Joan Wolf (20 page)

He got up and came over to stand below her. “What?” he bellowed up.

“I said,” she shouted back, “that we’re ...”

Silence fell.

“
...
starving!” she finished on a shriek that filled the Hall.

Mark stared up at her, and she stared back; the sudden silence echoed around them. They exploded into mirth together.

“J-just a minute,” Mark promised, and went over to his place at the table. He was back almost immediately with something wrapped in a napkin. “Catch,” he called, and tossed it upward.

Laura leaned out and snared it easily. “Chicken!” she cried, and waved it triumphantly. The Hall broke into laughter and applause.

Laura sat down and gave a piece to Jane. All over the Hall, packages were being tossed from grinning husbands to hungry wives. Laura crunched industriously. She felt very, very happy.

Mark was not drunk when they finally got into their coach to return home, but then, he was not precisely sober, either. He slid down on his spine next to Laura and began owlishly to repeat the challenge of the King’s Champion.

“No,” Laura said positively, “the best part of the whole day was Lord Rayleigh. Did you
hear
what he said?”

Mark dissolved into laughter. “Oh, God. I did.”

“Did you
see
what Alcibiades did?”

“Laura, stop,” Mark begged.

Her eyes were full of tears from pent-up laughter. “I can’t,” she said. “Remember the coronation sermon—”

He interrupted her by shrieking suddenly, Tm starving, Mark!” and she collapsed against him. It took them a few minutes before they were able to descend from their carriage. Halfway up the stairs, Mark stopped. “Chicken!” he shouted, and waved his arm. That started them all over again.

They staggered into Laura’s bedroom together, only to be met by the censorious eye of her new dresser. Mason was very dignified, very proper, and had absolutely no sense of humor. The only reason Laura had kept her was that she was a genius with hair. Under her forbidding pale gaze, Laura struggled to sober up. “Your ostrich feathers were a huge success, Mason,” she offered.

“Indeed, my lady.” The gimlet eye regarded Laura’s feathers. They had become somewhat disarranged in the coach.

Mark backed up, collapsed into a chair, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Mason looked outraged. “The best ostrich feathers in the whole damn place,” he said solemnly.

“They were, Mason, truly,” Laura said hastily, and gave Mark a quelling look. Her husband, however, was completely out of control.

“Everyone said so,” he went on relentlessly. “Even the King. ‘Dartmouth,’ he said to me, ‘who did your wife’s ostrich feathers? Best damn ostrich feathers I have ever seen. Dashed if I’m not going to appoint the woman who did those ostrich feathers to my own household!’ “

Mason stared at her mistress’s husband as he lounged at his ease in his wife’s bedroom, where, she considered, he had no right to be. At least until his wife was undressed and properly in bed.

“My lord ...” she began with great dignity.

Mark looked at the ceiling and began to sing. It was something to do with the reproduction of the ostrich. It was regrettably bawdy and excruciatingly funny.

“Mason,” Laura gasped, feeling as if she would explode any moment, “go to bed. Please.”

“Are you quite certain you don’t require my assistance, my lady?”

“I... Quite certain, thank you. Good night.”

The door had scarcely closed behind her before Laura fell on the bed sobbing. “Oh, God,” she wailed, holding her side, “I think I’m going to die! Stop!”

Mark stopped in mid-note and moved on silent feet to the bed. Laura did not hear him and was surprised to feel his hand on her shoulder. He turned her over on her back and she looked up into the lean masculine face that was now so close to hers. “The feathers have got to go,” he said, and began to remove them from her coiffure. In the process, her long dark hair somehow became unpinned and fell loosely onto the satin bedspread. Mark put two hands on either side of her head. His face was quite close to hers.

“I didn’t think I could laugh like that,” Laura said weakly.

“You and I are going to take a proper honeymoon,” said Mark. His face was now very close.

“We are?”

“Yes. Without Robin. Just you and me. And you’ll learn how to laugh again, I promise you.” His voice was very deep and very tender.

She put a hand up and ran her fingers through his sun-bleached hair. “I’ve been feeling so ... distant lately,” she said.

“I know.” He kissed her ear, her chin, her mouth, her ear again. “But it’s all finished with, sweetheart. It’s safe to be happy.”

 Her hand moved from his hair to his cheek. He understood, she thought; he understood how difficult it had been for her.

 “I love you, Laura,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “Are you sure it isn’t my ostrich feathers?”

He growled. “Much as I love your ostrich feathers, I love you even better without them. In fact, I love you best without anything at all.”

“Lord Dartmouth!” she protested, scandalized.

“And since you so inconsiderately sent your dresser away, I suppose I’ll have to do the job myself.”

Laura fixed her eyes on the ceiling. “All hail the noble ostrich,” she began to sing.

“Oomph!” This was as Mark’s full weight descended upon her. He wrapped his arms around her and rolled so that they were both on their sides, facing each other. Laura smiled. “This dress will never be the same.”

“No matter,” he replied softly. “I’ll buy you another.”

“Mark ...” She was looking straight into his golden-brown eyes. Her breath caught a little in her throat. “I love you so much,” she said.

“Do you?” he slid a caressing hand over her hip. “Show me how much.”

“Mmn,” she replied. And did.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Mark’s career is based on the early career of Francis Beaufort, the famous English hydrographer, whose survey of the south Turkish coast in the frigate
Fredericksteen
served as model for the fictional expedition I assigned to Mark.

Copyright © 1983 by Joan Wolf

Originally published by Signet (ISBN 0451158083)

Electronically published in 2008 by Belgrave House/Regency

Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

     http://www.RegencyReads.com

     Electronic sales: [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.