“Do not joke,” he whispered. “Not about that.”
She watched him, and he went on, “I wish I had told you. There has been so little time. The day spiraled out of control from the moment I walked in on the Limpetts. I worked as quickly as I could to make each new kink go away. I wanted you safe and peaceful and rested. Instead, you saved my life.”
“You did make it go away.”
“Yes, but I only lived long enough to do so because you prevented Straka from strangling me.”
“I wanted to do more.”
“Ah, Piety, you did exactly the right amount. As always. But now, will you indulge me? Allow me to get you back to bed? You must rest up. Who knows what wax-flinging opportunities tomorrow may bring.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Piety was exhausted, but she refused to sleep until Trevor gave some very clear, very certain sign. Something tangible and measurable that she could plan her life around. His intent. The state of their marriage. She would not descend into hazy unconsciousness again until he’d said it—whatever it was. Why he’d come. Why he’d stayed. Why his every move now seemed hemmed in by caution. Oh, how she detested caution. But now, everyone practically swam in it today.
He walked her carefully to bed, telling her how the plan evolved between him and the viscount, how the viscount bought his house, how the police were brought in to make the raid; Piety waved her hands in surrender. “Please, Falcondale,” she said, climbing into bed, “if we really are safe, I cannot hear anymore. Not tonight. Later, you shall tell me each unbelievable detail. I want to hear every word, I do.”
He nodded, holding back the blanket. “You’ve lost interest now, because no one’s ordering you behind a locked door. I’ve seen this all before.”
She laughed and realized it was her first real laugh in weeks. It felt lovely. “Not so fast, if you please.” She chuckled. “Even though I don’t wish to talk about the raid, I do wish to talk.” He was tucking and stuffing and folding her beneath the covers like a package. She made a noise and shoved upward, sitting against the headboard.
“I must know why you came here, Trevor. Before the Limpetts. Before the Greeks. Why were you here? In my rented rooms? I left your home for a very sound reason. Why did you follow me?”
He dropped to one knee beside her and let out a surprised laugh. “Why did I follow you? Where else would I be, Piety?”
“Syria,” she said. “Egypt. Peru. Tibet. China. Istanbul. The list was long. The list was a lifetime long.”
“But did you hear what I said? Before, to the Limpetts and Idelle? I will not go without you. I cannot leave you ever again. I will not leave you.”
“Yes, I did hear you, but forgive me if I struggle to believe. It is a complete about-face. It is exactly the sort of thing we planned to tell the Limpetts. We’ve lied so much, I don’t know what to believe.”
Tentatively, he reached under the covers and found her hand. “I will never leave, darling. I could not bear it. I couldn’t bear it even before the accident, but I was only beginning to come to terms with it. That is why I kept popping up wherever you went. But no more denial.” He squeezed her hand. “The prospect of losing you to some horrible accident—of losing you at all—was so terrifying to me, it stunned me into acknowledging how much I love you. How much I absolutely cannot live without you. If you will have me, and even if you will not, I am your servant, Piety.” He looked away and then back at her. “My love, my only regret, my shame, is that I did not realize it sooner.”
“But what . . . what about your fear of being responsible for me?” she asked softly. “What about not wanting the burden of anyone else’s troubles? I have been known to embody trouble.”
“What you embody, is sunlight. You solve problems; you do not create them. Never have I met anyone so capable as you. Or more spirited or willing to improve whatever task is at hand. Believe me, I will be the burden to you, not the other way around.”
Unable to believe it, afraid to believe, Piety tried to turn away. “But my arm,” she whispered, tears in her voice. “I could lose it. And then what would you think about my spirit and will? My capability? I would be the burden you fear the most.”
“No. The burden I fear most is the life I would lead without you in it. Do not speak like this. If the arm goes, so be it. I will weep for your discomfort, but I will not love you any less.”
“You say that,” she said softly, “but I felt so helpless today. And, it is easy to love me when I am happy, and pretty, and capable, and able to make things happen.”
“It is easy to love you, regardless. What it is difficult to do—what I found it impossible to do—is to not love you. I tried, like an idiot; you know I tried. From the moment I tackled you in my music room, I tried not to love you, but I could not. It’s almost as if I was created to do only this. And I’ve waited my entire life merely to have you crawl through a passage into my lonely, selfish world and take up residence. Thank God. Thank God you arrived when you did.”
She chuckled, wiping away her tears. “Or what?”
“Or I would have become the loneliest, most uninspired, most frightened, well-traveled architectural scholar on the earth. And all the while I would have thought I was doing myself a favor. How wrong I was.” He gave a small, hopeful smile.
“Trevor, are you grinning?”
“One of the many skills I learned from you. It disarms people, and don’t think I didn’t notice. How friendly you come off smiling and winking, all the while you dazzle people into agreeing to things to which they otherwise never would have consented.”
“I am a happy person,” she said.
“That you are,” he said, edging closer to her on the bed. “And you’ve caused me to discover happiness as well.” He sighed and studied her. “Dare I . . . Dare I hope that you will consent to make me happy for years to come as my wife? My true-and-eternal wife? Shall we travel the world together, if you wish? Shall we have children together, if we are so blessed?”
“Oh,” she said, tears in her voice again. “Is it true? Can I believe you?”
“I don’t know how truer I could make it.” He rose. “But I understand your hesitation, and I do not deserve an immediate affirmation. Merely allow me to be beside you for today. Then, if you’re amenable, we’ll do it again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. Eventually, you will see.”
“And then what?” she asked, scooting up in bed.
“And then we will have a real wedding.”
She laughed again. “We’ve already had the wedding of the year. What could be more real than two hundred revelers and a feast that lasted half the night? There was a string section.”
“Ah, yes. And let us not forget a Grecian slumlord. It was a celebration to end all others. It included everything but the assurance that it was real. And every bride—and bridegroom—should have that confidence. Promises meant and promises kept.”
She thought about that for a moment and then reached her arm up, her hand outstretched. “Trevor?” she asked.
He studied her hand and then took it, holding it against his chest. “Yes, Piety.”
“I did think it was real. When we said the vows. And I meant every word.” She gave a slight tug. He loosened his hold but she clasped his fingers and pulled him to her.
He raised his eyebrows. “So did I, Piety Rheese, Countess Falcondale. So did I.”
And then, mindful of her arm, mindful of the servants in the next room, mindful of the taxing morning she’d already spent, Trevor allowed his wife to pull him completely down in bed beside her and covered her lips with a kiss.
EPILOGUE
Lord and Lady Falcondale’s wedding trip was put off until Piety’s arm had fully healed. In that time, she was able to see her house—now their house—fully restored.
“It’s mighty beautiful, Missy Pie,” Tiny told Piety as she gave her and the marchioness the first grand tour. “You could always see it like this. All I saw was a pile of bricks.
”
“We were lucky, weren’t we?” Piety said thoughtfully. “I’m not sure my dream would have been realized if we hadn’t moved in next to the earl.”
Both the marchioness and Tiny harrumphed. “You were lucky to have the marchioness across the street, that is how you were lucky,” said Tiny.
“Oh, of course.” Piety smiled. “That goes without saying.”
The marchioness cleared her throat.
Piety corrected herself. “Or perhaps it cannot be said enough.”
The tour ended in the sunny rotunda, with beams of light washing the white tiles and resplendent stairwell in crisp autumn sunshine.
“Now this room?” said Tiny. “This room I could do without.” She would barely look at the stairwell and landing that nearly took Piety’s life.
“I could not agree more,” said the marchioness, stomping her cane. “A bit showy, don’t you think?”
Piety laughed. “But this is the heart of the house. And it’s perfectly safe now. It cannot fall again.”
“You won’t find me ascending it, of this you can be sure,” said the marchioness. “I don’t care how brilliant of an architect Falcondale claims to be.”
Tiny heartily agreed.
“Tiny,” Piety began, looping arms with her, “I considered your aversion to the stairs, actually, when I designated your room to be here, on the ground floor. It will be easier for you to come and go.” She looked at Lady Frinfrock cautiously. They had not yet broached the topic of where Tiny would reside when she and Trevor departed for their extended wedding trip.
“Egads, Tiny,” said the marchioness, “you cannot mean to live here while the earl and countess flit across the globe. You’ll be all alone while Miss Breedlowe and I fall into certain discord. What if I cannot tolerate her?”
Tiny smiled and patted Piety on the hand. “I told Piety that I’d rather stay with you, Frances, but she made me a room here, just in case. Lord almighty. Never in my life did I expect to have two fine houses to live in.” She squeezed Piety’s arm.
“Please do not abuse Miss Breedlowe, Lady Frinfrock,” Piety implored. “If I receive a letter at some foreign port indicating that you have, er, ‘fallen into discord,’ then I will be forced to sail home immediately to rescue her.”
“Ah, then I will abuse her immediately, just to have you back.”
“Abuse who immediately?” said Trevor, clipping down the stairs. He came up behind Piety and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. He kissed the top of her head.
“Spare us, please Falcondale,” said the marchioness. “The wedding journey has not yet begun.”
“Can’t wait to see me sailing away, can you?” he said.
“You would take our dear Piety away for months and months—perhaps the better part of the year,” complained the marchioness. “Miss Baker and I are sick about it. Positively sick. Why cannot you simply go to France for two weeks like civilized people?”
“Oh, we’ll see France all right, never you fear.” He kissed Piety again and she laughed. “France, Italy, the near East. My wife has generously consented to see it all.”
Piety chuckled. “I haven’t consented.” She turned her face to him. “I cannot wait to see the world with you.”
“You see that, my lady? She wants to go,” said Falcondale. “But never fear; you’ll have our new neighbor, Lord Rainsleigh, moving in next door to keep you occupied. His renovation of my old house will require your attention to every detail, I’m sure. Keep a watchful eye, will you? In fact, I insist that you welcome him to the street in much the same way you welcomed me.”
“Devoted care and wise counsel?”
“Meddlesome attention and open scorn.”
The marchioness grimaced. “So you say. I can only hope he is a better custodian of the property than you.”
“Already better,” said Trevor, kissing his wife again. “He’s put a crew on the second floor just today, sealing up the passageway between Piety’s bedroom and my old house. Nicely done, too. I’ve checked on the masonry myself.” He stepped away, collecting the day’s post from a silver tray. “Afternoon, my lady, Miss Baker.”
Piety watched him go, holding her breath. She stole a look at the marchioness.
Lady Frinfrock raised one bushy eyebrow. “Did he just say passageway?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank early readers of this book, in part and in whole, whose essential feedback and encouragement kept me from giving up: Janet Marlow, Barbara Taylor, Jerry and Rita Calhoon, JoLynn and Shelly McEachern, and Sarah MacLean.
I know of no author who can navigate the writing life without the patience and support of family. Thank you to my children and Mr. Michaels for realizing this dream with me.
And finally to my critique partner, Cheri Allan, whose gentle, insightful critiques, encouragement, and extensive knowledge of stair construction helped transform the manuscript into a real book.
Want more Bachelor Lords of London?
Look for Charis Michaels’s next fabulous historical romance
THE VISCOUNT AND THE VIRGIN
Coming July 2016 from Avon Impulse!
An Excerpt from
THE VISCOUNT AND THE VIRGIN
She swallowed. “Lord Rainsleigh—”
He cut her off. “I beg your pardon, Lady Elisabeth, but do you know my given name?”
Bryson. Bryson Anders Courtland. Of course she knew it.
She shook her head.
“May I call you Elisabeth?” he asked. “My given name is Bryson—or Bryse, as my brother calls me. I would welcome a less formal address.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Will all the applicants to the prize be invited to refer to you as. . .Bryse?”
“Only the ones on which I intend to call.”
Elisabeth opened her mouth. She shut it. She blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He leaned forward. “Please don’t think I’m being dismissive of your work—I am not. I want to know everything about your foundation and the service you provide. But I also want to know everything about you. I am very taken with you, Elisabeth. I should like to see you again. Soon.”
“Oh, God.”
“Have I offended you?”
“No, you’ve simply. . .caught me unaware.”
“Would you consider a courtship?”
“Courtship. . . ” she repeated. She pushed from her chair and stood. “Lord Rainsleigh, we’ve only just met. And what of my application for the charity donation?”
He stood. They were feet apart, face to face. “My personal interest in you will be entirely separate from my involvement in the donation. I can assure you, it is only you who I wish to refer to me as Bryse.”
She looked up at him.
He stared back, his blue eyes searching, waiting.
She sat back down. “Forgive me, my lord—er, Bryse.” She spoke to her knees. “I don’t know what to say, and that is a rare circumstance, indeed.”
“I would also speak to your aunt. It felt appropriate to suggest the idea of a courtship to you first.”
She laughed, in spite of herself. “I’d say so. Unless you wish court my aunt.”
“I wish for you,” he said abruptly, and Elisabeth’s head shot up.
He crouched before her chair, spreading his arms and putting one hand on either side of her chair, caging her in. “How old are you?” he asked.
“How old do you think I am?” A whisper.
“Twenty-six?”
She shook her head. “No. I am the ripe, old age of thirty. Far too old to be called upon by a bachelor viscount, rolling in money.”
“Or,” he arched an eyebrow, “exactly the right age.”
She laughed, looking away. He said nothing, and she looked back. His blue eyes were serious. Her laughter petered out. “Why me? Why pay attention to me?”
His voice was so low, she could barely discern the words. “Because I think you’d make an ideal viscountess.”<
br />
Oh, God.
She fell back in her seat and closed her eyes but the large room still swam before them. She felt a gush of hope and joy in her chest at the same moment the bottom fell out of her stomach.
He went on, “You are mature, and intelligent, and poised. And devoted to your charity, whatever it is.”
A thread of the old conversation. She clung to it. “I’ve just told you what it is.”
“You spoke in vague generalities that could mean a great many things. I let it go, because I hope for many more opportunities to learn.”
Elisabeth breathed in and out, in and out. She bit her bottom lip. She watched his gaze hone in on her mouth.
She closed her eyes again. “If your far-reaching goal is to earn an esteemed spot in London society,” she peeked at him, “you’re going about it entirely the wrong way. No one has ever asked to court me before. It’s really not done.”
“Why is that?”
Because I have been waiting for you.
The thought floated, fully formed, in her brain, and she had to work to keep her hands from her cheeks, to keep from closing her eyes again—from squinting them shut against his beautiful face, just inches from her own, his low voice, his boldness.
“I’m very busy,” she heard herself declare.
“Then I will make haste.”
“Is this because of last night? When I. . .challenged your dreadful neighbor?”
The corner of his mouth hitched up. “It did not hurt.”
“It’s very difficult for me to stand idly by when I hear a person misrepresented.”
“And to think I was under the impression that you could barely abide my company. Your defense came as a great surprise.”
“Oh. . .I am full of surprises.”
“Is that so?” His words were a whisper. He leaned in.
She had the fleeting thought, Oh, God. He’s going to kiss me, and then—bam!—the door to the library crashed open.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHARIS MICHAELS is thrilled to be making her debut with Avon Impulse. Prior to writing romance, she studied journalism at Texas A&M and managed PR for a trade association. She has also worked as a tour guide at Disney World, harvested peaches on her family’s farm, and entertained children as the “Story Godmother” at birthday parties.
The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London Page 37