Slightly Wicked (28 page)

Rannulf’s Uncle and Aunt Rochester were gracious to Judith when he presented her to them.

“If you have captured Rannulf’s heart you must be something out of the ordinary,” his aunt said in her usual forthright manner, her lorgnette poised for use in one hand, “even apart from your good looks. Bewcastle informed me that you are a beauty.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Judith smiled and curtsied.

Morgan and Freyja had kissed her on the cheek when they arrived from the church. Eve, whom she had never met before, hugged her tight.

“Rannulf came to Grandmaison a couple of months ago determined to resist all attempts to marry him off,” she said with a twinkle in her eye and a swift, mischievous glance at Rannulf. “I am so glad you thwarted him, Judith.”

Aidan—tall, dark, dour Aidan—made his bow to Judith, probably forcing her to the conclusion that he was even stiffer and colder than Bewcastle. But then he took her by the shoulders, bent his head to kiss her on the cheek, and smiled at her.

“Welcome to our family, Judith,” he said. “We are a ramshackle lot. It takes a brave woman to take one of us on.”

Eve laughed and reached down to set a hand lightly on the young boy’s head. “I can tell,” she said, “that Judith is as intrepid as I.”

Freyja moved from group to group, making herself perfectly civil. Yet she seemed the one most out of place in the cheerful scene of celebration, Rannulf thought. He drew her to one side while Judith was with her grandmother, who had just declared in his hearing that she had already soaked three handkerchiefs but still had three more dry ones in her reticule.

“Feeling maudlin, Free?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she said briskly. “I am happy for you, Ralf. I was somewhat appalled when you first arrived at Bedwyn House with Judith, I must confess, but she is not a milk-and-water miss or a gold digger, is she? I daresay you will be happy.”

“Yes, I daresay I will.” He tipped his head to one side and regarded her more closely. “You will be going home to Lindsey Hall with Wulf and the others tomorrow?”

“No!” she said sharply. “No, I am going to go to Bath. Charlotte Holt-Barron is there with her mother and has invited me to join them.”

“Bath, Free?” He frowned. “It is not a place where you are likely to find a great deal of young company or agreeable entertainment, is it?”

“It will suit me,” she said.

“This does not have anything to do with Kit, does it?” he asked. “And the fact that his wife is expecting to be confined soon?”

Kit Butler, Viscount Ravensberg, Freyja’s former beau and her expected husband just last summer, lived unfortunately close to Lindsey Hall. And Lady Ravensberg was soon to give birth.

“Of course not!” she said altogether too vehemently. “How foolish you are, Ralf.”

The imminent event and the wedding of a brother must be painful for Freyja.

“I
am
sorry, Free,” he said. “But there will be someone else, you know, and then you will be glad you waited.”

“Drop this ridiculous subject,” she commanded him, “if you do not want to be punched in the nose, Ralf.”

He grinned at her and kissed her cheek—something he rarely did.

“Enjoy Bath,” he said.

“I intend to,” she told him. She looked beyond his shoulder. “Grandmama, how are you feeling?”

Rannulf turned and wrapped his arms gently about the old lady. “Grandmama,” he said.

“You have made me very, very happy today, Rannulf,” she said.

He grinned at her. Having her grandchildren about her during the past month appeared to have done her health some good. Though one never quite knew with her, of course. Her health was one topic she would never discuss.

“I am happy too,” he said.

“I know.” She tapped him on the arm. “That is
why
I am happy.”

         F
inally the opportunity came to have a private moment with Judith. They would spend their wedding night at the dower house, which had been opened up, cleaned, and prepared for the occasion. But most of the rest of the day would be spent at Grandmaison with their families. It was a stolen moment, then, in the middle of the afternoon, when they slipped outside together and strolled to the rose arbor. It was not as laden with blooms as it had been earlier in the summer, but even now it was a secluded and lovely area, its terraces bathed in late-afternoon sunshine, the stream gurgling over the stones in its bed.

They sat down together on the very bench where Judith had sat that first time she came to Grandmaison, the day when he first offered her marriage. He laced his fingers with hers.

“At the risk of sounding callous,” he said, “I am glad it rained that day and that neither your coachman nor I heeded the warnings not to travel onward. I am glad the coach overturned in the ditch. How different our lives would be today if those things had not happened.”

“And if I had said no when you offered me a ride,” she said. “It was on the tip of my tongue to say so. I had never done anything nearly so improper before. But I decided to steal a little dream for myself and it has turned into the dream of the rest of my life. Rannulf, I love you so very, very dearly. I wish there were words adequate for the feeling.”

“There are not,” he said, lifting their hands and kissing the back of hers. “Even when we make love tonight, it will not adequately express love itself, will it? That has been the great surprise of the last couple of months—that love is not entirely physical or mental or even emotional. It is larger than any of those things. It is the very essence of life itself, is it not? That great inexpressible mystery that we can best grasp through the discovery of a beloved. Rescue me here, Judith. Am I spouting nonsense?”

“No.” She laughed. “I understand you perfectly.”

Her head tipped down then and the fingers of her free hand played along the back of his.

“Rannulf? Do you remember when we were up in the hills at home six weeks ago and you said that you
almost
wished it were true?”

“About . . .” He gazed at the shining curls at the back of her head, his mouth turning dry.

“It
is
true,” she said softly, and lifted her head to look into his eyes. “I am with child. At least, I am almost certain I must be.”

He stared at her, transfixed.

“Do you mind dreadfully?” she asked him.

He bent to her then, releasing her hand so that he could place his arm about her shoulders, sliding the other beneath her knees and swinging her up into his arms as he stood. He twirled her once about.

“I am going to be a
father,
” he told the blue sky above them, tipping back his head. “We are going to have a
child
.”

He whooped loudly and then bent his face to hers. She was bright-eyed and laughing.

“I think,” she said, “you do not mind dreadfully.”

“Judith,” he said, his lips touching hers. “My wife, my love, my heart. Am I spouting nonsense again?”

“Probably,” she said, still laughing and twining both arms about his neck. “But there is only me to hear. Spout more of it.”

But how could he? She was kissing him hard.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bestselling, multi-award-winning author Mary Balogh grew up in Wales, land of sea and mountains, song and legend. She brought music and a vivid imagination with her when she came to Canada to teach. Here she began a second career as a writer of books that always end happily and always celebrate the power of love. There are over three million copies of her Regency romances and historical romances in print. She is also the author of the Regency-era romantic novels
No Man’s Mistresss, More than a Mistress,
and
A Summer to Remember,
all available in paperback from Dell.

Also by Mary Balogh

A S
UMMER TO
R
EMEMBER

N
O
M
AN
’
S
M
ISTRESS

M
ORE THAN A
M
ISTRESS

O
NE
N
IGHT FOR
L
OVE

S
LIGHTLY
M
ARRIED

And coming this summer
from Dell Books

S
LIGHTLY
S
CANDALOUS

Praise for

A S
UMMER TO
R
EMEMBER

“Balogh outdoes herself with this romantic romp, crafting a truly seamless plot and peopling it with well-rounded, winning characters.” —
Publishers Weekly

“The most sensuous romance of the year . . .” —
Booklist

“This one will rise to the top.” —
Library Journal

“Filled with vivid descriptions, sharp dialogue, and fantastic characters, this passionate, adventurous tale will remain memorable for readers who love an entertaining read.” —
Rendezvous

Praise for

N
O
M
AN
’
S
M
ISTRESS

“This romantic and intensely emotional story will cast its spell on you from the first page.” —
Old Book Barn Gazette

“A lively and thrilling tale.” —
Rendezvous

“Deep emotions, strong characters and an unusual plot blend to perfection into another winner for this Jewel of the Highest Water, Mary Balogh.”
—
Romantic Times
Top Pick — 41⁄2 stars

“A pair of strong equally determined protagonists clash exquisitely in this lively, passionate sequel to
More than a Mistress
.” —
Library Journal

Praise for

M
ORE THAN A
M
ISTRESS

“Luscious Regency-era delight. Balogh will delight fans and new readers alike with her memorable characters and fast-paced, well-constructed plot.” —
Booklist

“
More than a Mistress
is an irresistible story with the perfect hero and heroine, the brilliance of London high society, scandal and seduction, as well as a dash of humor here and there that make for a truly spellbinding and memorable romantic tale. Mary Balogh is a fabulous writer—like a fine wine, she just keeps getting better with time.”
—
New Age Bookshelf

“This romantic story is hilarious in spots with characters who are well-rounded and lovable.
More than a Mistress
is a surefire winner from one of the genre’s finest authors.”
—
Rendezvous

“A pleasant and agreeable sensual Regency romp.”
—
Kirkus Reviews

“Mary Balogh is an exceptional talent. The complexity of her characters, the depth of their emotions and the romance and sensuality of her books are unsurpassed in the Regency genres and this book is no exception. A master craftswoman.” —
Old Book Barn Gazette

“Assured hardcover debut. Smart, sexy dialogue.”
—
Publishers Weekly

“Mary Balogh continues to reaffirm her place as an extraordinary star of the Regency genre.”
—A
Romantic Times
Top Pick

“Mary Balogh always pleases.” —
Affaire de Coeur

“
More than a Mistress
is a five-star keeper.”
—
The Romance Reader

“Balogh has a winner here.” —
San Antonio Express-News

Can’t wait to read the next
romantic adventure about the charming
Bedwyn siblings? You don’t have to!
Watch out for the stories of the dashing
Aidan and the headstrong Freyja in . . .

S
LIGHTLY
M
ARRIED

April 2003
and

S
LIGHTLY
S
CANDALOUS

June 2003

Read on for a preview of these tantalizing
new romances from Mary Balogh. . . .

SLIGHTLY MARRIED

Toulouse, France
April 10, 1814

T
he scene was all too familiar to the man surveying it. There was not a great deal of difference between one battlefield and another, he had discovered through long experience—not, at least, when the battle was over.

The smoke of the heavy artillery and of the myriad muskets and rifles of two armies was beginning to clear sufficiently to reveal the victorious British and Allied troops establishing their newly won positions along the Calvinet Ridge to the east of the city and turning the big guns on Toulouse itself, into which the French forces under Soult’s command had recently retreated. But the acrid smell lingered and mingled with the odors of dust and mud and horse and blood. Despite an ever-present noise—voices bellowing out commands, horses whinnying, swords clanging, wheels rumbling—there was the usual impression of an unnatural, fuzzy-eared silence now that the thunderous pounding of the guns had ceased. The ground was carpeted with the dead and wounded.

It was a sight against which the sensibilities of Col. Lord Aidan Bedwyn never became totally hardened. Tall and solidly built, dark-complexioned, hook-nosed, and granite-faced, the colonel was feared by many. But he always took the time after battle to roam the battlefield, gazing at the dead of his own battalion, offering comfort to the wounded wherever he could.

He gazed downward with dark, inscrutable eyes and grimly set lips at one particular bundle of scarlet, his hands clasped behind him, his great cavalry sword, unsheathed and uncleaned after battle, swinging at his side.

“An officer,” he said, indicating the red sash with a curt nod. The man who wore it lay facedown on the ground, spread-eagled and twisted from his fall off his horse. “Who is he?”

His aide-de-camp stooped down and turned the dead officer over onto his back.

The dead man opened his eyes.

“Captain Morris,” Colonel Bedwyn said, “you have taken a hit. Call for a stretcher, Rawlings. Without delay.”

“No,” the captain said faintly. “I am done for, sir.”

His commanding officer did not argue the point. He made a slight staying gesture to his aide and continued to gaze down at the dying man, whose red coat was soaked with a deeper red. There could be no more than a few minutes of life remaining to him.

“What may I do for you?” the colonel asked. “Bring you a drink of water?”

“A favor. A promise.” Captain Morris closed parchment-pale eyelids over fading eyes, and for a moment the colonel thought he was already gone. He sank down onto one knee beside him, pushing his sword out of the way as he did so. But the eyelids fluttered and half lifted again. “The debt, sir. I said I would never call it in.” His voice was very faint now, his eyes unfocused.

“But I swore I would repay it nonetheless.” Colonel Bedwyn leaned over him, the better to hear. “Tell me what I can do.”

Captain Morris, then a lieutenant, had saved his life two years before at the Battle of Salamanca, when the colonel’s horse had been shot out from under him and he had been about to be cut down from behind while engaging a mounted opponent in a ferocious frontal fight. The lieutenant had killed the second assailant and had then dismounted and insisted that his superior officer take his horse. He had been severely wounded in the ensuing fight. But he had been awarded his captaincy as a result, a promotion he could not afford to purchase. He had insisted at the time that Colonel Bedwyn owed him nothing, that in a battle it was a soldier’s duty to watch the backs of his comrades, particularly those of his superior officers. He was right, of course, but his colonel had never forgotten the obligation.

“My sister,” the captain said now, his eyes closed again. “Take the news to her.”

“I’ll do it in person,” the colonel assured him. “I’ll inform her that your last thoughts were of her.”

“Don’t let her mourn.” The man’s breath was being drawn in on slow, audible heaves. “She has had too much of that. Tell her she must not wear black. My dying wish.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Promise me . . .” The voice trailed away. But death had still not quite claimed him. Suddenly he opened his eyes wide, somehow found the strength to move one arm until he could touch the colonel’s hand with limp, deathly cold fingers, and spoke with an urgency that only imminent death could provoke.

“Promise me you will protect her,” he said. His fingers plucked feebly at the colonel’s hand. “Promise me! No matter what!”

“I promise.” The colonel bent his head closer in the hope that his eyes and his voice would penetrate the fog of death engulfing the agitated man. “I give you my solemn vow.”

The last breath sighed out of the captain’s lungs even as the words were being spoken. The colonel reached out a hand to close Morris’s eyes and remained on one knee for a minute or two longer as if in prayer, though in reality he was considering the promise he had made Captain Morris. He had promised to take the news of her brother’s death to Miss Morris in person though he did not even know who she was or where she lived. He had promised to inform her of Morris’s dying wish that she not wear mourning for him.

And he had sworn on his most sacred honor to protect her. From what—or from whom—he had no idea.

No matter what!

The echo of those last three words of the dying man rang in his ears. What could they possibly mean? What exactly had he sworn to?

No matter what!

England, 1814

Eve Morris was knee-deep in bluebells. She had decided that it was too glorious a morning to be spent in any of the usual activities about the house and farm or in the village. The bluebells were in bloom for such a short time, and picking them for the house had always been one of her favorite springtime activities. She was not alone. She had persuaded Thelma Rice, the governess, to cancel classes for a few hours and bring her two pupils and her infant son out flower picking. Even Aunt Mari had come despite her arthritic knees and frequent shortness of breath. Indeed, it had been her idea to turn the occasion into an impromptu picnic. She was sitting now on the sturdy chair Charlie had carried down for her, her knitting needles clicking steadily, a large basket of food and drink at her side.

Eve straightened up to stretch her back and savored a conscious feeling of well-being. All of the summer stretched ahead, a summer unmarred by anxiety for the first time in many years. Well,
almost
unmarred. There was, of course, the continuing question of what was keeping John away. He had expected to be home by March, or April at the latest. But he would come as soon as he was able. Of that she was certain. In the meantime, she viewed her surroundings and her companions with placid contentment.

Seven-year-old Davy was picking earnestly, a frown on his thin face, as if he had been set a task of grave importance. Close behind him, as usual, five-year-old Becky, his sister, picked with more obvious enjoyment and less concentration, humming tunelessly as she did so.

Young Benjamin Rice toddled up to his mother, a cluster of azalea and bluebell heads clutched tightly in one outstretched fist. Thelma bent to take them in her cupped hands as if they were some rare and precious treasure—as of course they were.

Eve felt a moment’s envy of that mother love, but she shook it off as unworthy of her. She was one of the most fortunate of mortals. She lived in this idyllic place, and she was surrounded by people with whom she shared a reciprocal love, the loneliness of her girlhood a thing of the distant past. Soon—any day now—John would be back, and she could admit to the world at long last that she was in love, love, love. She could have twirled about at the thought, like an exuberant girl, but she contented herself with a smile instead.

And then there was the other prospect to complete her happiness. Percy would be coming home. He had written in his last letter that he would take leave as soon as he was able, and now surely he must be able. A little over a week ago she had heard the glorious news that Napoléon Bonaparte had surrendered to the Allied forces in France and that the long wars were over at last. James Robson, Eve’s neighbor, had come in person to Ringwood as soon as he heard himself, knowing what the news would mean to her—the end to years of anxiety for Percy’s safety.

Eve stooped to pick more bluebells. She wanted to be able to set a filled vase in every room of the house. They would all celebrate springtime and victory and security and an end to mourning with color and fragrance. If
only
John would come.

“I suppose,” Aunt Mari said, “we’d better pack up and take all these flowers back to the house before they wilt. If someone would just hand me my cane as soon as I have my wool and needles in this bag, I could haul these old bones upright.”

“Oh, must we?” Eve asked with a sigh as Davy scrambled to offer the cane.

But at that moment someone called her name.

“Miss Morris,” the voice called with breathless urgency. “Miss Morris.”

“We are still here, Charlie.” She swiveled around to watch a large, fresh-faced young man come lumbering over the top of the bank from the direction of the house and crash downward toward them in his usual ungainly manner. “Take your time or you will slip and hurt yourself.”

“Miss Morris.” He was gasping and ruddy-cheeked by the time he came close enough to deliver his message. “I am sent. By Mrs. Fuller. To fetch you back to the house.” He fought for air between each short sentence.

“Did she say why, Charlie?” Eve got unhurriedly to her feet and shook out her skirt. “We are all on our way home anyway.”

“Someone’s come,” Charlie said. He stood very still then, his large feet planted wide, his brow creased in deep furrows of concentration, and tried to bring something else to mind. “I can’t remember his name.”

Eve felt a lurching of excitement in the pit of her stomach.
John?
But she had been disappointed so many times in the last two months that it was best not to consider the possibility. Indeed, she was even beginning to wonder if he was coming at all, if he had ever intended to come. But she was not yet prepared to draw such a drastic conclusion—she pushed it firmly away.

“Well, never mind,” she said cheerfully. “I daresay I will find it out soon enough. Thank you for bringing the message so promptly, Charlie.”

“He is a military feller,” he said. “I seen him before Mrs. Fuller sent me to fetch you and he was wearing one of them red uniform things.”

A military man.

“Oh, Eve, my love,” Aunt Mari said, but Eve did not even hear her.

“Percy!”
she cried in a burst of exuberance. Basket and flowers and companions were forgotten. She gathered up her skirts with both hands and began to run up the bank, leaving her aunt and Thelma and Charlie to gather up the children and the bluebells.

It was not a long way back to the house, but most of the distance was uphill. Eve scarcely noticed. By the time she burst into the entrance hall, she was flushed and panting and probably looking alarmingly disheveled, even grubby. She did not care one iota. Percy would not care.

The rogue! He had sent no word that he was coming. But that did not matter now. And surprises were wonderful things—at least
happy
surprises were. He was home!

Eve dashed across the checkered floor of the hall, flung open the door of the visitors’ parlor, and hurried inside.

“You wretch!” she cried, pulling undone the ribbon of her hat. And then she stopped dead in her tracks, feeling intense mortification. He was not Percy. He was a stranger.

SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS

B
y the time she went to bed, Lady Freyja Bedwyn was in about as bad a mood as it was possible to be in.

She dismissed her maid though a truckle bed had been set up in her room and the girl had been preparing to sleep on it. But Alice snored, and Freyja had no wish to sleep with a pillow wrapped about her head and pressed to both ears merely so that the proprieties might be observed.

“But his grace gave specific instructions, my lady,” the girl reminded her timidly.

“In whose service are you employed?” Freyja asked, her tone quelling. “The Duke of Bewcastle’s or mine?”

Alice looked at her anxiously as if she suspected that it was a trick question—as well she might. Although she was Freyja’s maid, it was the Duke of Bewcastle, Freyja’s eldest brother, who paid her salary.

“Yours, my lady,” Alice said.

“Then leave.” Freyja pointed at the door.

Alice looked at it dubiously. “There is no lock on it, my lady,” she said.

“And if there are intruders during the night,
you
are going to protect
me
from harm?” Freyja asked scornfully. “It would more likely be the other way around.”

Alice looked pained, but she had no choice but to leave.

And so Freyja was left in sole possession of a second-rate room in a second-rate inn with no servant in attendance—and no lock on the door. And in possession too of a thoroughly bad temper.

Bath was not a destination to inspire excited anticipation in her bosom. It was a fine spa and had once attracted the crème de la crème of English society. But no longer. It was now the genteel gathering place of the elderly and infirm and those with no better place to go—like her. Under ordinary circumstances Freyja would have politely declined the invitation.

These were not ordinary circumstances.

She had just been in Leicestershire, visiting her ailing grandmother at Grandmaison Park and attending the wedding there of her brother Rannulf to Judith Law. She was to have returned home to Linsey Hall in Hampshire with Wulfric—the duke—and Alleyne and Morgan, her younger brother and sister. But the prospect of being there at this particular time had proved quite intolerable to her and so she had seized upon the only excuse that had presented itself
not
to return home quite yet.