. They sat in a circle with his mother and sister Dora. Beth was with the other young mothers supervising the children.

  Roman was called into a group of men to recount the morning’s hunt. It was a good companionable time and the punch bowl never seemed to empty.

  Leonie had given it wide berth. She had wisely planned ahead and had Cook make a huge pottery crock of lemonade. It had taken both Briggs and Lawrence to remove it from the wagon. Roman noticed that his sisters and mother were drinking it as well as several of the other ladies.

  All in all, it was a good afternoon. The sky was clear, the company entertaining, and Roman experienced what could only be described as happiness. His life made him proud. As time went by, he would continue to prosper. The years of hardship and frustration were behind him—

  Squire Jones jostled his arm, interrupting his thoughts. “You will thank me, my lord.”

  “I’m already in your debt, Jones,” Roman said. “This is an admirable event. I believe I have been introduced to everyone in the parish.”

  “You have, my lord, you have.” The squire weaved a bit, a silly conspiratorial smile upon his face. “The wife and I are proud to bring everyone together, but that isn’t what I was talking about.”

  “Then why else will I thank you?” Roman said.

  Squire Jones touched the side of his nose. “I noticed your lady wife had not tried my punch. I made a new batch. I can barely stand after sampling it. I gave her a cup. It will be a good night for you, my lord. That punch will loosen her lacings.”

  Cold fear mixed with anger in Roman. “You gave her a cup? Did she take it?”

  “Of course. Said she liked brandy. I put two bottles in this last batch, I did.” He waved his hand as he spoke and almost toppled over into the arms of another guest. That man attempted to right him but it was too late for the squire. He fell to the ground and, to Roman’s shock, curled up and passed out.

  Everyone grinned and pointed at him. “Does this every year,” someone said. “He lasted longer this year than last.”

  Roman didn’t give a damn about the squire. He looked to where he’d last seen Leonie with Dora and some other women at one of the tables . . .

  She was not there.

  He walked over to his mother. “Have you seen my lady?” He spoke calmly, aware of how many people could overhear him.

  His mother looked around. “I thought she was right here.”

  Dora didn’t know where Leonie had gone either. “I’ll help you look for her.”

  “No, she’s fine,” Roman lied. “You enjoy yourself with your friends.” He didn’t wait for his sister’s answer but set out to find his wife.

  She could not be seen anywhere in the crowd. People were constantly moving and dancing. He feared he could miss her. Then again, his every sense told him that she was not amongst the assembled company. He walked through the squire’s house. She was not there.

  Desperate now, he went out the front door—and there he saw her. There was an arbor covered with ivy close to the tree line bordering the lawn. Beneath it was a bench and there sat Leonie holding a punch cup. She studied it as if working a great problem in her mind. She’d loosened the ribbons of her hat so that it hung down her back.

  Roman watched her, a weight settling in his chest. He didn’t think she’d seen him. With one step, he could return inside the house and pretend he’d not witnessed her with the punch.

  She’d break him, she would. This habit of hers would crush his heart, and he was powerless to stop her. Nor could he leave her. He loved her too much.

  And then, Leonie stood.

  Holding the cup ceremoniously in front of her, she poured the contents on the ground.

  She didn’t drink it. She had chosen not to drink. Roman could have fallen to his knees in thanksgiving. Instead, he shouted her name and ran to her.

  Leonie looked up with a start, obviously unaware that she’d been watched.

  Before she could do anything, he was upon her. He swung her in his arms, twirled her around, and kissed her with the freedom of a man who loved.

  At last he stopped because they both needed to take a breath, but he held on to her. He was never going to let her go. Leonie looked up at him. “How did you know I was here?”

  “The squire told me he’d given you a cup of his special punch.”

  “And you came looking for me? You were afraid I would drink it?”

  “I prayed you wouldn’t.”

  Her dark eyes searched his for understanding. “I wanted it, Roman. I could smell the brandy. I haven’t forgotten the scent.”

  Her words were his deepest fears for her.

  “But then I thought about roses and how when they are buds the petals are all folded in on each other. They don’t look like they could be anything. However, when they reach out to bloom, those same petals reveal the most amazing gifts. The center of every rose is like the heart of the flower.” She leaned toward him. “I told myself I was like one of those roses, closed off from anything meaningful because if I thought too hard I’d see how ugly I was—”

  “Leonie, you are beautiful.”

  She blushed and then said, “I am now, Roman. But not because of how other people see me, but because of you. You forgave me for what happened with Paccard.”

  “I never blamed you—”

  “Yes, you did.”

  She was right. He had. When she’d abandoned him to his fate, he had blamed her for the whole of it . . . but that seemed so long ago. “If things hadn’t gone as they did, we would not be here together right now,” he said.

  “That is true. I can’t imagine my life without you. I’m far from perfect and my looks will fade with age—”

  “Not in my eyes.”

  She laughed, the sound dear to him. She placed her hands on either side of his jaw. “I love you.”

  Her declaration filled him with joy. Before he could cover her with kisses, she said, “I’ve worked very hard to become the woman I want to be. That woman chose life over what was in the cup.”

  “Leonie, you are all that I could ask. I’m not perfect either.”

  She laughed. “I know, and yet you are perfect for me.” And she kissed him.

  She put her arms around his neck, pressed her breasts against his chest, her thighs meeting his, and kissed him with such love there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her.

  When she was done, he could scarce remember his name. She’d stolen his wits.

  Nor was she done with him. “Roman, may we marry again? I believe I’d like to remember repeating my vows.”

  His answer was to gather her in his arms and kiss her again.

  She was the victor. She had won.

  Yes, in the future, there would be demons—his as well as hers. However, togethe
r, they could face anything because, miracle of miracles, Leonie loved him.

  Leonie and Roman wasted no time finding Lawrence. They discovered him playing ninepins with a group of men and asked him to marry them that very night. After all, no banns needed to be read or special license procured for a couple already married.

  Of course he said yes.

  They gathered the family from the squire’s party and drove to the church in the wagon, leaving the cart for Briggs to take home.

  By now, evening was falling. The church was quiet and dark. Edward and Jane happily lit candles while Dora and Beth helped Leonie tidy up in a corner.

  “You should have been married here the first time,” Dora grumbled. “This is the way it should have been.”

  Beth shushed her.

  Leonie took off the star sapphire and handed it to Lawrence. “We’ll need this blessed.”

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. He donned his vestments.

  Leonie was surprised at how nervous she was, and yet she felt a great sense of peace. She couldn’t imagine herself married to anyone but Roman. In her short time with him, she’d done more living than she had all the years before in her life.

  Dora and Beth stood by Leonie and Roman’s parents took their place beside him. Edward and Jane sat in the front row.

  Lawrence opened his prayer book.

  The words he spoke were all new to Leonie because, no, she hadn’t remembered them. She was struck by their strength and blessed assurance.

  When Roman repeated his vows, he did so with warmth, gentleness, and loving generosity. He promised to love and cherish her “until we are parted by death.”

  Holding his hand, she vowed the same. Yes, this was what she wanted for her life. This man, his family, his dreams, her dreams . . . she could not ask for more.

  Lawrence blessed the ring. Roman took it and, holding it over the tip of her ring finger, he said, “With all that I am, and with all that I have, I honor you.” He slid the ring down her finger. Leonie hadn’t realized how much the ring had already become a part of her until it was back in place.

  And the moment it was there, she moved right into Roman’s arms.

  This, too, was good. Roman held her close as Lawrence pronounced them man and wife.

  Of course, there wasn’t a fancy feast. Roman and Leonie didn’t need any of those trappings. They had family around them and that was enough. The family was all teary-eyed with happiness, even Dora. There were hugs all around and Leonie felt truly blessed.

  Leonie and Roman drove his mother and father to their cottage. “That wedding was lovely,” his mother kept saying. “Perfect even.”

  Leonie agreed. She sat on the seat beside her husband, as close to him as she could possibly be. She noticed that Catherine and David held hands.

  This was how marriage was meant to be. Yes, Roman had received her substantial dowry; however, she had no doubts that he loved her. Her—as imperfect as she was.

  Would they have no future trials? Leonie only had to look at Catherine and David to know that they could. Trials came in many forms. She also knew that with Roman by her side, they would weather them.

  It was dark by the time they reached Bonhomie. Whiby sent a stable lad with a lantern to take care of the wagon. There were many servants around the estate now. She took pride on how well it was run.

  Yarrow opened the front door in welcome.

  “Hold it there,” Roman said. Before Leonie knew what he was about, he swung her up in his arms, her skirts sweeping around her with the movement, and carried her over the threshold. She laughingly grabbed hold of him for safety and then held him because she liked the strength in his arms and being this close to him.

  “I take it the squire’s party was enjoyable, my lord?” Yarrow observed, a hint of a smile on his face.

  “Better than enjoyable,” Roman informed him. “We are to bed for the evening, Yarrow. No need to wait on us,” he said as he carried Leonie up the stairs. “You may do as you wish.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Yarrow answered, the hint of a smile turning into a wide grin. He knew where Roman was taking her. He knew what they were going to be doing.

  As Roman reached the stairs’ landing and started up the second set, Leonie looked down at this man who had been more than a servant, and he winked at her.

  She blushed but it was not with embarrassment. No, she was happy. All was very, very good.

  Roman kicked open the door of their room. He still had not replaced Duncan Barr and she had yet to hire a suitable lady’s maid, so they were alone.

  He carried her to the huge four-poster and sat her down upon the mattress. “Now, I’m going to celebrate the wedding night I should have had in London.”

  “We should have had,” she corrected, and he laughed, his gladness matching her own.

  And celebrate they did. They made quick business of shedding clothing. They were comfortable with each other now so there was no hesitancy.

  Better, she knew what he liked and he had always known what she wanted.

  Their “play” over the past weeks had been agreeable, but nothing made Leonie happier than once again accepting her husband into her body.

  He held her as if he, too, relished the moment.

  His gray eyes sought hers. “I love you, wife,” he whispered.

  She reached up to brush the hair from his brow. “Not as much as I love you, husband.”

  Roman laughed as if nothing could please him more. He began moving in her. Leonie wrapped her body around his, whispering his name and her love for him. His pace quickened. She found herself losing control. Her words were no longer intelligible. Only Roman could give her such pleasure. He had taught her the meaning of giving freely and freely receiving in return.

  Nor was this just any act of coupling. Their union was the fulfillment of their vows. What God had joined could never be “put asunder.”

  She was his—heart, body, and soul.

  Roman found his release first. He was buried deep within and she suddenly understood what it meant for two to become one.

  Leonie met him in his satisfaction, losing herself in the rippling waves of gratification.

  When they were done, neither of them could move.

  “So precious,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her temple.

  She caressed his back, his buttock, his hip. He was hers. This was everything their wedding night should be.

  Later, curled up under the covers, his arms around her, they talked about their plans for Bonhomie, for themselves, for her roses.

  Oh, yes, they had big dreams.

  And now, together, they would live them to the fullest.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers,

  I am not a fan of perfect characters. In Romance, the heroine is often the voice of reason. We can have tortured heroes and villains but the heroine is usually level-headed. Frankly, I believe we are each the heroine of our life and I know I’m not perfect. I suspect you aren’t either.

  Leonie is definitely flawed. In the craft of writing, one of the many canons is character determines action. I confess that for a long period of my writing this book, Leonie was a flat character. I worried. I understood what had happened to her, I saw her resilience, and yet something was missing. Then she took a nip.

  Whoa.

  I know it sounds strange to claim I didn’t know that was going to happen, but occasionally characters form themselves as an outgrowth of the story.

  After a bit of research, I learned that victims who have experienced traumatic incidents often self-medicate with whatever is at hand. It is a survival mechanism when there are experiences too difficult to confront and it is completely in keeping with Leonie. Yes, she is resilient, she is a survivor, and she is filled with conflicting emotions she doesn’t understand. Stealing a nip was a reasonable response.

  But how does that fit in with Regency England?

  Very well.

  Drunkenness was a problem on all leve
ls of society. It was also a problem before the Regency and the eras after. The truth was, ale and wine were probably safer to drink than the water in the cities and many parts of the country—and this wasn’t just for England but also for the rest of the world.

  The idea of temperance was starting to take hold. For a good seventy years prior and maybe longer, temperance was being batted around in religious institutions, in the government, and with those worried about the country’s overconsumption of spirits. Temperance societies didn’t fully organize until the 1820s, although during the American Revolution, Connecticut, New York, and a few other states advocated temperance with the banning of whiskey (the American spelling!) distilling.

  In my research, I came upon an essay about the famous Georgian writer Dr. Samuel Johnson titled “Samuel Johnson’s Alcohol Problem,”** by Dr. J. S. Madden, a British expert in alcoholism. Now, over the years, medical researchers have been having a field day with Samuel Johnson. He was a larger than life person during his time and there is a suspicion that he suffered from Tourette syndrome. Dr. Madden offers many quotes of Johnson confessing his troubles with alcohol such as, when offered wine, he replied, “I can’t drink a little, child, therefore I never touch it. Abstinence is as easy to me as temperance would be difficult.”

  However, what caught my attention in Madden’s essay was a reference to Johnson’s wife, Elizabeth. She had been a merchant’s widow with three almost grown children and was forty-six to Johnson’s tender twenty-five when they married. (Yes, fact is always wilder than fiction.)

  Of course she died before her husband. From Madden came this description of Elizabeth as documented by one of Samuel Johnson’s companions and biographers, Mrs. Thrale: “Mrs. Thrale on this point quoted Levett (a companion of Johnson who practised medicine unofficially but conscientiously) as saying: ‘She was always drunk and reading Romances in her Bed, where She killed herself by taking Opium.’ ”

  There it was. Human behavior has not changed that much over the ages. If men are drinking, women are drinking. And, for the record, I, too, like reading romances in bed, though I don’t know how good my vision would be on opium.