Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

She fought to straighten her lips, aware of the tension riding him-aware of its source. “I know why you want me to stay here.”

His dark gaze flicked down to fix on her face. “If you know what violence it does to my feelings to have you exposed to any danger, let alone a madman who’d be quite happy to slit your throat”-he came up on one elbow, patently unable to keep still-“then you shouldn’t have to think too hard.”

She met his blatantly intimidating gaze. “Except that there’s more at stake here, something more important than just catering to your protective instincts.”

For a moment, he stared into her eyes, then he sighed tensely and looked away. And sotto voce in idiomatic French reminded himself of the futility of arguing with her.

She tightened her fingers, squeezing his hand. “I understood that.”

He glanced at her, and humphed.

They were both trying to lighten a fraught moment-fraught with emotion rather than threats. Dealing with emotions had never come easily to either of them; what they now had to face, to manage, accommodate and ease, was daunting.

He was descended from warrior lords; one of his strongest instincts was to protect, especially those he cared about, especially the females in his life. Especially her. She’d accepted that in drawing close to him again, his protective instinct would flare again, and it had, even more fiercely than before. But she was neither weak nor helpless, and he’d always acknowledged that and tried to rein in his impulses so they didn’t unnecessarily abrade her pride. However, this time the danger was immediate and very real; he wouldn’t easily be persuaded to let her face it with him.

She searched his dark eyes, saw, understood, and felt certain, this time, that it was important she be with him; why, however, wasn’t easy to explain.

Slipping her fingers from his, she slid from the bed and stood; clasping her elbows, she walked a few paces, then turned and slowly paced back.

Charles watched her, saw the concentration in her face as she assembled her thoughts. As she neared the bed, he sat up. She lowered her arms; he reached for her hands and drew her to stand between his knees.

She looked into his eyes, her gaze steady; her fingers locked with his. “There are two reasons I need to go with you. The minor one is that this ‘game’ was a Selborne enterprise-concocted, instituted, and executed for years by Amberly and my father. Amberly represents his side of it, I represent my father and Granville, who are no longer here. It’s right that Amberly should have one of us beside him to the end.”

She paused, then went on, “I could point out how old and frail he is, but it’s more a question of family loyalties, and that’s something I know you understand.”

He arched a resigned brow. “No point arguing?”

“In my shoes, you’d do the same.”

He couldn’t contradict her. “What’s the other, more important reason?”

You. Sliding her fingers from his, Penny raised her hands and framed his face, looked into his midnight eyes. She watched his expression harden as he read the resolution in hers. “It’s important to me to see this through with you, by your side. We’ve been apart for a long time; I’ve been out of your life for more than a decade, and you’ve been out of mine. If we’re to marry, if I’m to be your wife, then I’ll expect to share your life-all of it. I won’t be cut out, shielded, tucked away even for my own safety. If we’re to marry, then I’ll be by your side not just figuratively but literally.”

She now understood how important that was-for him no longer to be alone, for her to be with him. She’d decided to accompany him to London more than anything because instinct had insisted she should.

Instinct hadn’t lied. Alerted by it, she’d watched him since they’d left Wallingham; she could now see beyond his mask most of the time. She’d observed how he’d behaved and reacted during the grueling journey, through their arrival here, their interview with Amberly and Dalziel, and even more tellingly, in dealing with his womenfolk. She’d seen how he’d coped with her beside him, and contrasted that with how he would have managed if she hadn’t been.

If she’d harbored any doubt of the difference her presence made, his behavior over the evening would have slain it. When they’d greeted the first guests, she’d seen how inwardly tense he’d been, although not a hint showed, even to his sisters; his mask of devil-may-care bonhomie was exceptionally good, exceptionally distracting. At first, knowing his background and experience in ballrooms, she’d been at a loss to understand his difficulty, then she’d caught him swiftly scanning the room, and realized-he held everyone at a distance. He was used to being completely alone, even in a crowd, guarding against everyone, trusting no one…except her.

As the evening wore on, and he realized she didn’t mind being used, that she was amenable to being his link, his connection with the glittering throng, his interactions with others subtly changed, shifted. By the end of the night, much of his defensive tension had left him. When he laughed, it was more genuine, from his soul.

She was the only person he trusted unreservedly, without thought. She could be his anchor, his trusted link with others, one he now, after all his years of being alone, desperately needed. His mother understood, possibly the only other who saw clearly; from across the ballroom, she’d smiled her approval. A few other matrons who knew them both well probably suspected.

He needed her. He’d told her so, in multiple ways, but she hadn’t truly appreciated how real that need was. She was still getting used to the situation; she had yet to learn how, between them, they needed to deal with it.

Lost in his eyes, in all she could now see, she drew in a deep breath; releasing his face she lowered her hands, found his and let their fingers twine and grip. “We’ve missed a lot of each other’s lives, but there’s no reason for that to continue. If we’re to face the future together, it has to be all the future, side by side.”

His eyes had narrowed, gaze sharp as he searched hers, reading her message. She wasn’t agreeing to marry him; she was establishing parameters. After a moment he confirmed, “That’s the sort of marriage you want-the sort of marriage you’ll agree to?”

“Yes.” She held his gaze. “If you want all of my future, then I want all of yours, not just the parts you think safe for me to share.”

Not the wisest ultimatum to put to a man like him. She’d tried to avoid it, but cloaking his need and her determination to fulfill it in her usual willful stubbornness seemed the simplest way forward.

His expression impassive, he stared at her for ten heartbeats, then he carefully set her back from him, stood, and paced away. His back to her, he stopped. Hands rising to his hips, he looked up at the ceiling, then swung around and impaled her with a gaze that held all the turbulent power of a storm-racked night. He’d spoken of violence and it was there; she knew it wasn’t feigned.

“What you ask isn’t-” He sliced off his next word with an abrupt gesture.

“Easy?” Propping her hip against the bed, she folded her arms and lifted her chin. “I know-I know you.”

He held her gaze, then exhaled through clenched teeth. “If you know me so well, you know that asking me to let you go into danger-”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He frowned.

“I said I wanted to be with you. If I am, by definition I’m not in danger.” Pushing away from the bed, she walked to him. “If there’s danger, I’ll be perfectly content to stand behind you. I don’t even need to help with what you have to do.” Halting, she laid a hand on his chest, over his heart. “I simply need to be with you.”

A certain wariness filled his eyes. Raising a hand, he closed it over hers, held her palm to his chest. “You don’t have to be with me physically-”

“Yes, I do. Now, I do. Years ago, perhaps not.” She held his gaze. “The youth you used to be is not the man you are. The man you are learned to be alone-very alone, very apart. You can keep the rest of the world at bay, but if we marry, you can’t and won’t keep me at a distance.” After a moment, she softly added, “I won’t let you-I won’t accept that.”

She wouldn’t accept leaving him to deal with life alone.

He understood what she was demanding; she saw comprehension in his eyes, a center of calm coalescing in the darkness.

A long moment passed, then he exhaled. He briefly closed his eyes, then opened them. “Very well.” His eyes were still stormy when they met hers. “We’ll go to Amberly Grange tomorrow, and…we’ll see.”

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.