His counsel. His ready smile. The delight of discussing poetry or painting or the events reported in the London newspapers with a man of wisdom and discernment. And always, his touch.
Not wishing to press her, was he waiting for an invitation to visit?
Perhaps it was finally time to send one.
Almost upon the thought, Clarkson, her new butler, appeared in the doorway. ‘Madame, you have a visitor. I put him in the morning room.’
Excitement blew through her like a fresh breeze. Since she had no other male acquaintances in the county, it must be Alastair.
‘Mr Ransleigh?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Yes, ma’am. He’s just back from London, he said.’
Perhaps that was why he’d not called earlier. Gladness filling her, she smoothed her skirts, tucked in a curl that had escaped her careless coiffure, and hurried into the morning room.
He stood as she entered, looking so handsome and irresistible her breath caught in her throat. ‘Alastair, what a pleasant surprise!’ she said when she could speak again. ‘Can you stay for tea?’
‘If you are sure I’m not interrupting. I found something for you in London; I debated just sending it over, but since I was riding by anyway, I thought I’d chance delivering it myself. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, I’m delighted! Please, do sit!’ Motioning him back to the sofa, she gave instructions to Clarkson, then came to take a seat beside him.
He studied her, a smile slowly lighting his face. ‘I think you are delighted. I’m so pleased. Running Winston Hollow was what you needed, then.’
She nodded. ‘I can’t thank you enough for suggesting it! I’m finding I love being mistress of my own household, with all the small routines of daily life—consulting with the cook and the housekeeper, painting in the morning, lessons with James in the afternoon, taking him and the puppy your mama insisted he bring with him for walks around the property. He’s such a delightful companion, eager to explore, excited by every new discovery. I love him better each day—as you assured me I would. I can never thank you enough for making it possible for me to keep him.’
‘Your pleasure—and his—is reward enough. You do look lovely—and you sound happy. Have you found at last the peace you sought?’
‘I think so. Just recently, I’ve dared to unlock the memories I suppressed of those happy times before my marriage—wonderful memories of that spring we fell in love. I’ve even been able to let go some of the misery of the years after, without the flood of anguish I feared. Instead, there’s been this slow...trickling away of the fear and bitterness and anger that held me as much a prisoner as the walls of Graveston Court once did. I go for days now without thinking about it.’
She laughed. ‘Now, this will surprise you! I believe in time, I may even be able to forgive Graveston.’
‘Then your healing will be complete.’ He leaned towards her and she sucked in a breath, supremely conscious of his nearness, every nerve anticipating his touch.
Running a fingertip gently down her cheek, leaving sparks of sensation in its wake, he declaimed. ‘“Her merest smile to me is a delight. Her brow uplifted, finally free of pain. Her joy like the uprush of a lark to flight. My joy to win her back to life again.”’
Without question, he’d written that for her—about her. Humbled, she said, ‘So you’ve taken up your pen again?’
‘Yes, I have. It seems my muse is back. Though she is still often maddeningly elusive. But here, let me show you what I’ve brought.’ Producing a wrapped package, he handed it to her.
She peeled off the paper to reveal a small leather volume. ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ she read the title on the spine.
‘My sister Lissa recommended it. The author has a unique voice and a sense of humour I think you’ll enjoy.’
Flipping open the book to the first page, she read aloud, ‘“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”’ Chuckling, she said, ‘Yes, I think I shall like it. Thank you so much.’
‘So you can enjoy a gift now—with no fear, no sense of threat?’
‘Less every day. As you promised.’
‘It’s gratifying to be proven right,’ he acknowledged with a grin. ‘You’re beginning to trust that the future will be full of possibilities? That you can learn to love again?’
Did he mean her son—or him?
She knew which love she needed to affirm.
‘There may be nothing as sweet as one’s first falling in love,’ she said softly, her heart accelerating as he fixed his gaze on her, ‘except, perhaps, recapturing a love once lost.’
She watched as the intensity of his regard turned to something else. Something impossible to resist.
She angled her head up, inviting his lips. He gave her just a gentle brush with his mouth, but at the first contact, her body seemed to catch fire.
He must have felt it, too, for his kiss deepened. Any possibility of breaking it off shredding to ash and disintegrating, she opened her mouth, and with an inarticulate sound, he sought her tongue with his own.
Only her brain’s insistent warning that at any moment, the butler might return with the tea tray, gave her the strength to break away.
Breathing hard, obviously as reluctant as she was to end the kiss, Alastair let her go.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she explained, blushing a little.
‘“Missed” doesn’t begin to convey the enormity of it,’ he muttered, moving away from her.
She caught his sleeve, pulling him back again, suddenly desperate for more. ‘Another kiss?’
‘You’re sure?’ he asked, studying her. ‘You’ll let yourself enjoy, with no fear, no sense of threat?’
‘With you, yes.’
Tenderness softened the passion in his gaze. Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her forehead. ‘No fear, no threat,’ he whispered as he kissed her ear, the slope of her throat, her chin while her senses swam and tiny explosions of delight and pleasure ignited whenever his mouth touched her.
‘No fear, no threat,’ he whispered again before claiming her mouth.
This kiss was long, gentle, and so achingly sweet she could almost weep with the joy of it. Her long-denied body trembled and burned, eager for completion.
With surprising ease, she let go her last reserve, like a ship slipping its moorings to set off fearlessly on uncharted seas, while her unfettered heart rejoiced with love for him.
She must have been demented to have denied them this—denied him, for so long. ‘Please, stay,’ she whispered when at last he broke the kiss.
‘Now?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘In full daylight? With the butler about to bring tea and your son in the nursery?’
‘Bother the butler and Minnie has charge of James. Oh, how I’ve missed you—and this!’ She traced his mouth with a trembling finger, until he groaned. ‘You will stay, won’t you?’
‘You know I can deny you nothing.’
‘I’m so glad!’ Feeling impossibly wicked, she took his hand and led him from the morning room. Tiptoeing down the hallway to the stairs, scanning around them like a pair of naughty children, they went swiftly hand in hand up to her bedchamber.
It was mad, delicious—and she couldn’t wait to taste him again. And at last, to offer him all of her.
* * *
A long, leisurely time later, Alastair woke from a deep sleep to find himself in a shadowed bedchamber—with a delectably naked Diana beside him. For a moment, he thought muzzily that he must be dreaming.
Then consciousness returned, and with it, the memory of calling on her and being finally—praise Heaven!—invited back into her arms.
Diana stirred against him. He kissed the top of her head, relishing the feel of her body against his, the s
ilk of her hair under his lips. Diana, free and unafraid beside him, where she belonged.
A few minutes later, she roused and gave him a sleepy smile. ‘Alastair?’
He placed a kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘Yes, my beloved.’
‘Am I your beloved?’
‘You know you are.’
‘Then...is your offer still open?’
An electric flash of anticipation instantly dispelled any residual sleepiness. ‘Which offer?’ he asked cautiously, trying to restrain a rising hope and excitement.
She blushed a little. ‘Your offer to make an honest woman of me.’
‘You mean...marriage?’
She nodded, looking suddenly shy.
He could have teased her, but he was far too eager for delay. Detaching her from his arms, he slid out of bed, pulled her to sitting position, and went down on one knee.
‘My dearest, darling Diana, will you marry me, and make me the happiest man in England?’
‘Amorous Alastair.’ She chuckled. ‘Accepting Alastair. My Alastair-for-Always. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.’
He didn’t want to ask, to give her a chance to entertain any doubts, but he’d waited too long not to know for certain. ‘Are you sure?’
‘The innocent, joyful girl I’d once been is gone for ever, but as I’ve resumed the habits of my old life, the most consistent, most important joy I remembered and have found again...is you. I’ve no need for wariness any longer. He took away and pressured and intimidated; you give and support and encourage, asking for nothing in return but for me to rebuild my life and be happy.’
‘I did ask to be part of it,’ he pointed out.
‘Now I have a new life I owe to you—and I can’t envisage living it without you.’
Elated, he gave her a passionate kiss, then jumped up and hurried about, gathering up his scattered clothing.
‘I tell you I can’t live without you, and you respond by leaving?’ Diana asked, looking disgruntled.
‘Absolutely! I must ride to London today and arrange for a special licence. Talk with Mama; shall we be married in the parlour at Barton Abbey or here?’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Unless you want a grand wedding in London? The Dowager Duchess, re-emerging triumphant in Society?’
She shook her head. ‘I never wanted to be part of Society. The only thing I wanted, almost from the moment I met you, was to be your wife.’
‘So you shall be, then. For ever and always, my beloved,’ he declared, and gathered Diana to him for another kiss.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE SOLDIER’S DARK SECRET by Marguerite Kaye.
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Chapter One
England—August 1815
The small huddle of women and the bedraggled children who clung to their skirts stared at him as one, wide-eyed and unblinking, struck dumb and motionless with fear. Only the compulsive clutching of their mother’s protective fingers around the children’s shoulders betrayed the full extent of their terror. He was accustomed to death in combat, but this was a village, not a battlefield. He was accustomed to seeing enemy causalities, but these were civilians, women and young children...
Jack Trestain’s breathing became rapid and shallow as he tossed and turned in the throes of his recurring nightmare. He thrashed around on the sweat-soaked sheets. He knew he was dreaming, but he couldn’t wake from it. He knew what was coming next, but he couldn’t prevent it unfolding in all its horror.
His boots crunched on the rough sun-dried track as he walked, stunned, around the small village, his brain numb, unable to make sense of what his eyes were telling him. The sun burned the back of his neck. He had lost his hat. A scrawny chicken squawked loudly, running across his path, making him stumble. How had the mission turned into such a debacle? How could his information, his precious, carefully gathered knowledge of the enemy’s movements, have been so wrong?
It was not possible. Not possible. Not possible. The words rang in his head over and over. He was aware of his comrades’ voices, of orders being barked, but he felt utterly alone.
The cooking fires were still burning. From a large smoke-blackened cauldron the appetising aroma of a herb-filled stew rose in the still, unnaturally silent air. He had not eaten since yesterday. He was suddenly ravenous.
As his stomach growled, he became aware of another, all-pervading smell. Ferrous. The unmistakable odour of dried blood. And another. The sickly-sweet stench of charred flesh.
As the noxious combination seared the back of his throat, Jack retched violently, spilling his guts like a raw recruit in a nearby ditch. Spasm after spasm shook him, until he had to clutch at the scorched trunk of a splintered tree to support himself. Shivering, shaking, he had no idea how long the girl had been looming over him...
It was the fall that woke him. He was on the floor of his bedchamber, clutching a pillow. He had banged his head on the nightstand. The ewer had toppled over and smashed. The chambermaid would think him one of the clumsiest guests she’d ever encountered. His nightshirt was drenched, the contents of the jug adding to his fevered sweat. His head was thumping, his jaw aching, and his wrists too, from clenching his fists. Wearily, Jack dragged himself to his feet and, opening the curtains, checking the hour on his pocket watch. It was just after five. He’d managed to sleep for a total of two hours.
Outside, morning mist wreathed the formal lawns which bordered the carriageway. Opening the casement wide, he leaned out, taking ragged breaths of fresh air. Damp, sweetly herbaceous air, not the dusty dry air of far-off lands, that caught in your lungs and the back of your throat, that was so still all smells lingered, and you carried them with you on your clothes for days afterwards.
Jack swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes tight shut in his effort to block out the unwelcome memory. Slow breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. Open your eyes. Moist air smelling of nothing but dew. More breaths. And more.
Dammit! It had been two years. He should be over it by now. Or if not over it, he should have it under control. He’d been coping perfectly well in the army—more or less. He’d been dealing with it—mostly. Functioning—on the whole. He hadn’t fallen apart. He’d been able to control his temper. He’d even been able to sleep, albeit mainly as a result of exhaustion brought on by a punishing schedule of duties. Only now, when he was free of that life, the very life that was responsible for creating his coruscating guilt, it was haunting his every waking and sleeping moment.
Dear God, he must not fall apart now, when it was finally all behind him. He had to get out of the house. He had to get that smell out of his head. Exercise, that’s what he needed. It had worked before. It would work again. He would make it work again.
His forearm had finally been released just yesterday after weeks in a cumbersome splint. Jack flexed his fingers, relishing the pain which resulted, his toes curling on the rug. He deserved the pain. A damned stupid thing to do, to fall from his horse, even if his shoulder had just been torn open by a French musket. Quite literally adding insult to injury.
Take it easy, the quack had advised yesterday, reminding him that he might never recover hi
s full strength. As if he needed reminding. As if it mattered now. ‘As if anything matters,’ Jack muttered to himself, pulling off his nightshirt and throwing on a bare minimum of clothes before padding silently out of the house.
The sun was beginning to burn the mist away, drying the dew into a fine sheen as he set off at a fast march through the formal gardens of his older brother’s estate. Jack had been on active service in Egypt when their father died, and Charlie inherited. In the intervening years, nearly all of which Jack had spent abroad on one military campaign or another, Charlie had added two wings to their childhood home, and his wife, Eleanor, had redecorated almost every single room. The grounds, though, had been left untouched until now. In a few weeks, the extensive new landscaping programme would begin, and the estate would be transformed. The lake, towards which he now made his way, through the overgrown and soon-to-be-uprooted Topiary Garden, would be drained, dredged, deepened and reshaped into something that would apparently look more natural.
He stood on the reedy bank, inhaling the odours so resonant of childhood: the fresh smell of grass, the cloying scent of honeysuckle and the sweetness of rotting vegetation laced with mud coming from the lake bed. There was never anyone around at this time of day. It was just Jack, and the ducks and whatever fish survived in the brackish water of the lake.
Divesting himself quickly of his few garments, he stretched his arms high above his head, took a deep breath, and plunged head first into the water. Though it was relatively warm on the surface, it was cold enough underneath to make him gasp. Opening his eyes, he could see little, only floating reeds and twigs, the mixture of dead leaves and sludge churned up by his splashy entry. He broke the surface, panting hard, then struck out towards the centre, his weakened right arm making his progress lopsided, forcing his left arm to compensate as he listed to one side like a sloop holed below the waterline by a cannon.
Ignoring the stabbing pain in his newly healed fracture and the familiar throbbing ache in his wounded shoulder, Jack gritted his teeth and began to count the lengths. He would stop when he was too exhausted to continue, and not before.
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