“We have an audience,” she whispered.
Henry smiled down into her eyes. “I don’t mind,” he said. His voice was rough with emotion. “I want everyone to know I love you. It’s about time I admitted it.”
And he kissed her again.
* * *
HENRY STOOD ON THE TERRACE below Margery’s bedroom window at Templemore House. Light was starting to filter across the eastern sky in radiant pink and blue. It was going to be another beautiful summer day.
Henry had not slept. They had taken Margery back to Templemore House where she had thrown herself into her grandfather’s arms and cried and clung to him, and Lord Templemore had looked close to tears himself. He had shaken Henry’s hand with speechless gratitude and then given Henry a fierce hug, too, while Lady Wardeaux clucked with shock.
“Hugging!” she complained. “Such bad ton!”
“It’s a special occasion,” Henry said.
There had been no opportunity for Henry and Margery to speak, because Chessie and Lady Wardeaux had carried Margery off to have a bath and sleep. Eventually the uproar in the house had subsided. Barnard had shepherded the servants off to their beds and Lord Templemore had retired.
Henry was pouring himself a brandy in the library when he heard Margery’s voice calling to him from outside.
He walked out onto the terrace and looked up. Margery was leaning over her balcony, small and ethereal in a transparent white nightgown, her long golden-brown hair tumbled about her shoulders.
“At last!” she said. “I thought you would never hear me.” She smiled. “Are you coming up?”
“Certainly not,” Henry said, trying to drag his gaze away from the nightgown and the way that the candlelight from the room behind illuminated it in the most intriguing places. “You should be resting. You have had an ordeal.”
“I know,” Margery said. “That is why I simply cannot be left alone.” She leaned over a little farther. The nightgown slid from one round shoulder and dipped to reveal the hollow between her breasts. Henry swallowed hard.
“Please, Henry,” Margery said. “You would not want me to be frightened.”
“Minx,” Henry said. He eyed the ivy that cascaded down the wall. He had not climbed it for about twenty years and he had been a great deal lighter then. He set his foot to the first thick branch. The entire structure shivered.
“Did I ever tell you that I am scared of heights?” he asked grimly, gritting his teeth and pushing away thoughts of falling and being found sprawled on the terrace with several broken bones.
“I am sure you can do it for me,” Margery said, leaning over farther so that the fine lace of the nightgown pulled tightly across her breasts and almost caused him to lose his footing completely.
“Thank goodness,” she added, as he reached the stone balcony and hauled himself over, breathing hard. “I have been so lonely and afraid here on my own.”
She put her arms about him and pressed close, so that Henry could feel every soft curve of her squashed against him.
He could also smell brandy. He caught her by the upper arms and held her away from him. “You’re foxed.”
Margery beamed at him. Her gray eyes were slumberous. She felt deliciously warm and yielding beneath his hands.
“They gave me brandy,” she said. “Chessie gave me some and then your mother gave me some and then Edith brought me some more…” The other shoulder of her nightgown slid down and her head drooped a little like a cut flower. “I do confess to feeling a little sleepy,” she confided. “Perhaps you could put me to bed now.”
Put me to bed. Dear God. If ever a man was offered the precise opportunity he craved…
Henry scooped Margery up in his arms and carried her back inside her bedroom, sliding her beneath the turned-back bedclothes and pulling them up respectably all the way to her neck. There was no possible way, he told himself severely, that he was going to make love to a woman who was half-drunk and half-asleep, who had suffered a terrifying ordeal and needed to rest. Despite the tormented ache of his body, which was almost enough to drive him to perdition, he would act the gentleman and leave her to sleep. He turned away and tiptoed toward the door.
“Henry.” Margery’s voice stopped him when he was halfway across the room. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone.”
She sat up. The nightgown, so pale and virginal, slid innocently down the slopes of her breasts to leave one pink nipple partially exposed through the lace. Henry almost groaned.
“Margery,” he said. “I really should go—”
She held out a hand to him. “You would not, I hope, reject a request from a lady,” she said. She patted the bed beside her. “All I want you to do is hold me so that I feel safe.”
Expressed like that, it would have been churlish of him to refuse. Or so Henry told himself later. He went back to the bed and took off his jacket and boots, very conscious of Margery’s bright gaze watching him. He was about to lie down beside her when she put out an imperious hand.
“You cannot go to bed with your clothes on,” she said. “Everyone knows that.”
She was definitely foxed. Henry sighed. He stripped off his cravat and shirt. The breeches, he was determined, would stay on despite the fact they currently felt several sizes too small.
He slid into bed beside her. She immediately rolled into the curve of his arm, made a very happy sound and fell asleep. Henry felt awed and full of wonder, as though someone had given him a very precious gift. It felt almost too much, as though he did not deserve it, as though something would snatch such happiness away from him.
He smoothed his hand down Margery’s back, gently caressing the flare of her waist and the curve of her buttock. It was to soothe her, he promised himself. There was nothing sexual about it. He would not take advantage of an unconscious woman. Margery made another sleepy, happy sound and wriggled against him, so Henry stroked her again, and then again. This time the sound she made in response was definitely more sensual than sleepy. Henry licked her bare shoulder, letting his teeth graze her collarbone. Margery rolled back, away from him, eyes closed, a little smile on her lips. With one sinuous wiggle she shed the nightgown and lay naked and quite abandoned, her body open to him in flagrant invitation.
Henry struggled with his conscience for all of a minute then he bent his head to her breasts, teasing their peaks, kissing a path across the delicious swell of her stomach, dipping his tongue in her navel. Her legs parted invitingly, she arched in demand, but instead of obliging her, he rolled her over onto her front.
She gave a little squeak of surprise and then a sigh as he straddled her, brushed her hair over her left shoulder and started to kiss his way down her spine, his tongue flicking over her ribs, leaving not an inch of her skin untouched. She was shivering now, little delighted quivers that raised the goose bumps on her skin.
Henry bit down gently on the swell of her buttock and with great deliberation let his tongue dip into the tantalizing gap at the top of her thighs. This time she moaned and jerked beneath him, trying to turn over to face him again. He allowed her to roll over then slid his hand between her thighs to find the soft, damp core of her. He gave her one sly stroke. Her body jerked against his fingers, begging for more. He made her wait then did it again, each slide of his hand driving her higher, closer to completion.
Her hair was a mass of tumbled brown silk, her face stung pink with arousal, her lips parted. Her eyes were still closed and her lashes spiky against her cheeks. Henry watched her entire body tremble for him.
She opened her eyes. “Please, Henry,” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper and her gaze was unfocused, lost. “Please.”
Henry felt lost, too, utterly adrift with unfamiliar emotion. She looked so tempting and abandoned. He felt awed simply to touch her. She was all gentleness and vulnerability, strength and sweetness.
“Please,” she begged again.
Henry pushed her thighs apart and placed his mouth against the hot cen
ter of her. She came at once, grabbing a pillow to smother her screams, biting on it as he held her down by the hips and licked her until she shattered again and again, arching under his hands. Her body convulsed with heat and pleasure until finally she lay tumbled in uninhibited bliss, and her gasps for breath were the only sound in the quiet room.
Henry watched her as she returned to consciousness, watched the flutter of her lashes and the slow, satiated movements of her body. He felt as though he would never tire of watching her, which was wonderful because he would have an entire lifetime to enjoy with her. He truly was the most fortunate man in the world.
Eventually she propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him through half-closed eyes that glittered a deep, sensual gray.
“How glad I am,” she said, a little smile curving her lips, “that you decided to stay with me.” She glanced down. Her eyes widened to their farthest extent.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said faintly.
Henry was sporting an enormous erection. It was not that he had not noticed, simply that somewhere along the way, arousing Margery had become more important than seeking his own pleasure.
Margery shifted, drawing him to her, their kiss a mixture of tenderness and desire. Henry slid into her slick body and felt her sigh with renewed delight. He took it as slowly as he could, drawing nearly out of her, surging back within, keeping the rhythm as slow and steady as he could.
The clasp of her body and the caress of her hands were almost too much for him, and when she came again, the vortex of pleasure became so intense it was almost pain and he emptied himself within her in the most explosive climax of his life.
He drew Margery close, holding her as though he would never let her go. She opened her eyes. They were as bright as stars. Her lips curved into the most perfect smile.
“I love you so much, Henry,” she said, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “So very much.”
The pang of emotion that hit Henry then almost felled him. He thought of the cold expanse of his past, and the risk he had taken on love when he had been young, and how empty and shallow that feeling had been compared to the strength of his emotions now.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to recognize how much I love you,” he said, his voice ragged. “I’m not good at this. I don’t like losing control.”
He felt the laughter ripple through her. “I had noticed.”
“But I’ll do it for you,” Henry said. “I will love you and cherish you and lay my heart beneath your feet—”
She stopped him with another kiss. “You already have done,” she said dreamily.
Without her, he was not whole. She knew that without words. Her arms tightened about him and the world felt a sweet peaceful place again. The last of his barriers fell. She was his, his anchor, the still center he needed. He whispered again that he loved her. It was getting easier to say the words. In time he suspected he might even grow to like it.
“I want to tell you about Isobel,” he said.
Margery opened her eyes wide. “Thank you, but I don’t want to talk about her now,” she said.
Well, perhaps not. In time, Henry thought, he would tell her everything, everything of his youthful infatuation and the way that Isobel had ripped apart his love and his faith, and the darkness that had followed. And he would tell her how she had brought back the light.
But now Margery was touching him with tender little strokes over his shoulders and his back and his hips, and he discovered that he did not want to talk either. Her small hands roamed in very interested exploration and in a while Henry felt himself grow hard again and he groaned as he slid inside her, to worship her with fierce caresses and endless words of love.
Margery gave herself with a generosity that awed him completely. And there in her tangled sheets they held one another, united in bliss and peace.
“So you’ll be marrying me for love,” Henry said later, Margery in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest.
She tilted her head and smiled at him. “I will,” she said. “Oh, yes, I will.” Her smile became more dazzling still. “And just so that you are aware, I do not expect you to give up your work simply because you are marrying the richest heiress in the kingdom.”
Henry laughed. He rolled her beneath him and held her there, pinned against him, every one of her delectable curves pressed against him.
“What if I do not want to work?”
“You must,” Margery said. She drew his head down to kiss him. “The Duke of Wellington says that you are the best engineer he ever knew,” she whispered. “He threatened to have you court martialed if you give up your post at the Board of Ordnance.”
Much later, as he slid toward sleep, Henry remembered that he had to leave. Morning was only a few hours away and the maid could not find him here, still less his mother. He tried to get up but Margery reached out and clung to him and she was so warm and so giving that he allowed her to draw him back into her arms.
The next thing he knew it was morning and Edith was screaming and had dropped Margery’s hot chocolate on the floor because somehow the covers had rolled back and he and Margery were lying there in complete abandon, naked as when they had been born.
Margery was complaining at the noise and saying that she had a headache and what had happened because she could remember nothing at all after Edith had given her brandy the previous night. For a dreadful moment Henry had thought it was true, then he saw Margery was laughing at him, and felt a huge rush of relief.
Chessie was standing at the bottom of the bed, trying to keep her face straight while his mother picked his clothes up and threw them at him. Lady Wardeaux said that she had been wrong, he was not as bad as his father, he was much, much worse.
EPILOGUE
The Sun: Happiness and joy
EVERYONE AGREED THAT IT was a lovely wedding.
Lady Wardeaux occupied the front row of the groom’s side of the church supported by her nephew the Duke of Farne, with his duchess. The Earl of Templemore gave the bride away. Alex Grant and Owen Rothbury were groomsmen. Lady Grant and Lady Rothbury were matrons of honor. The on dit was that Tess Rothbury was increasing, and she did indeed look radiantly happy.
Lord Stephen Kestrel escorted Lady Francesca Alton and took advantage of the occasion to ask her brother, Sir James Devlin, for Chessie’s hand in marriage. Chessie and Lady Devlin cried all over each other because they were so happy. The arrival at the last minute of the groom’s cousin Ethan Ryder and his wife, Lottie, was the cause for yet more celebration, and when all Mrs. Tong’s girls trooped into the pews at the back looking like a flight of gaudy butterflies, the congregation was complete.
The only sorrow was that Lady Emily Templemore had not recovered her health and it seemed she might never do so. There was also the delicate fact that the bride’s adoptive brother was on trial for murder, but no one allowed that to spoil the day.
At the end of the service Henry picked his mother up and spun her around and kissed her. Lady Wardeaux had declared herself scandalized, but Margery had seen tears in her eyes and thought she had almost smiled. Perhaps, Margery thought, Lady Wardeaux would one day discover that it was safe to laugh; one’s face would not crack.
The wedding breakfast was lavish. Margery had made the wedding cake herself. Mrs. Tong’s girls made short work of it.
“You always were a dab hand with the confectionery, Margery,” Miss Kitty said. “Don’t suppose you’ll be able to do that now you’re a lady, though.”
“I’m thinking of opening my own shop,” Margery said. “There’s no point in being an heiress if you can’t do what you want.”
The whole of Templemore was lit up that night in a party for their guests, family and friends. Blazing torches lit the drive. A thousand candles illuminated the mirrored ballroom. The house had come alive. Margery, in a pale green gown and the Templemore emeralds, waited for Henry to lead her down to dance at their wedding.
He came into her dressing room, very stern and ha
ndsome in his evening clothes with a battered red velvet case in his hand. He looked at her, looked at the emeralds and smiled.
“You know how much I love you in those jewels,” he said, “but I have something here you might prefer.”
He held out the case to her. Margery slipped the catch. Inside, nestling on its bed of red velvet, was her golden locket. It was open. The miniatures had been cleaned and they glowed in exquisite color, her mother and her father, so haughty, so handsome, so much a pair in many ways, even if they could not be happy together.
Margery smiled radiantly at her husband. “Thank you,” she whispered as she reached up to kiss him. Henry had known, she thought. He had known how much it meant to her to reclaim her past before she could step into her future. No matter who her parents were, no matter what they had done, she needed them in order to feel whole.
Henry unfastened the emeralds. Margery felt his hands shaking a little as his fingers brushed her nape. She bent her head as he placed the locket about her neck and then it was nestling warm and golden between her breasts, against her heart.
“For a little while,” she said, “when I first came to Templemore, I did not know who I was, who I had become. I felt as though I was no longer Margery Mallon but I did not know how to be Marguerite Saint-Pierre.”
Henry wrapped his arms about her. His warmth cradled her close.
“And now?” His breath stirred her hair.
“Now,” Margery said, “I have come home.”
* * * * *
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