Secrets of a Scandalous Bride Page 29

  Chapter 21

  Tumbling through clouds was a novel experience. He reached out to touch the illusion of spun sugar. Sparks of light darted past, and he longed to follow them. He glanced down past his feet, and noticed he was traveling fast. Far too fast. And then he remembered…

  He was shot. But there was no pain.

  He was dying…

  He tried to care, but he did not. There was just such joy, such peace in the air, cradling his bruised and battered body.

  But something nagged at him, irritating his tranquility.

  Fighting the fog of serenity with such doggedness, images of a woman flickered in his mind.

  Oh Lord, nooooo…

  He fought the ever-growing lightness of being like a wildcat caught in an avalanche. No. He could not leave her. Would not leave her. He loved her. Loved her with an intensity too strong to extinguish.

  He fought happiness. He didn’t want peace. He…he wanted…her. He didn’t want anything else. He wanted all the pain, all the sloppy, mucked-up misery and joy life had to offer.

  And like the arc of an object thrown skyward, his ascent slowed; he hung motionless among the stars for what seemed an eternity.

  Then, with the speed of a lightning strike, he hurtled backward. He was in the clouds again—now past them.

  It was going to hurt when he crashed. He didn’t care. Pain was good. He would endure it all to hold her in his arms again. He was not finished with life. He had left something terribly important undone.

  At the last possible moment, as he glimpsed the verdant canopy of the treetops, his form slowed, like a feather wending its way earthward. A crowd was gathered over his corporeal body. Elizabeth was rocking and he looked too still, too pale.

  In that instant, pain slammed into him. A cacophony of sound returned.

  He forced back his lids only to find beauty before him, the pale glint of tears streaming down her dusty face.

  “Elizabeth…” No sound came out of his throat.

  “Rowland?” Her voice was but a whisper. “Rowland!? Oh my God! Oh please…don’t move. Don’t try to speak…Doctor?” There was such pleading in her voice, and he wanted to reassure her. But he could not make his mouth move properly, so he closed his eyes, trying to reclaim his strength.

  “Stay still,” a stranger’s voice said, pressing against the blazing pain on his side. “You cannot afford to lose any more blood. The ball is out. I’ll stitch it as soon as the bleeding slows.”

  Damnation. He had so much to ask—to say. He squeezed her fingers, only to feel a lock of her sweet-smelling hair fall onto his cheek.

  “What is it, my love?” she whispered.

  “Is he…” he rasped. “Are you…”

  “Shhh…you mustn’t struggle,” she pleaded.

  “I think he’d rest easier if you explained, lovey.”

  Ah…Lefroy was here. His eyes would not leave the sight of her face to confirm it.

  “You killed him, Rowland,” she whispered. “You took all of the blast, not me.”

  “Other shots…” He grunted with pain, but he had such certainty that he would pull through that he didn’t care how much it hurt.

  “His death will not be on your head,” the colonel’s voice informed gruffly. “I shan’t have it. Yours will not be the only shot reported fired.”

  The murderous swine was dead. The heaviness on his chest lifted. Other voices hovered overhead.

  “Your aim is improved, Manning,” Helston said, respect tingeing his usual bland tone.

  “Don’t know what yer inferin’, Yer Grace. Master’s aim is always perfect-like,” Lefroy muttered. His loyal stable master glanced at Michael’s raised eyebrows. “If ’e had wanted to kill you last spring, ’e woulda put a ball through yer brains like that cove wot’s in the bushes there.”

  God. He wished they’d all just go away—let him be alone with her. He closed his eyes again. He wanted to hear her voice. It was such a lovely, lilting slip of a thing. A voice meant for lullabies.

  He wanted to assure her he would recover—that he and she would live long, fruitful lives filled with all the terrible, wonderful events that life had to offer. He knew it without a doubt for he had seen the angels laughing at him on his descent—as if they could see the many chapters of his life unfolding while he fell back to earth.

  She wished he would open his eyes again. Each time he did, even in fever’s grip, it had given her hope he would survive. He’d been so restless these last three days that it had been torture to nurse him. He refused to lie still and allow his body the chance to recover. But he’d finally quieted the last few hours and his brow was dry.

  She’d taken to talking to him almost without pause. He seemed to be more at ease when he heard her voice. After telling him every last thing about her childhood that she could remember, she’d resorted to retelling the stories of when they had met earlier that summer.

  “Darling,” she whispered, “do you remember when I made dinner the first time? I tried so hard to please you. Meat pie, potatoes, carrots…and gingerbread. You appeared to loathe all of it. But I knew you liked it. You see, you have a particular way of wrinkling the space between your eyebrows when you like something—as if you’re angry. I think I’m the only one who has figured out that it’s really just a sign of deliberation. It’s as if you don’t want anyone to know how you truly feel about something. And—”

  He came awake the same way he approached life—without hesitation. His eyes opened, pale and clear.

  “Oh…you’ve come back,” she said very softly.

  He glanced at the glass of water nearby and she immediately retrieved it. Gently, she held his head and introduced the glass to his lips.

  She said not a word as he swallowed long and deep. He pulled back and relaxed against the pillows as she replaced the glass on the table.

  Elizabeth drank in the sight of him. “I thought you were”—she swallowed—“were gone to me—would never come back…”

  His eyes followed her.

  She traced a pattern in the white-on-white embroidery of the bed covers. “Rowland, you have to be far more careful in future. I cannot lose you. I’ve lost too much.”

  He raised a finger to her lips to stop her.

  “No,” she said, “I must have my say. I know why you did it—to save me and to avenge my father’s death. But…it was not worth it. I would gladly live with that monster in this world, but I could not live without—”

  “Elizabeth,” he interrupted, his voice very rough around the edges.

  “Yes?” She brushed a lock of his hair from his forehead. “You’re still weak. Will you take some broth?”

  He shook his head once, his eyes never straying from hers.

  “What is it?” She gently straightened his pillow.

  “Just sit…there.”

  She sensed he wanted something, and she would give it to him. “Maybe a wet cloth?”

  “Shhh…” he murmured.

  She gave up. And so she drowned in his eyes. She had not seen his clear-eyed gaze in too long of a time.

  Suddenly, the space between his brows crinkled.

  Her heart expanded beneath her breast.

  “I’m sorry to be so late,” he rumbled.

  “Late?”

  “In telling you.” He closed his eyes.

  “Oh, you’re exhausted. I shan’t leave. I’ll be here when you wake again and then I’ll—”

  “For so long,” he whispered, opening his eyes, “I was entombed in a world black, devoid of naught but a millstone of time…grinding ever closer to eternal dust.” He paused. “Until you.”

  Her throat tightened.

  He struggled to continue. “I did not save you, Elizabeth. It is the reverse. You came along with your abundance of spirit and you made me aware of the cage of darkness I’d constructed in place of a heart.”

  She grasped his hand again and squeezed it gently, acknowledging with touch what she could not with words.
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br />   “And so it’s decided,” he said. “Henceforth, I choose to be happy, damn it. I will not go on as before.”

  “Rowland…” she whispered.

  “I love you,” he said simply.

  She stared at him, aghast. “I never thought you’d…”

  “What?”

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  “I know.” He pulled her arms toward him until she was inches from his face. “Was it worth the wait, Mrs. Manning?”

  “Yes.” She brushed her lips on his. “Kind of like a soufflé.”

  “What? All air and no substance?”

  “Not at all.” She laughed. “And how do you know anything about soufflés?”

  He cupped her face. “You’ve been reciting bloody recipes for the last two hours. I vastly preferred the stories from your childhood.”

  “I love you too, Mr. Manning,” she murmured.

  He pulled her into his arms despite the pain. “And thank God for that.”

  Epilogue

  Three weeks later…

  Dear Mr. Manning (or is it Lord

  Balreal—finally?)

  I do hope you understand the singular honor I am bestowing by sending this letter to you before I write to my own grandson. You are not to be your usual jaded self—thinking I only write to you because Helston is likely halfway to the East Indies.

  When I bade all of you adieu two weeks ago, I knew I was not for Cornwall. And by the gleam in your eye, I had the distinct impression that you alone knew it too. I suppose I owe you a measure of gratitude now (since I would not give it then) for your insistence that Mr. Lefroy, personally, take the ribbons for my journey.

  And so you have it. My gratitude, that is—along with the return of your excellent stable master.

  But I daresay I owe you much more than that, sir.

  I must thank you for explaining to me as no one else has done—the true method for attaining one’s dreams. I shall never forget your words—I don’t stop until I get what I want. Yes, I engraved that in my memory all the way to Scotland.

  It might have taken me over fifty years to learn this lesson, but it is done and I now realize that is how fate wanted it—for if I hadn’t married the Duke of Helston, I would not have my grandson now, and I would never have met the widows, the finest circle of friends a lady could ever wish for.

  Rosamunde taught me that it is possible to find happiness after a dreadful first marriage; Georgiana taught me about the joys of kissing a man you’ve loved all your life; Grace taught me about giving away everything for love; Elizabeth taught me courage; and finally Sarah taught me that one should never give up hope.

  And so in closing, Mr. Manning, I advise you (since my grandson is not presently available for any sort of satisfying lecture) that you would do well to find a group of widowers to learn a few life lessons yourself. You might learn a modicum of patience or at the very least restraint in your particularly colorful use of the English language. You are to stop laughing now. I admit that Elizabeth probably likes you well enough just the way you are.

  If I have not lost your interest yet, which I suspect I have, I would request that you inform my friends that Mr. Brown and I have married—over the anvil—as we planned all those many years ago. And nothing sounds so very fine to these old ears as my new name.

  We plan to travel to Cornwall for the winter, but shall spend a week with Sarah and Pierce at their lovely estate in the northern Lake District along the way.

  I’ve reserved the most important part for last. When we come to town next spring, I expect you to present me with a wedding gift of your very finest pair of ponies—and a phaeton. It is only fair as I gifted you Vespers… and Elizabeth.

  Yours, with affectionate gratitude,

  Mrs. Brown

  Rowland tapped the edge of Ata’s letter against the escritoire in his chamber above stairs. He bit back a smile as he tried to stretch a bit despite the mounds of pillows surrounding him in his padded leather chair. He did not need a herd of bloody widowers to learn about patience. This last fortnight and a half, Elizabeth had seen to it inflexibly all by herself. He had been held captive by her in his bed—stretched out like a damned codfish on a platter. Until today.

  “What does it say?” His beautiful wife placed a covered tray on the edge of the escritoire and drew up a second chair.

  “She has a partiality for the name Mrs. Brown.”

  Elizabeth’s emerald-green eyes filled with amusement. “Oh, I knew it!”

  “What is this?” he cut in, eyeing the tray dubiously. “Did we not just have dinner?”

  “Dessert,” she replied with an innocent expression.

  “Really? What sort?” he murmured, with resignation rather than hope.

  She uncovered the immense silver platter to reveal an endless, boundless mountain of…strawberries. “I know how to keep a promise. I told you I would bring them when you were sufficiently recovered.”

  “I was sufficiently recovered three days after I shot Pymm,” he said dryly.

  She smiled. “No. You were delirious for three days. You are not sufficiently recovered now. But—”

  He growled.

  “But”—she smiled just enough to give evidence to the dimples he loved so much—“well…”

  “What is it, mhuirnin?” He longed to pull her into his lap and nuzzle her, but could not quite manage the feat. He settled for taking up her hand in his and kissing the back of it.

  “I have something to tell you—something to celebrate, actually.”

  “Hmmm?” He was too busy kissing her delicate, lovely wrist to listen.

  “Remember how we agreed that we never wanted to see the inside of Carlton House again for the rest of our lives?”

  Why did women prattle on about ballrooms, when there were perfectly good strawberries to—

  “Well”—her voice took on that shy quality he adored—“we might just have to be a bit more flexible about that.”

  He drew his brows together.

  “You see, if it’s a daughter, she would have to be presented to…” She stopped. “Rowland? Rowland…darling, are you all right?”

  “Daughter?” he rasped. Where had all the air in the room disappeared to?

  “Or a son,” she whispered, dropping to her knees beside him.

  God, he wished he was back in that bed. Why had he wanted to leave it?

  She was a mind reader, this perfect wife of his. “Come…let me help you.”

  He waved her away, determined to do it on his own. She joined him there, a smile on her lips, and such happiness shining from her eyes.

  “I think you’ve forgotten something, Mrs. Manning,” he whispered.

  “Yes?” She leaned down to finally kiss him.

  He clasped her to him, oblivious to any lingering pain. He would never, ever let her out of his sight now. “The strawberries…”

  The sound of her laughter was of the same quality of those angels he had seen.

  “You have to let me go if you want them,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I want them all right,” he growled. “Then we shall see who plays the Fool.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Helen Breitwieser for not only being an extraordinary literary agent, but for also being an extraordinary person.

  I am especially grateful to all the people at Avon for their support: Lyssa Keusch, Liate Stehlik, Carrie Feron, Pam Spengler-Jaffee, Wendy Lee, Wendy Ho, Tom Egner, Mike Spradlin, and so many more. And to industry professionals who have always been so encouraging: Susan Grimshaw, John Charles, Shelley Mosely, Michelle Buonfiglio, and to all the librarians and booksellers.

  And thank you to my husband for showing me what a lifetime of love is all about, and for being the only man who can still make me laugh until I cry. And much gratitude to my mother for nurturing an early love of storytelling, and to the two imps who call me Mommy, yes, you’re the reason for everything.

  Endless thanks to my circle of girlfrien
ds—Jean, Fairleigh, Anne, Amy, Lisa, Susan, Laurie, Jeanne, Kathy, Judi, Annie, Karen, Maria, Cybil, Louise, Christina, Carla, Mary Noble and Sally for providing the fellowship and the laughter that sustained me through the creation of this series.

  And finally, to Robbie Gordon, a young boy who touches my heart with his joyous, boundless goodness.

  Romances by Sophia Nash

  SECRETS OF A SCANDALOUS BRIDE

  LOVE WITH THE PERFECT SCOUNDREL

  THE KISS

  A DANGEROUS BEAUTY

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SECRETS OF A SCANDALOUS BRIDE. Copyright © 2010 by Sophia Nash. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition © January 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-197646-9

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