Scandalous Summer Nights

by Anne Barton

  The small crowd chuckled, and he inclined his head politely, wondering what the hell his beautiful wife had in store for him.

  “I realize it’s not customary for the bride to give a speech, but it comes as no shock to most that I’m not a customary sort of person. I want to first apologize to those of you who went out of your way to attend our wedding not once, but twice. I am truly sorry for the unnecessary effort and worry I caused you.

  “The reason I fled was not because my feelings for James wavered. On the contrary, I knew that I loved him beyond anything, and I thought that if I convinced him I didn’t want this marriage, he’d be free to pursue his dream of going on an archaeological expedition.”

  James shook his head, unsure why she’d revisit the matter. She was his dream, above all else. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but she held up a hand and continued.

  “James was willing to give up that adventure so we could be together. Only, it occurred to me that perhaps he didn’t have to choose.”

  He sidled up to her, leaned toward her ear, and whispered, “I thought we’d settled this, Olivia. Can we discuss it later, please?”

  Ignoring him, she went on. “So, with a little help from Uncle Humphrey, I’ve arranged for us to have a wedding trip… to Egypt.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “We’ll meet the team in Cairo. It won’t be as long as the expedition you had planned,” she said excitedly. “Just six months. I thought that might be enough time for us to do a fair amount of digging and sketching.”

  “But… I don’t—”

  “We leave tomorrow.” She squeezed his hand and looked up at him, eyes shining. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Their family and friends clapped and cheered.

  He felt like he was on the stage of some strangely realistic theater performance. “That’s very sweet, Olivia,” he said softly, “but I can’t imagine that your brother is going to—”

  “I’ve already spoken with him about it. I had thought we should take a year to travel, but he convinced me to return within six months.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “I don’t know which of us—you or me—he’s going to miss more. He’s forgiven you, you know, even if he won’t admit it.”

  James shook his head. “So, we are going to Egypt?”

  “Tomorrow,” she repeated. “Uncle Humphrey wrote to one of his colleagues, and together they made the arrangements. Humphrey tells me our living conditions won’t be as luxurious as my bedchamber in St. James Square, but on the other hand, they’re sure to be more comfortable than a deserted cabin.”

  Egypt. He’d convinced himself he didn’t want to go. And the truth was that as long as Olivia was by his side, he didn’t give a damn where he was. But he couldn’t deny the excitement that he felt at the prospect of an adventure—with her.

  He swooped her into his arms and spun her around, heedless of the pruny expressions on the faces of her great-aunts. “You couldn’t have given me a better wedding gift,” he said, setting her feet on the ground again. “Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome, my dear husband.”

  Husband. He liked the sound of that.

  “I have an announcement as well.” Humphrey coughed and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He stood shakily, and James rushed to his side to support him.

  “What is it, Uncle? You shouldn’t strain yourself.”

  “Nonsense. It’s high time I did.” Addressing the entire gathering, he said, “James is like the son I never had. And now he has a beautiful bride who already feels like a daughter to me. They’ve reminded me of what it was like to be young and in love. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a couple more in love.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.”

  Humphrey nodded. “I have a gift for both of you. It’s not riches or jewels, but it is special nonetheless. I want you to have the land by the river. It’s yours to explore and enjoy to your heart’s content.”

  Olivia gasped. “Uncle Humphrey, we couldn’t.”

  “Of course you could. And if you must know, I have an ulterior motive. I’m hoping you—and someday your children—will visit me here in Haven Bridge.”

  James shook his hand and embraced him at the same time. “We would visit you regardless, you know.”

  “This way I’ll be sure.”

  “You’ve been like a father to me. That’s the best gift of all.”

  Humphrey nodded and swiped at his face. “Damn insect flew into my eye.”

  With a chuckle, James helped him settle back into his chair. Then he went to Olivia and scooped up her hand in his. “Though it’s not nearly as grand, I have something for you as well.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” He swallowed, then dropped to one knee, hoping he didn’t bumble this. Olivia had always wanted a romantic proposal, and by God, she deserved one.

  Even if it was a little late.

  “Olivia, I’m not adept with words unless they pertain to contracts and the like. Legal matters do not pose a problem for me”—Good Lord, this wasn’t starting out well—“but feelings are a different matter entirely.” He swallowed and she nodded, giving him the courage to continue. “You burst into my life like a hummingbird, zipping here and there, demanding more from me. Challenging everything I thought I knew about myself and making me realize that the greatest treasures do not come from the past but from the present. From the friends and family who have shared in our lives and made them richer. With you, life will always be an adventure, and every chapter will be sweeter than the last. I am the luckiest man alive to have you as my wife.”

  Olivia blinked like she was holding back tears and several women sighed. Huntford grunted.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” James dug into his pocket, pulled out the ring, and held it out to her.

  Olivia clapped her hands over her chest. “But that’s my—How did you find it?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose Fate has a way of taking care of these things.” He took her hand and began to slip the ring onto her finger.

  “Just a minute,” Uncle Humphrey cried. “Before you put that on, let me see it.” He shuffled over, unceremoniously plucked the ring from James’s fingers, and squinted at it. “Eustace, let me borrow your lorgnette.”

  Aunt Eustace handed it over, and everyone watched as Humphrey examined the gold band through the lenses. His eyes focused, then grew wide.

  “What is it?” Olivia asked.

  “There’s an inscription on the inside,” Humphrey said. “Look.”

  Olivia held the ring close to her face. “ ‘Amor vincit omnia.’ My Latin is not up to snuff, but I think it means—”

  “Love conquers all,” said James, rising to his feet. He put the ring on her finger and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “It certainly has.”

  As everyone cheered and clapped, he leaned close to her ear. “Do you still have the Cleopatra costume?”

  She raised a brow. “I might.”

  “Be sure to pack it.”

  “As you wish.” Her eyes were full of promise—and love.

  “On second thought”—he nipped lightly at her lobe—“I think you should wear it tonight.”

  She gave him a sultry smile. “I can’t wait.”

  Jesus. He was already counting the minutes.

  About the Author

  Anne Barton began swiping romance novels off her mom’s bookshelf as a teenager, so when she had the chance to spend a semester in London—home to her favorite heroes—she packed her bags and promptly fell in love with the city, its history, and its pubs. She dreamed of writing romance, but somehow ended up a software analyst instead.

  Fortunately, a few years and a few careers later, Anne found her way back to writing the stories she loves and in 2011 won the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart® for Regency Historical Romance. She lives in Maryland with her husband (who, sadly, is not a peer of the realm—but a great guy nonetheless) and her th
ree children, who try valiantly not to roll their eyes whenever she quotes Jane Austen. Her weaknesses include reality TV, cute-but-impractical shoes, and caffeinated beverages of all kinds.

  You can learn more at:

  AnneBarton.com

  Twitter @_AnneBarton

  Facebook.com/AnneBartonAuthor

  Don’t miss the next scandalously sexy Honeycote Novel from award-winning author Anne Barton!

  Lady Rose Sherbourne has always been the quiet sister, the very voice of reason. She knows she must wed a respectable gentleman—and her first love is anything but. Too bad her heart has a rebellious streak a mile wide…

  See the next page for a preview of

  One Wild Winter’s Eve.

  Prologue

  Summer 1815

  Even nice, obedient girls needed to escape now and then.

  Lady Rose Sherbourne left shortly after breakfast. A warm breeze whipped tendrils of hair against her cheek, and the heels of her boots sank into the deliciously soft grass, still glistening with dew.

  Each step across the vast lawn took her farther from Huntford Manor, its imposing grandeur, and its paralyzing memories.

  Better yet, each step took her closer to Charles.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the house, assuring herself that no one had seen her slip away. Her visits with the stable master—like so many other things—were best kept secret.

  But the truth was, there was nothing improper about her relationship with Charles. Not really.

  Perhaps the sight of his tanned forearms, large hands, and easy grin made her breath hitch in her throat. There wasn’t a seventeen-year-old girl in all of England who’d be unaffected by his strength and quiet confidence. But her visits with Charles were not about flirtation. They were about preserving her sanity.

  Some days, when she could feel it hanging by the very thinnest of threads, she fled to the stables and watched him work. The even strokes of his brush over a horse’s coat, the rhythmic flexing of his shoulders as he pitched hay soothed her frayed edges. With him, she could forget who she was and what she’d seen. She could simply bask in the moment, and if she wasn’t completely happy, well, she was close.

  She sighed. Yes, the very best thing about Charles was the way he made her feel… normal.

  As he tended to an injured horse or poured water into the troughs, he’d talk to her, his deep, expressive voice washing over her and healing her soul. While she perched on an upside-down pail, he’d tell funny stories, without seeming to find it odd that their conversation was completely one-sided.

  Without minding that she never spoke.

  Upon realizing that she was mute, some invariably analyzed her. When, precisely, had she stopped talking? Could she make any sounds at all? What doctors had she seen and what treatment did they prescribe? Others took her silence as a personal challenge, saying all manner of outrageous things in order to provoke a response—one that never came.

  But Charles didn’t treat her as an object of curiosity. He simply accepted her.

  In her satchel, she carried a couple of books for him, carrots for Prometheus, and a small jar of milk for Romeo. She’d missed them terribly the past two days, too busy with dress fittings and ball preparations to steal away for a few hours. And so this morning she’d seized the opportunity to spend time with them, in spite of the gray clouds gathering in the western morning sky.

  As she walked into the stable, the familiar smells of horses and hay tickled her nose. She looked around for Charles’s shock of blond hair, topped by the brown cap which was always slightly askew. He wasn’t there, and yet his presence filled the place. His overcoat hung from a peg beside the door, and a pair of work gloves lay on the ledge of an empty stall beside an open, face-down book. She glanced at the spine and smiled at his choice of reading material: Annals of Agriculture and Other Useful Arts.

  One morning, over a game of chess, he’d shared that he dreamed of owning land. Selfishly, she hoped he wouldn’t leave Huntford Manor anytime soon. She withdrew the volumes of mythology and Grimm’s fairy tales from her bag and placed them beside his book.

  The half dozen stalls to her right were occupied by Thoroughbreds—the very best a duke’s money could buy. In a smaller stall to her left was Prometheus, a faithful old draft horse of questionable breeding. His back dipped and his tongue tended to hang from his mouth. Rose was willing to wager that Charles had brushed the horse’s brown mane that morning, and yet it had already matted sweetly around his face. His ears perked up when he saw her, and she dug into her satchel for the carrots. He slurped them from her hand, then snorted haughtily, gloating for the benefit of the Thoroughbreds.

  Rose wished she could ask Prometheus where Charles was. And where Romeo was, for that matter. The fluffy gray cat was usually first to greet her, twisting around her ankles, shamelessly crying for attention and treats. She peeked into the empty stall beside Prometheus—the one Romeo had usurped shortly after Rose found him—and checked the dry trough where the cat liked to nap. Empty. Only one thing was sure to bring her fickle friend out of hiding. She poured his milk into a tin bowl and waited.

  “Lady Rose?”

  She turned as Peter, a boy of ten or so, shot her a friendly grin. The freckle-faced stable hand practically worshipped Charles. “Are you looking for Mr. Holland?”

  She nodded.

  “He went searching for Romeo.”

  Rose tilted her head in a silent question.

  “The cat wandered off a day or two ago and hasn’t been round since.”

  Oh dear. Rose frowned.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Holland will find him.”

  She walked to the back door of the stable and gazed at the thick woods that lay beyond. Peter came to stand beside her and pointed to a dirt path that led through a clump of trees and disappeared in the brush. “He went that way—not long ago.”

  Rose gave the boy a grateful smile and headed down the trail.

  A sudden gust of wind plastered the skirt of her green morning dress to her legs, and she glanced at the darkening sky. Romeo had seemed well enough during her last visit, but what if he’d gotten sick? Or ventured into the woods and foolishly tangled with a snake or fox? She picked up her pace, ignoring a rumble of thunder so low she could feel it in her belly.

  She followed the path as it meandered around the trunks of towering elms and twisting oaks, looking for Charles or Romeo. Once, she would have called out to them, her words floating through the forest. Now she was as silent as the hare that trembled in the hollow log near her feet. She’d forgotten the sound of her own voice.

  And sometimes feared she’d never hear it again.

  A familiar but unwelcome thudding began in her chest. She mustn’t dwell on her troubles, mustn’t dwell on the past. She walked faster, as if putting distance between her and her worries were just that easy. Low-hanging branches grabbed at her hair, and thorny underbrush scratched at her ankles. The woods blurred past her, muddy green. Her ragged breathing echoed in her ears, and the pungent smells of damp soil and leaves closed in around her, almost suffocating in their intensity. She picked up the front of her skirt and ran, looking down and dodging the stones and sticks in her way.

  The toe of her boot caught on a gnarled root. Her satchel sailed through the air and the ground rose up to meet her.

  Until a pair of strong arms caught and steadied her.

  “Rose?”

  Blinking, she looked up at Charles. He searched her face, his expression a mixture of concern and wonder.

  “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

  His hands easily encircled her arms above her gloves, his palms warm against her bare skin. His light brown eyes crinkled at the corners, letting her know he was happy to see her.

  Was she well? She took a deep breath and felt the tension in her body uncoil. The forest came back into focus and her breathing slowed. Her heart still beat fast, but for possibly different reasons. She nodded.

  Charles looked
at her arms where he clasped them, frowned, and released her quickly, as if his hands had betrayed him. “Forgive me.” He raked his fingers through his sun-streaked hair before retrieving his cap from the ground and stuffing it into the back pocket of his trousers. Then he scooped up her satchel and led her toward a small clearing several yards away.

  “I was worried about Romeo,” he said. “But I found him. The only problem is, I don’t think we can call him Romeo anymore. Look.”

  He pointed at a nest of leaves on the ground, protected by a log on one side and a large rock on another. The cat rested there, sprawled on his—no, her—side, two tiny black kittens nursing under her watchful, weary gaze.

  Bubbly with delight, Rose clasped her hands beneath her chin and knelt for a closer look.

  The babes climbed and tumbled over one another, greedy for their mother’s milk and attention. But as Romeo licked the back of one’s head, her leg twitched and lifted. Another kitten.

  Charles’s brow creased. “You might not want to watch this, Rose. It’s, ah, messy. Let’s return to the stable. I’ll do a few chores, and then you can beat me in chess.”

  She shook her head firmly. Nothing could drag her away.

  Sighing, Charles sank on his haunches beside her, so close that his thigh brushed the skirt of her gown. “This could take a while, but I don’t think she’s in much pain.”

  Rose watched transfixed as the third kitten’s hind paws emerged first, followed by a rounded belly and pointed face. It resembled a bat wrapped in cobwebs, eerily still.

  Romeo stretched, and her foot sent the newest kitten rolling like a black-and-gray mummy. It landed several inches from the leafy nest, and Rose’s fingers itched to nestle it beside its mother’s warm body. She took off her gloves.

  “Patience,” Charles whispered. “It’s best if we let Romeo take care of this herself.”

  However, the gray cat was distracted and tired. Rose didn’t blame her one bit, but after a minute passed, she shot Charles a pleading look. The newborn kitten, trapped in a thin film, looked so lifeless compared to its fuzzy siblings.