Patricia Rice (29 page)

“I believe in you,” he breathed with such sincerity and intensity that she might have stumbled to a halt had Harry not wrapped his powerful arm around her waist.

He would believe in brownies if she did. He knew she talked to ghosts. He
understood
!

He believed in her!

Then he swept her off her feet in a step no dancing master had taught him, and she ended up crushed against his chest, laughing. “Harry! What on earth are you doing?”

“Exploring possibilities, my dear. We would not wish to become a dull old married couple mired in routine, would we?” He bent to place a kiss on her ear, then her cheek.

His breath warmed her skin, and his embrace heated all else. “I wouldn’t mind being a dull old married couple if it means there’s a bed about, Harry,” she murmured provocatively. It wasn’t something she might have ever said before, but tonight, anything seemed possible.

“Did you think that I would forget that essential detail? You must think me a crass, unimaginative husband.” He stepped back and swirled her in time to the music. Her robe flared open, and she came to rest before a corner of the terrace concealed by the bouquets of spring flowers. The daybed they’d first made love on awaited, lit by firelight, surrounded by candles and lilacs in a magical faerie bower all their own. Behind the bed, a tree shaded the bower, blocking all sight of the towering mansion beyond.

“Oh, Harry, it’s a rowan! Do you think there might be faeries about?” Captivated, she glanced high into the branches, searching for brownies and elves or any other life-forms amid the leaves.

“I hope they are discreet enough to disappear for the next few hours,” he said in pure Harry dryness from behind her.

She swirled about again and flung her arms around his neck. “Harry, you are so… so…” She was so enthralled, words failed her.

“Heroic?” he finished for her, bending to taste her earlobe.

“My hero’s name is Harry Winchester, and he’s quite the most exciting man I’ve ever known.” She sighed in appreciation when he stepped back to admire her and ran his fingers from her nape down her spine. She could scarcely tear her gaze away from the splendor of his starched linen and the breadth of his shoulders beneath the emerald velvet of his coat.

“I did not wish you to think I lacked imagination,” he said, studying her expression in the flickering light of the fire and candles.

She could see the hunger in his eyes, and she did not think it was for the food on the table behind them. “For a duke, you show a great deal of creativity,” she assured him. “I trust that will serve us well in the years ahead.”

“I have a feeling the years ahead will take more than creativity,” he concurred, but the twinkle remained in his eye.

Content that she had her very own Harry back, Christina abruptly clambered to a standing position in the center of the daybed. “But it will be worth the effort, don’t you think?” Instead of reaching for the branch above her head, she dropped her golden robe to her feet, revealing the gossamer thin nightdress beneath. The daring neckline enhanced her bosom and the tight pointed bodice clung to her curves and fit low below her hips. This was the gown she’d chosen for her wedding night, one designed to resemble an Elizabethan gown she’d admired in an oil painting because it looked so romantic.

Harry must have thought so too. He halted where he was to appreciate the effect, and she could see the light of approval in his eyes. Her heart pounded a little faster, and her bosom swelled.

“The only aura I see here tonight is yours, Harry, and it’s so bright it puts the moon to shame.”

At her words, his aura gleamed a glorious gold and purple, and with the prowling grace of a tiger, he climbed up to join her, halting so she could caress the pretty gold silk of his vest.

He placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “I have come to win the heart of the fair princess for she has stolen mine. If I promise to be very, very good, will you love me?”

“I have
always
loved you, Harry,” she whispered, awestruck at his words and regal presence. He truly was the prince of her dreams. Here, in the privacy of their home, she could see the real Harry, the loving, caring friend beneath the glitter of glory. In joy, she raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck. “I shall love you into eternity and beyond.”

He clasped her close and sighed into her hair. “I never gave a thought to love or romance until you came long. They seemed silly things for bored ladies to simper over. But today… when I thought I’d lost you…” He shivered and rested his cheek against her head, stroking the curve of her spine with hands that needed to touch and hold. “I knew I’d never be alive again without you. If that is love, Christina, it’s a terrifying, overwhelming, awe-inspiring thing. I don’t ever want you out of my sight again.”

She chuckled against his chest. “Oh, that will change, probably by morning when I’ve climbed a turret or fallen into the Roman bath in the rowan grove. I’ll never make a proper duchess, you know, but I can promise to take someone with me when I go exploring so you need not worry ceaselessly about me. I want to help you, not drive you to madness.”

“You help just by being you. I love you,” he murmured, pressing kisses behind her ear. “And you’re not to look for Roman baths without me.” He tugged the sleeve of her gown off her shoulder and kissed her throat.

“That can be arranged,” she assured him, thrilling to his words as much as his caresses. “Perhaps we could assign an hour a day just for the two of us to go adventuring. First thing in the morning, perhaps?”

“And noon,” he suggested, lifting his head to gaze into her eyes before dipping to capture her mouth. “And supper time,” he murmured before pressing his kiss deeper.

“And now,” she agreed, discovering the secret to unfastening a scabbard and divesting him of his weapon. “Can we do this standing up?” she inquired.

“Not without a wall.” Laughing, he caught her waist and tumbled her down to billows of feathered batting. “But later, we’ll experiment. Imagine filling the Roman baths with warm water and us.”

“You will have a great many heirs to support if we continue making love beneath rowans,” she warned, slipping her arms from the gown so Harry could slide the bodice down.

He lifted his head away from the path his kisses were taking to stare down at her. “I will?”

She smiled enigmatically. “Ninian says the faeries hide our sons beneath the rowans.”

“Explain that to me in the morning,” he advised. “I have a princess needing rescuing in my arms right now.”

He lowered his mouth to her breast, and Christina cried out with sensual delight. Diplomatic courtiers were even more enticing than generals or princes.

In the morning, Christina led a search of the late duchess’s chamber. The mirror remained empty, the yellow rose had disappeared, but all else was exactly as the last duke had left it, including the hidden drawer in the vanity and the passage through the wardrobe that Jack hadn’t discovered.

Nothing and no one could explain the yellow rose. Christina liked to believe that the shade of the old duke had placed it there to lead her to this hiding place.

Inside the drawer was a vellum letter sealed with the Sommersville crest and franked with a ducal signature.

Wrapped inside was the entailment agreement, a letter ceding the care of estate monies and land to Edward, and a note from the late duke:

My sons, my heart is with your mother. I have recently recognized how badly I have failed you. Edward will be a far better steward of the title and estate than I. Harry, I hope you will stand in support of his choices as I have not.

Should anything happen to me before I rid the estate of the pestilence that has befallen it, know that I am proud of both of you, and that your mother and I are happy together again.

Christina held her noble husband while he wept for the first time since he’d received word of his family’s deaths.

“Love hurts,” she murmured, “but it also heals, Harry. Perhaps we ought to go to Father Oswald’s chapel and light a candle to your father and your brother. And then,” she added with a hint of mischief, “we can go to the rowan grove and I’ll show you how my ancestors offered gratitude.”

Through his tears, he laughed and hugged her. “And after we thank the trees, we can thank the stars?”

“Oh, very good, Harry.” She beamed up at him. “Just think of how many things we can be thankful for, and how many ways we have to show it.”

Read on for an early look at

Much Ado
About Magic

Coming November 2013 from Sourcebooks Casablanca

Her scandalous painting ruined his reputation. Now he’s about to return the favor.

Lady Lucinda Malcolm Pembroke’s paintings may have caused scandals in the past, but never one of this magnitude. Somehow she’s painted a perfect likeness of a man she’s never met—and depicted him as a murderer! Determined to flee the gossip surrounding her and the mysterious Sir Trevelyan Rochester, she assumes a disguise and escapes to a remote cottage, only to find herself face-to-face with her dashing nemesis…

London, September 1755

Lady Lucinda Malcolm Pembroke pulled the hood of her gray mantle around her face and hurried down the nearly empty halls of the art gallery ahead of the morning crowd. She didn’t halt until she reached a full-length portrait of a laughing gentleman on a galloping white stallion.

Not precisely a gentleman, she supposed, trying to be honest with herself. Romantic fantasies needn’t be gentlemen. Looking up, she fell under the spell of the subject’s mysterious dark eyes all over again. It was as if he looked just at her and that they shared a wonderful secret. She’d painted the portrait, so she knew its secret: the dashing gentleman didn’t exist anywhere except in her imagination.

But that wasn’t how rumor had it.

With a sigh, she admired the gentleman’s exotically dark complexion, rakish smile, and unsettling eyes. She loved the contrast between his scarred, piratical features and his elegant clothes. She’d deliberately given him a romantic white stallion and painted the innocent background of a family fair to contrast with his aura of danger. Amazingly, the playful setting seemed to suit him.

The man didn’t exist
. If he had, she would never have embarrassed herself and the subject by entering the oil in the exhibition. She had even signed the painting with just her initials, to avoid any potential harm, except that there were enough people familiar with her style to set rumor rolling. She would never understand why people saw more in her art than she intended.

She couldn’t imagine why the Earl of Lansdowne would want to ruin her triumph and this magnificent painting with his scandalous accusation. If he hadn’t suffered an apoplexy immediately after seeing the portrait and making his furious allegations, she would demand an apology. She would never paint a
murderer
.

The sound of footsteps warned her that the first arrivals at the gallery were approaching the back hall more quickly than she’d expected, probably heading directly for the scandal of the moment rather than examining the better-known works in the front hall. She had no intention of making a spectacle of herself by appearing in public with the portrait. Looking around, she located a small niche across the hall where she could sit, unobserved.

Her fingers itched for the sketchbook and pencil in her pocket. She’d like to have a drawing of the exhibition for posterity. After this episode, her father wasn’t likely to let her enter another oil, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d never meant to achieve notoriety. She’d only wanted others to admire the portrait into which she’d poured her heart and soul.

She peered around the corner of the niche as a tall man strode determinedly in her direction, the skirt of his elegant coat rippling about his legs with the strength of his stride. The coat was tailored to fit shoulders and a chest wider than that of most gentlemen. The lapels and cut were of precisely this year’s fashion, except that the coat was
black
. No gentleman wore black in London, not even for mourning. How very odd.

His neckcloth was a pristine white with just the right amount of starch for crispness without an inch of foppery. His breeches were of a tawny silk that matched the elaborate embroidery on the coat’s lapels and pockets. His long vest matched his breeches and was embroidered with black in a simplicity that caused her to sigh in admiration. More gentlemen should accent their masculinity in this way instead of dressing as peacocks.

But when he was close enough for her to see his face, she gasped in horror and drew back as far into the niche as she could go.

***

Crossing his arms over his new, correctly tailored and damned expensive clothes, Sir Trevelyan Rochester studied the ridiculous portrait hanging in the Royal Art Gallery for the entire world to see. Fury bubbled at the outrage perpetrated on a perfectly respectable piece of canvas that would have been better used in making sails. He dropped his gaze to the artist’s signature,
LMP
, and his ire flared anew. The coward hid behind initials.

He’d spent twenty years working his way up from impressed sailor to owner of his own ship, and not one man in those twenty years had dared insult him in such a flagrant manner—not and lived to tell about it, anyway. He’d defeated bloodthirsty pirates, captured French privateers, gained his own letter of marque from the King of England himself, only to be humiliated by an unknown artist on the other side of the world who could not possibly know more than rumors of his exploits.

Had it not been for his desire for peace and a home of his own rather than preparing for yet another senseless war with France over the colonies, he would never have walked the streets of London again. Had the artist counted on his not returning to England?

He would make the damned man walk the plank at sword point and dispense with the gossip-mongering, scandal-provoking scoundrel as a favor to society. It was the duty of any self-respecting privateer to rid the world of enemies to king and country.

Except he’d resigned his commission and wasn’t a privateer any longer, and Mr. LMP had provoked only him and not king or country.

A deep scowl drew his eyebrows together as he studied the details. It was his likeness, all right, unless he had a twin somewhere he didn’t know about. Given the propensities of his noble family, that was possible but not likely.

The painting depicted
him
—Sir Trevelyan Rochester, knighted by His Majesty for action beyond the call of duty—riding a prissy white horse adorned with red ribbons on a beach in the midst of what appeared to be a summer fair. Trev assumed Mr. LMP had intended to poke fun by decking out him, a feared privateer, in macaroni attire of fluffy lace jabot and useless cuffs that spilled lace past his fingers. The artist had given him boots instead of clocked stockings, but the boots were cuffed and shiny and foolish for riding.

The subject of the portrait was defiantly hatless and wigless. A deep blue riband tied his hair back, and one black strand blew loose to fall across his battle-scarred cheek. Trev had to admit the artist had captured his olive complexion and sharp features with painful accuracy. His mother’s mixed Jamaican heritage could not be denied. Brushed with tar, his noble grandfather had called his coloring, just before he’d let the Navy take him to do with as they would.

Still, the painting was hopelessly silly. The man in it managed to look romantically dashing despite a touch of savagery behind his flashing dark eyes. Trev didn’t mind that so much, but the contrast between the man and the frivolous white horse was laughable.

No wonder people were talking. Still, he did not see what had sent his cousin’s widow into such fits when he’d arrived at her door. He’d spent all his adult years on the other side of the world, and she couldn’t know him from Adam, but she had barely given him a minute to introduce himself before slamming the door in his face.

It was James, their old butler, who had sneaked out to explain about the portrait all London was talking about. The preposterous painting was so well known that word of it had spread even to the rural village in the south of England where his late cousin’s family resided. James hadn’t had time to explain
why
the portrait was so scandalous. Or perhaps he hadn’t known.

Trev hated being the center of scandal before he’d even set foot in England. He’d come home hoping to turn his prize money into a respectable merchant fleet so he could live out his remaining years in the peace of England rather than the perpetual warfare over the West Indies. He wanted the solidity of land beneath his feet for a change. He’d foolishly hoped that his wealth would pave his way despite his mixed heritage and the earl’s refusal to acknowledge his legitimacy. If he didn’t know better, he’d think his grandfather had planned this humiliation.

He studied the portrait, trying to determine why he’d been slandered and shut out before he could do anything to deserve it.

The painting made him look a fop, he supposed, but he hadn’t been in England to sit for it. He could see no reason for alarm, except for the smirch on his masculinity. That could cause difficulty in his search for a wife, but he doubted any sensible woman in his presence would question his virility.

He was about to spin around and stalk out when a whisper from the crowd gathering behind him caught his ear. During years of living by his wits, he’d learned to keep his senses tuned to all about him. He eavesdropped unabashedly.

“They say the earl had an apoplexy right on this spot.” The whisper was distinctly feminine and horrified.

Trev crossed his arms and pretended to study the portrait.

“It’s a Malcolm prediction, of a certainty,” another voice said in awe. “See that boat sinking in the corner? It’s the viscount’s. The red is quite recognizable. They say he’s been missing at sea for months.”

Trev ground his molars and waited. Malcolm? The M in LMP stood for Malcolm? He would know the full name of the blackguard who’d put his face upon a wall without permission.

“There could be other red yachts,” a male voice said scornfully. “But the man certainly looks a pirate. No wonder the earl recognized him.”

“But Rochester hasn’t been in England since childhood,” the first female voice protested. “How could the artist have painted him so accurately that the earl could recognize him, without having seen him?”

“They don’t hold fairs on the shore in Sussex,” a bored male voice drawled. “It’s a hoax.”

Trev couldn’t agree more. The silly little boat in the painting was hardly noticeable. The grieving widow standing on the rocky shoreline was buried in veils and could be anyone. An artist’s ploy, contrasting laughter with grief or some such flummery. His cousin had gone down at sea months ago, so to add his yacht to the background was the artist’s deliberate scandal-mongering, not foretelling.

Now he understood why his cousin’s widow had slammed the door in his face—the portrait showed him laughing as his cousin’s yacht sank. He’d have to wring the artist’s neck after all. Laurence had been a good, decent man, and his death was no laughing matter.

“The shire held a fair this year,” a timid voice countered. “The new Duke of Sommersville sponsored one. That is when the yacht went down.”

The crowd murmured more loudly as the conversation picked up in several places at once. “He looks dangerous enough to have murdered his cousin,” someone said in response to a comment about his scar.

Trev snorted. No self-respecting murderer would wear that much lace, he wagered. It would get all bloody. Just try using a sword with lace wrapped around the fingers!

“Now that the viscount’s gone, if the earl dies, Rochester could claim the title,” said a female, followed by a horrified, “The man should hang!”

Trev figured neither spectator knew what she was talking about since Laurence had left an infant son as heir and his grandfather had declared him illegitimate. Truth never fazed good gossip, though.

Both comments overrode the more sensible voice that said, “But the man says he just arrived in England, and the viscount died last summer.”

“I know Lady Lucinda,” a timid female interjected. “She always paints one of her kittens into the landscape. See the orange tabby in the tree? It died of old age in April. That oil was painted last winter, well before the viscount’s yacht went down. I saw her working on it.”

A gasp of awe escaped the fascinated crowd, and Trev gritted his teeth at this nonsense.

“If the Prophetess painted it, then it must be true,” said another woman. “She painted Pelham in his grave before he died.”

“She painted my mother walking across Westminster Bridge before it was finished.”

“Lady Roxbury fainted when she saw the Prophetess in the park— painting Roxbury with a woman that wasn’t her and children that weren’t theirs.”

“You know his mistress is bearing his child,” someone else murmured.

The whispers grew riper and louder, but Trev disregarded all the gossip except the relevant—a woman artist! Rocked by the enormity of such perfidiousness, he had only one thought in mind—to locate this attention-seeking
Prophetess
who had painted him as his cousin’s murderer and throttle her until she admitted to all London that the painting was a hoax. Furious, he swirled around to cut a path through the crowd.

Confronted with the man in the portrait come to life before their eyes, the crowd recoiled in horror.

Feeling as murderous as they believed him, Trev stalked off without looking right or left.

***

Lucinda slid deeper into the shadows of the alcove and held her breath until Sir Trevelyan swept past, bronzed features scowling, Spanish eyes flashing, and manly muscles rippling.

Her gaze dropped to the lethal rapier emerging from his coattails, and she trembled.

Foolishly, her traitorous fingers itched for her paintbrushes. This time, she wanted to paint him as a thundercloud in the form of a man. She could see now that her first attempt was sadly lacking in comparison with the reality.

The man actually existed!
The Earl of Lansdowne had been right. She couldn’t believe it. How could she have painted a man in her head, only to see him walk out of a crowd like that? Could the other gossip be true then? Had that man, that
pirate
, been in England during the fair as she’d painted him? Could she have actually seen him last winter, when he’d filled her dreams?

She didn’t think she wanted to be around to find out. He looked angry enough to commit murder, but oddly enough, she’d been drawn to the sadness in his dark eyes. There was something in the way he held himself… She couldn’t put her finger on why he fascinated her.

That’s what she deserved for listening to romantic tales of heroes and villains told by silly women with nothing better to do. She really ought to know better than to waste her time in ballrooms and salons listening to the chatter of simpering misses. It had been the fashion this season to admire heroes. The tales they’d told of commanders at sea and warriors on land and knights of old had given her dreams until she’d had to capture them on canvas.