Tabitha looked at her—stubborn against stubborn—and shook her head. “No. The longer Ro has to talk Mama and Papa around before you get there to try to scupper your own happiness, the better.”
Lydia narrowed her eyes at her sister, then nodded. “Very well—be this on your head.” Turning, she headed for the door, opened it, then, hands behind her holding her gown together as best she could, she stalked out and down the stairs.
Behind her she heard a gust of delighted laughter, and swore she would sometime in the future find some suitable way to pay back her meddlesome sister.
Reaching the ground floor, she swept down the hall to the parlor door; ignoring the interested—nay, amazed—stares of Bilt and Mrs. Bilt, wide-eyed behind their counter, she paused to draw in a deep breath, then opened the door and went in.
Inside the parlor, standing before the armchairs in which the senior Makepeaces were seated, Ro was congratulating himself on having successfully survived an interview that had unexpectedly been remarkably civil, not to say surprisingly easy, a great deal easier than he’d thought.
He hadn’t had to state the obvious—that Lydia was in love with him, something he’d had demonstrated with stunning clarity in Stephen Barham’s library, and subsequently had had confirmed over the last hours—and although he’d spoken of his long and deep regard for her, he hadn’t had to specifically state that he was irrevocably and irretrievably in love with her, too, let alone admit that he had been since the age of twenty-two.
Lydia’s father, as it happened, knew more about him—about his real self and true habits—than he’d supposed, through a mutual friend, Gideon Armistead, a fellow philanthropist. That had made matters considerably easier; he hadn’t had to try to explain, let alone prove, that his reputation had for more than six years been a smoke screen left after the fire had died.
Nor had he known that Mrs. Makepeace corresponded regularly with his mother. Although labeled by the ton as wildly eccentric, neither of the senior Makepeaces struck him as unreasonable, or lacking in wit—certainly not when it came to their daughters.
Lydia’s father had just finished giving Ro his permission to pay his addresses to Lydia, and her mother had capped that with a sweet but edged smile and reminded him that, of course, permissions aside, Lydia’s hand was her own to bestow, when the door behind him opened.
He glanced around as Lydia kicked the door shut and advanced into the room, her entrance rendered somewhat awkward by both hands being held at an odd angle behind her back, apparently holding her gown together.
Her expression, however, commanded instant attention. It was set and beyond determined.
She marched up to him, then stepped across in front of him, facing her parents, giving him her back. Turning her head, she muttered over her shoulder, “For goodness’ sake, do up my gown!”
He looked down, and obediently set his fingers to the laces.
Lydia looked at her parents, watching the proceedings with transparent interest and, being her parents, no shock whatsoever. “What has he said?” Before they could answer, she held up a hand. “No—never mind. Regardless of whatever he’s said, regardless of whatever he’s claimed, it was my decision entirely, mine alone, and I will not—”
“So you found Tab’s letter, heh?” Her father, smiling in his usual vague, scholarly way, blinked up at her through his spectacles.
She paused, drew breath. “Yes. I have it upstairs.”
“Excellent.” Her mother folded her hands in her lap. “I understand Ro helped you retrieve it.”
Lydia pressed her lips together and nodded. Her father might be vague, but her mother was not. The shrewd blue eyes she’d inherited looked steadily—calmly—back at her. She licked her lips. “We went into Barham’s house together.”
“It must have been quite an adventure.” Her mother arched one fine brow, a knowing smile curving her lips. “I have to say that, given Barham’s reputation, I’m very glad Ro was about to see you safely through it. It’s one thing to be adventurous, quite another to be witlessly reckless. But I understand all went well, which I have to say is a relief. Now Tab can calm down and stop falling into histrionics, although I daresay she’ll now complain that you had all the fun.” Her mother’s smile grew more openly amused, equally fond. “Quite a turnaround, to have you engaging in wild adventure while Tab is the one insisting on us racing to the rescue.”
Her mother’s eyes shifted to Ro, still behind Lydia, still cinching her laces. “But all has gone well, and it appears Ro has something to say to you, and I recommend you give his words due consideration.”
Lydia snapped out of the drugging web of calm her mother had wrapped her in. “No. That is”—she dragged in a breath, searched for the patience her minutes with Tabitha had eroded—“everything has ended well, and Ro might have something he wishes to say, but I’m here to explain that no matter what he’s said, no matter how things might appear, there is absolutely no reason for him to make any offer for my hand.”
Her father blinked; then, a puzzled, rather concerned look on his face, he glanced at Ro, then looked back at her. “That’s not what Ro told us, dear—perhaps you should hear him out.”
“No! I mean, yes, I will hear him out, of course—I can hardly stop him from speaking—however, I want you to know, to understand, that regardless of anything whatever, I have no intention of allowing him to be forced into marrying me.” She planted her hands on her hips and met her parents’ fond smiles—why were they smiling? what did they find so amusing in this?—with rigid determination and unbending purpose. “He may ask, but I will not—”
A hard hand clapped over her lips. Ro’s arm banded her waist.
“If you’ll excuse us for a few minutes, sir, ma’am, I believe I need to explain a few matters to your daughter.”
Her mother smiled even more. “Yes, of course, Ro dear—take however many minutes you wish.”
Eyes huge, Lydia mumbled frantically; she tried to pry Ro’s hand from her lips, but couldn’t budge it. She tried to wriggle; his arm tightened and he lifted her off her feet.
Her father, also grinning delightedly, bobbed his white head. “It’s late. We can talk more tomorrow—once Lydia understands.”
I do understand!
Her frustrated, exasperated reply came out as a series of mumbles as Ro turned and, with her locked against his chest, carried her to the door. He had to take his hand from her lips to open it.
“Ro, if you don’t put me down this instant I’ll—”
The hand returned, muting her threat to never speak to him again.
He carried her out of the parlor and straight across the hall—under the startled gazes of Bilt, Mrs. Bilt, and Tabitha, the last of whom was, of course, utterly delighted and actually clapped!—and into the darkened tap.
It was late, the lights had been doused; there was no one around to see Ro halt by the wall just inside, then release her. The instant her feet touched the floor, she whirled to berate him. He caught her face in both hands, tipped her lips up to his and covered them.
In a kiss that stole her breath, sent her wits reeling, and—when he finally lifted his head—had reduced her to dazed incoherency.
She stared at him, blinked, then hauled in a breath and set her chin. “I am not—”
He kissed her again, for much longer this time, more deeply, more ardently, until her wits weren’t just reeling but flown, until, when he ended the kiss and raised his head, she had to cling to him and brace her spine against the wall he’d backed her into just to stay upright. In the darkened tap, she blinked her eyes wide, trying to regain her mental feet; speech was, at that moment, far beyond her.
Searching her eyes, he seemed to understand as much. “Good.” There was a faintly grim set to his lips. “I suppose I should have known that marrying a Makepeace couldn’t possibly be so easy—that it wouldn’t be a simple, straightforward matter of me offering for your hand and you accepting.”
She concentrated a
nd managed a frown. She opened her lips, but before she could speak, he frowned back harder. “No—just listen. You had your turn, now it’s mine. Yes, I told your parents I wanted to offer for your hand. I didn’t, however, even attempt to use the excuse that I’d seduced you, or that you had seduced me, that we’d been intimate, whichever way you want to state it. I didn’t because that isn’t why I want to marry you.”
He paused, his eyes searching hers. Sensing that he was fighting some inner battle, overcoming some deep reticence over telling her what he was about to say, she bit her tongue against the impulse to ask the obvious question—this was definitely not the time to interrupt.
Then he drew in a deep breath; lips tight, he held her gaze. “I’ve wanted to marry you for over ten years—ever since that day in the orchard when we waltzed. I knew it then—and it scared me witless. I was twenty-two and knew nothing of love, and had no idea what to do when I discovered I’d found it far, far earlier than I’d bargained for.”
Lydia stared into his silver-gray eyes and felt her world tilt crazily, then slowly realign. Slowly re-form into a landscape she’d never imagined she might see.
His lips curved, not humorously. “Yes, I know. That’s a long time ago, but…I’m now thirty-two, and the only love I’ve ever known is for you.”
Ro reached blindly for her hand, caught it, raised it to his chest, and laid it over his heart. “My heart races for you, and only you. It’s always been that way, and always will be. I didn’t want to tell you—didn’t want you to know—because it makes me feel too exposed, too vulnerable—too dependent.”
Closing his hand about hers, he raised it from his chest to press a kiss to her fingers, then another to her palm, his eyes never leaving hers. “I want you as my wife, my viscountess. I need you by my side, and now I know that you want me, too, no matter what you say, I will never let you go. Even if you don’t at first agree, I won’t go away, or withdraw my suit, or even let you leave here without me. I became yours under the apple trees all those years ago…” Holding her gaze, he released her hand and spread his arms. “And now I’m yours to do with as you will. My life is yours, my heart and soul are in your keeping. Nothing you say or do can change that—it simply is.”
He sobered, felt all the uncertainties he still harbored rise through him, but he knew her stubbornness, had known he had to admit to the truth and convince her of it or she’d dig in her heels and refuse him. That if he had his pride, so did she, and she wouldn’t bend or yield, not unless she believed.
He prayed she now did, that she saw the truth as clearly as he, sensed the power of what linked them as strongly as he did.
Drawing in a tight breath, he forced himself to find out, to say, to ask. “I hope you’ll forgive me for keeping you waiting all these years. I’m hoping you can find it in your heart to set those behind us, accept my proposal, and go on from here together.” He paused, his fingers once more finding and tightening around hers. “My one and only love—will you marry me?”
Having her as his wife was the one thing in his life he couldn’t simply demand, couldn’t, one way or another, simply arrange to make his. She had to agree, of her own volition, with her own determination, or it would never be.
His heart slowed, stuttered; as he looked into her wide eyes, their expression unreadable in the poor light, and waited for her answer, for the words he needed to hear her say, he could have sworn his heart literally stopped. Distantly he heard a clock chime, twelve midnight.
Then she smiled, tremulously at first, but the glow only grew until it lit her face and she beamed at him. “Oh, Ro! Of course I will.”
She flung her arms about his neck, flung herself into his embrace as his arms closed around her, and kissed him. Soundly. Then she drew back and fixed him with a quintessentially Makepeace look. “You only had to ask.” Radiant, she positively glowed.
Relief laced with triumph sweeping through him, Ro grinned and drew her back into his arms.
As he kissed her to seal their pact, a distant part of his mind cynically reflected that it had taken fate a mere twenty-four hours to accomplish the fall of Rogue Gerrard.
When news of the impending marriage of Robert “Rogue” Gerrard, Viscount Gerrard, of Gerrard Park, and Miss Lydia Constance Makepeace, of the Wiltshire Makepeaces, broke upon the unsuspecting ton, there was much whispering and speculation as to how Miss Makepeace had managed where all others had failed, and apparently with so little effort. The grandes dames, however, were as one in declaring that it came as no surprise—the lady who had tamed the rogue, despite her earlier appearances as a quiet, sensible, and decorous young woman, was quite clearly as eccentric as the rest of her clan.
Only a lady of significant wildness could, they declared, have brought Rogue Gerrard to his knees.
Naturally Ro heard of their conclusion, but he only smiled. He saw no reason to correct them. But he knew the truth. Carried it enshrined in his heart.
It wasn’t Lydia’s elusive wildness—although its very elusiveness fascinated and lured him—that had made him her devoted mate. It was love, pure and simple—his for her and hers for him—that had sealed his fate.
Love had been the only weapon involved in his capitulation—in bringing about what the ton, with typical histrionic fervor, referred to as “The Fall of Rogue Gerrard.”
Spellbound
Mary Balogh
Chapter One
Nora Ryder was expecting the village of Wimbury to be busy, small though it was. This was the first day of May, after all, and Cowper, Mrs. Witherspoon’s handyman, had warned her that the maypole had been set up on the village green and that there was to be a fair about its perimeter. Everyone from miles around would be there, he had told her.
Except Mrs. Witherspoon herself, of course. She never went anywhere.
And except him and the other servants, Cowper had added somewhat wistfully.
Mrs. Witherspoon never celebrated any event—not even Christmas or birthdays or the first snowdrop that poked through the grass to bloom in the springtime. Working as her companion for the past six months had not been a joyful experience for Nora—and that was grossly to understate the case.
It might have been better to choose another day than May Day for going into Wimbury, Nora realized, but really she had little choice in the matter. It was true that she had resigned from her position and might conceivably have stayed one more day if it had been an amicable ending to her employment. It had not, though. In fact, she had resigned scarcely one whole minute before Mrs. Witherspoon sacked her.
Mrs. Witherspoon had told her she was to leave immediately, and Nora had replied that that was not nearly soon enough. They had settled on the following day.
She had not been paid—not once in six months. There had been various excuses for five of those months. Once it had been the apparently reasonable argument that since Mrs. Witherspoon never ventured beyond her own home and garden, then neither did her companion, and so there was nothing upon which to spend money. But now, after half a year, Mrs. Witherspoon had informed Nora that her annual wage had been agreed upon at the start of the employment—and that meant it was to be paid annually. Since Nora had seen fit to abandon her post, she was not entitled to be paid. Was it not enough that she had been fed and housed in the lap of luxury all this time?
It would not have been nearly enough even if there had been luxury, which there most certainly had not. But Nora, recognizing a hopeless case when she saw one, chose not to argue the point beyond giving herself the satisfaction of informing her erstwhile employer just before she left exactly—exactly!—what she thought of her.
Eloquence could be marvelously satisfying to one’s bruised sensibilities, but did nothing to fill one’s purse.
Yesterday Cowper, who had been running an errand for the old lady, had bought a stagecoach ticket to London for Nora—not out of the said lady’s bounty, it might be added, but out of the last of the meager supply of money Nora had originally brought with
her to Dorset.
The journey itself might prove to be a hungry one, she realized, since she had enough left in her purse to buy perhaps half a cup of tea if it was being sold cheaply, and Mrs. Witherspoon’s cook could not be expected to risk her employer’s wrath by packing up some choice morsels of food for Nora to take with her. But at least she would be free again and sane again. And woefully penniless—again. Jeremy, her brother, would sigh and favor her with one of his long-suffering looks when he discovered her on his doorstep—again!
She was going to have to search for some new employment, something more permanent this time, it was to be hoped.
She had been saved from having to walk the five miles to the village with her heavy valise when Mr. Crowe, a neighboring farmer, had decided to take advantage of the holiday to visit his daughter ten miles away. Happily for Nora, his journey was to take him through Wimbury. His aged gig had wooden seats that threatened the legs and derriere of the unwary with a thousand splinters. Its squeaky wheels set one’s teeth on edge with every turning, and it smelled strongly of manure even when empty of that commodity, as it was today. However, squeezing herself up beside Mr. Crowe’s rotund frame was preferable to walking, and Nora had accepted his offer of a ride with heartfelt gratitude.
She was expecting to find the village crowded, then, even though it was still morning when they arrived. What she was not expecting was the frenzied press of activity about the Crook and Staff Inn, the very place where she was headed. There were those, of course, who would have taken their places early in the taproom, intent upon imbibing as much good cheer as they could before the day’s festivities began in earnest. But they ought to be quietly and respectably ensconced inside.
These people were all outside.
So was the stagecoach, which Nora could see above their heads. It had arrived early. She felt an uncomfortable lurching of the stomach as she sat forward in her seat. What if it went rumbling off in the direction of London before she could weave her way through the crowd and board it? What would she do then? She would have to wait a whole day for the next one—assuming, that was, there would be room for her on tomorrow’s coach. Whatever would she do in the meanwhile? She could not go back to Mrs. Witherspoon’s. She had certainly burned a few bridges there. Not that she regretted a single one of them.