“C
an I interest you in some lace today, Miss Taylor?” As Kate entered the All Things shop, Sally Bright straightened behind the counter. The fair-haired young woman laid aside the newspaper she’d been reading. “Or a new ribbon, perhaps?”
Kate shook her head, smiling. “Just some ink. I haven’t any reason for new lace or ribbons today.”
“Are you certain?” Sally plunked a bottle of ink on the counter. “That’s not what I hear.”
The sly note in the girl’s voice made Kate snap to attention.
“What did you hear?”
Sally feigned innocence. “Only that someone made a trip up to Rycliff Castle the other day. Alone.”
Kate felt her cheeks heating. Which annoyed her, because she had nothing whatever to feel embarrassed or ashamed about. “Yes, I did walk up to the castle. I needed to speak with Corporal Thorne. We had a . . . a disagreement to settle.”
“Ah.” Sally’s brow arched. “A disagreement to settle. Well, that all sounds very proper.”
“It wasn’t improper, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Kate declined to mention the fact that she’d come upon the man at his labor. Half-dressed, drenched with perspiration. All that bronzed skin stretched over a hard, muscled body . . . his broad-shouldered silhouette was burned into her memory now. As though she’d stared directly at the sun, and the impression lingered on her retinas.
“I’m just teasing you, Miss Taylor. I know there’s nothing untoward between you. But mind you be careful. You don’t want the wrong idea getting around. Else you’re sure to suffer a plague of small mishaps. Salt will find its way into your sugar bowl, pins will be left in your hemmed skirts, and so forth.”
Kate frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Envy. Half the women in the village will be wishing you ill.”
“They’d envy me? Why?”
“Cor, you truly don’t know.” Sally straightened the pieces of jewelry in the display case. “From the moment Lord Rycliff’s party rode into the village last summer, I know all you ladies of the Queen’s Ruby had your eyes on Lord Payne. Dashing, handsome, charming. What gentlewoman wouldn’t take a fancy to him? But there’s other women in this village, Miss Taylor. Serving girls, sailors’ widows, housemaids . . . women who won’t bother to dream of a viscount. They’ve all been jostling to catch Corporal Thorne.”
“Truly? But . . .” Kate slapped at a gnat pestering her neck. “But he’s so big. And rough. And coarse mannered.”
“Exactly.” Sally gave her a knowing smile.
Kate wondered at it.
“So far, it’s all come to naught. Traps have been laid for him all over this village, but he’s evaded every one. Rumor is, he’s got himself an ‘arrangement’ with a widow next town over. Goes to pay her a kindly visit once or twice a month, if you catch my meaning.”
Kate did catch Sally’s meaning. And it made her suddenly, unaccountably nauseous. Naturally, Corporal Thorne had the right to do whatever he pleased with whomever he pleased. She just didn’t like knowing about it.
Much less
picturing
it.
She gave herself a brisk mental shake.
“Well, you can spread the word”—and she knew Sally would—“that the women of Spindle Cove have nothing to envy. There’s absolutely nothing between me and Corporal Thorne. Nothing but polite acquaintance on my side, and certainly no affection on his. The man barely tolerates my existence.”
Thorne had been only too eager to see Kate leave that day. She recalled the terse impatience in his motions as he’d shown her to the castle gate, once their conversation was concluded. Evidently, digging a well was more entertaining.
Sally shrugged, wiping a dusting cloth over the shelves behind the counter. “You never know, Miss Taylor. No one thought there was anything between Miss Minerva and Lord Payne, either. And look at them.”
“That’s entirely different.”
“How?”
“It . . . just is.” Kate was saved by the clip-clop of hoofbeats and a rumble of approaching carriage wheels.
In an acrobatic maneuver, Sally clutched the shelf with one hand and leaned her weight to the other side, craning her neck to peek out the shop’s front window. Glimpse achieved, she dropped her dusting cloth.
“Just a moment, Miss Taylor. That’s the post. I have to meet it, or they’ll be ever so angry. Those mail-coach drivers are surly ones. They don’t even like to slow down.”
While Sally gathered the post, Kate fished in her reticule for coins to pay for the ink. There weren’t all that many coins left. Winter and early spring were lean seasons for a music tutor in a holiday village. She had to exercise constant frugality.
“Do you have change for a half crown?” she asked, as Sally came back through the door.
“Just a moment . . .” The young woman sifted through the small bundle of envelopes and letters. She seized on one missive, separating it from the stack. “Cor. Here it is.”
“Here what is?”
“A letter from Miss Minerva.”
Kate’s heart jumped in her chest. The whole village had been waiting for word from Minerva. She rushed to Sally’s side. “That’s her penmanship. I’m certain of it.”
“Oh!” Sally squealed. “It’s sealed with Lord Payne’s crest, just look.”
Kate ran her fingers over the bumpy red wax seal. “Indeed it is. Oh, this is wonderful news. Mrs. Highwood should have it at once. I’ll take it to her at the Queen’s Ruby.”
Sally clutched the envelope to her chest. “Absolutely not. No one’s getting this away from me. I have to be there when she reads it.”
“But what of the shop?”
“Miss Taylor, this is the Bright family. There
are
a half dozen of us.” Sally dashed to the storeroom door and called through it. “Rufus, mind the counter. I’ll pop back in ten!”
Together, they raced across the green and through the door of the Queen’s Ruby. They found Charlotte and Mrs. Highwood in the drawing room. The former, working an embroidered pillowcase. The latter, drowsing on the divan.
“Mrs. Highwood!” Sally called.
The matron woke with a snort. Her head swiveled so abruptly, her lace cap went askew. “What? What is it? Who’s murdered?”
“No one’s been murdered,” Kate said, smiling. “But someone may have been married.”
Sally pressed the letter into the older woman’s hand. “Go on, Mrs. Highwood. Do read it. We’re all desperate to know.”
Mrs. Highwood looked at the envelope. Her face blanched. “Oh my saints. My dear, darling girl.” With trembling fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Charlotte put aside her embroidery and huddled near.
The older woman thrust the letter at her youngest daughter. “Here, you read it. My eyes are too bad. And my nerves . . .”
Sally clutched Kate’s arm, and they all waited in breathless anticipation.
“Aloud, Miss Charlotte,” Sally urged. “Do read it aloud.”
“ ‘My dear mother,’” Charlotte began. “ ‘I know you must be wondering what has become of your wayward daughter. I must admit, the past week has not unfolded quite as I’d planned.’”
“Oh dear,” Kate murmured.
“She’s ruined,” Mrs. Highwood said weakly. “We’re all ruined. Someone fetch my fan. And some wine.”
Charlotte went on reading. “ ‘Despite the travails of the road, we—’”
“We!” Sally echoed. “Take heart, Mrs. Highwood. She wrote ‘we’!”
“ ‘We are settled in Northumberland at present.’ ”
“Northumberland.” The color returned to Mrs. Highwood’s cheeks. She sat straight on the divan. “His estate is there. He told me so once. Oh, what was the name of it?”
“ ‘And it’s with great pleasure,’ ” Charlotte continued, “ ‘that I write to you from . . .’” She lowered the paper and smiled. “ ‘From the beautiful library at Riverchase.’”
Two weeks later
My dear daughter, the Viscountess Payne,
The bells are ringing in St. Ursula’s today! I told the vicar they must, no matter that you’re all the way in Northumberland. How happy we were to receive your letter. As my friends always tell me, my intuition is unparalleled. I always knew that rascal Payne would be my son one day. But who could have guessed his viscountess! You have done your mother proud, dear. Of course, you must take time for your honeymoon, but do think of returning to Town for the celebrations of the Glorious Peace. Diana must be next, you know. She will be well placed to take advantage of your new connections. I have higher hopes for her prospects than ever. If you can catch Payne, surely Diana can snare a duke!
Yours, etc.
Mama
With an amused smile, Minerva refolded the letter and placed it in her pocket.
She paused in the middle of the path, drawing a lungful of the warm, fragrant late-spring air and loosening her bonnet strings to let the straw bonnet slip down her back. Then with a light step, she continued on the country path that led from the village to Riverchase.
Bluebells waved drunkenly on their slender stalks, begging to be plucked. As she went, she stopped to gather them, along with primrose and a few remaining daffodils. She had quite a posy accumulated by the time she climbed the hill. As she neared the ridge’s apex, a smile bloomed across her face. She warmed with joy, just anticipating the sight of the familiar granite facade.
But it wasn’t Riverchase she first glimpsed as she crested the hill.
It was Colin, walking down the same path—toward her.
“Hullo,” he called, drawing near. “I was just on my way to the village.”
“What for?”
“To see you, naturally.”
“Oh. Well, I was on my way to see you.” She gave him a shy smile, feeling that familiar touch of giddiness.
He gestured at her bouquet of wildflowers. “Collecting flowers today? Not rocks?”
“I like flowers sometimes.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Vases of flowers are much easier to send round to the cottage.” His gloved fingertip caressed her cheek. “Miss Minerva, may I . . . ?”
“A kiss?”
He nodded.
She offered her cheek to him, leaning in to accept the tender, courtly gesture. But at the last moment, he turned her face to his and kissed her on the lips instead. Oh, he was ever the scoundrel, and she was glad of it. Their kiss was brief, but warm and sweet as the afternoon sun.
After a moment, he straightened. His gaze wandered her form. “You look . . .” He shook his head, smiling a little. “Cataclysmic with beauty today.”
She swallowed, taking a moment to recover from his masculine splendor. “You rather devastate me, too.”
“I’d like to think my kiss can take all the credit for that lovely blush, but I doubt it’s the truth. What has you so self-satisfied?”
“The kiss has a great deal to do with it. But the post came through this morning.” She fished a pair of envelopes from her pocket. “I had two rather interesting letters. The first is from my mother. She extends her felicitations on our marriage.”
She handed him the letter from Spindle Cove. He unfolded the page and scanned its contents. As he read, the corner of his mouth curled in amusement.
“I’m sorry,” Minerva said. “I know she’s dreadful.”
“She’s not. She’s a mother who wants the best for her daughters.”
“She’s mistaken, is what she is. I didn’t tell her we’d married. I only said we’d stopped at your estate, and she shouldn’t expect me back for a month or more. But she’s obviously assumed.”
“They’ve all assumed. I had a letter from Bram just the other day. He wanted to know why I hadn’t sent the solicitors written proof of our marriage yet. ‘Don’t I want my money?’ he asked.”
Together, they turned to walk toward Riverchase.
“They’ll learn the truth eventually,” she mused.
“Yes, they will. You said you had two interesting letters. Who sent the other?”
“Sir Alisdair Kent.”
She noted a slight hitch in his step. The subtle hint of jealousy thrilled her more than it ought.
“Oh, truly?” he said, in a purposely offhand tone. “And what did the good Sir Alisdair have to say?”
“Not much. Only that the
Royal Geological Journal
has declined to publish my paper about Francine.”
“What?” He stopped dead and turned to her. The affectionate sparkle in his eyes became a flash of something irate, verging on murderous. “Oh, Min. That’s bollocks. They can’t have done that to you.”
She shrugged. “Sir Alisdair said he tried to argue on my behalf, but the other journal editors would not be convinced. My evidence was specious, they said; my conclusions were too great of a reach . . .”
“Codswallop.” His jaw tightened. “Cowardly bastards. They just won’t be outdone by a woman, that’s all.”
“Perhaps.”
He shook his head ruefully. “I’m sorry, Min. We should have gone in to the symposium that day. You could have presented your findings in person. If only they’d all heard you speak, you could have convinced them.”
“No, don’t be sorry.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Don’t ever be sorry, Colin. I never will be.”
They stood there for a long moment, smiling a little and gazing into each other’s eyes. Lately, they could spend hours like this—a palpable happiness and love welling in the space between them.
Minerva couldn’t wait to be his wife. But she would never regret refusing to marry him that day in Edinburgh, at the threshold of the Royal Geological Society.
He’d been through so much just to get her to that doorway. Faced his deepest fears, committed feats of daring. Opened his heart to her, and his home as well. He’d given her courage and strength and hours of laughter. Not to mention passion, and all those fervent words of love. In proposing to her, he’d made the bravest leap of faith she could imagine.
In return, Minerva wanted to give him this much, at least. The proper courtship he’d wanted. A chance for their love to take root and grow. When she recited those wedding vows, she wanted him to know they were vows of freely given, lasting devotion, not a hasty grab at scientific glory.
Colin deserved that much.
They’d turned their backs on Mr. Barrington and the Royal Geological Society that day. But Sir Alisdair Kent had the curiosity to follow. He invited them for a meal at the nearby inn, where they spent several hours engaged in scholarly debate with his friends. Sir Alisdair and company listened, questioned, argued, and generally afforded Minerva the respect due an intellectual peer. Colin saw that the wineglasses never went empty and kept his arm draped casually, possessively, over the back of her chair.
No, it wasn’t a medallion and a prize of five hundred guineas, but it was a symposium of sorts. And it had been well worth the journey.
Afterward, she and Colin had traveled straight back to Northumberland. Colin installed her in a lovely cottage in the village, with his housekeeper Mrs. Hammond as chaperone. And then he’d gone about living up to all his promises of a tender, attentive courtship. He called on her most mornings, and they went for long, rambling walks in the afternoons. He brought her gifts of sweets and lace, and they kept the errand boys dashing back and forth with notes that needed no signatures. Several times a week, she and Mrs. Hammond dined at Riverchase, and he took Sunday dinner at the cottage.
They also spent time apart. She, writing up her Spindle Cove findings and exploring the new craggy landscape. Colin, surveying the estate with his land steward and making assessments and plans for the future.
As for plans for
their
future . . . Minerva tried to be patient.
If Colin had taken a hurtling leap of faith when he’d proposed, her gesture of faith had been more of a long, slow skate on thin ice. As much as she’d been enjoying their courtship, she tried not to think about the potential for heartbreak. There was always the chance that he might change his mind.
But in the month or so since returning from Edinburgh, they’d survived their first argument—a dispute over, of all things, a missing pair of gloves. They’d also weathered their second clash. It had begun as a tense disagreement over whether Minerva could safely explore the local crags unaccompanied. (Of course she could, was Minerva’s opinion. Colin begged to differ.) The tense disagreement exploded into a grand row that involved loud denouncements of female independence, male arrogance, fur-lined cloaks, rocks of all sorts, and—inexplicably—the color green. But the eventual compromise—a joint excursion to the crags that became a passionate, frantic tryst in the heather—quite took the edge off their anger.
Since then, their courtship had been as sweet and tender as ever—but not entirely chaste.
Minerva put her arm through his, and they resumed walking down the path. “I’m not deterred. I’ll find some other way to publish my findings.”
“
We’ll
find a way. If you can wait five more weeks, I’ll celebrate my birthday by printing a copy for every household in England.”
She smiled. “A few hundred copies would do, and there’s no need to rush. Francine’s footprint survived in that cave for millions of years. I can wait a bit longer to make my own mark.”
“Would it help if I tell you there’s already a deep, permanent, Minerva-sized footprint on my heart?”
“Yes.” She kissed his cheek, savoring that hint of cloves from his shaving soap. “Do you have any business this afternoon? I was hoping to spend a few hours poking through the Riverchase library.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “If an afternoon in the library is your desire, you shall have it. But I confess, I had something else in mind.”
“Truly? What’s that?”
“A wedding.”
Minerva nearly dropped her posy of flowers. “Whose wedding?”
“Ours.”
“But we can’t—”
“We can. The vicar’s read the banns in the parish church three times now. I sent him a note before I left the house this morning, and I asked the butler to ready the chapel. By the time we return, all should be ready.”
Minerva blinked at him. He’d been planning this? “But I thought we agreed to wait until after your birthday.”
His arms went around her, wreathing loosely about her waist. “I know, but I can’t. I simply can’t. I slept well last night. But when I woke this morning, I missed you so intensely. I don’t even know how to describe the sensation. I looked at the other pillow, and it just seemed wrong that you weren’t there. As though I’d woken up missing my own arm, or half of my heart. I felt incomplete. So I rose, and dressed, and I just started walking toward you—because I couldn’t move in any other direction. And then there you were, walking toward me. Flowers in hand.”
Emotion glimmered in his eyes, and he touched her cheek. “This isn’t a whim. I simply can’t stand to spend another day apart. I want you to share my life and my home, and . . .” He cinched her tight, drawing her body in exquisite contact with his. He bent his head, pressing kisses to the soft place beneath her ear. “And I want you to share my bed. As my wife. Tonight.”
His kisses made her dizzy with longing. She clung to him tight. “Colin.”
“I love you, Min. I love you so much, it terrifies me. Say you’ll marry me today.”
She pulled back a little. “I . . .” Swallowing hard, she ran a trembling hand down her butter-yellow muslin. “I should at least change my frock.”
“Don’t you dare.” He shook his head, framing her waist in his hands. “You’re perfect. Utterly perfect, just as you are.”
Emotion swelled in her heart and thickened her throat. She felt like pinching herself, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. But she never could have dreamed something so wonderful. She was perfect. He was perfect. This moment was perfect. She was afraid to speak, for fear of ruining it somehow.
Don’t pause to think. Just run down the slope.
“Yes,” she finally blurted out. “Yes. Let’s get married.”
“Today?”
“This very hour.” A giddy grin stretched her cheeks, and she couldn’t hold back the pure joy any longer. She launched herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck. “Oh, Colin, I love you so much. I can’t possibly tell you. I’ll try to show you, but I’ll need years.”
He chuckled. “We have decades, darling. Decades.”
Five minutes’ hasty walk saw them to the chapel door. While Colin went to find the vicar and round up a few servants as witnesses, Minerva passed into the small churchyard and came to stand before a slab of flawless granite, polished to a mirror gleam.
She stood there for a long minute, unsure how to begin. Then she took a deep breath and dabbed a tear from her cheek.
“I’m so sorry we’ll never meet,” she whispered, laying her posy atop the late Lord and Lady Payne’s grave. “But thank you. For him. I promise, I’ll love him as fiercely as I can. Kindly send down some blessings when you can spare them. We’ll probably need them, from time to time.”