The Murder at Mandeville Hall: The Casebook of Barnaby Adair: Volume 7

by Stephanie Laurens

  And she was leaning on Alaric’s arm.

  Guy Walker and Mrs. Gibson strolled up to ask whether Alaric would be heading back to London soon.

  While they had Alaric’s attention, Monty tugged Constance’s sleeve. When she looked his way and arched a brow, he leaned closer and murmured, “Just wanted to say how pleased I am.” His gaze shifted to Alaric and back to her, his eyes wide, his gaze warm. “And to let you know how delighted the whole family will be—they’ll welcome you with open arms. You can take my word on that—they’ve been waiting for years for Alaric to make his choice.”

  Constance felt Monty might be rushing his fences, yet rather than saying so, curiosity prompted her to ask, “But aren’t you his heir?”

  Monty grinned. “Yes, but the last thing I or anyone else in the family would ever want to see is me inheriting. Good Lord—that would be a disaster!”

  She had to smile at the comical look on Monty’s face. As it faded, she touched his arm. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.” She glanced at Alaric. “I don’t know what might come to pass, but…thank you.”

  Monty gave her a strange look, then grinned again. “Trust me—there’s no doubt at all about his direction. Take it from one who’s known him from birth.” He paused, then added, “Mine, that is—he’s older than me.”

  Constance couldn’t help but laugh.

  Smiling, Monty tipped his head to her and moved off to speak with Henry Wynne and Mrs. Humphries.

  Constance surveyed the company. Many were discussing their arrangements to leave the next day. Most, she suspected, would make a beeline for their favorite center of gossip to gleefully relate the scandalous details of the murders at Mandeville Hall.

  For herself…

  She’d seen Glynis avenged and her murderer brought to justice; that had been her goal in remaining at the Hall.

  There really wasn’t any other reason for her to stay.

  Except…

  She looked at Alaric—to find him waiting to catch her eye. Mr. Walker and Mrs. Gibson had moved on, leaving Alaric and Constance in their own quiet spot in the room.

  She couldn’t drag her gaze from his—from the promise she could see in the hazel brightness.

  He smiled, reached for her hand, closed his fingers about hers, and gently tugged. “Come with me.” His voice had lowered to a tone meant solely for her. His eyes held hers. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  There was a great deal more behind the simple words.

  A great deal more she wanted to explore.

  She nodded, gripped his hand, and placed her trust in him. And knew, in her heart, that she could and always would.

  Chapter 12

  What Alaric wanted to show her was a view of his home by moonlight. The moon had waxed over the past days; now it bathed Carradale Manor in a silvery light.

  “This,” he said, halting and drawing her to stand before him and wrapping his arms about her waist, “is my favorite sight. Daylight does it justice, but moonlight…”

  “Turns it magical.” She could see it—sense it. She relaxed against him, and it felt natural. Normal. As things should be—feeling the strength of his body against hers, supporting her, protecting her. Something no other man had ever presumed to do.

  She could laugh at that now, at her prickly former self. Accepting this sort of protection from a man like him—an instinctive protection offered with no thought of recompense—was no weakness.

  Indeed, she was starting to view partnership as a strength.

  And heaven knew she’d always been attracted to strength.

  It was a quality he had in abundance—not just physical strength, not just mental acuity, but that inner strength that defined the true mettle of a man.

  “This sight,” he said, his voice low but clear, “embodies my life. My home, my estate, my responsibilities. My future.” He paused, then went on, “I know we only met days ago, but I wanted to show you this…and ask you not to leave. I wanted to beg you to come and live with me here, through peace and prosperity and whatever else comes.”

  “And are you? Asking me? Begging me?”

  “Yes.”

  She found she couldn’t breathe, then his hands shifted at her waist, and she turned within his arms to face him.

  To look into his face, the planes sharp and defined, chiseled by an artist’s hand.

  To fall into his eyes, shadowed though they were, into the depths that tempted and held her.

  To understand that he spoke from the heart when he said, “Marry me, Constance, and stay.”

  She felt as if her heart leapt—reaching for him, for the future he offered. Challenges there would be, but there was no question in her mind or her soul that this was what she wanted. What she had always craved.

  “Yes.” The word fell from her lips.

  Her gaze locked with his, she could think of no more she needed to say; the magnitude of what he had so simply proposed and she had, equally simply, accepted lay manifestly clear between them. They weren’t the sort of people to broach such matters lightly, on a whim.

  All of that passed between them, borne on the near-tangible link of their gazes.

  Then his lips lightly curved, and he bent his head, and she stretched up, just an inch, and their lips met.

  Fused as they kissed; now they no longer needed to exercise restraint, the kiss burgeoned and deepened, and desire flowered.

  It was she who stepped closer and pressed her body to his, then his arms tightened, and he crushed her to him. Her senses sang as their tongues tangled, as he explored and she welcomed, and the kiss spun on.

  When they eventually drew back, their lips parting by the merest fraction—hungry still—they were both breathing rapidly.

  He touched his forehead to hers. “Come to the manor.” The words whispered over her lips, then he took them again, confident, assured, demanding, yet not overwhelming. “Come and be my lady, tonight and forevermore.”

  She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she framed his face and replied with a kiss laden with her own brand of passion.

  Eventually, they drew apart and, with their senses alive and their bodies thrumming, walked hand in hand through the moon-dappled darkness of the wood to the house on the rise—to Carradale Manor. They approached from the stable; the house lay slumbering, wrapped in peace, as they walked around it to the front door. He opened it with his latchkey and drew her inside.

  He led her up the stairs and around the gallery to the room above the front door.

  He bowed her in, and with a smile, she walked into the room. She halted four paces inside, in the middle of a space before a set of windows flanking a French door that gave onto the semicircular balcony above the front porch, and took stock. A luxuriously large bed lay to her right, while to her left, two armchairs sat angled before a huge fireplace. Minor doors flanked the fireplace; she assumed they would lead to a bathing chamber and a dressing room.

  She turned to him as, having followed her inside and closed the door, he joined her.

  Whether he drew her into his arms or she went to him was moot. The hunger they’d incited in the depths of the wood had simmered, swelled, and grown; it invested their kiss, turning it demanding, commanding—driving them on.

  Hunger deepened to need and infused each caress, prickling their skins, turning each touch increasingly urgent. Spreading through their veins, that heated desire lured, captured, and whipped them on.

  Her gown slid to the floor on a susurrating sigh. His coat, cravat, and waistcoat followed. Her petticoats and his shirt.

  His hands closed about her heavy breasts, still shielded by the silk of her chemise. She moaned as his fingers, strong and sure, closed, massaging, then framing the aching peaks, and he uttered a guttural growl.

  She’d thought she’d known what lovemaking was—what it entailed, what it felt like. He opened her eyes.

  To the thrills of desire, to the tactile joys of passion harnessed and wielded with skil
l.

  He was beyond experienced; to say he played her body like an instrument would be no lie. His hands stroked her skin until it burned. His fingers found nerves she hadn’t known she possessed and set them afire. As for his mouth and his wicked tongue… She gasped, clutched, and clung—and urged him on in every possible way.

  He lavished untold delight and near-unimaginable pleasure upon her, with an unstinting devotion that struck to her heart.

  Never before had her senses soared beyond the earthly realm.

  Never before had she felt so alive—so worshipped, so beloved, so blessed.

  So filled with heat, passion, and joy that she had to share—wholly and completely. Without reservation or reticence.

  And he, sophisticated and worldly, let her—let her have her turn at touching, stroking, and caressing, and using her lips and tongue and her mouth to storm his senses.

  Need escalated and passion flamed, and finally, he rolled her to her back in the rumpled sheets and came over her, stretching his long body the length of hers and parting her thighs with his. On a near-frantic gasp, she wrapped her arms about him and urged him on, and at last, he joined them; eyes closed the better to savor the moment, she felt him thrust deep and fill her.

  No sensation had ever felt so exquisite. So necessary and needed.

  To her senses, no star in the heavens had ever burned as brightly as they did in that instant.

  She opened her eyes and stared into his and saw all she felt reflected back at her. Then, palms locked, fingers entwined, body to body, their lips again seeking each other’s, they started to dance, and the age-old rhythm caught them. With every thudding heartbeat, they moved faster, pushed harder; the friction between them became a searing whip, and they strove, racing and plunging and seizing and wanting.

  Until in a rush of dizzying splendor, they were there, teetering on the cusp of fulfillment, and with one last long thrust, one last sobbing moan from her and a low groan from him, they touched heaven and fell.

  Senses shattering, fragmenting, their bodies consumed in sensation’s furnace, they clung and gloried.

  Then passion’s starburst faded; held safe in each other’s arms, they spiraled back to earth.

  To the rucked sheets and disarranged covers of his bed.

  In the aftermath, they lay wrapped in peace and contentment, the glow of satiation still warm beneath their skins.

  She lay on her back, staring in something like awe at the ceiling, her mind still submerged in the fading sensations.

  He’d disengaged and slumped beside her, one heavy arm thrown over her waist, his face half buried in the pillow beside her head.

  After several long moments, he shifted his head and brushed a kiss to her temple. “You weren’t a virgin.” Statement, not a question.

  She thought before she replied, “Does it bother you that I wasn’t?”

  It was his turn to think; his silence suggested it was a point he’d never before considered. Eventually, he humphed softly. “Not really. After all, I definitely wasn’t.”

  She chuckled, then offered, “There was just one—a young man long ago. He was a soldier and was posted overseas. He was killed before we could wed.”

  “In that case, I can pity him—to have found heaven and then lost it.”

  She smiled and tipped her head to touch his.

  After a moment, he turned on his side and somewhat disgruntledly said, “I’m discovering that when it comes to you, I’m more…possessive than I ever thought to be. Just as long as he truly is in your past, and you’re willing to give your present and future to me.”

  She heard the underlying vulnerability in his tone—not an emotion she associated with him. Beneath his arm, she wriggled around to face him so she could look into his eyes and say, “I am, and I have.”

  He read the commitment in her eyes, and his expression eased. A second later, the ends of his lips kicked up. “I suppose I’ll have to be on my mettle then, to ensure that what we share transcends the joys and pleasures of first love.”

  She held his gaze and confessed, “I wasn’t in love with him. I thought I was, of course, but I now know that what I felt for him wasn’t truly love. It was hope and expectation at best. I know that now—now that I know what love truly is.”

  His brows rose; his expression remained serious, his gaze intent. “And what is love to you now?”

  She raised a hand and cradled his lean cheek. “Love is powerful. Strong. It’s impossible to deny, impossible to turn away from, and equally impossible to mistake.”

  He covered her hand with his, then turned his head and, lids lowering, pressed a kiss to her palm. “And you haven’t mistaken this?”

  “No.” As he looked back at her, she caught his eyes. “I love you. Even had you not spoken—even had I departed still alone—I would still love you. I will until I die.”

  His slow smile, the one she’d realized was always genuine, curved his lips. His hazel eyes seemed to brighten. “Good. That’s only fair. Because I love you, Constance mine, and will until the stars collide and the earth is no more.”

  She laughed—more joyous and carefree than she could remember being since childhood. Then she shook her head at him. “I can’t think of words to trump that.”

  “Never mind.” He shifted onto his back, lifted a muscled arm over her head, and tucked her against his side. “We can keep a running tab. We’ll have years to continue the competition before we need to tally it.”

  She chuckled, spread one hand on his chest, and settled her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

  Alaric sighed. Contentment of a degree he’d never known before slid through him. Along with the realization that she was his perfect mate—his counterpart, the lady who made him whole and complete—and that she would be with him forevermore.

  “I’m thirty-seven. I never expected to find love.” He didn’t know where the words came from; the depth of his contentment had, apparently, loosed the reins on his tongue. “I never truly believed in it, not even as a concept. Moving through the ton as I did, I saw too much to place any faith in what is commonly held to be love. The few genuine cases I stumbled across—like the Adairs—I viewed as aberrations, the exceptions that proved the rule.” He paused, then said, “You have to admit that the Adairs as a couple are singularly unconventional.”

  “Yes and no—it depends on your perspective.” Constance tapped his chest. “But go on—you were saying…”

  “That being thirty-seven—and you’ve met Monty, so you’ll understand the necessity—I’d accepted that I needed to find a bride. Over the last weeks, while organizing everything in preparation for making an offer, I’ve been trying to define what sort of lady would be the ideal wife for me.” He paused, then said, “Don’t laugh, but I’d concluded that the right sort of wife for me would be a sweet, gentle, and compliant lady. Then I met Glynis. After I spoke with her, I realized she would have fitted the bill I’d drawn up, but that she or any like her would, in short order, bore me to tears. On Monday night, after I left Mandeville Hall and returned here to my cold bed, I discovered that I had absolutely no idea what criteria I should look for in my perfect wife.”

  He waited, but she neither moved nor spoke; knowing she couldn’t see, he allowed his lips to curve. “Then I met you, and I knew. I didn’t need to cudgel my brains further. And despite my past skepticism, once Cupid struck, I—like you—discovered that I couldn’t deny what I feel. Not just what it is, but that it’s so much more than simply a feeling.”

  After a second, she said, “Love is a connection.”

  “Yes. Just that. I felt it the first time I laid eyes on you—even over Glynis’s dead body with you all but accusing me of having killed her.”

  “I know. I felt it, too. It was as if a link clicked into place, and thereafter, whenever anything at all happened, the very first thought to pop into my head was what you would think of it.”

  He tightened his arms around her, gently squeezing, and dropped a
kiss on her curls. “Sharing. Love is sharing.”

  “And partnership—like the Adairs, but scripted for us. Working together.”

  “Learning of each other and exploring life together.”

  “Trusting.” Constance knew she’d finally put her finger on what was, for her, the most vital aspect. She turned in Alaric’s strong arms and raised her head to look into his eyes. “Love is trusting implicitly and never fearing to be betrayed.”

  His hazel eyes held hers. “Love is belonging, heart and soul, to the other. You are my other half, and as long as we live, no power on earth will set us asunder.”

  Constance read that truth—that vow—in his eyes, then stretched up and set her lips to his.

  They sealed their troth—pledged their future and their lives—in a kiss that came from the depths of their souls.

  * * *

  Alaric and Constance would have happily spent the following day entirely at the manor, putting the necessary arrangements in place for the announcement of their betrothal and for the wedding they were determined would follow soon after.

  But both had unstated commitments at Mandeville Hall, and neither was the sort to let such matters slide.

  In midmorning, they walked back through the woods. They walked around the Hall, passing the entrance to the shrubbery with a single long glance.

  The front door stood wide, and when they stepped into the front hall, they found it abuzz with maids and footmen running this way and that, and a faintly harassed-looking Carnaby directing the gathering and sorting of the guests’ luggage.

  Luckily, there were no guests hovering to see Constance arrive in the same gown she’d worn the previous evening.

  Alaric met her eyes. “I’ll find Percy and see how he’s faring. And I need to speak with Monty as well.”

  She arched a brow. “To tell him our news?”

  Alaric smiled and inclined his head. “That and other things.”

  “I’ll come and find you after I’ve changed and spoken with Mrs. Macomber and given Pearl and Vine instructions to decamp.”