Sometimes a Rogue
Page 33
He raised her hand and kissed it. “You don’t have to say anything in return. Just . . . stay with me and be my wife for always.”
Sarah bit her lip and tears started in her eyes. “I didn’t realize the power of marriage, Robin. I didn’t know the bonds created by the physical intimacy, and even the simple fact of sharing a bed. Nor did I realize how day by day, building a life together turns two people from ‘you and me’ to ‘us’ as we face the world as one.”
She lifted his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “True love is placing one’s soul in another’s keeping. You have my soul, Rob. I love you, always and forever.”
She raised her face and he kissed her, awed by her honesty and sweetness. She was his beloved, his mate, his friend, his life.
His wife.
Epilogue
Kellington House, London, May 1813
As Sarah entered Rob’s dressing room, she said, “Are you ready for the dowager’s ‘my grandson the new earl is nowhere as dreadful as the family claimed’ ball?”
He laughed as he studied himself in the long mirror, making a minute adjustment to his cuffs. “For the sake of her own pride, she has to show very public support for me. She can’t admit that the new earl is a disgrace to the family name.”
“True, but she’s also getting rather fond of you.” Sarah chuckled. “I’ve counted at least half a dozen times when she has mentioned your resemblance to your grandfather, which is a major sign of approval.”
“Having seen portraits of him, I must assume the resemblance is more mental than physical. But it’s good that the Carmichaels are presenting a united front to society.” Satisfied with his appearance, he turned from the mirror.
Sarah’s eyes widened as she got a clear view of her husband in his perfectly tailored evening clothes. The dark blue coat showed his broad shoulders to maximum advantage while bringing out the blue in his eyes, and the breeches accented his powerful thighs. He looked like a lord. A man of authority and consequence who was handsome and exactly fashionable enough without being too fashionable. “Dear heavens, is this the disreputable rogue who carried me across half of Ireland?”
His eyes glinted with amusement. “You see before you the results of letting Ashton march me off to his own tailor.”
“Since Adam is universally acknowledged to be one of the best-dressed gentlemen in London, one can’t fault the results.” Sarah circled her husband admiringly. “Your felonious new valet seems to be working out well. You look splendid and he hasn’t yet stolen the Carmichael silver.”
“When Smythe came for the interview and recognized me, he almost bolted, but he was the best-dressed thief I ever caught and he’s acquired legitimate valet experience since then,” Rob remarked. “Since he swears he’s now on the side of the angels, I thought he’d make a good valet and he’d understand me better than most.”
“There is a certain logic to a reformed thief serving a retired Runner,” Sarah agreed. “And if he strays, you’ll personally hunt him down?”
“Exactly.” Rob caught her hand to stop her circling. “You haven’t given me a chance to say how amazingly beautiful you look.”
“You saw this gown when we married,” she pointed out as she dropped an elegant curtsy with a swish of her ivory and gold silk skirts.
“Yes, but then you looked ready to flee the church. Since you decided to stay, you look more beautiful every day.” Rob leaned forward for a careful kiss that wouldn’t wrinkle Sarah’s dress.
“Flattery will get you just about anything.” She leaned into his kiss. “Mmm . . . Can we skip the ball and lock ourselves in the bedroom?”
“Not tonight, princess,” he said as his clock struck the hour. “Time to collect Bree and make our grand entrance.”
Ordinarily a girl as young as Bree wouldn’t attend a ball, but Rob had been adamant that she be presented to society with the new earl and countess to prove that she was a beloved daughter of the house. The dowager had made only token protests about the impropriety of it; she was in a fair way to doting on her great-granddaughter.
When Rob opened the door to the corridor, sounds of music and talk and laughter drifted up from the ground floor. Bree joined them, her face blazing with excitement. Sarah would swear the girl had grown an inch and added years of maturity since her birthday. She was well on her way to being a diamond of the first water. “You look lovely, Bree! But please don’t grow up too fast.”
Rob nodded agreement. “I’m already thinking how much I’ll hate it when suitors start begging for your hand. I won’t want to let you go.”
Bree giggled, looking twelve again. “I won’t marry until I’m very old. At least twenty-five.”
“I shall hold you to that.” He held out his right arm. “Lady Kellington?” After Sarah took it, he offered his left arm to his daughter. “Miss Carmichael?” Bree took his arm proudly. “Then come, my ladies! We shall face London society together.”
They moved to the head of the sweeping staircase, which was wide enough for all three of them. At the foot of the stairs stood the dowager, her face lighting up as she saw her family. She glittered with diamonds, looking every inch the society grande dame.
The dowager had orchestrated their entrance well. As Sarah descended on Rob’s arm, she saw friends smiling up from the crowd of upturned faces. Mariah and Lady Kiri, and yes, there was Lady Agnes Westerfield, Rob’s cherished headmistress.
Sarah was struck by two insights. Tonight, finally and fully, Rob had accepted his role as the Earl of Kellington, head of his family and influential man of affairs. Being Rob, he’d never waver from doing his duty.
As for herself, she realized how for many years she’d drifted, adapting comfortably rather than striving for the dreams she’d thought she’d never achieve: a happy home, a loving husband, and God willing, children.
She glanced at Rob’s strong, calm profile. Catching her glance, he smiled back with deep intimacy.
Her return smile was radiant. No wonder she had spent so many years without finding a man she wanted to marry.
She’d been waiting for the perfect rogue.
Don’t miss the next title in
Mary Jo Putney’s Lost Lords series,
Not Quite a Wife,
coming next September.
Read on for a sneak preview.
James, Lord Kirkland, owned a shipping fleet, half a fashionable London gaming house, and was a darkly effective spymaster in the shadow war between Britain and Napoleon’s France. He was very seldom self-indulgent.
Except when his business took him to the port city of Bristol, as it had done today. He met with the captain of his ship, deciphered the letter the captain had brought, and gave it to a courier to carry back to London with all due haste. Then he dismissed his secretary, saying that he preferred to walk back to the inn where they were staying.
The spring day was sunny and pleasantly warm, so it was a plausible excuse. Not that rain, ice, or snow would have stopped him. For these brief minutes, he wouldn’t think about his business, or his covert work, or all the possible undesirable outcomes to his various plans and the potentially lethal threats to his agents. Instead, he’d remember, and grieve for what he’d lost.
The day had warmed up considerably while he was on the ship. If he was in private, he’d strip off his coat and hat and work in his shirtsleeves. Ah, well, he’d be back at the inn soon enough.
Now he wanted to savor the knowledge that she was only a few streets away. He indulged in the sweet, tormented knowledge that in a matter of minutes he could knock on her door. She might open it herself—she was never one for ceremony—and they’d be face to face again. Would her glossy ash blond hair have darkened? Would her changeable eyes be blue or gray?
Gray for anger and disappointment, without a doubt. Which was why he wouldn’t turn down the street that led to her home. She’d said she never wanted to see him again, and he’d sworn that she wouldn’t.
Sometimes his sophist’s mind
played with that. He’d promised she wouldn’t see him, but did that mean that he could look at her if he remained unseen? But looking would never be enough....
He cut off his line of thought, for that way madness lay.
Damn, but it was hot today! He wrenched at his neck cloth, feeling suffocated. Only then, as he stumbled into the wall of the building beside him, did he realize what was happening. A malaria attack. He seldom had them these days, but sometimes, usually at the most inconvenient possible moment, the fever would flare up again.
He must return to his inn. He always carried a supply of Jesuit bark to tame the fever. The inn couldn’t be more than ten minutes’ walk away. Head spinning, he turned down an alley that would take him in that direction.
Halfway down he stopped, not recognizing the buildings at the other end. This wasn’t right, he must have walked farther than he realized. He turned uncertainly and started to retrace his steps.
Dizzy, he halted to lean on the wall, grateful for the cool brick against his sweating forehead. The inn. The inn! What was the name? The Ship? The Ostrich? Dammit, what was the name? He’d stayed there many times before.
He started again toward the alley entrance, one hand skimming the wall for balance, but after a dozen steps he folded to his knees, gasping for breath. He needed to get to a safe place. The inn, or back to his ship, which wouldn’t sail until tomorrow.
The light darkened and he saw that two men were approaching along the alley. “Please,” he managed. “I need help. . . .”
“Well, lookee here,” a crude West Country voice said. “A pigeon for the plucking. I wager he has a heavy purse. Those clothes’ll be worth a pretty penny, too.”
A rough hand grabbed Kirkland’s arm. Even when he was half out of his head, his trained reflexes kicked in. He broke the man’s hold and managed to stagger to his feet and kick the fellow’s knee, sending his assailant staggering.
They both came at him with filthy oaths. Kirkland landed a few blows before he was beaten to the ground. A boot slammed into his skull, and merciful darkness descended.
Infirmary hours were over for the day, and Laurel Herbert luxuriated in the quiet. Not too many people had come seeking aid that afternoon. That was fortunate since Daniel was away and Laurel was no physician, though she’d learned a great deal through working in the infirmary for years.
The servants and assistants had left for the day, so she had the house to herself for the night. She made tea and carried the gently fragrant cup upstairs to the music room, where her piano, a magnificent Broadwood, awaited.
Laurel settled on the bench and put the tea aside to cool. What to play? She was learning a new Mozart piece, but since she was tired, her fingers drifted into her favorite Beethoven sonata. Music was food for the soul, and she loved the rich sweetness of the sonata even though it carried too many memories.
She had just finished the adagio movement when someone began hammering the knocker on the infirmary door. She smiled ruefully and took a large swallow of tea before heading downstairs. She should have known that peace and quiet were not guaranteed. The Herbert Infirmary never refused anyone, and since she lived upstairs and was the only one here this evening, the duty was hers.
She opened the door to see two stevedores from the port who attended services at her brother’s chapel. Between them they carried an unconscious man wearing only drawers and a torn, bloody shirt, his limp arms slung over their shoulders.
“Sorry, Miss Herbert,” the taller man, Potter, said. “We found this fellow beaten bad in an alley and figgered you’d see to him.”
“And so I will. You were right to bring him here.” Laurel stepped back so they could move past her. The victim’s head was hanging and dark hair obscured his face, but he looked young and fit, which always helped in recovery.
As they carried the man to the nearest examination room, Larkin said worriedly, “He’s got a fever, poor sod. Not the pox, is it?”
“I see no signs of smallpox,” Laurel replied. “Fevers have many causes.”
The examination room had good natural light and a wide, padded table standing in the middle. Built in cabinets held instruments, bandages, linens, and the like.
The stevedores laid the man down with surprising gentleness and rolled him onto his back. Laurel frowned as she scanned the damage. Bruises and lacerations aplenty, but no massive bleeding, no obviously broken bones, and his breathing was good.
If there wasn’t a serious head injury . . . her gaze moved to his face. Strong, even features, high cheekbones.... She gasped, icy weakness washing through her.
“You know him, miss?” Potter asked.
She struggled for control, and was surprised how calm her voice sounded. “He’s . . . Lord Kirkland. A friend of the family. He and my brother were schoolmates.”
Larkin scratched his head. “If he be a lord, someun’ will be looking for him. Was he comin’ to visit you?”
“Likely he’s in Bristol on business,” she said, still unnaturally calm. “You needn’t worry about catching his illness. He had swamp fever as a boy and sometimes it flares up again. If that’s what this is, there’s no risk to you for your good deed.”
Potter asked, “Do you need help with the fellow, Miss Herbert?”
Guessing that they both wanted to get home for their supper, she shook her head. “No, I’ll examine Lord Kirkland to see how serious his injuries are. If he needs a surgeon, I’ll send for one.” She managed a smile. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Larkin—you’ve been true good Samaritans today.”
Pleased by her praise, they ducked their heads bashfully and left. Laurel latched the door behind them, then leaned back against it, shaking. Could she have been wrong in her identification? She’d been seeing echoes of James Kirkland in other men for years.
No, she would recognize him at midnight in a coal mine. Steeling herself, she returned to the examination room to tend his injuries. He looked oddly vulnerable lying there. Young. Not as enigmatic and formidable as he loomed in her memory.
James, Lord Kirkland. Rich beyond imagining, one time friend to her brother, the most dangerous man she’d ever met.
James, the husband she’d left ten long years ago.
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