“That’s all right. I know what ‘stones’ are now,” she called to Marlow. “My husband taught me.”
Wescott looked heavenward, praying for patience. To their credit, his friends had given them a full month of privacy, but as soon as they showed up again, they brought their chaotic bachelor energy. They must have taken their horses straight on the back path to the stables, or he’d have heard them coming sooner, not that it would have helped.
“Proceed with your skirmish, then,” Marlow said. “Don’t mind us. We’ll watch quietly, and not root for either side.”
“Actually, I believe I’ll root for your wife.” August sketched Ophelia a courtly bow. “Because she looks smashing in her fencing gear, and I’ll enjoy seeing the high and mighty Lord Wescott defeated by her sword.”
“I was going to root for her too,” said Marlow, “but since we’ve been Wescott’s friends for so long, I didn’t plan to announce it out loud.”
“Why not?” August turned on him. “You announce everything else out loud, like telling Ophelia to stab Wes in the balls.”
Marlow snorted, outraged. “Don’t say balls in front of a lady, especially your best friend’s wife.”
“Here, give me that sword,” August said to Wescott, “and I’ll stab Marlow right where he needs it.”
“Both of you sit down.” Wescott pointed with the tip of his rapier. “Just sit there and shut your dam—” He stopped himself from cursing in front of Ophelia just in time. “Shut your loud mouths so we can concentrate. She’s a capable student, but your yammering will be too much.”
His friends sat on the dry autumn grass with an air of chastened insult, leaning back on their arms. When he turned to Ophelia, her cheeks were pink from stifled laughter.
“Do not encourage them,” he said. “Their behavior will only grow worse.”
“They are silly, aren’t they?” She held up her sword, brandishing the tip. “So, will you let me win so they’ll be pleased?”
“Of course I won’t. You must win fair and square, if you want a true victory.”
She lunged at him, and he lunged back, amused by her cheek. In truth, teaching her swordplay had gone a long way to settling the fears that plagued her, just as bringing her to Wales had satisfied her craving for adventure. As he was mentally congratulating himself for those victories, Ophelia nearly disarmed him.
“You must concentrate,” she said with a grin. “That’s what you always tell me.”
“You’re not concentrating right now,” he shot back. “You’re gloating.”
He tested her on all the attacks he’d taught her thus far, and she parried every time. Her posture was improving, and her footwork was better than his had been after years of practice at his club. She was so small and light, she could evade most thrusts she couldn’t parry. He heard his friends gasp as he went on the attack, but he knew his wife’s capabilities, and, of course, both their rapiers were blunted.
“I’m growing tired,” she said after his third attack. “I’m not sure I can go much longer.”
“Do you wish to surrender?” he asked.
“No, not yet.” She strained to defend herself but could barely turn off his next thrust.
He took a step back and decided to go easy on her, so she might save face before his friends. That was his mistake, for the scheming creature had only been playacting her exhaustion. She took advantage of his kindness by lunging for his chest. The dull tip landed upon his breastbone, a clear victory. A stabbing, indeed, if they’d been using real weapons, but there was no chance of that, since his wife couldn’t be trusted.
“You little cheater,” he said, as his friends surged to their feet and cheered. “You weren’t tired at all.”
“No, I don’t tire easily.” She gave him an impish grin. “It’s from my voice training. I’ve got very good breath control.”
He couldn’t stay angry when she smiled at him that way, although he still itched to turn her over his knee for her cursed playacting. If his friends weren’t there, he would have.
“Good show,” said Marlow, shaking Ophelia’s free hand. “I knew you would best him.”
“He’s like a great, clumsy oaf beside you,” August agreed, “and you so light on your feet, you could fly away.”
“I’m not like a great, clumsy oaf,” said Wescott. “She cheated by pretending she was tired so I’d lighten my attack.”
“And then she stabbed you in the heart,” said Marlow with far too much enthusiasm. “Thus is the great, golden-haired Marquess of Wescott brought low.”
“Save your poetry for the ladies, you wordy fool.”
After a bit more good-natured ribbing, he noticed that his wife was growing tired, for all her proud smiles. She’d also need to change clothes before dinner, and brush out her wild, blonde locks so Rochelle could make her look a proper hostess to their visitors.
“Leave me your sword,” he told her, “and go inside to put away your sparring clothes. We’ll be there presently for dinner.”
“Yes, my lord.”
As he took her rapier, he leaned close for a fleeting kiss. “I’m sorry I cheated,” she whispered next to his ear.
“You’ll be sorrier still, once we get a moment alone.”
His quiet threat had the desired effect. By the time he let her go, she was in full blush, her blue eyes dancing with a mixture of pleasure and dread. It took some effort not to stare after her retreating figure.
“Things are better between you, then,” said August in a quiet voice. “I’m glad for it.”
“I reckon teaching her swords was the best thing you could have done.” Marlow reached for one of the rapiers, testing its strength. “Did she ask you to show her?”
“She made herself at home in the Abbey’s armory, at my father’s urging. She liked the way it sounded when she sang in there. I figured I’d better teach her something of weaponry before she slaughtered herself by accident.”
“She’s singing too?” Marlow whistled and handed the sword back. “Then I suppose everything’s come around.”
“It has.” He didn’t have to go into specifics for his friends to know what he meant. He was sure the look in his eyes said enough. “She’s learning Welsh, too. She’s made a great deal of progress, for my cousins won’t stop chattering at her.”
“That’s the best way to learn a language,” said August. “Although your cousins have chattered at me for years and it still sounds like a load of gibberish. I suppose your wife’s a bit more intelligent than me, though.”
“A bit?” Marlow drawled, poking his friend.
Wescott set the swords aside so Marlow and August wouldn’t use them to turn on each other, then sat on the grass to rest. He’d never admit it, but his wife was a challenging opponent now that she’d mastered the rudiments of swordplay. His friends followed suit; they all sprawled on the grass as they’d done when they were boys.
While dusk deepened, his friends recounted their most recent adventures in London, and told him that Pearl’s Erotic Emporium was up and running again in a new location, thanks to a handful of wealthy sponsors. He didn’t ask if they were part of that group, but he guessed they were.
Talk turned to family news, who had gone to the country and who was staying in London, and who was adding to their nurseries. They had a dozen sisters between them, nearly all of whom were married by now. Townsend’s sister Rosalind and Wescott’s sister Hazel would be the last to the marriage market, he supposed, and then Elizabeth, if they could ever get her married off to a proper gentleman deserving of her hand.
As his friends chattered on, he thought with a twitch of surprise that it might be his wife increasing soon, his own son or daughter being added to the long list of Oxfordshire babies.
“Did you hear me?” asked Marlow, waving his hand before Wescott’s face. “Are you dreaming?”
“What?” He pushed his hand away. “My mind wandered for a moment.”
“We’ve got news of Townsend,” said Marlow. “Not
hing dire, just that he’s coming back to England soon. His parents have summoned him home.”
“Have they?” Wescott kept his voice carefully neutral, and so did they.
August picked at the sole of his boot. “They want him back in England before winter sets in. I think they fear he’ll give his heart to some ninny in a far-flung village instead of marrying a proper London girl.”
“There are a great many who’d be happy to have him,” said Wescott.
“Certainly, with his looks and connections. Anyway, we thought you’d want to know.”
Wescott nodded. “I wish him well, for all that recently passed. You must tell him he’s invited to Wescott Abbey whenever he returns home.”
“We’ll let him know,” said Marlow. “I think it will help him move on from his tendre, to see you and your wife rubbing along so well.”
“I don’t know.” August’s voice held doubt. “Towns had it pretty bad for Ophelia. He might need more time.”
“He’ll be fine once he finds someone to replace her,” Marlow said.
August picked at a blade of grass, his lips drawn tight as Wescott and Marlow exchanged glances. It would be good for August to find a woman to replace Felicity too, not that Wescott expected that to happen anytime soon.
“We ought to go back,” Wescott said, standing to fetch the swords. He tucked them beneath one arm and held out a hand to his friends. “We eat early at the cottage. I suppose Mrs. Evans has got you set up in your rooms by now?”
“Yes, when we arrived. They’ve got a lovely view of the back garden,” said Marlow. “I’ve always loved this place, Wes. When I’m here, I always feel a little less...”
“Mad?” August offered, as he dusted grass from his trousers.
He scowled at him. “A little less harried. Yes. What’s for dinner tonight, Wescott? Do you know?”
“Rabbit and roast vegetables, I believe. And plenty of Cook’s chocolate tarts.”
His friends whooped and started toward the house at a run, occasionally trying to trip one another. Bloody children, they were, driven by childish appetites. Silly, Ophelia had called them, and he’d been so much like them only a couple months ago.
How had he changed so fully in only a short time? When had life become more than tarts, the type you could eat, and the type you could bed?
Perhaps it had been the night he followed his wife up to the battlements and realized he must battle for their marriage if they were to survive. Or perhaps it had been the first night they met, when he saw her in harm’s way outside the theater, waiting to be saved.
Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who’d been saved that night. More and more, it seemed they’d rescued each other as flames tore through London and upended both their lives.
Chapter Eighteen: In Love
Wescott’s friends slept late the following day, so her husband invited Ophelia to a picnic in the meadow by the lake. Oh dear, she saw that glint in his eyes again.
Picnics were easy to plan, as they frequently took their luncheon outside, with warm clothes and shoes to protect them on the chillier days. They were well into autumn now, so the cottage’s landscape was changing. The trees grew more spindly looking, stripped of their rich, red-gold leaves.
They walked the well-trod path to their favorite hideaway, a sheltered meadow next to a lake. Even now, the water’s surface glittered, alive with aquatic life, and wildflowers blew in the breeze. As Wescott laid out the blankets for their picnic lunch, Ophelia walked amidst the boulders flanking the shore, collecting wildflowers in various colors: violet, pale pink, yellow, and white, even orange.
“You might as well pick them all,” Wescott teased as she brought an armful of blooms to the blanket. “They won’t last much longer.”
“They’re pretty, even if they don’t smell very nice.” She held them to her nose, grimaced, then lay them beside the blanket. If she wasn’t careful, she’d begin to sneeze.
“Will it grow cold soon?” she asked, picking up a meat pie.
“I fear so, although, in all honesty, the cottage is easier to keep warm than the Abbey.”
Ophelia had written to her parents, describing the cottage and the beautiful Welsh countryside. She did not tell them she was studying swordplay, for they’d probably disapprove, not that their opinion mattered now. She was a married woman and her husband loved her. That was enough.
They ate meat pies, scones, and biscuits until they were full, then packed the rest of the food away for later. Sometimes when the sun was strong and warm, they lay back on the blankets and took a nap, but today they stayed awake instead, watching the birds call across the lake. A pair of hawks soared high above them, weaving back and forth in a pattern that always brought them together again.
“They must be in love,” she said dreamily.
“Or planning a hunt together,” said her more practical husband.
“Perhaps they’re sparring together, like we do. You know, the friendly, loving way, not arguing all the time.”
He chuckled. “It wasn’t so long ago we sparred together the unfriendly, unloving way. I’m glad we don’t anymore. My parents told me that once we understood each other, there would be plenty of room for love.”
“Your parents are very wise.”
“My mother has a saying. Ask the heavens for what your heart wants.” He lifted his hand, drawing it about the meadow. “By heavens, I imagine she means all of this. The earth, the sky, the wind, the sun.”
“She doesn’t mean God?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps God also. When things are so beautiful and peaceful...” He gazed at her. “Sometimes that feels like a prayer’s been answered, a prayer you never even thought to speak.” He took her hand, tugged off her woolen glove, and brought her fingers to his lips. “It will be beautiful wherever we are, Ophelia, as long as we’re together.”
“I know. And I don’t mind being cold at the Abbey, if you think we ought to return. Our families will miss us.”
“They will. The good news is that we can come back here whenever we like, as long as one of my siblings or my parents aren’t in residence. Even then, there’s room to squeeze in together, to a point.” He shrugged. “But there’s no rush to return. As long as we’re home for the holidays, because...”
She heard the note of tension in his voice. “Because...?”
“Because Townsend is coming back from Europe, and I’d like to be there to see him, and try to make things right between us. It’s always been the four of us, you know. Best friends and all that.”
She gave his hand a reassuring pat. “If you and I can come to an understanding together, you and Townsend will as well. Perhaps you can tell him what a crosspatch I am half the time, so he won’t wish he’d married me anymore.”
He cupped her chin with a fond smile. “My little crosspatch. Yes, I’ll tell him you’re terribly prone to misbehavior, and that he was lucky to escape a leg shackle.” His gaze deepened, his eyes vivid green in the afternoon light. “Speaking of misbehavior, darling...”
Ah, that glint. She loved and hated it.
“Misbehavior?” She kept her voice light. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been a perfect angel today.”
“Today has barely begun,” he said with a laugh. “No, I’m speaking of yesterday. Shall I enumerate your trespasses?”
“You make it sound so serious. Yes, enumerate my trespasses.”
“Well, aside from mocking me just now, you talked about stones with my friends yesterday, which was quite inappropriate—”
She interrupted him with a gasp. “I never brought it up, though. That was Marlow and his poor manners!”
“And,” he continued, holding up a finger, “you also tricked me at swordplay by pretending to be tired, which wasn’t very sporting.”
“I suppose I am guilty of that. And of humiliating you before your friends with a sound defeat.”
“A sound defeat?” He gave back her glove and drew her up from
the picnic blanket. “I wouldn’t say it was a ‘sound defeat,’ but you will receive a sound spanking in retribution, naughty girl.”
He led her across the clearing as her stomach churned with that familiar feeling of anxiety and excitement. He came to a stump that made too perfect a chair, and sat upon it, drawing her over his lap.
“Wescott,” she said, trying to sit back up. “What if your friends come?”
“They won’t. As hard as I plan to spank you, they’ll hear it long before they come into the meadow and stay well enough away.”
Goodness, she hoped he was teasing about that. It had been such a pleasant afternoon until now. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to these spankings. Even if I deserve one, I don’t want it.”
Perhaps that was partly a lie, though she’d never admit it. She did like the way he held her close and handled her with his strong fingers, and arranged her just so across his thighs before he flipped up her skirts.
But the rest of it...
“Oww,” she cried as he began to wallop her arse. “That hurts. Please!”
“Please what? Shall I spank you harder? I’m not putting much energy into it yet.”
“It feels like too much energy.”
She tensed her cheeks and shifted on his lap, her fingers scrabbling at the roots beneath the stump. By now, he’d used a few different implements to punish her, but his hand was the worst, for he spanked her much longer, and the sting grew without relief.
“Please, I must have a break.”
“Already? I’ve just started. Perhaps you shouldn’t cheat at swordplay, hmm?”
“I never will again.”
Her shrieked promise did nothing to stop the spanking. If anything, the heat increased. When she squirmed too much, he spanked the backs of her thighs, which burned even worse.
“Hold the proper position,” he said. “The better you behave, the more quickly I’ll consider you punished.”
“I feel very punished right now.”
She drew out the last word into a wail, but she also understood by now what he wanted, and so she tried to lie still and take the spanking she’d earned. Afterward, he would hold her and make everything better. She had to trust him. She loved him.
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