Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea (31 page)

“The ability to search out an extraordinary soul willing to take a risk beside him, all while discovering a heretofore unknown great need to protect her, nurture her, and bring her enough joy to last for a lifetime.”

“How lovely,” she murmured, sinking her nose into the warmth of his neckcloth. “Your English compliments improve hourly.”

Candover exhaled. “Yes, well, I daresay compliments will not suffice for Prinny. Have you no other plan, Kress, if Isabelle’s notions are not sufficient to bring the Prince Regent around?”

Alex kissed the top of Roxanne’s head, in front of all of them, and could not keep his eyes off of her as he replied to the premier duke. “You do realize we will be great friends, James, after all, don’t you?”

“I beg your—”

“It’s taken an age to make out your character, I’ll admit. You might enjoy playing the cool, condescending, watch fob–jangling, quizzing glass–peering premier duke, but I know you better now and I like you. And you may have already forgotten that you performed the one and only favor I requested of you long ago when you took your leave of the Mount, but I have not.” Curiosity piqued in the heated carriage as Alex stroked her hair, in the fashion she adored.

Candover raised his quizzing glass but then lowered it as he realized he was playing into Alex’s description. He raised his chin a notch instead. “I did not take my leave voluntarily. I was nearly kicked out of—”

Alex interrupted, amused by Candover’s inability to accept gratitude. “I refer to the favor in which you retrieved the Letters Patent from my solicitor’s office in Kensington and then took the trouble to give them to me whilst I was in that chamber with Prinny back in Lamerton.”

“Well, of course I did. You asked it of me. What has that to do with it?”

Roxanne’s neck began to prickle in the way it did before something interesting unfolded.

Alex’s eyes kept boring into hers alone. “While Mémé and Isabelle chattered in our carriage, I perused the Letters Patent I requested from James, and found a tiny clause specifying that in times of war, the owner of the Mount may rely on the sovereign to provide funds to rebuild any damage to key outposts. And”—he held up a hand to keep from being interrupted—“furthermore, Kress House in London is unentailed, something I did not know. I shall sell it. Roxanne will be far happier here, and . . . so will I. The monies will go toward fulfilling our plans at the Mount.”

And for the first time in Roxanne’s life, she heard Mr. Jones laugh. It was a lovely, deep sound that came from the bottom of his lean stomach. Slowly, everyone joined him, and Roxanne clasped her beloved closer and reveled in the happiness that had eluded her for so long.

“So it is settled, then?” Isabelle said. The duchess’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Will you at least allow me enough time to pick a bouquet for you, Roxanne?”

“Only if it is kidney vetch,” Alex replied.

The carriage filled with the sound of laughter. Mr. Jones scratched his head as the excitement subsided. “Perhaps this is the time to clear my conscience,” the older man said with resignation replacing his happiness. “I fear I must turn myself over to whoever is chosen as the new magistrate in our county.”

Alex scrutinized the man. “If you are going to try and tell us that you were the one who shot Paxton, Mr. Jones, I suggest you save your breath. I killed him.”

“You most certainly did not,” Roxanne insisted. “I did.”

Candover shook his head. “Enough. There will be no more talk of Lawrence Vanderhaven. A man who leaves his wife to die doesn’t deserve this sort of scrutiny. Any sort of investigation will be halted.” The premier duke pursed his lips and added,
“By me personally.”

“And I assure you, Mr. Jones, that I, and the rest of the royal entourage, will ensure it,” Alex added.

Dickie Jones, one of the most respected and honorable men in all of Cornwall, sighed deeply in relief. He’d done what his best friend, Cormick Newton, had asked him to do on his deathbed. He’d protected Roxanne with his own life, and much to his astonishment, it appeared he would be none the worse for it. Praise the Lord.

B
y the time the weary travelers reached the Mount, darkness was well entrenched and the first chill of autumn lurked afoot in the castle’s mysterious corners.

“Perhaps we should wait until morning, Alex,” Isabelle said. “How will I ever find that vetch at this hour? What time is it anyway?”

“It’s merely half past four in the morning,” Candover said with a yawn so wide, everyone assembled in the great hall could hear his jaw crack.

Mémé leaned against Mr. Jones, yet had not one hair out of place. Only Alex and Roxanne were wide awake, the joy that was upon them keeping them from any sign of exhaustion.

“Come along, Isabelle, I shall help you find that organ vetch, for we’ve not a chance of talking them out of it now,” Candover muttered.

Isabelle was so shocked by his suggestion that the petite duchess placed her arm on the tall duke’s arm with nary a word.

The archbishop appeared asleep on his feet as he mumbled something that sounded remarkably like a curse as he searched the book of prayer for the wedding vows.

Roxanne went on tiptoe to whisper in Alex’s ear. “John isn’t here. Nor is Mary.”

“Mary, I daresay is happily enchanting a clutch of spellbound tinners. And John? He will return in a moment,
cherie
.” Alex looked down at her with the blinding light of happiness, and something else in his eyes. “He’s merely retrieving something for me.”

Mémé moved closer to them, her arms out in front of her. “Roxanne, I must thank you.
Merci, cherie.
You are truly the daughter I never had.”

“Great-niece,” Alex chided.

“Yes, yes. Great-niece, niece, daughter, sister—
c’est la même chose.
The same thing . . . Family.”

Emotion welled in Roxanne’s heart.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Mémé reproached softly. “Tears of joy are insupportable. Remember?”

“Of course, Mémé.” And she quoted her soon-to-be great-aunt. “Tears of joy are boring. One should shout when joyful.”

“
Exactement.
You are very quick. I like that.”

Mémé reached out her hand at the same moment that John walked up to Alex and handed him a small box. Mémé’s fingers touched John’s hair.

“Thank you, John,” Alex said.

“John,” Mémé murmured, “your hair is so soft. Just like . . . What color is it?”

“Brown, ma’am.”

“A very nice dark chestnut, actually,” Roxanne inserted as she gazed at her beloved.

“And your eyes?” Mémé would not leave off.

“Brown. Very common.”

“I see,” Mémé said, not seeing at all.

The archbishop ambled forward, one hand rubbing his eyes. “Well, then, are we ready?”

“Do you really want the kidney vetch?” Alex’s eyes were filled with emotion impossible for Roxanne to fully absorb. She could not deny him another moment.

“Maybe they won’t return in time.” She hoped they did not. She hoped they would find their own small piece of paradise in the kidney vetch patch.

“Now, then. Let us begin.” The archbishop yawned yet again. “Although this is highly irregular. Marriages are not to be performed at night.”

“Of course,” Alex said with a warm smile. “We would be happy to wait here in the Hall for another hour if you prefer.”

Moans all around, most notably from the archbishop, halted that argument.

“Where is the groomsman?”

“John.” Alex turned to the young man who was nearly his own height, without yet the brawn. “Would you be kind enough to stand up for me?”

“You do me a great honor, Your Grace.”

Alex nodded with encouragement.

“What is your full name, then?” The archbishop had hoisted his spectacles to his round face. “I shall need it for the marriage documents.”

“John Petroc Goodsmith, sir.”

Alex started at the same moment as Mémé.

“Mon Dieu,”
Mémé whispered. “Alex,
touche ses cheveux
. His hair . . . touch it.”

“What is it, Alex?” Roxanne was so cold suddenly. Worried.

“My name . . .” Alex halted.

“Yes?” Roxanne pleaded.

“Is Alexander
John Petroc
Barclay,” he finished.

The younger man looked to the older, and the ladies stared at the two of them.

“John,” Alex said, “do you know who John Petroc was?”

“Yes, sir,” he said with his head bowed.

A long silence ensued.

“Alex, please,” Roxanne begged. “Tell us.”

“He doesn’t need to tell me,” Mémé murmured. “I know all the names of the relations, remember,
cheri
? John Petroc was the given name of the last four Dukes of Kress.”

“I didn’t want you to know,” John said sadly.

Alex laid an arm about the younger man’s shoulders. “John, are you my cousin? Are you family?”

“I’m a bastard,” he murmured. “My mother and the last Duke of Kress . . . It wasn’t her fault. It was . . .”

“You don’t have to explain it, John,” Alex said quietly.

“She was the governess here. The duke took advantage of her one night. She would have been ruined if my true father had not married her. I shall always consider William Goodsmith my real father, not the other,” John insisted.

“Of course, you should,” Alex murmured. “But will you allow a Barclay to be your cousin?”

John Petroc Goodsmith smiled, and Alexander John Petroc Barclay smiled back.

The archbishop yawned. “Such a delightful bedtime story. Do you, Alexander Bar—”

“Alexander
John Petroc
Barclay,” Alex corrected.

“Yes, yes, yes. Will you take this woman, Roxanne what is it—Tatiana? Harriet?” The archbishop was in misery.

“Roxanne Newton will do,” she said with a small giggle.

His holiness’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Do you take this woman in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, in—”

“Yes,” Alex said cutting the man off.

“And I will take him, too,” Roxanne said with a huge smile. “But, I won’t obey, if that is all right with you, Alex.”

“I know better than to try and change you now.”

“But I would die for you, if need be,” she said anxiously.

He chuckled. “There’s to be no more dying for husbands. Although . . .”

“Yes?”

“Although I would ask you to wear a ring.”

“A ring?” She looked at him skeptically. “But I don’t particularly like . . . What I mean is that Mémé already gave me a lovely ring.”

Mémé cleared her throat. Loudly. “
Et bien, cherie,
since you will remain here with Edward, perhaps I should ask for it to be returned.”

Roxanne sighed and shook her head. Mémé stuck out her hand, palm up.

Alex tugged off Mémé’s band only to replace it with . . .
simply the most extraordinary ring
. She inhaled in surprise. An enormous rectangular diamond was flanked by two luminous sapphires. “It’s—it’s . . . exquisite,” she breathed.

“Admit it”—Alex smiled and his eyes sparkled—“for just the merest moment, you were worried it might be hideous.”

She shrugged her shoulders casually in his French manner and then gave up all pretense and threw her arms around his neck. “I should have known you had a plan,” she whispered ruefully for his ears alone.

Eddie suddenly dashed into the hall, his nails not gaining much purchase on the final curve before he jumped into the couple’s arms, and began barking and howling his approval.

It was the most perfect wedding ceremony Roxanne could have ever envisioned. And she had no doubt the supreme clergyman would verify it no matter how abbreviated it had been.

The archbishop slapped the book closed and trundled off to bed, wondering once again why he had ever chosen this profession.

He also wondered why in hell there was none of that particularly wonderful stuff called absinthe to be found in the cellars here. He had but one last cellar to check to be certain.

He went off not knowing that he would hit the mother lode that very night.

And Roxanne and Alex? Was there any question what became of them?

One thing was certain. They had both paid hell twice over in their lives. From this day forward there would be no further torment—only heaven on earth for the two of them—surrounded by the oddest assortment of relations, friends, and canines, which no one would ever deny are the very best sorts to love for a lifetime on a magnificent mountain of granite pulled from the sea, with little plant life to tend.

Acknowledgments

G
reat thanks to all who inspired me: Peter and Alexandra Nash, Georgiana Warner Kaempher, Arthur and Kim Nash, Philip and Renata Nash, Philip Mallory Nash, Jean Gordon, Len Lossaco Fogge, Laurie and Eddie Garrick, Philippe and Christina Gèrard, Kim and J. P. Powell, Le Comte et Comtesse d’Aurelle de Paladines, Barbara Kehr, R. T. Williamson, and to a very special circle of girlfriends: Anne Kane (many thanks for reading the first draft), Amy Conlan, Mary Lee Reed, Cathy Maxwell, Jeanne Adams, Kathryn Caskie Parker, Annie Abaziou, Lanette Scherr, Pam Scatteragia, Lisa Schleifer, Irene Schindler, Kathy Weber, and Heather Maier.

And to the two people who guide me through the publication process with such expertise: Helen Breitwieser of Cornerstone Literary, and HarperCollins Executive Editor, Lyssa Keusch. Special thanks to Liate Stehlik, Carrie Feron, Pam Spengler-Jaffee, Mike Spradlin, Susan Grimshaw, John Charles, Michelle Buonfiglio, and Emily Cotler for your continued encouragement.

And to my children for continually showing me the meaning of joy and life.