“The dinners tonight are private and separate,” Robert said. “Your family at one, and Frederick’s at another. No real likelihood of any untoward occurrence there, so once we get back to the castle this afternoon—”
“Oh, no—I’m not counting my chickens until tonight, until Frances retreats into her bedchamber and closes the door.”
Robert grinned. His gaze returned to Frances. They’d let the gig draw ahead. “She’s only had three minor episodes since we started our campaign of distraction, and Frederick’s managed all three by himself.”
“He’s been more sympathetic than I expected him to be.” Nell’s gaze, too, dwelled on Frederick’s and Frances’s heads. “I feel even more confident than I was before that they’ll truly have a wonderful marriage.”
Robert made no reply, not that she’d expected one. About them, the morning had waxed warm, but a breeze off the river kept temperatures pleasant. Birds trilled and swooped in the hedgerows they passed, and the rich scent of grain ripening in the sun teased their senses.
“There’s a lookout on that ridge ahead. They can’t reach it in the gig—but we can.” Robert met her gaze as she glanced at him. “You said it yourself—Frances is unlikely to have any difficulty while she’s concentrating so hard on learning to drive.” Tipping his head toward the ridge, he smiled, unvoiced challenge in his eyes. “We can ride down the other side and rejoin the party, and the view from up there is said to be the best in Lautenberg.”
She laughed. “All right. I can see you’re searching for a reason to let your mount stretch his legs.” She waved. “Lead on.”
Robert drew aside, spoke briefly to the captain of the honor guard of six riders following their Prince, then he urged his gray away and down a narrow track; perched on her black, Nell followed.
Once off the road, they let their mounts stretch into an easy gallop. The track they were following led into a forest; they slowed as, now a narrower bridle path, the track climbed the ridge in a series of switchbacks.
Eventually, they reached the top of the ridge and Robert led the way over and into the wide clearing carved out on the side of the hill. Before them, lush green fields stretched to either side, to the distant blue line of the Mosel on their right, and all the way to the cloud-hazed mountains that marked the border with Luxembourg to the left.
He reined in and Nell halted her mare beside his gray. She looked out, eagerly scanning. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips lush and ripe, her large, dark-pansy eyes bright with eager interest. He considered the sight, then swung down from the saddle.
She looked at him questioningly as he came to lift her down.
“We can sit for a little while. The road will take them around and over a pass—it’ll be some time before they reach the stretch below us.”
Her lips formed an “oh” and she slid her boots free, then allowed him to close his hands about her waist and swing her down.
She lost her breath. He was watching, so saw it, but pretended he hadn’t.
Releasing her, he waved to the view. “Come—I’ll point out the sights.”
She didn’t attempt any verbal response, just nodded and walked beside him to the edge of the cliff.
He started at the Mosel, and she was quickly pointing to landmarks and asking about the smaller towns and villages they could see nestling in the landscape. When eventually he’d named or explained all that they could see, she sighed. “It’s really very peaceful here—much less noisy and crowded and bustling than London, but oddly the countryside seems more . . . alive somehow.” She glanced at him. “The country here is different from the countryside at home.”
He nodded. “Here there’s less large-estate farming and more of other crafts, like woodworking, and metal crafting, and jewelry making, cloth making, and animal husbandry of many more types. The villages are a lot closer—to walk from one to the next would take less than an hour—so it’s easier for the villagers and townsfolk to barter and trade . . .” He grimaced lightly. “I suppose the main difference is that there are no major landowners other than the royal family, so most people in Lautenberg have at least their own small patch to raise grain, or chickens, or build a forge and sell their wares.”
“They’re all independent?”
“They pay taxes to the royal family, but those aren’t onerous and go primarily to keeping the various necessary arms of the government operational.” His lips twisted cynically. “As the British envoy, I’m not sure saying so isn’t a form of treason, but I prefer the peace and tranquility, and, yes, the relative equality of this place.”
He felt her gaze on his face. “Will you stay here, then? Even when you’re no longer the envoy?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps.” He looked at her. “It depends.” He let a moment tick past, then asked, “What of you?” With a wave, he directed her gaze back to the vista spread before them. “If you could, would you live here, surrounded by this brand of peace and harmony, with Frances near . . . or would you rather the bustle of London, and the quieter space of a large estate in the English countryside?”
She gazed out, considering, then her lips lightly curved. “If I could . . . strangely enough, I can see myself here, which is not at all what I’d expected. Lautenberg is . . . human-sized in a way larger countries are not.”
“Aptly put.” He didn’t give her time to dwell further on his question, but waved her to the horses. “We should start down. The gig should have cleared the pass by now—it’ll be coming along the road below us shortly.”
Nell filled her lungs one more time with the sweetly scented air, then exhaled, turned, and walked back to the mare. And steeled her nerves, her senses, against the rush of feeling as Robert’s hands slid about her waist and gripped, and he lifted her—so effortlessly—to her saddle.
Her lungs seized again, but she’d expected that; she didn’t let it ruffle her but used the moment while he walked to his horse and mounted to settle her boots in the stirrups and arrange her riding skirt, then lifting her head—finding him looking directly at her—she smiled and nodded at him to lead the way down.
As she followed him slowly down what proved to be a steeper track on this side of the ridge, she had ample time to let her gaze travel over his well-shaped head, his shoulders, and the long length of his back. He cut a dashing figure atop the heavy gelding, and managed the powerful animal with negligent ease. After nine years with no real contact, it seemed strange to have fallen so easily into the same relaxed rapport they’d previously shared; he was the only man she’d ever felt so at ease with, so free to simply indulge and enjoy his company.
She’d always regretted the fact that he’d drawn back, that he hadn’t made an offer for her hand, and, now she thought of it, she had to own to considerable surprise to find him still unwed. He was a Knightley; his family were diplomats, one and all, and, in general, diplomats were expected to marry, to have a helpmate in their duties.
She tried to imagine what his wife would be like, when he finally chose her. She imagined several young English ladies she knew, measured them against the role, yet none seemed at all suitable; none found favor in her eyes. Then again, she was only an old friend, and a long distant one at that; he might have changed significantly since they’d been close . . . only she didn’t think he had.
He was older, yet so much about him seemed achingly familiar. She’d had to steel her heart against the temptation to dwell on all she’d missed, on all she’d not had to enjoy for the past nine years . . . she wished she knew why he’d never asked for her hand. Wished she knew what she’d done wrong, what she’d done to make him step back when she’d thought he was about to step closer, close enough to take her in his arms . . .
With an irritated shake of her head, she banished the useless, repetitive meanderings. She was here, now, with him, and at least for the next several hours, she could take pleasure in his company.
He drew rein as they reached the road; as she halted her mare alongside his gray, she could hear
the rattle of the gig’s wheels drawing nearer.
She turned to him. “Will you be dining with us tonight? Or are you expected to dine with Frederick?”
His lips twisted. “Frederick’s family will expect me, I fear, but . . .” Robert met her eyes. “Why don’t we meet in my study later—once you’ve seen Frances to her bedchamber and can report, absolutely, that our campaign has reached a successful conclusion?”
Nell grinned. “Yes. All right.”
The gig rounded the nearby corner and the rattle of its wheels cut off any further conversation.
Not that Robert wished to say anything more; he was more than satisfied with what he’d achieved.
It was just after eleven o’clock when Nell finally made her way down the corridor to Robert’s study door. A line of lamplight showed beneath the door; feeling more lighthearted, freer than she had for weeks and weeks, she tapped lightly, then opened the door and swept in.
Robert was seated at his desk; he’d been reading some papers. The lamp on one corner shed strong light over the desk, striking deep red glints from his dark brown hair. He’d looked up as she entered; smiling, he laid aside the papers and beckoned her nearer. Leaning back in his chair, he reached out and lifted a small bottle of champagne from a bucket of ice, along with two glasses.
“Here.” He held out the glasses.
Rounding the desk, she leaned back against one corner and took both glasses, holding them while he eased the stopper from the bottle. It popped and he seized one glass, deftly catching the foaming bubbles that cascaded forth.
He glanced up at her as the froth slowed and he poured bubbly liquid into the glass. “I hope celebrations are in order. I take it Frances has retired and all is well?”
“Yes, she has, and yes.” Accepting the filled glass, Nell handed him the other. “I can report that we are, indeed, home and hosed, and the wedding will proceed with no further hiccups or hitches.”
“Thank heaven!” His own glass filled, Robert clinked the rim to hers, then raised his glass in a toast. “To the successful conclusion of our campaign.”
“Hear, hear!” She lifted her glass in salute, then sipped. “Mmm, that’s nice.” She looked at the glass, at the bubbles rising within the liquid, then raised the glass again. “To Frances, another Vayne lady who has managed to reach her wedding day without major mishap.”
Robert’s lips curved, but lightly. His gray gaze remained steady on her face. “To Frances and her wedding.”
They both sipped again.
“And,” Robert returned, “we shouldn’t forget Frederick, who stepped up to the mark in sterling fashion, and in doing so forged an even deeper bond with his soon-to-be bride.”
“No, indeed.” Nell leaned closer and clinked her glass to Robert’s. “We definitely shouldn’t forget Frederick.”
Robert sipped and watched her swallow a healthy gulp of the champagne, then he reached out and slipped the glass from her fingers.
She blinked as he pushed back his chair, rose, and set both glasses aside. “I hadn’t finished.”
“I know, but I want you fully compos mentis for what comes next.”
She spread her arms. “But my travails are all over.”
Shifting to stand before her, he caught her hands and drew her upright. Frowning, she studied his face. “What comes next?”
“Something I’ve been wanting to do ever since I saw you step onto the deck of the royal barge.” Releasing her hands, he raised his, framed her face and tipped it up, and kissed her.
Gently, at first, but then his lips firmed and . . . Nell couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t steady her suddenly reeling head. A sensation like fizz erupted deep inside her and she felt giddy, deliriously whirling—and none of that had anything to do with the champagne.
She responded, not hesitantly as she’d expected, but with a certainty born of some seed that had been planted long ago. Nine years ago.
Sliding her arms over his shoulders, she moved closer, her lips meeting his with equal ardor, with an equivalent wish to explore, to know . . .
The tip of his tongue cruised the seam of her lips, tempting, enticing. Inciting.
They’d kissed, all those years ago, when she’d been nineteen and he twenty-two, but those tentative kisses had been nothing like this.
This . . . was an invitation, simple and blatant and sure. She read that, understood that, instinctively and in every other way. For an instant, she teetered on the cusp, unsure, but then she looked inward—just one second of consideration—and she knew what her answer should be.
This was her one chance—her last chance. Tomorrow was the wedding, and the day after she would leave, and she’d always—always—wanted him.
As a woman wanted a man, she’d yearned for him.
So she parted her lips and invited him in, surrendered her mouth, and gloried as he took. As he claimed and made his that which always had been.
His hands drifted from her face and his arms closed around her and she closed the last inches between his body and hers.
And desire flared.
At some point he steered her through a door into his adjoining bedroom. To his bed.
Later still, they lay together on the white sheets in a tangle of naked limbs, heated skin, and pounding hearts.
Hands shaped, explored, sculpted, possessed.
And passion burned.
Murmured endearments, encouragements, and soft moans of delight were the only sounds she heard. She was deaf to all else, blind to the world—for her there was only him.
And for him, it seemed, there was only her. Devotion and reverence invested his touch; his focus was absolute and unwavering.
Sensation and feelings and an upsurge of emotion swept her up and carried her on.
Urged her on.
Until they came together in a rush of fire and glory. And the moment was all, and everything and more than she’d dreamed.
And the man in her arms was the man of her dreams—he always had been. Even as cataclysmic sensation stole her breath, stole her mind and overwhelmed her senses, she yet recognized that as indisputable fact.
This was life, this was joy.
This was pleasure unbounded.
Then ecstasy claimed them, wracked them, shattered them, and satiation rolled over them and she knew no more.
Nell woke to the gray light of pre-dawn. For a moment, she was disoriented—the room was similar to her own, but not . . . Then on a rush of remembered sensation, she recalled what had happened. The bed beside her was empty, yet the sheets were still warm.
Silence lay over the room.
Raising her head, she searched, and saw Robert standing before the window, staring out. He’d thrown on a robe.
The bed was in complete disarray; detaching the coverlet required little effort. Wrapping the warm folds about her, she walked quietly across and joined him.
He glanced at her as she halted beside him. Looking out at the glimmer of light just edging the eastern horizon, she murmured, “You seduced me. I’m not complaining—I’m glad you did—but now I can think again, I have to wonder why.”
Turning her head, she met his gray eyes, the shade softer in the faint morning light.
He held her gaze. “Because I realized it’s what I should have done nine years ago.”
She frowned.
His tone hardened. “Well, maybe not that precisely, but . . . I want you with me, Nell—here, wherever I’m posted. I’ve always wanted you and only you. I haven’t been a monk over the years we’ve been apart, but there’s never been anyone else—only you.” He held a glass of water; he raised it, sipped, then went on, his gaze moving gently over her face, “When you drew back, I tried to find someone else—someone who wanted me. But I could never find any woman to take your place. For me, it seemed only you would do.”
She frowned more definitely, her gaze locked with his. “I didn’t draw back—you did.”
His lips curved, but ruefully. He shook his
head. “Stop and think. Are you, or are you not, the oldest girl of your generation on the Vayne family tree?”
She didn’t stop frowning. “I am.”
“So in the same way you’ve been watching out for Frances, who was watching out for you? Who thought to watch your behavior? No one. At that time, nine years ago, the Vaynes didn’t know whether your generation would be affected, did they? And you hadn’t yet become betrothed. But, my darling Nell, you and I were always sympathetic, empathetic, toward each other. You knew I was going to ask for your hand . . . and you drew back.”
Confusion overwhelmed her frown. “I did?” She honestly didn’t think . . . but then Frances and her sisters and all the other Vayne females rarely had much comprehension of what they did while panicking . . . She refocused on his face. “Are you sure?”
She couldn’t disguise the hope that colored her voice. Was that why he’d drawn back, because she had?
His nod was absolute. “Yes. You pulled back. And I didn’t know anything about the Vayne family failing. I was twenty-two, and while now I would probably grow suspicious, press, and ask questions, back then . . .” He paused, holding her gaze. “I thought you didn’t want me to propose, that you didn’t want me as your husband, and that was why you drew back.”
“No!” She searched his eyes and didn’t doubt his veracity. “I wanted to marry you.”
Anguish rang beneath her words. Robert captured one of her hands, drew his thumb soothingly over the back. “It doesn’t matter, darling Nell, because that was long ago and this, here and now, is where we are.” He held her dark gaze, the rich violet only just taking on color as the sun slowly rose. Raising her hand, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and spoke to those wonderful eyes. “I’ve never stopped loving you, and through these last days, as we worked side by side through our campaign, I came to hope that you still loved me.”
A Return Engagement Page 4