Amanda Scott (49 page)

“There is a comma, however,” Michael pointed out.

“Yes, indeed, but if a naught was added, so might a comma have been. I begin to suspect that Jake Thornton was less of a gentleman than even his critics believed. I shall be happy to confirm the proper sum wherever you will, Michael, for you must not pay twenty thousand when the wager was for two.”

“No, nor allow the estate to be robbed of such a sum, but I hardly dare think much good will be served by explaining all this to Lady Thornton, so we are yet at a standstill, are we not?”

Lady Hermione said, “You let me deal with Maria Thornton. I know precisely how to manage that for the best. I shall simply tell her that Mrs. Flowers holds the vowel and that if she wants the whole thing to disappear as if in a puff of smoke she will say nothing more about it. I can even promise to take Fiona away with me when Ashby and I are married, though I should be sorry to do so, for that would be to deprive poor Wilfred of a no doubt excellent housekeeper.”

“Are you leaving Derbyshire?” Anne asked, surprised.

“We will both want to make long visits here, of course, but I think that, for a time at least, we will live somewhere on our own. I can have the dower house on my son’s estates in Ireland, you know, and Ashby has a sort of hunting box in Leicestershire. We haven’t discussed it, but some arrangement can be made. I do think that Mrs. Flowers ought to get the two thousand, if the estate will bear it. Do not you, Michael?”

“Yes, but I don’t intend to settle all this tonight. My lady is fast fading, as you all can see, and ought to be tucked up in bed before another hour strikes on the hall clock. Will you take Mrs. Flowers with you to Cressbrook Hall, ma’am, or shall I rout someone out to drive her home?”

“She will go with us,” Lady Hermione said firmly, ignoring her brother’s doubtful grimace.

“Then, if you don’t mind, we’ll see you to the door at once. I’m afraid we no longer have a butler to perform that service,” he added dryly.

“My goodness me, that’s quite right,” Lady Hermione exclaimed. “I will not stir a step without hearing all that happened to you, Anne. Where did Michael find you? What befell you? Did that odious Bagshaw—I must tell you, I never really liked that fellow—Did he do anything really dreadful to you?”

“Hermione, take a damper,” Lord Ashby said, grabbing her by the arm and hustling her toward the door. “Michael wants to get poor Anne to bed, and you are not going to keep her up till all hours answering your fool questions, for I won’t hear of it.”

“Why, Ashby,” Lady Hermione was heard to say dulcetly as she was swept from the room, “how very masterful you can be. I never should have guessed it, you know.”

“Now, Hermione, by Jove—”

Cressbrook said politely to Mrs. Flowers, “How rude my sister is to run off without so much as a word to you, ma’am. If you will take my arm, I shall see you safely to the carriage.”

“Why, thank you, my lord. So very kind,” she murmured, fluttering her lashes at him.

Anne squeezed Michael’s arm.

He looked down at her and said gently, “Tired, sweetheart?”

“I certainly ought to be, don’t you think?”

“I do, and I’ll warn you right now that if I find young Sylvia in your bed, I’m chucking her right back to her own room.”

“Andrew will have seen her tucked in. I’ll be all alone in my bed, I promise you.”

“Well, as to that,” he murmured, “we shall see.”

“First, we must say good-bye to our guests.” But she made no objection to a farewell that under ordinary circumstances must be thought to have been performed with unseemly haste.

Back in the hall, Michael bade his uncle a firm good-night, but Lord Ashby did not seem to attend to him. Looking a little bewildered, he said abruptly, “See here, did I really offer for Hermie? Because if I did, I don’t recall it myself.”

Anne chuckled and said, “You will be very happy, sir.”

“Do you think so, my dear? I wonder what sort of wind currents exist in Leicestershire. Perhaps Ireland will be—”

“Good night, Uncle,” Michael said again. “Say good-night to him, Anne, or come morning, we’ll still be discussing hot air.”

Upstairs, she was not much surprised to find herself whisked into her husband’s bedchamber instead of her own, and when he began to help her remove the wool dress, she said provocatively, “Did you ever really believe I had a secret lover, my lord?”

“For no more than a few moments,” he murmured, pushing the soft wool from her shoulder and bending to kiss her bare skin. “Your hair is still damp,” he said a moment later. “I’ll kick up the fire a bit, so you don’t take a chill.”

Letting the gown slip to the floor as she watched him move toward the fire she said, “I collect that I am not to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

“No.”

“How quickly did you know—about the lover, I mean?”

His excellent profile was outlined by the glow of the fire when he looked over his shoulder and said, “Even riding madly toward Sheffield, I could not make myself believe such a thing of you. You had frequently exasperated me, had frequently not told me the complete and unvarnished truth, but I still knew you for a woman of principle and integrity. I believed in you, Anne,” he said, coming back to take her in his arms again. “I could wish I deserved the same faith from you.”

“But you have it,” she said to his chest, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

He went very still. “What did you say?”

“I believed in you, too. I did not even know why, for it seemed as if the evidence kept pointing to you, and although, when I first saw Bagshaw standing there, in your clothes—”

“The devil! Which clothes?”

“The maroon velvet coat. He is, or was, as large as you, you know, and much the same shape—although since he was your butler, one generally did not think of him so.”

“Not my butler but Edmund’s. I knew they were close, but I had no notion they could be so close as to be mixed up together in the
Folly.”
His fingers moved to the ribbon of her chemise, loosening it.

Deciding it was more than time that he begin to divest himself of his own clothing, she unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat, murmuring, “I do wish you had discussed some of these details with me before now.”

“If you will forgive my saying so,” Michael said, as his fingertips tickled her breast, “a man does not discuss distasteful wagers over women of quality—or floating brothels—with his wife.” Taking her by the chin with his free hand, he tilted her face up and kissed her lightly before he added, “To think that I am the most fortunate of men and did not realize it until it was nearly too late.”

“I must remind you again,” she said primly, trying without much success to ignore the sensations stirred by his moving hand, “that you did not rescue me. I saved myself.”

“I hesitate to contradict you, my love,” he said, his breath softly caressing her neck in a way that made her dizzy, “but have you considered that Bagshaw might have lied about his inability to swim, that even if he did not, he might somehow have made it safely to shore? Had I not been there, is it not possible that he might have found you again and worked his evil will on you?”

She shivered at the image he had drawn so ruthlessly in her mind, but said firmly nonetheless, “I got away from him twice, Michael, and I choose to believe I would have done so again. But I do confess that, since I never saw my nightdress again, the knowledge that I’d have had to make my way back here without a stitch to my name makes me very glad you arrived when you did.”

“Just so you remember to show proper appreciation for my efforts,” he said, moving both hands gently over her breasts. “You will soon find that I can become a veritable champion of marital partnership if I am but approached in the proper manner.”

“Can you, indeed?” She pushed impatiently at his coat, whereupon, with a chuckle, he took his hands from her body long enough to remove his clothing. “You know, sir,” she added when he picked her up without further ado and carried her to the bed, “I used to look at life as a series of complications that one had to resolve through compromises that rarely satisfied anyone. But now that I’ve learned to fight for what I want, and to do what I believe is right, instead of merely seeking peaceful settlements, I am beginning to regard life as a series of adventures instead.”

“Are you?” He grinned at her and said wickedly, “Then let us proceed to see, sweetheart, just how adventurous you can be.”

July 1801, Upminster Priory

W
HEN ANNE ENTERED THE
newly finished garden hall in search of her family, the French doors stood wide open, and sunlight splashed across the tessellated floor in an inviting golden path. Right in the center of it, sleek, black Juliette lay stretched out asleep beside one of the dogs. A fresh summer breeze wafted in, redolent of roses and lavender, and outside, above the constant hum of insects and a chirping chorus of birds, Anne heard her daughter shriek with laughter. Stepping quickly to the doorway, she saw Michael at the top of the white pebbled path, holding the baby high over his head, laughing up at her as she waved her tiny arms and kicked her feet. Soft golden curls framed her head, glistening like a halo in the sunlight, and Anne felt a surge of joy at the sight of her.

Smiling, drawn by their infectious laughter, she moved impulsively toward them. Michael saw her first and grinned, lowering the baby to cradle it against his broad chest. “Her eyes sparkle just like yours do when she’s happy,” he said. “If she’s lucky, she’ll grow up to be as beautiful as her mama.”

His voice stirred familiar sensations within Anne’s body, and she knew by the warm look in his eyes that he would soon give the baby into her nurse’s keeping and turn his attention fully to his wife. The thought stirred a glow of happiness. She had never known such love as these past months had given her, such pleasures, passions, and such desire. How lucky her tiny daughter was to have been blessed with the kindest, most loving man in the world for her father.

“She is a lucky wench,” he said now, as if he had been eavesdropping on her thoughts. He moved closer to Anne, but his eyes were searching the garden, no doubt for the nursemaid who had tactfully left him alone for a few moments of paternal ecstasy with his daughter. “Our little Eliza couldn’t have chosen a more perfect mama if she’d drawn up a list of requirements and presented them to a registry office.”

The baby snuggled contentedly against him, showing no inclination to go to her mama, or anywhere else.

“Anne! Anne!” Andrew’s voice floated up to them from the bottom of the garden, and a moment later the boy himself came into view, striding toward them, his feet crunching on the path. He was grinning widely, mischievously.

“You ought never to have told Aunt Hermione that she could occupy herself during their visit to us by creating a knot garden,” he said, laughing. “She told Uncle Ashby to go tend to his balloons an hour ago, and she’s had half the south-lawn flower beds ripped out since then. The poor lawn looks as if a herd of wild boar have been rooting there.”

Another time Anne might have been stirred at least to view the damage, but today she was too much a victim of contented pleasure to care what Hermione did to the garden. She smiled lazily at Andrew and said, “It is your lawn, my dear sir. You had better supervise her efforts, don’t you think?”

“Well, actually,” the boy said, casting a speculative look at Michael, “I rather thought I might take that new yearling of Uncle Michael’s out and school him for an hour or so.”

Michael chuckled. “Tell you what, my lad. You go find the child’s nursemaid, and send her to collect her charge, and you can spend your entire school holiday with the colt.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Andrew said, looking astutely from Michael to Anne and back again. “I’ll take her straight off to Martha myself.”

“She’s asleep,” Michael said, gazing down at the baby, whose eyes were shut and whose thumb was tucked safely in her mouth.

“She won’t mind,” Andrew said confidently as he reached to take her. “She likes me to carry her.”

Michael relinquished the baby at once, and she scarcely stirred, merely tucking her thumb more firmly in her mouth and sucking rapidly for a moment when the transfer was made.

Watching the young duke walk off with his precious burden, Anne said, “I’d never know him for the same boy I met when I first came here. How much Eton has changed him! Why, he is even more protective of his little cousin than he is of Sylvia. Our Eliza will be spoiled to death before she even learns to walk.”

“If she is,” Michael said, his voice low in his throat, his hand warm on her back as he urged her into the house, “her brothers and sisters will soon show her the error of her ways.”

“And just how many brothers and sisters did you have in mind to provide for her?” Anne asked, smiling lovingly at him.

“Well now, I don’t know,” he said, returning her look with a teasing one of his own, “but I’ve a strong hunch that if we keep on as we’ve begun, there will be many more where she came from.”

Dear Reader,

After reading many books where the servants are described as being more stately, more aristocratic, more noble, or “higher in the instep” than their employers, I could not resist making the butler the villain of this story. Such descriptions have become practically throw-away lines in Historicals and Regency romances for years, so I decided I could probably let a number of persons mention Bagshaw’s noble demeanor without giving away the plot.

The rest of the tale suggested itself when I found that throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, due to differences between Scottish and English marriage laws, a couple contracting a clandestine marriage would find it held valid by the English courts even if that same marriage performed in England would not have been valid; and the plot thickened when I learned that the groom could be fourteen years old, and a duke.

In case you are curious to know where an author discovers such stuff, the following exchange is taken from testimony of Lord Moncrieff, Lord Advocate of Scotland, before the Select Committee of the House of Lords
*
attempting for the umpteenth time (this one in 1844) to amend the Marriage Act of 1753: