Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  In his gaze, she saw reflected back all her deepest yearnings to love, and be loved, and to celebrate life. I want that with him. Only him. Forever. All these years, she’d mourned the loss of her family, only to find it now, here with Derek.

  Mayhap later there would be peace with her parents and siblings, but even if there never was forgiveness, she had a new family. One who loved her without reservation and judgment.

  The sins of her past slipped away; freeing her from guilt and fear and pain. Because of him. Nay, because of them, together.

  She leaned up on tiptoe and claimed his lips in a gentle kiss.

  Derek drew back. “Is that a yes, love?” Emotion roughened his words.

  She smiled softly. “That is a yes.”

  Epilogue

  London, England

  Two Months Later

  The rhythmic clip of Derek’s footfalls and Lily’s slippered steps echoed softly off the carpeted halls, the sound punctuated by the muffled thump of his cane upon the floor.

  With Lily’s guidance and gentle encouragement and Flora’s cheerful presence, he’d reentered the living. Nay, he’d done that the moment Lily had entered his life and shown him how to laugh and smile and love. They had also drawn him outside, into the world, braving stares and whispers, to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin.

  Gaze trained forward on the butler leading them to the parlor, Derek’s mouth went dry. For this was no visit to Hyde Park or trip to Gunter’s with Lily and Flora. This household was a place he had no right being.

  I should not be here.

  His wife slid her gloved fingertips into his and cast upward an encouraging smile. It will be all right, she mouthed.

  Under her quiet assurance, his throat worked. How very different his smiling, bright-eyed wife was from the wary lady who’d first entered his home. In a way, they’d healed each other. He’d gone from an empty, cold shell of a person to a man who reveled in love and laughter, and who also brought two other people joy.

  The butler drew them to a stop beside a not unfamiliar parlor.

  His palms moistened inside his gloves. For even having been healed, there was still regret that moved beyond his own past sufferings.

  “The Duke and Duchess of Blackthorne.” The butler stepped aside and backed from the room.

  The flawlessly golden Marquess and Marchioness of St. Cyr stared back. At one time, their united perfection would have grated. It would have served as a reminder of the marks upon his person and his aloneness in the world.

  No longer. A small smile pulled at his lips.

  Christian stood, stoically silent, then his wife, Lady St. Cyr smiled back. “It is so, so lovely to see you again, Your Grace,” she said with a warmth that met her eyes.

  Why would she be so kind? To him? Why, when he’d brought her family nothing but pain? Sketching a rusty bow, Derek spoke in hushed tones. “It is an honor, my lady.” The pall of silence descended and he returned his attention to an immobile Christian. The other man’s face set in a mask gave no hint of his thoughts or emotions. There are so many words I owe him. So many apologies he’s deserving of; useless words that can never right the wrongs I’ve done. “Christian,” his voice emerged garbled. Unable to meet the directness of the other man’s gaze, he glanced down a moment at the head of his new cane; the gold-filled handle, stamped with lilies at his niece’s insistence, represented everything light. Gone was the serpent meant to represent darkness. This new one served a functionality; a sturdiness that represented his and Lily’s future, a joyous one with Flora in it. His throat worked as he looked to his wife’s still flat tummy. A family that would see additional life added to their fold in seven months’ time.

  He searched for words.

  Lily gave the fingers of his other hand a slight squeeze; an assurance that she was here, that she would always be there, and he found strength in her. In them. Warmth filled his heart and shoving aside his reservations, Derek drew back his hand and limped over to his friend. He held a palm up. “I am so very sorry, Christian.” For everything: for their shattered innocence, for the horrors that would always be with them, for shutting him out, and lamenting his deserved happiness. “I—”

  “Do not say another word,” Christian said, his voice hoarse and Derek’s palm wavered.

  The mask slipped and a spasm of emotion contorted Christian’s face. He placed his hand in Derek’s. “There is nothing to forgive. There never was.” The muscles of his throat bobbed. “Oh, how I have missed you, friend.”

  “And I you,” Derek said, his voice hoarse. A calming peace filled him. There would never be a full freedom from the hell that would forever haunt his nightmares, but there was forgiveness.

  There was a healing found in Flora’s effervescent spirit, his friend’s forgiveness, and in his wife’s love.

  Derek closed his eye.

  After eight long years, he was at last, home.

  The End

  Tempted by a Lady’s Smile

  By

  Christi Caldwell

  Dedication

  To Doug: a loving father, an amazing husband, and my best friend. Through appointments, specialists, school meetings, and everything in-between, you are there at our side. Thank you for encouraging me, and allowing me, every day to fulfill my dream.

  You are my real-life hero. (And a pretty wonderful cook, too!)

  Chapter 1

  Somerset, England

  Summer 1821

  Miss Gemma Reed was neither pretty nor talented.

  As a young girl she’d attributed her nursemaid’s lamentations to, well, meanness. At eight and ten years of age when Gemma had made her Come Out, however, the finding had been unequivocally handed down by the ton.

  She was ugly.

  Or, that is what had been decided and written with regular frequency by Polite Society during her first Season. Now, three Seasons later, the verdict had proven the same. It was all the more bothersome when a young lady was saddled with a name like Gemma, when she was the farthest thing from a Diamond. As the papers had so cleverly, or rather, un-cleverly, pointed out.

  Gemma wrinkled her nose. In her estimation, ugly was quite harsh.

  The carriage hit a large bump on the old Roman road leading to Somerset and her copy of Georges Cuvier’s Le Règne Animal tumbled to the floor. Gemma winced and bent to retrieve it.

  She sat up just as her brother’s black barouche bounced once more. With a sigh Gemma abandoned her reading and put aside the small tome. Blasted carriage ride. She discreetly rubbed the spot just above her derrière.

  Mother glanced over and frowned. “Do stop touching yourself. It is impolite.” Before Gemma could formulate a reply to that admonishment, her mother tipped her chin at the leather volume on the bench. “And be certain to have that hidden before we arrive. It won’t do to be seen carrying around a medical story.”

  “It is a science journal,” she muttered, earning another reproachful look from her mama. As her disapproving mama launched into a lecture about appropriate reading material for a young lady, Gemma peeled back the gold curtain and stared at the passing countryside.

  No, she’d never be considered conventional or pretty.

  And though she didn’t quite see herself as a raving beauty nor even remotely beautiful, neither did she think she was the horribly unattractive figure painted by the ton. The talented part, well, that particular insult she would have to agree with them, on, however. That is, talents as they pertained to ladylike ventures—needlepoint, singing, fluttering a fan, watercolors. All endeavors she was rubbish at. And that was being generous. Yes, by Society’s standards she was neither pretty nor graceful and certainly not talented. With the exception of archery, the talents she did possess would never be seen as appropriate, proper, and as such, would never be remarked on by the ton. She could ride, shoot, and hold an archer’s bow better than the most skilled gentleman. Such a feat would never earn a lady any attention that was good and it would, most assuredly, n
ot land her a husband.

  The carriage hit another jarring bump and Gemma slammed against the side of the conveyance. “Bloody hell!” The curse slipped out and then she promptly bit the inside of her cheek.

  “Gemma,” Mama scolded, giving her head a disapproving shake. “Do be sure to not speak so in front of His Grace, or the duke’s son, or…”

  As her mother proceeded through the list of the distinguished guests who would be attending the Duke of Somerset’s summer party, Gemma redirected her attention out the window. Being the only friend to Lady Beatrice Dennington, the daughter of their host, Gemma well knew who would be in attendance and the very specific reason for this grand summer party. She and the young lady had struck up an unlikely friendship; both on their fourth Seasons and both unwed, except Beatrice was a glorious beauty while Gemma was…well, Gemma. Propping her chin on her hand, she stared longingly out at the rolling green hills and the passing countryside.

  Just then, her brother, Emery, Viscount Smithfield, brought his horse alongside the carriage. She eyed his mount with a vicious hungering and her legs twitched with the need for being astride her own horse. She closed her eyes a long moment and imagined racing through the sprawling land with the wind in her face, free of Society’s snide comments, free of her mother’s chastisement, free of all of it. Gemma opened her eyes. Alas, ladies did not ride astride. They sat dutifully in carriages with tedium threatening to be the death of them and dreamed of a grand romance with their best friend’s brother. Her gaze collided with Emery. He gave her a knowing half-grin and a wink. A grin and a wink that said he well knew her love for riding and knew she belonged out there with him…if the world was an altogether different place for polite ladies.

  Gemma let the curtain go and it fluttered back into place, swallowing the view of crisp, blue, summer skies and fluffy, white clouds and she, in this moment, felt not unlike a gilded bird trapped in a cage.

  “…There are rumors that the marquess will wed Lady Diana,” her mother’s lamentations pulled her back to the moment. Her discourse brought every conversation, as it invariably did, back ’round to the talk of husbands.

  The muscles of her stomach clenched. There was no doubt just which marquess her mother referred to. All the ton spoke of or cared about was the gentleman’s rank and wealth. And it was well known about town that the Duke of Somerset was suffering a wasting illness and this summer event had been designed and carefully arranged with the specific purpose of seeing his unwed daughter, Lady Beatrice, also approaching her fourth Season, as well as his son, Robert, the Marquess of Westfield, married.

  “But I say if the son’s match was already determined, then the duke would not be hosting this summer party.”

  Gemma resisted the urge to jam her fingertips against her temples and rub the growing ache caused by her mother’s prattling. As her grasping parent continued on about the marquess’ marital prospects, Gemma again yanked back the curtain and stared intently out the lead window.

  The ladies invited to attend the duke’s summer party would all do so with the intent purpose of making a match—ideally with the Marquess of Westfield. Tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome, he was a glorious specimen of masculine perfection…and a smidge below royalty, given his future title, every lady’s not so secret wish in her bridegroom.

  And Gemma didn’t give a jot about any of it—his wealth, his male beauty, his title of marquess and eventual duke. She’d been in love with the man for three years now. Since her partnerless first Season, when he’d offered her a quadrille on the disastrous day of her Come Out. Oh, she wasn’t so naïve that she’d give a man her heart for one small, though heroic, act. He’d been the only gentleman to partner her in a set at whatever event he was in attendance. Never two dances together to signify anything more, but those single dances mattered to her.

  “…Tell me you will have a care at the duke’s party.”

  Silence registered and, blinking several times, Gemma shifted her attention from the passing countryside to her mother. With her perfect golden curls and sapphire blue eyes, could not a single speck of that beauty have passed to Gemma? Not that she minded being…well, plain, it was just that…

  “Well?” Mama prodded, favoring Gemma with an entreating look.

  Her mind raced. What were they speaking on? Ah, right. In a roundabout way, Mama was pleading with her to watch her tongue and avoid embarrassment. “I promise to be nothing but myself,” she pledged.

  That, thankfully, led to an endless speech on the perils in Gemma attending the most coveted summer event. She’d long been an oddity in her own family. Emery, with his blond locks and captivating demeanor, charmed young ladies and dowagers alike. Her flawlessly beautiful mother was a leading hostess and matron. And then there was Gemma; who was everything…well, ordinary. Limp, brown hair that could not curl with a prayer and a magical brush. Plain brown eyes. Not even the type of brown with flecks of gold or green in them. Just brown. At five feet four inches, she was not too tall, not too short.

  She startled as a hand touched her knee and she lifted her gaze.

  Her mother gave her a gentle look. “There is no reason you cannot make a match with the marquess.” The softly spoken words were said with a mother’s pride and love.

  She mustered a smile. “I know,” she replied automatically. There was no one reason. Rather, there were all number of reasons she couldn’t.

  Mama leaned closer. “Even if it is not the marquess, you will find the gentleman who will appreciate you and love you for who you are.”

  What her mother could not know was that Gemma had already found the gentleman she would spend her days with. For now, she loved him and appreciated him, and it was merely a matter of bringing the gentleman around to the truth that all of those quadrilles, waltzes, and reels were more than mere polite dances.

  The carriage rumbled down a drive, on through the park-like grounds of an opulent estate. Fountains lined the graveled drive; the stone adornments at odds with the tucked away corner of Somerset owned by the duke.

  They had arrived.

  Gemma’s heart pounded hard and fast, and where her mother’s ramblings had previously aggravated, now she welcomed the distracted prattling about proper summer party etiquette. Welcomed the diversion away from the very sudden realness of her planned meeting with Lord Westfield where she would, at last, confess all that was in her heart to him.

  And what had seemed so very simple, now seemed the manner of failed tasks assigned laughingly by the gods to watch a mere mortal fail.

  I cannot…

  As soon as the cowardly thought slid in, Gemma firmed her jaw. Failure was not an option. For if she didn’t, at the very least, confess her feelings to Lord Westfield then she would forever harbor regret of what might have been and what should have been, if she’d not been a coward. Yes, she’d been labeled unattractive, ungainly, and untalented, in her two and twenty years, but not once had she been called a coward.

  The carriage dipped as their driver climbed from the box. A moment later, the door was pulled open and the liveried servant held a hand out to assist the viscountess from the carriage.

  Relishing the momentary quiet, Gemma collected her book and then reluctantly placed her fingers in the young man’s hand. She offered him a smile. “Thank you, Connor.”

  He inclined his head. “Miss Reed.”

  Gemma’s feet settled on the ground and she moved her legs experimentally, willing movement back into them after countless hours of uninterrupted sitting. She placed one hand on the small of her back and arched—

  “Never let Mother see you doing something as scandalous as stretching.”

  At the unexpected drawl, Gemma spun and promptly lost her balance. Her small, leather tome fell indignantly to the earth.

  Emery shot his hands out and steadied her at the shoulders.

  “Gemma,” Mother called.

  Their mother missed nothing. Why, she could be used to ferret out secrets for the Hom
e Office with the eyes she possessed.

  Emery retrieved Gemma’s book and handed it over. “I told you,” he whispered.

  She laughed, tucking Cuvier’s work under her arm. “Yes, well, she does value propriety.” As such, she’d long despaired of Gemma’s penchant for garnering all the wrong kinds of notice.

  “And good matches,” Emery put in with a wink. He offered his elbow and Gemma slid her fingers onto his sleeve.

  “I daresay you are the real reason for her hopes with this event,” she said out the side of her mouth.

  Alas, poor Emery had been dodging their mother’s clear attempts to make a match for him since he’d left university nearly eight years ago. She’d been less than veiled in her aspirations for him to make a match with the still unwed Lady Beatrice.

  As they climbed the stairs of the palatial estate, the butler threw the doors wide. With Emery at her side, Gemma hesitated. Do not be a coward… Drawing in a steadying breath, she forced her feet into a forward movement.

  “You look as pained as I about being here,” Emery whispered as they were ushered through the long, carpeted corridors to their respective guest rooms.

  “What would I have to be pained about?” she shot back, waggling her eyebrows. “My mother’s pathetic attempt at matchmaking? Or her desperate wish to see me wed any suitable gentleman before the London Season begins?”

  Their melded laughter earned a frown from their mother and Gemma tamped down her smile. They made their way through the labyrinth that was the Duke of Somerset’s country estate and Gemma peeked about. It was hard not to gape at the evidence of such opulent wealth. Elaborate gilt frames hung upon the satin-wallpapered walls with stern, disapproving ducal ancestors looking on at Gemma.

  She drew her book close to her chest. Or mayhap it was her reading material they disapproved of.

  Regardless, even those long-dead ancestors no doubt recognized a flawed lady amidst their ghostly midst.