My Reckless Surrender

by Anna Campbell

The word was a pure note that chimed through Ashcroft’s soul. Praise God and all his angels. Let bells ring out. Let fireworks fill the skies.

  For a moment, the dark church faded away, and all he saw was light. He looked at Diana, at the joy shining in her face, and wondered how he’d reached this pinnacle.

  He was going to marry this wonderful woman. He’d live with her until they were old. She was going to bear his children and turn his chilly barn of a house into a home. The world would never be cold again.

  Astonishment paralyzed him. He could hardly believe that his final, reckless throw of the dice had gained the prize. He hadn’t arrived with any conviction that his last desperate effort would meet with success. On the excruciating journey down from London, he’d been grimly sure he’d fail.

  Yet Diana capitulated as sweetly as the sun rose on a bright new day.

  More than capitulated. She offered him her heart with a generous openness that made his own heart slam against his ribs.

  He still reeled from hearing her say she loved him. He’d never expected that. Yet she owned what she felt proudly and without hesitation.

  What a woman his Diana was.

  He could never condone her actions, but he understood why she’d done what she had. She’d devoted a lifetime to Cranston Abbey, and after her husband’s death, he guessed she’d filled the wintry landscape of her widowhood with love for the house.

  Burnley, pox on him, had used that dedication to further his rotten schemes.

  Which had left Ashcroft with a stark choice. To scotch her from his life because she’d lied, even if she’d suffered as she’d lied. Through all the weeks of cursing her for a deceitful witch, he’d never mistaken that.

  Or to forgive her unconditionally.

  The choice was no choice at all. He took what he wanted and didn’t look back, or he allowed old evil to poison his only hope of happiness.

  “I’ll take you back to London,” he said gruffly, extending a trembling hand. He wasn’t ashamed of his unsteadiness. The sea of emotion was too titanic for a mortal man to contain.

  “Diana, don’t be a fool,” Burnley blustered behind him, limping nearer.

  “This is most irregular,” the vicar fussed.

  The small congregation was agog. Every eye fixed on the drama in the aisle. Ashcroft felt their burning attention like a physical force.

  Diana smiled at Ashcroft as if he encompassed her whole world. Even the lingering pain of his injuries subsided under that smile. She accepted his hand with a steady grip. “Let’s go.”

  “Burnley, what’s all this?” Lord Derwent, Burnley’s toady from a hundred parliamentary debates, followed the marquess, as usual without initiating effectual action. “Ashcroft, what the devil are these antics?”

  “Fredericks, stop them!” Burnley demanded, ignoring Derwent.

  A man loomed up behind Diana in unmistakable threat. Ashcroft recognized the ringleader in his thrashing. The fellow was incongruously and ridiculously bedecked with flowers.

  Ashcroft’s hand clenched hard on his cane. He’d dearly love to horsewhip the brute, but he was in a church. Nor did he want to risk a riot with Diana here.

  Diana didn’t spare the thug a glance. Instead, she released Ashcroft and wheeled to confront her jilted bridegroom.

  “I will not marry you, my lord. Ever.” Her voice was low and laced with hatred. Then in a softer tone, “Let us go. You failed. As you should have failed. For your own vanity and greed, you set out to steal something that wasn’t rightfully yours. To my shame, I helped. Let justice be done at last.”

  Burnley glowered around the church in furious consternation. Enough people were present to start a rumor campaign.

  “Shut your mouth, you fool jade,” he hissed, raising his hand. “Or I’ll make you shut up.”

  “Touch her, and you’re a dead man.” Ashcroft knocked the old man’s arm aside. Burnley staggered back, almost losing his balance.

  It reminded Ashcroft that Burnley was more than twice his age and sick. But the urge to do violence was so strong, he could taste the bloodlust on his tongue. He wanted to crunch the marquess under his heel like a cockroach.

  “You’ll pay for that,” Burnley growled, tottering upright. “Fredericks.”

  “My lord.” The man bowed as a wolfish smile curved his lips. He was bigger than Ashcroft and more heavily muscled. He also had the advantage of a whole body, not one crippled by injury.

  Good intentions be damned. Drawing a gasp from the congregation, Ashcroft slid a small pearl-handled pistol from his coat pocket.

  His dear papa’s feral rage didn’t surprise him. The marquess hated to lose. By stealing away his bride at the last minute, Ashcroft shattered his greatest triumph.

  “My lord! This is outrageous! Recollect where you are,” the vicar cried in horror, wringing his hands. Nobody spared him a glance. Fredericks halted in fulminating silence when he noted the gun pointed at him.

  Ashcroft gestured for Diana to join him. She darted to his side with gratifying eagerness. Her arm snaked around his waist, her softness pressed into his flank. When she’d given him her consent, she’d looked as powerful as the goddess, her namesake. But now he felt her trembling. He rested his arm across her shoulders, partly for support, partly because he couldn’t bear not to touch her.

  “We’ll make it,” he murmured for her alone. “I haven’t come this far to fail now.”

  She tilted her bonneted head to look up into his face. Her eyes were as brilliant as a thousand candles. His heart somersaulted as he realized she did indeed love him.

  Ashcroft suddenly felt invincible. Burnley and his self-serving plots couldn’t defeat them if Diana truly loved him.

  His voice was calm and sure as he addressed the contemptible cur who had given him life. “I’ve got what I want. I mean to leave without causing harm. However, if it’s a choice of Mrs. Carrick or the well-being of you and your lackeys, Burnley, you know my decision.”

  “Don’t make this more difficult than it must be, my lord,” Diana said quietly.

  Burnley sneered even as he shook with chagrin. “You brainless slut. I offer you greatness, and you choose this whoremonger in my stead. May you rue your decision forever.” He drew himself to his full height, and his glare sparked with spite. “If you imagine your useless lump of a father will keep his house after this, you’re mistaken, madam. And that harlot of a Gypsy can go to hell too.”

  Laura rose and curtsied with visible irony to the old man. “I’m much obliged, my lord.” As if she didn’t have a care, she sauntered toward Diana and Ashcroft.

  Well said, Miss Smith.

  Ashcroft had always liked the girl, right from the first meeting. He now had reason to be eternally grateful to her. “Neither Miss Smith nor Mr. Dean will suffer, Lord Burnley. You forget you deal with a man of equal standing to yourself. There are grave matters outstanding between us, and should I seek legal redress, your name and reputation won’t survive unscathed.”

  “You puling puppy!” Temper contorted the old man’s face, and he took a step closer to Ashcroft and Diana although he couldn’t hope to prevail. “You think to threaten me?”

  “I think to keep what is mine,” Ashcroft said in a hard voice.

  Burnley growled low in his throat. “Take the drab. You’re welcome to her.”

  “With pleasure,” Ashcroft said sardonically, although he didn’t lower the pistol. The prospect of revenge still beckoned, but he stifled the impulse.

  What was the point? He glanced down at the woman by his side and realized winning was revenge enough.

  After this, his enemy had neither family nor wife nor heir of his direct line. His enemy would spend his few remaining days contemplating his abject failure. A fitting end.

  “God rot you, whoreson,” the old man snarled, vibrating with rage.

  Ashcroft supposed that proved as suitable an epitaph to his relationship with his father as any.

  He had a golden future to look forw
ard to. Lord Burnley belonged in the past. Perhaps he should even be grateful—without Burnley’s machinations, Diana would never have come into his life. He bit back an unworthy urge to thank the marquess for presenting him with such a priceless gift.

  “Let’s go,” he said softly to Diana.

  “There’s nothing more for us here,” she said equally softly, and the smile she sent him conveyed all the things she wanted to say but couldn’t while they had an audience.

  Cursing his injuries, he limped toward the church door. Diana walked at his side, one arm around his waist, her head held high and a glow in her expression he’d never seen before. Laura followed them, her pleasure unconcealed.

  Outside, his carriage waited. Tobias held the door open as Ashcroft released Diana and pocketed his pistol. “We need to collect your father and take him to London, where he’ll be safe. I’ve got servants waiting outside your house. I don’t trust Burnley not to take revenge beyond evicting him.”

  “My father won’t want to leave his home. He’s stubborn,” Diana said, meeting his eyes.

  He realized that reaction set in. Diana looked dazed, worried, overwhelmed. When he’d seen her at the altar, he’d been shocked. She’d been pale and drawn, a shadow of the vibrant, spirited woman he recalled. Anyone looking less like a bride was hard to imagine. Briefly, when she’d faced down Burnley, she’d returned to the woman he remembered. But with every moment now, she looked closer to tears.

  He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to tell her everything would be fine. But something about her made him keep his distance while they had observers.

  And he had an obligation to fulfill. Ashcroft reached to take Miss Smith’s hand. He bowed over it as he would to a great lady. “I owe you more than I can say. Thank you.”

  “It was nothing. I knew you and Diana belonged together the first moment I saw you. I can’t explain it.”

  “If I hadn’t received your letter, I’d never have known about the marriage. I would have come for her, but it would have been too late.”

  Diana frowned in confusion. “Letter?”

  Miss Smith straightened and sent her friend a defiant look. “I wrote to Ashcroft the minute you agreed to marry Burnley.”

  Shocked, Diana stared at him. “She begged you to come and save me?”

  He shook his head. “She just told me the date.”

  Laura smiled. “I knew he wouldn’t let you marry that devil.”

  The sparse congregation surged out of the church, buzzing with avid curiosity. Ashcroft was thoroughly sick of conducting his private affairs under a public gaze. “Let’s go.”

  He handed Diana and Miss Smith into the carriage and leaped in after them, then grimaced as his leg reminded him he wasn’t ready to bound anywhere yet. He settled on the seat opposite the two women, his back to the horses. He would give his right arm to sit next to Diana, to touch her. Especially as with every second, she seemed to withdraw further from him.

  His injuries must shock her. Was that the only thing that perturbed her?

  For one glorious instant inside the church, he’d thought all their difficulties were behind them. Clearly, his joy had been precipitate.

  Patience, he reminded himself. He’d waited months for this. He could wait another hour or so.

  Diana’s gaze glittered with troubled emotion as it settled on him. She took stock of his physical state, he guessed. He loathed that he didn’t come to her a whole man.

  The carriage rolled into motion. “You don’t look like you should have left your bed.” Diana’s voice was husky. “Will you be all right?”

  He shrugged. “The doctors say I’ll recover. My leg’s the worst of it, and, of course, the scar. But with time, I’ll be good as new.”

  “I’m glad,” Miss Smith said.

  “But still you’ve suffered because of me,” Diana said almost soundlessly. “It’s my fault.”

  He reached forward and took her hand. It trembled in his, and for one tense moment, he wondered if she meant to pull away. With every second, he felt the chasm between them widening, and, damn it all, he didn’t know what to do about it.

  He itched to sweep her into his arms, to share everything in his heart, but he needed privacy and time to resolve what still lay unspoken between them. And right now, he had neither.

  “It doesn’t matter, Diana.” He meant it.

  “Yes, it does.”

  He couldn’t mistake the flash of guilty devastation in her expression before she turned and stared fixedly out the window. His hand tightened on hers in silent confirmation that the only thing that mattered was that they were now together. He just hoped to hell he could make her believe that too.

  Ashcroft had brought an army of servants and a cavalcade of vehicles from London. When he’d made his plans for evacuating John Dean, he hadn’t been sure Diana would reject Burnley. If she did, they’d need to get out of Marsham quickly and completely.

  To his surprise, Mr. Dean unhesitatingly agreed to abandon his home. Ashcroft realized that after a lifetime in Burnley’s employ, John Dean held no illusions about how the marquess was likely to react now his plans were curtailed. Diana’s father looked less than overjoyed to have the notorious Earl of Ashcroft in his house, but he was cooperative about his departure.

  Right now, Ashcroft didn’t care about the reception the old man gave him. He cared about making sure everyone Diana loved was safe. He cared about getting Diana away from this accursed place that had nearly destroyed her.

  It was only after a bustling hour, when the house was empty and Miss Smith, Mr. Dean and a bewildered Rex were safely tucked into the carriage, that Ashcroft realized he hadn’t seen Diana. She’d supervised the start of the packing, but he couldn’t recall catching a glimpse of her since.

  Fear carved an icy trail down his backbone. Surely Burnley couldn’t snatch her without someone raising the alarm. The place swarmed with Ashcroft’s servants.

  She must be somewhere finishing up a last task before she left. Still, he set off at a broken run through every room, then the back garden. No sign of Diana. He damned his imperfect body, which moved so slowly when he needed to be in fighting condition.

  His heart thumping in panic, he dashed up to the carriage. “Diana’s missing.”

  Miss Smith started to rise, her face tight with concern. “She went inside when we got back from the church.”

  “Have you seen her since?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Dean?”

  The blind man curled his hands over his stick and frowned thoughtfully. “Have you tried the churchyard?”

  “Why would she…” Ashcroft stopped, knowing he wasted time, and turned back.

  If her father thought Diana might be in the churchyard, that was where he’d look. He had to find her before Burnley did. Grotesque images of the marquess making her pay for her defiance danced through his mind.

  “There’s a gate through the back garden,” Miss Smith called after him.

  He paused and turned back briefly. “Go to London. I’ll follow.” He looked at Tobias, who stood holding the carriage door. “Leave me the gig, the two strongest footmen, and mounts for both of them.”

  Drawing his pistol, preparing for the worst, he set off at an uneven gallop, ignoring the agony from his injured leg. His pain didn’t matter. He had to find Diana. Behind him, carriage doors slammed, and the vehicles rattled away.

  His imagination bursting with gruesome possibilities, he barged his way through the gate and into the small graveyard behind the church. Only to find himself in a haven of peace.

  No mayhem. No violence. Just late roses, moss-encrusted gravestones, and birdsong.

  Ashcroft drew in a deep breath as relief quieted the wild pounding of his blood. Feeling mildly sheepish, he pocketed his pistol.

  Diana stood close by. She concentrated so hard on the markers in front of her, she didn’t raise her head at his arrival. She’d taken off her bonnet, and her gold hair was lustrous in the sunlig
ht.

  Ashcroft limped over to stand behind her. Traversing the rough ground was hell on his leg. He’d left his stick in the house when he’d set out on his frantic chase after Diana.

  He immediately guessed why she was here, in spite of the looming danger. The moment her father mentioned the churchyard, he’d known. So he felt no surprise when he found her before two graves, one much newer than the other.

  He remained silent as she bent to lay roses on the graves. One for Maria Caroline Dean, beloved wife of John Dean, the other for William Addison Carrick, beloved husband of Diana Charlotte Carrick.

  Once Ashcroft had been petty enough to resent William Carrick. No longer. The man had loved Diana, and he’d died far too young. All Ashcroft felt was a piercing compassion for what William had missed.

  I’ll keep her safe, William. I swear it on my life.

  “You’re saying good-bye,” he said quietly, reaching up to cling to an overhanging tree branch.

  His heart clenched when she turned around. She dashed tears from her cheeks, and her voice was raw with regret. “And asking forgiveness. Neither of them would be proud of me.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Ashcroft abhorred seeing his strong, vivid Diana so hurt and despairing. From the depths of his heart, he vowed to revive the glowing, confident girl who had promised herself to him in the church.

  “Diana…”

  She spoke before he could go on. “You make me so ashamed.” Her eyes were the color of slate as they focused on him. “What you did in that church was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It took my breath away. You risked such humiliation, you risked further injury, yet you still did it.”

  He shifted to ease the strain on his leg. Her unstinting praise was undeserved. He hadn’t felt brave. He’d only felt desperate. “I had to try.”

  “But you should hate me.” Her voice cracked with distress. “You must hate me.”

  What purpose lying? She’d immediately see through any comforting falsehood. And there had already been too many lies between them. “Believe me, I did.”

  She flinched so quickly if he hadn’t been watching, he’d have missed it. Her chin rose to its familiar angle but without her usual spirit. He knew her conscience tortured her. She’d set out to deceive, but deceit had never come easily.