He kissed the crook of her elbow, the pulse of her wrist, and gently bit the center of her palm. She shivered in pleasure.
“‘But this is like reading a title-page, instead of the volume behind it.’”
His hand moved up her arm and kneaded her shoulder. His other hand cradled her face. Lightly, ever so lightly, disturbing not at all the bruises that had mostly faded from their unruly colors but were still sensitive to pressure, he traced the outline of her cheekbone.
“‘The few who climb the rock, and set themselves quietly down to study the life and scenery of the island, find an entire poem, to which no element of beauty or interest is wanting, opened for their perusal,’” he recited, as his thumb pulled down her lower lip.
She emitted a whimper of need. His breath caught.
“But you are more beautiful than Capri,” he said, his voice at once fervent and wistful.
She crushed him to her and kissed him fiercely. From there, Capri was forgotten and they had lips and hands and minds only for each other.
* * *
“What are you thinking?” Vere asked, his head in his palm, lying on his side.
He could not see her. She was only the rhythm of her breaths and the warmth of her skin.
Her hand traced the scars on his rib cage. “I was thinking that, one, I have never, ever, not once in all my years of reading travelogues, realized that they could also serve as tools of seduction. And two, that this must be the first time we’ve both stayed awake afterward.”
He made the sound of snoring.
She chortled.
“If you are not too sleepy, I’d like to tell you a story,” he said.
It was time.
“I’m not sleepy at all.”
He wanted to give her some warning. “My story, it isn’t always happy.”
“No story is. Or it wouldn’t be a story; it’d be a paean.”
Very true. So he recounted for her the events that had led to the creation of his double life, starting with the night of his father’s death. Despite his warning, her whole body turned rigid with dismay. Her hand clutched hard at his arm. But she listened quietly, intently, if with breaths that caught and trembled.
“And perhaps my life would have continued indefinitely on that path—it was a well-worn path, after all—if I’d never met you. But you came along and you changed everything. The better I knew you, the more I had to ask myself whether things I thought were immutable were truly set in stone, or simply seemed so because I was afraid of changes.”
As his story moved away from the initial devastation, her person had gradually relaxed too. Now his hand upon her shoulder no longer detected as much tension.
“Two days ago I confessed everything to Freddie. It was a terribly difficult conversation going in, and yet afterward I felt light and free, as I haven’t been in the longest time. And for that I have you to thank.”
“I’m very, very glad you and Lord Frederick had your talk, but I don’t see what I have to do with it,” she said, her befuddlement genuine.
“Remember what you said a few nights ago about Douglas? ‘I will not let him diminish me from beyond the grave, just as I never allowed him to take a piece of my soul while he yet lived.’ Those words shattered me. Until that moment I had not understood that I had let a piece of my soul be taken from me. And until I recognized that I was no longer whole, I could not begin to put myself together again.”
He was full of gratitude toward her. But it was yet another sign of how secretive he’d become that she had no idea of the changes she’d wrought in him.
“It’s wonderful that I could be of some help,” she said, sounding both pleased and embarrassed. “But I must protest that I don’t deserve nearly the credit you give me. You saw it: Just now I had another nightmare. I’m nobody’s shining example.”
“You are mine,” he said firmly. “Besides, I came equipped for the nightmare, didn’t I?”
“I was just going to ask! How did you happen to know one of my favorite books by heart?”
“I asked your mother if she remembered any books on Capri you liked. She quoted me a passage, but she couldn’t recall the name of the book, only that you loved it. So I set to work.”
He had seven bookshops deliver to his hotel every single travel guide they stocked that so much as mentioned Italy. After he and Mrs. Douglas returned from the Savoy Theatre, he stayed up most of the night perusing any and all pages that dealt with Capri, until he came upon the passage Mrs. Douglas had recited.
“I found the book with the intention of reading it to you until you fell back asleep, should you have your nightmare again. But then I realized that reading would require a light. Better just to commit it to memory, which was what I did on the train going back to Devon.”
“That is—that is incredibly sweet.” The bed creaked. She pushed a little off the mattress and kissed him on the lips.
“I have only two more paragraphs of text left in me. But had I known that travelogues had such erotic properties, I’d have memorized the whole thing.”
She chortled. “Oh, you would, would you?”
He combed his fingers through her cool hair. “If you want me to, I would—even if I’m banned from ever seducing you with Capri travelogues again.”
She leaned her cheek against his, a simple gesture that almost caused his gratitude to spiral out of control.
“Would this be a good time to apologize to you for my having been a complete ass when we were in the castle ruins?”
His conduct that day had chafed his conscience ever since.
She pulled back slightly, as if to look him in the eyes. “Only if it’s also a good time to apologize to you for having forced you to marry me.”
“So I’m forgiven?”
“Of course,” she said.
He used to believe that to forgive was to allow an offense to go unpunished. Now he finally understood that forgiveness was not about the past, but the future.
“And me, am I forgiven?” she asked, a note of anxiety in her voice.
“Yes, you are,” he said, and meant every word.
She exhaled unsteadily, a sound of relief. “Now we can go on.”
Now they could look forward to the future.
Chapter Twenty-two
“What does ‘Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo’ mean?” Elissande asked, as they hiked up the steep path that led to the top of the Hangman Cliffs.
The day had dawned sunny and beautiful. And the coast had been a revelation of untamed headland and feral sea. She had been instantly captivated.
After breakfast, they’d hired a coach and driven to Combe Martin, the closest village to the Hangman Cliffs, and from there they had set out on foot, tramping across the green moors on a path dotted with surprisingly white goats.
Her husband had been taking a sip from the canteen of water he carried. At her question, he choked, as badly as his brother had the night he’d brought up the phrase as the family motto for the Edgertons of Abingdon. Elissande had to forcefully smack his back to help him clear his airway.
He panted and laughed at the same time. “My God, you still remember it?”
“Of course I do. It is not anyone’s family motto, is it?”
“No!” He doubled over with mirth. “Or at least, I hope not.”
She adored his laughter. All the more so for the long, lonely path he’d trudged to reach this day, when they could enjoy the coast of the West Country arm in arm. She picked up his hat, which had fallen onto the trail.
“What is it then?” She smoothed his hair with her fingers and put the hat back on his head, adjusting the angle for it to sit properly—she was largely unfamiliar with a man’s toilette.
“It’s from a poem by Catullus, probably the rudest poem you could ever hope to read in your life,” he said, playfully lowering his voice, “so rude I don’t think a translation has ever been published in English.”
“Oh?” This she must hear. “Do tell.”
“A nice young lady like you shouldn’t ask,” he teased.
“A nice young gentleman like you shouldn’t withhold—or the nice young lady might be driven to ask your brother.”
“Ooh, blackmail. I like it. Well, if you must know, the first verb refers to buggery.” He burst out laughing again, this time at her expression. “Don’t look so shocked; I already told you it’s rude.”
“Clearly I’ve led a sheltered life. My idea of rudeness is calling someone ugly and stupid. Is there a second verb?”
“Indeed there is. It refers also to a sexual act, one of somewhat lesser infamy—but would still have roomfuls of ladies braying for their smelling salts if it were ever mentioned.”
She gasped. “I think I know what it is.”
He drew back in astonishment. “No, you most certainly do not know what it is.”
“Yes, I do,” she said smugly. “The night you were drunk as a skunk, you mentioned withdrawal. And you said that if you were in a really terrible mood, you’d make me swallow your seed.”
His jaw dropped. “I take it back. You do know what it is then. My God, what all did I say to you that night?”
A young shepherd appeared on the path, walking toward them with his flock.
“On second thought,” said her husband, “let’s wait until tonight. I have a presentiment that speaking of my precise words and actions that night might lead us to activities that would get us arrested.”
She giggled. He gave her a mock glare. “Be serious. It’s your reputation I’m worried about.”
She cleared her throat and set her face. “Was this the sort of Latin verse you were looking for to put yourself to sleep when you were at Highgate Court?”
“Indeed not. This is the sort of Latin verse I read when I want to choke on my water, obviously.”
She chortled. “Speaking of looking for Latin verse, what were you doing in my uncle’s study that night?”
His expression turned sheepish. “It was right next door to the green parlor. I was hoping to come in on you after Lady Avery had caught you all by yourself. I thought it would be amusing.” He sighed. “See, my own vengefulness led to my downfall.”
She patted him on the arm. “You are still a good man.”
“You think so?”
He had probably meant for the question to be nonchalant, but it had emerged laden with both hope and doubt.
She understood him. She’d never thought of herself as particularly good—how could anyone good be so adept at lies and deceit? But she did not doubt his goodness: She needed only to look at the way he took care of her mother.
And he gave himself too little credit. To recognize the change he needed required insight; and to confess before Freddie, after all these years, took true courage.
“I know so,” she said.
He was silent. The path turned. He held out his hand to help her over a rock that jutted from the ground. She gazed upon him, her strapping, handsome man, golden and pensive, and felt a ferocious protectiveness.
They walked on for almost five minutes before he touched her shoulder and said, “Thank you. I’ll live up to it.”
She had no doubt he would.
* * *
The top of the Hangman Cliffs gave onto a stunning vista: miles of verdant headlands towering hundreds of feet high, a twilight-blue sea upon which the sun glimmered like silver netting, and in the distance a pleasure boat, all its sails unfurled, gliding across the water with the leisurely grace of a swan.
She could not take her eyes off the views. And he could not take his eyes off her. Her face was flushed, her breath still slightly uneven from the strenuous climb, and her smile, ah, her smile—he would have crawled across broken glass for it.
“It’s even more beautiful when the heathers are in bloom,” he said. “Then the slopes turn a glorious purple.”
“We must come back then, when the heathers are in bloom.”
Her skirts whipped in the fresh, briny breeze. A particularly lively gale almost blew her hat away. She laughed as she clamped onto the crown of the hat with one hand. Her other hand slipped into his, her grip warm and light.
His heart lurched: It was her. It was always her for whom he’d waited all these years.
“I used to have this idea of a perfect companion,” he said.
She glanced at him, a mischievous look in her eyes. “I’m going to bet she is nothing like me.”
“Actually, she was nothing like me. I made her my opposite in every way. She was simple, content, with no deceit to her—no darkness, and no history.”
She turned more fully toward him, her expression now a solemn curiosity. “Was she your Capri?”
Of course she would understand, but his heart still swelled with gratitude. “Yes, she was my Capri. But whereas your Capri was an aspiration, mine had become a crutch. Even after I’d fallen in love with you, I tried to cling to her. In fact, I opted to drive you away and lose any possibility of a future together rather than acknowledge that perhaps my Capri had a limited life span and the end of its time had come.”
Her hand squeezed his. “Are you sure you are ready to let it go?”
“Yes.” At long last. “And I’m going to let go of far more than that. I think it’s time I had another ‘accident.’”
Her jaw dropped. “You are resigning your service as an agent to the Crown?”
“I’d always wanted a seat in the House of Commons until the day came when I had to take my father’s in the Upper House instead. And then I learned the truth about my mother’s death. My own plans became irrelevant. Instead, I devoted myself to a vengeance that could never be mine. But with another ‘accident,’ I could claim that I’d recovered and go from there.”
She only gazed at him, wide-eyed.
Doubt suddenly assailed him. “Do you think it’s too extravagant an idea, to take my seat in the House of Lords?”
“No, absolutely not. I’m only amazed at all the changes that have been and will be taking place in your life.” She touched a hand to his brow. “Will you be happy in the House of Lords?”
“No. It’s full of self-important reactionaries: I was ever so incensed when they vetoed the Irish Home Rule bill in ’ninety-three.” He smiled at her. “But somebody should be there to tell them that they are nothing but a ragtag collection of self-important reactionaries.”
“In that case, I shall act appropriately mystified in the beginning, as my husband abruptly metamorphoses from the idiot I much esteemed to a man whose intellect and learning are quite beyond my grasp. And then, under his patient, obliging tutelage, I shall discover hidden cerebral prowess of my own.” She nodded. “Yes, I think it’s doable. When is this new ‘accident’ of yours to take place?”
He was torn between mirth and admiration at how she planned to handle the demands of this, her last great role.
“The timing and the precise tactics we can decide later. There is something much more urgent I must take care of first. Now, in fact.”
She tilted her face up. “What is it?”
The bruises were still faintly visible, but they did not distract from her beauty: He only loved her more for her valor.
“As much as I subsequently tried to deny it, I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. Lady Vere, would you do me the immense honor of remaining married to me?”
She gasped softly, then giggled. “Is this a proposal, Lord Vere?”
“It is.” He hadn’t expected it, but his heart was beating fast. “Please say yes.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I would. Nothing would make me happier.”
He took off her hat, then his own, and kissed her, this one woman he loved the most, in his favorite place in the entire world.
* * *
When they returned home they found not only Mrs. Douglas back from London—she proudly presented her sister’s jewels to Elissande as her dowry—but also Freddie and Angelica, who had come in person to announce their engagement.
&nbs
p; Angelica, who looked radiant, punched Vere symbolically on the chest as his penance for lying to her all these years.
“Punch me more,” he said. He had told Freddie that he could share everything with Angelica, understanding that Freddie needed that.
“I should,” said Angelica, “but I have decided to forgive you.”
He was moved to embrace her. “Thank you.”
It never failed to astonish him, the generosity of those who loved him—and whom he loved—best.
Together they chatted for a while with Mrs. Douglas. After Mrs. Douglas left to take her nap, the four of them congregated in the study and made good-natured fun of Vere as they plotted his return to form.
“We can say you came upon a bear in the woods,” said Angelica, “and the bear smacked you on the head the way I should have!”
“Wild bears have been extinct in Britain since the tenth century,” Vere pointed out. “We will have trouble with that story.”
“How about an accident during a cricket game?” said Freddie. “I can hit you very gently.”
“After having been thoroughly pummeled by you, Freddie, I think you underestimate your own strength. One gentle hit from you might shear off my head.”
“I can smack you with a frying pan,” suggested his wife, joining the fun. “Domestic strife is always believable.”
“Excellent idea!” exclaimed Angelica.
“But you are a marchioness, not a farmer’s wife.” Vere shook his head. “What lady of your station would run five minutes from her drawing room to her kitchen for a skillet? She’s much more believable using a Ming vase.”
“Or his walking stick,” said Freddie, with a wink to Elissande.
They all cackled at that.
Freddie and Angelica stayed for dinner, during which they drank many toasts: to the newly engaged couple’s future happiness, to Mrs. Douglas’s health, to Vere’s upcoming “miraculous” recovery, and to his wife’s saintly patience with the unbearably pedantic man Vere was certain to become, now that he was free to exploit his intellect again.
His At Night Page 30
