Chapter Twenty-Five
As James urged Hercules on, a sharp crack echoed in the distance. The stallion reared, almost unseating him.
“Steady boy!” he cried, as the horse lurched sideways.
What the devil was that?
Surely nobody was out shooting at this hour?
Lord Croft, who resided on the estate neighboring Bedford Hall, was currently in Town, and the Yates family at Longford Hall were now of an age that didn’t facilitate early rising.
A duel was unlikely, for men seldom engaged in that particular infantile activity outside of London.
And it was unlikely to be a poacher, for they preferred traps, given that a gunshot came with the risk of getting caught and carted off to the assizes.
And besides…he could have sworn he heard a scream after the shot.
Then a second shot rang out. A cloud of black shapes rose from the trees in the distance, cawing in protest before descending like a heavy thundercloud and dissolving into the canopy.
The shot had come from the east—the direction of Winley Regis.
Cordelia…
His gut cramping with fear, he turned Hercules in a tight circle then set off at a gallop.
Why the bloody hell had they ridden in separate directions? He ought to have stayed with her, not exposed her to goodness knows what on the roads.
Or whom.
Robbers were known to linger, awaiting unsuspecting travelers, forcing carriages to stop and their occupants to hand over their valuables at the end of a pistol.
A lone woman on horseback at dawn would be too much temptation for an opportunistic ruffian.
As for the second shot, the robber either had two pistols, or there were two robbers.
“Cordelia!” James cried as he spurred Hercules on.
Dear God—had he lost her before he’d been given a chance to fully atone for his behavior?
He reached the fork in the road where he’d parted with his wife and watched her ride into the distance in search of his sister—the sister who had given Cordelia no cause to love her, but for whom Cordelia risked her life to save from ruination.
Fuck. He really was the most utter arse.
I promise that if she’s unharmed, I shall spend the rest of my life worshipping her.
His deal made with the Almighty, he took the right-hand fork and galloped eastward.
Shortly afterward, he spotted movement on the road ahead and slowed Hercules to a canter.
Silhouetted against the backdrop of the rising sun were two people—one on horseback, the other walking alongside.
“Who goes there?” he called.
“James?”
Hope soared in his chest at his wife’s voice.
“Cordelia?”
A low cry came from the figure on the horse.
“Brother!”
As he drew near, the two women came into view.
His sister sat atop the mare, body hunched, distress lining her features, and his wife, face flushed, hair unkempt, walked alongside, holding the reins.
Both women looked near exhaustion, and as James dismounted, Cordelia stumbled.
He rushed forward and caught her in his arms.
“You found her!” he cried. She nodded against him, then he addressed his sister. “What the bloody hell did you think you were—”
“No, James,” Cordelia interrupted. “Georgiana knows the folly of her actions. You should direct your anger to the one who is really at fault. Why must the woman always be blamed for the actions of a man?”
“Brother, I’m sorry!” Georgiana said. “I-I thought he loved me, a-and it’s what you wanted, was it not?”
“To be ruined, disgraced?” he began, but Cordelia squeezed his hand, and he sighed. “I wanted you to make a successful match, of course,” he said, “but most of all, I wanted you to be happy. Where is he now?”
“I don’t care,” Georgiana replied, her voice strained as if she gritted her teeth.
“He’s still on the road,” Cordelia said. “The wheel of his coach broke. Thank heavens his coachman is an honorable man. He fired warning shots in the hope that you’d come to us, though Sir Iain threatened to dismiss him.”
“I’ll give him employment,” James said. “And I’ll flatten Sir Iain if I have the misfortune of setting eyes on him again. Loathsome creature!”
“But you liked Sir—” Georgiana broke off, coughing, then shook her head. “You liked him.”
“Aye, fool that I was,” James replied. “I didn’t see the true man behind the title. Just as I didn’t see the true woman behind the red mask in the Lyon’s Den. It is I who should apologize. To both of you.”
His sister let out a sob.
“Come now, Georgie,” he said. “Wipe your eyes. Can you ride by yourself?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he replied. Then he led Cordelia toward Hercules.
“James—”
He silenced his wife’s protest with a kiss. Then he lowered himself to his knees and held out his hand. Cordelia remained still, staring at his proffered hand.
“Brother?” Georgiana asked.
James glanced up, and his stomach knotted as he saw his sister watching. But though he wished it were a private moment between him and his wife, he owed it to Cordelia to begin, as soon as possible, to atone for his foolishness in not appreciating the woman who had so thoroughly claimed his heart.
He kissed his wife’s hand, then lifted his gaze to her eyes, which glowed like quicksilver in the dawn light.
“I have many regrets, my love,” he said.
“My first is that I was never able to offer you my hand as a man ought to. While I shall ever be thankful for the machinations of Mrs. Dove-Lyon that brought us together, I wish, with all my heart, that I had been given the opportunity to offer myself to you wholly and completely as a man in love.”
She blinked, and moisture glistened in her eyes.
“And so,” he said, his voice wavering, “I offer myself to you now. My hand is already yours, as decreed by the law and the church. But long before today, my heart and my soul belonged to you. I may never be able to atone for not appreciating you as I ought’ve, for letting my unwarranted sense of propriety war with the love I bear you.
But propriety is nothing. Reputation is nothing.
There’s only one thing in the whole world that has any value—that should be worshipped, adored, and recognized, above everything else, and… ”
His throat constricted and he caught his breath as tears stung his eyes. Then he blinked and his vision cleared to see her watching him, her eyes soft with compassion.
They were the eyes that he had looked into during those early nights in the Lyon’s Den while he’d lain chastely in her arms, baring his soul.
Her features concealed behind the gaudy mask and wig, her eyes had become the one part of her that she’d given him—the pathway to the beautiful soul who lay within the body of a doxy.
No…not a doxy, nor a viscountess, but Cordelia.
Not his Cordelia, but the woman to whom he belonged. The woman he was not worthy even to look at, let alone kneel at her feet.
He lowered his gaze, focusing on her thin fingers with their callouses born from a lifetime of hardship that he could never begin to understand.
Then she curled her fingers around his hand, and he held his breath at the little glimmer of hope in his heart.
“Of what are you speaking, James?”
Her voice was like a salve to ease the sharp sting of his inadequacy, its soft tone fueling the hope in his heart.
“Of you, my love,” he said, dipping his head once more to brush his lips over her knuckles. “Nothing matters except you.”
He paused, awaiting his fate. Heaven or purgatory.
The air filled with birdsong as the occupants of the surrounding trees awoke to announce the new day. Then she spoke.
“You’re wrong, James. So wrong.”
He heard his sister’s sharp intake of breath, to mirror the cry of anguish in his soul. Then he lifted his gaze, ready to face purgatory, to see his wife smiling at him, her cheeks wet with tears.
“You matter also, James,” Cordelia said.
“Whatever you did, or said, your actions were motivated by love…a love for your sisters that guided your steps for so many years, a loving heart that risked all when you delivered your soul on a platter at the Lyon’s Den in the form of your painting.
How could I even begin to think that you’re not worthy? ”
“Then…” He hesitated, tempering the surge of hope.
She nodded. “Yes, my love,” she said. “I gladly accept your heart, and your soul. For mine have always belonged to you.”
He rose and drew her to him, and his body hardened at the feel of her delicious form in his arms. She lowered her gaze to his breeches and a flare of desire ignited in her eyes, before she met his gaze and placed a finger on his lips. The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile.
“Perhaps it may be best if we indulge in our reconciliation at home,” she whispered. “Georgiana is distressed, and we must return before our guests rise.”
Ever the sensible woman. But she was right. He nodded, then mounted Hercules and helped Cordelia up into his lap. He nuzzled her neck and inhaled her soft scent, then placed a kiss on her earlobe.
She tilted her head back until it rested on his shoulder, exposing her throat.
“Of course,” she whispered, “I’m not averse to indulging in a little reconciliation in an outdoor location. The ground underfoot where we enjoyed our picnic is deliciously soft. And the gate leading to the rose garden is, I think, sturdy enough to—”
Oh heavens! James’s manhood stirred at the image of his bending his wife over the gate and claiming her from behind.
“Is that even…possible?” he said, his voice tight with need. “W-with the gate?”
“Oh, James,” she said, her voice low. “There is so much I have to teach you. I trust you’ll be a willing pupil.”
His cock strained against his breeches. Perhaps she might teach him how to enjoy a coupling while seated on horseback.
Then Georgiana coughed and he startled.
“Oh, sister, forgive me. I…”
He turned to see her smiling. “Perhaps, brother, I should ride ahead and tell our guests that you may be a little late for breakfast?”
“We cannot disappoint our guests,” Cordelia said.
James sighed. His wife was right, and his sister’s cough needed attention. He squeezed his mount’s flanks and they set off for Bedford Hall.