Martha Schroeder Read online

  “If this doesn’t work, we’ll set it as a task for Mama,” he said.

  Annis laughed. Her difficulties with Gerald’s mother were over and forgotten. Lady Mattingly had already started to plan a come-out for Annis’s sister, Susan, who really had no desire for it. “She likes to be here, making a home for my father,” Annis assured her soon-to-be mother-in-law.

  “Nonsense, Annis. I am sure that there are any number of nice young men who would fall in love with your sister in a twinkling,” said Lady Mattingly. “And there is probably an attractive widow somewhere who would marry your father and take him in hand. The state of the rectory’s garden, Annis. Really!”

  Annis gave her a considering look. Lady Mattingly was a widow, and certainly very attractive! And it was perhaps time that Papa think of his own comfort a little. He had looked rather tired and a bit worn when Annis had arrived. Hmm, she thought. This matchmaking could be quite delightful, even if nothing came of it.

  The wedding was beautiful. Simple and solemn, it made everyone in the church think of the joys and responsibilities of the married state. It reduced Meg to tears, though she devoutly hoped that no one knew it. She blinked them back and smiled happily.

  Meg decided that this night, whether he slept or not, James was going to deal with her and their marriage. And she was not leaving until he did!

  On the other side of the happy couple, James was looking at his wife and aching with need of her. After that disastrous fight, he had been too ashamed and still too angry to talk to her. He had said things he had not even known he believed, yet that came from the very depths of his soul. He had been forced to think about his childhood anger—and to realize that it had never been hate. It was a fear of being cast out, of being alone in the world that had governed his life. He had always left before he was left so that he never again had to endure the pain the duchess had inflicted on him.

  Only Meg could hurt him in that way. And she would not. He knew that. But she had gotten so close to him—closer than anyone before, that he had wrenched himself away from her. So much warmth and caring had triggered a corresponding fear in him.

  He would have to tell her. They would have to talk.

  * * * *

  The final toast had been drunk, the bridal couple had left for a short trip to Bath, and the rest of the celebrants had all retired for the night. James had remained belowstairs in the quiet little inn near the village and the church so that Meg could prepare for bed. He brooded over a glass of very inferior brandy and thought of the smiles on the faces of both Gerald and Annis when they had turned to face the congregation after repeating their vows.

  Love. Transcendent, beautiful, frightening in its power to open a heart. Love. What he felt for Meg. What he hoped someday she would feel for him.

  Slowly he climbed the stairs, fearing to speak and risk his life, but knowing he was on the way to losing it if he failed.

  He knocked on the door. “Come in,” she answered.

  She was lying in bed, her eyes huge in the light of the single candle that burned on the nearby table.

  “I am sorry that we have to share a room, James.” Did her chin quiver just a little. Surely not. “If you would like, I will take the chair, since I am smaller.”

  “What?” He must be remarkably slow tonight. Surely she didn’t expect him to—

  “Well, I know that you can scarcely bear to speak to me, so I assumed you would not want to—” She broke off. Was she actually blushing and turning away in pretty confusion? Meg? His Meg?

  “What in the world are you talking about?” He had meant to sound conciliatory, to woo her. Instead, he was barking out questions as if she were the most junior lieutenant under sail.

  “I did not mean that,” he said. “But what are you talking about? Never mind,” he said as she opened her mouth, her eyes shooting sparks. That was more like it. He dropped to his knees and reached over to take her hand. Their faces were level, and he gazed into her eyes.

  “I have missed you,” he said, reaching out to stroke her cheek with a tender finger. “I realized today, when Reverend Fairchild was reading from the Epistle, that the only thing that matters in this life is you, your love. You are love—charity-whatever you call it. You suffereth long and are kind.”

  “Oh, James, I am nothing at all like that. I am hasty-tempered and lacking in womanly graces and—”

  “Womanly graces? My love, you have every grace—you are every grace a man could want. Please, forgive me for being so angry that I could not even listen to you that night. I cannot think about that time in my life without anger taking control of me. But I love you.” He swallowed hard. He had said it before, and she had not responded. “I do love you. I know you do not love me, and—”

  “But, James—” she protested. He laid a finger on her lips.

  “No, please, do not say you are sorry. Not again.”

  “Again? When did I say I was sorry?” Meg propped her head on her hand and looked at him as if she expected an answer.

  She didn’t remember. That hurt more than anything. He closed his eyes against it. He would not let it end here. He would explain; they would work it out.

  “Meg.” She looked at him with those candid hazel eyes, and he found himself unable to go on. “Perhaps you are right and I have misjudged you. But—I am afraid that I—” He stopped, unable to gather his thoughts, to think of even the next word he wanted to utter.

  “James, please. What is it? What have I said or done? Let me at least try to explain or—”

  It came out in a rush. “ ‘I’m so sorry, James.’ “

  She gaped at him as if he had spoken in Chinese. “You’re so sorry, James? But you are James! What do you mean?”

  Now he had to go on, lest she decide he had lost his wits. “You said that to me. That night. After I—after I told you—’

  “Oh, my Lord.” Her hand went to her mouth in the classic gesture of someone who had said what she shouldn’t. “And you thought I meant mat I was sorry that I did not.”

  He understood. “Yes. That you could not love me and were sorry because I did love you and told you I did.” There, he had said it. Laid his soul bare, left himself open to whatever ignominy she might choose to heap upon him.

  “Oh, James.” She shook her head and looked at him, her eyes shining like twin candle flames.

  He waited. Silence. “That is all you have to say? ‘Oh, James’?” He didn’t know whether to laugh or howl in outrage. Did the woman have no idea of the state he was in?

  “No, no, I just find it so hard to believe that you heard what I did not mean, and I never even guessed that I had caused you pain. I was feeling guilty, you see. Because I had written to Claire. You had just told me that you loved me, and I realized that you wouldn’t—anymore—once you found out. What I had done, I mean.”

  He could not help but believe her. Her honesty was so transparent. It was in the look in her eyes and the halting words of her confession. It was one of the things he loved about her. One of the many things. She was not sorry because he loved her but because she had written to Claire. But, of course, he thought in the next second, that did not necessarily mean that she loved him.

  “I love you, James. I love you so much.”

  Generous. Always so generous.

  And then she was in his arms again, where he had longed for her to be. Even when his pride was in the dust because he thought she could never love him, he had wanted her and been furious that he had no greater control over himself than to desire a woman who did not desire him. It was, in part, what had made him so angry with her. And now, after those few simple words, the longing and need he had tried and failed to extinguish burned along his veins like a river of fire. She loved him.

  His lips sought hers. They were just as soft and satiny beneath his as he remembered. He felt her arms slide around his neck and her body press closer to his. Though they were separated by layers of clothing, the knowledge that she wore no underclothes sent h
is heart pounding, like galloping hooves in his chest.

  “Meg, when I think that I might never have met you, if not for Sir Gerald.” He nibbled at her ear. Delicious. “We got them a perfectly spectacular wedding gift, I hope.”

  Meg chuckled, and he could feel it reverberate in his own body. “Of course we did,” she murmured. “Kiss me again.”

  “With the greatest pleasure.” He kissed her and could feel himself sink into the warmth and sweetness of it. He shivered with desire.

  “Are you cold, my love?” she said.

  “A little. Kneeling here is probably good for my soul, but it is very bad for the rest of me. Perhaps if I were to get into bed with you ...” His voice trailed off suggestively.

  “A perfectly splendid idea, my love.” She adored calling him that.

  He rose and undressed with efficient speed, never taking his eyes from hers. She lay smiling up at him, and her arms opened to welcome him when he slid into the bed beside her. He felt as if he had at last come back home, to the place he had been seeking all his life and had found, only to lose it for a time. Only it was not a place, it was a person. Meg. His Meg.

  “I could not make love to you when I thought you did not love me,” he whispered. “It seemed like begging a favor. But I would like to make love to you now, Meg.” Now that he was no longer a beggar. Now that he was a conquering hero.

  “Yes, please,” she responded, grinning up at him, her eyes brimming with laughter. “That would be very pleasant.”

  “Pleasant!” he said in mock outrage. “Did you say ‘pleasant’?” His long fingers dug into her ribs.

  “Oh, James, don’t do that, please! I am ticklish!” She began to laugh.

  “I know,” he answered with a grin, moving his fingers up and down her rib cage, smiling as she laughed and struggled playfully to escape. “Now tell me how pleasant this is!”

  “It is much more than pleasant!” she gasped, trying to roll away from him and failing, her laughter coming in gusts. “It is marvelous.” He stopped tickling and her laughter died abruptly as his hands began to caress her. “Wonderful. Oh, James,” she breathed, “it is heaven.”

  It was, indeed, heaven, or as close to it as James thought he might ever get. The welcoming warmth of her body drew him in and enveloped him. This time it was all closeness, all tenderness, all sharing.

  Afterward he cradled her in his arms and rubbed his cheek against her hair. Never had he felt as complete and as simply happy. It was as if all the loneliness of his life had been redeemed by this woman and her love.

  “I am going to have to get used to it,” he said.

  “Mmh?”

  “Being this happy. It is new in my life. I may still distrust it from time to time. You will have to forgive me if I do.”

  She seemed to rouse a little at his words. “I promise. And you must promise that you will tell me what you think and not tell me what I think in that nasty, sarcastic way. Agreed?”

  “Yes. If I start to be nasty and sarcastic, you may flog me.” He turned her face up to his and kissed her tenderly.

  “That will not be necessary. You naval heroes are very bloodthirsty.” She snuggled closer. “I will simply step very firmly on your toes.”

  “An excellent idea,” he said, and stroked her neck in that delectable spot just below her ear.

  “James.” Meg rolled a little away from him and propped her head on her hand.

  He knew that this meant she was about to say something serious. “Yes, my love?”

  “What are we going to do about sharing Hedgemere? What am I to do about the house? And the estate? Will you think I am a terrible failure if I let Mrs. Meadows supervise the cleaning and—”

  “My darling girl, I am very sure that we can work all this out. The secret is that it really does not matter. If you have a good idea about the accounts, we will use it. And if I am a dab hand with drapery colors, I will do that. Don’t worry. As long as we do not give a damn what anyone else thinks, we will be fine.”

  Meg sighed. “That sounds wonderful. Though I do not believe I will ever have a good idea—or indeed any idea— about those silly accounts.”

  She paused for a long moment. He could sense apprehension when she finally said, “About Claire. I really am glad to have her stay. She can make her home with us for as long as she likes, I have already come to love her, and I think she regards me as a friend. I did not mean—”

  “Do not sound so worried, my love. I know you love her. You were just eager to have me accept my relationship with Reggie. And I am afraid I still cannot do that. But I no longer reject the possibility. It may be that the two of us will be able to meet and actually be civil. I frankly still doubt it, but”—he hugged her close, reveling in the touch and the taste and the smell of her—“I would not bet against anything you set your mind to, my dear Lady Meg.”

  “Then I will not give up hope yet. Meanwhile”—she drew him down into the heat and softness of her body—”let us celebrate! For I have already won my biggest gamble, in marrying and falling in love with you, my dearest captain!”

  Copyright © 1998 by Martha Schroeder O'Connor

  Originally published by Fawcett Crest [ISBN 0449001369]

  Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.