Recklessly Yours

by Allison Chase

  “What’s this?”

  “Ah, yes, I’d forgotten. Just a letter that arrived today.” With a shrug he pulled it from his pocket and glanced down at the sender’s direction. His brows knotting, he slipped a finger beneath the seal. “It’s from a Captain Percival Smithers. . . .” His head snapped up and his arm dropped to his side, slapping the page against his thigh. The blood drained from his face, leaving him as white as the clouds drifting overhead.

  His pallor raised an alarm inside Holly. “More dreadful news?”

  His lips moved, but for a moment no sound came out. Then he drew a ragged breath. “There was a storm. My father . . . his ship went down.”

  He swayed slightly and Holly drew him beneath the shade of the elm tree. He leaned against the trunk, and she grasped his free hand between both of hers and searched his pallid features. “Is he . . . ?”

  Colin nodded. “Captain Smithers writes that his ship came across the remnants of the Sea Goddess a mere few hundred leagues off the European coast. He says there could have been no survivors.” The letter drifted from his fingers and fluttered to the ground. “He died only days after he left England. By Christ, do you realize what this means?”

  “Yes. It means that you are the Duke of Masterfield.” She framed his face with her hands, her palms fitted snugly against his cheeks, her fingertips burrowing into his golden hair. “It means that since before the colt went missing, you have been the head of the Ashworth family.”

  The beginnings of a smile tilted the corners of his mouth. It was neither humor nor amusement that gleamed in his eyes, but a look of awe and of love. “And you, my darling, have been and always shall be my princess.”

  Chapter 31

  Holly smoothed a hand over her carefully arranged curls—again—and gave her bodice a tug to ensure all sat smooth and straight. She’d checked her appearance in the mirror this morning at least a score of times, and now as she trailed the liveried footman down the seemingly endless corridor, she craned her neck for last-minute glimpses in each pane of glass she passed.

  “Do stop fidgeting.” Colin’s warm hand briefly cupped her shoulder. “You look perfect.”

  She tossed him a grateful smile, at the same time realizing that how she looked wouldn’t make the slightest difference. Perfect or no, within minutes her fate—their fate—would be sealed. She didn’t understand how Colin could remain so calm.

  At last the footman, a tall, handsome young man with a head of dark, wavy hair, brought them to a halt where the corridor ended abruptly before a formidable set of paneled, carved mahogany doors that stood twice as tall as a man. Two guards dressed in regal red and black stood at attention, one in front of each door, their legs braced wide, their right hands poised on the hilts of their gleaming swords. Their gazes remained fixed on some distant spot over Holly’s and Colin’s shoulders.

  “Here is where I must leave you,” the footman said.

  “Thank you, Roger, for everything.”

  With an encouraging smile, he nodded. She had begun this journey with Roger Linwood on that night that now seemed ages ago, when he’d come for her in London at the queen’s behest. She wondered how much, if anything, he knew about her failed mission. Touching her fingertips to his sleeve, she held them there a moment and said, “I wish you all the best.”

  “Good luck, miss,” he said affably. He tipped his head to Colin. “My lord.”

  He retreated down the hall, and Holly returned her attention to the pair of royal guards. Perhaps they’d refuse to open the doors, she thought with a twinge of hope, and she and Colin could go home. All too quickly, however, one of the doors opened. As she took a step forward, Colin’s hand came down on her shoulder.

  “No matter what happens,” he said, “I am yours.”

  “And I yours.” She flashed him a shaky smile, a reflection of the unsteady courage she tried desperately to prevent from crumbling. “At least horse thieves are no longer hanged.”

  “Perhaps Her Majesty will allow us to share a cell in Newgate.”

  “I would happily reside there, or anywhere, with you.”

  Then they were inside, Colin bending at the waist and she sinking into a deep curtsy after catching the briefest glimpse of deep blue silk trimmed in ivory lace. She hadn’t dared to lift her gaze as high as Victoria’s face.

  The lie Holly had rehearsed for nearly twenty-four hours, ever since the royal summons had arrived at Masterfield Park, ran through her mind. Would she be able to speak the falsehoods, to break the sacred vow she and her sisters had made that sunny day in Uncle Edward’s rose garden, so many years ago?

  The colt would return to Devonshire, not because of any curse but because it was the right thing to do, because he was meant to run free with the herd, with his own kind, under the watchful protection, perhaps, of Briannon’s spirit. For Holly that meant facing her queen, her friend, and breaking faith. Her conscience gave a painful twist. . . .

  Behind her, those intimidating doors closed with a soft thud that jangled her nerves. Somewhere in front of her, a familiar voice spoke quiet words, followed by briskly receding footsteps and another closing door. Holly wondered what was happening but didn’t look up or so much as blink. Then. . . .

  “Holly, dearest, surely you know there is no need for such formality. We are quite alone now. I’ve even sent Lehzen away.” At that, a pair of soft, slightly plump hands appeared in her vision, reaching for her own. Holly clasped them and let herself be raised from her curtsy.

  Lifting her face the few necessary inches, she met her queen’s gaze. “Your Majesty, I beg you to understand . . .”

  Victoria smiled broadly. “I just told you. No need for formality. And if anyone must beg, it is I, Holly dear. I must beg your pardon for my foolishness.” Victoria’s gaze, filled with an odd mingling of amusement and chagrin that only a queen could achieve, shifted to Holly’s right. “I must beg your pardon as well, Lord Drayton.”

  Holly exchanged a startled glance with Colin. “I don’t understand.”

  “The colt, of course. Oh, Holly, such a wild-goose chase I sent you on. And you, Lord Drayton . . . dear me, such things I suspected of you. Wrongly, of course. Oh, so very wrongly. That is why I summoned you here as well, sir. I don’t know how much our dear Miss Sutherland has explained to you, but I thought it only right that I make my little confession with hopes that you will both forgive me.”

  Astonishment and confusion and a tiny seed of hope pulled Holly’s brows tight. “I . . . I’m afraid I don’t . . .”

  “Prince Frederick returned early. Yesterday morning, in fact. He went straight to the mews to take possession of the colt. My head groom—you remember William—sent a message to warn me, so naturally I hurried down to the mews to explain to the prince about the colt’s disappearance and to apologize most humbly. And do you know what happened?” Still grasping Holly’s hands, Victoria tossed her head and laughed. “I never got the words out. Frederick saw nothing amiss at all. He was so pleased with the colt, so grateful, that suddenly I realized how foolish I’d been. Goodness, to send you to find ‘the real colt’ when all along he was right there in my stables.”

  Victoria released one of Holly’s hands to dab a mirthful tear from her eye. “Truly, I can’t imagine what got into me. You must have thought me mad, yet off you went in good faith to do my bidding, like the true and steadfast friend you are. Thank you. Thank you, dear soul. And I am sorry.”

  Again, Holly shot a glance at Colin, who only gave an infinitesimal shrug. She turned back to Victoria. “Then . . . you’re saying all is well?”

  “Of course that is what I am saying. And to make it up to you, I’d like you and your sisters to ride with me in the royal procession to open the Ascot meeting. And you as well, Lord Drayton. All of you shall ride in a coach of honor right behind my own. And then you may watch the races from the royal box.” The young queen looked suddenly stricken. “Oh, but that is hardly reward enough for the trouble I’ve caused you.”
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  Holly waved a hand in the air. “No reward is necessary. Your satisfaction is quite enough, and I’m simply elated to see that everything has worked out.” This time she flashed Colin a grin she couldn’t contain. “Truly.”

  “That won’t do.” Victoria was shaking her head. “I must reward you somehow.”

  Colin offered Her Majesty a smart bow. “Ma’am, if I may make a suggestion.”

  “Yes, Lord Drayton?”

  He took Holly’s hand and cupped it in both of his own. “Your Majesty, I shall be bold and ask your permission for this lady’s hand in marriage.”

  “Really?” Victoria beamed at each of them in turn, her approval plain to see.

  “Yes, ma’am. And as soon as possible. We were even thinking, with your consent of course, of obtaining a special license and eloping. We simply don’t wish to wait a day longer than necessary.”

  “Good heavens.” Victoria’s eyes narrowed and her lips puckered speculatively, causing Holly to squirm slightly as she considered what her friend must be thinking. In fact, did the royal gaze just drop to her belly? Did Victoria suspect they’d been intimate . . . in essence, suspect the truth?

  Holly couldn’t have denied it, nor could she with certainty know yet if Colin’s child had taken root inside her. Impatience might have played a role in prompting his request, but prudence certainly advised that they marry as soon as possible.

  Except, there was still one small matter remaining. . . .

  “I believe I understand,” Victoria said. “If only I could marry quietly, when and as I wished . . .” She gave a decisive nod. “Yes, if this is what you both wish, then consider it my gift to you. Holly?”

  Oh dear. It wasn’t that Holly felt the slightest hesitation in wishing to be Colin’s wife, but securing Victoria’s permission to marry prompted yet another lie, or, at least, an omission of the facts. Immediately after reading the news about his father’s fate, Colin had carefully resealed the letter and tucked it away. He would not, he declared, spoil the Ascot races, the coming ball, or his mother’s announcement of their engagement. Most of all, he refused to wait through an entire year of mourning before becoming her husband. Not until they had said “I do” would the letter suddenly turn up.

  “My father has caused enough upheaval in our lives,” he’d told her. “This time—perhaps for the first time in his life—Thaddeus Ashworth is going to be obliging and cooperative, albeit from his watery grave. We’ll give him his respectful due, to be sure, but not until you and I are happily and irrevocably wed. No one, my darling, ever need be the wiser.”

  Holly slipped her hand from Colin’s now and in a surge of affection and gratitude threw her arms around her childhood friend. “Thank you, dearest. Yes, yes, this is what I want. The only thing I want. Except . . .”

  She drew back to gaze into those large, solemn eyes that had changed so little over the years, that might as well still have been those of the eleven-year-old princess to whom Holly and her sisters had once sworn their lifelong allegiance. Through a veil of tears Holly said, “I wish for you to be as happy as I am. I wish for you to have the love of a good man, the finest of men, and for you to know he loves you for yourself, as you are, and that he’ll sustain you and never falter from your side.”

  Victoria’s eyes filled as well, their magnified depths mirroring Holly’s own brimming emotions. “Goodness,” she whispered through quivering lips. “Is that the kind of love you two have found? Can you be that happy? It sounds too, too good to be true. It sounds like magic.”

  Holly gave a little sniffle and cast a loving glance at the man grinning beside her, not with his lips so much as with his clear, beautiful, honest blue eyes. “It is magic, Victoria. But I’ve learned that magic is real if you only allow yourself to believe.”

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  Epilogue

  “Yes, good night, Mrs. Eddelson. Don’t worry. I’ll lock up presently. Bid Mr. Eddelson a pleasant evening for me.” Perched on the high stool behind the counter of the Knightsbridge Readers’ Emporium, Willow propped an elbow before her and let her chin sink into her palm.

  She should be happy. After all, she had much to be grateful for. Two weeks ago Laurel had been delivered of a healthy baby boy. She and Aidan had named him Edward Roland, for the “uncle” who had raised them and the father they had never known, who had died protecting them.

  A few days later, Holly and Colin had slipped away to Scotland, to Gretna Green. The Duchess of Masterfield would still hold a post-wedding ball, but the next time Willow saw Holly and Colin, they would be man and wife. Meanwhile, Ivy had gotten over her daily dyspepsia; she now seemed to enjoy her state of impending motherhood with her former zeal for life, not to mention her zeal for science. She had taken to recording every facet of her pregnancy in a little ledger book and planned to publish a treatise for expectant mothers.

  That left Willow back here in the Emporium for want of anything better to do when she wasn’t helping Laurel with little Edward. Oh, he was an adorable child and she dearly loved being his auntie, but she couldn’t help admitting, privately, that the sweet tot helped to remind her of all that was missing from her life.

  She sighed and experienced a stab of regret, one of many that, for the past month, sneaked up on her without warning to slice at her heart. She had made a horrible, dreadful mistake back at Masterfield Park, and there was no fixing it. The evening after Willow and her sisters learned the truth of their parentage, Bryce had tried to speak to her. To ask her a question. The look in his eyes . . . the fierce emotions she had seen there . . . had frightened her. Her world had just been upended, and she had wanted only time and a bit of peace to come to terms with such drastic changes. She had meant to tell him as much, but the words had come out all wrong, had been harsh and impatient, a rebuff.

  His demeanor toward her had changed after that. No longer had he sought her out, or sat by her in the drawing room before supper, or coaxed her to go with him to the stables. And when it had come time for her to leave Masterfield Park, he had bidden her a terse good-bye with a blink of his dark, troubled eyes, a quick wave of his scarred hand. . . .

  Her heart aching and heavy, she slid off the stool and dragged her feet to the street door, ready with the key to lock up for the night. She had just jiggled it into the lock when the clip-clop of horses and the rumble of carriage wheels came to a halt directly out front. Seconds later a knock reverberated through the tiny bookshop.

  Willow gasped. Could it be Victoria? Was it suddenly her turn to be Her Majesty’s Secret Servant? For an instant the weight lifted from her chest. She sidestepped to the window and thumbed the curtain aside to peek out. Her hopes plummeted to the very soles of her feet, for the carriage that stood at the curb bore no resemblance to the brougham that had stopped here three times before. No, this was a curricle, open and sporty, not at all the discreet vehicle Victoria would have used.

  Just someone looking for a book, she supposed with a sigh. Another knock sounded, and she opened the door. A tall figure ducked in the doorway.

  “Willow . . . er . . . that is . . . Miss Sutherland, I am pleased to find you in.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Had she summoned him here with her fanciful thoughts and painful regrets? Was he even here, or had her yearnings conjured those dark blue eyes and broad shoulders, and those hands . . . the hands that had once unsettled her, but which she had come to realize were the outward manifestation of the secret pain he’d lived with most of his life. Holly had explained Thaddeus Ashworth’s cruelty toward his second son, how he’d held a little boy’s hands over an open fire to teach him . . . what? That children should not be curious? Should not be mischievous? The thought of it brought tears to burn the backs of Willow’s eyes.

  As if his heart ached as much as hers, he held one of those dear hands to his coat front. “Miss Sutherland, may I step inside?”

  She blinked the moisture from her eyes. “Oh, yes. Do forgive me. I’m jus
t so . . . so surprised to see you here. I had not heard that you were in London.”

  “I arrived this afternoon.” His footsteps thumped solidly on the floorboards, and his formidable presence filled the little shop. Willow suddenly found herself laboring for breath, as if Bryce Ashworth had sucked the oxygen from the room.

  “Are you here on business?” she asked, pushing the words out hoarsely.

  He shook his head, for a moment saying nothing, merely regarding her with an expression that seemed so unfamiliar on his typically serious features. It was an expression she couldn’t decipher. Was he amused? Had he learned a secret about her? Had he come merely to gape?

  “Do you perhaps seek a particular book?” She gestured to the shelves surrounding them.

  Again he shook his head, that enigmatic expression deepening, his eyes piercing the evening shadows. Finally, his chest swelled and his shoulders lifted. When they dropped back into their hard, straight line, he said, “I came to see you, Miss Sutherland. And to bring you something you left behind at Masterfield Park.”

  “Left behind?” Wondering what it could be, she closed her eyes a moment to think back.

  “I was going to ask you to do that.”

  Her eyes popped back open. “Do what?”

  “Close your eyes. Please do so again.”

  “Why?”

  “Please, Miss Sutherland.”

  “Oh. Very well.” It was all she could do not to peek, especially when she heard him step closer, felt the heat of his skin against her cheek, heard the soft wisp of clothing being drawn aside. Good heavens! She found herself panting for breath, yearning, needing . . .

  “Put out your hands.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your hands, Miss Sutherland. Or, if I may, Willow,” he added with a soft rumble, as if her name were some reverent, fragile thing to be spoken in hushed murmurs. She did as he asked, holding her hands out, palms up. Her fingers trembled. Her heart pattered.

  “There,” he whispered, and something warm and furry squirmed in her hold.