by Mary Balogh
With every breath she drew Eve lived and breathed Aidan. But she did it in secrecy, not daring to share her happiness lest somehow she kill it.
She had taken the children riding. Davy was determined to master the skill, and of course it was desirable, even necessary that he do so. Sam had given him a few lessons in the paddock, cheered on by Charlie, who had assumed the personal care of Davy's pony, fussing over it, Sam had reported, just as if it were the most prized racing horse in the country.
Eve had taken the children riding, Davy without a leading-rein for the first time, Becky up before Eve's saddle, though the day was not far distant when she too must have a pony and learn to ride.
It was the middle of the afternoon when they rode back into the stableyard and Sam lifted Becky down while Davy dismounted on his own and Charlie checked the pony anxiously for damage. Eve slid down from the saddle and looked up at the sky after scratching the head of Muffin, who had come bobbing to meet her. There were clouds, suggesting that the long hot spell might finally be coming to an end. But they were high and unthreatening for the moment. The somewhat cooler day was actually quite welcome.
“Horses approaching, my lady,” Sam said suddenly, cocking his head in a listening attitude.
Aidan! Eve tried not to expect that it really was he, but she hurried to the gateway with the children and saw the two riders approaching with another coming a short distance behind them.
“Uncle Aidan!” The words burst from Davy's lips at the same moment as he started running.
One of the horsemen took a shortcut across the lawn, and when he was close, he dismounted, laughing, and held out his arms to sweep Davy up in the air.
“Uncle Aidan!” Davy cried again. “You came back. You came back.”
Eve clutched Becky's hand and hurried toward them, her heart welling with such happiness that it felt rather as if it would burst.
“I did, lad,” Aidan said, hugging Davy tightly before setting him on his feet. “How could I keep away? I am home to stay.”
“Papa,” Becky whispered. And then she broke away from Eve's grasp and went skipping joyfully toward Aidan, holding out her arms as she went. He picked her up and held her tightly to him, his eyes clenching shut for a moment. “Papa, I have a loose tooth. Look.”
Papa.
He looked, giving the child his whole frowning attention while she wiggled the tooth with one finger.
“Indeed you do,” he said. “Is my little girl losing her baby teeth already? You are going to be all grown up before we know it. Do you have a kiss for me?”
She puckered her little mouth and offered it to him. He kissed her and then glanced up and held out one arm to Eve. The look on his face made her heart turn over.
“Eve,” he said as his arm came about her and she felt the warm solidity of his chest with her hand and then her bosom. “Eve, my dearest love, I am home.”
“Yes,” she said, and she lifted her face, smiling, while Muffin woofed at her side. Aidan kissed her full on the lips for all to see.
It was only at that moment that she remembered what she had seen from the gateway of the stableyard—Aidan with his batman behind him. And another rider. She took a step back, biting her lip and feeling herself flush while Aidan laughed and set Becky down.
“I have my brother with me,” he said. “The one you have not met before. Ralf, come and meet Eve.” He set an arm about her waist and drew her to his side. “Rannulf is his official name, but he is known as Ralf.”
Lord Rannulf Bedwyn had dismounted and had come walking across the lawn. He was almost as tall as Aidan and just as large. He had the family nose. But he was fair like Freyja. When he removed his hat, Eve could see that as with Freyja, his hair was wavy—he wore it unfashionably long. She found herself thinking of Norse warriors.
“Eve,” he said, holding out a hand for hers. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He had a powerful grip.
“And I yours,” she said.
“These are our children,” Aidan said. “Becky and Davy, another uncle for you. Uncle Ralf. And I see Aunt Mari coming down the steps to the terrace. She must have seen me come. Excuse me a moment.”
He released his hold on Eve and went striding off in the direction of the terrace. Soon he had Aunt Mari enfolded in his arms while her cane clattered to the cobbles.
“I thought,” Lord Rannulf said, “that he would wear out the floors of Bedwyn House during the past week from pacing them so impatiently. Everything proceeded altogether too slowly for Aidan.”
“And for me too,” Eve admitted, smiling at him. “I am glad you came with him. I'll have a room made ready for you.”
“Oh, only for one night,” he said as they watched the children follow Aidan onto the terrace. “I am on my way north but could not resist making a stop here to see my new sister-in-law. I have been summoned by our maternal grandmother. She has found just the right bride for me—again. This is the fourth or fifth time, I believe. I will not succumb this time any more than I did the other four or five, since my freedom and perhaps my very sanity are at stake, but I cannot simply ignore the summons. She has made me her heir, you see, and annoying as she can be, I . . . well, I am fond of her. So I will go, Eve, and put my freedom in dire peril once more.”
He grinned at her, revealing strong white teeth and blue eyes that danced with merriment and roguery.
“Perhaps,” Eve said, “she has chosen wisely for you this time.”
“There is, of course, always that possibility,” he agreed. “But I have a curious aversion to having my future wife chosen for me—or even to choosing her myself within the next five or six years.”
“You must be ready for refreshments,” Eve said, leading the way to the house, “and for a rest.”
“I will not deny it,” her brother-in-law said, falling into step beside her. “If there is something more uncomfortable than riding with a cavalry officer who has lived in the saddle for the past twelve years, it would have to be riding with a man who is on his way to a reunion with his beloved. I sincerely hope no one asks it of me ever again.”
Eve laughed.
And then Aidan turned from his conversation with Aunt Mari to watch her come, his eyes alight again with admiration and love. He held out his hand to her when she was close, and she set her own in it and felt his fingers close strongly about it.
“Aunt Mari,” he said, “meet my brother, Lord Rannulf Bedwyn. Mrs. Pritchard, Ralf. You may think she is singing when she first speaks. She is Welsh, you know.”
“And proud of it too,” Aunt Mari said. “You may give me one of those strong arms, young man, and help me inside since Agnes has gone off with my cane. Come along, children.”
A few moments later Eve and Aidan were alone on the terrace. He grinned at her.
“I asked her to do that,” he said. “It has occurred to me that I never did carry you over any threshold after we were married. What better threshold than our own, and what better time than now, the beginning of our happily ever after?”
“None,” she said. “But is there such a thing, Aidan? Happily ever after, I mean?”
“No,” he said, his smile softening to tenderness. “There is something infinitely better than happily ever after. There is happiness. Happiness is a living, dynamic thing, Eve, and has to be worked on every moment for the rest of our lives. It is a far more exciting prospect than that silly static idea of a happily ever after. Would you not agree?”
“I would,” she said, and then she half shrieked, half laughed, and wrapped her arms tightly about his neck as he scooped her up and twirled her once about before carrying her up the steps and into their house.
Into their home.
Into another dream. No, better than a dream. Into the dynamic, exciting, happy reality they would work on together every day for as long as they both lived.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bestselling, multi-award-winning author Mary Balogh grew up in Wales, land of s
ea and mountains, song and legend. She brought music and a vivid imagination with her when she came to Canada to teach. Here she began a second career as a writer of books that always end happily and always celebrate the power of love. There are over three million copies of her Regency romances and historical romances in print. She is also the author of the Regency-era romantic novels No Man's Mistress, More Than a Mistress, and A Summer to Remember, all available in paperback from Dell.
Also by Mary Balogh
A SUMMER TO REMEMBER
NO MAN'S MISTRESS
MORE THAN A MISTRESS
ONE NIGHT FOR LOVE
And coming this summer
from Dell Books
SLIGHTLY WICKED
SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS
STEP INTO A WORLD OF SCANDAL AND SURPRISE, of stately homes and breathtaking seduction. . . . Step into the world of master storyteller Mary Balogh. In novels of wit and intrigue, the bestselling, award-winning author draws you into a vibrant, sensual new world . . . and into the lives of one extraordinary family: the Bedwyns—six brothers and sisters—heirs to a legacy of power, passion, and seduction. Their adventures will dazzle and delight you. Their stories will leave you breathless. . . .
Freyja—the fiery beauty
Rannulf—the irresistible rebel
Aidan—the brooding man of honor
This is his story. . . .
Praise for
A SUMMER TO REMEMBER
“Balogh outdoes herself with this romantic romp, crafting a truly seamless plot and peopling it with well-rounded, winning characters.” —Publishers Weekly
“A tale to relish and remember . . . in what may be the most sensuous romance of the year, Balogh ably demonstrates that the hottest sex scenes are those that remain true to character and integral to the plot.” —Booklist, starred review
“This one will rise to the top.” —Library Journal
“A moving, heartwarming tale . . . filled with vivid descriptions, sharp dialogue, and fantastic characters, this passionate, adventurous tale will remain memorable for readers who love an entertaining read.” —Rendezvous
Praise for
NO MAN'S MISTRESS
“A pair of strong, equally determined protagonists clash exquisitely in this lively, passionate sequel to More than a Mistress.” —Library Journal
“Deep emotions, strong characters, and an unusual plot blend to perfection into another winner for this Jewel of the Highest Water, Mary Balogh.” —Romantic Times Top Pick 41⁄2 stars
“A lively and thrilling tale.” —Rendezvous
“This romantic and intensely emotional story will cast its spell on you from the first page.” —Old Barn Gazette
Praise for
MORE THAN A MISTRESS
“Luscious Regency-era delight . . . Balogh will delight fans and new readers alike with her memorable characters and fast-paced, well-constructed plot.” —Booklist
“Assured hardcover debut . . . Smart, sexy dialogue.” —Publishers Weekly
“Mary Balogh continues to reaffirm her place as an extraordinary star of the Regency genre.” —A Romantic Times Top Pick
“A pleasant and agreeable sensual Regency romp.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Mary Balogh is an exceptional talent. The complexity of her characters, the depth of their emotions and the romance and sensuality of her books are unsurpassed in the Regency genres and this book is no exception. A master craftswoman.” —Old Book Barn Gazette
“More than a Mistress is a five-star keeper.” —The Romance Reader
“Balogh has a winner here.” —San Antonio Express-News
Can't wait to read the next romantic adventure about the charming Bedwyn siblings? You don't have to! Watch out for the stories of the free-spirited Rannulf and the headstrong Freyja in . . .
SLIGHTLY WICKED
May 2003
and
SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS
June 2003
Read on for a preview of these tantalizing new romances from Mary Balogh. . . .
SLIGHTLY WICKED
MOMENTS BEFORE THE STAGECOACH OVERTURNED, Judith Law was deeply immersed in a daydream that had effectively obliterated the unpleasant nature of the present reality.
For the first time in her twenty-two years of existence she was traveling by stagecoach. Within the first mile or two she had been disabused of any notion she might ever have entertained that it was a romantic, adventurous mode of travel. She was squashed between a woman whose girth required a seat and half of space and a thin, restless man who was all sharp angles and elbows and was constantly squirming to find a more comfortable position, digging her in uncomfortable and sometimes embarrassing places as he did so. A portly man opposite snored constantly, adding considerably to all the other noises of travel. The woman next to him talked unceasingly to anyone unfortunate or unwise enough to make eye contact with her, relating the sorry story of her life in a tone of whining complaint. From the quiet man on the other side of her wafted the odors of uncleanness mingled with onions and garlic. The coach rattled and vibrated and jarred over every stone and pothole in its path, or so it seemed to Judith.
Yet for all the discomforts of the road, she was not eager to complete the journey. She had just left behind the lifelong familiarity of Beaconsfield and home and family and did not expect to return to them for a long time, if ever. She was on her way to live at her Aunt Effingham's. Life as she had always known it had just ended. Though nothing had been stated explicitly in the letter her aunt had written to Papa, it had been perfectly clear to Judith that she was not going to be an honored, pampered guest at Harewood Grange, but rather a poor relation, expected to earn her keep in whatever manner her aunt and uncle and cousins and grandmother deemed appropriate. Starkly stated, she could expect only dreariness and drudgery ahead—no beaux, no marriage, no home and family of her own. She was about to become one of those shadowy, fading females with whom society abounded, dependent upon their relatives, unpaid servants to them.
Judith was the one everyone had turned and looked at when Papa came to the sitting room and read Aunt Effingham's letter aloud. Papa had fallen into severe financial straits and must have written to his sister to ask for just the help she was offering. They all knew what it would mean to the one chosen to go to Harewood. Judith had volunteered. They had all cried when she spoke up, and her sisters had all volunteered too—but she had spoken up first.
The sky beyond the coach windows was gray with low, heavy clouds, and the landscape was dreary. The landlord at the inn where they had stopped briefly for a change of horses an hour ago had warned that there had been torrential rain farther north and they were likely to run into it and onto muddy roads, but the stagecoach driver had laughed at the suggestion that he stay at the inn until it was safe to proceed. But sure enough, the road was getting muddier by the minute, even though the rain that had caused it had stopped for a while.
Judith had blocked it all out—the oppressive resentment she felt, the terrible homesickness, the dreary weather, the uncomfortable traveling conditions, and the unpleasant prospect of what lay ahead—and daydreamed instead, inventing a fantasy adventure with a fantasy hero, herself as the unlikely heroine. It offered a welcome diversion for her mind and spirits until moments before the accident.
She was daydreaming about highwaymen. Or, to be more precise, about a highwayman. He was not, of course, like any self-respecting highwayman of the real world—a vicious, dirty, amoral, uncouth robber and cutthroat murderer of hapless travelers. No, indeed. This highwayman was dark and handsome and dashing and laughing—he had white, perfect teeth and eyes that danced merrily behind the slits of his narrow black mask. He galloped across a sun-bright green field and onto the highway, effortlessly controlling his powerful and magnificent black steed with one hand, while he pointed a pistol—unloaded, of course—at the heart of the coachman. He laughed and joked merrily with the passengers as he deprived them of their valuables, and then he tossed b
ack those of the people he saw could ill afford the loss. No . . . No, he returned all of the valuables to all the passengers since he was not a real highwayman at all, but a gentleman bent on vengeance against one particular villain, whom he was expecting to ride along this very road.
He was a noble hero masquerading as a highwayman, with a nerve of steel, a carefree spirit, a heart of gold, and looks to cause every female passenger heart palpitations that had nothing to do with fear.
And then he turned his eyes upon Judith—and the universe stood still and the stars sang in their spheres. Until, that was, he laughed gaily and announced that he would deprive her of the necklace that dangled against her bosom even though it must be obvious to him that it had almost no money value at all. It was merely something that her . . . her mother had given her on her deathbed, something Judith had sworn never to remove this side of her own grave. She stood up bravely to the highwayman, tossing back her head and glaring unflinchingly into those laughing eyes. She would give him nothing, she told him in a clear, ringing voice that trembled not one iota, even if she must die.
He laughed again as his horse first reared and then pranced about as he brought it easily under control. Then if he could not have the necklace without her, he declared, he would have it with her. He came slowly toward her, large and menacing and gorgeous, and when he was close enough, he leaned down from the saddle, grasped her by the waist with powerful hands—she ignored the problem of the pistol, which he had been brandishing in one hand a moment ago—and lifted her effortlessly upward.
The bottom fell out of her stomach as she lost contact with solid ground, and . . . and she was jerked back to reality. The coach had lost traction on the muddy road and was swerving and weaving and rocking out of control. There was enough time—altogether too much time—to feel blind terror before it went into a long sideways skid, collided with a grassy bank, turned sharply back toward the road, rocked even more alarmingly than before, and finally overturned into a low ditch, coming to a jarring halt half on its side, half on its roof.
