Again and Again

by Susan Johnson

  But the word, rarely, refused to be dislodged from his brain and he was forced to confront the uncompromising reality that some men were faithful. He’d heard of men who loved their wives to distraction, although those husbands had not been the standards of conduct among his friends. Could he deal with the possibility that he might become such an anomaly?

  And how much did it matter if he were?

  He heard her footfall and waited, still not certain what he’d choose to do. Although marry her, he would. With or without force.

  She came to a stop in the bedroom doorway; he could hear her breathing. Her perfume drifted into his nostrils, but he still didn’t move, his gaze unfocused on the canopy overhead.

  “Whoever wins two out of three hands has their way? What do you think of that?” She was feeling lucky with that piquant flush of excitement she’d known since childhood. She was going to win.

  He turned his head and looked at her. She was smiling and she wasn’t objecting to the marriage anymore, only the manner of it.

  “My cards,” he said.

  “A new deck,” she countered.

  He sat up and grinned. “Done.”

  “Now I don’t know if I should,” she murmured, leaning against the door frame and looking at him askance. “You’re too eager.”

  He threw his legs over the side of the bed and sprang to the floor. “Can I help it if I feel lucky?”

  “Lucky meaning you won’t have to be faithful?”

  “No, lucky I won’t have to argue with you about this anymore,” he said, moving toward her, smiling.

  A knock on the door of the sitting room infiltrated into the bedroom.

  He winked. “Your cake, my duchess-to-be.”

  “Maybe by the time I eat, I’ll think of some way out of this marriage, or perhaps your luck might change.”

  “Or yours.” He already had all the luck he needed; she was here and smiling. The rest could be resolved.

  Sitting across from her at a table set before the fire, he drank a brandy while she ate her cake and sipped her tea. The firelight gilded her hair and he wished above all things to unpin her curls and bury his face in their scented softness. Her bare shoulders and arms, burnished by the glow of the fire tempted him. Would she take issue were he to reach out and slide his hand down her slender arm? She suddenly smiled at him as though giving him leave, and a curious warmth enveloped him. And if there was such a thing as contentment, he was content.

  “Don’t you want any?” she asked again, offering him a forkful of a gooey chocolate confection that obviously had found favor with her. She was eating her third piece.

  “Maybe later,” he replied, politely as he had on the previous occasions she’d offered him some.

  “Do you think you have a chef here?” she asked through a mouthful of cake. “This is quite, quite marvelous.”

  He shrugged. “We’ll have to ask.”

  “Why did you buy this place?”

  “So I could be near you.”

  “How sweet.”

  Sweetness, perhaps, wasn’t the precise word to describe his motivation, but he wasn’t about to ruin her cheerful mood with the base truth. He smiled. Thank you. We try.“

  She made a small moue. “I don’t know why I can’t stay angry with you.”

  “Why would you want to?”

  “Out of principle, of course. You have some very annoying habits.”

  He wasn’t about to touch that very dicey subject and in an effort to distract her, he said, “Would you like to see if your ring fits?”

  That was very thoughtful of you… the ruby, I mean.“ Was the chocolate unduly influencing her mood? She was finding it impossible to be cross with him. Although when he was lounging across from her like he was, looking ever so accessible, and astonishingly handsome and dissolute in a completely unassuming and enticing way, it was difficult to resist. Although for her peace of mind, she preferred the chocolate theory.

  “I knew rubies were your favorites.” He slowly slid up into a seated position, set down his drink and rose to his feet. “Shut your eyes…”

  She didn’t.

  Waggling his finger, he smiled faintly. “If you want your Christmas presents, you have to shut your eyes. Don’t you remember?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Her father had always said that and then Simon had. She quickly shut her eyes, but Simon had seen the telltale wetness.

  “Now you have to tell me you like your presents whether you do or not or I’ll cry,” he teased, moving to the armoire.

  She laughed, which he’d intended. “I haven’t had any presents for years.” A small excitement trembled in her voice.

  And he almost cried.

  He’d dictated his instructions to Gore who had written them down and sent them north with the coachman. Caro’s presents were supposed to be in the armoire. Which one was the question. He pulled open the armoire door in the sitting room and surveyed several shelves of wrapped packages and Caro’s wedding gown hanging from a satin-covered hanger. He’d have to give both Gore and Eaton a raise.

  He still had the ring in his waistcoat pocket, but he’d selected other pieces of jewelry to compliment it and his bride’s beauty. Lifting several jewelers’ boxes from the shelves, he carried them back to the table and set them down. “Open your eyes, although I know you were looking.” His mouth quirked in a lazy grin.

  She looked up at him, feigning innocence. “I didn’t see anything. Really.”

  “I’ll have to feed you chocolate more often,” he drawled, charmed by her mummery.

  She winked. “Maybe I’ll let you.”

  All her animosity was gone, her playful smile wrenchingly familiar and he felt as though he were eighteen again and neither he nor Caro had a care in the world. “I think maybe I should get down on one knee and do this properly,” he murmured, suddenly unafraid of how he felt or how she would respond or whether he might be walking off the end of the earth into nothingness. Dropping down on one knee, he took the small velvet wrapped package from his waistcoat pocket, pulled out the ring and reached for her hand. “Darling Caro, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? I find, unaccountably,” he said with a boyish smile, “I’m crazed with love for you.”

  “Or perhaps only crazed,” she murmured, their eyes on a level, hers sparkling with laughter. “And I think it must be contagious, for I find myself crazy in love with you.”

  He slipped the large square-cut ruby on her finger, a quick sure gesture, as though sealing the bargain. “You know what everyone will say.”

  “That Hargreave has escaped Daphne’s lure?”

  “Bitch,” he said with a chuckle. “No, everyone will say they deserve each other.”

  “Will that be a compliment?”

  “Probably not,” he replied, matter-of-factly as he came to his feet. “But I would view it as such. You make me happy. It’s as simple as that.”

  She gazed up at him, her expression contemplative. “It may not be so simple. We are frequently at daggers drawn.”

  Then I shall have to constantly ply you with chocolate and presents,“ he teased. ”And if you want romantic words darling,“ he added, his voice suddenly sober, ”write me a list. I’ll learn them for you.“

  Not sure Simon was serious, particularly when it came to romance, Caroline opted for a neutral response. “How very kind,” she said, as one might to an offer of a dance.

  “I can be infinitely kind.” His voice was like velvet as he took his chair opposite her and his eyes held hers for a lingering moment. “Wait and see.”

  Whether it was the chocolate or his close proximity, she was fast losing her sense of restraint. “I do hope I don’t have to wait long,” she murmured, thinking if he looked at her like that much longer, she wasn’t going to wait at all.

  A fact he was well aware of, having had his share of females throwing themselves at him since he’d reached adolescence. But he wasn’t about to delay his marriage, no matter how eager Caro migh
t be. “Open these.” Leaning over, he pushed the presents toward her. “Then I’ll help you with your wedding gown,” he took a deep breath, “or then again, maybe I won’t. We’ll find a maid to help you, and quickly, I’m thinking.” He shifted in his chair, his erection rising. He waved a hand at the packages. “Hurry.”

  She loved that his impatience matched hers or perhaps he was always impatient for sex and with that thought in mind, she recalled their wager. “The cards,” she said.

  “After the wedding.”

  “Before,” she said, firmly, thinking she might yet regain her sanity if she had time.

  “We’ll cut for it.” He glanced about, then pulled open a small drawer in the table. “Ah ha.” He held up a pack of cards. “Manley was always ready for a game, apparently. High card?”

  She nodded.

  He shuffled, the cards a soft blur in his hands and then he placed the pack on the table, straightened the edges and cut. He held up a portion of the deck, the four of clubs facing out.

  She felt confident. Her odds were good with that low a number. Reaching over, she slid a small stack of cards off the pile and held it up. A three of hearts.

  His smile was beatific. “After,” he said. “Now, open your presents,” he added because he wished to avoid any further argument. “Two of them go with your ring.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he held out a package. “See if it fits.”

  It was a very tiny package. If it was clothes, she was in trouble. When she ripped off the paper, she found stunning ruby earrings that matched her ring. Large tear-shaped pendants were suspended from square cut rubies, the whole surrounded by brilliant diamonds. “Oh!” she breathed, awestruck.

  “You had ruby earrings years ago.”

  “But not like this!” Hers had been modest, a gift from her grandmother.

  “Here,” he said, offering her another box.

  And so it went, each item of jewelry more magnificent than the last until she had a queen’s ransom in jewels spread out on the table before her.

  “You were much too extravagant, Simon. I feel guilty.”

  “Nonsense. My duchess should have her own jewels. The Hargreave lot is an old-fashioned jumble. And I doubt you’d want to fight my mother for them.”

  “So Isabella hasn’t relinquished control of the property?”

  “Not if she can help it. She feels that she earned every hectare of land and every scrap of plate after living with my father for a quarter century.”

  “Is she still at Monkshood then?”

  He shook his head. “I drove her out with my disreputable friends arriving day and night. But I fear she took the plate and jewels and anything else she fancied. The dowager house is crammed to the rafters. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “You saw what I had. A satchel, no more. I don’t require much.”

  He smiled. “Only me.”

  “Exclusively if you please.”

  “I still have three hands of cards between me and the shackles of matrimony.”

  “Do I have that option as well?”

  “I don’t want to fight,” he murmured.

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t say ah like that. You know what the world’s like.”

  “I do. Once I’ve given you an heir, I’m free to take a lover.”

  He scowled, but he held his tongue. He wanted to be married before he took issue with that statement. Quickly coming to his feet, he said, “I’ll have a maid help you dress.” He put a hand to his cheek and rubbed his stubble. “I’ll wash up and meet you in the chapel.”

  Biting her bottom lip, she looked at him dubiously. “Are you sure?”

  He’d never been so sure in his life. “Yes,” he said, but on some other level-one that didn’t take into account insatiable sexual desire-his certainty was less intelligible. Aware his tone recorded that constraint, he quickly smiled. “I’m very sure. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  Chapter 23

  The small chapel was decorated with garlands and festoons of evergreen boughs and holly. Since the Viscount Manley had been unable to heat his conservatory, his flowering plants had succumbed to the cold, but in place of their color, the servants had lit great masses of candles-on Gore’s suggestion and thanks to the generosity of the duke’s bank draft. A wedding banquet, fit for a king had been prepared as well… on very short notice, the chef had bewailed. But with his reputation at stake, he’d come up to the mark with aplomb and the help of several bottles of the duke’s brandy that had arrived to supplement the viscount’s depleted cellar.

  The chef was very drunk at the moment, but his sous chef-Viscount Manley had lived well beyond his means-was still able to function semicoherendy. When he ceased to perform his duties, Mrs. Hopper would step in and take charge. Had she not for years, before the viscount had come into the title and begun to put on airs?

  In the meantime, Mrs. Hopper and Eaton were hovering in the chapel wings, waiting for the ceremony to begin. The duke had specifically detailed the order of the events and Mrs. Hopper was to play the organ for the processional. The duke hadn’t charged her personally, but he had sent directions to hire an organist, and she was better than the choir director at Ainsley who played for all the local occasions and charged too much for his rather mediocre skills.

  She’d worn her best lavender silk for the occasion.

  The duke arrived first, looking so handsome she found herself dazzled at an age when she should have been much beyond such foolishness. She stammered rather awkwardly, particularly when he complimented her on her gown. He was really astonishingly amiable for a man of such consequence. He thanked both her husband and her for all they’d done on such short notice. And with a bow-imagine a bow from a duke-he’d taken his leave and was now at the altar speaking to the parson he’d brought with him.

  Suddenly a maid came running up and Mrs. Hopper knew it was time. While the maid spoke to the duke, she moved to the organ, seated herself and glanced back to the chapel entrance.

  While the duke waited and Mrs. Hopper kept her eyes trained on the entrance, Caroline was standing utterly still midway down the corridor leading to the chapel, frightened to death.

  Wasn’t it the groom who was supposed to be indecisive and wavering? she reflected.

  Wasn’t the bride the one looking forward to the thrill of wedded bliss?

  Didn’t she care for Simon? Hadn’t she always? All right, all right… Hadn’t she loved him even when she didn’t want to love him?

  So what was the problem?

  Why did it seem as though her feet were glued to the floor?

  She touched the rubies at her ears and throat and wrist, smoothed her palms over her gown of priceless lace and cloth of gold. The veil itself would have kept her in funds for a decade. Why wasn’t she mercenary enough to move forward for the prospect of her ducal wardrobe and jewelry alone?

  Mrs. Hopper finally twisted around completely on the organ bench and sent her husband a searching glance. He only shrugged, as ignorant as she of the reason for the delay.

  Not a patient man, very shortly, the duke strode back down the aisle, shoved open the chapel doors and disappeared into the hallway.

  He found Caroline fixed in place, unable to move, racked with fear and doubt.

  He bent low. “What’s wrong?” He spoke very softly because she was ashen.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you ill?”

  She shook her head.

  “Does something hurt?”

  She shook her head again.

  “The gown is fine?”

  A mute nod this time.

  “Do you want to keep the rubies?”

  Her eyes flared wide at the oddity of his question.

  “Because I come with the rubies,” he asserted, his smile roguish.

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” she whispered.

  “But I’m bigger than you.”

  She smiled at the familiar phrase, felt the te
nseness drain from her body. He’d always been bigger and stronger and… curiously protective of the little girl who had tagged after him in all his boyhood games. Until suddenly, he became the one waiting for her-like now. “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to marry,” she said softly.

  Not any worse than your last one, he wanted to say, but he was in excellent humor and grinned instead. “Darling, admit, ours is a match made in heaven or perhaps more likely on some pagan Elysian Fields, knowing us. And if I’m bigger than you, you can scream louder than me, so we’re even there.” Taking her hand, he placed it on his forearm. “Everything’s going to be fine, darling,” he said, deliberately keeping his tone soothing. She still looked skittish. “Why don’t we walk down the aisle together? Or I could carry you?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “You’ll wrinkle my gown.”

  He supposed this wasn’t the time to mention her gown would be in a heap on the floor before long. “I wouldn’t want to do that,” he said, gently patting her hand. “Did I tell you Mrs. Hopper will be playing the organ?”

  He spoke of ordinary things as they moved down the corridor to the chapel, wishing to distract her thoughts from whatever was alarming her. When they reached the chapel doors, he shoved them open without hesitating, and walked in before she had an opportunity to balk.

  Catching sight of the duke and his bride, Mrs. Hopper spun around on the organ bench and struck the keys with a flourish. The powerful, full-toned chords burst forth, thundering through the small chapel, rising up into the soaring cupola in crashing waves, charming the nervous bride who found Mrs. Hopper’s rustic fervor enchanting.

  “The music’s very nice,” Caroline whispered, smiling up at Simon.

  He looked mildly afflicted. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to bring in an orchestra.”

  “Does she sing?”

  His brows rose briefly. “I certainly hope not.”

  They were almost to the altar where Aubrey, clothed in his bishop’s robes, was looking dauntingly officious.

  Caroline came to a stop, causing Simon a moment of panic. “Are you happy?” Her bottom lip quivered. “Tell me we’re doing the right thing- that you’re happy.”