by Regina Scott
“Every moment will seem an eternity,” Justinian promised, sending a flood of fresh color to her cheek.
He knew he should refuse the port Faringil hovered to pour for them and follow Eleanor from the room. But the dinner had caught him completely by surprise, and he needed time to collect himself. Accordingly, he sat back in his seat and let his man fill the goblets.
Jareth picked up his glass, rolling the stem between long fingers. “She’s a treasure, that one. I assume I should wish you happy, brother.”
“One should not assume, Mr. Darby,” Alexander countered, taking a quick shot of his port. “Miss Eleanor is undoubtedly charming, and she certainly won this battle, but has she got what it takes to win the war?”
“By war, I take it you mean the famed Darby consequence?” Justinian replied, voice laced with sarcasm. “I find it difficult to remember that we are so very high above her when in her presence.”
“Women have a way of clouding one’s logic,” Alex said with a nod. “Dangerous thing that, very dangerous.”
“For once we are in agreement,” Jareth put in. “However, as I leave the logic to you two, I say marry the chit. Either that or set her up in a nice flat in London.”
Justinian glared at him. “That is unthinkable. Surely after meeting her you would advise marriage.”
Jareth grinned. “For anyone but me, of course.”
“Do not listen to him, Justinian,” Alex countered with a scowl. “You cannot ask the cooking pot whether the lamb should go free. You are the earl now, and certain conventions must prevail, regardless of how you might feel. It’s a shame, old man, but there it is. No amount of Christmas miracle will change that.”
When Justinian did not answer him, he sighed and rose, motioning Jareth to do likewise. “We will leave you to think on it, brother. When it comes to that, we always did what you and Adam agreed on.”
Jareth could not pass up a parting comment. “At least, in most areas.” They quit the room, leaving him alone.
The room was suddenly silent, reminding him of how it had rang with joy only minutes before. Even his brothers’ council was a precious gift, one he would not have had without Eleanor’s work. In fact without Eleanor, he feared, this is what his life would return to, this wasteland of duty and silence. Whether she knew it or not, she had just swept away any doubts he might have had on her ability to play his countess.
What had he thought he needed? Someone to organize parties, entertain his mother, shepherd Dottie to adulthood. He saw now that those were superficial things, unimportant in his life. What he needed, what they all needed, was someone who truly cared, someone like Norrie.
Suddenly, it didn’t matter that his father had suspected she was after the family fortune. It didn’t matter that Alex thought she was still beneath them, or that Jareth thought she would make a good mistress. It didn’t matter that she had been sacked from the school for disobedience. It didn’t even matter that she had been writing his name over and over again for some purpose he couldn’t fathom. Everything told him that she was what he needed, what they all needed. This time, he would not let her get away so easily.
He rose and went to join his family in the withdrawing room.
Chapter Eleven
Eleanor laughed out loud as Alexander succeeded in capturing another handful of raisins from the steaming silver snap dragon bowl. Jareth pouted, greatly resembling the countess, while Dottie clapped her hands with glee. Bowing, her uncle surrendered the fruits to her enjoyment.
Justinian leaned against the mantle, watching them with amusement. He had never seen his family so happy. Even the jaded Jareth was chuckling as Dottie attempted to hand feed him the now quite squashed raisins. As Justinian shouted bravo to Eleanor’s final attempt to plunge her hand into the bowl of flame-tipped, brandy-soaked raisins, something nudged his foot. Glancing down, he found Jingles sitting on his feet as if surveying from a throne. He scooped the little fellow up into his arms. Jingles sniffed but, apparently deciding the view was better, settled himself against Justinian’s black watered-silk waistcoat.
“Oh, that was fun!” Dottie declared as the footmen extinguished the flames and carried away the bowl. “What shall we do next?”
“Bring in the Yule Log, of course,” the countess proclaimed from her seat on the sofa. “Eleanor, my love, be so kind as to show Justinian where we put it.”
Faringil stiffened, but Justinian knew he would say nothing against the countess. Alex and Jareth exchanged glances. It was hardly a Darby’s place to lug a damp log from the cellar or kitchen to the withdrawing room. Eleanor was paling as if she too realized the impropriety. He silently blessed his mother for interfering and giving him time alone with his Norrie. He swept Eleanor a bow in offer of his services, and she had no choice but to proceed him out the door.
He stopped her in the entry way, motioning her down the corridor to the library where they were unlikely to be disturbed.
“But my lord,” she protested, feebly he thought, “the log is in the breezeway.”
“And there is something far more important in the library,” he assured her, shutting the door behind her. She jumped at the sound and scurried toward the dwindling fire as if afraid to be near him. He took a step toward her and belatedly realized that he still held Jingles. Bending, he let the kitten free on the floor, going instead to light a lamp on the desk.
“You have already thanked me for tonight,” Eleanor started, hoping to forestall anything he might say so that they might escape the library before he saw the letter laying on the desk. It was her final gift to him, and she didn’t want him to see it before Christmas Day. “Let us fetch the log and return to your family.”
“I would not have a family tonight but for you,” Justinian countered, moving slowly closer. He didn’t want to frighten her, but the need to hold her was almost overpowering. “Norrie, I cannot stand having you near but unable to touch you.”
She closed her eyes to block the view of his anguished face. “Don’t. Please. I cannot be what you want.”
“You don’t know what I want. I’ve heard all the arguments about propriety and place. None of them matter. Marry me, Norrie. Let me give you the place you deserve.”
Her eyes snapped open, heart leaping within her. “What . . . what did you say?”
He dropped to one knee and held out his hands to her. “Please, Miss Eleanor Pritchett, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
“Oh, Justinian!” She fell to her knees beside him and was immediately swept up in an embrace that was warmer than any place by the fire. When at last he released her, she could only lay her head against his chest with a sigh. Behind them came the unmistakable rustle of paper.
“Jingles!” she cried, clambering to her feet. Justinian rose just as hurriedly as she dashed to the desk. The unrepentant kitten was shoving about the papers, sending Justinian’s many reports sliding off to the floor and rumpling Eleanor’s precious letter nearly beyond recognition. She snatched up the startled kitten and thrust him at an equally surprised Justinian. Smoothing the letter, she found it was still readable and heaved a sigh of relief.
“What is it?” Justinian asked, looking over her shoulder as Jingles wriggled in his grip.
Eleanor swallowed, turning to him. “Your Christmas gift. I believe it is customary for servants and tenants to give a gift to the lord of the manor on Christmas.”
He frowned. “You are hardly a servant or tenant.”
“Well, I must admit I wasn’t completely convinced of that until a few days ago. I ran away from you once, Justinian, and I almost did so again. I was afraid I wasn’t good enough for you.”
“That is ridiculous,” he snapped, but she held out a hand to stop him.
“Yes, it is. But you mustn’t blame your father or the school. Your mother said it best, I think. She told me that I chose to see myself as beneath you, and so I was. It wasn’t until I found I could help the great Darbys that I realized that it was
only my own fear that kept me from admitting how much I love you.”
“Norrie,” he started, but she thrust the letter at him before he could deter her with sweet words of love.
“Justinian Darby, you are a great novelist. The publisher at Simons and Harding in London agrees with me.”
He stared at the letter, then up at her face. It was the first time she had ever seen a Darby pale.
“You know about the novel?” he whispered.
“Jingles found it one afternoon, I’m afraid to say. I was only attempting to repair the damage to what I thought would be estate papers. I just read a few pages, my love, but it was wonderful. I knew you would never attempt to publish it as the Earl of Wenworth. But I made a few inquiries on your behalf, and it is possible to publish it anonymously. See for yourself.”
He accepted the paper as if she had handed him a rabid dog, but his eyes were drawn to the words. “’Brilliant’?” he read in astonishment. “’Excellent literary worth’? What exactly did you send them?”
Eleanor smiled kindly. “Only the last few pages and a letter signed Justinian Darby.”
“That’s why you were practicing my name.”
Her face fell. “You knew?”
“Not about this,” he assured her with a shake of his head. “Betsy found a piece of paper under your desk. I would guess that was your accomplice’s fault.” He reached up to disengage Jingles from his waistcoat, dropping the kitten back onto the desk where he promptly pounced on the papers once again, jumping after them when they slipped to the floor near the hearth.
“Your estate work!” Eleanor cried.
Justinian slid the letter into his waistcoat and drew her close. “May he enjoy it more than I did. Thank you, Norrie, once again. Are you intent on granting every one of my dreams?”
“Yes,” she replied firmly. “By asking me to marry you, you have granted me every one of mine. Can I not do the same for you?”
The light in his eyes was every bit as dangerous as the one in Jareth’s when she had stood under the mistletoe. “Be careful, my love. Remember, I’m a Darby. We tend to dream of a great deal more than a place by the fire.”
“My lord,” Eleanor murmured, breath catching in her throat, “I am your willing servant.”
“No,” he murmured before his lips captured hers once again, “you are my dearest love. And before Christmas is over, I intend to prove that to you, once and for all.”
And for a time, all that could be heard was the sound of a kitten purring in his place by the fire.
________________
The June Bride Conspiracy
Chapter One
Lady Abigail Lindby took one look at the selection of roses in the florist’s shop on New Bond Street and burst into tears for the third time that morning.
Joanna Lindby smiled indulgently, tucking a stray black hair back under her fashionable bonnet before reaching out to give her mother’s plump hands a squeeze.
“I’m to be married,” she explained to the deferent and dismayed florist, “in June.”
The florist, a tall man as thin and pale as the lilies in his shop window, understood immediately. “Many happy returns, my lady,” he warbled. “And may I say that roses are an excellent choice.”
“No, no,” Lady Lindby fussed, sniffing back her tears and shaking her head so vigorously that she set the ostrich plumes on her broad-brimmed bonnet to quivering. “Roses are so ordinary. Mrs. Winterhouse had them for her daughter Belinda, and the two of them never slept together.”
The florist blinked in obvious confusion.
“What she means,” Joanna put in quickly from long practice, “is that unless one puts as much planning into a wedding as a marriage, the husband and wife may not be as congenial toward each other as they ought.”
Now her mother blinked. “Isn’t that what I said? There is no need to belabor the issue, dear. Now, as I was saying, something more exotic. What do you think of India, young man?”
Joanna’s smile deepened. Her mother was notorious among the ton for her unique brand of conversation. Her round face and equally round frame, along with small, wide-set eyes and a rosebud mouth, combined to make people think she was dim. In reality, Lady Lindby was quite intelligent. She simply couldn’t stop the rapid flight of her thoughts long enough to put together coherent conversations. After years of practice, Joanna found it easy to guess what was on her mother’s mind. Now she managed to order several simple arrangements for the wedding breakfast from the befuddled florist and extracted her mother from the shop without further ado.
As they rejoined their already laden liveried footman and continued their walk up New Bond Street, they had to stop every few moments to accept additional congratulations from various acquaintances. The weather was chill for early May. Joanna hugged her blue satin pelisse to her and wished she’d thought to wear a shawl over the top as her mother had done with her own serpentine satin pelisse.
Yet as she was forced to smile and offer her thanks for each fervent wish for her happiness, she began to wonder whether it was the weather or her situation she found uncomfortable. Surely this uneasiness she felt was only the pre-wedding jitters of any bride. She nodded at Lady Wentworth’s advice on household management and promised Genevieve Munroe to visit as soon as possible. Her mother managed to call everyone by their correct names and remember to thank them for their kind thoughts. It should all have been very endearing, but by the time they reached the dressmaker’s several shops down, Joanna could feel her smile becoming strained.
“And how might we serve madam today?” the heavy-set dressmaker sang out, rushing forward in a cloud of lilac perfume.
“Yellow,” Lady Lindby pronounced. “Though not a bright shade. I would not want Joanna to blind the fellow before she got him home.”
“That is to say,” Joanna supplied hurriedly as the dressmaker frowned in confusion, “my mother would like a gown in an understated tone. I am to be married, in June.”
Of course more congratulations followed, but Joanna was glad when the woman led her to a velvet-upholstered seat before a mirrored dressing table.
“Cream is all the rage,” the dressmaker confided, removing Joanna’s bonnet, “but with your coloring, I’d try for something more dramatic.”
She draped a swatch of silver-white satin over the shoulders of Joanna’s pelisse. The color complimented her pale skin and brought out the shine in her thick black hair. Above the swatch, her dark eyes glowed warmly.
“I have just the lace for it,” the dressmaker continued. “In the finest Brussels rose pattern with silver embroidery. It will match that lovely diamond ring of yours. You’ll be more regal than a queen. He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
As her mother stepped forward to discuss design and fittings, Joanna glanced down at the heavy diamond engagement ring, twisting it about her finger. She’d been so happy when Allister had slipped it on her hand. Yet somehow in the days that had followed, clouds had crossed the sunshine of her delight. She was now certain that the design of her wedding dress would make little difference. Allister found it all too easy to take his eyes off her. She was afraid the wedding would not change that.
Walking back to their carriage with her mother, she scolded herself for her lack of confidence. She should be thankful. No one had ever expected her to make such a brilliant match. Oh, she had had suitors. Her dark coloring and elegant figure had guaranteed that she would be sought out. But that same composure, coupled with a shy nature, had deterred close connections. Her widowed mother had begged her to try harder, but she couldn’t seem to do so. Consequently, she had earned the reputation of being cold.
Yet she knew nothing could be farther from the truth. A passionate heart beat in her breast. She had simply waited for the right man with whom to share it.
Enter Allister Fenwick, Baron Trevithan. One could not ask for a more likely hero. His hair was as dark and thick as hers, and wavier, swept back from a square-jawed face. His
deep-set eyes were chips of sapphire that warmed with his mood. His figure was trim; he prowled with the grace of an African predator. To top it all off, he was something of a mystery, having been on assignment to the War Office since graduating from Oxford ten years ago. That this dark and dangerous lord should show interest in her was beyond anything she could have imagined. Yet the first time she had danced with him she’d known he could unlock the door of her heart, and after a month of courting she had been willing to hand him the key. The day he had proposed had been the happiest day of her life.
Except . . .
He had yet to introduce her to any of his friends. While it seemed many people knew of him, few knew him. She could not help but wonder whether there was something amiss that so perfect a specimen of manhood would have so few intimates.
Except . . .
She could not seem to keep his interest when discussing wedding plans. A certain reticence on the part of the groom was to be expected; in her experience gentlemen seldom cared about the details of decoration and deportment the way a lady did. But she couldn’t help noticing that there were moments when she was talking to him about more serious subjects and his eyes would dim. If she questioned him he could answer readily enough, but she had the impression that his thoughts were elsewhere.
Except . . .
He hadn’t told her he loved her. She’d been so brazen as to ask him outright once, but his smile and wink in response had been only momentarily satisfying. Oh, it wasn’t that he was indifferent. He demonstrated a kind consideration whenever they were together. And certainly she had no complaint for his romantic abilities. He sent her flowers, he took her for long walks and held her hand, he waltzed with her more often than was strictly proper, and he stole kisses at flatteringly frequent intervals. In fact the touch of his lips to hers raised a tempest inside her that usually resulted in a swollen mouth, tousled hair, and a beaming smile. But not once had he seemed so affected.
