Belle barked and lunged, pulling against Lewiston’s hold on her collar, but Minerva paid no attention to her. The kitten instead watched as Boris extended his tongue out of his mouth and swiped it across the scratch. He whined again and settled down, resting his head on his paws in a pose that was unmistakably submissive.
At that, Minerva completely relaxed. With a sweet little mew, she walked up to Boris, rubbed the side of her face on one of his paws and began licking at the cut on his nose, as if offering an apology. Belle seemed calmed by this, sat down next to Lewiston and watched, her tail thumping on the floor. It was the strangest thing any of them had seen in some time.
“Well, would you look at that?” remarked Lewiston, a slow grin dawning on his face. Cautiously, he let go of Belle’s collar. The dog didn’t move.
Eloise looked far less pleased. “Why is this creature in my home?”
Lachlan raised a brow. “It is
our
home, Mother, and ‘that creature’ belongs to my wife.” He watched Eloise’s face pale, and felt an unexpected surge of satisfaction sweep through him. He placed his hands lightly on Charity’s shoulders, and his bride looked up from watching the animals to offer a slightly more tentative smile of greeting than her first.
“Mother . . . Lewiston . . .” Lachlan said. “Please meet the new Marchioness of Asheburton, Charity Ackerly Kimball.”
Anthony Iverson looked up from the dance card upon which he’d just scrawled his name and saw the Duke of Blackthorne heading purposefully in his direction. “Perhaps another time,” he murmured to the seemingly disappointed
young lady. He glanced toward the doors that led to the terrace, decided he’d be better off inside the crowded ballroom, and turned to flee the approaching nobleman. He drew up short when he saw Gareth and Jonathon Lloyd coming toward him from that quarter. Turning in a third direction, he immediately bumped into Trevor Caldwell.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
“Going somewhere, Iverson?” Trevor pulled a watch out of his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “It’s early yet.”
Anthony looked distinctly uncomfortable as the other men converged around him. His colorful garb stood out, a garish splash of satin in the knot of dark-coated gentlemen. He looked from one to the other, and wisely held his tongue.
“Do you enjoy gambling, Iverson?” Gareth Lloyd’s tone was pleasant, which drew a startled look from the cornered young rake. “You must, although I can’t imagine you’re very good at it. You had to have known that showing up at any social event for the remainder of the Season was a poor bet.”
Anthony finally found his voice and played the only card he thought he held. “If you intend to make a scene, you’ll do as much damage to Charity’s reputation as she might have done herself.”
Gareth turned to his brother, nodding and holding a hand out in Iverson’s direction. “Did you hear that, Jon? This just proves he is a very poor gambler.” He turned back to Anthony. “If you’re going to bluff, you should first ensure your opponents don’t know you hold nothing in your hand. In this case, we all know that that is precisely what you have. Nothing.”
“People saw Miss Ackerly leave the ball with me,” the young man protested.
“And that’s where you’re wrong.” Gareth slung an arm
casually across Anthony’s shoulders and began strolling toward the door with him, the other men following. The pleasant look faded from Gareth’s face and his eyes turned from chocolate to glittering obsidian. “People saw my sister, the new Marchioness of Asheburton, leave with you.”
“My sister,” added Trevor.
“And mine,” put in Jon. They all looked at him. “Well. Quite nearly.”
Anthony’s eyes widened in sudden understanding as they reached the foot of the stairs. Sebastian stepped forward. “And now that she has married my cousin, she is a member of my family as well.” His golden gaze caught and held Iverson’s until the young man looked away. “Lord Asheburton sends his regrets,” continued the duke. “He wanted to handle this in person.” He looked pointedly up the stairs. “Leave. Leave now.”
“Th-the ball?” Anthony looked around the room, noting for the first time that the environs had become noticeably quieter as the people nearest his group had stopped to watch the developing drama.
“Leave London.” Jon’s voice was clipped.
“You might consider leaving England,” Trevor added in a helpful tone. “I understand the Colonies afford exciting new opportunities to start again.”
“Opportunities,” echoed Anthony weakly.
“The opportunity, at the very least, to remain alive,” whispered Gareth.
“Intact,” added Sebastian, to clarify. “I’m sure we understand one another.”
Iverson processed the angry faces of the men who represented some of the most powerful families in England, nodded tightly, and started up the stairs. Halfway
up, however, he looked out over the sea of guests and then back at the men who stood in a row at the foot of the staircase.
“This isn’t over,” he warned. “Someday, you’ll all pay for this. Especially that damned Scot.” Before they could respond or come after him, he turned, swiftly completed his ascent, and left the ball.
Twenty-four
Eloise
paced the upstairs solar like a caged lion, waiting for Lewiston to conclude his conversation with Lachlan and his new bride, irritated by the fact that he was taking so long. He
knew
she was waiting.
She stopped in midstride, listened for a moment, and then walked to the window where she stood, staring out over the beautiful rolling hills into which the village of her childhood was tucked, her face pensive. Lachlan had married far too quickly for it to have been anything other than a union of convenience. There hadn’t even been enough time for the girl to be pregnant, forcing his hand by that method. More than likely she had simply maneuvered him into a compromising situation, and her family, jumping on the chance to claim a connection to a peer of the realm, had insisted he do right by her.
Eloise eyed a ribbon of smoke rising from a building in the distance, recognized that it came from the blacksmith’s shop, and smiled a slow, calculating smile. Beth Gilweather, she thought to herself. Lachlan had not so long ago fancied himself in love with the pretty little blonde. The girl was far too beneath the lofty Kimball family to be at all considered as a marital prospect, and because of that Eloise had ruthlessly destroyed the relationship by convincing Beth that Lachlan planned to abdicate to Lewiston—a dream that had actually come true when Lachlan learned the truth of his
parentage. Lewiston had been too weak to take him up on it, however.
Now, however, the blacksmith’s girl might be actually useful. It was too late to keep Lachlan’s marriage from happening, but not too late to undermine it. Eloise had no choice. The only way she would ever see Lewiston become the Marquess of Asheburton—as was his right—was to pray Lachlan did not produce an heir. That way, if Lachlan suddenly died, Lewiston would be forced to take his birthright. She’d have to explain why her prediction of her elder son’s abdication hadn’t come to pass, but then she could convince Beth that the old flame could yet be salvaged. She could depend on the girl’s self-serving instincts.
Eloise heard her younger son’s footsteps on the stairs to the solar and turned away from the window, for the moment putting Lachlan’s first love out of her mind. The instant Lewiston entered the room she began peppering him with questions: “Tell me about the girl. How did she manage to trap Lachlan? Does she even have a clue what it means to be a marchioness? Tell me she at
least
has some ability to converse properly. Lord above, with hair that color one really must wonder if she’s just some doxy from the streets of London.”
Well used to her typical overreactions, Lewiston waited patiently for his mother to reach the end of her tirade. When it appeared she was finished, he spoke. “You can set your mind at ease regarding her background. Her father is a scholar as well as a large landholder in a village called Pelthamshire a few hours out of London.”
“But he is
not
nobility.” Eloise looked smug.
“Neither were you, Mother,” Lewiston pointed out in a reasonable voice. “However, Charity does have very close connections to some of the most important families in England.
One sister is married to the Earl of Huntwick, another has married the Marquess of Roth, and her aunt is the Dowager Countess of Egerton.” He paused a moment, anticipating her reaction to his next words. “And they are all very close friends of the current Duke of Blackthorne.”
Eloise pressed her lips together, fighting the tide of resentment that rose within her.
Blackthorne
. No matter how she tried to ignore them, her ties to the Tremaine family always managed to chafe. “Where is the happy couple now?” she asked.
“Lachlan’s giving Charity a tour of the keep and introducing her to the staff.” Lewiston gave his mother a stern look. “Give the girl a chance, Mother. She’s really quite a lovely little thing, and Lachlan seems terribly fond of her.”
Eloise turned back to the window, effectively dismissing her younger son. “Lachlan is a fool and has surely been taken in by this young woman. Don’t make the mistake of falling into the same trap.”
“And this”—Lachlan opened a set of double doors on the right side of a long, lushly carpeted corridor with a flourish, bowed from the waist, and indicated she should precede him—“is your chamber, my lady.”
Charity smiled at his dramatic gesture and slipped past, laying a hand briefly on his cheek as she did. He reached up, caught it in his larger hand, and entered the room beside her so that he could fully enjoy his bride’s gasp of awed surprise. She did not disappoint.
“Oh, my lord,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful!”
And it truly was. Decorated in shades of rose and plum, the room exuded a sense of warmth and comfort that engulfed Charity like a warm fleece on a cold day. The tour of the rest of the castle had taken all afternoon, and she had
found the ancient structure, at times, rather cold and unwelcoming. Her husband’s love for his home, however, was obvious, so she kept her reactions to herself except when they were positive.
By contrast, this room was completely modern, inviting, and comfortable. The bed, across from and to the right of the entrance, was its focal point, set into a corner framed by tall windows affording a beautiful view of the hills on both sides. It was covered in a sumptuous rose silk with matching curtains caught up and tied to the posts with ropes of burgundy satin. Yards and yards of soft Aubusson carpet in a muted mauve covered the floor, and the mahogany furniture glowed with attention and coats of painstakingly applied wax.
Lachlan brought the hand he held to his lips, softly kissed the backs of her fingers, and then pointed at the doors to their left. “Through there is a bathing chamber, completely modernized, a dressing room, and connecting doors to my bedchamber. I’d like, if it is something with which you are comfortable, to leave both sets of doors either unlocked or open.”
Charity bit her lip and dipped her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had wondered what the sleeping arrangements would be, now that they were married, and found she was suddenly shy about asking the question that was foremost in her mind. Both of her elder sisters slept in the same bedchamber as their husbands, and while she knew that was not the normal practice for married couples of their class, she hoped her husband would be open to such an option. There was, she had discovered, something amazingly comforting about sleeping with someone so much larger, someone who held her through the
night. She’d felt safe, and warm, and coveted. She sighed happily. Really, she just wanted to be near him.
Lachlan took in her silence as she looked down at the floor, wondered if she were uncomfortable with his suggestion, or if she simply didn’t want to tell him she hated the idea of being so accessible to him. He waited until he could no longer stand it and then reached under her chin to lift her face to his. What he saw made his breath catch.
Charity’s eyes were glowing with warmth, their clear aquamarine depths shining with happiness, and Lachlan fell into her entrancing gaze, the world receding until nothing else existed. Her lips curved in a winsome smile.
“My lord?” she whispered, and stepped closer.
“It’s Lachlan, kitten.” His voice was gruff. “Call me by my name, please. I love it when you say my name.”
“Lachlan,” she corrected without hesitation. His name came easily to her, and she said it once more, allowing the two syllables to roll slowly off her tongue and cling quivering to her lips, as if reluctant to fall away into the charged air between them. “W-would it be all right if . . .” She stopped, and he watched as a pink blush stole across her cheeks, brightening her already glorious color.
“If?” he prompted, holding his breath.
“Well, I just enjoyed the way things were at the inn last night. You know, when you held me and we fell asleep . . . t-together,” she stammered.
Lachlan’s heart slammed into his ribs. Was she asking what he thought she was asking? Did she mean that she wanted to sleep with him, to be held in his arms at night, to share his chamber? He searched her face. Her eyes looked wide and utterly without guile.
Charity waited for him to respond to her hesitant statement, hoping he would ask what she was afraid to put into words. When the silence between them grew, she felt her heart begin pounding. Perhaps she should have waited—
Without warning, he scooped her up into his arms and strode across the room. Charity caught glimpses of marble and pewter as they swept through the bathing chamber.
“Lachlan!” she laughed. “What are you doing?”
“Hush,” he said, shifting her weight effortlessly to one arm so that he could free a hand to open the double doors.
“I will not,” she protested, though there was a smile in her voice. Crushed against her husband’s chest, she tilted her head back and to the side so that she could see where he was taking her. The first thing she noticed was the enormous bed on a raised platform in the far corner. Lachlan was heading straight for it.