A Radical Arrangement

by Ashford, Jane

  She stayed longer than she had meant to, and when she returned to the Red Lion, she was told that Keighley had wakened briefly in her absence and asked for her. “I told him you were out walking, miss,” said Annie. “And he smiled a little and went back to sleep.”

  Margaret bowed her head, bitterly disappointed, and vowed not to leave Keighley’s bedside until she had spoken to him again. She sent Annie down to get her dinner and settled in the armchair with a book. The evening slowly passed. Mrs. Dowling looked in, pronounced Keighley improving still, and left again. Margaret began to feel drowsy and put her book aside. She had not slept for two days, and only her concern for Sir Justin kept her awake now.

  As midnight came and went she continued to nod, and at last her head sank back on the chair and she slept.

  The inn was silent except for the customary creakings of an old building. A mouse scratched in the wainscoting along the stairs, and the parlor clock ticked more loudly than it dared during the day. At two in the morning Sir Justin suddenly opened his eyes and looked around with perfect lucidity. He gazed at his bedchamber, at the guttering candle on the table beside him, and then saw Margaret peacefully curled in the armchair, breathing quietly.

  Keighley smiled. Seeing her like this, unaware and defenseless, made something tighten in the region of his heart. If he had not been sure before, he would now have known that he loved her. The feeling was so pervasive and wonderful that he did not even regret his foolish behavior any longer. That was past; everything would come right.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Margaret woke. She blinked twice and then sat up, shaking out her crumpled dress and taking a deep breath. Only then did she become aware of his regard. “Oh! You’re awake.”

  “Yes.”

  She rose and went to stand beside him. “How do you feel?”

  “Perfectly normal. Weak.”

  “You strained your wound badly. And caught a fever.”

  “It was no more than I deserved, for behaving like an idiot.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened as she gazed into his.

  “I must apologize to you,” he added.

  “Oh, no.”

  “Indeed, yes. I treated you shockingly.” He looked around. “Is your father still here?”

  “No, he is at home.”

  “He left you alone? I cannot believe it.”

  “N-no. I…I have been home as well. When you disappeared, you see…”

  He nodded grimly.

  “Then, when you were found, Jem came to fetch me.”

  “And you simply returned.”

  “Of course.”

  He gazed at her. “Your parents did not object?”

  She grimaced. “Well, yes. But I told them I had to come. And they were angry with me in any case because of the party.”

  “The party?” he repeated bemusedly.

  “The squire’s luncheon. I told Mr. Twitchel that the laboring men should have the vote.”

  “You…” He laughed weakly. “You did not, Margaret.”

  “Oh, yes, and a great many other things. I have never seen our neighbors so shocked.”

  “I can imagine it. But I wish I had seen it.”

  “Yes. So, since I have become a radical, my parents will probably be glad to be rid of me.”

  “I doubt it.” He watched her. “A radical. I really have ruined you, haven’t I, Margaret?”

  She stiffened. “No.”

  “But I have. You are alienated from your parents and friends. And your stay in this inn has finally and certainly compromised you. I have much to apologize for.”

  “Don’t be silly. I should much rather know the truth than have Mr. Twitchel as a friend. And my parents—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, they will get over the shock, and I daresay we shall patch it up.”

  “I hope so.”

  Margaret stared at him. Was he about to tell her that she should go home to her parents?

  “I shouldn’t like you to go through life battling your family.”

  She kept her eyes on his.

  “It would be a sad thing for our children to see.”

  “Our…”

  Keighley slowly lifted his hand and put it over hers. “I am in poor shape for lovemaking. Will you marry me, Margaret?”

  Her blue eyes lit, but she said, “Are you sure you wish me to? You said you did not.”

  “At last, yes, I am sure. I took a damnably long time to know my own mind, and I behaved like a fool because of it. But now I am certain.”

  Margaret sank down on the bed and held his hand tightly. “In that case I should be delighted to marry you.”

  He smiled and tried to raise his head. “Curse this weakness. I can’t even kiss you. Come here.”

  She bent down to him, and he managed to get one arm round her. They kissed passionately till Margaret once again felt that melting sensation she had discovered earlier in his arms. She moved closer, half lying on the bed next to him. Their lips separated, then drew irresistibly together again. When this long kiss ended, Keighley laughed a little. “Perhaps it’s a lucky thing I am weak,” he said. “I couldn’t answer for my self-control in this situation if I were not.”

  Suddenly realizing her scandalous posture, Margaret started to draw away.

  “Oh, no, my dear. As your father so presciently put it, I have you in my power now.” He grinned maniacally, and Margaret laughed. “I shan’t let you go until you kiss me again.”

  “Tyrant,” murmured Margaret, leaning against him.

  “In this, always.”

  “And what, sir, has become of your radical principles?”

  He raised one brow. “Alas, they are apparently not so firmly entrenched as I believed.”

  “Justin.”

  “You must help me bear my lapse,” he added, drawing her close along the length of his body.

  It was some time before they spoke again, but then Margaret sat up. “Annie might come in,” she protested.

  “The Applebys are thoroughly shocked by us already,” he retorted, but he let her move away. “Shall we be married here to reassure them?”

  “Oh, I should like that.” Margaret thought a moment. “But Mama—”

  “Will wish to exhibit us to all and sundry.”

  “Do you mind too much?” wondered the girl. “About everything, I mean. My family and—”

  “I would endure much more to have you,” he answered. “Though when I think of binding your father to my mother, my blood does run cold, I admit.”

  She smiled. “They will have a great deal in common. They can talk politics.”

  “Talk. Well, we must just make certain that any weapons are removed from the vicinity beforehand.”

  Margaret laughed.

  “But that problem may be left for later. Now everything is perfect.” He extended his hand invitingly.

  “Except Jem. You must buy him a new boat, you know.”

  He groaned. “I destroyed the Gull, didn’t I?”

  “Utterly.”

  “Well, I will buy him one. Or anything else he likes. Without him, I never would have discovered my sweet, radical love.”

  There was, of course, only one answer to this, and, throwing caution to the winds, Margaret gladly gave it.

  Order Jane Ashford's next book

  First Season / Bride to Be

  On sale October 2015

  Click here!

  Order Jane Ashford's next book

  First Season / Bride to Be

  On sale October 2015

  Click here!

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Heir to the Duke

  the first book in a brand-new series by Jane Ashford

  Nathaniel Gresham, Viscount Hightower, stirred in his sleep. His h
ands groped for bedclothes, found nothing. Sensing wrongness, his consciousness rose through layers of befuddlement and wisps of dream. He opened his eyes to find a gaping maw of three-inch fangs inches from his throat.

  “Aah!”

  Nathaniel threw up his arms to shield his face and twisted to the side. The convulsive movement brought him right to the edge of a large four-poster bed, and he scrambled to avoid falling three feet to the floor. He twisted in the opposite direction and struck out at the sharp, yellowed teeth. They did not snap shut on his forearm or lunge into his face once more. Indeed, they did not move at all, except sideways under his blow. There was no snarl or slaver, no spark of rage in the shiny eye behind the fangs. Nathaniel shoved them farther away and sat up.

  He was stark naked, on a large bed stripped bare of linens, covered only by a moth-eaten gray wolf skin. The wretched thing’s head had been carefully placed on his chest, to ensure the rude awakening. His hips still rested under its hindquarters. Molting fur peppered the bed. The mere sight of the ancient pelt made his skin itch. Revolted, he pushed it all the way off and moved to the foot of the bed, struggling to get his bearings. This wasn’t his bedchamber. The blue-striped wallpaper was alien, the furnishings unfamiliar; the windows with their slant of early morning light were in the wrong place. Then he remembered. He was staying at the Earl of Moreley’s country house, because tomorrow—no, today—he was to marry the earl’s daughter at their local parish church.

  Nathaniel glared at the wolf skin, then rubbed his hands over his face. This was what it meant to have five brothers—five younger brothers—on one’s wedding day. Or rather, on one’s wedding eve, a night they’d insisted upon marking with bowls of rack punch. Had it been three? Or had he lost count? No wonder they’d kept filling his glass, if they had this prank planned. Where the devil had they found a wolf skin in a strange house? And hadn’t he told his father, when Robert was born in his sixth year, that four sons were quite enough? Even for a duke, six sons was excessive. At this particular moment, Nathaniel thought that his parents might have been content with just one.

  He rose, stretching stiff limbs and marveling that he had only a mild headache. Revenge on his brothers would have to wait for another day. Today, he was getting married. He was doing his duty to his name and his line, pledging himself to a woman who would be an admirable duchess when their turn came—may it be far in the future. The match was eminently suitable. All society acknowledged its rightness. And despite Violet’s irascible grandmother, the occasional bane of his existence, he could have no complaints.

  Indeed, why had the word even occurred to him? No one had rushed him into marriage. He had enjoyed a plenitude of seasons in London and a number of agreeable flirtations and liaisons with delightful females. Though they had never spoken of it, he was aware that his parents had given him every opportunity to fall in love. But the passion that had overtaken them in their young days had not befallen him. He wasn’t sure why, but once he’d passed thirty he concluded it never would. He’d had more than enough time to observe that such a bond was rare in the circles of the haut ton.

  Nathaniel stretched again, his bare limbs a bit chilly. This marriage was certainly not a penance. He liked Violet very much. They’d been acquainted for years. He did not know whether she’d had other offers, but he supposed that she too had waited for love to find her. They had that in common. They were also well suited by background, had similar tastes, and enjoyed the same even temperament. When he’d decided that the time for marriage had come, he’d simply known that she was the proper candidate. He expected their union to be gracious, harmonious, and ideal for the significant position they would someday be called upon to fulfill. And now it was time to stop woolgathering, put on his dressing gown, and begin this momentous day.

  Nathaniel walked over to the oaken wardrobe on the far wall and opened it.

  It was empty. All his clothes had disappeared.

  He stared at the bare hooks. This part of the prank would be Sebastian’s doing, he imagined. It had his next younger brother’s touch. Nathaniel met his own gaze in the mirror set into the wardrobe door, and acknowledged the spark of amused annoyance in his eyes. His brothers had a fiendish facility for complicated jests.

  The figure in the glass shook its head. All the sons of the Duke of Langford were tall, handsome, broad-shouldered men with auburn hair and blue eyes. Sebastian was the tallest. Robert the wittiest. Randolph was acknowledged as the handsomest, James the most adventurous, and Alan the smartest. But he was the eldest, and the heir.

  For as long as he could remember, Nathaniel had felt the weight of his destiny. The others said it was a burden to have everything done ahead of them, but he’d felt the onus of being the pattern, setting up the expectations, being the son visitors scrutinized the most. He would be the next duke; he must show he was worthy. Thus, he kept a tight rein on his wilder impulses. Instead, he was the one who came to the rescue when one of his brothers went too far, kicking up a lark.

  And so, now, he did not slam the empty wardrobe shut, but simply closed it. He would leave it to his valet to straighten this out. He wanted hot water for washing, and then clothes, and then breakfast. He went to ring for Cates, and discovered that the bell rope had been removed. He could see the wire to which it had been connected, near the ceiling, twelve feet up. It must have taken two or three of his brothers to reach so high.

  For a moment he just stood there, staring at it. This final touch would be Robert’s idea, no doubt. He’d always been the most ingenious, the brother who added the crowning climax to a prank. Robert would be the one to set the others guffawing—describing their elder brother slinking through the corridors of the Earl of Moreley’s house wrapped in a wolf skin, like some sort of demented ancient Celt. Even Nathaniel had to smile at the picture. How would Violet’s fierce stickler of a grandmother like that? And all the other near and distant relations visiting for the wedding? He’d barely met most of them. Perhaps he’d twine some ivy from outside the window in his hair and attempt a Gaelic war cry.

  Nathaniel laughed. Truth to tell, it was a splendid prank, unfolding like a puzzle box upon its hapless victim. All that remained was for him to wiggle out of the trap so cunningly set.

  He eyed the windows and considered pulling down some of his almost-mother-in-law’s elaborate draperies to wrap about himself. But one panel would trail behind him like a coronation robe. The picture was little better than the wolf skin. Perhaps he would just wait until Cates arrived on his own. It couldn’t be too much longer. In fact, judging by the sunlight, his valet ought to have appeared well before now. Where the devil was he?

  As if in answer to this thought, there was a knock at the door.

  “Nathaniel?”

  The voice was the last he expected. “Violet?”

  “Are you all right? James said you needed to speak to me most urgent…” The door opened, and Nathaniel’s promised bride looked around the panels. “Oh!” Her mouth dropped open.

  Nathaniel—stark naked, next to a bed sporting only a rumpled wolf skin—braced for a shriek, a shocked retreat, babbled apologies. But Violet just looked at him. Indeed, it seemed as if she couldn’t tear her eyes away. He could almost feel her gaze traveling along his skin, as if it left trails of warmth. He saw something stir in those gray eyes, something he’d never observed before, and his body began to respond to the possibility of much more than he’d expected from his suitable marriage. Respond all too eagerly.

  Nathaniel moved over behind the bed. “My brothers’ idea of a joke,” he said, with a gesture toward the wolf skin.

  Violet blinked. Color flooded her cheeks, and she looked away. “How did they…?” Her voice was rather choked.

  “They are endlessly inventive. They stole my clothes as well. Would you have someone send Cates to me? I would ring, but…” He pointed to the bell wire. “They were quite thorough.”

  Vio
let glanced at the denuded wire, swallowed, and gave a quick nod. “Of course.” In the next instant, she was gone.

  “Well, well,” murmured Nathaniel to the wolf. “That was interesting.”

  His days of being capable of interest long past, the wolf made no reply.

  * * *

  Outside the closed door, Lady Violet Devere put her hands to her blazing cheeks and took a moment to recover her breath before going in search of Nathaniel’s valet. She’d never seen a grown man totally naked before. Half naked, yes. Perhaps three-quarters, if you counted…? What was wrong with her brain? It was jumping about like a startled grasshopper.

  It was just…Nathaniel had seemed so very naked. She hadn’t been able to look away; she hadn’t even been able to think that she should avert her eyes. The sight of him—so tall and handsome and…naked had been riveting. And tonight she would be his wife, granted the…freedom of all that…nakedness. She had married friends; she knew what that meant.

  Of course she had married friends. She was twenty-six years old! Which explained why she’d opened his bedchamber door. When she shouldn’t have. It was quite improper. But his brother James had sounded so odd when he spoke to her. She’d leapt to dire conclusions and rushed in, fearing that the wedding was to be put off, that her grandmother had said or done something outrageous. The thought was insupportable. Her future was settled at last. She would grow no older waiting to marry. She would not watch yet another crop of debs enter society and pair off.

  It was all very well for Nathaniel. He was a man, free of the countless idiotic strictures that beset an unmarried “girl” with an iron-willed grandmother who was absolutely devoted to the proprieties. He could do whatever he liked with his…really gorgeous body.

  Violet took a deep breath, and then another. She stood straighter, consciously relaxed tense muscles. All was well. It had merely been a prank. She knew about pranks; she had two much younger brothers, welcomed with relief after her disappointing female birth and rather spoiled by their parents. A belated laugh escaped her. The sons of the Duke of Langford must be masters of the art to have somehow stranded Nathaniel, naked, with the skin of the wolf her grandfather had shot in the wilds of Russia. Wasn’t it kept in a locked cabinet?