Dearly Beloved

by Mary Jo Putney

  Wrapping one arm around his chest to pull herself even closer, she said what should have been said months earlier, when he had needed to hear it. "You need never be jealous about me, Gervase. I came to London to find a man, and after we met, I knew that man was you. There had never been anyone else before, and there never will be again."

  "Because I believe that," he said, his deep voice thick with emotion, "the obsession is gone. Jealousy came from fear of losing you. It's vanished in the presence of love and trust."

  Diana raised her face for another kiss, then rolled over, her back fitting against his front in the way that was so particularly comfortable. As she was settling in, she remembered what the count had said. "I'm not sure what he meant, but Veseul was raving about destroying Wellesley."

  As closely as possible she repeated what he had said, adding, "Do you think it means anything?"

  Frowning, Gervase evaluated her words. "I hadn't the evidence to prove it, but I've believed that Veseul was the most dangerous French spy in England, a man who called himself the Phoenix. He was clever and he was received everywhere. It's quite conceivable that he was plotting against Wellesley. I think the army inquiry will acquit him and he will be given another command, but Veseul could have fabricated some scandal that would discredit Wellesley permanently."

  His voice hard, he added, "There will be no more damage from that direction." One of his hands cupped her breast as his mind continued to work. "I suspect that he overheard us talking in Vauxhall that night before I left, which is how the French knew I was coming. As for the information that I left overnight in your drawing room being discovered... is there any servant in your house who might be an informant for Veseul?"

  As pleasurable sensations spread from her breast, it was hard for Diana to think clearly, but she tried. "We have a French cook. She talked her way into the position and I've never understood why. She is good enough to command the kitchen of a much larger establishment."

  "Perhaps that's the answer," Gervase agreed, his hand stroking lower on her body. "Now that Veseul is dead it probably doesn't matter, especially since you will be leaving the house on Charles Street."

  She rolled on her back, making it easier for his hand to rove over her, and for hers to rove back. "Does that mean you want me to move in with you?"

  "Was there any question?" he asked with surprise. "I assumed you and Geoffrey and Edith would come to St. Aubyn House. It could use some life and laughter." He smiled. "I imagine that Farnsworth has other plans for Madeline."

  She laughed. "I just wanted to hear you say it. I enjoyed being your mistress, but I am looking forward even more to being your wife."

  "Not half as much as I'm looking forward to that," he said, his voice rich with happiness. "I don't ever want to spend another night apart from you."

  He leaned over to capture her mouth as his hand probed the moist, waiting depths of her. She moaned, wanting to dissolve in the rising tide of pleasure, but knowing one more matter must be mentioned. "There is something I must tell you."

  His hand stilled and she opened her eyes to see him regarding her questioningly. Before his imagination could conjure up anything too lurid, she said shyly, "I... I think I'm pregnant again. I know that it is too early to be sure"—she unconsciously touched a sensitive breast—"but I felt the same way with Geoffrey."

  She had thought he would be pleased, but seeing the expression on his face, she was no longer sure. "I'm sorry," she said uncertainly. "It was the night you returned from the Continent. I wasn't expecting you so I wasn't prepared. Are you angry?"

  "What right do I have to be angry? We are equally responsible." His voice was light, but when he raised his hand to her cheek his fingers were cold and she saw the fear in his eyes. "You said you almost died when Geoffrey was born."

  Understanding, she relaxed. "That was because I was young and small for my age, still growing. It won't be like that this time. The midwife said that since I was strong enough to survive that first delivery, I shouldn't have problems in the future."

  She saw the shadow of anxiety still in his eyes, and laid her hand over his. "I promise it will be all right."

  His answering smile was sheepish. "I have the feeling this pregnancy is going to be much harder on me than on you. But this time I will be there at the end as well as at the beginning."

  "I talked to Geoffrey's physician about whether another child of ours might have seizures."

  "And...?"

  She shrugged. "He said it was possible. Not likely, but there's no way to be sure."

  Gervase relaxed. "If another child turns out half as well as Geoffrey, I'll be satisfied, seizures or no seizures. Whatever comes, together we can deal with it."

  Worries allayed, he became more enthusiastic. "I hope that this time it's a girl," he said thoughtfully. "With lapis-blue eyes and the ability to enchant any man who comes near her."

  Diana linked her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. "Or with gray eyes and a stubborn streak. Or twins. It doesn't matter."

  Sliding her hand under the blanket, she gloried in the passionate response that she found. "At the moment I'm far more interested in the present than the future. Aren't you?"

  * * *

  In the morning they joined Geoffrey in the nursery for breakfast. Their son beamed, as proud as if he had been the one to invent the idea of "family." He beamed even more when he learned that soon he would no longer be the smallest Brandelin.

  With half the government under Gervase's roof, it was easy to put out the story that the distinguished French royalist, the Count de Veseul, had succumbed to a sudden heart seizure. No one was anxious to let it be known that a spy had been intimate with so many important men.

  When she heard the news, the French cook hastily decamped from the town house at 17 Charles Street.

  Francis Brandelin and his friend left England unshadowed by scandal. His letters from Greece were filled with the usual tourist talk of temples and antiquities, but their real subject was happiness.

  In late autumn Madeline became Lady Farnsworth in a quiet ceremony attended by Lord and Lady St. Aubyn. Though the new Lady Farnsworth's past was obscure, her disposition was so agreeable that only the most ferociously snobbish refused to receive her. And Maddy and Nicholas didn't give a damn about them.

  General Sir Arthur Wellesley was cleared in the military inquiry in November and sent back to the Peninsula. After his tremendous victory at the Battle of Talavera in July 1809, he was created a viscount. The title he chose was Wellington.

  Gervase gave Diana a free hand to make St. Aubyn House more welcoming, a task she accomplished to his complete satisfaction. One of her first acts was to install a fitted tub in the master suite.

  Several months later, when browsing in the library, Diana came upon a verse written by Jonathan Swift. The lines had been scribbled on the certificate of a marriage Dean Swift had performed, and they were so perfectly, ironically amusing that Diana had them engraved inside the lid of a silver box, which she gave to Gervase for their second Christmas together. The lines read:

  Under an oak, in stormy weather,

  I joined this rogue and whore together;

  And none but he who rules the thunder

  Can put this rogue and whore asunder.

  The End

  Want more from Mary Jo Putney?

  Page forward for a note from the author

  followed by excerpts.

  Historical Note

  Gervase's mission to Denmark was based on an actual event. However, instead of a tall, dark, and handsome aristocrat, the real hero was a "short, stout, merry little monk," a Scottish Benedictine named James Robertson. Sir Arthur Wellesley, the future Duke of Wellington, himself commended Robertson to Foreign Minister Canning. Later Robertson did diplomatic work for Wellington. Later still, he was known for his pioneering work with the deaf and the blind.

  Page forward for A Note on Epilepsy

  followed by an excerpt from


  THUNDER AND ROSES

  Fallen Angel Series

  Book One

  A Note on Epilepsy

  Even now, epilepsy is a little understood condition that can arouse fear and prejudice. Nonetheless, in the past as well as the present, many people with epilepsy lived reasonably normal lives.

  In Great Britain the terms "seizure" and "fit" are both used, and that usage is reflected in this book. However, I would like to note that in the United States, the preferred term is "seizure." I would also like to give a special thanks to the staff of the Epilepsy Association of Maryland for their help.

  Page forward for an excerpt from

  THUNDER AND ROSES

  Fallen Angel Series

  Book One

  Excerpt from

  Thunder and Roses

  Fallen Angel Series

  Book One

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  Wales, March 1814

  They called him the Demon Earl, or sometimes Old Nick. Hushed voices whispered that he had seduced his grandfather's young wife, broken his grandfather's heart, and driven his own bride to her grave.

  They said he could do anything.

  Only the last claim interested Clare Morgan as her gaze followed the man racing his stallion down the valley as if all the fires of hell pursued him. Nicholas Davies, the Gypsy Earl of Aberdare, had finally come home, after four long years. Perhaps he would stay, but it was equally possible that he would be gone again tomorrow. Clare must act quickly.

  Yet she lingered a little longer, knowing that he would never see her in the cluster of trees from which she watched. He rode bareback, flaunting his wizardry with horses, dressed in black except for the scarlet scarf knotted around his throat. He was too far away for her to see his face. She wondered if he had changed, then decided that the real question was not if, but how much. Whatever the truth behind the violent events that had driven him away, it had to have been searing.

  Would he remember her? Probably not. He'd only seen her a handful of times, and she had been a child then. Not only had he been Viscount Tregar, but he was four years older than she, and older children seldom paid much attention to younger ones.

  The reverse was not true.

  As she walked back to the village of Penreith, she reviewed her pleas and arguments. One way or another, she must persuade the Demon Earl to help. No one else could make a difference.

  * * *

  For a few brief minutes, while his stallion blazed across the estate like a mad wind, Nicholas was able to lose himself in the exhilaration of pure speed. But reality closed in again when the ride ended and he returned to the house.

  In his years abroad he had often dreamed of Aberdare, torn between yearning and fear of what he would find there. The twenty-four hours since his return had proved that his fears had been justified. He'd been a fool to think that four years away could obliterate the past. Every room of the house, every acre of the valley, held memories. Some were happy ones, but they had been overlaid by more recent events, tainting what he had once loved. Perhaps, in the furious moments before he died, the old earl had laid a curse on the valley so that his despised grandson would never again know happiness here.

  Nicholas walked to the window of his bedroom and stared out. The valley was as beautiful as ever—wild in the heights, lushly cultivated lower down. The delicate greens of spring were beginning to show. Soon there would be daffodils. As a boy, he had helped the gardeners plant drifts of bulbs under the trees, getting thoroughly muddy in the process. His grandfather had seen it as further proof of Nicholas's low breeding.

  He raised his eyes to the ruined castle that brooded over the valley. For centuries those immensely thick walls had been both fortress and home to the Davies family. More peaceful times had led Nicholas's great-great-grandfather to build the mansion considered suitable for one of Britain's wealthiest families.

  Among many other advantages, the house had plenty of bedrooms. Nicholas had been grateful for that the previous day. He never considered using the state apartment that had been his grandfather's. Entering his own rooms proved to be a gut-wrenching experience, for it was impossible to see his old bed without imagining Caroline in it, her lush body naked and her eager arms beckoning. He had retreated immediately to a guest room that was safely anonymous, like an expensive hotel.

  Yet even there, he slept poorly, haunted by bad dreams and worse memories. By morning, he had reached the harsh conclusion that he must sever all ties with Aberdare. He would never find peace of mind here, any more than he had in four years of constant, restless travel.

  Might it be possible to break the entail so that the estate could be sold? He must ask his lawyer. The thought of selling made him ache with emptiness. It would be like cutting off an arm—yet if a limb was festering, there was no other choice.

  Still, selling would not be wholly without compensations. It pleased Nicholas to know that getting rid of the place would give his grandfather the ghostly equivalent of apoplexy, wherever the hypocritical old bastard was now.

  Abruptly he spun on his heel, stalked out of his bedroom, and headed downstairs to the library. How to live the rest of his life was a topic too dismal to contemplate, but he could certainly do something about the next few hours. With a little effort and a lot of brandy, they could be eliminated entirely.

  * * *

  Clare had never been inside Aberdare before. It was as grand as she had expected, but gloomy, with most of the furniture still concealed under holland covers. Four years of emptiness had made the place forlorn as well. The butler, Williams, was equally gloomy. He hadn't wanted to take Clare to the earl without first announcing her, but he had grown up in the village, so she was able to persuade him. He escorted her down a long corridor, then opened the door to the library. "Miss Clare Morgan to see you, my lord. She said her business is urgent."

  Taking a firm grip on her courage, Clare walked past Williams into the library, not wanting to give the earl time to refuse her. If she failed today, she wouldn't get another chance.

  The earl stood by a window, staring out across the valley. His coat had been tossed over a chair, and his shirt-sleeved informality gave him a rakish air. Odd that he had been known as Old Nick; even now, he was scarcely thirty.

  As the door closed behind Williams, the earl turned, his forbidding gaze going right to Clare. Though not unusually tall, he radiated power. She remembered that even at the age when most lads were gawky, he had moved with absolute physical mastery.

  On the surface, he seemed much the same. If anything, he was even more handsome than he had been four years ago. She would not have thought that possible. But he had indeed changed; she saw it in his eyes. Once they had brimmed with teasing laughter that invited others to laugh with him. Now they were as impenetrable as polished Welsh flint. The duels and flagrant affairs and public scandals had left their mark.

  As she hesitated, wondering if she should speak first, he asked, "Are you related to Reverend Thomas Morgan?"

  "His daughter. I'm the schoolmistress in Penreith."

  His bored gaze flicked over her. "That's right, sometimes he had a grubby brat in tow."

  Stung, she retorted, "I wasn't half as grubby as you were."

  "Probably not," he agreed, a faint smile in his eyes. "I was a disgrace. During lessons, your father often referred to you as a model of saintly decorum. I hated you sight unseen."

  It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Hoping that it would irritate him, Clare said sweetly, "And to me, he said that you were the cleverest boy he had ever taught, and that you had a good heart in spite of your wildness."

  "Your father's judgment leaves much to be desired," the earl said, his momentary levity vanishing. "As the preacher's daughter, I assume you are seeking funds for some boring, worthy cause. Apply to my steward in the future rather than bothering me. Good day, Miss Morgan."

  He was starting to turn away when she
said quickly, "What I wish to discuss is not a matter for your steward."

  His mobile lips twisted. "But you do want something, don't you? Everyone does."

  He strolled to a decanter-covered cabinet and refilled a glass that he had been carrying. "Whatever it is, you won't get it from me. Noblesse oblige was my grandfather's province. Kindly leave while the atmosphere is still civil."

  She realized uneasily that he was well on his way to being drunk. Well, she had dealt with drunks before. "Lord Aberdare, people in Penreith are suffering, and you are the only man in a position to make a difference. It will cost you very little in time or money..."

  "I don't care how little is involved," he said forcefully. "I don't want anything to do with the village, or the people who live in it! Is that clear? Now get the hell out."

  Clare felt her stubbornness rising. "I am not asking for your help, my lord, I am demanding it," she snapped. "Shall I explain now, or should I wait until you're sober?"

  He regarded her with amazement. "If anyone here is drunk, it would appear to be you. If you think your sex will protect you from physical force, you're wrong. Will you go quietly, or am I going to have to carry you out?" He moved toward her with purposeful strides, his white, open-throated shirt emphasizing the intimidating breadth of his shoulders.

  Resisting the impulse to back away, Clare reached into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out the small book that was her only hope. Opening the volume to the handwritten inscription, she held it up for him to see. "Do you remember this?"

  The message was a simple one. Reverend Morgan—I hope that some day I will be able to repay all you have done for me. Affectionately, Nicholas Davies.

  The schoolboy scrawl stopped the earl as if he had been struck. His wintry gaze shifted from the book to Clare's face. "You play to win, don't you? However, you're holding the wrong hand. Any obligation I might feel would be toward your father. If he wants favors, he should ask for them in person."