by Eva Devon
Her heart leapt at the sight of St. John. Were they truly going after her? It seemed so. And on foot, too. They must have been confident they could overpower the coach between them.
“Indeed, we are late,” agreed Hollybrook.
“Too late,” she said before she pointed out, “I have rescued myself.”
“We can see that,” said Stanley, astonished. “We thought we were coming to your aid.”
“I don’t need your aid, it seems,” she replied happily, shrugging off the strain of the moments before. She would not allow that old bugger to steal another minute of her concern. “I am most capable.”
“We can see that,” Hollybrook said, looking at her with what she could only describe as awe.
She did not know what to make of that, given their recent interactions. So, she cleared her throat and nodded. “Now, after that most strange interlude, I find I am in need of a drink.”
“Whatever you say,” Hollybrook replied. “Whatever you say.”
“Good.” She met his gaze, wishing. . . Wishing so much. But not allowing herself to hope. “I think that’s exactly how things need to go from this moment forward.”
Chapter 24
As they strode back towards the theater, Hollybrook did not know what to say. It was a rare state for him. He couldn’t stop thinking about how she might have come to true harm.
What if someone else had tricked her into their coach?
What if he had lost her truly?
He swallowed the terrifying feeling.
This world would be bleak without Eloise.
As soon as they came to the performers’ entrance, she turned. “I prefer my drink at home.”
“Your home?” St. John echoed. “With your parents?”
“Of course not,” she chastised lightly. “The home you’ve given me. It is mine, after all. Is it not in my name? It is how your lawyer knew who I was.”
He flinched. “Yes,” he confessed. “That is how he knew. I’m so very sorry, Eloise.”
Her gaze darted to the duke, who was observing them silently for once. “And Stanley knows too?”
“In Hollybrook’s defense, I made a very wise guess and did some investigation. It was easy to discern your identity once I tried. You must allow my coach to take you home.”
Stanley snapped his fingers, and as if by magic, his magnificent black-lacquered coach, embossed with his ducal seal, rolled towards them.
“I wish the two of you would simply admit you’re in love,” Stanley drawled as they waited for one of his crimson-clad footmen to open the door for her.
She skewered Stanley then St. John with a hard stare.
A stare so hard, St. John felt it in his bones.
“Love does not seem to matter,” she stated, pulling the folds of her emerald cloak about her. “Not in this particular case. And I cannot bear you two impossible men any longer. You will escort me home and then we will have done, all of us. I am done with both of your managing. We shall not talk to each other ever again. You shall not knock on my door. You shall not tell people who I am.”
Her gaze narrowed. “And, Hollybrook, you will silence that solicitor of yours.”
He nodded, enjoying this powerful side of her immensely. He would have enjoyed it more if she hadn’t just effectively banished him from her life. . .
Except, she had not truly done it. He had.
“Get in, get in,” instructed the duke.
St. John offered his hand to her, and for one moment, he was certain she was going to ignore it.
She did not. Gently, she pressed her gloved hand to the top of his and allowed him to assist her in.
“After you,” Stanley said.
St. John sighed and climbed in.
The door slammed shut, and Stanley said through the glass, “I shall ride up top. You two need to be alone.”
“Up top?” she yelped.
“It will be a most interesting experience,” Stanley drawled before hauling himself up to the driver’s box.
They stared at each other.
The coach was sumptuous, lined with dark-blue watered silk that only emphasized the sharpness of her eyes.
She was perfection. And his heart ached.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“So are you,” he replied.
She folded her arms under her breasts, and her cloak spilled open over her shoulders. “I cannot believe I keep having to say goodbye to you.”
“What if. . . What if you don’t?” he whispered before he could stop himself.
The coach rattled down the road, but he paid no heed to the vehicle as he honed in on her face.
She arched a brow. “What if the moon was made of cheese? You’ve made your position clear.”
“And if I was wrong?”
“I know you are wrong,” she retorted. “I tried to explain it to you many times. But you’ve kept insisting–”
“I was afraid for you,” he rushed in.
Her lips parted, and she hesitated. “And?” she prompted.
“I did not like it,” he said softly. “It was nigh the worst feeling I’ve had in my life.”
“Such things happen,” she said, apparently unmoved. “What does your fear have to do with anything?”
“Something terrible could have happened. I could have lost you,” he stated.
“You’ve already lost me,” she pointed out. “In fact, you chucked me away. Why are you afraid now?”
He gazed at her, fear and hope and agonizing memories whirring inside him. He couldn’t explain it. At that moment, when she had been in a stranger’s carriage, the worst scenarios had gone through his head.
“I failed to foresee that while I might try to protect you from the monster in me. . . I can’t protect you from the world. You could be truly hurt anyway, and I would waste our chance by staying away.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice rough with emotion. “You would. . . Are wasting it. You’re more afraid of a phantom than the reality of this world, and that’s the truth.”
“It’s not true,” he countered, locking gazes with her.
She leaned forward and, what seemed with a dare, placed her hand gently upon his knee. “Then, explain it to me.”
His heart hammered so loudly that, for a moment, he could hear nothing as his mind whooshed back to the past.
For a second, he felt himself begin to shake.
“St. John,” she said loudly, pressing on his leg.
He blinked. “Forgive me.”
“It must be terrible, indeed, what you have to say.”
It was. Oh, dear God, it was. He’d not said it aloud to anyone. Not truly. Stanley had deduced parts of it. . .
“You must understand,” St. John began, each word torture. “My father treated my mother abominably, and I can still remember it clearly as if I were but a small boy. I can see her terror as he raised his fist. I can feel her flinch as his hand came down.”
He swallowed. “She protected me from him. And then I tried to protect her, even though I was afraid. We lived in terror. We never knew when he’d accuse my mother of some indiscretion. Looking at another lord for too long. Eyeing a footman. Allowing a man to assist her in some way. . . He would rage and crash upon us. . .”
He felt his face twist. “Until I was old enough to crash upon him. Only then did he stop. . . When he was afraid of me.”
“My darling,” she whispered.
“You need to understand,” he rushed. “I can never allow myself to be like him. He was so jealous. He allowed it to make him do the most horrific things. I’ve never felt that before. Jealousy. . . Until you. And it scared me. What if. . . What if I did the same?”
“Hollybrook,” she cut in boldly as her eyes shone with tears. She seized his hands and declared, “That could never be you. Even in your most angry state, it could never be you. Your father was an awful man, but you are your mother’s son.”
He blinked. His mother’s son? He’d never though
t of it that way.
Why not?
He’d been made in his mother’s body. He’d come out of her. She had cradled him, even fed him from her own breast, so she’d said.
It was she who had soothed him, cared for him, raised him as a small boy, overseeing his education.
His father had been a looming specter that descended upon them. Never a constant.
Oh, how he’d loved his dear mama with every fiber of his being.
And yet. . . He’d been insistent with himself that he was his father’s son, who had paid him no heed, no attention, and who had been cruel to him his entire life.
“My God,” he whispered, feeling as if a lock had been tumbled in his mind, freeing him from a dark prison. “You’re right.”
She crossed to sit beside him and cupped his cheek in her gentle palm. She smiled at him through tears. “I am right in many things if you would but come to see it. I wish. . . Oh, how I wish I could take that pain away and hold the little boy that you were, St. John.”
“You are holding me now,” he said gently.
She nodded, placing her head against his shoulder. “I will hold you always, if you but let me.”
“I am still afraid,” he confessed.
“So am I,” she replied honestly. “This life? It is a dangerous thing, indeed. At any moment, it could be taken from us. Are you willing to risk that and not spend what time we have together?”
“No,” he breathed, knowing it to be true. “I won’t risk it, not any longer, not after tonight. I’ve compromised you by trying to help you with that damned house. With the money. The horses. The empty protection.”
“Yes, you did,” she agreed, taking his hand in hers and twining their fingers.
“I’ll never do it again,” he stated, placing his cheek upon the top of her head, savoring the feel of her cool locks against his skin.
“Don’t make promises,” she urged. “But if you cannot be with me and choose me now, we should not be together at all.”
“I love you, Eloise,” he proclaimed, his voice raw. “I have loved you since the moment you barged into my chamber at that house party, declaring your dreams. I chose you then over my own ill-conceived plans. And I am so bloody grateful. I have loved you since I saw the power of your dreams. And I have loved you every moment since. The power of it frightened me.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder and cupped his face in her hands. “Love can be frightening, but what was between your mother and father? That wasn’t love at all.”
She seemed to fill her very gaze with love and acceptance and conviction. “That was ownership. And you, my darling Lord, have never attempted to own me. Not once. And I know you. You never will.”
He smiled at her, his heart feeling as if a great weight had been taken from it. “You’re right. I never will, except. . .”
“Yes?” she said.
“If you marry me,” he warned. “By English law, you will belong to me.”
“How true,” she said, and surprisingly, her eyes danced with amusement. “What ever shall we do?”
“Do you wish to simply be free?” he asked. He had to give her that chance. “And be lovers?”
“No,” she replied gently. “I wish to be yours. And you to be mine. And I trust you, St. John. You would never let a law hurt me. You’re not that kind of man.”
Not that kind of man. The words were a balm to his soul.
He had worried so much that he might suddenly change into that kind of man. But to do so? He’d have to choose it. Instead, he would be like his mother.
Kind. Strong. Loving.
“Now, if only we had a special license,” he mused.
“Like the one Stanley procured to torment you with?” she teased.
“You know about the special license?” St. John exclaimed.
Her lips parted in a playful smile. “Like the duke, I am exceptionally knowing.”
“Of course you are,” he said, pulling her tight to his side, gazing down at her, and thinking of the feel of her lips beneath his. “You are a woman who is wise beyond anything. Certainly more so than me.”
“I’m glad you acknowledge it,” she replied with a soft laugh. “You know, I was very worried my life would be a great void without you.”
“A void without me?” he echoed, shocked. She’d gained so much that he had not realized he was causing her so much pain. How his mind had tricked him into believing he was doing what was best for them both was a terrible thing.
“Of course, St. John.” She kissed his lips ever so lightly, then said, “I have loved you since almost the first moment I saw you stride out from beneath that screen, gruff that someone had dared come into your chamber. I have loved you since I knew you truly saw me, not the wallflower. Let us keep being our real selves together.”
He traced her lower lip with his thumb. “I cannot imagine being anything else.”
“Marry me, My Lord?” she asked, tilting her head back.
“Yes,” he said. “With all my heart.”
And then he did as he had been longing.
He took her mouth with his, sealing their love with a wild kiss.
Chapter 25
The coach rolled to a stop.
The sounds of the city had faded away in her reverie and newfound happiness.
Eloise gently extracted herself from St. John’s embrace, ready to take him inside and make love as they had once before.
She turned to the dark window. “That is not our townhouse,” she said.
“Ours, is it?” he teased before pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck.
She stared at the dark field.
“Well, I think so,” she ventured. “If we’re to be married, after all. What ever is mine shall be yours.”
“And what is mine, is yours also,” he agreed, stroking her curled hair back from her neck. “That shall be my declaration despite any law.”
She peered outside once more, wondering what the devil Stanley was up to. “Well, this is most definitely not our townhouse. As a matter of fact, I’m not entirely certain we’re even in London.”
“I beg your pardon?” St. John leaned forward and looked out the window with her.
They heard the sound of boots jumping down to the earth.
They looked at each other.
“Are we being bombed?” she asked, trying her hardest not to let her imagination get the best of her.
He shook his head. “Highwaymen have not roamed these parts in a good twenty years.”
Even so, they listened for sounds of some sort of struggle.
Fortunately, there were none.
And it left her with the impression that all was well. . . except for their mysterious location.
Nothing could be too amiss.
After all, Stanley was up top. He would have shouted if something had gone terribly awry.
The coach door swung open, and Stanley beamed at them. “Have you two sorted it all out?”
“Stanley,” St. John said, his dark brow arching. “What the blazes are you about?”
“Come, come.” Stanley clapped his hands together, looking remarkably pleased with himself. “You must see where we are.”
Eloise exchanged a curious look with St. John.
“Should we humor him?” Eloise asked, wondering what the duke could possibly be hiding, though he always had their best interest at heart.
He’d helped her so much in the last weeks, doing his best to make St. John see reason.
“Of course,” St. John said, grabbing hold of the doorway. “I suppose we must, since he has been so bloody patient with me.”
St. John jumped down from the coach, his coattails flaring as he landed with ease. Then he turned and offered his hand to Eloise.
She took it and followed him down, choosing to use the coach step rather than bound down.
“You see, the perfect destination,” Stanley said, gesturing to a small church on the outskirts of London.
The
stone building, which looked as old as the days before William the Conqueror, was tucked into a copse of oak trees.
“You cannot be serious,” Eloise said, snapping her gaze to the duke, who was now lit by moonlight. The beams crept out from behind a slowly rolling night cloud, bathing them in its fairy hue.
It made him look positively mischievous.
“You could not know this would be the outcome,” she exclaimed.
“Of course I knew it would be the outcome,” he issued with great confidence.
St. John frowned, swinging his gaze from the church to Eloise to Stanley. “But why are we even here, unless you were planning to marry her?”
Stanley snorted then winked. “I am most certainly not planning on marrying Eloise. Besides, she’d never marry me, would you, Eloise?”
“No,” she said, laughing. “Of course not. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
He gave her an elaborate bow. “Indeed, I did.”
“So why would you bother procuring a special license?” St. John demanded, clearly not prepared for how far his friend was willing to go to secure his happiness.
Stanley pursed his lips, looking both clever and pleased with himself. “I did procure a special license.” Stanley grinned. “But it’s not for me.”
St. John stared at Stanley as if he had lost his wits. “If not for you and Eloise, then who–”
“It’s for Eloise,” Stanley crowed. “And for you.”
St. John gaped at his friend, and Eloise let out a laugh. The duke knew them so well, it was astonishing.
She marveled at him. “How. . . How could you be so certain this was what the result would be this evening?”
She certainly had not anticipated it. In fact, she’d been certain she would be spending the rest of her life alone in a crowd. Perhaps it would be adoring. But she would be alone, nonetheless.
Stanley shrugged, a gesture far too common for someone of his secret enthusiasm. “I did not know for certain,” he allowed. “But I hoped, and hope is a very important thing. If you had both come out arguing like cats and dogs when the coach rolled to a stop, I would have shoved you back in and turned about, back to London. But it does not look as if you two have been arguing. As a matter of fact, from the state of your lips, it rather looks as if you’ve been–”
