Hardly a Husband

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  The fact that the Duke of Sussex and the Marchioness St. Germaine had disappeared, seemingly without a trace, was also of great concern as well as the news of the assassination plot against Wellington and a list of other prominent leaders. Jarrod was needed to relay the news to Wellington and the gentlemen at Whitehall.

  So long as England was at war, there was vital work to be done and, as leader of the Free Fellows League, Jarrod had to return to it.

  She understood duty and loyalty and patriotism. Duty called. And Jarrod must answer the call. Her fear was that he would leave her behind at Shepherdston Hall. But Jarrod quickly laid that fear to rest.

  "When are you leaving?" Sarah asked, as she lay in the big bed in the master's chamber at Shepherdston Hall, her head pillowed on Jarrod's shoulder.

  "We're leaving later this morning," he answered.

  "We?"

  "If you've no objections." He pressed a kiss against her soft red curls.

  Sarah pushed herself up on her elbow and turned to look at him. "I thought you were going to…"

  "Leave you behind?" He finished her sentence.

  She nodded.

  Jarrod frowned. "Why would you think that, my sweet?"

  "'We shall install our wives in country houses and keep separate establishments nearby or in London'," she quoted from a long ago memory.

  Jarrod immediately recognized item seven from the Free Fellows League Charter. "Where did you hear that?"

  "From you," she answered. "A long time ago when you were home from Knightsguild for Easter. You sat on the bank of the pond tossing rocks and repeating it over and over."

  "You were spying on me." Jarrod remembered that Easter. His mother was staying with a gentleman at his country home and his father, never one to give up amusements, had remained in London. Jarrod was alone at Shepherdston Hall and missing Griff and Colin who were at home with their families. He'd spent much of his holiday committing the Free Fellows League Charter to memory to remind himself that he had friends and that he meant a great deal to them. Sarah kept sneaking away from the rectory and the solemnity of Holy Week to follow him around.

  "It wasn't that hard," she admitted, "since you were always by the pond tossing pebbles and talking out loud." She glanced around and sighed. "You must have been so lonely here by yourself."

  "I was," he answered. "And most of the time I was too proud and stupid to welcome a certain red-haired little girl into my life and into my heart." He reached up, tangled his hand in her hair and gently pulled her down for a soul-searing kiss. "And you can bet I won't make that mistake again."

  "No?" she asked, her lips a fraction of an inch from his.

  "No," he affirmed. "I may have to leave you behind at times in order to fulfill my duties, but it won't be because I want to." He smiled. "I've been alone enough," he said. "And so have you. I greatly prefer this" — he stopped to kiss her — "to solitude."

  "So do I," she agreed.

  "Then, it's settled," he said, pulling her atop him and settling her comfortably upon his morning erection. "You're coming with me." He gave her a lecherous wink. "Soon, I vow."

  Sarah laughed, then wiggled her bottom against him. "I'll see what I can do to arrange it, my lord."

  Jarrod groaned in pleasure as she set out to do just that. He'd never entertained a thought of leaving Sarah behind at the Hall. He couldn't. She was a part of him now. As much a part of him as the heart that beat in his chest.

  She was his wife and her place was by his side.

  In London.

  Where she would delight in the pleasant task of showering him with love and making his house a home and where he would take great pride in loving her and introducing Sarah into society as his marchioness.

  After four gloriously romantic nights at Shepherdston Hall, Lord and Lady Shepherdston returned to London and settled into blissful domesticity that included enough secret missions and adventures to last a lifetime.

  And in the years to come, the merchants of Bond Street and the owners of Ibbetson's Hotel would often boast of the Marquess of Shepherdston's penchant for showering his marchioness with fabulous gifts. Each merchant took great delight in claiming that his had been the most expensive or the most unusual or the most charming gift.

  But Gunter's, the confectioner's in Berkeley Square, knew the truth. For every year on the anniversary of their nuptials, the Marquess of Shepherdston ordered two French pastries exquisitely decorated with single pink rosebuds on top; and the Marchioness of Shepherdston ordered one long French eclair with vanilla cream, but no icing — to be sent to their London residence in time for morning coffee.

  And according to his lordship's household, those French pastries were the only meal they ate, for Lord and Lady Shepherdston remained in bed all day. Making love.

  * * * * *

  Turn the page for a preview of Truly a Wife.

  The fourth novel in Rebecca Hagan Lee's Free Fellows League series.

  * * *

  Sussex House, London May 1813

  "Good evening, Miranda. Fancy meeting you here."

  Sussex gave the Marchioness of St. Germaine an awkward little bow.

  "This isn't funny, Daniel." She glared at him. "Your mother was very surprised and none too pleased to see me. She made it quite clear that my name was not on the guest list."

  "Not on her guest list," Sussex corrected.

  "Your mother's guest list is the only one that matters," Miranda snapped at him.

  "Not to me," he countered. "And I invited you."

  "Then you should have had the decency to inform your mother because hers is the guest list they use at the front door."

  He winced.

  Miranda frowned. "You do this to me every year, Daniel, and you know she doesn't like me crashing her party."

  It was true. His mother had never liked or approved of Miranda. There was, the duchess always said, something unseemly about a girl Miranda's age inheriting her late father's title and becoming a peeress in her own right. Something unseemly about a young woman who considered herself the equal to male peers. Daniel suspected his mother might be more jealous than disapproving, for the duchess had been born an honorable miss and had gained her lofty title by marrying a duke while Miranda had right-fully inherited hers. So, Daniel invited Miranda to the gala every year knowing his mother had deliberately omitted her name from the guest list.

  It began on a whim as a way to right his mother's injustice, but Daniel had continued to invite Miranda year after year because he enjoyed her company. He had wanted to see her again, to hear her voice and resume the verbal sparring they'd enjoyed during their brief courtship — a courtship that had come to a rather abrupt end.

  He had been a few months shy of his majority and certain his dream of becoming a member of the Free Fellows League was within his grasp when he met her. Miranda had just inherited her title and Daniel's mother had made her disapproval well known. Although he'd liked Miranda immensely and found her physically and mentally stimulating, he hadn't wanted anything more than a light flirtation, and Daniel had been very much afraid that he was in danger of falling in love with Miranda St. Germaine. So he'd stopped calling upon her and he and Miranda had gone from being would-be lovers to complete adversaries almost overnight.

  And their adversarial relationship had continued. Every year he invited her to his mother's society gala and every year, Miranda responded to his invitation. And Daniel was convinced it wasn't just to avoid the humiliation of having everyone else in the ton know that hers was the only prominent name that didn't appear on the duchess's guest list. She enjoyed their verbal sparring every bit as much as he did.

  "Yet, you came," he mused.

  "I must be as daft to accept as you are to invite me," Miranda admitted. "Because I thought, this time, Her Grace was going to have footmen escort me back to my carriage."

  "If she had, it would have marked the end of her gala evening and her role as hostess here at Sussex House."

  M
iranda glanced up at him. A thin line of perspiration beaded his upper lip and the look in his eyes was hard and implacable. "Daniel, you don't mean that."

  Daniel met her gaze. "Oh, but I do. After all, it is my house."

  "Your mother has had it longer," Miranda reminded him. "And she is the duchess."

  "Dowager duchess," he corrected.

  "A duchess all the same." Miranda sighed. "You know I don't like coming here uninvited."

  "You didn't."

  "How many other guests did you invite?"

  "None," he answered truthfully. "Only you."

  "Why am I the only recipient of the Duke of Sussex's largesse?"

  Daniel smiled at her. "Because I didn't want to suffer alone."

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with his next words. "Let's not argue anymore, Miranda."

  "We always argue," she told him. "Not tonight."

  "What shall we do instead?"

  "I'm here," he said, reaching for her hand. "You're here. And the orchestra's here. Why not do me the honor of a dance?" He nudged her onto the edge of the dance floor.

  Miranda blinked up at him, not certain she'd heard him correctly. "You're asking me to dance?"

  "It would seem so." Lifting the dance card and tiny pencil dangling from her wrist, he penciled in his name for the current dance and all the others that followed, blithely crossing out the names already listed and adding his own. "And it seems I've done so in the nick of time before your card was full."

  "You want to dance to this?" She frowned. The orchestra was playing a quadrille and in all the years she had known him, Miranda had never seen Daniel Sussex partner anyone to the music of a quadrille.

  "You know better than that." He gave her his most devastating smile. "I despise quadrilles." Turning in the direction of the orchestra, Daniel held up three fingers, then four, designating the three-quarter time of the waltz.

  "Daniel, you can't!" Miranda protested as soon as she realized his intention. "You know your mother doesn't allow waltzing at her galas."

  "She'll allow it at this one." Daniel ignored Miranda's protest and signaled for the waltz once again. The orchestra leader glanced at the dowager duchess before giving Daniel an emphatic shake of his head.

  Miranda turned to Daniel with a smug I-told-you-so look on her face.

  But the Duke of Sussex was undaunted. He lifted his right hand, indicated the signet ring bearing the ducal crest and signaled, once again, for a waltz in three-quarter time. "There, now." Daniel smiled at Miranda as the orchestra leader acquiesced. "See, Miranda, with the right incentives, one can accomplish the impossible."

  "As soon as she hears the music, your mother is sure to put a stop to it," Miranda warned.

  "Then it's our only chance."

  "Chance for what?"

  "To escape in each other's arms."

  The thought of being held in his arms while they circled the room at a romantically breathtaking pace filled Miranda with pleasure until she caught a whiff of his breath. "Daniel, you're foxed!"

  "I am," he confirmed.

  "But why?"

  "Because I've been drinking."

  "Yes, you have." Miranda struggled to keep from smiling, but lost the battle. "My guess is whisky. Quite a bit of it."

  "Quite." Daniel nodded, swaying on his feet once again, leaning on her more heavily.

  Miranda put out a hand to steady him and felt dampness against his waistcoat. He groaned in obvious pain. "Daniel?"

  Daniel glanced down. "Bloody hell," he cursed beneath his breath. "Mistress Beekins won't be pleased."

  Miranda's ears pricked up at the sound of an unfamiliar female name. "Who is Mistress Beekins?"

  "The lady who sewed me up," Daniel replied, matter-of-factly.

  "Sewed you up?" Miranda parroted.

  Daniel nodded. "In nice, neat stitches." He frowned. "But it appears to be for naught because I seem to be bleeding again." He fought to keep his feet, leaning heavily on Miranda for balance. "There's the end of the quadrille. Come, Miranda, I want to waltz with you. Now."

  "Daniel, you're in no condition to waltz." Miranda looked closely and saw that he was flushed with fever. "You ought to be in bed."

  Daniel stared down at her. "I'm doing my damnedest to get there."

  "I'm serious," Miranda replied, her tone of voice laced with concern and a certain amount of disapproval.

  "So am I." He spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm willing to go to bed — just as soon as you waltz me out of here and into the carriage I hope to God you left waiting."

  "But your bed is upstairs."

  "Up sixty-eight stairs I can't negotiate," he admitted. "And even if I could get to my bed without anyone noticing, how long do you think it would be before she discovered the reason for my absence?"

  "She's your mother," Miranda reminded him. "She should know you're injured."

  "No." He spoke from behind clenched teeth. "No one can know." He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the top of Miranda's head. "Except you."

  "Why me?"

  "Because I trust you," he told her. "And…"

  Miranda's heart swelled with pride. "And?"

  "You're the only woman tall enough and strong enough to manage."

  Miranda's romantic dreams died a sharp, quick death. "Thank you for informing me of that, Your Grace." Miranda's reply was sharper than she intended, but she was struggling to keep her hurt and the tears that stung her eyes from showing. "No doubt I needed to be reminded that I'm always the biggest girl anywhere," she muttered.

  "Miranda…" he began.

  "No."

  He knew she couldn't refuse him. "Please, Miranda, waltz me out of here. I can't walk out of here on my own and I bloody well can't quadrille out. Waltzing is the only way. We'll head for the terrace."

  "The terrace?"

  "If I hold on to you, I know I can make it…"

  "You're an ass, Your Grace…"

  "I know," he answered as the orchestra began the waltz.

  "You're lucky I don't leave you bleeding all over your mother's marble floors," she told him, as he took her in his arms and guided her into the first steps of the dance.

  Daniel inhaled deeply, gathering his remaining strength. "I know."

  Miranda felt the trembling in his arms and carried as much of his weight as she could. "Good heavens, Daniel, you weigh a ton."

  He grunted in reply and did his best not to lean so heavily on her. But he was fighting a losing battle and they were both keenly aware of it.

  Miranda knew the effort it took for him to waltz so effortlessly and she did the only thing she could think to do to keep him upright and moving. "If you stumble and fall or step on my feet, I swear to God, I'll leave you where you lie and let Her Grace deal with you."

  Squeezing his eyes shut against a wave of dizziness, he faltered.

  Miranda felt the slight breeze from the open terrace doors and realized victory was within reach. She moved closer, taking on more of his weight as she whispered, "Hold me closer."

  "Too… close… already…" He ground out each word. "Your rep — "

  "Hang my reputation! You're bleeding through your waistcoat and onto my new ball gown. So, don't give up on me now, Daniel. Because when this is over and you're recovered, you're going to accompany me to my dressmaker's and buy me the most exquisite ball gown anyone has ever seen…"

  * * * * *