Royal Weddings: An Original Anthology

by Stephanie Laurens

  Elle was beginning to feel completely out of sorts, holding his stare. She saw no lie in those fierce gray eyes.

  This was confusing. She had been so sure—but as the fog of battle cleared, she realized she had judged, tried, and convicted him on very flimsy evidence, not much more than a fleeting glance.

  It was true that at least in other matters, he was not one to lie—though if he stayed in politics, no doubt, he’d learn. Relief began to turn her knees to jelly, but oh, this was awkward. She was struck with remorse at the way she had lost all semblance of control. “I—I’m sorry I slapped you. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s all right. You’ve got a good arm, lady.” Wryly, he soothed her with a fond, chiding smile. “Your doubt of my character hurts more than any slap. But at least you showed some emotion for once.”

  She was taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Do you expect me to read your mind? I had no idea what was wrong with you all this time! You wouldn’t talk. I thought you had transferred all your love to our babies.”

  “Archer.”

  “If you had only told me what was wrong, I could’ve set the record straight months ago, but you never even gave me a chance. Didn’t you think I’d tell you the truth?”

  She looked away, embarrassed. “I figured you considered it a gentleman’s prerogative.”

  “To cheat on you? What rubbish.”

  “I don’t know!” she cried at his sardonic stare. “I didn’t ask because I couldn’t bear for you to tell me to mind my own business.”

  “So you resigned yourself to stoic resolve. But of course you did. That’s my Ellie.” He shook his head. “Mind your own business? Is that what you really thought I’d say? Because if so, then you do not know me at all, and you especially don’t know how much I adore you.”

  “Archer.” She looked up into his eyes, knowing the moment of truth had come. “I just want for you to love me, as much as I love you.”

  “Ellie, dearest.” Amazed, he took her face tenderly between his hands, and as he gazed into her eyes, for once she let him see into them all the way down to her heart.

  “I wouldn’t have been so jealous if I weren’t mad for you,” she choked out. “It terrifies me sometimes, how in love with you I am.”

  Archer searched her face as though seeing her for the first time. “Sweetheart.” He marveled at the intensity of her confession. “I feel the same way for you. I thought you were aware . . . Don’t I give you everything you want?”

  “Not everything,” she whispered.

  “Diamonds, gowns, carriages—”

  She clutched his coat. “It’s you I want, you fool!”

  “You have me, Ellie.” He covered her hands with his own against his chest. “God’s truth, I am yours.”

  She looked into his eyes in searing hunger. “Show me.”

  He was undressing her before the door to his candlelit chamber was scarcely shut. Her gown was already loosened, her lips bee-stung from the kisses they’d exchanged the whole way home in the carriage.

  She shivered in breathless anticipation as the blue silk whispered down her body to the floor. Then Archer was unlacing her stays as his mouth consumed hers, as hurried and passionate with her as if this were indeed some illicit liaison; she unbuttoned his handsome uniform coat, her fingers trembling.

  When she was naked but for her white, gartered stockings and the necklace he’d put on her earlier, he thrust her against the wall with a groan. Elle reveled in his wild abandon and hastened to finish undressing him. He laid her in his bed, then shed the rest of his clothes and joined her with fire in his eyes.

  She arched her head back against his pillow as he bent his head and kissed her throat. She closed her eyes, raking her fingers though his hair while he reacquainted himself with her breasts. “God, look at you,” he breathed as he ran a fiery palm down her thigh. “What a fool I am.” He kissed his way down toward her navel. “I’m afraid I’m done sparing your modesty, woman.”

  “Good.” With a decadent smile, she raked her nails lightly over his broad shoulders. “I’ll be your mistress and your wife,” she whispered.

  “Yes.” He teethed her neck lustfully, tracing his fingertips lightly over her belly and then down between her legs. “Take me for your lover, Lady Archer. Everybody wants you, but none so much as I.”

  “Oh God, Archer, please,” she gasped. “Haven’t I waited long enough?” She pulled her to him.

  “Indeed,” he breathed in a hoarse rasp, and then he took her. She surrendered to his lovemaking in utter joy, his arms around her, his lips against her ear, his lightly furred chest rocking against her breasts.

  Neither of them had realized until now how much they needed this. She wrapped her legs around him, moving with him in rampant welcome. She was breathless as he pleasured her with his solid length. She kissed his hard face again and again in between moaning his name, and the night turned into a wicked satin dream . . . from which she never wanted to wake.

  Rosy sunlight filled Archer’s room the next morning as Elle awoke alone in his bed. The last thing she remembered was pulling the covers over her husband in the middle of the night. He had fallen sound asleep after his delicious exertions, and he hadn’t wakened once.

  Smiling in heated remembrance, she glanced over, but his side of the bed was empty. When she looked at the clock, she was startled: half past nine!

  Goodness, she had slept in so late. By now, no doubt, the industrious Lord Archer would be hard at work.

  She let out a rueful sigh and got up, pulling on his velvet banyan robe, which he had left at the foot of the bed for her. “Where is that man of mine?” she murmured playfully as she sauntered out to the adjoining sitting room.

  He was not there, but an open letter on the table caught her eye. She went over, picked it up and skimmed it.

  Her dreamy expression sobered.

  Just then the new Paymaster of the Forces walked into the sitting room bringing their breakfast on a tray. “There she is.” His eyes glowed as he set it on the table, then he lowered his head to greet her with a kiss. “Good morning, lovely.”

  “I see congratulations are in order.” She flicked the letter. “You got the post.”

  “Yes, well,” he answered absently, pouring out their tea, “I’ve turned it down.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve recommended someone else for the task. An honest man. I don’t think you know him. Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged at her stunned look. “As long as that scoundrel Hayes didn’t end up with the post, I’m perfectly happy to pass it by.”

  She stared at him in shock. “You’re sure?”

  “Oh, yes.” He put the usual two lumps of sugar in and stirred it before handing it to her. “I’ve also resigned this morning from all but two of the boards I serve on, and one of the committees. It should be a much more, er, manageable schedule.”

  “You’re really willing to give up all that power for us?”

  “It’s not just for you. It’s for me, as well. That slap you gave me really woke me up.” He paused. “Too much striving, too much busyness. I need some time. I have . . . some things to think about,” he said rather gingerly. “Things I need to face.”

  She lifted her hand and cupped his face, all tenderness. “I know, darling. I’m here for you.”

  He captured her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’m a very blessed man, you know. I have a wife who loves me, and two fine sons who need me. I’ve no desire to gain the world and lose what matters most along the way.”

  Elle gazed at him. “You’re a wonder.”

  “Last night was a wonder,” he corrected with a devilish look, then he presented her with a pastry.

  She laughed aloud, refusing the apple tart and opting instead for another taste of his lips. She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him down to kiss her, loosely clasping her fingers at his nape.

  He caressed her lips with his own, then rested h
er hands on her waist with an appreciative squeeze. “Mmm. So, what do you want to do today, beautiful? I’ve canceled my appointments. I’m all yours.”

  “Now I know this is a dream.”

  “No.” He rested his forehead against hers. “It’s merely the way it should have been all along, and how I’ve resolved it will be in the future. So, how shall we amuse ourselves, hm? You have my undivided attention.”

  Her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “I don’t know,” she murmured almost shyly. “Should we go and see the boys?”

  “Tomorrow, certainly,” he purred. “Today is just for you and me.”

  “Well, in that case . . .” She cast a mischievous glance toward his bedroom door, then eyed him slyly.

  He let out a short, hearty laugh. “What an excellent idea!” Then he scooped her off her feet and carried her over the threshold of his chamber like a man with his new bride.

  Indeed, their love was new again somehow, miraculously, like the spring flowers in lavish bloom out in the garden. Beyond the bedroom windows, the May sky was cerulean blue, while inside, the end she’d feared had melted like the winter snows.

  Seasons in love would come and go in the years they’d share ahead, but as she kissed him tenderly, Elle was not afraid of that anymore. A few tears, a little rain, fond forgiveness like the sun’s warmth, the courage to trust, and love would prove itself as deathless as the lilacs, the daffodils, the cherry blossom tree. They had forever, and if winter should return, spring would always come again. As long as they both refused to let go.

  Till death do us part.

  And with that, Elle let him lay her down, and said yes to her darling husband all over again.

  The Jilting of Lord Rothwick

  Loretta Chase

  8 February 1840

  Two o’clock in the afternoon

  The rain, two degrees from sleet, beat down with unrelenting fury. It reduced the rolling landscape to a grey blur, and turned the graveled driveway into a river.

  Hugh Fitzwalter, the third Marquess of Rothwick, slammed the door knocker again. Findley’s staff had picked a fine time to go deaf.

  After a fifty-mile ride from London, the frigid wet had penetrated his lordship’s overcoat and was working its way through the coat underneath. It seeped into his boots and dripped icily from his hat, down his neck, and into his neckcloth.

  The door opened at last, and the wind and rain rushed in, spraying the butler, Freets. In a better frame of mind, Rothwick would have found the man’s expression comical. His lordship was not in a better frame of mind.

  After one wild look at the broad-shouldered figure on the doorstep, Freets collected his wits and backed out of the way. “I do beg your pardon, my lord,” he said. “I’ll have someone see to your lordship’s horse. I hope your lordship has not waited long.”

  “No more than a quarter hour,” Rothwick growled.

  The butler’s face went white then red, and his eyes widened in terror.

  Rothwick, who often had this effect on servants and, sometimes, his relatives, took no notice of the butler’s panic but stomped in, leaving a trail of muddy puddles behind him on the marble floor. A footman hovering nearby hurried to him. The marquess took off his dripping hat, peeled off his saturated gloves, allowed the servant to relieve him of the sopping overcoat, and turned the entire sodden mess over to him.

  Rothwick wondered where they’d been, not to hear his knock. True, no one would expect visitors on this miserable day. Given the rain’s ferocity, he doubted anyone would have seen him coming even if they’d happened to look out of the window. Had the rain drowned out his knocking as well?

  Or perhaps, he thought grimly, a family emergency had the staff all running frantically about the place. He could picture Mrs. Findley in hysterics, and Findley waving his fist in impotent wrath—a state to which his family often reduced him.

  “I wish to see Miss Findley,” Rothwick said, advancing into the entrance hall to the chimneypiece, where a fire blazed. The Findleys heated every room of the house, whether it was in use or not. That was one luxury he could not afford. One of many.

  The butler hurried after him. “Miss Findley, my lord?”

  Rothwick caught the panicked look the butler shot at one of the doors. Down that corridor lay the library. Given the thick walls and the pounding rain, it was hard to be sure, but the marquess thought he detected the sound of voices raised in argument.

  “Is that not what I said?”

  “Y-yes, my lord.”

  “You will not tell me Miss Findley isn’t at home. She can’t have gone out in this filthy weather.”

  “No, indeed, my lord, but—but . . . I do apologize, my lord, but the family is not receiving—” He broke off as a young man hurried in through the door Freets was so uneasy about.

  Fourteen-year-old Philip stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the visitor, and his green eyes—so like Barbara’s—widened. “Lord Rothwick!”

  “Kindly inform your sister,” Rothwick said in his haughtiest drawl, “that I wish to speak to her. Privately.”

  Philip turned and ran back through the door. Begging his lordship’s pardon, Freets followed the boy at a slightly more dignified pace.

  Though the quarreling seemed to have increased in volume in the last minute, the voices were still muffled. Rothwick couldn’t hear, precisely, what the row was about, but he could guess.

  He’d been right, then. Those servants who weren’t fetching and carrying for the palpitating Mrs. Findley must have been eavesdropping with all their might. Small wonder the door had been left unattended.

  Small wonder in this household, at any rate.

  In exactly the time it would have taken Philip to reach the room and relay the message, a sudden dead silence fell.

  Rothwick held his numb hands to the fire and stared into the glowing embers, resolutely ignoring the hurried pounding of his heart.

  This couldn’t happen.

  He wouldn’t let it happen.

  An eternity passed.

  Freets returned. “If it pleases your lordship, Mr. Findley sends his apologies for keeping you waiting, and Miss Findley will see your lordship in the south parlor.”

  Barbara Findley closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. She needed more than one deep breath, but the footman Joseph pulled open the south parlor door before she had time for another.

  Her coiffure, she knew, was not elegant. Between Mama falling into hysterics and Papa on the brink of apoplexy and even Philip sulky and reproachful, she’d wanted to tear her hair out. She’d only dislodged some pins, but that was enough. Now it must look like a copper-colored rat’s nest.

  But never mind.

  Rothwick didn’t want her for her looks, such as they were. He’d noticed her appearance only enough, she supposed, to be relieved she wasn’t utterly hideous. Not that it would have stopped him had she resembled a toad.

  She managed to hold her head high, but the instant she saw the tall form across the room, she forgot decorum and poise and pride and flew into the parlor like the silly, eager girl she hadn’t been since she was Philip’s age.

  Rothwick had his back turned to the door, and his hands held out toward the parlor fire, and for an instant, that human act of warming himself at the fire made him seem vulnerable, for all his great size and great rank. She was taking in the tendrils of dark hair clinging to the back of his neck and the damp patches on the shoulders of his beautiful wool coat when he turned, hearing her footstep, and she saw the weary lines etched in his face.

  Guilt stabbed.

  “Oh, Rothwick, you’re wet through,” she cried. “What possessed you to come out on such a day? All the way from London—on horseback, no less, Freets says—and in this wretched weather.”

  “Why the devil do you think I came?” He withdrew from an inner pocket of his waistcoat a letter. “This,” he said. “I thought I might at least obtain the courtesy of an explanation.”

  The letter he held
up was still folded the way she’d folded it, though it bore a great many creases now. He must have crumpled it and smoothed it out repeatedly.

  Why hadn’t he thrown it into the fire? Why did he have to come and wave it in her face?

  She lifted her chin. She would not let him intimidate her. She’d never done so before, and now was not the time to start. “Did I not explain sufficiently?” she said.

  “We shall not suit?” he said. “That’s your explanation? That’s the sort of mealy-mouthed excuse one gives the world—not the man one has agreed to marry. Was I not entitled to more than three sentences?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said. “I had understood that one didn’t lay blame or fault or make excuses in such letters—”

  “You understood wrong,” he said. “This is a pathetic excuse for a rejection. Do you hate me?”

  How I wish I did.

  “There are a great many men I don’t hate,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I want to marry them.”

  He dismissed all the other men—and there had been scores of them—with a wave of his hand. “You said yes to me.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “I realized we didn’t suit.”

  “Barbara.”

  Because my heart pounds when you enter a room, and my knees melt when you touch my hand or push a strand of hair from my face, and I think I’ll die of excitement and happiness when we dance . . .

  . . . and it isn’t that way for you.

  “We’ll never suit,” she said. “We come from altogether different worlds—”

  “You knew that when I began courting you,” he said.

  “We have nothing in common,” she said.

  “And it took you nine weeks to discover this?” he said.

  He had courted her for nine weeks and four days.

  “Is that why you’ve come?” she said. “Is that what troubles you? You’re annoyed because it took me so long to know my own mind?”