by Norma Darcy
Lord Marcham awoke to find her sleeping with her head resting on his shoulder. He gently moved from beneath her, then swung his legs off the bed and sat there for a moment, thinking.
She stirred, opening her eyes, and reached out a hand to touch the muscles of his back.
He turned his head. “I woke you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“No matter.”
“I should go.”
She propped herself up on her elbow, clutching the sheet to her bosom, somehow shy now as she had not been the night before. She nodded. “Yes.”
He twisted around to face her, still seated upon the edge of the bed. “The servants will be up soon. I can’t be found in here,” he said quietly.
She smiled. “I know.”
“I don’t want you to think that I’m leaving because I’m running away—”
“I don’t,” she assured him.
“Last night was . . . last night was everything I dreamed of, but it changed nothing for me. I still want you as my wife. I still want you to live with me.”
She sat up in bed and put her finger against his lips. “Robbie, I know,” she said softly. “You’re not Hal.”
There was a silence.
“So serious, my lord?” she said, smiling. “That’s unlike you.”
He looked troubled and stood up, pale and naked in the morning half-light, looking for his breeches. Miss Blakelow looked away, as yet unused to seeing him unclothed, but not before noting the strength of the muscles in his chest and shoulders, the patch of dark hair between his legs, and the perfect rounds of his buttocks. He was a fine figure of a man, with or without his elegant clothes.
“I shouldn’t have stayed here last night,” he said, pulling on his breeches. “I swore to myself that I’d wait.”
“I wanted you to stay.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m no better than he was, am I? Last night was a test. And I failed it.”
“Last night was not a test.”
“You think that I came here only to seduce you.”
“No.”
“All I have done is confirm what you have always thought about me,” he said bitterly, “that all I ever wanted from you was a night between the sheets.”
“My lord, you’re not Hal.”
“I took advantage of you.”
She shook her head. “I wanted it. I wanted you. I don’t regret it for a single second. Last night was perfect—for me, at least. Don’t spoil it.”
“I’ll go to London tomorrow.”
“Very well.”
“I want to marry you just as soon as I can arrange it.”
“Very well,” she said again, smiling as tears shone in her eyes.
“You will still marry me, won’t you, Georgie?” he asked, an anxious frown between his brows. “You won’t change your mind?”
She was touched by his uncertainty. She smiled tremulously up at him. “I won’t change my mind,” she assured him.
He nodded, relieved but apparently still anxious. “And you won’t run away from me again? You won’t leave me?”
“I won’t.”
“Because I couldn’t bear it,” he said, and his voice wavered. “I couldn’t bear it if I returned from London to find you gone. Not now, not after what passed between us last night.”
“My lord, come here.”
“I love you so damned much, Georgie. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you—”
“Robert, come here,” she said.
He walked back toward her and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, a muscle pulsing in his cheek.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
He raised his eyes to hers and she saw the torment within him. She raised her hands and cupped his face.
“I didn’t run away from you, I ran away from myself,” she said. “I ran because I believed that no man would ever want me once he knew my past. I ran because I couldn’t believe that you could love me enough to overlook my indiscretions. But I did you a disservice. You are loyal and noble and true. You are a good, decent man and I love you desperately. I will marry you wherever, whenever you choose.”
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes searching her face, and then he pulled her to him and pressed his lips against her soft cheek.
“Darling,” he murmured, his eyes curiously misty. “When? How soon can we be married? I can’t wait to tell the world that you’re mine.”
“And what about my bridal clothes? And my trousseau?” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. “Would you deprive a girl of her childhood dream?”
“Do you care for all that?” he demanded, flicking a careless finger against her cheek.
She smiled. “Of course. Doesn’t every woman?”
“How long do you need?” he asked.
She shot him a sly look from under her brows, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Well, there’s my gown to think of, and slippers and flowers. Plus clothes to go away in as I am in no doubt my current wardrobe would not meet your exacting standards. Three months would seem to be reasonable.”
He gaped at her. “Three months? No, that sounds devilish unreasonable to me. I can’t . . . I just can’t wait that long.”
Her lip trembled with laughter. “One month?”
He groaned. “I can’t wait a month to make love to you again.”
She smiled. “A fortnight then?”
“One week,” he said firmly.
She gasped, laughing. “How can I possibly arrange everything in that time?”
“One week. And it will be hard enough keeping my hands off you as it is.”
She shrieked as he lunged for her, rolling them both over on the bed, laughing as he rained her with kisses. Then the mood changed and she made a different sound altogether as he sucked one rosy nipple deep into his mouth.
EPILOGUE
THE NEWLY WED COUNTESS of Marcham had had a busy morning at Holme Park, her residence of six weeks. It was a gray day in March, and daffodils littered the grass around the house, their cheerful golden heads nodding in the breeze—a welcome hint that spring was well and truly on the way.
They had married on the first day of February. The wedding had taken a little longer to arrange than the week he had insisted upon, and it was all Georgie could do to stop him from carrying her off to Gretna Green in his impatience to call her wife. Georgie had made him promise that they would behave with the utmost propriety for the sake of their families and did not let him touch her again until the ring was on her finger. Their honeymoon had more than made up for the period of abstinence.
She checked in on Jack and found him much restored from a bout of the influenza and sitting up in bed with a breakfast tray before him. He greeted her with a cheerful hello and brought a tear of happiness to her eye when he told her that he was glad that she had married the earl. And as he demolished a plate of bacon and coddled eggs, he demanded to know when Lord Marcham would come and visit him to finish their game of cards. The earl had gone to visit the Dowager Countess and Lady St. Michael to try to heal the rift that their wedding had caused within the family. The two ladies had boycotted the ceremony, and it had been Georgie who had urged him to try to make peace. He’d been gone several days but had raced back the previous night to creep into her bed in the early hours of the morning. She wasn’t even sure his valet knew that his master was back.
The countess, blushing slightly, told Jack that his lordship had been very tired after a trip to London and would visit him as soon as may be. What she didn’t say was that the reason his lordship was so tired was because he had been making love to her until the small hours of the morning.
With this secret knowledge burning inside her, she went downstairs and found the whole family in the breakfast parlor, arguing over something in that familiar way that brought a loving smile to her face. Nothing had changed; they were still exactly the same here at Holme Park as they were at Thorncote. And then her eyes spotted a young man sea
ted at the head of the table, and she almost didn’t recognize him in his new attire.
“Look at you, all grown up,” she said softly, noting the shadow of stubble about his jaw.
He blushed with pleasure and a little embarrassment. “And how do you like my new coat, Georgie?”
She looked at his young shoulders, filling out his coat without the need of wadding, and smiled. “You look very fine. I think Maria Callard will be quite swept off her feet.”
Ned Blakelow flushed as red as a berry.
“I hear Maria Callard has very poor eyesight,” said Marianne.
“Very funny,” retorted her brother. “And I hear that Mr. Bateman has taken leave of his senses. He must have to have fallen in love with you, Marianne.”
“How Maria Callard can prefer you to Mr. Bateman is beyond me,” she replied as she bit into a pastry.
“Children, enough,” said Aunt Blakelow from the end of the table. “How are you this morning, Georgie? Did you sleep well? I noticed that you retired very early.”
Lady Marcham could not stop the blush that infused her cheeks. “Yes, thank you, Aunt.”
The older lady stared curiously at her for a moment. “Are you quite well? You haven’t caught Jack’s fever, have you? You seem to be positively glowing this morning.”
“I am happy that Jack is on the mend, that is all,” she said, taking a seat at the table and helping herself to coffee.
“Yes indeed. Such a relief to us all. Not that I ever thought that he wouldn’t recover, mind, but for a moment there it looked as if it might take a turn for the worse. But your marriage to his lordship could not have come at a better time.” Her aunt picked up a letter and waved it in the air. “We have had a letter from that dreadful Thorpe woman. She says her daughter, Charlotte, wishes to take up residence at Thorncote and that we, as William’s family, are not welcome. I ask you, not welcome in our own home! But as William now owns it and is unable to stand up to his new wife, it appears we have no choice but to remain at Holme Park.”
“She can’t do that, can she, Georgie?” said Lizzy, turning her big blue eyes on her elder sister. “Not that I wish to live with horrid Charlotte Thorpe, but it was our home before it was hers.”
“I’m afraid she can. She is William’s wife now and as such is mistress of his house,” replied her ladyship.
“She has never even set foot across the front door, and already she has instructions on how the servants are to run the place,” put in her aunt.
“Well, there is little to be done about the situation so I wish them the very best of luck,” said Ned, sitting down in his chair. “Lord Marcham has agreed to help William with the estate, but he wants to see Will applying himself in some useful manner.”
“Charlotte may have a surprise in store for her if she thinks Thorncote is dripping with valuables,” said Kitty, smiling.
“Oh, yes,” said Marianne, “I would give my arm to see her face when she sees the state of the carpet in the drawing room.”
“Or the fake Roman antiquity in the hallway,” said a deep voice from the doorway.
“Lord Marcham!” cried Marianne as she stood up to greet him. “You are back. Did you have a good trip to town?”
“I did, thank you. I have been to see my mother and my eldest sister, and they have agreed to come to us at Easter.”
The room hushed in astonishment. “However did you manage it?” asked Marianne. “I thought they had both sworn they would never set foot in this house again?”
“I told them that Caroline and Harriet were coming, so if they wished to see them, they would have to come to us.”
“My lord,” said the countess with an amused glint in her eye, “do Caroline and Harriet know they are coming to us for Easter?”
“They will after you write to them, my love,” he replied, moving into the room as his eyes sought those of his wife. Lady Marcham’s heart was beating hard and fast. He had bathed and changed and he looked immaculate as a new pin. Their eyes met, and in that instant all that they had shared and promised as they lay in each other’s arms was there to read in their expressions; every touch, every kiss was relived, and Georgiana glowed with happiness.
“Good morning, my love,” his lordship said, bending to kiss her.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“And how is Jack?”
“Much better.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he replied. “And I trust that you slept well?”
She struggled to hide a smile as color flooded her cheeks. “Very well, my lord. Indeed, I am much refreshed.”
His lips twitched, observing her blush and wanting to find and kiss the extent of it from the roots of her hair to the swell of her bosom. “Indeed? I am most happy to hear it. Sometimes, I find, all that one needs is one’s bed when one is feeling thoroughly spent.”
Lady Marcham choked on her tea, remembering how spent they both were when they left her bedchamber earlier that morning. “Certainly,” she said, clearing her throat.
Aunt Blakelow stared with narrowed eyes from the earl to her niece and back again. “What has happened?”
“Shall we tell them, my love?” asked the earl of his wife with a gentle smile.
“Tell us what?” demanded Ned.
“Your sister and I are expecting a happy event.”
“Oh, Georgie!” cried Marianne clapping her hands.
Lady Marcham blushed as she was hugged and embraced from all sides.
“That is such very happy news,” said Kitty.
“Indeed, very happy,” echoed Lizzy.
“Sir, might I be able to drive your curricle?” Ned asked, already tired of the subject.
“I realize that driving my curricle trounces my future offspring any day, but can you at least try to look happy for your sister?”
Ned grinned. “John says I have come on famously in the last month.”
“If John deems you handy enough with the ribbons, then you may indeed drive my curricle,” replied his lordship.
“Thank you, sir!” cried the young man.
Lord Marcham’s eyes met those of his wife, and he managed to keep his face grave as he stepped forward to take the seat by her side.
“Let us go and tell Jack!” said Marianne, pushing back her chair.
A shout of agreement and a stampede for the door ensued. Aunt Blakelow came toward her niece. She took Lady Marcham’s face into her hands and stared into her eyes.
“Are you happy, my love?” she asked.
Her ladyship nodded. “Yes, Aunt, I’m happy.”
She kissed her. “Then I am happy.”
She turned and held her hand to Lord Marcham, who kissed it, and then she followed her young brood of nephews and nieces out of the door.
The countess stood and put down her napkin, preparing to follow the others, but the door closed before she could reach it. An arm snaked around her waist, and she was snapped to the breast of the Earl of Marcham.
“And where do you think you’re off to?” he demanded.
She looked up into his face. “To see Jack.”
“Jack can wait,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers.
But she evaded him. “What are you doing here? I thought you were engaged to discuss crops for the top field at Thorncote with William this morning?”
“Crops are not half as interesting as my wife; besides, I missed you,” he breathed, kissing her ear, which was all that was available to him.
“Missed me?” she repeated, laughing. “You saw me only a couple of hours ago.”
“I don’t want to let you out of my sight,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck.
“My lord,” she said as his hand slid toward the hem of her gown and pulled it upward. “Stop it.”
“I want you.”
“Again?” she complained, giggling.
“Again and again and again,” he said against her lips.
“But the servants will be in to clear the table.”
“The
n we’ll lock the door.”
“But we can’t . . .”
“We damn well can. I can’t get enough of you.”
“I thought you were thoroughly retired, my lord?” she teased as he lifted her off her feet. “You told everyone that you had rid yourself of your rakish ways.”
Lord Marcham grinned as he slid his hand under her skirts. “This rake is well and truly out of retirement, but only for you, my darling.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANK YOU TO ALL my fans and supporters and everyone who voted for me in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award 2014 competition. Winning the Romance category was a complete surprise and a dream come true! Thank you for making this possible.
Thank you to the team at Amazon who helped me transform my original manuscript into a living, breathing book that I can be immensely proud of. It’s been a pleasure working with you.
Thank you to Christie Giraud who helped me with the original version of the manuscript and who believed in me from the moment she read the first few chapters of my very first story. Thank you, Christie!
Thank you to my wider family and friends for all your support: Andrew and Muriel, Michaela, Amanda, Philip, Sean, Stefan and Jana, David and Jean, Richard, Alex and Helen, Clive and Maggie, Marc and Bryony. Mr. T. Ruffle—you know who you are.
Special thanks also to Tony and Chris, my father and brother, who have lived every second of this with me and have shown nothing but unwavering love and encouragement. To my great friend Judy, who is always telling me off for not believing in myself—I love you, sweet-pea. And to my gorgeous husband, Tim, without whom I would not have the time to write. You have supported me every inch of the way, picked me up when my confidence was low, and encouraged me to keep writing. You know when I get that vacant look in my eye that I am off plotting in my fantasy world! Thank you for everything.
And finally to my mother, who sadly passed away before she read a single word I have written. You inspired me to write. You made me believe that anything I wanted to do was possible. I miss you every moment of every day.
