He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, hard and quick, then pulled away, taking her hand and leading her over to the nearest bench. He pulled her down to sit, both her hands in his, and went down on his knee before her, looking deep into her face.
“Damaris, my love, I don’t want you for my mistress.” She blanched, feeling as if she had been slapped; but before she could move, he tightened his hands on hers, holding her down, and went on, “I want to marry you.”
Now she felt even more as if she could not breathe. Damaris stared at him. “Alec… if you are jesting…”
“No! What an odd notion you must have of me. I am asking you to be my wife.”
She could feel herself trembling and she tried to stop, but she could not. Damaris gripped his hands hard to control their shaking, and he responded by bringing her hands to his lips and kissing each one. “Well,” he asked, quirking a brow, “do you mean to keep me in suspense?”
“You cannot!”
“Ah, but I can.” He smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Haven’t you heard? Border lords are a law unto themselves.”
“I am Lord Sedbury’s by-blow! My mother was an actress. My own family abhors the scandal I represent. And that is not all of it, either! If one digs a little, they will find that I ran away with Barrett and had to marry to save my reputation. Your family would be touched with the stain of my name.”
“Genevieve and my grandmother will manage,” he replied shortly. “Do you believe that I give a tinker’s damn what other people think when it comes to you? Good God, Damaris! When that man took you, when I thought that you were fleeing with another lover, I followed you. Even then. I could not let you go. I was going to find you and make you listen to me. I would have given anything to make you stay. I would have gone down on my knees and begged. Do you really think that whispers behind my back would keep from having you as my wife?”
Tears shone in Damaris’s eyes. Everything in her wanted to throw herself into his arms, to cry out that she would marry him a hundred times over, but she retained a sliver of control, enough to say, “But you will have me anyway. Whenever you want. However long you want.”
“I don’t want you hidden in some house in London. I don’t want to slip away to see you when I can or spend my nights here at home by myself. I want you with me, always. In my bed. In my drawing room. In London or Chesley or Cleyre or anywhere I am. I want to wake up with you and eat supper with you and hold your hand whenever I bloody well feel like it. I want you to be my countess. My temptress.” He pulled her forward to kiss her lips, and his hands settled on her hips, pulling her down from the bench and into him. He murmured against her ear, “I want you to be the mother of my children.”
“Alec!” Damaris let out a sobbing laugh, clutching his shoulders.
“The question is: what do you want?” He leaned back, looking at her. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” She grabbed his face and kissed his lips, his cheeks, his chin, punctuating her words with kisses. “Yes, yes, yes! I will marry you.” She gazed into his eyes. “I love you. I want all those things, too; you have no idea how much. And I pray you will not regret it.”
“Never. I will never regret loving you. And I will never stop.”
Alec pulled Damaris to him and kissed her.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the final book in the delicious Legend of St. Dwynwen series
by
New York Times
bestselling author
Candace Camp
Available Spring 2013 from Pocket Books
O
h, dear,” the countess said
. “I seem to have lost my spectacles. They must have slipped from my pocket in the church.”
“I’ll send one of—” Alec began, but Genevieve quickly cut him off.
“No need; I’ll fetch them. I know where we were sitting.” She was not about to pass up the opportunity her grandmother had opened for her. Had she realized how much Genevieve had wished to get away for a few minutes? Genevieve had had ample evidence through the years that nothing got by the countess, though there had been far less indication that Grandmother was inclined to make things easier for anyone, herself included.
“Thank you, dear,” Lady Rawdon replied, placidly.
Genevieve slipped out a side door of Damaris’s pleasant home, pausing only long enough to pick up her cloak. The November day was gray and chilly, and Genevieve set a brisk pace to St. Margaret’s, the old church at one end of the village of Chesley. A squat, stone square-towered church in the old Norman style, St. Margaret’s lay just across a small footbridge from the main street of the town. A jumbled yard of ancient gravestones huddled against its side, and beyond that stretched the ruins of the old convent. St. Margaret’s and the Priory, now the home of Lord and Lady
Morecombe, at the other end of the ruins, were the only buildings that remained of the once extensive compound.
The church, just like the village, had presented a rather small and informal venue for the wedding of the Earl of Rawdon, but it was Damaris’s home, and Alec seemed well content with it. Of course, Alec would probably have been well content to be wed in the vicar’s study, when it came down to it, but he, too, seemed to hold a certain fondness for Chesley. No doubt it was because it was where he had met Damaris almost a year ago, when he had ridden to the Priory in a rage to confront Gabriel.
It was odd, Genevieve thought as she slipped inside the church, that two tales of love had arisen from that occasion; for it was also here that Gabriel had met his Thea, as well as the baby who had become such a large part of their lives. Perhaps there was something in the air of Chesley. Or perhaps the explanation was the folktale Damaris had once related to her, the story of a saint’s statue that granted a lover’s wish. Genevieve let out a soft, cynical chuckle.
Moving down the aisle, she entered the front pew, then opened the low door and stepped inside. Cushioned in a soft, dark-green velvet, with beautifully carved adornments on the arm rests, this pew and the smaller twins on either side seated the most important members of the church, their high backs shielding them from the view of those behind them. The church at Cleyre was much the same, though of course there Grandmother had insisted on finer materials. In winter, her maid brought along wrapped hot bricks and set them at their feet to ensure they were toasty warm. Until she heard Damaris’s wry comment about the regal quality of the pew, Genevieve had never thought about it. It was simply part of being a Stafford, like one’s height or pale blond hair or fierce temper.
Genevieve examined the seat where she had sat with her grandmother, but there was no glint of the spectacles. She felt along the back of the cushion and even ran her hand over the seat, though it was obvious they weren’t there. Squatting, she searched the floor. Nothing. Her suspicion was correct: her grandmother had sent her on a fool’s errand.
Genevieve sat down on the pew and considered the matter. Had her grandmother been kind, seeing her restlessness? Or was she following some plan of her own? Genevieve suspected it was the latter. While she had no doubt that her grandmother wanted the best for her, that never kept her from achieving that goal in devious ways.
Whatever the reason, Genevieve had her moment of peace and quiet, and she intended to take full advantage of it. She leaned back against the pew, studying the altar. It was a plain parish church, not as imposing as the one erected by the lords of Rawdon. There was, in fact, a certain comfortable, homey quality that set one at ease.
Genevieve thought about the wedding that had just taken place there a couple of hours earlier. She remembered the radiance of Damaris’s face as she gazed up at Alec, who had fierce pride and joy in his expression. Her grandmother was right, she knew. There was a romantic soul that dwelt inside her brother, which she did not possess. Genevieve was more like the countess. More like her father, too, though that idea gave her no pleasure. Perhaps the difference lay in the fact that Alec had had their mother’s loving influence for the first nine years of his life whereas Genevieve had been only two when their mother died. Genevieve had no memory of her, not even a hazy picture of her face. Or maybe it was that their mother had passed on her loving nature to her son, but her blood had been unable to warm the Stafford heart inside her daughter.
Genevieve wrapped her luxurious fur-lined cloak around her more tightly, suddenly feeling colder. No doubt her grandmother was right. It was time for Genevieve to start thinking seriously about her own marriage. An alliance with a family of good name would help cover any scandal likely to arise from Alec’s marriage. And Genevieve would no longer be the ruling mistress in the Stafford household. That role would now belong to Damaris. However pleasant Damaris might be, she was accustomed to running a household; she would not leave the reins of her home in Genevieve’s hands. And Genevieve was not the sort to relish living in a house under another woman’s control.
It was not as if she had decided never to marry. She had always expected to, presumed she would… it would just be at some point in the future. But now, she thought, perhaps that future was upon her. But if it had come time for her to marry, the question of course was, to whom? She cast her mind around the bachelor members of the
ton
, but she could not come up with a man who seemed quite right.
Genevieve stood up abruptly and moved restlessly down the pew and out into the aisle. She crossed her arms beneath her cloak, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to warm them as she strolled across the crossing arm of the cruciform-shaped church and into the small chapel on the left side. Narrow stained glass windows at the end of the chapel cast a dim glow across the chamber. Beneath the windows lay the tombs of a long-ago lord and his lady, their figures recumbent upon them. Closer to her stood a cracked and battered wooden statue of a saint next to a rack of votive candles and a prie-dieu.
Genevieve paused to look down at the statue, which appeared even more humble than the church. She knew the story behind it. It was a representation of St. Dwynwen, the Welsh patron
saint of love, and it lay at the center of the folktale Damaris had recounted to her. Some medieval lord had brought the statue back from his campaign to Wales, along with a Welsh wife. So pleased was he with the woman he wed, he had established a convent in her honor and had added the statue of the saint whom he credited with winning his bride.
That was in itself a romantic tale, but it was not the full extent of it. Over the years, it was said, those who had prayed for love (with a true heart, of course) before the saint’s statue had found it. Perhaps seeing the skepticism on Genevieve’s face, Damaris had added that her friend Thea was proof of it. Feeling lonely and desperate, seemingly doomed to a life of spinsterhood in this small village, she had prayed for a life and love of her own. An instant later, a baby’s cries in the church outside had startled her out of her prayers, and she had come out of the chapel to find a baby abandoned in the manger of their Christmas creche. That baby had led Thea to Gabriel Morecombe and a suitably happy ending.
Despite herself, Genevieve had been touched by the story. Perhaps such things actually happened to some people. Not Staffords. And yet… She could not help but think of her brother’s face as he danced with Damaris, the sharp lines softened, his eyes alight. Something turned in her chest, piercing and somehow hot and cold all at once. What must it feel like to know that? To lay one’s heart in another’s hands?
She swallowed against the choking feeling that rose in her throat. Feeling faintly foolish, she picked up one of the tiny sticks beside the flickering votive candles and lit a candle from the flames of another. She knelt, carefully holding her skirt so it would not catch and tear, and clasped her hands in front of her on the padded leather bar.
Now what?
Genevieve glanced at the plain statue beside her, on an eye level with it now. Crudely carved though it was, somehow the artist had made the face kind, even understanding. Genevieve turned back to the flames dancing in their small red glass cups.
“Dear God,” she whispered, “pray send me… a husband. The right husband,” she added hastily. “A man of substance and good character, of course.”
What else should she say? Surely the Lord would know the proper qualities her husband should have. He must come from an old family; that went without saying. And while he did not need to be a Midas, a certain amount of money was necessary. Not too old. And certainly not a rattle like Lord Waffley’s son, who had doubtless ever read a book in his life. But, then, of course, one would not want to have to live one’s entire life with a bookish man like Thea’s brother, say, who always prattled on about the Roman ruins and such. Someone who could ride; she could not imagine spending her life with a man who did not love horses too. A man who was responsible and aware of his duty. And presentable in appearance. He need not be an Adonis, like Gabriel Morecombe, but she would, after all, have to see him day after day.