A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 22

HE’D KNOWN WINNING HER WOULDN’T BE EASY, BUT HE hadn’t expected it to be this hard. It had been bad enough when she’d returned to Wallingham; given all that had evolved between them since, taking her with him to Amberly Grange was a hundred times worse.

As the carriage rocked and swayed, four horses swiftly drawing them into Berkshire, Charles sat beside Penny and contemplated fate’s ironies.

Beside him, calmly expectant, sat the lady he wanted for his wife-the one and only lady who would do, who could fill the position as he needed it filled. A fortnight ago, he’d been staring at the fire in the library at the Abbey, impatient for her to appear-and she had. She’d marched into his house, reclaimed him, and nothing had been the same since-nothing had gone quite as he’d planned.

Last night, in the ballroom, without a word she’d stepped in and eased his way, acted precisely as he’d needed her to, been what he’d needed her to be. For the first time since returning to England, he’d been able to relax in a crowd. Later still, after forcing him to accede to her view of how things should be…he hadn’t been in any mood for gentle loving-she not only hadn’t cared, she’d taken wanton delight in encouraging him to be as demanding as he’d wished, so she could match him and meet him, drive him wild, and in her own inimitable way soothe his soul.

She’d proved she was the only lady for him-then blithely extrapolated his need for her to encompass his entire life, and made his agreement to her constant presence by his side a condition of their future union.

He’d got precisely what he’d wanted, but not as he’d expected. Looking back, looking forward, he strongly suspected that would be the story of their lives.

It was midafternoon when the carriage swept into the graveled drive of Amberly Grange. Dalziel and Amberly had been half an hour ahead of them in Amberly’s carriage.

They were welcomed as expected guests. Shown into the drawing room, they found Amberly awaiting them. He looked tired, but his gaze was shrewd. He greeted Penny, shook hands with Charles, then waved them to chairs. “Let’s have tea, then we can commence.”

The first step proved easy enough; his butler and housekeeper hadn’t hired anyone in recent weeks. All the staff in the large house had been there for years.

Charles went out to the stables to convey the news to Dalziel, who’d spent the hour since they’d arrived dozing in the carriage. Charles returned to the house alone; when darkness fell, Dalziel joined them.

Over dinner, they put the final touches to their plan.

The next morning, after breakfast, Penny and Charles went for a short ride. On returning, they joined Amberly on the terrace for morning tea. Afterward, all three went for a stroll in the gardens, keeping to the wide lawns circling the house. When the luncheon gong rang, they repaired to the dining parlor; later, Penny and Amberly strolled about the conservatory while Charles read the news sheets on the terrace outside. In the late afternoon, the marquess retreated to the pianoforte in the music room. Penny and Charles saw him launched on a sonata, then, arm in arm, they left the room, strolled along the terrace, then descended to the lawns.

After a lengthy stroll, never out of sight or hearing of the music room and the delicate airs wafting forth on the breeze, they returned and, shortly after, all three withdrew to their rooms to dress for dinner.

Dinner, and the evening spent in the drawing room, followed the predictable pattern, then they retired to their bed-chambers, to their beds, and slept.

The next day, they repeated the performance. Exactly. The program was precisely what one might expect of a nobleman of Amberly’s age being attended by a female relative and watched over by someone like Charles.

All believable, and all very regular. They adhered to their schedule like clockwork. Dalziel was never visible to any outside the house. They’d agreed their best route was to exploit Fothergill’s arrogance and overconfidence, so they set the stage for him, and waited for him to make his entrance.

They’d accepted it might take a week and had resigned themselves to playing their roles for at least that long.

On the afternoon of the first day, while sorting through music sheets with the marquess, Penny overheard a muted discussion between Charles and Dalziel. It was clearly a continuing argument between them. In typical fashion, neither said what they meant outright, but the crux revolved about who would deliver the coup de grâce once they had Fothergill trapped between them.

Charles had a strong case; ruthlessly, with a few quiet phrases, Dalziel demolished it. Penny gave no indication she heard his words, nor felt their glances as they rested on her. Charles wavered; Dalziel subtly pushed, and he gave in. The final act in the drama would fall to Dalziel.

Days passed, and they religiously played their parts, their assigned roles. Amberly, accepting that he could do no more than that, cocooned himself in the regimen; through the hours they spent together strolling the conservatory and lawns, Penny learned more of him, leaving her with a degree of respect and burgeoning affection for the, as Nicholas had correctly termed him, incorrigible old man.

For herself, she was conscious of a heightened awareness, of her senses being alert, alive, and always awake in a way they never had been before. Waiting, watching, ready. Confident that she, Amberly, and his staff were safe under Charles and Dalziel’s protection, she found the tension more exciting than frightening.

That alertness, however, made the changes in Charles and Dalziel very apparent. The tension that invested them was of a different caliber, possessed a far more steely, battle-ready quality. And day by day, hour by hour, that tension escalated, subtle notch by notch.

By the third day, Amberly’s staff were walking very carefully around them. Neither had raised their voices, neither had done anything to frighten anyone; the staff were reacting to the portent of barely leashed danger that emanated from them.

Every night, when Charles joined her in her room and her bed, she opened her arms to him and met that dangerous tension. Welcomed it, not for one instant turned aside from it, but challenged it with her own confidence, channeled it into the wildness of passion.

On the third night, when he collapsed in the bed beside her, he reached out and drew her into his arms, cradled her against him, gently smoothing back her tangled hair. “Do you still want to be with me, even now-even through this?”

She shifted to look into his face, into his darkly shadowed eyes. “Yes-even now. Especially now.” Freeing a hand, she brushed back a black lock from his forehead, drinking in the hard planes of his face. “I need to be here, with you. I need to know all of you-even this. There’s no reason to hide any part of what you are, not from me. There’s nothing, no part of you, I won’t love.”

He studied her face as their hearts slowed, then he tightened his arms about her, murmured against her hair, “I’m not sure I deserve you.”

He was too tense, too brittle at present for this; she drew back to smile at him. “I’ll remember you said that when next you complain about my wild Selborne streak.”

He smiled back, accepting her easing of the moment; he settled his arm over her waist, she snuggled her head on his shoulder, and they slept.

The following day they were returning from their afternoon stroll about the lawns while the marquess spent his customary hour at the pianoforte, when Penny noticed a gardener kneeling before the flower beds a few yards from the steps leading up to the terrace.

Why her senses focused on him she had no idea; she was used to seeing staff constantly about-there was nothing about him to alarm her. He was weeding the beds, an understandable enough enterprise.

As she and Charles approached, idly discussing the Abbey and the missive that had arrived from London that morning, matters about the estate Charles needed to decide, she watched the gardener pull three weeds and toss them into the trug beside him. He had streaky, fairish brown hair and wore the usual drab clothes the gardeners favored; he also wore a battered hat jammed down to shade his face and a tattered woolen scarf loose about his neck.

She and Charles reached the steps, passing the man; as they climbed to the terrace, she suddenly knew-was absolutely certain-but didn’t know why. She didn’t dare look back; forcing her mind to retread the last minutes, she reviewed all she’d seen.

Charles noticed her absorption. He looked at her, caught her eyes, a question in his.

They reached the music room and stepped over the threshold; she exhaled and sank her fingers into his arm. “He’s here.” Across the room, she met Dalziel’s eyes as he rose from a chair against the wall. “He’s the gardener weeding the beds by the steps.”

“You’re sure?” Charles kept his voice low.

She nodded. “He doesn’t look the same-he’s dyed his hair-but his hands-no gardener has hands like that.”

Charles looked at Dalziel, who nodded. “Your move.”

Charles returned his nod, looked at Penny, lifted her hand to his lips. “Remember your part.”

“I will.” She squeezed his hand and let him go.

Turning, she watched as he strode back onto the terrace. She followed as far as the open French doors and reported for Dalziel and Amberly in the room behind her. “Fothergill’s gathered his things and is walking off across the lawns toward the back of the house. Charles has just reached the lawn.”

“Here-you! Wait!”

Charles’s voice reached them. Penny watched as Fothergill glanced back, realized Charles wasn’t far behind. He dropped his tools and ran.

“He’s off. Charles is following.”

Inwardly, she started to pray. They’d assumed Fothergill wouldn’t try to face Charles, but would lead him well away from the house. The grounds were extensive, with large areas devoted to gardens and stands of trees and shrubs-lots of places to hide and lose a pursuer.

If they’d assumed wrong, Charles would face Fothergill alone. Waiting, not knowing, not doing, was harder than she’d thought, but she’d accepted they had to script their play that way to leave Fothergill believing he was still in control.

So she waited and watched, and prayed.

Charles raced after Fothergill, keeping him in sight, simultaneously keeping mental track of their progress through the grounds. As they’d guessed, Fothergill was leading him away from the house; he didn’t stick to the gardens, but plunged into a wooded stretch. Charles saw him leaping down a winding path; following, he forged up the rise beyond, followed the path over the crest-and saw no one ahead of him.

Bushes closed in a little way along; Fothergill might have made their shelter in time. Charles felt certain he hadn’t. There was a minor path to the left that would lead back to the house; catching his breath, he plunged on, keeping to the major path heading away from the house. He didn’t glance back; senses on a knife-edge, he strained to hear any movement behind him-anything to suggest Fothergill was intent on becoming his pursuer and killing him.

He heard nothing. Not a rustle, not a snap. Beyond the thick bushes he moved off the path, halted and listened.

Nothing near. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, senses searching.

Faint, at some distance, he detected a large animal moving stealthily back toward the house.

Fothergill had swallowed the bait.

Lips curving in a cold smile, Charles turned and headed across the grounds; he needed to get into position for his next appearance in their play.

Once Charles had disappeared, Penny quit the doorway and went to sit beside Amberly at the pianoforte. As agreed, the marquess continued to tinkle out a melody-the lure to draw Fothergill back, to assure him his target was still there.

Dalziel had summoned reinforcements; two burly footmen and the butler, a stalwart individual, stood by the wall nearby, ready to provide additional protection if needed. By the window, Dalziel kept a silent watch over the lawns, waiting to see if Fothergill would behave as they’d predicted.

“He’s coming.”

The words were uninflected, curiously dead. Amberly dragged in a labored breath and kept his fingers moving unfalteringly over the keys; Penny briefly touched his shoulder reassuring, supporting. She looked at Dalziel. He gave no sign of being aware of anything or anyone beyond the man he was watching. Tension thrummed through him; he was a powerful, lethal animal, leashed but knowing the leash was about to be released. Poised to act.

Without sound or warning, he moved, walking to the doorway and stepping out onto the terrace.

Penny left her seat and equally silently followed; halting in the doorway, she saw Fothergill coming quickly up the steps, scanning the lawns behind him-back in the direction he’d led Charles.

Relief flooded her; Charles was still out there-Fothergill hadn’t attacked him.

Detecting no pursuit, Fothergill stepped onto the terrace, lips lifting coldly as he turned to the music room-and came face-to-face with Dalziel.

Three yards separated them.

Fothergill’s mouth opened; incomprehension filled his face. Then his eyes met Dalziel’s.

Fothergill whirled, flung himself down the steps and fled across the lawn. Toward the maze. Dalziel paused for an instant, then went after him.

Penny watched the pair race away, then Fothergill ducked through the arched gap in the high green hedges; a few seconds later, Dalziel followed.

Turning indoors to reassure the marquess, Penny wondered if Fothergill had yet realized that he was no longer running to his plan, but theirs.

At the center of the maze, Charles stood at the end of the long narrow pool farthest from the house, and waited. The maze was a symmetrical one in which it was possible to enter from one side and exit from the other. He could hear Fothergill approaching; his lips curved, not humorously. He’d predicted that in the absence of Fothergill’s favorite escape route-a shrubbery-he would instead use the maze, and he had. Whoever he was, Fothergill would shortly reach the end of his road; he and Dalziel intended to make sure of it. Cornering a man on an open lawn wasn’t easy; capturing him in a room of green twenty feet by eight feet was a great deal more certain. The yew hedges were high and densely grown; the only routes out of the rectangular court were the gap in the hedge at Charles’s back, and the other gap Fothergill was fast approaching, Dalziel on his heels.

Fothergill burst into the court-and skidded to a halt. Wide-eyed, he stared at Charles, then his gaze fell to the throwing knife Charles held in his hands.

Turning the knife lightly end over end, Charles demanded in rapid-fire French who had sent him.

Off-balance, his gaze locked on the knife, Fothergill swallowed and replied, confirming it was elements of the French bureaucracy attempting to conceal past follies.

“Attempting to cover their arses so that no one would know how gullible they’d been-how they’d been taken in, not once but countless times over the years by an English lord…is that right?”

White-lipped, Fothergill nodded.

Charles watched him like a hawk, ready to use the knife. Fothergill hadn’t yet reached for his own knife, but his fingers were flexing, tensing.

Behind him, Dalziel glided soundlessly from the shadows of the opening.

Straightening the knife in his hands, Charles waited until Fothergill glanced up; he caught his eye. “What’s your real name?”

Fothergill frowned, then answered, “Jules Fothergill.” He hesitated, then asked, “Why do you want to know?”

Charles felt all animation drain from his face. “So we know what name to put on your gravestone.”

It was done quickly, neatly, with barely a sound. Fothergill heard nothing, suspected nothing, not until the dagger passed between his ribs; Dalziel was that quiet, that efficient. That effective. Realization flashed through Fothergill’s eyes as he stared at Charles, astonished that retribution had caught up with him, then all life leached away, his eyes glazed, and his body crumpled at Dalziel’s feet.

Jaw set, Charles rounded the long pool and joined Dalziel; they stood looking down at the body. “That was a faster, cleaner death than he deserved.”

After a moment, Dalziel murmured, “Think of it more as the type of death we deserve to deal in. No need for us to descend to his level.”

Charles drew breath, nodded. “There is that.”

Dalziel stepped back, absently lifting his dagger, taking out a cloth to clean it. “I’ll take care of this.” With his head, he indicated Fothergill’s body. “I’d appreciate it if you kept Lady Penelope and Amberly at bay.”

Charles grunted. He lingered a moment longer, looking down at the crumpled form, then he looked at Dalziel. “He isn’t the one you seek, is he?”

Dalziel looked up, met his eyes, his dark gaze cold, saber-sharp and incisive. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. But he was, in his fashion, efficient-he was dangerous, and he was young. I’m grateful we had the chance to remove him-who knows what the future holds?”

Charles murmured an agreement, then turned away, and walked out of the central court, back toward the house.

He was halfway across the lawn when Penny came out of the music room. She paused on the terrace, her gaze racing over him, then, somewhat to his surprise, she picked up her skirts, rushed down the steps, and flew across the lawn to him.

She flung herself at him; he caught her, staggered back a step before he got his balance. Arms around him, she hugged him ferociously. “Thank God you’re all right!”

For a frozen moment, he simply stood as the world about him tilted and swung, then he closed his arms more definitely around her, tightened them. Laying his cheek against her hair, he closed his eyes and breathed in, let the subtle fragrance of her slide through him. Let the feel of her in his arms claim him. With all his other missions, he’d never had anyone waiting for him, anyone eager to see him, to anchor him and welcome him back into the normal world-to reassure him that he still belonged.

They stood locked tight, then, releasing him, she pushed back, reached up and framed his face, looked deep into his eyes, then stretched up and kissed him. Hard. Lips to lips, then she parted hers and drew him in; for uncounted heartbeats, they drowned-then she pulled back, and simply looked at him, her gaze devouring his face.

Penny sighed, reassured, relieved and so much more. Stepping back, she looked toward the maze. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Charles nodded. He took her hand and drew her on, back toward the house. “He’s been stopped.”

She glanced at him. “So no one else will die.”

He met her gaze, then nodded. He tightened his hold on her hand, she tightened her hold on his; looking ahead, they walked on.

Amberly was relieved; so were the staff. Dalziel disappeared, but was back in time for dinner; he was talking quietly to Amberly when Penny and Charles joined them in the drawing room.

Later, after a meal that, courtesy of Amberly and Penny, verged on the celebratory, Amberly invited them to view his secret collection. They’d earlier refused so if things had gone wrong, he would be protected by virtue of being the only one who knew how to open the priest hole.

It was similar to the one at Wallingham Hall, just a few feet larger. And filled with snuffboxes the like of which the three of them had never seen. Sitting in a chair while they admired the craftsmanship of the various styles represented, Amberly related how their “game” had started, how he and Penny’s father had worked out the mechanism of the scheme that had run for so long.

“But now he’s gone, and so is Granville.” As they left the priest hole, he nodded toward the contents. “I’ve been thinking, now it’s all over, that those should be put in a museum somewhere, perhaps with the pillboxes.”

He looked inquiringly at Penny.

She nodded. “I don’t think they should remain in the priest holes, either here or at Wallingham.”

Amberly smiled wryly. “I know Nicholas will agree with you-poor boy, this has all been such a worry to him.” He looked at Dalziel. “Do you think it might be possible to create a story to account for them that people would believe?”

Dalziel smiled. “I’m sure, if we put our minds to it, we’ll be able to come up with something. And”-he glanced at the snuffboxes-“I doubt any curator you offer the ‘Selborne collection’ to is going to ask too many questions.”

“Do you think so?”

Charles tugged Penny’s arm. They left Dalziel and Amberly discussing potential tales with which to allay any public concern.

“Without having to explain the whole unlikely past.” Charles shook his head. “He must have been a formidable adversary on the diplomatic front.”

Penny smiled and led the way down the corridor. They reached her room and went in. On arriving at the Grange, she’d puzzled the housekeeper by insisting she did not wish the maid assigned to her to wait on her at night; as Charles had yet to sleep in the bed in the room he’d been given, she assumed the housekeeper would by now have guessed why.

Undressing in the same room, being physically close, had come very easily to them both. Standing before the dressing table unpinning, then brushing out her long hair, she watched Charles in the mirror, watched him strip off his coat, then unknot and unwind his cravat. Unbuttoning his shirt, unlacing the cuffs, he drew it off over his head; clad only in trousers, he prowled absentmindedly to come up behind her-he looked up, and met her gaze. She felt the tug as he undid her laces.

She held his gaze as he did; her senses still alert, very much alive, she considered all she saw. He was taller than she by half a head-his hair was dark, black as the night, while in the faint candlelight hers held the silver of moonlight.

His shoulders and chest were broader than hers; she could see his body on either side of hers, a visual promise of his strength, of his ability to surround her with it.

Raising his hands, he pushed her loosened gown off her shoulders; she withdrew her arms and let it fall to the floor with a soft swoosh. The sound focused her mind, her eyes, on the contrasts revealed, on the steely muscles that flexed in his arms as he ran his palms down her arms-over the delicate skin, the subtle feminine curves.

She was slender, delicate, where he was broad, heavily muscled; she was pale to his dark, weak to his strong, yet she didn’t, never had, feared his strength; instead, she reveled in it.

Complementary, well matched. Equals, but not the same.

A pair, perfect foils each for the other.

Reaching out, she placed her brush on the table, quelled a shiver of anticipation as he shifted closer, as his hands slid around her and she felt his strength slowly, carefully engulf her. Easing back in his arms, she watched as he lowered his head, as he nuzzled her throat, then nudged her head aside so he could fasten his lips over the point where her pulse raced.

A smile curved her lips. She knew beyond question that she was the only woman who had ever interacted with him as she did, as she always had-close with no barriers, inside his mask, dealing with the real man rather than the persona he showed to the world. Seeing his vulnerabilities as well as his strengths, being allowed to know of them and ease them.

There was no other man she had ever wanted, ever needed to be with. Only him.

She could feel the tension still thrumming through him, not so much the aftermath of the day’s events as a sense the episode had yet to be laid to rest.

Her smile deepening, she turned into his arms.

Charles had no idea what she meant to do when she insisted on taking the reins. But he yielded, let her do as she wished with his body, with his heart, with his soul. He’d given her all three long ago; it was a relief to be able to consign them so simply into her keeping. Into her care.

Hours later, lying on his back, sated, exhausted, and at peace beside her in the rumpled bed, he acknowledged how different this was to the end of any previous mission. This time, thanks to her, he’d reached a completion that had never before been his; he’d traveled full circle from initiating protectiveness to final conclusion, and she’d welcomed him back, guided him back-absolved him. She’d acted as his anchor, his guardian and mentor in the personal sense; he’d never before had that connection, had someone not just acknowledging but personifying the link between his mission and those he sought to protect.

He glanced down at her, slumped, boneless, beside him. Accepted wisdom held that a lady’s life revolved about her lord’s; with them, he knew beyond doubt that his life would always and forever revolve about her. His place would be wherever she was, his bed would always be hers, not the other way around, no matter what society thought.

She stirred; after a moment, she lifted her head, glanced at his face, then shifted over him, leaning her forearms on his chest so she could study his eyes.

He studied hers, but could read little beyond a certain satisfaction, a certain decisiveness. “What?”

Her lips lifted. “Can we go directly back to Lostwithiel rather than going via London?”

He blinked. “Yes. Why?”

She held his gaze. “If we’re going to get married, then there’s a lot we need to organize, and if we announce our engagement in London, you know what will happen-we’ll be expected to make a social event of it, attend all the right balls and allow the major hostesses to dictate to us. We’ll be placing ourselves in your and my sisters’ and our mamas’ hands, and much as we love them, it’ll be so much easier if we keep the reins in our hands-”

He shut her up in the only way he could-he kissed her. Kept kissing her until she was floundering as much as he was. She was racing impulsively ahead again. Raising his hands, he cradled her face, aware to his bones of the simple honesty behind the kiss, of the unalloyed sweetness of what they now shared.

Drawing back, he looked at her, with his thumbs brushed wisps of her hair aside, met her bright eyes. Took a moment to wallow in the light that lit them, in the warmth he could feel even through the shadows.

His mind was still reeling. “I don’t understand. I haven’t yet given you what you want, or at least you don’t know I have-I haven’t yet told you I love you, or sworn undying love forever more.”

A wise man would have hidden his surprise, seized her acceptance, and kept his mouth shut, but…he frowned. “I thought, being you, that you’d at least demand a red rose and me on my knees.” He’d been anticipating doing something rather more flamboyant when the time came; strangely, he now felt cheated of his moment.

She blinked at him. “A red rose…on your knees?” She looked faintly stunned, as if he’d told her something new.

He frowned more definitely. “I haven’t yet shouted it from the steeple-that can be rectified-but you know I love you, that I always have.”

She frowned back. “You haven’t always loved me-you didn’t years ago.”

He stared at her. Felt his muscles harden, tried to keep them relaxed. “I’ve loved you for forever.”

At his flat tones, her frown grew more direful; she pushed up from his chest. “You didn’t. Not before.”

Jaw setting, he came up on his elbows. “I’ve loved you-only you-since I was sixteen! What the devil did you imagine that episode in the barn was about? How did you think it came about? Just because you decided?”

“That was lust!” Face-to-face, eye to eye, she dared him to deny it.

“Of course it was lust!” He heard his roar and fought to lower his voice. “Good God-I was twenty and you were sixteen. Of course it was lust, but it wasn’t only lust. I never would have accepted your invitation if I hadn’t been in love with you!”

He glared at her. How could she not have known, not have seen that? “Dammit, woman, you’re my mother’s goddaughter, my godmother’s stepdaughter! What the hell do you think-”

Penny flung herself at him, covered his lips with hers, and let all the emotion that had suddenly welled and was now sweeping her away pour through her, let it flow unrestrained through her into him. Let him see, taste-know.

His hands closed on her sides; the kiss deepened, ignited their fire, fanned it until passion rose full and deep and swirled around and through them.

He gripped and tried halfheartedly, as if he thought he should, to ease her back. She dragged her lips half an inch from his, dragged in enough breath to say, “Shut up-just love me.”

Twitching the sheet from between them, she straddled him. Set her lips to his, met him when he surged and claimed her mouth, sighed through the kiss when his hands closed around her hips and he eased her back and down, then thrust up, in, and filled her. Her nerves slowly unraveled as she took him into her body, sheathed him to the hilt; her senses exulted.

She couldn’t think, and neither could he. Good; he could wonder why she’d agreed to marry him without the assurance she’d always insisted she had to have later. He didn’t need to hear that she couldn’t now imagine a future apart from him, that the thought of not being with him, there to meet his need, was a fate she couldn’t bear even to contemplate.

To be needed that much, that deeply, that exclusively-what woman wouldn’t give her heart for that? But he would work out her feelings for himself soon enough; he didn’t need to have her spell them out for him.

Closing her eyes, she rose above him, and he filled her, savored her, went with her.

The world closed in, and there was just her and him and the dance that held them, empowered them, enthralled them. And the emotion that rose, higher and more powerful than ever before, and at the last engulfed them, fused them and left them, two halves of a sundered coin at last together and whole.

Dawn broke over a world that had altered, at least for them. Charles lay on his back idly playing with strands of her hair, in some dislocated part of his mind aware that that was something he’d done years ago.

He knew she was awake, like him savoring the changes, the subtle shifts in their landscape.

Eventually, he drew a deep breath, and softly said, “I didn’t know what love was all those years ago-I knew what I felt, that you were special in ways no other was, but at twenty, I knew very little of love.” He hesitated, then went on; he’d always imagined the words would be hard to find, yet they came readily enough to his tongue. “What I feel for you now is immeasurably more than what I was even capable of feeling then. Back then, I wasn’t even sure what it was I felt for you, so when it seemed you’d had enough-that you didn’t want me and whatever it was anymore-I let it go. I told myself that if that’s what you wanted, then it was probably for the best.”

Penny heard the distant note in his voice, knew he was remembering what was essentially a past hurt she, unwittingly, had inflicted on him.

“I didn’t know,” she murmured, then sighed. “I suppose I didn’t understand well enough either, certainly wasn’t sure enough, although I told myself I was.” She listened to his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek. “Perhaps, in truth, it was for the best. If we’d attempted to cling to what we had then…”

Lifting her head, she looked into his face, into the dark gaze that, as always, seemed to embrace her. “If we’d done something about it then, got engaged before you left or some such thing, then you wouldn’t have become a spy, wouldn’t now be who you are.” She paused, then added, “You wouldn’t have become the man I love now.”

“And you wouldn’t have been who you are now, either. You’re stronger, more independent, more certain of what you want.” His lips twisted wryly. “More challenging than you would have been if we’d married years ago.”

She arched her brows haughtily, but replied, “Very likely. Perhaps those years were the price for what we have now.”

“And for what we’ll have in the future.” He held her gaze. “We’ve paid fate’s price.”

“Indeed. And now we have the prize.” Her smile dawned, glorious and sure; she settled back down in his arms. “From now on, we get to enjoy the fruit borne on the tree of our past.”

He chuckled, closed his arms about her, and sank deeper into the pillows. The fruit of the tree of their past. Love evolved and grown and acknowledged between them, the pleasure of having the other in their arms, the anticipation of an unclouded future-it might have taken thirteen years, but few were as lucky as they.

Penny would have been perfectly happy with a small ceremony with a select group of guests. Instead, Charles insisted on a huge wedding with a cast of hundreds and a guest list that in reality had no end.

Everyone in the district was invited, and everyone came. She’d known she commanded a certain level of acquaintance, of loyalty thoughout the surrounding area, and that, of course, Charles did, too; what neither had appreciated until they came out of the church and saw the gathered multitude, was that combined, their acquaintance covered most of those within riding distance and droves from farther afield, too.

It was bedlam, but wonderful. Once she’d realized and dragged enough from him to confirm just why he’d wanted such a public affair, she’d acquiesced with good grace, indeed, had thrown herself into making his vision come true. What lady wouldn’t have, given he’d wanted their wedding to be a very public declaration of not just their union, but of what he felt for her-his version of shouting his love from the steeple?

She could only love him all the more, until her heart felt literally like it was overflowing, for making such a grand, dramatic, so-very-Charles-like gesture, yet it wasn’t the organization, the numbers, the sheer scope of the performance that carried the banner of his feelings, but the light that shone in his midnight blue eyes, the way his awareness so rarely strayed from her, the quality implied in the way he touched her, held her hand, kept her close. By his decree, they were now closer than they’d ever been.

Happier than she sometimes felt they’d any right to be.

She’d learned simply to accept it, that this, between them, was meant to be.

From the early-morning rush, through the ceremony at the church, through the wedding breakfast and on through the extended celebrations, the day was perfect.

“Can you imagine anything daring to be otherwise with my mother and Elaine, your sisters and mine, my sisters-in-law and Amberly and Nicholas all supervising?” Charles arched a brow at her. “Even I’m cowed.”

As he chose that moment to whirl her into a waltz-a very fast waltz-she could only laugh, and let him entertain her, and at the end of their moment, lead him back to their guests.

One group she was especially keen to meet were the other members of the Bastion Club. Having met Jack and Gervase, both of whom were present, she wasn’t surprised to find that the others were of similar ilk. She shook hands and had to laugh at the numerous comments they made about Charles, the warnings, the sotto voce confidences, all of which he deflected with his usual glib charm.

She was especially pleased to meet Leonora, Countess of Trentham, and Alicia, Viscountess Torrington, the wives of the other two club members thus far married. The instant the introductions were complete and they’d touched fingers, their gazes met, switched one to the other, then the three of them laughed. Their husbands, naturally, inquired over what had struck them. They met each other’s eyes again, then each said they’d explain later.

None of the club members were impressed by that, but had to, in this company, accept it.

“Have you met Dalziel?” Leonora asked.

The inquiry seemed innocent, but it immediately diverted the men’s attention.

“We invited him, of course,” Charles told the others, “but as usual he hasn’t appeared.”

“He never appears anywhere in public,” Alicia told Penny. “At least, not that any of us have discovered.”

“While we were staying with Amberly, along with Dalziel, I got the impression as we were leaving that Amberly knew who Dalziel really was. I asked him this afternoon.”

“And?” Jack prompted.

“Amberly lapsed into vagueness as if he had absolutely no idea who I was referring to.” Charles sighed. “Amberly’s memory’s like a vise-he was clearly told to conveniently forget.”

“Dalziel’s true identity can’t be scandalous,” Gervase pointed out.

“No.” Christian Allardyce raised his brows. “But it could be highly sensitive in certain quarters.”

“One day,” Charles vowed, “we are going to learn the truth.”

The others all echoed the sentiment.

Later, while ambling through the guests, they stopped to talk with Amberly and Nicholas. As her nearest male relative, Amberly had given her away; he’d been thrilled and so patently pleased she’d asked, Penny had felt touched.

“We’ll be at Wallingham for a few days-ride over if you get the chance.” Nicholas shook hands with Charles. “I’ve decided to spend more time down here-now you’ve taken Penny away, someone will need to keep watch on the place.”

“Good for you to get away from those damn dispatch boxes,” Charles returned.

Nicholas grinned. “You’re probably right.”

They parted, Nicholas helping his father toward the forecourt, where their carriage was waiting. Other guests sought them out to make their farewells; gradually, the day wound to a close.

Night was falling when they finally slipped away from the family parlor where the females of their combined families, slumped in exhaustion, were indulging in the customary postmortem.

The earl’s suite was separated from all others, distant and very private. Passing through the door Charles held open, Penny glanced around. Until then, she’d only seen the room from the doorway, yet with her brushes on the dressing table, her robe on a chair, it already seemed familiar. As if she belonged.

Crossing to the dressing table, she lifted the tiara from her hair, then removed the jeweled pins and let the long tresses hang free. She shook her head to untangle them, in the mirror met Charles’s midnight eyes.

She turned, faced him, saw in his eyes the same awareness she felt. They’d been lovers for weeks, yet this, now, was different-a declarative step acknowledging a deeper commitment.

The end of one road, the first step on another.

A moment passed in which they searched each other’s eyes, then he stepped toward her and held out his hands.

She met him, put her hands in his, felt him clasp them and gripped in return.

His lips lifted, his eyes held hers. “I love you.”

She returned his smile and walked into his arms. “I love you, too.”