At Last Comes Love (42 page)

“No,” he said. “He would surely find out. Too many people know the truth, after all, and someone would be sure to think it a fine thing to tell him. I will let him know about his birth when he is old enough to deal with the knowledge, and when he is secure enough in my love and yours not to have his sense of self destroyed by it. We can love him and love him, Maggie, but only he can live his life. Just as only we can live ours.”

“There is no happily-ever-after, is there?” she said.

“Would you want there to be?” he asked her. “Would not life be horribly dull? I would rather aim for happiness.”

“Happiness?” she asked, turning her face to look back at him.

“When everyone will think the worst of you?”

“Oh, not everyone,” he protested. “All those who are nearest and dearest to me know why I did what I did—both five years ago and this year after Laura died. Sacrifices must sometimes be made, Maggie. And sometimes they bring with them blessings that far outweigh the suffering they caused. If I had not run off with Laura and scandalized the
ton
, I would not have known and loved Toby And I would not have met you. Or if I had, it would have been too late—I would have been married to Caroline.”

“Would that have been so dreadful?” she asked him, her voice soft and surely wistful. “Not meeting me, I mean?”

“Yes,” he said. “It would have been the most dreadful thing of all. I would have missed the whole point of my life. I would have missed the reason for my existence. I would have missed the love of my life. I might have known what it is to love, for there are people in my life whom I
do
love and always will. But I would never have been
in
love.

There would never have been that magic—or that missing part of myself to make me whole.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Just
oh
?” He lifted one hand to set the backs of his fingers lightly against her cheek.

“You
love
me?” she asked him. “Truly love
me
? Love betrayed me once, Duncan, and then life and youth passed me by. I have wanted so desperately to gather the dregs of life and love to myself so that I could give contentment to someone else and draw contentment to myself. Have I found love instead? A love that makes the other one pale in comparison?”

“I cannot answer that,” he said, feathering his lips across hers and discovering that her face was wet with tears. “
Have
you?”

“I tell myself,” she said, “that I love you because I admire the courage with which you have lived your life. And I tell myself I love you because you love a poor helpless child totally and unconditionally.

And I
do
love you for those things. But Duncan, I love you most because you live
here
.” She patted one hand over her heart. “Because I know I was meant all my life to meet you and discover the joy for which I was created.”

“Ah,” he said.

“Just
ah
?” She attempted a soft laugh and hiccupped instead.

He kissed her, and when she pressed her lips back against his, he wrapped her in his arms and deepened the kiss as he turned her to lay her down on the grass beside the tree.

They made love at half past midnight on ground that was none too soft surrounded by air that was none too warm—and when they were both almost light-headed with exhaustion.

Life was not perfect.

Except when it was.

“Duncan,” she said when they were finished and she lay cradled in his arms while moonlight danced in patterns of light and shade over them as the branches of the tree swayed in the breeze. “I must tell you something, though I did not mean to do so until I could be more sure. It is not a day for secrets, though, is it? Or am I talking about yesterday? Today is not for secrets either. There is a chance—the merest chance—that I am with child.”

He pressed his face to her hair and inhaled slowly. Already? He had been a father for four and a half years, but was he now to be—a
father

?

“I am only a few days late,” she said softly. “Perhaps it is nothing.”

“I promised my grandfather when I was twenty,” he said, “that I would be married by the time I was thirty and would have a child in the nursery by the time I was thirty-one. A son and heir. Is it to happen after all? Or could this be a daughter? Oh, good Lord, Maggie, a daughter! Could life offer a greater miracle?”

“I cannot even be sure yet,” she said, “that there will be a child at all, Duncan. But perhaps there will. A son or a daughter. Oh, perhaps it is true. I am never late.”

He drew her more snugly into his arms. He breathed in the warm woman's scent of her and closed his eyes.

“No matter,” he said. “We will have an excuse to try even harder if this is a false hope. I love you and you love me and we are married and living at Woodbine, and we have our families and Toby. All that is quite happiness enough for now, Maggie. We will hope there is a child but not be too disappointed if there is not. Agreed?”

“Life is not perfect,” she said, and laughed softly.

“It feels pretty close at the moment,” he said.

“Except,” she said, “that I have a tree root or something digging into my hip and my feet are like blocks of ice.”

They walked homeward with their arms about each other's waists.

“Are you as tired as I am?” he asked.

“At least twice as tired,” she said. “Shall we persuade your grandfather to stay with us for a good long while? Perhaps even to make his home with us if he wishes? And shall we invite some of our neighbors to dine before Nessie and Elliott leave? Shall we—”

He bent his head to kiss her as they stepped onto the terrace before the house.

“We certainly shall, my love,” he said. “But tomorrow. Or later today. Much later. Shall we go to bed now? And sleep?”

“Sleep?” she said. “Oh, that does sound wonderful, Duncan. I could sleep for a week—but only if your arms are about me.”

“Where else would they be?” he asked her, his one arm closing more tightly about her waist as he led her up the steps to the house.

“Nowhere, I suppose,” she said.

“Precisely.”

She yawned and tipped her head sideways to rest on his shoulder.

Being in love, he thought, was the most wonderful thing.

The best thing in the world, in fact.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mary Balogh is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the acclaimed Slightly novels:
Slightly Married, Slightly Wicked, Slightly
Scandalous, Slightly Tempted, Slightly Sinful
, and
Slightly Dangerous
, as well as the romances
No Man's Mistress, More Than a Mistress
, and
One Night for Love
. She is also the author of
Simply Perfect, Simply
Magic, Simply Love
, and
Simply Unforgettable
, a dazzling quartet of novels set at Miss Martin's School for Girls. A former teacher herself, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada.

Visit our website atwww.bantamdell.com .

If
At Last Comes Love
stole yourheart, get ready to be entrancedby the next book in Mary Balogh'sseries featuring the extraordinaryHuxtable family.
Seducing an Angel
spotlights brother Stephen, the youngearl whose innocent façade hidesthe rogue within.

Seducing an Angel

STEPHEN's STORY

Available from Delacorte in hardcoverMay 19, 2009

Turn the page for a sneak peek inside.

Seducing an Angel

On sale May 19, 2009

STEPHEN was turning as he spoke and did not finish his sentence because he almost collided with someone who was passing close behind him. Sheer instinct caused him to grasp her by the upper arms so that she would not be bowled entirely over.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, and found himself almost toe to toe and eye to eye with Lady Paget. “I ought to have been looking where I was going.”

She was in no hurry to step back. Her fan was in her hand—it looked ivory with a fine filigree design across its surface—and she wafted it slowly before her face.

Oh, Lord, her eyes almost matched her gown. He had never seen such green eyes, and they did indeed slant upward ever so slightly at the outer corners. Viewed against the background of her red hair, they were simply stunning. Her eyelashes were thick and darker than her hair—as were her eyebrows. She was wearing some unidentifiable perfume, which was floral but neither overstrong nor oversweet.

“You are pardoned,” she said in such a low-pitched velvet voice that Stephen felt a shiver along his spine.

He had noticed earlier that the ballroom was warm despite the fact that all the windows had been thrown wide. He had not noticed until now that the room was also airless.

Her lips curled into a faint suggestion of a smile, and her eyes remained on his.

He expected her to continue on her way to wherever she had been going. She did not do so. Perhaps because—oh. Perhaps because he was still clutching her arms. He released them with another apology.

“I saw you looking at me earlier,” she said. “I was looking at you, of course, or I would not have noticed. Have we met somewhere before?”

She must know they had not. Unless—

“I saw you in Hyde Park yesterday afternoon,” he said. “Perhaps I look familiar because you saw me there too, but do not quite recall doing so. You were dressed in widow's weeds.”

“How clever of you,” she said. “I thought they made me quite unidentifiable.”

There was amusement in her eyes. He was not sure if it was occasioned by real humor or by a certain inexplicable sort of scorn.

“I do recall,” she said. “I did as soon as I saw you again tonight. How could I have forgotten you? I thought you looked like an angel then, and I think it again tonight.”

“Oh, I say.” Stephen laughed with a mingling of embarrassment and amusement. He seemed particularly inarticulate this evening. “Looks can deceive, I am afraid, ma'am.”

“Yes,” she said, “they can. Perhaps on further acquaintance I will change my mind about you—or would if there
were
any further acquaintance.”

He wished her bosom was not quite so exposed or that she was not standing quite so close. But he would feel foolish taking a step back now when he ought to have thought to do so as soon as he let go of her arms. He felt it imperative to keep his eyes on her face.

Her lips were full, her mough on the wide side. It was probably one of the most kissable mouths his eyes had ever dwelled upon. No, it was definitely
the
most kissable. It was one more feature to add to a beauty that was already perfect.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping back at last so that he could make her a slight bow. “I am Merton, at your service, ma'am.”

“I knew that,” she said. “When one sees an angel, one must waste no time in discovering his identity. I do not need to tell you mine.”

“You are Lady Paget,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am.”

“Are you?” Her eyelids had drooped half over her eyes, and she was regarding him from beneath them. Her eyes were still amused.

Over her shoulder he could see couples taking their places on the dance floor. The musicians were tuning their instruments.

“Lady Paget,” he said, “would you care to waltz?”

“I would indeed care to,” she said, “if I had a partner.”

And she smiled fully and with such dazzling force that Stephen almost took another step back.

“Shall I try that again?” he said. “Lady Paget, would you care to waltz
with me
?”

“I would indeed, Lord Merton,” she said. “Why do you think I collided with you?”

Good Lord.

Well,
good Lord
!

He held out his arm for her hand.

It was a long-fingered hand encased in a white glove. It might never have wielded an axe, Stephen thought. It might never have wielded any weapon with deadly force. But it was very dangerous nonetheless.

Shewas very dangerous.

The trouble was, he really did not know what his mind meant by telling him that.

He was going to waltz with the notorious Lady Paget—and lead her in to supper afterward.

He would swear his wrist was tingling where her hand rested on his sleeve.

He felt stupidly young and gauche and naïve—none of which he was to any marked degree.

The Earl of Merton was taller than Cassandra had thought—half a head or more taller than she. He was broad-shouldered, and his chest and arms were well-muscled. There was no need of any padding with his figure. His waist and hips were slender, his legs long and shapely.

His eyes were intensely blue and seemed to smile even when his face was in repose. His mouth was wide and good-humored. She had always thought that dark-haired men had a strong advantage when it came to male attractiveness. But this man was golden blond and physically perfect.

He smelled of maleness and something subtle and musky.

He was surely younger than she. He was also—and not at all surprisingly—very popular with the ladies. She had seen how those who were not dancing had followed him wistfully with their eyes during the last two sets—and even a few of those who
were
dancing.

She had seen a few glance his way with growing agitation, as the time to take partners for the waltz grew close. Several, she suspected, had waited until the last possible moment before accepting other, less desirable partners.

There was an air of openness about him, almost of innocence.

Cassandra set one hand on his shoulder and the other in his as his left arm came about her waist and the music began.

She was not responsible for guarding his innocence. She had been quite open with him. She had told him she remembered seeing him yesterday. She had told him she had deliberately discovered his identity and just as deliberately collided with him a short while ago so that he would dance with her. That was warning enough. If he was fool enough after the waltz was over to continue to consort with the notorious Lady Paget, axe murderer, husband killer, then on his own head be the consequences.

She closed her eyes briefly as he spun her into the first twirl of the dance. She gave in to a moment of wistfulness. How lovely it would be to relax for half an hour and enjoy herself. It seemed to her that her life had been devoid of enjoyment for a long, long time.