“Thank heaven Marcus arrived and followed your note to Whitby Manor.” She shivered.
“And your father—he charged in to rescue you.”
“Yes, he did.” Her brows drew together. “He claims you invited him to visit Swansley.”
“I did.” Dash cupped her face again, his big hands following the point of her chin, her fragile jaw, her pink cheeks. “Maryanne, I love you. I was so afraid to admit it. So afraid that something would happen to you, that I’d lose you, or taint you, or hurt you. As it’s happened to everyone I’ve loved—”
“Stop that! It’s rubbish.”
He jerked back. He’d poured out his soul. She’d called it rubbish.
She wagged a finger at him, suddenly the bookish Maryanne once more, but a fiery and determined version. “It’s not your fault Miss Westmoreland died. Or that Sir William was a mad fiend. Or that Anne lost her baby. Or that your parents died because your father was reckless. Bad things have happened
to
you, not
because
of you. But regardless, you must look forward. You must go on and embrace happiness and pleasure. Don’t you see that for all these years, your uncle had won?”
“Won? How?”
“He didn’t get the title, but he killed you inside,” she said. “And you just cannot allow that to happen. You cannot allow Sir William, or your uncle, or even fate, to win.” She took a deep breath, her chest rising. “I did exactly the same thing! I was my mother’s mistake. Her regret. I trapped her utterly and completely; I was proof that her love was folly, but one she could never escape.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is. She was pregnant with Venetia when she ran away to marry Rodesson.”
A tear sparkled in her eye. “I represented her recognition that she would foolishly love Rodesson for the rest of her life.”
“Sweetheart—”
“No, Dash. Let me explain. My mother lived in Maidenswode, pretending to be the wife of a man who had traveled to India to make his fortune. She also pretended to travel to Plymouth to meet him when he returned to visit, but it was all an elaborate fabrication to explain the times she spent with Rodesson. It was all a terrible risk—the truth would have destroyed her reputation, her life. But she still took that risk. And then she became pregnant with me—”
“Maryanne, I saw the way she looked at you in the church.” Dash wiped away her tear. “She loves you. She’s proud of you. And Rodesson was beside himself with fear over you. He came to your rescue, he shot Sir William, and even I can see he can barely hold in tears.” Sentiments Dash could never lay claim to. His father had been absorbed in his own excitement, and his mother had been devoted to her friends and her social conquests. Dash had wanted Maryanne to find happiness with her father. He brushed Maryanne’s damp, full lip with his thumb. Precious. She was so precious to him.
Her large eyes held his, beseeching, honest, filled with concern. No one had looked at him like this—as though she wanted to free his heart and soul.
“Perhaps she does love me,” she whispered. “But what I realized is that it doesn’t matter. What matters about my life is not where I came from but where I am going. What I will do. Our present, our future—that is what is important. You were forged to be so incredibly strong—forged by your past. I would wish you a different past, but that would mean you would be a different man. And I love you, the man you are, so very much.”
“Our present and our future will be perfect,” he vowed.
But she shook her head. “Perhaps not—there will be sad times. There must be—it is part of life. I spent my life insulating myself from the world, living it through the emotions I read in books. Yet I learned from those stories, too; I realized that I experienced the points of view of others, and that has given me perspective. But I know that I want to experience life. Our present and our future will be rich and wonderful because we share it—”
“And it will be filled with love. That I can promise.” He kissed her once more. The cold air didn’t touch him. He didn’t care about the dark or the wind or the snorts of the carriage horses and the creak of the wheels on the snow.
She broke away from the kiss. Astounded, he watched as she undid the lower buttons of her pelisse.
“Do you remember the morning we followed Harriet?”
Threesomes…?
It was the first thought in his head. They had spoken about threesomes. Arousal and protectiveness hit him with the force of a blunt object. He couldn’t share Maryanne.
She began lifting her skirts.
“It’s freezing, love. Stop that.”
“We’ll be pressed close together, and you can wrap your coat around us both to keep us warm.”
She wanted to make love outdoors. The way they’d spoken about teasingly. His cock lurched against his clothes, reminding him of wounded skin.
But he wanted her so much, he didn’t care about the pain.
Twilight whispered over the soft snow as he undid his trousers. Closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, he grasped his sore but rigid cock and brushed the head against her wet, hot nether lips. She wriggled, he pushed, she squirmed, and he thrust inside.
Filling her.
Joining them.
Madness, to make love outside in the freezing cold—but their thrusting bodies and wild kisses warmed them. His grunts and her soft moans carried on the night air, but he didn’t care if his friends waiting at the carriage heard.
He grasped two handfuls of cloth-covered derriere and guided her along his thick, hard staff.
“Oh, yes. Like that! There!” she cried, and he laughed joyously into the crook of her neck. His bold and determined wife knew exactly what she wanted.
“I’m coming,” she whispered fiercely. “Coming! Coming!” She chanted the word as she rocked against him. As her lashes fluttered and her mouth gasped for air. As her tight, creamy cunny clutched at his cock.
He gripped her arse and exploded deep inside her. He had to fall back against the oak to support his shaking legs. Pleasure melted his limbs and his brain and his soul. His climax sent the world rocking beneath his feet, and he shouted up to the stars peeking into the deep blue sky.
Laughing, still shuddering, he found her lips again. But before he claimed them, he understood. “It was worth living my past to win you, Maryanne.”
“I love you, Dash.” She brushed at tears. “Though perhaps I would have avoided the more scandalous aspects of mine if I’d known you would be my future.”
“Don’t wish that.” Understanding deepened for him. “I love everything you’ve done—the courage you’ve had. The strength. Your creativity. I love you for the magnificent and complex woman you are.”
She tensed in his arms. “You truly feel that way?”
“Yes, I do.”
A
ll she longed for was a hot bath. And food! It was Christmas Day, and normally she would begin the day with church, not escape from a sexually perverse madman. Cuddling with Dash in the heated carriage, Maryanne touched her tummy as it growled. Twinges of nausea hit her still in her hunger.
But she whispered, “I am so happy you are safe, little one.”
Dash’s hand, bare of gloves, pressed gently on top of hers. She glanced up to share his smile. Love. Relief. Joy. Exhaustion. All showed plainly in his dark eyes.
She had once thought his black eyes dark and mysterious. Now she looked at them and felt as if she could read his thoughts.
“I think I want food first. Roast goose. Sugarplums. Stewed plums. Marzipan. And mince pie.”
“And a cup of wassail,” Dash added. “The steward makes ours from his father’s recipe.”
She licked her lips, and he did the same. They laughed together as the carriage stopped. Despite his wounds, which must be agony, Dash clambered down and reached up to help her. Trent followed.
All the servants stood outside!
As Maryanne’s feet touched the snowy drive, someone shouted, “Hurrah! Three cheers for his lordship and her ladyship! And Happy Christmas!” Everyone cheered. Caps flew up in the air. Smiles and laughter and tears broke out all around.
But Dash rushed her into the warm house. “It is so good to be home with you,” he said, and her heart sang. Henshaw followed, and Dash instructed him to ensure Lady Farthingale was cared for and drinks served for the servants. “And bring Maryanne food at once,” Dash ordered.
Maryanne watched kindly maids lead Lady Farthingale away. She would ensure that doctors helped Lady Farthingale, ensure that the poor woman recovered from Sir William’s cruelty.
“Maryanne!” Venetia rushed forward and hugged her. “Thank heavens you are safe.”
Dash’s hand slid around her waist as Venetia let her go. “Your brilliant sister saved herself.”
“As you did, Venetia,” Marcus added.
Venetia wiped away tears. “Of course, I knew she would. What else would one expect from one of Rodesson’s daughters?”
“And I’ve lost my taste for adventure,” Maryanne admitted. She leaned forward and whispered to her sister, “And Georgiana was involved but has been caught. No more erotica.”
“I hope not.” Dash laughed. “Though I’d like you to write it for me.”
Startled, Maryanne swung round on her grinning husband. “Dashiel.”
He waggled his dark brows, but before she could say another word, Anne embraced her. And so did Sophia. Both women hugged Dash, and Anne then flung herself against her husband’s chest and openly wept. His grace, the Duke of Ashton, stood at Sophia’s side.
Her mother stepped forward. Maryanne’s throat dried, and she knew the tears would come. Her mother’s eyes were red and swollen, and she cradled little Richard in her arms. “I spoke with Venetia,” Olivia whispered. “I am so very sorry if I hurt you, Maryanne. I always loved you. Always. You were so sweet, so quiet; you were such a treasure. You have always been my strength, my rock, so calm and happy and so willing to try to make peace for all of us.”
“I know, Mother,” Maryanne spluttered. “I realized how foolish I was.”
“And your father has always loved you. I was the one who did not want him to be part of your life.”
Blinking away tears, Maryanne turned to Rodesson.
“My beautiful girl,” he exclaimed and joined her mother in hugging her.
Baby Richard stirred in his grandmother’s arms; his lips worked. Tiny lips, glossy with spittle and marred by a little sucking blister. “My sweet little grandson,” Olivia cooed.
Olivia blinked, and the winter sunlight touched tears on her mother’s cheeks. Rodesson laid his hands on Olivia’s shoulders. He nuzzled her cheek. “Let me take you to Italy, my love. Let me make up for all these years. Make it a gift to me on this special day.”
How destructive it was to carry the pain of the past forever. It had burdened Dash with painful guilt. It had rendered his uncle weak and confused, a mere shell of a man. It had turned Sir William into a demented madman.
And here, her parents were seeking a new beginning. A new love. It was never too late, after all.
Rodesson drew back from the kiss and his eyes shone with hope. His hand cradled her mother’s cheek.
“I will go,” Olivia whispered. “I’ve always wanted adventure.”
“And I promise to show you grand adventures, Olivia.”
“Where is Grace?” Maryanne glanced about, but Grace’s spun-gold hair could not be seen. Grace was the most like their mother, dainty and beautiful, and Maryanne suspected she had been the daughter to enchant Rodesson the most. He had painted for them all several times, pictures to be hidden away from curious eyes in the country village—not because they were rude, but because of the artist’s name.
She remembered all those things now—the small things her father had done. A gift of ribbons, of paintings, of a doll with a painted porcelain face. She had dismissed all those things. Without making a grand gesture, how could her father truly have loved her?
Dash had risked death for her, had come to her rescue, had promised to pay her debts—all grand gestures. Yet it was the simple shared smiles that made for sweet memories and enchanted her the most.
“Grace is visiting with friends—in the country.”
Was her mother just a bit evasive? But Olivia smiled and hugged her once more. “Thank heaven. For everything,” Olivia whispered. “For you being safe. For you marrying a wonderful, wealthy viscount.”
And for the besotted way Rodesson was looking at Olivia? Perhaps that, too. Maryanne glanced around. “Dash, your aunt and uncle are not here.”
He looked questioningly to Sophia.
“They, along with your cousin, are preparing to leave.” Sophia brushed back a white plume on her jaunty hat. “For once, they seem stricken with guilt.”
“I need to speak with them first.”
Maryanne felt Dash’s hand at her elbow, and she moved away from her parents—to see them share a quick kiss and then glance guiltily around. “The kissing bough,” Maryanne whispered to her mother. “In the ballroom.”
Her mother blushed, but her hazel eyes twinkled.
Dash murmured, “I’d ask you to come with me, but you should eat.”
“No, I want to go with you,” she insisted, and she rushed upstairs alongside him, amazed at the way he took the stairs, considering the pain he’d endured. “Doesn’t your back hurt? Do you really wish to see them? How can you be so strong?”
He clasped her hand in his as they reached the top of the steps. “You are with me. At my side. That’s where I find my strength.”
Maryanne expected a confrontation with his uncle, and she held her spine straight in anticipation, but Dash went to the door she believed was his aunt’s.
And the gray-haired harridan opened it.
It is Christmas. You must be more charitable
, warned an inner voice.
“So you survived, Swansborough,” his aunt Helena observed. She had a plain brown gown folded over her arm.
“Indeed.” He pressed forward into the room, forcing his aunt to retreat. “I’m extremely difficult to kill.”
Maryanne followed him in, and he leaned over her to click the door shut as his aunt turned away. Frail shoulders greeted them. A neck with deep shadows along the tendons. His aunt shuffled toward her bed.
“I never agreed with hurting you, Swansborough,” she said as she laid her dress on the counterpane. “Twice you survived accidents because I could not bear to watch a young boy be hurt. But then you grew—what sort of gentleman are you? Licentious and wild. Lavish with your spending, careless with your estate—”
“I hated this place because of the memories attached—memories you gave me,” Dash broke in. “But I have never been careless with it; it has been improved, repaired, and cared for. All my estates are cared for. And I didn’t come here to debate the merits of hereditary peerages.” Dash moved toward the bed, his steps slow, his voice a deep, soothing murmur. “You have to tell them the truth. My uncle and Robert. They both must know what really happened to Simon.”
Maryanne frowned. “Yes!” she cried. “Dash was not responsible—”
His aunt turned. Sheer panic touched Helena Blackmore’s eyes. “I cannot. They’ll hate me. Condemn me. His mistress lives in our house. He’s mad.”
Dash bent to Maryanne’s ear and murmured, “My aunt was the one to arrange for the attack, the false ransom note, and the trap that killed my cousin.”
“But why?” Maryanne glared at his aunt. How could this woman do such a horrid thing?
“To give my uncle his lifelong dream.” Dash held up a quelling finger as Maryanne parted her lips. In truth, she didn’t know what to say. She wanted to throw his aunt out of the house, but as she faced the woman, she saw at once how great a price she had paid. “But if your uncle doesn’t know…?”
Dash turned to his aunt. “I cannot keep this secret for you. My uncle thinks me a murderer. As does Robert.”
Vehemently Helena Blackmore shook her head. Her hands shook. “I cannot do it…. They would despise me, and they are all that I have.”
“It was a mistake.” Even as Maryanne spoke the words, she could not believe she was offering sympathy and support to this woman. But she would. She saw the glow in Dash’s glittering black eyes. The admiration.
“We will go together,” Maryanne promised. “Face them together.”
“Why would you?” Helena asked.
“It can be too frightening to confront the truth and face its consequences alone. When you arrived, in the drawing room…” Maryanne paused. She would not think of the vicious insults. “Both your husband and son love you. Both care about you. Your husband needs you. They both do.”
She slipped her arms around the frail woman’s waist and bit back an instinctive surge of anger—but not over the insults to her. Rather, over the horrid way these people had destroyed Dash’s childhood. But there had to be peace. She might never let them over the threshold of Swansley again—she would
never
embrace them as family—but she understood that peace had to replace dark, consuming hatred.
Dash nodded. Maryanne tucked his aunt’s gnarled hand in the crook of her arm.
“Where is Maryanne?” Rodesson asked as he filled his glass with brandy from Dash’s decanter.
“Bathing.” Dash propped his boots on his desk and eased back in his chair. He felt the point where it was in perfect balance, on its hind legs, and let it hover there.
“You didn’t join her?” asked Trent as he finished his drink.
“Not with my back bandaged up.” At least they hadn’t bandaged his cock. Which grew, thickened, and strained painfully in his trousers. Closing his eyes, he imagined Maryanne in the bath—veiled by rose-scented steam, droplets of water running down her lips, the curves of her breasts. Droplets clinging to her ivory skin. Squeezing out the cloth and gently swirling it between her thighs, rubbing the roughness against her clit—
He forced the image to vanish.
He took the glass Rodesson handed him, sipped the French brandy. “I’ve had women tie me up,” Dash mused. “I’ve been whipped, chained, paddled, bitten…I’ve even had hot wax dripped on me—”
“And you talked me into that one, you bastard,” Trent complained, then took a long draught of his ale.
“But even chained up, I was still in control.” Dash laughed. “Maryanne is the only woman with whom I’ve felt out of control. She ties me in knots—without using any rope. Twists me in circles. Turns me on my head. She stormed into my uncle’s bedroom and forced both my aunt and uncle to agree to reconciliation. She warned my blasted uncle that he was not to punish my aunt over Simon’s death, that they must work together to find the strength to endure it. She’s remarkable.”
Trent swung his glass so it collided with his. “Swansborough, it appears you have fallen in love with your wife.”
“Of course he has.” Rodesson tipped back his glass and took a drink. “She is my daughter.”
Dash grinned, but that smile disappeared. “How is Harriet?” He’d already sent messages to Bow Street, directed to Mr. Axby, who worked beneath Sir William. He was certain Axby would have already stopped Craven and rescued his innocent prisoner in London.
“Sleeping off laudanum,” answered Moredon. “But she’ll survive.”
Dash set down his empty glass. “Then, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have something to ask my wife.”
“Destroy all the black, my lord?” The voice of Dash’s valet rose peevishly as Maryanne slipped into the parlor connecting her bedchamber and Dash’s room. Her hair was loose and still a bit damp, though her practical flannel wrapper covered her from chin to toe.
“Get rid of it,” Dash insisted from behind the partly open door to his bedchamber. “The shirts, the waistcoats, the cravats. I no longer have the desire to look like a combination of Satan and a mourner.”
“Am I to save the tailcoats and trousers, my lord?”
Dash gave an impatient sigh. “Of course.”
“And the chance to order new…” trilled the valet. “It brings a tear to my eye.”
Suddenly Dash strolled into the parlor—he caught her eye and winked. Then closed the door firmly behind him, separating him from the busy valet. He strode into her room.
He was half dressed—in a white shirt open at the neck and buff trousers that caressed the lines of his thighs, the enticing curve of his rump. She drew a deep breath.
“But black is your signature, is it not?” she asked. “Every matron in London spoke of your devilish obsession with black. And I admit, it hurt me when you began wearing it again after our wedding.”
“Maryanne—”
She held up her hand to quell him, to ask him to give her the truth. “I understand now, I think. Were you mourning Simon or your ruined youth?
“Both, perhaps.” He sat on the edge of her bed and held out his hand. “I don’t feel as though I am in mourning anymore. Not now that you have come into my life, Maryanne.”
“That is so…” It was as if doves took flight inside her. To think she had made such an impact. It stunned her. “Wait right there.”
He leaned back on the bed, propped on his elbow, all six delicious feet of him sprawled over her ivory silk sheets. And she shook in her slippers as she went to her wardrobe and dipped to slide out her secret from beneath it.