Vanessa smiled at her.
“Of course it will,” she said, thinking rather sadly of Meg. “That is what life is for.”
She linked her arm through Katherine’s as they descended the stairs to the waiting carriage.
It had not really been necessary to come into the country in person in the middle of the Season, Elliott soon discovered. Merton was cheerfully resigned to returning and immersing himself in his various studies. And his eldest sister was quite capable of seeing that his attention did not stray too far from duty. Samson and the butler and housekeeper between them had kept house and estate running smoothly, and both tutors were eager to take their pupil in hand again.
But perhaps duty to his position as guardian of the boy had been only an excuse. It was not that he did not enjoy being in London for the Season. Or that he did not enjoy being there with Vanessa. But he had kept remembering the few days following their wedding—their honeymoon as she had once called it—with some nostalgia. They could not have stayed longer at the dower house—duty had called them to London. But he would have liked to stay longer.
A man ought to be allowed to spend sufficient time alone with his bride to get to know her thoroughly, to become comfortable with her, to enjoy himself with her.
To fall in love with her.
It was perhaps unwise to try to recapture the magic of those days.
It was probably unwise.
They had both spent the bulk of the first day home at Warren Hall. They had not promised to return on the second day, though they had said that they might go. It was a sunny day with very little wind. It was really quite hot. It was a perfect day for a ride over to Warren Hall, or for a drive there in an open vehicle.
It was a perfect day...
“Do you really want to go to Warren Hall today?” he asked Vanessa at breakfast. “Or would you prefer a quiet day at home? A stroll down to the lake, perhaps.”
“Together?” she asked him.
“Together, yes.”
“I daresay Stephen will be busy all day,” she said. “It may be wise not to disturb him. And Meg was planning to spend all morning with the housekeeper and all afternoon—weather permitting—seeing what can be done to improve the rose arbor. The weather does permit.”
“It would be best, then,” he said, “if we did not disturb her either.”
“I think so,” she agreed.
“The lake, then?”
“The lake.”
She smiled at him suddenly, that bright expression that involved not only her mouth and eyes, but every part of her right down to her soul—or so it seemed. It always dazzled him.
“Yes,” she said, “let’s go to the lake, Elliott. Even though the daffodils will no longer be blooming.”
“But nature never leaves us bereft,” he said, “no matter what the season.”
Good Lord, he would be writing poetry soon if he was not careful. But his words proved prophetic. The daffodils were, of course, long gone, but in their place were the bluebells, growing even more lavishly on the far riverbank and carpeting the slope on which the daffodils bloomed in spring.
“Oh, Elliott,” she said as they walked along the banks. “Could anything be lovelier?”
Everything within sight was blue or green, from the water to the grass to the flowers to the trees to the sky. Even her dress was cornflower blue, and her straw bonnet was trimmed with blue ribbons.
“The daffodils were as lovely,” he said, “but not lovelier.”
“Elliott.” She stopped walking and stepped in front of him. She took both his hands in hers. “I was happier here for those three days than I have ever been in my life. Though that cannot be quite true because I have been happy since too. I am happy now. I want you to know that. I promised you happiness, but I am the one who has been most blessed.”
“No, you are not.” His hands closed firmly about hers. “If you feel blessed, Vanessa, you cannot feel more so than I do. And if you are happy, you cannot be happier than I.”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted.
“I am happy,” he said, lifting her hands one at a time to his lips.
For once he seemed to have rendered her speechless.
He was inclined to remain so himself. But if he did not say it now, perhaps he never would. And such things were important to women, he believed. Perhaps they were equally important to men.
“I love you,” he said.
Her eyes brightened—with tears, he realized.
“I love you,” he told her again. “I am head over ears in love with you. I adore you. I love you.”
She was biting her lower lip.
“Elliott,” she said, “you do not need to—”
His forefinger landed none too gently across her lips.
“You have become as necessary to me as the air I breathe,” he said. “Your beauty and your smiles wrap themselves about me and warm me to the heart—to the very soul. You have taught me to trust and to love again, and I trust and love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. More than I knew it was possible to love. And if you think I am making an ass of myself with such romantic hyperbole just because I want to make you feel better about admitting that you are happy, then I am going to have to take drastic measures.”
Her face filled with laughter—and radiance. Two tears spilled onto her cheeks. She blinked away any others that might have followed.
“What?” she asked him.
He smiled slowly at her, and realized he was doing it—letting go his final defenses against the dangers of loving—when her own smile was arrested and she freed her hands and cupped his face gently with them.
“Oh, my love,” she said. “My love.”
The same words she had spoken that night in the library while he wept. He had scarcely heard them then, but he heard their echo now. She had loved him for a long time, he realized. It was in her nature to love, but she had chosen to love him.
“Do you have something to tell me?” he asked her.
She tipped her head to one side.
“The baby?” she said. “There will be a baby, Elliott. Are you happy about it? Perhaps it will be your heir.”
“I am happy about the baby,” he said. “Son, daughter—it really does not matter.” He leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers.
She slid her arms up about his neck and leaned into him.
“I am glad it is here we have spoken of it for the first time,” she said. “I am glad it is here you have told me you love me. I will always, always love this place, Elliott. It will become sacred ground.”
“Not too sacred, I hope,” he said. “It has just occurred to me that it has not rained for several days and that the ground will be dry. And this is a secluded spot. No one ever comes here.”
“Except us,” she said.
“Except us.”
And the gardeners who prevented this part of the park from becoming too overgrown and wild. But all the gardeners were busy with their scythes today, cutting the grass of the large lawn before the house.
He took off his coat and spread it on the ground among the bluebells, perhaps in the very same spot where they had lain among the daffodils during their honeymoon.
And they lay down among the blooms and made quick and lusty and thoroughly satisfying love.
They were both panting when they had finished, and they both smiled when he lifted his head to look down at her.
“I suppose,” he said, “I am going to have to pay for this. You are going to make me gather an armful of blue-bells for the house, are you not?”
“Oh, more than an armful,” she said. “Both arms must be laden and full and overflowing. There has to be a vase of bluebells for every room in the house.”
“Heaven help us,” he said. “It is a mansion. The last time I tried counting the rooms, I found I could not count that high.”
She laughed.
“We had better not waste any more time, then,” she said.
&
nbsp; He got to his feet, adjusted his clothing, and reached down a hand for hers. She clasped it and he drew her up and into his arms. They hugged each other for several wordless moments, but not for too long.
There were flowers to be gathered. The house was to overflow with them.
Their lives were to be brimful and overflowing, he suspected—and always would be.
What else could a man expect when he was married to Vanessa?
He grinned at her and set to work.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARY BALOGH is the New York Times bestselling author of the acclaimed Slightly novels: Slightly Married, Slightly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous, Slightly Tempted, Slightly Sinful, and Slightly Dangerous, as well as the romances No Man’s Mistress, More Than a Mistress, and One Night for Love. She is also the author of Simply Perfect, Simply Magic, Simply Love, and Simply Unforgettable, a dazzling quartet of novels set at Miss Martin’s School for Girls. A former teacher herself, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada.
Visit our website at www.bantamdell.com.
Don’t Miss Mary Balogh’s Dazzling Quartet of Novels
Set in Miss Martin’s School for Girls
Simply Perfect
Simply Magic
Simply Love
Simply Unforgettable
Or Mary Balogh’s Beloved Classic Novels
The Ideal Wife
The Devil’s Web
Web of Love
The Gilded Web
The Secret Pearl
Slightly Dangerous
Slightly Sinful
Slightly Tempted
Slightly Scandalous
Slightly Wicked
Slightly Married
A Summer to Remember
No Man’s Mistress
More Than a Mistress
One Night for Love
If First Comes Marriage stole your heart, get ready to fall in love with the next book in Mary Balogh’s series featuring the extraordinary Huxtable family.
Then Comes Seduction
KATHERINE’S STORY
Available from Dell in paperback April 2009
And make sure to be on the lookout for the following books in the series . . .
At Last Comes Love
MARGARET’S STORY
Available from Dell in paperback May 2009
Seducing an Angel
STEPHEN’S STORY
Available from Delacorte in hardcover June 2009
Turn the page for a sneak peek inside
Then Comes Seduction
Coming April 2009
THEN COMES SEDUCTION
on sale April 2009
HAVING seen his friends safely off the premises, Jasper weaved his way upstairs to his rooms, where he found his valet awaiting him despite the hour, which was late or early depending upon one’s perspective.
“Well, Cocking,” he said, allowing his man to unclothe him just as if he were a baby, “this has been a birthday best forgotten.”
“Most birthdays are, milord,” his man said agreeably.
Except that he was not going to be able to forget it, was he? A wager had been made. Another one.
He had never lost a wager.
But this time?
For a few moments after he had dismissed his valet and crossed his bedchamber to open a window, Jasper could not remember what it was he had wagered upon. It was something that even at the time he had known he would regret.
He did not usually look too closely at each year’s new crop of young marriage hopefuls. There were often a few notable beauties among them, but there was also too much danger of being ensnared in some matrimonial trap—despite what someone had said earlier about the innocents not wanting to marry him. He was, after all, a wealthy, titled gentleman, two facts that could easily wipe out a multitude of sins.
But he had looked closely more than once at Katherine Huxtable.
She was more than ordinarily beautiful. There was also a very definite aura of countrified innocence—or naïveté—about her. But an air of good breeding too. And there were those eyes of hers. He had never seen them from close up, but they had intrigued him nonetheless. He had found himself wondering what was behind them.
It was most unlike him to wonder any such thing. He was a man of surfaces when it came to other people and even when it came to himself. He was not in the habit of looking within.
Perhaps part of the lady’s appeal was the fact that she was Con Huxtable’s cousin and Con had made a point of not introducing her to him.
Now he was pledged to seduce her.
Full sexual intercourse.
Within the next fortnight.
Devil take it! Yes, that was it. That was the wager. That was what he had agreed to do.
It was a sobering thought—literally. He felt as he climbed into bed as if he had progressed straight from deep drunkenness to the nauseated, head-pounding aftermath.
One of these days he was going to renounce drinking.
And wagering.
And sowing wild oats, or whatever the devil it was he had been sowing for more years than he cared to count.
One day. Not yet, though—he was only twenty-five.
And he had a wager to win before he set about reforming his ways. He had never lost a wager.
“We must relax and enjoy the evening,” Katherine told Cecily, “under the safe chaperonage of Lady Beaton.”
After all, it was highly unlikely that Lord Montford would try to bear one of them off in among the trees to have his wicked way with them. The thought amused Katherine considerably, and she decided to follow her own advice and enjoy the evening and the unexpected opportunity it presented to observe the gentleman more closely.
Lord Montford had seated himself beside Lady Beaton and had proceeded to make himself agreeable to her, and even charming—with noticeable success. The lady soon relaxed and was laughing and even flushing with pleasure and tapping him on the arm with her fan. Everyone else gradually relaxed too and chatted among themselves and looked about with interest at their surroundings. There could be no more magical setting on a warm summer’s evening than Vauxhall on the southern bank of the River Thames, one of Europe’s foremost pleasure gardens.
Lord Montford had a light, cultured voice. He had a soft, musical laugh. Katherine observed him surreptitiously from the opposite corner of the box until he caught her at it. He looked at her suddenly, while she was biting into a strawberry. It was a direct, unwavering gaze, as if he had deliberately picked her out—though his eyes did dip for a moment to watch the progress of the strawberry into her mouth and the nervous flick of her tongue across her lips lest she leave some juice behind to drip down her chin.
He watched as she lifted her napkin and dabbed her lips and then licked them because she had dried them too much and his scrutiny made her nervous.
Oh, goodness, she ought not to have looked at him at all, she thought, lowering her eyes at last, and she would not do so again. He would think she was smitten with him or flirting with him or something lowering like that. She wished Margaret were here with her.
“Would you not agree, Miss Huxtable?” he asked her just as she was lifting another strawberry to her mouth.
The fruit remained suspended from her raised hand.
It amazed her that he remembered her name, though his sister had introduced them less than an hour ago.
All she had to do was the sensible and truthful thing—to tell him that she had not been listening to his conversation with Lady Beaton. But her mind was flustered.
“Yes, indeed,” she said and watched the smile deepen wickedly in his eyes while Lady Beaton looked at her in some surprise. She had made the wrong response. “Or, rather...”
And it struck her as if out of nowhere that it would be very easy indeed to fall head over ears in love with someone like Lord Montford. With someone forbidden, unsafe. Dangerous.
Definitely dangerous.
Or perhaps it was not someone like Lord Montford
with whom she could fall desperately in love if she was foolish enough to allow herself to do it. Perhaps it was precisely him.
The thought caused a strange tightening in her breasts and an even stranger ache and throbbing that spiraled downward to rest between her inner thighs.
First Came Marriage Page 35
