Anne was smiling and trying not to. “Well, you two fight it out between yourselves. I’m going down. And,” she added with a pointed look at Rachel, “I’m sending Bess up with a tray. Yes, I am, and I expect you to eat every bite.” She put her hand on her bulging tummy. “How could you not be hungry? I’m starving.”
After she was gone, Sebastian regarded Rachel in silence for a long moment. “Pretty dress,” he murmured. “Pretty hair. You look . . . new.”
An odd word choice, but she understood what he meant. She ran a hand down the skirt of the lavender muslin day dress self-consciously. “Anne lent it to me.”
“It suits you.” He started to say something else, then seemed to change his mind. He walked toward her; she took a step back. He went past her to the fireplace. “The fire feels good,” he said distractedly.
It seemed decadent to her, a fire in September, but Anne had insisted. “You must be tired from your trip,” she said, determined to keep up her end of this ridiculous conversation.
He ignored that. “Sully’s gone, raced off to London, no doubt. Not that it’ll do him any good. He forged the letter from the Home Secretary, Rachel.”
“How do you know?”
“Violet Cocker told me—told Vanstone and Carnock, rather, in my presence. At my insistence,” he added meaningfully. “She denies sending you the Broad Arrows, and I believe her. That had to be Lydia. I’ve apologized to the mayor, by the way. He’s a bit of an ass, but I must admit he took it in good part. Christy was right about him—he had nothing to do with Sully’s plot.”
Rachel put her hand on her forehead. “But—how did Violet know Sully sent the letter?”
“She’s the one who stole it from you. Sully put her up to it—bribed her, gave her trinkets, probably seduced her. It was all just an elaborate prank, designed to make trouble for you. His way of getting back at me, you see.”
He came closer, spoke more softly. “And it worked perfectly. When I couldn’t help you today, couldn’t make them listen to me, I wanted to smash things, kill somebody. I’ve never felt so precarious. So . . . imperiled. It was as if my life hung in the balance, too.”
How tempting he was, half smiling, his blue-green eyes tender and intent at the same time. “As soon as you came, I knew I could stand it,” she heard herself say. “Even if you couldn’t save me, I knew it would be all right in the end. You can’t know how that felt. Thank you.”
“It’s not really your gratitude I’m interested in.”
She looked down. “Sorry.”
“I told Christy to call the banns on Sunday,” he said abruptly. “We can be married in three weeks.”
“You what?” Her heart began to pound. “Sebastian, that was a mistake.”
“You said that before. Explain yourself.”
“I—I would like to explain myself somewhere other than in this bedroom.”
“Why? Don’t you trust yourself?”
“It’s not I who . . . oh.” She couldn’t get used to being teased; she loved it, but most of his jokes on her still went over her head until he laughed at them. Oh, but he was dangerous! He knew a hundred ways to get around her strongest convictions. She girded herself for a fight.
He ambushed her by putting his hands on the sides of her face and holding her still in the soft trap of his fingers. His eyes were more stirring than a caress, and his wicked smile coaxed a helpless one from her. “I could tie you to the bed,” he whispered. It took her a moment to hear that. She gasped, and he took a kiss from her lips, his hands on her face still the lightest of prisons.
She touched his chest, felt the warm, steady throb of his heart. “You can kiss me . . .” she breathed against his mouth. “You can kiss me,” she tried again, “but it won’t make any difference. I’m telling you . . .” One of his hands slid to her throat; she stopped its insidious downward glide by capturing his wrist. “Sebastian.”
“Hmm.”
“Your ability to seduce me has never been in question.”
“No,” he agreed.
“And it’s not the issue now. I thought we were discussing marriage.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “That’s what I’m trying to discuss. I didn’t do it very well before. Let me try again. Will you marry me? I love you completely. You’ll be happy with me because I’ll see to it.”
She drew away, dismayed, elated. “I think you must be—the most arrogant man in the entire world.”
“Well, I am an earl now, you know,” he said deprecatingly.
“Exactly. Exactly. You needn’t think those hasty words in the courtroom today, which you said out of kindness and—and duty, bind you to me in any way.”
He looked amused. “I’ve never been accused of being kind and dutiful before. I have to plead not guilty.” He trailed his fingers down the length of her arm, shoulder to wrist. “I’m a selfish man, Rachel. I want you because I love you. You’re ascribing your own gentle motives to me, which is very sweet; but you’re in error.”
Her cheeks warmed. She turned her back on him. “You don’t love me.”
“Excuse me, I do.”
“No, you don’t. You proclaimed our imminent marriage in front of witnesses because you thought it would save me. It was an impulse, anyone could see that. Under any other circumstances, you would not have done it. Can you deny that?”
“Certainly.”
She turned on him. “Really? You can’t deny that a week ago, when Christy Morrell suggested you might marry me, you laughed in his face!” She felt like a fool when hot tears stung her eyes. Sebastian reached for her hand; she pulled away, but he held on and made her face him.
“Rachel, don’t. Sweetheart, if I could take one thing back in my whole miserable, misspent—”
She yanked out of his grasp and backed up. His pained expression looked too much like pity, and she couldn’t stand it. “Please don’t do that,” she commanded. “I do not need your sympathy or your apology. I’m sorry I brought that up again—I don’t know why I did. It’s ancient history. I don’t think about it.”
Before he could call her a liar, she rushed on. “I’m setting you free, here and now. To safeguard your honor, we’ll say that you did your duty and asked for my hand, and I declined. I’m sure people will call me a fool, but that will be comparatively easy, since before now I’ve been called much worse.”
She felt pleased with the cadence of that, if not the sentiment; she thought it sounded rather dignified. But Sebastian didn’t look impressed. “I see,” he said, nodding, smiling facetiously. “And what will you do with yourself? How will you make a living?”
“I’ll find work.”
“Housekeeper? You’ve experience there. Or a governess, perhaps?”
“Yes, perhaps. I can keep books.”
“That sounds fascinating.” His smile grew gradually less amused as he said, “You’ve gone through fire for ten years so that you can keep someone else’s house, or books, or wipe the noses of their bratty children. That’s brilliant, Rachel. So much more interesting and involving than being a countess and raising children of your own with the man you love.” He closed in, backed her toward the window. “Deny that. Deny that you love me. Come, say it.”
“I can’t,” she said tightly.
“No, you can’t. Why is it so hard for you to believe I love you?”
“You didn’t before. Why would you now?”
“Why not now? Who made it a rule that I had to love you ‘before.’ whenever that was—when I first laid eyes on you? Is that the rule? Then or never?”
“No, of course not. You know what I—”
“Well, I did love you then.”
She had to laugh. “Oh, Sebastian.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Certainly not. All you cared about was taking me to bed.”
He opened his mouth to deny it, stopped, and finally shrugged. “Very well, but in no time at all—”
A tap at the door cut him off. It was the maid, carrying the tray Anne had promised. She put it on the table by the bed. Sebastian thanked her, and she curtsied and withdrew.
“Thank God it’s not tea, it’s wine. And about a dozen sandwiches. What’s this, stuffed mushrooms? And a bowl of fresh bilberries and a pitcher of cream. A feast.” He poured a glass of wine from the decanter and brought it to her. She took it, but when he went back to pour a glass for himself, she set hers down on the bureau without tasting it.
He sat at the foot of the bed and leaned back against the heavy post. She felt like a bundle of nerves; he looked completely at ease. A mask, she knew,’ at least in part. But truly, he did look lordlike; the mantle of earldom rested on him with annoying naturalness.
“I’ll tell you when I first began to love you,” he said, sipping his wine.
“That’s not necessary.”
“It was during one of our morning meetings. Early on, when I took such a delight in tormenting you. Pushing you, seeing how far I could go before you pushed back. Testing the depths of your stoicism, one might say. You had on your brown dress that day, and I’d gotten so used to the black, I thought it looked quite colorful. You stood in front of my desk, very quiet and demure, talking about cleaning the chimneys or some such thing. By then I wanted you constantly. I remember thinking your skin looked as if it would feel like chamois. I was fascinated by your hands. Your strict, sexy mouth.”
Rachel changed her mind and reached casually for the wineglass on the bureau. Her hands weren’t entirely steady; she used both of them to hold the stem and lifted the glass to her lips. The wine was sweet and bracing. She kept the glass, staring into its burgundy depths, pretending absorption.
“I wanted to see your hair in the light. I asked you to go to the window and draw the curtains wider.”
She looked up, remembering. “It was raining.”
“Yes.”
A perfectly ordinary day. Nothing stood out; nothing had happened between them that she could recall.
“The maid came. Susan, the Irish one. She asked you a question, some household inquiry that couldn’t wait. She was nervous—she knew she wasn’t supposed to interrupt his lordship’s morning conference with his housekeeper. I remember you smiled at her, spoke to her gently. Sweetly. She was afraid of me, but she trusted you. Loved you, I thought, because you were kind to her. When she went away, it struck me that I was jealous. I wanted you to smile at me. Speak gently to me.”
“But how could I—”
“You couldn’t. Of course. I knew it then, too. But I felt belligerent. ‘I fired one of the stable lads yesterday.’ I said—like a challenge. The servants loved you, I was sure, but they probably hated me. I’d discharged the boy because I saw him hit a horse, cuff a mare in the mouth with his fist because she wouldn’t follow him into her stall. No one else knew why I let him go; I didn’t mention it to anyone. ‘I fired a lad,’ I said to you, trying to sound as careless and mean as I knew you thought I was. With good reason. Do you remember this at all?”
She nodded faintly, but she was still bewildered.
“Do you know what you said to me? You said, ‘Don’t worry, my lord. Jerny told me Michael wasn’t good with the horses. And he has family in Wyckerley so he’ll be all right.’”
She stared back at him, unblinking.
“It was—so inappropriate. So uncalled for. I knew you weren’t a stupid or an insensitive woman. The only explanation for this bizarre show of sympathy and comfort for the man you had to know by then was your mortal enemy was a superior heart. Don’t look away, Rachel. A heart that neither cruelty nor perversion nor captivity had been able to crush. Had not even touched.”
She closed her eyes, unable to look at him any longer. When she heard him get up from the bed, she turned around, to stare out the window, as if the dark, watery view fascinated her. “You are . . . too much for me, Sebastian,” she managed to say watching her breath condense on the glass. “I’m afraid of you.”
He was standing directly behind her, but he didn’t touch her. “What you’re afraid of is being happy. And frankly, I’m disappointed in you. I believed you were stronger. I thought you hadn’t a cowardly bone in your body.”
“If you thought that, you don’t understand me at all.” She could feel his breath on the side of her neck, behind her ear.
“I understand you perfectly. Inside and out. Don’t let your fear win this war. Be brave one last time. I dearly love you. I swear I’ll protect you and care for you for the rest of our lives. Don’t throw away this last chance.”
She put her hands on the window ledge. She wanted to rest her head against the cool glass, but that would look too weak. Too cowardly. She felt a light touch on the crown of her head—a kiss?—and then Sebastian drew away.
She heard him moving furniture. She pivoted, and saw him drawing a chair up to the small table by the bed, and now he was sitting down and shaking out a big linen napkin. “You think about it while I eat,” he suggested, and began to inspect the contents of all the sandwiches, sniff the mushrooms, pour himself more wine.
She folded her arms and started to pace, eyeing him uneasily. “You should think of yourself,” she said. He cocked a questioning brow, his mouth full of bread and roast beef. “It’s true I’ve been cleared of the crime I went to gaol for, but I’m still a fallen woman, and I always will be.”
“How’s that?” He bit down on a mushroom pensively.
“Not because of what I did, but because of what was done to me. I’m a character now, an—object of interest. All your soaps and scents can’t wash away the stench of prison, Sebastian, or the memories people have of what Randolph did.”
“Being a countess could, though. You’d be amazed at how much respectability a title can buy, My own past isn’t exactly sterling, you’ll agree, but no one’s ever going to impugn me for it now.”
“But I’m a convict.”
“You were a convict. Now you’re a martyr. Any day now I expect you’ll be a heroine. And you’ll be the toast of London when we go up in November for the opening of Parliament.”
“The—what?”
“I sit in the House of Lords, you know. Occasionally. Now that I’m going to be respectable, a veritable country squire, I suppose I’ll have to attend more often. Hurry and make up your mind, darling, because I’ve just thought of an extremely interesting use to which we can put these berries.”
She flushed, feeling hot all over. “You have answers for everything,” she muttered. “Oh, God, I don’t know what to do!”
He stood up, and this time she didn’t back away; when he took her hands, she let him press them between his, over his heart. “Marry me, Rachel. I want you with me at Lynton for the rest of our lives. Having our children. Both of us in Devon, in this pretty village, living and working with the people who depend on us. Growing old together. I’ve given the house in Rye to my mother because I need to be here, and I’m needed here. But if you won’t have me, I don’t care where I am. I love you, darling, and you love me. Say it.”
“I love you.”
“Will you be my wife?”
“Yes.”
She came into his arms. They held each other, both trembling a little. She murmured, “I love you,” again, and told him how much, freely, truthfully, not holding back. If they had wasted time, been afraid, made mistakes before this minute, it didn’t matter anymore. Rain pattered against the window; the mantel clock ticked; embers snapped and sizzled in the fireplace grate. Their hearts beat together, and this moment was perfect.
He kissed her. They seemed to drift toward the bed, sink down on it without conscious thought. She kissed his hands when he let her, but he was busy with them, and he touched her in a new way, with a slow, urgent tendernes
s she could hardly bear. Her borrowed gown was half unfastened before she realized what they were doing, or about to do.
She brought his hands to her mouth to still them. “Sebastian, stop, we can’t do this here,” she whispered—as if someone might be listening at the door.
“Why not?” He grinned at her. His hair was mussed from her fingers, his lips pink from kissing.
“Because. This is the vicarage.”
“Christy won’t mind. If we stay, somebody can put up a sign one day: ‘A countess slept here.’”
She rolled her eyes. “I doubt that I would do much sleeping.”
“Well, then the sign can say, ‘A countess—’”
“Hush.” She put her fingers over his laughing lips. Before he could reach for her, she stood up and backed away from the bed, smiling at him, buttoning her dress. “Let’s go home.”
“Home.” The word convinced him. He said it again, “Home,” as he rose from the bed and came to her, and she loved the sound of it in his voice.
They took hands. He opened the door for her. In the threshold he paused, and she turned to see him gazing back into the room. “What?” she asked, puzzled. “Did we forget something?”
“Definitely.”
“What?”
“The bilberries.”
Their laughter, his and hers, rang out as she pulled him from the room. The gay sound would follow them down through the years, keeping them company for the rest of their lives.
If you’ve fallen in love with Wyckerley, don’t miss the other marvelous novels in Patricia Gaffney’s beloved trilogy. Return to the place where enchanting romance and unexpected passions meet . . .
TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH
and
FOREVER AND EVER
Available now from InterMix
Keep reading for a special early preview . . .
To Love and To Cherish
EVEN ON HIS DEATHBED, Lord D’Aubrey was a hard man to love.
God, give me patience and humility, prayed Reverend Christian Morrell, who was in the business, as it were, of loving the unlovable. Leaning over the bed but not touching it—ill as he was, the elderly viscount still bristled when anyone except his doctor got too close—Christy asked his lordship if he would take the sacraments.