Chapter 21 #2
She gave him back his handkerchief, damp and faintly scented with her perfume. “I still can’t believe Mr Hawke agreed to take care of Tobias for a few days.”
“The nurse and Daphne will take care of him. Hawke will likely put a saddle on an Irish hound and lead him around the garden.”
The carriage stopped briefly at the crossroads on Great Marlborough Street. As Rowton waited for a break in the traffic, the door opened, and a white-haired man climbed in.
Saint-Clair.
Hugh’s chest eased whenever he turned up alive.
The day would not be complete without him.
“I see you’re favouring thick side-whiskers now.”
“I thought an older, distinguished look might suit me better.” He gave Hugh the parcel he carried, then shook rain off his beaver hat. “Though the large wax nose is damned annoying.”
“The trials of a man escaping injustice,” Emma said.
“Precisely, Mrs Stanton.”
Emma clasped Saint-Clair’s arm. “We won’t stop looking for Miss Mallory. I want you to know we will do everything we can to secure your freedom.”
Saint-Clair inclined his head, and the air of bravado left him.
“Even so, sir, you must stop risking your life by coming to town.”
“I wanted to give you a wedding gift.”
Hugh only had to look at the shape to know it was a painting. “Tell me you’ve not painted Stonefold with roses around the arbour. I told you. I’ll never set foot in that house again.”
“I did suggest burning it down,” Emma said. “But Hugh thought one fugitive in the family was enough.”
Saint-Clair laughed. “Sounds like an excellent solution.”
Hugh preferred to stay on the right side of a gaol cell, though seeing Stonefold as rubble was tempting. “Burning it would be simple. Explaining the insurance claim would not.”
“I offered to use the money from my father’s patent.”
“Ah, those funny jars Montfort mentioned.”
“Not so funny now,” she said. “My share was double the amount I’d expected.”
“I have the money to rebuild,” Hugh said. “But the ghosts of that house aren’t in the rafters.”
Saint-Clair must have sensed his reluctance to discuss Stonefold on his wedding day. “I hear there’s a new Lord Howden. Still in leading strings, apparently. Let’s hope I’ve no need for disguises by the time he comes of age.”
They’d found old Lord Howden’s amended will in Colworth’s study, along with a certified copy of the marriage entry. Sarah Carson was Lady Howden.
“Bellingham protected his sister to the end,” Hugh said. “She’s home now. No one can threaten her for what she knows.”
“And the maid?” Saint-Clair asked.
“Released without charge. She’s left London for good.”
Saint-Clair’s expression sobered. “I read about Colworth. Last Monday, was it?”
“Tuesday.” Hugh had kept The Sentinel’s report to three lines.
“And the boy?”
“Will be told the truth when he’s old enough,” Emma said.
Saint-Clair glanced out of the window, then rapped on the roof. “You’d better open your gift. I need to get out before you reach Wimpole Street.”
Hugh handed the square parcel to Emma. He already knew what Saint-Clair had done.
Emma tore at the paper as the carriage slowed to a halt. Her eyes widened, and she met Hugh’s gaze over the top of the gilt frame.
“It’s beautiful.” She smiled at Saint-Clair with such admiration, Hugh wished he’d painted it. “Is that me tending the roses?”
“Yes, I excel at landscapes, not so much with faces.”
“Nonsense. It’s the work of a master, sir.” She peered at the canvas. “There’s a small error with the date. You’ve gained a year.”
Saint-Clair studied his work. “So I have. The life of a fugitive can leave a man muddled.”
Like hell. Saint-Clair missed nothing.
He settled his hat over the white wig. “That’s enough respectability for one morning. Give Charlotte my apologies. Enjoy your wedding breakfast, Mrs Stanton.”
He was gone before Hugh could tell him not to break his neck.
Shadowmere
Kingston upon Thames
Hugh paced the garden, wondering how long it took a woman to undress. He could hear Daphne inside the marquee, whispering as she tried to coax Tobias into saying pretty.
His babbling sounded more like pee-tee.
Pity they hadn’t vacated the tent so he could indulge his wife on their wedding night.
They must have heard him. The canvas flap parted, and Daphne appeared, holding Tobias, who pointed at Hugh and gave a toothless grin.
“Your patience will be rewarded.” Daphne bounced Tobias on her hip. “Though I’m afraid he still finds you more interesting than the bride.”
“As Emma will tell you, I can be rather charming.”
Daphne stepped aside. “Then you’d better go and prove it.”
He thanked her, kissed Tobias’ brow and entered the marquee. He barely noticed the wine on the table or the furs on the bed. The woman he loved stood before him, beautiful enough to start a war.
The pale blue nightgown was no nightgown at all. Sheer enough to reveal the curve of her hip. Narrow ribbons teasing at her breasts, daring him to pull the bow.
“The hour was worth the wait.”
She ran her hand over the flimsy material. “I’m glad you approve. You’ve fought a hard battle, and now you’re home.”
She was teasing him about playing the Crusader, but she’d never spoken a truer word.
“I’d fight a heathen army if it meant returning to you.” He shrugged out of his coat and threw it somewhere. “No need to play the squire or the compositor’s apprentice tonight.”
She took a step closer, her gaze sliding over his chest to the fall of his trousers. “A temptress come to chase the devil away?”
“A wife in love with her husband.”
Her eyes softened, though her smile was wicked. “There’ll be no rehearsing, then. I’m utterly in love with you.”
He closed the gap between them and crushed his mouth to hers. He didn’t care that it was desperate, that he could hardly catch his breath. She had chosen him, and he would spend the rest of his life choosing her.
“The first time tonight will likely be over too soon.” He was painfully hard. “I’ve spent all day wanting you to myself.”
He found the first bow and tugged. The ribbon slipped loose beneath his fingers, the fabric parting to expose the curve of her breast.
His mouth went dry.
Emma glanced down. “Is something wrong?”
“You know damn well there isn’t.”
“I thought the gown might be too modest.”
“This is not a gown. It’s a threat to a man’s sanity.”
He pulled the second ribbon. The silk loosened and slid from one shoulder. Emma shivered as he traced the newly bared skin with his knuckles.
“Hugh.”
She pushed the waistcoat from his shoulders. He let it fall, then caught her around the waist when she reached for his shirt.
“I love you,” he said.
Emma’s fingers paused against his chest. “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“And again.”
He kissed her brow. “I love you.” Then her mouth. “I love you.”
“Then take me to bed and show me.”
He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around him with a startled laugh. The ribbons slipped further as he carried her to the bed. Wine glasses rattled on the table when his hip struck it, but he didn’t slow.
He laid her among the furs, then began stripping off his clothes. Her eyes had that dreamy look as he pulled off his shirt.
“Who knew, when you shared your supper with me, that you’d end up sharing your life?”
“I knew.”
There had been something between them from the beginning, from the moment he read her letter, discovered her perfume and heard her name.
He pushed his trousers past his hips. “Though you still owe me a story, Mrs Stanton.”
Her gaze dropped to his erection. “I’ve given you one.”
“It still needs an ending.”
“Did we not exchange vows?”
“But there’s still something you want.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I thought that was obvious.”
“I meant a child.” His voice roughened on the words. “Do you want me to give you one?”
Her hand came to rest on her throat. “Only if you want one too. We don’t need to decide tonight.”
“I do. I want a child with you.”
He settled between her thighs and entered her slowly, watching every flicker of pleasure cross her face.
Her arms circled his shoulders, pulling him down until there was no space left between them.
“Hugh.”
He moved again, deeper this time, and the sound she made stripped the last of his control. He kissed her, swallowing her broken breaths.
She clung to him, whispering his name against his lips, and when she shattered beneath him, he followed, holding her as though nothing in the world could prise them apart.
Emma lay curled against him beneath the furs, one leg tangled with his. Beyond the marquee, rain whispered over the garden.
She traced circles in the hair on his chest. “Do you think Tobias will sleep through the night?”
“Not if Hawke has taught him to ride a dog.”
“One day there may be two cradles in the nursery,” she said quietly.
“One day soon.”
Hugh watched the lamplight waver across the canvas. Once, the thought of a child carrying his name had filled him with dread. Now he pictured another small hand reaching for his coat button.
He tightened his arm around her.
He was no longer the Boy.
He was a husband. A father. He was hers.