But the instant he was naked, she rose, crossed the few steps to him. Holding his gaze, with the towel she’d been using on her hair in one hand, with her other hand she whisked the towel she’d wrapped about her free.
One towel in each hand, she started to caress him, to dry him.
She tried to make him keep his hands to himself, but failed. Miserably.
Within minutes, their skins were hotter than the flames, their mouths and hands more greedy. Then she felt his hands close about her waist, his arms tense to lift her. She pulled back from their kiss. “No. On the bed.”
She’d never given orders, never taken the lead before, but he acquiesced, releasing her and drawing her to the curtained bed.
He held back the drapes, caught her eye as she climbed through. “How on the bed?”
She smiled, and showed him.
Had him lie flat on his back, and let her straddle him, let her take him in and ride him to oblivion.
She’d taken an hour to ransack his library; as she’d suspected, he had an excellent collection of useful guides. She had every intention of studying them extensively and putting the knowledge to good use.
As she did that night, lavishing pleasure upon him, taking her own from his helpless surrender. Hours later, when the fire had burned low and she lay exhausted, deeply sated in his arms, she murmured, “I love you. Not because you’ll protect me and our family, not because you’re wealthy, or have a wonderful house. I love you because you’re you—because of the man you are.”
He was silent for a long moment, then his chest swelled as he drew breath. “I don’t know what love is, only that I feel it. All I know is I love you—and always will.”
She lifted her head, found his lips and kissed him, then snuggled down in his arms, where she belonged.
He’d wanted a big wedding. At the Chase, with half the ton and all of the Bastion Club looking on. As he wished, so it was—the only person invited who sent his regrets was Dalziel.
Just over a week later, they all gathered to watch her walk down the aisle of the church in Great Torrington to take her place at Tony’s side. Her gown was a confection of ivory silk and pearls that Adriana, her bridesmaid, assisted by Fitchett, Mr. Pennecuik, and numerous others in London, had slaved over to have ready in time. About her throat, three strands of pearls glowed; more pearls circled her wrists and depended from her lobes—a gift from Tony, along with his heart.
As, meeting his black eyes, she placed her hand in his, gave herself into his keeping, she had no doubt which gift was the most precious to her, and in that moment, what was most precious to him.
With him, side by side, she faced the minister, ready and very willing to claim their future.
The ceremony ran smoothly; the wedding breakfast was held on the lawns of the Chase. Everyone from the staff to the Duchess of St. Ives threw themselves into the celebration, resulting in a day filled to overflowing with happiness and simple, unadulterated joy. The boys were in fine fettle; along with Miranda’s girls they dodged here and there among the guests, weaving laughter and exuberance through the throng, leaving benevolent smiles in their wake. The horrors of the wars still shadowed many minds; it was at moments like this that the future glowed most brightly.
Late in the afternoon, when the ladies had settled in chairs on the lawn to chat and take stock, their husbands, released from attendance, gathered under the trees overlooking the lake or wandered down to stroll the shores.
Together with Jack Hendon, who along with Geoffrey had stood as his groomsman, and the other members of the Bastion Club—Christian, Deverell, Tristan, Jack Warnefleet, Gervase, and Charles—Tony retreated to a spot in the pinetum from where they could keep the ladies in view but also talk freely.
The topic that interested them most was Dalziel’s absence.
“I’ve never seen him anywhere in the ton,” Christian said. He nodded toward the assembled ladies. “I’m starting to think if he appeared, someone would recognize him.”
“What I want to know is how he manages it,” Charles said. “He must be in similar straits as we, don’t you think?”
“It seems likely,” Tristan agreed. “He’s definitely ‘one of us’ in all other respects.”
“Speaking of which,” Jack Hendon put in, “what happened to Caudel once he was in Dalziel’s clutches?”
“Oh, he sang loud and long,” Charles replied. “And then sat in his library and put a gun to his head—only way left for a man of his name. Far less messy than a trial and the attendant flap.”
“Did he have any immediate family?” Gervase asked.
“Dalziel said a distant cousin will inherit.”
Tony looked at Charles. “When did you see him?”
“He called me in.” Charles grinned. “Seems this other sod who’s been using the war for his own ends has been active for the most part in Cornwall, from Penzance to Plymouth. My neck of the woods. He’s in the ministries, most likely the Foreign Office, and he’s apparently someone in the higher levels, someone trusted, which is what is most deeply exercising Dalziel. If Caudel was bad, this other has the potential to be even worse.”
“Has he been actively spying, or was it something more like Caudel’s racket?” Tristan asked.
“Don’t know,” Charles replied. “That’s one of the things I’m supposed to find out. I’m to go in and ask questions, creating the sort of ripples no self-respecting spy wants to know about, and then watch what happens.”
Christian grimaced. “A high-risk strategy.”
“But oh-so-welcome.” Charles glanced at the others, his dark blue eyes alight. “So now I must leave you and be on my way. I’m driving on to Lostwithiel tonight.”
He grinned, a touch devilishly. “Courtesy of our erstwhile commander, I have a gold-plated reason to escape London and the ton, and my sisters, sisters-in-law, and dear mama, who are all up for the Season and now fixed in town for the duration. Of course, they expected to spend much of their time organizing me and my future. Instead, I’m on my way home. Alone. There to sit in my library, surrounded by my dogs, put up my feet, and savor a good brandy.” He sighed contentedly. “Bliss.”
With a rakish smile, he saluted them. “So I must leave you to fight your own battles, gentlemen.”
They laughed. Charles turned away.
“Let us know if you need any help,” Jack Warnefleet called.
Charles raised a hand. “I will. And if you need to hide, you all know your way to Lostwithiel.”
The group under the trees shifted, broke up. Tony, Jack Hendon, and Tristan remained, watching Charles as he glibly made his excuses to Alicia and Tony’s mother, then deftly extricated himself from the clutches of the other matrons present.
As Charles headed toward the stables, Tony took note of his jaunty, cocksure stride. He glanced at Jack and Tristan, briefly met their eyes, then all three grinned and looked at their ladies—Alicia, Kit, and Leonora—heads together as they chatted in the sunshine on the lawn.
“I fear,” Tony murmured, “that Charles’s view of bliss is severely limited by his restricted experience of the state.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Tristan averred.
“True,” Jack said.
Tony’s grin widened into a smile. “He’ll learn.”
The three of them stirred and headed out onto the lawn.
About the Author
New York Times-bestselling author Stephanie Laurens specializes in writing historical romances set in Regency England. Her first such novel was Captain Jack's Woman, published by Avon Books in 1977. Ms. Laurens is best known for her long-running, award-winning tales of the ducal Cynster dynasty: Devils' Bride; A Rake's Vow; Scandal's Bride; A Rogue's Proposal; A Secret Love; All About Love; All About Passion (the story of "honorary Cynster" Gyles Rawlings); the "twin novels," On a Wild Night & On a Wicked Dawn; The Perfect Lover; and The Promise in a Kiss: A Christmas Novel, about the founders of the Cynster dynasty. All these titles are available from HarperCollins e-books. Ms. Laurens is also the author of The Bastion Club novels, commencing with The Lady Chosen and A Gentleman's Honor. She resides in a leafy bayside suburb of Melbourne, Australia with her husband and two daughters and their cats, Shakespeare and Marlowe. Please visit www.stephanielaurens.com.