Theo obeyed, but her heated blood was taking a long time to cool. She fumbled with the buttons of her chemise as he pulled up her drawers with a businesslike efficiency. Then she said in a low voice, "Now do you understand what I'm frightened of? You swallow me up… I lose myself. I don't know what I'm doing."
He stroked her disheveled hair away from her face. "Tell me the truth, now. Are you frightened or disappointed at the moment?"
Theo thought. "Disappointed," she said finally, a rueful smile hovering on her own lips.
Sylvester laughed. "So am I." Then he spoke gravely. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I feel what you feel. If you lose yourself in me, so will I lose myself in you. Lovemaking is the ultimate partnership. It's not a weakness, little gypsy. Not something to be taken advantage of. I promise you that never, never will I take advantage of your passion. Do you understand that?"
Never again, he amended silently, squashing a surge of self-disgust.
Slowly, Theo nodded. But she was still frightened by the power of those feelings, by the wild surgings of her body. It would be the most potent weapon if anyone chose to use it. She bent to pick up her dress, slipping it over her head.
Sylvester leaned back against a tree, arms folded, watching her with a half smile. "So am I going to be obliged to send another notice to the Gazette, or does our engagement still stand?"
"I suppose so," she said, accepting defeat. "You want my knowledge of the estate. I want the estate. We both get something that we want out of it."
"That's certainly one way of putting it," he said wryly, pushing himself off the tree. "Come, let's go back to the house and put everyone's mind at rest."
Elinor went to bed that night a peaceful woman for the first time since her father-in-law's death. Her daughters were now provided for; even Rosie would be assured of a respectable dowry when the time came; and her most troubled and troublesome child was consigned to the care of a man Elinor was willing to wager would make Theo the only kind of husband who would suit her. She wasn't entirely sure she could describe the kind of a man that was, but some maternal instinct told her that Theo would discover it soon enough.
Sylvester rode into Dorchester the following day on an important errand, unaware that his betrothed was also out and about on a matrimonial errand of her own.
Theo rode through Lulworth village and turned off toward Castle Corfe. Just before the castle ruins, she stopped at a small cottage, more an outhouse than a proper dwelling. Dulcie had been here before and grazed contentedly on the grass verge at the end of her tether as Theo disappeared into the gloom of the low thatched-roof cottage.
"I give you good day, Dame Merriweather." She set a cloth-wrapped parcel on the table without comment.
"Aye, good day to ye, girlie." An old woman – so old it seemed hard to imagine that life spurted beneath the wrinkled skin hanging on her like an overlarge cloak – sat on a three-legged stool by the hearth. But the old eyes were sharp as they noted the parcel that she knew contained meat and cheese from the manor kitchens, and there'd be a few coins too. Enough to eke out the livelihood she made as herbalist to the village folk in the Dorsetshire countryside.
She turned her gaze on her visitor, whom she'd known from Theo's childhood, when on one of her country rambles the ten-year-old girl had stumbled upon the cottage, weeping with fury, carrying a rabbit, its foot severed by a trap, her own knee bleeding from a deep gash where she'd knelt on a razor sharp stone as she'd struggled to free the wounded animal.
The old dame had bound up the gash, given the child a drink of rose-hip syrup and a piece of lardy cake, and sent her on her way, promising to care for the rabbit.
The rabbit had gone in the pot that night, and the dame had lived off it for a week, but when the child returned, she told her that it had hopped off on its three legs, perfectly able to survive in the wild.
Since then Theo had visited regularly, always bringing something with her, even if it was only half a loaf from the breakfast table. Once she'd grown into adulthood, the gifts had been more substantial and always carefully chosen. Meat and cheese were in short supply on the old herbalist's table.
"So what can us do for ye, girlie?" The dame knew this was no purely social visit. There was a tension in the slender frame that told its own story.
"You've ways of preventing a woman conceiving a child," Theo said directly, leaning against the rickery table.
"Aye, and ways of stopping a birth, if that's what ye need." The dame heaved herself to her feet. "A sup of elderberry wine, m'dear?" She took a bottle from a shelf beside the hearth, unstoppered it, and poured a generous measure into a tin cup.
"My thanks, dame." Theo took the welcoming cup and drank, handing it back to her hostess, who refilled it and drank for herself.
"So which is it ye want, girlie?" The old herbalist turned back to her shelves.
"I've no desire to conceive as yet," Theo said.
"That's easily seen to." A wrinkled claw scrabbled among the bottles and pouches on the shelf. "This'll do it for ye."
She pulled out the stopper and sniffed at the contents, her nose wrinkling like a pig's searching out truffles.
"A lover, 'ave ye, girlie?"
"No," Theo said. "Not precisely. But a husband in a few weeks."
"Ah." The dame nodded. "Best to look after the lovin' before ye starts breedin', m'dear. If ye don't get it right afore, it'll never come right after, mark my words."
"That's rather what I thought," Theo said. "How should I take this?"
She received precise instructions and was on her way five minutes later. When the time came to give the Gilbraith an heir, it would be of her own choosing.
Sylvester entered the drawing room before dinner that evening with a smile in his eyes. He was feeling immensely pleased with himself, and his smile broadened when he saw that Theo had made an effort with her appearance and was wearing a relatively fashionable gown of dark-blue silk that matched her eyes, and her hair, instead of hanging down her back in its uncompromising rope, was looped in two braids over her ears, the fringe a soft wisp on her broad forehead.
"Ma'am." He bowed to Lady Belmont. "Cousins. I trust you spent a pleasant day."
"Not really," Rosie said. "I lost a dragonfly that I was trying to catch and tore my net on a tree branch."
"I'm sorry to hear it, Rosie," he said. The child was not usually in evidence in the evening, but since she was dressed in a crisp muslin gown with a broad sash, her hair demurely confined in a velvet ribbon, and her hands and face seemed unusually clean, he assumed she was to join them at the dinner table.
"It's very exasperating," Rosie said, sipping lemonade. "What did you do today?"
"Ah, well, I did some interesting shopping." He drew from his pocket a small square box.
"Cousin." He approached Theo, taking her left hand in his. "Permit me."
Theo stared at her finger, at the delicate circle of diamonds and seed pearls slipping over it. It was exquisitely simple. The man who had chosen it for her must know more about her tastes than she'd given him credit for.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. There was a question in the earl's, a touch of hesitancy. He wanted her to be pleased with his choice.
"It's lovely," she said, and his smile crinkled the skin around his eyes.
Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers, and then, when she looked completely astonished at such a reverent salute, he kissed the tip of her nose.
"The banns will be read for the next three Sundays, gypsy; and we'll be married the following Monday."