by [No data]
“I wasn’t far along, not even showing, but I knew, Leo. I was different. It was spring, and I couldn’t stand the smell of flowers. I’d always loved flowers.”
“And now you wear the fragrance of spices.”
Well, yes. She hadn’t connected the miscarriage and discarding the perfumes she’d preferred as a debutante. Leo was good at that too—at putting puzzle pieces together.
God, she’d missed him. Marielle sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head. “Does this count as being impetuous?”
“It counts as being lovely and brave.”
She lay on her back, took Leo’s hand, and settled it over her breast. He’d loved her breasts, and thus she’d been pleased with them as well.
“Do you still like this?” he asked, leaning over and putting his mouth to her nipple.
She’d forgotten the sensations he could provoke—hot, needy, and lovely. Her reply was to arch into his touch, to pull his hair and sigh and wiggle, knowing he enjoyed her responses. She didn’t have to worry about what behavior suited a proper wife…
“Leo?”
“Hmm?”
“I wasn’t supposed to rush you, but might I encourage you?”
“Ellie, if I were any more encouraged I’d risk making a mess of the sheets.”
So one did mention it. With Leo. “Bother the sheets, Leo Drake. It’s not as if I’ll send you back to your own bed at the first opportunity.”
He bit her, gently, delightfully. “But back to my own bed, I will go. Your reputation matters to me, Ellie.”
“My sanity matters to me, and if you don’t bestir yourself—”
He rose over her, and situated himself between her legs. “Did it ever occur to you, that when you scold me, that bestirs me in the most intimate sense?”
She’d scolded him frequently, long ago. For not combing his hair, for forgetting to scrape the mud off his boots, for bringing her flowers from his mama’s garden, for winking at her in church.
“You provoked me on purpose,” she said, wrapping her legs about his flanks. The feel of him was perfect, all male, all over. Warm, strong, healthy, and hers.
For now.
“We provoked each other,” he said, bracing himself on his forearms. “Kiss me, Ellie.”
He was a fiend, orchestrating a kiss that counterpointed slow, careful thrusts, a deft caress to her breasts, and an embrace of infinite intimacy. Marielle rubbed her breasts against his chest, sank her fingernails into his backside, and mourned for the years they’d lost.
This was not a polite marital accommodation, a duty, a vaguely bothersome if infrequent imposition.
This was lovemaking, and this was different. Marielle couldn’t maintain any perspective, any distance between the sensations swamping her and the emotions cresting higher moment by moment. She had missed Leo in every corner of her mind and every cranny of her soul, and all she wanted was to be close to him, and then closer still.
Leo had diabolical self-restraint, while Marielle was coming unraveled. She surrendered to a joy so wide, deep, and profound, she lost the sense of bodily separation between her and Leo. For an eternal moment, she was joined with him, one soul, one transcendently—shockingly—well pleasured soul.
When she could muster the will to move, she turned her head and kissed his chin. “Happy Christmas, Leo Drake.”
Though the hour was probably late enough that Christmas had passed, and Boxing Day begun.
“Happy Christmas, Ellie my love.”
The old endearment made her heart ache. “Leo, my lover.”
He gave her sweet kisses, and then more pleasure, until Marielle lay beneath him, a dazed heap of satisfied, happy female. He withdrew and spent on her belly, and—her joy was complete—tidied up without leaving evidence of their passion on the sheets.
“Don’t go yet,” she murmured, cuddling up to his side.
He wrapped his arm around her, and swept her hair back in a slow, easy caress that turned her thoughts to moonbeams. She’d missed him more than she knew, and he’d been everything she’d longed for in a lover. Now her past, present, and future were all a hazy confusion, and she couldn’t keep her eyes open.
Marielle promised herself she’d sort it all out in the morning over a hearty breakfast shared with the man she loved.
Except in the morning, she rose to find that Leo had departed from the inn, without leaving her so much as a note.
* * *
Chapter Four
* * *
“What do you mean, the colonel has departed?” Marielle fired that question at the innkeeper’s wife, a stolid, round-faced lady with an incongruous sprig of mistletoe affixed to her lace cap.
“Not an hour past, milady,” the woman replied. “Perhaps he had Boxing Day errands?”
Boxing Day errands? Boxing Day errands?
“Did he leave a note, a letter, anything?” Marielle had dashed off a note to her solicitors before she’d even rung for a breakfast tray.
The innkeeper’s wife shot Petunia a look that suggested Marielle should have asked Father Christmas to deliver some common sense. Petunia busied herself poking at the sitting room’s fire, which had done little to take the chill off Marielle’s sitting room.
“Colonel Drake didn’t leave any notes, milady. He paid his fare, then he and his manservant saddled their own horses, and went on their way.” Her tone suggested that notes passed between a lady and a single gentleman would not do at a proper establishment.
Marielle sank to the chair nearest the fire. Last night had been the best Christmas gift two people could share, and now Leo had hared off. He wouldn’t do that to her. As a young woman, she’d been cozened by her father’s machinations, but she knew better now.
Or did she? Leo had made her no promises and been at pains to inform her he’d caught the interest of another woman.
Could a man intent on marriage to another make love like that?
Both the proprietress and Petunia were sending Marielle nervous glances, and well they should.
“We’re leaving, Petunia. Mrs. Somerset, you will please prepare my bill. Your hospitality has been excellent, and I wish you Happy Christmas.”
The woman withdrew on a curtsey so hasty, the mistletoe on her cap flapped against her forehead.
“Are we off to Chelsea then?” Petunia asked, taking the last triangle of toast from the breakfast tray.
Chelsea, where Marielle had thought to begin the next phase of her life, with the cool logic of a woman who expected little from marriage, but still desperately longed for children.
“We’re going back to London, and from there, possibly onto the Continent.”
“Of course, milady.”
Something about the way Petunia munched her toast—loudly—suggested she had more to say.
“He apparently wasn’t interested in anything permanent, Petunia. The colonel was clear on that point.” Somewhat clear. Marielle had been too intent on sharing Christmas night with Leo to grasp any subtleties he’d been trying to convey. He’d mentioned attending to business, but his business might have been in the Hebrides for all the details he’d given her.
Petunia took the opposite chair and poured herself another cup of tea. “I gather the colonel was an old acquaintance?”
He’d been Marielle’s best friend in childhood, her first and only romantic passion, her greatest loss, and her fondest memories.
“We were infatuated, before my come out. We’d grown up together, spent all our holidays and summers racketing about, and then friendship turned to foolishness. I fancied myself in love with him.”
“Have some tea,” Petunia said. “It’s not cold yet.”
But it would be tepid. Marielle was done with tepid comforts. “No, thank you, but I’ll have that shortbread, please.”
Petunia passed the plate. “Was your head turned by all the wonders of Town, milady? Was that why you and his lordship parted ways all those years ago?”
Marielle and Leo had
pieced together the details of their separation over supper. “My father intercepted a note from me wherein I’d agreed to elope with Leo, and to meet him here at the Ox and Ass at a specified time and date. Papa copied the note, but moved the time up by several hours, and met Leo here in my stead.”
“Papas can be vexatiously interfering.” Petunia rapped her spoon against her tea cup with particular vigor.
For a moment, Marielle’s woes subsided beneath surprise. “Petunia Semple, you have a past.”
“I had a beau,” she said, glowering at her tea. “A lovely lad by the name Charlie Dale, though Papa didn’t care for him. Charlie would have waited for me forever, then one of his cousins was caught misbehaving with some earl’s son, and Charlie was told to offer for her. Kept the money in the family, my mother said, but mostly, it kept my Charlie and me apart. Mr. Jones put me in mind of Charlie.”
Were all papas so bent on ruining their daughters’ happiness? “Petunia, I had no idea. I’m sorry.” Though who on earth was Mr. Jones?
“I made up my mind, if I couldn’t have my Charlie, then nobody would have me. Papa ought not to have meddled.”
“Meddling is too kind a word for it. My father told Leo I’d had a change of heart, that I wanted my London Season and a chance to marry a man of suitable rank. He convinced Leo that the better part of gentlemanly honor was to accept a commission and leave me to the future I’d chosen.”
“So you ended up with Lord Drew. His cousins called him Dreary Drew, growing up, because he was such a bookish little fellow.”
“He was a good man.” But dreary wasn’t much of a stretch, God rest him.
“Mr. Jones says his lordship is a wonderful man,” Petunia said, swirling her tea. “They’ve been together for years and years.”
Ah, Mr. Jones was the loyal Raphael. “When did you talk to Mr. Jones?”
“We shared a toddy or two while you and his lordship were getting re-acquainted. One shouldn’t celebrate the holidays alone, I always say. Mr. Jones sang his lordship’s praises, said he’d never met a better man.”
Marielle dabbed butter and jam on her shortbread. “Why do you refer to the colonel as his lordship?”
“I thought you and he were old friends.”
“We are.” And more than that, Marielle had hoped. “But I know only that he rose to the rank of colonel. His father was Whitbyshire gentry, and comfortable, but certainly not titled.”
“My lady, your fellow is a blooming marquess now, the Marquess of Cadeau. He inherited from some distant cousin and has come back from the Continent to find himself a proper English wife. Mr. Jones said his lordship was on his way to finalize the settlements.” Petunia glanced around, as if she feared the parlor’s plain furnishings might carry tales. “I’m sorry, milady. I’m so very sorry. Mr. Jones vowed his lordship was the most honorable of gentlemen.”
Leo was honorable, so honorable he’d even told Marielle about being on the hunt for a wife, but this revelation turned everything on its head.
Leo was the Marquess of Cadeau, the wealthy nobleman who’d been “traveling on the Continent” for years and was ready to settle down.
Merciful Cupid. What an absolute muddle.
Was Leo so honorable, he’d terminate marriage discussions with the lady in person before embarking on a courtship with Marielle? Didn’t he know to whom she’d been married? Or had he known exactly with whom he disported, and decamped at first light rather than keep his appointment in Chelsea?
“We’ll depart for London,” Marielle said, rising. “If his lordship is interested in pursuing his acquaintance with me, he can find me through my solicitors.”
Except… solicitors were always going on about privacy and discretion. Even Leo might not be given specifics, and Marielle lived quietly rather than as a society widow.
“He seemed like such a nice man,” Petunia said, draining the last of her tea.
“His lordship?”
“Mr. Jones. Put me very much in mind of my dear, departed Charlie. He assured me his lordship was in every way a worthy man, too.”
Doubting Leo had cost Marielle ten years with him, ten years when Leo had risked his neck daily in battle after battle, and Marielle had gone slowly daft stitching endless samplers.
“I need to borrow your lap desk again,” Marielle said, “and somewhere in this inn, I must find an oilskin. Then we’re for London.”
And if Leo didn’t present himself on her doorstep by the New Year, well then, Lisbon was warm even in winter, and it was time Marielle saw something of the world.
* * *
“The roads are a trifle difficult,” Mr. Hollyburn said, for the third time. “I’m sure her ladyship will be here shortly, my lord.”
Leo had refused tea three times, assured Hollyburn of Mama’s good health twice, and paced a hole in the solicitor’s carpet waiting for Lady Drew Semple to keep her appointment.
“Women aren’t as punctual as we gentlemen,” Mr. Inverivy said. “They get distracted easily, poor dears.”
Marielle didn’t get distracted. She fixed on an objective and flew at it, and Leo had been certain his future was her target.
“Her ladyship is your client, Mr. Inverivy,” Leo said. “Do you imply she can’t tell time?”
The solicitors exchanged a look that Leo had seen enlisted men toss among themselves when a newly commissioned captain gave some daft order.
“Perhaps,” Hollyburn said, “Mr. Inverivy meant that her ladyship didn’t account for Boxing Day traffic in Town, or how her progress would be hampered by the weather. We are getting a bit of snow, my lord.”
The snow started had after Leo had left the Ox and Ass, and had the steady, relentless quality of a substantial winter storm.
“No wife of mine would fail to grasp something as obvious as winter weather or holiday traffic,” Leo said, which was ridiculous as he hadn’t ever had a wife. “In any case, I’m here to inform you both that I’ll not be pursuing negotiations with Lady Drew. I’m sure she’s in every way a lovely woman, and I’d be lucky to have her for my marchioness, but I’ll not be making an offer.”
A beat of silence went by, and then both solicitors babbled at once.
“But my lord, her ladyship is in every way appropriate to one in your unusual circumstances!”
“You can’t mean that, sir. I spent hours and hours coming up with a list, and you’ll not do better.”
Not do better, because Leo’s people had been little more than wealthy farmers. Marielle hadn’t cared about that, and Leo hoped she was still indifferent to rank and title.
A knock interrupted the solicitors’ exhortations.
A skinny boy in a worn coat tugged off his cap. “A note, Mr. Hollyburn, for his lordship.”
Leo took the note from the boy before Hollyburn could snatch it, and tossed the lad a coin. “Happy Christmas.”
“Thank you, milord!” The boy scampered off, while Leo eyed the sealed note.
Lady Semple had put pen to paper, her hand remarkably like Marielle’s. Perhaps all English school girls developed the same graceful, looping script while they waited for English schoolboys to mature into worthy articles.
My lord,
I am exercising a lady’s prerogative and changing my mind. You are without doubt a fine man, and I wish you a happy future, but I can assure you from experience, marriage to a relative stranger would be a tepid undertaking at best. I deserve better, and so, I daresay, do you. Please accept my apologies for causing you needless travel on a day cold enough to freeze Lucifer’s ears off.
Lady Drew Semple
“The lady and I are in agreement,” Leo informed the solicitors. “We’ve both thought better than to proceed with a negotiated courtship. She won’t be joining us, nor will she become my marchioness.”
Her ladyship’s decision solved a considerable problem, and Leo was grateful to her for her honesty. The irony wasn’t lost on him though—but for this errand in Chelsea, he’d not have spent the most
wonderful night of his life with Marielle.
Who was doubtless waiting for word from him back at the Ox and Ass. He jammed the note in his pocket, departed on the moment, and was soon enduring Rafe’s grumblings as they waited for their horses at the livery stable.
“We’ll return to the inn,” Leo said. “We should get there before noon, if the wind stays at our backs.”
“We’re going right back the way we came?”
“Right back to where I ought to have stayed, ten years ago, until I’d had a chance to discuss matters with the lady herself. Marielle deserved that much from me, but I was too willing to believe her father’s lies.”
Lady Drew’s note crackled in Leo’s pocket as he swung into a frigid saddle. She sounded like a practical soul, and kind, but determined on her objectives. Leo wished her well, and would hoist a holiday toast to her, just as soon as he and Marielle were reunited.
“The wind is apparently no respecter of daft marquesses,” Rafe said as they trotted onto the main road and took the brunt of a winter breeze right in the face. “But don’t mind me. Nothing I’d rather do on Boxing Day than freeze my jewels off, traipsing back and forth along the same misbegotten stretch of miserable English road. I’ll learn the names of all the highwaymen and their horses, for the holidays are supposed to be a friendly time of year.”
“Raphael, if you’re getting too old to accompany me on my travels, I’ll buy you a cottage in Dorset and write to you twice a year.”
Though Rafe again had a point: The temperature was dropping, and if Leo hadn’t been traveling back to Marielle’s side, he’d have waited out the weather for at least another day.
“I don’t fancy Dorset,” Rafe said. “Too many sheep, not enough taverns. God’s hairy arse, it wasn’t this cold in Austria.”
“Cold enough to freeze Lucifer’s….”
“Bum,” Rafe went on. “Though as best I recall, it’s hot where Old Scratch bides. My sainted granny was convinced of it, and she knew everything, including all the places I hid my papa’s brandy.”