The Wagered Wife (21 page)

“Oh, God, Caitlyn, I love you.” The words seemed wrenched out of him. “You are so good and kind and true—”

She thought her heart would explode with its fullness. She stopped his words with a fierce kiss.

“And I love you,” she said, “but I never dared hope—”

It was his turn to stop her words as she had his. “I don't deserve you, Caitlyn, my love.”

She took his face in her hands and held his gaze. “Love is not to be ‘deserved.' It just
is
. It is a gift from heaven, and one we have only to accept.”

“Oh, I do accept.” The pledge in his eyes was a reflection of that in her own. “I accept with humility and gratitude.” He kissed her deeply.

“And with just a touch of passion?” she teased.

“And with an everlasting reserve of passion,” he said—and proceeded to spend much of the night establishing the truth of that assertion.

 

 

Sometime during the night, Caitlyn and Trevor had agreed that they would return to Atherton soon after the grand ball that was to be the climax of the Harvest Festival. Three more days, Caitlyn told herself. Meanwhile, she set out to enjoy as much of the company as she found congenial and to spend time with Melanie, whom she had come to love dearly. Melanie and Andrew would stay at Timberly until the Congress was truly convened in Vienna to deal with Bonaparte's now defunct empire.

Caitlyn appeared at the ball in an ivory gown of shimmering silk. The dress was designed on classical Greek lines, and her hair was arranged in a classical style as well. She also wore the diamonds and emeralds Trevor had given her in London. She knew the two of them made a striking pair this night. In his dark, stylish evening wear, he quite took her breath away.

Melanie had taken her on a tour of the castle when they arrived, so she was not surprised by either the size or decor of the great hall, which soared upward two stories and contained armor and armaments, some dating back to the Middle Ages. An enormous fireplace dominated one long wall of the spectacular room.

On the walls at either end were hung tapestries that must have been especially commissioned for this room. One depicted a scene from the Battle of Agincourt, in which a Jeffries ancestor had distinguished himself. The other showed a highly stylized and symbolic hunting scene, complete with unicorn.

Light from two massive chandeliers of brass and crystal, with dozens of candles each, bounced off the pieces of armor. Chairs and settees arranged strategically around the room seemed dwarfed by the scale of the room itself. The focal point of Timberly's great hall was the fireplace on one wall—or, rather, the painting that hung over it.

The work—of such dimensions that the figures in it were life-sized—was a portrait of the current earl and his family, made when the older children were young adolescents, the twins six or seven, and Melanie four or five years of age. They were an incredibly handsome family, Caitlyn thought. She noticed that the countess—still a strikingly lovely woman—tonight wore a gown that, though modern in style, had obviously been designed with the gown in the portrait in mind.

In the portrait, the earl and his four sons were all dressed in formal wear, while the child Melanie was attired in a beautiful dress of royal blue trimmed in silver. The artist had captured handily her golden curls and sparkling eyes, and the sense of closeness between the twins and their little sister.

“What a beautiful family,” Caitlyn said softly to Trevor.

“I suppose we were,” he agreed, “but you see how the family was divided even then. Notice that Father is off to the side slightly—above it all, aloof. Gerald and the countess were quite a team even then.”

“And you three younger ones seem to have made a pact against the world.

He laughed. “Well, against the rest of the family, anyway. Though we quite liked Marcus—see how he sort of hovers protectively there?”

“And did he? Protect you, I mean?”

“Always.”

Caitlyn looked around the crowded room. “Have you seen Melanie?”

“Not yet. Andrew is here, though. Melanie is always late. I guess some things never change.”

The Earl of Wyndham and his countess, along with Gerald and Miranda, were holding court, as it were, in front of the fireplace, beneath that spectacular portrait. The room was abuzz with dozens of conversations, and musicians played softly in the background. In a few moments the dancing would begin.

Then quite suddenly it began to grow quiet in the room. The silence swept in a wave from the entrance. Even the musicians faltered and stopped as a path was cleared between the group at the fireplace and the vision at the door.

Caitlyn drew a long, deep breath.

“Good God!” Trevor murmured in wonder.

There stood Melanie arrayed in a grown-up version of the royal blue dress that the child Melanie wore in the portrait. In each hand she held the hand of a modern duplicate of the little girl with golden curls and sparkling eyes. Ashley and Elizabeth were wearing identical replicas of the gown the girl child wore in the portrait.

A wide smile broke across Trevor's face, and soon he was laughing aloud. “Trust Melanie to make her statement in a most dramatic way.”

Still gripping a child's hand in each of hers, Melanie strode the path that had been spontaneously cleared for her toward the stunned tableau at the fireplace. Just as she reached it, Andrew and Marcus joined her.

“Come, my darling,” Trevor whispered with a touch of irony. “We must not be left out of this family picture. Melanie needs our support.”

They arrived in time to hear the countess hiss at Melanie, “Have you completely lost possession of your senses?”

But the earl was smiling broadly. Despite his precarious health and sallow color, his voice was strong as he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present my granddaughters—Ashley and Elizabeth.” He patted each child on the head, then laughed. “Or is it Elizabeth and Ashley? You know, my twins were ten years old before I could tell them apart.”

With that, the guests let out a collectively held breath and the room erupted in murmurs of wonder and approval. Someone motioned the musicians to resume playing. Caitlyn heard snatches of conversation.

“Exactly like that portrait.”

“Darling children.”

“Which one is which?”

And “Lydia will never be able to deny that child now.”

Ashley, seeing her father, said, “Auntie Mel told me and 'Liz'beth we could come to the ball. It was to be a s‘prise. Are you s'prised, Papa?”

Trevor bent to swing her into his arms. “Yes, poppet, I am 's'prised.' ” He kissed her cheek. “You may have one dance and then it's off to bed with you.”

“
Both
of them,” Melanie said.

Ashley put a small hand on his cheek to turn his face to hers. “May we each have one of those lemon tarts Cook was making, too?”

Trevor's response was a laugh that was at once carefree and loving. The musicians swung into a waltz, and Trevor and Andrew charmed everyone in the room by taking the floor with their small daughters.

Alfred, Lord Wyndham, then asked Caitlyn to dance, and Marcus joined them with his sister. Soon, others caught the spirit of the dancing pairs already on the floor. Caitlyn and her father-in-law moved closer to Trevor and Ashley.

“How about we trade partners, son?” the earl asked.

Then Caitlyn was in Trevor's arms, and as the two of them watched fondly, the earl lifted Ashley into his arms and whirled her around the floor.

“My father knows how to make a statement, too,” Trevor said, pride overcoming a catch in his voice.

 

Trevor settled at his desk to deal with a modest pile of correspondence that had arrived with the midmorning post. As was his custom, he saved the best till last. Thus, it was some time before he actually read the letter from his brother Marcus.

Marcus was now the Earl of Wyndham. Trevor thought with sadness of his father who had died only weeks before Napoleon escaped from Elba. At least he was spared the terror that event posed for England, Trevor thought. But he also missed knowing his newest grandchildren by only a few weeks.

Trevor's heart filled as he thought of his family—Caitlyn, Ashley, and the twins, Terrence and Jason. He smiled at the memory of the surprise Jason had been. The midwife had warned them that she suspected there might be two babies, but Caitlyn had dismissed the idea and so he had as well. Later, he thought his wife had dissembled a trifle in that—to spare
him
the worry she sensed in him.

He remembered the sheer joy he and Caitlyn had shared with her pregnancy. If anything, she had seemed even more beautiful to him then. There had been a special glow or aura about her. And now she had it again, though it was early yet. They were both hoping for another girl this time.

Ashley had initially greeted the advent of baby brothers with special glee. She had warm, living dolls to play with! However, as the babies became pesky little brothers who refused to cooperate at her miniature tea table, she was less enchanted with them. Still, she tended to “mother” them—with a protective attitude that clearly imitated their mama.

He picked up the letter again. Seeing the earl's coat of arms on the seal in connection with Marcus still caught him by surprise. Though it was not an especially
welcomed
idea, the entire family had fully expected Gerald to hold the title for several decades. Such was not to be. Within a matter of months, Gerald, too, was dead of a virulent fever, leaving no direct issue. Miranda's tenure had been blessedly short, considering her grandiose plans for changing both Timberly and Wyndham House in London.

Taking the missive with him, Trevor went in search of his wife. He found her in the garden playing hide and seek with all three children and their nursemaid. Caitlyn strolled toward him, leaving the children at play under the watchful eye of the maid.

Seeing the paper he held, she said, “Is something amiss, love?”

“No, not at all.” He frowned. “Should you be running about like this?”

“Now, Trevor, you know very well I need to exercise.”

“Hmmph.”

She laughed and waved at his paper. “What have you there?”

“A letter from Marcus. He has invited us to this year's Harvest Festival at Timberly.”

“He plans to renew the family tradition, then?”

“Yes. Proper mourning for first father, then Gerald, effectively eliminated the festival the last two years.”

“And you wish to go.” She smiled indulgently.

“Well—yes. It would afford opportunity to see Melanie and Andrew as well. And,” he could hear his own eagerness mounting, “Marcus is also inviting one of my comrades from the Peninsula days—Captain Berwyn. He is now a baronet.”

“How did Marcus come to know him?” Her voice showed casual curiosity.

“Hmm. I am not sure.” He consulted the letter again. “Apparently something to do with this ward Marcus inherited along with the earldom. Small world, what?”

“It would be nice to see Melanie again.”

“Aunt Gertrude will be there, too.”

“Wonderful! And the countess?”

“I doubt Miranda will be there,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding her.

She swatted him playfully on the shoulder. “You know very well I was referring to the
dowager
countess—my inimitable mama-in-law.”

“We are spared. My mother is still in Italy.”

Caitlyn did not say so, but Trevor knew his mother's absence would make the proposed visit more attractive to his wife.

“I assume the invitation includes the children,” she said.

“Of course. The Harvest Festival would not be the same without multitudes of children.”

She laughed. “I see—they are part of the ‘harvest'—is that it?”

“You might say that.” He gave her a smug grin, then turned serious. “My only concern is whether you should travel such a distance.” He slid his arm around her waist and steered her to a more secluded area of the garden.

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “You must not worry. It is very early yet. I hardly show—even when I have few clothes on,” she said with a blush and a teasing smile.

“True.” He allowed his hand to rest on the barely perceptible swelling of her abdomen. He nuzzled her neck just below her ear. “And even with all these clothes on, you are a very enticing bit, my wife.” His voice was husky.

“Trevor! It is the middle of the afternoon!”

“So?” He laughed.

“So. Save your enticement—
your
children are demanding attention.”

And sure enough, insistent calls of “Mama!” and “Papa!” penetrated his consciousness.

He gave an exaggerated sigh and kissed her deeply. “Tonight, my sweet.”

“Tonight,” she murmured, her lips lingering on his, her promise a symbol of happiness that he might once never have imagined.

Wilma Counts lives in Nevada. She is currently working on her fifth Zebra regency romance, THE TROUBLE WITH HARRIET, the story of Marcus, his precocious ward and the troublesome woman with whom he shares guardianship. Look for THE TROUBLE WITH HARRIET in July 2001. Wilma loves hearing from readers and you may write to her c/o Zebra Books. Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if you wish a response, or you may e-mail her:
[email protected]