A Curious Heart (Love Vine: A Regency Series)

by Diane Davis White

  Not an overly large house, by country standards, it had ample space for the thirty-odd guests and the overflow of servants they had brought.

  While awaiting the bride and her attendants, the company wandered the grounds and the two gardens, or sat in the large drawing room, chatting about this and that. All were prepared to wait as long as necessary. Everyone, that is, except the groom, whose penchant for theatrics had reached its peak in his agitation.

  Consulting his watch for the hundredth time, Rothburn began to pace. "I vow, it is nearly time and I'm ready to bolt. How do I look? I feel faint—actually faint. I cannot believe it."

  His face paled, perspiration dotted his brow and his normally very deep voice had become squeaky with apprehension.

  "Really, Rothburn, you are only being wed. Nothing to it lad. Just stand up with the girl and give your promises and you'll be leg-shackled without a hitch." Sir Gordon, beginning to be irritated with Rothburn's pacing, spoke in a rather strident voice, but his grin was in place, so that when Rothburn looked at him irritably, his visage did not appear to match his tone, and Rothburn grinned back.

  "Well, you must take careful note, Gordon, for you will be next." He looked at Griffin. "And you as well. This is just momentary panic, I am sure. You will find me a model of perfection as I take my vows."

  He looked then at the older men, seeking their assurance and gratified at their solemn nods.

  "If you touch your cravat once more, Cousin, you will delay the wedding even further, for it will take a miracle to repair the damage and a great deal of time." Griffin smiled at The Earl of Rothburn and went to refill his glass. "Mayhap a bit more of this will help settle you down."

  Lady Susan appeared in the doorway and spoke with some amusement, her eyes scanning the assembled gentlemen. "Not too much Griffin. We don't want to carry him up the aisle. Wouldn't look right at all. I've come to tell you to take your places. The bride is ready."

  "And high time, I'd say." Rothburn, too agitated to appreciate his bride's efforts on his behalf, strode to his mother and escorted her to her seat, followed from the room by the other males.

  Taking his place on the small dais, sandwiched between the vicar and Griffin, he looked at the entryway, holding his breath, though he did not realize it. When the chords struck on the harp, Allie stepped forward, drawing a gasp from Griffin. The light from the windows illumed her hair and struck brilliance in her eyes. Her eyes on his in a most alluring manner, she made her way to the front and stepped to the other side of the vicar, ready to take the bride's bouquet.

  Lady Alana, following her closely, stepped though the door on the arm of her nephew, and glided toward Rothburn with such grace as he'd never seen. Her dress of ivory lace over silk clung to her willowy figure and her eyes held his with intensity, head high as she came forward.

  She arrived at the altar and Sir Gordon placed her hand on Rothburn's arm, stepping back as the couple turned to face the vicar. Rothburn placed a hand atop hers, gulping air at last, earning a curious look from the bride.

  They intoned their vows amid the soft thrumming of the harp and the quiet, inevitable tears shed by the older ladies in the assembly, and within a few moments, they were husband and wife at last.

  Rothburn was mesmerized by the beauty and serenity of the woman who stood beside him and he could only stare at her in rapt attention as she gazed back in much the same manner. When the vicar repeated his suggestion that the groom might kiss the bride, still they stood immobile.

  Griffin leaned forward and whispered—rather loudly, "I say, old fellow, do kiss her and let's get to the dancing."

  There was much laughter in the front row, for all had heard his words, and he drew a puzzled frown from Rothburn for his efforts.

  Then, brought to himself of a sudden, Rothburn dipped his head and kissed Alana, busing her lips softly, breathing his whispered words into her mouth. "You are mine now. I love you, Lady Alana, Countess Rothburn."

  "And I you My Lord Rothburn," Alana whispered back just as softly, so that even those close to the couple could not hear their exchange. Her heart leapt and galloped away as her new husband looked at her with a dark gaze, filled with promise of the night to come.

  Turning back to the audience, Rothburn proudly presented his bride, saying, "Most honored guests, I give you my wife, Lady Alana George, Sixth Countess of Rothburn."

  A burst of applause followed and everyone surrounded the couple, wringing Rothburn's hand, slapping his back until both ached. The pop of a champagne cork drew all eyes to the Earl of Avonleigh, who held up the magnum, exclaiming in a loud voice. "Let us toast the couple. Come everyone, get a glass, and be quick, for Rothburn looks dry and needing a drink, don'tcha know?"

  The late afternoon sun streamed through the west facing windows of the drawing room, layering everyone and everything within in a soft golden glow. Champagne flowed freely, laughter was paramount and the gathering was mellow, for even Rothburn had calmed at last.

  With the object of his desire securely by his side, he waxed magnanimous in his toasts, his boasts and his hearty thanks to all.

  Lady Alana, overcome by all the excitement, had grown thoughtful and she had developed a shyness as well, as her thoughts turned inward to the night ahead.

  If she seemed quiet and less gregarious than her new husband, no one appeared to notice, except perhaps the elderly Marquis of Darlington. His eyes followed the young woman as she progressed around the room. There was something in her bearing and stance that reminded him of a woman he had once loved and his nostalgic feelings grew with his observations.

  "A word with you, my good man." Darlington approached the couple and stood before them, bowing gravely to the bride and looking meaningfully at the groom. "I know you cannot bear to be parted, but this will only take a moment Rothburn, and I vow, it will be well worth your time to hear me out."

  His eyes twinkled, and a smile spread over his face, and Rothburn groaned inwardly, thinking the old fellow was going to give him bedroom advice. In a way, he was right, but still, for the sake of courtesy, he had no choice but to follow the marquis into the foyer where they could find some semblance of privacy.

  "You have a lovely wife. I wish you both all happiness." He held up a staying hand as Rothburn would have spoken, and completed his statement quickly. "I have a cottage not far from here that you could make use of. I know that you have accommodations above stairs, but they will not be as private perhaps. Are you interested?"

  He raised his eyebrows in a meaningful manner, waiting.

  "Well, of course, I do appreciate your thoughtfulness in thinking of us, but I'm not sure that my bride would be willing to go off—" Rothburn dissembled, not wanting to hurt the old fellows feelings, but uncertain where all this would lead.

  "You must understand that this is not an ordinary place I would send you." Darlington interrupted him gently, drawing him with his eyes. "There is a sort of mystical enchantment there, hard to explain, of course. But I will tell you that in that place I lived my best years and there is where my son was born. You know David, I presume?"

  "Yes, happily I do. Fine fellow, your son. One of my closer intimates, actually," Rothburn responded with courtesy, then queried the older man with a final note. "What makes you want to send us there? In what way would we benefit—other than more privacy?"

  "As I said, it is hard to explain, but I will tell you that the Larkspur's and Strongbow's of this area have used these cottages for centuries to beget their best children. Not sure that I wasn't conceived there, myself."

  He laughed shortly. "At any rate, if you want it, I've refurbished it recently for other purposes, of course, for I am no longer a man of amorous pursuits. I have a feeling about the two of you. Would like to see you get a dose of the magic—yes, I said magic."

  With that, he turned back to toward the drawing room and spoke over his shoulder. "There is a footman here named Trapp—on loan from my house—and he will take you there should you decide to g
o."

  He did not enlighten Rothburn further about Alana's resemblance to his Mary. That was beyond his private self.

  * * * * *

  The house was quiet at last. All guests had departed or retired to their rooms, leaving Rothburn and his new wife alone in their suite. Rothburn gazed at his bride and burned for her. Hesitation laced his voice as he queried, "Are you sure you want to take Darlington up on his offer? A cottage in the woods seems so precarious."

  "Precarious Rothburn? How so?" Presenting her back, she waited for him to undo the small pearl buttons of her gown. "I'm sure the Marquis wouldn't offer us a haven not properly cleaned and provisioned."

  Stepping forward and working at the buttons with shaking hands, Rothburn spoke gruffly, for his impatience to have her naked in his bed was near to bursting. "You are right, of course, but it will mean another delay, as its near an hour's travel. Are you sure?"

  "Yes, My Love, very sure. You say there is magic there? Well, we should add some of our own I'm thinking." She turned as his arms came round her. She lifted her face, asking in a soft whisper, "What then, is one hour after all the waiting we have done?"

  She dropped her eyes in sudden shyness, her voice low so that he had to bend close to hear her hesitant words. "I feel so exposed here and not alone enough, for there are guests in every room."

  "Very well, then we shall go." He pressed her close for a moment, then put her away from him. "But you must hurry, love. I cannot wait much longer for you. I'll just go and see to the carriage. One of the footmen will take us there, according to Darlington."

  With that, he strode from the room, nearly turning back as the whisper of silk assailed him when she dropped her garment to pool at her feet. He dared not look back, knowing that they would never make it to the cottage were he to do so.

  The small cottage was charming in the moonlight, with its rose garden in bloom and the steep pitch of the roof covered in ivy. The night quiet and peaceful—as only the countryside could be—calmed the senses.

  Rothburn and Alana stood on the porch, breathing in the scents of the country air, his arms coming 'round her from behind and his chin resting lightly atop her crown. They listened to the night sounds, their hearts beating loudly in competition with the leaves rustling in the gentle breeze.

  The magic of the cottage enveloped them in a cocoon of pleasure. It was as though time had departed, leaving them in this place for eternity.

  "The Marquis tells me that my good friend David Strongbow was born here, and conceived here as well. Should we be so lucky, the heir will be made here this night."

  "Yes," she murmured softly. "I would love to conceive a child by you this night."

  Rothburn turned her in his arms, his lips coming down on hers in utter desperation of his need. She moved back from him, her hands pressing his shoulders to separate them, turning her face away. He dropped his arms. "What is wrong?"

  "Nothing, nothing at all." She looked up at him, shyness mingling with the passion in her eyes that mirrored his own. "I am just somewhat nervous, you know."

  Curbing his eagerness, he whispered, "I am sorry. I shall go slow. Be patient with me, Alana, for I have never in my life taken a virgin."

  With that, he turned her into the cottage with a grim determination to hold himself in rigid control as he wooed his lady love.

  Once inside, he kissed her on the brow and urged her to the small bedroom, saying, "I'll be just outside having a pipe, sweeting. When you are ready, call me."

  Alana watched as he pulled the door nearly closed and disappeared into the other room. She unpinned her hair and shook the rich silky stuff out of the chignon, letting it fall in luxurious curls down her back. Undoing the bodice of her gown, she slipped it off her shoulders and tossed it on a chair in the far corner of the room.

  Wishing she'd brought a warmer sleeping garment, she lifted the gossamer night-rail and pulled it over her head. It slid down her body, brushing her taut nipples so that she trembled in anticipation. The intricate pattern of lace did nothing to hide the dark areolas at the peak of each round breast.

  She touched herself lightly, feeling a tightening tingle between her thighs as her fingertips glided over the material. Realizing how wanton she'd become since her first embrace with Rothburn, she dropped her hands and smiled to recall his caressing hands.

  Outside, Rothburn stood vigil, his eyes glued to the small embrasure that held a freshly washed pane of glass. Glass that framed his bride. He watched her every move, his body reacting violently, so that he clenched his jaw to stem the tide of lust overwhelming him.

  When her fingertips brushed her nipples, he thought he'd perish from the strain of holding back. Then she smiled mysteriously and he wondered if she knew he watched her.

  Unable to wait for her to call him, Rothburn nearly banged his head on the doorsill as he rushed inside. Easy, he admonished himself. Don't frighten her again. Just take a few deep breaths and go slow.

  He knuckled the heavy oak door to the sleeping chamber, and when she bade him enter, Rothburn stepped inside the room.

  His eyes went straight to her breasts where they peeked temptingly through the diaphanous white lace. She stood facing him, hands at her sides, a look of calm in her eyes.

  He stepped forward, hands going to her shoulders. The ribbons that held the bodice together slid easily through his fingers as he tugged gently on the bows. The material, as he'd expected, slid apart, exposing a small wedge of flesh, a tempting bit of cleavage. Taking note of the further tightening of her nipples at this bold move, he tugged the edges of the gown down and away.

  Rothburn caught his breath at the sight before him, and though he'd often dreamt of this moment, he'd never thought the experience of just gazing on her lovely bosoms could be so titillating. So exciting.

  Alana, though eager for his touch, had a sudden bout of nervousness as he lowered the sheer linen nightgown from her shoulders until her breasts were bared to his gaze. Nipples already pebbled and taut—both from the cool air and his hot gaze—hardened even more.

  Never having been observed nude by a male, she fought not to put her hands up to cover herself. After a moment the urge disappeared and she wanted his touch in the worst way.

  When he finally put a fingertip to her left breast and lowered his head, touching his lips to her right one, she thought she'd expire from excitement. Sighing, she thrust forward in the time-honored way women have offered themselves up to lust since time-out-of-mind. Her reward came instantly with his eager suckling of first one nipple then the other.

  Rothburn controlled his desire with difficulty when Alana showed such eagerness in her response. Her sweet flesh in his mouth was as heaven, and her soft moan of surrender all but undid him. With supreme effort, he held himself in check, and made slow progress as he unveiled her luscious charms to be far more exciting than the rush of lust he'd experienced earlier.

  Through the night he taught her the mysteries of the marriage bed as the web of magic continued to weave around them.

  Sometime in the early morning hours, clouds drifting over the moon cleared for a moment, bathing the cottage in a glow of silver luminance. At just that instant, the Seventh Earl of Rothburn was conceived, giving proof of the magic of the cottage, portended by The Marquis of Darlington.

  Chapter Twenty

  ~~

  The newlyweds were conspicuously absent the next morning, but caused no alarm among the members of the house party, for it was to be expected. Everyone thought they were in the suite of rooms in the west wing of the house, and no one could have guessed their actual location.

  No one, that is, except the old Marquis, and he was telling no one. The footman who had shown them the way to the cottage gave a note to Sir Gordon, as instructed by Rothburn.

  "I say, they have flown the coop." Sir Gordon looked up from the paper in his hand, his glance coming to rest with affection on Lady Eleanor. "Seems the newlyweds have gone off on their own."

  He consulte
d the paper again, then recounted its contents to his audience. "Rothburn says they are honeymooning in the woods and not to expect them back any time soon. Says to thank you all for attending and they'll see you in London for the announcement ball."

  "Announcement ball? Didn't know there was going to be one." Griffin looked interested, his eyes torn for a moment from contemplating his sapphire-eyed goddess, Allie. "Have plans been made, then?"

  "Oh yes, Griffin," Allie answered with a touch of excitement, "and you have been sent an invitation. But that is not until next month. Your cousin and my aunt will not be back before the season is almost over."

  Allie smiled mistily at him, causing her brother to clear his throat, for the pair had been a spectacle these last twenty-four hours, mooning about.

  "You two should go walk in the garden while you have a chance. We'll be leaving in just under an hour." Having made up his mind to return to London and get on with his own wedding plans, Sir Gordon was in a rush to get started.

  "Well, go on then, hurry it up," he urged, and watched with some amusement as they rushed away.

  With their breakfast completed, the other guests took themselves off to prepare for the journey home.

  The last two people to exit the room were Sir Gordon and Lady Eleanor, who lingered over their coffee, chatting about their own wedding plans, among other things.

  "Gordon, just where in the woods do you think they went? I mean, it is all so unusual." She queried him about the vagueness of the message. "Are they camping?"

  He laughed in delight at her artlessness and shook his head, replying, "I should think not. Rothburn does so love his creature comforts and my aunt would be horrified to sleep on the ground. No, my dear, they are definitely not camping. I should think they have found a cozy cottage near here and sped away in the night. Heard Darlington offering it to Rothburn last evening. Seems it's a trysting place for lovers."