The Lady in Gray

by Patricia Oliver

  And as for the lady, he thought, turning towards the elegant marble staircase that had replaced the wooden one sometime in the fourteenth century, that issue must still be settled, and the sooner the better.

  “Send Digby up to me will you, Greenley? I shall need a bath and change of clothes. Then you may order my curricle around.”

  He almost added, for I have business at Whitecliffs, business that will affect us all, but he did not wish to set tongues wagging before he was sure he had won the fair lady. And wag they certainly would when—and providing Sylvia was willing—it was bruited about that the Earl of Longueville was to take a second countess so soon after his cousin’s accident.

  And there was no doubt in Nicholas’s mind that he wanted that second countess in his home and in his bed as quickly as it could be arranged. His mother—whom the earl had felt obligated to inform of his intentions to replace as mistress of Longueville Castle—protested less than he had anticipated.

  ‘Take care you do not repeat the mistakes of the past, my dear,” she told him. “A gentleman cannot be too careful in the choice of a wife and mother of his children.”

  Mother of his children! The words rang in the earl’s head as he climbed into his curricle an hour later and turned his horses’ heads towards Whitecliffs.

  This time, he told himself with a satisfying sense of conviction, there would be no doubt as to the identity of the father of his wife’s children.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Second Countess

  “Hobson was right, the sun really is coming out,” Sylvia announced from her position at the window. “We are to have a sunny day for our birthday after all, John. Do you think it is a good omen?”

  “If it means that we can have tea served in the garden tomorrow, then I would say that yes, it is a good omen, my dear.”

  Viscount Brandon left his place on the settee next to their aunt and strolled over to stand beside her at the window. Casually, he threw an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her affectionately.

  “I forbid you to wear that long face again, Sylvia,” he teased. “Perhaps the sun is a lucky omen and will bring Longueville back to the Castle. Hobson tells me that as of last night, however, they had no news of the earl.” He paused, then added, “Does he know your birthday is tomorrow, love?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sylvia replied with a shaky laugh, “Aunt Marguerite made quite sure of that by inviting both Longueville and the captain to dine with us. A small family affair, she told them, to celebrate your birthday visit. Oh, dearest John,” she added impulsively, slipping an arm round the viscount’s waist, “I am so very pleased you are here. Marguerite has been wonderful, of course, and Giovanni, too, but I do miss you, John. I wish you had not been away in Scotland when ...”

  “No sense moping over what might have been, love,” the viscount said bracingly. “I want you to concentrate on the ride you promised me if it is fine tomorrow. And I cannot wait to see that

  famous horse you have acquired. I understand the animal is something of a legend in these parts. Am I to see you put him through his paces?”

  “Oh, no, I do not think so.” Sylvia giggled at the thought of putting a saddle on old Hercules’ bony back and trotting around the countryside. “He is rather past his prime, I fear, besides being sadly temperamental. I have the suspicion that he would rather see me flat on my back in the mud than on his back.”

  “Perhaps if I were to mount the brute, he might be more tractable?” her brother remarked. “He does not appear old and decrepit in the painting of the highwayman.”

  Sylvia felt herself blush. “That is because I did not reproduce Hercules in all his hip-shot, sway-backed glory. I meant to, of course, but at the last moment I relented. Longueville protested vociferously when he learned my intent, and I wished to show him that even earls do not dictate to artists. But when it came to the sticking point...”

  “You could not put your white knight on a broken-down horse, I gather. I trust Longueville appreciates the extent of your devotion, Sylvia. 1 am quite looking forward to meeting the man who has brought color back to your cheeks, and a shine to those beautiful eyes of yours.”

  “You are a sad tease, John,” Sylvia injected with a smile. “I hope—■”

  Sylvia never did say what it was she hoped, for at that moment Hobson opened the door of the Italian Saloon to announce a visitor.

  “His lordship, the Earl of Longueville,” the butler intoned expressionlessly, the twitching of his shaggy eyebrows the only sign of a more than cursory interest in the visitor.

  “Well, do not keep his lordship kicking his heels in the hall, Hobson,” Lady Marguerite exclaimed sharply. “Show him up immediately.”

  “Oh, John, he came,” Sylvia exclaimed breathlessly, feeling the color recede from her cheeks. She took a step towards the door, then turned, an enigmatic smile on her lips. “On second thought, perhaps I should receive him in my studio, Hobson.” The time had come, she thought as she swept out of the room, to find out if John was correct about the earl. Was he about to behave like a true Mor- ley after all?

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Love Conquers All

  The sound of the studio door opening behind her made Lady Sylvia flinch, but she did not turn. She remained standing before the portrait she had called The Highwayman, admiring the strong, sun-bronzed features of the man who stood, pistol in hand, under an ancient oak beside a lonely stretch of road. Although she suspected the earl would have the name changed as soon as she delivered the painting to him, Sylvia would always think of it—of him—as The Highwayman. The gentleman thief who had stolen her heart when least she had expected it.

  Head poised critically to one side, Sylvia gazed up into the brooding eyes of the man in the portrait.

  How she would love to keep this man for herself. He would hang in her bedroom, she decided in a flash of daring. Opposite her bed, so that The Highwayman would be the last thing she saw before going to sleep, the first thing to greet her in the morning.

  She sighed.

  “Handsome fellow, is he not?”

  The low, vibrant voice came from directly behind her, so close that the warm breath teased the curl that had escaped its pins to flutter beside her cheek. Sylvia’s heart leaped up into her throat, and she whirled round to face the man who had fueled such foolish, romantical notions a moment ago.

  “My lord,” she stammered, mortified to be caught like some brainless schoolroom miss daydreaming over her French dancing master. “You s-startled me.”

  He smiled, and Sylvia felt her heart flutter wildly. “So I see,” he

  drawled, his voice caressing her skin like warm honey. “But why so surprised, my dear? Surely you knew I would come?”

  He was so close that Sylvia could detect the clean smell of starch on his shirt, the scent of his Holland water. Her head reeled with the intoxication of his presence. She wanted to step back, but her feet seemed to be rooted in the worn rug. Then she had the urge to sway forward, against his chest, which seemed extraordinarily broad and inviting. And so close. How easy it would be, she thought, to give in to temptation. Surely she must be the only female in the world who would resist the lure of such a man.

  Towering over her and exuding an animal magnetism that awakened all her dormant female instincts, the earl seemed to be daring her to let herself go. To immolate herself on the irrevocable fires of passion. Sylvia knew the sensation all too well, having trodden down that path once before. Even after ten long years, she remembered the pull of the senses, the tingling of the body, the furious palpitating of the pulses, the blessed ecstasy of surrender.

  He had yet to touch her. Sylvia knew that when he did—and she never doubted for an instant that he would—she would crumble like a child’s sand castle before the relentless onslaught of the surf.

  Unless she managed to rally her strength to resist the almost irresistible.

  “How c-could I possibly know such a thing?” she protested, taking r
efuge in banter. “I am not a mind reader or fortune teller. If you must know, my lord, I rather thought you might be on your way back to India by now.”

  She finally dared to raise her eyes to his, and was startled to see that she had wounded him.

  “You consider me the sort of paltry fellow who would run off and leave things unsettled between us?”

  Sylvia had but a hazy notion what this ambiguous remark might signify. She searched his face for a clue as to his meaning and noticed, for the first time, that his eyes were not unrelieved black as she had thought, but flecked with shades of gray. She marveled that she had not noted this as she painted The Highwayman. An unforgivable omission for an artist.

  “I see I did not quite capture the color of your eyes, my lord,” she said in her cool, professional voice, glad of the excuse to fall back to a less emotional level. “I must remedy that before I can deliver the portrait to you.”

  “The devil fly away with the portrait,” he responded impatiently. “I did not come here to talk about painting, my girl. Now, will you answer my question?”

  Sylvia opened her eyes in mock surprise. “You do not like it, my lord? I was afraid you would not, so I am quite prepared to do another—”

  “I never said I did not like it—”

  “It does not surprise me in the least, my lord,” Sylvia continued brightly, as if he had not spoken. “I realize it is not quite the way an earl would wish to be remembered by his grandchildren.”

  “I have no grandchildren.”

  Sylvia smiled condescendingly, thankful to have regained control of this ridiculous conversation. “Oh, but you will, my lord, just as soon as the Dowager Countess finds a suitable candidate for you.”

  “My mother has decided not to return to Cornwall,” he said bluntly. “She has washed her hands of me, so to speak, and accepted my aunt’s invitation to make her home in Bath.”

  Sylvia paused for a moment, disconcerted by this unexpected development. “Oh, dear me,” she exclaimed, striving to maintain a light tone. “Then you will just have to find a suitable candidate yourself, my lord. That should not be difficult given your—”

  “I already have,” he interpolated, and Sylvia could swear the rogue had leaned forward an inch or two to reduce the space between them. She felt suddenly unbearably hot and flustered, and wished fervently that she could regain control of her feet, which still refused to obey her frantic commands to uproot themselves from the carpet and flee this looming danger.

  “In that case, you will undoubtedly have any number of grandchildren,” she pointed out breathlessly. “May I wish you happy, my lord?” she forced herself to ask, although her entire being rebelled against the notion of this man belonging to another woman.

  “No, you may not, you naughty little tease,” he muttered. “And I stand not a tinker’s chance of having any grandchildren at all unless you answer my question, Sylvia.”

  He glared at her with such ferocity that Sylvia quailed. “Oh,” she exclaimed, suddenly recalling the odd question she had tried her best not to answer. “You are referring to the comment about you being a paltry fellow or something of that nature, my lord?”

  “Something of that nature,” he assented, his lips curling into a dangerously wicked smile.

  Averting her eyes quickly, Sylvia took a deep breath before launching into another diversion. “I would hardly call you paltry, my lord. Indeed, you are substantially larger than my brother. Have you met my brother, Viscount Brandon? You will like him, I am sure.”

  Sylvia distinctly heard the earl utter a low growl of frustration. “1 have not yet met Brandon, but I will do my best to find him agreeable since we are soon to be related.”

  “You are?” Sylvia gasped as the implications of this remark sank in.

  “Exactly, my dear. And believe me, Sylvia, I have no intention of reverting to the barbaric practices of my ancestors, particularly Sir Roderick the Ax, best known for snatching his bride from the altar as she was exchanging her vows with another.”

  “Was Sir Roderick happy with his stolen bride?” Sylvia murmured from among the folds of a rapidly wilting cravat. “He did wed her, I hope.”

  “Of course, he wed her, you pea-goose.” He cupped her chin and disentangled her face from his cravat. “And the records say they were very happy together. Had eight children and lived to a ripe old age.” He paused to trail warm kisses over her closed lids and down her cheek to the curve of her neck. “Her name was Blanche, by the way,” he added, after allowing his lips to meander across the tops of her breasts until Sylvia felt delirious with joy.

  “A lovely name,” she agreed breathlessly, wondering where all this would lead.

  “I have always thought so,” she heard him murmur against the tender spot at the base of her throat. “I would like to call our daughter Blanche if you have no objection, my love. If our first offspring is a boy ... hmm, you taste so sweet... he could be Roderick. I rather like the idea of another Roderick ... hmm, simply heavenly, my pet... as the master of Longueville Castle. Would you not agree, love?”

  Sylvia had reached a point of delirium where she was ready to agree to anything. All she craved was the taste of his mouth on hers. This talk of children was reassuring in its own way, but she needed to hear this man speak of love.

  “Are you listening to me, Sylvia?” He had raised his head and although her eyes were still closed, she knew he was gazing at her.

  “Of course, my lord,” she murmured meekly. “You have just informed me that I am to produce a boy and a girl, to be named Roderick and Blanche.”

  “My name is Nicholas,” he remarked gently, “and we will not stop at two, my girl. Roderick had eight according to the records, but I would be willing to settle for six. That is if you agree, Sylvia. Do you?”

  She smiled encouragingly and snuggled back into the cravat. “The production of six offspring will take some time, my lord,” she pointed out. “When do you intend to start?”

  “You are a delight, my love,” he murmured. “If I leave now, I can obtain a special license in Falmouth and be back tonight. Your birthday—and no, I had not forgotten that, my dear—could be your wedding day. If you will have me, that is.”

  Of course she would have him, she thought, watching the doubt flicker in his eyes again. How silly men could be upon occasion. But if this was his idea of an honorable offer, she mused, still not entirely satisfied, she would have to pry those magic words out of him some other way.

  “Is that why you came to Pirate’s Cove?”

  Sylvia looked at him for a moment, the recent events at Pirate’s Cove dissolving and reassembling in her mind in a sequence not unlike that which had played itself out centuries ago between the impulsive Sir Roderick and another thwarted bridegroom.

  “Young Timmy told me you were in danger, my love,” he whispered, increasing the pressure of his arms until Sylvia could feel every curve and hollow of his body pressed against hers.

  Sylvia sighed against his lips, which were moving lazily over hers. “Is that the only reason you came?”

  He gazed at her in surprise. “Oh, I see,” he added after a moment’s pause, “Perhaps you need to know that I discovered I could not live without you, my love.”

  While this was not the whole of it, Sylvia smiled brightly. “You were worried about all those grandchildren, no doubt?”

  From his puzzled expression Sylvia knew that future generations of Morleys had played no direct part in his decision to come to her rescue. Then she saw, with no little relief, a flicker of comprehension in those dark eyes.

  Suddenly, he picked her up and carried her over to the settee. Settling her firmly in his lap, he brushed an errant red curl from her forehead and smiled down at her with so much love in his eyes that Sylvia knew her fondest dreams were about to come true.

  “I can see 1 have been going about this in all the wrong way,” she heard him murmur. “I should have donned one of Roderick’s suits of armor and come charging over he
re, pennants flying, and simply snatched you away from your brother. Would you have liked that, my love?”

  Sylvia giggled. “That might have worked for Roderick and Blanche five centuries ago, but in 1814 a female likes to hear some plain speaking if you please, my lord.”

  “Oh, so what if I told you I came to Pirate’s Cove that afternoon because I love you, Sylvia.” His voice dropped lower. “So much that I cannot conceive of spending my life without you, love. Will you marry me, my dear?”

  Sylvia knew she was smiling foolishly, but could not control herself. She nodded vigorously, not trusting herself to utter a single word for fear of releasing the tears of joy that were building up inside her.

  Unlike his chosen bride, the earl did not appear to need plain speaking to understand his lady’s response.

  Patricia Oliver, born a British subject but now a self-styled native Texan, has a Ph.D. in comparative literature and teaches English at the university level. She grew up in Argentina and Uruguay, speaks Spanish, and loves horses, cats, gardens, and books. Her Regencies have been Golden Heart and RITA finalists, have appeared on B. Dalton’s and Waldenbooks’ Bestseller Lists, and have been listed as a Publishers Weekly Recommended Read. She won the 1993 Romantic Times Award for Best First Regency Romance, and her Roses for Harriet won the Romantic Times Award for Best Regency Romance in 1995. In 1997 she was awarded the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award.