Even as she spoke, the still figure in Heath’s arms came to life. Her lashes fluttered first, and she shifted restlessly in her husband’s embrace. A sigh raced around the room as jade eyes flew open.
Aubree gazed lovingly into her husband’s worried face. “Heath,” she whispered, “I knew you would come.”
“If only to thrash some sense into your interfering hide, you damned little brat,” he agreed, irritation hiding the pounding fear of his heart.
Into the shocked silence, Aubree’s soft reply fell clearly. “You are welcome to try, my lord.” She raised her arms to a more comfortable position around his neck and snuggled against his shoulder. “But I cannot promise you will succeed.”
Harley burst through the door just as the entire room erupted in relieved laughter. He glanced from Aubree’s smothered giggles against the shoulder of her besotted husband, to his family wrapped in each other’s arms, and down to the sorry villain curled moaning upon the floor with Michael standing mercilessly on guard, iron poker in hand.
“By Jove!” he cursed to no one in particular. “Late again!”
Epilogue
The Earl of Heathmont stood on the edge of the merry crowd overlooking the ballroom and dwelled upon the differences the new year had brought. The guests tonight had not reached the exalted pinnacle of Holland House, and the ballroom’s decorations leaned in favor of holly and ivy rather than crystal and silver, but over all, he preferred the company he found himself in.
He covered the hand clinging to his arm and bent a look of love to the lovely woman at his side. Aubree’s golden curls shimmered in a halo around her happy expression as she gazed over the crowd of friends and relatives.
He followed the path of her gaze and reflected on the couple awkwardly leading into the first dance. Everett and his new bride might not be the most graceful of dancers, but the happiness in the eyes of the young squire and the vicar’s daughter blinded all watching to that fact. Remembering his own wedding reception, Austin again glanced at his entranced wife.
Before he could speak, a familiar figure intruded upon their privacy. Heath stiffened, but Aubree’s warm fingers continued to rest reassuringly upon his arm.
“Heathmont, we need to talk.” Having only just arrived from London, the duke was not garbed for the occasion, but he still caused a stir through the crowd.
“I agree, sir, but here is neither the time nor the place,” Heath answered complacently. He hid his amusement at Aubree’s beam of approval.
“Dammit, man, the House has just received a formal letter of protest from the American government over this impressment business. I need your help if we are to make that gaggle of dunderheads understand the seriousness of the situation.”
Heath quirked his eyebrow. “I doubt that I can call on Adrian at this late date, and my presence has not been welcome in Parliament for some years. In what manner would I be of use to you?”
The duke’s gaunt face drew tight with irritation. “The evidence presented in court on your Eversly fellow cleared you of those old charges. From what I hear, you’re riding a tide of sympathy now. Flaying that bounder with a whip appealed to their sense of justice. Can’t say I approve of protecting that first wife of yours at the expense of my daughter, but if she’s not complaining—and I can see that she’s not. . .” He threw Aubree a softening glance. “Then I’ll accept your excuses. Right now I’m more concerned about writing this bill.”
“You forget, there are still those outstanding charges of smuggling. They’ll not sit well with our noble brethren.” Heath drew Aubree into his embrace, quieting her eagerness to interfere.
His grace shrugged. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. The evidence is gone”—he gave Austin a shrewd look—”and the charges are being filed away. I’m an old man, Heathmont. Don’t make me any older.”
Aubree could not resist this opening. She touched her father’s sleeve and drew his attention away from her husband. “Should you not be resting, Father? Heath says you’ve been ill, but here you are, galloping about the countryside as if you had nothing better to do. Surely Dr. Jennings would not approve?”
The duke took his daughter’s hand and scowled at Heath. “Quacks, all of them. Now Jennings says I’m too mean to die, tells me it was all a mistake. Mistake! If he only knew what he’s put me through. . .” He returned his gaze to his daughter. “I’ll be around long enough to watch my grandson grow. Clara tells me you have wasted no time in making an old man’s dreams come true. Your cousin is well enough when he takes his head out of the books, but he’s got too much of his father in him. I’m counting on you and Heathmont to produce a true Beresford. I don’t give a damn for the name, it’s character I’m after. And if the two of you can’t produce an heir worthy to follow in my footsteps, then this world has grown too soft for the likes of me. I’ll not be resting yet, my dear. Perseverance is the Beresford motto. I’ll wait to see what kind of son you raise.”
Heath hid his amusement but he lifted a questioning brow, remembering their discussion of family mottoes. Aubree had informed him he should have been more thorough in discovering theirs. Perseverance had a solid ring to it. He could have thought of better for this ambitious and fractious family, but perseverance was certainly apt. He waited.
In a whispered aside, Aubree translated for him. “Perseverance is the censored edition. In the Latin on the fireplaces at Ashbrook, it translates loosely, ‘Burn your bridges and damn the world!’ Although, I think in this case, we burned the barn.”
Austin choked on his laughter.
The duke ignored this frivolousness and glared impatiently at his chuckling son-in-law. “Well, are you with me on this? Can I count on your help when the session opens?”
Heath made a suitably grave face and gave a formal bow as the first notes of a waltz fill edthe salon. “Sir, I can think of only one thing more important at this time.”
His grace snapped irritably, “Well? What is it?”
“To dance with your daughter.” He covered Aubree’s fingers with his. “My dear?”
Her brilliant smile caused even her father to fall out of their way.
Heath led her to the floor and swung her into his arms with the finesse of an experienced dancer. As they moved about the room in time to the lilting notes of the waltz, the crowd parted before them, opening to make way for the handsome couple floating rapturously in each other’s arms.
“If that’s what beating does for them, I’ll have to try it myself,” one gentleman sniffed to his comrade as his gaze followed the pair.
“. . .and they say he walked through fire to rescue her! Isn’t that romantic?”
“I can’t believe it’s the same little hoyden who picked all my tulips not two springs ago!”
“Daresay it’s his training under Wellington that’s brought her into line. . .”
The duke lifted his quizzing glance to examine this last speaker. “That’s my daughter out there, sir. A credit to the Beresford name. Married a fine chap. Atwood’s the name. You’ll be hearing more of him.”
Totally entranced with each other, oblivious to the whispers and stares, the couple circled the floor, their eyes only on each other.
FREE Exclusive Novella
If you haven’t claimed your FREE copy of STRAY MAGIC, now’s your chance. This story is available exclusively to my readers. Get your copy here!
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my book! Please stop by my website or Facebook page to let me know if you enjoyed it.
I am an independent author, so getting the word out about my book is vital to its success. If you liked this book, please consider telling your friends, and writing a review at the store where you purchased it. Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative.
About the Author
With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today’s bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance’s h
ottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.
A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina and Missouri, she currently resides in Southern California, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.
For further information, visit Patricia’s network:
http://wordwenches.typepad.com/word_wenches/
http://patricia-rice.tumblr.com/
https://www.patriciarice.com
Also By Patricia Rice
The World of Magic:
The Unexpected Magic Series
Magic in the Stars
Whisper of Magic
Theory of Magic
Aura of Magic
Chemistry of Magic
No Perfect Magic
The Magical Malcolms Series
Merely Magic
Must Be Magic
The Trouble With Magic
This Magic Moment
Much Ado About Magic
Magic Man
The California Malcolms Series
The Lure of Song and Magic
Trouble with Air and Magic
The Risk of Love and Magic
Historical Romance:
Dark Lords and Dangerous Ladies
Love Forever After
Silver Enchantress
Devil’s Lady
Dash of Enchantment
Indigo Moon
American Dream Series
Moon Dreams
Rebel Dreams
The Rebellious Sons
Wicked Wyckerly
Devilish Montague
Notorious Atherton
Formidable Lord Quentin
The Regency Nobles Series
The Genuine Article
The Marquess
English Heiress
Irish Duchess
Regency Love and Laughter Series
Crossed in Love
Mad Maria’s Daughter
Artful Deceptions
All a Woman Wants
Rogues & Desperadoes Series
Lord Rogue
Moonlight and Memories
Shelter from the Storm
Wayward Angel
Denim and Lace
Cheyennes Lady
Mystic Isle Series
Mystic Isle
Mystic Guardian
Mystic Rider
Mystic Warrior
Mysteries:
Family Genius Series
Evil Genius
Undercover Genius
Cyber Genius
Twin Genius
Twisted Genius
Crossed in Love
Anthology
Copyright © 2017 Patricia Rice
To buy Crossed in Love by Patricia Rice:
Crossed in Love
Excerpt - Crossed in Love
Deceiving Appearances
Admiring the image in the shop window of the well-dressed gentleman in gray top hat and velvet-collared cloak, Peter Denning straightened his broad shoulders. When the image did the same, he smiled, cocked the hat to a rakish angle, and proceeded onward.
Despite the expensive tiepin, the absurd silk scarf dangling about his neck swung as he walked. He felt a trifle foolish tucking a bit of stick beneath his arm as the other gentlemen on the street were wont to do, but his side-whiskers were neatly groomed and his Wellingtons gleamed. He was satisfied that he had achieved the image of the perfect gentleman that he had set out to portray. He was no such thing, but there was no need for the world to know that.
It was not that he meant to defraud the society in which he walked. He had as much wealth and more as the young gentlemen in the club to which he turned his feet now. Unfortunately, that wealth had not come about from the opportune demise of one of his relatives.
His mother had been a lady’s maid who had never seen two coins to rub together in all her life. His father had had the courtesy to marry her before disappearing from their lives, but that had been the extent of his involvement in Peter’s affairs.
No, the wealth that paid for a well-appointed apartment in Mayfair, a valet who had naught better to do than see to his master’s newly acquired wardrobe, and a rig and four that ate their worth in expensive feed had come from hard toil.
Not to mention a certain shipping venture that had generated unexpected profits. Denning grinned to himself as he pushed open the elaborately carved door. A servant who had shirked his duties rushed forward filled with apology, bowing and scraping as Peter handed him his cane and hat.
After all those years on the sea in the company of men who ate, slept, and breathed in their own filth, he was finding it pleasant to return to the cultured confines of an orderly society, one that he had only been able to admire from afar before he went to sea.
He was learning to conquer these outer appearances very well. He had grown up on the estate of a wealthy lord, listening to the speech of his betters, cultivating their accents even more than his mother had. His mother had encouraged him, hoping one day he would find a position in the household for himself and so secure his future.
But Peter had grown into a great strapping lad with ideas of his own, and bowing and scraping before effeminate lords and their vain ladies had not been among them.
But he’d had his stomach full of sea now, and it was time to turn his mind to new pursuits. He had every confidence that he could achieve whatever goal he set himself, but this particular pursuit seemed to be dragging out to tedious lengths and prospects weren’t looking good.
Denning sighed as he took his usual table, acknowledged the salutes of several of the younger gentlemen with whom he had spent time, and ordered his meal. He knew he would be joined shortly by several of the young idlers, and before the evening ended, he would have tried his hand at cards, downed a bottle of port, and no doubt toured one or more of the brothels near Haymarket.
The gentlemen considered him a rare good sport, a dab hand at all the rigs, and an easy touch for a bit of the ready when needed. He could whistle the days away in idleness forevermore if he wished.
But he hadn’t been bred for idleness, and as entertaining as the company might be, it didn’t ease the ache of loneliness. Denning had returned to England to discover his mother dead and himself alone.
He had spent years at sea imagining a cozy cottage in England with his mother keeping warm by the fire and a laughing wife in the doorway waiting for his return, with curly-haired children at her knee. He hadn’t thought it would be difficult to find the woman of his choice once he had a home and a bit of savings to offer. He had never imagined returning with great wealth and the complications that would ensue.
Sipping at his glass of port and cutting into his beefsteak, Peter attempted to avoid the ennui that haunted him, but he could not find a successful diversion for his thoughts. Great wealth should have opened all the doors that had been closed to him in the past, but he was discovering that there were doors behind doors and that breaching them was tedious business.
The gentlemen accepted him for what he was as long as he had the coins to keep up with their play, but the ladies were entirely another story. He was caught between two worlds with this charade he acted, and he was beginning to doubt that he had set the right course when he had donned his expensive clothes and knocked on the doors of society.
Coins opened that first set of doors and appearance allowed him to remain in those outer circles. To reach the inner sanctums where the ladies resided seemed impossible without the right credentials, and he couldn’t manufacture those as he had his image.
At the same time, he had no real dealings
with the layers of society to which he had been born. His wealth, appearance, and speech placed him outside their world, and any female servant would only look at him with suspicion did he ask to call. It was an awkward situation at best, one that Peter felt certain he would conquer with time, but it left him restless and alone while he sought the solution.
As he finished his meal and his second glass of port, Peter was joined by two younger gentlemen eager to attend a prizefight on the outskirts of town. His tilbury was required to carry the light-skirts they meant to accompany them, and they gallantly offered to acquire a third for Peter’s use. Contemplating that evening of entertainment, he shook his head and bowed out with an excuse of other plans.
It wasn’t a complete lie. The plan he had in mind didn’t include the tilbury or horses or loose women. The plan he had included a warm study, a good book, and the painting he had acquired last week. The more he thought about it, the more eager he became to seek that source of comfort.
Setting out on foot for his apartment, Peter conjured up the image of his first artistic acquisition with satisfaction. Had he been told while lying in his bunk at sea that one of the first things he would do upon obtaining riches was to buy a piece of oil and canvas, he would have laughed himself to the floor.
But that painting had called to him from the first moment he had set eyes on it. He was well aware that the great houses of the land had such paintings scattered haphazardly across their walls and stacked in their attics and buried in closets, and few were paid any attention no matter what their resting place. He couldn’t describe a single one of the oils that had adorned the house where he had attained maturity.
But this painting hanging in a shop window had leapt out at him, caught his eye in such a fashion that he had to return the next day to be certain it was still there.
Indigo Moon Page 37