by Julia Quinn
“Because your feelings for Rhys have changed, from friendship to love, I daresay?” Marguerite asked gently.
Anne caught her breath, tears welling to spill over and roll slowly down her cheeks. She began to walk the length of the room, willing it to go on forever. “I don’t want to love him,” she said brokenly. “I don’t want to love anyone.”
“Oh, my dear Anne.” Marguerite left her seat and rushed to join Anne in her pacing. “You’ve nothing to fear,” she soothed. “It will all come right, I promise you.”
Anne could not respond. And so the two walked the length of the room, down one end and up the other, for how long she couldn’t say. But it was long enough for Anne to carefully consider her dear friend’s words—and her own heart’s yearning. She tugged at the gold chain about her neck and took up the locket, wanting to know just what the sixpence was up to.
Anne woke refreshed and feeling much more herself the following morning, finally able to contemplate her situation with some equanimity. While her emotions as concerned Rhys left her feeling vulnerable and unsure, still, she would face him, and herself, and discover precisely what he meant when he said he shouldn’t have kissed her. Marguerite continued to insist she had mistaken his intent. He would surely be at Lady Lipscombe’s that afternoon and she would make certain to find a private moment to speak with him.
She joined Marguerite as they made social calls, stopping to sip tea and chat in amiable comfort at several homes. When their carriage pulled up in front of the Marchioness of Lipscombe’s elegant home, Anne attempted to tamp down her nerves. She grew more tense as they entered the house and were announced. A quick scan of the room revealed Lady Lipscombe’s salon was occupied by a group of females and two younger gentlemen.
Rhys was not present. Anne sighed with disappointment, unaware she’d been holding her breath in apprehension.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Marguerite murmured quietly as they took seats next to Sylvia.
Anne managed a smile. “Yes, of course.”
Marguerite gave her a quick, shrewd glance before nodding and turning to Sylvia. “Will Penelope Gainesbury be joining us? I’ve copied down my cook’s recipe for the lemon tarts she’s so fond of.”
“I’m afraid not,” Sylvia replied. “She sent a note this morning to say she’s gone to Bath with the Athertons for a short visit. I expect her back in a few weeks, however, and if you would like to leave it with me, I’ll be happy to give it to her.”
“That would be perfect.” Marguerite retrieved the folded note from her reticule and passed it to Sylvia.
“And how are you feeling, Anne?” Sylvia inquired. “Headaches can be so debilitating. I’ve been quite concerned for you.”
“Much better, thank you,” Anne assured her.
“I’m so glad to hear you are well. I vow there has been a rash of ladies afflicted with pains recently. I am convinced it’s the London air that’s causing so many problems,” Sylvia said firmly. “The fog was particularly dense when I returned home early this morning.”
Marguerite nodded solemnly. “I remarked on that very thing not three nights past, did I not, Anne?”
Before Anne could agree, the door to the salon opened and three young ladies swept into the room, their excited voices drowning out the butler as he announced them. The elderly lady accompanying them was clearly attempting to quiet them and failing on all counts.
Anne had a difficult time sorting out what they were saying for they talked over each other, each seeming to attempt to be the first, and loudest, to impart her news.
“Ladies, ladies!” Sylvia clapped her hands smartly. The three stopped in mid-sentences, eyes wide at her commanding tone. “Please, have a seat. We cannot understand a word any of you are saying.”
The three immediately perched on silk-covered chairs. They bore a family resemblance in their fair skin, brown hair, and blue eyes, and Anne deduced they must be sisters.
“Now.” Sylvia fixed them with a reproving glance. “I perceive something of note has happened.” She turned to one of the young women, whose fresh face declared her barely old enough to be out in society. “Miss Sheridan, as you are the eldest, perhaps you will inform us as to the reason for your outburst.”
Abashed, the young woman flushed under the subtle chastisement. “I beg your pardon, Lady Lipscombe. Please forgive us if we were too forward. It’s just that the news is so very startling. And the duke is your nephew. And we did not expect to be the first to share . . .”
Anne caught her breath.
“What gossip have you to regale us with, pray tell?” Sylvia’s voice turned frosty, her eyes narrowing over the three.
“It seems the duke and Lord Penbrooke were involved in a race,” one of the other young women put in, breathless with the importance of her news, “and the duke’s phaeton turned over when it failed to make a sharp turn.”
Shock held Anne immobile, her fingers clenching together in her lap. Marguerite leaned toward her, one hand closing over hers, grounding her as the world spun.
“Where did you hear this?” Sylvia’s voice was sharp. A quick glance told Anne the older woman’s face was leached of color.
“Some of the ton’s gentlemen were there, to watch and place bets, and they informed their wives. The ladies told us.”
“But no one knows who was hurt,” the third young woman objected. “Apparently, it wasn’t the duke who was driving, but rather his friend, Lord Penbrooke. There’s some confusion as to who was injured, whether it was Lord Penbrooke or the duke.”
“I must go.” Anne bent to whisper fiercely in Marguerite’s ear. “Now.”
“But Anne . . .”
“I must.”
“Sylvia will send a footman to Rhys’s home to inquire, Anne,” Marguerite murmured. “There is no need for you to go in person. If you’re seen, the gossip would ruin your reputation.”
“I must see for myself that he is unharmed. If he’s been hurt—” Anne broke off, afraid she might cry. “If he’s injured, I need to be there.” She was no longer confused, torn between wanting to avoid Rhys and longing to see him. The prospect of his being injured had erased murky indecision and snapped her view of their connection into sharp clarity. Faced with possible injury or death, there was no question as to how she felt about him. Nor where she must be.
“I see.” Marguerite’s wide eyes flared with understanding. She patted Anne’s hands and bent to whisper to Sylvia. The other woman’s gaze flashed to meet Anne’s and she nodded once, a subtle tip of her head. She murmured a reply and Marguerite stood, drawing Anne up with her.
They said their good-byes amid the confusion and excited speculation. When finally they left the room, their departure was barely noted by the chattering women. It was all Anne could do to obey Marguerite’s iron grip on her arm and move with seemingly casual intent. The moment the salon door closed behind them, however, they hurried down the hall and descended the stairs to the entryway.
“Sylvia ordered her own coach to wait outside and take you to Rhys’s home. It would not do for you to be seen arriving alone at a gentleman’s home, and our carriage is clearly marked with our crest. No one, however, would remark on his aunt’s conveyance at Rhys’s residence. I’ll have our coachman drive me home and await word from you as to the situation.” They moved quickly down the marble steps where two carriages waited, doors held ajar by footmen and steps lowered.
Marguerite stopped Anne just as she was about to enter Sylvia’s carriage. “Send word to me as soon as you can. If Rhys has been injured, I will hurry back to bear Sylvia company.”
“I will.” Anne gave her a quick, fierce hug. “I promise.”
Chapter 12
Anne gathered her skirts and entered the carriage. The moment the door closed, the coachman set off, keeping a brisk pace despite the London street traffic.
Nevertheless, the short journey seemed interminable to Anne. At last, the coach rocked to a stop in front of the imposing house a
nd she gathered her skirts. A servant dressed in the duke’s livery pulled open the door and she stepped out.
Anne wanted to run up the marble steps to the portico but managed to rein in the impulse, moving as quick as was acceptable, her steps brisk. She waited impatiently for the butler to open the door.
“Good day, madam.” The liveried butler bowed, ushering her into the entryway. “May I help you?”
“Rhys—His Grace,” she amended. “I have come to inquire as to his injuries.”
“I’m not injured.”
Anne spun, hand at her throat. Rhys strode down the hall toward her. All propriety forgotten, she ran to meet him, clasping his hands as she searched his face, unmarked but for a smudge of dust along one cheekbone. A quick frantic inspection revealed a torn jacket sleeve and streaks of dirt on his breeches, his normally impeccably polished black boots dull with dust and scrapes.
“You are unharmed? Truly?” Her voice trembled. She didn’t care that she was overcome with emotion. All she cared was that he was well and in one piece.
He cradled her cheek in his palm, his blue gaze intent. “Truly, I wasn’t hurt. Lucien, however, was. He’s upstairs; the doctor has just departed.” He looked up and over her head, toward the entry. “Andrews, I’m not at home to other callers.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Come.” He tucked Anne against his side, his arm holding her safe against his warmth, and led her toward the salon.
The moment the door closed, Anne burst into tears. Rhys wrapped her in an embrace and she burrowed against him. She slipped her arms beneath his coat and hugged him tight, the hard, tensile strength of male muscle and bone warm and blessedly alive beneath her hands.
“Anne.” His deep voice rumbled, threaded with concern. “You’re shaking.” He pressed her closer, one hand moving soothingly over her back from waist to nape, then back again. “Sweetheart, I’m okay.”
“But you could have been killed.” Her voice shook, echoing the trembling that shivered her body.
“But I wasn’t,” he reassured her. “Lucien broke his leg and is scratched up a bit, but he’ll recover.”
“Racing carriages is dangerous,” she said, catching her breath as she struggled to stop shaking. She tilted her head back to look up at him. “You must promise me you won’t race again. What would we do if anything happened to you? I would be heartbroken and the children—” She broke off, tears blurring her vision.
“The children?” He brushed his thumbs beneath her eyes, stroking away dampness. “What children?” He frowned in confusion, and then his eyes widened and a small, bemused smile curved his mouth. “Our children?”
“Of course,” she said impatiently. “Really, Rhys, you can be so . . .” Suddenly realizing what she’d just said, she stopped speaking and stared up at him, eyes wide.
The heat in his blue eyes blazed at her, tempered with wry amusement.
“I promise I won’t kill myself before we have children.” His voice was deeper, rougher, his words a vow. “Does this mean you’re no longer angry with me, Anne?”
The pad of his thumb stroked over her cheekbone, his palm cradling her face. His lashes lowered and he stared at her mouth. Mesmerized, Anne was hardly aware she instinctively lifted toward him.
His lips brushed against hers, an all too brief taste before he pulled back to look at her.
“You must promise me something as well.”
She blinked, frowning up at him. “What?”
“Promise you will never again refuse to speak to me for days.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t like it.”
She groaned, nodding. “I don’t like it, either.”
“Good. Then we’re agreed.” His mouth curved. Anne wanted to lick it. “Are we also agreed we’ll be married as soon as possible?”
“What?” Anne blinked. “I don’t . . .” She frowned before groaning again, contemplating his handsome features. “You’ve tricked me, haven’t you?”
“Have I?”
“Yes,” she tried to say firmly, failing when the faintly rough pad of his thumb pressed gently on her sensitive lip. “We were supposed to be friends. You won’t make a manageable husband.”
He laughed, eyes lighting with affection. “I suspect you’ll manage me well enough. And I hope we will always be friends. You should also know,” he continued when she groaned a third time. “I don’t want your fortune. You can do with it as you wish, and yes, the barrister will stipulate your right to do so in the marriage contracts. I hope you’ll allow me to recommend a worthy adviser, however, as the gentleman who counsels me has proven most wise.”
“Well, then,” she managed to get out, awash in emotions that weakened her knees. “I suppose that only leaves my uncle.”
“Already taken care of. The man all but ordered me to marry you.” He brushed his lips against hers once again, trailing kisses over her cheeks, temples, and the sensitive spot just below her ear.
Anne tilted her head, silently willing him to repeat the kisses that had her craving more. “I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, unsure that she could believe how perfectly everything was falling into place. Perhaps the sixpence had some magic to it after all.
“Then don’t say anything at all.” One big, warm hand cupped her nape before stroking slowly down her throat until his hand lay against the upper swell of her breast. His lips followed his hands, the feel of warm, damp kisses sending her heart pounding, her hands fisting in the linen shirt beneath his waistcoat. He pushed the sleeve of her gown off her shoulder and his lips traced her bare skin with heated kisses. Then he cupped her breast and his lips closed over the tip, the wet heat of his mouth driving all awareness of anything beyond Rhys from her mind.
She murmured, pressing closer, desperate as she shifted impatiently against him. His mouth took hers and he bent his knees, lifting her off her feet. She felt the wall at her back and then he brushed her skirt higher, tugging it upward as he stroked his hand over her knee and thigh.
He cupped her mound, fingertips brushing teasingly over silken curls.
“Sweetheart,” he muttered against her mouth, his voice rough. “You’re wet for me.”
Heat and tension gripped Anne, ratcheting higher as he stroked her, petted her, the leisurely attention at complete odds with the hot press of his mouth against hers and the taut muscles of his body.
She murmured in protest when his fingers left her to unbutton his breeches. He hushed her, kissing her deeply, before lifting her higher.
“Wrap your legs around my waist, Anne,” he coaxed. When she complied, he groaned, going still.
Anne was beyond rational thinking, assaulted on all levels by the sensual claim of his lips on hers and the hot slide of skin against skin. She shifted, shuddering at the pressure of him against her sensitized center, and then he reached between them, nudging against her.
The need to have him inside her was a driving compulsion. Anne fisted her hands in his shirt, frustrated when he insisted on taking his time even though she felt the shudder in his muscles each time he moved deeper. At last, he surged against her, fully seated.
“Are you all right, love?” he ground out, his lips at her ear, his breath choppy.
“Yes.” She realized her arms were around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair, and she tugged on the silky locks. “More,” she demanded.
He growled with desire. And then began to move.
Anne lost all tether to earth and her former self. There was only Rhys surrounding her, surging inside her, and the heat and incredible soaring pleasure that teased, tormented, and consumed her. When the world exploded and Rhys shuddered, dropping his head to rest against the wall beside hers, she hugged him fiercely, refusing to let him go. He didn’t try. Instead, he brushed kisses over her cheeks, temples, nearly touching each side of her mouth until she murmured a wordless protest and he took her mouth in a long, lazy kiss. When he finally let her breathe again, she could only smile.
Rhys
lifted his head and looked at her.
“I need another promise from you,” she said softly.
His eyes turned wary. “And what would that be?”
She cupped his face in her hands. “We must do this at least once a day.”
Surprise, then delight, spread over his features. “Now that is a promise I can keep.” He eased away from her, slowly letting her slide down his length until her feet touched the floor; he paused to refasten buttons before swinging her up in his arms. Carrying her tucked against him, he walked to the sofa and sat with her on his lap, one arm around her shoulders, one hand on her bare knee beneath her gown. “I’m very glad you came to call today, Miss Brabourne,” he said gravely, blue eyes twinkling with amusement.
“As am I, Your Grace,” she replied politely, one hand smoothing over his chest where his loosened cravat and shirt gave easy access to warm, bare skin.
“I think we should marry soon.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and Anne shivered at the brush of his fingers.
“I’m happy to set a date as early as may be but I’m certain Marguerite will want to organize a wedding party. That will surely not happen quickly. And I must have my best friends with me before I can walk down the aisle.” She gazed up at him, struck afresh at how very handsome her Rhys was. Her Rhys. She suddenly realized that she had been thinking of him as hers for some time now.
“Your friends, will they approve of me?”
Anne looked up at Rhys, needing nothing more than him, letting the sweet, clear admission wash over her. “How could they not?”
Rhys tightened his hold on her. “Do you know what your uncle told me? He warned me not to muck this up. Or he would kill me.”
Anne studied his face, the determined, fierce look in his blue eyes, the hard set of his jaw. He would never be a biddable husband, but perhaps he could be managed. She smiled. “You will have to get used to his rather direct ways.” She kissed him gently, then added, “And he was not joking about the not mucking it up bit. He would kill you. In a heartbeat.”