Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance)
Page 24
“I do.”
His gaze fell to her fingers, still lightly gripping his wrist. “You have everything you wanted.”
“I’d rather talk about what you want.” She lifted a brow. “I hear you’ve been eager to obtain a certain betting book.”
Her calm excoriated. After all they’d been through, he’d failed at his primary aim—to protect her from that ridiculous wager.
“Someone took it from the club after it closed. But I will find it, I swear.”
Her eyes softened, and she touched his cheek. “I understand the entry implies you courted and abandoned me on purpose. The book could be used against us both.”
He slammed his free fist against the table. “No one should be forced to alter their lives because of a bet.”
“True,” she replied. “But I’m counting on Hearts the Gallant, who is prone to excess when a lady’s honor is at stake…”
“What do you mean?”
She pushed a piece of paper across the table. “If you want the betting book, here’s what I am willing to wager.”
“You have the book?”
She placed a finger on his lips. “Yes. But before you ask any more questions, read my wager.”
She released him and Markham picked up the paper. He read—
We will wed by license, or special license, if you prefer.
Marriage contracts will allow me control of my fortune.
You will make me tea in the mornings.
You will undress me before bed.
You promise never to be embarrassed.
And, when mutually agreed, you may bend me over any table and—
He stopped reading and looked up.
All the breath he’d been holding jammed in his chest. A hot blush traveled up his neck.
“You’re wagering a marriage contract?”
She nodded. “There’s a more official one waiting. It might be more prudent to keep this one private.”
Private? It violated every decency law he could think of.
“May I assume you approve?” She bit her lower lip.
Approve? He hadn’t dared hope. While he’d been alternatively trying to obtain that blasted book and wallowing in self-pity, she’d found a way to reconcile her opposing desires.
Hell yes, he approved. He couldn’t be more in awe.
But—“What can I wager in return that could possibly be of equal value?”
“I’m not interested in equal. What I want you to wager is of far greater value. I want Hearts’s heart.”
Ah.
Warmth spidered through him, spreading like liquid happiness.
With one terribly romantic gesture, she’d replaced the haunting memory of this room with a moment that he’d cherish for the rest of his days.
With a challenging grin of his own, he refolded the paper and tucked it beneath his waistcoat—a stolen memento of this sudden, marvelous reversal of fortune.
“Hey.” She rose from her seat and towered over him, scowling. “That’s mine. Give it back!”
“One hundred and ninety-five,” he said with glee. “And you cannot have it back, because I intend to win.”
“Give it back now”—she straddled him on the chair—“especially if you intend to win.”
He’d never tire of her weight in his lap. “Why especially?”
“Because once you’re mine”—she cupped his cheek and leaned in, intentionally crushing her breasts against his chest—“I can devise all sorts of punishments.”
He caught her other hand—the one that had been slowly moving toward the folded piece of paper.
“Remember, sweetheart—to bind me”—he moved both her wrists behind her back—“you must, too, be bound.”
She smiled indulgently and lightly nipped his nose.
He chuckled, capturing her mouth in a passionate kiss. He poured himself into that kiss, all the things he wished for them both—anticipation of the moments small and the moments life-transforming—the marriage they would create. A marriage of true minds.
How could he describe the feeling of being fully bound, caught up within his lady’s heart?
Pure relief.
Absolute solace.
The promise of comfort and care.
He didn’t need rules any longer.
All he needed was his wife.
…
Clarissa had been sparking with anticipation since she’d first come up with her twin ideas—the claiming of her fortune, and then the use of the betting book to insist Markham make a claim of his own. She lost herself in Markham’s kiss, and the sparks fanned to flame.
In his kiss she found everything she’d wished for and more—he kissed with presence, with promise.
Dizzying to go from despair’s nadir to the very heights of passionate triumph.
But she hadn’t triumphed—she broke their kiss—not yet.
She wiggled her hands out of Markham’s loose grasp.
He groaned. “I definitely prefer a special license.”
“But with a regular license we could wed at Southford.”
His eyes grew serious. “Would you like that?”
“Couldn’t you tell I loved your home?”
He shook his head no. “I’m,” his voice cracked, “glad.”
She ran the back of her hand down his cheek. “You haven’t won, lapin,” she whispered. “First, we must see who turns over the higher card.”
She leaned back, grasped her card between her fingers, and danced the Queen of Hearts in front of his face.
A little crease appeared between his brows. “That will be hard to beat.”
“Indeed,” she replied as she walked her fingers up his chest. “And perhaps…”
He covered his pocket. Her wager crinkled beneath his fingers. “Oh no you don’t. That wager is mine. As is this card.”
He reached past her waist and flipped his over.
She already knew what it would be, of course.
Still, the pleasure that spread across his cheeks warmed her heart.
He eased back into the chair. “It looks like the Queen has a King.”
She lifted a brow. “A consort, perhaps…”
He chuckled.
She sighed dramatically. “I suppose this means I’ve lost the wager.”
She yelped as he lifted her up and stood at the same time. He set her down on the table.
“Sweetheart.” He kissed her. “My lady.” He held her face. The gold flecks in his eyes glittered in their pools of deep green. “My Queen.” He etched the symbol into her neck. “You already had my heart.”
She ignored the tears in her eyes. She didn’t mind if they fell. She knew where she could find a handkerchief if she needed one.
She’d been so afraid. So afraid of losing herself—and of giving herself, too.
But there was one place she could trust.
One place she could rule and be ruled.
One place where she need never be afraid.
Hearts’s heart.
She reached around and squeezed his lovely, muscled behind. He groaned, low and needy—a sound she adored. Then again, it wasn’t just the sound, was it?
She drew back so she could hold his cheeks and look fully into his eyes.
“I love you, lapin.”
He sighed as if the whole world had just reordered to his pleasure. His eyes unfocused, and a lazy smile slowly graced his lips.
“Do you, now?” he asked.
She nodded. “You’re mine.”
“And what do you intend to do with me now that you have me?”
“So many things,” she replied. “But I thought I would begin by buying you a Gunter’s ice.”
“That would be—”
“I wasn’t finished,” she interrupted sternly. “This time, I’ll not permit you to stand by the rail.”
“No?”
“No. I’ll expect you to come back to the carriage, draw the curtains closed, and stay very still while I—”
She sat back. His eyes had widened and darkened with a hot rabbit’s hunger.
“I love you, too,” he groaned.
“Show me.”
She smiled with deep satisfaction as he proceeded to do just that. She had a feeling she was going to thoroughly enjoy being Hearts’s Queen.
Epilogue
Clarissa held open the curtain and gripped the strap as Rayne’s carriage rolled to a stop in front of the small country church near the Southford Estate.
She turned to Rayne and smiled.
Her brother had insisted he deliver her to the steps of the church in a carriage decorated with the family crest. Which was odd, for a man who had proclaimed, when he first returned, he wanted nothing to do with his title or his name.
“Thank you for giving me away.” Clarissa placed her hand over his. “It means a great deal to me that you are here.”
“I haven’t been the best of brothers…” Rayne started.
“But you are the only one I have.”
He held his hand over his heart as if wounded. “Damned by faint praise.”
“I’m serious. I’ve noticed how careful you’ve been with Julia, Markham, and Katherine,” she said. “And I thank you for the effort.”
Rayne squinted and looked away. “There’s still time to change your mind. The coachman can turn the carriage around and you can come North with me.”
North, not home.
She could not imagine the Rayne estate ever feeling like home—not to her, not to Rayne, not to anyone.
She glanced back to the church. Even in the gray of early winter, the building appeared so charming and quaint.
Her heart did a funny, anticipatory dance.
This was the place where she’d sign the register for the last time as Lady Clarissa Laithe.
The place her future children would be baptized.
The pace where her spirit could find peace.
“This is my home.”
“Yes.” Rayne smiled wryly. “You’ve rather a besotted glow about you.”
“Are you sure you must leave just after the wedding breakfast? I know your last visit wasn’t quite what one might wish, but everyone has been rubbing along much better than I expected and—”
“A disaster,” he interrupted. “My last visit was a disaster.” He squeezed her hand. “And the Stanley siblings and I have not been rubbing along as much as pretending nothing ever happened. The effort’s exhausting, truth be told. I’m here to see you properly wed, and then I will quickly—and gratefully—head North to settle matters with the new steward.”
She searched his face.
If his presence today was as much as he could give, she’d take it. But having him leave so soon felt wrong.
He adjusted his gloves. “Chin up, soon-to-be Lady Markham. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”
It wasn’t true. They were only just getting to know each other.
On the other hand…this was her wedding day. And her wedding night. And then her wedding trip.
No siblings allowed.
No one else allowed, in fact. Just her, Markham, and a little cottage in Wales. Markham had promised to serve as lady’s maid, cook, and butler and had sworn he had a talent for making hot buttered rolls.
Her lips turned up in a small, secret smile, and she sighed.
“That’s better,” Rayne said. “I wish you and Markham every happiness.”
She wanted to wish Rayne happiness as well. Instead, she replied with a simple, “Thank you.”
Whatever Rayne was seeking, she had no idea how to help him.
“Shall we go in?” he asked.
She nodded, turning her full attention to the task at hand—her wedding.
Village boys opened the chapel doors, beckoning her with the start of a new life.
…
In the vestry, Markham shifted from foot to foot, occasionally glancing out into the main chapel beyond. He didn’t sway enough for anyone else to see, just enough to match his internal swerving sensation.
If he closed his eyes, he could recreate the sanctuary in a second. He knew the walls, the scent, the pews, the stone Norman arch over the altar that predated the rest of the building, even the particular slant of morning sunlight through the glass windows—which changed slightly from month to month.
There, in the room beyond, he had experienced every sacred ritual of his life, and he was about to experience the most sacred of all.
A small quiver of panic rose in his throat.
What if she didn’t come?
Worse—what if she came and he—and he—?
He didn’t even want to imagine Clarissa unhappy.
Behind him, Julia’s skirts rustled. “Look!”
He nearly jumped. “Fiend.”
Julia rolled her eyes and then handed him an open book. “I found it.”
“Found what?”
She tapped her finger against the page. “The entry for our parents’ marriage.”
He glanced down, easily picking out his father’s tight, slanted script beside his mother’s looping, extravagant one. Opposites, forever united.
He stared at his mother’s signature and frowned. He couldn’t be sure, but the accent aigu had an odd shape, a shape he thought he recognized.
He lifted the book.
The small little mark looked as if it had been formed into an intentional heart.
“What do we have there?” The rector entered through the side door.
Markham had specifically requested that the rector who had married his parents—and baptized all three Stanley children—preside at his wedding, though Southford now had a vicar who tended most of the day-to-day needs of the parish.
The elderly man came to Markham’s side and glanced over his shoulder. “I remember that day. The blushing bride’s excitement. The beaming lordship’s pride.”
Markham swallowed roughly.
Sometimes he still had a hard time imagining he’d been wrong all this time—that his distressed memories had been born of his own sense of guilt and inadequacy and not the truth. But he’d asked questions of those who had known his parents and the answers confirmed Katherine’s version of their past—until his mother had fallen ill, she’d been an active, loving, and happy member of the parish.
He’d seen only what his fear and grief and guilt had allowed.
And he would have carried on believing just that, had it not been for one woman’s scowls and his ill-advised attempt to protect her from a scoundrel.
The doors to the church opened, and the stark winter sun poured into the sanctuary, filling the corners with light.
Beside him, Julia’s breath stopped.
He glanced at her.
She returned his glance with an over-expressed smile. “She’s beautiful is all.”
Julia took the register from his hands and carefully placed it back on the shelf. Then she kissed Markham on his cheek.
“Time to step right into the parson’s trap.” She sighed. “And not a moment too soon. I thought you and Clarissa would never come to your senses.”
Markham chucked her under her chin and moved into place.
He felt the collective love of their siblings and close friends—Katherine, Bromton, Julia, Rayne, Farring, Lord and Lady Darlington, and Mrs. Van Heldt, but he saw only Clarissa. As his bride walked down the aisle, he abandoned his former rules and mottos. There would be only one rule between he and his wife.
And that rule would be love.
…
Clarissa couldn’t have imagined a more joyful wedding breakfast. There’d been hot rolls and ham, eggs, bread, and drinking chocolate. And, in the end, a brandy-soaked cake smeared in almond icing and topped with bergamot-flavored chips.
The latter had been a surprise, and well worth the trouble; she’d never forget Markham’s blush-tinted grin.
In fact, she’d wrapped two extra pieces in cloth
and hidden them in the bedchamber.
She had a feeling they’d be hungry in the night.
And now, dusk was descending, and the manor had grown quiet.
Bromton and Katherine had departed in a convoy with Farring, Katerina, and Philippa and her husband. Katherine had decided to stay in Town for her confinement. Julia had successfully petitioned to stay with the local spinster, Mrs. Watson. Rayne had returned to The Pillar of Salt, and would begin his journey north in the morning.
She and Markham were alone.
Finally.
“Thank you for the chips.”
She smiled, cockeyed. Would she ever tire of the sight of her naked husband?
She doubted she would—especially when he was leaning against the back bedpost rubbing hearts into the soles of her feet with his long, strong fingers, a content smile gracing his lips.
“You’re odd, Percy Stanley.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You’re odd”—she pulled back her feet and crawled to his side—”and you’re mine.”
“I do love it when you get that look.”
She smiled a wicked smile and withdrew a black satin sash from the pocket of her dressing gown.
“And,” he continued, “I love it when you get ideas.”
She straddled him, looped his arms behind his back, made good use of the bedpost and the sash, and claimed her lapin in a kiss that went on forever.
So long, in fact, neither one of them noticed what was happening in the courtyard below—Julia’s horse, guided by what appeared to be a short, top-heavy footman, slowly disappearing in the direction of The Pillar of Salt.
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Acknowledgments
Early in 2018, Sarah MacLean gave a talk on conflict to the RWA NYC chapter. She joked at one point that she didn’t know why there weren’t more submissive dukes in historical romance. My first thought was that I could not write a “submissive” hero. My second thought was why not? What unconscious assumptions was I making? A little research proved once again that the world is far more complicated and fascinating than personal experience allows. Markham is an earl, not a duke, and he’s on the mild end of the submissive scale, but seeing the world through his eyes cracked my heart open. My thanks to Ms. MacLean and RWA NYC.