by Eva Devon
But then she thought of his mouth roving over hers, and, once again, she felt her cheeks flare.
Montrose’s lips quirked in a smile. “There it is again. We must ensure you do not get too close to the fire, Miss Bly. You are perfectly pink-cheeked.”
“Well, this house does seem to be a trifle warm,” she said without thinking. “I am not accustomed to so many fires.”
“My dear, my dear, it is almost the height of summer,” said Lady Strathmore. “We barely have fires in this house at all at present. And in the winters, the fires barely warm the rooms. You shall be quite cold, I do warn you.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth asked between sips of soup. “It is such a fine house, one would have thought that it would be warm.”
“It is a castle,” said the duke’s aunt with a smile, “and castles, no matter how fine, are frigid. One cannot heat stone easily, you know, so we all huddle about the fires wrapped in rugs and drinking hot tea or negus.”
“It’s true,” Thornfield agreed. “It is a beautiful old place, but one does freeze.”
“A bunch of weaklings, the lot of you,” declared the Earl of Montrose. “Come and spend a winter upon ship on the Atlantic, and then we may talk about freezing.”
“You do that to yourself on purpose,” said Thornfield, without mercy.
“And you live in this castle on purpose,” Montrose countered.
“Of course I do. It is mine, and therefore I must live in it.”
“And my ship is mine.”
“But you did not inherit it. This splendid old pile came to me,” the duke said, “and I have no choice but to live in it.”
“Ah,” Montrose tsked. “We all have a choice, which is why I do not spend winters in Scotland.”
“Do you dislike Scotland?” Georgiana asked, curious, for she’d never been to that northern country, and she found herself most curious about it.
“I adore it,” he said, but his face grew serious. After a long, thought-filled moment, Montrose continued. “Much trouble has come to that place over the years, but it is a land of such beauty that one’s heart might weep.”
“That is very poetic,” Elizabeth said. “Is it truly so beautiful?”
“I cannot put into words the beauty of it,” Montrose said, turning to Elizabeth, “but I often find that I can no longer bear the ache of a country so destroyed by a war which—”
“No politics now,” Thornfield said. “Montrose, we don’t wish to become truly glum this evening. The ladies surely don’t wish to hear—”
“The ladies,” Georgiana cut in, “are most curious. After all, I’ve read a good deal about Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
“Oh, dear,” Thornfield said. “Romantic drivel, no doubt.”
Montrose laughed. “It is true. A great deal of things written about Bonnie Prince Charlie really are a fiction, you know.”
“Well, I am most amazed at the Highlanders,” Elizabeth said. “If it is true that Bonnie Prince Charlie is but a fiction. I cannot imagine all the tales are false.”
“The bravery that they showed?” Montrose hesitated then said, “They were very brave, and they paid dearly for it, that bravery.”
“I’ve read about the clearances, as well,” Georgiana said gently.
Montrose put his silver spoon down carefully. “Yes. The lords of that land have been quite hard on the people there.”
Thornfield grew silent as well, and Georgiana wondered if she’d hit some particularly sore spot. “I am so sorry. Have I been rude?”
“No,” Montrose said, even as his voice grew thick with feeling, “but my land is one torn by war, and I am not an Englishman. I’m a Scotsman. But my allegiance, of course, is to the English king, so it becomes a bit challenging, dancing this particular dance.”
“Which is why you spend so much time in the Americas with the newfound colonies,” said the duke.
“They’re not colonies,” Georgiana said. “They’re a country, the United States of America.”
“Do be careful,” Thornfield warned his friend. “Miss Bly is far too interested in revolution.”
The Earl of Montrose’s brows rose. “Och, a burgeoning revolutionary in the home of the Duke of Thornfield. This shall cause quite a stir at court.”
Thornfield all but grumbled, “She is not a revolutionary. Duchesses of Thornfield aren’t.”
Lady Strathmore smiled knowingly and lifted her glass, “Well, my dear boy, you know duchesses are allowed to espouse some shocking ideas. Your great-grandmother, for instance…”
“Aunt Agatha, I don’t wish to discuss it.” There was a surprising note of plea in his voice.
“I do!” Georgiana leaned forward. “Do tell us about his great-grandmother.”
“Well”—his aunt waggled her brows and began—“his great-grandmother was in the court of Anne the First, and Anne was quite a difficult monarch, as you may have read.”
“Oh, I have,” Georgiana said. “Many, many troubles.”
“It’s all true. Now, Thornfield’s great-grandmother was not overly fond of the Stuarts. It didn’t matter if it was a Stuart daughter or a Stuart king. And so she made it quite known that she was eager for a change. While many agreed with her, one was not supposed to say it bluntly. When the time came, she was most happy to support the Hanoverians. As a matter of fact, she had no problem with the idea of Germans coming over. She learned to speak German herself. It was quite shocking, you know, an English duchess speaking German all of the time, in the hopes of pleasing the new king.”
“That is most intriguing,” said Georgiana, amazed at the influence and opinion a woman might have in a position of power. “Who would have thought it? The English are usually so very…English.”
Montrose laughed. “You’re English, you know.”
“Indeed I am,” Georgiana said quickly, “but I do like to look at our history. When I think of how Shakespeare talks about England, as if it is some hallowed heaven…”
“Do you not think it some hallowed heaven?” Montrose asked.
“Of course I do,” she said, “but one must realize there’s always room for improvement.”
“Well said,” the Duke of Thornfield replied.
They all turned to him, amazed. Georgiana most of all. Had she just garnered a public compliment from the Duke of Frost himself?
Lady Emma suddenly piped up. “There cannot possibly be room for improvement in England. It is the greatest country in all of the world. We are the greatest beacon of hope for all to see, and one cannot imagine a better place. Why, all the countries of the world are absolutely lucky to have our influence in them.”
Georgiana turned to her future cousin slowly. “I’m sure you feel that is correct, but one cannot imagine we are correct all of the time.”
“A good deal of the time,” Thornfield said tersely. “But yes, you’re right, Miss Bly. We’re not correct all of the time. No one can be. Not even England.”
Emma gasped. “Say not so, Thornfield. Don’t you believe the doctrine that it is our duty, as English people, to ensure that our way of life is passed about the—”
“Look what’s happened in the United States of America,” the duke cut in sharply. “As my future wife points out, they have formed a new country without interest in our influence. I do think that perhaps one day India shall do the same, as will Canada, Australia, and Ireland.”
Both Emma and Gwendolyn stared about as if they had all gone positively mad.
Montrose’s eyes twinkled.
Elizabeth drank her wine, but still her face radiated with mirth.
Georgiana looked at Thornfield, her heart swelling with admiration. “You, sir, are all but preaching rebellion.” She tsked playfully. “The Duke of Thornfield suggesting that one day the empire might not be so, well, empirical?”
“Oh, there’ll
always be an England, and England shall be free,” he said. “I cannot doubt that in the slightest. England shall always be a proud island nation amidst the shining silvery seas, but one cannot imagine, the way this world is changing so quickly, that all things will remain as they are. We cannot even begin to imagine how they will be…”
Thornfield gazed upward to the celestial mural painted upon his ceiling. “Perhaps one day people shall even take to the skies.”
His aunt gaped at him as if he was someone else entirely.
Georgiana beamed. “What a marvelous thought,” she said. “da Vinci certainly thought that such a thing was possible.”
Thornfield smiled slowly. “There are several scientists today who think such things are possible, that a man might take to the air.”
“No,” Georgiana said in shock. “Scientists, truly?”
“Oh yes,” Thornfield said, taking up his wine. “I’ve met with a few of them. None of them have been able to make their ideas work as of yet, but it is a most intriguing principle, flight.”
“Flight,” Georgiana repeated, her eyes nearly misting at the idea that seemed like magic, and yet was being spoken of as if it would surely one day happen.
“Like a bird?” Elizabeth queried.
“I don’t think it will be exactly like a bird,” Thornfield replied. “We’ll not be Icarus headed toward the sun, but who knows what it will be like? Perhaps one day we shall be amongst the clouds.”
Georgiana smiled at her future husband then, and she felt a warmth toward him she’d never felt before. She’d been so certain she didn’t like him. But when he spoke like that, he spoke as a man who was amazed by the wonders of a beautiful, promising world, and that?
That she liked a good deal.
Chapter Fifteen
Georgiana was not generally given to impulse.
A promise in the moment of passion was not something that she was accustomed to, for she was not used to passion at all. He was the one who knew about such things.
But he also did not seem to be a man who was given to impulsive behavior.
Both of them were leaping into the unknown…together.
And it felt right.
So very, very right.
As they crossed the dark grass in the moonlight, she wondered how the devil it had happened.
Tonight, they’d met at the foot of the servants’ stairs at the back courtyard.
Captain was at his master’s feet.
It was good to see the lovely dog again, who was the embodiment of sheer happiness. He’d greeted her with a wide doggy grin and a wave of his tail. They’d all gone off in merriment and…in shock.
If she looked anything like he did, she looked as if she’d been brained.
And yet it was wonderful.
It was all a complete daze.
Had she really agreed to this madness?
She had!
And she could scarcely believe that he had conceived of it!
The wildness of his kiss today had only flamed the embers of their first passion. And since she’d known they were to be wed in any case, she was more than happy to give in to the encompassing blaze.
They hurried to the small chapel tucked into the oak forest on his estate. The winding path was beautiful, lined with flowers that were now sleeping underneath the moon’s silver rays.
Determined, hands entwined, silent, they walked up to the arched nave entrance. The vicar stood in his black and white robes by the doorway. For one brief moment, she felt as if she was in some ancient fairy tale where a young girl was running away with her lover to be married by moonlight.
It was a marvelous, adventurous moment of her life.
As she looked at the Duke of Thornfield’s hand holding hers, her heart swelled.
He might be intimidating, arrogant, strange…but he was also beautiful and full of a vision for the future that few would ever have.
The Duke of Thornfield, for all his superiority, was full of wonder. And she felt certain there was more wonder within him to be discovered. He was a man that had more to him than he let other people see, and she was going to discover those depths.
What if… What if she might find love in her marriage, after all?
She doubted she could experience such passion with someone that she could not love, could she?
As they quietly whisked into the nave and headed down to the altar of the small chapel, her heart danced. She’d never planned on a marriage like this. She’d never planned on a marriage to a duke.
Truthfully, she’d not planned on marriage at all. Not once it had become clear that she preferred books to bonnets. But tonight she was going to embrace a side of herself she’d never dared to even believe could exist.
…
Edward Thornfield did not do clandestine affairs.
He did not do secret liaisons.
Hiding in the shadows was not for him.
But this, this was something he wanted more than anything.
He was married. They were married.
With a few short words, in a small church, in but a breadth of time, he’d changed from a bachelor to a husband.
Edward was not given to romantic flights of fancy, but it had been the ideal wedding for him. Calm, quiet, and nothing to take his riveted attention away from the woman he desired with an unyielding hunger.
He’d not had to worry about shouting crowds or the stares of hundreds of peers as they said their vows before a bishop. He’d not had to keep a tight control of himself as a cacophony rang around him.
No, he’d simply been able to say I do.
The marriage at Westminster Cathedral would still have to occur, of course. Georgiana had to be shown as someone who would be accepted by all of society, and a marriage at a great cathedral would do that. It would put the stamp of approval of his and all his family upon her.
But that intimate affair before a plain man of God, not some prince of the church, that had been for them.
It was the marriage they required. It was true that love wasn’t important in a ton marriage. But the way he desired her was something that he could scarcely understand.
It wasn’t reason. It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t controlled.
He was compelled. . .
He could not wait weeks for her to be his.
Hell, he could not wait days.
Anytime she was in his presence, he wished to consume her and to be consumed.
To be consumed… It seemed mad.
He’d never wished to be swallowed up whole or enveloped by anyone before. It didn’t sound like a duke, but it was what he hungered for. She made him feel completely shaken, and he knew that he made her feel the same.
He was not what she would have chosen, either, he understood that now, but their bodies, their minds had been struck by a chord that insisted they meet and merge and meld and he would not pause.
As they headed back across the green toward Thornfield Castle, he swept her up into his arms, carrying her through the Yorkshire night as if they were secret lovers in some novel.
He loved novels.
He loved plays.
He loved the myths of old.
In most of them, love affairs ended in tragedy. But he would not think that far ahead. No, for tonight was to be a night of bliss, and that was all that mattered. He would not dare look ahead.
Quickly, he took her through the back courtyard, cradled against him as if she weighed nothing at all. He gazed down upon her and could not resist his smile. In her presence, he felt at ease and vulnerable.
It was strange. Most people he could not bear to spend much time around them. But Georgiana made him feel less a tumble. Indeed, she made him feel as if his world had gone still and pure and hot at once.
So as he strode up the servants’ corridor, down th
e vast hall that led to his rooms, he did not allow his pace to slow. He did not care if anyone saw, but he also knew no one would. Not at this hour of the night, not on his floor. For on his floor, few servants were allowed to come, because he liked the silence so well. And they were only allowed at certain times.
For once, his idiosyncrasy would serve him, instead him serving it.
He nudged his chamber door open with his boot and took her across the threshold as if she were a young bride coming into a crofter’s house. Easily, he shut the door behind them, then gently, he set her down, sliding her body along his.
She tilted her head back, catching his gaze. “Husband,” she said.
“Wife,” he said back, his voice rough with desire.
“This is so strange. How has this happened?”
“Because this is what we both wish,” he replied, feeling completely captivated by her.
He wound his hand about her small one and led her across his chamber toward the banked fire.
He wished to look at her in the amber glow. It would show her to perfection.
She was already strangely perfect to him.
She was unique. She was plain. She was…herself without apology.
The strong lines of her face gave him assurance that all possibly could be well in this world, because she was determined that they would be. He felt it in the deepest parts of his heart. Georgiana was a rock.
And so was he.
The danger, of course, was that they might crash against each other and shatter. Surely, one of them needed to be water for this to survive, someone giving in to the other.
But he would not, once again, think that far ahead.
No.
They could both be strong together, and like two pieces of flint they would strike each other and produce sparks, sparks that would leap into flame and fire and all would be well.
And that was what mattered.
Gently, he stroked his fingertips along her cheek, savoring the silence, savoring the coolness of the room and hearing only her breathing and the crackle of the logs in the fireplace.
