At Last Comes Love hq-3

by Mary Balogh

  Everyone was prepared to give her new husband a second chance.

  And there had been the crowd outside the church, the colorful shower of flower petals, the elegant barouche and its garish decorations, the church bells, the clatter of the nail-studded boots on the road behind the carriage all the way back to Merton House. The public kiss. And the arrival of the guests, whom they had received at the ballroom doors, and the seemingly endless handshakes and kisses on the cheek and smiling good wishes. And the ballroom set up for two hundred guests and so bedecked with flowers that the familiar room somehow looked quite /un/familiar – but gloriously so. And the six-course meal and the toasts and the cake-cutting and the mingling with guests after it was all over.

  No one was in any hurry to leave.

  The first to do so was the Marquess of Claverbrook, who had come without his cane and walked with proud, very upright bearing, though it was obvious to Margaret that he was tired. She took his arm as she and her new husband accompanied him to the door. "Grandfather," she said, "you must come and see us at Woodbine Park. Oh, please promise you will." She remembered the child suddenly, but she would not recall her invitation even if she could. There was no reason why everyone should not know about him. They knew about the adultery, after all, and seemed to be in the process of forgiving it. The child was in no way guilty for any of that. And if she was willing to have him in her home and be a mother to him, why should anyone else be offended? "Hmmph," he said by way of answer. It seemed to be his favorite word.

  But he did not say no. And he had more to say. "Sheringford," he said while a footman waited to open the door for him, "I fully expected that you /would/ find a bride before it was too late, and I was quite prepared to give my blessing to almost anyone provided she was at least respectable, but I did /not/ expect you to find such a sensible bride. Make sure you cherish her." Lord Sheringford – Duncan – inclined his head. "I intend to do so, sir," he said. "And remember," the marquess said, "that you have also promised to have a son in your nursery by your thirty-first birthday." Margaret looked at her husband with raised eyebrows. "I shall do all in my power to keep that promise, sir," her husband said.

  He already /did/ have a son there, of course, but that was not what the old gentleman had meant. Margaret smiled and kissed his cheek and the footman opened the door. "We will come to see you before we leave London tomorrow, Grandfather," she said, "to wish you a happy birthday." "Hmmph," he said. "Today's toast was not enough?" "It was not," Duncan said. "We will be there, sir." And then they returned to the ballroom and the rest of their guests and moved from one group to another, talking until Margaret was feeling almost hoarse but marvelously happy, even when she finally drew a deep breath and approached Crispin. It was not an easy thing to do. She supposed there would always be a corner of her heart that held some residual tenderness for him. He had been her first love – and her first lover. But if she had half expected to feel some panic at the knowledge that she had now set a permanent barrier between herself and him, she was pleased to find that it did not happen.

  Crispin /was/ weak, and he /was/ undependable, and though she no longer hated him for those qualities, she certainly did not want them in the man she married.

  Duncan, she believed, was both strong and dependable. And he never made excuses. Quite the contrary.

  Crispin bowed over her hand, smiled ruefully as he wished her well, and soon made the excuse that someone was beckoning him from across the room.

  Gradually the guests took their leave until by the middle of the evening only her own family was left and her mother-in-law and Sir Graham. They were all in the drawing room, eating cakes and drinking tea.

  And gaps began to stretch into the conversation. "Well," Jasper said at last, getting to his feet. "I do not know about anyone else, but I have had a busy day and am ready to return home and tumble into bed. Katherine?" "Oh, absolutely," she said. "I can scarcely keep my eyes open." "Graham, my love," Lady Carling said, "tomorrow is the day you suggested taking me to buy that pearl-inlaid locket we were admiring last week.

  You will be cross if I am not ready to go before noon, but you know how impossible that will be if I am not in bed before midnight. Shall we go?" "I am, as always, at your command, Ethel," he said.

  Elliott got to his feet without a word, but he was smiling at Margaret. "It is time for us to go home too," Vanessa said. "Are you coming with us, Stephen?" "An earlyish night may be a good idea for me too," he said. "Nessie has warned me that I may be woken in the morning by a couple of children jumping on my bed." "Having an uncle in the house overnight," Elliott said, "especially here in London, is an irresistible novelty to them, Stephen. You can always jam a chair beneath the doorknob of your room, of course. I would advise it, in fact. Our two are /not/ late risers." Another fifteen minutes passed before everyone had left. There were handshakes and hugs and kisses and tears and a lengthy speech from Lady Carling, which began with an assurance that she would not say much.

  It seemed strange to Margaret to wave Stephen on his way from his own house and to find herself alone with the Earl of Sheringford.

  A stranger.

  Her husband.

  Duncan. "Let's return to the drawing room," he said, offering his arm.

  It was a relief. Foolishly, she was not ready yet to go to bed. It seemed that they had had scarcely a moment to exchange a word with each other. And indeed there had been no private moments except in the barouche, which had turned heads all the way home on account of the ribbons and boots.

  He crossed to the liquor cabinet when they were back in the drawing room, poured two glasses of wine, and carried them to the love seat. "Come and sit down," he said, and she realized that she had been standing just inside the door – as if she were suddenly a stranger in her own home.

  He sat beside her on the love seat and handed her one of the glasses. "Did the day continue wonderful?" he asked her.

  She searched his face, but it gave nothing away. There was no smile in his eyes, which looked very black in the candlelight. Perhaps a day that had brought her surprising happiness had been nothing to him but a means of keeping his home so that his son could grow up there.

  He was indeed still a stranger. "Did it for you?" she asked, rather than answer his question and be left feeling foolish if he said nothing in return to match it. She would take her cue from him. "All of it was … wonderful," he said, raising his glass. "Down to the last drop." She noticed the pause, as if he had found it difficult to say the one word. Had he said it only to reassure her? Would he have volunteered the information if she had not asked?

  But such anxieties were pointless now. They had married each other for reasons of their own, none of them to do with any tender feelings for each other. And the deed was done. They were married.

  Until death did them part.

  He sipped his wine, and she did likewise. "But you did not answer /my/ question," he said. "I suppose," she said, "I have been like every other woman on her wedding day. There is something very special about being a bride, about attracting attention for all the right reasons – for a change. I shamelessly enjoyed every moment of it. I wanted the whole world to look at me and rejoice with me." Oh, dear. She wished she could eliminate that final sentence. But it had been spoken, and to emphasize the fact, there was a short silence following it.

  She looked rather jerkily down into her glass and took another sip. "I am not in love with you, of course," she said firmly. "But I /am/ glad I married you. For some time I have wanted to be a married lady, to have a home of my own, perhaps to have – " She took a sip of wine that actually turned into a gulp. "I believe I was twenty," he said, "when I promised my grandfather that I would be married by the time I was thirty and would have a son in the nursery by the time I was thirty-one. I was still young enough then that it seemed safe to promise something for ten years in the future. It was an eternity away. What twenty-year-old can imagine that he will ever be thirty? Or forty? Or eighty? However it was, I h
ave been a little late on the first promise, but there is still time to keep the second. Not that I can guarantee a son, of course. Or any child at all for that matter. But I can try." Margaret took another gulp from her glass. "Wine," he said, "makes some people sleepy. I hope that is not true of you, Maggie." He reached out and took the glass from her hand as she turned her head to look at him. Had he actually just made a /joke/?

  And /sleepy/? She had never felt farther from sleep in her life. "Or of you," she said.

  He half smiled as he set down both their glasses beside him, and it struck her as it had once before that a smile transformed him. Had he smiled a great deal in the past – /before/? Lady Carling's description of him as a carefree, somewhat wild young man suggested that he had. Would he smile more in the future? "I am going to see to it," she said, "that you learn to smile again." His smile first froze and then faded. "Are you?" he said. "Have I forgotten how?" "I think you have," she said, "except on the rare occasion when one takes you by surprise. You are very handsome when you smile." "And ugly when I do not," he said. "You have your own interests at heart, then, do you, Maggie? You would prefer to look at a handsome husband than an ugly one?" "I would prefer to look at a happy husband than a brooding one," she said. "/Am/ I unhappy?" he asked her. "Or /brooding/?" She nodded and lifted a hand to cup his cheek. "I think," she said, "you have been unhappy for a long time. I am going to change that." Bold, rash words. He did not love her. She was not even sure he liked her. But she was not talking about love. She was talking about affection and companionship and compassion and … well, /love/. But not romantic love. She was going to love him. For her own sake she was going to do it. She had never been able to contemplate living with someone she did not love.

  He set his hand over the top of hers and she swallowed. "Are you?" he said.

  She nodded.

  Somehow his head had moved closer to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. "How?" He was almost whispering. It was hardly surprising. Half the air had suddenly disappeared from the room.

  He, /of course/, being a man, had immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was talking about the marriage bed. "Oh," she said, her voice breathless, "I do not know if I can make you happy in /that/ way, Duncan. You may believe I am experienced because of what I told you about my past, but really I am not. It was a long, long time ago, and even then – " His lips pressed against hers. They were parted, and she instantly tasted warmth and moistness and wine. Her hand trembled against his cheek, and he held it there more firmly. He drew his head back a few inches. "If I wanted experience, Maggie," he said, "I would go to a brothel." Which was not at all a nice thing to say. She was not sure she had even heard the word spoken aloud before. But – He was not like /Crispin/, was he? "Have you often been to one?" she asked, and bit her lip at the same moment as his eyes leapt to life and she was surprised to see laughter in their depths.

  He /was/ like Crispin. Oh … /men/! If she gave him half a chance, he would start babbling on about loneliness and needs, which women were fortunate enough not to feel.

  She did not give him a chance to answer her question. "But you will not go ever again," she said. "I shall cut up very nasty indeed if you even /try/ it." His eyes were still laughing – and they were a warm brown now, the color of a cup of hot, rich chocolate. It was really quite disconcerting, especially when they were only inches from her own. "I will not need to, will I?" he said. "You have promised to make me happy. And if your lack of experience is making you a little anxious, then we had better see about getting you that experience, had we not?

  The sooner the better?"

  Oh, goodness! "Yes," she said, and then she cleared her throat and spoke more firmly. "Oh, Duncan, this is very ridiculous. I am /embarrassed/. I am thirty years old and embarrassed. We ought to have gone upstairs as soon as everyone left. By now it would all be over." The laughter in his eyes, far from fading, actually deepened. He turned his head to plant a kiss on her palm before releasing her hand. /"All over?"/ he said. "As /in forever and ever, amen/?" "And now I feel stupid as well as embarrassed," she said, "and I do not like the feeling one bit. I am going to bed whether you are ready or not." She got firmly to her feet and shook out the folds of her wedding dress. "Maggie," he said, getting up to stand before her. He took both her hands in his and set them against his chest, palm in. "You were not ready when our families left. Neither of us was, actually. We needed some wine and some conversation. We have had both, and now I believe it is time for sex." Oh, she /wished/ he would not use that word. Did he not know that it was not an everyday part of a lady's vocabulary? She could feel her cheeks grow hot. Her inner thighs were aching, and something was pulsing deep inside her.

  And it was all the fault of /that word/. "Yes," she said coolly. "Yes, it is." And she lifted her face and kissed him on the lips. Open-mouthed and none too swiftly. She darted the tip of her tongue across his lips.

  The pulsing became a throbbing. "Come, then," he said, and he offered her his arm.

  It seemed strange – oh, very strange indeed – to walk upstairs with him, to stop outside her private apartment and have him open the door into her dressing room – her inner sanctum, her private world. No longer private, though. There would /be/ no private space for her ever again. Even her body would no longer be her private sanctuary.

  Her wedding day had turned into her wedding night. "I shall return in fifteen minutes," he said, stepping back to allow her to enter the room and then closing the door behind her.

  Stephen had given him the use of a guest dressing room. His bags had been taken there earlier.

  Her apartment already seemed different, Margaret thought as she undressed and her maid unpinned her hair and brushed it out – though nothing in it had changed. There were, of course, her trunks and bags, almost completely packed and standing against the far wall.

  This was the last night Merton House would be her home. Yet even tonight her rooms were not her own.

  She was waiting for her bridegroom.

  For the consummation of their marriage.

  For /sex/, to use his disturbingly graphic word.

  She dismissed her maid with a few of her fifteen minutes left and went into her bedchamber. Two candles burned on the side tables. The curtains had been drawn across the window – usually she left them open. The bedcovers had been turned back – on both sides.

  Margaret clasped both hands about one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed and rested a cheek against it.

  She was a married lady. She was Margaret Pennethorne, Countess of Sheringford. It was quite irrevocable now.

  This one day, which had seemed quite wonderful as she lived through it, had changed her life for all time.

  Oh, /let/ her have done the right thing.

  There was a light tap on the bedchamber door and it opened.

  18

  /A WONDERFUL day/! /Had/ it been?

  It had certainly had its high points, Duncan conceded. If it had not restored him to complete favor with the /ton/, at least it had allowed him back into the fold. No one could attend his wedding today and then refuse to receive him tomorrow, after all.

  It had certainly delighted his mother. He could not remember seeing her as genuinely happy as she had been today. It had restored the belief he had taken for granted as a boy, before his father died, that she loved him totally and unconditionally. Perhaps he had been right then and wrong more recently to think her merely vain and shallow.

  And today had brought his grandfather out of Claverbrook House. He had looked quite his old self too – older, it was true, and just as fierce as he had ever been, but with that indefinable look in his eyes that was almost, but not quite, a twinkle. He had never used to be a recluse.

  Duncan wondered suddenly if his running off with Laura and abandoning Caroline had had anything to do with making him into a hermit. Perhaps he had done more than disappoint his grandfather on that occasion – perhaps he had crushed his spirit. Perhaps his gr
andfather loved him after all.

  Perhaps tomorrow morning, his grandfather's birthday, he should tell him at least as much about that elopement as he had told Maggie. Perhaps he should tell his mother too. A promise made to Laura was one thing. His family – and their bruised love for him – was another. /Make sure you cherish her/, his grandfather had said when he was leaving. /… cherish …/ And that brought him back to the original thought – /a wonderful day/. He had not married her in order to cherish her. And of course he felt guilty about that even though he had been almost completely frank with her about his motives. What he had /not/ told her – what he had deliberately withheld – did not really matter.

  Even so, he felt guilty, for there /was/ more to tell. And she was his wife. /I wanted the whole world to look at me and rejoice with me/.

  Those words had given him a nasty jolt.

  And now he was jolted again when Smith cleared his throat. "Do you want a nightshirt, then, m'lord?" he asked. "Or just your dressing gown?" Duncan gave him a hard look. He supposed he possessed a nightshirt or Smith would not have offered it. But when had his valet ever known him to wear one? "The dressing gown," he said. "The new one, m'lord?" Smith asked. "Of course the new one," Duncan said, getting to his feet and checking his jawline to make sure his face was smooth – not that Smith ever left any stubble behind when he shaved him. "Do you think I bought it just to sit in a wardrobe until the moths get at it?" He was feeling irritable, he realized as he pushed his arms into the sleeves and then slipped out of his breeches and drawers. Irritable and lusty. Irritable /because/ he was lusty. It did not seem right somehow.