by Heather Snow
For all that she must feel awful, she was still so breathtakingly beautiful it hurt him to look upon her.
“What did you need, Phoebe?” It came out more harshly than he intended, but he just didn’t have it in him to soften it if he’d tried.
Her eyes widened and he thought perhaps her full lower lip trembled a bit. Just a shiver, most likely.
“A second chance.”
His heart leapt in his chest, even as he willed it not to. He also willed himself to stay silent, to wait. What was she saying?
“To say yes to your proposal,” she ventured when he didn’t answer, and his traitorous heart beat faster. “Although I suppose that should really be a fourth chance, given you asked me three times the other night.”
Though he knew he was smaller for it, resentment flared. “By that logic, you should be asking for a fifth chance after last night.”
Phoebe winced. “I refused you again?” At his curt nod, she said softly, “I’m sorry, Malcolm. I don’t remember.”
“Well, I do.” It had cut so much more deeply. At least when he’d first asked her to be his wife, she’d refused because she thought she’d had other options. But last night, she’d lost everything. She’d been unimaginably desperate, and yet she’d still said no.
“You told me I didn’t have to martyr myself to save you,” he said more gently. He didn’t wish to hurt her. “And in my own way, that is what I am saying to you today by persuading Updike and Barlow to do what is right. You don’t have to martyr yourself to be free, Phoebe. I want you to be happy.”
Phoebe reached out and grasped both of his hands. “That’s just it. I can’t be happy without you.”
Surprise and hope and desire gripped him, but Malcolm shook his head against it. “I saw you with Updike. You were in raptures when you learned what I’d done. When you realized the implications, I saw you…twirling.”
Her face broke out in an angelic grin that set his heart singing, even if his mind refused to believe what he’d heard. “You’re mostly right. I was in raptures, but not because you’d made my dreams possible. It was because I realized the biggest implication of all—that you love me.”
He closed his eyes.
“And I love you,” she said firmly, her words getting through to him despite himself. “I didn’t agree to go on the expedition with Mr. Updike, not yet. I’d still like to, if you and I can find a compromise between us. But I’m not afraid anymore. I realized that a man who would give me my freedom with nothing to gain for himself could also be trusted with it.”
Tears pricked the backs of his eyes, but he didn’t open them.
“Look at me, Malcolm.”
He did, and the love he saw pouring from her face humbled him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see it before. I’m sorry for hurting you. Please…” She pulled their clasped hands close to her chest. “Give me a fifth chance. You won’t be sorry.”
Phoebe loved him. Could it be true? For the first time in what seemed like days, Malcolm could breathe fully. He bent his head to where their hands rested near her heart and kissed her gloved fingers. “And a sixth chance,” he whispered, dropping another kiss on her knuckles. “And a seventh.” Kiss. “And an eighth.” Kiss. “And a ninth—”
She laughed, a delighted sound that warmed him even as they stood out on the street during one of the coldest London winters in memory. “Does this mean our fwoo-age is back on?”
He answered with a grin. “Only if it leads to mawwiage this time.”
She hugged him to her, tucking her face against his chest. “Mawwiage it is then. When did you have in mind?”
“As soon as I can possibly procure a special license,” he answered without hesitation. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? A hasty wedding? Something small and intimate?”
“The quicker, the better,” she answered. “I’m very much looking forward to the intimate.”
He choked with startled desire. Phoebe’s face was buried against his greatcoat, but the tips of her ears were deep red. She must be blushing furiously. He couldn’t help a grin as he rested his chin upon her head.
“Do you think we could get the archbishop to say mawwiage during the ceremony?” she asked a moment or two later. “Maybe even mispronounce the whole vows in similar fashion. I think that would be quite hilarious.”
Malcolm laughed. “Only you, Pheebs.” God, he was looking forward to life with her, pulled into the lovely vortex that was Phoebe. There wouldn’t be a dull moment, he was sure of it. He lifted his chin, then tipped hers up so that he could see her lovely face. “I love you, my Lady Dervish.”
And he took her lips in a kiss that left them both spinning.
Epilogue
July, 1814, Lady Juliette’s conservatory, 2:39 in the morning…
Phoebe tried—and failed—to hide yet another yawn behind her hand. Her eyes crinkled as the gesture melted into a sheepish smile.
Though the conservatory was mostly dark, enough candles were lit to form a soft glow around the two couples who kept vigil around a round table in the center of the room.
“You must excuse my lady wife,” Malcolm said, casting a fond look at her. “It’s been many months since we’ve kept Town hours. Phoebe and Updike like to be out in the fields before sunrise, if you can imagine that.”
“Because a flower is at its most beautiful when it first greets the sun,” Phoebe defended. “Am I not right, Juliette?” She looked to her friend for support.
Juliette nodded. “Most assuredly.” Her arm swept toward the shadowy forms lining the east wall of the glass room. “All of my flowering plants and bushes are placed so they can be kissed by the morning rays.”
Sebastian, Lord Haverstan and Juliette’s twice-affianced and now husband, clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “You’re not the only one who must sacrifice his slumber if he wishes to see his wife at her happiest, my friend.” The men shared a wry grin.
“Yes, well, I suppose I haven’t minded overmuch,” Malcolm drawled, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.
Phoebe snorted. “Minded? You’re the first out of bed, just itching to explore the next horizon.”
“What can I say? I enjoy gallivanting.” Malcolm reached out and took Phoebe’s hand in his, resting their entwined fingers on the table. “With you.”
The look that passed between them made their friends turn their eyes discreetly in other directions.
Another yawn sounded. This time, Juliette ducked her chin behind her hand.
Sebastian rose to this feet, going immediately to her side. “Are you well? Is there anything I can get for you?”
Mildly alarmed at Sebastian’s sudden attentiveness, Phoebe and Malcolm turned to Juliette, concern etching their features.
Pink dusted Juliette’s cheeks, visible even in the low light. “I am fine,” she assured her husband. She noticed their friends’ regard, and her color deepened. “Truly. I am just easily exhausted these days. I am told this part of it will pass soon…”
She smiled widely as realization dawned on her guests.
“Oh!” Phoebe jumped to her feet and came around the table. Juliette stood and the two friends embraced.
Malcolm, too, rose and shook Sebastian’s hand, offering his congratulations.
When all were once again seated, Juliette spoke. “You’re the first to know. I was going to write Georgiana with the news, but as she’ll be here next week, I’ll wait to tell her in person.”
“Georgiana is coming? I’m sorry I’ll miss her,” Phoebe said.
“Unlucky timing. Both she and my uncle will be most sorry to have missed this.” Juliette dipped her head to indicate the event that had brought them all together at this ungodly hour.
Phoebe’s Queen of the Night stood centerpiece, three reddish buds full and swollen, near bursting as they teetered on the brink of blooming.
“I’m only glad we made it in time,” Phoebe said. Haverstan’s messenger had reached them in the far reaches of Devonshire, wh
ere they’d been exploring with Updike. They’d arrived here just this afternoon. “Thank you for caring for her so diligently while Malcolm and I are away.”
Juliette smiled. “She’s the pride of my small conservatory,” she said. “I was hoping you’d allow me to take a few cuttings, so that I might grow one of my own.”
“Of course,” Phoebe agreed.
A peaceful quiet settled over the conservatory as the couples went back to their bloom watch.
Nearly twenty minutes later, the first of the buds split. The room’s occupants held their collective breath as a spiked petal of white emerged, then another. The group watched in fascination as the reddish green skin peeled back and a bright white flower unfurled before their eyes. A sweet, heavy fragrance permeated the air.
“It’s as if there are three distinct types of petals,” Sebastian said.
“The outer ones look like fringe,” Juliette pointed out, “surrounded by these long, angular ones. But this central blossom…look how wide and round these petals are. They shine like opals.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Malcolm whispered reverently.
Phoebe said nothing, too busy sketching the blooms, trying to capture them while she could.
“It’s the second most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes upon,” Sebastian said. His gaze had moved to his wife, and stayed there.
She blushed. “You should be watching the flower.”
“Yes. You may never see its like again,” Phoebe warned, looking up from her drawing. “There’s no guarantee it will bloom next year, or even in years to come.”
Malcolm had taken his eyes from the flower, as well, choosing to look upon Phoebe instead. “Oh, I think Haverstan and I are well aware just how rare and precious what we see here is.”
“Indeed,” Sebastian agreed, eyes steady upon Juliette. “And we shall never forget it.”
And they never did.
Loving Lady Dervish was originally part of a limited release historical romance duet with USA Today Bestselling author, Erin Knightley. Should you wish to read her companion novella, which tells the story of Lady Juliette Trent and Sebastian, Lord Haverstan, look for ONCE JILTED, TWICE SHY by Erin Knightley.
Thank you!
Thank you for reading Loving Lady Dervish. I do hope you enjoyed it!
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Loving Lady Dervish is a prequel novella to the critically acclaimed Veiled Seduction series, featuring three unconventional heroines, three unfolding mysteries and three unforgettable love stories. The first full-length novel in the series is Sweet Enemy, followed by Sweet Deception, and Sweet Madness, all available now!
If you’d like to read the first chapter of Sweet Enemy, please turn the page.
Sweet Enemy : Excerpt
Veiled Seduction Series - Book One
Winner of the Golden Quill for Best Regency Romance
Beakers and ball gowns don't mix, so when lady chemist, Miss Liliana Claremont, goes undercover as a husband-hunter to investigate Lord Geoffrey Wentworth, the earl whose family she suspects murdered her father, romance isn't part of the formula.
But it only takes on kiss to start a reaction she can't control...
Shropshire, April 1817
He’d never wanted to be the earl, but the one thing Geoffrey Wentworth had learned since becoming such was that an earl could get away with practically anything.
He sincerely hoped that included matricide.
“Let me understand you plainly, Mother,” he growled, resisting the urge to brush the road dust from his coat onto the pristine drawing room floor. “You called me away from Parliament claiming dire emergency . . .” He swallowed, his throat aching with the need to shout. By God, he’d nearly run his horse into the ground to get here, aggravating an old war injury in his haste. His lower back burned almost as badly as it had when he’d been run through. He breathed in, striving to keep the irritation from his voice. “Because you would like to host a house party?”
Genevieve Wentworth, Lady Stratford, sat serenely on a floral chaise near the fireplace, as if he’d politely dropped in for tea instead of racing at breakneck speed to answer her urgent summons. Geoffrey eyed her suspiciously. His mother was typically a calm woman, but he’d been known to send seasoned soldiers scurrying with no more than his glare. She hadn’t so much as flinched in the face of his anger. No, in fact, she looked strangely triumphant. His stomach clenched. Mother was up to something, which rarely boded well for the men in her life.
“Geoffrey, darling, do sit down,” she began, indicating the antique caramel settee across from her. “It strains my neck to look up at you so.”
“I should like to do more than strain your meddlesome neck,” he muttered, choosing to remain standing despite the ache that now screamed down his leg. He turned his gaze to the older gentleman standing behind her. “Et tu, Brute?”
His uncle, at least, had the grace to look chagrined. Geoffrey shook his head. Uncle Joss always had been easily led. Geoffrey knew his mother played Cassius. This conspiracy had been instigated by her.
Joss squared his shoulders. “Now, m’boy, I must agree with your mother. It’s high time you accepted your responsibilities to this family and provided an heir.”
Hell. So that was what this was about. Well, he wasn’t going to fall in with their scheme. He’d nip this and, after a hot meal and a night’s rest, be on his way back to London. The Poor Employment Act wasn’t going to finish writing itself, and Liverpool wanted it ready to present next month. What was more, Geoffrey had received a disturbing letter that needed to be dealt with. He itched to return to Town to investigate whether the blackmailer’s claims held any credence. The note implied that his late brother had been paying the scoundrel for his silence to protect the family, but Geoffrey couldn’t believe a Wentworth had done anything treasonous. Still, the threat needed to be neutralized.
“Host all of the parties you want, Mother. I’ve never tied your purse strings.” He pivoted toward the door, determined to escape yet another lengthy discussion about duty. Pain flared through his back and leg. Christ, he’d very nearly given his life for duty. Yet his mother didn’t understand that. No, in her mind, duty was defined by one word—heirs. “I shall be quite tied up in Parliament for the foreseeable future, so you needn’t worry about inconveniencing me with your entertainments.”
He’d barely stepped one booted toe into the rose-marbled hallway when her words stopped him cold.
“It is not I, dearest, who is hosting our guests, but you.”
Me? He scoffed for a moment before the rest hit him. Is? As in right this moment?
The fist in his stomach tightened. The ride to Somerton Park had quite jarred his teeth loose. He’d blamed it on spring rains, but it could have been . . . Hell, it would have taken a legion of carriages to rut the road so deeply. He scanned the hallway.
Where were the servants? He’d yet to see one, not even Barnes. Yes, Geoffrey had bounded up the front steps straightaway, but there were always a few maids milling about in the entryway or the main rooms, unless . . .
Unless they were all busy seeing to the settlement of guests.
He turned slowly, his only family rotating back into view. Uncle Joss’ easy smile faltered at whatever he saw in Geoffrey’s expression, but Mother’s widened with a familiar gleam that struck fear into every wealthy titled bachelor in Christendom.
Geoffrey advanced, his boots clicking an irregular rhythm against the drawing room’s walnut floors. He prayed his suspicions were incorrect. “What have you done?”
“Taken matters into my own hands,” his mother confirme
d in a satisfied clip. She stood, her skirts swishing smartly as she retrieved a handwritten list from atop her escritoire. “I have been observing ladies of suitable age, station and character for quite some time now.” She waved the list for emphasis. “Since before you returned, even. In fact, wartime is an excellent time to judge one’s integrity, at home as well as on the battlefields. It is imperative that the future Countess of Stratford be above reproach.” She sniffed, probably expecting him to argue, as his older brother would have done were he still alive. Since Geoffrey wholeheartedly agreed with his mother—on that one point—he remained silent.
“Though I’m sad to say we’ve lost some wonderful candidates to marriage recently, there remains an excellent list from which to choose,” she finished, tapping the vellum she held with one perfectly manicured finger.
“Absolutely.” Uncle Joss nodded, his head bobbing several times in quick succession. “I’ve even added a few names m’self. And they are all here on display, just for you.” He winked.
Winked! As if they fully expected that Geoffrey would just fall into line, peruse their list of names and pick a wife at their whim. He imagined they intended him to court said wife during their little house party and propose by the end of the week.
Bloody well not.
Geoffrey straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, slipping into the stance that had become so natural during his military life. “I hope you have better entertainments planned for your guests than Catch an Earl by His Nose or I fear they will be sorely disappointed.” He again turned to the door, lamenting for only a moment the hot meal and good night’s rest he would have to forgo. “As I shan’t be here.”
He strode toward the hallway, contemplating the wisdom of pushing his horse another two hours back to the nearest coaching inn. It couldn’t be helped. A man had to stand on principle, after all. He would not have a bride foisted upon him. The earldom, yes. The responsibility of bringing his family back from the brink of financial ruin after more than a decade of his brother’s negligence and reckless spending, certainly. But a bride?