Midsummer Eve at Rookery End (15 page)

He seemed to crave the taste of her, kissing her mouth, her neck, the sweep of her cheekbone and her temples before returning to ravish her mouth anew. His body shuddered with desire, but it was no less than Helen did. Giving a husky moan, she pressed closer to the firm expanse of his chest, revelling in being in his arms and in the ripples of sensation fluttering down her spine. Her heart swelled with relief and joy. The truth of how he felt was in his every glance, his every touch, his every kiss;
I want you, I need you, I love you.

“I’ve had the most awful time,” she admitted, when she could finally speak but still arching into his embrace. “I do believe Lord Pembroke untied the wretched rope on purpose so he could read me more of his hideous poetry with no chance of escape! It was dreadful! He wasn’t upset. I think he even enjoyed it because all he talked of was Christopher Marlowe’s
The Passionate Shepherd to his Love
and being like Omar Khayyam in the Wilderness, whatever that means.”

Simon smiled as he rained kisses against her mouth. “But I thought you liked it?”

“I thought I did too, once, but not anymore. I’ve heard enough poetry to last a lifetime! He droned on and on and on until my headache got so bad my head felt ready to split. Simon,” her voice sank to a whisper and she slid her arms around his waist, “I hit him!”

Deep and appreciative laughter rumbled in his chest.

“I hit him as hard as I could and then,” continued Helen, on her own gurgle of amusement, “he fell into a bush! Terribly unladylike, but I wasn’t the least bit sorry. At least it stopped him gushing verse.”

“But what did he do to make you hit him?” he said, nuzzling her ear.

She tucked her face in the curve of his neck and pressed a kiss to the strong lines of his throat. She couldn’t get enough of touching him, kissing him. The scent of his skin and his rich masculine voice were doing wonderfully seductive things to her insides. She gave a contented sigh and explained: “The sunset was beautiful and, since I was starving, having eaten little breakfast and no lunch, I asked him if he thought the sky resembled a peach and raspberry soufflé. He said, in that arrogant way of his, that he couldn’t see the resemblance so I asked him if he was hungry. He said no, because all poets generally needed for sustenance was a little fruit. And that’s when I hit him. I shouldn’t have done it. I know it was wrong.”

“Not wrong,” said Simon with a chuckle, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her over to the bench seat at the back of the summer house, “just perfectly understandable, my darling girl! I wanted to do it myself several times.” When he had settled her on his lap to his satisfaction, he kissed her again, deep and demanding. “Helen, you’re so beautiful. God, I love you! I’ve loved you for months but I didn’t have the words to tell you. I still don’t. I’m not one for pretty speeches—”

She hugged him closer. ‘Or sonnets?”

He laughed wryly. “Especially sonnets!” His voice was rough with emotion as his gaze roamed over her face. “Helen, is this real? You can’t know how long I’ve wanted this … how much I’ve wanted you. I love you so much it terrifies me. I’ll strive to be deserving but it’s only fair to tell you that my leg …” He made an impatient gesture. “The surgeons have told me it will never improve. I’m a plain-spoken soldier of modest income, who is crippled for life, who struggles to put his feelings into words and who doesn’t know a ballad from blank verse. Are you sure I’m what you want?”

“Idiot,” she chided, laughing softly and burying her face in his shoulder. “You’re
everything
I want. I can’t be happy without you. When months went by and you didn’t declare any feelings for me, I was disheartened and convinced I was mistaken. I thought that if I spent time with Lord Pembroke, I’d be cured from wanting you so much. So I vowed to seek out his company while I was here, but something curious happened and I found I didn’t want to be with Lord Pembroke even though I told myself I should. I literally had to
force
myself to go on that carriage ride with him. Then, when the carriage lost a wheel, he spouted verse at me for several hours.” Helen groaned. “It was a disaster! I had the beginnings of a headache and I wanted
you
, not him! Still I tried to fight it and when he asked me to go for a row on the lake, I agreed – very, very reluctantly and only because of my vow – but when I was stuck on that island with the midsummer moon rising in the sky and Lord Pembroke droning on and on in the background, I could think about nothing else but you. Suddenly I realised what a fool I’d been. Everything fell into place and I simply had to tell you, however mortifying it might prove if I had misunderstood those long searching looks you gave me. I don’t need poetry, Simon, I never will - I need you.”

He kissed her fiercely. “Sweetheart, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world. Marry me soon.”

Feeling elated, she kissed him back. “As soon as you like! Let’s elope.”

He stared at her. “Elope! But your mother—”

“I could just about tolerate her ambition for me, but she’s gone too far this time. She’s been very devious, Simon. She told me that you’d had to rusticate because you’d—”

“Yes?”

A blush crept over her cheeks but she didn’t hesitate. “You’d had a dose of the pox.”

“
What?”
cried Simon explosively
.
“Helen, upon my oath, I had
chicken
pox!”

She could have wept at the stricken, horrified look on his face. “I realised she must be lying,” she said, hurrying to reassure him and holding him tighter. “She’s tried everything to keep us apart and almost stifled me in the process. I hinted as often as I could that I’d wanted to be alone with you! Mother’s desperate for me to marry a rich man, preferably a peer, and she’s thrust me into the path of every gentleman she considers eligible. It’s been done with the best of intentions, but she’s not going to get her wish. This is my life, not hers. I know my own heart. I’m of age but let’s elope to Gretna before she can do any more damage.”

“Helen, there’s no need to go to Gretna.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “Then how—”

“I have a special licence in my pocket. Brought it down here, although I’m not sure why because I never dreamed—”

Helen gave a squeak of delight and turned her head, seeking another kiss. “Simon … darling … you’re so wonderfully practical! Have I told you yet that I love you?”

Some time later, a quiet, cultured voice drifted into the summerhouse.

“Captain Russell?”

Smothering a curse, Simon looked up. “Yes, Thorne?” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Thorne’s haughty features appeared in the doorway. He bowed respectfully and gave them both a benevolent smile. “Lady Allingham told me to say the ball will be starting shortly if you’re planning to attend. If you’re not, she said to ask if you’d like some refreshments sent over. Thank you, sir. Thank you, miss.”

Simon gazed lovingly down into her eyes. “Which is it to be?” he whispered.

“Both. I don’t want to miss the ball, but I want to stay here with you for a while yet.” She grinned mischievously at the man standing in the doorway. “Send some food and wine over please, Thorne. And a blanket or two.”

“Yes, miss.” He smiled and bowed again, then turned, gliding away into the night

Helen eyed his retreating figure speculatively. “Simon, isn’t Thorne wonderful? He’s so distinguished and trustworthy. I can’t imagine him ever doing anything he shouldn’t. What do you think?”

“I think Thorne has hidden depths,” said Simon, laughing, before tilting her mouth up to his and renewing his passionate kisses.

Thank you

Thank you for reading
Midsummer Eve at Rookery End.
I hope you enjoyed it.

If you’d like to keep up-to-date with my news you can sign up for my newsletter at
www.elizabethhanbury.com
, find me on twitter
@Liz_Hanbury
or visit and like my Facebook author page at
www.facebook.com/ElizabethHanbury

If you’d like to read an excerpt from
The Cinderella Debutante
, please turn the page.

The Cinderella Debutante – Excerpt

The Cinderella Debutante

Available now

Lucy Sinclair’s London Season was cut short by tragedy. Five years later, she is returning but only in the shadow of her lovely stepsister. Belinda is determined to catch a titled husband and Alex, Lord Devlyn fits the bill perfectly.
Lucy finds Alex devastatingly attractive yet knows he will be dazzled by Belinda’s beauty. Her one chance of love seems lost forever until an unlikely fairy godmother makes Lucy the belle of the ball …

“Marry? But you can’t!” An embarrassed flush crept up to the roots of Lord Ashe’s hair. “I-I mean, you can’t just go to Hampshire and inspect the girl for marriage.”

The other occupant of the room looked up from the letter he was writing. Alexander Caspian Weston, Viscount Devlyn, leaned back in his chair and watched his friend striding back and forth.

“On the contrary, scrutiny before marriage is carried out by many although most are too lazy to look beyond Almack’s.”

Lord Ashe continued his pacing. He had no right to question Devlyn’s motives and even less right to offer advice, but he felt compelled to question a visit that was so out of character. Devlyn’s cynical attitude toward marriage was well known.

“Look, I know your sister’s been trying to marry you off since your brother died, but you don’t usually—” Lord Ashe hesitated; Devlyn might be one of the wealthiest men in England, but many a fortune had been lost overnight at the gaming tables. “Confound it, you don’t have to marry for money, do you?” he demanded.

“No.”

Devlyn sealed his letter and stood up. A tall man, he displayed little regard for fashion. His coat was well-cut but not stretched tight across his shoulders. His dark hair was cropped close to his head and he wore no jewellery. His tanned complexion was in striking contrast to the scar that cut a jagged path from his left cheekbone to jaw. It lent a sinister cast to his features, but his eyes glittered with amusement now.

“Toby, if you will stop wearing a hole in my carpet, I will enlighten you as to my reasons for visiting Miss Sinclair.”

“Oh, very well!” Lord Ashe sighed as he flung himself onto a chair. “Still believe it’s all moonshine though. Word is she is not long out of the schoolroom.”

Devlyn smiled. “And naturally a person of your advanced age will have some sage advice.”

Toby gave an answering grin. A sporting gentleman of only twenty-two years, his father had sent him to London to acquire some town polish from Lord Devlyn, notable Corinthian and the son of his old friend. Toby had been enjoying his stay. He didn’t want to see it interrupted by his mentor dashing down to Hampshire to weigh up some young woman with a view to marriage.

Devlyn’s expression became serious again as he admitted, “I have no wish to marry a schoolroom miss. I don’t want to marry anyone at present—”

Toby’s grin widened.

“—But,” Devlyn added, “My godmother, Lady Gainsford, is a friend of Miss Sinclair’s grandmother. She wants me to pay my respects when I visit my property in Hampshire; Sinclair House is only six miles from there.” He threw Toby a wry glance. “While I am aware my sister would like to see me married, no lady has yet tempted me. As head of the family since Jack’s death, it will be my duty to marry eventually and produce an heir, a fact my interfering sister constantly reminds me of. Lord knows how her husband tolerates her abominable manners!”

Toby nodded in agreement with this crushing description of Devlyn’s older sister. He found Lady Fanthom a proud, disagreeable woman.

“Besides which, finding a lady who does not want me solely for my worldly goods, who possesses a grain of sense, and who is not offended by the sight of this,” continued Devlyn, flicking his scar with one finger, “seems unlikely.”

Lord Ashe’s expression brightened. “I knew it was a mistake! Perhaps then we can arrange that trip to your hunting lodge before the Season begins—”

“I should add that I ignore my sister’s demands, but usually obey my godmother’s requests,” interjected Devlyn. “Lady Gainsford thinks Miss Sinclair and I would suit; she met Miss Sinclair five years ago, but the lady’s season was cut short when her father died.”

“Five years ago?” muttered Toby. “But Gil Fernihough and George Armytage told me she was only seventeen!”

Devlyn raised his brows. “How gratifying that you and your friends show a keen interest in my affairs.”

“But if Miss Sinclair was in London five years ago, she can hardly have just left the schoolroom,” argued Toby.

“I believe you and your friends are referring to Miss Belinda Sinclair. She is but seventeen, inherits a fortune of £40,000 on her marriage and is, by all accounts, a beauty,” explained Devlyn wearily. “I am talking about Miss
Lucy
Sinclair, the divine Belinda’s stepsister who is three and twenty.”

“Never heard of her! Gil and George don’t know of her either and they hear all the latest gossip.” Toby shook his head. “Lay you odds she’s a miserable creature with a squint.”

“My godmother assures me otherwise. I know nothing of her character, however, and have no doubt she is as empty-headed as she is pleasing to the eye. I’ve had many beauties thrust under my nose and not one has engaged me. Their beauty seems to be accompanied by affected manners or a selfish demeanour, or both, and I don’t expect Miss Sinclair to be any different. If I must offer marriage, it will be to a lady with a little more wit and understanding than a toasting iron. Still, I shall go to please my godmother and stay at my estate for a day or two before continuing on to Leicestershire.”

“But how can you think of leaving when you cleaned out Julius Sneyd last night? Your luck is in.”