Edwina had been thrilled over her brother’s presence, and Declan had been pleased on that account alone. The subsequent private meeting between the Frobishers, Roscoe, and his right-hand man, Jordan Draper, had all but literally been the icing on the wedding cake. As a group, they’d explored all manner of potential interactions; it had quickly become clear that Roscoe viewed the match every bit as favorably as the Frobishers. All in all, that meeting had been a coming together of like minds.
That had been the immediate outcome of learning the truth about the Delbraiths, but like a stone dropped into a pool, subsequent ripples continued to appear.
Later, Declan and Edwina had followed his family north to spend a few weeks in Banchory-Devenick; several days after their arrival, Fergus had asked Declan to accompany him on one of his walks.
Once they were away from the house, his eyes on the ground before him, Fergus had stated, “It occurs to me, boy-o, that there’s a great deal we could learn from your Edwina’s family. I’m not talking about Roscoe, but the others—especially the ladies.”
Unsure just what his father meant, Declan had remained silent.
After several paces, Fergus had continued, “It’s been a long time since any Frobisher moved among the ton. It was never our battlefield, so to speak. But I look at the old duchess—the dowager—and her daughters, and the daughter-in-law, too, and I think about what they’ve managed to achieve over the last decade. Given what they had to hide, being capable of…not exactly hoodwinking the ton, but veiling the truth, and all so subtly and elegantly done… That takes talent of a sort we, as a family, lack.”
Fergus’s sharp, agate-y gaze had shifted to pin Declan. “You said you intend taking Edwina to town—that you’ve hired a house there and that Edwina and the dowager think the pair of you need to appear in society to establish yourselves, whatever that means. I’m thinking that might provide a useful opportunity for you to watch and see what you can learn of how they manage things.”
“Manage things.” After a moment, he’d said, “You want me to learn how they manipulate the ton into seeing what they want the ton to see.”
“Exactly!” Fergus had faced forward. “The Delbraiths might be a family led by women, the duke being so young, but none of those females are fools. They all know how to operate in the ton, how to bend ton perceptions to their advantage. They have skills we could use, m’boy. We might eschew the ton, deeming it irrelevant to us, but you can’t duck the weight of a birthright, and who knows what the future will bring?”
That conversation rang in Declan’s mind as he smiled and complimented a young lady on her beautifully carved oriental fan. He’d long ago learned to trust his father’s insights; Fergus Frobisher was widely respected as a canny old Scot. So as they had planned, he and Edwina had come to London and taken up residence in a rented town house in Stanhope Street. Lucasta had joined them in town, but she was staying with her eldest daughter, Lady Millicent Catervale, in Mount Street. Declan appreciated his mother-in-law’s sensitivity in giving him and Edwina their privacy.
Subsequently, Edwina and Lucasta, aided by Millie and Cassie, had put their heads together and come up with a list of events Edwina had declared she had to attend. She’d excused him from all the daytime entertainments, but had requested his presence at the evening events, a request to which he’d readily agreed.
They’d attended several balls, dinners, soirées, and routs over the past week. And tonight, as at those previous events, he was there to observe, to watch and learn how his wife and the females of her family “managed” the ton.
He’d initially studied Lucasta, reasoning that she had to have been the principal instigator in promulgating the non-shocking, acceptable-to-the-ton versions of her older son’s demise and of her younger son’s disappearance; only because he’d been watching closely had he noticed the difference between Lucasta in private and Lucasta in society. It was like a screen, a veil of sorts, but not something anyone observing her could pierce; even knowing it was there, he couldn’t see past it, not while she had it deployed. Lucasta’s screen made her appear more rigid, definitely colder, and more arrogantly aloof. It was an emotional screen that held others at a distance and allowed only the reactions Lucasta wished to display to show through.
Edwina’s veil was even harder to discern. Only because he’d known it had to be there had he managed to even glimpse it. Because her true nature was so very bright and glittery, her shield was almost like a mirror—something that reflected what others assumed they would see, not necessarily what truly lay behind the screen.
He’d studied Millie and Cassie, too; their veils were effective, yet less definite, softer and more amorphous—again, a reflection of their characters. While Lucasta undoubtedly possessed an iron will and a spine of steel—how else had she coped with the vicissitudes of fate over all these years?—of her three daughters, Edwina was the most alike, possessing a similar, pliable yet invincible, feminine strength.
That truth had dawned on him two nights before—and brought with it another ripple.
When he’d set his sights on Edwina, he’d assumed the Delbraiths, a ducal family, would be conventional, conservative, if anything rather stuffy. Instead, he’d discovered they were hiding a secret, one so outrageous and potentially socially catastrophic that it was crystal clear that in terms of being unconventional, the Delbraiths could give the Frobishers a run for their money.
Lucasta was a very far cry from the tradition-obsessed dowager he’d taken her for. As for Edwina…
His view of a predictable, ordinary, orthodox marriage had evaporated.
The lady he had married had an entirely different character from the lady he’d assumed he would take to wife.
Her small hand rested on his sleeve; he could feel the light pressure as if a bird perched there. Yet her presence held him so securely, captivated him so thoroughly, that he barely heard the comments of others enough to respond with the appropriate remarks. He wasn’t interested in those who gathered around them; he was interested only in her.
She’d explained that it was necessary for them to appear in society to “establish themselves.” He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that, but clearly she had some goal in mind. Being as inexperienced as she was experienced in this sphere, he hadn’t yet figured out precisely what her ultimate goal was, yet he understood and accepted that she had one…
And that said something all by itself.
It was a reflection of that ripple he’d only recently recognized: His delicate, fairylike wife had a decisive and definite mind of her own.
She formulated goals and planned campaigns—then executed them. She spoke of what amounted to strategy and tactics.
He was now fairly certain she would also harbor a definite view of how their marriage would work, but he’d yet to gain any insight whatsoever into what her view of that critical issue was. Were her putative rules of engagement ones he could smile at, accept, and fall in with? Or…?
As of that moment, he had no idea what their future on that front would bring. Yet he’d married her, and he wouldn’t change that for all the gold in the world. Having her as his wife had been his principal goal, and now she was his.
He glanced at her and saw her eyes sparkle, her face lighting with animation as she charmingly accepted congratulations on their marriage from some other couple.
All in all, he was beyond pleased over having her as his wife. The part he had yet to define was what it was going to take to be her husband.
Edwina stood by Declan’s side with her smile in place and her eyes firmly fixed on her prize. She, her mother, and her sisters had agreed it was vital that she and Declan present themselves to the ton in exactly the right light. How the ton viewed them, now and in the future, would depend entirely on the image they projected over these critical first weeks. That tonight, more or less from the moment they’d arrived, they’d remained fixed in the center of the room with a constant stream of intrigued guests jocke
ying to join their circle testified as to just how highly the ton now ranked them as acceptable acquaintances.
A sense of triumph rose within her; her first goal as a married lady was all but attained.
When Lady Holland stopped to chat and, when introduced to Declan, deigned to smile approvingly, Edwina had to work to keep her delight from too openly showing and her relief from showing at all. The ton could be a highly censorious sphere, but the blessing of such an august hostess was the ultimate seal of tonnish approval; they had, in ton terms, arrived.
Of course, Lady Holland had always had a soft spot for charming and handsome gentlemen.
Slanting a glance at Declan, Edwina allowed her gaze to dwell on his chiseled features—the distinctly aristocratic line of his brow, the long planes of his lean cheeks below high cheekbones, the firmness of his mobile lips, and the definitely masculine cast of his chin. The crinkling around his sky-blue eyes, set beneath angled slashes of brown brows, and his perennially tanned complexion spoke of long months at sea. His light brown, sun-kissed hair completed the image, appearing fashionably windblown with the bright streaks and tips burnished by the sun highlighting the effect.
The combination of his height and his broad-shouldered stance, the very way he held his long frame, both upright and yet fluid, always perfectly balanced and ineffably confident and assured, set him apart from well-nigh every other gentleman in the room.
As Lady Holland moved on, Lucasta touched Edwina’s sleeve, drawing her attention. “My dear, I see Lady Marchmain holding court by the wall. I believe it would be wise for me to join her and ensure she comprehends all the pertinent facts.”
Edwina followed her mother’s gaze to a coterie of older ladies gathered around a chaise. She nodded. “Thank you, Mama. We’ll come and find you when we’re ready to leave.”
Lady Marchmain was one of her mother’s bosom-bows and also one of the most active ladies in the ton; if one had a message to deliver to the upper echelons of society at large, then Lady Marchmain was an excellent courier.
Returning her attention to the gratifying number of ladies and gentlemen eager to make Declan’s acquaintance, Edwina wondered how much longer they needed to stay. Neither she nor her mother had made any estimation of how many evenings it might take to establish her new position as a married lady and, more critically, establish Declan as a member of recognized society, but their assumption had been that it would take considerably more days and nights—more at-homes, morning and afternoon teas, luncheons, balls, and soirées—to achieve their aim. They’d arrived in town only a week ago; they’d been waging their campaign for a mere six days. They hadn’t expected to succeed so soon.
Regardless, she was exceedingly glad that matters had gone as well as they had. Spending her evenings standing beside Declan—handsome, attentive, and suavely engaging as he’d been—had proved far less of a trial than she’d expected. She had thought she would have to rescue him from social traps, yet that hadn’t been the case; he’d seen the snares and sidestepped adroitly all by himself. For someone who had rarely moved within the ton, he’d handled it well.
While she continued to exchange comments and the usual social banter with those gathered about them, as with every word the reality of their social success was confirmed and sank in, she was increasingly aware of rising impatience. Given they’d succeeded on this front, it was time to advance to the next stage in forging their marriage into the union she wished it to be. And for that, she and Declan needed to be elsewhere—anywhere but in the middle of the ton.
* * *
Declan was quite happy to depart Montgomery House. At Edwina’s suggestion, together with Cassie, they crossed to where Lucasta was conversing with several older ladies. The dowager rose and introduced him to her friends. Once the inevitable exchanges were complete, the dowager settled her shawl, and together their party took leave of their hostess, then made their way downstairs. Somewhat to Declan’s relief, Cassie offered to take Lucasta up in her carriage, leaving him and Edwina to their own company as they traveled the short distance to Stanhope Street.
The instant the carriage door was shut upon them, Edwina’s social veil vanished. During the drive, she chattered, animated and intense, reviewing the comments made by several of those they’d met, explaining the significance of this observation or that connection. Her insights proved illuminating; he was struck by how familiar the moment seemed. As they rattled over the cobbles, he realized it was very like a debriefing after one of his covert missions.
The more he thought of it, the more apt the analogy seemed.
Edwina capped her comments with the statement “It appears that Mama had the right of it.” Through the shadows, she met his eyes. “She was quite sure that, when it came to our marriage, the ton would take its cue from me—from how I, and Mama, and Millie and Cassie and their husbands, too, reacted. Mama was convinced that all I had to do was to keep you beside me and openly show my delight in being your wife, and all would be well.” She sighed happily. Facing forward, she settled back beside him. “As usual, Mama was correct.”
He debated several questions, then voiced what to him was the most pertinent. “And are you truly delighted?”
Her small white teeth flashed in an ebullient smile. Through the enfolding shadows, she glanced at him. “You know I am.” She slipped one small hand into his and lightly squeezed. “I couldn’t be more happy over being your wife.”
Confident sincerity resonated in the words; he drank it in and couldn’t help a satisfied smile of his own.
The carriage rolled around a corner, tipping her against him.
She glanced up as he lowered his head.
Their eyes met; their gazes held.
He raised one fingertip and gently, slowly, traced the lush fullness of her lower lip.
Her lids lowered, screening her eyes as she tipped up her face, and he leaned closer.
The carriage slowed, then halted.
Her eyes opened wide. From a distance of mere inches, she studied his, then beneath the pad of his finger, her lip curved.
He heard the footman drop down from the rear of the carriage, and with a sigh, he straightened. “I believe, my lady, that we’ve reached our home.”
“Indeed.” Even through the dimness, he saw desire gleam in her eyes. As the footman opened the door, she murmured, “I suggest, dear husband, that we go inside.”
Anticipation flared between them, tangible and hot. With one last wanton look, she turned to the door. He rose and descended to the pavement, then handed her down.
Retaining his hold on her fingers, he escorted her up the town house steps.
The door opened before they reached it. Humphrey, their new butler, bowed them inside. “Welcome home, my lady. Sir.”
“Thank you, Humphrey.” Edwina slipped her fingers from Declan’s clasp and headed straight for the stairs.
He prowled in her wake.
Humphrey closed the door. “Will there be anything else, sir? Ma’am?”
“I think not.” Declan didn’t shift his gaze from his wife’s curvaceous hips, sleekly cloaked in pale blue satin. “You may lock up. Her ladyship and I are retiring.”
Without glancing back from her steady ascent, Edwina said, “Oh, and please tell Wilmot I won’t need her tonight.”
Wilmot was her lady’s maid. Declan smiled.
Edwina reached the door to the bedroom they had elected to share, opened it, and sailed through. On her heels, he crossed the threshold, paused to shut the door, then, his gaze locked on his prize, continued his pursuit.
Before she reached the foot of their bed—a large four-poster draped in blue silks—she abruptly swung around. One step from her, one stride from him, and they met.
Her head barely reached his shoulder; coming up on her toes, she wound her arms about his neck, pressed close as his hands fastened about her tiny waist, and raised her lips as he bent his head.
Their lips touched, brushed, then settled.
&n
bsp; The kiss deepened, their lips effortlessly melding. She parted hers in wanton invitation, and he sent his tongue questing. Conquering and commanding.
She’d been a virgin on their wedding night, yet she’d been anything but reticent; she’d plunged into the whirlpool generated by their avid, greedy, too-long-denied senses with an eager enthusiasm that had stunned him. Her open and ardent desire to learn everything about passion had claimed him. Her utterly fearless adventurousness in this sphere continued to captivate him.
Comprehensively enslaving him.
He didn’t mind, not in the least. As he steered her back toward the bed, the sole remaining thought in his head was how to most effectively enjoy the fruits of his surrender.
Edwina felt awash on a sea of triumph. She wanted to celebrate what ranked as a minor victory—successfully establishing their union as entirely acceptable and, more, as distinctly desirable in the eyes of the ton.
Joy and delight bubbled and fizzed inside her. Effervescent excitement gripped her as she felt the bed at her back, then Declan’s fingers found her laces, and she sent her own hands seeking, nimble fingers deftly dealing with the large buttons of his waistcoat. He paused only to shrug off both coat and waistcoat, letting them fall where they would, and she eagerly set her fingers to the small, flat buttons closing his shirt.
This was one arena within their marriage in which she’d felt utterly confident from the first, and she knew she had his passion, his understanding, his honesty, and his expertise to thank for that. His own inner confidence in his manly attributes, too. He’d been so focused on her, so openly desirous, and so unwaveringly intent on claiming her—so committed and caught up in the moment—that he’d shown her all.
All he felt for her.
All she meant to him.