When She Said I Do

by Celeste Bradley

  She dipped her hand farther inside. The compartment was narrow but deep, like a long loaf of bread. Toward the back of the shelf she found a small inlaid wooden box, flat and oblong. The box was richly made but simple. Its only decoration was a carved emblem on the lid that rather alarmingly resembled the waxen seal of the letter.

  Callie raised the lid slowly, unable to resist the sensation that she was committing some petty act of spying.

  A medal, gleaming golden and rich, lying on a velvet bed. An ornate Latin inscription ran the edge of it, around the cast profile of none other than—

  Callie’s gaze slid to the letter. She picked it up, weighing the hefty paper in her hand. It was addressed to “R.” That was all. Just “R.”

  Mr. Lawrence Porter was in possession of a letter that was written to someone else. By Callie’s easily rationalized Worthington reasoning, that meant she had as much right to read it as he did.

  The seal was broken anyway, lifted whole off the paper of the envelope beneath the flap.

  Callie peeked. Then frowning, she pulled the entire letter from its envelope and opened the folded missive.

  My dearest Ren,

  I’ve sent you the damn medal anyway, even though I know you’ll loathe it. In addition I’ve entered your name in the Rolls of Knighthood, regardless of your protest.

  Bloody hell, Ren, when are you going to get off your high horse and forgive us all? I’d command it but I know you’d just disobey me and then I’d have to hang you for treason, you stubborn bastard.

  I hope you like the Chinese cabinet. Even though I know you won’t. Once upon a time, you would have laughed out loud.

  Come back to Us soon. Our patience wears thin. Damned thin. Geo

  Then beneath, scrawled large in a careless hand, were three letters that stole Callie’s breath clean away.

  “H.R.H.”

  His Royal Highness.

  Geo. George. Prince George. The Prince Regent.

  I’m reading Royal Post.

  Callie’s hand began to shake and the letter began to flutter obligingly. I’m fluttering Royal Post.

  Now I’m stuffing the Royal Letter back into the Royal Envelope and locking it back into the Royal Deviant Cupboard. Callie slammed the little perverted door and stepped back from the cupboard as if it were on fire.

  Then it struck her. Lawrence. Ren.

  “Ren.” Callie breathed the name aloud. Mr. Porter suddenly became someone warmer, easier, more understandable. More Ren.

  Are you sure it isn’t just the affectionately exasperated letter from the Prince Regent?

  Callie’s knees weakened and she sank to the carpet to sit tailor-fashion, gazing perplexedly at the cavorting ivory figures as she absently rubbed her ankle.

  A medal. A knighthood. A friend named George.

  Who are you, Mr. Porter?

  And when do I get to meet Ren?

  Chapter 21

  Callie hesitated before answering the knocker that morning. As she hobbled through the front hall, it occurred to her that the giant might simply walk in.

  Or it could be Betrice, coming by to see how she was feeling. Whichever, Callie refused to take on her husband’s hermitlike attitudes. She flung the door open with a welcoming smile—a smile that widened when she spied the small, puckish fellow upon her doorstep.

  “Mr. Button!”

  He waved a handful of wildflowers at her in an elegantly ridiculous bow. “For you, madam.”

  Callie took them with a laugh. “How did you know I like wildflowers?”

  He lifted a brow. “Cabot is privy to absolutely everything known to any village maiden—they simply won’t leave him alone!”

  Callie took a moment to muse upon the male perfection of Cabot—a tribute most deserved!—before grabbing Button by the arm and dragging him into a spontaneous hug. “Oh, Mr. Button, I’m so glad you’re here!”

  It took two cups of tea and a raid upon the larder before he’d managed to squeeze every detail of her adventure from her. They sat in companionable silence over cake and cheese in the kitchen while he savored his tea and contemplated her tale.

  “And you have no notion of what made the horse bolt?”

  Callie shook her head, then noticed the way the little man was stirring his tea, the tea in which he took no sugar or milk. “Why do you ask? What is it you know?”

  Mr. Button sighed. “It is Cabot again. The dairymaid at Springdell, who is stepping out with the groom, Jakes … she told him that Jakes told her that the filly had a cut across the top of her haunch. A … a slice, actually. The sort of crease a … well, that a bullet might make, if aimed just a mite too high.”

  Callie felt her belly go cold. “Or too low … and a bit to the right…”

  “Or the silly thing might have run into a thornbush!” Mr. Button leaned close and patted her on the hand. “Just in case, I do think you should stay close to your husband. These things never seem to happen when he’s with you.”

  Callie leaned away from him. “I should say not!”

  Button smiled proudly at her. “Look at you, bristling like a furious kitten. Does he know he has such a valiant defender?”

  Callie deflated grumpily. “No. He thinks I hate him. I’ve tried in every way to show him that I won’t reject him … I wouldn’t, either, no matter how scarred he might be! I wouldn’t be like that—that woman!”

  She told him of her discovery of the scarf and the ring and the medal … although she kept the letter from the Prince Regent to herself. Truly, he wouldn’t believe her anyway!

  Then she remembered something. “Oh, no!” She turned to Mr. Button in a panic. “I’ve arranged for my gown—but what of Mr. Porter! I simply assumed he had something to wear—but it is a masque! What sort of man keeps a selection of costumes in his wardrobe?”

  Mr. Button blinked. “I have several available at all times … but then, I am in a rather specialized line of work.”

  She spread her hands. “Precisely my point! Oh, what shall I do? The ball is tomorrow and I haven’t—I haven’t even told him—”

  Mr. Button’s eyes widened. “Oh, goodness, don’t do that. It is so much easier to apologize after the fact!”

  She nodded. “Yes, well, that was my thinking, but if he must be fitted with a mask and— Oh, what have I done?”

  Mr. Button took her hands in his. “My dear, don’t fret. Truly, I have already thought of everything. All I shall need is a suit of his clothing to copy.”

  “But what of fittings and—”

  “No fittings necessary.”

  Callie frowned. “But how—” Then she sniffled back her panic and laughed damply. “Because you are skilled beyond the understanding of mortal woman.”

  He twinkled at her. “How marvelous to be so well understood!” He went on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Furthermore, I shall offer my services as valet for the evening! I still know how to dress a gentleman, I believe. Goodness, you should have seen Cabot before I got hold of him.” He shuddered. “Really, the most poisonous weskits!”

  Callie mused upon the thought of Cabot in a poisonous weskit … then out of a poisonous weskit … then in nothing at all—

  Mr. Button’s fingers snapped sharply in front of her nose. “Now, now, dear—like I try to tell the village maids, there is no use pining for what one cannot have! Furthermore, you’re married!” He took her hand and dragged her from the kitchen.

  Callie grumbled. “I might be wed, but I still have a pulse!” She stumbled along behind him, up the stairs and into her bedchamber. Her ankle twinged a bit, but really, it was much better than she’d expected. She’d be quite able to dance tomorrow!

  Mr. Button spun her into her room with a laugh. “I shall have more things for you tomorrow, but I believe this will come in very handily … perhaps tonight?”

  Callie halted in her mad, giddy spin, frozen by the shimmering thing of beauty draped over her bed. “Oh, Button!” Stepping forward hesitantly, she reached out
one hand to stroke disbelieving fingers over sheer, rose-pink silk. She picked it up—it weighed no more than a spiderweb—and held it before her. Turning to the mirror she saw that it covered no more than a spiderweb, as well!

  “Oh, Button.” She blushed, thinking of what she would look like in it, of the way the neckline—heavens, it was nearly a waistline!—would show off her breasts right down to her nipples.

  Mr. Porter had seen her naked—but he had never seen her more than naked! She laughed out loud and spun a bit, making the shimmering skirt flare out around her. “Oh, Button, you are a naughty fellow.”

  Button smiled indulgently. “A man might forgive a woman anything, wearing that gown … well, perhaps we should call it a negligee … a boudoir gown.”

  Callie shook her head in wonder. “I only fear it shall be rags on the floor when Mr. Porter has had his way with it.”

  Button folded his hands in saintly approval. “That is its sole purpose in being. Just a little something for a bride to wear at home.”

  Callie stroked wondering fingers down the clinging fabric. “Happy honeymoon to me.”

  * * *

  When Ren returned from his search, he found the house quiet. At first he thought Calliope must be resting, but she was not in her room. When he’d searched her usual haunts, the kitchen, the library, even his own study, he was beginning to worry until he saw candlelight shining from beneath the door into the dining room.

  He pushed open the door to find the table set, the room warm from a flagrant overuse of coal in the fireplace, and one end of the dining table set for two. It was a very long table. Ren was not entirely sure he’d ever really seen this room without the dustcovers. He had a very grand dining room.

  Then he rounded the table and saw her. She sat in one of two chairs by the fire, clearly waiting for him … until she’d dozed off. With great relief, he moved to wake her—then his mouth went dry.

  She was wearing something new. Not the simple blue and not the ruined ivory, either. This was a confection of deep pink, a color that reminded him of the inside of a conch shell … or, quite frankly, of the inside of Calliope.

  He wondered dimly if that were intentional, for the gown seemed designed to inflame him.

  It was doing a bang-up job of it.

  She wore that hot, sexual invitation of a gown and yet sat most demurely, with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy, just-rolled-in-the-hay style. His fingers itched to take it down. Her head tilted into one of the wings of the chair and her lips were parted sweetly. Except that anything a woman did while wearing a gown like that was not sweet, it was suggestive in the extreme.

  Ren could see her bosom, even to the upper aureole of her nipples. He could see her skin shimmer beneath the sheer fabric, just enough to understand quite thoroughly that she wore not a thing beneath it. The gown was obscene. Ren liked it very much.

  He cleared his throat … because if he touched her he would take her.

  She lifted her head and blinked at him sleepily.

  “Was I asleep?”

  Ren nodded. “Were you expecting me for supper? I didn’t know.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the set table. “Oh, yes, well … I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “You succeeded in surprising me.”

  She stood and shook out her skirts. She seemed to not even realize the extreme vulgarity of her gown. Her poise made it less so, yet, perhaps, more so as well. It was if by behaving normally, she made him the one who was stealing glimpses of luminous ivory flesh, and not the other way around.

  Clever. And very alluring.

  When she turned and passed before the fire, Ren got a bit dizzy. It was just a flash, just a moment … when the gown became all but invisible and her entire luscious body became outlined in fire. It was maddening. He nearly swallowed his tongue. He’d seen her naked before … although the treat of it had not become mundane in the least, it did not throw him sideways like this play of silk and light on skin. Where had she obtained such a gown?

  “Mr. Button brought it over, as an advance on my order. Do you like it?”

  Mr. Button was either a genius or an instrument of evil. Possibly both. Nearly blind with lust, Ren followed Calliope to the table and obediently seated her in her chair. He then seated himself, without ever taking his gaze from her plump pale bosom. In the corner of his vision he noted a covered silver dish on the table. Calliope leaned forward to lift the cover. One pink, rigid nipple slipped free of its home. Ren forgot how to breathe. Then she leaned back and the little culprit disappeared again. It was with an effort that Ren managed to tear his eyes away to look at the dish. It was a simple supper, a cold concoction. It was laid out in simple rings of ham, cheese, fruit—apples!—and small leafy things that Ren did not recognize. It was quite beautiful. A work of art in food. He glanced sharply at her. “Did you do this?”

  She nodded serenely. “Oh, yes. Most of it is from our larder, but the greens—”

  “You were supposed to be resting! What of your ankle?”

  She dimpled at his scolding tone. “Much better, thank you for asking. And I did not leave the house. Mr. Button kindly braved the cellar for me. The greens I gathered the day before yesterday. I had them in water in the larder, keeping cool.”

  He blinked down at the platter. “We’re eating your specimens?”

  She laughed. “Please, don’t worry. I shall be able to gather more when I’m better.”

  Gingerly Ren reached out to take a leaf. He nibbled at the tip, tasting lemony and sharp, but quite nice actually.

  “That is sorrel,” she told him. “When we get a proper staff, I’ll have it put into the garden if you like.”

  She wanted to hire a gardener. She wanted to put in a garden.

  The moment struck Ren with the force of a blow. He was sitting at the supper table with his wife, discussing servants and gardens and … and the future.

  He felt his breath coming fast.

  The future was not a thing he’d dared think about before. He’d not dared dream of, not since he’d waked in the dark room in a strange place and realized what he had lost. A future … the weight of that took his breath, made his heart pound, sent shocking spikes of sensation up and down his spine. A future meant things he’d lost faith in, things like hope. Things like love. Risky things all to dangle before a dying man.

  He wanted to flee. He wanted to howl. He wanted … he wanted to live.

  Abruptly, he pushed back from the table and stood. “What are you about, Calliope?”

  She looked down at her plate. “I thought you might like to call me Callie … again.” Her voice was soft, tentative. Hopeful.

  He could not bear it. He could not allow her to hope, could not allow himself to hope.

  “I told you … I told you I am dying. You know that.”

  She raised her hazel eyes to meet his gaze. “I know you believe that. I know why you believe that … but I’m not sure I do.”

  He backed away from her. “Do you think this is just some mad fantasy of mine? Do you think I created this fable of death to amuse myself?”

  “No, I think some idiot doctor told you you were in very poor health. I think some idiot doctor dwelled a bit too much on that and not enough on the future. I think some idiot doctor decided that he had all the answers and foretold your ruin.”

  Ren flung out a hand. “Stop it! You don’t know what you speak of! I was beaten, broken, stabbed—left for dead! Do you think a man can simply come back from that? That he can go back to being the man he was before?”

  “No, I don’t. I do think a man can go on from that. He can become another man, a changed man. The man he is now.”

  She lifted her chin. “Once, a long time ago, my father took a very bad fall. True, he should not have been clambering about the balcony of the Globe Theater, but he wished to research a scene from Juliet’s perspective and the balcony was necessary. He slipped and fe
ll to the ground below. We thought he would die. A doctor told him he would certainly never walk again. My mother nursed him. I nursed him, even though I was but a child. He still feels pain, and in bad weather he likes to lie abed and smoke a bit of opium, but he does walk … and dance and occasionally play Othello to Mama’s Desdemona.” She folded her arms. “So that’s what I think of doctors and their portents of doom.”

  Ren wrapped his hands about the back of his chair and gripped it until his knuckles turned white. “A death sentence cannot be commuted simply because you wish it!”

  She regarded him somberly. “No … but perhaps it can … if you wish it.”

  He stared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I do not wish to die!”

  “Really?” She raised a mocking brow in challenge. “Because I have seen little evidence that you wish to live!”

  He stared at her, dumbstruck by her cruelty, her obliviousness—didn’t she realize what he would give to stay with her, to grow old in her arms, to die aged and wrinkled and happily hers—

  With a roar he flung the chair down and strode from the room. His gut roiling, his mind on fire, he bolted up the stairs and strode to his room. At his door he paused, struck by a realization. He’d bolted up the stairs. The stairs that little more than a week ago, he’d only been able to climb stiffly and with great care.

  In the past week he’d walked for miles, ridden for hours, made love to a beautiful woman night after night.

  His back … yes, it ached, from his day in the saddle. His shoulder pained him a great deal … but he could move it—and had been able to since the day he’d caught Calliope in her fall. Somehow, that old scar tissue that had ratcheted his shoulder down tight had loosened or broken, that day. It had hurt, he recalled, quite a bit, but he’d been so distracted by her sweet body and her soft voice and the way he’d looked forward to sunset like an addict to his pipe …

  What had she done to him?

  Yet, had it all been her? He’d been hiding out here in this house for years, drinking and brooding and waiting for his death. Wouldn’t any man feel poorly after such a bout of self-pity?