No, Fox had always felt like an intruder here, whereas Richard—heavens, sometimes Fox believed Richard must surely have the legendary webbed feet of the Fenmen. Indeed, at times it almost seemed as if he could see all the seasons, weathers, the very land itself reflected in Richard’s eyes. It was most disconcerting, and made Fox feel insufficient. And wasn’t this what the old earl had called him often enough?
Insufficient in more ways than one. Bad blood will always show.
But now that the old man was dead, it did not seem such a hardship to return to Rawdon Park from time to time. Especially not this year when his Amelia accompanied him!
Sweet, sweet Amy. He darted a look at her and pressed her arm. How he hoped she would enjoy her stay at Rawdon Park and find the house and gardens to her liking! He surely wouldn’t be able to bear it should anything mar her happiness! Therefore he would never burden her with dark memories, would never mar her loveliness with … with things she needn’t know. But so far, she appeared to enjoy herself. And his family clearly loved her; there could be no doubt about it. The acceptance had been there in the satisfied smile of his mother and in the glances Richard had exchanged with his wife. For years it had been their secret wish that he would settle down, find a place to put down permanent roots. However, he had never had the faintest inkling to do so—until now. It seemed to him he had waited for Amy all his life.
Fox took a deep breath, smelled the scent of the damp leaves and the perfume of the woman walking beside him—just the barest hint of lily of the valley.
He glanced down at her. The crown of her head hardly reached his shoulder. As always, her smallness and vulnerability fascinated him and made him want to protect her from the world forevermore. He swallowed.
She didn’t wear a bonnet, and it seemed to him that her pale hair gleamed like spun gold. “Does Rawdon Park appeal to you?” he asked, eager to hear her voice once more. Riding next to the carriage for one and a half days, so near to her and yet so far away, had been torture.
She raised her face to his, her cheeks rosy, her pansy blue eyes sparkling. “Oh, I adore it! Despite its size Rawdon Park is as comfortable as a family home can be. And the park and gardens are lovely—even now.” She cast a look around. Her lips curved. “I love the little putti. They lend the gardens such a gay appearance.”
“I am glad.” All at once his tongue seemed tied in knots while his feelings for her expanded his chest until he felt he would simply burst with the joy of it.
But Amy glanced at him and looked away, biting her lips. “I’ve been thinking.”
“What about?” It came out harsher than he had intended. Suddenly his heart thundered in his ears, and something like fear constricted his throat. She stopped walking, and her hand slipped from his arm as she turned fully toward him. How he would have liked to snatch her hand back! The loss of contact seemed horribly significant.
Her face serious, she studied him. “I was thinking about your family.”
Pain flared in his chest. Fox closed his eyes. Now,
now
she would ask the question he feared, the question that might make him lose her because surely somebody as pure and innocent as her would find it abhorrent that—
A fine tremor passed through his body.
“Fox—Sebastian?”
Heavens, only a few short hours ago she had inquired about the nickname, and how he had loved the sound of it on her lips! But now it was back to Sebastian, and soon, soon, it might be back to Mr. Stapleton.
“Sebastian?”
“Yes?” He forced himself to open his eyes and look at her.
Take it like a man
.
She regarded him solemnly, her head cocked to the side. The crisp air made her cheeks glow. God, how much he wanted to take her into his arms and make sure nothing would ever take her away from him. However, he also knew he would not be able to lie to her. His heart hammered almost painfully against his ribs.
“Yes?”
Get it over and done with. He would have to learn how to live with it.
Without her.
It did not seem possible.
He forced his lips to lift into a smile.
“I have wondered…” she said, her voice sweet.
“Yes?”
Her clear blue gaze drew him in. If only he could drown in that blue.
“Everybody in your family is dark-haired—”
“Yes.” Sweat tickled down his back and dampened his armpits. “The Earls of Rawdon—all brown as nuts.”
“Except you.”
“Except me.” He took a deep breath, wanting to tell her, but his tongue seemed paralyzed.
Take it like a man.
Her gaze did not waver, though a little frown appeared to mar the smoothness of her forehead and the clear line of her eyebrows. “Why? It’s curious, isn’t it?”
Surely it felt like this to be stretched on the rack. “Not at all.” Another deep breath.
Let me get through this…
“I resemble my father.”
Surprise registered in her eyes. Her brows rose. “But on the way upstairs, the housekeeper showed us his portrait—”
“My
real
father.” The thuds of his heart were tolling doom as he watched her face and saw understanding dawn.
Everything in her seemed to still.
“Ah.” Such a soft sound.
It pierced his heart.
He swallowed hard. “The earl accepted me as his own, but in truth I’m another man’s by-blow.” And the old earl had never let him forget it, either.
A breeze picked up and played with her hair. “Your mother—”
“Yes.” He turned his head, not wanting to wait for the condemnation to appear on her face. “It’s none too bad, really.” He talked rapidly, so the sounds would fill the awful silence. “He left me a small fortune of my own, enough to let me live in comfort. Why, it’s even enough that I can buy a small estate somewhere, later, when…” He swallowed. “If…”
I marry. If you still want me.
“I understand.”
More darts to his heart. He bowed his head, defeated. “I was sure you would,” he murmured.
Bad blood will always show
.
Something touched his cheek. His head jerked back. He stared at her. God, when had she come so near?
When she reached up to put her gloved hand against his cheek once more, his knees nearly buckled. “It must have been hard to grow up with this knowledge,” she whispered.
“No. I… I…” Her thumb rubbed against his skin in tiny, shy circles. He couldn’t believe what he saw in her eyes. “I…” He put his hand over hers, held it still against his face. “You don’t mind?”
Her eyes widened. “Mind?” An expression of extraordinary tenderness washed over her face and dumbfounded him. “Mind? Oh, Fox. Surely you didn’t think—”
“I did,” he said, rawly. His voice was so hoarse it sounded like a stranger’s even to his own ears.
Her eyes softened. “Then let me show you how much I mind.” And with that she rose on tiptoe, her free hand sneaking around his neck to draw his head down. Her lips touched his, sweetly, innocently.
It was a spark that ignited a fire. His arms closed around her, hauled her against him, tighter, tighter, so tightly their bodies would melt and become one. His hand buried in her hair, he opened his mouth and, not so sweetly, not so innocently, deepened the kiss, tasted her, devoured her.
And she—
—let him.
He felt her arms around his shoulders and her fingers kneading his neck as if to spur him on. On and on, until she moaned in his arms and his body was on fire for her.
He came up gasping for air, her face so near to his that he could see the fine, soft hair on her cheeks. Her eyes opened, languid and drugged with pleasure one moment, then sparkling with laughter the next. Her breaths were little puffs on his face.
“Extraordinary.”
He gave a wry laugh. His ears burned. “I had meant our first kiss to be a little less wild.”
“No.” Her lips curved mischievously. “I liked it exactly as it was.” Her eyes dropped to his mouth. “
Exactly
as it was…” she purred and ran her tongue over the seam of his lips.
Helpless, his fingers spasmed. He groaned, making her chuckle with delight.
“Witch.”
Her expression sobered. “Yes.” Once again, she rubbed her hand over his cheek. He wished she would shed her gloves. “You can’t have thought…” Her eyes seemed to glow when she looked at him. “Fox, I
love
you. Nothing will make this love go away.”
And with that, the last constrictions around his heart fell away. He had not lost her. She knew his deepest, darkest secret and still he had not lost her. Warmth filled his whole being, made his chest swell and his eyes burn. He kissed her again, so she wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes.
“I love you,” he whispered against her lips. “I always will—whatever may happen.”
Chapter Seven
By morning the mists had returned to smother Rawdon Park in thick layers of grayish white. From the breakfast parlor the trees beyond the pleasure green appeared as blurred, bulky, dark shapes. The gloomy weather made the room with its fuchsia curtains and the Chinese wallpaper, where exotic birds disported themselves among stalks of green grass, doubly cheerful. The tones of red were repeated in the chimneypiece, which had been contracted to fit a Rumford grate. As a result, the fire filled the room with comfortable warmth instead of acrid smoke. After the draft in the hallways this was very welcome, indeed.
When Amy entered the room, she found only Lady Rawdon present. “Good morning, Miss Bourne. I see you are an early riser, too? Excellent.” The countess bestowed upon her a sparkling smile. “Let John give you some tea or coffee.” Her brow wrinkled. “Or would you prefer hot chocolate?” She sounded a little worried. “I am sure our cook must have a block of cocoa somewhere in her pantry.”
Touched and slightly embarrassed by this obvious eagerness to please her, Amy hastily assured her that tea was perfectly fine, so the footman hurried to fill a cup of tea for her under the critical eye of the butler.
“Thank you.” Amy smiled at the lanky young man, who promptly blushed to the tips of his ears. A discreet cough from the butler made his color deepen until it competed with the curtains in brilliancy. Hastily he reached for a plate, which he handed her instead of the cup.
“Thank you,” Amy said again, trying not to smile. In all likelihood this was the first time the poor man was serving at the table, and for his faux pas the butler would later box his ears for sure.
She continued to walk along the sideboard, where the breakfast dishes had been set up. Amy chose some toast, black butter, and a pastry, let the downcast footman hand over her cup of tea, and then went to the table, where she took the seat opposite the countess.
“Did you sleep well?” Lady Rawdon asked.
“How could I not? I have the loveliest room.” Stirring her tea, Amy was distracted by the sight of even more exotic birds on the delicate, gold- and fuchsia-rimmed cup. Inadvertently, her gaze was drawn to the curtains and wallpaper, then back.
At her flabbergasted look, the countess laughed. “My mother-in-law so wished for a room that matched the china that we couldn’t help choosing this decor when we redecorated the breakfast parlor a few years ago.”
“Oh,” Amy said faintly. To think of it: that somebody would choose their wallpaper to go with the china, of all things! She chuckled. “Will the dowager countess join us for breakfast?” she asked as she started spreading the black butter on her toast.
“No, she usually has a tray sent up to her rooms. And the earl is already around and about on the estate, I’m afraid.”
“With his dogs,” Amy blurted. The next moment, her face warmed. Yet when she looked up, the countess was chuckling.
“So, Sebastian has been talking, has he?” Her eyes twinkled. “Yes, indeed, Richard is bumbling through the fields and meadows with his dogs. I understand that he took the poor admiral, too. At an
unearthly
early hour, as your fiancé would say.”
Amy grinned. “But then, he would be used to town hours.” She bit into the toast, found that the black butter had obviously been made of black currants and gooseberries, and chewed happily.
“That he is. And he always has a devilish time getting used to country hours when he stays with us. You don’t seem to be similarly afflicted.”
Amy gave a little shrug. “I have lived in the country for most of my life.” She didn’t add that she was quite used to being woken in the early hours of the morning, when her family’s fortepiano was acting up again or one of the boys had managed to blow up a secret experiment.
“And your friend?”
“Miss Bentham?” Not that Amy thought of Isabella as her friend. “Her family lives in Town, so naturally she isn’t used to country hours either.”
“Oh dear.” For a moment, the countess looked disconcerted, before her expression lit up again. “Then perhaps you’d like to inspect our library after breakfast? I need to meet with our cook about dinner.”
“I’d love to. I believe your housekeeper showed us through it when we arrived yesterday.”
Relief registered on Lady Rawdon’s face. “I hate to leave you all on your own, but—”
“Dinner.” Amy smiled. “I understand.” Even in the Bourne household, much smaller as it was, her aunt would meet up with the cook each morning to discuss the dishes for their luncheon and, more importantly, for dinner. And inevitably Cook would complain about her diminishing stocks in the pantry thanks to the healthy appetites of Amy’s cousins.
“They’re worse than locusts! Worse than locusts!”
Cook would wail.
To which Aunt Maria would reply, quite sternly,
“Then you should stop baking all those treats, which you give them between the meals.”
And Cook would stare at her full of hurt and disbelief, as if her mistress had just suggested she should drown some hapless puppy dogs.
The memory made Amy smile fondly, but also with a pang of homesickness.
Lady Rawdon leaned forward. “Do you enjoy penny books, Miss Bourne?” Her eyes sparkled.
Amy thought of the many small books she and her cousins had devoured. Homesickness forgotten, she leaned forward, too. “I love them extraordinarily well.”
The countess raised one dark brow. “Even more than gothic novels?”