Raising her head, she gazed at him, loving him.
Edward cupped her face between his hands. ‘I love you, Arabella, so very much.’
She smiled serenely. ‘I have already told you that I love you—and I do. But—what now, Edward? Where do we go from this point?’
‘You know I cannot return to England now. I know you are carrying my child, but I do not expect you to share my exile and the hardships if you wish to return to Alice at Bircot Hall. Whatever you decide, I will abide by that.’
For a long time Arabella stared at him and Edward was suddenly gripped by fear that she might indeed prefer to return to England.
At length, she said, ‘It depends.’
A coldness went through him. ‘On what?’
‘If you make me your wife.’
Edward stared at her, doubting he had heard her correctly, and then he saw she was quite serious. ‘Of course I will. I thought you knew.’
She tilted her head to one side, her eyes sparkling with a teasing light. ‘I don’t recall you asking me. If you did, I don’t remember.’
He drew her to him once more. ‘You little fool. Do you really think that I would allow a child of mine to be born out of wedlock? To make you my wife is my dearest wish. Will you be my wife, Arabella?’
Arabella remembered that other time when she had thought they were to be married, but for the life of her, she could not remember her heart beating quite so erratically in her chest as it did now at his simple proposal. She considered what it would mean being married to him and sharing his life as an exile. She yearned to go back to England and to see Alice again, but nothing on earth could persuade her to part from this man who had first awakened passion within her when she had been nothing more than a girl.
Slowly she responded with a consenting nod and a lovely smile curving her soft lips. ‘Then I will be happy to remain in France with you and Dickon—and our soon-to-be-born son or daughter. I want to be with you wherever that happens to be.’
They embraced passionately and their lips met, almost as if for the first time, and deep within her, Arabella felt joy spreading deeply and responded fervently to his kiss. When they finally drew apart, Edward smiled tenderly at her.
‘We will be married as soon as it can be arranged.’
* * *
Since the outbreak of war there had been no cause for celebration in either family, but the wedding of Edward and Arabella, held at the palace at St Germain, was a truly joyous occasion, the guest of honour being King Charles himself. Stephen, in a state of supreme happiness, would be the next to marry, for Margaret had journeyed from England to be with him.
The room where the wedding celebrations were taking place was awash with flowers. The scent hung heavy in the air, intoxicating Arabella, or maybe it was sheer happiness that did that.
As the bride and groom embraced after saying the words that joined them together for all time, dazed, Edward looked down at his bride with pride. Her lovely face upturned to his was aglow with happiness and her amber eyes were fixed on his. Loving him.
The King, resplendent in a red-velvet suit with gold trimmings, had been watching the proceedings closely. Not one to stand on ceremony, he stepped forward and drew the bride to himself.
‘Allow me to be the first to congratulate you both,’ he said, his wide, full, sensual mouth stretched in a smile. ‘And permit me to kiss the bride.’
Edward laughed, beside himself with happiness, for had he not married his own true love, the only woman he had ever truly loved? She was so breathtakingly beautiful, she looked like a queen.
‘Who am I to refuse a request from the King?’
Charles Stuart smiled down at Arabella, a vision in cream-and-gold satin and lace. Her hair, a rich abundance of autumn hues, fell in soft waves about her back and shoulders.
Arabella looked up at him, fascinated.
A chuckle accompanied his kiss when his lips brushed her mouth, his black curling hair caressing her cheek, and when he released her a sudden roguish gleam twinkled in his dark eyes, which had far too much eloquence when he was close to a beautiful woman.
‘Your wife is very lovely, Edward. You are indeed fortunate to have found such a beauty after so much strife. When I am restored to my throne you must bring her to court. In fact, I shall insist on it.’
‘It will be an honour, Sire, but I am not a man who will wear a pair of horns gracefully.’ Edward spoke lightly, but a well-defined eyebrow jutted sharply upward and there was subtle meaning behind his words, for it was well known that husbands were no obstacles when Charles Stuart was attracted by a beautiful woman.
Unoffended by Edward’s remark—for his habits were well known—the King gave him a wink and laughed good-humouredly. ‘You know me too well, Edward, but I hope you will permit me to dance with her later.’
‘Of course, Sire. I have no objection.’
‘Is it your intention to remain here in France, Sir Edward?’ the King asked on a more serious note.
‘It is. I will not return to England until you are restored to your throne, Sire. You have my absolute loyalty. I wish I could offer more.’
The King nodded slowly, his features marred by disillusion and cynicism. ‘Your loyalty is quite good enough. I would present you with a gift on this your wedding day, but, alas, as everyone knows I am a pauper. However, I will make you a promise. Having fought by my side at Worcester, you have more claim on my gratitude than most. I assure you of a promise of my favour. When happier times return and I am restored to my throne, your estate and all your properties will be restored to you.’
‘You are most gracious,’ Edward said, bowing his head.
* * *
Later, when the celebrations were over and Arabella was alone with her husband in their bedroom at St Germain, she couldn’t resist teasing him about the interest King Charles had shown in her.
Edward came to stand behind her where she sat at the dressing table. Leaning forward, he drew her hair aside and placed his lips on the warm, inviting flesh of her neck.
‘It is obvious to me that he finds you pleasing, my love,’ he breathed, ‘but I will not share you—not even with the King of England. I love you so much that I would kill any man who tried to take you from me.’
‘You need have no worries, Edward. I love you. There will never be anyone else for me. You have given meaning to my life—to everything I do. I am not complete without you. I am yours now and always.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he murmured, meeting her eyes in the mirror, which were large and bright.
There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips and his eyes blazed suddenly with their old vivid light. Arabella breathed deeply, then smiled at him as feelings rushed to her in a flood. He was her destiny, her future, and she would spend the night making that absolutely clear to him.
He seemed to read her mind, for they smiled at one another in perfect understanding of how things would be.
* * *
Towards the end of February fifty-two Parliament took the first step to a unified government when it passed an Act of General Pardon and Oblivion, that unilaterally forgave all of King Charles’s dead father’s supporters and removed them from threat of prosecution. Oliver Cromwell viewed such conciliatory policy necessary.
‘It’s something, at least,’ Edward said to Arabella. ‘Although should any of the exiles return, then they must swear an oath not to take up their swords to any future Royalist cause.’
‘That should be no hardship, surely.’
‘Some may think not. Robert is to return to Alice and their children. He has been away from his family too long and he is eager to be with them.’ Frowning, he looked at his wife. ‘I will not go back until the King comes into his own, Arabella.’
‘If he comes into his own. There is
no guarantee that will happen.’
‘Then we will have to make the best of what we have right here. There will be new challenges to face and we will face them together.’
‘And then we can go home?’
‘That is my hope.’
Epilogue
During the following eight years, accompanied by Stephen and Margaret, Edward and Arabella followed other exiles to live in Holland. Here they raised their children and Edward gave his services to Charles Stuart in exile. They never gave up hope that one day the King would come into his own, and that day came at last.
Long oppressed beneath the mighty heel of Cromwell, the people of England began to think with longing of a restored monarchy and happier times after his death.
And so it was that in the month of May 1660, on the day of his thirtieth birthday, King Charles was restored to his throne. His ship, the Royal Charles, arrived at Dover, where he was received with obeisance and honour. Gripped by restoration fever, London was beginning to wake as if from a deep sleep.
The King set out with the highest intentions. All those who had remained loyal during his exile he remembered with gratitude, and he rewarded them well.
Not least Sir Edward Grey, whose estates in Oxfordshire were restored to him.
* * *
The sun was warm and shining with a brilliance that gave Edward’s noble house a special glow as he strolled along the garden paths, remembering the past. With thoughts and memories drifting through his mind he smiled down at the woman whose arm was looped through his own. Words unspoken, she was occupied with similar thoughts.
At thirty-three years of age Arabella was beautiful. She had all the tenderness and happiness that brought contentment and he vowed that every day of his life, he was going to find a way to make her smile. At long last their dreams had been fulfilled.
As he gazed beyond the gardens to the undulating park, a handsome youth cantered into view on a splendid chestnut horse, a giggling Louisa, his six-year-old sister with a mop of bouncing dark curls, her little round face illuminated by a pair of huge blue eyes, tucked securely in front of him. Seeing Charles, his younger brother, riding towards them, the youth, Dickon, raised his feathered hat to his adoring parents before cantering off with his happy burden to join him.
Edward chuckled low in his throat, covering his wife’s hand with his own. ‘I cannot believe we have been so blessed in our children.’ Arabella’s amber eyes smiled up at him and there was a light in her eyes he had never seen before.
‘Believe it, my love, because it is true. Everything I love most in the world is right here. I never want to leave it.’
A tremor of pleasure ran through Edward at the gladness in her lovely eyes. The vision of a future stretching endlessly before them was golden and he was certain that what they had now would flourish and blossom even more in the years ahead.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story, you won’t want
to miss these other great reads
from Helen Dickson
LORD LANSBURY’S CHRISTMAS WEDDING
LUCY LANE AND THE LIEUTENANT
CAUGHT IN SCANDAL’S STORM
A TRAITOR’S TOUCH
MISHAP MARRIAGE
Keep reading for an excerpt from HER ENEMY AT THE ALTAR by Virginia Heath.
Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!
Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards
http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010003
Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!
Do you want to earn Free Books and More?
Join Harlequin My Rewards points program and earn points every time you shop.
You can redeem your points to get more of what you love:
Free books
Exclusive gifts and contests
Book recommendations tailored to your reading preferences
Earn 2000 points instantly when you join—getting you closer to redeeming your first free book.
Don’t miss out. Reward the book lover in you!
Click here to sign up
Or visit us online to sign up at
http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010001
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Historical.
You dream of wicked rakes, gorgeous Highlanders, muscled Viking warriors and rugged Wild West cowboys from another era. Harlequin Historical has them all! Emotionally intense stories set across many time periods.
Enjoy six new stories from Harlequin Historical every month!
Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
Her Enemy at the Altar
by Virginia Heath
Chapter One
A London ballroom—November 1815
He was surrounded by the usual gaggle of giggling girls who found him charming. Fortunately, mused Lady Constance Stuart as she watched him from the opposite side of the ballroom, she was not one of them. Like his father, Aaron Wincanton had hair as dark as night and a heart as black as sin, and Constance was predisposed to hate him with a vengeance. But there was something about Aaron Wincanton that had always grated. Perhaps it was his cocky arrogance, or perhaps it was the way he constantly flirted with any woman in possession of a pulse, or maybe it was simply the fact that he was the most irritatingly handsome man in the room, but whatever it was she had developed a deep well of loathing reserved especially for him.
The gaggle of silly girls all stepped back at his command and Constance watched in reluctant fascination as Aaron Wincanton held an unopened champagne bottle upright in his palm. He had obviously procured a sword from someone and held it aloft in his right hand with far more flourish than was necessary. The blade glinted in the light of the chandeliers above, attracting even more attention to the exciting spectacle at the edge of the dance floor. He lay the flat of the blade against the side of the bottle and his mewling disciples began to count out loud in squeaking excitement. ‘One... Two...’
On three he slid the blade swiftly upwards against the glass, slicing off the cork and the neck of the bottle in one, deadly clean cut. Foaming champagne spilled from the top of the bottle like a fountain and the audience all held out their wine glasses for him to fill or clapped at the audaciousness of the trick.
As if he knew that she would be watching him, his eyes languidly lifted and locked on hers. Before she could look away, he was already smiling smugly and winked at her in that oh-so-arrogant way of his that suggested that he just knew she had been staring at him again. It was galling.
Irritated beyond measure at the man, and at her own stupidity at being caught gawping at him yet again, Constance forced her eyes to another part of the ballroom. The part that she had been deftly avoiding. For the third time this evening she spied her new fiancé, the Marquis of Deal, leering down Penelope Rothman’s ample cleavage. Despite the fact that her father had already instructed her to ignore it, explaining that a good wife understands that a husband might—from time to time—seek the company of other women, Constance still struggled to do so. She and the marquis had been engaged less than a fortnight. And he had chosen her over Penelope. Surely he could keep his urges under control for such a short period of time out of respect for his future wife?
Unless this was a bitter taste of the life she was destined to have with the man? Despite the fact that the marriage had been arranged, Constance had hoped that they might find some sort of happiness together. Secretly, she had nurtured the belief that he might, one day,
actually fall in love with her. That the Marquis of Deal would see beyond the hard exterior she had always presented to the world as a defence mechanism, find some beauty in the unruly, unsubtle, red hair that did its own thing and the tall, gangly, unimpressive figure, and uncover the real woman who lay beneath. The one who felt things a little too deeply and worried constantly that she was not quite good enough. What an idiotic, hopeless fool she was to have such a ludicrous dream!
Deal would never love her. It was no secret that her father had increased her dowry as a sweetener to lure him and Penelope Rothman was considered to be the diamond of the Season. It was humbling to realise that the Marquis of Deal had chosen his future bride pragmatically and solely for economic reasons. That is where his attraction to Constance started and stopped. Connie’s vivid appearance could never tempt him in the same way that Penelope’s golden hair and ethereal beauty did. She was merely a better financial prospect. It was still Penelope he really wanted and no amount of money would change that. Her eyes flicked back towards Aaron Wincanton and she saw him watching Deal and Penelope briefly before his gaze locked with hers again. She could tell by his bland expression that he also knew that her fiancé preferred petite blondes to gangly redheads. Everybody preferred petite blondes to gangly redheads.
The surge of disappointment was so sudden that tears threatened to form and hell would have to freeze over before she allowed anyone see her cry. Constance quietly disentangled herself from her mother’s group and slipped away to an empty alcove. Once she was composed she would give Deal the sharp end of her tongue and remind him of the behaviour expected of a gentleman. She might well be able to overlook his indiscretions in time, a very long amount of time, but that did not mean that she wanted to witness them as well. Besides, she reasoned as she watched festivities from a distance, nobody was likely to miss her—least of all her devoted marquis. As always, her dance card was woefully empty, aside from the occasional polite invitation issued from older family friends and the first waltz that she had already danced with her indifferent fiancé. She was now doomed to spend the rest of the evening with the matrons and the wallflowers. As usual.
Royalist on the Run Page 23