A Wild Pursuit

by Eloisa James

  “Very good! Very good!” Lady Bonnington trumpeted. “I’ve always been fond of ‘Wherefore art thou, Romeo’?” She turned to her son. “Do you remember when we saw Edmund Kean perform as Romeo last year, dear?”

  Sebastian frowned at her. He had the feeling that something quite important was happening and—more important—it looked to be the kind of event that might derail Esme’s patently artificial engagement to Fairfax-Lacy. Lady Beatrix seemed to be a handful, but the way Fairfax-Lacy was looking at her, he was ready to take on the task.

  Meanwhile Stephen looked down at Bea and felt as if his heart would burst with pure exhilaration. She was wooing him, his own darling girl had decided to woo him. He glanced down at the book. “‘But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.’” His eyes told her silently the same things he read: She was his east, his sun, his life. But she hardly glanced at him, the silly girl, just kept looking at her book as if she might lose courage.

  Bea gripped her book as if holding its pages would force her fingers to stop trembling. She was doing it: she was stealing him, taking him, ruining him…“‘Good night, good night!’” she said steadily, “‘As sweet repose and rest come to thy heart as that within my breast!’” She risked a look at him. The tender smile in his eyes was all she ever wanted in life. She took a deep breath and kept reading until there it was before her. She glanced at the group watching: met Esme’s laughing eyes, and Helene’s steady gray ones, Sebastian Bonnington’s sardonic, sympathetic gaze, and Lady Bonnington’s look of dawning understanding. Then she turned back to Stephen.

  She had no need of the book, so she closed it and put it to the side. “‘If that thy bent of love be honorable,’” she said clearly, ‘ “thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow…’”

  But his voice joined hers as he held out his hands. “‘Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite, and all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay, and follow thee my lord throughout the world.’”

  “I will,” Stephen said, smiling at her in a way that broke her heart and mended it again, all in one moment. “I will, Bea, I will.”

  “You will?” she asked with a wobbly smile, clinging to his hands. “You will?”

  “What’s that? Part of the play?” Mr. Barret-Ducrorq said. “Quite the actor, isn’t he?”

  “I will marry you,” Stephen said. His voice rang in the room.

  Bea’s knees trembled with the shock of it. The smile on her lips was in her heart. She’d wooed a man. His mouth was hungry, violent, possessive, and she nestled into him like the very picture of—of a wife.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Stephen said a moment later. He turned, his arm snug around Bea. “May I present the future Mrs. Fairfax-Lacy?”

  Esme was laughing. Marquess Bonnington bellowed, “Good man!” Even Lady Bonnington gave a sedate little nod of her head, although she quickly turned to Esme. “You would appear to have lost your fiancé,” she observed. And then, “How fortuitous that your mother left this morning.”

  “Yes, isn’t it lucky,” Esme said, smiling at her.

  Stephen pulled Bea away to sit next to him on the settee, where he could presumably whisper things in her ear not meant for public discussion. Esme straightened her shoulders. Her heart was hammering in her chest from nerves. “I shall read from the Bible,” she said, picking up the book from the table and walking to the front of the room. It was Miles’s Bible that she carried, the family Bible, into which she had written William’s name. But she had the feeling that Miles approved, almost as if he were there in the room, with his blue eyes and sweet smile.

  “It is a pleasure to see a young widow immerse herself in the Lord’s words,” Mrs. Cable said loudly. “I believe I have set an example in that respect.”

  “You’re not a widow yet,” her husband said sourly.

  Sebastian was the picture of sardonic boredom. Obviously he thought that Esme was merely cultivating her Sewing Circle, quoting the Bible in the hopes of polishing her reputation. Esme swallowed. He was looking down at his drink, and all she could see was the dark gold of his hair. “I shall read from the Song of Solomon,” she said. Sebastian’s head swung up sharply.

  “‘The song of songs, which is Solomon’s,’” she read, steadying her voice. “‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.’”

  “Didn’t she say that she was going to read from the Bible?” Mr. Barret-Ducrorq asked, in great confusion.

  “Hush!” Lady Bonnington said. She was sitting bolt upright, her stick clutched in her hands. Her eyes were shining and—wonder of wonders—she was smiling.

  Esme kept reading. “‘Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.’”

  Abruptly Sebastian stood up. Mrs. Cable was looking at him. Esme looked at him too, telling him the truth with every word she read. “‘My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.’”

  He strode toward her, skirting his mother’s chair, the settee, Mrs. Cable sitting in rigid horror.

  “‘For lo, the winter is past,’” Esme said softly, only for him. “‘The rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth.’”

  He was there before her, taking the book away, taking her hands in his large ones. She looked up at him.

  “‘My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.’”

  His arms closed around her with hungry violence. A shudder ran through Esme’s body as she lifted her mouth to his. How could she ever have thought that anything mattered more than Sebastian, her love, her deep center, her heart.

  He tore his mouth from hers for a moment. “I love you,” he said hoarsely.

  Joy raced through Esme’s body, sang between them.

  “And ‘I am sick with love for you,’” she said softly, repeating the beautiful old words of the ancient book.

  Mrs. Cable’s mouth snapped shut. She grabbed her husband by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “I am appalled!” she hissed. “Appalled!”

  Lady Rawlings didn’t heed her, crushed as she was into that degenerate marquess’s arms. Mrs. Cable could see what had happened. She had lost the battle for the widow’s soul, yes, and the devil had won. Lust and Lasciviousness ruled this house.

  “We are leaving!”

  She turned to go and found her way blocked by Marchioness Bonnington. “I pity you!” Mrs. Cable croaked, narrowing her eyes. “But perhaps your son is well matched by such a lightskirt.”

  “I daresay he is,” the marchioness replied. There was something in her eyes that gave Mrs. Cable pause. “Surely you wish to give the happy couple your congratulations before you leave so precipitously?”

  But Mrs. Cable had a backbone to match the marchioness’s. “I do not,” she said, fixing her beady eyes on Lady Bonnington. “And if you would inform your dissolute daughter-in-law that her services are no longer desired in the Sewing Circle, I would be most grateful.”

  The marchioness stepped back, something to Mr. Cable’s relief. He was beginning to fear that his wife would actually pummel a peeress of the realm.

  “I should be most happy to fulfill your request,” Lady Bonnington said.

  The smile that played around the marchioness’s mouth so enraged Mrs. Cable that she didn’t even realize for several hours that the rest of her Sewing Circle had not followed her from the room.

  Alas, it was the demise of that excellent institution.

  A month or so later, Mrs. Cable began a Knitting Circle drawn from women in the village, priding herself on bringing the Lord’s words to illiterate laborers. Without her leadership, the Sewing Circle drifted into dissolute activities such as attending Lady Rawlings’s wedding to the degenerate marquess. Society noted that Lady Rawlings’s mother did not attend. But the smiling presence of Marchioness Bonnington, and the weight of her formidable power in the ton, established the marriage as the most fashionable event of the season.
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br />   Rather more quietly, Lady Beatrix Lennox married Mr. Fairfax-Lacy from her own house, with only her immediate family in attendance. It was rumored that her only attendants were her sisters, and that they wore daisy chains on their heads, which sounded odd indeed. The newly wed couple returned to London, and by the time that society really noticed what had happened, and with whom, the new Mrs. Fairfax-Lacy proved to have such powerful friends that hardly more than a murmur was heard of her blackened reputation. Besides, the Tory party quickly realized that she showed considerable potential as a political wife.

  Helene, Countess Godwin, traveled to attend her friend the Duchess of Girton’s confinement. Through the whole summer and fall she brooded on the child she was determined to have. By hook or by crook, with the help of her husband, or without him.

  But that’s a story for another day….

  The First Epilogue

  Plump as a Porker

  Esme started awake, as always, with a bolt of fear. Where was William? Was he all right? A second later she realized that what had woken her was a chuckle, a baby’s chuckle. The curtains were open and early sunlight was streaming into the room. Sebastian was standing in front of the window, wearing only pantaloons. His shoulders were a ravishing spread of muscles. And there, just peeking over his left shoulder, was a tiny curled fist, waving in the air.

  A cascade of baby giggles erupted into the room.

  Sebastian was dancing William up and down on his arm. The question of chilly drafts leaped into Esme’s throat. She never let William go anywhere near a window. But then…it felt as if high summer had come. Sebastian spun around and William screamed with laughter. He was sitting on the crook of Sebastian’s arm, and he wasn’t even wearing a nappy.

  Esme’s heart skipped a beat. She never took all William’s clothes off at once!

  But the baby was clutching Sebastian’s hair and squealing. Sebastian obligingly bounced him up into the air again. Esme found herself looking at a stunningly beautiful man, all muscles and smooth golden skin, and tumbling curls.

  And then, suddenly, she looked at William. It was rather like looking sideways and suddenly catching sight of oneself in the mirror without recognizing who it is. Because the naked man in her bedchamber was holding one of the fattest, healthiest, happiest babies she’d ever seen.

  That was William. Her sickly, fragile son?

  Esme’s mouth fell open.

  Sebastian still didn’t know she was watching. He was holding William in the air and laughing up at him. Pudgy little legs kicked with delight. “You love that, don’t you, son,” he said. And every time he jiggled William, the baby giggled and giggled. Until Sebastian nestled him back against his chest. It was when Sebastian was kissing William’s curls that he caught sight of Esme’s wide eyes.

  He was clearly unsure of Esme’s reaction to William’s undressed state. “He loves it, Esme,” he said quickly. “See?” And he tickled William’s plump little tummy. Sure enough, William leaned back against his shoulder and giggled so hard that all his fat little bits shook with delight. And there were many parts jiggling.

  “He is healthy, isn’t he?” Esme said with awe.

  “He’s a porker,” Sebastian said.

  “Oh my goodness,” Esme breathed. “I just—I didn’t—”

  Sebastian brought William over to the bed. “I promise you that he’s not chilled, Esme. Not in the slightest. I never would have removed his clothes if I thought he might take a chill.”

  William lay on the coverlet kicking his legs and waving his arms, gleefully celebrating freedom from three layers of woolens.

  “It’s summer, Esme,” Sebastian said gently. “Roses are blooming in the arbor. And I do believe some exercise will do him good.” He rolled the baby over. William squealed with delight and then poked up his large head inquisitively. “He’s gaining some control over his neck,” Sebastian said, looking as pleased as if William had taken a top degree at Oxford University.

  Esme opened her mouth—and stopped.

  The sun was shining down on the sturdy little baby’s body, on his brown hair that was so like his father Miles’s hair. Onto his unsteady head, blue eyes blinking up at Sebastian with precisely the sweetness that Miles had given to him.

  And there, at the very base of his spine, was a small spangled mark. A mark that hadn’t been there at his birth, but was indubitably present now.

  “Sebastian,” she said quietly. There was something in her voice that made him turn to her immediately. “Look.”

  Sebastian stared at the bottom of his son’s spine and didn’t say a word.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it looks very much like the mark I have at the base of my spine,” he said slowly. He looked puzzled rather than joyous. Then, after a moment, he laughed. “I was right! He may have suddenly become my blood relation, but I already loved him with every bit of my heart.”

  Esme looked up at him, eyes brimming. “Oh, Sebastian, what would I ever do without you?”

  He stared at her for a moment, and then a little crooked smile curled his mouth. “I won’t answer that, because it will never happen.”

  William rolled over, his naked little arms waving in the air. His mama and papa weren’t watching him wave at the dust fairies playing in a ray of sunshine. They were locked in each other’s arms, and his papa was kissing his mama in that way he had: as if she were the most delectable, desirable, wonderful person in the world. And she was kissing him back, as if she would throw away the world and all its glories merely to be in his arms.

  William giggled again and kicked the air, scattering dust fairies like golden stars in all directions.

  The Second Epilogue

  In Which a Puritan Loses His Reputation

  It was high summer. The air was heavy with dust and smoke, and the streets smelled of ripe manure. The odor crept into the houses of the very rich, even into an occasion as grand as Lady Trundlebridge’s yearly ball, where bunches of lavender could do nothing for the stench. “Paugh!” exclaimed the Honorable Gerard Bunge as he held a heavily scented handkerchief to his nose. “I cannot abide the end of the season. Even I must needs think of the country, and you know I loathe the very sight of sheep.”

  “I feel precisely the same way,” his cousin, Lady Felicia Saville, sighed, fluttering her fan so quickly that it would have ruffled hair less severely tamed by a curling iron. “London is simply abominable at the end of the season.” She straightened and snapped shut her fan, making up her mind on the moment. “I shall leave for the country tomorrow, Gerard. The season is over. This ball, for example, is unutterably tedious.”

  Gerard nodded. “Nothing left but the dregs of gossip, m’dear. Did you catch a glimpse of Fairfax-Lacy and his bride?”

  “A doomed marriage,” she said, with some satisfaction. Alas, Lady Felicia Saville was something of a personal expert on the subject. “A man of such reputation marrying the notorious Lady Beatrix!” Her high-pitched laughter said it all. “Do you know, I believe I saw Sandhurst earlier. Perhaps she will recommence her alliance now she is safely married. Given Lady Ditcher’s interruption, I would say their encounter left, shall we say, something to be desired?”

  Gerard tittered appreciatively. “You do have a way with words, Cousin. Look: Lady Beatrix is dancing with Lord Pilverton. She is rather exquisite; you can’t fault Sandhurst for taste.”

  But Felicia had never been fond of musing over other women’s attractions, particularly those of women like Lady Beatrix, who appeared to have a flair for fashion rivaling her own. “I should like to walk in the garden, Gerard,” she commanded.

  “My red heels!” he protested. “They’re far too delicate for gravel paths.”

  “And far too out of fashion to protect. This year no one wears red heels other than yourself, although I haven’t wanted to mention it.” And she swept through the great double doors into the garden, her cousin reluctantly trailing behind her.

  They weren’t the only
people to escape the stuffy ballroom. The narrow little paths of Lady Trundlebridge’s garden were fairly heaving with sweaty members of the aristocracy, their starched neckcloths hanging limply around their necks. Stephen Fairfax-Lacy, for example, was striding down a path as if he could create a breath of fresh air just by moving quickly. Bea had talked him into giving up his pipe, and while he thought that it was a good idea on the whole, there were moments when he longed for nothing more than the smell of Virginia tobacco. Thinking of Bea, and pipes, he turned the corner and found himself face-to-face with—

  Sandhurst.

  Bea’s Sandhurst. The man disreputable enough to seduce a young girl in a drawing room. The man who’d ruined Bea’s reputation.

  Sandhurst was a sleek-looking man, with his hair swept into ordered curls and a quizzing glass strung on his chest by a silver chain. He took one look at Fairfax-Lacy and didn’t bother with prevarication. “I offered to marry her,” he said, his voice squeaking upward.

  Stephen didn’t even hear him. He was stripping off his coat. There was a reason why he’d trained in Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon, day after day for the past ten years. True, he hadn’t known what it was, but now he realized.

  “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy!” Sandhurst squealed, backing up. “Couldn’t we simply discuss this like gentlemen?”

  “Like what?” Stephen asked, advancing on him with the slow, lethal tread of a wolf. “Like gentlemen?”

  “Yes!” Sandhurst gulped.

  “You forfeited that title a few years ago,” Stephen said, coming in with a swift uppercut. There was a satisfying thunk of fist on bone. Sandhurst reeled back, hand to his jaw.

  “Fight!” yelled an enthusiastic voice at Stephen’s shoulder. He paid no mind. His arm shot out. A sledge-hammer, in Jackson’s best manner. Sandhurst fell back, tripped, and landed on his ass. Stephen was conscious of a thrum of disappointment. Was the man simply going to stand there and play the part of a punching bag? He watched dispassionately as Sandhurst picked himself off the gravel.