The Perfect Bride (31 page)

"Eloise?"
he asked uncertainly.

Lady
Biddle sighed. "You have been very busy, Thomas. London has seen more of
you than I have."

"Arranging
the financing for the rubber plantation in Jamaica has taken a great deal of
time," he said, feeling inexplicably awkward. "Once the venture is
under way, I expect to realize a handy profit. It will leave us both well-fixed
for our later years, and if anything happens to me, you..."

"I
thought you had a mistress."

Sir
Thomas's jaw dropped.

"I
know that is the way of men," she continued, "but nevertheless I was
lonely. I no longer have the beauty of my youth. Richard's admiration made me
feel...desired." Her voice caught in her throat.

“And
I did not.” He looked away.

She
touched his shoulder. "It has always been you, Thomas. Only you."

He
turned to her, scarcely daring to believe her words. It was if the weight of a
thousand rubber plantations had been lifted from his shoulders. Tentatively, he
reached for her.

But
there was nothing tentative about the way Eloise threw herself into his arms. She
buried her face in his chest, and he heard her soft sobs.

"There,
there," he murmured, stroking the silky hair that had lost only a bit of
its fiery luster. "I have not been the best husband, but I have never
stopped desiring you, Eloise. Or loving you. I have been away too much, but I
only had your financial future in mind."

Sir
Thomas felt her tears on his face, and he pulled back to look at her. "There
is no other woman for me, Eloise,” he said softly. “I have always been faithful
to you."

A
tear rolled down her cheek. She looked as beautiful to him as the day he had
met her twenty-five years ago.

"Truly?"
she asked tremulously.

"Truly.”
Sir Thomas held his breath, cursing himself for a fool. Any man who neglected
Eloise ought to be shot. He waited for a sign she had forgiven him for
abandoning her.

“And
I have always been faithful to you, Thomas.”

His
heart did a somersault. His hand went to her hair, smoothing it back from her
face, drinking in the expression in her eyes. His own eyes filled with wonder.

Slowly,
he lowered his mouth to hers, but at the last moment, she put her fingers
against his lips. “I wonder if...,” she began hesitantly.

He
waited. An eon.

“If?”
he prodded gently, when he was certain he would go mad from waiting.

"If.
. .I might come with you to London while you conduct your business?” she asked
at last.

“Yes,”
he rasped. “God yes, Eloise.”

He
crushed her to him, an embrace made all the more delightful for knowing every delicious
curve of the woman in his arms. Her heart beat rapidly against his, betraying
her passion, and suddenly he felt young again. That scandalous carriage ride
had happened only yesterday, and he was filled with the wonder of a man in love
for the very first time.

"Perhaps
we could even drive to Richmond in a closed carriage some lovely afternoon,"
he whispered against her ear.

"Thomas!" She
pretended to be shocked, but her eyes sparkled.

"We
shall be terribly unfashionable," he added mischievously. "Society
does not expect husbands and wives to hang on each other's sleeves."

"The
devil with society's expectations," she said.

It
had been too long since his wife had displayed such spirit. "Such
language! It seems this primitive old castle has had a rather. . .earthy effect
on you."

"Are
you complaining?" She blew softly into her husband's ear.

"Never,"
he swore, covering her mouth with his.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Simon
contemplated the rock cathedral around him, much as he imagined Napoleon must
have surveyed the terrain before urging his troops on at Waterloo. Napoleon had
not known he was sending thirty thousand Frenchmen to their doom; Simon, on the
other hand, had no difficulty sensing his own impending disaster.

God
save the world from women who took matters into their own hands. While Simon
would just as soon not have a wife who constantly mooned over one of his former
employees, he could not approve of the drastic steps Miss Biddle had taken to
extricate herself from her betrothal and foist upon him a bride of her own
choosing.

There
was no getting around the fact that Miss Fitzhugh did not meet his
qualifications for a wife. To be sure, he preferred her plain brown eyes to her
cousin’s exotic ones, whatever color they were. And actually, there was nothing
truly plain about Miss Fitzhugh’s eyes. They were forthright and intelligent, missing
little around her, whereas Miss Biddle’s gaze always seemed to be elsewhere, on
some flight of fancy or another.

Miss
Fitzhugh’s figure, of course, was superior. She was just the right height for a
man — tall enough to stand by his side so that he need not bend down to
converse with her. She was lithe and limber, her stride long enough that he did
not need to shorten his own. Her hair, too, was quite a lovely shade of brown,
if only she would not discipline it so severely.

To
her disadvantage, she was a thorough bluestocking. If she had ever cared for
society’s strictures, she bid those goodbye — without apparent regret — after
the incident with Julian. The social whirl, it seemed, in the end meant little
to her. Which suited him, actually. He was loath to allow the biddies who ran
the London Season to dictate his behavior. In truth, the fact that she was a
bluestocking was all to the good.

Her
mind was sharp and challenging, qualities many men did not like in a woman but
which Simon prized, having no use for fools of either gender.

But
it was not Miss Fitzhugh’s brain he was contemplating at the moment. She was
intently — too intently, perhaps — studying a rock formation near the worn
pallet. The glass of wine he had poured her sat untouched nearby.

What
he was thinking of were the kisses. He had kissed her precisely twice — once as
Thornton, once as himself. Neither was entirely voluntary on his part, by which
he meant that he had been powerless to prevent them.

That
was a load of nonsense, of course. A man made decisions and owned
responsibility for them. Therefore, he had decided to kiss Miss Fitzhugh and
had done so with purpose. He regretted those decisions, but he would not shirk
his culpability.

Simon
was not proud of his actions. During both instances he had been — or was soon
to be — betrothed to Miss Biddle. But it was one thing to regret a kiss, quite
another to forget it, and Simon found that he could not. Miss Fitzhugh’s lips
had met his forthrightly, in unabashed longing. They were soft and pliant, not
in the least coy, but there was also a firmness in her that did not shy from
desire. How could he ever have thought her mouth ordinary?

But
regardless of how much he admired Miss Fitzhugh’s appealing forthrightness,
regardless of the desire that had flared between them, a woman of her years
might never produce the heirs to safeguard his family's heritage.

Did
she want children? Most women did, he supposed, but Miss Fitzhugh might feel
otherwise. He could ask her, of course, but that would be unforgivably crude,
given their current situation.

Would
they become lovers this night? It scarcely mattered, for she would be
irredeemably compromised no matter what happened. Either way, he was staring at
his future wife.

And
she was staring back.

Gradually
Simon registered the fact that she had ceased her exploration and was regarding
him gravely, as if she had something important to say. Well, so did he.

“Miss
Fitzhugh — ”

“Pray
do not, Lord Sommersby.” She waived a dismissive hand. “Spare me your
gentlemanly speeches and notions of propriety. This is not the first time my
reputation has been jeopardized. It does not signify.”

Damned
if he cared to hear once more about her cavorting with Julian amid the shrubbery
at Vauxhall.

"At
the time, I did not wish to marry a man of weak character,” she continued. “My
resolve is just as strong now."

He
stiffened. "My conduct toward you has not been exemplary, perhaps, but I
scarcely think it warrants a judgment of moral turpitude —"

"I
am not disparaging your character, my lord," she said. "I merely wish
to make the point that I shall not do something against my nature simply to
rescue my reputation."

Her
brown eyes looked him a challenge, and Simon was quite certain that she had
indeed rationalized the difficulties of their situation away.

That
must end.

“Miss
Fitzhugh, it is some hours after midnight and surely inescapable to you that we
have been in this infernal cave long enough that there is only one path ahead.
You are irrevocably compromised.”

She
took a step toward him. "What I am trying to say, Lord Sommersby, is that
I’ll not force you into marriage — whatever comes of our stay here."

Mere
bravado? But from the defiant tilt of her chin and the determined set of her
mouth, he judged that Miss Fitzhugh meant what she said. Moreover, her eyes held
the determined air of someone prepared to fight to the death for her
principles.

It
was a noble, but futile gesture. Simon was not about to allow a woman to fight
his battles, nor would he hide behind a woman's skirts. Whether she cared for
society’s strictures or not, she would be an outcast. He would not shun his
obligation to her. Still, her resolve hit him squarely in an unfamiliar place
that threatened to bring a lump to his throat. His reaction surprised and
stunned him.

During
the moment it took him to ponder this, he came suddenly to understand the
breadth of her courage, and it humbled him. She was truly prepared to face the
future alone, though she be irreparably compromised. To do otherwise had not
occurred to her.

"I
will not permit you to sacrifice yourself and your reputation, Miss
Fitzhugh."

“Sacrifice
is a relative term, Lord Sommersby. Marrying because society says I must is a
far greater sacrifice than spending a lifetime by myself in Kent.”

“Perhaps
the cave has affected your hearing, madam,” Simon said evenly. “I said I will
not allow it.”

A
mulish glint appeared in her eyes. "I am most resolved on this subject,
Lord Sommersby."

"As
am I, Miss Fitzhugh."

Only
the steady trickle of water somewhere filled the sudden silence. Simon wondered
whether she was beginning to understand the consequences of this night. He
waited for tears, a quivering lip — any sign that she recognized that she must
lose the battle.

Instead,
she leveled a gaze at him. "It seems we are at loggerheads."

How
could he have thought otherwise? Simon shook his head. "Nay, madam. Merely
a
phrase d'armes
."

At
her puzzled frown, he added, "’Tis a fencing term. It means a period of
continuous swordplay."

"And
how does such a period end, my lord?" She looked mildly curious, supremely
unafraid.

And
it was that look — direct, intelligent, without artistry or guile — that
suddenly robbed him of breath. Simon knew the precise moment his own expression
changed, for her eyes widened and his pulse quickened. A flush stole over her
features.

"When
there is a break in play,” he said softly.

She
appeared confused. “I — I am sorry, my lord. I was not attending.”

Surely
he was not imagining this strange new current in the air between them. “The
phrase
d'armes
is simply a succession of thrusts without interruption,” he said. “’Tis
the back and forth of swordplay, much as we have been engaging in here,
metaphorically speaking.”

“I
see.” She stared at him.

“Thus
it ends with a break in play,” he added.

Simon
studied her, making no effort to hide his scrutiny. Her hair had long since
lost most of its pins and fell unabashedly around her shoulders. The lantern’s
glow brought out its amber highlights. Her lips were parted slightly; he
suspected she had no idea how lovely she was.

He
moved toward her.

"Would
you care to take such a break, Miss Fitzhugh?” he asked softly. “To set aside our
dispute for now? The hours until your cousin frees us will surely be a trial if
we are constantly at odds."

She
eyed him uncertainly. "Very well. But I warn you, I am not very good at
small talk." And then, unexpectedly, she smiled. It was the most dazzling
smile Simon had ever seen.

Warmth
blazed in him like wildfire. Nay, not wildfire. An inner fire, not unlike what
he had known in battle, a fire capable of sustaining a man beyond his imagined
limits.

"Neither
am I," he murmured, closing the remaining distance between them.