by Emma Wildes
surprised him, because he’d always viewed the concept of children as an abstract one. Yes, one
got married and in the natural course of things, offspring were created. But Brianna ripe with his
babe, their child: unexpectedly, the idea moved him.
“Is something wrong, Colton?” His wife cocked her head to the side, a faint frown between her
fine brows. “You have the strangest look on your face. I know you aren’t much for this kind of
game, but—”
“Games in general are not my usual fare, but I don’t mind.” He smiled. “And I think that’s a fine
rock. Quartz, I believe.”
“Is it?” She looked at her hand and brightened. “Rather lovely, if I say so.”
“Dazzling,” he agreed, looking at her, not the damned rock.
His pretty wife blushed, catching the inference and the direction of his gaze. “You are not going
to participate in this hunt, are you?”
“I’ll carry the rock, how is that?”
One dark gold brow inched upward in challenge. “What about the caterpillar?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The list is in your pocket. I believe we are supposed to find one. I would prefer you pick it up.”
“The list or the caterpillar?”
“Definitely the latter. Stop teasing me. What else do we need to find?”
Teasing her? Well, he supposed he was. Odd. He didn’t tease. Bemused, Colton obligingly dug
out the piece of vellum and studied it. “ ‘A red flower. An admirable stick’—how the devil can a
stick be admirable, anyway?”
“How should I know? Your grandmother made up the list and it is her wording.” Brianna
laughed. “I do know it is a glorious day, the sun is shining, and our guests are scrambling all over
themselves to beat us in finding the selected items. Shall we continue now that we have settled
the matter of the rock? It would hardly do for us to come in last.”
The term “come” took on a whole new meaning when spoken by his luscious wife, but the sexual
inference was hardly appropriate to the moment, and she clearly had no idea she’d brought an
erotic image to mind. Colton took the piece of quartz, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and
followed her across the lawn. They managed to collect the whole list, including an unhappy
bright green caterpillar he had to cradle in his hand and prevent from crawling all over him.
When they finally returned to the terrace, his grandmother sat there in all her glory, presiding
over the hunt with more animation than Colton had seen on her face in years, and her cane
actually set aside.
Robert, who had been paired with one of the Campbell sisters—Colton couldn’t tell them apart—
also held a wooly worm. The resigned look on his face suggested that he, too, thought the game
ridiculous.
However, for their grandmother and her delighted expression, Colton would have collected a
dozen such creatures and carted them around.
Damien joined them, muttering under his breath, “How rude would it be of us to retire to your
study for a brandy, Colt?”
“It isn’t even noon.”
“So? Aren’t you holding an insect? How often does that happen before noon—or ever, for that
matter? I, for one, need a drink.”
His brother had a point. Colton said austerely, “I don’t think it can be actually classified as an
insect. Aren’t they required to have six legs? This definitely has a great many more.”
“This isn’t the time to debate over trifles.” Damien’s specimen was definitely the smallest and
least attractive, covered in mottled spots and bristles.
In the end they did have their brandy, escaping into his haven. Colton dismissed Mills with a
casual wave and a request to finish what they had discussed and report the next morning. His
secretary seemed astonished at the idea that Colton was going to take the rest of the afternoon off
work, he noted.
Maybe he did devote a bit too much time to business. Not all of it needed his individual attention.
Inside him still existed the unsure young man who’d had a dukedom and the responsibility of his
family thrust upon him, and he wasn’t sure how to let go of the compulsive need to see to each
and every detail. Maybe if his father had fallen ill and gradually wasted away he would have been
more prepared. One day his parent had been there, hale and hearty—and then he was gone.
It had shattered Colton’s world.
Taking a hearty gulp of brandy, Colton brought his attention back to the conversation at hand.
Such deep introspection unsettled him.
“. . . had to have the best damned red flower.” Robert was still grumbling about his partner for the
scavenger hunt. “I swear she examined every rose on the estate. Then we lost to Lord Emerson
and his partner anyway.”
“Grandmama had a grand time picking the winners,” Damien remarked. “Though I think her
selection has a great deal more to do with matchmaking than color and scent as she claimed.
Emerson and the oldest Campbell chit seem to have that particular starry-eyed glow when
together that makes me want to run straight back to Spain.”
“Rather difficult, that,” the Earl of Bonham—who had joined them—drawled, a small smile
spreading across his face, “the ocean being between here and there and all.”
“To drown myself in the attempt, then,” Damien countered, grinning, relaxed in a sprawl in his
chair. He lifted his hand. “And no, I don’t need any lectures on the virtue of getting leg-shackled
for life to one woman and settling into marital bliss. The French are challenge enough.”
“Bliss?” Bonham grinned. “Well, at times the term applies. The bedroom being the spot that
comes to mind.”
“One may have the same bliss without being tied to one woman for life,” Robert pointed out.
His younger brother should know, Colton thought. If ever there was a young man who had
sampled the bliss offered by England’s noted beauties, it was Robert. “I think we all have noticed
you subscribe to that philosophy, Robbie.”
“Who knows though,” Damien said, “if that might not all change? Maybe even soon.”
Colton’s interest sharpened. Was he missing something? When Damien spoke in that tone of
voice—meaning no tone at all—it was prudent to take notice. His younger brother rarely wasted
words. What was more, a small flicker crossed Robert’s face that could actually be construed as
an expression of consternation.
“Do you know something I don’t?” Colton asked bluntly, curious as hell, for it wasn’t often his
youngest brother became disconcerted over anything.
“No, he doesn’t.” Robert set down his glass and rose. “I think Damien is so used to playing spy
he feels he must drop cryptic remarks just to stay in practice. Please excuse me, gentlemen. I
have been forced into the musical performance this evening and need to make sure I haven’t
forgotten how to wield a bow.”
“You agreed to play?” This little house party was becoming more interesting by the minute.
Robert was notably reticent about his love of music.
“Your wife asked me, so how could I refuse? I believe she is doing her best to make this a
resounding success.” Robert elevated a brow. “I think we were just discussing how difficult I find
it to refuse a beautiful lady.”
After he left, Colton gaze
d at Damien. Bonham, too, looked curious. “What the devil is going
on?”
His brother laughed in his quiet way. “Let’s just say I have an interesting theory and leave it at
that, shall we?”
Brianna disliked parties that structured every moment of the day, so she left the afternoons free
for the guests, offering them the choices of long walks over the grounds, rides in the countryside,
relaxation in the enormous library, or a trip into the villages nearby if they wished for a bit of
shopping. She wouldn’t even have suggested the scavenger hunt that morning, but Colton’s
grandmother had insisted, and now Brianna was glad she’d agreed. For one thing, everyone
seemed to jump in with lighthearted enjoyment, and she got to spend some time with her husband
during the day, which was a rarity.
She, Arabella, and Rebecca had chosen her sitting room as a retreat, the décor at least not full of
flounces of lace, but more in the style of an elegant Louis Quatorze drawing room, with antique
French furniture and silk-covered walls. The color palate of lemon yellow and cream was
soothing and she’d already decided to extend it to her bedroom, though she was sure Colton
would insist they return to London the minute everyone departed. Mrs. Finnegan, she thought
with a sigh, could doubtless oversee the changes, though she would have loved to do so herself.
“You really couldn’t ask for nicer weather for this, Bri.” Arabella, pretty in a gown of sprigged
muslin, held her glass of sherry in a dainty hand. “Everyone has commented on it.”
“It’s lucky, I agree.” She nodded. “How dismal it would be for all of us to be trapped inside the
whole time.”
“And Lord Emerson and Belinda Campbell have definitely developed a penchant for each other.
A grand success for any hostess.” Rebecca smiled, her words teasing, but there was a set to her
shoulders that suggested a strain of some kind.
Brianna could all too easily guess what it might be. “I really did not dream your mother would
decide you and Damien would suit, Beck. Not that he isn’t a good catch, but the situation is
obviously making you uncomfortable. I will do my best to see to it you are not paired with him
all the time.”
“I like him—that isn’t the problem.” Rebecca made a face. “It is just so mortifying to be shoved
under his nose on a constant basis.”
“Besides,” Arabella said, looking sympathetic, “isn’t he going back to Spain? It would be
horrible if you were to form an attachment and he returned to the war.”
“I don’t think my parents see past his fortune and impending knighthood.” Rebecca glanced away
toward the window, a wistful look on her lovely face. “My feelings are taken less and less into
account as each day goes by.”
The confession Rebecca had made in the Marston’s music room back in London came to
Brianna’s mind.
. . . I’m in love . . . he isn’t suitable . . .
Brianna said impulsively, “Can’t Bella and I help in some way? You look so unbearably
miserable at times. I think you should tell her what you told me. It isn’t as though the three of us
keep anything from each other. Maybe it will ease things to talk about it.”
“Tell me what?” Arabella looked mystified, her brows drawing together.
Rebecca turned back and gave her a resigned smile. “I have an unfortunate affliction. It must be a
disease, mustn’t it, to fall in love with entirely the wrong man?”
“In love?” Arabella stared, repeating the words as if she’d never heard of the concept. “Oh dear.
That’s marvelous . . . or I suppose not. Why is he the wrong man?”
“She claims her parents wouldn’t approve,” Brianna chimed in.
“Why not? Unless he’s some stable boy . . . oh, he isn’t, is he?” Arabella seemed as much at a
loss as Brianna had been when she first heard of the problem.
Rebecca shook her head. “The two of you are wonderful in every way, but I can’t tell you.”
Brianna and Arabella looked at each other. If Rebecca hadn’t wiped a stray tear from the corner
of her eye in a surreptitious motion, Brianna might have just let the matter drop. Instead she said
firmly, “We always respect your privacy, Beck, you know we do. Trust us. Maybe it isn’t as
awful a situation as you think.”
“Trust is not the problem. Far from it, but it’s complicated.” She sighed and lifted a slim hand to
smooth a loosened lock of hair from her cheek. “Complicated and simple at the same time. My
parents are adamant I marry this season, and who can blame them? To their credit, they have no
idea what is truly going on. They just think I am being stubborn on the subject. I suppose I should
have said yes to the Marquess last year. He would have been . . . acceptable.”
Acceptable. Brianna thought of her feelings for Colton. Who wanted an acceptable husband,
especially if one was wildly in love with someone else? “This mystery man, does he return your
interest at all?”
“I think it is possible my interest is reciprocated, but good sense tells me that will be the extent of
it. I am probably a passing fancy, if I am that at all.”
“Maybe,” she said, “as I suggested before, Lady Rothburg can help you.”
Arabella let out an incredulous laugh. “Dear heaven, Bri, tell me you don’t still have that
scandalous book?”
“Of course I do.” Brianna smiled, unrepentant. “I assure you it is fascinating. I’ve read it from
cover to cover now.”
“I assure you no respectable woman is supposed to even glance at it.”
“It is somewhat fun to be un respectable now and again.” She thought of how much more ardent
her husband had become. His passion was no longer constrained, and the last time he had come to
her bed she had done nothing to provoke him. Not only had he forgotten his ritual of dousing the
lights, he had picked her up and nearly tossed her onto the bed as if he couldn’t wait.
It was exactly what she wanted. That elevated sexual sense of her as a woman, and not merely a
wife. As a woman who could, and would, please him.
And, she was beginning to discover, also enjoy herself. The enhanced experience was not
Colton’s alone. She shot a sideways look at Arabella, also newly married. “You know, you might
benefit from the book also. It’s quite enlightening. I wish I’d read it before, well, you know,
before.”
Arabella’s cheeks took on a pink hue at the allusion to her wedding night. “Would it have
helped? I mean, not that it was terrible or anything like that. Andrew was very understanding and
gentle, but I was so horribly nervous. It’s fine now.”
“That’s the point.” Brianna had a feeling she was blushing a little also. “It can be much, much
better than fine.” She looked at Rebecca. “The book isn’t strictly about intimate matters either,
Beck. Lady R has an entire chapter dedicated to how to make a reluctant man come up to scratch.
As a married woman, I didn’t really need to read that one, but it is all so fascinating I couldn’t
help myself. Lady R has personal experience in capturing the attention of any gentleman she
desires. She claims complete success in attaining her goal using certain techniques.”
“Actually, I was hoping you would lend me the book after all.” Rebecca’s voice held a slight
quiver. “Perhaps if I try. . . . My parents would be horrified, but I have come to the conclusion
that if I don’t do something soon, I will be forced to accept a proposal from a man of their choice,
not mine.”
“I think it is an excellent idea. As you both know, I am a great believer in Lady R’s methods.”
Brianna rose. “The book is in my room. Let me fetch it.”
She went into her bedchamber, recovered the tiny gold key from her dressing table, and dug out
the ornate antique box that had once belonged to her grandmother—who would be scandalized
beyond measure over the current contents—from the bottom of her armoire. The book sat against
faded velvet like a precious jewel—at least, that was how Brianna viewed her forbidden
possession. The cover was unassuming leather embossed with scarlet letters, and the pages well
worn. Brianna had wondered more than once about the previous owner or owners. She felt a
certainty that Lady Rothburg had helped many women before her, or surely the book would have
been destroyed rather than finding its way into that dusty little bookshop.
Brianna returned and handed over the volume. “Do try the chapter titled, ‘Never Forget You
Know What He Wants More Than He Does.’ ”
Rebecca stared at the cover, straightening her spine. “I wish I did know what he wants. I
definitely know what my father doesn’t want, but I have thought it over. . . . In truth, I’ve thought
of little else lately.” Her face took on a resolute expression. “I have come to the conclusion that
what I want should count for something. After all, it is my life and my happiness at stake.”
Brianna understood that sentiment all too well. It had made her purchase the book in the first
place. She said firmly, “The advice might be unconventional, I warn you, but trust Lady R to help
you, Beck.”
Chapter Twelve
The more effort he puts into the seduction, the more you should contemplate his sincerity.
From the chapter titled: “If It Isn’t Love, What Is It?”
The baroque drawing room was warm in the early evening. Or perhaps, Robert admitted to
himself, he was nervous. Not terribly so, but nervous enough his cravat felt tight even though he
had adjusted it twice. Playing for a crowd, even one as small as Brianna’s party of guests, was not