Loving Lady Marcia (43 page)

And then he grabbed Marcia’s hand and pulled her with them to the piano bench. He set one on either side of him, spread his arms wide to draw them close, and began to play the room a happy tune.

Not very well, of course. He had two people he loved more than anything in the world in his way. But it was perfect, all the same.

Epilogue

It was a splendid Irish morning the day Lady Marcia Sherwood married Duncan Lattimore, the Earl of Chadwick. Ballybrook was bursting at the seams with guests.

Theirs was the wedding of the Season. To have received an invitation to the nuptials was considered quite the coup, although one family favorite wasn’t at all keen to witness it.

Tiger hid in Alice’s office on his favorite blanket throughout the entire affair.

The wedding took place at the church in the village. Marcia had never been so happy in her life as when Duncan took her hands in his own and spoke vows of love to her. She had to blink back tears of joy, and when she heard Mama sniffling in the front pew, she held her breath for a few seconds so as not to cry herself.

It helped that she caught a glimpse of Robert making a disgusted face at her, and then Joe staring avidly at his papa, which turned her happy little sob into a broad, blissful smile.

With Janice to tend to her gown and Cynthia to watch over her bouquet, Marcia felt so loved and cherished, she vowed to never let herself neglect that special bond sisters shared ever again.

Afterward, everyone was to ride in ivory silk-festooned wagons together back to the grounds of Ballybrook, where a sumptuous breakfast had been set up under the boughs of the grand old trees near the lake.

As the guests filled the wagons outside the church, Gregory shook Duncan’s hand heartily. Marcia nearly burst with pride at how mature and loving her older brother had become.

Peter and Robert, she knew, were on their way to becoming good men themselves, but they had the luxury of a few more years in which to grow up. When Peter approached Duncan shyly to congratulate him, Duncan—bless him—grabbed him into a big embrace. And before her groom could do the same with Robert, the youngest Sherwood brother joined Duncan and Peter in a three-way clinch that had everyone laughing.

But the laughter dissolved into sniffles when Daddy turned the tables on Duncan and hugged him close. “Welcome to the family,” he told him in a gruff voice.

They held tight to each other for long seconds while Mama, all three girls, and nearly every female guest wiped at their eyes. And then even some men shed a tear when Daddy hoisted little Joe above his head and said, “I’ve got myself a grandson. At last!”

Yet no one went through as many handkerchiefs as Alice—after all, she had two new men in the House of Brady to look after. She couldn’t have cared less that the bigger one called himself the Earl of Chadwick and that the younger one hid behind Marcia’s skirts and was afraid to look her in the eye. She’d win the little one over—she had full faith in Ballybrook’s own special magic to help her.

In the festive scramble to get every guest into a wagon, Joe made it clear to his father that he couldn’t wait to ride with his new uncles. So while Duncan was busy getting Joe to the proper vehicle, there were a few seconds in which Marcia found herself alone with Daddy.

At first, nothing was even said. Tears simply started to flow from her own eyes, and his, too. He was a sentimental Irishman, and it was what she loved best about him.

“Are ye happy?” he whispered in her ear.

“So happy, Daddy,” she whispered back. “I love you.”

“And I love you, too, Marcia, my girl.”

Duncan came up then. “Are you ready, dearest?”

She nodded happily, and he swung her up into his arms, taking her by surprise, and carried her to the first wagon, which was decorated with masses of white roses, in addition to the swaths of silk. It was the wedding cart, meant for them to ride in alone.

“You silly man,” she told her new husband with a giggle when he lowered her gently onto a silken pillow on the bench. “Carrying me all this way.”

And then she kissed him before he could say anything back. Their lips stayed locked even as Duncan crawled into the cart after her and took off his hat. Marcia pushed back her veil, which was getting caught between their noses, and the driver began the celebratory procession back to Ballybrook.

Duncan wrapped Marcia’s hand in his. “It’s a perfect day,” he told her.

At Ballybrook, they didn’t let go of each other’s hands for an entire twenty minutes, until Peggy Keeley, the sassiest of the village ladies, forced them to separate long enough to join in the dancing, which involved a great deal of hand clapping, twirling, whistling, and stomping of feet.

Marcia made sure to dance with Joe. “We’ll have such fun living together in the same house,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “Now Michael can stay with both of us.”

She laughed and agreed that the wooden giraffe could make his new home in Joe’s toy cupboard.

“I can’t wait to get married,” Cynthia confided to the new bride a few minutes later.

They were both panting from the dancing. Duncan came over with some cool lemonade. Marcia kissed him in thanks, took a sip, then turned to Cynthia.

“Take your time,” she advised her youngest sibling. “Wait for true love.”

“How will you know?” Cynthia asked her.

“You just will,” said Marcia, and grabbed Duncan’s hand again.

He smiled at her, and she at him.

“You two match,” Cynthia said, giggling.

*   *   *

And match they did.

“I can’t wait any longer.” Marcia held open her arms to Duncan that afternoon.

They were staying in the old cottage on the other side of the lake from Ballybrook. It used to belong to Daddy’s great-uncle, a bachelor who’d never married. Daddy kept it now for guests who liked to rise early to go fishing.

Duncan’s eyes were warm with want, and he rose above her, his broad chest a delicious shelter. He nuzzled her neck, and she clasped her hands around his back.

“Marcia,” he whispered.

Their mouths collided over and over while he caressed her flank, her side, her breasts, her hair. And then he spread her legs apart with his knee.

She sucked in a breath. “I want you inside me, Duncan. I want you
now.
”

“Open yourself to me, then.” He studied her face, his own filled with both yearning and command. “Let me in. All the way.”

He kissed her. A tender, slow kiss. And then he entered her, swiftly claiming her, filling her with his masculine force. She wrapped her legs around him to claim him back, and together they began the old, magnificent dance. It got faster and faster, and she found herself pleading with him.

“Love me,” she whispered as if in a fever, over and over, until the pleasure overcame her, wave after wave, and she cried aloud, unable to hold the bliss inside. He followed with a shuddering climax mere seconds later, his body hot and demanding over hers, his own cry fierce and low.

She felt his warm seed spill inside her, and he dropped his head, his arms locked at the elbows, their bodies still linked at their centers.

He raised his eyes to her, and she pushed the hair off his forehead, which was gleaming with sweat.

He was hers.

Hers.

Forever. Not just for today.

And she was his.

After a happy, cozy few minutes, she rolled out of bed, this time clinging to Duncan’s hand to pull him with her. Her heart was filled with a glorious love.

“Let’s go look at Ireland,” she said, and took him to the tiny front parlor, where she threw open the bright blue shutters to a view so breathtaking that neither of them said a word.

She put her hands on the sill and leaned out the window to take it all in. Duncan couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Like one of Daddy’s rose blossoms, she was unashamedly beautiful, her face upturned to the sun.

Read on for an excerpt from Kieran Kramer’s next book in the House of Brady series

THE EARL IS MINE

Coming in March 2013 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

Chapter 1

For Lady Pippa Harrington, it wasn’t going to be the usual Sunday family dinner at Uncle Bertie’s. Those were full of ridiculous speeches by her stepfather, Sir Harold Tavistock, followed by taut silences and the occasional
grrr
from one of Uncle Bertie’s eight corgis under the table. No, tonight, Pippa’s great-uncle was celebrating his birthday, and as always, he would have the same guest, his godson Gregory Sherwood, Lord Westdale, son of the Marquess and Marchioness of Brady—one of the most eligible bachelors in London and a talented young architect.

An architect! One, by the way, whom Pippa couldn’t bear to see. But that was a story for another day.

“Pippa, dear?” The timid voice came to her from the kitchen door.

“Yes, Mother?” Pippa looked up from work that was her greatest pleasure. She was attaching the final miniature crown to a tiny window on a pale silver sugar sculpture she’d made for Uncle Bertie’s birthday celebration. Hip-to-hip with her at the work table was Mrs. Dodd, Uncle Bertie’s elderly cook, who was like the grandmother Pippa had never had.

“Why, hello, Mrs. Dodd.” Mother’s limpid blue gaze took in the pretty disarray of molds, marzipan, and cutting tools on the table. The aromatic smells of roast beef, gravy, and various side dishes wafted from the stove and oven. “You’re hard at work, I see.”

“Good evenin’, my lady.” The cook bobbed a curtsy and smiled. “Lady Pippa’s managing this evening’s confection without me. I’m merely an onlooker.”

“Mrs. Dodd has prepared a lovely meal, Mother.” Pippa was kitted out in a fashionable pink satin frock protected, for the most part, by a sunny blue floral apron. “I did most of the work this morning while you were at the vicar’s tea, but I’m putting the finishing touches on it now. What do you think?” She spread her arms wide so her mother could experience the full effect of viewing the miniature castle unimpeded.

“Yes, well”—Mother pulled distractedly at her pearls—“very nice, Mrs. Dodd.”

Pippa’s spirits drooped, rather like the top of the freshly baked apple pie sitting atop a nearby shelf. It was painful to witness the dismal effect years and years of unhappiness had had on her mother’s cheerful temperament. It hurt to have a mother who didn’t really
see
her.

Very carefully, Mrs. Dodd laid her rough, warm hand over Pippa’s and gave it a squeeze.

“The earl’s in the drawing room,” Lady Helen told her daughter, “and he’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

Looking forward, indeed!

Pippa threw her parent a brisk smile. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Very well.”

Pippa saw that it took everything in Mother to lift the corners of her mouth before she turned and crept back down the corridor toward her awful husband and their beleaguered uncle, the sole person standing between them and the poorhouse. And then there was Lord Westdale waiting as well.

Pippa’s heart nearly gave out at the thought of him.

She decided in that moment that she needed a new story.

“One that
I
choose, not Mother or Uncle Bertie or anyone else,” she announced to Mrs. Dodd as she smoothed the little window crown into place and stood back to admire her handiwork. “My aim is simple—to be happy. By hook or by crook.”

“A grand purpose, my chicken, seeing as we have only one life to live and everyone wanting a piece of it.” Mrs. Dodd muttered something about taxes, ungrateful husbands, and goat-stealing neighbors as she walked to the stove and gave the oxtail soup a good stir. “Your uncle wants to see you happy before he dies.”

“Not that he’s going anywhere anytime soon,” Pippa fretted.

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Dodd chuckled. “He’s stout as a horse, even at eighty-three. And your mother wants to see you happy, too.”

“Do you think so?” Pippa couldn’t help wondering.

“Of course.” The cook twisted her thin neck and shoulders to look in Pippa’s direction. Pippa caught a glimpse of the dull gold locket Mrs. Dodd always wore tucked into her bodice. “Think, child. If you weren’t afraid and there were no rules, what would you do? Where would you go? Who would you be?”

The question was so intriguing, Pippa laughed. “I’d be the finest sugar sculptor in the world,” she said, and meant it, too. It was a fierce wish, one that made her heart pound with excitement, her gut clench with ambition, and her imagination soar.

“Oh, that’s nice.” Mrs. Dodd gave a contented sigh.

Pippa began a slow walk around the table, hand over hand, her fingers lightly grasping its edges, and kept her eyes on the small silver castle. “I’d make fantastical creations that children would clap their hands for, that women would swoon over, and that even men would look at and wish—” She paused and bit her lip.

“Wish what?” Mrs. Dodd looked fair to bursting with curiosity.

“To be gallant princes, much like the one who must live inside
this
delightful abode.” Pippa bent down and squinted through the tiny window, then stood up again. “But full-sized princes, of course. Ones who honor their women. Who stand for right. Brilliant thinkers who love freely and laugh easily. They’d all be handsome, too.”

And one of them—one in particular—would love me. And be proud of my talent.

Oh, if there were no rules and she weren’t afraid.…

Briskly, she swept up some crumbs of sugary dough into her hand and flung them into the fire. “There,” she said to Mrs. Dodd. “Now you know my wildest aspiration.”

Or almost all of it.

The cook laughed, too. “Cor, I like it.” She fondled her gold locket and stared at the little castle. “If you weren’t a woman—a lady at that, with all the responsibilities being a lady entails—you could train under the great Monsoor Perot in Paris. He’d teach you the finer tricks of the trade.”

“Yes. If only.” Pippa suppressed the wistfulness bubbling up in her like a cursed witch’s brew. What was the point of indulging in such a dream? It wasn’t to be hers.

Mrs. Dodd reached into a bowl, pulled out some parsley, and began to arrange it around a tray of cheeses. “My brother-in-law’s cousin’s apprenticeship with Monsoor is almost over. And then he’ll go off to some fine hotel in Europe and make a name for himself.”