“So I’ve been given to understand. The entire ton, all my acquaintances—even my brothers!—know you intend marrying me. The only person in the entire world who hasn’t been informed is me!” She narrowed her eyes at him, then more quietly stated, “I haven’t even been asked if I’m willing.”
Precisely enunciated, the words gave him pause. He held her gaze for a long moment, then, also more quietly, said, “I told you I loved you.” His eyes suddenly widened. “You do understand French?”
“Enough for that, but I didn’t catch much else. You speak very rapidly.”
“But I said the words, and you understood.” His voice gained in strength. “It was you who never returned the sentiment.”
She lost her temper. “Yes, I did! Just not in words.” She could feel the heat in her cheeks, refused to let it distract her. “Don’t tell me you didn’t understand.” She gave him a second to do so; when his face only hardened, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “And as for saying the words, believing as I did that I was your mistress, such a confession would have been entirely unwise.”
She realized the implicit admission, sensed by the flare of heat in his gaze that he hadn’t missed it.
Lifting her chin, she continued, determined to have all clear between them, “It’s all very well to say you love me, but many men doubtless think they love their mistresses, and tell them so—how could I tell what you meant by the words?”
For a long moment, he held her gaze, then he gestured, as if brushing the point aside. In the same movement, he reached for her; grasping her elbows, holding her steady, face to face, he locked his eyes with hers. “I need to know—do you love me?”
The question, the look in his eyes, went straight to her heart.
She closed her eyes, then opened them and searched his. The rain was cascading down, the night was wild and black about them, yet he was totally focused on her, as she was on him. She drew breath, shakily said, “In my world, love between a man and a woman usually means marriage. In yours, that isn’t necessarily so. You said one word, but not the other. You knew my background—knew I wasn’t up to snuff. I couldn’t tell what you meant, but…that didn’t make any difference to how I felt about you.”
He studied her for a long moment, then released her, stepped close, framed her face with his hands. He looked down into her eyes. “Je t’aime.” The words resonated with a conviction impossible to doubt. “I love you.” He held her gaze. “I want no other woman, not for a day, not for a night—only you. And I want you forever. I want to marry you. I want you in my house, in my bed—you already reside in my heart. You are my soul. Please…”He paused, still holding her gaze, then more softly continued, “Will you marry me?”
He didn’t wait for her answer, but touched his lips to hers. “I never wanted you as my mistress. I only ever wanted you in one role—as my wife.”
Another subtle kiss had her closing her eyes, swallowing to get her words out. “Do you think you could see me as the mother of your children?”
He drew back and met her eyes, his expression faintly quizzical. When she said nothing more, he replied, “That’s understood.”
“Good.” She cleared her throat. “In that case…”
She paused, holding his black gaze; she still couldn’t entirely take it in, that the future of her dreams was here, being offered to her, hers for the taking. He hadn’t got down on his knees and begged, yet… smiling, she reached up and wrapped her arms about his neck. “Yes, I love you, and yes, I’ll marry you.”
“Thank God for that!” He pulled her to him, kissed her thoroughly—let her kiss him back in a wild moment of untrammeled joy with the rain drenching them and the moors a black void about them, then he sighed through the kiss, sank deeper into it, wrapped his arms about her and held her close. Until that moment, she hadn’t appreciated just how tense—how keyed up, how uncertain— he’d been.
Through the kiss she sensed their emotions meet, touch, ease—the fraught worry of recent times, the uncertainties, the fears, all faded, submerged beneath a welling tide of unfettered happiness.
When he lifted his head, dragged in a huge breath, and eased his hold on her, all that fraught tension was gone, and he’d reverted to his usual dictatorial self.
“Come.” He kissed her hand and turned her back to the coach. His curricle stood across the road, the pair with their heads hanging. “There’s a good inn in Chittlehampton, just off the road a little way back. It’s closest.” Hard hand at her back, urging her along, he glanced at her— met her eyes. “We should get out of these wet clothes before we take a chill.”
She seriously doubted, once they got out of their clothes, that they would be in any danger; she could feel the heat in his gaze even through the darkness.
He called orders to the coachman, then opened the coach door and looked in. “We’re going back to the Chase.”
A chorus of wild cheers and a “Good-oh” from Maggs greeted the pronouncement. She stuck her head past Tony to add, “But we have to stop at an inn for the night. I’m too wet to get back in. I’ll follow with Tony.”
Her brothers were thrilled, in alt at the prospect of returning to a house she suspected they saw as paradise, and not at all averse to spending the night at an inn along the way.
Tony helped the coachman turn his team, then he drew her protectively back while the coach lurched and started back down the road. In its wake, they walked to his curricle. Closing his hands about her waist, he lifted her to the seat. The rain was easing; she waited until they were rolling along before saying, “About my brothers.”
He glanced at her. “What about them? They’ll live with us, of course.”
She hesitated, then asked, “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
She tried to think of what else remained, what else needed to be settled between them…
“Good gracious!” She looked at him. “What happened with Sir Freddie?”
Later, kneeling before the fire roaring in the hearth of the best bedchamber of the Sword and Pike in Chittlehampton, one towel wrapped around her while with another she dried her wet hair, she remembered how Tony had laughed.
How delighted he’d been that he—the question of becoming his wife—had exercised her mind to the total exclusion of Sir Freddie.
She had Dalziel to thank for Tony’s rapid return. Tony had sent a rider hotfoot to London as soon as they’d reached the Chase the previous night; by return, Dalziel had sent word to bring Sir Freddie to London, but then had changed his mind. He’d met Tony on the road, and taken Sir Freddie into custody; apparently Dalziel wanted to visit Sir Freddie’s home in his company.
It seemed clear Dalziel’s interest had been sparked by Sir Freddie’s claims of another, still unidentified ex-traitor. For her part, she’d learned enough about ex-traitors to last her a lifetime.
Yet Tony’s reaction out on the road buzzed in her head. Almost as if he hadn’t been sure that her connection with him wasn’t in some way dependent on the threat of Sir Freddie. That that threat somehow ranked more prominently in her mind than it did.
The latch lifted; Tony entered. He’d taken it upon himself to see her brothers settled; Maggs would sleep in their room, just to make sure.
A smile curved his lips as he paused, studying her, then, smile deepening, he came toward her.
“Stop!” She held up a hand. “You’re still dripping. Take off your clothes.”
His brows quirked, but he obediently halted. “As you wish.”
The purr in his voice was distinctly predatory, the speculation in his eyes equally so. She inwardly grinned, turned back to the fire, and continued to dry her hair.
But the instant he was naked, she rose, crossed the few steps to him. Holding his gaze, with the towel she’d been using on her hair in one hand, with her other hand she whisked the towel she’d wrapped about her free.
One towel in each hand, she started to caress him, to dry him.
She tried to
make him keep his hands to himself, but failed. Miserably.
Within minutes, their skins were hotter than the flames, their mouths and hands more greedy. Then she felt his hands close about her waist, his arms tense to lift her. She pulled back from their kiss. “No. On the bed.”
She’d never given orders, never taken the lead before, but he acquiesced, releasing her and drawing her to the curtained bed.
He held back the drapes, caught her eye as she climbed through. “How on the bed?”
She smiled, and showed him.
Had him lie flat on his back, and let her straddle him, let her take him in and ride him to oblivion.
She’d taken an hour to ransack his library; as she’d suspected, he had an excellent collection of useful guides. She had every intention of studying them extensively and putting the knowledge to good use.
As she did that night, lavishing pleasure upon him, taking her own from his helpless surrender. Hours later, when the fire had burned low and she lay exhausted, deeply sated in his arms, she murmured, “I love you. Not because you’ll protect me and our family, not because you’re wealthy, or have a wonderful house. I love you because you’re you—because of the man you are.”
He was silent for a long moment, then his chest swelled as he drew breath. “I don’t know what love is, only that I feel it. All I know is I love you—and always will.”
She lifted her head, found his lips and kissed him, then snuggled down in his arms, where she belonged.
He’d wanted a big wedding. At the Chase, with half the ton and all of the Bastion Club looking on. As he wished, so it was—the only person invited who sent his regrets was Dalziel.
Just over a week later, they all gathered to watch her walk down the aisle of the church in Great Torrington to take her place at Tony’s side. Her gown was a confection of ivory silk and pearls that Adriana, her bridesmaid, assisted by Fitchett, Mr. Pennecuik, and numerous others in London, had slaved over to have ready in time. About her throat, three strands of pearls glowed; more pearls circled her wrists and depended from her lobes—a gift from Tony, along with his heart.
As, meeting his black eyes, she placed her hand in his, gave herself into his keeping, she had no doubt which gift was the most precious to her, and in that moment, what was most precious to him.
With him, side by side, she faced the minister, ready and very willing to claim their future.
The ceremony ran smoothly; the wedding breakfast was held on the lawns of the Chase. Everyone from the staff to the Duchess of St. Ives threw themselves into the celebration, resulting in a day filled to overflowing with happiness and simple, unadulterated joy. The boys were in fine fettle; along with Miranda’s girls they dodged here and there among the guests, weaving laughter and exuberance through the throng, leaving benevolent smiles in their wake. The horrors of the wars still shadowed many minds; it was at moments like this that the future glowed most brightly.
Late in the afternoon, when the ladies had settled in chairs on the lawn to chat and take stock, their husbands, released from attendance, gathered under the trees overlooking the lake or wandered down to stroll the shores.
Together with Jack Hendon, who along with Geoffrey had stood as his groomsman, and the other members of the Bastion Club—Christian, Deverell, Tristan, Jack Warnefleet, Gervase, and Charles—Tony retreated to a spot in the pinetum from where they could keep the ladies in view but also talk freely.
The topic that interested them most was Dalziel’s absence.
“I’ve never seen him anywhere in the ton,” Christian said. He nodded toward the assembled ladies. “I’m starting to think if he appeared, someone would recognize him.”
“What I want to know is how he manages it,” Charles said. “He must be in similar straits as we, don’t you think?”
“It seems likely,” Tristan agreed. “He’s definitely ‘one of us’ in all other respects.”
“Speaking of which,” Jack Hendon put in, “what happened to Caudel once he was in Dalziel’s clutches?”
“Oh, he sang loud and long,” Charles replied. “And then sat in his library and put a gun to his head—only way left for a man of his name. Far less messy than a trial and the attendant flap.”
“Did he have any immediate family?” Gervase asked.
“Dalziel said a distant cousin will inherit.”
Tony looked at Charles. “When did you see him?”
“He called me in.” Charles grinned. “Seems this other sod who’s been using the war for his own ends has been active for the most part in Cornwall, from Penzance to Plymouth. My neck of the woods. He’s in the ministries, most likely the Foreign Office, and he’s apparently someone in the higher levels, someone trusted, which is what is most deeply exercising Dalziel. If Caudel was bad, this other has the potential to be even worse.”
“Has he been actively spying, or was it something more like Caudel’s racket?” Tristan asked.
“Don’t know,” Charles replied. “That’s one of the things I’m supposed to find out. I’m to go in and ask questions, creating the sort of ripples no self-respecting spy wants to know about, and then watch what happens.”
Christian grimaced. “A high-risk strategy.”
“But oh-so-welcome.” Charles glanced at the others, his dark blue eyes alight. “So now I must leave you and be on my way. I’m driving on to Lostwithiel tonight.”
He grinned, a touch devilishly. “Courtesy of our erstwhile commander, I have a gold-plated reason to escape London and the ton, and my sisters, sisters-in-law, and dear mama, who are all up for the Season and now fixed in town for the duration. Of course, they expected to spend much of their time organizing me and my future. Instead, I’m on my way home. Alone. There to sit in my library, surrounded by my dogs, put up my feet, and savor a good brandy.” He sighed contentedly. “Bliss.”
With a rakish smile, he saluted them. “So I must leave you to fight your own battles, gentlemen.”
They laughed. Charles turned away.
“Let us know if you need any help,” Jack Warnefleet called.
Charles raised a hand. “I will. And if you need to hide, you all know your way to Lostwithiel.”
The group under the trees shifted, broke up. Tony, Jack Hendon, and Tristan remained, watching Charles as he glibly made his excuses to Alicia and Tony’s mother, then deftly extricated himself from the clutches of the other matrons present.
As Charles headed toward the stables, Tony took note of his jaunty, cocksure stride. He glanced at Jack and Tristan, briefly met their eyes, then all three grinned and looked at their ladies—Alicia, Kit, and Leonora—heads together as they chatted in the sunshine on the lawn.
“I fear,” Tony murmured, “that Charles’s view of bliss is severely limited by his restricted experience of the state.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Tristan averred.
“True,” Jack said.
Tony’s grin widened into a smile. “He’ll learn.”
The three of them stirred and headed out onto the lawn.
About the Author
New York Times-bestselling author Stephanie Laurens specializes in writing historical romances set in Regency England. Her first such novel was Captain Jack's Woman, published by Avon Books in 1977. Ms. Laurens is best known for her long-running, award-winning tales of the ducal Cynster dynasty: Devils' Bride; A Rake's Vow; Scandal's Bride; A Rogue's Proposal; A Secret Love; All About Love; All About Passion (the story of "honorary Cynster" Gyles Rawlings); the "twin novels," On a Wild Night & On a Wicked Dawn; The Perfect Lover; and The Promise in a Kiss: A Christmas Novel, about the founders of the Cynster dynasty. All these titles are available from HarperCollins e-books. Ms. Laurens is also the author of The Bastion Club novels, commencing with The Lady Chosen and A Gentleman's Honor. She resides in a leafy bayside suburb of Melbourne, Australia with her husband and two daughters and their cats, Shakespeare and Marlowe. Please visit www.stephanielaurens.com.
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p; By Stephanie Laurens
A Gentleman�s Honor
The Lady Chosen
The Perfect Lover
All About Love
All About Passion
Captain Jack�s Woman
Devil�s Bride
On a Wicked Dawn
On a Wild Night
The Promise in a Kiss
A Rake�s Vow
A Rogue�s Proposal
Scandal's Bride
A Secret Love
Also available, the anthology
Secrets of a Perfect Night
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author�s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A GENTLEMAN�S HONOR. Copyright � 2003 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books�.
ePub edition August 2003 ISBN 9780061744167
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
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http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
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http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
A Gentleman's Honor Page 42
